Chains of Gaia

by James Fahy

  Chains of Gaia

  Book Three of the Changeling Series

  James Fahy

  © James Fahy 2017

  James Fahy has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published by Venture Press, an imprint of Endeavour Press Ltd in 2017.

  For my brother,

  who got me through the woods more than once

  Table of Contents

  PROLOGUE: A WOLF AT THE DOOR

  GREEN GIFTS AND CURSED CUSTARD

  COLD BREAKFAST

  FATES AND FOPS

  A SPOT OF DARKNESS

  NYMPH AND KNIFE

  LEAVES AT THE GLASS

  PEPPERCORN

  FFOULKES SHEDS A LITTLE LIGHT

  RUDE AWAKENINGS

  FIVE’S A CROWD

  A THIEF AT ALL-HALLOWS

  UNDER GEAS

  THREE FAE AND A FAUN

  CENTAUR OF ATTENTION

  EQUIS TERRAE

  BRIAR HILL

  MEMORY AND MURDER

  GUILTY FACES

  OLD ACQUAINTANCES

  LOVELY, DARK AND DEEP

  SCOURGE’S WAKE

  HERE BE …

  THE BROKEN HEART OF THE FOREST

  ASHE AMONGST THE LEAVES

  DARKNESS IN THE HOLLOW

  DUO REGIS

  FRENEMIES

  THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING

  THE CHAINS OF GAIA

  A TWISTED REFLECTION

  SCRYGLASS

  QUICKENING

  LUX

  A MATTER OF DEATH AND LIFE

  INTERESTED PARTIES

  PROLOGUE: A WOLF AT THE DOOR

  The Temple of the Oracle stands high on the peak of the hill of knowledge, a wild and windswept moor stretching away beneath the mount on all sides. It is an imposing building, lines of immense fluted columns rearing beneath a peaked, dark pediment, blotting out even the Netherworlde's vast expanse of sky. Great fiery torches roar in the wind, reflecting off the shining bronze doors into the night. Scarlet pennants whip and flutter continually in the high moorland gales, the cracking whips of cruel horsemen.

  At the very centre of the Oracle's temple, there is a circular walled garden with a central pool, a lush overgrown space filled with the tinkling of hidden streams and the soft calls of unseen birds, the calm eye of the raging storm outside. Here, an oculus opens the roof to the starry night sky above, and in this peaceful space, deep within this temple, the Oracle sat playing chess and talking to herself. It is easy to talk to yourself when you are one woman who lives in three different bodies.

  The eldest of these three bodies grumbled.

  “I don’t know why I bother,” she muttered. Her face was lined and ancient, her hair thin and white as chalk. Her robes the darkest shade of red, like long-dried blood. She sat at a small stone table, peering at the chess board before her. “I mean; I could just see how it’s going to end anyway. Any number of endings really. That’s what’s important isn’t it?” She lifted a carved chess-piece, white as bone, and clacked it down on the board.

  The woman sitting opposite shook her head slightly, a graceful movement. She was much younger, in the prime of life and startlingly beautiful. Her hair was a curtain of golden waves, threaded with gold filaments. She had large sparkling eyes which seemed slightly unfocused. Her robe, though identical in design to the elder, was a vivid bright scarlet. It practically pulsed with vibrancy.

  “The problem with that way of thinking though, Youngest,” she replied in a slightly dreamy voice, “ …is that looking ahead so often, you miss what’s right in front of you. The journey, not the destination is sometimes more important.” She delicately moved a jet black chess piece diagonally across the board, her little finger held out daintily. They were well matched. This game had gone on for quite some time.

  “Rubbish,” the old woman grumbled. “Eyes on the prize, that’s what I say. You’ve got to look ahead, you’ve got to plan your moves, that’s strategy that is.” She clacked another piece on the table with determination. “Strategy!”

  With a smile, the younger woman took her piece, capturing it with one of her own. “Always focused on what’s next. You don’t pay attention to what’s happening now, and you leave yourself open to attack,” she said smugly. “Keeping one’s mind in the present, that’s the key.”

  The hag cackled and shifted one of her pieces, leapfrogging it over three of her adversary’s and collecting them from the board with glee. “You keep telling yourself that.”

  “That piece can’t move like that,” the young woman pouted.

  The elder-looking Oracle tapped her game piece lovingly. “That’s Fate. She can move however she bloody well wants. I got Fate, you got Chance. Fair’s fair.” She nodded at the golden-haired woman’s black remaining pieces. “You haven’t even bothered using it yet. You’ve not moved Chance at all.”

  The doe-eyed Oracle smiled. “I’m saving it,” she said secretively, “ …for the present moment.”

  Their game was interrupted by a young girl, skipping into the room from an archway between the bushes. She was bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, in robes of dusty pink. Her expression however was much older than suited her cherubic face.

  “What is it, Eldest?” the middle woman asked, looking up from the game.

  “Something has happened,” the child Oracle said.

  “Something always has,” said the old woman, flatly, and with little interest. “And something always is, and something always will. What of it?”

  The child rolled her eyes. “Well, this something has just happened,” she said. “As in today. You must have seen it coming?”

  The elderly lady shrugged. “I see everything coming. Not everything coming actually gets here though.”

  The child-like Oracle looked to the other woman. “And you must have felt it when it happened, didn’t you?”

  The beautiful woman cocked her hair to one side. “Probably, but I can’t remember now.”

  The cherubic girl sighed with exasperation. “Didn’t you feel it?” She pointed at the large circular pool in the centre of the room. All three Oracles peered at it. Its waters, usually still and glassy as a mirror, were dark and churning.

  “This will be bad,” the old woman sighed. “Bad for everyone. Dark, dark things are coming.”

  “Another shard has been found,” the child said. “But the one who found it … he isn’t strong. I mean, he is, but not strong enough for a shard. He had forgotten he hid it there, forgotten what happens in the labyrinth. It will–”

  “Dark things are not coming,” said the middle Oracle suddenly, standing up from the table, a frown on her brow as she cut off the child mid-flow. The swish of her robes sent the chess pieces toppling from the board. They fell to the floor in a clatter. “Dark things are here, now.”

  All three of them heard the booming knocks deep in the temple. They echoed around the room, startling small and colourful birds from their hiding places in the foliage and sending them whipping out of the open oculus into the cold night sky beyond. Someone had come to the temple.

  “I knew he was coming,” the old one said grimly. “Obviously. And now … he’s here.” She pursed her wrinkled mouth. “Go and admit him, Eldest, before he takes the doors off the blasted hinges. He’s not one known for patience, that dark bird.”

  The child Oracle left without a word, and the old woman stood from the table, glancing at the spent game pieces on the floor.

  “Ruining our fun,” she muttered. “And to come calling at this time of night as well, honestly.” She considered, clucking her tongue. “I suppose that’s one way to finish the game though. Dash every piece on the floor. Chaos and ruin. Perha
ps the ultimate end.”

  “He wants to know,” her companion said dreamily. “He’s searching everywhere.” Her gaze focussed on the doorway. “His heart is withered from the searching.”

  “Hush,” the elderly Oracle chided. “Don’t you go giving away nothing for free. You let him tell us why he’s here, not the other way around.” She looked distracted for a moment. “Oh, and move that vase off that pillar by the wall, will you? I like that vase.”

  The younger woman complied without question. There was a large ornamental vase atop a plinth standing against one curving wall between the bushes. She picked it up and carried it elsewhere in the room, dropping it carefully behind some leaves by the pool before rejoining her sister.

  The childlike Oracle returned, bringing their visitors.

  There were five of them, each dressed in black robes over creaking dark leather armour. They were hooded and masked from nose to chin, only their dark eyes glowering out at the Oracles, alert and suspicious. Three males, two females. They moved silently, like dangerous cats. They flowed into the temple garden like ink. Black-gloved hands rested on the hilts of long thin swords, currently sheathed. It was a causal gesture, and a silent, almost polite warning.

  Each of the figures wore an emblem at the throat-clasp of their cloak. A black feather in a red circle. The Oracle, all three versions of her, said nothing as these people prowled into the room, cloaks swishing, eyes taking in every detail of the inner sanctum. These were not her visitors; they were only his entourage.

  Behind them entered a tall, broad figure, in dark, spiked armour. His face was hidden by a visor sculpted to resemble the grinning wicked maw of a wild wolf. His cloak was composed of countless glossy black feathers and it fluttered out behind him in whispers as he strode with purpose into the room. The air seemed to grow a little cooler. The soft swishing rustle of the many trees hushed.

  “Oracle, you know I come, yet you keep me waiting at the door.” His voice was a low hiss, oddly metallic in his visor. “Where is your famous hospitality? Won’t you invite me in?”

  “Not by the hairs of my chinny chin chin,” the old woman muttered, with dark humour. She gestured with a sweeping hand at the man and his companions.

  “To what do we owe the honour, Strigoi, Wolf of Eris? What warrants a personal visit to us from you and your Ravens? I doubt you are tax-collecting, and we are far from Dis here.”

  The wolf-headed man stalked up to the Oracle, inclining his head at the pool, then at the game table, with its dropped and scattered pieces. Slowly taking in the room and its contents. He took his time answering. He was not a man to be rushed. His mana flowed out of him like a cold wind, filling the room.

  “You know why I am here, one-in-three,” he said quietly. “You must. There is little you don’t see.”

  The middle Oracle nodded. “Of course we know, but do you?”

  He turned towards her, the carved metal muzzle of his face glittering darkly in the firelight of the braziers. His eyes, if he had them, were hidden in the metal shadows of the wolf-mask.

  “I have no time for games and riddles,” he said. “Nor have I ever had the patience for them. I have come here, now, because another has been found. Do not deny it.”

  The child Oracle shrugged behind him from her position amongst his ravens. “It’s not ours to deny,” she said, crossing her arms. “But yes. If you’re talking about a Shard of the Arcania. Most unexpected, most sudden, and of all the places …” She shook her ringleted head in wonder.

  “Your mistress, Eris, sends you begging for information?” The old Oracle asked, her head tilted enquiringly. The Wolf of Eris snapped his head back around to face her. The temperature in the temple had dropped significantly further. The braziers fluttered, struggling, as though there was not enough oxygen in the room for them to burn. Shadows leapt high on the walls around them in the guttering light.

  “Your Empress … sends demands,” he corrected her. “You have never opposed the Lady Eris.”

  The younger of the adult Oracles shrugged. “We have never seen the need to. Nor have we ever condoned her. We are apart from such things. We are … a neutral party.”

  Several of the Ravens shifted from foot to foot uneasily. It was not common for anyone in the Netherworlde not to publicly declare undying loyalty to the Empress.

  Strigoi slowly reached out and with the back of his gauntleted hand, he stroked the cheek of the beautiful woman. She neither flinched away nor moved to stop him, but stared back, undaunted, her face calm.

  “You are … her subjects,” he said slowly and clearly. “You are left in peace as long as you remain useful. Let there be no misunderstanding of that. We all of us, belong to the Empress.”

  “She has never tried to make us kneel and kiss her ring,” the oldest Oracle mused thoughtfully. “I wonder … what do you think would happen if she did? Do you think she’s considered that too? Played that scenario out? Perhaps that’s why she’s never tried.”

  “Do not needle me, crone,” Strigoi whispered dangerously. “I need only one of you for information. Not all three. Remember that.”

  “Oh, she’s terrible for remembering, that one,” the child Oracle said, folding her arms. “Always looking ahead you see. I on the other hand, Wolf … I remember everything that has happened. Every dark deed from the past. Tell me, do you?”

  Strigoi rounded on the child. With viper-like speed he reached out and grabbed the child by the throat, lifting her from her feet and holding her aloft as though she weighed nothing more than a feather. Her small hands scrabbled at his gauntlet as he tilted his covered head down towards her.

  “Do not dare to speak to me of the past, little one,” he hissed quietly, his tone low. “Deeds done are done. The past … is a barren heath. It can sustain none of us now.” His Ravens had stepped backwards cautiously, giving their master room, and also bowing out of the waves of pulsing mana which flowed invisibly from him in angry waves.

  Neither of the two grown women made any move to intervene. They watched the wolf-masked man shake the child Oracle a little roughly, their faces impassive and unconcerned.

  “The past … informs the future,” the girl choked. “You cannot silence it, Strigoi. You cannot silence me. Are you searching, or are you running?” She smirked at him a little.

  A grunt of disgust snorted from within the wolf's mask, and with a casual toss of his arm, he cast the child aside, sending her small body flying through the air across the chamber. It crashed into the wall, just above the plinth where moments earlier, a large decorative vase had stood. On impact, the girl’s body shattered like chalk with a soft whoomph. The tumbling, powdery detritus losing all colour and form as it rained to the floor, white plaster dust and rubble.

  There was silence in the room for a moment.

  “Well, I’m glad I moved that vase,” the younger of the remaining two Oracles said in an offhand way.

  The older woman looked back to Strigoi. “If you’ve quite finished making your point, Lord Strigoi, perhaps you can tell us what specifically you need?” She glanced at the pool, which although calming itself, was still darker than usual and somewhat agitated. “I assume that you already know where the Shard is, and who has found it, otherwise you wouldn’t be here now.” She looked up at him enquiringly. Behind the wolf, the youngest Oracle re-entered the room, dusting off her pink robes and looking more than a little miffed. The Ravens peered at the child curiously. Behind Strigoi’s back, she made a rude gesture that caused the old woman's face to crinkle in joy. "If only the past were that easy to cast aside, darkest one," she muttered.

  “What I need, one-in-three,” Strigoi said firmly, in his haunting whisper. “…is information.”

  In the quiet temple, the flames cracked in their coals and the dark metallic face of Strigoi glinted like a demon, “What you are going to give to me …” he whispered “… is leverage.”

  GREEN GIFTS AND CURSED CUSTARD

  “Happy Birthday! You gossam
er-winged, wish-granting, toadstool-lurking maniac!”

  Henry’s bellowing voice shocked Robin awake with a startled jolt. His eyes shot open, bleary and blinking, to find the unruly brown mop of Henry’s head leaning over his bed inches from his face. He was grinning like a lunatic.

  Robin sat up so sharply he nearly head-butted the older boy, who only just managed to deftly dodge out of the way to the side of the bed.

  “Wha … humphgh?” Robin muttered unintelligibly. The sun was streaming in through the windows of his tower room at Erlking Hall, filling his bedroom with a crisp golden light that looks suspiciously like dawn. “What … what time is it?”

  “Birthday time, crazy teenager!” Henry punched Robin on the arm. “Don’t think you can go sleeping in all day now that you’re officially the same age as me. You’ll be moping around and feeling misunderstood any minute now.”

  Robin's eyes focused, and he noticed for the first time that Henry was not alone. Karya leaned casually on the dresser, arms folded and smirking, her hair still a sleep-tangled mess, and Woad was balancing impossibly on the balls of his feet on a bed knob.

  Alarmed, Robin pulled the covers up tightly to his neck. “What are you all doing in my room? I’m not dressed!” he cried, in a voice slightly higher than he had intended. Henry snorted.

  “Nobody is interested in your Pokémon boxer shorts, Scion, believe me,” Karya said. “Henry dragged us all out of bed at this ungodly hour. Apparently it’s the day we celebrate your continued existence. Strange human custom, but there you are.” She shrugged, stifling a yawn.

  “I celebrate it every day!” Woad piped up happily, rocking back and forth. The small blue faun was grinning ear-to-ear, his long tail flicking like a cat to keep his balance. “But today there should be a parade! A parade and maybe feasting in the streets!” His eyes lit up. “Oh, oh, I know, we could sacrifice a white calf?” He looked around eagerly for approval.

  Henry looked thoughtful, “Or …” He pulled a brightly wrapped package out from behind his back and thrust it at Robin. “…maybe less bloodshed, and more loot!”