Isle of Winds (The Changeling Series Book 1) (13 page)

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.

“Ohh,” Woad whispered after a moment. “This is bad.”

Robin could not believe his eyes. Tables were overturned, ornaments smashed, and a large tapestry now dangled in shreds from its moorings. The Christmas tree was on its side in a sea of pine needles and shattered baubles.

In the middle of the room were two statues. Robin had paid them little heed when he’d run into one. Now, in the bright light, he couldn’t tear his eyes from them.

Aunt Irene and Mr Drover stood before them, carved from dark stone. Both wore looks of frozen shock upon their faces. Mr Drover’s arms were thrown up before him as though to ward off a blow. Aunt Irene’s stone hands were by her sides, the creases in her long dress carved ripples, as though she had been half-turning.

“Aunt … Irene?” Robin’s voice was a shaky whisper.

Woad approached the statues cautiously, walking around them in a slow circle, sniffing.

“They’ve been calcified,” he said in a low voice. Robin looked at him blankly. “Turned to stone,” Woad explained. “Magic from the Tower of Earth – very powerful, very difficult. Strong mana.”

Robin stared up into his aunt’s frozen face, with its blank unseeing eyes. The statue looked lifelike but … was this really his aunt?

A muffled banging came from deeper in the house, making both boys jump.

They managed to tear their eyes from the horrifying statues and together, cautiously, they went in further.

They found the source of the noise coming from the larder in the large kitchen. It was locked from the outside.

“Someone’s in there,” Robin whispered. There was another muffled thump and what sounded like sniffling. He turned the key and forced the stiff door open, bracing himself for another lunging skriker.

Instead, the door swung inward, revealing a near-hysterical Hestia, sitting alone in tears amongst the sacks of potatoes.

* * *

For several minutes, the housekeeper cried too hard to make any sense at all. Robin and Woad managed to confirm that she was alone, and to coax her into coming out of the safety of the larder. She allowed herself to be led back through the house to the statue-filled hall, clutching at Robin’s arm the entire way as she sniffled and sobbed. When they reached the entrance and she caught sight of the calcified figures of Mr Drover and Aunt Irene, she dissolved into hysterics again.

They helped her into a chair at the foot of the stairs. She was so distraught she didn’t even seem to mind Woad’s presence.

“Hestia, can you tell us what happened?” Robin asked, as patiently as he could. “Where is everyone else?”

She looked at him with red-rimmed eyes and he couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. For some reason, worrying about Hestia was helping him to feel a bit calmer.

“I … it … it was all so confusing,” she sobbed eventually. “… So horrible!”

“Just … try to calm down,” Robin said soothingly. “Tell us what happened.”

Hestia nodded bravely, her hand fluttering on her chest.

She explained how she had been in the kitchen, watching Mr Drover and Henry trying to clear up the flooding water when they had all heard the howling.

Mr Drover had left, telling her and Henry to stay put, but Henry wouldn’t have it. “He is always such a disobedient boy,” she sobbed. “Never doing as he is told. He does not listen to me and leaves me alone! Then the kitchen door, it bursts open.” She sniffed breathlessly, hiccupping. “Mr Phorbas is there and he has blood down one side of his face. He is always kind to me, always a gentleman, and so he hides me.” Her lip quivered uncontrollably “And then … and then I hear terrible fighting and horrible noises.”

She looked up at Robin, who was staring down at her with wide eyes. “Then all is quiet … for such a long time.” She wiped at her eyes. Her watery eyes wandered over to the statues and her lip began to tremble again at the sight. “And now all is stone and sorrow, and what has happened … what are we to do?”

Robin, patting her shoulder awkwardly, looked over at the horrible statues too, and felt his own heart sink again. “But what about Henry and Phorbas?” he asked.

“Pinky, I have found something,” Woad announced from the front door.

“I do not know where they are,” Hestia said pitifully.

“Robin,” Woad said again, more sharply this time. “You need to see this.”

The faun had closed the broken doors against the night and the cold, and Robin now saw, pinned to one of them was a yellowish sheet of parchment.

“They’ve been taken,” Woad said. “Both of them.”

Abandoning Hestia, Robin ran across the hallway, broken decorations from the tree crunching underfoot.

The parchment had been pinned to the door with Phorbas’ silver knife, the satyr’s prized possession, with its garnet mana-stone in the hilt.

“There are traces of blood on the knife,” Woad said grimly, keeping his voice low so as not to set Hestia off again.

With trembling hands, Robin reached up and ripped the parchment from the door.

He read it aloud:

To
the
Scion
of
the
Arcania
,

I
have
taken
the
human
child
and
the
traitor
.

This
is
the
price
for
rebellion
and
resistance
.

The
glorious
rule
of
Lady
Eris
WILL
NOT
BE
CHALLENGED
.

Yours
in
service
,

Mr
Strife

“What does it say?” Hestia asked, peering at the two boys from across the hall.

“It’s Mr Strife,” he said hoarsely. “He’s … kidnapped them. He’s taken them both into the Netherworlde.”

Hestia crumbled in sobs. Woad looked at Robin with wide, horrified eyes. Robin merely stood with the parchment in his hand, feeling numb. Cold air whistled in through the broken doors.

His eyes wandered across the floor to a chip of stone. Only he saw it wasn’t a stone at all. It was one of Phorbas’ acorn-nubbin horns, and it had been snapped off at the root.