Atlantis Rising (28 page)

The Last True Home

Where do miracles reside? In the places where they appear . . . or in the minds where they are conceived?

—From her journal

F
ar away from the unfinished bridge at the canyon, in a grove deep in the Great Forest, a withered elm tree quivered. One by one, its shriveled leaves began to tremble. Slowly, they filled with green color that flowed through their veins and across their surfaces, all the way to their outermost edges. The tree straightened, drawing sunlight from above and nutrients from below. For the first time since the blight had struck, it stood healthy and strong.

All around the forest, trees revived. In the dense groves around Moss Island, the ancient stands near the Lakes of Dreams, and the glades below Highmage Hill, trees of all kinds shook off any remnants of disease. And as their strength and color returned, so did the many creatures who had lived in their branches and trunks and roots. Like the trees, those creatures swiftly regained their health.

Even at the forest’s easternmost edge, right at the border of the swamp, trees stood straight and tall again. All across the swamp itself, the shells of snails suddenly lost their lavender glow. And at Grukarr’s lair, the thick plume of smoke disappeared, along with all the cauldrons where poison had been brewed.

The blight was over.

At the half-finished bridge, Atlanta drew a sharp breath. Feeling stronger, she sat up, astonished by her miraculous recovery. She felt the joyful whirring of the faery’s wings on her wrist, but when she turned to look at him, something else caught her attention.

Promi. He lay on the ground beside her, utterly still. The Starstone, glittering subtly, rested in his open hand.

She shrieked and shook him hard. No breath. No sound. No life.

Realizing what he must have done, and what he had sacrificed to save her, she stared at him blankly. She felt numb in a different way from the blight—unable to cry or speak. All she could do was stare at his lifeless body.

Suddenly the ground beneath her shook. Though it was a single tremor that ended immediately, it rattled the gorge, sending rocks tumbling over the edge into the rapids below. In the City, just beyond the nearest wall, a tile broke off someone’s roof and clattered on the cobblestones.

The faery, startled, flew up to Atlanta’s shoulder and landed on her collar. Gently, he leaned against the skin of her neck. Comforted by his closeness, she reached up and stroked the edge of his wing. Yet she kept her gaze on Promi’s motionless form.

Another tremor shook the ground. Stronger than before, this one cracked several mud-brick walls. Somewhere nearby, a roof collapsed and people screamed for help.

Atlanta looked over her shoulder at the dilapidated bridge. She wouldn’t have been surprised if that tremor had been enough to make the whole bridge collapse and tumble into the gorge. But amazingly, the frail-looking structure wasn’t even swaying. It stood there, completely undisturbed—as if it was somehow supported by invisible beams anchored in another realm.

Then came another tremor, even stronger. And another after that. Walls toppled, villagers shrieked as their homes crashed down, and the old blue cedar by the bridge rocked with the shaking ground.

But the bridge itself still didn’t sway.

In the City, the marketplace erupted in chaos. Carts overturned, animals broke free and stampeded, and people scattered in all directions. Posts holding lines of prayer leaves collapsed, entangling people trying to flee.

“Earthquake!” many shouted.

“The world is ending!”

“Save us, Great Powers!”

Within the Divine Monk’s temple, walls crumbled, columns fell, and windows shattered. Roofs collapsed, showering monks and priestesses with broken tiles. Three monks debating on a balcony tumbled to the street, continuing their argument as they fell.

The great bell tower Promi had climbed to escape the temple guard suddenly buckled. It swayed precariously, then fell into a courtyard, smashing gates and arches and an immense prayer drum. The copper dome splintered, and the huge bell crashed to the ground with a deafening
bonnnggg.

Meanwhile, the Divine Monk, who had been kneeling on his favorite leopard-skin carpet to offer thanks for his breakfast, fell flat on his face. His attending monks screamed in panic and tossed incense everywhere, hoping to dispel the evil forces. But they succeeded only in covering the Divine Monk with powder. So much stuck to his face, which was perspiring even more than usual, that it looked like a lumpy gray mask. Furious, he took a breath to curse the monks—but inhaled the powder and started sneezing uncontrollably.

At the unfinished bridge by the gorge, meanwhile, Atlanta felt the growing power of the tremors. She guessed that all this, too, was the result of Promi’s sacrifice. But she couldn’t fathom why.

Peering sadly at his body, she wondered what he had hoped to accomplish. Destroy the temple? The City? No, that made no sense. Why would he want to do that?

The army,
she realized.
Grukarr’s army of invaders!

Another thought struck her as more tremors rocked the ground beneath her. Maybe he also wanted to destroy the Passage of Death! Without that tunnel, no future army could enter the country. So even if Grukarr or someone else found a new way to stop the pancharm, no invasion could happen. Ellegandia would be safe from outside forces.

But Promi,
she thought grimly,
you will never know what you achieved.

As good as Atlanta’s guesses were, however, they caught only part of Promi’s goal. Her guesses were bold, to be sure. But his true aspirations had been even bolder.

The epicenter of all the quakes was at the high peaks that bordered Africa, at the very base of the mountain Ell Shangro. Those quakes struck with such force that the tremors shaking the City, far away, were mild by comparison. When the first quake erupted, entire mountain ridges broke apart. Cliffs sheared off, landslides smashed into the valleys below, and the Passage of Death collapsed completely.

Buried under layers of rubble, most of Grukarr’s army perished instantly. Those who survived were swallowed by crevasses that opened beneath their feet. Grukarr’s lair crumbled and plunged into the deepest crevasse of all.

It was exactly at that moment that, in the City, Grukarr entered the temple’s central courtyard. Returning to the place that had become the seat of his power, the place where he had nursed his highest ambitions and developed his greatest plans, he felt a surge of confidence. He would overcome these difficulties just as he’d overcome so many before. He always prevailed in the end.

Brushing some of the soil off his robe, he puffed out his chest regally and strode into the central courtyard.
You,
he told himself,
were born to rule.

Just then, the first tremors began. Feeling them rock the courtyard, he sat down on the low stone wall that surrounded the temple’s well, waiting for them to pass. But they didn’t pass. They only grew more severe, shaking the buildings all around him.

This is odd,
he thought.
We never have earthquakes in this country.

He felt a burst of fear. This trouble was caused by his enemies! By that cursed young vagabond and his allies in the spirit realm! But why?

A column supporting a temple balcony collapsed, crashing to the courtyard in an explosion of wood and plaster, crushing several people. Amidst their screams, Grukarr understood.
My army! They want to destroy it—and all my plans!

He jumped up. Right then, the worst tremor yet struck the temple. Its force knocked the priest off his feet. He pitched over backward, tripped on the wall, and plunged headlong into the well.

Grukarr shrieked. Then, just as abruptly as it had started, his shrieking stopped.

Meanwhile, at the high peaks, the quakes that had destroyed Grukarr’s army worsened. Even as those quakes rocked the mountains, powerful storms burst in the sky. Torrential rains fell, pounding the slopes, swelling the country’s rivers to their brims and beyond. Before long, those rivers grew into unstoppable blasts of water that tore through canyons, sending up towering clouds of vapor.

On the rugged coasts that bordered three sides of Ellegandia, ocean storms raged with force never known before. Howling winds hurled great waves against the walls of cliffs. Spray shot into the air—so high that, all around the country, rainbows formed, glowing bright as they twined themselves across the sky.

None of this, though, compared with the power of the forces that continued to ravage the high peaks. Whole mountains shifted, lifting upward as their snowy cornices collapsed. Ridges exploded, leaving ever deeper crevasses. Meanwhile, the summit of Ell Shangro spewed smoke and ash.

Ell Shangro quaked violently, down to its roots, ripping apart bedrock that lay unfathomably deep. Suddenly—the whole mountain erupted. Lava blasted from its smoking summit, flowing over the ridges. Molten rivers cut channels that blazed with superheated fire and incinerated anything in their paths. Simultaneously, the Earth itself ruptured, opening a rift that sliced through the volcano and all its neighboring peaks.

Then came the greatest miracle of all.

In a single, violent heave, the entire peninsula of Ellegandia broke off from the rest of the continent. Thunderous explosions echoed everywhere as the lands separated. Then, with astonishing swiftness, the whole country moved out to sea, urged on by gale-force winds that blew with their greatest strength. Like a gigantic boat, it sailed across the watery expanse.

At last, the winds lessened and the waves quieted. Ellegandia came to rest in the middle of the ocean, far beyond the reach of any attackers. At the same time, undersea mountains surged up from the ocean floor, connecting with the country and supporting it firmly.

Seabirds of all kinds wheeled overhead, screeching and whistling in celebration. All around the shores, dolphins leaped joyously, fish swam through the sparkling waters, and whales sang with their deepest harmonies.

For all of them understood that, in this miraculous moment, a new island had been born. Just as Haldor the centaur had foretold that night in the forest. And maybe they understood, as well, that this island was also something more: the last true home of magic on Earth.

The place where nature, in all its richness and glory, could thrive freely.

The place whose people could live in peace with themselves and all their fellow creatures.

The place that Promi had died to save.

Certainly, this new island wasn’t perfect. It still held people as wicked as Grukarr. People whose capacity for arrogance and greed, ignorance, and fear could still overwhelm the rest. People who could be taught to hate someone else for following a different spiritual path, or to devour the very wonders that sustained them.

And so, perhaps, this place held the seeds of its own destruction—the possibility that it could someday perish in a terrible cataclysm.

Yet for now, this newly born island was at peace. All alone, radiantly beautiful, it graced the surrounding seas. Much of what it held was a mystery, even to its own inhabitants. And what it might inspire for the future, for unwritten stories and songs, no one could say.

For this was an island of unmatched enchantment.

The End of All Magic

No one, in all the history of the realms, has ever looked more surprised.

—From her journal

A
t the instant of the new island’s birth, just when all the winds and tremors ceased, a much quieter miracle occurred. Promi opened his eyes.

Although he couldn’t see much through the clouds of mist that swirled around him, he knew he was alive. Not just because he was breathing the misty air, hearing the rapids that thundered through the gorge, and feeling the thump of his own heartbeat. No, what really convinced him that he was alive was the sight of someone sitting beside him—someone whose face he knew well.

“Atlanta!”

Hesitantly, she nodded, not sure this could really be true. Then, in a burst of belief, she jumped on him and hugged him hard. He hugged her back, rolling with her on the ground.

For a timeless moment, they laughed and hugged and rolled, then laughed some more. Above them, the faery spun delighted loops in the air, his translucent cloak fluttering behind, his antennae waving jubilantly.

When, at last, the celebration stopped, Atlanta and Promi sat there on the turf, breathless. Suddenly, he noticed the Starstone resting beside them. Drawn by the subtle glow of its facets, he reached to pick it up.

As soon as he closed his hand around the crystal, though, he noticed something new. His skin color had changed! It had a misty, almost silvery sheen. Like the people he’d seen in the spirit realm.

Peering closely at his hand, he tried to understand. Was this just a trick of the morning light shining through the swirling vapors? But no—it looked so real! Atlanta, too, had noticed, and was staring at him, puzzled.

All at once, he realized the truth. “Am I . . . immortal?”

Atlanta shook her head, jostling her curls. “That’s not possible.”

“Oh, yes it is.”

Both of them looked up to see who had spoken. Striding toward them from the mist near the unfinished bridge, a young woman approached. Promi recognized her right away from the turquoise band across her eyes. The Seer!

She wore the same robe he’d seen before, decorated with a squiggly blue line that reminded him of Kermi’s tail. Fearing the kermuncle had perished fighting Huntwing, Promi felt a sharp pang that told him, to his own surprise, that he would actually miss the grumpy little fellow who had joined him on so many adventures.

Watching the Seer approach, Promi muttered in disbelief, “It’s really her!”

Atlanta nudged him. “You know her?”

“Yes,” he replied, as both he and Atlanta bounced to their feet to greet this unexpected visitor. “We met before. In the spirit realm.”

Atlanta’s eyes widened. “You’ll have to fill me in on your travels.”

He grinned. “Only if you’ll do the same.”

“You have a deal,” she replied.

Mist curled around the Seer’s neck and arms as she joined them. Her face aglow with silver light, she said, “It’s against our laws for immortals to come here.” She paused, almost blushing, then added, “Although it’s been done before.” Standing before them, she explained, “This time, Sammelvar and Escholia gave me permission. So I could greet you, Promi, when you awoke.” A slight smile touched her face. “You probably have a few questions.”

“A few,” he replied, glancing down at his silver-skinned hand that held the Starstone.

The young woman from the spirit realm seemed to look right at him, undeterred by the band over her eyes. “You accomplished everything you wanted, Promi. The blight is ended, and your friend here is revived.”

Atlanta glanced at him gratefully. Who could have guessed that this young man—whom she’d met just two weeks ago over a lemon pie—would come to mean so much to her world . . . and to her? Sharing her gratitude, the faery, who had settled again on her shoulder, whirred his radiant blue wings.

“You did even more,” the spirit continued. “The army of invaders is destroyed, as is their tunnel. And best of all . . . this enchanted country will never be invaded over land again.” She leaned closer. “Because this country is now an island, far out to sea.”

Atlanta gasped in surprise.

Promi beamed. “I was hoping for that, but wasn’t sure it could happen.”

“With good reason,” said the spirit. “Never before has a Listener been able to call upon so much of nature’s power, and to turn that power into action.”

“Well,” said Promi modestly, “I had this to help.” He held up the Starstone, which pulsed with light.

“You did. But you also had something else. Your own unique ability.”

“She’s right,” Atlanta chimed in. “You are unique.” She squeezed Promi’s hand. “For a pie thief, that is.”

He chuckled, then shook his head in amazement. “Can you believe it? An island!”

Atlanta blew a long breath. “Just as Haldor predicted that night.”

“That old centaur got it right,” said Promi. “And he also deserves credit for giving me the idea. Even though, in his dour way, he also predicted the island would someday be destroyed.”

“Let’s hope,” replied Atlanta, “he’s only right about the first part.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Creation is much more fun than destruction.” 

Atlanta nodded. “I’ll say.”

Turning back to the young woman whose silvery skin was so much like his own, Promi said, “But . . . immortal? Me? How is that—well, er, even . . . well,
possible
?”

“Harrumph,” said a cranky voice in the mist by the Seer’s feet. “I see you’re just as articulate as ever.”

“Kermi!” cried both Atlanta and Promi at once.

The furry little creature blew a stream of bubbles that rose, wobbling, toward the sky. Then, blinking his round blue eyes at Promi, he said dryly, “Didn’t think I’d miss a chance to make you miserable, did you?”

The young man smiled. “No. Certainly not.”

Kermi’s whiskers twitched. “Oh, and manfool. I found something you dropped.”

Lifting his long tail, the kermuncle produced a gleaming blade. “Yours, I believe.”

“My dagger!” Promi reached for it. At the instant his hand touched the hilt, the silver string reached out and wrapped around his wrist, squeezing like the embrace of an old friend. Gratefully, he admired its translucent blade that shimmered like an icicle. As he replaced it in the sheath on his belt, the silver string released its hold. “Thanks, Kermi.”

“Well, I figured you need all the help you can get.” His oversized ears drooped. “Which is why Jaladay made me promise to stay with you in the first place.”

Hearing her name again, Promi thought about Jaladay and her mysterious ways. Her face that seemed to waver between young and old. Her willingness to entrust him with Listener magic. And, above all, her luminous green eyes that glowed like a forest in the light of dawn.

Turning again to the spirit, he asked, “Up there on the cloud, when you spoke to me, you could tell I’m a Listener. Right?”

“That’s right.”

“How?”

She tapped the turquoise band covering her eyes. “If I shield myself from the distractions of normal sight, I can see in another way. A deeper, truer way.”

“You can see the unseen.”

“Yes, just as you can hear the unheard.”

Something about the way she said that phrase made him catch his breath. Peering at her, he said, “You have a name you haven’t told us, don’t you?”

The corner of her mouth lifted slightly. “Listen closely. Maybe you can hear it.”

He nodded, listening hard, feeling the truth of her identity. “You are . . . Jaladay!”

“Yes.” She pulled off the turquoise band, revealing her luminous, deep green eyes.

Puzzled, Atlanta looked at them both. “What haven’t you told me?”

“That we met even before the spirit realm,” answered Promi. “Just briefly—in the dungeon.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” announced Jaladay. Gazing intently at Promi, she declared, “We have known each other all our lives.”

His brow furrowed. “But how? And, well . . . er . . .
how
?”

“So eloquent,” observed Kermi. He bounded up Jaladay’s leg and perched comfortably on her shoulder. “Some things never change.”

Jaladay glanced at the sassy little fellow. “Shall I tell him?”

“Harrumph. Might as well. Though he probably won’t understand.”

“We have two big things in common,” Jaladay explained. “One is we both like to keep a journal.” She patted a pocket in her robe. “And the other is . . . we both have the same parents.”

His jaw dropped. “You’re my
sister
?”

“I warned you,” said Kermi grumpily. He blew a big, lopsided bubble that popped on Promi’s chin.

“Yes, Promi. We are brother and sister.”

The young man turned to Atlanta. “This is even more bizarre than I thought.”

“Bizarre is the word,” she replied.

“Like me,” Jaladay continued, “you were born in the spirit realm.”

“Which is why,” he realized, “I didn’t die from that sacrifice.”

“That’s right. Your physical, mortal form died, Promi. But you have always been an immortal. So that death returned you to your true life.”

He winced. “Try that again. But don’t speak like a Seer, all right? Speak to me as you would to—”

“Your idiot brother,” finished Kermi.

“All right,” Jaladay agreed. “When you were born, Promi, our parents—”

“Wait!” he interrupted, grabbing her arm. “
Our parents.
That means . . . I met them! Sammelvar and Escholia.” Biting his lip, he remembered Sammelvar’s genuine faith in him, as well as the kindness in Escholia’s eyes. And the surprising familiarity of her touch. “That’s why they seemed to know me so well.”

“Right.” Jaladay’s green eyes studied him. “But when you were very young, the Prophecy was revealed—first by Famalel, the wind lion, and then by others throughout the spirit world. So our parents were forced to make a choice. The Prophecy was crystal clear, you see, that only one person could possibly restore harmony between the mortal and spirit realms . . . and ensure the free, independent magic of each. And that one person bore a strange mark that nobody could miss.”

Instinctively, Promi touched the skin over his heart. He imagined, beneath his fingers, the bird beating its mighty wings.

Jaladay looked at him—or, it seemed, looked
through
him, as if he were no more substantial than the swirling mist from the gorge. “This person, as you can guess, instantly became the archenemy of Narkazan and all who served him. The warlord placed a huge bounty on the prophesied person’s head. On
your
head, Promi.”

“So they disguised me,” he reasoned, “as a mortal. And sent me away to Earth.”

“It was the only way to protect you. To give you a chance to live long enough to make whatever choices might affect both worlds.” She frowned. “As part of that magical disguise, they needed to erase all your memories of life in the spirit realm. Including your family.”

Reaching out to his torn tunic, she touched the skin of his chest. “The only thing no magic was strong enough to disguise was this mark.”

Promi traded glances with Atlanta. “For the longest time, when I was small, I thought it was mud or paint or something. I tried to wash it off whenever I bathed in a stream or a fountain.”

Kermi erupted with a loud snort. “You actually bathe?”

Promi rolled his eyes. “Wish I could stuff you into my boot again.”

With both paws, the kermuncle held his nose. “No, please!”

Atlanta and Jaladay both chuckled.

“When my skill as a Seer told me you’d been thrown into that horrible dungeon,” Jaladay confessed, “I couldn’t stand the separation any longer. So I decided to look in on you myself.” She shot a guilty glance at Kermi. “Yes, yes, I know. That was bending the rules a bit.”

The kermuncle shook his head. “More like crashing through the rules, ripping them to shreds, and burning the evidence.”

“In any case,” she said, turning back to Promi, “I arrived just when you bravely tried to help that poor old woman, to save her from the guard.”

Watching him, Atlanta’s expression turned to something like admiration.

“Now I see what happened!” Promi slapped his thigh. “That old woman really
did
die. I couldn’t save her. And when she did—”

“I entered her body,” finished his sister. “It was me you met there, though I had all her physical traits.”

He nodded. “Except for your eyes.”

She gazed at him affectionately. “Because spirits don’t belong in the mortal realm, I could only stay long enough to give you Listener magic.”

Promi caught his breath. “Now that I’m no longer mortal, all those sacrifices I made as a Listener—”

“Are ended,” she finished. “Which means, Promi, you can eat sweets again.”

“Whoo-hoo!” he shouted as the others laughed. “So . . . pastries? Pies? Anything?”

“Anything. As much as you want.”

“You’ll probably need some practice,” Atlanta teased him. “Just to get your eating skills back.”

“Right,” he agreed with a smack of his lips.

“Of course,” Jaladay went on, “the physical things you gave up you’ll have to replace.” She winked. “Starting with a journal.”

“And boots,” added Atlanta.

“Maybe not,” said Promi, wiggling his toes. “I’m getting used to going barefoot like you.”

With a grin, she replied, “What a long way you’ve come.”

“Not long enough,” groused Kermi, “to give him any sense.”

“That would be asking too much,” joshed Promi.

“Harrumph. I’ll say.”

Suddenly Promi realized something else—this time, about Kermi. Focusing his gaze on the acerbic little fellow, he said, “You’re an immortal too! Isn’t that right?”

“Took you long enough, manfool.”

“That’s how you recognized Shirozzz down in his cavern. And why you hid so often.” He squinted at the kermuncle. “So why, after we got to the spirit realm, didn’t you tell me?”

The blue eyes glittered. “Much more fun to keep you clueless and watch you struggle.”

By now, Promi’s mind was spinning from all these revelations.
I’m an immortal. She’s my sister . . . as well as Jaladay. Who also keeps a journal. Kermi, too, comes from the spirit realm. And oh, by the way—my parents live on a cloud.