The Complete Four Worlds Series

by Angela J. Ford

  “Thank you,” Phyllis mumbled, almost unable to find her voice. She sank, mesmerized underneath his gaze, forgetting about Grandmother’s strange words, the Dezzi, Cuthan, Ilieus, and her own lost home. Even the sounds of horses grazing and the Crons laughing and dancing melted away in the halo of his aura. She forgot to breathe as he lifted one hand; his rough fingers slid across her neck, lifting her chin. His very touch sent silvery shudders down her spine.

  Just as she opened her mouth to address the tension she could feel mounting between them, he brought his lips to hers. His mouth felt warm and tender. His hand stroked her neck in such a gentle manner that it made her uncertain whether he was a rough rider of Phillondorn. When he broke contact and pulled back, his eyes were soft and his voice was husky. “Pardon me.” He dropped his hands to his side. “I forget myself.”

  But Phyllis still had her eyes closed, relishing the aftertaste of his lips against hers. When she opened her eyes, she found they were wet and he was frozen in place. She reached out a hand to pull him back toward her, yet she changed her mind halfway there and dropped her hand. “There is nothing to forgive,” she whispered, tasting the bite of cold air that washed away the momentary warmth.

  He stood tall, his frame shutting out the firelight as he reached a hand out to her. “All the same, I should have had more self-control.”

  She wanted to tell him, to show him, but her tongue felt like lead and her body would not respond. Instead she stood and followed him to the cove he’d made for her to sleep in. He covered her with the blanket and smiled at her, the smile that did not touch his eyes. “Sleep well.” His hand stroked her hair, and then he was gone.

  Phyllis awoke in a haze, her eyes still closed and her body encircled in warmth. A lazy smile played about her lips as if she were still in that dream of the night before. Yawning and stretching like a sea urchin, she opened her eyes and sat up with a start, the warm blanket she’d been tucked into slipping from her shoulders. As it fell, it gave off the faint odor of evergreen and pine needles. It smelled like him, and she resisted the urge to lift up the blanket again and inhale. Standing up, she fastened her cloak around her neck and tucked her wavy hair into her hood. As she stepped out to join the Riders, she found herself alone.

  Swallowing hard with disappointment, she spun in small circles to be sure. The grassy knoll they had camped on with the hundreds of riders was empty. The fire a few feet away had been put out and wasn’t even smoldering; it was if no one had been there at all. Puzzled, Phyllis bent down to pick up the blanket, folding it with shaking fingers as she watched the bleak landscape. Yesterday had happened, hadn’t it? She touched her lips to be sure; the memories were there, yet how could they leave without a word? How could he leave? Despite herself, Phyllis felt tears of frustration well up in her eyes. In a storm of fury, she threw the blanket it on the ground with a huff. Then, thinking better of it, she picked it up. It was her only proof. Maybe she could find him and give it back.

  The stone in her cloak pulsed, and she took it out. It was hot to the touch, like she had pulled it from a dying fire. The white spots on the stone were much brighter; they were attracted to the heat and waking up. Phyllis slipped it back inside the deep folds of her cloak, unsure if she should have taken it in the first place. That was the least of her worries. As she straightened on the hill, fighting disappointment and attempting to determine which way to go, she heard a sound. It was like the wind, but much louder, like subdued thunder rising and falling over hilltops. Could that be what she wanted? Blanket in hand, like a protective shield, she marched boldly across the wild lands. Reeds and long strands of yellow grass rose up almost as high as her waist. She struggled through them for a time until she happened upon a flattened path, clearly beaten down by horse hooves.

  The sound grew closer as she climbed a hill and gave a sharp gasp at what lay on the other side. The hill rolled downward into a muddy, sandy land that spread north and south as far as the eye could see before disappearing into a tremendous body of pale water. Waves churned and foamed as they rolled up on the shore, changed their minds, and disappeared back into the distance. Phyllis froze, staring in dismay. How was she supposed to cross? There were no signs of a ferry. Frustrated to tears again, Phyllis folded her arm around her waist, wondering what to do.

  “Phyllis?” a familiar voice called. “Is that you?”

  Phyllis spun around, her heart in her throat. Running down the flattened path toward her was Ilieus, her long hair flying loose and her eyes bright. She had gathered the skirts in her hands, allowing herself to run faster than the lone male behind her.

  “Ilieus!” Phyllis shouted with relief and joy. Dropping the blanket, she ran back down the path, arms outstretched to throw them around Ilieus.

  Ilieus hugged her tight, breathing hard. “I’m glad you’re safe.”

  “Oh, Ilieus.” Phyllis pulled back, forcing down her thankful tears. “I’m happy to see you alive. Where are Lilhak and Khalil?”

  Cuthan, the lone male behind Ilieus, came bounding up, his face drawn. “We lost them,” he said, reaching out a hand to touch Phyllis’s shoulder.

  Ilieus pushed him away, frowning. “We did not lose them!” She snapped, glaring at Cuthan.

  Cuthan’s shoulders fell. “They stayed behind.” His green eyes sought Phyllis’s, begging her to believe him. “I fear the worst.”

  “Oh.” Phyllis glanced from Cuthan to Ilieus, getting the gnawing sense they weren’t telling her everything. Yet Ilieus’s outburst made her hesitant to question them further. “What do we do now?”

  “We wait for the ferry.” Cuthan pointed down to the shore.

  The three of them walked down the hill together as the sunlight cut through the gray clouds, an omen of success.

  Ilieus slipped her hand into Phyllis’s and squeezed tight. “We’re almost there.”

  “Phyllis.” Cuthan touched her shoulder. “How did you get here?”

  Phyllis turned to look back, remembering she had dropped the blanket. She wanted to go fetch it, but that would look suspicious. “Does it matter?” She shrugged. “I’m here now.”

  33

  Division in the Ranks

  The Riders of Phillondorn swept over the rolling green meadows, south toward Nungus Des-Lista. As they did, a worry grew in Pharengon’s chest. Ever since he had returned to lead his volunteers south to take up guard at the house of Renlages the Trazame, he’d noticed how the number of his Riders swelled. They were flocking to him now, the Crons and Tiders of the landmass, desperate for a leader to help them recover their lost properties and family. More than that, they wanted a leader to take them to glory, fame, and fortune. The feeling of injustice sat heavy on them, and even the Riders were bold enough to discuss the Blended Ones and the wrong they brought on the world. Some claimed they were the very reason the world was heavy with age. Parents died young. Fewer children were born. The Blended Ones were the curse that was destroying the Eastern World.

  Just that morning, scouts had reported a sighting of the Dezzi, the tribe that tended to stay in the far east, marking their boundaries and interfering with none. Two had been captured and traveled with the Riders until the time came to interrogate them. It was wise to be cautious across the land; one never knew when allies could turn into enemies and enemies to allies. The Riders were anxious to go to Contres, grip the Contrevails by their throats, and rip out their influence. Pharengon was loathe to believe a mere island would pressure the people groups of the Eastern World. After all, it was disconnected and would take half a day’s ride in a ship to arrive there. It had already been long months since his forces had gone to spy, and, like an itch that can’t be scratched, the thought danced in turmoil in his mind.

  He ought to send scouts; maybe he even ought to go to Contres himself and see what they were up against. He knew he needed large numbers and leverage if he were to be the one to end the uprising of the Contrevails. The fact of it was, the Purebloods weren’t entirely wrong about the
Blended Ones, and he knew it. He sighed. The female he’d found on the moors the night before was likely one of the Blended Ones. He could see it in her looks: the features of a Cron with the dark tones and coloring of a Tider. He was fascinated by the strange, magnetic pull she had on him, but it was best he left her where he did. If she woke and took a few steps, she’d find the Westiles Sea, waiting at her beck and call. He would be no more than a mystery of the night, a guardian sent to protect her on her journey. However, anyone foolish enough to travel alone did not need protection; it was only by chance he’d happened upon her. His musings were interrupted by Thangone shouting, “Pharengon! Come break this up!”

  During a brief pause to water their horses, the Riders had formed a circle with the leaders in front, working themselves up into a brawl. One of the newcomers was off his horse, marching back and forth in the wetlands near a pond, his boots squelching in the mud with each step he took. He waved his green-covered arms. He was a Cron and quite red in the face from bellowing. Behind him stood a Tider with his arms crossed, nodding briefly at each word that was spoken.

  “Haven’t you had enough?” The Cron held his hands with his palms up. “Enough of riding across the lands, searching for mysteries to uncover? What are you doing with your time? With your lives? You have cast out the females and children, tossing them to an unknown island to wait while you dawdle in the landmass. Doing what? Haven’t you had enough?”

  “Aye!” called several of the Riders, nodding as they motioned their horses forward. Some still hung back, curious about the proposal this Cron was making.

  “Don’t you want action? I say enough of this running up and down the coast. We aren’t the watchers to protect the world; we are the army. We should be out there fighting for the right to live in peace and to come and go as we please without the Contrevails taking everything from us. Aren’t you ready to take action?”

  There were many more “ayes” this time with stronger grunts.

  “I propose we cease this endless ride in the landmass and take the fight to the Contrevails. We’ll go to their island and ambush them where they stand. Who’s with me?”

  “Aye!” they yelled much louder this time, and several Riders raised their hands in salute.

  One of the older Crons swung off his mount and stepped forward, facing the Cron with a scowl on his face. “Gourd the Loud, what claims do you have on leading this army of Riders? You are new to our company, but you know Lord Pharengon is our leader.”

  Gourd the Loud gaffed, but it was the Tider who stepped forward. “We may be new to your company, but in the weeks we’ve been here, we’ve seen how effective the rule of Lord Pharengon and Lord Thangone is. They are young and naive. We are seasoned and have seen much of the world; we’ll take the army from here while Lord Pharengon is still growing up.”

  The Riders erupted into loud and violent arguments. Some took up for Lord Pharengon, while others agreed with Gourd the Loud and his companies. Furious at the insults and embarrassed at the lack of control he had over his Rider, Pharengon spurred his white horse to the middle of the circle, shouting as he went. “Order, order in the ranks!” he cried, holding up a fist. “I would address these claims launched against my rule!”

  The voices quieted into discontented murmurs.

  “Now!” Pharengon couldn’t help the anger that ran through his voice, yet it kept it from shaking. “You are free Crons and Tiders, as you have always been. You know this, and yet you have volunteered to ride under my rule. As is the case with the Horse Lords, we always have a leader, but should you mutiny and cease your allegiance, I cannot stop you. Those of you who want to ride to Contres and take out the Contrevails, go. But I warn you: it is too early. The time is not right. You will surely fail. I beg of you to stay; stay with me while I bring the treasures of our fathers to light while I uncover the mysteries hidden from us so that we might go forth in triumph and win. I beg of you, do not do this now.”

  “You act like a Trazame, afraid of the unknown!” Gourd the Loud bellowed. “Come!” He turned to address the Riders. “Who will ride with me and Antharn the Tider? Who will ride and take back what the Contrevails have stolen from us?

  The shouts from the Riders were unanimous as Gourd the Loud and Antharn the Tider mounted up and turned toward the northwest. “We ride for victory; we ride to crush this uprising before it ends. We will act because no one else will!”

  Pharengon crossed his arms, a sinking feeling of dread overcoming him as he watched three-quarters of his army ride off on a fool’s errand. As he watched them, he knew with certainty the Contrevails were not the reason why the world was in turmoil. It was something else, some other influence that led them. He thought of the woods and shivered.

  34

  Wind Fresh

  Cold seeped through the cocked quarried stones of the castle in Wind Fresh. It had been built on a whim, providing the islanders a cause to rally around, a monument to their independent status. It served as proof that they, in fact, could do anything they set their minds to, and united they were stronger, faster, and better. Yet once the last stone had been put into place and the last ship from the mainland set sail, the islanders were as lost and confused as before, only this time with a castle to stare at from time to time.

  Tharmaren the Wise shook his head at their folly and shivered in the bottom of the keep. These would be the dungeons if the islanders had a reason for dungeons at all. As it was, they were dark, empty passageways. They were unused, as much of the castle was, and exactly as Tharmaren the Wise had hoped for. It was a place others would be reluctant to visit; they would be disinclined to venture down where webs of fright and mystery threatened peace and sanctuary. After all, the castle was a physical reminder of protection. Should the day come when the island was threatened, there was a spiraling castle that would hold and protect them all. Tharmaren paused before an iron grating, covered in driftwood to form a solid door. Placing his torch in the holder beside the door, he felt in his long, woolen robes for the key.

  Words called to him. Knowledge beckoned with an irresistible pull like a babbling stream rushing to a waterfall, seeking its source. It destroyed his life, and there was none he could tell, not a word escaped his lips. Knowledge was the burden that sat heavy on his mind, pressing down against his brain until sometimes he felt he couldn’t breathe and was forced to release it. The intensive pressure clamped down on his body, filling his mind like a person drinking from a fountain, unable to pull away. The arms of knowledge held him there taut and unable to resist. His body, his mind, and his soul were on the edge of exploding, and he had to, nay, he was forced to, release the pressure any way he could. His secrets marked the beginning of an impending riot. If the others knew what he knew, the world would be lost, the people groups would no longer see rhythm or reason, and the immortals would flee to the other side. Nothing would be left to stay the balance and to keep them there, and so he kept quiet.

  Reaching for a piece of dried parchment, he wet his quill, the sharp edges flicking dots of reddish ink across the page before he could begin. The feather of an Xctas held his hand steady as he wrote, and the mysteries of the world stirred to life beneath his fingers, blinking sleepily like newborns awakened before their time. Words slanted below his fingertips and thoughts and regrets drifted away.

  It had not been his intention to turn his life into one of solitude and longevity. His son was still young when the immortals found and imprisoned him as a threat for knowing far too much. Ever since then, he had waited in silence, listening to tales the world told and hungering to be reunited with his bloodline. But it was not to be. Determining the kingdom in the clouds was not enough of a prison, they further exiled him to the Eastern World.

  The Mermis had left him standing on the island with nothing. They were the half-mortals and had been kind enough to give him facts. He asked them tales of the Western World, and they told him all they knew, while he sat silently; the knowledge was a seed growing inside of him. T
hey mistrusted him, and each time he attempted to talk, their dark-eyed leader threatened to take out his tongue.

  “You are our prisoner, and we are your escort to exile,” she told him. “You may only ask questions, which we will choose to answer or not. When we speak to you, nod your head or close your eyes; we do not want to hear your point of view.”

  And he marveled at how one so young could become so ruthless. She did not know who he was; he was a name and a threat passed to her from her grandfather, King Vincsir. Yet as she told him of the Western World and all that had taken place since before her birth, he realized he spoke to his very own bloodline. Indeed, a great-grandchild of his, and for the first time, he began to hope.

  As he sat musing deep underground, he heard a voice calling his name. Brushing the dense fog of knowledge from his mind, he continued to write, pouring it down across pages he scattered to dry.

  His assistant came to collect him, a pale boy the islanders had found unwanted, unloved, and uncared for, floating on the edge of the Westiles Sea. Tharmaren had taken and raised him, but the child remained pale, skinny, and sickly looking. The wind and the waves had not been kind to him. His fine, white-blond hair lay plastered in colorless wisps to his smashed in face. Even his nose, which should have poked out, was stretched across the landscape of his face, and his lips were thin and white. Nonetheless, he was a quiet, faithful lad of few words. He refused to learn or read or even grow much, but intuitively he knew what Tharmaren needed and followed him like a lost puppy. They called him Tihither, but Tharmaren never called him anything at all because Tharmaren had lost his speech. He discovered the tantalizing curse of the Mermis, except they forgot to limit his writing, and from the quill, his words followed freely.