The Blended Ones (The Four Worlds Series Book 2)

by Ford, Angela J.

  “Ah.” Artenvox spun toward Miri, throwing a hand to his heart. “Miri, my lady, you wound me. How can you say such things?”

  “It’s true.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Come to the banquet hall now; the stew is ready, and the others will be hungry.”

  “Who else lives here?” Phyllis found her voice again.

  “You’ve met everyone that lives here,” Artenvox replied. “Everyone else comes and goes. After all, there are battles to fight and people to protect.”

  “One question.” Cuthan fell in step with Artenvox as they followed Miri deeper into the castle. “Why is this called the Castle of the Lost Ones?”

  “Did you have to ask?” Artenvox complained. “I don’t blame you; it’s the first question I asked when I came here. It’s where all the orphans come to find a home. Miri’s parents were lost at Sea. Tihither was found on the shore. My parents are dead, and, Cuthan, think about it. Why are you here?”

  Phyllis shuddered at Artenvox’s explanation, but she knew it to be true. As they followed the wide passageways deeper into the cold castle, she heard the flute of the dead start its funeral song again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The Jeweled Ones

  Cuthan paused in the passageway and watched Phyllis and Miri disappear into the Banquet Hall, taking their voices with them. He turned slowly, careful to avoid meeting the shining blue gaze of his cousin. In one graceful move, he shot out his arm, his fingers grasping Artenvox’s bare throat. As they closed around his straining windpipe. “Really, cousin?” he gasped. “Don’t you want to hear my story first?”

  Cuthan met his gaze then and saw the mockery behind those jeweled eyes. Fury overwhelmed him, and, snatching his hand away, he hurled his cousin against the stone wall. Despite what he hoped, Artenvox’s body smacking against the wall and his forced groan did not bring relief. Spinning around, Cuthan stomped toward the courtyard. “How dare you!” he hissed, throwing words back at his cousin. “It’s been three years. THREE YEARS! And you never came to find me. You’ve been here enjoying the life of leisure while I suffered! How dare you!” He spit anger like a serpent, fury rolling off his back in waves so intense they were almost visible.

  Artenvox’s carefree attitude disappeared as his picked himself up and ran to catch up with Cuthan. He followed guiltily behind, cursing himself for not listening and not asking more questions when he left the forest. “Like I said,” he offered apologetically, “I thought you were dead. Father was. I assumed the forest was not willing to spare two lives. They gave me a hard enough time. I was half mad when I escaped.”

  Cuthan glanced over his shoulder, and the worry in his cousin’s face made him pause. “What happened after they took us? What did they tell you?”

  Artenvox stepped out into the courtyard, the winds of the night ruffling his wild hair. He leaned against the wall and propped one leg up. “The creatures told me the world is ending, and only the Horse Lords can save it. But they need the help of one from the Order of the Wise, who holds the secrets of the world in his mind.” He shrugged helplessly. “It took some time, but I found him, and he’s a mute. I’ve been stuck waiting for the translator to arrive, and I suppose that’s who you brought, which means we are a team, working together as we should be.”

  Cuthan perched on the ledge of a step, glancing at his cousin. “Huh. Working together. Is that what you call it? Your excuses mean nothing. You found your treasure. What now?”

  Artenvox twirled the sapphire ring on his finger. “Yes, I found it. But all will be lost if we don’t stop this darkness that is killing our lands. There were will no more treasure hunts if we are dead.”

  “True,” Cuthan grunted.

  There was silence for a while as the Jeweled Ones listened to the waves stroking the shore. A salty tang hung in the air, and lights from the islanders drifted across the island as doors were closed and homes locked up against the chill night air.

  “Tell me,” Cuthan spoke up again, his voice almost blending with the waves. “How did you escape?”

  Artenvox grimaced. “They told me to run and then started the countdown.”

  “Ah, and then they chased you.” Cuthan nodded knowingly.

  “Yes.” Artenvox ruffled his hair, frowning at the memory. “Sometimes I dream they are still chasing me. How did you escape?”

  Cuthan looked up; his emerald gaze locking in on his cousin’s sapphire eyes. “They let me go.” He emphasized each word, waiting for Artenvox’s reaction.

  Emotions moved swiftly over Artenvox’s face: wonder, confusion, anger, frustration, and, finally, the emotion most commonly known to Crons—curiosity. “Why? Why you?”

  “They told me to go to the Dezzi because they would have a message. I took my time, but so I did, and now I am here.”

  There was another silence; this one was a bit more uncomfortable than the last. It was Artenvox who broke it. “You know we have to go back.”

  “I do.” Cuthan nodded.

  “I both dread and long for it,” Artenvox admitted. “Every time I run, I hear them calling. They want me to escape, but more than anything, they want me back, and I want to be there with them.”

  “As do I,” Cuthan agreed.

  “Do you think we are cursed? To desire something so beautiful, dangerous, and unattainable?”

  Cuthan turned his face to the waters of the deep; a smirk spread across his face as he realized the bitter anger he had toward his cousin was beginning to dissipate. His two-faced, old self was creeping up again. He stood, walked toward Artenvox, and held out a hand as a sign of peace between the two. “Who said it’s unattainable?”

  Artenvox took his hand, shook it, and winked.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Perspective

  Tharmaren the Wise shuffled down the hall with the pale one on his shoulder. She did not say anything; she just held his arm politely, her eyes exploring the damp castle as they descended. Tihither paused to light the torches as they continued down to the dungeons, where the evening mist frosted over the cells. It was a bad place to keep parchment; the wet and cold were dangerous to his work, even though Tihither built shelves out of waterproof wood. The same wood used to build ships and boats across the island.

  The girl gasped in surprise as Tharmaren turned the key to his chambers, and they swept into the warmth. A fire was starting to die out on the hearth, and Tihither scampered over to relight it, bending over and puffing on the smoke before dropping another log on top.

  Tharmaren motioned for Ilieus to sit. She looked confused for a moment before sitting on a log, which was now a makeshift chair. The only other seat was behind the table Tharmaren wrote on. He sat his staff down and leaned heavily over his books, slowly flipping through pieces of parchment. The words, he hoped, were strange to the girl. Although as she watched him, he had the vague feeling they had met before, almost like they had walked together in another life. She watched him steadily, waiting. At last, he handed her a piece of rolled parchment that was old and thin. He motioned for her to read it while he sat down. Waiting. He had waited this long. Why not wait a bit longer? Especially now.

  She took the parchment and held it up just as Tihither walked over with a lit candle, a flame fluttering inside a glass container with a hole at the top. Tharmaren often knocked over candles, and to keep the wax and flame from spoiling his work, Tihither made him covered candle holders.

  She read the words quickly. She glanced up at Tharmaren and bit her lip before she looked down to read them again. Then she rose, held out her hands, and spoke. He sighed with relief. She did know the words, even if she had not spoken that tongue before. She said them. Again. She repeated them, moving her hands until they touched his face. Her fingers were cold and shaking, unlike her voice. It belted out, and he saw the visions locked in her memory dancing. They unfolded themselves one by one, revealing their true meaning to him, a meaning he had learned long ago. But what startled him and made him pull away from her cold fingers was
what the memories told him about her.

  Locked inside her mind were visions of the past, present, and future that he never expected to see again. They were things he thought only he knew; wisdom revealed to him during his search for knowledge in the Western World before he lost his son and grandson. Within her visions was the power to sway the drift of the world and its eventual death and decay. A power lay dormant within her, but the source of it gave him pause, and he backed away, fear surfacing in his eyes.

  Confused by his sudden withdrawal, the pale one stopped and dropped her hands, glancing from him to the parchment. Her shoulders slumped, and her face fell. She was tired of not knowing, tired of her dreams, and tired from the journey. It weighed heavily upon her, and Tharmaren’s eyes clouded over as he watched. He waved his hand impatiently, motioning to Tihither to translate his unsaid thoughts.

  “He says to stop. Something…” Tihither faltered, glancing at Tharmaren, “…has happened. Go to dinner. Come back tomorrow.”

  “No,” the girl responded, sitting down again. “I will wait.”

  She folded her hands in her lap and looked down at the parchment again.

  Tharmaren began to tremble as he watched her. He wondered how he could allow her to help him if he couldn’t even help her.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  The Stone

  Phyllis woke to the crackling of fire in the great hall. It was grimy and windowless with stone walls climbing at least a dozen feet, if not more, toward the unlit candelabrums hanging from the ceiling. Phyllis could picture the hall in her head the way it was meant to be: full of light and laughter with the smell of roasted duck and herbed vegetables drifting through the castle, inviting the inhabitants to come dine. As if fueling her thoughts, she heard the faint whispers of that lonesome flute playing again.

  Startled, she sat up, the mountain of blankets falling away. A rush of chill crept in as she stood, involuntarily pulling her cloak tightly around herself. As it brushed against her thighs, the stone in her pocket hummed, and she jumped at the vibrations. Glancing around the room, she sought the exit, noting that Artenvox and Cuthan were nowhere to be seen, but their host, Miri, and her fearsome tiger were both sprawled out in front of the fire, fast asleep. As her eyes swept toward the door, she noticed Ilieus, who slept beside her, shifting. She turned to her sister, who normally was one to sleep late, in the pointless attempt to hide from her dreams. “What are you doing up?” Phyllis whispered.

  The evening before, Ilieus had finally come upstairs, alone and quiet. She shook her head at Phyllis and told her it would take some time to understand Tharmaren the Wise and learn from him. Phyllis sensed something else had happened, but Ilieus would say nothing more.

  “I have questions.” Ilieus braided her hair around her head, moving so quickly that she left uneven strands hanging out. “Tharmaren the Wise has answers. I am going down to talk to him.”

  “Can I come with you?” Phyllis offered, hoping to appease her curiosity regarding the Wise One.

  Dropping her eyes, Ilieus shook her head. “You were already getting up for another reason I assume. Go, explore the castle,” she encouraged. “I’ll find you when I know more.” Tucking the ends of her braid into a crown on top of her head, she folded the blankets they’d slept underneath.

  Questions rose to her tongue, but Phyllis simply nodded. As much as she wanted to explore the hidden twists and turns of the castle, she wanted a taste of sunlight and to examine her secret stone alone.

  The twins walked to the archway of the great hall where Ilieus turned right, further into the Castle of the Lost Ones, while Phyllis turned left, back toward the outside. She watched her sister’s quiet footsteps pad away for a moment, shaking away an uncanny moment. Ilieus looked no better; she was still pale, frightened, and soft-spoken.

  Phyllis turned her mind to other matters. Ensuring no one was watching, she pulled the stone out of her pocket and walked toward the open doors where sunlight spilled in, warming the cold stones she padded across. Her eyes were drawn to the landscape where she could see the paved path winding down toward the shore. The Westiles Sea lay before her; the foamy waves rushed back and forth in front of the shore where a ship was pulling up. She watched it, perplexed. It looked much like the ship that had brought them there the day before.

  When the word “ferry” had been spoken, she’d thought at first it would be a small boat. She’d seen them before; they were small, round tubs used to catch fish in the middle of a pond. But the ship that pulled up to the shore was larger than a house and rose magnificently above the sparkling waters. A name was lettered in gold on the starboard side: “Fleeting Lalons.” The Shipmaster himself was one they called “Captain Winther.” He was, presumably, a middle-aged Cron with white-blond hair and a bushy white beard. Even though he wasn’t old enough to have white hair. He had a deep voice that bellowed across the waters, giving orders to his mangy crew of mostly Crons. If there were Blended Ones in his crew, they did quite well mixing in. The crew kept much to themselves, focusing on the ropes, pulleys, and off-white canvases of the ship. They had smaller boats they used to ferry their passengers to and from the ship and ropes they let down for them to hold onto as they climbed in and out. Phyllis liked the crew, even though they were loud and boisterous. But what she found more curious was the fact that they all had eyes the exact same color: sea blue.

  A sharp snap brought her thoughts back to the present. Looking away from the shore, she glanced down at the stone, which was now glowing. A crack materialized over its surface, and her eyes grew larger as she watched it split open. There was something inside, moving just beneath the surface. In awe, she sat the stone down in the sunlight and backed away. A gooey, whitish liquid poured out of it, and she sat still, staring. So, it wasn’t a stone after all; it was an egg that was hatching. Kneeling down on all fours, she inspected it. What was inside? She’d seen eggs hatching before; the fluffy yellow heads of baby chicks peeked out to scream at the world for food and the larger, wilder birds struggled across pastures with their young. Over near the ponds, the ducks were proud of their young but left their nests too often to hunt for food, too preoccupied with feeding themselves to keep their nests warm. But…she watched slowly. She’d never seen the liquid spill out before.

  The thing gave a tiny cry as it struggled inside the egg, causing more miniature cracks to ripple across the surface. Phyllis could hear claws scratching as it forced its way out, breaking the protective barrier of its small life. As the shell fell away, she caught a glimpse of bright red that was as glossy as freshly spilled blood. A few seconds more and the creature burst out of the shell with a high-pitched squawk, flicking liquid into the air as it hovered over the ruined pieces of its former home, which were already fading into dust.

  It was a lizard-like creature with miniature horns on its head. It displayed a flat snout with green and red scales while its tiny, pink, forked tongue flickered in and out. Its lidded, yellow eyes opened to stare at Phyllis. It stretched translucent wings, beating weakly against the air, as it sank to the stone courtyard, curling its gray talons to grip the ground. A long, shiny, red tail curled around its two back legs. The beast opened its mouth and hissed at Phyllis.

  She gawked, unsure of what it was. Her mind raced through old stories, thinking back on the magical creatures described in them. The yellow eyes of the reptile watched her patiently while its tail switched impatiently. Was it a Wyvern? They were evil, fire-breathing creatures of old, but in most of the tales, they had two legs instead of four. She wondered if the creature before her was a Blended One, and she laughed inwardly at her own folly. The beast moved closer to her with an impatient hiss while she held out a finger, hesitating before touching it. It nuzzled her finger with its snout and snorted. It was a baby and, likely, hungry. She reached out a hand, encouraging the creature to come to her. It squeaked and nipped at her fingers while sunlight caught the ruby red scales and flickered across them.

  Miri had a white tig
er; she, at least, could have a baby Wyvern. Still, her heart warmed in anticipation as she wondered what the creature would do and how the others would react to it. How would she feed it?

  Glancing back at the castle, an idea came to her. On the beach, she’d noticed little silver fish swimming in small pockets of water; maybe the baby Wyvern would eat those. The beast hopped into her open palm, and she gingerly cupped it in her hands and slowly lifted it. It actually let her, only giving a small, high-pitched complaint as she moved forward over the rough ground. It wouldn’t take long to reach the shore.

  By the time she reached the beach, her fingers were scratched from the creature’s claws and tiny teeth. Setting it down in the sand, she plunged her fingers into a pool of water while the silver fish scattered. She cupped them patiently, waiting while the fish swam around her fingers until they became used to them and moved in to nip the tips of her fingers. She caught one and gingerly lifted it in the palm of her hand. She turned to the beast, who hopped impatiently from side to side as it watched her out of its lidded eyes. It nosed its ways toward the pool of fish and observed them, its eyes moving back and forth. In one swift motion, like a frog, it spit out its forked tongue and snatched up a silver fish, lifting its head to swallow it down. Then it turned to look at Phyllis, seeking her opinion. She dropped the tiny fish that had been floating in the palm of her hand. “Fine, fish for yourself,” she told the creature. The beast made a small chirping sound and moved back to watch the fish before making another surprisingly fast move.

  Phyllis watched it for a time until a movement down on the shore caught her attention. A small boat pulled up, and two Crons crawled out. She was close enough to see them stumble onto the beach, their long, brown cloaks billowing behind them. Swords poked out from their waists. One had chestnut hair; the other’s was the color of wheat. They were both males and kept their hands firmly on their sword hilts as they surveyed the island. The light-haired one said something and pointed to the castle. His friend nodded, and the two walked forward, their black boots making deep holes in the sand. The one with the chestnut hair glanced around, his eyes narrowing as he took in his surroundings.