by Jess E. Owen
Tocho took a moment to watch him, nose quivering. “Be careful. If I don’t hear from you by the evening mark—”
“I’ll be fine,” Caj murmured, surprised at Tocho’s concern and at his own growing sense of affection. In many ways, the young wolf reminded him of a gryfon fledge—bold, eager, a bit foolhardy. His help had been invaluable. “Go to your family, take a rest, and thank you. You’ve done enough today. I remember the way.”
Tocho’s ears flicked warily back and forward again, scanning the air, then he dipped his head to Caj and wriggled back down underground.
With another slow sigh, Caj turned to face the ragged heap of black rock and smoke. The heat seeping to him from all points soothed the ache in his mending wing and put him in a better humor than he’d been in for a while. Without the wolf, whose scent would either spook Sverin or put him on the offensive, Caj could afford to be less subtle.
“Sverin!” he shouted, and was answered by the hissing of steam somewhere several leaps off as searing earthfire trickled into the cold sea. “Son-of-Per, my wingbrother!”
You will know yourself again if it’s the last thing I do, Caj swore silently. A bit of red caught his eye. He swung around, carefully favoring his wing, but the red was only bright trickles of lava. They wormed down from fissures in a jagged peak across a narrow river of seawater, glowing red in the low, gray light. Caj huffed, but was not disheartened. They’d searched Talon’s Reach, then tried the Star Isle on the word of a fishing eagle. Then a crow informed them that Halvden and Sverin had fled, driven off the starward edge of that isle by the snow wolves. All the isles, it seemed, knew of Caj’s hunt for the mad king, and seemed eager to help him.
For what it’s worth, he thought, wondering if the crow had tricked them for some reason.
He walked forward across the surface of the rock on which he’d emerged. It appeared to be the largest chunk of the broken scatter that the Vanir called an island. Caj recalled the final flight of Per the Red. Caj and Sverin had borne the dead king over the other isles and, with the entire pride circling above, cast him into the large lava flow. The red feathers caught and burned, bones flowing down with the lava, burning, and what didn’t burn before they hit were buried in the sea, frozen in black rock. Perhaps in his feral state, Sverin had felt called to the last place he would’ve remembered seeing his father.
Caj shook himself and walked forward, calling Sverin’s name. The swirl of seawater between the broken rock islands, the hiss of steam, and the blast of poisonous gases from cracks on distant shores drowned out his calls. Voice hoarse, he finally fell silent. Then he reached the end of his little island.
Wary, he tried to gauge the depth of the narrow channel between the ground on which he stood and the next more ragged, slanting face of rock.
Nothing for it, he thought. He turned and loped several leaps back, reminding himself sternly to keep his wings closed or suffer pain and Sigrun’s ire. Then he bolted forward, sprinting to gain speed and momentum, bunched the powerful muscles of his hindquarters and launched himself over the channel of water.
His talons hit the stone, his belly smashed against the curve where the rock broke down into the sea and he gasped. Hind legs scrabbling for purchase, Caj growled and strained, his shoulders cramping and wings screaming to open.
Am I getting old at last? A little jump is enough to do me in? With a final, raw shove, he surged onto the island and rolled, voice cracking out in pain when he crunched his injured wing. The ache faded to dullness after a moment and he hoped he hadn’t done too much damage.
When he caught his breath and turned at last to look behind him, he felt satisfied, fairly certain not even the young warriors under his training could have made the leap with wings closed. It would be easier going back, for he realized now he had mis-judged the height of this isle to the next, and he now stood on higher ground.
A blast of steam brought him back to his surroundings and he stared around warily, tail swinging.
The snow that coated the other islands melted against the heat of Pebble’s Throw and turned to chilly, misty drizzle. Caj enjoyed the way the drizzle slipped from his newly oiled wings—the wings of a Vanir who fed on fish, he thought wryly—but the moisture dimmed his vision and deadened his calls. Ahead of him the island broke into a series of cracks and small gorges, and out of these, every few heartbeats, issued a blast of noxious steam. The cracks were large enough to stumble over, not fall into, but he knew the steam would be deadly. He watched it for a few moments, counting in alternate rhythm with his breaths and the steam. He could wait and time his leaps around them.
Grumbling, he strode forward, trying to catch a scent of Sverin against the harsh smells of the oozing magma and listening hard for any sound of life.
Blinking against the drizzle, he caught a new scent through the sulfuric air. Immediately he crouched, laying himself as flat against the black rock as he could, though there was no way to disguise his feathers, he slunk along the ground to lower himself behind a ridge of stone.
The low breeze, warm from steam and heavy with sulfur, brought him the new scent again. Feather and fur, warmth and life. It was a scent Caj knew well. It was a gryfon scent, one of his pride.
But it wasn’t Sverin.
The memory of battle stiffened his wing and Caj suppressed a growl. He climbed up the stone ridge, silent and low as a ghostly mountain cat around the hissing fissures and shallow gorges. The rock sloped down abruptly into a face of black glass slag for about four leaps, then flattened into a walkable surface again. Surprisingly, the ground there was scattered with pale green and gray lichen, the only growing thing Caj had seen thus far.
Crouched in the lichen, gnawing fiercely at the glistening thigh bone of a red deer, was Halvden. The young warrior who had turned Sverin against him, whose father had stirred trouble with the wolves and died for it, who had harried Shard at every turn and who Caj had for so long dismissed merely as healthy competition for his nest-son. Halvden, the fluffed up jaybird who, in his blackest, and stupidest, and bravest moment, had tried to murder Caj. Had it not been for the mercy of the Star Island wolves, he would have succeeded.
Halvden had always been the best looking, the best fighter, the best pupil of his age. The price of that was arrogance.
There was only one cure for arrogance.
“Son-of-Hallr,” Caj whispered into the drizzle, heart leaping up with hunting thrill. His tail dusted back and forth against the rock behind him. “Time for your next lesson.”
~ 15 ~
The First Plains
“WAKE, YOUR HIGHNESS.”
Kjorn opened his eyes to the voice of Nilsine, the huntress who’d first met him. Her hushed tone gave him pause. For the last several days she had acted as his personal bodyguard—or perhaps chaperone was more accurate. He wasn’t always sure if she meant to protect him, or others from him.
“What is it?” Cold had dropped the night before. Though Kjorn was snuggled deep in one of their best grass hollows, the chill wind off the sea smelled lightly of snow, and there was frost on the grass just beyond his nest.
Nilsine huffed a disgusted sigh. “Rok and Frida have escaped. I don’t know how he did it so quietly. My guards aren’t stupid.”
Kjorn cursed softly and stood, stretching his wings to warm them. He thought of the painted wolf Mayka who’d helped him escape in near silence, but didn’t mention it. He owed the wolf a debt. “Will you go after him?”
“No.” Nilsine stepped away and looked out over the hills of the Vanheim. “It isn’t worth it to hunt him. Not now, when we have more important things to do.” He gave her a sideways look and she inclined her head. “We’re planning to depart today, and lead you to the First Plains. The high priestess believes that if anyone in the Winderost would know of one foreign gryfon, it would be the lions. And if you want my opinion…”
“I do.”
“We should also try to meet with the eagles of the Voldsom Narrows. The elders claim there
was a time they had peace with the Dawn Spire, but I’ll believe it when it happens. Who knows. They might be willing to help you, anyway.”
Kjorn chuckled. “Maybe. Thank you. I’ll take your advice, and I trust you to the routes. I’d like to avoid any scouts or patrols from the Dawn Spire for now.”
“I understand.” Her eyes glittered in the gloom of predawn. “If they know of your presence here, it could complicate your search for your friend.”
Kjorn laughed. “Something like that.” He liked the fierce border guard, and he hoped she liked him. It would be good to have friends in the Winderost.
She dipped her head. “We leave at first light, but I woke you early because Rok’s other companion didn’t flee with him.”
“Fraenir?” Kjorn’s tail twitched.
Nilsine shrugged her wings. “He asked to speak to you.”
“I thought about what you said.” Fraenir glanced uncomfortably between the two humorless Vanhar who stood on either side of him. It was breakfast, and all around, Nilsine’s volunteers, the high priestess herself, and younger, stronger gryfons chosen by the elders to represent their council ate fresh fish, waiting for Kjorn’s word to depart.
“What, exactly?” Kjorn asked. It had been several days since he arrived, since the Vanhar elders agreed to assist him in his search for Shard.
Fraenir looked embarrassed. “What you said of duty, and honor.”
“So you stayed?” He sensed Nilsine walk up on one side of him, and Fraenir crouched back.
But he found his courage to respond. “Yes. I tried to convince Rok, but he wouldn’t listen.” Fraenir drew himself up, looking first to Nilsine, then Kjorn. “I want to help. I want to…to join you.”
Nilsine’s tail lashed. “You have yet to recompense for your acts of thievery and mischief.”
“He can recompense,” Kjorn said without taking his eyes from Fraenir, “by helping me.”
“Your Highness.” Nilsine glowered at Kjorn. “With all respect, the Vanheim Shore is not your domain.”
Kjorn looked down at her, and lifted his wings. “I know that. But he asks to serve me. I’d like to let him try to pay for his crimes and find some sense of honor. He’s seen what Rok has become, and surely we don’t want him to follow in those foot steps.”
Nilsine’s expression didn’t change. Abruptly she turned back to Fraenir. “I know you better than the prince does, and I have less faith in you. For his sake, you may accompany us, and serve, but the first sign of mischief, the first betrayal, and you’ll answer to me.”
When Fraenir only glared, Kjorn said quietly, “Yes, my lady.”
Startled, Fraenir flattened one ear and echoed him. “Yes. My lady.”
“Release him,” Nilsine ordered the two guards, and they stepped away far enough that Fraenir could spread his wings and fly if he wished. Kjorn more than half expected him to. But he didn’t.
Bright young eyes gleamed at Kjorn. “What now?”
Kjorn eyed the glowing horizon. “Breakfast.”
The guards left with Fraenir to seek their share of fish, and Nilsine sidled closer to Kjorn. “You have a good heart, son-of-Sverin, but I don’t know if that one does. He could mean to spy for Rok, or take information to the Dawn Spire in return for I don’t know what. I recommend you watch him.”
Watching the light rise over the sea, Kjorn said, “I thought that’s what you were here for. To watch my back. Or watch me?”
It took her a moment to chuckle, but she did. “Aye, my lord. And so I will—watch both of you. See you get something to eat, it’s a long flight to the starward border of the First Plain.”
“These lions,” Kjorn said slowly, “what should I expect from them?”
“Hard to say. They follow only Tor. They believe they are older than us, that Tor placed them first in the world. They dream deeper, and they choose their friends carefully.”
“And their enemies?”
She spread her wings in another shrug. “I suggest you focus on becoming their friend.”
“If they’re honorable, as you say, that shouldn’t be difficult.”
“Maybe,” she said, sounding doubtful. “Just remember as you speak with them that they hunt at night. That is their realm. And for the last two generations the nights have been ruined by the screams of the enemy, the danger and fear of them always lurking.” Her gaze fixed steadily on him, inscrutable as a sea hawk. “And it was your great grandfather who brought them here.”
They reached the border of what Nilsine called the First Plains by late afternoon, and she ordered them to walk, rather than fly, into the lions’ territory, out of respect. A low haze hung like mist across the stretch of land, smelling sourly of smoke, and Kjorn marveled that the effect of the volcano had drifted so far windward.
Despite the haze, vague memory and restlessness circled Kjorn’s mind the more scents he caught and the deeper inland they went. Though he didn’t remember any of it distinctly, a sense lingered.
As he landed and beheld the long, grass plain and took in the distinct scent of the big, hunting cats that saturated the area, he wondered at Shard’s coming here. Perhaps he’d come to find the true history of the Aesir and the Conquering, and why Per fled. Perhaps, Kjorn thought, beholding the long plain, he’d had other plans in mind.
If he is, after all, prince of the Vanir and plans to make his claim once again, where does he plan for that to leave me?
Only finding Shard would tell.
Nilsine ordered her scouts to fan out and find lions so that they might announce Kjorn properly.
His thoughts lost in the Silver Isles and Shard—he still couldn’t truly imagine his wingbrother as a prince—Kjorn jumped to discover Fraenir standing next to him.
“What should I do, sire?”
He seemed to delight in calling Kjorn by a title, as if he’d craved leadership and now had something on which to focus the high energies of his youth. Kjorn managed not to sigh. “Pick a group, and search for lions with them. Keep your head down and be respectful.”
Disappointment flashed in Fraenir’s face but Kjorn didn’t budge. The young gryfon needed to learn discipline and rank, not act as Kjorn’s personal errand pigeon.
“What about her?” Fraenir asked of Nilsine, who strode toward them, ears constantly ticking back and forth, on high alert in the high grass and smoky air.
“Your Highness,” she said to Kjorn, and he wondered that she seemed to be genuine, and began to wonder more why she’d volunteered to help. She didn’t acknowledge Fraenir. “With your leave, I’ll have you search with me. The lions will have gone to ground until nightfall, but my scouts have the scent of a pronghorn herd where the lions might go to hunt.”
“Lead on,” Kjorn said, following her. Over his shoulder he said, “Fraenir, you have your orders.”
The younger gryfon huffed, fluffed his wings, then called to a group of the departing scouts to wait for him.
Beside Kjorn, Nilsine’s cool countenance broke and she scoffed. “You shouldn’t waste your time. He’s exile stock, born and bred. A thief with no discipline, no honor. I warn you, he will betray you in the end, maybe not directly, but through cowardice or some other thievish—”
“I appreciate your concern,” Kjorn said, lifting his head high to catch the scents on the wind. “But I’ll handle him.”
They waded through waving, golden grass, and as the sun dipped, so did the warmth of the day. Kjorn felt a chill, but it was nothing compared to winter in the Silver Isles.
“Will you tell me something?” Kjorn asked. “I didn’t wish to ask back at the Vanheim Shore and seem too ignorant, but I thought you might indulge me.”
“I might,” Nilsine answered blandly.
“What did the priestess mean when she spoke of the Four Winds?”
Nilsine loosed a soft breath. “Not a belief the Aesir recognize anymore? It is the oldest of traditions. Before gryfons knew Tyr and Tor, they knew only the earth, wind, sea and sky. The Four Winds�
� Star, Night, Sun and Dawn…they all have their own purpose, their own messages.”
“I see.” He considered the four directions. “And what wind does your priestess think is blowing now?”
Nilsine squinted, ears twitching. “Before we left this morning she told me that the air is still.”
“What does that mean?”
“That means no one knows what will happen.”
Kjorn’s tail twitched but he maintained a neutral expression. His father had little patience with prophecy, and he was beginning to understand why. But he couldn’t dismiss their beliefs. “Well then. Perhaps we shall stir the winds with our own wings.”
She looked amused at that. “Perhaps. We could do with a change.”
“What kind of change?”
Nilsine dipped her head, sniffing at an imprint in the grass. “All I know is why I patrol our borders. The exiles, rogues, and poachers run amok throughout the plains, the Dawn Reach, and the Outlands surrounding the Dawn Spire. They have no order, though if I had to pick a leader among them, it would be Rok.” Her expression soured, and Kjorn kept his opinions to himself. “The families of the Reach remain at the Dawn Spire. The Aesir clans of the Ostral Shores have left the Dawn Spire and keep their own borders. Obviously, the Vanhar have left. Some families, refusing to serve the new king and unable to go home without his support for fear of the wyrms, live in exile, but scattered.”
“The Ostral Shores…” Kjorn wracked his memory of why the name was familiar, but his father had spoken so little of their homeland. “Caj,” he blurted, and Nilsine watched him, bemused. “I just recalled—my father met his wingbrother at the Ostral Shores. Caj, son-of-Cai.”
“Then you may have allies starward of the Dawn Spire, if you can make it there in one piece. Perhaps they know of your friend.”
“They well might. Caj is Shard’s nest-father.”
“They might also be enemies,” she added bluntly. “We don’t know how their feelings might fly toward your family now.”
