The Feather and the Moonwell

by Shean Pao

The Master’s Wrath

  “How dare you!” Rash’na’Kul rose from his throne and swept down to grab Barbarus by the throat. He lifted the quaking suarachán, choking him. With a cry of rage, he threw Barbarus to the ground, then spun away, hands balled into fists.

  Barbarus landed with a thud on the black floor, moaning in agony. He held his body in a tight curl for a full minute, then rolled onto his arms and knees, folded himself into a position of obeisance, and waited, trembling.

  Spittle flew from Rash’na’Kul’s lips. “You plot behind my back, Barbarus. You disappoint me.” His voice held all the loathing of a viper. Barbarus cringed.

  Barbarus had suspected, when he presented Anarra’s terms for the spell scroll, that he would invite his master’s wrath. Twelve stones was a small fortune, yet his servitude was worth even more.

  “When did you decide to free yourself from me?” Rash’na’Kul strode toward him. “I created you! You were nothing before I dragged you out of that swamp, scratching for worms to eat from rotting flesh. I showed you how to track things out of the Void. I taught you the skills of an Eastóscán!”

  Barbarus quivered and wrapped his fingers around his head.

  The Nepha Lord towered above him. “You are a stranger to yourself. You think you want something different than to serve me. But serving me defines you. I give you purpose!”

  Barbarus risked a glance up. Rash’na’Kul stood glaring at him fiercely. He is restrained from beating me because he needs me to get the other ingredient.

  Rash’na’Kul wiped spittle from his mouth with his hand. “You think you will have a different life, that you can be more esteemed than the twisted, pathetic creature you are. But it is too late, Barbarus. Too late to change your mutilated body and your scarred mind. You cannot change”.

  You mutilated me, Barbarus thought with sudden anger. He tried to squelch the emotion lest it be revealed on his face.

  He heard Rash’na’Kul growl and stalk a few steps away. He knew how much his master wanted that spell. He would be forced to comply with the Willow Woman’s demands.

  “Look at me, Barbarus.”

  Barbarus peered up, terror lancing his thoughts.

  “I agree to this pact,” he said, to Barbarus’s surprise, “but on one condition. Once I have the spell, you will perform one last task for me.” He held up a finger for emphasis. “A simple mission which I shall tell you then. It shall take less than a single day. Tell her this before we begin.”

  “I will tell her, Master.” Barbarus felt a wonder growing in his heart. Would he be set free? He didn’t trust his master. What task did he want from him?

  Rash’na’Kul smiled. “How much time will you need to find this item she requires?” he demanded.

  “I am not sure, Master.”

  Rash’na’Kul kicked Barbarus in the ribs, and pain exploded within him.

  “Get on with it! Go! Gather the corestones from my treasury and obtain the essence she needs. You do not have forever. I have other servants I can assign this task to if you cannot complete it. You have little time. Do not fail me.”

  Barbarus fled the chamber. He scampered through the corridor, his heart racing. His thoughts flew like starflurries. I don’t trust him. He won’t let me go. I know him too well.

  Barbarus slowed and then stopped. He spun and crept back toward the entrance to his master’s throne room, hid around a corner, and waited.

  Almost immediately he saw Rash’na’Kul stride into the hallway. Barbarus followed him deep within the fortress, staying in the shadows. He suspected where his master was headed, and he was correct. It was a place where he had often assisted him.

  Sliding into a vented alcove filled with empty barrels and shelves, Barbarus pulled himself onto a ledge. He tilted his head, trying to see between the slats. His heart pounded with fear, but he was determined.

  The chamber was narrow, built of red- and black-veined granite and lit with burning sconces. Set within the floor lay a long, rectangular pool of dark water.

  Rash’na’Kul spewed incantations over the liquid, and with the dagger of the Uaighe, he carved double marks into the flesh of his calf. His blood spilled into the water.

  The pool boiled, and steam rose over the surface. A snowy image flickered across the water.

  Barbarus knew, in the mountains far above Rash’na’Kul’s fortress, that a twin to this pool lay nestled within a secluded hollow. That was where this spawn was birthing.

  Smoke crept over the vision and congealed. Two twisted shapes appeared, formless at first, then taking on dimension while the surrounding mists receded. They gained thickness with each passing moment, as if being born and growing were all the same and came in mere breaths, one upon another.

  One form enlarged, becoming broad of shoulder, muscles taut across his chest and back. He hunched to glare around himself, his dark eyes furtive and cold.

  The other creature appeared diminutive—a wraith of tattered cloth and long, unkempt hair. She folded in upon herself, hiding her face beneath her tangled tresses—frightened perhaps, yet her hands curled like claws.

  Together, they seemed poised in limbo, these two shades, gazing at the snowy world around them.

  Rash’na’Kul waved his hand over the water and pointed to the smaller creature. “Bring me La’sar.” To the larger creature he commanded, “Follow Barbarus.”

  Neither gave the other notice, and when movement came it was sudden, each going in the opposite direction. The powerful male loped quickly, plowing his bulk through the drifts with ease. The female slid into the icy banks and through them like a hot knife slicing through butter. In moments, the two had disappeared from sight.

  Mist hovered over the water, spread thin, and vanished. Barbarus ducked back against the wall as his master passed. He waited, then took another path to the chamber where the corestones were kept.

  Anger that Rash’na’Kul had set a creature to follow him ruled within Barbarus’s heart. But it also made him wonder. How much did Rash’na’Kul really know of what he did? It almost made him smile.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Farm Boy

  For three weeks, Barbarus wandered the countryside, searching small villages, seeking to gain the last item for his master’s spell but unable to locate the right person. His finely tuned senses felt dulled, the scent diluted. But he decided that he shouldn’t be surprised.

  How could he use his Eastóscán abilities to find something that did not exist? He puzzled the paradox while trailing a whiff of possibility that his powers revealed like a scent of something exotically sweet, so faint it seemed a taste in the wind.

  Barbarus hunched his shoulders against a deluge of rain as he tromped down a muddy road. He tugged his floppy hat lower, trying to keep the wet from running down his back.

  Before leaving the caverns, he had taken great care to weave the illusion of his aspect, and he trusted that it appeared solid enough to withstand surprise. He did not want to repeat the incident that had occurred in Anarra’s tower.

  Cutting through a field, he approached a thatched house. He knocked timidly on the door. The light of day was fading, casting a gloom to the sky. The heat of a storm had just begun. Thunder rumbled in the distance, reminding him of his master’s voice echoing in a far-off chamber. Uneasiness wiggled up his spine.

  A young woman with sad blue eyes cracked the door.

  “Who are ye?” she demanded. He glimpsed a poker gripped behind her skirts.

  “Forgive me, mistress. I am Barbarus, a traveler from Ethcabar. I seek shelter from the storm. May I sit the night under your awning by the woodpile?” He offered a warm smile and let it enter his brown eyes.

  The woman hesitated, inspecting him, then opened the door farther. “I’m Maleen. Come inside or catch yer death.”

  “Blessings on you and your home, Mistress Maleen. You are most kind.” He glanced up as he felt the tiny sting from a magical ward of mistletoe fastened above the threshold, but it didn’t hold enoug
h power to thwart him. He entered the house.

  She owned a modest house with a dirt floor covered in clean rushes and dried lavender. The only light came from the hearth, which illuminated half of the room. A cauldron sat on the side bank, hanging from a metal swing rod bolted into the stone. Two rounds of bread dough were rising beneath a towel on the warming bricks.

  Nearby, a girl of about seven years huddled on a cot, her large blue eyes fixed on Barbarus. Her dark hair had been pulled back in a loose braid. A homespun blanket hid the rest of her.

  Maleen offered, “Hang yer wet things on the peg, there by the fire.”

  Barbarus peeled off his soaked hat and cloak. The garments dripped as he hung them. He wore a leather vest laced over a simple tunic with long sleeves. Beneath that were plain brown trousers and good walking shoes. His clothes were clean and fairly new. Setting a bundle tied with string on the floor, he held his hands to the flames, rubbing them while the woman moved about the house.

  Maleen scraped the bottom of the cauldron with a ladle and emptied the contents into a bowl. “Yer starved, I warrant, night like this.” She set down a cup of watered wine, the broth, a heel of bread, and a wedge of hard cheese on the wooden table and gestured to the food.

  He thanked her as he sat down on one of the two long benches, then ate with fervor, using bread to mop the stew.

  “There’s no meat,” she said by way of apology. “My husband died last spring.” She dropped her gaze, her expression stricken.

  “I am sorry for your loss, mistress,” he answered solemnly. He felt a twinge of something inside for the woman and realized it was pity.

  “’Tis the Maker’s hand,” she replied, brushing her fingers across her palm in a common gesture he understood to convey reverence for God’s decisions.

  Maleen removed the apron covering her blouse and skirts and folded it over a chair. She pushed back a strand of brown hair, tucking it into a braid bound up and pinned in a bun. She sank next to her daughter on the cot and wrapped an arm around her.

  When Barbarus finished his meal, he said, “Thank you, mistress. I thought I’d be spending the night under a tree in the cold.”

  “Ye can call me Maleen,” she reminded, “and this is my daughter, Issel.”

  He nodded to them. “Mistress Maleen, Mistress Issel. Thank you.”

  “Where ye headed, sir?”

  “Searching for work, but I’ve found little.”

  “Spring is coming. There’ll be fieldwork an’ planting. Fences to mend.”

  “Yes, I am hopeful. But I need to eat between now and then.” Laughter entered his voice. He rubbed at a spot above his forehead.

  “Ye can sleep by the fire. But be on yer way come morn’n.” Her tone sounded stiff, and the skin around her mouth pulled tight. He thought she had been pretty once, but a deep crease had centered between her brows.

  “Thank you.” He glanced down, dejected that he would have to keep searching in the morning.

  “Have ye traveled far?” Issel asked with a small voice, still hiding behind her blanket.

  “All the land of Éire,” he answered with a sweep of his palm and a quick smile at Maleen.

  “Can ye sing?” the girl blurted, her eyes wide and hopeful.

  “Issel!” Her mother’s chastisement bit the air, sounding both embarrassed and angry.

  Barbarus softened his gaze on the girl, regretting at that moment that he had no musical talents. He had never spoken to a child before, and wonder filled him. It was like conversing with something faé or otherworldly. “No, that I cannot do.”

  “Papa used to sing,” she murmured in a soft voice.

  “Off ta bed with you, Issel.”

  The girl slipped from beneath the blanket and limped to a ladder leading to the upper story. Her left foot twisted in, and she hobbled as she walked, though it did not slow her. She climbed the ladder to the sleeping loft and disappeared in the darkness.

  Maleen rose to her feet. “Good night to ye, sir.”

  Barbarus rose also, with a slight bow. “A good night to you, Mistress Maleen.”

  She climbed the ladder and pulled it up after her. A soft murmur followed, and then the house fell silent.

  Barbarus smiled.

  * * *

  At dawn, Maleen lowered the ladder and climbed down. The dishes had been cleaned, and a porridge simmered in a small pot on the coals. The door opened, and Barbarus entered. He carried a brace of hares and a handful of sage and rosemary.

  “Good morn’ to you, Mistress Maleen,” he said, his expression hopeful.

  The woman blinked, puzzled. “Good morning to ye, sir. Have ye been up ’fore the sun? I did not hear ye.” She glanced over as Issel climbed down.

  “Indeed.” He gave Maleen the rabbits and put the herbs on the shelf. “I thought I would fix the roof over the henhouse before I leave. The rain made the chickens very fussy. Only three.” He winked at Issel and held up the spotted brown eggs, palmed in his left hand, then offered them to the young girl. “Unless there might be other chores you would set me at?”

  “I’ve no money for ye.”

  “Shelter and food are payment enough, mistress.”

  Issel took the eggs in both hands, careful not to drop them while she hobbled, barefoot, to the side shelf.

  “Put yer shoes on, Issel.”

  “They hurt,” her daughter replied.

  Maleen sighed and moved to a low wooden table. She drew over a wooden bucket, picked up a knife, and started to skin the hares for a pie. “I’ve enough work to keep ye at it until midday meal, but no longer.” She ran her hand over the pelts. “Issel, take Barbarus along to help with yer chores.”

  “Yes, mum.”

  “An’ put yer shoes on.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Nature of a Beast

  Maleen allowed Barbarus to stay. For several weeks he helped work the small farm. On Sundays and some afternoons, Maleen and her daughter went to market and visited family. On those days he had a few hours to do as he pleased. Barbarus had never experienced that luxury with his master. Normally he would be focused on his tasks at all hours, rushing to complete them as fast as he was able. No time to dwell on his own pondering.

  Barbarus escaped to the only place he felt safe: Anarra’s tower, which was only a few leagues away.

  He paced the small painting room, which was made smaller by the clutter of canvases leaning against the wall. These held unfinished images—discarded efforts at seascapes or castles. Anarra told him they were poor attempts.

  Barbarus didn’t understand. Her previous paintings were just bland washes of color. These new scenes were far better, yet she seemed more frustrated with them than the others.

  Today he sought comfort in the Willow Woman’s company from the turmoil in his mind. Thoughts that multiplied the more he dwelled on them. He wondered if they had been spawned by his time at the farm. He had hours to spend, while performing his chores, just to think. What was his master plotting? Where was the creature that had been sent to follow him? He’d yet to see it. Would his master set him free once he possessed the spell? What if he couldn’t find the essence of love? Was he worthy of anyone’s love? He wished he could be different.

  “Can a creature change his nature?” Barbarus asked. He had abandoned her pictures and stood staring out the window.

  This was another topic of their growing conversations of late. Anarra always welcomed him no matter the hour. She never seemed to be sleeping when he arrived.

  “What is the ‘nature’ of a thing?” She dabbed more paint, working in watercolors today. A cotton apron protected her cream-colored gown. She wore her hair unbound, and it brushed her shoulders in a gleaming mass of white-gold color.

  He faced her. “What we are born to be. A human, a deer, a sprite, a … demon.” He frowned and rubbed at his forehead.

  “A caterpillar? A tadpole? A grub?”

  He considered her words, realizing that the creatures she had named all
involved a metamorphosis in their physical structure.

  “You have a choice of whether you wish to change, Barbarus.”

  “A choice?” He frowned again, feeling a flash of anger. “I have no choices. I am a terrible creature. I do terrible things.”

  “You do the things your master bids you so you can survive. Those are not your decisions.”

  “Still, I have done them. I am a creature of darkness.”

  She offered a soft huff of amusement. “Because you were born this way?” She regarded him, then poured a bit of liquid sky from a thin carafe into a small bowl. “You do not wish to be what you are. You think it dictates that you must do terrible things. I am not a creature of the Hells, and yet I have done horrible things. What you are born as does not make you what you are.”

  He fell silent, deciding to remind her of what he could not convey with words. He dropped the illusion of his human form.

  He expected to see revulsion on her face, but she showed only interest and kindness. For the first time in his life, he did not mind another studying him. So he stood and let her explore him with her eyes. He knew well the ugliness she gazed upon.

  Barbarus’s skin shone red and gold over elongated limbs. His fingers, tipped with black nails that curled toward his wrists, each carried an extra knuckle. His body was devoid of hair, and his muscles and flesh were riddled with fibrous scars. Two small horns protruded from a wide forehead, one broken and split, and fangs sprouted over his large purple lips. A simple leather shift clung to his wiry form, belted at the waist. One leg twisted in, its muscles withered.

  “You believe that because you have this body you are unlovable,” she said with a casual return to her work.

  Shock coursed through him. Now he understood the reason for his conflict. His heart dropped, then tightened.

  “There are stories of great magic held in the earth. Magic that can transform creatures.”

  “Stories?” she asked with a lift of her hand. “If they be true, who might know of them?”

  “You own a Moon Well—”

  “How do you know?” she said sharply.