Page 4 of The Shadow Wand

He insists, when Elloren wakes screaming from fiery nightmares, that what she remembers was a storm. A fierce, freakish storm—an inferno of fire caused by unusually violent lightning.

He insists on it again and again and again.

In time, she believes. And her true memory fades and is buried.

But the forest remembers.

The trees send out word in their creeping way, slow as sap traveling through tangled roots, one tree after another after another. And gradually, relentlessly, the message is carried toward the Northern Forest. Toward its Dryad Guardians.

Toward III.

The Black Witch is back.

Prelude

CHAPTER ONE

EVIL ONES

THIERREN STONE

Presentday

FourthMonth

Northern Gardnerian Forest

Thierren’s horse keeps smart pace with his unit of elite Mages, all the soldiers on horseback and following the lead of their young, confident commander, Sylus Bane, as they ride deep into Gardneria’s Northern Forest.

Countless leaves rustle in the light breeze, and Thierren glances at the surrounding forest with no small amount of awe.

He’s never seen trees like this before. Old growth. Ancient, untouched forest.

Primordial.

Trunks so large that it would take three of him to wrap his arms clear round. Rich, dark Ironwood with rustling canopies of deep emerald leaves, further darkened by the overcast day, the occasional rumbling of thunder to the west. The trees’ loamy scent on the air.

And something else.

A prickling unease bristles the hairs on the back of Thierren’s neck.

As the shadows of the day deepen, it’s as if the trees are increasingly leaning in toward them all. And not in a welcoming way.

The trees don’t want us here.

The thought rises unbidden, and Thierren immediately scoffs at his own imaginings. He glances sidelong at the forest, then blows out a breath and shakes his head, his body moving in sync with his horse. There’s no reason to be spooked by trees, of all things. There’s no reason to be spooked by anything. Thierren glances down at his brand-new soldier’s uniform, spotless and edged with five gleaming silver stripes, signifying his almost unparalleled proficiency in both water and wind magery.

“Ready to hunt some Fae?” stocky, rumpled Branneth asks from beside him as he flashes an excited grin. “Make their pointy-eared headsexplode?”

Thierren eyes Branneth, an annoyingly uncouth presence forever trying to win Thierren’s favor. They’re both Level Five Gardnerian Mages, but the similarities end there. Branneth is unforgivably profane and often flat-out immoral, like the rest of his family. Whereas Thierren’s family is part of the Styvian sect—the most purely devout, observant Gardnerians.

ThetrueGardnerians.

Thierren glances at Branneth with barely concealed censure as they keep pace with their unit. There’s no silver orb pendant around Branneth’s neck, and his uniform is marked with the Erthia sphere, not the Ancient One’s white bird, which the most devout Gardnerians now insist upon. Thierren feels the weight of the silver necklace gracing his own neck, the proper way to wear the Ancient One’s Erthia orb, a symbol of shackling the earth below to the Holy Magedom. And Thierren’s own uniform is blessedly marked with the white bird.

A stronger breeze picks up, a clear command seeming to sound on the wind.

Leave.

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