The Blended Ones (The Four Worlds Series Book 2)

by Ford, Angela J.

  As it turned out, warmth and food were all that was needed to revive the Cron. After he had scoffed down three helpings and was covered in a gray fur, he began to talk. Pharengon hunched over the fire, sipping a liquid that both warmed and burned his body. Thangone asked the questions, and Miri the Keeper perched nearby, stroking her tiger’s head absentmindedly. The Council of the Horse Lords gathered around the fire, the shadows hiding their true number. A scribe perched close to Miri but on the other side of her treacherous tiger; he eyed it nervously as he dipped his quill in ink and recorded the words.

  “My name is Artenvox,” the Cron said. “I am a Treasure Hunter, and I’m proud of it.” He straightened his shoulders and quickly glanced at Miri to see her reaction. She ignored him. “I went to the North Forests with my family, and I am the only one who escaped.”

  Thangone raised a finger, effectively pausing the story. “Why did your family go to the North Forests in the first place?”

  “Ah, if you knew anything about Treasure Hunters, you would know it is the custom. When the children become of age, which, for a Cron, is twelve, we are taken on our first hunt. Typically, it’s something simple, but the North Forests are not…” He paused, searching for words. “Not what they seem.”

  “They seem dangerous,” Thangone remarked bluntly.

  “Yes and no. The Forest is…” He smiled to himself. “The truth is, I know tales and stories that would astonish you if I told them. The woods are full of knowledge, and now that I’ve found what I was looking for, I must go and continue the next phase of my hunt.”

  Thangone pulled out a knife and a flint stone to sharpen it with. He casually pointed the knife at Artenvox, the Treasure Hunter, and raised an eyebrow. “Tell us then; what is this knowledge you claim the woods passed to you?”

  Artenvox leaned forward and dropped his voice. “Ah. You are the Horse Lords, no? They say there is a king, hidden among the Horse Lords, waiting to take up his rule; only he needs a kingdom and an army to ensure his reign. They say he needs the counsel of the wise, the help of the watchers, and a unique weapon to rise. They say he is kind, and, because of it, his line will endure. You are the Horse Lords; surely you will find him. When you do, you must tell him that one of the Order of the Wise still lives. It is his counsel you should seek because he is the key to saving our dying world.”

  Pharengon bent his head farther into his drink, his ears burning at the words the Treasure Hunter spoke. Thangone continued his line of questioning, his blade ringing sharply off the stone. “Nay, the Order of the Wise are all dead and gone. The last one was Crinte the Wise, and even if he did live, he is from the Western World. There are no powers to move between worlds.”

  “Curious, isn’t it? I must go to the islands to find out for myself. You had better look for that king; the Eastern World will need him.”

  Pharengon gazed into the flames, watching them devour everything they touched. There was no need for the Horse Lords to search for their hidden king. He was their King, but it was far too early to think of taking up his rule. After all, he was only twenty, and no one wanted a King quite so young and inexperienced. He stood, ending the conversation.

  “Artenvox. This knowledge is simply another quest, another treasure hunt. It is quite clear the forests have turned your memory. Enjoy our food and furs; you are free to go when you have recovered from your ordeal.”

  He swept from the fire, leaving Miri and her tiger to watch the strange Cron. Thangone rose and followed him, silent as they strode through the hall of tents. “Pharengon,” Thangone spoke quickly. “I don’t believe him either, but there is something he said.”

  “What?” Pharengon checked his pace, waiting impatiently.

  “He mentioned the islands. We haven’t searched the islands.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Fear

  Three Years Later.

  She tossed as the ghastly vision crept into her memory like sharp white fingers peeling back the peaceful calm of the night. Gripping fear awoke in her, like a naked babe tossed out of its mother’s womb into a terrifying, unfamiliar world. Every muscle in her body turned rigid protect itself against the vicious unknown. She could sense the fear in the air; dryness clung bitterly to each atom of life, crushing out all existence. The thing that was the source of it all was behind her. She knew before she turned involuntarily; her eyes were already squeezing themselves shut as she attempted to force her face away. She would not look. She dared not look. Now her hands were clammy, shaking. It was the moment; in an instant, she would see it, and all her nightmares would come true.

  It walked towards her, and she screamed uncontrollably as horror ripped through her body. Before she could get a sense of what form it took, it was inside her. Nails as sharp as knives dug into her neck, intent on ripping out the bloodcurdling sound emitting from her throat. She reached up a hand to stop it and saw salivating, pointing teeth chomping at her, determined to get what it wanted.

  White light shot into her eye sockets, intense pain blinding her as it washed out all she knew of sight. Black spots danced, blurred by streams of painful tears that squeezed out of her eyes, as sobs choked in her throat. Panic rose from the depths of her belly, constricting her hear and cutting her windpipes off from air. Shaking fingers curled like claws around her dry throat as her eyes rolled sightless back into her head. Tumbling off the tangled sheets of her bed, she landed with a muted thump on the patchwork of reeds that covered the cottage floor. Relentlessly the white light poured into her brain, changing into bright, colorful blobs. Tirelessly they drove forward until she was nothing more than a wilted lump on the floor. Cold. Still. Lifeless.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Nightmares

  Phyllis woke with a jolt, her heart pounding as she sat up. Almost before she was fully awake, she found herself out of bed. Her bare feet tripped across the uneven floor before she flung herself down beside her sister. Ilieus lay face down, her legs still trembling beneath the white night dress she wore. Her long hair was tangled on the floor from jerking violently across its surface. Kneeling over her, dark eyes wide with concern, Phyllis reached out a hand to touch Ilieus’s shoulder, afraid of what she would find.

  It seldom happened, but it happened enough to scare Phyllis each evening that she dared to close her eyes to sleep. The dark dreams of the night would wrap their broken arms around Ilieus’s mind and pull her into their realm. The possibilities those nightmares revealed drove her body to shake and convulse. As of late, the episodes had increased, monthly fears turned into weekly realities, and Phyllis knew one day she’d wake to find her sister’s soul gone, stolen into the dark shadows only night can bring.

  Now, placing a hand on her sister’s cold shoulder, she gently turned her over. Ilieus lay frozen with her pale eyes open in fright, so wide that the white circles around each iris could clearly be seen. Her slim nostrils were flared, and her thin lips were blue, as if she were still battling for air. One hand was up around her fragile neck, curled like a claw, and Phyllis could see where her nails had dug into skin, leaving it red and raw. Phyllis brought her dark head close, resting it on Ilieus’s bosom, listening for the faint heartbeat that would calm her nerves, for now at least.

  The heartbeat pulsed against her ear, and Phyllis pulled back, her momentary bravery giving way to shaking sobs of relief. She backed away, pressing her hand to her mouth to stifle her tears, lest Father hear and discover them out of bed. His mood was unpredictable, particularly after a long, hot day in the fields and a few ales afterward. He had turned ferocious and bullish after Mother passed away three years ago. Her death had stolen the loving presence away from the household. It had all happened so quickly: the dream, the death, and the words of warning. They had ignored them all, and now, in the middle of the night, Phyllis felt unhappier and more alone than she ever had in all of her seventeen years. Tucking her feet underneath her thin, ragged nightdress, she wrapped her fingers around Ilieus’s free hand, her solace turning into frustrat
ion at everything life had dealt her thus far.

  Phyllis lived in a village called Haitiar in the Rolling Hills of Ithinguard with her father, Antharn, and twin sister, Ilieus. Since Mother’s passing, the village people tended to ignore them, superstitiously believing the unluckiness would pass on to them should they venture too near the broken family. Indeed, it did seem as if a bad luck possessed them. Shortly after Mother’s death, Ilieus had taken ill with an ailment that left her pale, thin, and weak. Meanwhile, Antharn, sinking further into grief, cared less for his daughters and, more often than not, could be found at the local inn, drinking and creating a ruckus. Even with that, Phyllis was the only one who noticed the way the villagers treated her family. She saw the mothers push their children away when she walked to the market. The barters avoided eye contact when they traded with her, giving no thought to the lowest price, only hoping she’d leave as quickly as she came. She remembered the years when mother was alive, and it was different. The children of Haitiar were her friends, and the Crons of the village did not judge those who blended the lines of the people groups.

  As the first hints of dawn began coloring the sky, like a giant beginning a painting, an idea pushed its way into Phyllis’s disjointed thoughts. Letting go of Ilieus’s hand, she slid her arms underneath her sister and deposited her on the bed again. Ilieus’s eyes had closed now, yet her body still appeared to be held rigid in a frozen trance. Phyllis sighed as she covered her up. Mother had known exactly what to do during the rare occasions when Ilieus descended into nightmares. She knew what herbs to use to comfort her and bring clarity to her visions (she had learned this from Grandmother). Phyllis had seen Grandmother at the market, an old lady, often bent over her wheelbarrow of herbs, whispering to them like small children that needed consoling. Although Mother’s last words had encouraged Phyllis and Ilieus to go to Grandmother and heal the broken relationship, Father forbade it after the funeral. Even Phyllis’s memories shed Grandmother in a negative light, and she was disinclined to believe Grandmother would be anything other than poisoned against them. But Ilieus was growing weaker with each episode, and perhaps if Phyllis begged, Grandmother could provide a remedy that would soothe Ilieus’s visions.

  Phyllis peeked out of her bedroom into the dim light of the hut, letting her eyes adjust. A chair lay on its back, legs sticking up in the air in a wordless cry for help. A broken mug perched on the edge of the table, begging to be put out of its misery and dashed into pieces. Thankful for the quiet reeds of the floor, Phyllis dashed across them, barefoot, to the front door. Placing her fingertips on the handle, she peeked back to her father’s room, but the shut door and gentle snores told her he was out cold. She shuddered to think what he would do if he discovered she was disobeying his directives. Before she could change her wavering mind, she opened the door and stepped out into the night.

  The air was dense and warm as she ducked back around the hut, heading for the fields. In the light of the day, she’d be able to see the nearest neighbors’ homes, dotting the countryside while the cobblestone road wound its way past them. Wagons drawn by horses and single riders, farmers, and traders could be seen going back and forth constantly down to the square, four miles away, where the trading took place. Yet in the predawn hours, all was silent, and for that, Phyllis was thankful as she ran through the fields toward the edge of the village.

  The village of Haitiar, in the Rolling Hills of Ithinguard, was mostly filled with the people group called Crons. They were well-known for their lighter complexions, shorter statures, and adventurous mindsets. Crons were unwilling, nay, discontented to stay in one place for the entirety of life. If there was a mystery to be solved, a fight to be had, or an adventure to go on, they were off and into what was, most likely, the biggest mistake of their lives without a second thought. It was quite contrary to the people group, Trazames, who lived in the country Nungus Des-Lista. Trazames were taller and broader with darker complexions, for they loved feasting and farming to their hearts’ content. A family of Trazames would live on their farmland for hundreds of years before daring to vacate it, while every ten years Crons were uprooting themselves and searching for a new adventure.

  Phyllis herself was half-Cron and half-Tider, which brought an air of disapproval from the villagers. Tiders were tall, quiet beings who tended to live in high elevations. They were rarer in the Eastern World since there weren’t many mountains, aside from the ones in the North Forest. Tiders got along well enough with Crons and Trazames, remaining neutral in the political ongoings across the world. They lived their lives calmly, refusing to heedlessly jump into unnecessary adventures, such as the Crons, or stew at home in fear, like the Trazames. Phyllis could feel the sway of both bloodlines in her; the recklessness pulled her in one direction, while the voice of reason tugged her in the other. Sometimes she did not understand her Tider father at all. According to common knowledge, he should be firm in his doings and in his thinking. He should be ruler of the family, and yet he had come unhinged. She resented that and the fact that it seemed up to her to decide what would happen to her and her sister next. As she ran, barefoot, through the fields to the edge of the village, the wide-open lands seemed to hold out their arms, welcoming her to explore them.

  There were pink streaks in the dawn sky when she arrived at the last hut at the edge of the village. It perched like a morning mushroom, white topped and moldy. It looked as if the next strong wind would buffet its roof inward. Long, overgrown grasses waved in the early morning whispers of dawn, holding their secrets close before the light burned them away. Two oak trees grew dark and heavy on either side of the hut, like guards, offering shelter and safety beneath their boughs. Phyllis slowed from a run to catch her breath, hesitantly placing one foot in front of the other as she walked up to the frowning entrance. Pausing, she ranked her fingers through the tangles of her dark brown mane of wavy hair. She braided it deftly, like the country folk, and made her way to the doorstep as sweet and poignant fragrances floated to her nose. Unsure of what she was smelling, Phyllis wrinkled her nose, yet her tense shoulders relaxed and calmness slid through her body. The hem of her oversized, white nightdress was soaked and muddy from running through pastures, and her tanned feet were bare. Despite her shoddy appearance, she fixated her large, brown eyes on the door and boldly stepped up, lifting her fist to knock. Before her fist could make contact, the door swung open, and a voice called out, “Come in, child. I’ve been expecting you.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Midnight Conversation

  “You’ve been expecting me?” Phyllis questioned, a hint of disbelief creeping into her high-pitched voice. The door slid open a bit further as Phyllis stepped inside. Despite the calming fragrance of the herbs, she shifted from one foot to the other, unsure of how to explain her actions.

  Candles hung in metal cases and chains from the ceiling, giving a flickering, orange glow to the hut. Bundles of green hung upside down drying, a safe distance away from those flickering lights. A fire hummed greedily in the hearth while a basin of water sat beside it and a kettle puffed out smoke above it. Phyllis swallowed hard as she stared, a sudden memory of the home she used to blurring her vision. She blinked and raised her chin just as Grandmother waved her hand.

  “Shut the door, child; what I have to tell you is not for others’ listening ears.”

  Confused yet curious, Phyllis pushed the door shut gently, the latch falling behind her as she moved forward into the spacious room. She could see colorful, woven baskets, bright reeds, and green plants covering the corners and walls of the room. A bed was neatly tucked into one corner, but it looked as if it hadn’t been slept on recently. A chair beside the fire rocked back and forth, bereft. Grandmother walked toward Phyllis, her tall figure commanding the room.

  “Where are your clothes, child?” she asked, her deep eyes taking in Phyllis’s appearance and judging her accordingly.

  “I…I…there was no time,” Phyllis stammered, feeling flustered as she dropped her eyes
to the floor. Her feet were black with mud and dust while her hair was still tangled and her quick braid bunched and uneven. New clothes were not a priority, and it was all she could do to run the hut, take care of Ilieus, and avoid her father’s temper. Fussing about what she looked like came last. Besides, Ilieus was the beauty of the family; she resembled an angel with her pale skin and fragile bone structure, as if she would shatter into a million pieces at any moment. Phyllis was boisterous and boyish in a way; she had more of the spirit of the Cron within her, while Ilieus leaned toward the quiet ways of a Tider.

  Grandmother moved closer and lifted Phyllis’s chin with her thumb and forefinger. Forced to look upward, Phyllis recoiled in surprise. Grandmother stood only a few inches taller than Phyllis, yet even though her hair was pure white, she was not as old as Phyllis expected. The resemblance to Mother was there, almost hidden, but what drew Phyllis was the silver circlet Grandmother wore braided into her hair. At the end was a four-point amulet with a small, circular stone shining on her forehead; it was much like the ones Mother used to hang about the house, yet this one had a real stone, glossy and shiny, that caught and reflected the hues the fire tossed at it. Grandmother’s eyes matched it, glittering with deep pools of knowledge.