The Feather and the Moon Well: The Brilliance of Sun, #1

By Shean Pao

 Legend tells of a sorceress, the Willow Woman, living within a white tower outside of the great city of Ethcabar, who owns a vast hoard of strange and curious items. If you bring her something precious to add to her Collection, she may grant your wish ... or curse you.
 

But when a vile lord from the sixth hell learns of the Willow Woman's powerful gifts, he sends his servant, Barbarus, to bribe her. By peering into her magical Moon Well, the Willow Woman glimpses an astonishing future—one that promises to bring her joy, though it could plunge the world into war and chaos. A story of selfishness, friendship, betrayal, hope, and the search for God, The Feather and the Moon Well is a magical tale built within the fringe of Irish Mythology. It is the first novel by Shean Pao in the epic series, In the Brilliance of Sun.
 

"In The Feather and the Moon Well, Shean Pao draws upon traditional tales of the fairy realm for inspiration, while creating a world that is uniquely her own. The resulting tale is richly drawn and completely seductive. This is a story that bears reading again and again."— David Farland, New York Times bestselling author of The Runelords series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Quietlight Productions, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393776185

Shean Pao

Shean was one of those children who became immersed in the world of fantasy at a young age. She read every fairytale 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 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 seriously 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, and they reside in Southern Oregon with four marvelous talking creatures— Two African Grey parrots, Zen and Anaiah, a Blue-Fronted Amazon, Griffin and CJ, a Sun Conure. Shean would love to hear from you. If you enjoyed The Feather and the Moon Well, please visit her website at www.shean-pao.com Be sure to watch for the upcoming sequel: The Nepha Lord’s Daughter

Book preview

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, and 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, orange and cold. 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 of men, she feared what time would do to her body. But returning to the safety of Tir na nÓg was unthinkable.

Through the years, her abilities had expanded the walls of her prison, allowing her to venture to the woods or hillsides for several leagues. It gave her some respite, but 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 in layered chains. Loneliness descended with them, 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-—the sea flowed before her. 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 the marble and curled round her feet. She cupped her hands about the bowl while it filled with liquid and looked into her Moon Well. 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 with a consuming obsession the power they gave her.

But the Moon Well held a different kind of magic. Within it she glimpsed people’s futures and the tapestries of fate. She studied all 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.

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 bound 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, but discolored scars that puckered the skin over 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 rested upon the pedestal.

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