by Jess E. Owen
Hikaru shut his eyes and whispered, “Fair winds.”
They stood there a moment, then Hikaru raised his head, his expression clearing as he turned to the sky. “I’ve learned the stars you can follow from here to take you to the Silver Isles, if you wish.”
The Silver Isles. He could go home.
“Do you know the stars,” Shard asked quietly, “that would lead me back to the Winderost?”
~ 42 ~
The Red King’s Sorrow
TWILIGHT FELL AS THE pride gathered on the Copper Cliff.
Days after their final confrontation, Caj, Sverin and the rest of the warriors returned to the nesting cliffs. Sverin had refused to fly since Caj could not, and so the whole procession, including now Halvden, Tocho, and Ragna’s five warriors, had walked all the way from the White Mountains back to the pride, arriving near sunset on the fifth day.
At Sverin’s request, Ragna gathered the entire pride. Grudgingly, Caj thought it a sign not only of her honorable nature, but her sense of security, that she allowed his request and didn’t simply imprison him. She did not require the old to attend, or those gryfesses with kit who felt too weary or ill—but all of them came anyway. All of them wished to hear what the fallen king could possibly have to say.
Ragna stood on top of the King’s Rocks, dove-white against the clear dome of delicate blue sky.
For so many years Per and Sverin had stood there. Caj watched Ragna quietly, for she had said nothing about Sverin’s fate. There had been no time. Now the red gryfon sat behind her, awaiting his turn to speak and flanked by two large, fully grown Aesir who would not look directly at him.
Caj sat with Sigrun on a lower ledge of the King’s Rocks, not as Sverin’s honored wingbrother now, but as Thyra’s honored father. The father of the queen. The noble warrior who had captured, restored, and returned the Mad Red King.
Rather than watch the pride gather and read the expressions of revulsion and fear, Caj sought out Thyra, who stood the same level with Ragna but well back, letting the Vanir queen rule this moment. Sensing his look, Thyra glanced at Caj and lifted her beak reassuringly.
Caj inclined his head to her, and looked back to the Widow Queen.
When all appeared settled in the snow, Ragna spread her pale wings. “Sons and daughters of Tyr, of Tor, mixed blood of Aesir and Vanir, conquerors who are now mates, family…friends. We gather as one pride, healing, to hear the confession of one who would have divided and ruined us.”
Caj eyed Sverin, but the fallen king’s expression remained distant, neither angry nor arguing.
Ragna addressed the pride, telling of Caj’s bold initiative to find and bring Sverin to his senses, and to justice, telling of Halvden’s redemptive actions and the warriors who sought out Sverin, in the end. All watched her, rapt, her voice like balm after long years of the aggressive Red King.
All the while, Caj watched Sverin, desperately seeking some reaction, some hint of what he might say. He looked better than when Caj had found him, preened and eyes alert, as if finally aware of everyone and everything around him, a prisoner of war.
“Come forth, son of Per,” Ragna said. Her voice carried across the frozen field. Every ear perked. Caj shifted, and Sigrun made a low, reassuring noise beside him. “You are here to answer for your crimes against the Vanir, the wolves of the Star Isle, every other creature of the Silver Isles bullied and abused under your and your father’s reign. Come forth, and speak, as you wished to.”
Sverin drew himself up, and with a sour pang of regret, Caj saw that he was truly defeated. The arrogance had drained from him, his once-proud stride dragged, limbs liquid and slow as if he walked to his death, not his confession.
Ragna swept back and stretched her wings as if to present him to the pride, and all drew a breath as the War King turned his back to them, and bowed before her. “This chance to speak is more than I deserved.”
“Use it well,” Ragna said, her voice now flat and neutral.
Caj’s blood quickened more than before he’d faced Sverin in the valley, and he perked his ears.
Sverin turned to face the pride, as he had so many times before. His wings remained closed, his tail low, his ears slanted back as if to continue regarding Ragna, behind him. “I stand before you, defeated. I pass on my right to rule to my son, and to his mate.” He lowered his head toward Thyra, who still would not look at him. His ears twitched, and he turned back as the older Aesir mumbled amongst themselves.
“Why did I not fight openly?” His tail lashed, showing some of his old aggression, but he didn’t move otherwise. He struck a harsh, red outline against the sky, like an open wound. “Why did I not call out the enemies of my rule and deal with them honorably?” He paused, his voice checked, then he closed his eyes and tilted his head toward the sky, as if asking strength of Tyr. Caj fought the urge to leap up and stand at his side, to give Sverin whatever strength he needed. But he remained close to Sigrun. She also grew tense, for Ragna had kept secrets from her, too.
Caj had never seen Sverin hesitate before, and he almost wished he wouldn’t confess—though certainly his rule failed at the end, some part of him was chilled to see the king brought so low.
After a moment Sverin lowered his gaze again to the assembled. “I should have, but I did not, because I was afraid—not of my foe, or of the Vanir king’s son.” He paused, corrected himself. “Rashard. Your prince. No, not because I was afraid to fight, but because I was afraid if I broke a certain promise, then my own worst secrets would be revealed. I was a coward, and a liar, and this brought suffering on the Vanir and on you, and your families, and ate away at me until I was no longer king, brother, or father to anyone.”
Caj gazed at him in wonder and confusion, then around at the pride. Ears flicked. Glances exchanged, no one stirred otherwise or spoke.
“Two things I’ve kept in my heart, and they poisoned it slowly. The first concerns our coming here, of which the Aesir who flew with us know only half.”
He looked to Caj. “We came here under the guise of conquering new lands, expanding the rule of the Aesir in the windward land. The Winderost.” He said the name as if it tasted bitter. “But those who flew with us know that we left a great scourge behind us there. You know we left the enemies of Kajar to terrorize the land. Perhaps my father thought our leaving would draw them away.”
He hesitated, his gaze now locked on Caj. “Perhaps he thought this, and his intentions were honorable. I can only hope, for it means my line isn’t entirely ruled by cowardice.” His beak remained parted, holding words, as he stared at Caj. Then he broke the stare, and gazed at the rocks. “But his true reason for leaving, was me.”
A long, rasped breath led to his next words. “I begged my father that we might flee. I couldn’t stand their horrible screams in the night. I couldn’t stand knowing they haunted our borders. I could not fight them, and I couldn’t bear the thought of my son growing up to the same nightmare. More than anything, I didn’t want Kjorn to know the terror I had known.”
He raised his voice, declaring his confession to the cold winter air, to Tyr’s light, to the pride. “I was afraid. I was afraid, and I spent every moment of our reign here working to convince all of you, and my son, and myself, that I was a true king.”
A light, frozen wind brushed their feathers up. Caj shuddered. Sverin would not look at him now, but his gaze settled on the middle distance of the White Mountains. No one moved. His voice grew hard.
“Ragna.”
The Widow Queen, who had been watching the pride, turned her gaze to Sverin. He lowered his head.
“Please step forward.”
Her ear flicked back. “You’ve said enough. This is unnecessary.”
“No, they must know, they must understand that it was not greed or anger or arrogance that drove me mad.”
“What more?” Caj breathed, so softly only Sigrun heard him, and she touched her beak gently to his ear. He’d known Sverin feared the great wyrms in the homelan
d. Everyone did. But never had he imagined that the reason they’d all left to conquer new lands was because Sverin had asked his father to flee.
Ragna and Sverin watched each other a moment longer, sharing some silent history Caj knew nothing about, then Ragna came forward, and Sverin retreated a step as if to present her. “All of you know that my mate died the first, bitter winter in the Silver Isles, drowned in the sea.”
Low, disgusted grumbles washed through the pride, and Sverin snapped his beak to demand silence. It worked. His power still held the pride in thrall.
“For so many years I cast blame on the sea, on the winter, on the Vanir and then on Ragna herself.” He watched Ragna’s face, and it was like pale stone. “For so many years I did this, telling myself and the pride that the Vanir, that Ragna, had taunted and driven Elena to her death.” The name of Sverin’s dead mate, so long unspoken, struck like a bolt of skyfire. “I did this for so long that I began to believe it was true.”
Ragna looked at Sverin, ears perked forward, and said nothing.
“But it was not the Vanir.” Sverin’s voice boomed and cracked, broken, over the pride. “It was not Ragna who pushed Elena past her limit and skill, it was not Ragna who demanded that Elena try to match the hunting skills of the Vanir, not Ragna who fought viciously with her because arrogance, hunger and terror of that first winter had driven all the Aesir nearly mad.” He closed his eyes, as if unable to look at them and say the words at the same time. “It was me.”
Sverin looked at Caj, and he began to understand at last the true horror of his wingbrother’s confession.
“It was I who demanded that she try, that she prove herself equal to the conquered huntresses. I taunted her, I drove her out, and I watched when she fell, but I was too terrified to fly out and try to save her. And I watched as Ragna…” He straightened, lifted his wings, and forced out the last words. “…as Ragna, the only witness, calling for me to help, dove down to try and save my mate. But she couldn’t do it alone, the water was too rough and freezing, and Elena drowned still calling my name.”
No one breathed.
Caj could bring no expression to his face at first, no sympathy, no reaction at all. His stomach felt hot and hollow.
Sverin’s ears laid back slowly, watching him for some reaction. Caj drew a breath, managed to raise his beak, lift his wings slightly to acknowledge him.
You will never fly alone, he thought, fiercely, hoping his wingbrother knew, hoping he saw it in Caj’s face.
I promise you will not fly this wind alone.
Everything became clear. Everything washed over Caj in a blazing, fresh new light. Their flight from the Winderost, Sverin’s stern rule, his unreasonable hatred for the Isles.
He had never hated the Islands, or the Vanir. He had hated himself.
Caj stood, slowly, not intending to go to him, but to show that he would not abandon him now, or ever again.
Sverin looked again beyond the pride, toward the mountains.
Before any other gryfon could close their beak or make a noise, Ragna took mercy on Sverin by speaking, for all could see that he had no more words. “We made a pact, that I would tell no one of what had happened, and Sverin would never allow me to be exiled from the pride.”
No wonder she never seemed afraid of him, Caj thought, with a mix of bitterness and pity for them both. He wondered how much pain could have been avoided, if…if.
“It was wrong of me,” Ragna said to all, though she watched Sverin, “to hold that terrible secret. Wrong of both of us, and it has brought nothing but ruin, guilt, and pain.”
Sverin’s wings closed slowly and he turned his face from the pride, who sat as frozen as rocks in the snow. “Forgive me,” he said quietly to Ragna. “I beg your forgiveness.”
“Since you ask it, I give it,” Ragna said, though her voice remained cold. “For my own part, for I see how you suffer from our agreement still, I forgive you, for I agreed to silence as well. But for the rest…”
She raised her voice, and Caj watched her expression grow icy. “For your crimes against the Vanir, wrought by your own dishonorable acts of cowardice and lying, for the exiles you sent to die, the scorn you showed my own son and the Isles…for that, you will await judgment, and beg the new king for forgiveness yourself.”
“The new king,” Sverin murmured, staring at his own talons as if in a dream. “Shard.”
“Shard,” Ragna said. Her voice grew from ice to heat, and as she spoke, the pride realized that her forgiveness did not mean mercy or friendship. “My son. The son of Baldr and the rightful prince of the Silver Isles who once loved you, you who returned that love and loyalty with scorn, mistrust and fear. When he returns, he will decide your fate. Thyra has agreed to this. Your own son said we should do with you what we saw fit.”
Speaking only to Sverin as if they were alone, and not in front of the entire pride, she finished.
“Until their return, I declare you a prisoner of war, charged with crimes against my pride and all the creatures of the Silver Isles. You will be imprisoned as we have been imprisoned these ten years.”
Looking dazed as the pride thought on that change of fortune, it seemed Sverin could only bow his head. Older Aesir in the crowd began to shift, rustle as if preparing to speak, but Thyra raised her head, staring them down. Caj himself could not move, could not argue with the queen’s statement nor sentence, grateful only that it was not a sentence of death.
Ragna called the names of four warriors loyal to her. “Take him to his nest. Bind his wings with the gold chains so precious to him, set a guard on him at all times, and let him await the return of the king.”
“What will become of him?” Caj demanded, at last breaking his silence.
When Ragna’s cool look switched to him, Sigrun stepped forward also, as if to shield him.
“Now?” Ragna watched Caj, he thought, with a mix of anger and pity. “Now that the truth is known, let him at last grieve his mate honestly, and face his failed rule. Let him hope that my son has mercy. Let him beg bright Tyr,” she looked to Sverin, ears flat on her skull, “for the pity and mercy that he never gave.”
~ 43 ~
End of the Hunt
“WOULD HE THINK TO come here, Asvander?” Kjorn mused.
“I don’t know.”
They’d gathered at the water’s edge, under the moon. The earlier clouds had cleared without dropping rain or snow. They had no fires, but stars and moonlight and the brightness of happy news and finding living friends made the shore seem light. A low murmur from the rest of the Ostral pride, talking in their various dens and hollows, underscored their quiet conversation.
Kjorn paced, tail lashing. “Or if your scouts found him, would they know him, and think to bring him back here?”
Asvander lifted his wings, sitting with Dagny and Brynja. “The last we saw of him—”
“We know the last anyone saw of him,” Stigr growled. “We don’t need to hear it again.”
“It’s been a long search,” Kjorn said, eyeing the black gryfon. “With challenges and heartache for all of us. We’re just talking it through, trying to think of things we haven’t yet.”
“Pretty words.” The black Vanir shifted, stretching out on his belly and leaning against Brynja’s aunt, Valdis. She didn’t intervene, but seemed content to watch Kjorn be challenged and to let them argue. “I heard your father was good with pretty words, too.”
“I know you’re afraid for Shard,” Kjorn said evenly. “And I am too. Now is not the time to argue about it.”
“Don’t presume to know how I feel about anything,” Stigr warned, “much less Shard.”
“Do you know how hard I’ve been searching for him?” Kjorn demanded. “Do you think I care less than you?”
“I think you care about yourself. What’s the worst outcome for you—that he’s dead and you get to be king of both the Winderost and the Silver Isles?”
“He said nothing like that,” Asvander broke in. “
You surprise me, Stigr. Did your good judgment get severed with your wing?”
“Asvander,” Brynja gasped, her gaze shifting to Stigr’s mangled shoulder and the thick, raw scar there.
Kjorn laid his ears back. “I have no quarrel with you, Stigr.”
“Don’t you?” he asked shrewdly.
Kjorn did, once. It was Stigr who’d told Shard he was a prince, who had told him everything about being a Vanir. It was Stigr who had turned Shard against the Aesir. Against Kjorn.
“I’ve put it aside,” Kjorn said, shortly. “Can’t you, for Shard?”
“Everything I’ve done the last ten years was for Shard.”
“He’s my wingbrother,” Kjorn growled.
Stigr stood slowly, and ignored when Valdis tapped her tail against his hind leg. “You don’t know the meaning of the word.”
“This isn’t helping,” Dagny said, stepping between them, her wings lifting. Her voice raised in pitch. “Can’t we all take a moment to remember how we felt when we thought the rest of us were dead?”
Stigr’s ears flattened, Valdis snorted, and Kjorn ground his beak.
Asvander paced around all of them, and stretched his wings. “She’s right, you know.”
“Dagny is right,” Brynja agreed. She looked from Kjorn to Asvander, and Stigr. “We mustn’t fight amongst ourselves. Shard hoped for peace between all of us. We can honor that, at least. And you mustn’t give up hope, Kjorn.”
When he remained silent, Brynja spread her wings, outlined in the hazy moonlight against the lapping waves of the lake. “You mustn’t. Shard wanted more than anything to see you again and reconcile. He believed in you. You must believe in him.”
“Brynja,” Asvander began hesitantly. “You must be prepared to accept if—”
“He lives.” She turned, her gaze hard and bright. She stepped back from them. “I know that he lives. He had so much to live for, and I…” Drawing a tight breath, she composed herself, folding her wings. “I believe that if he hasn’t yet returned, it’s because he had some purpose. Some greater purpose to attend to, some task, some reason not to return to us. He had larger designs than we might know.”
