by Shean Pao
“But I haven’t left my tower,” she said, letting the full force of her voice resonate with the power of sea, wind, and stars. Both men flinched with surprise. The fingers of her free hand sprang up and nicked the skin at Gevauden’s temple, drawing blood.
“Dún an gaiste!” Anarra shouted. Swirls of stars filled her eyes.
Gevauden was yanked upward and back as if a great creature had taken hold of him. His body crashed through the thin timbers of the hut, causing the roof to tilt precariously at the corner. A violent wind shrieked around them, drowning out his cry of surprise. Ripped free from the rafters, items flew about the room, scattering and smashing.
At the same time, writhing bands of white-blue light forced the Nepha Lord to his knees. They coiled around his forearms and legs, holding him down. He thrashed to no avail.
Anarra straightened and took a few steps toward the gap in the wall, away from Rash’na’Kul. She saw Gevauden pull himself from the shattered trunk of a rotted oak, destruction in his eyes.
She swept her hand as if wiping a window, and the illusion of the hut flickered. The edges of the hole solidified to replicate a stone doorway within her White Tower. Spreading a foot outward into the walls of the structure, the stone then faded back into the semblance of the gray, splintered boards of the hut.
A door, semitransparent and milky as thick glass, appeared in front of Gevauden before he could re-enter. He slammed his hands against it with a distant shout.
“Caught you, little fly,” she whispered with a smile.
She whirled away. The door vanished, and the illusion restructured into the image of the hut, completely repaired. She took a steadying breath. Crossing to the table, she picked up the scroll from the ground. The wind continued to rush around her, catching up debris to spin in a wild dance.
Rash’na’Kul knelt on the other side, still bound, flinching from the blows of flying litter. His face and hands showed bloody marks where objects had hit him.
Betrayal—the signature of a Nepha Lord. Anarra’s anger deepened. Did he think to beat her at this game? She was Aes Sidhe. Nothing on earth would change that. Not a war, not the deaths of thousands, not a Feather made of fire. She would not give him what he sought. Not entirely. Those who tried to alter an agreement with the Willow Woman suffered. She would make sure of that for years to come.
When the bands of light released him, he shot to his feet unsteadily, his breathing coming in quick gasps. The wind died.
“You and I still have business to conduct, do we not?” she said sharply. She held the spell scroll out to him.
His eyes widened, but he stepped forward and gripped the other end of it. A tingle of electricity passed between them, the binding of the pact.
Anarra let moonlight fall upon her face, knowing her countenance would appear hardened in that cold light. The color bled from her features, transforming her image sinisterly. The Nepha Lord drew back a step, raised his hand as if to counter a spell, but did not release the scroll.
Tides of the moon sped over her visage: the young Maiden, the nurturing Mother, the old Crone, all aspects of the moon goddess herself. She mouthed a word under her breath, letting him see the power of her eyes filled with stars.
Anarra revealed the web she had crafted beneath the façade of the hut. Glowing Threads crisscrossed over his body, tightening their grip. His hand clawed at his throat.
I could kill you now, she said with her eyes.
His own bulged, knowing it was truth.
If not for the Feather, she would have done it. The wanting of it made her tremble. If she killed the Nepha Lord here, Barbarus would be free. Odhran would love her without restraint. There would be no war upon the lands, no fields of bloodshed. She would be doing what was right. If not for the Feather.
Anarra’s voice echoed with the sea and wind. “Know that what you do brings death. What you do brings disaster.”
She leaned forward, the shifting of her features flickering faster, like the images that flashed within her Moon Well.
“Know that what you do cannot be undone.” She spoke the words for herself as well as for him.
The skin tightened around his mouth, becoming a grimace. He couldn’t speak. The veins in his temples throbbed purple.
Anarra released him. Rash’na’Kul stumbled back, tore the scroll from her hand, and fled out the door.
“So be it,” she murmured.
Fear closed her eyes, her choices made. We are going to set the world on fire.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The Pact
Barbarus’s heart thudded in his ears as he knelt before Rash’na’Kul in the onyx chamber, waiting to be told his last task. Fear tightened his sinews into singing bands of pain. Will he free me? Will he keep the pact with the Willow Woman?
Something was wrong. Ever since the Nepha Lord had returned with the spell scroll, a burning fury had contorted his features. His master should be elated, but instead he muttered angrily to himself. Barbarus didn’t dare ask him why.
Once Rash’na’Kul performed Anarra’s spell, he would be the first and only Nepha Lord to possess a demon bound to him without a branding. It would elevate him above the other demon lords with terrible swiftness. There was no telling how powerful he might become once he no longer had to scar his flesh and drain his own strength to keep his servants bound. So why was he fuming? Why were his eyes hooded?
“Barbarus, you are freed from my service,” his master said.
Barbarus raised his head to gaze at him in wonder.
Rash’na’Kul lifted a hand with an elegant sweep of his wrist, a finger extended, the long nail powdered in diamonds. “But you have one more task to perform, as agreed.” He paused. “No one else must be allowed to replicate the spell scroll.”
The back of Barbarus’s head and neck tingled with fear. What did his master mean? Terrible apprehension bubbled in his veins, coursing through every limb.
Rash’na’Kul placed the Uaighe blade against his ribs and sliced off the rune that held Barbarus’s name. The dagger keened in the vast chamber as it cut Rash’na’Kul’s flesh.
The Nepha Lord grimaced. Blood ran down his torso. He set the piece of skin upon the coals of a brazier standing beside him. A sickly sweet odor wafted into the air. The act freed Barbarus, yet it bound him to his master’s last errand.
The tingling vanished in Barbarus’s body. His limbs felt numb. Oppression lifted. For a heartbeat, he tasted a wave of euphoria. Then a crushing weight descended upon him, locking his joints and muscles. A vice closed around his head, and he stiffened as Rash’na’Kul’s final command seared his heart.
“Kill the Willow Woman.”
* * *
A scream escaped Barbarus like the whine of the Uaighe blade. It silenced as his jaw snapped shut. His teeth caught his tongue, and blood ran over his lip.
No, no, no! It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not like this! The Maker curse my master!
Barbarus shuddered. For a moment a vile buzzing filled his head, then dimmed. He felt unable to control his body, as if it were locked away from his mind. Fighting his master’s control of his limbs brought searing pain. His steps jerked as he left the chamber. If he didn’t struggle, his suffering ebbed to a bearable level.
Barbarus ran through the fungal-shaped hallways of his master’s abode, limped out through the low doorway, and into the cavernous darkness of the Sixth Hell. He tried to shift his course, to lope deeper into the tunnels, where he might be caught by a pit fiend and killed. But he could not stop his body from fulfilling the final task his master had set.
He crawled through narrow passages of porous rock and fibrous tubers. His guts curled into tangled spools of dread, knotting into an ache in his belly. Trying to resist the compulsion was useless.
He climbed up and up, out of the Hells, and sucked in breath upon the upper crust of the world.
The sun cast a bronzed glow over the tops of the new summer oaks and maples, but it was all a b
lur. Tears flooded his eyes, distorting his vision as he stumbled across the pine needles and dry leaves of the forest toward the ocean. Toward the Star Tower.
Barbarus knew she would open the wards when he arrived, trusting him. The agony of what he must do branded his heart and fueled a rage within him that choked his breath.
He crashed through brambles, his flesh torn by thorns as he headed deeper into the woods. The earth grew soft and damp, the forest canopy laced tighter and darker overhead.
He reached the edge of a murky swamp. Frogs jumped into the water, startled at his approach. Dragonflies zipped across the surface or lifted away over rotting logs. Green algae and frog eggs clumped within cattails, and tadpoles darted beneath.
Barbarus panted, exhausted. He wanted nothing more than to sink to the ground and sleep, but he could not stop. He started around the pond but found himself leaping into the water, compelled to swim across rather than take a detour. Barbarus thrashed in the swamp, went under, and swallowed the murky drink.
The surface glittered above him, filled with horror. He wanted to die, to drown here. But his limbs would not allow him to sink. They pushed him upward, toward air.
He didn’t want to kill Anarra. His whole soul fought against it. As he broke the water he cried out with wretched despair, “Maker, help me!”
Forced to swim onward, he climbed out of the pond on the other side. Gasping, lungs burning in agony, his tortured body continued to move forward.
Barbarus lifted his head and roared at the deepening heavens as his body lurched and crashed against a tree, startling a flock of roosting mourning doves into the sky. They flew blind with panic, their wings whistling a warning of danger as they rushed to escape a fear they could not name.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The Moon Well
Anarra set the gold pitcher on the oak sidebar. Pearls of condensation beaded on the cool metal and dripped down the sides, following the track of embossed flowers cradled in vines.
Delicacies flowed over the table, heaped in scalloped bowls and platters. Grapes, apples, pears, persimmons, slices of cheese, rich black bread, and a pie of apricots and goat’s meat with a crust baked to perfection. It was a celebratory banquet, and Anarra waited for the guest of honor.
Starflurry lanterns flickering in stone niches gave the room a warm glow, illuminating the tapestries. Their fabric depicted scenes of young women and men picnicking beneath large oaks. Light also filtered in through a large open window and fell upon an oak dining table set in the center of the chamber.
Anarra glanced at Odhran while she poured wine into two goblets. More than half a day had passed since she’d crafted the spell scroll. Barbarus would soon be free.
Anticipation gave her features luminescence, yet she hid a trembling. Losing her minstrel had left her as hollow as the now-empty room in her tower—an abandoned cottage where no music would ever flow again. She felt stripped, even fragile. The churned earth of his grave remained fresh in her mind. Dread settled there as well, stabbing taunts warning that she had set disaster in motion, that Barbarus was already dead.
Anarra glanced apprehensively at Odhran, who was standing across the room. Once Odhran met Barbarus, once they knew each other, she hoped he would see there was nothing to fear.
Nothing should spoil it. Yet Odhran’s disapproval of her dealings with the Nepha Lord caused her worry. She kept glancing at the door. The Binding would restrain Rash’na’Kul from killing Barbarus. But what if he found another way?
Odhran and Anarra had avoided discussing the events in the Star Chamber as well as the moon-and-sea figure of her minstrel. They skirted the topic as gingerly as circling a bog. Eventually they would need to span the gulf between them.
But Anarra wearied of the tension. She tried to mend their silence by giving Odhran the goblet of wine, but he lifted a hand in refusal. His other arm pressed hard against his body. Anarra’s anxiousness turned to annoyance. She set his cup down with a clank on the sideboard.
“You might as well voice your displeasure,” she said, lifting her chin. She pressed the cool edge of her own drink to her lips, taking a sip while she stared at him over the rim. She trembled, the spill of emotions these past few days leaving her tattered like an autumn leaf.
He glanced at her, shifting his eyes in a way that conveyed relief to finally discuss it. Pushing back the sleeves of his russet-colored tunic, he frowned. “Where did you go last night, Anarra?” Before she could answer, he said, “You gave Rash’na’Kul the spell, didn’t you?”
Would he start this argument again before they had repaired their other hurts? She straightened in defiance. “Yes, I did.”
He raised his hands in frustration. “Anarra, don’t you realize what you’ve done? He’s going to create an abomination. Who knows what evil this creature will commit?”
“Why do you care?”
Odhran gave his head a baffled shake. “Why do I care? Why is it you do not care what happens to the innocents he will unleash his darkness upon?”
“You are not of this world, Odhran,” she said. “You are Tuatha Dé Danann. Nothing happening here can affect your lands.”
“You miss the point!” he returned. “This world could be devastated. The people of Ethcabar might be obliterated.”
“You exaggerate,” she said. “You do not know that. Nothing may happen. I won’t let it happen. I have the power to alter fates.”
She wanted to show him the Feather in the Moon Well. Odhran would understand then, wouldn’t he? He would see how trapped she had been all these years within this tower. He would finally understand why she had fashioned the spell scroll for the Nepha Lord. She just wanted the Feather. She wanted her freedom. But she wouldn’t speak of it now, not when he was so angry. “When Barbarus arrives, I will show you—”
He interrupted. “What is the Nepha Lord giving you for this spell?”
Her mouth tightened, lips trembling. “He gave me things I needed to make the minstrel’s body. And …”
He exhaled sharply. “And?”
“Barbarus’s freedom.”
He approached, his large green eyes smoldering with accusation. His fine brows formed a tight V. Even his mouth showed displeasure, pinched in a frown. “Did you see nothing in the Moon Well to concern you?”
The visions of war and destruction she’d seen rose like a black tide in the sea of her guilt. A vast field of bodies and smoking ruins flashed like a bright, painful light in her memory. Bile rose in her throat.
What had she done? Did she truly believe that the Moon Well had lied? She had handed Rash’na’Kul the spell, knowing full well the risks. The Moon Well had shown her the results of her intent. Why had she not heeded? Was she so apathetic to the lives around her?
Another chilling thought occurred: What if everyone who had ever given her a token died? What if the massive slaughter destroyed the people who gave her power?
Panic flooded her; the wine in the goblet trembled.
Then the Feather lifted from the carnage in her thoughts, twisting in its glorious splendor, a shimmering flame holding all she craved. Its plumes danced like the tendrils of a fiery jellyfish floating in deep, black waves.
A blooming flower of guilt tightened in her chest.
Anarra muttered against her cup, coating her denial with excuses. “I’ll stop him from hurting anyone. Most likely he will just wage war against the other Nepha Lords for power in the Hells.” But the words sounded weak, and her tone lacked conviction.
“Is that what you believe?” Odhran lifted his arms in frustration, then let them fall. “He may start with that, but then what? What if he decides to rule Ethcabar as their new king? What then, Anarra?” His beautiful eyes darkened. “Don’t you understand the ruin coming?”
Her face paled. “What do you mean?”
“You are not the only one with a Moon Well.”
She shuddered. Did the Tuatha Dé Danann also view the future? Had they sent Odhran to spy on her? Had
he just revealed his true purpose for being here? Doubt took root in her heart. She stepped back. Then she shook her head.
“No. One creature cannot give him such power,” she asserted. “I tell you, Odhran, I will avert any calamity.” She fought her misgivings with anger now, and it changed the timbre of her voice.
“No? And how many is he restricted to making?”
His words reduced her blood into rivulets of ice. It had never occurred to her to limit Rash’na’Kul’s use of her spell. She had not considered he might create more than one offspring. Anarra stilled as he glared at her with controlled fury.
“So you finally understand,” he said.
Her lips parted, but she found no voice. Her hand reached up to touch her mouth, as if searching for words.
He won’t make more than one, she reasoned. He won’t know how.
But hadn’t she foolishly crafted the spell right in front of him? How hard would it be for him to duplicate it? He possessed the incantation. He’d seen her construct it. But no, not all of it.
Still, there were ways to decipher her weaves. The Nepha Lord might twist the spell into his own Making. If he obtained the Flame of Brig and kept it burning, he could reuse it endlessly.
She clasped Odhran’s wrist, about to reply, when she felt Barbarus seeking access to the tower. She turned her head as if listening.
“What is it?” Odhran asked.
Anarra offered a weak smile. The horror that had gripped her mere moments before dissipated. She would bury it in the joy of Barbarus’s arrival. Together the three of them would make everything right. They would find a way.
“Barbarus is here,” she said. “He must be free of Rash’na’Kul. He’ll tell us what the Nepha Lord intends. It won’t be so bad. You’ll see, Odhran. Let me return in a moment with him.”
Odhran tightened his grip. “Send him away. He is one of the Nepha Lord’s servants. You cannot trust him.”
“Barbarus is my friend.” On this point she would not give ground. She glared until he released her.
Anarra hurried down the steps. Her fingers trailed silvered glow along the walls. “Oscail na doirse ar mo bhaile fáilte a chur roimh mo chara.” She whispered the words needed to open the wards, allowing Barbarus entrance to the Star Tower.