Page 193 of The Shadow Wand

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’lianShrine 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’teverforget 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 plum 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, theEalaiontorian, 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.

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