Victorious, Grukarr kissed his ruby ring. He started to whistle happily, then strolled over to the stream, kicking aside a pile of winged bodies.
For several seconds, he surveyed the scene to make absolutely sure that not a single glowing wing had escaped. All the while, he whistled. Finally satisfied, he turned to the mistwraith and watched as the shadowy being shrank back to its normal size.
“Excellent work, my friend. You have gathered more magic in this moment than in all the days we have been together. And the more magic we gather . . . the more we will have for the great moment of triumph.”
The mistwraith shuddered with pleasure, releasing a shower of sparks.
Grukarr’s expression hardened. “We have much more work to do, however. And very little time before dawn on Ho Byneri.” He added in a commanding tone, “Which is why I am sending you back to the realm of immortals.”
The mistwraith crackled in surprise and darkened like a thundercloud before a storm.
“Yes,” continued Grukarr. “I need you to go back—and urge our master Narkazan to send more mistwraiths. Straight to my lair at the Passage of Death! I need them now, with no more delay.”
Angrily, the shadow being crackled again.
“I know Narkazan needs every mistwraith he has right now for his battles on high! Do you think I don’t know his plans?” Grukarr bent lower, keeping one hand on his turban so it wouldn’t fall off. “You must convince him that sending me more mistwraiths right now will guarantee him victory in those battles. For they will help me provide him with the ultimate weapon to defeat all his enemies.”
The mistwraith, clearly anxious, floated backward on the grass. It crackled so fast that the sound was more like a hum punctuated with black sparks.
The priest shook his head. “No, he will not punish you for bringing this message. Show him how much magic you have inhaled in just one encounter with faeries. That should convince him. And tell him I will soon have more than a hundred times that much magic!”
Another burst of crackling.
“Of course I will find the forest girl! Watching you just now, I thought of the perfect way to trap her.” He smirked with satisfaction. “And when I do . . . she will do all I ask. Or see her precious forest die from the blight. She will cooperate, believe me.”
Silently, the mistwraith floated around Grukarr’s legs. Then it crackled with more sparks.
“You still doubt me? Then remember the Prophecy! Its meaning could not be more clear.”
Lowering his voice, Grukarr declared, “At dawn on Ho Byneri, when the veil is thinnest, I will deliver to Narkazan all the magic he needs to give the Starstone a whole new purpose—to make it the most powerful weapon in the universe.”
He beamed. “That will spell the end of all magic in the mortal world. And the beginning of a whole new era.” Puffing out his chest, the priest nodded confidently. “And for that service, he will give something to me: the world of mortals.”
Agreeing at last, the mistwraith lightened a shade, though it still looked as dark as a moonless night. With a sharp crackle and a burst of sparks, the immortal vanished.
Once again, Grukarr scanned the remains of the faery colony. Seeing the small, helpless bodies lining the banks, hanging from the grass, and spinning in the stream’s eddies, he sighed in satisfaction. He began to whistle again, even more cheerfully.
Maybe, he thought as he tapped his foot to the rhythm, I will whistle something for the commoners at my coronation. Just to show that I am an emperor who is also a man of the people.
Glancing over his shoulder at the forest, he remembered Atlanta. His whistling ceased. “I will find that wretched young woman,” he muttered. “And soon!”
He turned to leave—then stopped. For there, in the shade of a rose bush by the farthest stream, he’d spotted a pair of luminous wings.
A faery! Grukarr’s lip curled in rage. “How did you escape, you little beast?”
He glared at the tiny creature who cowered, wings trembling, under the rosebush. “I can’t deal with you now, unfortunately. But your time will come very soon! Before Ho Byneri, I can promise you that.”
Grukarr spun and started to march off. He knew that these three streams would lead him eventually to a path he knew well—one that he used often to visit his secret lair near the mountains. This time, however, he would not follow the path to the lair, but back to the City. For he had an important task to perform. A task he wanted to do before setting the trap for Atlanta.
A task, he thought as he walked, for a future emperor.
CHAPTER 21
Secrets
Any dessert, whatever its ingredients, can be a tasty treat or a rotten mess. All depends on how it’s prepared.
—From Promi’s journal
Grukarr walked stealthily down an alley at the City’s edge. Keeping in the shadows, he moved almost as quietly as a mistwraith, as if he were floating over the cobblestones.
Still wearing his mud-streaked robe after his long trek through the forest and carrying his turban in the crook of his arm, he might have been mistaken for a beggar by anyone who happened to glimpse his shadowed form. But as far as he knew, no one had spotted him. And he was determined to keep it that way. Far too much was at stake.
If anything went wrong with his plans, there would be no one around to help him. His ally from the spirit realm was no longer at his side. Huntwing was as loyal as ever, but right now the bird was elsewhere. And Narkazan? These days the spirit lord’s attention was focused entirely on the battle to win control of the immortal realm.
Careful, now. Careful, Grukarr told himself as he moved closer to the end of the alley. Anxiously, he fingered his necklace of golden beads. Must stay hidden from Araggna and her spies.
Step by step, he slid through the dark passageway. At last, he reached the end, encountering a stone gutter that carried waste and rainwater down to the river. Opposite the gutter stood an old building, long ago abandoned, whose worn mud-brick walls had almost collapsed. A part of its roof had, in fact, fallen in. As Grukarr watched, a rat scurried out of the gutter and into a crack in the building’s foundation.
Made it all the way here, he thought, with no problems. But I haven’t yet made it inside.
Carefully, he surveyed the old building, then checked all the nearby streets. Everything looked clear. Feeling his racing heartbeat, he tried to remain calm. What strange things I do to gain the power I deserve! Soon, if all goes well, there will be no more need for such miserable tasks.
Once again, he checked the surrounding streets. No sign of spies—or temple guards. Jaw clenched, he stepped over the gutter and up to the building’s door.
Abruptly, he kicked the door open. It slammed against the inside wall, so hard the whole building shook. Mud-bricks cracked and fell to the dirt floor.
Grukarr strode inside.
The first thing he saw were about fifteen men lounging by a large pile of rudimentary weapons—axes, shovels, wooden pikes, bows, and some rusty blades, mostly daggers along with one old broadsword. Caught completely by surprise, the men leaped to their feet. Only one didn’t move: a gray-bearded fellow dozing soundly with an empty jug of ale under his arm.
“Halt!” shouted the nearest man as he jumped up. His broad face showed a scar that ran from cheek to chin. He grabbed the sword and pointed it at Grukarr’s chest, ready to attack. “One more step an’ you die.”
The priest’s gaze locked onto the scowling man. But instead of scowling back, Grukarr merely chortled. “Easy now, Rending.”
With a screech of recognition, Huntwing flapped over from his perch on a ceiling beam and settled on his master’s shoulder. Grukarr stroked the bird’s rust-colored wing.
“Oh!” exclaimed the man, dropping the sword. “It’s you.”
“That’s right,” growled Grukarr, replacing his turban on his head. “I came for a surprise inspection.” He glanced around at the motley group. “And what I see does not please me.”
Rending tensed. “But Master . . . we done searched the whole City fer that forest girl. Been doin’ nothin’ else since you released us from the temple jail. Jest like you commanded.”
Wrathfully, Grukarr kicked at a shovel, sending it flying across the room. “And what did you minions find? Nothing.”
Huntwing scraped his talons together, as if longing to use them to gouge someone’s eyes out.
“Not yet, my Huntwing,” said Grukarr soothingly. “These men still have one more chance to prove their worth. But if they fail . . . you shall have your way with them.”
Several men went pale, while a few others backed away from the bird who glared at them so savagely.
“Or, if I choose,” the priest continued in an even more malicious tone, “I will send every man in this room back to jail to receive the punishments already ordered by High Priestess Araggna.”
A wave of shudders and grumbles passed through the men. Only when Huntwing clacked his beak did they fall silent.
“Now,” growled Grukarr, “before I give you your new orders, I want to remind you that I will tolerate no more failure. And also no slackers!”
“No slackers among us,” replied Rending nervously. “We is all eager to serve you.”
“Is that so?” answered Grukarr. His gaze shifted to the man dozing on the floor. Striding over, he kicked away the man’s jug of ale. But the man stayed asleep, snoring contentedly.
Grukarr’s eyes narrowed. Grabbing a shovel, he raised it and slammed it hard against the fellow’s head. The man shrieked and rolled over. He lay motionless on the dirt, blood streaming from his head wound.
Stunned by Grukarr’s brutality, Rending winced. His scar reddened. None of the men dared to speak or move, not even to try to stop their companion’s bleeding.
The priest scanned them icily. “Now, I believe, you understand. I have not worked so hard for so long—even going so far as to free you rabble from jail—to fail because of some lazy, witless drunkards.”
His nostrils flared. “Here are your new orders. You will march in the direction of Ell Shangro and the other mountains, all the way to my secret lair.”
Grukarr paused, stroking his bird’s tail feathers. “Huntwing here will guide you to make sure no one gets lost. Or tries to turn back. And he will show you where to find the special masks I have made to protect you from . . . certain dangers. Do you understand?”
All the men nodded.
“Good. Then get out of my sight.”
Immediately, the men grabbed their weapons and hurried out of the old building.
Grukarr peered into Huntwing’s savage eyes. “Make sure they get to the lair as soon as possible. I have uses for them there.”
Huntwing clacked his beak in assent and flew off. The priest watched him go, then muttered quietly, “Uses that will expand my power—the only true purpose of a commoner’s life.”
Straightening his turban, he thought, That was something Bonlo, that sentimental old fool, never understood. He even dared to question my authority! May he rot forever in that dungeon.
Grukarr walked to the door and peered cautiously outside. His men had all departed, leaving the area empty. Still, he paused to make sure there was no one in the surrounding streets who might see him. Just to be safe, he removed his turban and tucked it under his arm.
Convinced all was clear, he stepped over the gutter, crossed the street, and turned into a narrow alley. The passage was dark enough, layered with shadows, that he paused to let his eyes adjust. And he breathed a sigh of relief that his exit from the old building had gone so smoothly.
Now, he thought, my time of triumph is near.
He started to stride deeper into the alley—but heard a rustling sound. He froze, surveying the shadows.
Just then, six temple guards stepped into view, three ahead of him and three behind. Curved swords drawn, they surrounded him, blocking any possible escape. Grukarr jumped, then fumbled to put his turban back on his head.
“That won’t help you now,” rasped a voice behind him. Grukarr whirled around to face Araggna as she stepped out of the shadows. She faced him, the lines around her eyes etched more harshly than ever. On her forearm, the boa constrictor slithered menacingly.
“I charge you,” she said coldly, “with willfully releasing prisoners from custody—prisoners I had ordered punished.”
“But, High Priestess,” protested Grukarr, “I was only—”
“Silence!” she commanded. “You were only doing what serves your own ambitions, as always. Do you think me such a fool? My spies have kept me well informed of your disobedience and incompetence. As if I needed any more evidence of that.”
She scowled at him. Then she tapped the collar of her robe, feeling the luminous object hidden underneath. Whatever it was sent light through the cloth as well as the gaps between her fingers.
“I know what you want,” she rasped. “You want this.” Again she tapped her collar. “And all its power.”
Her eyes gleamed. “The precious Starstone! Though I have tried to keep it secret since that monk found it in the forest and brought it to me weeks ago, I could tell that you recognized its magical light—light that fills its wearer with enormous strength.”
Shifting her expression, she seemed almost compassionate. “You were right to want it, Grukarr. Every minute I wear it, I feel my power growing, my youthful strength returning. It is truly the treasure of legend, with the ability to magnify whatever magic it meets.”
Unable to contain his overwhelming desire, the priest whispered, “It is magnificent.”
Araggna’s normal harsh expression returned. “And you shall never have it!”
Grukarr stiffened, though he still couldn’t take his eyes off the glowing bulge beneath her robe.
Straightening her back, the High Priestess declared, “For crimes against the Divine Monk’s holy order and the state of Ellegandia, I hereby sentence you to death.”
The snake raised its head, glaring straight at Grukarr, and released a loud hiss.
Grukarr shuddered, anxiously looking around to see if he could somehow manage to escape.
“No more delay,” rasped Araggna. “Guards! Cut him down right here in this alley.”
Then Grukarr did something surprising. He clapped his hands and declared, “Now.”
Instantly, the temple guard nearest to Araggna swung his sword and sliced off the head of her snake. The priestess shrieked as the boa’s body slipped off her arm and fell to the ground.
The other guards, at the same time, moved to surround Araggna. Pointing their swords at her, they glared vengefully.
Too stunned to speak, Araggna looked back at them. Never one to pay much attention to the lowly people who served her, she rarely even glanced at the faces of her guards. But now she realized something was wrong.
These men were not the same ones who had been guarding her yesterday! In fact . . . she didn’t remember them guarding her ever. Yet they did look vaguely familiar. But why?
She gasped, realizing the truth. “Criminals!” she rasped. “I sentenced you to die for your violations of the law.”
“That’s right,” answered Grukarr pleasantly. He stepped between two of the guards. “And I released them. Now they are sworn to serve me.”
“Outrage!” cried the priestess. “You are beneath scum, Grukarr.”
He merely smirked. “It was you who gave me the idea, High Priestess. Yes, when you stripped me of my own guards.”
Ready to explode with rage, Araggna couldn’t stop shaking. “You will pay for this, Grukarr. The immortals on high will punish you!”
“Perhaps,” he said casually. “But I doubt it.”
He reached for her collar, grabbed the slender cord around her neck, and yanked hard. The cord snapped, allowing him to pull out from under her robe a luminous crystal whose every facet pulsed with light. Holding the Starstone in his hand, Grukarr grinned with deep satisfaction.
“You won’t have any furt
her need for this.” He stuffed the glowing crystal into his pocket, then gazed at the priestess. “I should say it has been an honor and a pleasure to serve you.” After a pause, he added, “But it has not.”
Shaking with fury, Araggna couldn’t speak. All she could do was glare hatefully at Grukarr and silently curse the world that had betrayed her.
With a wave of his hand, Grukarr commanded the guards, “Now do to her what she wanted done to you.”
He spun around and strode out of the alley. Behind him, Araggna screamed in agony. Feeling quite pleased, Grukarr started to whistle serenely.
CHAPTER 22
Feast of the Forest
When in doubt, put aside everything else and do what matters most. Eat.
—From Promi’s journal, written on the opening page of recipes
Moss Island, sparkling with vapor, gleamed in the last light of day. The stream that divided to form the island and hugged its edges splashed continuously, thrumming with tranquil tones. Aside from one old willow tree, nothing but moss grew there—so thick and soft it could have been a bed of green feathers.
Led by Atlanta, Promi waded across the stream to the island. Her bare feet sprang across the river stones, while he walked unsteadily in the current, barely keeping his balance. Yet while the water was fairly deep, none of it got inside his boots. For those magical boots, sensing water lapping at their rims, instantly grew a little bit taller. That kept any water from dousing his feet—as well as Kermi, who lay curled around one ankle, sound asleep.
Reaching the other side, they sat down on the lush carpet of moss. Promi’s stomach rumbled, and he glanced around the island. “Er . . . beautiful place,” he said. “But I don’t see any signs of supper.”
“You will,” Atlanta promised.
“When?”
“Soon, Promi. But first I need to sing something.”
He frowned, rubbing his belly. “I can’t eat songs.”
Ignoring him, she started to sing, so quietly her voice could barely be heard above the splashing stream: