Page 187 of The Shadow Wand

Because the situation is an encroaching nightmare.

The Amazakaraan military is formidable. But they’re vastly outnumbered by combined Gardnerian and Alfsigroth armies. Which means the runic dome-shield cast over the Amaz territories is the only thing standing between the Amaz and complete annihilation.

Wynter’s birds sweep in around her as she wrestles with her troubled thoughts and advances through the curtained hall. All types of birds, in an avian wave that seems to always move with Wynter now wherever she goes, surrounding her with their dazzling spectacle of color.

Orioles with persimmon feathers bright as fire.

Black swallows with backs dusted a sparkling blue.

Tiny jewel-toned hummingbirds in a shimmering palette of emerald, sapphire, and ruby.

Golden finches, bright as the sun.

And the raptors—three owls now, even in the daylight. And hawks and falcons, the predator and prey birds in a wary truce with each other as they bring their messages to Wynter, some frantic and chattering, some in a flash of dire imaging. But all with the same dread-filled tenor—

Warning. Warning. Warning.

Burning forests! Corrupted elements! The priest with a Wand of twisting Shadow!

It’s always there now, the fear that the complete unraveling of the natural world has begun.

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.

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