by Shean Pao
He created an illusion of human flesh around his body, taking long minutes to craft its details before entering the tower. Interactions with the upper world proved far more effective when he wore this form.
He appeared as a young man now, with honey-colored hair wind tossed over warm brown eyes. Barbarus’s cheeks dimpled when he smiled, and his jaw ended in a strong chin. He took pride in his pleasing face.
The hem of his wool coat swept against his legs as he climbed the stairs. Gold buttons trimmed his left side from collarbone to thigh. The collar of the coat lifted in a rigid arc in compliance with Ethcabar’s fashion, though no gems or metal adorned the fabric. The coat split up to his thighs, revealing black wool trousers tucked into high leather boots. The heels sounded sharp upon the steps.
Barbarus followed the stairs upward, but terror gripped him the moment he passed the threshold. He had to force himself forward, but he refused to touch the stone to aid his balance. Passages lingered behind those smooth walls—hidden doorways leading into places he could not fathom. Some were simple rooms; others fit into the stone with a depth and breadth he was unable to comprehend.
What is this place? How does this woman possess such power? His Sight brought images to his mind. There were beings trapped in those chambers, held prisoner. Cold terror nestled in his bowels, clenching painfully.
Shuddering, he climbed the narrow steps until he reached an open doorway. He paused beneath the arch, stunned by thousands of items that filled the massive chamber. Beauty took his breath and some of his fear.
Within the room, illuminated by hanging starflurry lanterns, he discovered pristine statues, delicately sculpted from crystal and black marble. A full standing harp, honed from the bones of swans, leaned against an enormous tapestry draped over a tall pillar of gleaming onyx.
Smaller treasures peeked from corners or stood displayed on pedestals or niches within the walls. He noticed a beetle carved of tourmaline and detailed in rubies. He stepped over a mat woven of spider webs and goose down to study a robin’s egg impressed with a spot shaped like a hand. His shoulder brushed a chime of tiny finger bones while he read the skull of a cat that told a child’s fable with elaborate and colorful scrollwork.
Set in a corner, to his delight, was a ship the size of a wine cask, carved in ivory and crusted with gold and precious gems. He marveled at the alabaster sails, thin as tissue, which carried her over a blue coral framework of frozen waves. Upon its deck ran a crew of fanciful creatures—satyrs and nymphs, giants and beasts. Lifted out of the waves sprang mermaids and dolphins, tenuously attached by strands of polished jade.
Barbarus edged deeper into the room but drew up short when he spied the Willow Woman. At first he thought she was a child, so petite was her form. She sat at a distance in a small, strange chair crafted from two entwined bodies of large leopards. His heart pounded like boulders crashing into the surf. Slowly his fear abated, replaced by awe.
Her eyes fluttered, half-lidded, while her palms caressed the fur of the preserved cats, tracing the contours of their sleek pelts. Tiny seed pearls sewn into the hem of her sleeve cuff ruffled the short fur of the leopards.
The garment shimmered at the Willow Woman’s bodice, made lustrous with silver stitches that created a pattern of leaves wrapping up her torso. The fabric fit snugly against her small frame, rising to a high collar behind her white-blonde hair. Silver leaves stiffened the cloth and flashed along the hem of her skirts of full, pearlized satin.
Barbarus’s breathing fell shallow with wonder. He’d bowed before kings and queens and groveled in the presence of powerful Nepha Lords and demons, but none of their radiance compared to that of the Willow Woman.
A circlet of twining silver vines rested on her forehead. It dipped to a point between her brows and arched over her eyes and back into her hair. Clear crystals hung from the band against her temples on braided cords.
She’s like a dragon, Barbarus decided, sitting on her hoard of treasure.
That thought made him curious, so he parted the Veil with a simple movement of his fingers and opened his Sight to see if the objects within the room contained power. He knew at a glance that none of them held magic, that all would be worthless to his master, but Barbarus adored them. He stood gazing at everything, silently feasting on their opulence.
Something about the items plucked at his consciousness, swaying like a tantalizing wisp of smoke to his other powers. He peered at them with his Eastóscán eyes and blinked in amazement, realizing their functions. The Veil frosted while he shifted his Sight, and the glimmer of a thousand Strands appeared before him.
Not a dragon, he realized. She’s a spider.
Thin fibers like a complex web expanded outward from the myriad items in the chamber, each Strand pulling taut across his vision—attached, he surmised, to every living person who had ever given her an artifact, some even hundreds of miles away.
While he slowly spun to take in the whole room, he was shocked to glimpse something profound at the corner of his perception.
“What have you brought me?” she demanded.
Her tone of wariness snapped Barbarus from his reverie like a whipcord across his back before he could focus on what had stunned him.
What did I see? A rod of rushing liquid light rising through the core of the tower?
The Willow Woman’s voice captivated him with both warning and allure. It held a tight weave of magic, reflecting the sounds of the wind, the sea, and the tinkle of chimes echoing from a distance.
He cautiously approached.
Unnerved by the attention of her fierce black eyes, he stopped and offered a tentative bow, his forearm pressed across his waist, fist closed.
“I have brought nothing as yet, Lady of the Willows. I am here to see if you have the spell I seek.”
The Willow Woman straightened and leaned forward. Her amused expression hinted that she found something about him pleasing, so he took another expectant step.
“You mean the spell that your master sent you to request?” she replied, resting back like an empress on her throne.
Barbarus blinked, then gave a slight incline of his head. No use denying it. “As you say, milady. Yes, my master Rash’na’Kul. A Nepha Lord of the Sixth Hell, though that may mean nothing to you.”
“I am familiar with all Nine Hells and their lords, or … lesser lords.” Her tone implied insult offered with a coy smile.
His lips drew up in an agreeable smirk.
“What is your name?” she asked.
“Barbarus, milady, at your service.”
“Oh, hardly at my service.”
“But I am, milady. My master has sent me to give you your greatest desire in exchange for an item he covets.”
“I doubt he can give me that.”
Pride straightened his spine, thrilled that such a powerful sorceress deigned to acknowledge him. “Tell me what you seek, that I may present it to him.”
The Willow Woman remained silent, with her black, brooding eyes fixed upon him.
A spider’s eyes. Barbarus had to turn away from their intensity.
He discovered, folded over the arm of a faceless statue, a sheer drape that contained the most delicate shimmer of iridescent hues he had ever seen. His hand reached toward it but then drew back without touching, lest the oils from his fingertips ruin the fabric.
“I have heard that you grant wishes. My master desires a particular spell.” He glanced at her, startled to find she had risen to her feet.
The Willow Woman’s guarded expression had been replaced with attentiveness. Oddly, he got the impression that her interest rested on him, not in the message he brought.
A realization flooded Barbarus with boldness. Rash’na’Kul was unable to observe him within the Willow Woman’s tower. Normally he sensed the shadow of his master’s scrutiny hovering around him. Now that looming presence was missing. His head felt light from that sensation of liberty, however temporary it might be.
“He
grows weary,” Barbarus added, finding himself revealing more about Rash’na’Kul than he’d intended. “Keeping us suaracháns bound to his will drains his power, and it … vexes him.”
She gave Barbarus a curious glance, her eyes darting over his body, then nodded for him to continue. Had she realized he had hidden his form from her? Something about the Willow Woman enhanced his valor. She seemed a worthy companion with whom to share his contempt for his master, not someone to fear.
Barbarus offered a daring smirk. “He binds us by carving incantations upon his own skin.” New courage allowed sarcasm to edge his words. “He doesn’t have much skin left to carve.”
To his delight, she rewarded him with a smile, so he continued. “My master wishes a spell to compel a core demon to do his every bidding, without the necessity to feed it from his own life force. A demon whose name he does not need to carve into his flesh to command.”
The Willow Woman nodded as if she knew precisely what he meant.
“One with power,” he continued. “A demon of the Seventh Hell, something currently beyond his own station to obtain. He is prepared to meet any price you ask if you can produce such a spell.”
Her eyes narrowed when he mentioned the word price.
Barbarus lowered his head, anxiously rubbing the spot on his forehead where his sheared horn lay beneath the illusion. “My master has instructed me to say he can give you many gifts.” He glanced up, his voice softening. “Though I know, milady, you require but one token.”
Barbarus expected her to deny the wish, at which he would return to Rash’na’Kul and privately revel at his master’s failure. Barbarus had planned to treasure the Nepha Lord’s defeat for many years. But that was not to happen.
“I’m sure we can come to an arrangement,” she said, leaving the leopard chair.
Barbarus lifted his brows in dismay.
“I never deny a request,” she explained.
He thought about her choice of words. He’d heard all of the stories and was still trying to sift fact from fable. True, she did not deny requests, but neither did she always award the requested prize.
Barbarus’s breath stilled as a possibility entered his mind, a hope as terrifying as it was exhilarating. He opened his mouth to speak. She gazed at him knowingly.
Why did he feel she’d expected this moment? Had their conversation simply passed the time while her real purpose waited to be exposed? Surely he had not considered or wanted what he held in his mind now before he had entered her tower.
He suddenly noticed his prized possession in his hand and realized that he’d been holding it for some time.
He turned his palm up, opened his fingers, and revealed a small corestone the size of a hazelnut. Stolen during a battle in the underworld and hidden from his master for many years, it was the only item of value Barbarus possessed.
The multifaceted stone shone with faint inner light, hued in crimson so dark it looked black. Corestones held power. They were used as base components in his master’s spells.
Barbarus closed his fist, panic hitching his breath. This is wrong. What if my master finds out?
“You have your own request,” she said.
“Milady?” His heart thudded in his ears.
“You may call me Anarra.” She swept forward, slipped her hand around his arm, and guided him toward the door.
He stiffened at the touch but moved with her. No woman had ever approached him before. It jarred him from his terror.
“I can give Rash’na’Kul what he seeks,” she said, drawing him into the stairwell. “But let us discuss what it is you desire. We will talk of your freedom over tea.”
She directed him a few steps up the tower, and they entered a room flooded with sunlight. His nictitating membrane reflexively slid over his eyes to block the glare. Though his illusional form appeared human, he could not change the physical abilities of his body.
They sat at a small table already prepared for two. Fragrant steam wafted up from a blue china pot while she served large slices of cake. It was the first time he had ever been offered tea.
With the corestone still clenched in his fist, he admitted his desire to be free of Rash’na’Kul’s servitude. Blurted it, really, before fear could bind his lips.
Anarra pushed the plate toward him, and he launched into the dessert.
She gazed at him with her relentless black eyes, then asked, “What will you do with this freedom you seek?”
“Wha—what?” Her question took him off-guard, and a bit of cake fell from the fork.
He was unable to answer. The possibility had only recently taken root in his heart, a tender shoot not yet strong enough to think of its future.
“Freedom can be a treasure or a bane, Barbarus.” She filled his teacup as white silk curtains fluttered at a window overlooking the swell of the ocean. “The world is harsh. Rash’na’Kul feeds you, clothes you, gives you purpose. Do you know how to do these tasks? Do you have the means?”
He was shocked to his core. These were not things he had been allowed to consider.
“Freedom brings responsibility,” she continued. “Once you decide, understand that those decisions affect others. Turn down this path, or that one.” She gestured two fingers to the left, then to the right. “Make the wrong choice, and you may kill a man or lose a kingdom.”
“But you are talking about fate—”
“What is the difference?” She took a sip of tea and set the cup down. “And then, of course, once you are free, you must decide who you are. And that, my dear Barbarus, is when you fall down a pit as deep as your master’s scheming.” She lifted a bite of cake to her lips with a smile.
Barbarus set the corestone on the table between them. His finger rested on the crystal for a moment before he slowly pushed it toward her. “You do not have to grant my master his wish.” He lifted his eyes to hers.
Anarra smiled and extended her hand. “True. Perhaps I will not.”
He lowered his eyes and set his token upon her palm, trembling.
“Wishes are wonderful things, are they not?” she whispered, closing her fingers over the corestone. “They can make great men out of mere dust.”
* * *
Anarra had never seen a corestone. She studied the crystal in her palm while she stood by the window once Barbarus had left. She followed the Thread that tied to him, intending to fulfill her promise to set him free. But a fierce red band as hard as iron stopped her. It linked to the suarachán, binding him, and she could not break it. Many years had passed since she had encountered such power, and it made her feel small and frightened.
Again she wrestled with her decision to deal with the Nepha Lord. Foolish, dangerous plan, stupid woman. You will come to regret it.
Enough! She gripped tightly on her thoughts and brought up the image of the Feather. The memory of its beauty stilled her self-judgments.
Her attention returned to the crystal. The corestone drank light, refusing to let its depths be penetrated. Yet she saw something within—a glimmer, or a flame.
The stone contained substantial power, so she placed it in a special chamber within her tower. This room held few items: three books bound in dragon leather of green, red, and blue; a slender filigree wand the size of her index finger; and other objects. They lay on narrow pedestals of marble, surrounded by whitewashed walls split with delicate arches of carved flowering vines.
Anarra set the corestone on a pedestal. She gazed at it for a minute, then crossed to the door. Her thoughts returned to the Feather, and before she passed the threshold, the corestone was forgotten.
Chapter Five
Love’s Intrusion
Only a few more precious moments left for painting, Anarra thought. The last shafts of the sun’s rays slanted through the window, threatening to sink beneath the sea.
She treasured the days in her painting room. Hours melted away, and the sun and stars sped overhead while she mixed pigments and dabbed hues. She left her work only to se
e to her personal needs.
Nothing else existed.
A dark ribbon had wrapped around her heart after Barbarus’s visit, reminding her of the tragedies she had witnessed in the Moon Well. A nagging guilt hounded her.
What if dealing with the Nepha Lord proves too dangerous? If I give him the spell scroll, will all those horrors really come to pass? Can I avert the outcome?
Those images in the well reminded her of other distant worries she did not wish to acknowledge—memories she had fought to obscure with spell-weaves cast through her painting.
The little claws abrading the spell-shields within her mind relaxed somewhat while she painted. She forgot the guilt creeping around inside her head. Otherwise, it threatened to expose events from long ago.
She had become so focused on the blending of paints that she did not notice a figure enter the room, or that he watched her in silence.
“You’ve no idea how hard it was to find you.”
The man’s voice sent a jolt of alarm through her, and the paintbrush fell from her fingers. How had he gained entrance to the Star Tower, slipped past her wards?
It wasn’t Barbarus. This she knew before she spun to stare at the stranger in the doorway. The power he radiated struck her like a sun blast from behind a cloud. It glowed through his black hair, his luminous, leaf-green eyes, the amused curl of his smile. This was the man from the Moon Well. She felt the blood drain from her face and her muscles stiffen.
“How did you get in?” Her throat constricted. She drew her hands from her waist, palms up.
His image forced her to remember what she’d seen in the Moon Well. She didn’t want that pain. She couldn’t allow it.
He managed to say, “Your door was ope—” before Anarra lashed out. He threw an arm up in defense, but a thunderous wind propelled him down the stairs and through the entrance, no doubt landing him waist-deep in the ocean.
Anarra lowered her hands, trembling while the aftermath of her energy swirled in a hot gale around her. It lifted tiny strands of her hair in a torrent of electricity, then faded as her heart and breathing calmed. Her limbs remained stiff with terror.
