The Complete Four Worlds Series

by Angela J. Ford

  “You must know then,” Pharengon’s deep voice rumbled like distant thunder across the stable, “peace is not the way of a Cron. We are always seeking. A restlessness is born within us, and all our lives we find ourselves wanting without being satisfied. Seeking without finding. Questioning without answers. It is our way. It is how we are.”

  “Perhaps.” Renlages walked inside, stepping across a carpet of hay and wilted grains that covered the stable floor. He ignored the whispering voices of the horses, which faded into a sulking silence when they realized there were no treats for them. “Perhaps Crons are the protectors of the people groups and your search has ended.”

  Pharengon smiled to himself in the shallow light. Protector of the People Groups. That was a thought he’d been toying with. After all, it was in his nature to help others, and as cold and uncaring as he wanted to be, it wasn’t possible. It was true; Crons had a great responsibility in the world. Curious though they might be, it seemed their ultimate drive was to make things right however they saw fit. Deep down inside, he knew some evil was driving the madness in the Eastern World. Perhaps the evil his mother had spoken of when he was young was turning the tide. The Eastern World was fading, and only the Trazames seemed untouched by its failing.

  Renlages, meanwhile, was unconcerned with anything other than the task at hand and returning to his snug chair and a mug of ale in front of the fire. Passing the lantern to Thangone, he moved to the wall. For a moment, Pharengon thought his eyes played a trick on him as Renlages disappeared into red stone and then returned carrying a long, wooden box. It was rough and plain as if someone had hacked it from a tree without taking time to smooth the edges. Renlages lay it on the stable floor and motioned to Pharengon. “Here it is, my end of our deal.”

  Pharengon felt his heartbeat speed up in anticipation, and he froze for a moment before kneeling on the rough floor. The flesh of his hand caught on the rough shards of wood, and blood dropped from his fingertips as he forced the lid off the box. Behind him, Thangone took a step forward, his breath catching as Pharengon lifted the object out of the box.

  It was wrapped in a moth-eaten blanket, but it fell away, displaying a sword. The blade was encased in a black scabbard, but the hilt was covered in tiny jewels, diamonds, sapphires, amethysts, emeralds, rubies, and more. A thousand thoughts slipped through Pharengon’s mind as he gazed at the delicate blend of beauty and strength. His fingers closed over the hilt in respect and admiration of the craft, and, making every second count, he pulled the blade free. The eyes of both Crons and the humble Trazame were riveted to the blade.

  “Aye.” Thangone’s awestruck voice filtered through the respectful silence of the barn as Pharengon held the sword high. “Pharengon of the Jeweled Sword.” And the gemstones flicked with their own inner light.

  16

  Round Up

  No one appeared to take notice of the two girls that walked the lonely road. As the uneventful days passed, Phyllis felt a growing sense of unease. The quaint villages they walked through were strangely quiet and bereft of people groups. The farmlands look as if they’d been dried out with yellowed grass shrinking and withering before their eyes. The road, instead of being overgrown with weeds and wild plants, often turned to mud beneath their feet. The sunsets were what frightened Phyllis. Each evening, the west sky would fade to shadows; the sun would sink like a burning, blood orange ball of fury. It hung large and low in the sky, so gigantic, at times, Phyllis felt she could reach out, touch its round spheres, and turn into the failing light. Each sunset seemed longer than the last as if there was a hidden message the light attempted to convey and fought just a bit harder each night for her to discover the meaning.

  Phyllis said nothing of this to her sister because at long last Ilieus’s nightmares appeared to take a break. She slept, fitfully, but at least without the terrible episodes that left her flailing and screaming. In fact, a sort of life started to return to her pale features, which took on the hues of a child touched by sunlight and honored by nature. It may have been nature or the combination of herbs she was given, but she began to thrive. Phyllis, on the other hand, grew as wild as ever, no longer bothering to tame her free spirit. As similar as the two looked, they were completely different, as Ilieus was calm, prim, and proper, while Phyllis was impatient, impulsive, and unruly. Each morning when the two awoke, Phyllis would walk around, exploring the morning dew, while Ilieus fixed her hair, complained about her wrinkled clothes, and chewed mint leaves.

  Thus, time flicked away, and the first hints of fall were crisping the air when the two sisters left the Rolling Hills of Ithinguard and set foot into the countryside of Igriscar. It was damp and moldering. Slabs of rock jutted out of the ground at odd angles, hiding minor drop-offs and crevices. The land sloped unevenly, and Phyllis and Ilieus found themselves breathing hard as they walked up a slight incline. “Whatever this land is,” Ilieus huffed, holding her side as she struggled to breathe, “it gives me an odd feeling.”

  “A bad feeling?” Phyllis paused mid-step, gathering her hair to one side and braiding it up off her sweating neck. She narrowed her eyes as she took in their surroundings, the fist of fear squeezing itself next to the pitter-patter of her heartbeat.

  “Yes, a bad feeling,” Ilieus confirmed, standing beside her in no hurry to resume their journey. “Look.” She pointed to the path they were following. “See how the road dips and narrows and the walls rise? It looks as if we are walking in a shallow grave.”

  “Don’t say that!” Phyllis squeaked, giving into fear despite her best intentions to remain calm and levelheaded. She glanced at the road, catching her fingers in knots in her hair as she swallowed. She felt grimy and unspeakably grumpy from their travels. Mostly, she felt lost and empty. They had no money, no weapons, and no protection of any kind. Walking into Igriscar felt as if they were walking to their deaths, and where were the horses Grandmother had promised?

  “Do you think we should go back?” Ilieus offered, sliding down to perch on the side of a flat rock that jutted out over the road.

  Phyllis cocked her head, considering. “Go back to the farm to till the soil? It’s already too late, don’t you think? If our home hasn’t been stolen, the harvest has been ruined. Do you want to go back?”

  Ilieus shook her head, loosing a few strands of her fine hair, which trailed down her face. “No, not home, but another way. I don’t want to go down there into the dark road. What could be waiting? Wild animals? Robbers?”

  “Go now before it gets dark?” Phyllis suggested, her voice lilting at the end, turning the observation into a question. “It’s better than going down at night.” But instead of making a move, she sat down on the rock beside Ilieus. “We will run out of food soon.” She shook the bag she’d been carrying. “Just the apples and some pieces of cheese and bread.”

  “Let’s eat.” Ilieus reached for the bag. “While we think on this. Better decisions are always made with a full belly.”

  A bird cawed high above, an eerie warning in the silence of the rocky land. Ilieus handed a thick slice of bread to Phyllis, topping it with a slice of pale yellow cheese. Phyllis winced as she hastily bit into the bread; the morning freshness had gone, leaving her with the hard crustiness of bread that was quickly turning stale. Her eyes darted back and forth over the landscape as she wondered whether they’d made a mistake in leaving home at all.

  They were nibbling at their bland meal, as if they could delay the choice that lay before them, when a distant thunder rippled across the rocks. There it came again, a faint pounding, not shaking the ground, but letting itself be known. Phyllis stood, shading her eyes as she peered down the road. The sun shone in her eyes, reluctant to reveal the secrets of the land. Ilieus grabbed her arm, squeezing hard enough to bruise her as she held on. “Phyllis!” Her voice was shrill. “We should hide. Now!”

  Before Phyllis could reply, Ilieus dragged her off the rock and behind it. “Lie down!” she hissed, attempting to flatten herself behind th
e rock.

  “But won’t hiding make us look guilty?” Phyllis protested.

  “Not if they don’t find us,” Ilieus retorted, her fingers crushing into Phyllis’s arm.

  The thunder grew louder until it turned into a multitude of horse hooves, churning the dirt and striking rocks. Rounding a bend, they came into view, a parade of colors dancing with the wind. On the back of each horse was a rider. “Aiiiiyoooo!” the one in front shouted, pointing at the hiding place where the two girls lay flat on the ground. “I’ve spotted two; let’s round them up!”

  17

  A Colorful Parade

  “They’ve seen us!” Ilieus shrieked, tugging at Phyllis and staring in slack-jawed horror at the colorful parade that raced toward them. Twenty beautiful horses galloped down the path, their brown and white spotted coats glistening in the sunlight. Their manes and tails had been braided so intricately with ribbons, it was difficult to tell where the colors ended and the horses began. Yellows, pinks, reds, violets, and emeralds streamed out behind them. The riders were a people group Phyllis could not make out because their faces were painted white with streaks of black across their foreheads, cheekbones, and lips. It was also impossible to tell whether the riders were male or female for they all wore the same garb. Their feet were shod with a sort of leather strap, winding up their bare legs to their knees. Each wore deep red tartan clothes that reached mid-thigh with tight, white jerkins across their chests. A bright yellow scarf hid the length and color of their hair as they thundered across the rocky plain.

  “We should run,” Phyllis choked out, her hands trembling as she stumbled to her feet and reached for Ilieus’s hand. “Come on!”

  Ilieus did not have to be told twice. Flinging the satchel of bread, cheese, and water skins from her, she snatched up Phyllis’s hand and set off in a reckless run across the rocky road. Retracing their footsteps, they headed back to the Rolling Hills of Ithinguard and the country they now wished they had not so impulsively left.

  “Aiiiiyoooo!” The call came again. “Capture them!”

  Phyllis couldn’t help but pivot her head back, straining to glimpse how close the odd strangers were. They rolled forward relentlessly, and the hooves of their mounts pounded across the unforgiving ground, stirring up chunks of dust and rock in the dry region.

  “Hurry!” Ilieus cried, her voice strained and close to tears as they ran down the spiraling, muddy road. Although bushes and shrubs found their way to the foot of the road and great trees scattered their leaves across the rolling hills, the land was wide open. The crest of a green hill refused to hide them, and the overgrown blades of grass, yet to be eaten by the nearby grazers, were not enough. If only their pursuers weren’t on horseback, surging forward ever closer, faster than Phyllis’s and Ilieus’s tired feet could pump down the road. If only the village wasn’t quite so many miles away, the many houses and peoples would have saved them. But it was six miles away, and Phyllis’ vision blurred before her in fright. Each gasping breath burned through her chest and her sweaty hand dropped out of Ilieus’s.

  She was ahead of her sister now, the wind rushing through her ears as a horse whinnied and reared behind her. Spinning around, she was just in time to see a rider rein in its mount. The rider gripped the bare back of the horse with powerful thighs, reached down, and in one powerful movement, snatched Ilieus up by the ruff of her dress. Ilieus gave a blood-curdling yell of pure fear; the top of her dress ripped as she was yanked into the air; her feet were still kicking as the rider unceremoniously tossed her over the back of his mount. Arms flailing, Ilieus continued to kick and scream, almost throwing herself off the back of the horse as the rider opened his black mouth and clicked out a message to the horse. The Apache horse nodded its head as if it could understand, as if it were listening, then wheeled about to return north to Igriscar.

  In that split second, Phyllis was unsure of what to do. Her legs, in their momentum, continued down the path while her eyes watched as her sister was carried, screaming and unwilling, out of her reach. Ilieus continued to thrash about on the horse, her long hair tumbling loose, and Phyllis lost sight of her as the herd turned. Particles of dust sprayed into her face, eliciting the tears she’d managed not to shed since her humdrum life turned into an adventure. She could get away and save herself because the colorful people did not appear to be interested in her. In fact, the last horse was just passing by her in a blend of brilliant colors when a rider shouted to its mount. The horse reared up in surprise, two legs kicking the air, as the rider yelled and swung his or her legs. The tail turned, and the heavy scent of manure, heat, and hair flowed into Phyllis’s nostrils, right before the horse kicked her in the head, and the world turned black.

  18

  The Incense Room

  Cuthan lay on his back, hands tucked behind his head, and his bright eyes were closed. The smell of incense and smoking coals drifted around him, providing a false calmness in the room. He felt the urge to run over to the lamps, bringing his nose inches from the source, where he would suck the powerful smoke into his lungs. It would tickle and burn his throat, and his eyes would stream, but he would feel better. However, it was all too likely his guards, pacing the entrance of the room, would forcibly remove him from the temple. He sighed; his charms did not work on them like they should. If he had found his ring in the North Forests, like he’d intended, this wouldn’t be an issue. Then again, he wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place. It was his destiny to return to the North, but first, he had more important business on the landmass.

  Cuthan opened an eye just a sliver to see how full the room was. It was early morning, and not many people came to the temple before the first meal. Those that did sat cross-legged or kneeled on the golden floor for there were no seats. They rocked back and forth, humming while they read or wrote. Quills made from feather and leaf pointed straight into the air, red words forming on long pieces of parchment that were made from white wood and red berries. Cuthan speculated about what they were writing, but the room was intended to be a holy place for meditation. He supposed they would be not too happy if he intruded into their space to snoop on their work. He wasn’t a spy, although in a way he was. He snapped his eyes shut as the intense gaze of a worshipper traveled over to him. The people were curious about him; he showed up in chains one day and was set free to roam the tribe’s encampment the next. A huge grin swept over his arrogant features as he thought of it. He always got his way except for the treasure hunt.

  Stretching his long, limber fingers, he sat up, cross-legged, in one swift movement. He’d learned it by studying the panthers in the North Forests; they moved faster than the eye could comprehend. Fascinated, he’d taken some time out of his return journey to study them, hoping it would prove to be a useful trick on the landmass. His sword clanked against the floor, and the melodious humming in the air paused at the intrusion and then continued as Cuthan froze, cursing the weapon. He’d been in the company of the Dezzi for weeks with no sign of the mysterious message. The incense room of the temple was his favorite haunt, but as of late, he was growing restless. How long did it take for a message to arrive? He was anxious to be off and across the country to the island of Wind Fresh to see if the words of the creatures of the North were true.

  The countryside had changed since he’d left it years ago. The air was fraught with worry and anxiety. In the villages he had passed, doors were shut in his face, trade routes guarded, and everyone carried weapons. Whether it was a knife hidden behind folds of clothes or a bow and arrow casually slung over the shoulder, they were all signs of warning; something was amiss in the Eastern World. He smirked to himself as he thought of the foolish people groups. Had none of them seen the dangers of the North Forests? They knew nothing of fear or of the perilous struggle between life and death in the wild whims of the forest. The danger was what he thrived on; it gave him zeal and made him all the more determined to accomplish his goal of leaving the world. He’d entered the woods with his cousin,
Artenvox, who was three years his senior. Their fathers were brothers, born into a line of Treasure Hunters, a special breed. It was said if they found the stone that matched their eyes, they could unlock their true powers, which is why some called them “the Jeweled Ones.” They were barely a few months into the forest when his uncle and cousin were lost, and he and his father continued until the forest had spit Cuthan out without his father or his treasure.

  The one token he hadn’t lost was his innate power of charm. When people looked into his eyes, he could see their longing, sense it begging for hope. Their aura would flash until he could see the colors, and he understood beyond what they understood themselves. With his eyes, he gave them assurance, and with his mouth, he swayed them to give him what he wanted. How much more could he gain if he had full possession of his powers? What he truly wanted was knowledge and treasure. Not the kind of treasure anyone could find, precious stones and jewels, but the treasure that meant something much more. Tales of old spoke of the Five Warriors and their quest to save the Western World. They had carried such treasures worth risking life and limb to find: the Clyear of Power, the Horn of Shilmi, and five magical weapons. What would he give to have one of those? His dream was to take flight, find the mythical creatures of the wood, walk the paths of heroes of old, and find his own adventures. Which meant he had to leave the Eastern World before it ceased altogether. He’d seen the blood-red sunsets, the hints of age and death hanging in the sky. Time was limited; time was almost up. Why were the Dezzi making him wait?