The Feather and the Moonwell Read online

  The crowd’s gasp resounded over the field like cloth tearing.

  But Anarra was hardly finished. The charger cavorted upon the knight’s body in a rampage of pounding hooves until someone dared to grab the reins and drag him away.

  Anarra’s silver ribbon, pinned to the knight’s surcoat, bled crimson and shriveled into a ball, soaked in his blood.

  Four squires carried the knight’s shattered body from the field. Shards of wood had splintered through his throat; his limbs had been broken into strange angles, trampled by his crazed warhorse. A violent death, even by Anarra’s standards, though she had shortened his suffering, if only to flee the box sooner.

  The crowd surged and dispersed like ants panicked into confusion. Released from the knight’s meager spell, Anarra drew up her hood and vanished into their midst.

  As she left the town, the sun sank below the horizon, and the Lighting Ceremony commenced. Poles were lifted and set into sheaths driven into the cobblestones along the streets. Lanterns swung from their ornamental curved tips, illuminated by scores of starflurries trapped within. The insects spun and struck at their glass prisons like sparks from a smith’s forge, a multitude of tiny, clinking suns vainly seeking freedom.

  The Willow Woman escaped the city of Ethcabar. But she kept the knight’s token dangling from her wrist—a trophy she would add to her collection. Though its spell was spent, it would be forever branded with the memory of his lifeless gaze.

  * * *

  Barbarus crouched like a gargoyle atop the stables to watch the tournament, his presence cloaked from wandering eyes by magic. The suarachán sank the long, black claws of his feet into the lip of the eave and settled his chin on his knees. The fingers of one hand trailed over the withered muscles in his right leg, gnarled from injury. It often ached in damp weather; here in the warmth of the sun, his leg felt gloriously free of pain.

  Barbarus studied the knight’s bloodied body while the stretcher bore him away. Focusing his powers of Eastóscán sight, he viewed the blue Strands of the Willow Woman’s magic twisting around the corpse, then fading like spirits teasing out a soul.

  For months he had searched for a sign with little hope of finding her. When he’d learned of the fair, he had arrived with the goal of discovering someone who would set him on the trail of the Willow Woman.

  But he had struck closer than he had dared dream when he saw her on display high above the tourney fields. Witnessing her fearsome enchantment upon the knight, he knew this was the woman he had seen displayed in his master’s magical flames.

  Barbarus tracked the departure of Anarra’s cloaked figure as it vanished into the crowd. He leaped down into the throng, desperate to follow, but the hundreds of bodies packed into the streets swallowed her.

  Her Thread fluttered, spiderweb thin, a fading scent on the air. Barbarus cursed, panic twisting his gut. He raced through the crowds, moving surprisingly fast despite the limp caused by his twisted leg.

  No! I cannot have lost her! He sagged against the whitewashed building of a cloth merchant while the festival grew more excited. He rubbed fretfully at his shorn horn.

  Colorfully masked men appeared among the spectators, swirling bright ribbons or long burning reeds. The laughter grew more riotous, disturbing his concentration.

  Barbarus trembled at the thought of returning to Rash’na’Kul without knowing where to find the Willow Woman. His master’s patience had been wearing thin for weeks.

  Think of something! He cast his Sight into the crowd but failed to find her. Until … he heard whispers rustling among the townsfolk like wind through a field of wheat.

  “Tuatha Dé Danann.”

  “The Willow Woman.”

  “The Woman of the White Tower”

  Barbarus followed their Threads, moving quickly before their murmurs faded.

  Chapter Two

  The Feather

  On a cliff above the ocean, lightning-blue streaks traced the trunk and limbs of the Guardian Tree as Anarra appeared beneath it. She basked in its comfort, relieved that its power had transported her home safely.

  Fading sparks traced the willow tree’s branches while she stepped toward the cliff’s edge, her gaze taking in the shoreline where the sea caressed a sandy beach.

  Anarra lifted her palms high. A coiling mass of mist rose over the water. As she swept her hands down, the mist plummeted, dissipating over the sea to reveal the bone-white finger of her tower rising out of the waves.

  The sun loomed beside it like a glowing orange ball. Waves washed against the black stone base of the spire, smoothing it to a high polish. Light glittered crimson on its white walls. It reminded Anarra of blood spreading upon the edge of a knife.

  I dwell within a two-edged sword, she thought. The very structure from which she drew her power also kept her captive. Both sanctuary and prison.

  Her Star Tower stood within a slender fracture in time, separated from the world of men—a shelter where she sustained her life force untouched by the ravages of the years.

  How many decades had it been since she had left her tower for as long as she had this day? Time howled around the perimeter of her refuge, waiting for her to stray long enough for it to claim her.

  “Not today,” she whispered.

  She couldn’t remember how many hours she could leave it and not grow old. If she remained outside her field of power long enough, the aging process might even accelerate. Given the centuries through which she had maintained her existence in this world, she feared what time would do to her body. But returning to Tir na nÓg was unthinkable.

  Through the years, her abilities had expanded the walls of her prison, allowing her to venture into the woods or across the hillsides for several leagues. It gave her some respite, but it did not ease her loneliness.

  There were other reasons to remain concealed within her tower. Enemies who stalked her like wolves. That much she still remembered. Here, she was shielded from their gaze. She had come here to hide from them and had trapped herself in the making of her fortress.

  Amber light rose higher while the sun sank, haloing the side of the tower. Thirty feet up, the white walls spiraled. A crystal dome capped the room at the top: Anarra’s Star Chamber. Twin turrets rose east and west, flanking the room like stone brushes painting the sky in copper and orange flames. An alabaster platform ringed the spire like a circlet. No railing framed the five-foot-wide walkway. Its edge dropped precipitously to the quiet waves.

  Anarra turned away from the great willow standing sentinel on the cliff. Weaving her way through the stunted tufts of heather and whirr-weed, she descended the incline toward the beach.

  She waded out into the water toward her tower. The tide flowed low, only lapping over her ankles. The heaviness she had escaped from for the day settled on her shoulders like layered chains. Loneliness descended with it, linked to the sound of the ocean, the forlorn cry of the wind singing through the turrets. Familiar sounds of her entombment.

  Passing through a door, she climbed the stairs that spiraled within the core of the tower, stopping only to change her clothes.

  When she entered the Star Chamber, the domed ceiling and surrounding walls faded like melting ice, revealing miles of ocean and countryside around her.

  Silver filigree cords the width of a finger spun a pattern embedded in the marble floor. They tightened into a coil in the center of the room, where they formed into a pedestal of frosted glass shaped in the frozen image of a wave.

  Delicate and translucent, the pedestal reached her breast and held a paper-thin pearl bowl.

  Anarra strode to the edge of the floor, her gaze fixed on the setting sun. Smears of crimson and burnt-umber clouds spread along the horizon. She longed to capture such colors on canvas but knew it was beyond her skill. Even the gray gulls held color, their underbellies hued with muted orange as they winged across the sky.

  Once the sun had set, Anarra crossed to the pedestal. Her long-sleeved gown flowed like spilled cream over th
e marble and curled round her feet. She cupped her hands about the bowl while it filled with liquid. Anarra’s own features did not appear upon the surface, just the reflected mirror of stars overhead, like the lights of time flowing into a tide of destiny.

  Anarra dipped the tip of her finger into the water, sending ripples over the heavens. Her voice held the musical overtones of magic as she spoke.

  Visions in the Well,

  Speak to me of deeds.

  Men and bones and bones and men,

  We twine the Threads to see.

  Deep into the bowl she gazed, following the endless Threads of those fated to come to her, those who sought her service. The gifts they offered channeled their lives into Anarra’s power. They were her lifeline. Through them she became ageless. In return for their tokens, they received a blessing or a curse.

  Each item was added to her collection. Little else brought Anarra as much happiness as those presents. She cherished the power they gave her with a consuming obsession.

  But the Moon Well held a different kind of magic. Within it she glimpsed people’s futures and the tapestries of fate. She studied the numerous undercurrents that fed their destinies while she considered the changes she might make in their lives.

  Teasing scenes lured her to gaze for hours into the liquid glass of time. They flowed like mist over water, some quick, some languid. It eased her isolation to see peoples’ lives played out within the bowl.

  She thought about the fair, and the taste of soured milk filled her mouth. Her memories of the day should have contained color and warmth. Instead, they had been sullied by the knight’s actions. A cold hardness lodged beneath her breastbone like a stone of loneliness.

  If only I could talk with someone like myself. She instantly shied away from the notion of it. Too dangerous.

  She pushed away those desires. Focusing on the bowl, she searched for visions of the people who would seek her now that her name had crossed the lips of the townsfolk again.

  Instead, she witnessed something unexpected. She saw a dark figure washed in shadows and flaring torchlight. A strange garment draped him, covered in broken runes and bunched cloth. Beside him, entrails lay spilled from a hyena-like creature lying upon a worn bench inside a spell-wrought circle.

  At first she could not tell what he was doing. He stood within a vast chamber, hunched over an onyx pedestal that held a copper bowl. His hands moved, and she realized he was conjuring.

  Anarra’s chest tightened with apprehension. Who is this man? A sorcerer? The light glanced off him, and she caught her breath. It was not a garment that covered him. Discolored scars puckered his dark flesh.

  A Nepha Lord! A human sorcerer who dwelled in one of the deep levels of the Nine Hells. His body leaned aside, and an electric current of fear shot through her frame as she saw what lay upon the pedestal.

  Within the Nepha Lord’s bowl stood her own image, flickering within a bank of blue-green flames.

  “No!” Anarra’s heart pounded frantically. She sucked in air through her teeth, wanting to pull back from the vision yet not daring to. Why is he hunting me? He must have been the one whose gaze I felt at the fair. Terror thrummed through her veins, pushing Anarra to follow that vision’s Thread. She needed to travel where those twists of destiny might lead.

  Uncertainty ebbed through her panic as she observed herself handing the Nepha Lord a spell scroll. “Why would I do that?” she whispered, having no answer to offer. Never could she imagine herself working with such a creature. Nepha Lords are treacherous murderers. The Aes Sidhe leaders forbade contact with the demon lords after they betrayed us to the Tuatha Dé Dannan.

  The rest of that memory was frayed. Only the warning remained, like a pair of glowing red eyes in her mind.

  Anarra passed her hand over the bowl, asking it to show her the outcome of her deed. The surface undulated, and the Strands of fate splayed and ran outward like quicksilver to affect a thousand lives, then ten thousand. The connections blurred, and the Willow Woman drew back in confusion, startled at such a ripple of events.

  She’d never seen herself within the Moon Well, nor watched her action cause such extreme changes in the future. The sight unnerved her, and she blanched.

  What is it he seeks? What do I have that could change so many lives? A spell scroll? What power does it possess?

  Every person in the world who touched another life caused changes in the streams of destiny, she knew. Some ripples were small, others large. This one surpassed any she had seen before.

  More images flashed, many too quick to discern, though the features of a stunning man with black hair and translucent green eyes held long enough for her to grasp and steady it.

  The vision sent a shiver through her that she had not felt in decades. An unaccustomed ache stirred, a longing for true companionship. Would love arrive after so long? Hope, tentative and shy as smoke, began to tendril through her being. What did this man have to do with the Nepha Lord? Why were so many Threads connected to this vision?

  Anarra’s shoulders tightened when she followed the Thread of his link to her. Within the Moon Well, she saw herself wrapped in misery, a glimpse that raked icy fingers of dread over her spine. Anarra wanted the man and the love he might bring, yet she feared the pain it promised. She let go of his image with a mix of regret and longing.

  Scenes of a terrible war emerged, one side led by the figure of a woman warrior with crystals woven into her braided hair. Anarra viewed horrors layered upon one another, too numerous to understand.

  Wincing from the brutality of the pictures and dismayed by the vast destruction, she wheeled away. The images continued to flow over the surface of the Moon Well.

  Anarra crossed the room to the rim of her tower and listened to the rhythmic breath of the sea. She laid a steadying hand upon one of the four pillars and gazed over the drop to the froth of ocean many stories below. Her spirit eased, finding solace in the abiding night above and the vast horizon open for miles around her.

  She worried over the visions, pacing along the rim of the tower. Never had she observed such a large effect from her own actions.

  What was in that spell scroll?

  Menace and destruction loomed in what the Nepha Lord desired, threatening peril to Ethcabar, the lands of Éire, and perhaps bringing her grief as well.

  Why would she take part in such calamity? Yet she had seen herself in the waters. It made no sense. She needed the people in this world. She needed their life essence to continue her existence. Why would she endanger them?

  The events shown by the bowl were fluid, and though she possessed the ability to alter the outcome, tampering presented a great risk.

  Anarra spun back to the pedestal. She would deny the Nepha Lord, forgo the love she saw within the bowl. She would stay hidden within the Star Tower. The Nepha Lord would never discover her here.

  But what she saw next made her breath stop. She tightened her grip on the sides of the pedestal, fighting a desire to sink to her knees in awe.

  The swirling eddies of the Moon Well parted, and up from the depths of the dark water appeared a vision of the Feather.

  Anarra’s heart beat so fast it hurt her chest. She willed the muscle to slow, but its tempo caught in her throat.

  The Feather floated in a nimbus, in the myriad Threads of possibility, just within her grasp and yet as distant as a star.

  Black gossamer tips dipped in a curve of frothing smoke attached to vanes of midnight. A shaft of veined ebony secured the barbs. The calamus gleamed, stronger than iron, stronger than steel, tipped with a quill as sharp as a blade.

  Delicate hairs spun of darkness floated like foam. The plume held her soul with its dark perfection.

  Then, to her utter confounding, it metamorphosed into a dance of fluid, mutable flames. It bore the contours of a feather that burned yet was not consumed. The transformation was exquisite. Anarra had a moment to wonder, her mind transfixed by its glory, before it reverted to its lightless counterpar
t, black and void.

  The Willow Woman knew she had never gazed upon anything more beautiful. She couldn’t fathom what the Feather’s shifting—as if its actual creation vacillated—could mean.

  The Moon Well cleared, and from the vantage of a bird she saw her tower where it nestled in the waves. The scene sped over land. She observed hills and forests, towns and rivers. Ethcabar flashed by. The panorama pulled up and back, showing her all the land of Éire from the perspective of the distant clouds, then from space. She viewed the planet hanging in darkness yet surrounded by a faraway glow, shining amid an infinite display of stars.

  Understanding struck her like a spray of light, almost blinding. Her hands flew to her mouth. The Feather can bring me freedom!

  Elation flooded her with euphoria. The roar of waves rushed in her ears, followed by the pounding of her heart like the pulse of the sea—infinite, connected. Free to travel where she pleased for as long as she wished. Freedom to live … anywhere.

  Away from the Star Tower.

  Anarra desired the Feather more than anything she could imagine. She wanted it more than the man with the luminous eyes or any item she possessed in her collection.

  To the hells with the tragedies she’d seen in the Moon Well, caused by what might happen. The warnings of the Tuatha Dé Danann were antiquated, couched in controlling and strict customs. Why else had she left them?

  Who could say what the future wrought for the lives of those around her? Should it be her responsibility to keep foolish men from starting wars? Besides, if tragedy were poised to strike, she would find a way to avert it. She had great power to use as she wished.

  Anarra spun, her arms lifted high while her laughter rose into the night, caught by waves and wind, twisting upward toward the stars. She would be free!