“Cuthan the Charmer.” Her deep voice rang out. “Cuthan the Adventurer, whatever you call yourself these days.” She waved a hand as if flicking his insignificant names off into a distance pile of rubbish. “We know you are a spy, yet you have been brash enough to enter our lands. Explain.”
Cuthan arched his eyebrows and continued to smile as he held out his bound hands. “I would like to explain.” He looked down at his shackles and then back up at the queen. “But your hospitality is a bit lacking. I was not expecting chains; will you release me?”
Two of the painted guards stepped closer to him in warning while the queen frowned. “No.” She rose. “Not until you have proven you mean us no harm.”
Cuthan sighed, but his mocking smile remained stamped on his grubby face. “As you command.” He shook a lock of blond hair out of his eyes. “I come from the North Forests, but I am one of the Lost Ones. I am on my way to Wind Fresh, but the wild lands are haunted with the Riders. I need safe passage as, on my own, I cannot hold them off.” He shifted in his chains, moving forward and dropping his voice. “I understand you have a message to send to Wind Fresh, but one of your own cannot take it across the Sea. I propose,” he held up his hands, “you send me to Wind Fresh with the message and an escort of warriors for protection across the wild lands. Once I reach the coast, your warriors may return to you, and I will deliver the message.”
The queen’s eyes narrowed as Cuthan finished with a flourish and attempted to bow, but the jingling irons restricted his movements. “Why,” her voice was hard and sharp like a dagger, “do you think there is a message?”
Cuthan’s lazy smile grew wider. “Aha! So, there is.” He laughed. “I have seen the shadows of the forest; the world is ending, war is coming, and we must choose our allies wisely.”
The queen stared into his green eyes for a long moment, looking past the spells that lay there that distracted her from his true desires. She crossed her arms, ripped her gaze away from his, and turned to her painted warriors. “Release the prisoner, but watch him. He is free to roam with a guard at his back.” She turned her head to address Cuthan directly. “There is a message. It has not arrived yet. You will stay with us until it does.”
The flirtatious grin slid off of Cuthan’s face, and his brow wrinkled in confusion. “What do you mean?”
But the queen waved her hand and turned away, effectively ending his audience.
“Wait!” Cuthan begged as the guards dragged him away. “What do you mean?”
11
Father
“Phyllis, where have you been?” Ilieus whispered accusingly as Phyllis peeked in the front door, wary of running into her father. “I had to lie,” Ilieus went on, wiping a wet, chipped plate with a colored rag. “I told father you went off to the fields to gather fruit because we didn’t have enough.”
“Where is he?” Phyllis whispered back, shutting the door gently behind her.
“Lucky for you, he already left,” Ilieus snapped. “You look awful. Where were you?”
Phyllis glared at Ilieus, nettled at the jab at her appearance. Ilieus continued to dry dishes, stacking them neatly on the table while sneaking questioning glances at Phyllis. Her pale face was peaked from the night before, and she had dark circles under her eyes. She’d twisted her light brown hair on top of her head in a nest-like crown braid, a few wisps falling down to frame her delicate face. Her honey-colored eyes were wide and curious under blond lashes. Her movements were quick and jerky as she cleaned the dishes from her father’s breakfast, and Phyllis knew she was annoyed.
“I had to go,” she offered after a beat. “You had another episode last night…”
“I know,” Ilieus interrupted, turning her back to Phyllis. She leaned against the counter and bowed her head for a moment. Phyllis waited, feeling the tension mount in the room as she toyed with how to explain herself. Anticipation twisted in the bottom of her stomach until she felt nauseated.
Ilieus brushed tears from her eyes and continued to dry dishes. “Phyllis, I can’t…we can’t go on like this…”
“I went to see Grandmother,” Phyllis blurted out.
Ilieus jerked and spun around to stare at Phyllis in shock and amazement. The stack of dishes behind her teetered and crashed, shattering into shards that bounded across the reed floor, wedging themselves into its cracks. “Phyllis!” Ilieus flung her rag into the sink and stalked toward her, eyes wide. “We agreed not to.”
“Ilieus, I didn’t have a choice.” Phyllis was almost surprised to hear the words coming out of her mouth. After all, it wasn’t true; she did have a choice. “I thought…you were…”
“I will not have an untimely death!” Ilieus rejoined. “But Phyllis, you have to think; what will Father say?”
Phyllis grew quiet, remembering her father’s words. Going to see Grandmother was forbidden. She would be in more than just trouble if he found out. But what if he knew the true story of their family history? Was he keeping them from their fate? “We shouldn’t tell Father,” she replied, troubled.
Ilieus crossed her arms and looked away, eyes flashing in anger. She huffed for a moment, her perfectly managed world turning upside down by the actions of her impulsive sister. She reached for a broom and began sweeping up the flecks of broken glass as best she could. But after a moment, she tossed the broom away and walked to Phyllis, pure curiosity shining out of her eyes. “What did Grandmother say?”
Grabbing Ilieus hands, Phyllis dragged her into their room. “Come, Ilieus, I will dress, you will do my hair, and I will tell you of Grandmother.”
Phyllis related her dark tale of Grandmother’s mushroom house on the edge of town and her strange story about the history of Watchers. Yet something compelled her to leave out the bit about the immortals versus mortals and paradise. After all, she didn’t much believe in it herself.
“Phyllis,” Ilieus tsked, shaking her head to clear the air. “We have to think about this realistically.”
Phyllis plopped down on the springy floor, allowing Ilieus to run a brush through her tangled waves. “Right, it’s our choice after all,” she added as Ilieus yanked the brush through a particularly strong knot. “Ouch, be gentle, will you!”
“All I’m saying is, if Grandmother knew about us, why hasn’t she offered to help before? She didn’t even come to Mother’s funeral. How can we trust her?”
“I don’t know.” Phyllis shrugged, tensing against the rough pull of the brush.
Ilieus sighed, parting Phyllis’ hair into three waves and weaving them together. “It’s simply too odd for Mother to forbid us to see Grandmother and then tell us to heed her words. Who do we trust?”
“Ilieus,” Phyllis suggested gently. “I know you want to think things through and understand our choices fully before you take action. But Mother is dead, Father is angry and unsteady, and you are going to die if we do nothing.” She turned her head, ruining her braid with the sudden movement. “I want to leave, and I want you to come with me and get better. If there is a chance at all, we have to take it. Don’t you want to know what the visions mean?”
Ilieus froze, her chin trembling as her memory was pulled back into the darkness. “I want them gone, but no, I don’t want to understand them.” Her eyes sought Phyllis’s. “They are pure evil.”
The two sisters lapsed into silence. Ilieus went on braiding Phyllis’s hair until there was a pounding at the door.
Phyllis jumped to her feet and ran to the window. “Ilieus, did Father say he was expecting someone?”
“No.” Ilieus slowly made her way to the window and looked out. After a moment, she pulled back. “I don’t think we should go to the door.”
The pounding came again. Outside a multitude of horses pranced impatiently on the road while their riders held them at bay. There were, possibly, a dozen Crons and Tiders, dressed in green and black and armed to the teeth with swords and knives. Two had come to the door and were pounding on it. They were big brutes, the Tiders tall and s
tocky and the Crons making up for their lack of height in girth. The lines of their faces were grim while their eyes were hard, clearly used to violence.
“Why are they here?” Phyllis’s voice was edged with fear. “I have never seen Crons such as these. Do you think they’ve come to take Father away?”
“Unless…” Ilieus’s voice faltered. “They have come for us.”
Phyllis backed away from the window, shaking her head. “We should go out the back before they break down the door.”
The sisters looked at each other, and for a moment, their faces betrayed the same emotion. Ilieus clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking while Phyllis lifted her chin for strength. Unaware of what Father might have dragged himself into, they raced out of their bedroom door only to come to halt in front of Father himself.
Antharn stood well over six and a half feet tall and had broad shoulders. After Mother’s death, he had cut off his long braid of hair as a sign of mourning. Now his dirt dark hair had been pulled back from his high forehead and wide face into a ragged ponytail. He may have been handsome at one time, for his daughters took on his better features. Yet the unkind years had given him wrinkles from frowning. His eyes were stoic and icy; emotion, other than anger, had long since left his face. He hadn’t smiled in years, and he glared at his daughters as they burst out of their room, as if they had caused the riders to show up at their doorstep. Swallowing hard, Phyllis and Ilieus stared at him, taking in the green tunic he wore. It looked new, as did the midnight black vest he wore over it, which matched the darkness of his pants. His feet were shod in thick, black boots, and his swarthy hands were busy fastening a silver belt around his meaty waist. A long sword hung off the belt. When the belt was fully tightened, he lifted a hat off the table and placed it lightly on his head. The brim stuck out from all sides and flopped down while the top came to a rounded dome in the middle.
Phyllis could feel Ilieus’s fingernails bite into her arm as they stared at their Father, who had transformed from the town drunkard into a well-dressed bandit. Unable to speak, the sisters stared, wide-eyed and mouths agape, as their Father touched two fingers to the brim of his hat and tilted it at them. “Ilieus. Phyllis.” His deep voice rumbled over the banging on the door. “My summons have come. I take my leave of you.” In one stride, he was at the door. Shadows and sunlight, along with the fresh stink of horse and manure, flooded in as he opened it. He turned his head, showing off his profile in the shadows right before he slammed the door shut. “I won’t be back.”
12
Nungus Des-Lista
“How many do you need?” Renlages asked the tall Cron, never taking his eyes off his herd of galloping horses. The sun was low in the sky, close to setting. It was hardly the time to be conducting business, yet Renlages could not say no to a Horse Lord of Phillondorn. Besides, there was something he was keen on gaining from the exchange.
“Five.” The Cron spread his fingers, gesturing to his blond companion for confirmation.
“For now, at least.” The blond Cron nodded.
“What do you require in exchange?” the dark-haired Cron asked, tearing his golden gaze from the black and white stallions proudly prancing behind the gate.
Renlages stroked his bushy beard that was the color of red apples during harvest. He was a portly Trazame, almost as big around as he was tall, but that never slowed him down. He was the owner of one of the biggest manors in Nungus Des-Lista, and Trazames flocked to work his lands like vultures to a feast of death. They were a peaceful people group, given to tilling and growing beautiful plants, helping the animals thrive, and completing the circle of life. However, as of late, the farmlands had become subject to thieves. They came at night, stealing food and horses, and Renlages knew why.
Something was wrong with the Eastern World, and the people groups were beginning to organize themselves and take up arms. Ever since the Contrevails had begun recruiting soldiers for their army, whole families had become displaced, drifting aimlessly throughout the land. Crons and Tiders, who did not join the army, formed bands of their own, stealing horses and food to live off of while they hid from the gathering army or outright attacked them in small battles. The dying land was forcing the people groups to become desperate, and the mortal standards they once held were forgotten.
“I need Crons to guard my lands. If your Horse Lords can keep the thieves away, you may return for as many horses as you wish. My lands must be kept at peace; we have families here. We are not war-thirsty.”
“Neither are we,” the blond-haired Cron countered, crossing his arms threateningly at the accusation.
“You know I need every available Rider at my side.” The dark-haired Cron frowned and shook his head. “What do we gain from guarding your lands? Every family in the land needs someone on their side to ensure their safety and protection.”
“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.”
13
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.
The Complete Four Worlds Series Page 41