But the mistwraiths didn’t care. They felt only satisfaction, for they knew their master would be pleased.
Quite pleased.
CHAPTER 11
Solid Night
Darkness.
That was all Jaladay could perceive. Utter darkness in every direction. Hard as she tried, she couldn’t see anything but that.
Worse, this darkness felt thick somehow—so fulsome it pressed against her, held her captive. Like a kind of solid night.
Where am I? she puzzled. Sitting up, she realized the mistwraiths’ terrible net was gone. She was in some sort of room, a prison cell—that much she could guess.
She laid her hands on the floor beneath her and felt its cold, smooth surface. Vaporstone? she wondered. But if it was only that, why couldn’t she see into its essence, reading the story of its construction? For that matter, why can’t I see—
She caught her breath in the middle of her thought. For its consequences were alarming beyond anything she’d ever experienced.
Why can’t I see, she finished, beyond the stone itself? Beyond the floor and walls of this prison?
Panic swelled inside her. Jaladay’s chest tightened and beads of sweat rolled down her brow. My inner sight is gone! I am blind—truly blind.
Desperately, she willed herself to calm down. She was still alive. And she had to be someplace. Which meant it was possible somebody could find her . . . unlikely as that might be.
This isn’t as bad as it seems, she tried to convince herself. That vision she’d had about Promi and the ship full of sailors—that was serious. And the mission she’d given to Kermi, to warn Promi not to save them—that was serious.
By contrast, she told herself firmly, this situation here was just . . .
Horrendous. She was locked in a prison—sightless, helpless, and alone.
Taking a deep breath, she started to crawl across the floor. Moving cautiously, she advanced—but where, she couldn’t tell. Nor could she shake herself of the most frightful fact of all: for the first time in her life, she couldn’t see anything.
Her fingers touched a wall. Cold and smooth like the floor, it rose straight up from the seam. Glumly, she leaned against the wall, trying to stay calm.
No windows.
No cracks.
No way to see.
All at once, she heard a scraping sound like a heavy bolt being slid. In the wall opposite her, a thin line of light appeared. And another two lines, perpendicular to the first. A doorway!
Jaladay’s heart leaped. She rose to her feet and stumbled toward the door. It started to open, flooding the cell with light.
She dashed toward it, even though her eyes throbbed to adjust and her mind raced to understand. She felt new strength coursing through her veins. For with every little bit the door opened, her inner sight revived.
She burst through the doorway, blinking in the brightness all around her. Then she stopped cold. For right in front of her was the very last person she expected—or wanted—to see.
“Narkazan!”
Hearing the astonishment in her voice, the warlord almost smiled, though it looked more like a predator baring his teeth. He sat back in his gray chair of woven vaporthreads and stroked his long, pointed chin. The fiery centers of his eyes, which were a brighter shade of red than his tusks, glowed with satisfaction.
“So,” he rasped, “you recognize me. How nice.”
Jaladay’s forest-green eyes narrowed. “Not nice at all.”
“Whatever you say, my jewel. Welcome to my new residence—considerably less windy than my last one.”
Casually, he gestured at the room, whose high ceiling held two narrow windows. Through one of them, she saw jagged black clouds that looked like dark icicles. The only furniture was a cot, a chest made from some kind of metal, and the chair where he sat. Another doorway opened into an unlit hallway. And in the darkness of the hallway, something stirred—shadows within the shadows.
Jaladay froze. Mistwraiths!
“Ah yes,” rasped Narkazan. “You recognize my servants. The same pair, in fact, who brought you here to be my guest.”
Straightening up to her full height, she said coldly, “I am not your guest, but your prisoner.”
Thrusting his ax-thin face toward her, he replied, “You are right about that.” With a wave at the dark room from which she’d emerged, he asked, “How do you like your accommodations?”
She didn’t answer.
“I had that room made especially for you, so you should be grateful. Every detail . . . right down to the rare ingredients I added to the vaporstone to deaden your second sight.”
Jaladay shuddered, remembering how truly blind she’d felt in there.
“Ah,” gloated the warlord, “you noticed. How lovely. It’s nice to have one’s labor rewarded.”
He leaned forward. The scars on his face ran like poisoned rivers on a dead landscape. Peering at Jaladay, he said, “Now I have a simple question for you. Would you like to remain in that room for eternity? Except, of course, when I let you out to be tortured for my entertainment?”
Though she said nothing, she couldn’t keep herself from cringing.
“I shall take that as your answer,” he rasped. “Fortunately for you, there is a way to avoid that fate. All you need to do . . . is help me. Use your gift of second sight to guide my warriors as they conquer this realm!”
Ignoring how she recoiled, he declared, “You shall be my Seer. My greatest weapon! And to show you my noble intentions—if you cooperate, I shall spare your entire family.”
Jaladay fixed him with her gaze. Trying not to reveal how scared she really felt, she spat her response. “I will never help you. Never!”
His fiery eyes seemed to sizzle. “Well then, my jewel, I shall have no choice but to target your family for extinction. I know how to make them suffer, believe me, I do! They will experience unrelenting agony . . . until their only escape will be to end their lives as spirits. To vanish forever from the universe.”
He leaned back in the chair, tapping one of his gruesome tusks. “The first to go will be . . . your mother. While I’d much rather torture your father, after all the inconvenience he has caused me—it would be a true pleasure to watch him agonize over her fate.”
“You monster!” Jaladay clenched her fists. “How could you do such a thing?”
“Very easily,” he replied. “Next I will deal with your father directly. And trust me, I have some very special tricks in mind for him! Then finally . . .”
Narkazan’s voice lowered to a growl. “Your brother, the young man of the Prophecy, will come last. Yes, my treasure, I have discovered his real identity. And I can assure you, I shall spare no pain or punishment for him—regardless of how much he screams or pleads for mercy.”
Stunned by the warlord’s cruelty, Jaladay remained silent. But her mind continued to race, trying to find some way to foil Narkazan’s plans.
“Don’t try any tricks,” he cautioned. “Or I shall be forced to put some of my shadowy servants in that room with you. To give you company.”
Seeing Jaladay shudder again, he chortled in satisfaction. At last, he leaned forward, jutting his chin toward her.
“What is your decision, my jewel? Will you help me—and save your whole family, as well as yourself? Or will you condemn everyone you care about to whatever tortures I can devise?”
Feeling certain of triumph, he gazed around the room. “Before long, I shall reclaim my old castle, Arcna Ruel. I miss its elegant towers and polished white walls, as well as its ready access to my servants.”
The thought of his vaporstone castle made his predator’s smile return. “Best of all,” he continued, “I shall soon gain the limitless power I have so long sought . . . and so rightly deserve.”
Jaladay swallowed hard. With great effort, she s
aid, “I will help you.”
“Good,” the warlord rasped. “I suspected you would. Now, for your first task, I want you to use your remarkable gift to tell me—”
“I will help you,” she interrupted, her voice growing stronger, “to plunge back into the Maelstrom! So deep you will never, ever come out again.”
Narkazan’s expression darkened. “Then you will rot away to nothingness!”
“Better to do that,” she declared, “than to help you in any way.”
He snapped his fingers. With an ominous crackle, the two mistwraiths emerged from the shadows and floated toward Jaladay. Black sparks sprayed everywhere, sizzling on the floor—then darkness enveloped her.
CHAPTER 12
Fresh Pastry
The day after he and Atlanta had argued, Promi wandered the cobblestone streets of the City of Great Powers. He assured himself that he’d come here just out of curiosity—to visit his old haunts. But he knew in his heart that he’d really come to get away from Atlanta and her forest home. To distract himself with a change of scene.
And what a dramatic change it was! This bustling human settlement was practically another world from the ancient woods. Besides, the City looked different now than it did in the days before Atlantis became an island—mainly because of all the broken walls and collapsed roofs from that tumultuous event.
Mostly, though, he noticed how much the City looked, sounded, and felt the same as ever. This was, after all, the place where he’d grown up. The place where he’d learned how to steal a pie, throw a knife, and disappear into the shadows.
He stepped into a narrow alley whose mud-brick walls pressed close together—closer than most alleys, thanks to all the flower boxes in the windows. Red geraniums, deep blue lilies, and spiral-stemmed roses filled the alley with the sweet aromas of a mountain meadow. By contrast, the pile of rags someone had left in the alley gave off a very different odor . . . more like a huge, unwashed armpit.
Passing quickly by the pile of rags, he followed the dimly lit alley. All at once, he burst into sunlight—as well as a noisy din he knew well. It combined the shouts of peddlers and bargain hunters, the ring of blacksmiths’ hammers, the bleating of goats, and the chants of monks who sang to the beat of their prayer drums. Plus many more sounds that made a cacophony found in only one place on Atlantis:
The market square.
Promi strolled into the market where he’d found so many free meals growing up (not to mention new knives to replace the ones he’d lost in the course of his thievery). Just for old time’s sake, he stealthily plucked a fresh green apple off a passing cart.
He bit into the apple, hearing the crisp crunnnch he liked almost as much as the taste. Moving deeper into the market, he weaved around a grumpy-looking camel being led to a leatherworker’s stall for a new saddle—just before the camel bit his plump owner’s bottom. The man shrieked and threw his armload of wheat and barley into the air. The camel, meanwhile, immediately started munching on the grains, gobbling them up before a pair of honking geese could claim them.
Promi took another bite of his apple, negotiating the crowded rows of fish vendors, paper merchants, and tool makers. As well as craftspeople selling handmade jewelry, rugs, tunics, pottery, and musical instruments.
He stepped around a circle of women wearing brightly colored robes and beads, dancing to their bone flutes. A herd of goats flooded past, pushing Promi so hard he collided with a monk selling strings of prayer leaves. After apologizing to the monk, he realized the leaves were being sold to raise money for the temple’s new bell tower.
The bell tower I destroyed, he recalled. Too bad about that. But it takes a serious earthquake to create an island!
Glancing over his shoulder, he could see the gap against the sky where the bell tower had stood. As well as the crushed roof in the Divine Monk’s temple and the smashed archway where the immense structure came down. He bit into the apple, remembering the time he had leaped into the air from the top of that very tower—as well as the face of the astonished temple guard who watched helplessly as he escaped.
Promi chuckled. Those were fun days. Tapping the silver dagger he now wore on his belt, he thought, At least now I don’t lose knives anymore. As if hearing his thought, the dagger’s magical string curled and tickled his wrist.
He tossed the apple core to a sheep whose wool changed colors depending on the weather, one of many wondrous creatures who had been captured in the Great Forest and brought to the marketplace. Seeing him do this, a three-tongued toad with the ability to speak human languages started roundly cursing.
“You blithering bumblebrain!” cried the toad. “I’ll bet you stole that apple and dozens more meals, too.”
More like thousands, thought Promi with a smirk.
Most of those meals, of course, had been desserts. Many were the days when he ate a freshly baked fruit pie he’d stolen, still steaming, from someone’s kitchen window. Or one of the pastries, cakes, or cookies he’d grabbed off the shelves of the City’s many bakeries. Or, best of all, the most delicious—and dangerous—theft he’d ever made: that smackberry pie, with its purple juices bubbling out of the sugary crust.
Of course, to get that pie he’d needed to work a bit harder than usual. He’d climbed unseen into the Divine Monk’s private dining room, broken at least a dozen holy laws, evaded both the wicked priest Grukarr and his superior Araggna, and completely destroyed the temple’s grand feast of Ho Kranahrum while escaping. And putting aside the small matter of being hurled by Grukarr into the dreaded Ekh Raku dungeon, getting beaten senseless, and almost dying . . . it was the sweetest pie he’d ever tasted.
Recalling that remarkable theft reminded him of Grukarr and Araggna—two thoroughly unsavory people. Their bodies had been found amidst the City’s wreckage, giving a sigh of relief to everyone who lived here. Except perhaps the Divine Monk, whose nose for treachery was significantly less developed than his nose for his next meal.
Now, there’s something else that has changed. No more will those two cling to power . . . or torture their prisoners right here in this square! Dangerous as they had been, the only way to grab that smackberry pie was to risk getting captured by them. But, Promi concluded with a smack of his lips, it was totally worth it for that pie.
Adeptly, he dodged a group of seven or eight children who were chasing after a puppet maker. One of those children, a girl with carrot-colored hair, made him think of Shangri. That bright-eyed girl had taken a liking to Promi after he saved her from a herd of stampeding goats. Which proved especially useful when her father, a baker, caught Promi stealing his pastries. If Shangri hadn’t intervened at the very last moment, her father would have pounded Promi into something that resembled cookie dough.
Good Shangri, thought Promi, wondering how she was doing. Maybe I’ll stop at her father’s pastry shop just to say hello. And maybe, he decided, stay long enough to try one of his amazing cinnamon buns.
Passing the stall of a paper merchant, he saw a stack of leatherbound journals, beautifully crafted, along with elegant feather pens. His own journal, his constant companion for years, hadn’t been nearly so handsome. In fact, it was just an old book of recipes for desserts that he’d taken from an unsuspecting pastry chef. Using worn charcoal pencils, he’d written in that journal almost every day—filling its margins with his scrawled entries.
I miss that old journal. He patted the empty pocket of his tunic, wondering whether he should get a new one. Maybe a real journal instead of a tattered old recipe book? Or maybe even a journal made from cloudpaper, so light yet durable, the same as Jaladay used?
He shook his head. No, too fancy for me. I’ll stay with old recipe books.
A sudden gust blew through the market, scattering a family of ice sparrows, birds who made beautiful ice sculptures in wintertime. Tugged by the wind, a string of prayer leaves, each one inscribed with a blessing, b
roke off a monk’s drum and flew into the air. Like a ragtag kite, it sailed over the marketplace.
“Look there!” shouted a boy, pointing at the prayer leaves. “They must be on their way to the spirit realm!”
“Yes,” called a girl nearby. “They’re being carried by tiny, invisible wind lions.”
“Really?” asked the boy, wide-eyed with amazement.
Well, not really. Promi grinned, remembering when he’d first discovered the truth about wind lions. Not by hearing about it from someone else . . . but by landing on a lion’s furry back after leaping off a rickety bridge.
Now, that was a surprise, he recalled with a chuckle. And, as it turned out, it was only the first of many surprises to come.
Including that I’m an immortal, like Jaladay. That what I’d thought was my home all those years was really just my hiding place. And that my real home is—well . . . nobody but me is going to decide where that is.
Grabbing a handful of dates from a food merchant’s cart, Promi chewed on one thoughtfully. The changes he could see in the marketplace and the City, he realized, weren’t nearly as huge as the changes somewhere else. Right here inside me.
He swallowed the date. But he didn’t taste its sweetness, for a crop of sour thoughts had sprouted in his mind. Thoughts about Atlanta—and how he’d treated her.
Why hadn’t he told her his whole vision at the Lakes of Dreams? What had held him back? Was there something about her that he didn’t trust? Or, much worse, was there some part of himself that simply wouldn’t trust anyone?
Suddenly not hungry, he tossed the dates into a pen of squealing young pigs. Maybe, as Atlanta had warned, he was condemned to live his worst dream. Never to have a real home. A real family. A real friend . . . or someone who might become more than a friend.
He sighed, leaning back against a mud-brick wall at the edge of the marketplace. Sure, Atlanta can be difficult sometimes. And there’s more going on with her than she has been telling me. But the real problem for us isn’t her. No . . . it’s me.