Atlanta bent again over the spring and filled the small flask she carried on the hip of her gown. Then, having closed the flask, she dipped her finger into the spring and offered some water to the faery in her pocket. Eagerly, he lapped at the droplets, his antennae quivering with pleasure. Though Atlanta couldn’t be sure, the tiny creature’s wings seemed a bit stronger and more shiny than before. But she suspected that was only because of the strange light of the swamp.
“May you heal completely someday, little friend.” Even as she said the words, a wave of hopefulness washed over her. For a brief moment, she actually believed that somehow, against all odds, she and her companions might prevail.
Just then, a subtly glowing shape caught her eye. Crawling along the edge of the nearest mud pit, the shape—about the size of her thumb—moved slowly toward her. She stood up and darted over to see what it was.
“A snail,” she said in wonderment, seeing its glowing, iridescent shell. The snail radiated a soft lavender light, a stark contrast to the mud and smoke of the pit.
She bent down to pick it up. The snail slid slowly across her palm, its shell glowing like a sunlit amethyst jewel. How beautiful, she thought. So there are some creatures besides poisonous snakes and marsh ghouls in the swamp!
Bringing the snail closer to her face, she said aloud, “You remind me that even in this desolate place, something good can survive.”
She decided to bring the snail over to Promi. This will cheer him up, she told herself.
Just then she heard him shout. She put down the snail, whirled around, and ran back to him.
Wide-eyed, he stood between the twisted trees. “Atlanta! I have an idea!”
“An idea?” she asked. “The way you shouted, I thought you were in trouble.”
“We’re all in trouble,” grumbled Kermi, now hanging by his tail from one of the tree branches. “Especially if this buffoon has one of his ideas.”
Ignoring the kermuncle, Promi said in a rush, “Our biggest problem right now is time, right?”
Kermi scoffed. “That’s true if you don’t count a deranged priest, a power-hungry immortal, a place called the Passage of Death, and an invincible weapon. Oh, right—and a swamp full of death traps.”
“Hush,” said Atlanta. “I want to hear his idea.”
“At your own risk,” grumped the little fellow, swinging from the branch.
“So,” Promi continued, “if time is running out, ask yourself this: Is there any other way we could see what’s really going on at the Passage of Death? Without actually trekking all the way there and losing however much more time?”
Confused, she shook her curls. “No! There isn’t any other way.”
He put his hand on her shoulder. “But there is.” With a sad smile, he added, “I’ve pretty much filled every page already.”
Suddenly realizing what he was about to do—and what he was going to sacrifice—she protested, “No, Promi. Not your journal!”
But he was already whispering, “Listen one, listen all.”
The sound of wind rushed through the swamp, though none of the dark clouds of vapor were blown away. Inside Atlanta’s pocket, the faery trembled, feeling the presence of powerful magic. But all Atlanta noticed was the sudden disappearance of the bulge in Promi’s tunic that showed where he’d kept his journal.
Promi opened his arms wide. “Now show us,” he implored, “what is happening with Grukarr and the Passage of Death.”
A hazy figure appeared, striding toward them out of the swirling fumes. Grukarr! Atlanta gasped, afraid the priest himself had arrived. But no, she realized, this was only an image—a vision brought forth by Promi’s magic.
Against the backdrop of swamp vapors, the image of Grukarr grew more clear. Judging from the building behind him, an ornately designed structure with a red tile roof and mosaics depicting gold turbans, he was standing in a courtyard inside the Divine Monk’s temple. Possibly the same courtyard where Promi had stood just before sneaking into the Divine Monk’s dining room to steal a certain pie. On the priest’s shoulder sat Huntwing, whose savage eyes gazed at his master.
Grukarr adjusted his white turban, clearly enjoying its symbol of power. Yet something in his expression made it clear he wanted to exchange it for a gold one. When he lowered his arms, something flashed under the collar of his robe. The Starstone!
“Huntwing,” he commanded, “I need you to fly to the Passage of Death. See how many new allies have arrived. The time is near for them to strike! I need to know how many we have. Then fly back here to tell me.”
The blood falcon clacked his beak and rustled his wings.
“Meanwhile,” said the priest, “I must gather more minions to do the secret work at my lair.” His expression hardened. “They die too easily! After all my efforts to free them from prison, the least they could do is to work longer before dying.”
Huntwing lifted his wings to fly. At that moment, the image faded away.
Promi stared in astonishment at Atlanta. “He has the Starstone. I’m sure of it.”
She nodded. “Which means he probably killed Araggna. She would never have parted with it willingly.”
“Right.” His brow creased. “What did Grukarr mean by allies at the Passage of Death? Getting ready to strike—on Ho Byneri, no doubt. Could he mean mistwraiths?”
At the mention of those immortals, the faery quaked in Atlanta’s pocket. Gently, she touched her gown so the faery could feel the warmth of her hand. But this time, the gesture didn’t calm him. He grew even more panicked, beating his wings furiously.
“And another thing,” said Promi, still trying to make sense of what they’d heard. “What did he mean by secret work at his lair? Why does he need more men to do it—and why are they dying?”
All at once, a new vision began to form on the vapors. It looked like a view of the high peaks from the air. A view that could be seen by a bird—perhaps Huntwing—in flight.
The bird’s-eye view shifted, swooping down closer to the snow-capped mountains. There, jutting up higher than all the rest, stood Ell Shangro, the great smoking volcano. Below it, on one of its lower ridges, was a gaping black hole, a tunnel that ran deep into the mountain—maybe all the way to the other side, opening onto the plains of Africa.
Then the image moved lower, revealing something even more startling. Just below the tunnel entrance, on the wide fields covering the plateau above the eastern edge of the swamp, many men were camped—so many it was difficult to count. Five thousand? Or more?
Swooping closer, the image showed clearly that the men were armed with weapons of all kinds. Swords, spears, bows and arrows, maces, and shields abounded. Many of the men wore breastplates and helmets. At least several hundred had brought camels to ride, as well as packs of armored wildebeests.
“An army!” exclaimed Promi, watching in horror. “Grukarr’s allies are soldiers—an army of invaders!”
“Yes,” said Atlanta, bewildered. “But how could they ever hope to prevail? Won’t the pancharm that the spirits placed on the Great Forest keep them away?”
Promi shook his head, unsure what to think. Even as they watched the vision, more soldiers continued to stream out of the tunnel. “So the Passage of Death—”
“Is really a passage, after all,” finished Atlanta. “A tunnel that pierces the border of Ellegandia and connects it to the rest of the continent!”
“Which is probably why,” guessed Promi, “the ancient Divine Monks spread those stories about trapped spirits who’d kill anyone who came near.”
Glancing over her shoulder at the brooding vapors of the swamp, Atlanta swallowed. “Maybe the stories were really true . . . as we’ve seen.” In a softer voice, she added, “And as my parents discovered.”
Promi sent her a compassionate glance.
Abruptly, the vision shifted again, showing a conical mound just below the army’s encampment. All around its base, men were working—but it was impossible to see exactly what they were do
ing. What looked like bodies lay scattered on the ground. And throughout the area floated several dark, shadowy shapes that could only be one kind of being.
“Mistwraiths,” growled Kermi. “My least favorite immortals.”
At that instant, the vision clouded over and vanished. Atlanta and Promi stood there among the shifting vapors, pondering the meaning of all they had seen.
CHAPTER 30
Shirozzz
Fire can cook those pastries you love, Promi. Or fire can burn you badly.
—From her journal
After a long silence, Promi asked, “So what do we do next?”
Kermi dropped down to a lower branch on the twisted tree and hung by his tail. “I have a good idea.”
“What?” asked both Atlanta and Promi.
“Eat.” The kermuncle’s blue eyes opened to their widest. “I am sooooo hungry.”
“So am I,” said Promi. “But I’m afraid eating will have to wait. We have a lot to do and very little time! Besides, there isn’t much to eat in this forsaken place.”
“Have it your way,” sulked Kermi. He climbed up to the highest branch of the tree.
“More than ever,” said Atlanta, “I’m convinced we need to go to Grukarr’s lair—that cone-shaped mound below the Passage. If we could see what’s really happening there, we’d know the key to all his plans.”
Looking doubtful, Promi replied, “But there’s a small matter of that huge army camped nearby. And at least a dozen mistwraiths floating around. Somebody would have to be completely crazy to go there!”
“That describes us,” grumbled Kermi. “No doubt about it.”
Atlanta placed her hands on her hips. “Now, wait a minute. The army won’t see us because they’re up on that plateau above the lair. And anyway, they’re not our biggest problem—the forest’s pancharm will take care of stopping them. The thing we really need to worry about is that evil priest and what he’s trying to do with the Starstone.”
Promi scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe we should reconsider the idea of going back to the City to take back the Starstone.” Warming to the idea, he added, “I know a pretty good thief who could snatch it from Grukarr! Before he and Narkazan can do any damage.”
She peered at him skeptically. “Are you just wanting to get back to the City?”
“No! Well . . . yes, eventually.” He shook his head vigorously. “But that’s not why I suggested it.”
“All right, I believe you.” She gave him a friendly nudge. “But I had to check.” Then, her tone more serious, she said, “Anyway, I don’t like that idea. First of all, we’ve come too far in this swamp to turn back now. And second, if I come with you to find Grukarr, he might somehow capture me—which we know he wants to do so he can get more forest magic. Maybe that is even the trap he talked about.”
“No,” answered Promi. “I doubt—”
“People!” shouted Kermi from the highest branch. “I see something that may solve our biggest problem!”
“What?” asked Promi.
“Follow me.” Kermi bounded down the twisted tree, dropped to the ground, and scampered away. Trading uncertain glances, the others followed him.
He led them around one smoking mud pit, past another where several snakes hissed at them, over a thin patch of bog grass, and finally to a mass of thorn bushes. Atlanta and Promi hesitated, seeing the perilous, finger-length thorns, but Kermi plunged right in and vanished into the bushes.
Promi pursed his lips. “Are you game, Atlanta?”
“I am if you are.”
Together, they pushed into the bushes, doing their best to avoid the nastiest thorns. Even so, sharp points scraped, poked, and tore at their clothes, as well as their skin.
To protect her little friend, Atlanta cupped her hand over her pocket, creating a shield so the faery wouldn’t be stabbed. She felt the familiar rush of gratitude . . . along with a hint of warning. What about? She couldn’t tell.
All at once, they broke through the barrier of bushes—and into the last kind of place they ever expected to find in this swamp. Bushes ringed them all around, protecting something truly unique.
“A garden!” said Atlanta, amazed.
“An oasis!” exclaimed Promi.
“A meal,” corrected Kermi, who was devouring a bunch of purple grapes. He lay on his back beside a leafy head of lettuce, holding the grapes over himself with his tail. While lowering the succulent fruit into his mouth, he said, “Told you I solved our biggest problem! Finding food.”
Tomatoes, radishes, zucchini, beans, chili peppers, carrots, and other vegetables covered the ground, while grape vines hung from a row of short poles. On one side of the garden, a patch of curly brown mushrooms sprouted, smelling as rich as any that grew in the forest. On another side, stalks of corn, oats, and sugar cane reached skyward. Like the dwarf cacao tree that grew nearby, laden with pods holding cocoa beans, none of those stalks grew any taller than the surrounding thorn bushes.
Filling out the garden were all sorts of herbs and spices—dill, cinnamon, mint, ginger, garlic, and more. Every available space, it seemed, was being used. And around the edges, someone had carefully planted an unbroken line of sweetmint.
Spying a basil plant, Atlanta picked a leaf and slid it into her pocket. “Enjoy this, little friend.” She peeked inside the pocket, delighted to see the faery already nibbling avidly on the leaf.
Stooping to pick a luscious tomato, she told Promi, “You can put aside your sweetmint for now. What’s growing here is enough to protect us from the fumes.”
He needed no more encouragement. Stuffing a crescent fruit into his mouth, he savored its sweet, chocolate-like flavor. After swallowing the last of it, he asked, “Who planted all this?”
“A fine chef,” proposed Kermi, sniffing a chunk of gingerroot before popping it into his mouth. “Or several fine chefs.”
“Whoever they are,” said Atlanta, enjoying a juicy bite of tomato, “I bless their eternal qualities.”
“Look here,” called Promi. He strode over to a circle of dirt where nothing had been planted. “This is the only spot in this whole garden that’s empty.”
Coming over to join him at the circle’s edge, Atlanta wondered, “Why, though?”
Kermi bounded over and climbed onto the young man’s shoulder. “Such a waste of space, when they could be growing some tasty melons right here.”
“It doesn’t make any sense,” declared Promi.
Hoping to find a clue, he and Atlanta stepped onto the dirt. The instant their feet touched the spot, it opened like a trapdoor.
“Aaaaahhh!” screamed all three of them as they plunged downward.
Rolling and bouncing, they dropped underground, finally slamming into a floor of packed dirt and twisted roots. Chunks of mud and broken branches rained down on top of them. Promi untangled his twisted limbs, then rubbed his tender feet. Gazing around the cavern, he noticed that the air reeked of something like smoke.
He looked over at Atlanta, who had landed on her shoulders and was slowly rolling over. “Are you all right?”
“Nothing broken,” she replied, rubbing her neck. As soon as she sat up, she opened her pocket to check on the faery. “And he looks fine. No worse than he did, anyway.”
“How about me?” grumbled the kermuncle, who lay sprawled across some roots. “Doesn’t anyone care how I’m doing?”
“Sure we do,” said Promi dryly. “Wouldn’t want you to lose your happy disposition, would we?”
Just then, he noticed something odd. “Look,” he said, pointing up at the dim shafts of light from the trapdoor they’d fallen through. “Hardly any light is reaching us from up there. Yet down here, it’s bright as day.”
“You’re right.” Bewildered, Atlanta studied her surroundings. “How can that be?” She crawled across the dirt floor toward a deep niche in one wall. “The light, I think, is coming from over here.”
Just as she was about to look inside the niche, a glowing bal
l of fire shot out from it. She screamed and rolled away, barely avoiding the flaming missile. The whole cavern filled with bright orange light.
The fireball struck a wall, igniting an exposed root, then bounced down to the earthen floor. There it sat, burning intensely, directly opposite Atlanta, Promi, and Kermi. It seemed to be some sort of fire creature, shaped like a flaming hand with seven fingers. And it appeared to be studying them closely, deciding which of them to roast to death first.
The companions all huddled together, facing the fire creature. With their backs against a wall of dirt, they didn’t have any room to maneuver if it should leap at them. All they could do was watch the brightly flaming hand.
Promi glanced over at Atlanta and saw that a few of her brown curls, just above her left ear, had been singed. Without saying anything, he put his arm around her shoulder. She didn’t object.
As it considered the intruders who had fallen into its cavern, the fire creature sputtered and crackled like a burning branch. The incandescent fingers, all seven of them, waved in the air, sending ripples of orange light across the cavern walls. Finally, the flaming hand leaned toward them, as if reaching out its fingers to touch them—or incinerate them.
Atlanta and Promi backed up as far as they could, pressing themselves against the wall. Strangely, though, the blue kermuncle didn’t move. Even when the fiery fingers reached almost close enough to singe his whiskers, he remained still.
Then Kermi did something even more strange. He spoke to the flaming hand.
“Hello, Shirozzz.”
The fiery fingers shot straight up, stretching three times as high as before, crackling noisily.
“Don’t worry, Shirozzz,” the kermuncle said in a calm voice. “We won’t spoil things for you.” He waved his tail at Atlanta and Promi. “She is someone you can trust. And he . . . well, he’s not smart enough to worry about.” Lowering his voice, Kermi added, “As for me, you can trust me to keep your secret . . . if you will keep mine.”
Atlanta leaned forward and asked, “What—I mean, who—is this, Kermi? How do you know him? And what’s all this about secrets?”