The Shadow Wand

by Laurie Forest

  Scared of all wands.

  Scared of myself.

  I lie there on my thin bedroll, thinking on these things, as I listen to the high-pitched scrape of Ni Vin’s knife on stone, the blade catching the firelight and flashing in unspoken warning.

  We’ve both been gravely silent for most of the journey, my power like a menacing third companion that we can’t shake. Every so often her narrowed eyes flicker in my direction, and I wonder if she’s imagining dragging the sharp edge of her knife across my throat.

  She’s known the true nature of this power of mine for some time. It’s an enemy as familiar to her as her own melted hand and ear. And now I know it for what it is, as well. It bears no resemblance to the romanticized magic from the tales of my grandmother’s battle adventures. It’s the fire that killed most of Ni Vin’s family, that terrorized and destroyed entire villages filled with her people. I remember how she once said that she was “cursed to live.”

  As she continues to scrape the blade, I realize my life balances on the razor’s edge of her weapons. I should be frightened by the grim indecision in her eyes, but my resonating shock from having learned the destruction I’m capable of overrides all other concerns.

  * * *

  The next morning, traveling next to Ni Vin on horseback with barely a word spoken between us, I eat only to stay strong, barely tasting the square cakes of oily grain mixed with long shreds of dried fruit that have become our staple. I drink to stay alive, although the water is sour on my tongue, and all the time I wonder what evil thing I’m feeding.

  Just before reaching the Southern Spine, we come to a sheltered riverbank, morning sunlight setting the water shimmering, the buzz of insects pricking at the air.

  I let the heavy Vu Trin garb slide off my body with grim reluctance. The Noi weave offers protection from fire and the sharp points of arrows and knives, but almost as important, this garb provided the illusion that I could be accepted by a new people. That I could be something other than what I am.

  I leave the clothing folded on the riverbank’s rocky ground, grit my teeth, and quickly submerge my faintly green-glimmering body in the river, the water so cold that it sets me shivering, rigid goose bumps rising on my flesh as Ni Vin watches, impassive, from where she sits on a flat boulder. The intricate black lines of the shield-safe rune my friend Sage marked on my forearm and the demon power–sensing rune she impressed on my abdomen stand out in sharp relief on my cold skin.

  Memories of my reunion with Sage a few months ago in the Amaz lands trigger a sharp longing for friends and family.

  Where are you, Sage? I wonder. Is your Icaral baby safe and did you make it to Noi lands? Are you there with my brothers and Diana and her brother Jarod and everyone else I love?

  Are you there with Yvan?

  I stiffen, forcing down the fierce yearning to be with loved ones until it’s buried deep inside.

  My resolve steeled, I quickly finish washing. When done, I emerge from the river and wrap myself in a rough blanket then stand glaring at the fine Gardnerian clothes and cloak that Ni has set out on the flat, broad stone before me. Clothing Chi Nam was savvy enough to have at the ready in case I needed to flee.

  The morning breeze picks up the edge of my blanket and sends a chill snaking around my ankles.

  Feeling as if I’m voluntarily swallowing poison, I go about meticulously putting on the garb of my people—the silken undergarments and stockings, the slender, dark leather boots, the flowing black long-skirt. I thread my arms through the formfitting tunic, my breath catching as Ni firmly cinches the lacing that runs down my back and I tie it off.

  She hands me the dark cloak, and I fasten it around my shoulders.

  Then I slide the wrapped-up Wand of Myth back into the side of my left boot and push Chi Nam’s rune stone deep into my tunic pocket, the feel of the stone through the silk the only thing able to quell my rising sense of dread.

  * * *

  Later that morning, Ni and I reach the Southern Spine, the ragged peaks looming overhead.

  I watch as Ni Vin waves a stone marked with blue Noi runes over the flat, sun-dappled wall of rock before us, this section of Spine-stone rising higher than the Valgard Cathedral. An ache of longing cuts through me as I remember how Yvan effortlessly scaled this Spine as I clung to him with my eyes closed, terrified of how high we were.

  Today, I will not be going over it.

  An arc of sapphire runes similar to those on Ni Vin’s stone appear on the Spine-stone, first as a faint outline, then as clear markings. Ni Vin presses her stone lightly on the series of circular runes, and part of the Spine-stone turns misty and disappears to reveal the tunnel that’s to be my path into the newly annexed Keltish Province of Gardneria.

  I turn to Ni Vin, my travel sack slung over my shoulder, and wait for her to hand me the dhantu stone that will illuminate my way.

  Instead, her hand goes to the hilt of her sword and her expression goes raptor-hard.

  The blood drains from my face in a light-headed rush as I’m pinned by Ni Vin’s merciless glare. She could strike me down in an instant, and we both know it.

  “I know you have considered killing me,” I say, my voice low and careful.

  “I consider it now,” she replies without malice.

  “Everyone I love,” I tell her, my voice quavering with emotion, “every single one of them will be destroyed if the Gardnerians win.”

  Her hand remains firmly on the hilt of her sword. “Elloren Gardner, I know that in your right mind you are with us. But the Gardnerians...they have ways of breaking their enemies and bending their will.”

  What can I say in response? I know her words to be true. Images of broken Icarals and ruined Wyverns litter my mind. What methods would the Gardnerians resort to if it meant control of a Black Witch? We both know that if they discover what I am, they’ll stop at nothing to own my power.

  Power I don’t know how to control, making me vulnerable to them.

  Power that would force the Prophecy into its most nightmarish resolution.

  “It is a risk to keep you alive,” Ni Vin states, calm as a windless night.

  “If I am dead,” I force out, struggling to keep my voice from trembling, “that still leaves the problems of Marcus Vogel and Fallon Bane and the Gardnerian military. You have your Icaral, but Yvan’s untrained and not powerful enough to take down the Gardnerians. Not yet.”

  Ni Vin holds my stare.

  “And we both know Vogel’s stronger than you all thought,” I press, bargaining for my life.

  Her hand tightens around the hilt of her sword. “Bringing you back into Gardneria...” Her lips tighten as she gives a stiff shake of her head. “It’s potentially throwing you right into Vogel’s hands. I question Chi Nam and my sister’s plan.”

  We’re quiet for an unbearably tense moment.

  “I know,” I finally say, my voice ragged. “I question this plan too. But if my power is needed to take Vogel down, then I need to stay alive.” I reach into my boot, grab the Wand of Myth from it, pull the cloth away, and hold it up, the Wand seeming to possess its own phosphorescent light. “And the Zhilin...even though I’m the Black Witch...it chose me.”

  Ni’s eyes widen as they fix on the Wand, and she swallows, her slender throat bobbing.

  I meet her dark stare as the power in my lines strains with disturbing intensity toward my wand hand. “It is a risk to keep me alive,” I admit. “I know this. But my death could extinguish all hope of defeating Vogel.”

  I wait on a knife blade’s edge while she deliberates, her brow now knotted, her hand still clenched around the hilt of her sword.

  After a long, breathless moment, Ni Vin removes her hand from the hilt.

  Air flows back into my lungs as she reaches into her pocket and hands me her rune-marked dhantu stone. I take it from her, already versed in the Noi
words that will bring forth its sapphire light.

  “Go, Elloren Gardner,” she says, motioning toward the tunnel with her chin. “Take great care. And don’t let the Gardnerians know what you are.”

  I nod in reply as her face darkens.

  “If they find out and turn you,” she says, her voice heavy with import, “I will have no choice but to come for you.”

  To kill me, she means.

  I nod again. Then I wrap the Wand in its sheltering cloth and slide it into my travel sack, slipping it through a small tear in the seam of the layered fabric, effectively hidden and less likely to be spotted. Hoisting the sack, I set my eyes on Ni’s scarred face, and we exchange one last grim look of solidarity.

  Then I turn and descend into the darkness.

  * * *

  I travel through the damp tunnels for what feels like a long time, my surroundings made eerie by the blue light of the dhantu stone, and I do my best to tamp down my fear of the claustrophobic silence and scuttling insects.

  When I reach the tunnel’s end, a rush of relief courses through me at the sight of afternoon daylight streaming in, and I eagerly climb out of the tunnel to meet the next stretch of wilderness. I leave the dhantu stone inside the tunnel, as Ni Vin instructed, the runic symbols rimming the exit quickly vanishing as the doorway is swallowed up by Spine-stone.

  Traveling for hours on foot and following the map Ni Vin gave me, I eventually reach the same horse market in what used to be Northeastern Keltania that I visited so many months ago with Yvan and Andras. I pause inside a sheltering tree line as I warily take in the late-afternoon scene, the market’s convivial atmosphere disturbingly altered. There are only Gardnerian military horses in the penned fields now, black banners emblazoned with white birds hanging from their sides. They’re being cared for by a few scraggly old Kelts. The younger Keltish men this market usually teems with are conspicuously absent.

  Two Gardnerian soldiers lean against a fence in their smart uniforms, chortling over some joke as a white-haired, bitter-looking Kelt hands them something in a bag. As he walks off, the two men’s gazes dart around before they slide the tip of a green bottle out of the bag and hastily pour its contents into the water flasks that hang from their necks.

  Spirits. Forbidden by the Mage Council.

  Heart pounding as I draw on my courage, I choose that moment to stride out to meet them.

  Feeling as if I’m embarking on an irrevocable course, I emerge from the edge of the woods in my formal Gardnerian attire, the spitting image of my powerful grandmother. The men’s mouths drop open in shock.

  I glance pointedly at the flasks in their hands before pinning my gaze back on the two of them. “Take me to Commander Lukas Grey,” I order. “I’m Elloren Gardner. His fasted partner.”

  Moments later, I’m in a carriage finer than my aunt Vyvian’s, four Level Five Mage soldiers flanking my vehicle. I feel oddly disconnected from my surroundings, the ride so smooth, it’s as if there’s not a stone in the road.

  Soon, the woods open up and Keltania’s Central Crossroad comes into view. My eyes widen.

  The broad crossroad is jammed, absolutely jammed, with Kelts all moving in one direction—toward the northeast.

  Refugees, all of them, I realize, stunned by the vast number of people traveling to get out of a Keltania that’s just become a province of Gardneria.

  My carriage quickly traverses the distance separating us from the main road.

  “Make way! Make way!” My guards call out brusque orders, and the road traffic parts before us as we travel southwest against the flow, the Kelts pulling away from us with haste, fear etched on their faces.

  And hatred, carefully hidden, but it’s there at the edges of everyone’s eyes.

  The carriage slows, and I lock eyes with a little Keltish girl who’s clutching her bedraggled mother’s hand. She’s hugging a worn cloth doll with flaxen braids to match her own. A lump forms in my throat. She’s around the age of Fernyllia’s granddaughter, and there’s a traumatized look on her round-cheeked face as her blue eyes stare fearfully back at me.

  “How’s it feel?” one of my Mage Guards suddenly booms out at the fleeing refugees, causing the little girl to flinch and blink fearfully up at him. “This is what you did to us!” he snarls. “Forced us out of our homes! Took our land! How’s it feel?”

  The Kelts avert their eyes as we speed up and the little girl is whisked from sight.

  I’m overcome by an acute sense of the jaws of Gardneria snapping shut over the little girl. Over all these people. And the titanic forces at work all around me, disrupting the entire world.

  But there are titanic forces inside me as well, I suddenly remember, swept up in the overpowering yearning to wrest control of my power and wield it to stop this cruelty.

  My body shudders as magic fires through my affinity lines in a heated rush, along with a flash of awareness of the wooden frame of the carriage.

  My wand hand clenches involuntarily. Wanting it.

  Wanting the dead wood.

  Wanting the power.

  You can’t control it! I desperately caution myself as I fight off the compulsion to grasp hold of the wood at the edge of my seat, voice a spell, and send my magic straight through it. You’ll be pulled under your power’s thrall and kill everyone in sight! Don’t touch the wood!

  I yank the window’s dark velvet curtains closed and grasp my wand hand, pulling in a deep, quavering breath as Magefire ripples through my lines.

  You need to be patient, I remind myself with each measured breath as fear edging toward panic makes a merciless play for me.

  Fear of myself.

  You need to stay alive, or you won’t be able to fight them, I insist, battling my raging emotions and equally raging power.

  I rub my wand hand, first wringing it as the fiery power courses through me, then caressing it as my breathing slows and the fire power draws down, rapidly dissipating. I pull in a deep, wavering breath and force myself to take stock of my situation.

  I need to survive.

  Because I’m a weapon, whether I want to be or not.

  A weapon the Resistance needs.

  Soon I’ll be back in the luxurious, rotted heart of Gardneria and deep in hiding. Sheltered by my connection to Lukas Grey.

  Until the Resistance comes to claim me and wield me.

  CHAPTER THREE

  WYVERNGUARD MAGE

  TRYSTAN GARDNER

  AND VOTHENDRILE XANTHILE

  Sixth Month

  Eastern Realm,

  the Wyvernguard’s North Twin Island

  Vothendrile Xanthile watches the rune ship soar toward the Wyvernguard through the night sky. The ship’s huge, whirring flank runes and base runes cast the vessel in a penumbra of sapphire light that’s reflected off the choppy current of the Vo River.

  Every one of Vothe’s predatory, Wyvern-shifter senses is on heightened alert, every sight and smell sharpened.

  Blue light from runic torches encased in glass orbs gutters over Vothe and the other sapphire-uniformed Vu Trin military apprentices as they stand at attention and wait on the broad landing balcony, all eyes fixed on the incoming ship, an explosive tension—that’s at full odds with their blank military bearing—crackling on the air.

  A brisk wind whips against Vothendrile’s strong, honed body and he pulls in a reflexive breath, his own wind magic stirring to meet the Wyvern-crafted air current that’s coursing down the river. He spares a glance over his shoulder toward the towering pinnacle of the Wyvernguard’s North Twin Island, the colossal, vertical island one of two towering landmasses that form the Vu Trin Wyvernguard, the huge, ore-dark Vo River splayed out all around them.

  Vothe looks back at the incoming ship, his lethal determination doubling as the ship touches down, its sapphire, dragon-marked sails collapsing inward as its stairs are lo
wered.

  Wyvernguard Commander Ung Li disembarks first, coming in like a storm.

  Their tall, elegant-featured leader’s face is a mask of barely concealed outrage, her steps angrily brisk as she strides down onto the landing platform, not meeting anyone’s eyes, as if still caught up in a fiery argument.

  Vothendrile’s shifter focus homes in tight on the young man stepping off the ship behind her and into a gauntlet of simmering hostility that echoes Vothe’s own.

  Trystan Gardner.

  The grandson of the Vuulnor—the Black Witch.

  Vothendrile notices two things about Trystan Gardner as he draws near.

  First, the Gardnerian is startlingly handsome. A thread of lightning sparks through Vothe in response to Trystan Gardner’s striking looks, and Vothe quickly suppresses it, unnerved by his reflexive attraction to a Mage.

  He’s tall and slender, this Gardnerian, with dark green eyes and angular features. And his skin. It glimmers like it’s dusted with deep-green gems, its verdant gleam undimmed by the flickering blue torchlight. Even his worn indigo Noi garb is unable to dispel how handsome he is.

  The second thing Vothe notices about Trystan Gardner is that he seems outrageously unintimidated by the situation.

  The Gardnerian’s stride is strong and determined, his face expressionless, but his eyes—they’re as fierce as white fire as he takes in the looks of pure loathing on every single Vu Trin apprentice and Vu Trin soldier lining the platform’s central path.

  Vothendrile wonders, with some grim, anticipatory relish, what it would be like to stare down this Mage’s fervid gaze. He can’t smell even a trace of fear on him.

  Briefly closing his eyes, Vothe pulls in a deeper breath to read the magic simmering on the air. He gives a start as Trystan Gardner’s magical aura connects with his own.