Free Atlantis in Peril by T. A. Barron Page A

dungeon, getting beaten senseless, and almost dying . . . it was the sweetest pie he’d ever tasted.
    Recalling that remarkable theft reminded him of Grukarr and Araggna—two thoroughly unsavory people. Their bodies had been found amidst the City’s wreckage, giving a sigh of relief to everyone who lived here. Except perhaps the Divine Monk, whose nose for treachery was significantly less developed than his nose for his next meal.
    Now, there’s something else that has changed. No more will those two cling to power . . . or torture their prisoners right here in this square!
Dangerous as they had been, the only way to grab that smackberry pie was to risk getting captured by them.
But,
Promi concluded with a smack of his lips,
it was totally worth it for that pie.
    Adeptly, he dodged a group of seven or eight children who were chasing after a puppet maker. One of those children, a girl with carrot-colored hair, made him think of Shangri. That bright-eyed girl had taken a liking to Promi after he saved her from a herd of stampeding goats. Which proved especially useful when her father, a baker, caught Promi stealing his pastries. If Shangri hadn’t intervened at the very last moment, her father would have pounded Promi into something that resembled cookie dough.
    Good Shangri,
thought Promi, wondering how she was doing.
Maybe I’ll stop at her father’s pastry shop just to say hello. And maybe,
he decided,
stay long enough to try one of his amazing cinnamon buns.
    Passing the stall of a paper merchant, he saw a stack of leatherbound journals, beautifully crafted, along with elegant feather pens. His own journal, his constant companion for years, hadn’t been nearly so handsome. In fact, it was just an old book of recipes for desserts that he’d taken from an unsuspecting pastry chef. Using worn charcoal pencils, he’d written in that journal almost every day—filling its margins with his scrawled entries.
    I miss that old journal.
He patted the empty pocket of his tunic, wondering whether he should get a new one. Maybe a real journal instead of a tattered old recipe book? Or maybe even a journal made from cloudpaper, so light yet durable, the same as Jaladay used?
    He shook his head.
No, too fancy for me. I’ll stay with old recipe books.
    A sudden gust blew through the market, scattering a family of ice sparrows, birds who made beautiful ice sculptures in wintertime. Tugged by the wind, a string of prayer leaves, each one inscribed with a blessing, broke off a monk’s drum and flew into the air. Like a ragtag kite, it sailed over the marketplace.
    â€œLook there!” shouted a boy, pointing at the prayer leaves. “They must be on their way to the spirit realm!”
    â€œYes,” called a girl nearby. “They’re being carried by tiny, invisible wind lions.”
    â€œReally?” asked the boy, wide-eyed with amazement.
    Well, not really.
Promi grinned, remembering when he’d first discovered the truth about wind lions. Not by hearing about it from someone else . . . but by landing on a lion’s furry back after leaping off a rickety bridge.
    Now, that was a surprise,
he recalled with a chuckle. And, as it turned out, it was only the first of many surprises to come.
    Including that I’m an immortal, like Jaladay. That what I’d thought was my home all those years was really just my hiding place. And that my real home is—well . . . nobody but me is going to decide where that is.
    Grabbing a handful of dates from a food merchant’s cart, Promi chewed on one thoughtfully. The changes he could see in the marketplace and the City, he realized, weren’t nearly as huge as the changes somewhere else.
Right here inside me.
    He swallowed the date. But he didn’t taste its sweetness, for a crop of sour thoughts had sprouted in his mind. Thoughts about Atlanta—and how he’d treated her.
    Why