The guard behind her sprung off the horse, the sudden movement causing Phyllis to reach for the horse’s mane for balance, twining the colorful ribbons between her fingers. The guard ran ahead; her red tartan flying behind her as she drew her sword. The horse did not slow, although Phyllis yanked on the ribbons, unsure of what danger the guard might be running into.
A moment later the guard gave a shrill whistle, and Ilieus’s guard leaped off his mount. Gathering the colorful ribbons in his hands, he led them toward a clump of stout bushes and sapling trees to hide them from peering eyes. Phyllis, too tired to ask questions, slide from the horse to the ground, cradled her head in the crook of her arm, and passed out from exhaustion.
***
A wailing tune played in the distance, the low sad notes of a flute calling thrice. It could have been the call of a bird, but there was something too deep and intense about it. Flecks of sunlight peered through the leafy shades of the hedge, forcing Phyllis to forsake the land of sleep. She sat up, glad of the warmth of her cloak as a sudden chill touched her face like an icy finger. Ilieus was only a few feet away, still asleep as usual. Phyllis rose, her slippered feet rustling the corners of a bed of dead leaves, who scattered away, mumbling hasty apologies. She tilted her head in astonishment, listening again for the voice of the leaves. “Did you hear that?” Her voice tumbled out of her mouth before she realized she had a listener.
“Hear what?” Cuthan crept into view with a hand on his sword hilt. His pale hair was slicked back from his face, still wet from the morning dew.
Phyllis prodded a leaf with her foot. “I thought I heard a voice.” She shook her head when silence met her ears. Even the lone flute had ceased. She walked toward Cuthan. “What’s going on? Do you know who attacked us last night?”
Cuthan shrugged, propping his magnificent self up against a fallen log. “It was most likely the Riders. Phyllis…” He paused, considering how to phrase his next words. “You do know why the Dezzi wear so many colors and paint their faces when they ride? Don’t you?”
“No.” Phyllis watched the treetops shaking. One thick tree waved its branches overhead, scattering more dead leaves on top of her head.
Cuthan peered around the hedge to see where the Dezzi guards were. “It’s because they are blended,” he replied, satisfied that he could not see them.
Phyllis’s head jerked down so fast she pulled a muscle in her neck. She froze as the pain shot down her spine; her eyes bored into Cuthan’s jaw line as he continued.
“A time ago, the pure people groups began to persecute the Blended Ones, hunting them down, killing them, and displaying them as an abomination. They claimed the words of old scrolls demanded the people groups stay unblended because certain powers arise out of those pure, untampered bloodlines. In the days of the Five Warriors, unique powers were common among the people groups. They lived longer, could see further, run faster, and, above all, actually fight against the immortals and win. They were a better, nay, higher people group than what we have fallen to…”
“Cuthan.” Phyllis swallowed hard. Her Grandmother’s dark words were buzzing in her head. Balling her hands into fists, she stepped forward, willing him to stop. “Why are you telling me this?” she snapped.
“Because.” Cuthan lifted a finger to pause any action she might take. His face was emotionless, hard. The carefree attitude from the day before had disappeared with the night. “Because you are one of the Blended Ones, and I want you to be careful now that we are away from the safety of the encampment. Most of the Riders know the Dezzi are of both pure and blended bloodlines, but they harbor and protect those who are blended. The Dezzi believe the blending of two people groups can bring back those powers from days of old, and I think…” His eyes darted to where Ilieus still slept. “I think they believe Ilieus is the beginning.”
“What do I do about that?” Phyllis snapped, bending over to shake Ilieus awake. “Hide?”
“Phyllis.” Cuthan reached out a hand almost in concern. “I’m telling you this so you are aware. Just in case anything happens to us, you know why.”
The dreams are real. The phrase rushed through Phyllis’s thoughts as she stood over Ilieus, a poor attempt to protect her sister from the world. “Why didn’t you bring this up yesterday?”
“Yesterday,” Cuthan whispered, “no one was attacking us. I did not know the Riders had come this far east.”
Ilieus sat up, stretched, and yawned, glancing from Phyllis to Cuthan. They could see the events from the past night come back to her, and the sleepy innocence turned to fright. “Are we safe?” she begged; her fingers untangled her hair as she braided it.
Cuthan reminded silent while Phyllis filled her in, finishing with: “Cuthan is trying to warn us.” She met her sister’s eyes and held them, unsure how much of their past they should revel to Cuthan.
Ilieus stood up, smoothing her cloak and pulling the hood up over her head. She did not appear shocked at the tales Phyllis told her, but her eyes did glaze over for a brief moment. “It is no surprise,” she said. “People like people who are like them, who will do what is expected.” She walked toward Cuthan, the leaf-carpeted ground barely crunching over her light tread. “Cuthan, I heard you returned. Thank you for bringing us this news.”
She lifted a hand, and Cuthan, with a grin spreading across his face, took it, bent his head, and kissed it.
Phyllis scowled and tapped her foot, wondering where the frightened Ilieus of last night had gone. Now she appeared calm and angelic. “Cuthan,” she interrupted. “Tell us more about the Riders so we know who to watch out for.”
“Officially they call themselves ‘the Contrevails.’” Cuthan’s face lifted in a bit of a smirk. “They wear dark green, midnight black, and these strange hats…”
Ilieus gave a start and stepped closer to Cuthan. “The hats,” she whispered. “What do those look like?”
“They look funny.” Cuthan arched an eyebrow as he lifted his hands to mimic them. “A round dome at the top with a wide brim, but it moves in the wind.”
“They wear floppy hats?” Ilieus turned her gaze from Cuthan and gave Phyllis a hard look.
Phyllis lifted her eyes to meet Ilieus's and felt the fingers of dread creeping in to steal her breath.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Dancing Lights
That day they used the phantom fog as cover, conscious of who might be following their tracks. The horses’ hooves churned in the soft ground, kicking up flecks of mud, great globs of it sometimes striking against Phyllis’s legs. At one point, she attempted to make conversation, but her guard remained wordless and stoic. Toward evening, they paused for a rest, and Ilieus pulled Phyllis aside while the guards secured the horses and Cuthan scampered off to take in their surroundings. “Cuthan’s description of the Contrevails, did it sound familiar?” Ilieus breathed fast, her eyes wide with fright.
Phyllis could see the fear behind them again, creeping up, making itself known. She shook her head, confused.
Ilieus grabbed the front of her cloak and pulled her closer. “Think. When Father left, what he was wearing?”
Phyllis’s eyes darted back and forth as she recalled the memory. It had been an odd day, and Father’s behavior was bizarre. She pulled away from Ilieus, shaking her head and wishing she could forget the memory that was lodged there. “You don’t think…” She could not say the words aloud. “No…he wouldn’t!”
“I don’t know.” Ilieus’s voice trembled. “But we can’t tell anyone, especially Cuthan.”
“It has to be some mistake.” Her mind was already shutting out the possibility that their own Father could be a Contrevail. “Even if it were true, he’s our Father; maybe he’s spying for our safety.”
Ilieus dropped her gaze. “Let’s promise to never speak of this again.” Her eyes were wet with unshed tears as she fixed her gaze on a stray bush. “I can’t bear it.”
Phyllis chewed her lower lip in frustration, hoping Cuthan was misinfor
med about the Contrevails.
“Ilieus. Phyllis. Come eat,” called one of the guards.
“That’s the last thing I want to do,” Phyllis muttered under her breath.
Ilieus simply looped her arm in Phyllis’s and pulled her over to the gray rocks where the two Dezzi guards sat. The three horses were tied to a tree, but Cuthan was nowhere to be seen.
The sisters sat down across from the guards who handed them meat swaddled in flat green leaves the size of their hands. “Eat,” the female ordered. Her face was still painted, but occasionally black and white flecks fell, like dust, from her face.
Phyllis picked up the leaf of food and shuddered as she looked down at the wobbly, pink mass. “Is this raw?” She looked up in horror, holding the slab of meat out and away from her face.
The other guard nodded. “Eat, no time to build a fire.”
Phyllis blanched while Ilieus gagged and dropped the leaf as if it were poison. “I can’t.” Phyllis waved her hand. “We can’t eat raw meat!”
The two guards exchanged mirthless glances and then shrugged. “If you won’t eat, you won’t eat,” the female said.
“What are your names?” Ilieus asked after an awkward pause. “You know ours; it’s unfair for us not to know yours.”
“I am called Khalil,” the female answered, swallowing a strip of raw meat whole.
Ilieus choked and turned away, covering her mouth with her hands.
“Lilhak,” the male replied.
Phyllis squinted. “Are you related?”
Khalil nodded. “Brother and sister. It is customary in our family line for everyone to have the same name.”
“Curious,” Phyllis remarked, “but spelled and said differently.”
Khalil nodded again, but Lilhak appeared disinterested.
Ilieus recovered from her brief nauseous stint and turned back to address the guards. “Are you blended?” she boldly blurted out.
The guards exchanged glances, reading each other's minds, before standing up. “Get some rest,” Khalil commanded.
Phyllis looked at Ilieus as they walked away. “Raw meat and the same name? How odd.”
Ilieus shrugged and stood as Cuthan came striding into camp. He winked at them. “Another week of riding like this, and we’ll be in Phillondorn.”
“What does it matter?” Ilieus pulled the hood of her cloak over her face. “As long as we arrive in Wind Fresh.”
When Phyllis closed her eyes that night, she heard the flute again, playing a mournful melody. It made her ache, and she hugged herself tightly, wondering for whom or for what the song played. Who were they mourning? Who was she mourning?
Cuthan shook them awake at dawn before the morning fog had time to clear away. Phyllis rose, reaching for Ilieus’s hand as she pulled her cloak around her exposed neck. Cuthan's green eyes danced like emeralds in the dim light.
“What is it?” Ilieus rubbed sleep from her tried eyes.
Cuthan winked and held a finger to his lips, and then he reached for Ilieus's hand to lead her through the fog. Ilieus turned back to grab Phyllis.
Their camp lay in the tall reeds of the west, which gave them scant covering in the foothills of Igriscar. Phyllis expected to see the crest of some vast mountain range, rising above them full of mystery, but there was none.
They crept through islands of fog that moved at their touch, wet clouds of nothingness chilling their very bones. Tall reeds brushed against their legs, reaching up to poke at their waists, lest they pass through.
Phyllis squeezed Ilieus's hand as the clamminess threatened to steal her breath. Her cloak dragged on the ground, hindering movement, and a deep, gnawing sense of hunger made her feel lightheaded. She muttered curses under her breath against the Dezzi and their raw meat.
“Look!” Cuthan’s muffled voice floated back to her as they drew up short.
It was hard to tell where they stood, the middle of the reeds perhaps, with the clouds all around them, whispering secrets. Winking in and out of view were miniature white and yellow lights, their spots of color bright and intense. There were hundreds of them, continuing on into the fog and dancing around each other in circles of bliss.
Ilieus gasped in awe. “What are they?” she cried, joy cascading across her face like a child seeing the sun for the first time.
Phyllis was surprised to hear the genuine joy in her voice, but even she felt worries drip away as the lights danced higher above them. “They are beautiful,” she heard herself say.
Cuthan looked over his shoulder at them, his bright gaze resting a moment on Ilieus’s upturned face. Her hood had fallen back, and her long, light braid of hair was tumbling loose. He lifted a hand to curl a fine strand around his finger, releasing it when Ilieus did not appear to notice.
“I don’t know their names.” Cuthan’s voice was warm with reverence. “The lights of the fog I suppose. They always appear here where the clouds come down to visit.”
“You have been here before?” Ilieus held out a hand, inviting a light to come rest upon it.
“Many times,” Cuthan said, continuing to watch her. “They are one of the many glories of the Eastern World.”
“What else have you seen?” Ilieus moved closer to him, although never taking her eyes away from the lights.
“I don’t know if you would believe me if I told you. Phyllis didn’t.” Cuthan gave Phyllis a teasing grin.
“Yes, I did,” Phyllis retorted, narrowing her eyes at the way Cuthan and Ilieus admired each other. Despite accusing him of being trouble, now she was charmed by him and he, possibly, by her. It always happened. People met Phyllis but looked straight through her to admire her sister, the beautiful one, the broken one. The one who held pieces of the future in her mind; the one who had brought them into this mess in the first place.
“Time to go.” Khalil’s sharp voice floated through the fog, causing Phyllis to jump.
“I didn’t know you were here!” she exclaimed.
Cuthan and Ilieus tore their eyes away from the lights as the three horses materialized out of the fog.
“We are your guards,” Khalil replied. “We always know where you are.”
Lilhak sat mutely on his horse, waiting for Ilieus to join him.
“Did you enjoy your meal of raw meat last night?” Cuthan laughed as he ran to mount his horse.
“What?” Phyllis paused. “You knew about that?” She watched Cuthan’s expression as he settled on the back of the tall, spotted mare.
“It’s a test; I hope you passed.” Cuthan smirked.
Phyllis looked up at Khalil, who reached a hand down to help her up on the horse's back. “Was it a test?”
Khalil nodded. “First test. You are not ready.”
“Oh.” Phyllis felt a twitch of hunger again. “When’s the second test?”
Khalil shook her head. “If you knew, it would not be a test.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Herb Garden
The land changed as Ilieus and Phyllis continued their journey with Cuthan and the Dezzi. They entered the wild lands of Phillondorn, where the pastures stretched far and wide and the farmlands were scattered away from each other. Herds of wild horses ran hither and thither, holding their own against the meat eaters of the land. Groves of great trees sprung up near wide pools of shining water, beckoning weary travelers and wandering nomads to swim in their watery graves. The air took on the scent of rain and water, heavy and light all at the same time. A wetness hung in the air above them, and the fog at night was thick and harsh.
Khalil and Lilhak finally washed the paint from their faces, displaying their true identities. They were both tall, a blend of Tider and something else. Khalil had black hair she had cut short; it hung straight to her ears and was held back from her round face with a bright yellow scarf. Her skin had an odd hue from the paint, making it hard to tell exactly what people group she belonged to. Her brother, on the other hand, had long blond hair; his face was young and round, and his e
yes were calculating but calm. He was shy and much more of a listener than a talker, even though Khalil herself did not speak much.
“You will learn to fight,” Khalil announced one evening, drawing her sword and facing Phyllis and Ilieus. Cuthan was tying up his horse and attempting to sneak off, but Khalil pointed her sword at him. “Cuthan, you will help.”
“Oh,” Cuthan sighed and pulled out his sheathed blade. He swept his arms out and bowed as a charming grin slide over his face. “But clearly, Khalil, you are superior with the sword, I would be so lucky to learn from you.”
Khalil kept her face emotionless. “Then learn you shall.” She gave a nod before reaching out a hand to her brother. “Lilhak, your sword.”
Thus began what Phyllis call the second test: lessons with the blade.
“Swords are heavy,” Ilieus complained. “My arms are tired.”
“In war,” Khalil quipped, “one cannot stop because one’s arms are tried.”
Ilieus sighed, Cuthan mocked, and Phyllis found herself actually wanting to learn how to fight.
“First,” Khalil told them, “you must watch and learn.” She motioned to her brother, and they took up a stance in front of each other. “Watch our feet. Watch our blades. Anticipate. Guess what your attacker is going to do next. Expect the unexpected.” Her voice was deft, high, and with a bit of a lisp at the end. When Phyllis listened to her talk, she could almost see the round words dancing out of her mouth, soft and full of curves and squiggly lines. Her p’s popped, her s’s squiggled, and her t’s ticked. She was fully in control, telling them how to stand, when to raise their sword, and how to parry blows. She breathed life into their swordplay, encouraging one moment and shouting in frustration the next.
The Blended Ones (The Four Worlds Series Book 2) Page 11
