The Feather and the Moonwell

by Shean Pao

  Rash’na’Kul’s whispers labored as he concentrated on uttering each syllable in the conjuration perfectly, repeating the chant in a continuous flow.

  Barbarus soundlessly repeated the spell his master spoke; he knew it word for word. His gaze lifted to the bowl on the pedestal, watching for the blaze to shimmer, for that exact instant when it hinted at a pale green glow. Rash’na’Kul finished the incantation, and they waited in the heat.

  “Damn you to the Hells! Change!” his master cried, and he clenched his fist, his patience near breaking.

  Barbarus trembled. His gaze flickered to the body of the wounded pit fiend as it renewed its struggle to escape the bench. A sheet of stench hung cloying in the air. Tension climbed to searing agony in Barbarus’s limbs. Timing was crucial. The beast could not perish before the flames transformed in hue. Barbarus’s breath stilled. Not yet, my master. He tried to swallow, but his throat felt coated with dirt. By the Maker, not yet.

  They waited. Fear tightened his chest in a gangrenous knot.

  The instant the fire changed color, Rash’na’Kul lunged. He seized the pit fiend by the snout, clamping shut its razor fangs. The Uaighe blade slashed through the scabrous flesh of its throat, and black blood gushed out.

  The Nepha Lord slammed his dagger into the bench, then plunged his hand into the wound and withdrew the prize: a corestone. He threw it through the air. The crystal rocked into the bowl with a staccato ring just as the hue of the flames churned a dark viridescent.

  “Varsh nagul!” His master’s triumphant voice echoed against the walls. The fire surged, sparks snapping in a spray of bitter, scintillating embers.

  Tension drained from Barbarus, expunged like a disease from his twisted guts. His body slumped in relief. He had been late, but he had still assisted his master. If the spell had failed, Rash’na’Kul would have blamed his slave and beaten him—or worse.

  His master reached into the bowl and recovered the corestone. It had also changed color, charged with a midnight-blue hue, its power enhanced by the spell. Rash’na’Kul smiled and slipped it into the pocket of his robes. He faced Barbarus.

  “Who is she, Barbarus?” Rash’na’Kul demanded.

  Apprehension tightened Barbarus’s chest as he thought about how he would describe the sorceress to his master. “She is … a magic user, but …” He struggled to draw a picture of her powers.

  “But … what?” Rash’na’Kul leveled a threatening gaze toward his servant. His feral eyes spurred Barbarus’s mind into action.

  “The people call her the Willow Woman, or the Woman of the White Tower.”

  “She is a white witch, then.”

  “No,” Barbarus said before he could stop himself, tightness squeezing his chest.

  “Speak plainly!”

  Barbarus cringed with a whimper. “Not a white witch, Master. She is … she is gray?” This last word he wrenched from his mind in desperation, neither incorrect nor accurate, but he did not know what else to say.

  “Gray.” Rash’na’Kul’s ire dampened while he pondered, pulling at the thin, beaded braid dangling from his chin. Weariness showed in the puffy skin sagging beneath his eyes.

  Barbarus hid in a tiny refuge of relief.

  Rash’na’Kul took long strides across the chamber toward a high-backed throne, raised on a dais of polished onyx steps. Uaighe runes covered the wormwood in intricate detail. Several sciatháns, perched on a wooden T-stand nearby, squeaked in alarm at his approach and jockeyed for the coveted position farthest from the master.

  Rash’na’Kul never went to his chair unless he intended a task for Barbarus. Being useful meant that he would live another day. He hobbled after his master, black nails clicking on the floor. His withered leg twisted beneath him, damaged during one of Rash’na’Kul’s more dangerous tasks in a lower level of the Hells. Pain hedged him like a beast, an ever-present reminder of his servitude.

  Rash’na’Kul lifted his robe and draped it over the arm of the chair as he sat, then leaned forward with a glittering serpent’s gaze.

  “She has the spell I want?” he asked.

  Barbarus huddled before Rash’na’Kul. “Yes, Master.”

  “Speak. Will she accept a token, or must I force her compliance?”

  “She will accept a token, my Master. She told me to first bring you the lists of ingredients. The spell itself is complicated. She needs these items to create a spell scroll which shall be the catalyst for the incantation you must perform at the actual ritual.”

  Barbarus produced two sheets of fine parchment, penned in a delicate scrawl, from inside his shift. “This list holds items she needs to make the spell scroll; this other marks items needed to accomplish the spell itself. She does not have the ability to obtain the ingredients, and if you cannot, then she is unable to help you.”

  Rash’na’Kul snatched the papers, one in each hand, and read the lists. His head bobbed, and then his lip curled. “The essence of love?”

  Barbarus peered up from his crouch. “She shall provide the container for this ingredient and tell us how to find it. It will take time to acquire.”

  The Nepha Lord pulled the second sheet close to his eyes. His face grew dark, and his brows furrowed. He whipped the page aside and stared enraged at Barbarus. “A flame from the Sacred Well of Brig!”

  Barbarus hitched a breath as his master’s wrath threatened. He could not possibly gain the flame of Brig. It was a holy, cleansing fire of the revered Brighid, a great lady of healing. Barbarus would finally witness Rash’na’Kul’s torment from failure.

  “There are only three sources of the flame.” Barbarus’s voice lifted to a squeak, though he had prepared the answers his master would demand. “One resides within Magician’s Keep in Silse—”

  “Impossible to access!” Rash’na’Kul roared, rising to his feet and launching down the steps. “Guarded by devotees at all hours.” He began to pace. “Protected by spells centuries old!”

  “Yes, Master,” Barbarus agreed. “Another flame lies within the land of the Tuatha Dé Danann, in Tir na nÓg.”

  Rash’na’Kul snorted. The noise in his throat conveyed his disgust. That source would be more difficult to access than the first.

  “The third lies within the Temple of Brig on the island called Cill Dara.”

  Rash’na’Kul stopped pacing and shaved at his lip with the edge of his thumbnail, then pulled at his lower lip while he contemplated this last location.

  Then he grinned. “Yes! I can access this place. Tell her. Go. Take her the items on this list that we already have for her spell scroll. Go gather them if they are not in my vault.” He threw the pages at Barbarus, who scrambled to grab them. “And find out what she wants from me.”

  “But Master, only a Descendant can enter the Temple of the Winds,” Barbarus said, dismayed.

  Rash’na’Kul spun to glare at him, his robes flaring. “Dare you argue? Do not doubt my powers!”

  Barbarus cringed, his face nearly touching the floor.

  “Go!”

  Chapter Eight

  Odhran

  Anarra stood on the cliff above the bay where her Star Tower rose from the waves. Before her, in the sea, the Hands withstood the pounding surf while terns wheeled above their rocky fingers as if they had just been released. She loved to come here when the moon nestled in the reverent palms like a great pearl. But today the Hands were empty of their treasure.

  Behind her, the trailing branches of a large willow, a Guardian Tree, sheltered a stone bench. There she often sat, running her fingers over the carved stonework. Leaf-twined letters spelled out the Listener’s Place.

  An ancient magic suffused the supple branches and sage-green leaves of the Guardian Tree. In summer, it would adorn itself with an immense cap of tiny layered flowers. One could never guess the color it might choose to wear. Anarra cherished the solace beneath the willow.

  Below, in the distance, the green-eyed man wandered the beach. For the seven days since she had uncer
emoniously thrown him out of her tower, he had paced the shore like a lion. She knew he waited for the shimmering spire to reveal itself again.

  Anarra had kept both herself and her sanctuary hidden while she struggled with her fear, watching him during those seven days from a window or within the waters of the Moon Well.

  She wondered about his name while she studied every detail of his features. How his curling black hair swept off his forehead in waves and dropped in long locks to frame a noble brow. How his mouth smiled at the corner, full and sweet and tempting. For many hours his moss-colored eyes had held her prisoner while she gazed into the Moon Well. When her desire to know his thoughts overpowered her fear, she knew it was time.

  From high on the precipice above the beach, she watched him stare toward the distant waves where her Star Tower would be. Her dove-gray cloak danced with the wind, engaged in a wild caper about her still form, as if also eager to meet him.

  Anarra released the Threads of light that hid her.

  As soon as he caught sight of her, he began to work his way up the steep incline, over damp, brown grass and lichen-covered stones. He stopped before he reached the willow tree, ten feet away, and met her eyes.

  She asked, “Can we talk without speaking of our kind?” Her voice resounded in its full majesty, magical in its ethereal cadence of wind, sea, and chimes.

  “I do not understand.” His own voice held power, as did the voices of all the Tuatha Dé Danann. She loved the deepness of its timbre. It brought to mind the earth stirring with life, and summer rains passing through great oaks.

  The wind drew off her hood and whipped her white-blonde hair against her cheek. “I do not wish to recall whence I came—the land where we both belong. I do not wish to speak of it.”

  She spoke of Tir na nÓg, where the Tuatha Dé Danann lived. He gave a slight shake of his head, as if he tried to glean why she would make such a request. When she began to turn her back to him in dismissal, he thrust his hand toward her.

  “Yes, I can do that.” His brows furrowed. “If you so desire.”

  Anarra paused to regard him, and then she whispered to herself, “I know this will bring me sorrow.” She had glimpsed their future within the Moon Well. Now she stood on another precipice—one of indecision, yearning to banish her loneliness yet fearing the consequences. Things would change if he discovered her secrets. She wondered if it was worth it.

  “It will be all right,” he answered gently, as if he understood her uncertainty. He stepped closer, stopped at the bench, and rested his hand on the back of it. He seemed afraid to draw nearer, as if she might vanish in a puff of breeze.

  The wind lured his long, cinnamon-colored coat into its winsome dance, and her pale gray skirts stretched toward his garments, almost touching.

  She watched his eyes fill with a hope she instantly loved. Or, perhaps, loved again. Had they loved before? The layers of her memory stacked too deep for her to see within them. The crinkles on either side of his mouth delighted her. The joy within him drew her—a joy she had long forgotten but wanted to remember.

  “I am Anarra.”

  He smiled. “I am Odhran.”

  She stepped forward and took his hand. His brows lifted with surprise, and they moved together to look out at the ocean. Waves swept toward the shore, gray and cream with foam that rode their crests.

  “It was very ungracious of me to throw you out of my home.” Her gaze fastened on the sea.

  “The wards were lowered. I thought you wanted me to come in.” His voice reflected the amusement she saw in his face. “We are of the Tuatha Dé Danann. Did you not sense me?” Then he winced, having mentioned what she had told him not to.

  No, I am Aes Sidhe, Anarra thought. She steeled her features to reveal no expression.

  She remembered some of the differences. The highborn Aes Sidhe should have been gods and goddesses, but the Tuatha Dé Danann had dethroned them. Highborn and low.

  Anarra avoided remembering why. She no longer lived in the Otherworld.

  She lowered her head. She didn’t wish to lie about what she was. Did it really matter now? She gazed at her hands and started to whisper, “I am not—”

  “You truly do not remember, do you?”

  She tensed. Odhran squeezed her hand lightly. “The walls that keep men at bay cannot contain us—or restrain us from where we wish to be.”

  She smiled, taking it to mean he wished to be with her. “How did you find me?”

  “You were at the fair. I saw you kill the knight.” His tone held no condemnation, only interest. “I wondered why you live among humans.”

  She remained silent, then heard Odhran say, “I wondered why a hidden creature stalked you from the rooftops.”

  She blinked at him, surprised, and laughed a little. “At the fair?”

  He nodded.

  “Barbarus.” She gazed out toward the Hands, battered by the waves.

  “It has a name?”

  She regarded him cautiously. “He does. His master is a Nepha Lord. Barbarus was sent to ask a favor of me.”

  His face grew alarmed. “You should not traffic with their kind, Anarra.” His tone darkened. “They are dangerous.”

  “He cannot hurt me.”

  “Perhaps the slave cannot. But his master will.”

  She became annoyed, scowling, and fell silent. The silence stood between them.

  After a moment, Odhran suggested, “Let me take you somewhere. I want to show you something wonderful.”

  Her body tensed with apprehension. “Is it far?”

  “No, just over that ridge, within the woods.” He pointed at the canopy of trees in the distance.

  “I cannot be gone too long.” Unease stiffened her body when she thought of leaving her tower, but the eagerness in his eyes melted her heart.

  “For a little while, then,” she agreed, offering a slight nod.

  He drew her closer. Gentle light flared on all sides as he gathered the power of the Guardian Tree to transport them. In a moment they appeared elsewhere, standing within a wood that already stirred with the coming spring. Odhran released her, and she stepped back, gazing around.

  Moss hung from primeval oaks and ashes, laced like curtains. Buds patterned their branches, and tiny shoots of green pushed up through the frosted soil.

  He led her between the trees to a clearing. Rising out of a circular indent in the ground stood a henge. Ancient pillars rose twenty feet high, supporting cross stones in the sixty-foot circle. Old magic whispered within it, welling up from the earth.

  Anarra walked into the center of the stones and stood on the moist moss that sprung up between flat wheels of shale. Enchantment washed through her like a well of cool water. She closed her eyes and lifted her hands, letting it envelop and renew her.

  Odhran laughed when she returned. He wrapped his arm around her hip and drew her beside him, facing the stones. “I knew you would love this place. Now watch.” He chanted words she did not catch and stared at the circle. Then he whistled once, low and deep.

  Within moments a mist stirred at the base of the stones. It swept clockwise, gaining height and thickness until the center of the fog billowed up in a cloud of spiraling smoke.

  The head of a stallion solidified, tossing his mane as it flowed back into the mists. Other figures followed—a herd of sleek mares. They ran on air while they thundered by Anarra and Odhran, making the forest ring with pounding hooves.

  Anarra brought her hands together at the fingertips and pressed them against her lips. “What is this place, Odhran?”

  “A doorway of sorts, between this world and ours.”

  “I didn’t know of it.”

  “It has not been here for long. It will fade soon, perhaps in a few months.”

  “Is this the door you used to come from … your home?” she murmured.

  “No. I came by other means,” he said. “I’m here researching the ancient books on water magic written by the old mages.”

 
She nodded, gazing at the circle. “I love them,” she said with wonder.

  The smoke horses veered between the pillars and whooshed out between the stones, dissipating into the forest. Silence followed until the woods stirred with the little chirps of sparrows. She gazed up at Odhran, realizing the gift he had given her, asking nothing in return. Nothing at all. That stirred her heart, set it thudding, and warmed it to awakening.

  Odhran lowered his eyes to hers, and for a long moment she let herself be caught within them.

  “I have to go,” she said, uncertain of her growing feelings for him and anxious to return to her tower. She felt trapped by both.

  “Why?” He reached for her.

  She stepped away from his touch. “Someone is waiting for me,” she lied, and swept toward the woods.

  “Will we meet again?”

  “Oh, yes, yes. Tomorrow. At the Listener’s Place,” she said, unable to help herself. She flashed a glance backward to smile at Odhran, and then the forest swallowed her.

  Chapter Nine

  Into the Pit

  A large glass jar, tethered by a leather thong to Barbarus’s waist, bumped against his hip while he moved over fissures of rock.

  Danger lurked behind every crevice in the Hells, and his master had told him not to return without the ciaróg larva needed for Anarra’s spell scroll. He was resigned to the idea that his master would achieve his goal only because it also meant his own release. One more item closer to being free from Rash’na’Kul.

  So Barbarus crept deep within the bowels of the Sixth Hell, close to the entrance of the seventh level. Apprehension etched along his spine and hunched his back. Not wanting to draw the attention of the creatures that prowled here, he considered every step.

  Dripping water echoed in the distance or ran down the walls into pools he passed. Glowing lichen grew in abundance, clinging to damp stone. Great boulders, some several stories high, dotted the immense caverns. Luminous veins of minerals twined through rocks. Now and then a sciathán would flutter across the expanse and latch to the ceiling to feed on starflurries. Their light seemed like distant stars in the heavens.