Isle of Winds (The Changeling Series Book 1)

by Fahy, James

  “My mother had Seraphinite,” Robin said, remembering her portrait. And now she’s as good as a ghost herself, he thought. He didn’t say this out loud.

  “It’s incredibly rare,” Karya nodded. “But it’s certainly why the spirits are so clear around us now. You’re boosting their signal.”

  “Dead ones don’t normally notice the living. Don’t worry, Pinky. They’re not going to eat your brains; that’s just zombies,” Woad said, in an attempt to be reassuring.

  “Really?” Robin said, with raised eyebrows.

  Karya grunted in assent. “It’s true, the dead ignore the living. They’re normally too wrapped up in being dead, or living the same few moments over and over again. They have little time for breathing people.”

  “Um … perhaps someone should tell them that,” Robin said hesitantly, pointing to the nearest windmill.

  They followed his gaze. A group of ghosts had gathered at the base of the windmill, six or seven of them – it was hard to tell for sure as some of them kept breaking apart.

  They were all staring at the three living children quietly.

  “Those ones seem to have noticed us,” Robin pointed out worriedly.

  As he spoke, one of the ghosts floated forwards. An old man, leaning on a walking stick. This ambassador from the other side made its way across the hill slowly, drifting toward them like a human-shaped fog.

  “Hmm, that’s … interesting,” Karya said quietly, in a not very reassuring way. Her stance was suddenly tense. Robin tore his eyes from the advancing spectre and glanced her way. Her eyes were bright gold in the dark.

  As it approached, they could make out more details. The old man was dressed in simple clothes. Though his feet didn’t quite touch the ground, indeed sometimes they passed through it, he leaned heavily on his knobbly stick for support. His face was lined and his head bald. He seemed to have no teeth.

  “What should we do?” Robin asked urgently.

  Before they could decide, the ghost jittering forward in a sudden flickering blur, until he was suddenly standing right in front of them.

  Woad let out an involuntary yelp of surprise.

  The old man seemed not to notice Robin’s companions at all. His moon-like eyes were fixed on Robin alone. The seraphinite stone under the boy’s jumper was beating like an excited heart.

  The ghost opened its gummy mouth to speak. Robin felt his whole body tense.

  “Well, I’ll be blown,” he said. “It’s only a bloody honest-to-goodness faerie, isn’t it?”

  He turned back and waved its walking stick over its head, a signal to the other ghosts, who were waiting apprehensively in the slowly moving shadows of the windmill.

  “I was right!” the old man called in his wavering voice. “It’s a bloody faerie, it is! I said it was! Right here on our hill!”

  The other ghosts began drifting over slowly. The old man turned back to Robin.

  “Well I never!” he said, as though surprised to see him all over again.

  “Um … hello,” Robin said, not sure what else to do.

  The ghost grinned a broad gummy smile. “Hullo indeed! You know, I lived eighty six years long, and I never thought I’d see another one of you again, not in all my life.” He seemed to consider this for a moment. “Well, I suppose I was right about that really, but you know what I mean. I saw one of your kind when I was a lad – long, long time ago. Used to live on a farm up over there.” He gestured with his ghostly walking stick vaguely at the hills behind him. “With me mam and dad. There were none of these big metal things around then though. It was all just earth and sky back in those days. Less machines.” He sighed wistfully “Saw a faerie I did. Dressed right fine he were, like a lord or something, very swish, all black cape and white furs, carryin’ his lockbox. Figured he were some rich bugger from the city, passin’ by on his horse. But when I saw the horns, then I said to myself, ‘Hob, that’s no man there, that’s somethin’ else’.”

  The old man looked wistful. “Spoke to me, he did. Great amber eyes, bright as fire, and horns like a ram in the wildest mop of black hair you ever did see. Face for the ladies, if you get my meaning. Been in the wars though,” he said. “Had a scar on his temple, right across his eyebrow. Didn’t expect me. Gave me a gold coin for my silence, not to tell no one I’d seen him. I didn’t stop starin’ at those horns, I can tell you.” He flicked his cane up at Robin’s head, almost taking the boy’s eye out. Robin flinched back in surprise. “That’s how as I knew what you were.”

  “But … but I don’t have any horns,” Robin said.

  “Eh? What’s that?” the old man squinted. “Don’t have horns? Hah! Clear as day, lad! There’s no hiding what you are. You got the same look about you. Could have been your father I suppose … if it weren’t so long ago, but then, I don’t know how long your kind live, as a rule.”

  “My dad had blonde hair,” Robin stammered.

  The old man shrugged. “Ah well. One of my best memories, that’s all. And a pleasure to see another one of you, even after all this time. Don’t get many of you about no more.”

  “There aren’t many of us left…” Robin explained, a little awkwardly.

  A loud harsh caw suddenly startled him. On a snow-dusted rock near to the closest windmill, a fat black crow had settled, like a sooty smear against the white powder.

  Robin and the others stared at it. It stared back, head tilted to one side, then let out another caw. It took off into the air, shedding feathers messily.

  “That’s not good,” Karya said, watching it go.

  “Just a crow,” Robin said, dragging his eyes back to the translucent old man who was ushering his ghostly friends closer. A real life ghost was more interesting, in his opinion, than a noisy bird.

  “That’s not a crow,” Karya insisted. “That’s a grimgull trying very hard to look like a crow. We’re being tracked.”

  Woad clambered atop a small clump of rocks, scattering a couple of nervous ghosts. He pointed into the sky, back the way they had come. “It is a grimgull, and it’s not alone, boss.”

  Robin peered up into the sky. There were several more crows fluttering around in the darkness. They were slowly getting closer as they circled in the air high above.

  “They’re Mr Moros’ spies,” Karya said under her breath. “They must know we’re nearby. The skrikers won’t be far behind them, you can bet on that.”

  Robin found himself wishing desperately that it wasn’t so snowy. They would have blended in easily against the dark ground, but here against the white backdrop, they stood out like three sore thumbs.

  “We’ll never make it up the hill,” Woad said. “Too exposed. Bad birds will spot us.”

  Karya hissed in frustration, biting her bottom lip. “There is no other plan,” she growled, “I can’t tear us through, not so soon. The only way out of here is through the Janus Station, and the only way to get to it is up this hill.”

  “What we need is a distraction,” Robin said. “Maybe I could cast a few Galestrikes if they get too close? Blow them off course perhaps?”

  “That won’t work, Pinky,” Woad said, jumping down from his pile of rocks. “It’ll just draw attention to us. Plus you’re rubbish at Galestrikes.”

  The ghost of Hob cleared his throat politely. All three companions looked at his happy, slightly transparent face.

  “Sorry to eavesdrop, it ain’t usually my way, but I couldn’t help overhearing … Looks like you and your funny little friends are in some kind of trouble here, eh?”

  “Funny little friends?” Karya growled dangerously through her teeth.

  “Um, yes, a bit,” Robin said quickly, ignoring Karya’s irritation. “Long story really.”

  “Secret faerie business no doubt,” the old man cackled happily, tapping the side of his insubstantial nose in a conspiratorial manner. “Just like that other one all those years ago. You lot and your capers. Well, it’s none of our business, I’m sure, but Master Faerie, it would be an honour i
f old Hob and his friends can help in any way.”

  “I don’t see what you can do,” Karya said flatly. “No offence, but you’re dead.”

  Robin winced, wishing she had a little more tact. He pointed at the whirling birds, circling ever closer. “We need those birds distracting. We have to get to the top of Knowl Hill, without being seen by them. Can you help us?”

  The old man turned away, falling into a ghostly huddle with his fellow spirits.

  Karya, Woad and Robin exchanged speculative glances. The distant croaky voices of the flock of grimgulls echoed toward them through the night. Somewhere, distantly, there came a long, mournful and all too familiar howl.

  The ghost of the old man turned back to Robin.

  “We will cover you, don’t go worrin’ about a thing. Don’t know how long we’ll be able to hold them, though. Some of us are getting a bit long in the tooth, so to speak, so you better go now, young sir.”

  Robin grinned with relief. “Thanks for this,” he said. “I’m only sorry I don’t have a gold coin to give you.”

  The old man cackled happily. “It’s a pleasure to serve the faerie folk. In life or in death.”

  He doffed his flat-cap at the children, and then the ghostly group turned as one and floated away, their forms disintegrating as they rolled down the hillside, becoming nothing more than vaporous trails of ectoplasmic smoke. Individual ghosts began merging into groups, flowing in swift streams across the dark snow, forming a mass of roiling ground-mist which grew as it collected more and more ghosts.

  Robin stared as the ghosts combined into a sea of shimmering fog, spread out across the hills like a cold blanket. A skriker howled again, far off in the darkness. As they watched, the fog quested upwards, coiling around the windmills, threading up through the vast turning blades until the seething mist was gathered up from the hillside and dispersed into the air above them. In a matter of minutes, the sky was blotted out with a wispy cloud of swirling, sentient ghost-smoke.

  Robin heard the startled and disoriented cries of the now invisible grimgulls. Somewhere in the rolling shape above, ghostly hands and arms formed at random, pushing and shoving at the wildly flapping creatures, slapping them off their courses.

  Karya tugged Robin’s jumper at the elbow, dragging his attention from the spectacle above. “Impressive to look at and all,” she said. “But we have to go, Scion. Now.”

  Woad had already forged ahead, dashing between the colossal windmills. Karya and Robin blundered after the faun, ploughing through the snowdrifts, panting as they fought their way upwards as fast as they could. Skriker howls and growls came again, closer.

  “Hurry, hurry!” Woad cried. He had already reached the summit of the hill and was literally jumping on the spot with impatience as he waited for Karya and Robin to catch up.

  They crested the vast hill eventually, exhausted and sweating, despite the cold night air. Snow clung heavily to the legs of Robin’s jeans and caked the tattered hem of Karya’s coat.

  Gasping for breath, he glanced around. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting a Janus station to look like, but there seemed to be nothing on top of the wide flattened hilltop apart from snow and a broken, unimpressive circle of stones.

  “What … what’s this?” he panted, nursing a stitch.

  “Janus … station,” Karya gasped, staggering. “No time … to explain.”

  She and Woad rushed around the circle, touching the squat blackened standing stones seemingly at random, like a ridiculous game of tag. Robin peered at them, at their hands slapping stone after stone in some odd sequence which made no sense to him.

  He glancing nervously back the way they had come. The ghostly cloud was beginning to thin now that Robin’s seraphinite stone was no longer in the midst of it. The ghosts were running out of energy. It couldn’t hold much longer.

  “Setting coordinates,” Karya explained, hitting a small stone twice with a sharp slap of her palm before moving on to another diagonally across from it. Robin noticed now that each stone carried a crude carved glyph, a symbol of some kind. “There are hundreds of stations to choose from and you have to make sure you pick the right one or you could end up … well … anywhere.”

  “Anywhere’s better than here,” Robin offered, stamping his feet in the snow.

  “Wrong again, Pinky,” Woad said. “There’s a Janus station in Eris’ court. You fancy being spat out into right her throne room?”

  “Nearly there,” Karya said, darting a warning glance at Woad. “This should take us through to the equivalent of ‘here’ in the Netherworlde. A straight and simple flip.”

  A sudden raspy caw drew their attention skyward. One of the horrible fat crows had broken through the cloud and was wheeling erratically around in the sky, trying to get a fix on them.

  “Hurry!” Robin urged.

  “We’re done!” Karya replied with triumph. “Get over here, in the middle with me and Woad.”

  When they were all gathered together, Karya made a hand signal in the air. “Here we go,” she said.

  Robin braced himself for the same rushing, tumbling sensation of flying head over heels through darkness. It didn’t come. Instead, the inside of the circle filled suddenly with a soft golden glow. Then the snow stopped falling, the ugly cries of the grimgulls ceased, and the cold wind dropped utterly, leaving them in silence.

  Chapter Eighteen –

  The Oracle

  For a moment, Robin was blind in the golden light, conscious only that Karya gripped his wrist and that Woad’s small hand was on his other shoulder.

  “Hello again, Netherworlde,” came Woad’s voice happily.

  “We’re here?” Robin asked incredulously. “I mean … that’s it? That was a hell of a lot smoother than…”

  “Well, you try tearing through without using a Janus station and see if you can do it any easier,” snapped Karya. “You certainly weren’t complaining when I pulled you out of the Barrow Wood just before a skriker had your arm off!”

  “I didn’t mean…” Robin spluttered. “No, you were great, I just…”

  “Janus is slightly smoother,” Karya said loftily. “Easiest way to get around the Netherworlde. It’s a big place after all.” She stamped the remaining snow off her feet. “Anyway, we made it through … that’s the point. Skrikers and grimgulls are smarter than I’d like, but last time I checked they can’t operate a Janus station, so that’s bought us some time.”

  “No opposable thumbs, see?” Woad said happily, waggling his own. “Can’t plot a course with paws.”

  “Welcome to the Temple of the Oracle, Scion,” Karya announced.

  Robin followed Karya’s nod and turned on the spot. Behind the circle, where in the human world there had been nothing but snow and moss, there now stood an imposing temple. It loomed over them, warm yellow lamplight pouring from the windows. The tall brass doors were flanked by man-high braziers filled with flickering blue flames.

  “Wow,” Robin breathed, taking in the sight.

  “The Temple of the Oracle, secret keeper of the kept secrets,” Woad said reverently. “… Or something like that.”

  “Secret keeper of the hidden knowledge,” Karya corrected him patiently. “Come on, you two.”

  They reached the large doors of the temple. There were long crimson swathes of cloth decorating the doorway, emblazoned with a golden eye in a triangle sat between two clasped hands, as though shielding a candle from the wind. A star glimmered in the pupil of the stylised eye.

  Above the door, carved into the stone itself:

  Temet Nosce

  “Do you really think this oracle of yours is going to be able to help us?” Robin asked, as Karya raised a fist and banged rather unceremoniously on the large brass doors. “We thought the redcaps would be helpful too, remember.”

  “The redcaps were helpful,” Karya replied matter-of-factly. “They led us here.”

  Before Robin could reply, the great doors swung open, enveloping the three i
n a large cloud of escaping incense. The smell of poppies, sandalwood and something darker washed over them, a sharp coppery smell like old pennies or blood.

  There was a small woman standing in the doorway. She was very old and very round, wearing a long dusty-looking robe of a scarlet so dark it was like black dreaming of red. She had a mane of wild white hair on which rested a crown of golden laurel leaves. Her eyes, sharp and dark, seemed to peer through them right to their bones.

  The overall effect was somewhat ruined by the flowery pinny she was wearing over her robe. She was carrying a tray of freshly baked cookies with novelty green oven mitts designed to look like happy frogs.

  “Yes?” she snapped irritably, after a moment of silence.

  “Um, we are here seeking wisdom from the Oracle,” Karya said uncertainly. At her shoulder, Woad was sniffing the tray of cookies discreetly, his tail swishing back and forth. “Are you the Pythian?” Karya asked.

  The old woman gave a one shoulder shrug. “Some of her, yes,” she croaked. Her eyes flicked over each of them briefly. “I suppose you’re on some sort of quest, then? Or fleeing terrible danger? It’s always one of the two. In the middle of the bloody night, honestly.”

  “It’s both actually,” Karya said, a little awkwardly. “We’re searching for a couple of friends who have been kidnapped, and yes, we are also fleeing danger.”

  “Terrible danger?” the old woman clarified, pointing an enquiring oven mitt.

  “Is there any other kind?” the small girl replied levelly.

  “Hmm.” The woman frowned, her ancient face a mass of deep wrinkles. “You’d better come in and meet the rest of me then. But I warn you, some of me is in a bit of a mood this night.”

  She led them through corridors of polished marble, flickering firelight dancing on statues and columns. Their footsteps echoed in the grand silence.

  The old shuffling Oracle brought them to an enclosed circular courtyard filled with delicate trees and tinkling fountains. The moon shone down through an oculus in the domed ceiling. There was a sunken pool directly below, around which two other figures lounged. One was a young girl. She looked about five years old and had a shock of wild golden curls. She was wearing a shortened version of the old woman’s robe, an almost pink shade of red. The girl was sitting at the pool’s edge, swinging her legs and looking bored. The other was a tall willowy woman, who smiled at them as they approached, showing not the slightest sign of surprise at their arrival. Like her two companions she wore a red robe, although hers was the brightest scarlet. Her hair was a mass of perfect golden ringlets, crowned with a golden laurel. She was, in Robin’s opinion at least, stunningly beautiful.