Isle of Winds (The Changeling Series Book 1) (20 page)

“But…” Robin began.

Karya gripped his shoulder “Don’t, Scion,” she warned. “We’ve got what we came for. Trust me, we have to tread carefully here. There are rules with the Oracle. Very old rules.”

“Very wise,” the old woman nodded, suddenly rather normal-looking again.

“I hope this information helps you in your quest.” She passed a hand across the small pedestal which held Phorbas’ blade, an oddly business-like gesture. “Now then, don’t forget to take your weapons with you when you go. It would be a terrible thing to find your friend the satyr and to have lost his mana stone. They cannot be replaced.”

“Please feel free to take a cookie on your way out,” Praesto said cheerfully, her head cocked on one side like a bird again, smiling wanly. “It’s a long road ahead.”

* * *

They recovered the dagger and filled their pockets with cookies before leaving. The eldest version of the Oracle shuffled them back to the door in her brusque manner, and before long, they were sitting outside in the warm night air.

“Hidden in the clouds,” Woad mused, stroking his chin in what he seemed to hope looked like a thoughtful way.

“On the isle in the sky…” Karya added. “I’ve never heard of any such place.” She sighed, picking stray hairs from the lapel of her tatty coat. “Well, perhaps coming to see the Oracle wasn’t as good a plan as I thought. You never get a straight answer … I should know.”

Robin ignored them. He was busy rummaging in his backpack.

She glanced over at him curiously. “What are you looking for, Scion?”

Robin heaved a large book from his pack.

“‘Hammerhand’s Netherworlde Compendium’,” he said triumphantly, heaving it onto his lap. “It’s a kind of encyclopaedia.” He cracked open the cover and began flipping through the index.

“And … you think now is the best time to be catching up on your homework?” Karya asked curiously as Robin tilted the book to catch the light from the braziers.

“No,” he said, giving her a sidelong look. “I’m sure there’s something in here about an island in the sky. I’m certain of it. Back when I was learning Featherbreath, Phorbas mentioned it. It’s like a Netherworlde myth or something.”

“A myth?” Woad asked questioningly.

“A lie that tells the truth,” Karya explained to the faun.

“Here it is!” Robin pointed at the page. “‘The Isle of Aeolus’.” There was a sketchy illustration showing a massive mountain floating in mid-air. Near the peak of the mountain there seemed to be some kind of town. Karya and Woad peered over Robin’s shoulder, watching the inked clouds swirl silently on the yellowed page.

Robin’s eyes roamed over the dense script. “It says here that, before the Arcania was shattered, the Tower of Air was a powerful field of magic. The people who lived in this city despaired for the other members of the Netherworlde. When Eris’ war began, as a protest against the bloodshed, they uprooted their city from the earth. They lifted the mountain into the sky, creating the Isle of Winds.”

“So, where is it?” Karya asked.

“No one ever saw the island again,” he reported despondently, reading ahead. “Apparently it was lost in mists and clouds and retreated over time into legend. There’s no indication of where it might be, and no real proof that it ever existed.”

“Well, apparently Strife and Moros have found it,” Karya said. “Though, why would they take Henry and Phorbas there? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Perfect place to hide them, isn’t it?” Woad said. “Where do you hide something you don’t want to be found? Somewhere so secret everyone thinks it’s a myth. Clever.” He narrowed his blue eyes. “Clever like velociraptors.”

Robin and Karya had to admit this was sound logic. Robin searched through the compendium for more information.

He flattened the page as it rustled in the breeze. “It says here … ‘
Ad
augusta
per
angusta
’.” Robin made a face, “… Whatever that means.”

“It means ‘to high places by narrow roads’.” Karya said. “No idea why though. Anything else?”

“‘
Alta
alatis
patent
’,” Robin read aloud carefully. “Seems these words were on a map, somewhere near the Singing Fens, wherever they are.”

“North-east from here,” Woad said. “A week’s solid travel just to get to the Fens, or two weeks on lazy non-faun feet.”

“‘
Alta
alatis
patent
’ … ‘The sky is open to those who have wings’?” Karya translated. She threw her hands up. “Well, we don’t have wings, so that’s a fairly useless clue. I suppose we’re expected to tame some harpies, are we?”

Robin ignored her, reading on. “There isn’t much more. Lots of pretty dry explanations about how technically difficult and impressive it must be to float a mountain … blah, blah, blah … nothing useful.” He flicked to the final page in the section. “Only… here at the end the legend says ‘the path of wind is open at dawn. Look to the goddess to find your road’.”

He snapped the book closed in frustration. “More riddles,” he said. “Doesn’t anyone ever just say what they mean here?” He ran his hands through his hair, making it stick up all over his head in blonde spikes.

Karya pursed her lips. “Well … it’s something to go on at least. We know that your tutor and the human boy are being hidden on the Isle of Aeolus, which would suggest that it’s not a myth. And we know that to get there we need to take a high, narrow road somewhere near the Singing Fens, and that apparently we need wings. Hmm.”

“And we need to get there at dawn. Or ask some goddess. Don’t forget that bit,” Woad said, scratching his ear absently.

“Look, the only lead we have is to go north, to the Singing Fens,” Karya said. “We can try and figure things out along the way. Like Woad says, it’s about two weeks’ travel, and it’s best for us to keep moving. We need to gain some ground.”

She set off down the winding steps which led down to the moorland below.

“We don’t have time for this,” Robin argued, shouldering his backpack and hurrying after her. “Anything could be happening to Henry and Phorbas. We can’t just trudge across the moors for weeks on end.”

“Well, if you have any better ideas, let me know on the way, eh?” Karya huffed.

Chapter Nineteen –
Hawthorn’s Way

By the time the sun rose over the craggy moorland, they had put some miles between themselves and the hill of knowledge. It was now nothing more than a vague misty shape on the horizon behind them. Karya insisted they keep going, wanting to put as much distance between them and their pursuers. Woad didn’t seem remotely affected by the long march, but Robin was growing weary from the constant travel. However, Henry and Phorbas needed him, so on he went.

They walked through the morning. There was a nip in the air, but the sky above was clear and sheeny-blue. Robin was immensely grateful that it was warmer here than back in the human world. They never would have made it this far over deep snow.

Robin and Woad were bickering about how many miles they had travelled by the time they crossed the moors and came down into gentle rolling hills beyond. To Robin’s inexperienced legs, it felt about fifty miles. Woad, however, was certain they had done exactly nine and a half. Karya ignored them both, lost in thought.

Woad began to say something rude, but stopped, open-mouthed, staring ahead.

Atop of the next before them, a tall figure stood. A man was leaning rather nonchalantly against the tree-trunk. He wore a tatty kind of leather skirt and sandals, like a gladiator. His chest and arms were bare and the three companions could see that he mustn’t have eaten a full meal in a long time.

What shocked Robin most, though, was the sight of large curling horns spiralling out from the man’s mop of curly brown hair.

“That’s a … that’s a … fae,” Woad sputtered.

“What do we do?” Robin whispered urgently to Karya.

“I don’t know!” Karya whispered back. “I’ve never actually met one of the fae before … Apart from you, of course. You never see them. Your kind are supposed to be in hiding!”

“We are in hiding,” the man said, his voice deep and resonant, at odds with his half-starved body. His long oval eyes regarded them with a curious mixture of amusement and suspicion. A brief smile flicked across his hollowed cheekbones. “No better place to hide than plain sight … sometimes.”

His attention flicked lazily from Karya to Woad before finally settling on Robin.

“I know what she is,” he said slowly. “And anyone can see that that thing there is a faun. But what in all the Netherworlde are you?”

Robin felt himself wilting a little under the scrutiny. He was trying not to stare at the horns.

“It’s polite to introduce yourself first!” he said, sounding much more defiant than he felt.

“Names have power,” Karya said, sticking her chin out proudly, seemingly bolstered by Robin’s example. “They shouldn’t just be given away because someone happens to have a bow and arrow.”

The fae flicked his eyes to her momentarily, as if she was a bothersome distraction, then drifted back to Robin. “I didn’t ask what you were called,” he said. “I asked what you were. And I find that these are hardly the times for proper etiquette, more’s the pity.”

“You are a fae, aren’t you?” Robin asked, cutting off Karya. “A real one. You’re the first one I’ve ever seen. I’ve seen pictures and sculptures, but never a living, breathing fae.”

The man eyed him carefully. “You don’t own a mirror then, little hornless one?” he said, not unkindly. He smiled again as Robin’s eyes widened with surprise. “Yes, I can put two and two together. You’re a fae who seems human, which probably fools most people, but you can’t fool your own kind, boy. You don’t know where you belong, which can only mean one thing. You’re a changeling.” He straightened up, adopting a more relaxed pose. “I haven’t heard of such a thing in an age. Since before the war even, and that was long ago.”

“He is the last,” Karya said solemnly. “You seem so interested, and you have us alone out here in the wild, so I have decided to trust you, in so far as I trust anyone.” She folded her arms, regarding him appraisingly. “If you were up to mischief you could have dropped all three of us with your arrows before we even spotted you.” She sighed. “My name is Karya. My companions’ names, however, are not mine to give.”

“They call me Woad, bighorns,” Woad said, suddenly at ease with the fae now that Karya had capitulated.

“My name is Robin,” Robin said. “Robin Fellows.”

The fae’s eyes widened in surprise. “Fellows? There are no Fellows any more. Eris ended that line most definitely. Strigoi saw to that personally.” His lip curled in distaste. “Certainly no children remain.”

“There’s one,” Robin said thickly. “My parents hid me in the human world. Before Eris ended them…”

A look of sympathy crossed the fae’s face. He looked very grim. Robin wondered how long this creature had been living in the wild. Whoever he had been before the war, clearly his time on the run had worn him down.

“I am called Hawthorn,” he said, bowing his head in deference. “And if you speak truly, and are indeed the last of the line of Fellows, let us hope you are a good one, like your grandfather before you.”

“He is the Scion,” Karya said with great gravitas.

Hawthorn stared at the three. “Old stories and tales,” he said eventually, with an air of dismissal. “I stopped believing in prophecies long ago. Stories don’t keep you warm at night, or put food in your stomach.” He narrowed his eyes at Karya. “Not all that is broken can be fixed, little twig.”

“Hope is never broken,” Karya replied, levelly meeting his stare.

Hawthorn smiled again. Wearily, Robin thought. “Spoken like a child,” he said.

He looked to Robin. “So, last changeling, great Scion, saviour of the Arcania … What are you doing blundering around in the Netherworlde?”

The three companions exchanged glances.

Hawthorn raised his arched eyebrows loftily. “Ah … a long story?” he surmised. “No doubt filled with high adventure, intrigue and drama.” He sighed. “Then you had better come with me. It’s best not to linger out in the open.” He turned away. “Come,” he commanded. “I know a more secluded spot nearby. We will talk there.”

* * *

Hawthorn’s secluded spot turned out to be a good half hour’s march away, off over the hills and down into a steep rocky valley. A crude cave was formed at the base of a natural quarry. He ushered them inside. The floor was strewn with rough animal hides and even a few books and candles were scattered around.

“Don’t make such serious faces, little ones. You have nothing to fear from me,” he assured them, lighting a candle. “But perhaps you should be more cautious of strangers in the future. Not everyone you meet will be handsome and helpful fae-folk.” He shook out the match. “Some smiles are all teeth.”

They sat down amidst the furs and hides.

“You live here?” Robin asked.

“Of course not. This is just a hiding hole. I’m a scout. Sometimes I’m out looking for supplies for days. I can’t exactly sleep out under the stars, can I? Not unless I want to wake up on the end of a Peacekeeper’s sword, that is. Now … I believe you had a long story to tell me.”

It took quite some time for Robin, Karya and Woad to explain everything that had happened. The fae Hawthorn sat cross-legged and silent as their tale unfurled, nodding occasionally, his horns casting leaping shadows on the walls.

Karya relayed the confusing advice they had received from the Oracle, and their subsequent search for the Isle of the Winds.

“I can help you I think, in a small way,” Hawthorn announced when they were up to date with events. “Not to find the Isle of Aeolus, I don’t even know whether such a place exists. But your riddles … Look to the goddess? … Hmm, well, everyone knows that the goddess of dawn is called Aurora, but I don’t really see how that helps…” He stroked his chin. “But high roads to narrow places? Beyond the Singing Fens is a mountain range and I believe I know the pass to which this information refers.”

“Really?” Robin asked hopefully.

“You will need to get to the path of the Gorgons,” Hawthorn said. “It will take you a long time to make your way across the Singing Fens, though, a trackless mire with little cover for you. You will be sitting ducks for skrikers, not to mention bog hags and sloe.”

“Well, we have to cross through the fens to get to the mountains beyond,” Karya said, “So there’s no point complaining about it.”

“This is where I think I can help,” Hawthorn said, holding up a finger to silence her. “There is another way to the mountains.” He smirked. “Why cross over the fens when you can cross under them?”

Robin was deeply confused. “Um … because we’d drown?” he suggested.

“Not if you are deep enough under them, under the rock.” Hawthorn narrowed his eyes secretively.

He stood and walked to the back of the dark cave. “How do you think I travel around and manage to avoid capture? Admittedly, unlike yourselves, I only have Peacekeepers on my trail, not the rather alarmingly dangerous Mr Strife, but still, I find it is always best to go by secret paths and to tread quietly.”

He placed a hand against the rock wall at the back of the cave. The bow on his back flashed with red gems, causing a secret door to open in the stone. A long black tunnel stretched away, sloping steeply down into darkness.

Karya stood up, clearly impressed. “Is that a redcap tunnel?” she asked, her voice full of curiosity.

“A very old one,” Hawthorn replied, nodding his tousled head. “Disused for centuries. These tunnels lead to many places, but I believe you could use them to cross under these hills and all the way across the Singing Fens without once having to come up for air. That at least will keep you out of sight and off Strife’s radar.”

Robin thanked the fae for his help. “I mean, you don’t even know us, why would you help us?”

Hawthorn gave the three of them an odd, unreadable look. He must have been handsome once and noble to behold. Here in the cave, he looked hungry and bedraggled, but his eyes were still full of burning energy.

“Because, while I might not believe in old prophecies,” he said, “… there are many who do. If you are indeed the Scion of the Arcania, last of the Fellows, then perhaps hope is not broken after all – merely battered.”

Without further discussion he led them into the tunnel until they were far beneath the hillside. Eventually, the ground levelled out. A rusted mine-cart track ran off into the darkness. Sitting atop the tracks was a large flat stone.

At Hawthorn’s insistence, the three companions clambered atop. There was just enough room for them all.

“This,” he explained, “… is a cantrip of my own invention. The flat stone you rest upon is my magic carpet, of sorts. It sits atop a horde of many small stones. A little Earth mana and it rolls along at quite some speed.” He seemed quite proud. “I should warn you, keep your hands away from the walls or you may lose a finger. And try not to fall off, as it gathers quite some speed and the stone won’t stop until it reaches the Holly and Ivy doors on the far side of the Fens.”

“Before we go, is it true?” Robin asked. “Is there a real rebellion? Or are the remaining fae all just hiding and surviving? Doing their best not to be captured?”

Hawthorn smiled. “There will always be a resistance against Eris, as long as one fae stands. But yes, Robin Fellows, our people have gathered. We meet and plan and plot. Our leader is brave and fierce. One day, we will have our world back. Perhaps you will live to see it. I will send news of your existence to the leader, our greatest fae, Peaseblossom. He will be most heartened to hear you are real.” He grinned. Robin could not tell whether with sarcasm or genuine amusement.