CHAPTER 45
To See, to Hear, to Touch
When it happened at last, Promi, I didn’t know what to say. Which was just fine, since no words could describe how I felt.
—From her journal
On a wide, flat cloud above the surging river of mist, Theosor snarled desperately. He struggled, swiping with his paws and twisting with all his strength against the vaporstone net. But he couldn’t break free. The strands only tightened around his wings, his legs, and his passengers.
Promi tore at the net with one hand, but didn’t dare let go of the wind lion’s mane with the other, lest he fall under the stamping paws. Kermi, meanwhile, didn’t even try to escape. He only smacked his long tail against Promi’s back.
“Can’t you do something, manfool?” the kermuncle demanded. “After all, you’re the one in the Prophecy!”
But Promi couldn’t do anything. Frustrated, he peered through a hole in the tightening net, scanning the river of mist below them. Like the Deg Boesi rapids that rushed below the bridge where he’d leaped into the spirit realm, this river sped ceaselessly, frothing with white vapors. If only they could somehow get into it . . . the current would carry them away to some other realm.
But how? The net held them fast. And it was secured, somehow, to this cloud.
“What we need now,” Kermi grumbled, “is a miracle. Or a quiggleypottle.” He shook his head, brushing his whiskers against Promi’s cheek. “But they don’t just appear whenever you need them, you know.”
Promi shot him a glance, making it clear he didn’t have any clue what the word meant.
“Harrumph. You still don’t know the meaning of quiggleypottle? Well then, you should—”
Kermi fell silent. The net was melting away, vanishing into the mist!
Amazed, Promi watched, his eyes almost as wide as Theosor’s, as the net simply evaporated. Seconds later, they were completely free. The wind lion pranced across the cloud, shaking his mane jubilantly.
At that instant, human shapes started to materialize all around them: women and men, old and young. Like clouds forming out of clear sky, the people—at least thirty in all—grew increasingly solid. It took only a heartbeat for them to appear fully.
All of them, even the youngest children, had skin that glowed with a silvery sheen. And they all wore long, wispy robes. But unlike the uniforms of Narkazan’s warriors, these robes were every color of the rainbow. They had been painted with highly colorful, individual designs of flowers, fruits, poetic phrases, faces, landscapes, creatures, trees, and musical instruments—plus, on the robe of one young woman, a squiggly blue line that looked a lot like the tail of a kermuncle.
“Who are they?” Promi asked the wind lion.
Theosor didn’t answer. He merely stopped prancing and stood still except for the slightest tremble of his ears.
“Whoever these people are,” said Kermi as he studied the young woman’s robe, “they have excellent taste in clothing.” He blew a celebratory stream of bubbles which rose, glistening, into the misty sky.
An elder man, with golden eyes and white hair that shimmered like starlight on water, stepped toward them. He walked across the cloud until he stood directly in front of Theosor. As he gazed probingly at the wind lion, Theosor swished his tail. A few seconds passed and then, as if they had been speaking privately, the wind lion bobbed his head for emphasis.
The elder looked at Promi, glancing first at the mark on his chest that showed clearly through his torn tunic, then at his pocket. With a nod of greeting, he declared, “I am Sammelvar. My people and I welcome you at last. We apologize for casting the vapornet over you, but that was the only way we could stop such a powerful wind lion.”
Theosor snorted proudly.
Promi caught his breath. For he had just noticed that the design on Sammelvar’s robe was a gold-colored replica of his own mark! Like the one over Promi’s heart, it was shaped like a mighty bird in flight.
Yes, said Sammelvar telepathically. We share this mark, you and I.
Promi drew a sharp breath. Instinctively, he raised his hand to touch the spot on his chest. “You . . . have been waiting for us?”
“For you, Promi,” the man answered. Seeing Promi’s surprise, he added kindly, “Brave Theosor here told me your name. As well as what you have done to rescue the Starstone—and also to dispose of Narkazan.”
As he said those words, many people in his band smiled and traded approving glances. Some of them embraced, while a young girl spun in circles, dancing. One white-haired woman, crying quietly, stepped to Sammelvar’s side.
Only one person, the young woman with the kermuncle’s tail on her robe, showed no emotion. She stood apart from all the others, seemingly deep in thought. Then Promi noticed something else. Over her eyes, she wore a turquoise band that must have completely blocked her vision. Yet something about the way she was looking at him told him that she could, without doubt, see.
Maybe, he wondered, she has learned to See as I have learned to Listen.
At that instant, the young woman nodded.
Intrigued, Promi gazed at her. Had she read his mind?
“We have awaited your arrival,” said Sammelvar, “with great hope. That is why the design on my robe is the color of the rising sun that lights your world at the start of a whole new day.”
Promi’s cheeks flushed. “My friends here did just as much as I did.”
Kermi’s whiskers bristled. “More, actually.” His small blue paw batted the young man’s ear. “But he did his part.”
As Promi waved away the paw, several people laughed. And for the first time, the young woman broke into a grin.
Putting aside his annoyance, Promi asked Sammelvar, “You have been resisting Narkazan?”
“For a very long time—what would be, in your world, centuries.” He ran a hand through his shimmering hair. “While Narkazan wanted only to conquer, to control others, we have stood for the ideal that everyone—mortal and spirit beings alike—deserves to choose his or her own path.”
Beside him, the elder woman nodded, her kind eyes sparkling. “As you, Promi, have chosen yours.” Then, her tone grave, she added, “But we have lost many brave fighters, vanquished by the warlord’s dark magic.”
Sammelvar clenched his jaw, remembering someone’s loss. “Immortals cannot be killed,” he explained. “But Narkazan found ways to make them choose to die, just to end their agony.” He scowled. “He also found a way, quite recently, to reverse the power of magical objects. To take something as beautiful as the Starstone, our gift to your world, and turn it into a force of evil—something that would destroy rather than create, kill rather than renew.”
“To make it,” Promi said disdainfully, “a weapon.”
“Right,” declared Theosor with a shake of his mane. “But that will not happen now, young cub. He has fallen into the Maelstrom from which no one has ever escaped. At least . . . not yet.”
“May he stay there forever!” declared the white-haired woman. “With all his evil magic.”
An idea struck Promi. Turning to Sammelvar, he asked, “Is that what the Prophecy means by the end of all magic?”
“No,” answered the spirit, his golden eyes alight. “Magic is still alive throughout the worlds! And now it can thrive unmolested.”
He touched the tips of his fingers together. “Besides, magic in its natural state is neither good nor evil. Only the will of the user, or the craft of the object, makes it so.”
“Then what,” demanded Promi, “do those words in the Prophecy mean?”
“Those words mean both more and less than they seem.” Spoken by the young woman with the turquoise band over her eyes, her comment seemed to swell, echoing across the cloud. Everyone turned toward her.
“That is the way with all prophecies,” she explained. “The true meaning will only be known in time, and then only to those with the eyes to see the unseen and the ears to hear the unheard.”
To hear the unhear
d, Promi repeated to himself. The magic of a Listener! Could she be referring to me?
As if she’d heard his question, the young woman said to Promi, “In time, you will learn what you need to know, or know what you need to learn.”
Bewildered, Promi frowned. “What did you say?”
Taking pity on him, the elder woman explained, “She is a Seer, given to talking in riddles. I am her mother, Escholia, and I can’t understand much that she says.”
Sammelvar chuckled. “I am her father, and I can’t understand anything that she says.”
The young woman grinned again. “Maybe you will learn when you grow young enough.”
Promi furrowed his brow. Trading glances with Sammelvar, he said, “I see what you mean.”
The white-haired woman came closer and looked up at Promi, sitting astride the great wind lion. She studied him with her kind eyes, then placed her hand lightly on his ankle. To Promi, her touch felt surprisingly warm. And, in a mysterious way he couldn’t begin to explain, it also felt . . . familiar.
But that’s impossible, he told himself.
Worry written on her face, Escholia turned to her husband. “He doesn’t know, does he?”
Sammelvar shook his head. “In time, my dear, in time.”
Promi’s back straightened. “Know what?” he demanded.
But the elder man didn’t reply. Instead, he asked Promi, “May I see the Starstone?”
Promi reached into his pocket and pulled out the crystal, still attached to the copper disc that had served as a magical magnet. Seeing this, Sammelvar said a simple chant. The shonsée disc sounded a deep, resonant note like a gong—and released the crystal. Gently, Sammelvar took the Starstone.
The instant he touched it, the crystal’s facets lit up, blazing with magical light. Beams radiated everywhere, piercing the surrounding clouds and making luminous rainbows in the mist. It was as if he held, in his hand, a glowing star.
“Ah, good crystal,” said Sammelvar. “Long has it been since I felt your power.”
Raising his eyes to Promi, he smiled. “It lifts my heart to know that soon this will again be on Earth where it belongs.”
As he gave it back to Promi, the young man handed him the shonsée disc. “Keep this, Sammelvar. You and your people have given so much to my world. This is a small gift of thanks.”
“It is no small gift,” he replied. He turned the copper disc slowly, studying its sheen. “Tanalo, the greatest of our magical craftsmen, worked many years to make this. Well do I remember the day he finished—and the joyful expression on his face.”
With a thoughtful nod, he added, “It would have pleased him to know how very important it would become. To both our worlds.”
Theosor’s voice rumbled, “Cub, we must fly! Back in the mortal realm, only a few minutes remain before sunrise on Ho Byneri.”
“A few minutes!” Promi exclaimed, surprised. With a pang, he thought, Atlanta and I were supposed to meet two whole days ago. I hope she’s all right.
Stepping toward him, the young woman with the turquoise band said earnestly, “It is very important that you get back in time for sunrise—first light Ho Byneri, in the words of the Prophecy. You must not be late!” Frowning, she added, “And, Promi, I foresee that you will have a different meeting with your friend than you had planned. Very different. There is great danger in the air.”
Promi frowned. “Danger for her or for me?”
But the young woman didn’t answer.
Escholia took her husband’s hand. “Must he go?”
Sammelvar nodded. “He still has important work to do.” Facing Promi, he implored, “Do be careful.”
“I’ll try,” the young man replied. Gazing one more time at the cloud, the river of mist, and all the people who had gathered here, he said, “I wish I could stay longer.”
“Perhaps,” said Sammelvar, “you will someday return.”
Theosor gave his mane a mighty shake. “We must fly!”
Replacing the Starstone in his pocket, Promi nodded. “Let’s go.”
“Even after you get home,” cautioned Sammelvar, “you must be vigilant. Do not allow the Starstone to fall into evil hands! Even in your wondrous country, which holds creatures from every other land, there are mortals who would use its power for terrible ends.”
Immediately, Promi thought of Grukarr. He knew that Atlanta had hoped to block the priest’s plans. But had she succeeded? And more important . . . had she survived?
“Hold tight,” commanded the wind lion. As Promi grasped his mane, he reared back and leaped into the air. Promi had barely a chance to glance again at the immortals, and to wonder what had seemed so familiar about the elder woman’s touch, before they vanished behind a curtain of vapors.
Through the cloudscapes they flew, fast as the wind. Within Promi’s pocket, the Starstone glowed subtly. By his legs, Theosor’s magical wings vibrated intensely.
Faster and faster they hurtled, whizzing through tunnels of swirling storms and leaping into luminous gaps between clouds. They flowed with the mist—even, it seemed to Promi at times, became the mist. They soared over cloud canyons, through bizarrely different realms, and into waves of vapor that carried them beyond any markings of space or time.
At last, they returned to a world he remembered well. Through the shifting veils of mist, he saw a dilapidated, unfinished bridge. Hundreds of prayer leaves covered with intricate words of blessing snapped and rustled in the breeze. Wooden planks, broken or barely attached, creaked as the bridge swayed. Far below, the river Deg Boesi, brimming with melted snow, crashed through the gorge.
The Bridge to Nowhere.
Theosor sailed to the end of the bridge and hovered there. Lowering his voice to a tender growl, he said, “We must part, brave cub.”
Promi glanced at the eastern horizon. Through the shredding vapors, he could see the first glimmer of light reaching skyward. Sunrise was only seconds away.
The wind lion turned his head, studying him. In the predawn light, his mane shone like liquid silver. Leaning forward, Promi stroked the warm fur of his neck.
“I will miss you, Theosor.”
The wind lion’s ears trembled. “And I will miss you.”
Slowly, Promi slipped off Theosor’s broad back and stepped onto the bridge. The planks creaked under his weight. Peering at the wind lion, he said softly, “I bless your eternal qualities.”
Theosor roared one last time. Then, with a gust of wind, he vanished into the mist.
CHAPTER 46
Sunrise
Home is not where you find food or rest, but where you find something far more precious. Whatever happens, Promi, I hope you remember that.
—From her journal
Thick vapors shrouded Promi. Though dawn’s first light already touched the horizon, very little could penetrate the mist around him.
After the wind lion’s departure, he remained at the end of the Bridge to Nowhere, staring into the mist. Prayer leaves, strung from the bridge’s collapsing beams, rustled and flapped all around, while the river crashed noisily through the gorge. Yet . . . all he could hear was Theosor’s final, echoing roar.
“I’ll miss that lion,” he muttered to himself.
“Not as much,” said Kermi with a thump of his tail against the young man’s back, “as you’ll miss all the things you’ve sacrificed. Especially pastries.”
Promi shook his head. For while he’d given up many things that were precious indeed, even the song from his childhood—he wasn’t thinking about them right now. Instead, he was thinking about an experience he would never have again: soaring through the spirit realm, holding the wind lion’s mane.
Feeling the weight of the Starstone in his pocket, Promi’s mood brightened. At least he’d managed to rescue it! Atlanta will be so happy, he told himself.
And yet . . . even though the Starstone had been saved, the Prophecy hadn’t been completely fulfilled. He wondered, once again, about those mysterious words, the
end of all magic. What did they really mean?
Another phrase from the Prophecy also troubled him: the ultimate end. Clearly, that meant something larger, more significant, than Narkazan’s demise. But what?
He shrugged, unable to guess. And he certainly wasn’t willing to make any more sacrifices to find out. Besides . . . what did he have left to sacrifice?
Suddenly, a single ray of light from the rising sun touched his tunic. Within his pocket, the crystal glowed, magnifying the light of dawn. The start, as Sammelvar had said so hopefully, of a whole new day.
Sunrise on Ho Byneri! The prophesied time had arrived. And Promi, not anyone else, possessed the Starstone.
He glanced at the mark on his chest—a flying bird, now aglow with new morning light. A feeling of triumph grew inside him, swelling like the sunrise. He allowed himself a satisfied smile. Then he turned and strode across the mist-shrouded bridge.
Time to find Atlanta, he told himself. And to show her what I’ve brought back from the spirit realm.
With a lilt in his step, he crossed the creaky planks. Prayer leaves slapped and waved their words of blessing. Vapors swirled around him, so thick he couldn’t see the end of the bridge until he reached it.
Just as he stepped off the rickety structure onto solid ground, he froze.
Grukarr stood directly in front of him! And worse—the priest held a gleaming dagger to Atlanta’s throat. His other hand clutched her shoulder.
“You!” exclaimed Grukarr, shaking with fury. “Still alive!”
Huntwing, perched on the priest’s shoulder, screeched angrily and slashed at the air with one of his talons.
Atlanta, meanwhile, peered at Promi with such sadness it hurt his heart. Then he noticed she also looked ill—very ill. Her legs wobbled weakly, and her blue-green eyes were dull. On top of that, her skin was strikingly pale, her breathing ragged. What had happened to her?
Instinctively, he started to reach out to her. But he stopped when Grukarr pressed the dagger against her throat. “Come no closer, vagabond! And if you want her to live, do exactly as I command.”