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 would 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.
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 m
ust 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?
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
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 she 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.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
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.
The Blended Ones (The Four Worlds Series Book 2) Page 17
