by Shean Pao
Gratitude filled his gaze and he seemed unable to speak. Then he lifted his hand to gaze at it. “There are many things I need to learn now. I am in this body, and I have new emotions. I have—” He smiled, lowered his arm, and continued in a louder voice, “Freedom. Choice. I am not crippled now, nor in pain.” He paused. “You can’t imagine how wonderful it is.” Tears sprang to his eyes, and he half laughed, wiping at them.
Anarra took his hand as he inhaled a shaky breath. “My life seems stretched before me now, endless,” he said. “I am free to go wherever I desire. Free to be whatever I wish.”
Anarra pushed a twinge of jealousy away. They fell quiet to share his joy. Seagulls swooped over the receding tide. They landed on the beach below to make chucking sounds and peck at crabs hiding in seaweed.
Barbarus’s eyes showed concern. “What will you do now, avenge Odhran and hunt down Rash’na’Kul?”
“Hunt him?” She shook her head. “No. How can I? Would that he had died on the rocks when you both plunged into the ocean. But I might have lost you as well.” And the Feather, she thought. “The Maker is wise. I am not left entirely alone.” Grief welled within her. Confusion made her weary, so she shoved her sorrow deeper into a room inside herself and closed the door.
The fiery pyre drifted farther out to sea, and the smoke above it grew dark.
Anarra took a breath. “But I do not think the Nepha Lord will receive quite the spell he hoped for.” She gave a sidelong glance at Barbarus, and his eyes rounded.
“What did you do?” he whispered with a hopeful expression.
“When Rash’na’Kul and I met that night in the hut,” she said, “I was in the middle of grinding the runes when he told me that once he set you free, you would no longer be under his protection.”
“He always planned for me to die,” Barbarus finished for her, his face darkening.
“He thought to deceive me, an Aes Sidhe!” she went on. “When he wasn’t looking, I took a rune from the bowl of fate and tossed it in.” She flicked her fingers for emphasis, gave a shrug and a smile.
Barbarus chuckled, though awe hovered in his tone as he asked, “Do you know which mark it bore?”
“Not until later. I saw which rune was absent from the bowl—toil shaor. Free will.”
Barbarus sucked a breath. “The Maker must have led your hand in that choice. What will happen?”
She tilted her head, thoughtful. “Well, I doubt his demon will obey him without question. There is also the matter of the extra portion of love you gathered in the vial.” She lifted her shoulders, an indication that she had no idea how it might affect the spell.
“Issel’s and Maleen’s love,” he said fondly.
Her voice took on a determined edge. “But I still have a great deal of work to do.”
Barbarus studied her. “What sort of work?”
She straightened her back. “These magics are vastly ancient. It is hard to say what may come of them. But when I gave Rash’na’Kul that spell, I set in motion some horrible events, Barbarus, besides giving him a seventh-level demon to do his bidding. Things I must fix in some way. Must try to fix.”
“What sort of things?”
“Pain, destruction, and death.”
“I don’t understand.”
“There are consequences for what I did. I have seen the terrible wars coming to the people of Ethcabar, to the land of Éire.”
“Your Moon Well showed you this?”
Her face was stern. “You are the one who told Rash’na’Kul I possessed a Moon Well.”
Barbarus lowered his eyes with sadness. He lifted fingers to his brow, trying to rub at the place where his severed horn used to be, but it was there no longer. His hand dropped. “I am sorry beyond belief, Anarra.” Anguish caught in his voice. “He made me tell him all. He controlled me—everything I did. I did not mean for you to lose the Moon Well.”
“Rash’na’Kul did not steal the Moon Well.” A small smile kissed her lips.
Barbarus took a breath. “What?”
“Barbarus, do not grieve for what you could not help. I played a dangerous game. Odhran warned me. He told me not to traffic with Rash’na’Kul, that I would be sorry for it. How I wish I had heeded his words.” She paused when her chest tightened. “Rash’na’Kul took the bowl holding the water of the Moon Well, but that is all. It is a Moon Well, Barbarus. Not a moon bowl.”
Relief dawned on his face. “Your tower. The water is drawn up from beneath the sea and collected at the top.”
She nodded, and he raised her hand to kiss her palm. They uttered a small laugh. One triumph to share.
“Where will you go now?” Anarra asked.
“Go?” he gazed down at her. His eyes glimmered. “I hoped to stay. If—if I may.”
She smiled up at him in surprise and sudden joy. “Yes, I wish you would. I expected you to return to the widow and her child.”
“To visit, maybe. But I wish to help you, Anarra,” he said with determination. He squeezed her hand. “To change things.”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
“Perhaps he has not obtained the Sacred Flame of Brig,” he said. “We might still stop him. He is going to Cill Dara. You and I could travel there. Find a way …” His voice drifted off.
Stop Rash’na’Kul from finishing the spell that would ultimately create the very item she craved more than all others? Stop him from creating the creature that would bear the Feather? Anarra didn’t allow her thoughts to dwell upon it, nor form a plan to make it so.
With one stroke, she could stop the devastation she had seen coming in the Moon Well. But she would lose the Feather. She would be trapped forever in her tower of desolation. Odhran would have died for nothing.
“We might, but I cannot leave the Star Tower, Barbarus.”
His brow furrowed. He glanced at the towering stone, then back to where they both stood on the shore.
“I am unable to go far from here—no more than a few leagues, and never for very long. The power I draw from my collection binds me.”
“There are no spells to free yourself?” He seemed distressed, but she only smiled sadly.
“None that I know of.” She told him the truth, somewhat.
“We will find a way. I am an Eastóscán. We will find a way,” he said with determination.
Smoke drifted to them on the wind, and Anarra shifted her gaze back to the water.
Yes, Barbarus, there is a way, but you will not find it nor bring it about. And I have a great deal of work ahead—wearisome work.
But then … there was still the Feather to anticipate. There was still the Feather.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to the following people who helped me create The Feather and the Moon Well. You all had huge parts at various stages of the book.
David Farland, my editor, who is more than just a terrific writer and editor, but has become an incredible mentor. Thanks David for all the amazing things you do to help writers. To David’s assistants, Kary, Diann, and Kami, who really added the polish it needed.
To Kevin J. Anderson and all of his amazing team at WordFire Press. Thank you for giving this book life.
To my mother, who re-sparked the flame of Brig within me and inspired me to write again.
To my husband, who spent countless hours helping me develop plots and characters. I couldn’t have done any of it without his patience, love, and support.
To Lois Kolligan, who uplifts me and keeps me grounded at the same time, and is leader of my cheerleading squad.
To Terri Littlefield, who poured her heart into crafting Feather when it was in its infant stages.
To Wess Bassard, who said one day, “lets all write a novella” and thus this book was born.
To the members of my beta reader and critique groups: Chrissy Reyes, Ryan Allen, Diane Wallace, Jessica Outhyse, Suzanne Sutter, Dan Perdios, Gary Cooper, Ray Lovato, and John Fraim—your suggestions and ideas were invaluable.
To
Dustan Moon, who helped me put the final, glorious icing on this cake.
And to Jesus, who gave me the gift of writing, and shows me his glory every day.
About the Author
Shean was one of those children who became immersed in the world of fantasy at a young age. She read every fairy tale she could find and reveled in obscure tales like Baba Yaga and East of the Sun, West of the Moon. She adores Irish mythology, and a great deal of her writing reflects that love.
She began by writing poetry and short stories. By the age of fourteen she had completed her first book, but she never tried to have it published.
Though she wanted to be a writer and took college courses in creative writing, circumstances led her to obtain a degree in graphic design.
She returned to writing when her mother encouraged her to join the Palm Springs Writer’s Guild. The spark ignited and was fanned into a burning flame.
Her husband is also a graphic designer and a photographer. They reside in Southern California with two marvelous talking creatures—Zen, an African grey parrot, and CJ, a Sun Conure.
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