by Shean Pao
“Maker, if you can hear me—” his throat unexpectedly closed with emotion as he tried to think of what he should say. What if he prayed the wrong way? He tried again.
“Maker, I need your help. I don’t know how to get free of this place. Please …” His heart tightened, and he squeezed his eyes and fists closed. “Please don’t let me starve here.”
His body trembled as a heavy sigh escaped him. There was nothing but silence for an answer.
Lethargy overcame him, and he slept.
He thought only a few minutes had passed before his bleary eyes opened. He had no way to judge how long he had been asleep. Nothing had changed in the cavern.
Determination grew within him. He would not just give up and die! Perhaps he could break the stalagmites apart, tie them with vines, and build a ladder out of the pit. There probably weren’t enough to accomplish his task, but at least he would be doing something. He was an Eastóscán. He would find a way.
Barbarus searched the cavern again and found the dead body of the pupa floating at the edge of the water. He popped it in his mouth and chewed. The flesh burst open under his sharp teeth, flooding his tongue with a spicy flavor he rather enjoyed. He tried not to dwell on the fact that it might well be his last meal.
While Barbarus ate, he noticed a light coming from deep within the pool. He had misjudged the depth of the water on the far side.
The glow rapidly approached. Barbarus scrambled off the rock and backed up against the wall. His eyes fixed on the bubbles and luminescence frothing closer to the surface. A small figure appeared, perhaps the size of a pit fiend pup, swimming upward. A bulbous head broke the surface and gasped for breath.
Barbarus took a few hesitant steps forward. Was that another daoine maithe? The little creature spat out water, swam to the edge of the rocks, and drew itself out. A thick strap crossed his chest, securing a large satchel to his hip. The leather container bulged with items.
The daoine maithe wrung water from the furry patchwork tunic it wore. It gave Barbarus a hideous grin and said, “Stupid maggot.”
Barbarous blinked. The creature was the same daoine maithe he had released in the root cavern. How was that possible?
“Stupid maggot,” it repeated more loudly as it stepped toward him.
Barbarus backed away.
The daoine maithe tilted its head, appearing confused. “No stay.” He bent back over the water, drew out a small jar from the satchel, and filled it with water from the pool. He returned it to his pouch and glanced over his shoulder. “No stay!”
Barbarous snapped out of his stunned state and approached the creature. “How did you find me?”
“Long way come. Saw you fall. Stupid maggot.” It grinned again and jumped into the water. “Come.” Its head vanished beneath the surface, light surrounding it as it descended.
Barbarus took a deep breath, dove into the water, and then swam down. He moved toward the light while the daoine maithe dove deeper.
Just when his lungs ached so much that he thought he would have to go back, he saw light and a ridge that led into a cave. Their heads broke the surface, and they both gulped air.
“Hurry!” the creature urged, and it ducked underwater again.
Barbarus followed. He didn’t need to question why. They were in the Seventh Hell. That was reason enough.
For five hours the daoine maithe led Barbarus through a maze of water-filled caverns. They reached a dry cave and followed a very narrow tunnel upward. Finally, they pushed out into the tuber-filled chamber where Barbarus had first caught the creature.
He sat on the roots and grinned with elation.
The daoine maithe opened his satchel and began setting items on the ground. The jar of water from the pool, a wad of lichen, three large rubies, a handful of mushrooms. Then he handed Barbarus a tiny container.
“What is this?” Barbarous asked.
“Stupid maggot ciaróg bug needing.”
“My name is Barbarus, not Stupid Maggot.”
“Ah. Barbarus Stupid Maggot ciaróg bug needing.”
Barbarus huffed with impatience and took the jar. Within the container, brownish slime surrounded a small ciaróg larva.
Barbarus sucked in a breath. “How did you know I needed this?” He felt stunned. Why would this creature save him after he’d almost killed it, then give him the ingredient he so desperately sought?
“Told you, Stupid maggot. Saw you.”
Barbarus blinked. “Thank you. Thank you for this.”
The daoine maithe shrugged and started returning the items to the satchel.
“What is your name?” Barbarus asked.
The daoine maithe rolled his eyes. “No say. Hard.”
“I want to know your name.”
The creature straightened. “Bláthachmaidenmilseán.”
Barbarus raised a brow and laughed. “Well, Blátha, if you are ever in need, come find me.”
Blátha responded with a derisive snort. It hoisted the satchel overhead and scurried off through the twisted roots. Then it called back something Barbarus was sure he misunderstood.
Had he heard that right? Had Blátha said, “Farewell, Brother?” That made no sense.
“What did you say?” Barbarus called after it. He listened, but there was no reply. Blátha had gone.
Barbarus shook his head and sprinted for home.
Chapter Twelve
Aes Sidhe
A few weeks later, Anarra led Odhran up the tower stairs. A storm had come and gone. Remnants of its fury continued to tease gray, undulating clouds across the stars.
Nearly every day had been spent together, and she found Odhran’s company to be a growing joy.
Anarra laughed at Odhran’s expression when he laid eyes on her collection. He gave a tug to his russet vest and smoothed its fabric at his waist while he beheld the room, clearly amazed by the diversity of objects. While he explored, she swept to one side and stood near a little alcove to watch him.
The light caught and held a tiny glint from a jewel in the center of her forehead, held by a delicate, twisted strand of metal. Two chains looped below it, resting above each of her pale brows.
Odhran picked up a smooth jade box, heard something rattle inside, and searched to find an opening. He handed it to her with an amused expression, waiting for her to reveal what lay within. She laughed and set it down. She’d never opened it herself. The contents remained a mystery.
“Later, Odhran. I will tell you all of it later. I want to show you my paintings.”
She drew him farther up the tower, past a myriad of doors and archways that revealed themselves while they moved past, then faded into the walls. She did not stop until she reached her painting room.
Anarra gazed about the chamber, perplexed. All of her canvases depicted almost identical images—simple pastel smears of watercolor mixed beneath thicker pigments. Where were her gorgeous paintings? Her exquisite scenes of knights in battle and water maids and cliffs with castles? A somber cloud soured her mood and squelched her joy.
“What is all this, Anarra?” Odhran strode to the stacks of canvases and pulled them apart. He leafed through one after another then turned to her. “You are using them in a Masking?”
“A Masking?”
“You are spellcrafting here—wielding magic to help you forget. You’ve layered the paint over your memories of the past. This is how you’ve kept them away, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she realized.
She had not entered this room since meeting Odhran. The old days she had tried to hide were already resurfacing like a fog lifting from her thoughts. She wasn’t ready to see what lay behind all the doors in her mind yet, but no longer did she seek to bury them. Fear didn’t tremble her heart anymore, but the pain still coiled in her gut. “They hurt me, Odhran.”
“Anarra,” he said tenderly, “how can you learn from your mistakes if you forget what they teach you?”
When she did not answer, he asked, “Will you te
ll me?” He touched her shoulder. “What were you trying to forget?"
For a moment, she stared at the stacks of muted canvas, letting the past return. She didn’t want to lose Odhran, not this soon, but he would not be dissuaded.
This must be the end foreseen in the Moon Well. It saddened her, but the rising memories also brought remembered anger. She found it difficult to separate her feelings between the present and the past.
She exhaled and began. “When I was a child, we lived in a modest home, poor by the standards of the Tuatha. Times were … hard.” She glanced up, surprised to see his compassion, and forced herself to continue.
“So when the Tuatha Dé Danann brought me small gifts, my family was astonished.”
He took her hand, seeming confused.
“At first my magic was limited,” she explained, “but somehow they still knew. ‘Offer Anarra a gift, and she will bring you luck.’ As poor as we were, I treasured each precious bauble.” She smiled faintly.
“Life changed for the better for a time,” she continued. “I gained many friends, or so I thought. But in the end, nothing was real but the presents they gave me. So I loved my possessions. They became my collection. The more they brought me, the greater my powers grew.
“Soon I gained the ability to see into their hearts, and I saw the greed that festered there. So I did not always give the boon they sought. I gave them what they deserved, as any deity should.”
His body stiffened, and he pulled his hand away.
He must guess the truth now.
“You are … you are Aes Sidhe?” He spoke barely a whisper, but his tone held all the horror she had expected.
She didn’t answer. Now that she had started the story, she wanted it all out. Fury pounded in her skull and tightened the muscles across her shoulders. How many hundreds of years had she lived isolated in this tower? Soon she would be alone again.
“They grew careful not to give me anything directly. They wouldn’t hand me apples in the market or pass me water at a meal,” she said with spite in her tone. “Stupid. It has to be a gift.” She closed her eyes, then opened them and settled her gaze on her paintings.
“I lived alone, shunned, lest they give me something by mistake.” She strode to her easel, gazing at the smear of shapeless color. Hadn’t she been working on a seascape? She scraped at dried paint with her thumb, suddenly saddened.
“It isn’t how my ability works. I can only give one blessing.” She shook her head, distracted. “They feared to offer me anything that would link them to me. Feared a power that changed their lives.”
Odhran paced the room.
She shifted her gaze to him. “You know what happened then. You were there, weren’t you? Others came forward who also bore this gift. Seventy-five Aes Sidhe, and myself, Anarra Lystrasia.”
His eyes widened in astonishment. “You are …” He shook his head, perplexed. “You look—”
“Different?” Her tone held mockery. She continued, “Some of the Tuatha Dé Danann decided that only the Maker should change their lives. They did not want us to be their gods and goddesses.”
She frowned and stepped away from the easel. Her whole body straightened, taking on a regal bearing. Her chin lifted, and her eyes fixed on a distant point. “We should have ruled. We should have been worshipped.”
She faced him with accusation. “Instead, the war began. They killed many of us. The rest fled.”
Odhran shook his head. “Ruled? Worshipped? Don’t you realize, Anarra? When you have that much power over another person, you are the servant, not the master. You become responsible for their lives, their existence. That is what the Aes Sidhe never understood.”
“Here is where we reach the wall,” she retorted, and her old anger flared. “Always the Tuatha Dé Danann and your idealistic views on supremacy.”
Odhran closed his eyes and turned his back to her.
She stared at her hands. It is not so painful as I thought, to lose him so soon.
“It was all long ago, was it not?” she continued. “So I came to the world of men and forgot my life among the Tuatha Dé Danann. I strove hard to bury what happened and how they hurt me. I had no friends, my family feared me, and I had done dark things. Who would wish to remember such a life?
“Here I am respected, Odhran. People cherish my gifts. They come all the time. I make their lives better, answer their dreams and hopes.” What lies I tell him. “I am a goddess in this world. I possess everything I have ever desired.” And more lies. Will he see through them?
“That is why I am here, Odhran. I can never return to Tir na nÓg.” This, at least, was true.
Odhran turned and gaped at her. He must see the truth now. She owned nothing of importance. No friends or family loved her. There was no one to share her life with.
Anarra wanted to stop him from leaving her. She reached toward him, needing to explain, to say something to change things. But what could she change?
He recoiled away, setting his back to her. His body looked tense, shoulders drawn forward as if they supported a framework of horror or a terrible weight. She saw him stare out the window at the blue sea. Then he spun abruptly to face her. His voice sounded in a low rumble. “Will you do this deed you spoke of and give the demon lord his spell?”
She had expected his words to be on any topic but that. Why question her about the Nepha Lord after what she had just confessed? She nodded, confused.
“What spell does he desire?” His emerald eyes shone dark with something she didn’t recognize.
“He wishes to force a higher-level demon to serve him.”
Odhran’s features hardened, though she thought she also saw sadness in the turn of his mouth.
“I would ask that you forego this course, Anarra.” He drew close and tenderly swept a lock of hair from her cheek. “Abandon it. It is too dangerous.”
She stepped back and tilted her head aside. “I will not.” He didn’t understand. She needed the Feather. She wanted her freedom. Odhran clearly believed that horrors would come from the Nepha Lord’s spell, but she would avert them before they happened. The future was liquid, fluid as the sea. One push, and everything changed. But she didn’t trust him. She couldn’t tell him she owned a Moon Well or what it had revealed. She didn’t want him to know she possessed such powers.
Odhran stormed from the room.
The Willow Woman lowered her head and closed her eyes.
Chapter Thirteen
A Selkie’s Grief
Anarra had believed she would feel a grief too powerful to bear when she lost Odhran. Instead, she experienced a vast emptiness. Yet this void of emotion disturbed her more. Why did she feel like a stone?
She made her way through the trees to the minstrel’s cottage. Inside, she discovered the room in disarray. The table still bore the half-eaten remains of a morning meal, and she found the bed unmade. The fire in the hearth had died. Bits of leaves and dust littered the wooden floor.
Anarra frowned at the mess. She faced the minstrel, who was sitting in the corner. He slowly rose to his feet. His hair hung in stringy clumps against his cheeks as he bowed his head.
“Milady,” he murmured.
“Good day, minstrel,” she replied, hoping her tone conveyed her disapproval. She settled into a chair, adjusting her skirt, then closed her eyes.
The minstrel tuned his lute for a moment, then sang:
The soft winds sing across the sea,
a tale of selkie’s grief.
All fluted in their wild song,
and dashed against the reefs.
Oh, where can I find hearth and home?
Where now might I find love?
For all are lost upon the sea,
All chilled upon the foam.
While here I sit a-lost, alone,
forgotten at my hearth.
Soon to lie ’neath crusty loam
Alone in all the earth—
The minstrel’s voice caught and cracked before he
finished the song. His chest heaved with effort, and a soft cough shook his thin frame. His fingers left the lute, and the music abruptly ended.
Anarra’s eyes flew open. She sat in puzzled silence, waiting for him to continue.
Instead, he sank to his knees at her feet, clutching the hem of her gown. “Please, Milady. I have gifted you with song for most of my life so that my family would be protected. Grant my request to visit them. I beg of you—a few days of freedom.”
“Freedom?” She gazed at him in confusion. “For whose gain? Your family lives in luxury and is free of care. Your wife is remarried, your children grown and moved on. You are quite forgotten by them.”
Anarra offered him a tolerant smile. “Minstrel, a visit would remind them of what they lost. Their grief would be rent anew when you eventually returned here. Would that not be more painful? The world would vie once again for your voice, tear at each other to have it. They would squander what perfection lies within you and waste it.”
He held silent.
She exaggerated a sigh and added, “No one appreciates your songs as I do.” Her hand swept over the cottage, indicating the comfort around them. “Do I not provide everything you could want? Food, clothing, shelter?”
“I am old, milady. I would see my family before it is too late,” the minstrel replied, his tone despondent.
“Old?” She paused, lifting his chin to study his features. She softened with worry. “When did your hair turn gray?” Her voice sounded concerned yet tinged with accusation. She touched his face, and he lifted his sorrowful gaze to hers. “And your face … you have grown older.” Dread grasped her heart, tying a knot.
“I have been here many years, Milady,” he whispered, lowering his eyes. “Most times you forget.”
“Nonsense.” She released him and dropped her hands to her lap. “I visit you often.” She smiled. “I will not lose the voice I treasure above all else.”
His expression soured. “Then I shall be freed by death. It won’t be long.”
Her mouth fell open. A fluttering panic danced in her chest. “Die? I won’t allow it. Your voice is pure. No one possesses a song such as yours.” Anarra touched his face tenderly. “Have no fear; I will not let you die.”
