Page 188 of The Shadow Wand

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.

“Youmustkneel 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 beforeno 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 wearthis.”

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

---