squeeze.
“What did they say?” cried a small girl who wore a garland of blue irises in her hair.
“They welcome us all to this place.” With a hint of a smile, Atlanta added, “And they bless our eternal qualities.”
More nods and murmurs of approval moved through the crowd. At the same time, branches in the yew as well as neighboring trees started swishing and slapping. Atlanta gazed up into the living forest canopy, her face content as she listened to this gathering wind of words.
The swishing stopped—as if the entire grove suddenly held its breath. Atlanta’s brow furrowed, more in surprise than concern. Meanwhile, the vines tightened around her hands. The leaves shook and changed colors, shifting from pale gold to deeper shades of red and black.
“Tell us,” urged the girl with the irises in her hair. “What are they saying now?”
“Yes,” called the old priestess. “Do tell us.”
Atlanta’s blue-green eyes widened as she stared at the leaves in disbelief. The vines shook her arms insistently, while the darker colors spread.
“They say . . .” she whispered hoarsely, too stunned to finish. Then, regaining her strength, she cried out the vines’ message:
“Leave now! Hide yourselves!”
CHAPTER 9
True Religion
Sometimes a handsome pastry, dusted with sugar, can be just plain rotten inside.
—From Promi’s journal, written in unusually bold scrawl
T he warning came too late. Even as Atlanta shouted the message of the vines, a band of people swept into the grove.
Unlike those who had gathered under the ancient yew, whose garb was so colorful and diverse, the new arrivals wore only rough brown tunics, ragged leggings, and old leather boots. Many also carried weapons, whether a rusted sword or a plowman’s staff. Several held unlit torches whose oily smell clashed with the fragrance of the grove.
Only one of the newcomers dressed differently. Taller than anyone else, he wore a robe of pure white silk, adorned only with a necklace of golden beads. On his head sat a white turban, stained at the bottom from his sweaty brow. Though he held no weapon, he conveyed an unmistakable air of authority.
Seeing him approach, the elder priestess gasped. The two younger priestesses by her side froze. And the monk accompanying them rubbed his hands together nervously.
“I am Grukarr,” declared the tall man as he reached the center of the grove. He curled his lips into an almost pleasant smile. “For those of you who do not know me, I am a humble priest of the True Religion.”
Atlanta’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. Several people who had come here to learn about natural magic started muttering in anger or fear. Meanwhile, Grukarr’s men pressed closer. One of them lifted an ax with a notched blade.
But Grukarr, still smiling, raised his hand. A large ruby gleamed from his oversized ring. “Now, now, dear people. I come here in peace. So do my followers.”
He nodded sharply at the ax, then waited until it was lowered. “You see,” he went on, “we love the forest just as much as you do. We value its resources, its creatures, and most of all, its magic.”
With that, he gave a shrill whistle. Right away, a rust-colored bird descended and landed on his shoulder. The bird’s talons, still bloody from a recent kill, gripped Grukarr firmly.
“A blood falcon,” said Atlanta. “One of the few creatures who kill more than they need to eat.” Anxiously, she squeezed the vines draped across her hands.
“The common name,” agreed Grukarr, keeping his voice calm. “To those of us who know the true ways of the forest, however, he is a Royal Huntwing.”
The young woman, her gaze no less piercing than the bird’s, shook her curls. “My name is Atlanta, and I can tell you this: If you are part of something called the True Religion, that means you think any other form of worship is false. Including devotion to nature spirits. Which means you really know nothing of the ways of
“What did they say?” cried a small girl who wore a garland of blue irises in her hair.
“They welcome us all to this place.” With a hint of a smile, Atlanta added, “And they bless our eternal qualities.”
More nods and murmurs of approval moved through the crowd. At the same time, branches in the yew as well as neighboring trees started swishing and slapping. Atlanta gazed up into the living forest canopy, her face content as she listened to this gathering wind of words.
The swishing stopped—as if the entire grove suddenly held its breath. Atlanta’s brow furrowed, more in surprise than concern. Meanwhile, the vines tightened around her hands. The leaves shook and changed colors, shifting from pale gold to deeper shades of red and black.
“Tell us,” urged the girl with the irises in her hair. “What are they saying now?”
“Yes,” called the old priestess. “Do tell us.”
Atlanta’s blue-green eyes widened as she stared at the leaves in disbelief. The vines shook her arms insistently, while the darker colors spread.
“They say . . .” she whispered hoarsely, too stunned to finish. Then, regaining her strength, she cried out the vines’ message:
“Leave now! Hide yourselves!”
CHAPTER 9
True Religion
Sometimes a handsome pastry, dusted with sugar, can be just plain rotten inside.
—From Promi’s journal, written in unusually bold scrawl
T he warning came too late. Even as Atlanta shouted the message of the vines, a band of people swept into the grove.
Unlike those who had gathered under the ancient yew, whose garb was so colorful and diverse, the new arrivals wore only rough brown tunics, ragged leggings, and old leather boots. Many also carried weapons, whether a rusted sword or a plowman’s staff. Several held unlit torches whose oily smell clashed with the fragrance of the grove.
Only one of the newcomers dressed differently. Taller than anyone else, he wore a robe of pure white silk, adorned only with a necklace of golden beads. On his head sat a white turban, stained at the bottom from his sweaty brow. Though he held no weapon, he conveyed an unmistakable air of authority.
Seeing him approach, the elder priestess gasped. The two younger priestesses by her side froze. And the monk accompanying them rubbed his hands together nervously.
“I am Grukarr,” declared the tall man as he reached the center of the grove. He curled his lips into an almost pleasant smile. “For those of you who do not know me, I am a humble priest of the True Religion.”
Atlanta’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. Several people who had come here to learn about natural magic started muttering in anger or fear. Meanwhile, Grukarr’s men pressed closer. One of them lifted an ax with a notched blade.
But Grukarr, still smiling, raised his hand. A large ruby gleamed from his oversized ring. “Now, now, dear people. I come here in peace. So do my followers.”
He nodded sharply at the ax, then waited until it was lowered. “You see,” he went on, “we love the forest just as much as you do. We value its resources, its creatures, and most of all, its magic.”
With that, he gave a shrill whistle. Right away, a rust-colored bird descended and landed on his shoulder. The bird’s talons, still bloody from a recent kill, gripped Grukarr firmly.
“A blood falcon,” said Atlanta. “One of the few creatures who kill more than they need to eat.” Anxiously, she squeezed the vines draped across her hands.
“The common name,” agreed Grukarr, keeping his voice calm. “To those of us who know the true ways of the forest, however, he is a Royal Huntwing.”
The young woman, her gaze no less piercing than the bird’s, shook her curls. “My name is Atlanta, and I can tell you this: If you are part of something called the True Religion, that means you think any other form of worship is false. Including devotion to nature spirits. Which means you really know nothing of the ways of
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