Isle of Winds (The Changeling Series Book 1)

by Fahy, James

  Woad stood up straight again, sniffing the air suspiciously. “I’m good at not being seen,” he said. “I’m the best. I can not be seen for ages if I want to. No one’s better at it than me. That’s why she’s got me watching your back. And your front and sides, of course,” he added conscientiously.

  Robin opened his mouth to question further but Woad held up a hand impatiently. “No time, Pinky,” he snapped. “I’ve come to warn you. I never thought he’d get in the grounds. But that old woman let him in. I could feel him nearby. I’m very clever at that.” He made a face. “He feels like ants.”

  “Woad, what are you talking about?”

  The faun’s eyes flicked to Robin, and he saw for the first time with some alarm that the small creature looked very worried indeed. “Eris’ man. Aren’t you listening? He’s come to Erlking. I saw him come up the path while you were all at your big fire. I’ve got the sharpest eyes in the Netherworlde. They’re so sharp you could whittle wood with them.”

  “Eris’ man?” Robin asked, confused.

  Woad nodded. “He had to leave the skrikers at the gates, of course. Even mad as she is, the old woman wouldn’t let them on the grounds. But he’s here all right. I saw him striding up here in his old suit looking like a scarecrow.”

  Robin’s heart seemed to pound against his ribs. “You mean Mr Moros? He’s here at Erlking?” A chill had begun to crawl up Robin’s back as he followed the faun back through the trees.

  Woad shook his head impatiently. “No, no, no. Not him. No one’s seen him in ages. Don’t you read your letters? Honestly, you’re as dim as a trilobite sometimes. The other one. The dangerous one! Mr Strife. They’re like brothers, I suppose. Only Strife’s nastier. Makes your Moros look like a puppy in a basket of flowers.”

  Woad led the way across the dark grass, away from the bonfire, towards the front of the house.

  “How can he be here?” Robin asked, as they half loped, half ran in a crouch. “I thought nothing bad could get into this place?”

  “There’s nothing stopping him turning up if he wants to. He just can’t do any harm while he’s here.” Woad considered for a second. “Which is probably really going to annoy him. It’s his favourite thing, doing harm.” He vaulted a small sundial, the seat of his trousers barely clearing the gnomon. Robin wisely decided to circumnavigate it instead. “My guess is that he has asked to come and speak to her, and she said yes.”

  “Why would she do that?” Robin whispered, stumbling over pot plants in the darkness. His night vision was not as good as Woad’s.

  “Rules, rules, rules,” Woad explained in a sing-song voice. “She has to say yes, if he’s only come to talk. It’s only proper. It’s hospitality, isn’t it? Parley and whatnot. She probably wants to know what he’s after anyway. She’s a nosy old bird if you ask me.”

  They had reached a ground floor window at the front of the house. Light spilled out onto the frost-glittered grass. Woad stopped so suddenly that Robin almost stumbled over him.

  “In here,” Woad said. “I can feel him.”

  Robin held his breath and listened. From within the room, he could hear the low murmuring of voices, muffled through the thick, wobbly glass.

  “Open the window, so we can hear,” Woad said in a quiet hiss. Robin looked up at the window. It was latched from the inside, and for a moment he blinked at the small blue boy in confusion. Woad rolled his eyes and tapped at the pearly stone which hung at his throat.

  Of course, Robin realised. He fumbled through the tuxedo shirt for his own mana-stone. He wrapped his fingers around it, reassured by the sudden warmth, and concentrated. Weeks of practise came in handy as he focussed his mana and with featherbreath lifted the latch until the window swung open half an inch. The voices within came out clearly.

  “… do not know why you insist on this exile, my lady?” a man was saying. His voice rasped like a cutthroat razor down a leather strap. Where Mr Moros had sounded rather brittle and giddy, his brother Mr Strife sounded much more grim.

  “I am not your lady, Mr Strife,” Aunt Irene replied. Robin had never heard her sound so unfriendly. “And my presence here in the mortal realm is not of your concern, I am sure.”

  “The ruined palace of a defeated people,” Strife interrupted rudely.

  “Hardly a defeated people, as I hear,” Aunt Irene replied. “And as for exile, you know as well as I that there is no place for me in the Netherworlde while your mistress rules. We can no more coexist there than oil and water can mix.”

  “Be reasonable,” Strife said. “There can never be an end to our war without your help.”

  “Is this why you have come here? To beg me in your mistress’ name to return to the fold? Surely even such a simple creature as yourself can understand, there can never be peace where chaos reigns.”

  “It is a shame,” he said in a low voice. “My Lady Eris is not without mercy. She wishes it to be known that she is offering forgiveness and pardon to all panthea who renounce this mindless warmongering, recant their sins and swear fealty to their own people, to her.”

  “How convenient,” Irene replied. “And I suppose the fact that Erlking would then fall under her control would have nothing to do with this offer?” She scoffed humourlessly. “Lady Eris is, as we both know, utterly without mercy. It is a concept as beyond her as are the pleas of a ship to the ears of the tempest which beats it against the rocks. Do not insult my intelligence. I agreed to your request for an audience, did I not? If this is all you have to say I shall replace the wards at once and—”

  “Without mercy?” Mr Strife interjected angrily. “You say this, though you know full well that the very captain of the peacekeepers was once—”

  “I have no time for your history lessons,” Irene snapped, furiously angry.

  “We shall not speak of him then…” he said toadily.

  “Is this all you came for?” she asked. “I rather think not. Do not insult my hospitality, Mr Strife. We both know you are really here about the boy.”

  “It is true … he is the Scion,” Strife hissed, and his eager tone made Robin feel queasy. “A valuable tool to any who know how to wield it. The seers in the sacred grove have lately whispered of his coming.”

  “He is not a ‘tool’. He is a boy, and I am well aware of his potential. It is lucky we got him here to safety before you got your claws into him. You and your skrikers are not the hunters you once were, perhaps? Or is it more than you are merely losing your edge? Some kind of problem with one of the seers, I understand, was involved in your … sloppy timing?”

  Strife hissed furiously. “Everywhere we are betrayed by our own kind, yes. The oracle spoke in the wind, and the seers, as always, heard the future. But one of the Seven has … uprooted.” he spat the word out like poison.

  “You have lost part of your prophecy?” Irene mused. “How frustrating for you, when you cannot even trust your own soothsayers. Unprecedented, I believe.”

  “It will be dealt with,” Strife said, his voice dangerous. “It matters not. We found the boy at last. We know you are holding him here, keeping him from his destiny!”

  “Keeping him safe you mean,” Irene corrected. “Until he can defend himself against you and your mistress. What you want him to do…”

  “Debetis velle quae velimus!” Strife spat. A chair scraped on the floor.

  “But I do not,” she replied calmly after a moment. “I wish only for peace, as you know. Not domination. Your dark desires are not mine. They are not even your own. You have no desires other than those of your mistress. You are nothing but echoes of her mind.”

  “So,” Strife glowered. “You will not release this boy, this faechild, this traitor to the realm?”

  “No sooner than I would throw a fox to a pack of wild hounds, no,” she replied levelly.

  Strife hissed at her like an angry snake. “If he is truly the Scion, if the seers speak true, you know what he is capable of, what he can do. The source can yet be reunited!”
/>
  “Hoc fonte derivata clades in patriam populumque fluxit,” she whispered quietly. “Perhaps it is best that what is lost remains lost.”

  “You are not worthy to use the high tongue any longer, my lady,” he snarled. “Exile that you have chosen to become. Conspirator of the fae. Traitor to the panthea. You hold the Netherworlde’s only hope from his true purpose. With the source reunited, the Netherworlde could be reconciled with the mortal world.”

  “Or torn utterly from it,” Irene replied. “You have had a wasted journey, Mr Strife. And you have outstayed your welcome.”

  “You presume to dismiss me?” Strife hissed, but Irene cut him off.

  “I am the custodian of Erlking, and yes, you are dismissed. I revoke my hospitality to you. Do not enter Erlking’s grounds again.”

  Silence reigned in the room. Finally, there came the sound of footsteps and a door opening and closing. Robin looked to Woad.

  “What the hell was that all about?” he whispered.

  Woad made a face. “Who knows? Come on, if we’re quick, we can get to the doors before Strife, make sure he leaves like he’s supposed to.” He set off through the darkness, leaving Robin to follow him once more, too slow to argue.

  They reached the front door at a run, almost tripping over one another as they were flung open and the tall and willowy figure of Mr Strife appeared, stalking down the steps. There was a horrible, terrifying moment when everything seemed to freeze. Robin and Woad, caught in the light spilling from the entrance hall, stared up at the silhouetted figure, just as Strife himself stopped mid-stride, looking down in surprise at the two boys.

  “Well,” he said icily after a moment, his eyes boring into Robin. “Here we have the man of the moment.” A smile appeared on his face, like a slit in old parchment. It reached nowhere near his eyes. “How … very … interesting.”

  He descended the last few steps, his pointed black shoes crunching lightly on the gravel, the tails of his frock-coat floating out behind him. He looked remarkably like his brother, Moros. But where he had had orange hair, Strife’s was a vivid green.

  “We have not had the pleasure of being introduced, young fae,” he said. His eyes flicked for a second to Woad. “And look here, you have a pet. How nice.”

  “My Aunt told you to leave,” Robin said defiantly.

  Strife took a step towards the two boys. “Yes, she did,” he acknowledged with a courtly nod. “And I must. Rules are rules, after all.” He smoothed the front of his waistcoat. “But we shall meet again, young one. Of that, have no doubt. You cannot stay in Erlking forever.” He looked at Robin, and the boy could not help but notice that his eyes looked like those of a shark. Dead and black and predatory. “It will be most … interesting to find you, out in the world.” Small sharp teeth appeared between the thin lips. “Yes, that will be a most educative day for both of us.”

  Robin refused to back up a step, though his skin felt like crawling away. “Maybe you should try looking for your brother instead,” he said sarcastically, trying to sound braver than he felt. “I hear you’ve lost him. Shame, really. You make such a handsome couple.”

  Strife’s smile widened into a humourless grin. “You are not one to be lecturing me about family, young faechild. Look to your own relations first.”

  Robin felt his face grow hot. “My parents are dead because of your stupid war!” Woad grabbed his shoulder. He had not noticed that he had taken an angry step towards Strife, who had not backed away.

  Strife’s eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t talking about your parents, child,” he hissed.

  “Oi! Get out of it, you!” a voice suddenly bellowed, making Robin jump. Mr Drover had come around the corner of the house, trailing both Henry and Phorbas behind him. He looked furiously at the looming Mr Strife. “You ain’t welcome here! You get off before I throw you off.”

  Strife curled a lip at the hurrying man in total disregard. He glanced once more at Robin.

  “Good day to you, young master,” he said, bowing slightly. “When you come to my Lady’s court, you will find more hospitality than I have found here.”

  He turned and strode off down the gravel path, Mr Drover and Phorbas following after him.

  Henry joined Robin and Woad at the steps, the three of them watched as Mr Strife made his way towards the gates.

  “What happened?” Henry asked, wide-eyed. “You just upped and disappeared, and then Hestia comes out to get dad, saying there’s some man come to see your aunt who shouldn’t have, and that she told him to go away and he didn’t, and no one knew where you were and … bloody hell is that a faun?” Henry blinked, having just noticed Woad.

  Robin, who stared after Mr Strife until he was out of sight, looked back at Henry at last. “What? Oh. Yes.” He flicked a thumb at Woad distractedly, still mulling over his confrontation. “Henry, this is Woad. Woad, this is Henry.”

  Henry nodded in approval. Robin was always faintly amazed how unsurprised the boy seemed by all things otherworldly.

  “Good to meet you,” He said. “Nice tail. I’m Robin’s friend, Henry.”

  Woad eyed this newcomer suspiciously for a second or two, his tail swishing back and forth for effect. Then he said, quite challengingly, “I can hold my breath for eleven minutes. I bet that’s longer than you.”

  Chapter Thirteen –

  The Lady of Dannae

  Woad stayed at Erlking after that night.

  It was all very strange how things happened. Hestia jostled the boys inside as usual. She had given Woad a horrified double-take, and then tried to shoo him away like a stray dog, casting about the hall for her broom.

  Before anything dreadful could happen, Aunt Irene appeared in the hallway, looking rather harassed and peering at them all archly.

  “What is the commotion?” she asked quietly and crisply. “Is the house on fire? I cannot imagine what else would cause such a furore when I am trying to have two different conversations at once.”

  “A faun!” Hestia cried, near hysterical. “A faun on my steps, my lady! As blue as an arctic fish and as bold as brass! I shall expel it at once!”

  Irene waved her into silence and peered at the three figures standing in the doorway.

  “Is this your faun?” she asked Robin simply.

  Robin stuttered in confusion. “Mine? No … he … I mean, we…”

  “It is a rogue faun!” Hestia shrilled, her thin hands fluttering about her apron. “Come to stick the windows and loosen the floorboards! My poor heart! It will take the leading from the windowpanes and hide the soap!” She waved a furious finger at Woad. “I will not have soap hidden in this house!”

  “Is it a strange faun?” Irene asked Robin calmly, ignoring the housemaid’s histrionics. “In so far as there has ever been a faun that was not.”

  “He’s not a stranger, exactly…” Robin floundered. “He’s called Woad. We’ve … met … before.”

  Irene nodded as though not remotely surprised by this. “So he is your faun after all then,” she said. “Very well, upstairs all of you. I want to speak with your father, Henry, and your tutor, Robin, and I cannot do that with any degree of concentration with a hissing faun and a shrieking housekeeper rattling around the foyer.”

  All the blood drained out of Hestia’s face and she began shaking slightly with mute indignation.

  Henry grinned in triumph and clapped Woad on his back, ushering him over the threshold. “Fantastic!” he said, “Welcome to Erlking, little ‘un.”

  The three boys went to Robin’s room. Woad, who had apparently lost all interest in the events of the evening, was rifling nosily and unashamedly through Robin’s sock drawer with all the curiosity of an archaeologist.

  “You can stay if you want, I think,” Robin told Woad. “Unless you’ve got somewhere to be. Where’ve you been staying anyway?”

  “Under a bush in the woods,” Woad replied, sniffing cautiously at a can of coke.

  “A bush?!”

  “It’s a very good b
ush!”

  Woad looked at the window. The wind was howling around outside. There was frost forming on the glass. “Although … I suppose I can keep a better eye on you if I do stay here.”

  “Why though? Who told you to?”

  “You’d have to ask her that,” Woad said.

  “Ask who?” Robin pressed.

  “You’d have to ask her that too.” He seemed to reach a decision. “I will stay. For your own sake…”

  Robin couldn’t help but grin. “Well if you’re sure. I know you might miss your nice bush out in the forest.”

  Woad made a put-upon face, jutting his small chin out bravely. “I’ll make the best of it here.”

  Woad declined to use the bottom end of Robin’s bed and instead elected to curl up on the windowsill, tucking his blue tail around him. Before Robin was into his pyjamas, the faun was already fast asleep snoring like a chainsaw.

  * * *

  Aunt Irene had left Erlking by the following day. She did not, in fact, return for the entirety of the week, during which the weather turned colder still and the sky over the hills filled with snow that refused to fall. Robin asked where his aunt had gone, but Phorbas, far too intent on giving Robin ever more reading and homework, didn’t seem too interested.

  Aunt Irene returned at Saturday lunchtime, and much to Robin’s delight and Hestia’s exasperation, did not immediately expel the faun from Erlking.

  Robin was called to her study that evening. Hestia stood beside his aunt with her arms folded and a look of determination on her face. Woad tagged along and both of them filed quietly into the study.

  “Robin,” Irene began. “I must thank you for your patience in my absence. There were matters I needed to attend. Hestia informs me that your faun has been staying with us since Halloween.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” Robin replied, with a glance at the tight-lipped maid. “He’s not ‘my’ faun though. He’s his own faun.”

  “I have also heard reports that he has been making quite an impression here,” said Irene. “Hestia has memorised a rather impressively list of infractions.”