Cuthan grinned at her, his eyes reassuring but laughing at the same time. “Phyllis,” he drawled, “kind of you to join us.”
The way his eyes twinkled at her made Phyllis wonder if he’d known she was hiding behind the door all along. “What’s…” Phyllis paused; the golden-eyes widened in surprise as they fell on her. “What’s going on?” she finished in a rush.
Artenvox spread his arms toward the two strange males. “My lady Phyllis, let me introduce you to my old friends.” He motioned toward the blond-headed Cron. “This is Thangone of Nungus Des-Lista and Pharengon the Horse Lord of Phillondorn. And this.” He turned to the two Crons. “Is Phyllis of Haitiar.”
Cuthan was still staring at Phyllis. He stood suddenly, knocking his chair over. It thudded to the ground as he continued to stare. Phyllis could feel her face turning red under his gaze. It took a moment before she realized no one was looking at her; they were staring at the beast in her hands. Its wings were now folded on its back, and its tailed wrapped around its red and green scales. It had tucked its head in, almost hiding its tiny horns as it slept.
“What is that?” Cuthan whispered in awe.
“Oh.” Phyllis held out the creature to show them, furrowing her brow. “I’m not quite sure; I think it’s a Wyvern.”
“No.” Artenvox’s boots clanged across the stone floor as he walked toward her. He cupped his hands underneath hers, his sharp eyes studying the creature’s body. “It’s a dranagin.” He spun around to Cuthan. “A live dranagin,” he whispered, dropping his hands and backing away.
Phyllis shook her head slightly; she hadn’t heard that word before. “What’s that?” Confused, she looked from Artenvox to Cuthan.
“They are much like Wyverns,” Artenvox explained. “They have great wings and breathe fire, but old tales say they grow to be much larger, and some say they can speak to us.”
“Where did you find it?” Cuthan leaned across the table, his eyes dancing.
Phyllis bit her lip, letting her eyes slide over to the strangers. Lord Pharengon. Lord Thangone. She dropped her eyes, knowing she did not want to explain to Cuthan where she found the stone nor how she met the Horse Lord. “How do you know each other?” She directed the question to Artenvox.
Pharengon studied the female Cron, Phyllis, as Artenvox launched in his tale of how he escaped from the North Forests and ran into the Horse Lords. She was quite lovely, with dark, wild hair and those eyes that captivated him, although she looked uncomfortable as Artenvox spoke. Again, he thought back to the day he’d met her. He’d found himself frustrated with his uncanny attraction to her. Now he realized the fact that she traveled with the Treasure Hunters upset him, and he wished they would disappear.
He distrusted Artenvox, especially since he’d convinced Miri the Keeper to leave the company of the Horse Lords and assist him with his endless quest. He knew Miri, who cared for no one except herself and her tiger, had a deep affection for the misguided Treasure Hunter. He often thought the sapphire ring was responsible for that seduction, and now the eyes of the cousin, Cuthan, carried their own secret power. The Treasure Hunters were playing a game; they brought those alongside to help them, but ultimately they would be the only winners. It was true; they did bring knowledge, and he needed their help, but there would be a time when he would intentionally end his relationship with them. He only worried it was too late for Phyllis; from all appearances, she trusted Cuthan. As he thought about it, an idea crossed his mind that might allow him to rid himself of the Treasure Hunters.
“Lord Pharengon,” Artenvox’s voice pulled him out of his musings. “You came to request our assistance?”
He found it irksome how every word out of Artenvox’s mouth sounded like a joke. He straightened, wiping the frown off his face. “My army has gone to Contres to confront the Contrevails. It is a grave mistake, but they may be the distraction we need. I am going to the island to confront Kronter. I need to know what we are up against and what their end goal is. Honestly, I could use all of you in this quest, especially if it gives us leverage over the Contrevails.”
“Why?” Miri questioned as she fed sticks to the fire.
“What good will it do?” Artenvox added. “The world is ending, conquering the Contrevails won’t help anything.”
Even Cuthan leaned forward, rubbing his hands together as the tension in the room grew.
Pharengon took a deep breath, restraining the words he wanted to use with the Treasure Hunters. “It is an opportunity we have to take advantage of. I will not let the folly of my army be in vain. We have never had the opportunity to spy on the Contrevails before; knowledge will be what wins the war.”
“He is right,” a new voice spoke from the door.
Pharengon’s head jerked around, and he stared as if he’d seen a ghost. A replica of Phyllis stood in the doorway. She was pale and fairer; her eyes were large, round, and unfocused as they stared at the fire. “Knowledge will help you save the world and win the war.”
“Ilieus?” Phyllis stood and hurried to her side, her face contorted with worry. “Is that what Tharmaren the Wise told you?”
Pharengon watched the two sisters, and the pieces of the puzzle began to fit together. Once again, the Treasure Hunters were behind this. Apparently, they had found the messenger who would restore Tharmaren’s voice, brought her and her sister here, and were waiting for, as Artenvox once put it, the key to turn the lock.
The one called Ilieus shook her head and snapped out of her trance. Her eyes focused, and she glanced at everyone in the room in surprise. When her eyes met Pharengon’s, she nodded and a slight smile touched her lips.
“I am sorry.” She placed a hand on Phyllis’s shoulder. “Did I speak? I came to tell you that Tharmaren the Wise needs time.”
“Time?” Artenvox demanded, the mocking laughter in his voice gone. “Time is just what we don’t have. When will he be able to talk?”
Ilieus shook her head as she looked at him. “Soon.”
40
Questions
Soon?” Cuthan scoffed. “What does that mean? How are we supposed to do anything if we don’t know what to do?” He stood and began to pace the room, crossing and uncrossing his arms in frustration. “Our lives are at risk, and this Order of the Wise nonsense tells us nothing. Artenvox, how long have you been here, waiting?”
Artenvox frowned as he reached out a hand to appease Cuthan. “Too long.”
Pharengon spoke up, the even tones of his deep voice relieving the sour mood in the air. “This is why I suggest you come with me to the islands. At least you will have something to do while you wait.”
Ilieus took a seat next to Phyllis, exclaiming in surprise as Phyllis showed her the sleeping dranagin. She turned to the Horse Lords and, after they had been introduced, asked, “What role do you play in keeping the peace in the Eastern World?”
The golden-eyed Horse Lord raised an eyebrow, impressed at her question. Phyllis looked down in her lap, stroking the scales of the beast, feeling insignificant once more.
“Ah,” Artenvox intercepted Ilieus’s question. “I suppose I should begin at the beginning since we are all here now.”
“I wasn’t aware we were waiting for anyone to arrive,” Miri murmured under her breath. She had put vegetables and meat into a pot and was now lifting containers of herbs and mixing them in.
Artenvox ignored her comment. “Lord Pharengon and Lord Thangone are the Horse Lords of Phillondorn. Lord Pharengon commands a great army of riders who will help us save the Eastern World from being torn apart by the Contrevails. I had the good fortune to run into him and Lord Thangone when I escaped from the North Forests.”
Phyllis arched her eyebrows, wondering why Artenvox assumed they all were allies. Why did he include her and Ilieus in his sweeping generalization of people who would save the Eastern World? Yes, she wanted to live, but it should not be up to her to save the world.
Pharengon held out his hands, stopping Artenvox. “It is tru
e, but I must point out, we still don’t know what the Contrevails’ end goal is. We know they are recruiting, going as far as taking people directly from their homes. They have made the island, Contres, their base, and it is only a mere day’s journey by ship from here. We don’t know their numbers, but if their castle is as vast as this one, there is no knowing how many of them there are. If we are outnumbered, we’ll need something more to keep them at bay. That is why I must go to glean as much information as I can.”
Artenvox grinned and rubbed his hands together, his sapphire ring catching in the firelight and glistening. “We need something powerful.”
“Artenvox,” Thangone spoke firmly, “this is not another one of your treasure hunts.”
“I have a question,” Ilieus turned toward the Horse Lords. “Are the Dezzi your enemies or allies?”
“Why do you ask?” Thangone furrowed his brow, glancing at Pharengon.
Ilieus twisted her fingers in her lap. “We were attacked on our way here,” her voice dropped. “I believe it was because we traveled with the Dezzi.”
Phyllis could tell it was an uncomfortable subject. Miri bent further over her pot of soup, Cuthan scowled, Artenvox crossed his arms, and the Horse Lords shifted in their seats. “The Dezzi are…” Pharengon paused, searching for the right words. “Difficult to explain. They come and go as they please, choosing their battles only if they see a benefit. I am curious to know how they came to help you.”
Grandmother, Phyllis thought. This was all happening because of Grandmother. When she had been alone in the woods, after they had been attacked, it had been easy to be captivated by the Horse Lord. Now, in the daylight, surrounded by the others, she felt unsure of whom to trust. Even Cuthan, her childhood friend, had a funny look on his face whenever Artenvox began to speak. She had a feeling that, although they were cousins, there was some unresolved business between the two.
“In short,” Thangone finished. “The Dezzi are neutral. We all know they are Blended Ones, but whether they will fight with us is a question we are unable to answer.”
“Cuthan.” Artenvox turned to his cousin. “You spent quite some time with the Dezzi. Were you able to charm them?”
Cuthan’s scowl grew deeper. “No,” he replied, refusing to go into further detail. He had done what the Dezzi requested. Now he was on his own.
“Are you a charmer?” Pharengon asked coolly.
Artenvox leaned forward, dropping his voice. “We are Treasure Hunters after all; it runs in the family bloodline. We all have hints of power, and at times they awaken and pull at us, stronger than others. Our powers.” He motioned toward Cuthan and himself. “Awoke when we went to the North Forests.”
Phyllis fidgeted again. Artenvox was starting to frighten her. She was relieved when she felt Ilieus grab her hand under the table.
“We have the ability to influence the way others perceive us with our eyes. It’s a small thing.” He twisted his sapphire ring again. “But it helps in a tight spot.”
“Cuthan?” Ilieus’ voice almost sounded hurt. “You are a Charmer.”
Cuthan winked at her, his eyes dancing for a moment. “Aye, as Artenvox said, it is a small thing.”
“If that is the case, I would appreciate your services.” Pharengon looked pointedly at Artenvox and Cuthan.
“Yes, yes,” Artenvox replied hastily. “I suppose I owe you a debt of gratitude.”
“No.” Pharengon shook his dark head. “You owe me nothing.”
“Aha!” Artenvox exclaimed as an idea leaped into his head. “We should make a pact, since we, the Lost Ones, are all here.”
Phyllis squeezed Ilieus’ hand under the table, she wasn’t sure what would be expected of them, but she was sure it was something she did not want to do. Part of her wanted to scoop up the dranagin, grab her sister, and run out the door. But it had been her idea to come here, so now she had to deal with the consequences.
41
Tharmaren the Wise
Tharmaren the Wise sat in his self-made dungeon, staring into the fire. He had sent his assistant away. He needed to be alone and understand the fear that held him captive. He could see the words even when he closed his eyes. At first, he’d thought they pertained to the future of the world as a whole, but now, as tales of the decay of the Eastern World drifted to his ears and the voices of the Jeweled Ones told their tale, he saw it differently. The words were meant for the Eastern World. The prophecies were echoes, words spoken by another, drifting to his ears because he knew how to listen. He suspected others heard the voices, particularly Miri the Keeper, who often came to sit with him and listen to voices under the water. She was fascinated by them, even though she did not know what they meant. He had already translated them:
The forest will tell you the truth.
The trees will give you knowledge.
In exchange for one terrible price,
They will tell you all you wish to know.
The truth and why the world fades.
The end of the world is near.
There’s something you can do
If only you can escape.
Beware. Be warned.
The price you pay is death.
The Lost Ones wanted him to talk, yet he was reluctant to begin. They would pester him with questions, seeking answers they did not understand. They were young and foolish, if only they knew their salvation would be their death. They might save the world, but in doing so, they would rip themselves apart. How could he allow that to happen when they came to him for help?
Eleven days he had delayed while the Lost Ones paced the castle and argued among themselves. The pale one, Ilieus, came to see him each morning before the first meal, hope bleeding out of her eyes. Every time he looked at her, he saw her for what she truly was. She would never understand the weight of what she was asking until it was too late.
The Treasure Hunters were growing antsy; they had gone near the source of truth and had met the Truth Tellers face-to-face. It was their questions he was the most reluctant to answer; they were far too curious for their own good. They assumed knowledge was the key to unlocking power when it actually was the path to death. The voices had told them as much, yet they ignored them.
The Horse Lords were pure in their intentions. They wanted to bring peace, stop the persecution of the Blended Ones, and return the balance of life to the Eastern World. If he helped them and if he told them the truth, they would die. If he withheld what he knew, they would die. He decided he would give them the riddle, and if they solved it, their deaths would be by their own hands and not on his conscious.
He stood, reaching for his walking stick and moving toward the fire. Even its heat taunted him because, within the flame, he saw words drifting and dancing between sparks. He saw a hill, black with ash and, beyond it, the source that was draining the life force of the Eastern World. The scroll he held in his trembling hand dropped into the eager flames, and the words disappeared as they were eaten, leaving nothing but the memory impressed in his mind.
When the pale one came to visit that evening, he was ready.
She knocked twice before entering; a question was in her eyes as she sat before him. Waiting. Her eyes noticed the fire, burning low, and the scraps of torn parchment scattered over the hearth. Furrowing her brow, she turned to him and pointed, but he only shook his head and once again handed her the scroll. The words latched onto her memory, eager to be spoken aloud, even though he saw the fear of rejection shining in her eyes. Again, she read the words, performing the ritual. The candles in the room lit up as she spoke while the fire burned lower, determined to keep the secrets of the deep to itself. He saw the words rise and swirl around her head, caught in the circular winds of a storm. When she lifted her hands, they rose and when she dropped them, they fell. Abruptly she stood, her voice becoming stronger as the words rang out like a bell. He saw them rush out from between her lips, seeking to be heard and understood. They rose above her head, churning until he thought the cloud w
ould burst through the walls and destroy the very foundations of the castle. When she stood and reached for him, the words magnified her as if she were a giant stepping forward to crush him. As her hands touched his face, he saw the words turn like a faucet and pour into his mouth, shrieking as they filled his body with sound.
She collapsed, her fingers twitching, and her eyes closed as the words dissipated. As if hearing the all-clear bell, the fire began to burn brighter. At first, he thought she’d fainted, but she opened her mouth and whispered, “Did it work?”
Yes. She could not hear him. He simply thought the word. He tried again, moving his mouth this time. “Yes.” Thank you.
“Thank you.” There. He’s said it.
She smiled a genuine smile that lit up her pale features like the sun coming out after the rain. “You’re welcome. Now, will you help me?”
He nodded. Unused to speech. “Yes.” He would have to practice. “Dinner.” He wasn’t used to sentences. He needed to drink. “Let’s. Go. To. Dinner.” His voice cracked.
Still smiling, she stood, reaching out a hand for him. He saw it behind her eyes then. Hope.
The Lost Ones sat at the table impatient and expectant, watching Tharmaren the Wise eat and drink draughts of cool, clear water. He took a few spoonfuls of soup, watching them through thin eyelids. Tihither bent his flat face low over his bowl, blowing on his soup before inhaling it. Ilieus, across from him, sat up prim and proper, ladylike, pretending to eat but really watching Tharmaren, anticipating his next words. Her sister, Phyllis, sat next to her, scowling into her soup and clearly agitated, even though she tried to hide it. Beside her, Miri was feeding great slabs of meat to her tiger, who lay under the table. The Horse Lords were there with the treasure they had found in Nungus Des-Lista. They were restless, tired of waiting for action. The Jeweled Ones sat side by side, their motions as beautiful as a dancer’s as they dipped their spoons into their soup and brought it to their lips, moving in sync to some unheard music. Emerald. Sapphire. One of them even had the sapphire ring. They were dangerously close, but they were not close enough. They were Crons through and through—curious, mischievous, and restless. Tharmaren could see questions piling up on their heads, tumbling across each other in haste to spill out of their mouths. He remembered being young with a mind bursting with questions. Knowledge might be powerful, but it took everything and more.
The Complete Four Worlds Series Page 52