The Complete Four Worlds Series

by Angela J. Ford

  “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.

  37

  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.

  38

  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 tiger; 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 way 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.

  Phyllis shivered as she recognized the chestnut-haired male. It was the same Rider of Phillondorn that had borne her safely to the shore. What was he doing here? He was a Contrevail! They were enemies. Realizing he hadn’t seen her yet, she ducked her head and, hands trembling, reached for her tiny beast. She had to warn the others in the castle before the males reached it.

  39

  Pharengon

  Phyllis realized her mistake as she ran up the steps toward the courtyard. The heavy gates stood open, and she ducked behind them to hide just as she saw Miri walking forward with her white tiger to greet the two Crons. Willing the tiny beast not to make a sound, Phyllis peered through a crack in the door to observe how Miri handled the strangers.

  Miri paused with both hands on her hips, but a spot of color had come to her face. “You’re here again so soon? What’s wrong?”

  Phyllis was startled. How did Miri know the strangers? Was she on their side? Grandmother said this would be a safe place.

  “Yes,” the chestnut-haired male spoke, gesturing with his hands. “There is trouble in the landmass. I need to speak with Tharmaren the Wise, and then I need you, Miri.”

  Miri dropped her arms and cocked her head, reaching out a hand to rest it on her tiger’s head. “Why?”

  The male stepped closer to her, dropping his voice. “I’ll explain later, but the army has made a terrible decision.”

  She held his gaze for a moment, and her next words surprised Phyllis. “Maybe it is you who made the mistake of having an army.”

  “Miri!” The blond-haired Cron exclaimed, lifting a hand as if to ward off her unkind words.

  Ignoring him, Miri continued. “Besides, Tharmaren the Wise is busy. We have visitors, and one of them is supposed to help him speak.”

  Phyllis could not see their faces, but the chestnut-haired male straightened up and stepped back, a hand dropping to his sword hilt. “Visitors? Who are they?”

  “Two sisters and Artenvox’s cousin.”

  “Cousin?” The two males exchanged glances before the chestnut-haired one commanded, “Take us to them.”

  Miri shrugged. “There is no need. Artenvox always knows when we have visitors. He will come soon.”

  “Miri,” the blond-haired one said. “What do you think of this cousin? Do you like him as much as you like Artenvox?”

  Miri crossed her arms and turned away, looking down the passageway before she answered the question. “I do not like him,” she muttered defensively, almost too low for Phyllis, hidden behind the door, to hear.

  “Miri, you are a Cron, and you may speak frankly,” the darker-haired male said. “What other reason is there for you to stay here? Trapped on an island?”

  “The voices,” Miri turned back to him. “Pharengon, you must come listen to the voices with me.”

  The dark-haired one, called Pharengon, may have had more to say, but he was interrupted by Artenvox and Cuthan bursting into the courtyard, coming from somewhere within the castle. Artenvox paused and grinned, throwing out his hand and bow
ing. “Lord Pharengon and Lord Thangone, welcome back. We did not expect to see you again so soon.” He quirked an eyebrow in Miri’s direction. She shook her head at him. “Come to the hall; we can talk there.” Artenvox stood upright and turned to lead them farther in.

  As they followed him, Phyllis heard Artenvox introducing Cuthan as his long-lost cousin. Their voices disappeared into the castle walls, and she was left alone with her thoughts. She dropped her gaze to the creature in her hands as if seeking guidance, but it had curled itself up and was fast asleep. A wave of regret and jealousy washed over her, and she realized she was once again an outsider. She’d thought that coming to the castle and finding the Wise One, who would help Ilieus, would be enough. Now she was beginning to realize there was no going back to the life she’d once had. It was all over; she and Ilieus would have to begin again, maybe even here, so she had to know what the strangers were talking about. How could the strange males be allies? They were Riders; they wore the colors. Did the others not know?

  At last, she let curiosity get the better of her. Leaving her hiding place, she tiptoed down the castle stairs toward the banquet hall. Voices echoed off the stone; she could pick out Cuthan’s smooth voice and the almost too excited laughter of Artenvox. She shook her head at their mannerisms. Peeking through the door, she could see the fire flickering in the hearth, casting shadows on the walls. Taking a deep breath, she stepped over the threshold.

  Cuthan slouched lazily at the head of the table; his emerald eyes were wide and mocking as he smirked. Artenvox occupied the chair next to Cuthan, at least one of his feet did. He stood, one foot on the chair, with his hands resting on his knee. Every now and then, he twirled the sapphire ring on his finger and glanced across the table at the honey-eyed Rider of Phillondorn and his wheat-haired friend. The two riders sat, their long legs extending under the table. They’d removed their long cloaks, exposing their green tunics. Miri stood by the fire as is distancing herself from the company. She was the only one who did not look up as Phyllis walked in.