by Shean Pao
The demon lifted his lip, revealing protruding fangs. Muscles flexed across a powerful torso beneath dark skin. His head was elongated, with a sloping brow and batlike nostrils. Horns spiraled out above both ears and coiled behind his skull. Flat, black eyes, devoid of compassion, tracked Barbarus’s movements. He wore a wrap of knee-length bear hide around his hips.
The demon took a step forward, and Barbarus shouted, “Stay away!” He scuttled backward.
The demon stopped, and his face fell slack. One of his arms lifted, his claws opening to expose a calloused palm. His mouth dropped open wide, revealing rows of dark, sharp teeth. Though he did not move his lips, Rash’na’Kul’s voice erupted from the cavity.
“Barbarus, give me the essence.”
Barbarus half-straightened, horrified. This was a new trick he’d never seen before. “Master? I was taking it to the Willow Woman.”
“No. I will give it to the witch when we meet so that she may finish the scroll in my presence. Those are my conditions, or you will never go free.”
Barbarus’s blood ran cold, but he dared not disobey. He had thought he would bring the scroll to Rash’na’Kul when it was completed, not that his master would demand to see Anarra himself. Barbarus took the vial from around his neck and laid it in the creature’s palm.
“Now go. Arrange for her and me to meet.” The demon’s mouth closed, and then the creature slipped away among the white trunks of the woods.
Barbarus watched it go, fear knotting his stomach. He turned again toward the Willow Woman’s tower, this time with a foreboding nausea rising in his throat.
Chapter Twenty-six
The Spell that Starts It All
Anarra rose from the bed, away from Odhran’s sleeping form. She gazed at him for a few moments. Covers twisted around his hips, exposing his muscled torso.
A breeze brushed her hair, and she slipped over to the window where the ocean whispered, a storm of troubled thoughts keeping her from sleep.
Moonlight glided brightly over the waves, illuminating frothy crests. Stars sparkled overhead in a vast net of light.
Why are you awake, Anarra? she wondered. Why do you feel saddened when Odhran has returned?
She tried to pinpoint her disquiet but failed. Most likely she was simply unaccustomed to the terrible grief of loss. After the storm had passed, they had buried her minstrel’s body beneath the willow. It hurt to have seen it in the Moon Well yet been unable to avert it.
About to return to bed, a tug on her senses alerted her to Barbarus crossing into the protected area surrounding her tower. Alarm sang through her being. She didn’t want Odhran to wake and question what Barbarus was doing there. She clothed herself, drew a cloak around her, and fled down the stairs.
Now she understood the crux of her torment—why she could not sleep. She had yet to decide if she would complete the pact with Rash’na’Kul.
She met Barbarus outside, and together they walked in silence to the willow on the cliff. Her heart troubled her as they followed the same steps she had taken to bury her minstrel. The sorrow of losing him, of her crimes against him, lay heavy on her heart, and now here she was, considering another crime.
The ocean rumbled below them as they climbed the slope. Moonlight gleamed in shafts between the clouds, illuminating patches of the surf. Her tower stuck out of the waves like a brilliant finger of bone.
Her gaze slid toward the willow ahead. Freshly churned earth rose heady in her nostrils as they approached. The core of her heart still ached like an unhealed wound as fresh as her minstrel’s grave. A stone marked it, lying beneath a shadow of the tree’s long branches. It read: “Here rests the song of my heart.”
Make a choice, Anarra.
Words she had spoken to Barbarus months ago surfaced in her thoughts. Freedom brings responsibility. Once you decide, understand that those decisions affect others. Make the wrong choice, and you may kill a man or lose a kingdom.
She could live with Odhran, encased in his love. Be content with her life, blessing the people who brought her tokens, be the Willow Woman …
Or she could be something else.
The Feather flared in her thoughts, an unsettling symbol that both dismayed her and lifted her heart. She wanted to be free—free of the tower, free of the prison. But she might lose Odhran.
Odhran or the Feather. Why must she have to choose?
She heard Barbarus’s question echo in her mind. Can a creature change its nature?
Anarra closed her eyes.
Perhaps not, Barbarus. Perhaps not.
I am Aes Sidhe.
Her gaze darted to her friend. Worry edged with hope struck his brow, highlighted by the moonlight. They should both be free. He had given her a token. Would she refuse him? She never denied a gift. Anarra searched Barbarus’s face. He seemed tense with dread, agitated, casting furtive glances at her.
She rested her hand on his shoulder to reassure him and asked, “What is it?”
Barbarus shook his head. “I gained the essence, but my master took it. He demands you meet with him to finish the spell scroll in his presence.” Worry lined his forehead. “I do not trust him.”
“Ah,” she answered, letting her gaze drift toward the tower. “The Nepha Lord has started his games, then. I had wondered when he would begin them.”
Barbarus stared at his feet.
She squeezed his shoulder. “I am aware of how the Nepha Lords ‘negotiate,’ Barbarus. Do not be so concerned. I am not unprepared.”
She instructed Barbarus to tell his master where they should meet. “Come to me after you are free,” she added.
He grinned at her, then scampered away.
Anarra’s gaze turned to the tower in triumph.
I am Aes Sidhe.
* * *
The little stone hut crouched like a desiccated beetle with its wings torn off, hidden in a ravine within the darkest part of the wood. A twisted, leafless tree menaced over it, picking sparse thatch off the roof with brittle, windblown fingers.
Anarra moved about inside, cloaked and hooded like an old woman, ducking stringed baubles hanging from the rafters. Moonlight shafted through the roof in pearled columns of light, pinning the strange items in frozen illumination while plunging others into gaunt shadows.
She snatched something within reach, tossed it into a mortar, and crushed the item into dust with the pestle. The wind howled past, rattling the hut’s frame, tripping and clattering clay chimes. It brushed a sprig of withered mistletoe, caressed the dried foot of a mouse, and rocked three dead hummingbirds bound with red twine.
Anarra bent over the contents and murmured, her voice filled with the sound of the ocean.
Ceangailteacha an saol chun cumhacht.
Glaoigh ar an ghealach.
Na taoidí ársa shníomh le mo tairisceana.
She pinched dust from the mortar and sprinkled it over a parchment spread before her, illuminated with scrawls and strange symbols. When the powder touched the ink, it flared in a white glow.
She worked with diligence and in silence but for her whispers. A candle and three silver bowls heaped with black stones held down the corners of the scroll. Collectively, they were the most powerful items in the room. One bowl held runes of earth magic, one held runes of sea, and the third contained runes of fate. They were indistinguishable from each other, but Anarra could hold a stone in her fingers and glean what power it possessed.
She continued to mourn her minstrel. She wished the band of agony in her chest would go away, but it tightened around the muscle of her heart. This, then, must have been the pain she had seen upon herself in the Moon Well. She had thought it would be Odhran that she would grieve over, not a mortal.
That sorrow might still come to pass if he discovers what I am doing.
She lowered her head, almost breathless with worry. No, he would forgive her this thing once he knew she did it for her freedom, for their future together. He would understand once he saw the Feather.
She swallowed back the memories and set to work, refusing to acknowledge him, aware of the insult she gave.
Come inside. Come inside my little web.
The Nepha Lord waited, a scowl darkening his hooded features, then entered.
This dilapidated shack also carried insult. He was not received—she granted him no respect of his station, no palatial reception, not even a goblet of wine.
Anarra felt like cackling. Tonight she portrayed the moon aspect of the old crone, the withered lady. She didn’t cackle, but she did gloat.
“What is this … place?” His tone held ill-concealed rancor, and Anarra smiled inwardly. She had won the battle of who will speak first. Old magic, this war of dominance. Usually its influence was too feeble to make a difference, but she still liked to play its game.
“Somewhere to meet,” she answered, cloaking the power of her voice. No need to reveal all of herself—or where they really were.
“Why not your tower?”
“What tower?”
He pushed back his hood. Moonlight struck his features and fractured over the symbols of protection and mastery tattooed across his bare skull. Ice-white eyes fixed on her. Their leaking pupils slid in a slow spill like oil, making the hair on her arms rise.
Rash’na’Kul’s jagged frame towered over her. “Do not toy with me, witch.”
He’s a Nepha Lord. Don’t take his threats lightly. But she indulged her mood for taunting disobedience. Tonight the Willow Woman wove freedom and crafted ruin.
Anarra tilted her head and whispered a word. Moonlight caught her pupils with white pinpoints of light, like a wolf’s peering from the woods.
He gave a snort of derision, dismissing the threat her eyes offered. “I came for the spell, not cheap illusions.”
She dropped her gaze down to her work. “It’s not ready.”
He seemed to accept this and glanced about, taking in the room: tiny bones of birds, scraps of insect wings, jars of jellied eyeballs. His attention fell on the silver bowls containing the odd stones. He stared at those the longest, then returned his gaze to her, a smirk on his lips.
His expression told her everything. He didn’t believe her portrayal of the simple witch, working with mundane ingredients hanging from rafters. He would remain wary of her reputation. But he didn’t search beyond the insult that ruffled his feathers. He didn’t see the web. She loved the trap within the trap. It would lie dormant unless she needed it.
“You have the vial Barbarus acquired?” She held out her hand, her palm entering a strand of moonlight that illuminated her skin. No future or past was etched upon it. None of the Aes Sidhe possessed fate lines.
He set the tiny container on the table instead. His contemptuous glance told her that his slave had revealed everything. She had expected no less.
Moonlight struck the glass, flaring. Particles of white light shimmered as if diamonds filled the vial. She sensed extra power within, the twin echoes of love fused together. It gave her pause. How had Barbarus managed that? No doubt it would make the spell more powerful, but in what way?
She dismissed the question. It didn’t matter to her. She only wanted the Feather.
She reached for the vial, then paused. “Barbarus is freed from your service after I give you this scroll.” Her voice held a hard tone. There was a binding of old magic in their pact, something neither would escape easily without repercussions. Saying the words out loud reaffirmed its power.
Rash’na’Kul bared his teeth. “I will free Barbarus twenty-four hours after I receive the spell scroll and not a second sooner. He is bound to perform one last mission I will ask of him.”
“The task must be finished within that day,” she said, her throat hot with rancor.
“As we agreed.”
They locked gazes. Anarra saw her own hatred reflected in his face. They bore each other an intrinsic loathing, born in their bones and their craft and their bearing.
“As agreed,” she acquiesced, lowering her eyes. She had lost that battle. She could do nothing to force his hand before its time.
Choosing carefully, she picked runes from two of the bowls and dropped them in a tiny velvet bag within the mortar.
With an impudent smile, the Nepha Lord drifted away, dismissing her. As she had planned, his gaze fastened on the objects littering the hut—distractions to hold his attention while she concentrated.
But her blood went cold when he said, “Although he will no longer be under my protection. It is a dangerous world.” His shoulder lifted in casual dismissal. “No doubt he will swiftly expire, like a deer to the wolves.”
His words did not hold empty threat. Rash’na’Kul would free Barbarus, then kill him.
Rage exploded within her, a tornado of wrath that gathered power by sucking in all the bitter storms of recent losses and failures. It caught her off guard, made her tremble. She would not show him her fury, would not reveal how deep his knife had cut.
Impulsively, she snatched a rune from a silver bowl and tossed it into the velvet bag before he saw her. A thrill edged with fear shot through her. To randomly pull such a powerful stone and not know what mark it bore invited the unknown. Would her deed change the course of actions to bring her the Feather? Was that why the vision of it shifted between two realities, ebony and fire?
Regret blossomed and caught her breath. Why had she allowed him to goad her? But she refused to detour from her path now that it was chosen.
Her throat tightened while she crushed the stones in the mortar, the pouch keeping the precious powder contained. Time stretched and twisted in the Making. She was altering the fates. She poured the contents of the vial over the bag, letting it soak within the mortar. It glittered wetly, as if coated in fairy dust.
Such a weaving was not uncommon for her, but this Making froze her blood. The future changed and twined into something so complex it made her pulse pound like a frightened bird’s.
Memory of the visions in the Moon Well resurfaced: devastation, war, the expanding string of lives rippling outward into a web of intertwined destinies.
Her heart spasmed in pain, but she did not stop, for hovering above it all floated the image of the Feather. She had tried not to dwell on it, focusing all those months on saving her minstrel. Now the Feather surfaced again, burning before her eyes.
She wished for Odhran, but he would try to hinder her. When she returned to the tower, she would finally explain everything to him. He would understand.
He must.
Anarra rolled the parchment and fastened the strings of the velvet pouch around it, anchoring the two together. She lit a slim taper, tipped it to drip hot wax, and sealed the twine onto the scroll which bound the bag. Anarra then put her tongue to the wick. She whispered a word as the flame extinguished. She tied the candle to the spell with a red ribbon.
She glanced up and found Rash’na’Kul staring at her greedily. He stepped forward and closed his fingers around the scroll, but Anarra did not let go. They stood with the power of the parchment thrumming between them.
“Barbarus is released,” he promised, “save for one more deed.” He bore a contemptuous smile.
Anarra’s anger swelled again at the mocking in Rash’na’Kul’s eyes, taunting her with the threat of his slave’s death. If she had to, she would shelter Barbarus inside her tower forever.
The Nepha Lord would not win this game, she determined. He played it against a master. Anarra changed the course of the future; she had twisted the spell of Binding into something different. Fates would alter, lives take different paths. Deep fear lay within her, but the deed was done.
She said, “To bind a demon to you without the branding, it must be of your own seed. Choose carefully the mother who bears your child, for her nature will reflect the child’s.”
He drew closer to listen to her words.
“That alone shall not keep its powers bound to you,” she continued. “Upon its birth, light this candle with the flame from the Sacred Fire of Brig and mix this powder with your own blood. Use it to write the runes within this parchment onto the baby’s crown and spine with no break in the markings. Do it before the candle is spent, and the demon will be yours to command.”
“I will remember,” he said eagerly. He tugged on the scroll.
She refused to release it. Something in his eyes gave her warning.
A twig snapped.
Anarra ripped the scroll from Rash’na’Kul’s grasp and spun around, but a hulking presence loomed upon her. Easily towering over six feet, his wolfish features blasted a shockwave of recognition.
Gevauden.
He grabbed her arm with one hand as his other gripped the base of her head, encircling her skull. They collided with the table as he bent her back, scattering her bowls and runes. The hood of her cloak dropped, and her white-blonde hair fell over the disrupted remnants of her conjuration.
She felt the muscles of Gevauden’s body, the long limbs thrumming with strength. Her small figure trembled like a child’s next to his. She couldn’t move, and pain lanced her spine from being pressed hard into the wood.
“Hello again, my lovely sorceress.” The same voice that had crept into her nightmares, rich and melodic, a silken snare of seduction. “Oh, how I have dreamed of this.”
Gevauden lowered his head to her breast and drew his nose upward along her throat to her cheek, breathing in deeply. He glanced up and grinned at the Nepha Lord.
“Get on with it,” Rash’na’Kul said with venom. “Remember, the corestones are mine. You can have whatever else is in the tower.”
“Agreed.” Gevauden nodded, then brought his gaze back to Anarra. “You shouldn’t have come out of your tower.”
Anarra curled her fingers hard around the scroll in her hand.
“Don’t let her damage the spell!” Rash’na’Kul shouted, lurching forward to take it.
Anarra dropped the parchment, and it rolled into the shadows under their feet.