The Shadow Wand

by Laurie Forest

  Sparrow’s alarm strengthens. “I need to go, Mage,” she insists, avoiding eye contact as she moves toward his side once more, hoping he’ll move.

  Instead, Silvern steps inside the closet and takes hold of her arm as she attempts to dart around him. Sparrow’s gut clenches at the threatening touch.

  “Stay a bit,” he croons, looking at her but not really looking at her, and Sparrow knows exactly what she is to him in this moment. “Or we’ll need to speak about the Fae Islands. I might need to see your work papers. To make sure they’re in order.”

  His threat is lightly but devastatingly leveled. Panic crests in Sparrow as she moves to slip from his grip, but his fingers grip tighter.

  “Please, Mage,” Sparrow pleads, feeling as if she’s sinking into dark waters with no ground beneath her. “Mage Evelyn will be looking for me,” she insists, trying to force truth into the lie.

  “Shh,” Silvern croons as he traces the base of Sparrow’s neck with his finger.

  Sparrow recoils, backing into the shelf behind her, and Silvern closes in, yanks the sheets from her grasp, and grabs hold of her arms.

  Outrage gaining fierce ground, Sparrow slams her palms against Silvern’s bird-marked chest and pushes hard, keeping him at bay.

  Anger flashes across Silvern’s face, his free hand flying up to grab her wrists, wrenching them away from his chest. “Stop,” he hisses as he forces her roughly against the shelving, the entire shelf thumping against the wall behind her. “You be quiet,” he demands, looking her over, lecherous heat in his gaze, his sour breath warm on her face.

  Sparrow’s mind whirls around his mention of the Fae Islands and her forged work papers as she desperately considers going for the blade she has concealed in a calf-sheath under her skirts. The blade Thierren has taught her to wield.

  You can’t pull a blade on him, Sparrow agonizes. He’ll have both you and Effrey arrested and shipped to the Pyrran Prison Isles if he finds out you’re armed. And if you kill him, you won’t just be destroying Effrey’s and your chance of escaping east...

  You might destroy Elloren Gardner’s chances of escape, as well.

  Which could deliver the Black Witch straight into Vogel’s hands.

  If Thierren was here, Sparrow agonizes, or if Lukas was here, they’d stop Silvern.

  But no one is here.

  Emboldened, Silvern pushes himself against her, nuzzling her neck, and Sparrow tries to squirm away, desperation mounting.

  Silvern slams himself against her, as if for emphasis. “Do you want to go back to the islands?” he snarls, wild desire sparking in his eyes as he reaches down to grab hold of her skirts, pulling them up even as Sparrow frantically struggles to push them back down. “Right back where you came from?”

  He can’t find the blade. If he finds the blade...

  “Silvern.” An imperious female voice sounds from the open doorway.

  Silvern freezes as both his and Sparrow’s heads turn toward the dim hall and surprise rips through Sparrow.

  Mage Evelyn Grey is looming in the shadows.

  Silvern is off Sparrow in a flash as he faces his mother, looking for all the world like a cornered feral animal.

  “Your father has need of you,” Evelyn coldly states, her green gaze boring into her priest son.

  Sparrow can barely breathe, can barely move as she prays that Evelyn Grey did not see the blade strapped to her calf.

  Silvern gives his mother a curt nod and strides out of the room, leaving Sparrow alone with Mage Evelyn Grey.

  The room grows silent save for a distant peal of thunder.

  Evelyn’s gaze does a slow slide over Sparrow, and Sparrow struggles not to wither from the sheer force of that icy stare.

  “You need to wear looser clothing and get that violet hair under a cap,” Evelyn says, leveling the order lightly but firmly. “And get your chores done earlier to avoid being alone with the men of this house. You’re here to serve, not to tempt.”

  Outrage volcanoes in Sparrow as the urge to grab up her blade takes furious hold.

  “Stay away from my son.” Evelyn Grey bites out each word with deadly emphasis. “If I find that you continue to be a distraction for him, it won’t matter that you’re indentured to Lukas. I’ll take full possession of your work contract and drag you to the Fae Islands myself. Do you understand?”

  Sparrow forces back the trembling that’s kicked up all over her body, the desire to lash out in pure rage. To push this woman to the floor and fight back.

  But Evelyn Grey holds all the power in the world.

  The Gardnerians hold all the power in the world.

  Blinking back vengeful tears and keeping her hand far away from the hilt of her knife, Sparrow nods.

  * * *

  “I’ll kill him,” Thierren growls, anger flashing in his pine green eyes as he takes hold of his wand’s hilt.

  Sparrow shakes her head emphatically as she struggles to force back the furious tears that are threatening to storm loose, her whole face tensed as she huddles in an isolated hallway with Thierren.

  Thierren’s angular features are sharpened with anger, his Level Five magic practically storming off him. Sparrow can feel the churning energy of it on the very air.

  There are times, like this, that Sparrow struggles not to hate the image of him—his distinctly Gardnerian looks, the green glimmer of his skin accentuated by the darkness of the storeroom.

  His vile Mage Guard uniform.

  Their alliance is so complicated that Sparrow can’t bend her mind around it, her anger at the Mages so raw and leagues deep that it’s impossible for Thierren to escape getting snared in it.

  They’re both so damaged from what they’ve been through. Thierren with his constant nightmares and debilitating guilt and fierce desire to fight for the Fae—Fae who will likely want to smite him if he ever does find them. And Sparrow, with her own constant nightmares of predatory Mages and the threats they pose to both herself and her beloved Effrey as well as the small rune-collared dragon she’s become increasingly fond of.

  “You can’t kill Silvern Grey,” she insists, adamant, her tone gaining steel.

  “He can’t treat you like that,” Thierren rages, as his fist tightens on the hilt of his wand.

  Anger spikes through Sparrow. “Of course he can,” she snarls, the anger erupting. Years and years of pent-up anger. “What do you think it’s been like for me? What do you think it’s like for all of my people? You Mages treat us like this all the time.” On some level, Sparrow knows that Thierren doesn’t deserve the full brunt of her fury, but she’s having trouble holding back what’s been kept at bay for far too long. “It’s a miracle that I haven’t been raped. Repeatedly.”

  Pain flashes in Thierren’s eyes as a storm of emotion rages in Sparrow and she finds she needs to look away from his Mage face.

  “Sparrow,” Thierren says after a pause, his tone gentler this time.

  She looks up at him, the moment suspended as their eyes lock. Sparrow holds his distraught stare as her heart twists and the anger storms.

  He’s proved himself to be a true ally to both her and Effrey over these past weeks, finding a way to see her almost every day. Never once touching her or giving her that look. He’s been so kind that there have been fleeting times when Sparrow has almost forgotten that he’s a Mage, a fragile bond of friendship struggling to form between them.

  Sparrow moves a fraction toward Thierren, yearning for consolation but unable to shake her awareness of him as a Mage.

  The dam inside her cracks, and Sparrow can’t hold back the deluge.

  “Thierren,” she rasps as she closes her eyes and closes out his uniform and tears spring to life, an abyss of misery opening.

  “You’re so brave,” Thierren says, as Sparrow cries tears of outrage, keeping her eyes tightly shut as emotion pummel
s through her. “I admire you more than you could ever know,” he admits, his voice breaking.

  The dam inside Sparrow breaks clear apart as a small, safe space takes root between them. Sparrow nods in acknowledgment of it.

  “We’ll make it East,” Thierren says, his tone hardening with resolve. “I’ll make sure you and Effrey make it East.”

  “When do we leave?” Sparrow chokes out as she opens her tear-slicked eyes to look up at him, the concern in his gaze making it easier to ignore his Mage looks, his horrid uniform.

  “Tomorrow morning,” Thierren says. His expression takes on a violent edge. “And if Silvern comes near you again, I will kill him.”

  “You won’t.” Sparrow holds his gaze. “And I can avoid him for just one more day.”

  A look of fierce struggle overtakes Thierren, but Sparrow knows he respects her enough to listen.

  And that he knows this is not his battle to lead.

  “Get me and Effrey East,” Sparrow says, determination rising. “And get Lukas and the Gardner girl East.” Simmering fury takes hold once more, infusing her words. “Then come back with them and the Vu Trin forces and anyone else who will fight with you. And liberate the Fae Islands.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  NEXT OF KIN

  ELLOREN GARDNER

  Sixth Month

  Valgard, Gardneria

  I stare at myself in the opulent vine-cloisonné-edged mirror before me as Sparrow brushes my hair with a Black Oak brush she’s retrieved from another room. She pulls my head gently and rhythmically back with each deft stroke, the two of us alone in my bedroom. Effrey is ensconced in their nearby servants’ quarters, polishing silver cutlery for the Sealing dinner, and I can hear the clink of silver through the closed door.

  Gray early-evening light filters through the windows, the next storm gathering in the distance, thunder a faraway rumble. The gardens are preternaturally still, bloodred roses standing at attention, buds pointed to the sky. No wind, no rain.

  The whole world suspended.

  But bearing down like the storm-charged air is the trap about to close in on Lukas and me.

  I feel lost without Lukas and wish he was here, despite the tension between us and the ever-present grief for Yvan that pulls at my heart.

  I draw in a shaky breath and eye the remote young woman in the reflection with me.

  There’s a subtle tightness to Sparrow’s lavender-hued face that wasn’t there last night. She’s like Trystan, I realize, protecting herself behind a facade that hides all of her emotions save small clues. Growing up with Trystan has made me adept at reading such subtleties, and it’s clear to me that Sparrow’s having trouble maintaining her perpetually blank visage.

  “I imagine Lukas has told you that we’re all leaving,” I venture, deciding it’s best at this point to just bluntly state the facts.

  Sparrow lowers the brush and stills.

  Our eyes meet in the mirror, the tension in the air growing suddenly taut.

  “We’re coming with you tomorrow morn,” she whispers, her tone equal parts girded hope and trepidation.

  My heart picks up speed in response to her forthright approach and I nod, abruptly thrown into a close alliance with this young woman.

  Sparrow holds my stare, her servile look vanished, her mouth now set in a tenacious line. It’s a relief to not be staring at the wall she so expertly puts up, but at the real Sparrow—a young woman brimming with rock-hard defiance in the face of the Gardnerian nightmare.

  “He said you have power,” she whispers.

  I can feel the sweep of blood draining from my face. It’s an enormous shift, to have this explosive fact voiced by her, the two of us suddenly stripped of all artifice.

  I nod.

  A spark of rebellion lights her amethyst eyes. She lowers her voice to a barely there murmur. “Lukas says you’re more powerful than Fallon Bane.”

  I can read a desire for vengeance in her tone, and I’m certain, in that moment, that there’s something raw festering inside Sparrow when it comes to Fallon.

  “I am,” I tentatively whisper back. But I’ve no control over my power, I want to caution her. I’m not the boon you might think I am. I almost say it, but wonder if it would be confiding too much.

  We stare at each other in the reflection, the elaborate Ironwood clock on the shelf behind us ticking out the seconds, delicate Ironflowers carved onto its gleaming, lacquered surface. It’s all so Gardnerian-perfect in here, in glaring contrast to the chaotic fire that’s whipping through my lines.

  “If you tell anyone what I am,” I say to Sparrow in a hoarse whisper, “they will either kill me or turn me over to Vogel.”

  Her unblinking stare doesn’t waver. “The Eastern forces are going to need every weapon they can get hold of to fight the Mages,” she states with emphatic certainty. “I won’t tell anyone.” Raising the brush, she resumes its strokes down my long black tresses. She flashes me a slight, mirthless smile of solidarity, and the unyielding look in her eyes eases a trace of my apprehension.

  Sparrow begins to artfully weave elaborate braids through the sides of my hair, pausing every so often to place sparkling emerald leaves affixed to slim silver hairpins into the braids. I watch, trying to tamp down my anxiety and my simmering fire magic, as my hair begins to take on a resplendent, verdant glimmer.

  I glance toward the bedroom’s closed Ironwood door, aware of Level Five Mage Thierren Stone stationed on its other side.

  “Thierren is aligned with Lukas, isn’t he,” I say. The young guard’s demeanor around Lukas suggests some type of deep alliance.

  A wary expression crosses her face. “Yes,” she says, clearly unsettled, and I wonder at this.

  Thierren’s deep, muffled voice sounds through the door, and Sparrow’s fingers halt in their motion on my hair. We both turn toward the sound as my bedroom’s door abruptly swings open.

  Surprise rams through me as Aunt Vyvian strides into the room, her gaze fixating on me.

  Sparrow’s hands fall away from my hair, and my lungs constrict so hard that for a moment I can’t breathe.

  Aunt Vyvian’s expression is polished, but her eyes are full of resolute, unforgiving purpose. She’s as severely stunning as ever, her black velvet tunic and long-skirt embroidered with curling fiddlehead ferns, the necklace and earrings that grace her elegant ears and slender neck fashioned from tiny lacquered real-life ferns.

  “Leave us,” she directs Sparrow as she removes her black calfskin gloves and motions to the side doorway to the servants’ quarters with a quick tilt of her head.

  Sparrow’s usual blank look is firmly back in place. She gives my aunt a deferential nod, eyes looking to the floor, gracefully sets down the brush, and leaves.

  I’m frozen as Aunt Vyvian walks up behind me, picks up the brush, and starts to work on the unbraided back of my hair, sending me a chilling smile in the mirror.

  The memory of Uncle Edwin, beaten and slumped on the floor, cyclones through my mind and whips up a wrathful anger that’s so fierce, a wave of magic surges through my feet and races to my wand hand. The rush of power is so consuming that I’m scared it will jump from my wand hand to all the wood in the room without any need for a spell.

  My wand hand flexes as every piece of wood in the room brightens in my mind, including the brush in Aunt Vyvian’s hand.

  “You’ve been gone for some time, Elloren,” Aunt Vyvian says with icy pleasantry. She pulls the brush through my hair with such force that my head jerks back, a flash of pain stinging along my scalp. My heart speeds up, defiance rising as I meet her menacing gaze in the mirror.

  You think you have me in a trap, you witch, I seethe, but you don’t know what you’re dealing with.

  “You fasted me against my will,” I return, just as icy, barely able to resist the urge to grab the brush from her hands, level it
at her, and envelop her in a churning ball of fire.

  She relaxes the brush, and I jerk my head forward, glaring at her. But then she takes hold of my hair in her fist and yanks my head back once more.

  I gasp, my neck aching, as she leans in and bares her teeth.

  “I know what you are,” she hisses. “You and your uncle and your brothers. Worse than traitors.” Her face tightens into a pitiless grimace. “You’re staen’en, the lot of you, just like your parents were.” I glower back at her, unyielding in the face of the Ancient Tongue slur. “And you’re the worst one of all, aren’t you?” Her voice breaks as she lowers it to an enraged whisper. “Not just in bed with a Kelt. In bed with the Icaral son of the Icaral demon that killed my mother.”

  Pain spikes through me at her mention of Yvan, followed by a rapid resurgence of fury.

  Her grip on my hair tightens. “All of this started with Edwin,” she bites out. “He turned you and your brothers into traitors, didn’t he? Tried to destroy our family line. All because of that Urisk bitch he fell in with.”

  Bewilderment roils through me. What is she talking about?

  Her gaze sharpens on me, her lip lifting. “Oh, you didn’t know about the Urisk bitch?” she croons, as if she’s read my shock in the mirror’s reflection. “I’m not surprised. I only just found out about it myself. It seems that, years ago, Edwin claimed a little heathen shopgirl as his own to pleasure himself with, then sent her East with all his money. Didn’t you ever wonder why your uncle was so poor? How he squandered his entire inheritance?”

  My confusion grows. And so many conflicting emotions that it’s hard to find my bearings. In the space of a second, a hundred pieces of the puzzle that was Uncle Edwin fall into place in my mind.

  Uncle Edwin refusing to have Urisk servants.

  Uncle Edwin tearing up when hearing reports of Urisk or anyone else being deported.

  Uncle Edwin keeping me and my power hidden from the Mage Council—a Council that would use my power against the Urisk and anyone else who is not Gardnerian.