by James Fahy
Robin leaned over and tapped the book in Karya’s lap insistently. “Okay, so there might not be anything here about Tritea and the Shard…”
“There won’t be,” she interjected firmly. “This book was written before the wars. Before the Arcania was shattered and before Oberon and Titania were killed, or disappeared or whatever happened to them.”
Robin felt a little uncomfortable.
“But … my parents. They were part of this, right?” he asked. “It’s just, I know so little about them. I have the one page in my book upstairs of the Fae families and that’s it.”
Gran had been the only family Robin had even known. And as it had turned out, he hadn’t really known her either. They hadn’t even been blood-related. He knew so little. He didn’t have Gran anymore. He was like something cast adrift. Searching for something, or someone, to anchor to.
Karya was looking at him thoughtfully, her amber eyes softened in the candlelight and deepening evening gloom. He knew what she was thinking. She probably thought he was a fool for wanting so much to know about his family. She had no love of them.
“Of course,” she said, a little mollified. She sank back deep into the armchair, the book in her lap and flicked through the pages. “Families are difficult things though, Scion. You don’t always like everything you find when you go poking around in the past. Trust me, I know.”
She cleared her throat a little as Robin sat back himself, eager to learn anything there was to know.
“It says here, and I’m loosely translating remember,” she began reluctantly. “ … That in times past, the great and beautiful Oberon, lord of all the Fae, and the fierce and bold Titania, lady of the land, possessed the Arcania. Mana flowed like sunlight throughout the Netherworlde, bathing all in its riches, and peace reigned, and so on and so on. The usual idyll.”
She flipped a page. “But there were adversaries,” she continued. “There always are, I suppose. It tells here how there was the battle of the Whitefolk, and then after that the Fae faced altercations with the giants of the north, and how many lives were lost and the king and queen wept.” She glanced up at her audience. “It probably doesn’t mean actually wept. Usually this means they got really, really angry.”
“They might have wept,” Woad offered, even handedly. “We don’t know.”
“They were neither of them the weeping type,” the girl muttered in response, mostly to herself. “Anyway, a decision was made, and the father of the Netherworlde…” She shrugged. “I guess that means Oberon, though I’ve never heard him called that before.”
“Big Daddy O, yeah, go on,” Henry prompted, jogging her along.
“The father of the Netherworlde decreed that the land shall be protected, and the Arcania vibrated with his words. Oberon and Titania gathered to them the wisest and most skilled of the Fae. Those trusted to guard the Arcania, the Netherworlde, and their peoples. Skilled warriors, wise counsellors, healers, mystics and men and women of science and art. Thus was born the noble order of the Sidhe-Nobilitas, keepers of the King and Queen, royal court of Erlking and defenders of the realm and its people.”
She read in silence for a while, her finger moving along the page. “It lists here the original members of Oberon’s set,” she said. “Coltsfoot, Nightshade, Wormwood, Truefellow, Peaseblossom, Hawthorn and Mudthistle. Seven great Fae chosen as knights and protectors. It doesn’t give first names, Scion, but I’m guessing Truefellow was your father, Lord Wolfsbane Truefellow. All it says about them really is that they were loyal and true. There were more than these though, I remember.”
“You remember what?” Henry piped up.
“I mean, I’m sure of it. There were thirteen members in the Sidhe-Nobilitas, not just seven, or at least there were at the time of the Great War.” She shook her head. “It’s annoying really, as there’s no note as to when this book was actually written. There’s certainly no mention anywhere in here of the Panthea at all, so I’m guessing this was all set down to paper before the Panthea came to the Netherworlde. The ranks of the Fae Guard must have swelled over time. You should feel especially honoured then, Robin Fellows, if your father was one of the original seven.”
“Is there no mention of my mother?” he asked, hopefully. “I thought maybe there would be. In my book of Fae families it said she was a healer and a master of the Tower of Water. But that’s literally all it says. Kind of ironic really as I’m pretty pants at it so far.”
The girl clucked her tongue, scanning the book again. “No, sorry. He must have met and married her later on down the line.” She shut the book and tapped the cover with her finger. “The more pertinent thing here is that if there are no Panthea mentioned in this book, then it does indeed predate their arrival amongst the Fae. Which means it won’t have any mention of Tritea, or which of the Fae Guard she was supposedly involved with. No clues then as to where she might be buried.” She huffed and laid the book in her lap.
Robin looked a little crestfallen. He slumped in his chair.
“Look, Robin,” she said. “I know you must want to know all about your mother and father, but to what end? You never knew them; you don’t remember them. You grew up with a stranger who filled your life with kindness. Your gran was more family to you than these names and pictures in books will ever be.”
Robin worked his jaw. “I have a right to know, I think,” he replied. “Even if you think it’s a waste of time. And it’s not that I didn’t love Gran. Or that anyone could replace her. But … well … she’s gone. I don’t have anyone left. I don’t know why it’s bothering you so much.”
“None of us have anyone left,” she replied, quietly but firmly. “That’s war for you. You think you’re the only one affected?”
“You have us left,” Woad muttered, glancing from Robin to Karya. “Remember? We’ve all got us left … Together?”
Robin and Karya were staring at one another over the book.
“Woad’s right,” Henry said, feeling the tension rising in the room and having no idea where it came from. “One for all and all for one, right? Wherever you all came from originally, you’re all Erlkingers now, right?”
Karya glanced over at him. “With all due respect, Henry, you’re the only one here who hasn’t lost their home, and still has a parent, so I hardly think you’re qualified to talk us all into a happy group hug.”
“Why are you laying into Henry all of a sudden?” Robin glared. “What’s got under your skin tonight anyway? If you didn’t want to help with the book, you should have just said so.”
“I just don’t see what good will come of it,” she countered defensively. “There’s nothing to be gained from memories that don’t matter. There’s nothing about Tritea in this book, and barely anything useful about your parents.”
“I think I’ll be the one to decide what’s important about my own parents, thanks.” Robin held out his hand for the book, feeling unreasonably annoyed with the girl. How on earth would she know what memories mattered and what didn’t?
She set her jaw, affronted by his tone, and slapped the book into his hand. “Have it your way. I’m not your keeper. If you want to keep looking elsewhere for a home, for somewhere to belong, that’s your business, wasteful enterprise as it may be.”
“Well, mine was taken from me,” Robin retorted. “I didn’t run away from mine.”
She stared at him wide-eyed for a second, and he instantly regretted it. He hadn’t meant to be so mean. It had been a stupid and thoughtless thing to say. He couldn’t think of anything to say to make it better.
Woad and Henry were uncharacteristically silent.
Karya stood up, calmly, shrugging her fur-skin coat onto her shoulders. “Not all of us have the benefit of shining noble families like yours, Scion. Some family trees are less trees and more tangled nests of vines. They grow in darkness and they’ll choke you if you don’t cut yourself free.” Her golden eyes were shining. “I’m sorry your parents are dead. I really am. I’m also sorry that Wo
ad has no home and that Calypso can never be accepted back at her homeland. I’m sorry about your gran too. In fact, there’s an awful lot of things I could spend all day feeling sorry about, but frankly, doing so doesn’t make any of them any better. Not one jot.”
“Karya, look…” Robin began.
“What we should be doing is what we’ve been told to do,” she cut him off. “Erlking has taken us all in. The least we can do is pay our rent. Focus on learning the Towers of the Arcania, focus on working out this bloody puzzle box, and focus on working out what this letter says. Which is what I’m going to do with the rest of my evening. You three do whatever you want.” She walked to the door. “I’m going to try and help your aunt. Then maybe, when Eris comes knocking, and she will, one way or another, we might stand even the slightest chance.”
Woad jumped up and scampered after her as she left the room. “Boss, hold on, I’ll come with.”
“Wow,” Henry said when she had gone, blowing out his cheeks and sitting up. “What’s got her all twisted up like that? So there was nothing in the book about this Undine then. Big deal. There was no need to get all annoyed just ‘cause you wanted to know more about your mum and dad. Total overreaction, that, mate.”
Robin was still sitting with the book in his lap. His face felt hot. He knew Henry was trying to make him feel better. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he said. “About her running away from home. That was stupid.”
Henry made a non-committal sound through his nose and swung his legs off the sofa. It was well known to Robin that Henry had mixed feelings about Karya. She had helped to rescue him from Mr Strife and Mr Moros, but he didn’t like the air of mystery she carried around everywhere. Henry was a straightforward kind of person. He preferred a sausage wrapped in pastry to a mystery wrapped in an enigma any day.
“Well, maybe if she’d actually tell us anything at all about herself, she wouldn’t have to be so prickly all the time,” Henry muttered. “She’s so secretive.”
“She’s not secretive, she’s just private,” Robin replied, tossing the book down onto a table. “If and when she wants to talk about her past, that’s her business.”
“I just know if she was living under my roof, I’d want to know a lot more about her, that’s all,” Henry said.
“It’s not my roof.”
“Rob mate, you’re the son of one of the original seven Fae Guard, you’re basically royalty. And this is Erlking, home of the big cheeses themselves,” his friend argued. “If you ask me, that makes it more your roof than anyone else’s, even dotty old Aunt Irene.”
Robin smirked. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone less ‘dotty’ than Irene in my life,” he said.
“All I’m saying, and I’ve said it before to you…” Henry got to his feet and stretched like a lazy cat. “Is that you shouldn’t just go around trusting everyone you meet, here or in the Netherworlde. I think Karya’s probably a good enough egg and all, but still. I mean, you’ve already told me she used to work for Lady Eris, right?”
A voice spoke from the corner of the study, light and quiet, and completely unexpected. “Many people, human boy, used to work for Lady Eris.”
Henry almost jumped out of his skin.
Seated in an armchair, ensconced in the corner of the room, a slim paperback in hand, sat Robin’s tutor. Neither of them had noticed her in the dim candlelight.
“When did you come in?” Robin stuttered, as Henry’s face turned crimson. The nymph, who had her legs tucked up under her, placed her book, a battered old edition of ‘Mrs Dalloway’, down gently on her lap.
“I was reading in here when you and your friends arrived,” she told them.
“But … but we didn’t see you,” Robin said. Had she been sitting with them the whole time?
“No, you wouldn’t have,” she said simply, with no great concern. She stood up, her pale dress falling in whispering perfect folds around her. “That housekeeper of yours doesn’t seem very fond of me.” She shrugged a shoulder, as if to indicate that this fact was neither here nor there to her. “I can be still and quiet when I wish. As silent and invisible as a clear millpond in shadows. I had no desire to encounter the tiresome woman, or to interrupt you and your companions, and your … debate.”
Henry was looking very flustered. “Sorry about that Eris comment,” he spluttered, looking at his feet. “I only meant…”
“I know exactly what you meant, mortal boy,” she replied, walking across the room. Her long finger trailed on the back of a sofa idly. “It is a fact. Many Panthea support Eris. Irene and her supporters are mostly in the minority.”
She looked directly at them both in turn, her deep eyes clear. “But believe me when I tell you this. You can trust more in those who once served her and have left her service, than in those who never did.” She glanced at Robin with her distant liquid stare. “The people of the Netherworlde who opposed Eris from the very beginning are her foes, yes. But those, like myself, who once served loyally and have now betrayed her?” She gave a small smile. “Well, we are her deepest enemies. Eris is devoid of mercy, and forgiveness is a thing alien to her. She hates deserters and betrayers more even I think than she hates the Fae.”
“Of course,” Robin said, chagrined.
“You gave the girl sanctuary here, Scion,” his tutor said. “That is no small gift to give, not to an enemy of Eris. You both…” She glanced a little sharply at Henry. “ … Should trust her.”
Henry nodded eagerly.
“She is no Panthea like myself, but she is forever in your debt.” Calypso looked thoughtful. “I imagine this fact irks her somewhat. She strikes me as fiercely independent. Freed slaves often are.”
“I’d … I’d better get off,” Henry said, shuffling uncomfortably. “Dad will be heading home soon now that it’s dark, and it’s school tomorrow for us boring humans.”
“I’ll see you out,” Robin said, nodding a goodnight to his tutor, who still stood in the candlelight of the now dark purple room with one hand resting on the sofa, looking thoughtful. But as the two boys reached the door, she called out, “Robin Fellows. A word, if I may, in private.”
Robin closed the door behind Henry as he left, his face a Greek mask of tragedy, and turned to face his tutor. She crossed to the table and picked up the large black book.
“This history…” She stroked the cover with a small frown, her long fingers trailing. “ … From a time before my people’s own history, before the Panthea came into the Netherworlde.” She turned the book over slowly. “I understand why you wanted to know about it. About your parents.”
Robin shuffled uncomfortably. He didn’t know how to reply.
“I lost my family too,” she said. "The nymphs and the Undine of Hiernarbos. When I sided with Eris, when I made the wrong choice. Then, later on, I lost that new dark family too, when I ran from Eris and came here.” She glanced up from the book to him. “We are all of us searching, are we not? Trying to fill a hole within us somehow.”
“Gran was my family,” Robin said thickly. “When she … when she died, my whole life changed. I keep thinking if I can find out about the Fae, about my mum and dad, it might help things make sense, help me … I don’t know.”
“Fill the void,” she finished for him. She walked over and placed the book in his hands.
“The hearts of humans and the hearts of the Fae are so very similar,” she said, as he took it. “Nymphs feel differently. We are simpler creatures, and in some ways, stronger for it. But there is truly perhaps no greater magic, or no more fatal curse, Robin Fellows, than a mortal heart. You miss your grandmother.”
It wasn’t a question. Robin nodded.
“But you like your life.” She smiled a tiny smile. “And there is your conflict. Guilt.”
Robin swallowed. He couldn’t meet his tutor’s eyes. She was altogether too perceptive. “It’s … weird,” he said quietly. “I don’t think about it for ages, and then I’ll find myself having a laugh with Woad pl
aying checkers upstairs, or lazing out in the sun with Henry, or listening to everyone bicker and argue over dinner, and I’ll be happy as anything, then it kind of hits me. That I’m only here at all because Gran died.” He sniffed. “And I feel terrible, like I shouldn’t be happy, that I’ve no right to be. It’s like I’m being disrespectful to Gran if I am.”
To his surprise, Calypso reached out and took his chin in her cupped hand, tilting his face up until he was looking into her eyes. She still looked distant and a little aloof, but not unkind.
“Listen well, Scion. People misunderstand grief,” she told him. “They imagine it is like being made of glass, cold and hollow always, with a roaring wind racing through you, endless and desolate.” She shook her head. “But that is not the way of it. Grief is not a constant wind to be borne. It is an ocean, and it falls upon you only in waves.”
Robin swallowed, still gripping the book with both hands.
“When the waves come, they can be unexpected, Robin, and they can be brutal, and they wash away every castle of sand you have built since the last wave.”
He didn’t meet her eyes.
“But know this. The wave recedes. It will come again. It will always come, but in the meanwhile, while the tide is out, you build new castles of sand in the sun. And your friends, they help you. Do you understand this?”
Robin nodded silently. The candles in the softly lit red room flickered and guttered.
Calypso stared at him a moment longer. “It is no sin against the dead to be happy, Scion,” she whispered, releasing his face from her gentle grip. “It is an insult to them not to be.”
She stepped past him and opened the door. “Build your castles strong, Robin,” she advised. “And let your friends help you build them high. Goodnight, my student. Your face is leaking.”
Robin sniffed and rubbed his eyes with the sleeve of his sweater as she closed the door behind her, holding the book tightly.
NYMPHS AND NEEDLEPOINT