by Jess Owen
But making them laugh wouldn’t win him a place in the pride. Fear eddied around his words. He didn’t feel like the same gryfon who had faced down a charging boar. Lapu laid down his head for me.
He tried to straighten up, opened his wings to catch some of the sunlight. “The boar charged me.” He took a slow breath. Every face was on him. Those who had dozed were awake. Even the fledges watched him with wide, bright eyes. “I’m…ashamed to say that I tried to fly, that first time. You don’t know fear,” Shard said quietly to the nearest, wide-eyed kit, “until it’s screaming toward you on sharp hooves.” The kit burrowed into its mother’s talons and Shard looked up again. “The boar escaped me, but others drove him to the meadow.”
His heart thundered. His skin burned so hot under his feathers he thought he might burst into fire. Desperate, he glanced around until he caught Thyra’s eye. Just tell me your tale. Her ears perked, rapt as the others, her wings lifted a little in encouragement.
“A pack…a number of wolves surrounded me. I got free of them and found the others in the meadow.”
The words rolled out of him as if from somewhere else. Murmurs wove through the pride. After the bluff of the wolves, the rest came easily. He made the boar charge. He stood his ground. He and Kjorn got the beast off its feat. He didn’t mention the foreign words, and finally, finally, the kill.
A buzzing sound made him flatten his ears. Not buzzing. Rustling. Churring. Sounds of respectful approval from his pride.
They don’t know. They don’t know that I treated with wolves, that I spoke earth words, that the boar we killed had a name.
He sank down to his belly in the grass, grateful it was done. If the king felt anything about Kjorn giving up his rights as the last speaker, it didn’t show. He didn’t rise from his comfortable position.
“Truly great tales, and a great hunt from all.” Sverin swiveled to eye Kjorn. “And I’m glad to know my son understands that it is the pride that makes its king.” At last he stood, pushing to all fours. “Take your leisure now. Feast. Enjoy this victory. I have many things to think over. We will gather again soon, to announce who has earned his place to remain on Sun Isle.”
Shard’s belly locked and the whole pride took a breath. The king had never delayed before. Never made them wait.
Talk erupted as gryfons rose, stretched, padded to the meat gathered earlier—deer, rabbit, half a flock of geese. The boar was reserved for those on the king’s rocks.
Sverin’s judgement waited.
He could speak all he liked about glory and family, but Shard wasn’t distracted. The hunt was about the judgement, about earning a place in the pride. Not just honor. Not just meat. He lay there on his belly on the cool grass, talons dug hard into the peat. They were fighting to earn their very life with their family. And he had lied about his part in the victory.
But it was still a victory. If he learned what bewitching words he’d said, Shard wondered if he could them again, if he might, in fact, have a great gift to offer the pride. Maybe there was some strength in his blood he hadn’t known about.
Thyra bumped his shoulder with a purr as she trotted past to join Kjorn, the king, Caj and Sigrun in a place of honor on the rocks. In the corner of his eye Shard saw Halvden and his father and mother also climb to high spots, greeting and talking casually with the king. Kjorn sought Shard’s eye contact over the field and tilted his head in invitation. Shard supposed he could’ve sat beside Kjorn, in a place of honor. But then the way Kjorn stood to greet Thyra told Shard he didn’t particularly want more company. Shard was happy to give them time.
And he wasn’t hungry anyway.
A shadow fell over him and he looked up, then scrambled to his feet in surprise.
A gryfess stood there like a ghost in the late light. Her pale feathers weren’t the startling white of an Aesir female but soft, like the foam that edged every wave in winter. She was a Vanir, a smaller gryfess of the original Silver Isles pride like Shard’s mother. She was silent. She was Ragna, whom everyone called the Widow Queen.
Shard couldn’t help but dip his head and mantle, at least halfway, to show his respect. She hadn’t taken a new mate when Per the Red conquered. She’d refused. Her mate, the old king, was killed, but Per couldn’t have killed or exiled her, for fear of the anger of the rest of the Silver Isles pride. He and his son could never truly have their loyalty if he’d killed their king and beloved queen.
Everyone knew the story, though Shard couldn’t recall who had first told it to him. Sverin forbade speaking openly of the Conquering and what passed before it. The past was past, and such history endangered the unity of the pride.
“You hunted well.” Her voice was measured and soft. Shard had never heard her speak before. Certainly not to him. Her eyes were the pale, pale green of autumn moss.
Shard searched for his voice. “I…thank you.”
“Your story telling could use some improvement.” She cocked her head and Shard blinked. Was that a joke? Shrad tried to figure out if she was teasing him. It hardly seemed dignified.
“Thank you. I mean—yes. I know.” They stared at each other, and he resisted saying many things. All around them, gryfons chattered, laughing, some worried, some already sparring in the grass and planning for tomorrow.
Shard felt compelled to tell her the truth and he didn’t know why. Why her, when she’s never spoken to me before? The cold breeze shifted and he caught her scent, the warm fluff of feather and over it, wild sage.
The memory slapped his mind of Sigrun, standing over him, begging Per the Red to spare his life. As a kit he hadn’t understood but he remembered her desperate tone. There had been another scent there, too. Warmth and sage. A far away memory, he a half-blind kit, Sigrun begging. Standing beside her, Shard’s senses told him, had been the white, Widow Queen. He wondered if they had been friends. Wingsisters even? Why hasn’t she spoken to me before?
He realized his beak had fallen open in a nervous pant. He’d never remembered that before. But scents didn’t lie.
“I’m proud of you, Rashard.” Her pale eyes seemed far away, sadder, or younger, looking at a different point in time. “Whatever happens after this. Know that, if it means anything to you.”
Rather than pride, shame coiled in him again. Half of his victory was a lie. “Thank you,” he whispered.
“Know also…” She hesitated and he lifted his head, ears perked, for some reason hungry for her words. She seemed to draw herself together from many places, and the light in her eyes softened. “Sigrun cannot speak of this, I know. But you should know how very much you resemble your father.”
With that, she dipped her head and walked away, leaving Shard standing as blank and witless as a gull.
The sun seemed to slip lower too fast, and the starward wind brought cold.
The feast wore on toward evening as all seemed to forget the occasion. Shard forced down three gulps of rabbit meat and wrestled with the fledges, avoiding Kjorn the best he could for fear the prince would ask questions he couldn’t answer.
As the sun touched the nightward horizon, parents herded kits and fledges away and the pride sought their dens. When Shard glided low to wing toward Sigrun’s cave, he found Caj lounging fully in the way. Shard flapped once, wheeled and tightened to land, clinging to the rock face just outside the den.
“Nest-father,” he said, one ear laying back in uncertainty. “May I—”
“As a grown warrior,” Caj murmured, blue tail coiling and flicking out, “I expect you’re old enough to find a new den.”
Shard blinked, wings tense against his back. Is he telling me I’m accepted into the pride? Cautious joy wove up, but coupled with confusion. He hadn’t expected to be kicked from the den.
Caj’s tone and eyes were not cruel, but he didn’t move. Beyond, Shard could see Thyra and Sigrun huddled and laughing over stories from the feast. Thyra scented him and glanced over with pity before looking away. A cold rock formed in Shard’s belly.
“Shard,” old Caj said, quieter, but hard as the rock on which he stretched, “It just won’t do. On with you.”
Hesitating, but not wanting to make a scene or seem like a yowling kit, Shard inclined his head and shoved from the rock face, freefalling toward the jagged rocks one hundred leaps below, until he felt a sliver of wind. Flaring, he caught it and rode along the face of the nesting cliffs until he came fully around to the starward side, where a few dens still lay empty.
Letting his wings choose, he flapped thrice and plunged into the first den he found with a large enough entrance. Old rodent bones and gull leavings scattered the floor. Shard didn’t care. He picked through the gloom until he found the rotted remains of a nest, flopped down, and shut his eyes.
With no other gryfons near, the lack of Thyra’s warm breathing at his side, his mother’s twitching, even Caj’s great, terrifying, comforting bulk, Shard felt less like an initiated warrior and more like a fallen fledge.
But at least he knew they were near. At least all of the pride was near. This was only a new den. Not exile. Shard stared hard through the darkening cave toward the opening of stars and sea. This den had a good view of the Star Isle, a dark lump against the night sky.
I can’t be exiled.
He had to learn what power had made Lapu lay down his head. He had to learn if it was a trick he could use again, and why it seemed every beast but him knew his father’s name, and if he possessed any of whatever power his father had. You should know how much you resemble your father, the Widow Queen had said. He’d told Sverin he didn’t care about his father, but he had to know his own strengths.
The solemn, haunted howling of wolves rolled into his new den from across the league of sea between the islands. His ears perked. In the silence, he took its meaning. As Lapu’s squeals had turned to words, he felt in his bones that this wolfsong was not for hunting.
Shard stared, sleepless through the dark, as understanding came. It was mourning.
On the eve of Lapu’s death, the wolves who had wanted his death now sung mourning for him, honored him as a warrior. It made no sense. Shard had to go back.
~ 6 ~
Ahote and Ahanu
Shard flew until he saw the meadow where they fought Lapu. It was madness. The wolves would probably attack him. Shard wasn’t sure he could even find them. It had been days since the hunt, nearly a fortnight before he could get away to fly on his own.
The king had yet to speak his judgment and the whole pride felt like a cramped winged muscle, tense and knotted from cold.
That morning Shard had left Sun Isle at first light, before Thyra or Kjorn could find him, ask questions, or follow. Kjorn had business that could keep him occupied, and Thyra and the other gryfesses would be hunting, far away near the coast of the island.
Winds tossed his flight as he peered down for any kind of movement below. The Star Island seemed bigger to him now, full of mystery and possibly magic. Shard was sure that’s what the words had been, some kind of wolf magic.
Content that there were no wolves in the clearing, Shard drifted lower. Deer grazed in the woods. His belly snarled. He doubted he could take a deer on his own yet, and didn’t like the idea of making a fool of himself by trying.
What will happen if I’m banished from the pride? He lighted, hind-paws finding earth first, flicking his wings once to soften the impact, and sunk his talons into the dirt and grass.
Birds flew, calling alarm through the trees as he landed. The deer sprang away. Shard perked his ears, every muscle taut. Wind rustled through the long yellow grass, bringing the scent of dirt, then pine and rain. It would come late in the night, he decided, or blow right by on the strong wind.
Spring leaped through the islands now in pale green buds and the floating feathers of molting gryfons. Shard sat down to scratch vigorously behind his right ear and watched some of his own pale down float away. Then he waited, still and silent. He didn’t know the best way to find a wolf. He had no plan. They had just come to him before. Jays and sparrows swooped down to pluck his shed feathers for their nests.
“This is stupid,” he muttered, flexing his talons. If wolves came this time, they would surely attack him. If they come now, they’ll surely attack. They don’t need me to kill Lapu now. Now he was a lone gryfon, trespassing in wolf hunting territory.
Our territory, Kjorn had growled. Lapu had called him a thief and Shard didn’t understand what he meant. Shard lifted his head, opened his wings and spoke, trying to sound confident, as if he belonged there. He could see, then fly, from any wolf before they got close. Yes, fly like a coward.
“Catori!” He finally called the she-wolf’s name toward the trees, then turned about, and called again. “Catori, of…of the Star Island wolves!” Grass rustled, wind sang through the trees and shadows shifted. “I am Rashard, come back to speak with you!”
Maybe he being was foolish. No, it he was certainly being foolish. What if they were on the other side of the island? Or down by the sea? They would never hear him, leagues away. But, feeling stubborn, Shard sat in the grass and waited.
As he sat and listened to the wind he felt slightly less foolish. He saw birds settle again in the trees. The witless things probably thought that since he had been still so long that he was a stone, or an odd feathered tree. Shard listened to their songs. A shadow in the woods moved and he focused on it, ears tuned. A doe. Even the deer had returned, for the wind was wrong to take them his scent.
Part of him enjoyed this silence, knowing no one would come along and heckle him as Halvden did, knowing he didn’t have to speak to anyone. He was free to fly and range over the island or the sea. Exile, he remembered the red she-wolf saying. It might not be so bad.
The other part of him warned of hungry nights, dangerous nights without the other eyes and ears of his pride. He thought of how he woke with starts every night in his empty den, certain he’d heard voices that turned out to be dreams.
No, exile was not for him.
“Catori!” Finally impatient, he stood again, tail lashing. The birds yattered their alarm but didn’t fly. The deer leaped away again. Shard sighed, and lifted his wings to fly. Then he saw a shadow in the trees.
“You!”
The raven peered at him, still as a stone’s shadow. He suddenly wasn’t sure if it was the same raven he’d seen on the morning of the hunt. They all looked the same. They were like the lesser birds, not like gryfons who each had their own coloring, their own special place in Tyr’s eyes. All ravens were black. All had the same clattering call. All were equally frustrating and useless.
Or maybe not useless. It had been a raven that led the she-wolf to him before, after all. More or less, Shard thought, and then the raven spoke.
“Me? You,” the black bird called from the trees. “Do you expect a wolf to come to your call, mighty gryfon?” He sidled one way across the tree branch, then another, then stopped and cocked his head. “Do you expect she has nothing better to do?”
“What do you know of wolves?”
“Songs songs!” The raven called, then awked into the forest, the call echoing even farther than Shard’s voice had done. A shiver thrilled down Shard’s spine. What word was that, what message, if any at all?
“I don’t expect that she has nothing better to do. I just need to speak with her.”
“Ha!” But the raven flew to the ground, a talon’s reach in front of Shard, unafraid. “Why?”
“Why should I tell you?” Shard ruffed the hackle feathers of his neck.
“I can call her. Or take you to her, if you’re brave. I know the wolf song. Oh yes, I know. I know. Tell me what an arrogant, bumbling wind brother wants with an earth sister, a singer.”
He spoke too fast, too many words, too many of them riddling. But if what he said was true, Shard had to listen. Out of grudging respect, he lowered himself to the ground, on his belly to speak level with the black bird. Kjorn would die of shame. “The day of the hunt. She gave me words to say to
Lapu. I need to know what they meant.”
“Words, words!” The raven bobbled his head, then peered at Shard with one black, star-bright eye. “So inquisitive. Why? It worked. It worked. Why bother to know what they mean?”
“Because I said them!” His tail snapped back and forth once. “It’s important to me.”
“Mh. Mh. Mh.” The raven paced six steps one way, three steps back, stopped in front of Shard again and made a little quorking sound. “Foolish to come here. But brave. A little. And wise. Most speak many words. Even when they know the meaning, they don’t know what they’re saying. Or care.”
“All right,” said Shard, wearying. “Can you take me to the wolves?”
“No need! I can tell you what the words mean. Speak them to me.”
Shard blinked once. “You know wolf language?”
“Earth language, wolf language, rock, stone, tree, memory, yes, I know them all. You should too. You have earth paws. It is half your birthright. Half your heart and soul, son of Tyr and Tor. You spoke to Lapu. He spoke to you.”
The bird chortled with delight at his unintended rhyme.
Shard shifted his weight, uncertain. He didn’t know the name Tor. “You’re not going to take me to her, then?”
“To her?” The raven ruffled his feathers and cackled, marching in a circle in front of Shard. “Her, her, red Catori? Or to the wolves? Any wolf? Any who can speak earth words? I can tell you. But you don’t want to just know, you don’t want to chat with a lonely old bird? Her? Afraid another wolf will attack you? Hm? You are wise to ask for her. A dreamer. Are you a dreamer, young Vanir?”
The black bird awked again to the sky and laughed.
Impatience sizzled at the roots of Shard’s feathers and he stood. “Never mind, bird. I’ll find them on my own.”
“Never mind! Never mind! Too late.” The raven flapped into the air. “They found you.”
Shard whirled, ears back, hissing as the wind shifted and brought him the heavy scent of wolf. Stupid raven! He shouldn’t have trusted it. Two wolves padded toward him, boldly across the open meadow. It was in league with wolves, it fed off their kills and led them to prey. He should have known its babbling was only a trap, that it had called a warning into the woods.
