The Shadow Wand

by Laurie Forest

  And in the center of it all...the dreaded fire bringer. Killer of Forests.

  The Black Witch.

  Wynter has tried to send reassuring thoughts of her friend Elloren Gardner back to the birds, only to be met with an explosion of fluttering panic each time.

  Black Witch! Black Witch! Black Witch!

  Destroyer of trees!

  Destroyer of all!

  The soldiers before Wynter slow their brisk gait, and Wynter slows along with them to stop before the curtained entrance to the queen’s Council Chambers as Wynter’s multitude of avian kindreds alight on every carved wooden rafter above, the Goddess’s serpent form worked into the Verpacian Elm beams.

  Muted conversation sounds through the violet snake-patterned curtain before Wynter.

  One of the soldiers in front of her turns and gives her a poignant look, as if to say, Are you ready?

  Steeling herself, Wynter gives a slight answering nod, even though her heart feels as if it will patter straight through her throat.

  The soldier reaches out with one strong blue hand and pulls back the curtain.

  Surprise bursts through Wynter. An Alfsigr Elf stands in the center of the crimson-tapestried room before Queen Alkaia and her Council. The young Elf girl is wearing russet Keltish garb, her alabaster hair chopped into short spikes, the unadorned tips of her white ears swiftly pointing through her tousled hair.

  The Elf girl turns her head to peer over her shoulder, meeting Wynter’s gaze with intense silver eyes.

  Recognition bolts through Wynter.

  Sylmire Talonir. One of the few Alfsigr brave enough to be openly kind to Wynter when she was in Alfsigroth. The daughter of nobility and cousin to the rebellious rune sorcerer Rivyr’el Talonir.

  She must be around thirteen years of age now. She’s taller than the last time Wynter saw her, more woman than child. But she’s clearly the same fierce, defiant Sylmire, or she wouldn’t be standing in the center of this crimson tapestry-covered room in front of Queen Alkaia and her Council of crones.

  The Council is seated in a semicircle in front of Sylmire. The formidable Queen’s Guard is present too, standing military stiff at the Council’s backs, weapons at the ready, all of the Amaz’s faces marked with runic tattoos. The queen’s most formidable warrior, Alcippe Feyir, stands just behind Queen Alkaia, the huge warrior’s pale pink face emblazoned with densely applied runic tattoos, her rose hair tied up in multiple knots, the tattoos on the right side of her face and neck obscured by a large healing burn scar.

  Wynter hesitates at the chamber’s threshold as her birds sweep into the room and alight on the radiating star of rafters that support the tapestried ceiling and walls. The image of the great Goddess rises up behind Queen Alkaia, larger-than-life against the deep-scarlet fabric, a swirl of birds made of starlight circling the Goddess and flowing up toward the ceiling to blend in behind Wynter’s own unsettled flock.

  “Wynter Eirllyn,” Sylmire says by way of greeting, her silver eyes like confrontational stars. She keeps them unblinkingly trained on Wynter as Wynter pads forward over the carpeted floor toward the girl, her wings hugged tight around her thin, hunched frame.

  Sylmire’s sardonic tone and proud stance is just as Wynter remembers, but she’s stressed, this girl. Deeply. Wynter can read it in the haunted look that edges her white-lashed gaze, the tight set of her pale mouth.

  And in the ripple of agitation she sets off in the birds.

  Wynter turns to look questioningly at Queen Alkaia, then lowers herself to her knees and bows to the ground before the queen, her forehead meeting the woven carpet.

  “You may rise, Wynter Eirllyn,” Queen Alkaia kindly but firmly directs.

  Wynter rises but remains on her knees.

  Sylmire hasn’t budged from her defiantly upright position, one fist on her hip.

  How did she ever get here? Wynter wonders, still astonished by her presence. Sylmire is right around the age of her Elian’thir, her coming-of-age ceremony. A time when she’d be surrounded by family and priestesses—the hardest time of all to slip out of Alfsigroth and journey to Amaz lands.

  “You must kneel before the queen before you make your petition,” Alcippe slowly states in that low, resonant voice of hers, her rose-quartz eyes pinned on Sylmire, each word enunciated, a command best obeyed.

  Sylmire’s sharp gaze flicks to the massive, ax-armed warrior. “I’ll do no such thing,” she fearlessly snaps. Her lip curls with defiance. “I grovel before no one.”

  Alcippe makes a slight, threatening move forward, but Queen Alkaia raises a quelling hand.

  “Let her stand,” Queen Alkaia calmly orders, her shrewd emerald eyes set on the girl, black runic tattoos swirling over the queen’s green-hued face. “Sometimes the truth requires strong words. And even stronger actions. She has journeyed a long way. A journey that I imagine involved quite a bit of risk.” She flicks up her palm. “Speak, child.”

  “I petition you for protection,” Sylmire declares, a challenge in the plea.

  “From who?” Queen Alkaia serenely inquires.

  “The Alfsigr Elves.” Sylmire’s courage seems to falter, her lip wobbling slightly even as her body tenses as if she’s primed for a fight. “They’re coming for me. And they’ll kill me if they find me.”

  Murmuring breaks out among the Council crones as they eye the girl warily. Wynter catches the grim gaze of the only other Alfsigr Elf in the room save herself and young Sylmire.

  Ysilldir Illyrindor.

  The tall, willowy member of the Queen’s Guard who stands beside Alcippe.

  Ysilldir’s long snow-hued hair is styled in multiple looping braids, the dark lines of her runic Amaz tattoos stark against the alabaster skin of her face, her neck, her hands. A bow and quiver are secured on her back.

  “Why will the Alfsigr kill you, child?” Queen Alkaia asks.

  Sylmire reaches into her tunic’s pocket and withdraws a gleaming silver necklace, fisting its chain as she raises it for the queen to view, its shiny runic pendant reflecting flashes of lamplight as it sways.

  “I escaped Alfsigroth before I turned thirteen,” Sylmire says. “Right before my Elian’thir. To keep them from forcing me to wear this.”

  “This is a Zalyn’or, yes?” Queen Alkaia inquires, nodding to herself. “I know of this necklace. All Alfsigr are given this to wear when you come of age. It is part of your religious rituals, is it not?” The queen turns to Ysilldir for confirmation.

  “Yes, my queen,” Ysilldir replies, her elegant voice heavily accented like Wynter’s own, an Alfsigr inflection that’s undimmed even though she’s spent five of her twenty-one years here. Ysilldir looks to Sylmire, her white brow creasing in question. “We all receive the necklace during our twelfth year. It is set into our skin permanently with runic power.”

  Ysilldir pulls down the center of her tunic’s collar with both hands, exposing her upper chest. The tattoo of a necklace and its pendant are emblazoned on her chalky skin, the flat impression of a silver chain and an oval disc marked with multiple Alfsigr runes.

  Wynter’s skin prickles as she considers her own Zalyn’or imprint, just under her tunic’s fabric.

  “The Zalyn’or is fused to us,” Ysilldir continues, “by the Alfsigr Royal Council’s rune sorcerer. It imprints us with knowledge of our religion and our traditions.” Wynter catches the trace of disdain that’s entered Ysilldir’s tone, and she’s clear on its origin.

  Wynter has walked with Ysilldir more than once during her patrols of Cyme, her soldier friend quietly laying out her reasons for escaping Alfsigroth. Confiding how glimpses of the oppression of the subland Smaragdalfar Elves seared through her desire to remain docile and please her family, her people. Over time, Ysilldir started to notice that the rare Elves who questioned any of the edicts thrown down by the Alfsigr monarchy or priestesses either disappeared o
r were cast into the sublands to be imprisoned there along with the Smaragdalfar Elves.

  Then, one day, Ysilldir overheard her parents discussing their plans to forcibly bond her to a mate chosen for her by the Alfsigr Circle of Priestesses. A mate with a stern face and rigid ways, twenty years her senior.

  She left for Amaz lands that very same day, barely able to withstand the overwhelming desire to turn back, the pull like a fierce undertow that almost subverted her will to escape.

  “The Zalyn’or is not just a way to impart Alfsigr ways,” Sylmire cuts in, almost a snarl. “It’s infected with primordial power. Shadow power. And it controls minds.”

  A susurrus of uneasy murmuring rises.

  Queen Alkaia patiently waits for it to subside, her probing gaze fixed on the girl. “How can this be true?” Queen Alkaia asks. “Two of your Alfsigr sistren stand before and beside you, the Zalyn’or imprinted on both of them. Both of their own minds.”

  “Not completely.” Sylmire eyes both Wynter and Ysilldir. “They are not what they appear to be. They are not even what they think they are.”

  Queen Alkaia’s expression grows severe. “What do you mean, child?”

  Sylmire’s fist tightens around the necklace as she raises it a fraction higher. “This necklace doesn’t just impart knowledge of Alfsigr religion and culture. It forces complete belief in the supremacy of those things. And it suppresses all rebellious thoughts, and all physical desire too.” Sylmire’s mouth turns down into a disgusted grimace as she briefly eyes the necklace like it’s a dangerous serpent. “It turns the wearer into an obedient eunuch for the Alfsigr state.”

  It’s as if a fire rune has been detonated in the chamber, all the Council members erupting into conversation at once in urgent tones.

  Queen Alkaia flips up a hand and waits, her green gaze fixed on Sylmire as everyone grows silent.

  “Both Wynter Eirllyn and Ysilldir Illyrindor have escaped Alfsigroth and stand at odds with many of the Alfsigr ways,” Queen Alkaia sharply points out. “How could they dissent if this necklace has the control that you say it does?”

  “Only the most rebellious have minds that partially survive.” Sylmire turns to Ysilldir and then Wynter with looks of impassioned concern. “You are ghosts of your true selves. Imprisoned in Shadow runes.”

  A stunned, disbelieving shock spears through Wynter.

  No. That can’t be true.

  The only thing Wynter is sure she’s imprisoned in is her fate as one of the demonic—a Deargdul Icaral beast.

  Silver fire ignites in young Sylmire’s eyes. “These two must be some of the most strong-willed people of all the lands. That’s the only way some of their free will has survived the Zalyn’or.”

  An outbreak of more troubled murmuring.

  Sylmire meets Wynter’s gaze once more. “Your brother, Cael, and his second, Rhys...they’re rebels too. Or they would never have been able to fight back against the Zalyn’or’s pull. It’s the only reason they were able to break with Alfsigroth and support you like they did, even though the Alfsigr want all Icarals slain.” Sylmire pauses, her bold words turning hesitant, her pale brow tightening with obvious concern. “Wynter... Cael and Rhys were renounced by the Alfsigr Royal Council shortly after they returned to Alfsigroth. Right before I escaped. They were taken into military custody.” She swallows, lapsing into Alfsigr. “It’s likely they’ll be sentenced to the sublands for helping an Icaral to escape capture.”

  Wynter gasps, the news a staggering blow straight to the heart. Her beloved older brother, Cael—her protector and unwavering supporter. And kind, gentle Rhys, with his searing intellect and bookish ways, her loyal friend since childhood.

  Both of them members of the Alfsigr royal class.

  Fear rises at the thought of them being cast into the sublands, where they would be at great risk of being slain by the Smaragdalfar in retribution for the terrible cruelty the Alfsigr have rained down upon the subland Smaragdalfar Elves.

  For a moment, Wynter can’t move. She can barely breathe as tears pool in her eyes.

  “What this girl says about the Zalyn’or,” Ysilldir interjects, “it cannot be true, my queen.” She glances protectively at Wynter before sweeping her silvered gaze toward Sylmire. “I am a warrior for the Amaz,” she says, raising her sharp white chin. “I left everything behind to escape and come here. Even though I bear the Zalyn’or imprint.”

  “Because your free mind is iron strong,” Sylmire doggedly insists, not ceding an inch. “Strong enough for a piece of it to resist control.”

  Ysilldir ignores this as she looks to Queen Alkaia. “My queen—I do not see the truth of this—”

  “Do you struggle to let go of the Shining Ones?” Sylmire harshly challenges Ysilldir.

  Ysilldir freezes, seeming stunned into silence as verses from the Alfsigr holy book swarm through Wynter’s mind and sweep her into a rancid certainty of her own sinful nature—a beast with vile wings. Cast out forever by the Shining Ones.

  A Cursed Icaral.

  The familiar, irrepressible urge bubbles up...

  Atone. Atone. Atone.

  “Does the fear that you are cast out of the One True Faith give you nightmares?” Sylmire presses Ysilldir, and Wynter feels the truth of Sylmire’s words straight through to her bones, her own sleep plagued by nightmares where she’s cast out by the Shining Ones’ light and into the Evil Abyss under the surface of the world.

  Atone. Atone. Atone.

  Ysilldir’s silver eyes are riveted on Sylmire, her expression stark, as if this young Alfsigr girl is peering straight into Ysilldir’s very soul.

  “And the Zalyn’or doesn’t just control them by controlling religious belief,” Sylmire tells Queen Alkaia. “It controls by removing romantic urges, as well.” She looks once more to Ysilldir. “Do you wonder at your complete lack of desire for anyone?”

  “There are many who feel no desire,” Ysilldir counters, clearly rattled. “It is normal for some—”

  “Not for an entire country.” Sylmire cuts her off. She turns to Wynter. “Did you ever see your brother, Cael, yearn for anyone? Or Rhys?”

  “There are many, many Alfsigr,” Queen Alkaia counters with some impatience. “Clearly there is desire among them.”

  “Only when the Alfsigr Royal Council and the priestesses allow it,” Sylmire argues. “The Council’s rune mage lifts a portion of the Zalyn’or’s power only when they grant a couple the right to conceive a child. And they lift the Zalyn’or’s rune power for only one day.”

  Wynter considers this through her haze of misery and worry for Cael and Rhys. And her reflexive desire to draw sharply away from everything Sylmire is saying.

  Mind control.

  Wynter tightens her frail shoulders and forces herself to face these ideas head-on, even as every emotion inside her revolts against the subversive thoughts.

  Yes, it’s true that Cael and Rhys and Ysilldir and she, herself, never seem to have felt that spark of desire or romantic love that almost all of the non-Alfsigr around them seem to fall into. Wynter has always supposed that the Alfsigr were simply different that way. Refined and removed from such messy, turbulent feelings.

  But what if it’s because huge swaths of their thoughts and desires have been suppressed?

  Wynter’s hand reflexively rises toward the Zalyn’or imprint on her chest, just below her purple Amaz tunic’s fabric. Purple that she struggles to wear—all clothes that aren’t Alfsigr clothing seeming wrong.

  “They forced one of those necklaces on my sister a year ago,” Sylmire tells Queen Alkaia, her mouth drawing down in a trembling grimace. “And she changed. She’s like a ghost of herself now. Like she’s all chained up inside. I’ve spent over a year trying to save her, sneaking into the Alfsigr Royal Council and Guild halls. Looking through their secret archives. And I’ve found out things.”


  “What things?” Queen Alkaia prompts.

  “The Alfsigr Priestess class got hold of Deargdul’thil runes during the Elfin Wars, when the nations of Erthia rose up against the power of the Deargdul’thil demons and their Shadow Stylus. The priestesses knew that this was wicked sorcery, but felt that they, as the bearers of the One True Faith, had the power to wield it for ‘the good.’” Sylmire’s lips twist with derision. “They used it to create the Zalyn’or and force obedience to our faith and our culture and our Council hierarchy. And so we have grown strong and imprisoned the Smaragdalfar Elves without any effective dissent, their labors making us rich.

  “But now the Alfsigr Royal Council and the priestess class are worried. There’s talk that Marcus Vogel has obtained the primordial Shadow tool that was used during the Elfin Wars and that he’s wielding it as a Shadow Wand. Which could make it possible for him to create his own Zalyn’or spells.” Sylmire glances at each Council member in turn. “Which could make it possible for him to control the minds of everyone imprinted with the Zalyn’or necklace. Eventually imprisoning everyone in every Realm inside his vision of Gardnerian supremacy and placing two armies under his control.”

  A tense silence descends.

  Wynter’s eyes meet Ysilldir’s, the Elfin warrior mirroring her look of concern, and Wynter realizes in another terrible flash that what Sylmire is telling them has a deep ring of truth to it. And that both she and Ysilldir might actually be imprisoned by the Zalyn’or and rendered mere specks of themselves.

  Mind controlled.

  “We have tried to lift this Zalyn’or from Ysilldir’s skin to study its runes,” Queen Alkaia says carefully, as if the full ramifications are settling into her mind. “All our rune sorceresses working together could not lift this runic mark.”

  Sylmire returns the queen’s piercing stare without flinching. “Only an Alfsigr rune sorcerer can remove this mark. It is set into the spell. And there are only two of them in all the lands.”

  Queen Alkaia’s mouth twitches into a grim smile. “Do you propose, then, that we request the aid of the Alfsigr Royal Council’s rune sorcerer in this task?”