He put down his spoon and folded his hands, leaning back in the wooden chair. It was time to talk. “You are all quite young,” he started. The words rolled out of his mouth like they should. “I know.” He stroked his beard. It helped the words flow. “You have many questions.”
“Yes.” Cuthan leaned forward, his emerald eyes following Tharmaren. “How do we save the Eastern World?”
Tharmaren’s chest hurt suddenly like there was an air bubble inside. It took him a few moments to realize it was a fit of silent laughter. The young ones were foolish enough to believe in impossibilities. They were the ones the world needed. He took deep breaths for several minutes until the laughter stilled and disappeared.
If only they knew, they weren’t saving the world. Only the One could save the Four Worlds, but they didn’t need to know that. Did they? They only needed to know what to do with the lives they had; the rest of the dark, uncertain future would take its course. He blinked and held up a finger. “Let me start over.” His words were slow and methodical. “With a tale. In the beginning, the Four Worlds were created. But the Creator was distracted, and he let the last of his sparks fall, forcing the Changers to appear.” He leaned forward, looking each of them in the eye as a shadow was cast over the banquet hall. “Changers are true immortals. They never die. Which is why you must ask yourselves: if you were given endless years of life, what would you do? If you could live forever, had to live forever, what would you do? The answer to that question is why the Four Worlds are in danger. In the back of our minds, we know this, and we seek power to ensure our safety. That is what you are facing now: an uprising based on who holds the most power now and who will hold the most power in the future. It is no lie the powers have often fallen with the Purebloods. Crons. Tiders. Trazames. Ezincks. Even immortals refrain from twisting their bloodlines.”
Ilieus froze beside him while her sister straightened and crossed her arms, frustrated and furious at the topic. They were Blended Ones; that much was clear to him from the first moment he’d seen them.
“Here in the Eastern World,” he went on, fixing his eyes on the Blended Ones. “It is said the Blended Ones weaken the bloodlines. There is no more power left among them, and the Purebloods should redeem the lost power source. But the Purebloods don’t know that power rises strongest in the Blended Ones. You must convince the Eastern World of that fact if you are to survive the war.” He leaned forward as his voice dropped, allowing the popping of the fire to drown out all other noise for small spaces of time. “It is foretold the Blended Ones will arise and rule the Eastern World. Yet for the prophecies to come true, you must go to the North Forests and seek the Clyear of Power. The immortals dropped it here to keep the Worlds from falling into greater folly. Seek and you shall find. And the key to end the war and rule this land shall be yours. But…” He lifted up a finger. “You must give your allegiance to the one who carries the Jeweled Sword. He will be your King.”
“So, it’s true.” Cuthan stood, knocking over his chair, not waiting for Tharmaren’s tale to end. His face was flushed as he leaned forward. “You are the last of the Order of the Wise, and the Clyear of Power is real.”
Tharmaren sat quite still, his eyes glazing over. “No, my grandson was the last of the Order of the Wise.” Folding his hands over his staff, he sighed. “Do you not believe everything you are told? There is more truth in life than you are aware of. You shut your mind to words you do not understand; that is the root of all corruption in this land and the reason why the Wise are now gone. This is why the foolish war between the Purebloods and Blended Ones has started. You call yourselves the Contrevails and Realalons, but I tell you, one day you must believe in the stories. One day you must hold tight to the knowledge that is given you. Seek and you will find.”
They were silent. They did not understand his words. They weren’t listening. How could he explain more to them? It was as if they were lost on a foggy mountain, having never seen the sunlight, and as much as he warned them, they continued to run forward over the edge of a cliff. Over and over they shouted and fell. Surprised they had not listened. Surprised they failed and died.
“We went to the North Forests,” Artenvox offered, his long hair swishing behind his head as he spoke. “We found nothing but death.”
Tharmaren looked at him, the visions almost blurring his sight, striving to get out. “Have you found a stone?” he asked.
Phyllis visibility jumped, and his eyes bore into her.
“A stone?” he asked. “A green stone?”
She sat back with a sigh of relief yet still fidgeted with something under the table.
They looked at him, seeing him for who he was. Old. Full of nonsensical words. They did not understand. But the words still flickered in his mind. He will come when he is young. He will wield the Jeweled Sword. He will dissolve the Green Stone. They knew nothing of this. Tharmaren the Wise rose. He had told them all he was supposed to. They would figure out the rest. They had to. Or die.
“Wait,” one of the Jeweled Ones said. “We have more questions.”
He reached for his staff, and Tihither scuttled alongside him.
“There will always be questions,” he replied. “I have told you what you need to know.”
The other sister, the bold one, stood. She gave him a look he hadn’t quite seen before. “What about Ilieus?” she demanded. “What about the visions?”
“Find the Clyear of Power,” he muttered. “It will all go away.” Then he paused, lifting a scroll from his robes and setting it down in front of Ilieus.
He could feel the tension in the air, disappointment sharp and poignant. It did not affect him as he moved out of the room to return to the dungeons. Let them be disappointed. If they saw what he saw and if they knew what he knew, hope would be lost and they would realize there was nothing more to fight for. Let them hope. Let them win. Let them live. The Eastern World was right about the Blended Ones. They were ones to be afraid of; they should all be destroyed, not because of their lack of power, but because of it. In the end, the Blended Ones would be able to wield a power similar to the immortals if only they learned how to unlock the hidden powers in their minds. The One was a Blended One. Where was he?
42
Parting
“Phyllis,” a deep voice called her name. Startled, she almost dropped the dranagin as she set it on the stone steps of the castle courtyard. It chirped at her, stretching its wings as it peered down the long stairs, unsure whether it should go ahead or wait for her.
“Pharengon,” she breathed as the honey-colored eyes caught hers. She smiled, feeling her heartbeat speed up as he moved toward her. His light-haired companion, Thangone, moved on down the stairs, giving them a chance to talk privately.
“I am sorry we did not have the opportunity to talk sooner,” he apologized, stopping a few feet away from her. The sun was just beginning to rise, and it captured the flecks of gold in his eyes.
She bit her lip, shifting her eyes over to the dranagin before holding his gaze once again. “Are you leaving now?”
He nodded. “Yes. Since the Treasure Hunters refuse to come with us, we should.” He sighed. “We have delayed long enough; I need to rectify this situation before it becomes much worse.”
The night before, after Tharmaren had left the room, Ilieus refused to show the scroll to anyone. She had taken a look and announced they needed to go to the North Forests as soon as possible. Artenvox argued the ferry wouldn’t return for two days, and Pharengon, frustrated, decided he and Thangone would go ahead and leave for Contres. He was disappointed that the Treasure Hunters weren’t coming with him, but if Ilieus and Phyllis were intent on going to the North Forests, they would need the Jeweled Ones to navigate.
“I’m sorry,” she offered, unsure of what to say. She wanted to move closer and inhale his scent; there was something about him that made her feel safe and sure of herself.
“Don’t be.” He shrugged his shoulders as if there weren’t much sh
e could do. He pointed his chin toward the dranagin. “What have you decided to name it?”
“Oh.” She clasped her hands together. “I don’t know. Such a great beast deserves a fearsome name. What do you think?”
Pharengon took a step forward and squatted in front of the creature. “What about Roturk? It translates to Red One in the common tongue.”
“Roturk,” Phyllis repeated. She reached out a finger to stroke the dranagin’s red scales. “Roturk. I like it.”
He smiled at her again, but his eyes were sad. “Phyllis.” He reached out a hand. “I’m glad we are not enemies, although I wish you were not mixed up in this, especially with the Treasure Hunters. Why did you come here?”
Phyllis stood tall, crossing her arms over her chest to protect herself. “Why does everyone say that?” The friendliness in her voice was gone; it was replaced with frustration. “I just want my sister to get better. Now it has turned into a dangerous quest, and I don’t know what else to do. I have no say in this.”
He reached out then and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Phyllis, you always have a choice.”
“It doesn’t seem that way.” She shook her head. “I went to Grandmother for help, and she told me to come here. I come here, and they tell me to go to the North Forests.”
Pharengon grimaced. He could not help but doubt their quest. The woods were savage, and he would hate to see Phyllis running out of them bloody, mad, and half-naked, the way Artenvox had. He dropped his hand to his sword hilt; he was at war with what he needed to do and what he wanted to do.
“Do you truly want to go there?” he asked instead.
“Ilieus wants to go, and so I will. I must admit, I am curious.” She tucked a stray curl behind her ear as her eyes watched his fingers wrap around his blade. She gasped. “Your sword!”
He dropped the hilt, startled. “What is it?”
She moved closer to him, reaching for the hilt as he brushed his cloak back. In the sunlight, the jewels began to shine on the hilt, and she reached a trembling hand to touch it. “Is this…” She paused, eyes darting from his face back to the sword. “Is this the Jeweled Sword Tharmaren the Wise spoke of last night?”
He stiffened. His secret was obvious now, and he speculated whether that would change how she saw him. “It is,” he whispered.
She gazed up at him, eyes wide, before her gaze returned to the sword. “It has the symbol,” she whispered, her fingers reaching out to trace the jewel at the top of the hilt. It was an emerald encircled by four points the spread out like a compass. She stared up at him in awe, and he felt the spell of unfamiliarity break.
“I must go,” Pharengon announced, feeling uncomfortable with her surprise and obvious admiration. This was exactly what he feared when others discovered he was the king-to-be. “Phyllis, be careful with the Treasure Hunters.”
She stood straight, her eyes narrowing. “What do you mean? I grew up with Cuthan; surely there is nothing to fear.”
He took a step away from her, watching her gaze return to the sword. “No, I question what they will do when they finally get what they want. Sometimes power changes people.”
He turned to go; he could see Thangone at the bottom of the hill, waiting for him.
“Will I see you again?” her voice drifted to him, unsure and shy.
He turned back, and a strong desire to embrace her almost overcame him. “Phyllis of Haitiar, I certainly hope so.” Then he turned and hastened to the shore.
43
Words on a Scroll
They left the next morning while the waves rose high against the wet shores of Wind Fresh. Captain Winther was waiting as promised; his ship teetered a distance from the shore, rising and following with the waves. Black clouds covered the skies, shutting out the lights, and rain poured down without ceasing.
Phyllis walked beside Ilieus with her hood up and her head down to avoid the bitter rains. She’d put Roturk into a basket Miri had provided and held it close to her chest, her arms wrapped protectively around it. The dranagin didn’t seem to mind the rain; he had his head out and was watching it with interest, sticking out his tongue to taste the odd liquid from the sky. His scales were a shiny, liquid red and glistened as the rain fell on them.
Artenvox led the way, head held high as he wore his full suit of armor. The rain clanged against it unevenly, complaining about its inability to penetrate past the thick walls of armor.
“Are you sure we should be boarding a ship in this weather?” Ilieus asked, her teeth chattering as she spoke.
“Of course,” Cuthan’s smooth voice floated up from behind. “Besides, you said it was urgent.”
Phyllis could almost see the smirk on his face, and a part of her wanted to turn and slap some sense into his carefree attitude. Miri the Keeper had packed bundles of food for their journey to the North Forests and elected to stay behind. No amount of persuasion or charming by Artenvox and Cuthan would help.
“Someone has to look out for the Lost Ones,” she’d objected.
“But you’ll be alone!” Artenvox complained, scratching his head.
“Not alone.” Miri pointed at her tiger, Amos. “The islanders come and go, as always. Now leave.”
As if encouraging them, Captain Winther’s ship had appeared, and now they found themselves dodging raindrops on their way to join the captain and his crew. A tiny shack perched near the beach. It was a pitiful shelter that might collapse if the waves surged up high enough on the white beach. The sand no longer sparkled in the sunlight; it turned gray and slide even further into the sea that was turning green with rage. A dinghy had been pulled far up on the shore, trapped in the mud and sand. It was secure even though the arms of the waves rushed around it, tempting it to come out to sea to play with them.
Cuthan skipped down to the shore as the twins hurried to stand under the shelter. Even though his blond hair was dripping, he did not seem to mind the wet and cold. He carried a pack that had his fur cloak inside and food for the next month, although they were likely soaked through by now. His rich royal clothing was sticking to his body, showing off his slim features, as he marched to the waves. There was a grin on his smug face and a light shining through his green eyes. He gave a sigh of relief as he watched Captain Winther’s ship bobbing in the wake of the storm. Adventure was his again. No longer was he forced to languish in the lands down south; the North Forests were once again his path. He could almost taste adventure: the mysterious voices of the forests, the tang of evergreen and pinecones, and the uncertainty waiting around every corner. He was back, he was coming for it all, and this time the forest would not withhold its secrets from him. He was going to discover everything, once and for all.
Glancing back under his long eyelashes, he observed Ilieus. She held all the clues, visions of things to come, in her mind; she would know their next steps. At least, that’s what she said the scroll would tell her, the scroll that no one could read but her. He sighed and spread his arms wide. It didn’t matter at all; he was going back to the forests, and maybe he would actually find what he was looking for.
He blinked as he glanced at Phyllis. He didn’t understand her. At first, she seemed to want the same things he wanted. She’d shown an interest in his tale, yet now she wanted to protect her sister. Plus, she was hiding something, aside from the baby dranagin. He peeked at the little red thing again. It would grow up to be a dangerous monster. Did she know that? No, something had happened in Phillondorn when they were separated. Of course, he had not told her what really happened to Khalil and Lilhak; he supposed it was only fair she should withhold information from him. Artenvox’s sapphire ring glinted, and he narrowed his eyes at it. Artenvox had an unfair advantage; there was something stirring in the ring. Artenvox did not know how to use it to its full potential, but if he found out how to unleash his power of charm, the world would become quite dangerous for Cuthan.
Captain Winther stood just outside the hut but far enough under the cover to be safe fro
m the downpour. The wind blew into his face, and his white beard was dripping with water. A short pipe poked out from his mouth and he stood with his burly, hairy arms crossed over his broad chest. He wore a white shirt, and a sea green tunic over it. His jerkin barely reached his knees, and he wore a flat, brown hat on his head. Gray circles curled up from his pipe as he watched the four from his uncanny blue eyes. “Going somewhere?” he grunted. He was a gruff, short Cron, yet none would dare cross him. His slipshod belt had two knives and a long sword in it, and he carried a length of rope on his person at all times.
“Ah, yes, in fact.” Artenvox stomped up to him, his boots squelching in the wetness. “The North Forests.” He winked as he grinned, his eyes dancing with mischief. “Back to the North Forests for Cuthan and me. Remember?” His chestnut hair hung in limp rattails on his head, and suddenly he looked less like an adventurous Cron and more like a curious boy.
“Nasty weather for this.” Cuthan marched away from the shore toward Captain Winther. “Is your crew all shipshape?”
The Complete Four Worlds Series Page 53