So easy to wield.
Edwin sounds out the words to the candle-lighting spell several times, words in the Ancient Tongue—foreign words, with subtle inflections, not easily made.
“Do you think you can remember that?” he asks his niece.
Elloren nods as she points the wand out straight and true with determined focus, and Edwin repeats the words a few more times so that she can remember.
“Go ahead, then,” he gently prods as the apprehension tightens his throat, his heart hammering with both breathless hope and jagged fear.
Elloren sounds out the spell, clear and correct, her arm taking on a slight tremor, her body stiffening.
And then her head jerks backward.
A violent stream of fire bursts from the wand’s tip and explodes past the stump, blasting clear through a large tree and several more behind it. Edwin stumbles backward and Elloren screams as the woods explode into a crackling, roaring monster of flame.
Edwin wrests the wand from Elloren’s hand, thrusts it aside, grabs her up, and runs, racing through the woods as the forest falls apart behind them.
* * *
Edwin spends the next year trying to get Elloren to forget.
He insists, when Elloren wakes screaming from fiery nightmares, that what she remembers was a storm. A fierce, freakish storm—an inferno of fire caused by unusually violent lightning.
He insists on it again and again and again.
In time, she believes. And her true memory fades and is buried.
* * *
But the forest remembers.
The trees send out word in their creeping way, slow as sap traveling through tangled roots, one tree after another after another. And gradually, relentlessly, the message is carried toward the Northern Forest. Toward its Dryad Guardians.
Toward III.
The Black Witch is back.
Prelude
CHAPTER ONE
EVIL ONES
THIERREN STONE
Present day
Fourth Month
Northern Gardnerian Forest
Thierren’s horse keeps smart pace with his unit of elite Mages, all the soldiers on horseback and following the lead of their young, confident commander, Sylus Bane, as they ride deep into Gardneria’s Northern Forest.
Countless leaves rustle in the light breeze, and Thierren glances at the surrounding forest with no small amount of awe.
He’s never seen trees like this before. Old growth. Ancient, untouched forest.
Primordial.
Trunks so large that it would take three of him to wrap his arms clear round. Rich, dark Ironwood with rustling canopies of deep emerald leaves, further darkened by the overcast day, the occasional rumbling of thunder to the west. The trees’ loamy scent on the air.
And something else.
A prickling unease bristles the hairs on the back of Thierren’s neck.
As the shadows of the day deepen, it’s as if the trees are increasingly leaning in toward them all. And not in a welcoming way.
The trees don’t want us here.
The thought rises unbidden, and Thierren immediately scoffs at his own imaginings. He glances sidelong at the forest, then blows out a breath and shakes his head, his body moving in sync with his horse. There’s no reason to be spooked by trees, of all things. There’s no reason to be spooked by anything. Thierren glances down at his brand-new soldier’s uniform, spotless and edged with five gleaming silver stripes, signifying his almost unparalleled proficiency in both water and wind magery.
“Ready to hunt some Fae?” stocky, rumpled Branneth asks from beside him as he flashes an excited grin. “Make their pointy-eared heads explode?”
Thierren eyes Branneth, an annoyingly uncouth presence forever trying to win Thierren’s favor. They’re both Level Five Gardnerian Mages, but the similarities end there. Branneth is unforgivably profane and often flat-out immoral, like the rest of his family. Whereas Thierren’s family is part of the Styvian sect—the most purely devout, observant Gardnerians.
The true Gardnerians.
Thierren glances at Branneth with barely concealed censure as they keep pace with their unit. There’s no silver orb pendant around Branneth’s neck, and his uniform is marked with the Erthia sphere, not the Ancient One’s white bird, which the most devout Gardnerians now insist upon. Thierren feels the weight of the silver necklace gracing his own neck, the proper way to wear the Ancient One’s Erthia orb, a symbol of shackling the earth below to the Holy Magedom. And Thierren’s own uniform is blessedly marked with the white bird.
A stronger breeze picks up, a clear command seeming to sound on the wind.
Leave.
Thierren tenses as his gaze darts around warily. A creeping chill pricks at his neck and traces down his spine, like the quick brush of skeletal fingertips. Sensing.
It’s coming from the trees.
Before he can reason away his imaginings, righteous anger flares. Thierren glares at the forest. The cursed wilds. It says right in The Book of the Ancients that the wilds are the lair of the Evil Ones and that trees are to be rendered to dead wood for use by Gardnerians.
Wood for wands and churches and dwellings to raise up the Holy Magedom.
And so the wilds must be razed. Subjugated and controlled, as the Book commands.
We’re going to tear you down, he vows, full of pious resolve. We’ll burn you to ash, along with every evil thing hiding inside you.
It’s not an idle threat. Gardnerian forces are burning large swaths of the Northern Forest to make way for new farms and to flush out hidden Fae. Evil Fae that the Gardnerians thought had been annihilated during the Realm War, but some bands of them had survived by remaining carefully hidden in the remote forests of the North.
Until the Mages started burning the wilds in earnest.
They’re monsters, these Fae—criminal, immoral beasts full of violence and depravity. Thierren has been briefed about the serious threat the Fae pose, the creatures harnessing the evil power of the wilds to attack innocent Mages in an attempt to drive them off their own land.
A heady courage ripples through Thierren.
Dangerous as these Fae are, it’s exhilarating to be ready to give his own life, if needs be, to protect his people from this terrible threat. And to be part of a great, blessed story. The one true story.
The Will of the Ancient One.
“There’re females, I heard,” Branneth muses out of the blue. He waggles his thick brows at Thierren, his green eyes narrowing into a leer. “Best we strip them and give them a thorough inspection before disposing of them, s’what I’m thinking.” He grins again, exposing wide, stained teeth, as if he and Thierren are the best of friends.
Thierren’s jaw ticks as he looks away and sets his sights on the column of soldiers riding before him, two by two.
Undressing Fae, Thierren considers with sharp offense.
The idea is depraved and just so...wrong. As profane as undressing demons.
Thierren glances back at Branneth, this time with unconcealed loathing. The huge idiot must register Thierren’s displeasure on some level, as his grin fades and he swallows, hacks up phlegm, spits, and then focuses on the road before them.
What’s wrong with him? Thierren wonders. The only acceptable place for desire like that is between Mages. Among fastmates.
Elisen’s face comes to mind, and Thierren’s unease softens.
Lovely, wonderful Elisen.
He glances at the fastlines on his hands and thinks of Elisen’s full lips and bright green eyes. Her lustrous ebony hair. Her soft skin that glimmers deep green in the moonlight.
She’s allowed him one brief, intoxicating kiss. Just two weeks back, the both of them finding a blessed, chaperone-free moment behind his estate’s thick hedgerow. Thierren can still feel those soft lips, th
e contours of her slim waist under his palms, her body pressed against his.
He’ll feel more of her soon, he muses. Both of them are newly eighteen, and their fasting is to be sealed and consummated in one week’s time.
Once he gets this Fae hunt behind him.
You’re meant for great things, Mage Sylus Bane told him only this morning.
Thierren looks at Branneth with resignation, remembering his mother’s wisdom.
Our purity and righteousness keep the Magedom in the Ancient One’s graces. The non-Styvian Mages ride on our cloak-tails—but once the Reaping Times come, if they do not start to follow the Ancient One’s strictures like we do, the Ancient One will shake them free and name them Evil Ones.
Life is simple. Observe the law of the Book, and you are blessed. Don’t, and you are cast out.
Get out.
A rush of hatred flashes out from the trees and straight through Thierren in an unsettling wave. A few of the horses shy, as if they, too, can sense the malice on the air. Thierren glances at the trees as he reins in his horse and sees Branneth doing the same. There’s a storm moving in, the shadows around them darkening.
Branneth shoots Thierren a rattled look. “Be best when we’ve cut this whole forest down, I’m thinking.” He swallows as he glances at the trees. There’s a disturbing sense of the canopy of leaves thickening. Branches tangling. The air growing even more charged.
With hostility.
It’s pouring off the trees like an ill wind, but Thierren refuses to shrink back in the face of it. He knows the Book backward and forward, and he knows how this story ends.
With your complete annihilation, he thinks at the trees. Courage and comfort wash over him, along with a fierce desire to usher in the Reaping Times and fight for the Holy Magedom.
The wind picks up, the trees seeming to loom over them even closer than before. The horses prance and whinny, needing to be reined in once more.
Get out.
“Can you feel it?” Branneth asks, his voice now a coarse whisper, his face edged with fear. “It’s like we’re surrounded. Like...” He grimaces, as if trying to convince himself that he’s spinning a nonsense tale. “It’s like we’re headed into a trap.” He chuckles low in his throat, but that edge of fear rims his eyes as he peers into the forest’s shadows and mutters grimly to himself. “Only good Fae’s a dead Fae.” He turns to Thierren, as if seeking his approval. “Eh, Thierren?”
At the head of their contingent, Commander Bane raises his hand, signaling for their attention. The smell of burning wood drifts on the air.
Their collective pace slows to a halt as they come to the road’s end and are met by two Mage soldiers on foot. Thierren blinks at the road’s abrupt terminus, marveling at how far north they’ve traveled.
Incredible, he thinks, his skin prickling at the realization. The end of the Northern Wayroad. Its farthest reach. Nothing but wilds beyond for leagues.
One of the Mages walks forward, his expression serious as he salutes Commander Bane, fist to chest, then jerks his head slightly toward the wall of forest before them.
“They’re just up ahead,” he says. “We’ve flushed out a whole pack of Fae. Dryads, the lot of ’em.”
Tree Fae.
Thierren peers at the forest before them, his heartbeat quickening, every sense sharpening in anticipation of his first engagement with Fae. He pulls in a deep, bolstering breath, feeling lit up with a renewed sense of holy purpose, eager to finally engage with the horrific Evil Ones in defense of the Magedom.
“We dismount here, Mages.” Commander Bane’s voice rings out from the front of their party, effortlessly dominant.
They all dismount, tether the restless horses to trees to be cared for by the Calvary Mage, and make their way into the forest on foot, following the commander’s assured lead, the smell of smoke growing more pungent.
Thierren pulls out his wand and readies it as he recites wind and air spells in his mind, weaving the magery together inside his lines.
They’re dangerous, these Tree Fae, some of them able to access multiple lines of elemental power and feed it through branches. And sometimes they use wildlife in their attacks. They just got word of Dryads farther south of here ambushing Mages with small cyclones and flocks of raptors in retaliation for land being cleared.
Land that belongs to the Magedom.
No matter. Thierren glares at the threatening trees as his unit moves deeper into the forest. I’ll be conjuring a great cyclone very soon to destroy both you and your Fae minions.
The piercing sound of a child’s scream jolts through Thierren, slowing his steps. He looks to the other soldiers in confusion, but they seem to be ignoring the sound.
Unsettled, Thierren follows his unit forward, stepping over roots, his boot heels sinking slightly into the soft, mossy soil.
The sound of a child crying.
A baby’s wail splitting the air.
Women pleading in low, tortured tones in a strange language.
Thierren feels a harder stab of confusion. He steps through the trees and looks over a small meadow that ends at an even thicker band of forest. Fires are smoldering along the sides of the meadow where trees have been set ablaze by the soldiers.
And there they are.
The Dryads.
A line of pointy-eared, forest green Tree Fae are standing, side by side, before the far wall of untouched Northern Forest.
As if they’re forming a barrier with their own bodies.
But...the most pathetic, easily broken barrier Thierren has ever seen.
Bewilderment whips through him. He’s seen pictures of Dryads, horrific beings dripping with rotted vegetation. Crazed eyes, pointed teeth. Demonic and dangerous.
These Fae don’t look anything like those pictures.
Yes, they’re intensely green, their skin glimmering deep green more strongly than Gardnerian skin, their hair black, their green eyes wide, and their ears sharply pointed. And they’re dressed in garments that appear to be formed from leaves melted together.
But the similarities to the monstrous pictures end there.
An old Dryad woman, her hair white as snow, has her hands pressed together as if in prayer. She’s fallen to her knees, pleading in a long stream of unintelligible words. A young boy clings to her, sobbing, his face pressed into her garments. And a girl of no more than ten stands beside them both, wielding a large stone in her fist, her face a mask of hatred, her breathing labored. Sharp, hostile syllables burst from her mouth. She hurls the stone across the meadow toward the long line of Mages, but her throw is weak and the stone falls short.
Women, old people, children, teens.
And all of them appear to be covered in a black soot, the dark grains sprinkled over their skin, their clothing, as if it’s been rained down on them. They’re breathing heavily, their bodies slouched, as if they’re tethered to the ground by some invisible force.
“What’s wrong with them?” Thierren asks no one in particular.
“Tried to attack us with wind.”
Thierren turns to the bearded soldier beside him.
The man throws him a jaded glance. “That young one there.” He points to a boy who’s perhaps all of twelve years old, shirtless and covered with the dark specks as he yells out a stream of what sounds like vicious curses at the Mages. “He threw two Mages about twenty span with a waterspout he sent out from a branch. Broke Kerlin’s leg against a tree. So we covered them in iron dust. That calmed them down. Stripped them of their cursed powers.”
Thierren turns back to the line of Fae, his mind storming.
There’s a baby. With round cheeks. Covered in iron and screaming. Being cradled by a lovely young woman. The baby throws the Mages a look of pure horror as he tries to claw at his face with tiny hands. The young woman is desperately trying to calm the child,
tears coursing down her cheeks as she attempts to both gently pry his fingers away from his skin and brush off the iron.
“And did you subdue the kelpies that were found?” Commander Bane asks the lieutenant beside him. Commander Bane’s tone is bored as he looks through some papers, ignoring the pleading, threatening, crying band of Fae.
“We’ve poisoned them, Mage. Set down iron bolts in all the waterways.”
Commander Bane nods, seeming pleased, then rolls up his parchment and thrusts it into his shoulder bag. He looks over the line of Fae, as if both resigned and satisfied.
“Pure-blooded Tree Fae,” Commander Bane marvels as the children sob and the old woman keeps up her ceaseless pleading. He glances back at the lieutenant. “Good work flushing them out.”
Thierren’s gaze is riveted to the children, bile rising in his throat. The ones old enough to talk are speaking what must be Dryadin, but if he closes his eyes, their crying sounds unsettlingly the same as Gardnerian children’s.
And their appearance is so close to Gardnerian.
Thierren’s stomach clenches and a sense of vertigo makes him unsteady on his feet. He looks up and sees a brief flash of white in the tree limbs above the Dryads.
White birds. Translucent as mist. Watching.
Hatred pours from the trees in a staggering wave, adding to Thierren’s vertigo. He feels a sharp tug on his affinity lines, as if the trees are making a play for his magery. Trying to rip the power from his very center. He struggles to set up an internal shield, whipping up air until there’s a dense wall of it around his lines. He fortifies it layer upon layer, but he still feels the relentless attack of the trees, the sensation of branches slapping against the shield. Trying to pierce through it.
His mind spins as the baby cries and cries and cries.
Thierren thinks back to his unit’s training. How he half listened to what seemed, at the time, like the obvious. Advice for foolish, sentimental Mages.
They may give you the illusion of being human. It’s the way the Great Shadow tricks our minds. You must see through it. And follow the Blessed Will of the Book.
The Shadow Wand Page 2