Isle of Winds (The Changeling Series Book 1) (9 page)

Chapter Ten –
The Faun’s Warning

Robin found himself that night back in his room in the tower, leaning on the windowsill and looking out over the night-shrouded grounds.

He was enjoying the silence and thinking how pleasant it was to be able to see the blue-tinged ground below him and the stars above. Back when he had lived in the city, there was so much light from the streetlamps, it was hardly possible to see the stars at all. Robin let his gaze roll over the hillsides, thinking how strange his new life here was, and whether he was ever going to get used to it. He wondered about what had become of the strange girl on the train. He was lost in thought, fiddling idly with his mana-stone, when suddenly, something at the tree line moved, catching his eye.

He scanned the trees below, hoping to see a wild boar, or even a deer. But the creature which had ruffled the undergrowth was neither of these. It was blue and boy-shaped.

Robin blinked in surprised recognition. He had almost forgotten about the strange, excitable faun who had invaded his bedroom. Now here he was, skulking around the bushes, as blue as the shadows, tail swishing back and forth.

Robin almost called out to him, leaning out of the window, but then remembered the time. It must be almost midnight. Probably not the best time to bellow down four stories in greeting.

The small faun scampered across the lawns and stood by the hedge, staring up at him. As he caught Robin’s eye he waved briefly, then motioned for Robin to come down.

Robin shook his head and gestured for Woad to come up. This resulted in the small creature shaking his head a lot and pointing at the ground at his feet. He held up what looked to be a tightly-rolled scroll and shook it pointedly. Robin considered for a moment. There was no way he could scale down the walls. That way lay splattered doom. He would have to make his way through the house and out.

He held up his hand to Woad, indicating ‘five minutes’ in improvised mime. The creature nodded his head and, folding his arms, leaned against the bushes, tail swishing impatiently like a furry whip.

Robin quickly ducked back into his room. He found his trainers and put them on, not bothering with socks. They felt odd coupled with his pyjamas. He walked to his door as quietly as possible, thankful that the floorboards didn’t squeak. The spiral staircase and corridor below were in total darkness.

Making his way downstairs, feeling rather like a thief in the silent hall, Robin wondered where everyone else was. Mr Drover and Henry were at home in their little cottage of course, but what of Phorbas and Aunt Irene? He didn’t encounter his tutor outside of lessons, so wasn’t sure if the goat-man had rooms in Erlking Hall or whether he came and went through the locked door to the Netherworlde. Aunt Irene was likewise difficult to pin down, frequently out and about on urgent business. He asked her once what she was working on. She muttered something distractedly about Trojans and Achaeans having a dispute, and a treaty in Versailles, which didn’t really clarify things for Robin.

He decided not to try and get out of the main doors at the front of the house. Woad was waiting around the back after all, so instead he stole through the labyrinthine passageways deeper into Erlking.

He was brought up short when he turned a shadowy corner and came face-to-face with the kitchen door. There was a bright band of lamplight coming from beneath the dark doorjamb, and he could hear voices murmuring from inside.

Hestia! He had forgotten all about the bad-tempered housekeeper. He shuddered to think what she would have to say if she found he was out of bed at such a late hour.

“Very decent of you to be so accommodating,” came a muffled voice through the wood, and Robin, who had been in the process of slinking away down a side corridor, paused despite himself, recognising his tutor’s crisp voice.

Curiosity overcoming caution, he crept back to the kitchen door to listen.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” came Hestia’s tremulous voice in reply. “It is no trouble at all. Don’t even think on it a moment!” There were sounds of drawers opening and closing.

Robin thought Hestia’s voice sounded a little fluttery. Frowning, he closed in on the door, noticing it was open a crack. He spied into the cosily lit kitchen, peering closely.

Phorbas was sitting on a chair by the open back door, smoking a long curving pipe and drinking a cup of tea. Hestia was busy at one of the chopping boards, dicing vegetables.

“I realise it’s late,” Phorbas said apologetically to her. “We satyrs keep odd hours you see, and when you are hungry, I’m afraid … are you certain you won’t let me make it myself?”

Hestia flapped her hands at the goat-man, looking a little flushed. “I wouldn’t hear of it! The very idea! A guest in Erlking Hall, going hungry? And Hestia here with two good hands attached! I am only too happy to help. Now where did I put that Glam-glam jam?” She rooted through the cupboards.

Robin had never imagined Hestia saying ‘no trouble at all’ or ‘happy to help’ before. He made a face, half-amused and half-revolted. Did she fancy his teacher? There was definitely more of a titter in her voice than he had ever heard before.

Hestia patted her black hair fussily as she brought further ingredients back to the worktop. “Now let me see. Glam-glam jam, beetroot, Mobotom mushrooms … Would you like anything else on your sandwich?”

“I don’t suppose you have any crumbly Lancashire cheese about the place? I do so get a hankering and it’s so very hard to get these days in the Netherworlde.”

“Of course, of course. Nothing but the best here.”

“I would expect nothing less from so accomplished a host as yourself.”

She flushed, bringing him his sandwich, which he scooped up eagerly. Robin made a mental note to tell Henry he had heard Hestia titter. He would never believe it.

“So, tell me, dear lady,” Phorbas said, pouring her more tea from the steaming pot. “However did you come to work here at Erlking? It’s a fascinating place. Have you been in the service of Lady Irene long?”

Robin decided that the two of them were settling in for a good long chat. He didn’t have the slightest interest in hearing Hestia’s autobiography. Not when there was a mysterious faun waiting for him outside. He left them to it and continued outside.

The night had turned cold, making him shiver as he approached the hedges that lay beneath the tower of his bedroom. He was disappointed when he reached the tinkling fountain only to discover that Woad was nowhere to be seen. He called the blue boy’s name several times, hissing it as loudly as he dared into the night, but got no response. He walked in circles around the dark hedges, peering into the gloom and scanning the dark, distant tree-line at the edge of the lawns. There was not a speck of blue anywhere. Robin cursed himself for being distracted by the scene in the kitchen. Woad had clearly tired of waiting and disappeared.

Shivering in his pyjamas, he decided to give up and sneak back inside. It had been a wasted trip after all. The wind was picking up. Fingering the silver horseshoe ward in his pocket and looking at the dark trees again, he reminded himself nervously that Irene had said no harm could come to anyone at Erlking. He resisted putting the horseshoe chain on. He knew Woad didn’t like it, and he didn’t want to give up on the hope the creature might make a sudden reappearance. Turning to go, he glanced up at the fountain. As he did so, he saw, wedged between the statue’s broken horns, the tightly-rolled scroll he had seen Woad waving frantically at him from his bedroom window.

Reaching up on tiptoe, he was able to retrieve it. It was too dark out here to read, so he turned and, as quickly and quietly as possible, stole back across the lawns and inside.

He crept back through the house, having removed his soaked trainers, and did not stop until he had safely reached the top of the spiral staircase.

Rubbing his arms to warm up, he dropped his trainers carelessly by the door, took one last look out of the window to see if Woad had reappeared and then closed the window and curtains.

Sitting on the bed he unfurled the scroll.

Scrawled hastily across the top, in what Robin could only assume was Woad’s handwriting, was:

You took more than five fingers Brontosaur! Too slow. Have to run. Skrikers can smell me. Back in month!

Robin shook his head in bewilderment. The rest of the letter, spattered here and there with messy ink, was in a different hand entirely. It was addressed to him, and read:

Robin,

I have very little time in which to write this letter. The Peacekeepers are everywhere and I don’t have much in way of shelter, so I will keep it brief. Woad informs me you have arrived at Erlking in one piece and for that at least I am thankful. And also surprised! I would come, but I’m not convinced your aunt would approve and there is no tearing allowed at Erlking unless she’s out of it!

Until I find a way around that, you will have to stay out of trouble. Strife is on my trail, so I should be grateful he is off yours! Be wary of the others, I do not know where they are. Woad tells me Moros was in Barrowood but he has now gone missing and might be skulking around in the mortal realm or in the Netherworlde, though I don’t know why and that makes me nervous! These two are VERY DANGEROUS! Stay away from them.

Irene is a good sort but stuck in her ways. I will need to talk to you soon. She doesn’t know everything I know!

If the visions are true, you may be the last chance we have, so don’t let them get their hands on you. Stay put until I can work out how to get there. There are three skrikers after me, and I know Strife has five, so I don’t know where the other two are. They may be tracking you! Don’t go out alone. They are vicious! Spitak and Siaw are the oldest. They are afraid of nothing except themselves. Be wary of them.

Do not get killed! Not even a little bit killed. I will be very cross!

K

Underneath the signature, in Woad’s scrawled hand, was:

Don’t show this to the big ones! It is a secret!

Robin re-read the letter several times. If anything, it made less sense with each reading. Exasperated, he finally rolled it up and put it away in his drawer, lying back on his bed amongst his books. ‘Don’t show it to the big ones?’ He wasn’t sure what to think about that. Irene was his guardian now. Shouldn’t she be told if he was getting secret letters from mysterious strangers? Especially ones who admitted they could not get in Erlking while she was there.

And what were skrikers anyway?

The most disturbing news was the letter’s claim that Mr Moros had vanished. The creepy man from the train station was out there somewhere right now? Maybe hiding in the woods at Erlking’s borders? Watching Robin? Waiting for his chance to … to … what?

Robin didn’t know.

Before he went to bed that evening, Robin slipped the silver horseshoe chain over his neck. It didn’t make him feel any safer, but it reminded him of his Gran.

Chapter Eleven –
Galestrikes at Dawn

Robin didn’t mention the letter to Aunt Irene at breakfast next morning. He couldn’t think of a very convincing reason not to, but it was just a letter after all – hardly a death-threat. He ended up trying not to examine his motives too deeply. His aunt was clearly a good woman, but she felt distant and austere, and he could picture the piercing stare he might receive were she to discover he had been receiving mysterious notes from stranger. And so, feeling rather guilty, he said nothing.

The two of them sat munching toast and marmalade in amiable silence while his aunt read half a dozen morning papers over her half-moon spectacles. They were spread out all over her end of the table. Hestia fussed around the breakfast room like a disgruntled hedgehog, swapping plates when appropriate with much clatter. Robin almost lost a finger as she snatched his half-finished bacon and eggs away, tutting under her breath at the toast crumbs on her spotless tablecloth. Her good mood of the previous night was apparently reserved solely for handsome and hungry satyrs. Robin finished his orange juice as quickly as possible, fearing it too would be snatched away before he had a chance to drink it.

“How did your first lesson yesterday progress?” Irene asked, watching Robin wryly. “Were any sticks of chalk thrown at you? Were you made to sit in the corner of the classroom with a dunce’s hat on?”

“No,” Robin smiled at his aunt’s inquisitively raised eyebrows. “It went … okay I think. I was learning the Featherbreath cantrip.”

She nodded, setting her newspaper down. “Featherbreath. I see. And how did you do? I do hope squirrels were not involved in any way.”

“I…” Now that he came to think of it, his performance, of which he had been very proud at the time, didn’t seem too impressive in hindsight. “I managed to … stick a piece of paper to the ceiling,” he said, rather lamely.

Irene nodded appreciatively. “Well,” she declared brightly after a moment’s pause. “If we cannot make a Master of the Arcania out of you, I suppose you could always make your name in the world of interior decorating.”

Robin squirmed uncomfortably. Irene smiled her tiny smile. “Give things time, Robin. Your inherent skills have lain dormant for twelve long years. They just need to be jolted awake. Even a small and quivering shoot may become, in time, an oak.”

Robin tried to look cheered by the encouragement, whilst also trying not to feel small or quivery.

She turned her attention back to her newspapers. “Off you go then.”

* * *

By lunchtime, Robin was covered in bruises and grass stains. His first lesson in Physical Manoeuvres and Phorbas had been teaching him the Galestrike cantrip, a concentrated spear of air thrown like a javelin. Somehow though, he couldn’t bring himself to care about his aches, fixating instead on the fact that he had failed spectacularly. He could only form the most basic and tiny strikes which hardly had the power to flutter the satyr’s beard.

His offensive skills would come on with time, Phorbas had assured him, but his defensive skills had improved greatly with just one lesson. His progress at repelling attacks was, in his tutor’s words, phenomenal. By the time they finally broke for lunch, Robin had gained much control over this trick and had managed to deflect Galestrikes thrown at him singly, in quick succession, and two at once. He had parried strikes shaped like spears and discs, diamond-shaped strikes, even air moulded into the shape of a fist. It was tiring work, but he felt elated.

When Phorbas was apparently satisfied that there was not a single inch of Robin’s body that was not bruised, smarting or aching, and his mana-stone felt like a heavy lump of coal around his neck, he declared the lesson ended and the two retreated inside out of the chilly air.

* * *

It was just after lunch. Henry had a free afternoon and they spent much of it devising further plans to liberate the key to the locked door from Hestia.

Robin had given up trying to dissuade Henry from this ambition. He knew what lay beyond the red door, and though he had been told it was forbidden and dangerous even for him to enter the Netherworlde, he had to admit, he was as curious as his friend.

“We’d never get the keys off her though,” Robin said later that day, applying a pack of crushed ice to a particularly sore graze on his elbow. “She’s got the eyes of a hawk that woman.”

The two boys were sitting in the large sunlit library, reading ‘Mana Management – channelling your potential,’ by Spurious Sveldinger. Or at least Robin was supposed to be reading it in preparation for further lessons in the blue parlour on Friday, but the morning’s combat training had left him exhausted, and it was all he could do to resist Henry’s insistent and ‘fool-proof’ plans to obtain the fabled key.

“What we need,” Henry said, blithely ignoring Robin’s reservations. “Is some kind of distraction.” He turned a book over and over in his hands while he mused.

“Like what though?” Robin asked, rolling his sleeve back down and wincing. “I could make her earlobes flutter with my hugely powerful Galestrike skills if you like?” he said wryly.

“Well,” Henry leaned back in the stiff library chair and put his feet on the table. “I’ve been doing some reading.” He nodded vaguely at the bookshelves. “On mystical monsters and their weaknesses.”

“There’s a book on that?” Robin asked, raising his eyebrows. His face became suspicious. “I thought you hated reading anyway?”

“There’s a whole section on that!” Henry said, picking up a book with a wicked-looking imp on it. “You can learn loads of useful stuff. Chimeras can’t stand blank verse for instance, and Gorgons are very susceptible to flattery.” He nodded sagely. “And I don’t mind reading. Not if it’s research for a good cause.” He smirked. “There are lots of mystical monsters with lots of weaknesses. Apparently the Bodmin bog-hag has a weakness for sugared almonds and romantic fiction.” He waved Robin’s weary glance away. “Anyway, I found out there are these creatures, right, who look after places, houses and homes and things. They’re called hobgoblins, and apparently they’re absolutely obsessed with tidiness … sound familiar?”

“Hestia’s definitely obsessed,” Robin was forced to agree. “But…”

“So if, say, you empty a sack of rice onto the floor,” Henry butted in. “They can’t do anything else until they pick up every last piece.”

He twirled the book in his hands gleefully. “Or even better, you could mix together a bag of sugar and a bag of salt, and they have to sort out all the different grains before they could do anything else. Pure genius. Think of the distraction potential!”

Robin considered this. “I’m pretty sure Hestia’s not a hobgoblin though,” he said.

Henry frowned. “Sure fairy-face?” he asked. “I thought she was one of your Netherworldey people?”

“She’s not fae, if that’s what you mean,” Robin replied, still unused to referring to creatures and people from another world as ‘his people’. “Aunt Irene told me that Hestia’s one of the panthea, same as her. Hobgoblins are creatures all on their own, aren’t they, like lantern-claws or pixies?” His night-time reading of ‘Hammerhand’s Netherworlde Compendium’ was useful.

“Bugger,” said Henry, looking glum. “Ruined a perfectly good plan that did.”

“And stop twirling that book will you,” Robin said. “You’re making the imp dizzy.”

Henry tossed the book onto the desk glumly, where the imp staggered queasily for a while, clinging to the gold-leaf border. Robin continued studying, secretly thankful that the plan had come to nothing.