Atlantis Rising Read online

  Also by T. A. Barron:

  The Merlin Saga

  Merlin: Book One: The Lost Years

  Merlin: Book Two: The Seven Songs

  Merlin: Book Three: The Raging Fires

  Merlin: Book Four: The Mirror of Fate

  Merlin: Book Five: A Wizard’s Wings

  Merlin: Book Six: The Dragon of Avalon

  Merlin: Book Seven: Doomraga’s Revenge

  Merlin: Book Eight: Ultimate Magic

  Merlin: Book Nine: The Great Tree of Avalon

  Merlin: Book Ten: Shadows on the Stars

  Merlin: Book Eleven: The Eternal Flame

  Merlin: Book Twelve: The Book of Magic

  The Heartlight Saga

  Heartlight

  The Ancient One

  The Merlin Effect

  Chapter Book

  Tree Girl

  Picture Books

  Where Is Grandpa?

  High as a Hawk

  The Day the Stones Walked

  Ghost Hands

  Nonfiction

  The Hero’s Trail

  T. A. BARRON

  Atlantis

  Rising

  PHILOMEL BOOKS An Imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  To Larkin,

  Whose spirit glows like a starstone

  PHILOMEL BOOKS

  An imprint of Penguin Young Readers Group

  Published by The Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014, USA

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  For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com

  Text copyright © 2013 by Thomas A. Barron.

  Map illustration copyright © 2013 by Thomas A. Barron.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission in writing from the publisher. Philomel Books, Reg. U.S. Pat. & Tm. Off. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Barron, T. A. Atlantis rising / T. A. Barron. pages cm

  Summary: The young thief Promi and the forest girl Atlanta battle evil and in the process bring about the creation of Atlantis.

  [1. Fantasy. 2. Atlantis (Legendary place)—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.B27567At 2013 [Fic]—dc23 2012044037

  Published simultaneously in Canada.

  ISBN 978-1-101-63860-6

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Contents

  Also by T. A. Barron:

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Map of Ellgandia

  First of All . . . A Confession

  1: A Distant Melody

  2: Flight from Danger

  3: Definitely Not Virtuous

  4: Spicy Sausage

  5: The Target

  6: Punishment

  7: A Fine Day’s Work

  8: Eternal Qualities

  9: True Religion

  10: Shadows

  11: Starstone and Prophecy

  12: A Blessing

  13: Listen One, Listen All

  14: To Hear the Unheard

  15: The Bridge to Nowhere

  16: Thievery

  17: No Escape

  18: Sacrifice

  19: The Way

  20: A Whistle in the Woods

  21: Secrets

  22: Feast of the Forest

  23: A Story Whispered by the Wind

  24: A Most Unlikely Vision

  25: The Wounded Heart

  26: The Messenger

  27: Swamp Specters

  28: The Passage of Death

  29: Secret Work

  30: Shirozzz

  31: An Earful

  32: Sweets

  33: Confidence

  34: Prayer Leaves

  35: Crossing

  36: The Leap

  37: Riding the Wind

  38: The Cloud Palace

  39: The Glow

  40: Her Last Living Effort

  41: Better Company

  42: Predator and Prey

  43: The Starstone

  44: A Silver Wind

  45: To See, to Hear, to Touch

  46: Sunrise

  47: The Last Sacrifice

  48: The Last True Home

  49: The End of All Magic

  50: A Quiggleypottle

  51: Things Won, Things Lost

  Map of Atlantis

  First of All . . .

  A Confession

  Atlantis—a name, a place, and a mystery, all in one.

  Like you, I’ve always wondered about this mythic isle . . . and dreamed of boarding a magical sailboat to go there, explore its secrets, and discover what was lost for all time. The mysteries of Atlantis have called to many people over the centuries—ranging from Plato to Isaac Newton, J. R. R. Tolkien to Doris Lessing, Leo Tolstoy to Jules Verne. Distinguished company, for sure, but on this boat there is room for all of us.

  Ever since Plato first described the horrendous cataclysm that destroyed the island in “a terrible day and night of destruction,” this place has inspired countless stories, poems, songs, and musings. Take, for example, the words of Arthur C. Clarke, who said that Atlantis “will always be an ideal—a dream of perfection—a goal to inspire men for all ages to come.”

  Yet despite everything that’s been written about Atlantis, we know very little. Why? Because those stories always focus on the island’s violent end. Its destruction. Its disappearance from the known world.

  But what about its birth? How was this magical place actually created? What people helped it happen—or tried desperately to stop it? What was it like originally, in its earliest days, before it became a celebrated legend? What secret forces gave Atlantis such remarkable—maybe even miraculous—power?

  For years, I confess, these questions have gnawed at me, in thoughts by day and dreams by night. The time has come to do something about that.

  So come with me, then, as we sail away to Atlantis. We will explore the creation of a place—and a legend. And we will witness the birth of this wondrous isle. When that moment arrives, it will be a time of great triumph . . . although it will also hold the seeds of equally great tragedy to come.

  On the way, we’ll find a few surprises. As well as the dangerous mixture of magic, greed, passion, hope, and faith that caused the island to be born . . . and ultimately, to die.

  Strange as it may seem, the story begins with a certain young vagabond—a knife thrower who almost never missed his target.

  Almost.

  T. A. B.

  CHAPTER 1

  A Distant Melody

  That morning, you had no idea of all the momentous changes to come. Very soon, you learned. And then you traded your life and everything you ever loved for that little bit of magic—a truly terrible price.

  And I am to blame for it.

  —An entry in her journal

  The only thing still with him from childhood was not a thing at all.

  It wasn’t a knife, a bracelet, or a stitch of clothing. All Promi had from those days, the only thing that had survived his years on the streets of the holy City, was the barest hint of a song.

  Promi leaned back against the mud-brick wall, just off the crowded street, his whole body hidden by shadow. Ignoring the mad bustle of people, wooden carts, and goatherds on the cobblestones, he tried to listen—not with his ea
rs, but with some inner sense that reached back to the time before memory. At first, he heard only silence, a hard, cold silence that surrounded him as completely as a block of ice.

  Then came a lone, quivering note . . . followed by another. And another. And another.

  He felt warmer, freer, with every note. They swelled inside him, filling him with a distant, haunting melody. He grinned, feeling renewed.

  Gone! The small scrap of song vanished. But it left him, as always, with a sense that he’d first heard it long ago. And with a vague, lingering feeling of comfort that he couldn’t begin to describe.

  Did the song also come with the hazy memory of a mother’s embrace? Her warm touch on his cheek? He shook his head, unsure, swishing his long black hair against his shoulders.

  “Clear out! Move aside, all of you!”

  The command from a temple guard rang in the street. People and goats scurried to get out of the way, as did a pair of geese who had only just landed on the cobblestones. Villagers poured into alleyways or pressed themselves against mud-brick walls—anything to avoid the approaching troop of guards.

  Despite all the commotion, Promi merely raised his head. Casually, he surveyed the troop of six temple guards, all of whom wore perilous curved swords and fearsome expressions. But his gaze moved right past the guards to the priest who walked behind them.

  Wearing a gold-embroidered shirt and billowy pants made of the finest white silk, the priest strode purposefully, almost regally. Upon his head sat a white turban, long a sign of authority in this country. His brown eyes scanned the villagers with obvious disdain. With one hand resting on his jeweled belt buckle and the other fingering his necklace of golden beads, he looked even more imperious than his guards.

  Grukarr, thought Promi. The Deputy High Priest himself. Time we met, don’t you agree?

  Without taking his eyes off the priest, Promi shifted, planting his feet in an experienced knife-thrower’s stance. Still hidden by shadow, he lowered his left hand and drew his dagger from its sheath. He willed his heartbeat to slow down, as he’d done so many times before. Every part of his body felt under control, like a perfectly synchronized clock.

  Except for one. The skin on his chest started to prickle, growing hotter by the second. That happened only on his toughest days as a thief—when he felt sure his own life was on the line. In other words, when he was afraid.

  And why, after hundreds of perfect throws of his knife—and as many successful thefts—should he feel afraid right now? Maybe, he answered himself, it has something to do with Grukarr’s love of cutting off people’s hands or tongues—or gouging out their eyes as he did last week to that young boy Galmy.

  He ground his teeth, recalling poor Galmy’s crime—forgetting to bow his head when Grukarr and his superior, the High Priestess Araggna, had walked by. It was the boy’s horrid screams, echoing across the market square, that had made Promi decide to do something rash to teach Grukarr some manners.

  Without getting caught, Promi thought anxiously.

  While his whole chest felt hot, one place in particular burned like fire coals: the strange black mark over his heart. He’d often wondered what had caused it—and why it looked so much like a bird in flight. Just as he’d often wondered about other things . . . such as who his parents were. How he’d come to the City ten years ago at the age of four or five. And so much more.

  But alas . . . the only clue he had to all those mysteries was the half-remembered song.

  Stop thinking, you bone-brained bag of blather, he told himself sternly. Focus!

  He waited, twisting his boots on the stones, as the troop of guards came closer. Grukarr, who was a full head taller than the guards even without his turban, scowled continually. Yet Promi wasn’t watching his face. All the young man’s attention went to the priest’s jeweled belt buckle, its sapphires flashing bluer than summer sky.

  Carefully, Promi raised the dagger. Ignoring the burning of the mark on his chest, he drew a slow breath. He watched as the entourage came closer, step by step.

  This plan will work, he assured himself. All I need to do is hit that buckle!

  Grukarr wouldn’t be hurt—not in body, at least. But his sense of security would be shattered. The priest and his guards would erupt in panic, sure this was an attempted murder. Grukarr would finally feel some of the fear he’d brought to the people of the City, making him search for assassins day and night. And so, in the end, Promi would lose a knife. But Grukarr would lose his feeling of safety, his confidence, and his ability to sleep through the night—and never get them back.

  Promi swallowed. At least . . . that’s the plan.

  Gripping the dagger, he cocked his arm. Pausing just long enough for the priest to come one step closer, he threw.

  Just as Promi released the dagger, an alley cat raced past, brushing against his leg. He flinched, twisted ever so slightly—and the blade flew wide. Instead of hitting the jeweled buckle, it struck a burly guard’s breastplate and fell onto the stones.

  “Attack!” roared the guard.

  Another pointed at Promi’s shadowed form against the wall. “There he is!”

  “Get him, you fools!” shouted Grukarr, his normally pallid face now red with rage. “Don’t let him escape!”

  Promi darted away from the wall, barely dodged one guard’s slashing sword, then rolled behind an abandoned cart to avoid a hurled spear. When all six guards rushed the cart, he did what they least expected: He grabbed the spear, leaped onto the cart, and used the spear as a pole to vault over all their heads.

  He landed in the middle of the street—face-to-face with Grukarr. The enraged priest waved his arms and roared at his guards, “Get him, I command you!”

  The guards spun around and converged on Promi. Curved swords raised, they charged the young vagabond who had dared attack their master. Their shared goal was clear—to slice Promi to pieces as swiftly and brutally as possible, so that Grukarr’s anger wouldn’t be turned against them.

  Promi, however, had a goal of his own. While his first plan had failed, he still longed to humiliate Grukarr. He glanced over his shoulder at the oncoming guards, then locked gazes with the priest.

  “Greetings to you, great lord,” he said mockingly.

  Quickly, Promi plucked his dagger off the cobblestone street. In a flash of rapid movements, he thrust the blade at Grukarr—and sliced cleanly through the priest’s belt. Grukarr’s precious buckle flew aside, clattering on the stones.

  Promi rolled away just as two curved swords sliced through the air where he’d stood a split second before. Though he dropped his knife in that maneuver, he deftly grabbed the belt buckle. Pausing just long enough to grin at Grukarr, he dashed down the street.

  “Wuhhh—why you . . . blubbaroarrr!” was all the priest could say.

  Grukarr’s face contorted with rage. Finally regaining his words, he screamed at the guards, “Get him, you idiots! And kill him! Or I’ll skin the lot of you alive!”

  The guards ran off, pounding after Promi.

  Still seething, Grukarr watched the young thief turn down an alley and disappear, hotly pursued by the guards. “Whoever you are,” he growled, “you will pay dearly for this crime.”

  He rose to his full height and placed his hands on his hips. “No one dares show such insolence to the mighty Grukarr. No one!”

  Only then did he realize that, without his belt, his pants had fallen down.

  CHAPTER 2

  Flight from Danger

  Running came so easily to you. But seeking? Not at all.

  —Another entry in her journal

  Down the alley dashed Promi, followed by all six vengeful guards. The young man veered onto a side street, vaulted over a wide gutter full of excrement and food scraps, and darted down another alley.

  Right behind him came the guards, their boots pounding on the cobblestones. Desire for revenge twisted their faces. This was about more than just catching a street vagabond, a petty thief who’d stolen the
ir master’s jeweled belt buckle. No, it was also about saving their own skins. For if they didn’t return with the young man’s head, Grukarr would make certain they’d lose their own.

  Promi’s boots, by contrast, didn’t pound. Virtually silent, the light boots barely seemed to touch the stones before pushing off again. And that was the least of their special qualities. These boots were made from magical leather, with the power to grow as Promi’s feet grew. They had fit him snugly ever since the day he’d stolen them five years earlier from the Divine Monk’s traveling wardrobe. And in those years, they’d helped him outrun many pursuers and scale many of the City’s mud-brick walls and tile roofs.

  But his pursuers had rarely been as numerous—or as motivated—as these guards. He glanced back over his shoulder. The guard whose breastplate had deflected the knife was only ten paces behind, curved sword raised. And gaining.

  Even so, Promi couldn’t resist taunting him. “Come get me, you mush-minded moron! Or are you as slow as you are stupid?”

  The guard charged all the faster, seething with rage.

  Promi dashed down a narrow street lined with dozens of houses. Laundry lines stretched from one doorway to another, often obstructing the street. He leaped over several ropes, ducked under others, and kept running.

  The guards weren’t so careful. They merely plowed right through, bursting laundry lines and scattering fresh-washed clothing everywhere. One guard’s legs got tangled, and he fell, skidding into the mud-brick wall. But the others ran on unimpeded.

  Pounding boots echoed in the street. The first guard was now close—so close his sword could almost slash Promi’s legs. And the rest of the guards weren’t far behind.

  How do I lose them? thought Promi desperately. Beneath his tunic, the strange mark in the shape of a bird was burning hotter than ever.

  He burst out of the street—and into the City’s central market square. People and carts crowded everywhere: fruit vendors setting up their stands, craftsmen displaying handwoven rugs and carved jewelry, and people offering to paint ancient designs on faces and hands. Monks wandered through the crowd, trying to sell strings of silver leaves that had been inscribed with prayers, to sing sacred chants, or to pound on their blessing drums—all to raise money to repair shrines and temple bells. Blacksmiths hammered, forging tools. A circle of women danced to the music of a bone flute. People led camels and herded animals as diverse as goats, boars, ducks, and pink flamingos.