by Shean Pao
“I am an Eastóscán. I learn about things. I cannot help it. It is the reason Rash’na’Kul keeps me bound to him.” His words dripped with spite and self-loathing.
“My Well has no such capability,” she stated.
He stared at his hands and lifted his palms upward, opening his fingers. The nails slimmed to needle-sharp points.
“There is no such power, Barbarus.” This time her words held sympathy. She set down the brush.
“But you have the skill to grant wishes.”
“We have entered that contract already. You wished for freedom from your master.” She raised a fine brow. “You gave me your token. I cannot do another. One blessing—that is all.”
He exhaled a brooding sigh.
“There are limits to even my power, Barbarus.” Her tone sounded gentle, but he didn’t want to be pulled from his self-pity.
She asked, “How are Issel and Maleen?”
Barbarus saw that she would not be daunted. He sank into the only other chair in the room, an overstuffed brocade with a high back. It comforted him, but he didn’t relinquish his sullen attitude or his demon form while they spoke.
“They struggle to exist.” His tone sounded cavalier, though he often felt troubled over the widow and her daughter. “It seems a shame that humans must strive so hard to put food in their mouths.” He paused. “I have no idea how long I will be seeking the element for my master’s spell. He is impatient. He says my time is short.”
Barbarus rubbed at his broken horn, his face pinched. He would never obtain the essence. How could someone love what he was? And there was the guilt he bore, that he was tricking Maleen into loving him when he didn’t deserve it.
“Do not be concerned with your master’s demands. He wants the spell. He will wait as long as it takes.”
Barbarus nodded, feeling some relief. His thoughts returned to the farm. “The widow is ever wary of my helpfulness.”
“Maleen has loved and lost. She is fearful to do so again.”
“People are afraid to love?” he said, stunned to hear this.
Anarra set the brush down again and faced him. “How is it you are an Eastóscán and yet know so little?”
He lifted his shoulders. “I have only learned what my master required of me.”
“Love is a bitter, spiteful creature.” Anarra’s brows furrowed. “It lures you into its embrace and leaves you wanting more than when you started.”
Barbarus stared at her, baffled and fearful.
Anarra sighed and reached toward him. “Forgive me. Love is not always so. And perhaps it is worth it, for some.”
Barbarus thought of Maleen and Issel. He felt sure they loved each other dearly. Still, it worried him, and his shoulders hunched. Is that why she needs the essence of love for the spell, because it is a spiteful thing?
He had read in books that love was pure, noble. That it had power to conquer evil. He thought often of the Maker these days. He suspected on some deeper level that he shouldn’t, but since escaping the pit, he found it gave him hope. Hope that a greater being existed who might change the tides he rode upon. Who might change him.
“What about your parents? Did they not love you?”
He shook his head. “I’m a suarachán. I did not know my parents. I was born in a swamp where we lived like animals, devoid of any thoughts other than simple needs. It is not a place of self-awareness. Rash’na’Kul pulled me from that life. He taught me to speak, think, and learn, taught me how to cast spells. Taught me to become an Eastóscán.”
Barbarus did not remember living in the swamp. He had no memories prior to serving Rash’na’Kul.
She gave a half laugh and crossed toward him. “Who told you that?”
He watched her approach apprehensively. “My master.”
She gestured with her hand. “Stand up. Turn around.”
He did as he was bid.
She nodded and went back to her easel. “I suspect you are a coblynau with his wings and tail cut off. Though how you arrived this far south is a wonder in itself.”
Barbarus stared at her in disbelief. “A coblynau? One of the faé?” Like the daoine maithe? They are kin, of a sort. Is that why it called me brother? Had he been lied to all these years? Did he have a family, a past?
She nodded absently, studying her canvas with a critical frown, then tossed him an admonishing glance. “They trim their nails, however.”
It would explain a lot of things. Why he had never seen any others like himself. Why he learned so quickly. Why he possessed the skill to see into the Void when other demons didn’t.
“I have family that loves me somewhere,” he said, and he realized that it was true. He sensed them at the end of a fragile strand. A deep sadness weighed in his heart. All these years believing he was a monster.
“Do not get caught up in such ideas, Barbarus. The coblynau are not known for their sentiment. I am sorry to say that they may not recognize what you have become. Besides, love is not an emotion worth pining for.”
Barbarus disagreed. “You must be loved by the townsfolk of Ethcabar for what you give them.”
“Loved!” Her laughter rang harsh. “People come to me only to gain something for themselves. It may be couched in their belief that it is for their family or to help their country. They will tell me: ‘I must live forever so I may put food on the table for my children. Make me richer so I can provide for my sick mother.’ No, Barbarus, the apple is rotten at its core.”
Barbarus grew silent, saddened. Anarra seemed to be feeding a bitterness within herself that had grown into a weed. Did it have to do with the fact he no longer saw her strolling with the man along the beach?
He thought of Maleen and Issel again. They are not rotting apples.
Barbarus suddenly decided it was too much. The sadness had to be banished. He leaped from the chair, changed again to the image of the blond youth. “Let’s have cake.”
Anarra laughed, drew off her apron, and laid it over the easel. “Let’s!”
Chapter Nineteen
Uncle Navarre
Barbarus slid one side of the new rail into the notched wood of the fence post, then pounded it tight with a sledgehammer. He wiped sweat from his brow with his arm and glanced behind him at the house beyond the goat pen. Maleen stood under the porch while she churned butter, and Issel swept the chicken coop.
He spun back to search the woods, knowing a shadow watched him. It was not the first time, and a week prior he felt sure that he had seen Rash’na’Kul’s creature darting across the field. His master would certainly not let Barbarus forget that he was there for a single purpose.
He moved on to the next post and fingered a small wreath made of twigs and holly that hung around the beam. The totem warded off foxes and badgers, he wagered with a smile. He added his own spell to it—much more potent—and for good measure stabbed his finger on a thorn to smear blood over the leaves and sticks.
A sudden tingle of alarm ran up his spine, so he searched the woods again. A man approached, leading a stallion down the dirt road. Behind the man, the oaks danced in a breeze, their branches crowned with dark patches of summer leaves and heavy with acorns.
Barbarus gripped the fence tighter. The man’s brilliant blue eyes were fixed upon him with malevolence. Sunlight shot off his silver breastplate in stabs of light, reflecting to blind Barbarus. He lifted a hand to shield his eyes.
When he drew closer, the knight demanded, “Who are you?” Dark brows narrowed above a handsome, intelligent face. Barbarus instantly disliked him.
“I am Barbarus, sir.” He forced himself to sound polite. He fought a keen desire to rush back to Maleen and Issel, hurry them into the house, and bar the door.
“I don’t know you. Why are you on my sister’s land?”
Barbarus heard a faint squeal of delight and glanced back at the house.
“Uncle Navarre!” Issel yelled, running toward them in a swift hobble on her bent foot.
Maleen st
ood, shielding her eyes, and then raised a hand in greeting.
“I am helping Mistress Maleen with chores.”
The knight reached him and stood towering on the other side of the fence, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“I cannot tell what you are, Barbarus, but I see through you,” he said. “Don’t plan on staying here long. I want you gone by nightfall.” He glared, then transformed his face to warmth while Issel approached.
“Uncle Navarre!” Issel called as she neared.
The knight leaned over the fence and extended his powerful arms for her, but Issel slowed. She glanced worriedly between them, then moved instead toward Barbarus and took his hand protectively. Barbarus gazed down at her, startled at the familiarity. Tenderness warmed his chest.
Issel asked Barbarus, “What’s wrong?”
The knight scowled, clenched his teeth behind a forced smile, and said, “Nothing, Issel. See how you have grown. Come give your uncle a hug.”
Issel jumped as he lifted her up over the fence. Her uncle settled her on his hip, managing to give Barbarus a deadly glare over Issel’s shoulder in the process.
“Uncle Navarre, that is Barbarus …” Issel twisted in his arms and began to tell her uncle about Barbarus and how much he had done for them since Mama found him in the rain. She chattered the whole way to the house.
Like a little bird, Barbarus thought with a heavy heart. He followed their progress up the road, and then his gaze flicked across the forest. Something shifted in the woods and drew back into the shadows. Worry settled on his back like a boulder.
Will Maleen make me leave this evening? How will I fulfill my task now? With a growl of fury, he ripped the wreath of twigs and holly off the fence and threw it to the ground. He glared at it for a moment, then went to secure the other end of the rail.
Chapter Twenty
The Making
Anarra stood at the pinnacle of her tower. The opalescent dome shimmered above her, translucent, drained of color while sunlight bled from the sky. A curtain of darkness moved across the horizon, tugging a veil of stars that drew the moon in their wake.
The scent of the sea lifted with the wind and lingered in her hair like perfume. She breathed deeply, her heart pounding with anticipation.
Anarra strode to the center of the floor, where the wave-shaped pedestal stood. She cupped her hands around the bowl and gazed into the liquid.
She had spent months studying the book from her collection, researching the forces that could forge a living body. Then more weeks gathering materials she would need to weave the fabrics for the spell.
The corestones worried her. Their power enticed yet frightened her. Terrible danger lay in what she planned to do, and that set her nerves on edge. But the panic at the idea of her minstrel dying felt worse.
Every day he grew weaker. That morning he had been unable to sing, and she had fed him broth from a spoon while he lay in bed.
Time fled like the ocean’s waves—a strange tide always receding. How would she restore herself without his company? She relied on his music to calm her when the imprisonment of her tower became too much.
Barbarus had brought her new friendship, but how long would it last? If she could not free him from Rash’na’Kul, he would no longer visit her once his task was finished. And she had not seen Odhran since he’d left her tower in anger.
Anarra forced herself to calm and push away those fears. She concentrated on the water, gazing into its deep darkness. Beside the Moon Well, the twelve corestones gleamed, set side by side upon the pedestal. This time she had not ground their essence into powder. The book told her that their power lay within the formation of their crystal structure.
If she failed, she would never obtain enough corestones again. Her minstrel would die.
Anarra opened her mind to the memory where she had glimpsed the minstrel’s new body. She whispered in the rhythm of the sea and the wind.
Long hours passed as she sought to weave the tapestry of moonlight and starlight within the Well and draw upon the magic within. She left her body and went to a place that held the weft of all things, open to the fibers of Making.
A filament of tension entered her senses—a single Thread. It flowed as subtle as a strand of a spider’s web to tangle in her mind.
She tripped.
A gossamer net tightened around her thoughts and pulled taut. She stiffened, shifting her awareness and perceiving the intrusion of a malevolent will.
Anarra thrust a rivulet of Moon Well water along the strand to illuminate her attacker. A cry of surprise came with the brief image of a man throwing up a guarding arm.
“Swift to see me,” he said in a rich, enticing voice. He yanked on the net. The Threads spun faster. “But not swift enough.”
Fear coiled in her. She saw now the extent of the web binding her mind. She circled inside the prison, trying to find an exit, but the ties held her.
“Who are you?” she demanded. “Rash’na’Kul?”
“Who is that, some other you have stolen from?”
“Stolen? I am guilty of no theft,” she stated.
“Are you not? You have in your possession something of mine.” His voice sounded amused, and she found an image of a handsome man behind the timbre of its resonance. A wealth of silver hair swept back from a high, tanned brow; strong grey eyes; and an easy, smiling mouth. She doubted it was real.
“I have taken nothing,” she insisted.
He showed her a glimmer of memory—an ancient time when she had searched wizards’ towers and witches’ caves, stealing books of power or other items that had caught her fancy.
“That was—”
“Long ago?” His laughter flayed her thoughts. “I have waited, seeking the signature of your power. You only left a trace. But finally, finally you read my book again, and I followed the Thread to you.”
He wove the web faster, and she became caught in its maze, fleeing down one path, then another, seeking escape. The snare’s complexity only increased.
“Stop this!”
“Stop? No, my dear. I have hunted you for an eon. The white-glow woman who breached my wards—how I have searched for you! You will be mine. First your mind, and when I find where you are, your body. You will belong to me, Gevauden.”
She felt him pry into her thoughts, trying to enter locked doors. Then Gevauden brushed against her mind. His grasping intellect sent vibrations through her inner being. Seals were ripped, memories exposed like the roots of a fallen oak. He stole images while they flashed by, trailing emotions she could not control.
At first they were small workings of her magic—her basic weavings of moonlight, her joy at learning to draw earth patterns and speak to the creatures of Fáe, youthful fancies that were simple. As soon as she glimpsed them they disappeared forever, taken by him.
A cry escaped her. She struggled harder, but he’d formed a circular maze, and she grew tired. It would not be long before he took deeper knowledge and arcane powers.
Those doors held firm, still untapped, but he pried mercilessly. Because she couldn’t escape the net, it was only a matter of time before he would pick her mind clean and make of her a shell to manipulate as he pleased.
Yet it was not enough that he devoured what she knew. Gevauden sought for where her tower lay, where in the world she lived, that he might claim her body.
She recoiled at what he wanted to do to her. Even his thoughts reached out like fingers, violating places no one had ever touched. She shuddered.
Anger rose hot in defiance. Gevauden braced his net, expecting her to thrust outward.
Anarra dove within. She withdrew into herself, and the net collapsed.
Gevauden swore, trying to reel in the slack, but she slipped free. Her mind became mist, nothing solid he could capture.
She drifted until she felt far enough away to follow the currents of the heavens back to her Star Tower.
As she returned into herself, her whole body trembled with a force that
made her nauseous. She sank to her knees, fighting the urge to vomit. She was drenched in sweat and couldn’t keep from trembling. But she didn’t have time to become ill.
With shaking hands, Anarra wove the wards around her tower tighter, careful to keep the strength of them hidden, creating an illusion of nothingness with no signature to detect. The thousands of silver Threads pulsed and grew stronger, each so thin that Gevauden would never sense them. Together they formed a casing that couldn’t be cracked.
Now she had even more reason to hide within her tower. If she left, would he be able to track her?
She drew a weary hand across her eyes. The energy she had spent to escape her captor and weave new wards had drained her. She huddled for hours, silent and terrified. She’d almost lost that battle.
When dawn brightened the heavens, she slept.
Chapter Twenty-one
Time to Go
Issel climbed the ladder to the roof and watched while Barbarus separated bundles of thatch and tied them down in sections. In one hand she held a little straw doll he had made her. She took it with her everywhere, sometimes pinning it to her dress when she did her chores. She told him she loved the little secret pocket behind its skirt. He had hidden a blue stone shot with veins of crystal there. She’d named the doll Cerwina for a song her father used to sing.
Barbarus sliced the twine with a knife as sweat dampened the hair at the nape of his neck.
He glanced down at her. “You shouldn’t be up here, Issel.”
She cautiously climbed onto the thatch to get closer to him. “I helped Da mend it last time we had a bad storm.”
“Issel, mind yerself!” Maleen shouted from the yard. Hand on her hip, she frowned up at them.
“I will, Mumma!”
Issel sat on the roof a little farther down from the ladder and set her doll beside her. She hauled up a small bundle of thatch that hung by a rope off the eaves.
Barbarus asked, “Did you set the rabbit snare this morning like I showed you?”
Issel fussed with some straw and did not answer.
Barbarus raised a brow.
