Isle of Winds (The Changeling Series Book 1)

by Fahy, James

  Robin had to admit, seeing was believing. He doubted he would have swallowed Phorbas’ revelation about a hidden world whole if they were sitting downstairs sipping tea. He looked back at the goat man. “Not safe?” he asked with raised eyebrows, as his new tutor’s words sunk in.

  Phorbas ushered him further into the room with a flap of his hands. “Oh, worry not, young sir,” he said lightly. “You are still in Erlking, even if the Netherworlde side of it is rather larger than the mortal world’s. No harm can come to any in Erlking as long as your aunt watches over the place. And she is watching over the place, even if she isn’t in it. As long as her eyes are working, and no one has sharper eyes than she.”

  He noticed Robin glancing toward the window. “Go then,” he chuckled indulgently. “Take a look at the Netherworlde for the first time, why don’t you?”

  Robin made his way across the room, rustling against a large bush covered in tiny flowers which looked like small golden trumpets. He startled a little as they turned silently to follow his progress. One or two of them seemed to sniff in his direction.

  “Try not to brush against those,” Phorbas said conversationally, as he made his own way across to the paraphernalia-covered table. “They’re Snapping Foxgloves. They won’t kill you but they can give a heck of a nip.”

  Robin gave the bush a wide berth as he made his way past, staring at it with wide eyes. He was sure he heard some of the tiny flowers growling quietly as they shuddered like angry Chihuahuas.

  He reached the window and leaned out into the night.

  On this side, he was more than four stories up. Much more. The wall fell away beneath him, many stories down into the darkness, studded everywhere with windows, turrets, balconies and a good smattering of ivy. In the darkness, low hills rolled lazily away, rippling in the breeze like a dark ocean. There was a tangled-looking forest beyond, the trees made an impenetrable black wall in the darkness.

  Robin’s gaze travelled upwards to the sky. There was a fat moon hanging in the darkness. It looked three times bigger than the moon had ever looked back in what Robin couldn’t help thinking of as ‘the real world’. The rest of the sky was dotted with countless unfamiliar stars, winking in and out of view behind grey-silver clouds as large as full-sailed ships.

  Robin tore himself away from the view of this strange land and turned back to the room. Phorbas was leaning against the table patiently.

  “This place, you said it’s called the Netherworlde?” he asked Phorbas, aware that his own voice sounded a little shaky. “And it’s really real? A whole other world? I mean, I haven’t just gone mad or anything? I’m not really sitting in some hospital somewhere dribbling cornflakes down my pyjamas?”

  “Does it seem real to you?” his new tutor asked, his head cocked to one side.

  One of the biting foxgloves near Robin’s elbow growled quietly, and then abruptly sneezed, dislodging several leaves. The flagstones, cold under his socks. They felt real.

  “Yeah, it does,” he said wonderingly. “It’s hard to explain, but it feels … realer … than anywhere else I’ve ever been.”

  The satyr nodded sagely. “And so it should, young Master Robin. You were, after all, born here. You are the world’s last changeling.”

  “You said that before,” Robin said, trying to step over some vines. The idea that he had come from such a place as this, to be raised in the human world, seemed outlandish. Ridiculous. “I don’t really understand…”

  “Aha!” said Phorbas, holding up a finger. “And that is the crux! That is why I have brought you here. To explain to you about the Netherworlde, and of course, about who, and indeed what, you are.” He indicated a battered old three-legged stool next to the table. “Sit!” he commanded.

  “Your first lesson, under my tutelage, is a history lesson.” He removed from his belt a slender, ornately-carved dagger of shining silver which he fiddled with as he spoke, twirling it on its point absently on the table top. There was a bright orange garnet gemstone set in the pommel, which flashed as it caught the light.

  “The Netherworlde has existed, side by side, as long as there has been the mortal world,” Phorbas began. “The mortal world is the realm of humans, of mankind. The Netherworlde is the realm of your people, Robin. Of the Fae.”

  “The Fae?” Robin asked helplessly.

  “Don’t interrupt,” Phorbas said, waggling his knife at Robin in a bizarrely unthreatening manner.

  “Sorry,” Robin mumbled.

  “The Fae,” Phorbas continued, looking off into middle distance. “A race as proud as they are wild, as pure as they are varied. Humans have always known, even if only in dreams, of the existence of the Fae. They called them faeries, or goblins, or elves, or any number of strange fairytale names. But they were not make-believe tales. They were real. They still are … what’s left of them.” He glanced sharply at Robin. “For there are fewer Fae than there were. Far, far fewer, and those that do remain are hidden and secret even here in the Netherworlde. And with good reason,” he said darkly.

  Robin opened his mouth to question this, but then remembered he was not meant to interrupt.

  “It is essential that you understand, Master Robin, that the Fae have ruled the Netherworlde for time immemorial,” Phorbas explained. “Led by the noble King Oberon and the fierce Queen Titania, they have watched over the provinces of this land for as long as there have been mortals in your world.” His face grew serious. “All of that began to change one hundred years ago.” He paused, peering at Robin oddly. “For even timeless peoples must face change, young Master Robin. Even the noble and undying must submit to the whim of the Fates.” His eyes narrowed thoughtfully, as though he were thinking of times long past. “You see, something happened in the Netherworlde a century ago. Another race of beings appeared at that time, a people distinct entirely from the Fae. These were the Panthea, and they were every bit as wise and old and varied as Oberon’s people. Their own history is muddled, and forgotten even to them. They were, in effect, refugees. A lost race.”

  Robin nodded to show he understood.

  “The Fae accepted these new people into their homeland,” Phorbas continued. “Into the Netherworlde, and for many, many years, the two races lived alongside one another, the Fae and the Panthea, in relative harmony. The Netherworlde is a large place, young Robin, there is more space on this side that in your mortal world.”

  He sighed ruefully. “But although they lived together … they did not share power. The Fae ruled supreme, the sovereignty of Oberon and Titania was unquestionable, and they held power over the fair land by wielding the ultimate magic. This was, and still is, known as the Arcania.”

  He spoke the word reverently, and a little greedily, as though he were speaking of some great treasure. Robin could not hold his tongue this time.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  Phorbas tilted his head to one side, making a lazy circle in the air with his knife, “What is the Arcania?” he said. “A weapon, some would say, of a kind. Or perhaps the ultimate source of magic. Used for good or for ill as the wielder sees fit.” He looked directly at Robin. “The Arcania, my pupil, is the source of all the magic in the Netherworlde. It is the strength and raw energy of Oberon and Titania, and they were without equal while they possessed it.”

  “So … what happened?” Robin asked. “What changed?”

  “The peace between the two peoples, alas, was fated not to last,” Phorbas said sadly. “There are always those who will seek power. There will always be those unsatisfied with their lot, and they will always seek to rule. A group of Panthea, jealous of the Fae, resentful of the king and queen who had once given them sanctuary, plotted against them. They were tired of being ruled. They wanted to seize power for themselves. They were led by a very powerful and dangerous Panthea named Eris.”

  As he spoke this last word, Robin felt the breeze which drifted in the window cool a little. It rustled the leaves on the trees in the room, making them whisper. All
of the Snapping Foxgloves closed their petals, retreating into themselves and growling quietly.

  “Lady Eris,” Phorbas continued. “Majestic. Charismatic. Manipulative. Calculating. Ruthless. She waged a war against the ruling Fae. She was determined to wield the Arcania for herself, and to make the Panthea the new rulers of the Netherworlde.”

  He shook his head forlornly. “The war was terrible, Master Robin. As all wars are. Many lives were lost. Much blood was spilled, and the Netherworlde became a darker, more dangerous place for us all. Lady Eris was fierce and unrelenting. The numbers of her followers swelled and swelled, but though they were powerful, still they could not hope to overcome the Fae king and queen. Not, at least, while they held the power of the Arcania. The war raged across the whole Netherworlde for almost a hundred years. And then…” His eyes widened. “… Something unexplainable happened.”

  Robin, who was now perched on the edge of his wobbly stool, looked up into the satyr’s eyes. “What happened?” he asked eagerly.

  “The two sides were so equally matched, they were at loggerheads, stalemate,” Phorbas explained. “And then, one day, King Oberon and Queen Titania simply…” He spread his hands, like birds taking flight. “… disappeared.”

  Robin frowned. “Disappeared?” he asked incredulously.

  “No one could explain it,” Phorbas continued. “They vanished completely.” He narrowed his eyes. “There are many who believe they were betrayed by one of their own. Without King Oberon and Lady Titania, the Fae could not stand against the rebelling Panthea. Their loyal commanders, known as the Fae Guard, were decimated. Lady Eris was victorious. The Panthea ruled the Netherworlde.” He sighed and stabbed his dagger into the table-top, where it lodged in a crack in the stone. “There was much confusion as to what happened. As it is said, when war is declared, truth is often the first casualty. Many said that Eris had managed to have the Fae king and queen assassinated. Others said they had fled, deserting their people. In the end, no one knew the truth. But the facts remained: the Panthea were, and are now, the true rulers of the Netherworlde, and under Eris’ cruel rule, they persecuted the Fae. Enslaving many, imprisoning some, killing more. Eventually, those few Fae who remained free went underground. Hidden, on the run. Outlaws in what was once their own land.”

  “That’s terrible,” Robin said.

  “One would think,” Phorbas said, “… that Lady Eris would be happy. She now rules the Netherworlde supreme. She is the Empress of all she surveys. But her fury is terrible to behold, because she does not yet wield the ultimate power.”

  Robin was confused. “You mean this Arcania thingy?”

  The goat man nodded, pleased Robin was keeping up. “Indeed. It had vanished along with the king and queen. Rumour said that, rather than let the ultimate power of the Netherworlde fall into Lady Eris’ murderous hands, the King and Queen of the Fae shattered the Arcania. They split it into seven pieces, and then they scattered these pieces throughout the Netherworlde. Even the loyal members of the Fae Guard did not know where. Hidden forever from Eris’ eyes.” Phorbas looked deeply troubled.

  “Without the power of the Arcania, Lady Eris can never crush the remaining Fae. Those who have formed a secret resistance against her.” He held up a long finger to Robin. “And … without the power of the Arcania, the Fae can never hope to overcome Lady Eris, and claim back rulership of their homeland.”

  Phorbas stood and walked through the foxgloves to stare out of the window. “The Netherworlde under Eris’ rule is a dangerous place, young Master Robin, especially for a changeling such as yourself. It is a shame you could not have seen it before the war.”

  “You said before…” Robin began, hardly believing what he was about to say. “About me being a changeling, about me not being … human?”

  Phorbas turned back to him. “A shock, I’m sure. But yes, the truth. You are not human, Robin. You are of Fae blood. Your parents were both Fae. You were born in the Netherworlde as the war reached its bloody conclusion. Twelve years ago, Lady Eris rose to ultimate power, the Arcania shattered and the Fae rulers disappeared. You were born, as they say … in interesting times.” He gave Robin a sympathetic look. “You have to understand, it was chaotic and dangerous for all Fae when Eris took over. Your parents feared for your life, Robin. A newborn Fae in such a world? You could not hope to survive. So they arranged to have you brought secretly to the mortal realm and placed you in the care of a human friend. A woman who you have always called grandmother.”

  “My parents … gave me away?” Robin stammered.

  “You were to be raised as a human, Robin,” Phorbas said beseechingly “Far from the Netherworlde, away from the war, from danger. You would not remember your home, your family, even what you were. But you would be safe. You would live. Your parents…” He halted, looking at Robin from the window. “… I’m sorry to tell you, they were lost in the war, Robin, soon after they sent you here. As were so many of your people. They could never come back for you. Everyone thought it best you know nothing.”

  Robin felt an angry lump rising in his chest. “And now that whole plan is out of the window, eh? Is that it?” he asked hotly. “Now Gran’s dead, all of you people from another world are suddenly dropping out of the woodwork?”

  Phorbas returned to the scarred table. “All that was done, was done for your own safety, Master Robin. It is dangerous to be the world’s last changeling. Eris and her people would like very much to get their hands on you.”

  “Why?”

  Phorbas’ eyes were unfathomable. “We will come to that in time,” he said maddeningly. “For today, I wish not to give you so much information that your brain explodes. That would never do. It would be horribly messy.”

  Robin stared down at his hands. They looked very normal to him. Utterly unremarkable. Not in the least like the hands of a magical creature from another world. His nails were a little dirty.

  Phorbas rapped his knuckles on the table, bringing the boy back to himself.

  “Enough history for today,” he said, clearly noticing Robin’s shell-shocked expression. “Revelations aside, we have other matters to attend, and our time here in the Netherworlde is limited. On to other, more interesting things.”

  He walked to the table and gestured expansively with his arms at the odd mish-mash of clutter on it.

  There was a small bowl filled with loose earth, a jug of water, a closed lantern, and a black pouch tied with a silver drawstring.

  “I am to teach you the Towers of the Arcania, the seven disciplines of magic,” the satyr said.

  “The what?” Robin looked up, confused.

  “There are seven areas of magic,” Phorbas explained. “They are known as Towers of the Arcania.” He counted them off on his fingers. “Earth, air, fire, water, darkness, light and mana.” He raised his eyebrows. “Every Netherworlde child begins learning these disciplines from a very early age, so I’m afraid we have a lot of catching up to do.”

  “We’re talking about real magic, right?” Robin said.

  Phorbas nodded. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

  He waved a hand over the water jug. “Water.”

  The contents of the jug sloshed a little, and then to Robin’s astonishment, rose up out of the container and floated across the table, a slow wobbly bubble. It hovered, a translucent globe, just above the pot of earth.

  Phorbas made a complicated looking hand gesture, and, as Robin stared, the blob of suspended water began to rain, like a small cloud, watering the pot of earth, until there was none left hanging in the air at all.

  The satyr passed his hand over the pot. “Earth.”

  There was a creaking noise, and a green shoot sprang out of the wet earth. Robin watched as it twisted and sprouted, growing at alarming speed, until a miniature tree stood there, tiny leaves unfurling slowly.

  Phorbas flicked his hand towards the tiny quivering tree.

  “Air.” A tiny, localised whirlwind sprung up out of nowhere, making th
e pot totter on the tabletop. It shook the tiny branches, tearing the miniscule leaves away and sending them spiralling up into the air, so much green confetti.

  Phorbas raised his hand again. “Fire.”

  The leafless tree burst into flames, making Robin jump. It blackened and shrivelled under the heat, until it was nothing but a lifeless wizened stump. When the flames died away, the satyr put the pot to one side. He smiled at Robin’s rapt attention, and indicated the closed lantern.

  “Darkness,” he whispered. The flame inside extinguished immediately, plunging the entire room into near blackness. The only light was that of the moon, filtering in softly through the tall window.

  Though he could not see his tutor’s face, Robin heard him say. “Light.”

  A small orb, like a tiny watery sun appeared in the palm of Phorbas’ hand, illuminating the room again. He opened the lantern and tossed the orb inside, where it stuck to the wick like a shining marshmallow.

  “There you have it,” he said happily. “A small demonstration of each of the Towers of the Arcania. I have not demonstrated the seventh tower, spirit, or mana as we sometimes call it, as that is very advanced casting indeed. We need not come to that yet. I shall be tutoring you in the first Tower, Air, and we shall go on from there.”