Isle of Winds (The Changeling Series Book 1)

by Fahy, James

  Robin opened his mouth to protest but Hestia jumped in first. “I have not had one wink of sleep! I have so much to do in this house. And now I turn around and always there is the little blue animal trailing footprints through the hallways, hiding my dusters, shouting at the soufflés!” She took a deep, shuddery breath. “It is out of control. It brings disorder and chaos wherever—”

  “Enough, Hestia,” Irene raised a hand to silence the trembling woman.

  “Soufflés are a cursed food,” Woad muttered quietly. “They cause insanity and lycanthropy.”

  “He’s not that bad!” Robin argued. “He is noisy, okay, and I suppose he gets underfoot, but he’s just got a lot of energy, that’s all.”

  Woad grinned white teeth at Irene innocently.

  “You must keep your faun under better control if he is to stay here, Robin,” Irene said sternly. “I will have peace in this house. It is not in my nature to go running after boys, blue or pink, and I cannot abide a swishing tail at the breakfast table. It is not considered decorous.”

  Robin’s hopes rose. “So, he can stay?”

  “Stay?!” Hestia shrieked.

  Irene glanced at her, then back to Robin. She laced her long fingers in her lap. “I do not know why you have befriended this creature, my nephew. And I have many questions as to what it is doing here, and why it has been watching you.” She peered momentarily at Woad. “I could, of course, ask you, but I am not your gaoler, Robin. Erlking is yours now as much as it has ever been mine and your associations are your own.” Robin opened his mouth to speak but she silenced him with a gesture. “I would not expect you to question me on my comings and goings, and so to you I extend that same courtesy … within the boundaries of reason. The faun may stay. I shall arrange rooms for it.”

  Hestia made a choking noise. “Madam, I must protest! The creature is a thief!”

  Irene peered at the housekeeper. “That is a very serious accusation, Hestia,” she said mildly.

  “Woad hasn’t stolen anything!” Robin protested angrily.

  “He has been in my larder!” Hestia shook an accusing finger. “I had a whole winter’s supply of Mobotom mushrooms and nearly half have gone! Little by little! He is stealing them from under my nose!”

  “You are mistaken, Hestia,” Irene said. “Fauns only eat meat.”

  “This one…” Hestia insisted with narrowed eyes, “… is greedy!”

  Irene looked to Woad, who said nothing.

  “I shall not place any accusations at the faun’s feet,” Irene decided. “But Hestia, I shall arrange for Mr Drover to place a lock on your larder door. That way, only you will have access to the foodstuffs. This, I hope, will not hamper you in your midnight snacks with the estimable Mr Phorbas.” A tiny smile flickered at the corner of the old woman’s lips as the housekeeper flustered, turning crimson.

  * * *

  The house was busy almost every day from then on. After one of Robin’s extremely boring mana-management lessons, Henry announced that he and his father would be moving up to Erlking until the New Year.

  Irene also spent more time there as November wore on. She seemed busier than ever and spent most evenings locked away in her study with only the scratching of her pen and the tick of the clock for company.

  Woad did his level best to balance out this serenity, however. Though Robin explained that a little more restraint was required inside the house, Woad seemed to interpret this as moderating his sprint through the corridors to a fast trot, now just barely making the vases wobble on their plinths.

  To Robin’s relief, within a few weeks the faun had finally been convinced to use the inside toilets instead of escaping outside whenever nature called, although he burst into hysterical laughter when Robin patiently explained how the loo worked. Indeed he spent the remainder of that particular day flushing toilets on every floor until Hestia caught up with him and chased him outside with a broom.

  Aside from this, Robin’s studies with his tutor carried on as normal during the ever-shortening days. His progress in practical casting was coming along well. He had got the basics of Whitewind now, a healing cantrip, but he was still rubbish at offensive magic. Friday’s mana-management were also troublesome. In an effort to stop Robin nodding off, Phorbas tried to liven up these sessions by bringing artefacts from the Netherworlde, a kind of supernatural show-and-tell. Each week there was something new and bizarre to see. A potted version of snapping foxgloves, which Robin learned grew best on a diet of chicken eggs, and a large glass jar of what looked like very old pickles, until Phorbas laughingly explained that they were Gorgon’s eyes in bile. One Friday, Phorbas brought a carved pipe, which his tutor grimly explained was carved from fae-horn. It was important, Phorbas explained, that Robin have no illusions as to how his people were now regarded in the Netherworlde.

  As November wore on, the last autumn leaves fled from the grounds. Mr Strife made no further appearances and there were no strange howls at night. It seemed that when Aunt Irene had told the cadaverous man to stay away, her word had been law. Robin began, against all odds, to relax.

  * * *

  “Your aunt would like to see you, boy,” Hestia announced one evening, bursting into Robin’s room without knocking. Henry had mutteringly suggested that she did this in her endless quest to find them doing something wrong. Instead, Henry and Robin were lying on their stomachs playing draughts, while Woad rummaged through Robin’s sock drawer, trying on every pair methodically before casting them aside.

  “What does Aunt Irene want me for?” Robin asked, puzzled.

  Hestia’s eyebrows swooped up haughtily. “‘What does she want’, he asks! Does the child think Hestia hasn’t enough work without being a secretary as well?”

  “It can’t be anything bad,” Henry said, noticing Robin’s worried expression. “I mean, it’s not like we’ve done anything wrong since…” He sighed wistfully. “Well, since forever.”

  Robin found his aunt in the red sitting room. “Come in, boy, and close the door. This house is full of draughts. It makes the old wood warp and does my bones no favours either.”

  “You need not be concerned, Robin” she said, noticing his expression. “You have done nothing wrong.” She paused, thoughtfully. “Or at least nothing that has yet reached my ears.”

  Robin smiled with relief.

  “I am, as you know, unaccustomed to many traditions of the human world,” Irene continued. “However, I have been doing some reading and Mr Drover has also informed me that during the following month, it is Christmas, and that usually … presents are involved.”

  Robin now gave his aunt his full attention.

  Irene reached over to the desk and picked something up. “In view of this…” She held out a gift. “You may open it tonight.” She seemed to falter for a moment, as though trying to remember something. “Ah yes … and, well, greetings of the season.”

  Robin looked up at her. “I can open it now? Really?” There were still four weeks to Christmas.

  Irene nodded. “I see no reason why not. There will doubtless be other gifts on the day itself, but this…” She tapped the package with a fingertip, “… This is something I feel you might find enlightening now.” She smiled briefly. “Open it in your room. One-oh-seven,” she added cryptically.

  Robin frowned, but she shooed him out of the room, turning her attention back to her desk.

  Later, alone in his room, he threw himself onto his bed, package in hand. Tearing off the wrapping, he found a large, ancient-looking book, bound in cracked brown leather and covered in traceries of gold. Robin’s face fell. A book … More homework?

  The embossed lettering declared the haughty old work as:

  ‘A CONCISE AND INCOMPLETE GENEOLOGY OF THE HOUSES OF THE FAE’

  BY DAMSON, HAWTHORN AND THISTLEDOWN

  Etched on the frontispiece was a large, multi-branched tree. Its boughs swaying silently in some unfelt breeze.

  Robin flipped through the pages at random. The
old, mottled parchment felt stiff and waxy between his fingers. Each page was filled with tiny handwriting, squeezed in around the pictures. Some of the sketches were nothing more than faint pencil lines. Others were inked, coloured with dark pigments.

  He flicked back and forth through the many pages, reading the titles.

  House of Coltsfoot: including Baron Coltsfoot and the Battle of Briar Hill.

  House of Buckthorn: with ref. to Lady Buckthorn’s silver mirror.

  House of Wormwood: descrying the medical genius of the Marquis of Wormwood.

  The entries were almost endless.

  This is a book of fae families, Robin realised.

  His heart stuttered as realisation dawned.

  One-oh-seven…

  Robin flipped to the page:

  The House of Fellows: Inc. Lord Wolfsbane, favoured of King Oberon, and Lady Dannae.

  There was a picture, an ink sketch, nothing more, but it was well-rendered. It showed two figures in profile. A tall male fae with straight pale hair falling past his shoulders. He looked proud and assured. His ears were long, pointed and rose through his hair. He had four horns. They swept up, close to his skull, and curled back around his ears in twists like barley sugar.

  Standing in front of him, and a head shorter, was a woman. Her hair was dark and curly, bouncing down her shoulders in wild waves. She had two horns, twisted coils playing upwards around her hairline.

  My parents, Robin thought numbly, seeing them for the first time.

  Mum and dad.

  Robin stared at the picture, scrutinising the figures. He could see echoes of himself here and there, the shape of his mother’s eyes, his father’s nose and chin. Like distant reflections of himself, though he supposed it was the other way around. His father’s hair, Robin felt sure, would have matched his own perfectly.

  After a while, the page became blurred. Gran obviously had no photos of his parents. He had never seen these faces before. Now they called out to him silently from across a sheet of inked vellum which felt as wide and impassable as an ocean.

  His mother had an arm raised and a slim hand placed on his father’s chest. Around her throat hung a pendant…

  Robin blinked several times and looked closer, holding the book up for inspection. It was her mana-stone no doubt. A large greyish teardrop, and shockingly familiar. His free hand went to his own. The seraphinite beat softly against his chest. It was the same. He was sure of it.

  Around the picture, like every other page in the book, dense script crowded. Squinting, he read:

  The House of Fellows is amongst the most esteemed of the ancient houses of fae. The lineology can be traced back almost to the First Song, and counts amongst its family such great and noted personages as Turin Oddfellow, the infamous smuggler turned philanthropist who founded the first school of the Arcania; Mulberry Truefellow, who led the fae into battle alongside Lord Oberon against the forces of the Whitefolk; Gossamer Merryfellow the noted master of the Tower of Air, with whose inventive direction, the guardians of the Air Shrine developed the now famous Aurora-craft, and Hemlock Slyfellow, the much praised double agent in the Redcap Wars, about whom many popular ballads are still sung today.

  On this page: Wolfsbane Truefellow, the last in the line of Fellows and youngest son of his father Robbin. Wolfsbane is a favoured and most trusted advisor to Lord Oberon and a great general in the Shide army. Also his wife, Lady Dannae Truefellow, lineage unknown, whose kindness won the trust and confidence of Lady Titania, and who is now a healer and master of the Tower of Water currently residing with her husband at Erlking.

  Robin stopped. This had been written back when his parents were still alive. Before Eris’ war … before he was born.

  He read it again twice. His parents had names: Lord Wolfsbane and Lady Dannae. And he, it would appear, was named after his grandfather. He smiled, pleased at the thought.

  He propped the book open on his parents’ page like a photo-frame. It was while doing so that he noticed that the following page was missing. Confused, Robin examined the book closer. The page had been cut out. Whoever had once occupied page 108 had been removed. The following entry went onto The House of Mudthistle and showed a rather long-faced fae with a goatish beard. Who was missing?

  He sighed. Like everything else, it seemed that each answer brought new questions. He ran his finger along the coarse nub of parchment where the missing page had been.

  He curled up in bed and that night, as November slid silently into December and snow began to whisper against the windowpane, Robin, for the first time in memory, fell asleep with his parents watching over him.

  Chapter Fourteen –

  The Broken Horn

  It was a week before Christmas and tempers at Erlking were fraying. Hestia had been complaining even more than usual lately, mainly about the decorations.

  Mr Drover had felled an enormous pine the previous week, which now stood at the bottom of the main stairs, glistening with baubles. In Woad’s bedroom, it was inexplicably snowing, and the meltwater was constantly seeping out from under his door. Confined as they were to the house, the children were constantly under Hestia’s feet, the last place they wanted to be.

  Phorbas had clearly noticed the rising tensions, and so to avoid a full mutiny, had devised a field trip, a sort of herbal treasure hunt. Robin, understandably, leapt at the chance.

  Henry had no such luck, as the covered well had overflowed, flooding the kitchens, and he had been drafted in to help clean up by his father, deaf to pleas and protestations.

  And so, armed with a scrap of parchment containing a list of odd sounding herbs, berries and plants to gather, Robin and Woad enjoyed a breath of relative freedom, tramping happily through snowy woods. Robin was fairly certain he had gathered everything on the list, though it had taken all afternoon. Woad had been good company but not much help, running off constantly to search trees for hibernating squirrels. It was late afternoon when they finally made their way back toward the hall, tired and content.

  Robin’s feet crunched satisfyingly in the snow and he wondered vaguely what was for dinner. He hoped it would be something hot. Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding would be just the ticket.

  His culinary daydreaming was cut off when Woad stopped sharply and Robin ran into the back of him.

  “Woad,” he said, muffled behind his scarf. “What are you…?”

  Woad carelessly dropped the many gifts he was carrying into the snow and tore the mask from his head.

  “What’s up?” Robin asked.

  “Something is wrong,” Woad whispered urgently. “Something is very wrong, Pinky.”

  Robin peered up the avenue of trees. The house was still out of sight.

  “What? How do you…?”

  “Come!” Woad set off without warning, tearing off his cumbersome jacket as he hared off up the hill. “Hurry, there’s trouble! Bad!”

  Robin started after him, all thoughts of dinner forgotten. Fear rose in his chest as he ran. What was it? Was someone ill? Had there been an accident while they’d been away? Was Erlking on fire? Woad disappeared ahead, a fleet blue smudge in the white, his obvious panic infectious.

  When he finally reached the top of the hill and the great sprawling mass of Erlking Hall came into view, Robin’s heart froze.

  Dusk had almost completely fallen and the snow seemed to glow in the twilight. Against it, Erlking stood utterly dark. There was not a single lighted window.

  Ahead of him, Woad had stopped in the doorway, framed by the darkness.

  Robin forced his legs to move, abandoning his own presents and parcels. It seemed to take forever to cross the lawn. The main doors were wide, hanging off their hinges. Snow had been falling heavily for some time and had spilled into the darkness of the foyer on Hestia’s usually spotless floors.

  Robin skittered up the slippery steps. “Henry?! Phorbas?!” he yelled. In the hallway he collided blindly with a statue, knocking him off his feet.

  “Aunt Irene?
” he called hoarsely, scrambling back to his feet and staring around, willing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. “Is anyone here?!”

  There was a terrible smell in the air, pungent and bestial. Instinctively he froze, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.

  “Robin! Be careful!” Woad’s piping voice floated urgently through the gloom. Robin glanced back. The faun was silhouetted in the doorway, nothing but a small tense shadow. Only the opal on its chain around his neck was visible, glowing brightly like a tiny moon.

  “Skrikers,” Woad whispered in a shaky voice.

  From the blackness of Erlking’s interior came a low growl, slow and deep. Robin turned slowly, making out the shadowy outline of the curling staircase. The smell flowed over him again and in the shadows he saw, to his horror, two pairs of shining yellow eyes.

  The creature from the train, he thought as his heart stuttered. Two of them. Inside Erlking.

  Robin didn’t have time to think as, with one wild howl of pleasure, they sprang forward, swift and deadly.

  He raised his arms instinctively in useless defence, but the creatures barrelled past him, huge jaws snapping inches from his face. Woad leapt aside as the skrikers burst out of the front door and disappeared howling into the night, vanishing with astonishing speed.

  “Woad!” Robin picked himself up and ran back to the door, but the faun had already reappeared unharmed, stepping inside.

  “They’ve gone,” he said. “Stinking skrikers.”

  “What … happened here?” Robin asked, looking around, his heart still pounding in his ears. “Where is everyone?”

  “Skrikers like the darkness,” Woad said, stumbling into a small table by the door, making the vase atop it wobble loudly. “Find the light-switch.”

  Robin fumbled along the wall, forcing himself to calm down. His nostrils were still full of the rank skriker smell. His numb fingers eventually found the light-switch.