Read Isle of Winds (The Changeling Series Book 1) Online
Authors: James Fahy
Isle of Winds (The Changeling Series Book 1) (8 page)
At the end of a corridor on the second floor were the old oak doors of the library, above which, etched in stone was the Latin motto:
Studio
sapientia
crescit
And beneath, this:
IGNOTUM
PER
IGNOTIUS
The library itself, they discovered, was old and dusty, and very large, with a wall of tall stained glass windows letting in the late afternoon air. Shelves covered every wall, filled with books arranged in no particular order. Whoever had stocked the room had clearly run out of space before they had run out of books, as there were tottering piles everywhere. Some of the larger tomes served as table tops, upon which were yet further piles of books. In the few gaps between the books were scrolls and parchments, tucked away as though to prevent draughts.
Robin looked around the chaotic room in utter hopelessness. “We’re never going to find anything in all this mess. It’ll take forever!”
Henry thrust his hands into his pockets and turned full circle, looking up at the towering shelves.
“Don’t ask me,” he said unhelpfully. “I’ve never even opened a book in here. I always say that if it’s worth reading, sooner or later there’ll be a movie about it.” He puffed out his cheeks. “What’s the first one called?”
Robin glanced back at the parchment. “Nine White Winds,” he read aloud. “By Zephyr Muldoon.”
Both boys jumped in surprise as, almost immediately, there was an audible thump from an old lectern in front of them. A large green leather-bound book had just thrown itself from one of the highest shelves. It now lay innocent-looking in a small cloud of dust.
“O-kay,” Robin said speculatively after a moment.
“Nine White winds by Zephyr whatsisname,” Henry read from the looping title page. An elaborate engraving of a cherub’s face, cheeks puffed out as it blew golden cartoon curls of winds across the cover. After a few seconds, it began again, like a loop of animation.
“Well,” he grinned at Robin. “This should make things a little easier.”
Soon the two were taking turns to shout out titles from Robin’s list, watching happily as books large and small sailed through the air, their pages purring in the breeze, to land on the old lectern in a most satisfying way.
Before long, they had a respectably tottering pile, which they divvied up and carried back into the winding corridors of Erlking Hall.
“You’re never going to get through all of these by tomorrow,” Henry said sympathetically in a muffled voice from behind his armload. They were hauling them back up to Robin’s room, and the spiral staircase was proving quite a challenge with no clear vision.
Robin nodded, peering around his stack to try and navigate the tight turns.
“Tell me about it,” he muttered.
“Almost makes me glad that I’m only a lowly human,” said Henry cheerfully. “Not goblin or pixie or…” He paused uncertainly. “Whatever you are,” he finished.
“Fae,” Robin supplied, reaching the top of the stairs and kicking open the door to his room unceremoniously.
“That’s like a fairy, right?” Henry smirked, following Robin into the room. “So where are your wings then?”
Robin said something very rude before dropping the heavy stack of books onto the bed.
“Well … no offence, mate,” Henry grinned, setting his pile down carefully. “But you’re the ugliest fairy I’ve ever seen. If I found you at the bottom of my garden, I’d fetch the weed killer.” He chuckled.
Robin grinned back, though it was an unsettling thought. He still knew so very little about what it meant to be fae. Henry could be right. He could very well end up sprouting wings, or growing horns, or maybe turn bright blue like a faun.
Slightly disturbed by this train of thought, he resolved to question Phorbas about this tomorrow.
* * *
Robin spent the remaining evening poring over the books. They were dense and confusing, filled with complicated diagrams and glyphs. None of them were printed, but written in a variety of handwritten styles – from cramped and dense to spidery and elaborate. They didn’t make much sense to Robin, who felt intimidated after only a few minutes of reading.
Henry had stuck around for a while, out of loyalty, but had wandered off after an hour or so to do his chores after failing to convince Robin to take a break.
Sighing, he lay back on the bed, turning on the bedside lamp. He picked up volume one of ‘Ethercraft’ and read aloud:
“‘…The Tower of Air, to many a novice, is an erstwhile and trickstorious art to master. Notwithstanding the Borgic issues of moulding simple zephyrs, the manipulation of spaces Swedenborgian and the various rites and incantations required to gird the boas of the aurora and the daughters of Aeolus, there are also the matters to consider both of relative motionionic energy displacement, and the control of resultant extremis spedralis, a stumbling block which had left many a novice weak and exhausted after nothing more exerting than a simple wind charm…’.”
Robin took a deep breath. He closed the book abruptly with a clap. He hadn’t understood a word of that. He regarded the messy sprawl of books all over the bed. He decided it would be better to wait until after his first practical lesson before trying to decipher any more of this gibberish. Besides, he could smell supper wafting up through the large house enticingly. He didn’t know what they were having, but to the newly nonhuman boy it smelled a lot tastier than Swedenborgian space.
The first lesson in the Tower of Air took place, quite appropriately, in a large domed room on the top floor of Erlking Hall called the Atrium. The chill September air, and numerous rogue leaves, blew in through the open apertures which circled the room. It looked to have been at one time home to many birds. Rusty and elaborate coops and cages, many still with odd feathers caught in the bars, hung from long chains from the ceiling, swaying gently in the constant breeze.
Robin entered, noticing the composed figure of Phorbas, standing by one of the many windows, staring at a wintry-looking crow which seemed to be considering coming in out of the cold.
The satyr clapped his hands together once, quite sharply, making the boy jump and the bird take flight.
“Good!” he said brightly, stepping away from the window. “Here at last. Come, come!” Phorbas gestured enthusiastically at a table. “Let the learning begin!”
Robin noticed that there were several items arranged on the table. A large gold coin, a slip of blank parchment, a heavy glass paperweight and Phorbas’ oddly decorated silver knife.
“As you will know from ‘Nine White Winds’,” Phorbas began, rather presumptuously referring to one of the books Robin had utterly failed to digest the night before. “Air is often overlooked as one of the more powerful Towers of the Arcania. Fire is flashy and fun, yes. Darkness is mysterious, there is no doubt. But Air? Air is not to be dismissed. Without it, we would die. Air can be a gentle breeze or a hurricane! Air can lift and pull, carry and support, repel or restrain!”
“It can chill as well,” Robin said quietly, rubbing his arms. His hair was rippling constantly in the harsh wind blowing in from the many glassless windows.
“A fine point indeed!” Phorbas said. He waved a hand in a sweeping gesture at the circular walls. There was an odd pop, and suddenly the wind fell completely, leaving the room as still and utterly silent as a hushed tomb.
Robin stared out of the nearest window. He could see the treetops outside still whipping about in the wind.
“A simple cantrip,” Phorbas said by way of explanation. “Breezeblock, by name.” He smiled. “It creates a barrier through which no air can pass. Useful if ever stranded on a windy mountain top at night, let me tell you.” He shrugged. “Although, of course, not a long term solution, as the air within the barrier, if people are inconsiderate enough to breathe it, will eventually run out.”
Robin raised his eyebrows.
“Not to worry, young Master,” Phorbas smiled. “There is air enough in this large room to keep us both with hearty lungfuls for the duration of the lesson.”
“Am I going to be able to do stuff like that?” Robin asked.
“That depends entirely upon you, Master Robin.”
Considering that Robin felt as magical as, say, a cheese sandwich, this didn’t inspire much confidence.
“Air…” Phorbas continued loftily, “… can be used for good or ill. What better way to kill your enemy than to pull the very air from his lungs?” He stared at Robin fiercely, his green eyes brilliant. A moment of uncomfortable silence passed.
“We will, of course, not be teaching that particular spell.”
He swept a hand over the various objects on the table.
“No death today. We begin with a simple spell from ‘Ethercraft Vol I’, known as ‘Featherbreath’. As I am sure you know from your reading, this spell floats an object on an invisible bed of air.”
Robin had a moment of panic but Phorbas continued without stopping.
“Observe,” said the satyr.
He pointed at the scrap of parchment and puffed out a tiny mouthful of air.
The parchment fluttered once and then rose smoothly a foot above the table, the air beneath it churning slowly.
“The difficulty lies in keeping the shape of the cushion of air, and matching its strength to the size and weight of the object. Too little and it will fall, too much and you will blast it to shreds.”
Phorbas gestured to the large gold coin and again blew out a tiny puff of air. The coin leapt into mid-air beside the parchment and began to spin slowly, its smooth yellow faces glinting as they caught the light.
“And again,” Phorbas said. The satyr pointed at the large glass paperweight and blew.
This too rose steadily into the air beside the paper and the coin, spinning slowly, a translucent moon.
Robin looked at the three floating objects with awe.
“As I’m sure you can imagine,” Phorbas said, with no small hint of pride, “applying Featherbreath to these three objects of different weight and dimension all at once takes considerable effort and a great deal of mana focus. For your very first lesson, we will be sticking to the parchment only.”
“Could you make me float?” Robin asked.
“With Featherbreath? Alas, no,” the tutor explained. “Long ago, when the Arcania was still whole and magics were stronger, there were those who could lift almost anything. These days there is not much record of holding aloft anything larger than your average squirrel.”
The satyr looked a little wistful. “There is a place in the Netherworlde, a city long deserted, where once those who were dedicated to the study of the Tower of Air practised their art. They were strong and powerful indeed.” His face darkened. “But when the trouble began, when Lady Eris rose to power, they made a bold move against the growing war, and performed perhaps the greatest feat of air magic ever.”
“What did they do?” asked Robin.
“Legend tells that they took the entire city, mountain and all, and lifted it high into the sky, far beyond the reach of the coming war.”
“They floated a city away?” asked Robin incredulously.
Phorbas nodded. “So it is told. A floating island it became, shrouded and hidden forever in the highest clouds. The Isle of Aeolus, the island of winds. It is nothing but a myth now, as sadly are all great feats of magic performed before the shattering of the Arcania.”
He shook his horned head, bringing himself back to the present. “But that was long ago, before the Arcania was broken and lost. Such magics, such power, is unknown to us now. Like I said…” He smiled sadly. “…Squirrels.”
Robin nodded.
“If you would like to know more about our myths and legends, young Master Robin, there are several chapters on the floating island, and other stories of interest, in ‘Hammerhand’s Netherworlde Compendium’. I believe there is a copy in the library.” He tapped the tabletop. “But for now,” he said, pointing to the parchment. “Make this float.”
* * *
By the time Henry called in after school, Robin was too tired to do much of anything. Magic, it seemed, really did take it out of you. Or perhaps, as Henry pointed out, he was just out of practise. “You’ve got flabby mana, mate,” he joked.
The afternoon was fine and surprisingly warm for autumn. Henry had dragged Robin down to the large and austere kitchen and somehow managed to convince Hestia to make them both something to eat. The woman complained at length about the hundreds of other things she had to do, but she made them both hearty ham and cheese sandwiches anyway, grumbling all the while.
Henry seemed unfazed by this, so Robin assumed it was the housekeeper’s general behaviour and felt slightly less guilty about the incident on the steps. Henry merely rolled his eyes and muttered to Robin that if she had a heart attack, at least they could get the keys off her and go exploring through the forbidden locked room into the Netherworlde.
They took their colossal sandwiches and bottles of pink lemonade outside into the autumn sun and found a large shady tree to lounge under.
Robin amused Henry with anecdotes from his lesson. His attempts to float the parchment had been paltry at best. The only time he had managed it successfully was when he had blown too hard after getting frustrated. After that, he had lost his temper completely, and proceeded to blow each piece of parchment to smithereens. He had saved some of this confetti for Henry to look at because, after all, it was his first act of magic and he felt bizarrely proud. Henry had snorted lemonade down his nose when Robin recounted how he had finally managed to levitate a piece of parchment right up to the ceiling, where it was still pasted for all he knew, as no amount of coaxing from Phorbas had managed to dislodge it.
Still, thanks to his mana-stone, he had performed actual magic.
Henry was leaning against the bole of the tree, idly picking his teeth with a tough bit of long grass, while Robin lay on his stomach, propped up on his elbows in the grass. He was frowning over the schedule of study which Phorbas had put together.
“It says here I’ve got Practical Casting on Mondays and Wednesdays up in the atrium; Tuesdays and Thursdays are Physical Manoeuvres in the grounds.” He raised his eyebrows. “Whatever that means.”
“Maybe he’s going to teach you to dance,” Henry joked.
“Fridays I’ve got Mana Management in the blue parlour on the third floor,” Robin read on, frowning. “Wow … he’s even split my evenings up here, lists what books I should be reading every evening. Monday to Friday, I’ve got three hours every day in the library after classes. ‘Follow reading plan A’…”
He flipped a few pages to a sheet marked with an intimidatingly large list of books.
“… Followed by ‘free study’ in my room, learning Netherworlde History from Hammerhand’s Compendium.”
“Tough ride, Rob,” Henry looked at Robin, his face full of sympathy. “Has he pencilled in when you’re allowed to go to the loo as well?”
Robin couldn’t help but agree. He supposed though he had a lot of catching up to do.
“Hey, at least I’ve got the weekends off though,” he conceded.
“Shame you’re not allowed to leave the grounds really,” Henry mused. “I could take you round the village, show you Barrowood. Not that there’s much to see really.”
Robin looked at the expansive grounds around them. He was remembering the strange, orange-haired cadaverous man at the train station. With people like Mr Moros around, he wasn’t sure he wanted to go wandering around the village right now anyway.
“I bet there’s loads to see here on Erlking’s turf though anyway,” he said.
Henry nodded, looking back at the looming house. “Yeah, there is at that,” he grinned. “And no one knows this place like I do. Let’s go to the woods and find a squirrel for you to float.”
