“I thought you might say that.” Renlages rested his slightly pudgy hands on the fence while his stomach rumbled. There was still another hour or so until the last meal, but he was already hungry. His wife and daughters would be cooking a meaty stew with fresh bread. Soon enough they would be crammed around the table, talking and laughing uproariously without a care in the world. He’d be damned if thieves went through his barns while he was at the table feasting. It was time to play his hand because his Trazames weren’t going to defend their lands, that was not what they did, even if worst came to worst, they could.
“I tell you what.” Renlages turned toward the two Crons. They were both taller than him and wore ill-fitting clothes in a poor attempt to hide who they were. Unfortunately, he knew exactly who they were and where they were from: Wind Fresh. Such was the way of Crons, they were never satisfied with the present and never content with their lives. They were constantly searching for something more, something better, even if they did not know what exactly it was. That was their flaw and perhaps the reason for the unrest across the Eastern World. The Crons were unsettled, packing up and traveling off in search of mysteries, treasures, knowledge, and lore of the world that should never be found. Trazames were immune to the restlessness. They were a rich and happy people—their lands full of food, barns stocked with livestock, and their homes filled with love and laughter. Renlages’ father taught him never to interfere with Crons and their reckless business. To further caution him, he told the tale of Starman the Trazame, who had been too curious for his own good. He ended up among the Five Warriors, forced to face immortal enemies beyond imagination. Now his father told tales to grandchildren and great-grandchildren, gathering them around the fire and terrifying them with tales of turned creatures, mythical weapons, immortals, and good and evil. Each Trazame knew that tale, and it was a warning to them. But when Crons entered the farmlands of Nungus Des-Lista, Renlages’ father pulled him aside and told him a wondrous tale. Perhaps that was why the two Crons were there now. “Leave Riders to guard my lands, and you may have your horses. I will tell you where to find the Jeweled Sword.”
The dark-hair Cron jerked his head up and spun to face Renlages head on. His expression a mix of shock, anticipation and excitement. He held out a hand, his fingers long and slim. “We have a deal.”
Renlages shook the Cron’s hand. He could rest assured knowing his Trazames would not be involved in the war, the thieving would stop, and his family would be protected in their happy land. “Now that business is done, Lord Pharengon and Lord Thangone, come and eat with my family.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Grandmother
“What should we do?” Phyllis leaned against the wall, shoulders sagging while a thousand thoughts churned through her confused mind.
Ilieus tucked a stray curl behind her ear, biting her lip as she considered their options. “We can’t just leave. Can we?”
Stricken, the two had sat in their room in shock while Father mounted his horse and rode away with the brutish Crons and Tiders.
Phyllis pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, rocking back and forth. “Maybe that’s what we’re supposed to do.”
“I can’t help but feel this is all Grandmother’s fault.” Ilieus avoided making eye contact as she rose.
“She did say they would come for Father…” Phyllis trailed off, her voice sinking into the silence that penetrated the room.
“Father might be in trouble,” Ilieus murmured at last. “We should find out who those people are and what he is doing with them.”
“Grandmother would know.”
Ilieus spun around, glaring at Phyllis. “Yes, I suppose she would.” She folded her arms across her body, as if protecting herself from unseen assailants. “So it’s decided then; we’ll go see her?”
“Mother would have wanted it,” Phyllis added, her voice dipping at the end.
Just before dusk, they left out the back door as if they had something to hide. They kept their heads down as they shuffled through the fields, although their neighbors were too focused on their own lives to notice the strange activity at the house of the Blended Ones. The twins carried pouches of food, filled with dried meat and cheese, slung over their shoulders, just in case. It felt wasteful to leave like that. It was summer, and the crops had just sprouted; they would likely die without attention. Phyllis was sure that unless Grandmother helped, the fields would be destroyed, and the hut would be taken over by squatters.
As they reached the end of their land, a solitary tear rolled down her cheek and dropped to the ground, like a stone sinking to the bottom of a murky pond. Phyllis paused to inscribe in her memory the little hut surrounded by meadows and rolling hills. Down one hill to the east was the closest neighbors’ hut, where Phyllis used to chase rabbits with a blond little boy. His family had left the town years ago when she was ten, but Phyllis had fond memories of the mischievous pranks they used to play together.
Ilieus gripped her shoulder and squeezed, reminding Phyllis that their future lay ahead, not behind. Thus, they made their way through the fields, and the lights of the night were just beginning to shine when they reached Grandmother’s solitary hut. Fireflies danced in the gloom, golden lights winking in and out of view in a frenzied welcome. A gentle breeze stirred the treetops and a silvery hue brushed the twins’ faces as the door opened, and Grandmother beckoned them to enter. “Ah, at last.” Her whispered words drifted to them and faded like an afterthought until they weren’t sure whether she’d said anything at all.
Ilieus was first to reach the doorstep. She held out her hand, determined to let bygones be bygones. “I am Ilieus. Phyllis told me of your conversation this morning.”
“Come in, come in!” Ignoring Ilieus’s outstretched hand, she waved them inside, peering out into the gathering darkness with a worried light in her eyes. “You never know who is watching,” she scolded.
Ilieus frowned and put her hand down, sneaking a glance at Phyllis for assurance. Phyllis sniffed and rubbed her nose, once again ill at ease in the little hut where so many hidden words had been whispered.
A lantern perched on the table. Grandmother lifted two dark blue cloaks and handed them to the twins. “I made these for you years ago, hoping this day would come.” Her words tumbled over each other in their haste to be heard.
Phyllis took the gift presented to her, unsure of what to say. Now, the words “thank you” seemed a meaningless threat; there was nothing to thank Grandmother, of all people, for. At least, not yet. The smell of lavender and wax floated about her as she fastened the garb around her shoulders, but what made her look down was the clasp. It was the same amulet that used to hang in Mother’s room, that sat like a crown on Grandmother’s head, and now lay close to her heart. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw Ilieus gazing at hers with wary eyes, recognizing the token yet hesitant to accept it.
“Who are you?” Ilieus demanded, her voice crisp and cold like the winter air right before snowfall.
Grandmother simply took her hand, a quiet smile playing on her lips. “Hush child.” She pressed a bag of dried herbs into Ilieus’s hands. “These will help you sleep without dreams.”
Ilieus’s face paled, and she ducked her head, suddenly concerned with the herbs in her hands. “Thank you.” The words sounded more like an insult than an expression of appreciation.
Grandmother, instead of answering, reached out a finger to lift Phyllis’s face to the light. “Come, child, there have been tears. Fear not, you have chosen the right path. Now come. We can talk as we walk.”
In a flurry, she snatched the lantern from the table and lifted a long staff from where it leaned beside the door. She ushered them out once again into the night, shutting and locking the door behind her. With narrowed eyes, she let her gaze penetrate the darkness. As if satisfied with her assessment, she pulled her hood over her head and walked north toward a road that led west, out of their village. Fireflies followed them in cir
cles of light above their heads, rendering Grandmother’s lantern almost unnecessary. Phyllis found herself eyeing Grandmother as a lump formed in her throat. The hood of Grandmother’s cloak came to an end in a wicked point, causing Phyllis to wonder, again, if she’d had anything to do with Father’s unexpected departure.
“I am called Odella the Tall,” Grandmother explained, using her walking stick to part the long grasses of the field before them. “As you know, Crons are rarely taller than five and a half feet, and those, such as I, who surpass it are called tall Crons. Both of you would be tall Crons if your bloodline had not been mixed with Tiders. They are naturally tall, and so you have gained your Father’s height.” She glanced approvingly at the two sisters. “But I’m afraid you have inherited your mother’s curiosity about the world. Aside from being a Watcher, I am also a Healer of sorts. Nothing like the great and powerful Healers of elder days, who stood between life and death with nary a touch or a thought. Nay.” She sighed and wagged her head. “Those days have passed, although I would give much to see them again.”
Phyllis sighed audibly, interrupting Grandmother’s wistful story. “Are we leaving right now, just like this?”
“What of it child?” A hint of unfriendliness frayed around the edges of Grandmother’s voice. “Time wastes while your mind churns with indecision. Ilieus, do you share you sister’s views?”
Ilieus shrugged, attempting to be diplomatic. “I am worried that this is all happening so quickly. Maybe if I knew more, that would help. Grandmother, tell us what you know.”
Odella laughed, her voice harsh and bitter. “Ah, now that would be impossible. But I will tell you what you need to know.”
She launched into the tale of Watchers, bloodlines, and war that she’d told Phyllis earlier—a tale that Phyllis shuddered to hear again. It seemed as if the demons of darkness flittered through the meadow alongside them, watching and waiting for an opportunity to sneak in and kidnap them. Nightmares she’d forgotten, images hidden but emotions potent, dangled from her mind, shattering her peaceful reality.
“Here is another tale for your dreams.” Grandmother’s voice broke through her negative illusions. “I was the midwife who delivered you. Ilieus, you were born first, calm and quiet with your eyes wide open. You have more of the Tider blood in you. As you grew older, you began to talk of things that had not come to pass as if they had, and your mother grew afraid of what you might become if others found out. You see, she believed you might be an Oracle. It was I, my child, who suggested we blind your vision until you were older. Shortly after, your nightmares began. We were able to calm you for a while, but the strength of your sight is beyond what we imagined. Phyllis, you were born screaming at the top of your lungs with your eyes closed, strong-willed to say the least, yet you seem to have mellowed out. Both of you will need to reach the deep places where you have hidden your gifts; I dare say you will need them for the journey ahead. I will take you as far as the road tonight; in the morning, follow it north until you reach Igriscar. There is a tribe who hides near the mountains, their ways are secretive, but they know the hidden paths across this land. You must go to them and take the symbol of peace, our sign as Watchers. They will help you.”
She pulled out an amulet; it was like the one Mother used to have, hanging above her bed, except this one was much more elaborate. A green stone actually perched in a circle, held in place by a circlet of metal. Four long points stuck out with four smaller ones, held in place by a larger circle of metal. It looked much like a compass.
“This shall be the sign, which is why it is embedded on your cloaks. Those who hold it are your allies. Even so, you should beware, least the deception of the people groups has spread much further than I imagine. At times, you will have dreams, visions, and vague suspicious; trust those. Not all who appear good are so, and not all who appear evil are so. You may be your mother’s daughters, but I am counting on the blood of the Tiders to lead you straight and true.”
Phyllis noted it was the first time she’d heard Grandmother speak well of the Tiders. Even though part of her wanted to turn around and run home, back to where she belonged, she could taste the adventure in the night air. As Grandmother’s words grew encouraging, so the omens in the air lightened and something like hope seeped through her mind like a warm, soft blanket after running in the cold rain.
A time later, but before the midnight hour, Grandmother announced, “Ah, we have come to the sign of the turning.” She turned, smiling down at her twin granddaughters as if she had accomplished her life’s mission. “This is where I leave you.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Memories
The earthy smell of roasted root vegetables accosted Pharengon’s nose as Renlages threw open the heavy door to his home. An unending cascade of high and low voices drifted to his ears, mixed with the bang of footsteps across the floor and objects being set, just so, in their places. The pungent scent of charred firewood and tobacco was swept away by the overpowering scent of meat blended with herbs. Pharengon blinked and sniffed as the sharp odor of something spicy awoke his senses, and his stomach growled in anticipation.
He’d seen other small, round huts of stone with thatched roofs as he and Thangone made their way through the farmlands. Pharengon assumed Renlages’s home would be like those, a one-room cottage in the meadows. He was sorely mistaken. The manor was two stories high and had arched windows that turned their wide faces north, south, east, and west, determined to welcome the light at every angle possible. The manor was round like the others, and its stones were rather grubby and covered in moss and ivy in places, but it gave a homey touch to the farmland.
Although Pharengon and the Horse Lords had ridden south to trade with the Trazames many times, he’d never been this far south in Nungus Des-Lista. The lush countryside was dotted with farmhouses and covered with grazing horses, cows, goats, pigs, chickens, sheep, and other animals that the Trazames saw fit to breed and eat. Pharengon shook his head at the mannerisms of the Trazames. Their life purpose rotated around the celebration of each season, characterized by the consumption of too much food and drink. Wealth among the Trazames was measured by how large their annual harvest was and how many barrels of ale they could produce. Although most Trazames met their standards of prosperity, the farm of Renlages the Trazame exceeded them all. Pharengon now realized why Renlages requested safeguards to protect his property.
Through the open doors of Renlages’s home of light, Pharengon could see he was rich in family as well. Glimpses of his wife, sons, and daughters, and their sons and daughters, hastily completing their pre-meal chores caused a surge of bitter rage to bolt through Pharengon’s body.
He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin, hoping his companions hadn’t noticed his sudden scowl. It was foolish to blame others for his misfortunes, but no matter how much time had passed, memories of family ached like a deep wound that never healed. He could still recall his father’s boisterous laugh, causing those around him to feel like feathers on an upward breeze, free and full of hope. His mother’s gentle touch could dissipate a dozen worries as if nothing mattered—past, present, or future—except for that very second.
“You will be king one day,” she had told him.
“But I don’t understand,” he protested. “Father is not king. I thought only sons of kings could rule the people groups.”
“Yes.” She’d watched the fire for a moment as if she forgot the words that were dancing on the edge of her tongue. “That is the old way, my son. You will have to decide what kind of king you want to be. When the time is right, the people groups will rise up and search for someone to lead and protect them.”
“Protect them from what?” He’d leaned forward to rest his arms on her knees, his golden eyes dancing with questions.
“You know there is good and evil.” She took his face in her hands, her deep eyes searching his. “You understand what must be done if the people groups turn to evil ways.”
He didn�
��t understand at all and shook his head to tell her so. “But why would they? Doesn’t everyone want to be good?”
His father had walked in the door then, a gust of wind blowing in from the darkness beyond. He dropped a pile of wood on the floor near the fire, took one look at his son’s confused face, and laughed. “Phar, what is your mother telling you? You look as if all the woes of the world are resting on your shoulders!”
“Why do I have to be king?” Pharengon wrinkled his nose. “You’re not king.”
“No.” His father squatted down in front of him. “But I have responsibilities to the Riders of Phillondorn as their Horse Lord and so shall you. You must show, through your actions, kindness, mercy, and intolerance of evil. We are all tested at one time or another, and those tests lead us to choose our paths. Some are tested, and because they are hurt by others, they ultimately choose a path that causes them to hurt and harm everything and everyone they touch. That is not the way to treat the creatures nor the peoples of the land. If you found a lost child in the moors, what would you do?”
“Help him.” Pharengon straightened his small shoulders. “I would help the child find his home.”
“Yes.” Father’s face turned serious. “But what if the child were being chased by scary Crons and you knew you would have to fight and put your life in danger. What would you do?”
Pharengon bit his lip. “I should help the child.” He paused. “But I would be frightened.”
“Yes, but imagine how happy that child would be when he saw someone coming to help him. Even if the two of you failed, how would you feel?”
“Glad that I did not leave the child on his own.”
“Ah.” Father smiled broadly and patted his knee. “See? That is what you must do for the people groups. That is what a king does.”
The Blended Ones (The Four Worlds Series Book 2) Page 6