Page 36 of The Shadow Wand

Trystan freezes at his side.

Sylla the Death Fae stands before them, her petite, dark figure surrounded by thick, gauzy spiderwebs that course over the walls, ceiling, and floor of the hallway’s end like an impenetrable tunnel. She’s dressed in a black version of the Wyvernguard’s sapphire uniform, a gleaming black dragon embroidered on her uniform’s black cloth instead of the usual white dragon on sapphire, every article of clothing these Death Fae put on instantly turning as black as night. She has tightly curled, short hair, her thickly lashed eyes large, her dark lips full, her face and pointed ears covered in onyx-metal piercings the same obsidian hue as her skin.

As Sylla stares at them with her unfathomable eyes, a disturbing clarity fills Vothe.

They’re using the Deathkin to drive the Gardnerian out, lodging him near the three primordial Death Fae who scare most of the Wyvernguard with their close affinity to the terrifying aspects of nature—death, decay, sickness, and fear.

But it’s wrong to use them as monstrous outcasts, Vothendrile considers, bristling. It’s true that these non-elemental Fae keep to themselves, their reserve and odd ways opening them up to ridicule and superstition, but Vothendrile respects Sylla and Viger and Vesper, not out of fear, but out of the deep-rooted sense that there’s something solid and necessary at the center of their power. Something just as linked to the natural order of things as Vothendrile’s own weather power.

And he believes that their allegiance rests firmly with the Wyvernguard’s own aims.

Spiders scuttle across the floor toward Vothe and Trystan then stream up their pants in curious spirals. All kinds of spiders. Wolf spiders and funnel-web spiders, brown recluse spiders, and a black widow or two.

Trystan calmly raises his head and looks to Sylla Vuul. “My name is Trystan Gardner,” he says in a stunning display of equanimity, as if oblivious to the spiders swarming all over his body, the black widow now circling the skin of his neck. “It seems we’re to be neighbors.”

Sylla remains silent but cocks her head, her piercings delicately clinking against each other, her large black eyes unblinking.

The spiders abruptly circle back down both Vothendrile and Trystan and then scuttle back up the walls and into their tunnel of webs.

Trystan dips his head respectfully toward Sylla, turns, and unlocks his door, flashing Vothe a slightly indignant look as he pushes the door wide open.

Vothe freezes alongside Trystan as they peer into the room.

Bloodred graffiti is splattered on the wall. An angry, violent word that Vothe imagines Trystan Gardner can’t read because it’s in the Noi language. But Vothe can tell, from Trystan’s briefly devastated look, that he understands nonetheless.

ROACH

“What does it mean?” Trystan asks, his armor suddenly breached clear through, his voice thick with shock and his eyes haunted, as if by some trauma revisited.

“It means...” Vothe hesitates, not knowing why. He, himself, was idly tossing around the same word just earlier today, so bitter over being assigned to guard someone too dangerous to have here. And questioning Vang Troi’s sanity.

“What?” Trystan presses, and the slash of pain in his expression inexplicably shakes Vothendrile. “What does it mean?”

Vothe fights back against his own unease.Get hold of yourself, he inwardly snarls. You’re aZhilon’ile Wyvern. Don’t go soft around this Gardnerian. He’s dangerous.

“It meansroach,” Vothe says, forcing an unaffected tone.

Trystan strides into the room and throws open the paint-splashed door to his black-enameled closet. More slurs are painted on the inside of the doors.

ROACH FILTH GO HOME

Trystan Gardner’s assigned uniforms lie crumpled on the closet floor. Slashed to shreds and covered in red paint.

Trystan is frozen, his devastation clear, and again, it gives Vothe serious pause.

Remember who he is!Vothe sharply chastises himself.Are you honestly feeling sympathy for him? The grandson of the Black Witch? Have you gone mad?

Trystan is quiet for a long, fraught moment, his back to Vothe. And then he shuts the closet door and turns, his eyes now blazing, and Vothe can feel the power of that gaze straight down his spine, his own lightning crackling to life in response to it.

“I’ll just wear this, then,” Trystan bites out, gesturing sharply toward the worn indigo Noi tunic and pants he has on.

Indignation rises in Vothe at the idea of this Mage even being allowed to wear Noi attire. “You can’t dress like that here. You have to be in uniform.”

Ire flashes in Trystan’s eyes. “What would you suggest, then?”

Vothe bares his teeth. “That you leave.”

Trystan’s whole body spits invisible lightning. He strides forward, his arm brushing against Vothe’s as he moves to grab hold of the door’s handle, a flash of his storm magic lashing into Vothe. Overpowering magic. Possibly stronger than anything Vothe could throw at him.

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