The Shadow Wand

by Laurie Forest

  “No,” Sylmire sharply returns. “Seek the aid of my cousin, Rivyr’el Talonir. The only other Alfisgr rune sorcerer. He may be the only one who can save those marked with the Zalyn’or.”

  Sounds of outrage rise all around.

  Queen Alkaia’s expression has become a locked door. “He is male.”

  Sylmire’s star-eyes ignite. “He has removed his own Zalyn’or and set himself against the Alfsigr! He has fled East to align himself with the Noi Wyvernguard! He can break these runes! He must break these runes!”

  Queen Alkaia’s expression tightens, her green eyes narrowing. “He is a male. And as such, an abomination. We cannot fight an abomination with an abomination. We would lose the Goddess’s favor. We must find another way.” She grows silent again as she studies a frustrated-looking Sylmire. “Sylmire Talonir,” the queen finally says, “it is of extreme importance to find out if what you say is true, beyond the shadow of all doubt.”

  Sylmire boldly holds the queen’s stare, her jaw set stubbornly tight. “The proof stands before you and beside you.” She looks to Ysilldir. “Ysilldir Illyrindor—do you struggle against the idea that everything that is non-Alfsigr is corrupted and impure and evil?”

  Ysilldir winces as every set of eyes moves to her, the Alfsigr warrior clearly battling against this airing of her own oppressive thoughts. “I...I always assumed it would take time,” she stammers, “to break through the lies I had been taught by the Alfsigr...”

  Sylmire levels her gaze on Wynter, a pained compassion softening her hard look. “Wynter Eirllyn, do you see yourself as the worst of demons, even though I have never seen you do a single unkind thing?”

  A storm of emotional pain wells up inside Wynter, threatening to choke her into oblivion.

  “Are you filled with guilt over your very existence?” Sylmire relentlessly presses on. “Repulsed by your wings simply because the Ealaiontorian tells you to be?”

  “Stop, please, I beg of you,” Wynter pleads, her whole body contracting into a devastated ball, tears slashing across her vision as birds fly toward her in a tweeting, chattering, screeching rush that she can barely hear over her storm of emotion as the verse from the Alfisgr holy book sounds in her head—

  Lo, the Shining Ones will come to smite the evil wingeds and cleanse the earth of their depravity and sin.

  “Don’t you ever wonder,” Sylmire rages on, clearly incensed on Wynter’s behalf, “why you can’t fly? Why you have no fire?” Her gaze turns incendiary. “It’s because they fed you lies about yourself and stole your fire from you!”

  “I don’t want to fly!” Wynter cries out fiercely as she’s choked with an overwhelming anguish and shame over her grotesque wings. Yearning to be what she can never be—a pure, wingless Alfsigr, her back unmarred. Wishing someone could take a knife and slice the wings from her back...

  Shining Ones forgive me for my great sin.

  Shining Ones forgive me for my great sin.

  Shining Ones forgive me for my being born a monstrous Icaral.

  “I’m cursed!” Wynter cries out, weeping in great, choking spasms. “One of the wretched ones! It would have been better if I had never been born!”

  “Enough!” Queen Alkaia orders, immediately silencing the room as a red-tailed hawk, a small pygmy owl, and several starlings swoop onto Wynter’s shoulders, her lap, the edge of her wings and flood Wynter with their fierce affection.

  Wynter looks to Sylmire as she hangs on to the tether of the birds’ collective adoration. The young Elf meets her gaze, all ferocity gone, the girl’s expression turned mournful, her own eyes now glazed with tears.

  “Look around you,” Sylmire says to Wynter, her voice breaking with emotion. “You could have an army of falcons ready to do your bidding. All the wingeds in all of the lands ready to follow you into battle against Marcus Vogel.”

  Before Wynter can respond, there’s a sudden jostling of curtains to the side of the Queen’s Council dais, then an explosion of fabric as an Icaral child flies into the room, her black wings flapping in a flurry of motion, bright excitement in four-year-old Pyrgomanche’s face as she makes straight for Alcippe and birds rustle excitedly, a contagious rush of avian joy shooting through the room.

  “Muth’li Alcippe!” Pyrgo cries happily as Alcippe catches the child in her strong arms, a swirl of hummingbirds whirling around the child like a jeweled constellation.

  Wynter takes in the slash of vicious burn scars, nearly healed, that obscure the runic tattoos on half of Alcippe’s pale rose face and neck. Healing burn scars mark the side of her arm as well, little Pyrgomanche prone to nightmares from the trauma she endured that causes her to burst into flame in response to both the nightmares and her fits of uncontrollable rage over losing her Gardnerian mother and being thrown in the Mages’ prison before being freed by Yvan and Elloren. Wynter and the Amaz Fire Fae all helped Alcippe care for the child on more than one occasion, as they have an immunity to fire whereas Alcippe does not. And the Amaz rune sorceresses have labored to mark Alcippe with runes to give her some immunity to fire and speed the healing of burns.

  But no matter how many times Alcippe is burned by the Pyrgo, the huge warrior never once shrinks back from raising this child she’s developed a fierce parental love for.

  A slight, teenage Elfhollen-Amaz girl rushes in behind Pyrgomanche, pausing to bow low before the queen. “I’m so sorry, Queen Mother. The child escaped me.”

  Queen Alkaia holds up a bemused hand as birds fly about the room and assemble on the rafters above the child and around Wynter. “Sometimes the Goddess does not stand on convention,” Queen Alkaia tells the girl with a benevolent smile. “Sometimes she speaks to us through a child.”

  The rustling of birds dies down, an emerald hummingbird lighting on Pyrgomanche’s shoulder as Pyrgo grins at the queen and hugs Alcippe tight.

  “Come to me, child,” Queen Alkaia says warmly to Pyrgo, holding out wizened hands.

  Pyrgo’s wings give an excited flutter, her smile widening with delight as she lets herself be passed from Alcippe to the queen and she falls into Queen Alkaia’s warm embrace.

  After a moment the queen pulls back and looks closely at the child, beaming. “Tell me, Pyrgomanche,” she says. “Does the Goddess want you to diminish your fire?”

  “No!” Pyrgo yells, answering the question she’s been asked many times by joyful rote, variations of these questions asked regularly to all Amaz children. Pyrgo glances searchingly at Alcippe, as if slightly abashed by how loudly she answered.

  Queen Alkaia’s smile twitches up. “And tell me, child. Does the Goddess want you to lower your voice?”

  Pyrgo grins. “No!” she shouts.

  “Or hide your power?”

  “No!”

  “Or believe in lies about yourself?”

  “NO!” The last no comes out in a roar.

  Queen Alkaia’s head bobs with satisfaction. “And tell me, Pyrgomanche, does the Goddess want you to hide your wings?”

  “NO!” Pyrgo bellows, louder than a storm, looking as if she’ll burst into joyful flame right there as Wynter is cast into deeper pain and conflict.

  For a moment, both Queen Alkaia and Pyrgomanche are quiet as they smile at each other vigorously.

  “Who are you, child?” Queen Alkaia prompts, her face taking a turn for the serious.

  “The Goddess’s beloved warrior!” Pyrgo cries out.

  Queen Alkaia nods solemnly. “And who loves you, Pyrgomanche Feyir?”

  “The Free People of Amazakaraan!”

  Queen Alkaia’s face takes on a look of fierce triumph as she prods the child forward. “Show us, Pyrgomanche Feyir, beloved of Amazakaraan. Show us your wings!”

  Pyrgo hops up from the queen’s lap and steps forward, looking once to the queen for approval, and Queen Alkaia gives her a bolstering nod. Pyrgo’s innocent face
bursts into a look of joyful pride as she unfurls her wings, gleaming like opals, to their full size, her eyes lighting with golden flame as a small hawk swoops down to land on her shoulder.

  The entire Queen’s Council rises as one and bursts into whoops and cheers, every soldier in the room moving, as one, to salute Pyrgomanche, fists to chests. Tears flow down Alcippe’s cheeks as she places a broad, bolstering hand on the child’s head and Pyrgo glances up at Alcippe with a look of pure devotion.

  Something stirs in Wynter’s devastated mind—something small and chained that’s looking to throw off the shackles.

  “Who are the Icarals, Pyrgomanche Feyir?” Queen Alkaia says above the ongoing chanting of Goddess blessings.

  “Dragonkin!” Pyrgo heartily answers as she ruffles her wings. “Beloved ones of the Goddess!”

  Queen Alkaia sets her eyes on Wynter and holds her faltering stare, even as Wynter is caught up in unrelenting agony. “This is your future, Wynter Eirllyn,” Queen Alkaia vehemently insists, glancing pointedly at the child. “This is your truth. Not the poison the Alfsigr fed you. Not the lies this Zalyn’or sends into your very soul.” Queen Alkaia’s gaze moves to the knot of heavily tattooed women assembled to the Council’s side.

  “Circle of Sorcerers,” Queen Alkaia booms out. The room grows silent as the women all rise, each bearing multiple rune styli attached to belt sheaths.

  “Yes, Queen Mother,” the most elderly of the women answers, her skin a deep blue, her hair salt white. Glowing scarlet Amaz runes decorate her pointed ears.

  “Set your Circle to work on breaking the power of the Zalyn’or,” Queen Alkaia charges. She turns her vivid green eyes on Sylmire. “Sylmire Talonir, I grant you amnesty in Amaz lands. You will work with the Circle and tell them all that you know.” Queen Alkaia’s gaze hardens. “The time has come to free Wynter Eirllyn and Ysilldir Illyrindor and raise a force to free all of the women of sunland Elfinkin.”

  Wynter’s small spark of hope blinks out of existence even as sounds of vigorous support for the queen’s declaration go up all around.

  Wynter can barely hear anything above the roiling agony overtaking her.

  If the Zalyn’or is imprisoning her, she wants to be freed. And she wants all the women of Alfsigroth to be freed, as well.

  But she desperately wants Cael and Rhys to be freed too.

  And they are male.

  * * *

  The tears coating Wynter’s face are cool on her cheeks as she sits by Ysilldir on a large, broad rock overlooking the city of Cyme as twilight descends. Dense wilds are at their backs and a broad field slopes down before them, the city splayed out just beyond to fill the enormous bowl-shaped valley.

  It seems as if every owl in the forest has come to Wynter this eve, a small screech owl with pale gold eyes and caramel feathers perching on her shoulder, countless other owls settled in the surrounding trees.

  Their steady aura of warning bears down against Wynter and Ysilldir’s combined silence. Along with their projected image of an unnatural, twisting Shadow.

  Wrapped up in both the birds’ foreboding and a near-debilitating worry for Cael and Rhys, Wynter turns and takes in the tense lines of Ysilldir’s face as the Elfin warrior peers over the city, her friend’s reed-straight back unmarred and unpolluted by wings.

  All too aware of her own cursed wings, Wynter pulls them in, painfully tight, as if seeking to punish them. To force pain into them as her own penance for being born an Icaral.

  Shame. Shame. Shame.

  “What do you think we would be like without the Zalyn’or?” Ysilldir asks Wynter in Alfsigr, breaking into the joint quiet and Wynter’s tortured thoughts.

  “I...don’t know,” Wynter hesitantly answers, her words strained as the owls send their constant stream of warning through her, their low undercurrent of foreboding a much more intimidating thing than the excitable chittering of so many of their avian brethren.

  Ysilldir turns, her silver gaze lit with urgency. “We need to get these necklaces off.”

  Wynter hesitates, stopped short by an internal pull that fills her with the desire to remain silent. “You speak the truth, Ysilldir,” she forces out. She draws in a hard breath and says the next words in a rush before her throat can close in on them. “I believe what Sylmire says about the Zalyn’or to be true.”

  Ysilldir’s whole face tightens, as if she, too, is wrestling mightily to voice forbidden thoughts. “We changed when they put these necklaces on us. My elder brother, he changed, as well. Everyone I knew was deeply altered.”

  Wynter’s head is suddenly spinning with memories, as if a rock has been kicked over to reveal one small shard-like part of her mind. “I remember my brother, Cael...from before the Zalyn’or.”

  Fierce Cael. Brought early to receive the Zalyn’or necklace, just on the cusp of eleven years old instead of the customary twelve. Because he was out of control. Fighting with everyone who dared call his beloved younger sister a filthy Icaral.

  Fresh tears fill Wynter’s eyes at the memory.

  And at the memory of quiet, bookish Rhys, Cael’s closest friend, also brought early to the priestesses to have the Zalyn’or placed. After he wrote a long tract supporting Wynter, signed the bottom of it, and quietly nailed it to the front door of their school, to the horror of his parents, the priestesses, the whole school, and the entire Alfsigr Royal Council.

  Both young Alfsigr boys were promptly and roughly hauled to the Alfsigr Ealaiontor’lian Shrine that day.

  Wynter winces at the terrible memory of her beloved brother viciously cursing at their parents and at the Alfsigr soldiers as they dragged him away, and the wild, pleading look in Cael’s eyes as his gaze met hers.

  There’s nothing wrong with you! he’d cried to her. They’re lying to you! There is nothing wrong with your wings and I love you! Don’t forget that! Don’t ever forget that!

  Wynter remains silent for a long moment, unable to say more as she’s lanced through with pain, her owls rustling and drawing nearer, as if pulling a cloak of support around her.

  “What were Cael and Rhys like after they came back?” Ysilldir asks in a low, careful tone.

  A tear drops from Wynter’s eye and slides down her cheek. “It was as if a peace had descended on Cael. His unhappiness...his anger...they were muted. He stopped fighting with everyone. He stopped fighting with Mother and Father. But still, both he and Rhysindor would secretly tell me that the Alfsigr were wrong about me. Wrong about my being one of the Evil Cursed Ones.”

  Ysilldir looks to Wynter, a poignant look in her silver eyes. “Their rebellion still broke through.”

  Wynter considers this as the immensity of Sylmire’s revelations begin to gain full traction in that free sliver of her mind, even as the larger part recoils from the ideas. But still, the thoughts are dredged to light by that spark of rebellion that burns inside Wynter and refuses to be snuffed out.

  “What were you like before the Zalyn’or?” Ysilldir asks, her voice so strained it sounds like it’s weighted down.

  Wynter forces her thoughts deeper, that childhood time hazy, like a barely remembered dream.

  Like a partly erased dream.

  The small owl on Wynter’s shoulder nuzzles her neck and sends out an aura of affectionate concern, as if prompting her to delve deep.

  “I hid in my room,” Wynter quietly admits. “It was...too hard to go out and see the hatred in everyone’s faces when they looked at my wings. To see Mother and Father’s misery over what I am. But...sometimes, I was content. Cael and Rhys would bring me art supplies and sit with me. And with them, there were moments that I was almost...happy.”

  Wynter’s voice breaks off again as other childhood memories intrude.

  Sorrowful memories.

  * * *

  Of her secret attempts to fly into the air and into the white blossoms of the wild p
lum trees, spring filling her heart with joy as her bird friends flitted about, happily calling for her. And then rising, rising straight up toward the center of the celestial canopy, the cloud-white flowers surrounding her in an embrace as warm sunlight kissed her wings.

  And then the painful grip around the ankle, wrenching her to the ground. The blows rained down on her as she cried out and screamed and writhed on the grassy ground, her beloved wingeds chittering their alarm, diving for the priestesses only to be struck.

  To be killed.

  The memory of the silver robin felled beside her, one wing torn asunder.

  The terrified look in the bird’s eyes shattered Wynter’s heart as blows connected with her own wings, the pain excruciating as she screamed and begged and promised she would never, ever fly again.

  And then, she was dragged off to be educated by the priestesses. Forced to read passages in the Alfsigr holy book, the Ealaiontorian, again and again and again.

  Passages that spoke of the evil of the wingeds, and that her whole spirit railed against.

  * * *

  And then, the rapid shift to another memory.

  She wandered into a room where a brazier was lit, her whole self entranced by the fire leaping in it and toward her, as if in happy greeting, the fire power inside Wynter growing warm and golden.

  Her small finger thrusting into the flame, unharmed by the lovely warming fire that sparked straight through her body and bristled through her wings.

  Her whole self coming alive.

  Her wings coming alive.

  And then the shock of cold hands. Wrenching her away from the flame. Hauling her to the head priestess. Then being thrown into a cell where her small form was doused with icy water again and again as she cried out for her brother and cowered on the floor in penitent robes. Struck with sticks. Made to recite verses about abominations who play with hellish fire.

  Verses every shred of her being recoiled from.