The shouts from the Riders were unanimous as Gourd the Loud and Antharn the Tider mounted up and turned toward the northwest. “We ride for victory; we ride to crush this uprising before it ends. We will act because no one else will!”
Pharengon crossed his arms, a sinking feeling of dread overcoming him as he watched three-quarters of his army ride off on a fool’s errand. As he watched them, he knew with certainty the Contrevails were not the reason why the world was in turmoil. It was something else, some other influence that led them. He thought of the woods and shivered.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Wind Fresh
Cold seeped through the cocked quarried stones of the castle in Wind Fresh. It had been built on a whim, providing the islanders a cause to rally around, a monument to their independent status. It served as proof that they, in fact, could do anything they set their minds to, and united they were stronger, faster, and better. Yet once the last stone had been put into place and the last ship from the mainland set sail, the islanders were as lost and confused as before, only this time with a castle to stare at from time to time.
Tharmaren the Wise shook his head at their folly and shivered in the bottom of the keep. These would be the dungeons if the islanders had a reason for dungeons at all. As it was, they were dark, empty passageways. They were unused, as much of the castle was, and exactly as Tharmaren the Wise had hoped for. It was a place others would be reluctant to visit; they would be disinclined to venture down where webs of fright and mystery threatened peace and sanctuary. After all, the castle was a physical reminder of protection. Should the day come when the island was threatened, there was a spiraling castle that would hold and protect them all. Tharmaren paused before an iron grating, covered in driftwood to form a solid door. Placing his torch in the holder beside the door, he felt in his long, woolen robes for the key.
Words called to him. Knowledge beckoned with an irresistible pull like a babbling stream rushing to a waterfall, seeking its source. It destroyed his life, and there was none he could tell, not a word escaped his lips. Knowledge was the burden that sat heavy on his mind, pressing down against his brain until sometimes he felt he couldn’t breathe and was forced to release it. The intensive pressure clamped down on his body, filling his mind like a person drinking from a fountain, unable to pull away. The arms of knowledge held him there taut and unable to resist. His body, his mind, and his soul were on the edge of exploding, and he had to, nay, he was forced to, release the pressure any way he could. His secrets marked the beginning of an impending riot. If the others knew what he knew, the world would be lost, the people groups would no longer see rhythm or reason, and the immortals would flee to the other side. Nothing would be left to stay the balance and to keep them there, and so he kept quiet.
Reaching for a piece of dried parchment, he wet his quill, the sharp edges flicking dots of reddish ink across the page before he could begin. The feather of an Xctas held his hand steady as he wrote, and the mysteries of the world stirred to life beneath his fingers, blinking sleepily like newborns awakened before their time. Words slanted below his fingertips and thoughts and regrets drifted away.
It had not been his intention to turn his life into one of solitude and longevity. His son was still young when the immortals found and imprisoned him as a threat for knowing far too much. Ever since then, he had waited in silence, listening to tales the world told and hungering to be reunited with his bloodline. But it was not to be. Determining the kingdom in the clouds was not enough of a prison, they further exiled him to the Eastern World.
The Mermis had left him standing on the island with nothing. They were the half-mortals and had been kind enough to give him facts. He asked them tales of the Western World, and they told him all they knew, while he sat silently; the knowledge was a seed growing inside of him. They mistrusted him, and each time he attempted to talk, their dark-eyed leader threatened to take out his tongue.
“You are our prisoner, and we are your escort to exile,” she told him. “You may only ask questions, which we will choose to answer or not. When we speak to you, nod your head or close your eyes; we do not want to hear your point of view.”
And he marveled at how one so young could become so ruthless. She did not know who he was; he was a name and a threat passed to her from her grandfather, King Vincsir. Yet as she told him of the Western World and all that had taken place since before her birth, he realized he spoke to his very own bloodline. Indeed, a great-grandchild of his, and for the first time, he began to hope.
As he sat musing deep underground, he heard a voice calling his name. Brushing the dense fog of knowledge from his mind, he continued to write, pouring it down across pages he scattered to dry.
His assistant came to collect him, a pale boy the islanders had found unwanted, unloved, and uncared for, floating on the edge of the Westiles Sea. Tharmaren had taken and raised him, but the child remained pale, skinny, and sickly looking. The wind and the waves had not been kind to him. His fine, white-blond hair lay plastered in colorless wisps to his smashed in face. Even his nose, which should have poked out, was stretched across the landscape of his face, and his lips were thin and white. Nonetheless, he was a quiet, faithful lad of few words. He refused to learn or read or even grow much, but intuitively he knew what Tharmaren needed and followed him like a lost puppy. They called him Tihither, but Tharmaren never called him anything at all because Tharmaren had lost his speech. He discovered the tantalizing curse of the Mermis, except they forgot to limit his writing, and from the quill, his words followed freely.
His assistant led him up out of the dungeons, and when he reached the top, he thought his fading vision showed him double. The two females had the same faces. They were the same, yet different, as they stood waiting. A blended people group, he was sure, but both had the same height and length in their bones. A regal aura surrounded the two females. One was lighter and fairer; her hair was braided in an intricate crown on the top of her head. A dress as light as sea foam fitted tightly at the top but flowed in ruffled ripples down to her feet like the cascading waves of Oceanic. Her eyes were large; they were set in a pale face of one who had seen too much fear. Something gnawed at her and ailed her, and as he gazed at her, he realized she did not know it yet, but she saw what he saw. The other female showed her age more clearly; her skin was darker from sun exposure, and a wild, stubborn aura surrounded her. Even then she did not stand still, hoping from one foot to the other, either annoyed or frustrated with waiting. Her eyes were hopeful instead of frightened, but they were both too young, not even past their eighteenth year he dared to guess.
A male Cron stood a pace behind them as if he did not want to be seen. He looked like a lithe, mysterious Cron born out of sunshine with his light blond hair and regal garb. There was almost an invisible circle of light around his head, but his eyes were bright orbs. They were emerald and darted across the high, stone walls of the empty castle, his eyes winking without moving. He was a Charmer, likely around the same age as the blended females.
Tharmaren folded his hands in front of his withered body. He knew what he must look like: an old feeble Cron who had lived longer than he ought. His once blue eyes were tired as he looked at the three in front of him. It was time to talk.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The Castle of the Lost Ones
Phyllis was disappointed. Not with Wind Fresh. It was calm and magnificent; it was unlike anything she’d dared imagine in her life. Nay, it exceeded her dreams, but Tharmaren the Wise was small, slight, stooped, and much closer to the doors of death than wise in the ways of life. He appeared as if he slept with his eyes wide open, and, as the Dezzi queen had mentioned, he was mute. At least, that’s what Miri the Keeper had told them when they explained why they were there.
“Come to see Tharmaren the Wise? Can’t imagine why. He can’t talk, and his assistant is just as bad. You may look at him if you like; I’ll call him up.” She was kind and lively with bright brown eyes and a
mop of curly brown hair. She wore a white bonnet and white apron while a white and black striped tiger paced, growling around her legs. He rested at her feet only when she told it to hush.
“Are you alone here?” Phyllis ventured as they waited for Tharmaren the Wise, standing in the entrance of the castle grounds.
The gates were wide open, letting the damp, cold air from the island rush and tumble inside. The archway was high and made with bleached white stones. Inside, the ground below them was made of a darker shade, hiding away from the light. Miri the Keeper had appeared as they walked in; one hand stroked the head of her fearsome tiger as it padded beside her. She didn’t appear to mind the cold as she stood watching them in her thin frock.
“This is the Castle of Lost Ones,” Miri stated. “Of course we are alone here.”
They waited. Cuthan paced behind them, opening his mouth to say something and closing it again as if his mind were ever changing. Spinning around, he eyed the way they had just come, his eyes already planning an escape. The castle was perched on a slight hill in the center of the island with trails of sand and rock winding their way up the castle steps and inside. Endless white turrets reached their rounded peaks to the sky, and the round bulbs on the highest ones were curiously similar to the temple of the Dezzi.
“Who are the Lost Ones?” Cuthan paused mid-step and glanced at Miri.
She dropped her eyes to watch the fluid motion of her fingers across the tiger’s head. “We all are. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t.”
Ilieus reached out a hand to grab Phyllis’s arm and shook her head, afraid of where more questions would lead. They stood in an awkward silence until an ugly Cron limped into view followed by the old, old male who had to be Tharmaren the Wise.
He slowly gazed at them, his eyes taking in everything. Phyllis had the nagging feeling he could see her thoughts just as clearly as he could see her standing in front of him. She swallowed hard, questioning whether Grandmother had guided them correctly. Words failed her. Had they come so far only to stand in an old empty castle with two odd Crons, a full-grown tiger, and a mute?
Long moments passed as no one said anything. It was so quiet, Phyllis could hear the voices of the waves, capturing secrets and confining them to a watery grave.
At last, Tharmaren the Wise stepped forward; both withered hands clutching his staff. He lifted one, blue and green veins pulsing, as he gestured to his assistant. Shifting his gaze toward Miri the Keeper, he lifted bushy eyebrows that hid his dark eyes. His hair was thin and hung in silver strands to his waist like the half-light of a waning moon. His thick bread was just as long as his hair and rich as creamy milk from a cow’s udder. His mouth was hidden somewhere under that expanse, but his fingers were long like the claws of an Xctas.
Miri stepped toward the three strangers, still stroking the fur of her dangerous cat. “This is Tharmaren the Wise and his assistant, Tihither the Cron. I am Miri the Keeper. Pardon my forgetfulness; we do not have many visitors here.” She looked back to Tharmaren the Wise to gauge her next question. “And…you may be?”
Phyllis’s heart sank as they stood there in the silence, unwilling to take the initiative to speak. It didn’t matter who they were, help did not appear to be forthcoming.
Tharmaren the Wise made another motion to Miri who frowned and shrugged her shoulders. Seconds later, there was a resounding boom as a door somewhere in the castle was flung open. It banged irritably at the rough treatment, and the clatter of footsteps running toward them echoed across the stone floor. “Miri!” a male in full armor he shouted as he charged toward them. “You didn’t tell me we had guests…”
His words trailed off as he skittered to a stop as if struck by an invisible obstacle. His deep blue eyes slid past Ilieus and Phyllis to gape at Cuthan in honest surprise. The male was a Cron with a fine bone structure, much like Cuthan’s. His eyes were sapphires instead of emeralds, and his fine hair was chestnut brown and fell in waves past his shoulders. He wore a green tunic, which poked out from under his silver suit of armor, and tucked into his arms was a helmet with a red feather.
“By the blazes! It’s Cuthan the Charmer!” he gasped, looking from Miri the Keeper to Tharmaren the Wise back to Cuthan the Charmer. “I thought you were dead!”
Cuthan stepped forward, his face mirroring the Crons’s in awe and befuddlement. “Artenvox? I thought you were dead!”
The two Crons circled each other, eyes narrowing, until Cuthan smiled, his charm splitting the tension in the air like a lightning bolt on a summer day. The Cron called Artenvox threw back his head, his long hair dancing away from his body. A rich, deep roar of laughter escaped his throat as he leaped forward to trap Cuthan in a hug. “Ah, this day could not get any better! Welcome!” he boomed, booted feet dancing back and forth as he skipped in place.
“I must hear your tale.” Cuthan grabbed his arm, an arrogant smile lighting his face. “Let’s go talk.”
“Ah.” Artenvox wagged his finger, and a sapphire ring caught some of the afternoon light and winked. “No. No. No. Not before formalities.” He clicked his heels together and stood to attention. “My fair ladies.” He bowed to Ilieus and Phyllis. “Welcome to the Castle of the Lost Ones ruled by Tharmaren the Wise and his assistant, Tihither the Cron. My lady, Miri the Keeper, knows all the ins and outs of the castle; she will show you to your rooms and take you to the banquet hall where we will talk business. I assume that’s why you came.” He skillfully ignored the dirty look Miri the Keeper gave him. Tihither the Cron stared at his feet while Tharmaren the Wise straightened, barely giving off the slightest hint of irritation. “I am Artenvox the Curious, at your service. Cuthan, please introduce your beautiful friends.” He grinned and mischievously winked a sparkling eye at Phyllis and Ilieus.
Phyllis frowned in confusion. Cuthan and Artenvox looked too much alike, almost as if they were brothers, but she’d never heard Cuthan mention his name before.
Cuthan placed a hand on the sisters’ shoulders. “This is Ilieus and Phyllis of Haitiar; we grew up together, but they have come to see Tharmaren the Wise.”
Artenvox snorted. “But of course,” he muttered, “everyone comes to see Tharmaren the Wise. Did one of you bring his voice? He is much in need of it.”
“Aye,” Miri interrupted. “If one of you would just pop his voice back in, we can all have a real conversation.”
Tihither straightened up for the first time and pointed an accusing finger at Ilieus. “It is her. She will translate.”
“How?” Ilieus protested.
“What?” Miri and Artenvox blurted out at the same time.
“Come.” Tihither beckoned, even though his voice was thin, high, and without authority. “It is written.”
Ilieus stepped forward, and Phyllis moved to go with her, but Tihither glanced at Tharmaren the Wise. “Just her,” he muttered, his gaze falling to the castle floor.
Ilieus walked up to Tharmaren the Wise and took his offered arm. Using his staff, Tharmaren the Wise set a course deeper into the castle, and they disappeared with Tihither limping behind them like a lost child.
Phyllis, frustrated that she was left out again, turned in annoyance to Cuthan and Artenvox, who were grinning at each other as if they’d just found gold. Miri the Keeper was consumed with her tiger, and Phyllis groaned. “Is anyone going to explain?” she asked.
“What do you want to know?” Artenvox glided closer to her, winking in a manner quite similar to Cuthan.
Phyllis pointed at Cuthan. “How do you know each other?”
“Ah, that.” Artenvox chuckled. “He’s my cousin, of course. We went on adventures together, but I haven’t seen this rascal since the North Forests.”
Cuthan ran his fingers through his fine hairs, changing the conversation. “How did you end up here?” The tone of his voice was brisk, the friendliness fading away.
“Likely the same reason you ended up here.” Artenvox marched in circles, causing a pattern of echoes to trickle through th
e castle. “To speak to Tharmaren the Wise, of course. Imagine my joy in discovering we’d been right all along!” He threw out his arms. “And my frustration when I realized he could not talk. He doesn’t even write in our language. I’ve been studying here, trying to figure it out while everything has gotten much worse in the Eastern World. Tell me, Cuthan, how did you make it here? I’ve heard the Riders have taken over.”
Phyllis stiffened. The Riders. The golden eyes danced before her, and she could almost feel the flicker of warmth from the fire and his touch. Who was he? Where was he now? Her heart thumped in shame as she realized, desperately, that she wanted to see him again.
“They are everywhere.” Cuthan paced back and forth in front of the open gates. “Openly persecuting the Blended Ones. We were attacked twice on our way.” He shuddered.
“Blended Ones.” Artenvox peered at Phyllis, blinking his deep blue eyes as he took in her appearance. “Are you one of them?” he asked her.
“Rude!” Cuthan stepped in-between Phyllis and Artenvox as if to protect her from words. “You can’t ask her that!”
“Because she is.” Artenvox put his hands on his hips, staring intently at Phyllis. “Because both of them are. Ah…I see…” He walked up to Phyllis and held out a hand. “I am at your service; you must know everyone here on Wind Fresh fights for the Blended Ones.”
“Thank you?” Phyllis took his hand, feeling deeply embarrassed. She wasn’t used to being put on the spot. Besides, why did anyone need to fight for her?
“No need,” Artenvox replied. “I love a good fight. In fact, I’ve been missing it while I am stuck here in Wind Fresh. I’m looking forward to getting back. Cuthan, are you coming with me? I just need Tharmaren the Wise to start talking.”
Miri, who was sitting on the floor and lounging against her tiger while it licked its paws, looked up for a brief moment. “Maybe he will when you stop talking.”
The Blended Ones (The Four Worlds Series Book 2) Page 14