Song of the Summer King (The Summer King Chronicles)

by Jess Owen

  Is this how the witless creatures move?

  With the thought, he became aware of himself again. The water slipped against the rocks below.

  Below? Waves crashed, the sea was dark with evening and the tide crept up the cliff. But it was below Shard. Without realizing, he’d found a break in the cliff and climbed up to a grassy deer trail and wide ledge.

  Trembling, he dropped to the yellow grass, splayed his wings to let the wind and sinking sun dry his feathers, and then he remembered no more.

  Above him on an outcropping of rock, a raven quorked a message into the forest and hopped from the cliff to circle once and fly away.

  ~ 8 ~

  The Exile

  Sverin paced on his rock, ears perked toward his pride. Kjorn watched him warily for a moment from below, then glanced to the pride. The last lances of sunlight made every gryfon shine like the gems he wore that evening, the dragon gems Kjorn’s great-grandfather had stolen. Drawing a breath, Kjorn padded up the rocks to his father. Sverin spoke without looking at him.

  “Is everyone here? Every hunter, warrior, and kit with its eyes open?”

  Kjorn bowed his head. “Yes, Father.” He could tell Shard what his father said, later. Surely his wingbrother was on one of his long flights. No need to draw Father’s attention to his absence.

  Sverin glanced at him, eyes narrowed to glowing gold slits in the orange wash of sun. “Is something wrong?”

  “No.” Kjorn looked up, fluffing his wings, though his gaze strayed nightward. “No. All are ready to hear your words.”

  “Good,” said Sverin, and Kjorn began to climb down from the rocks. “No,” Sverin murmured, his low voice almost a purr. “Stay here with me.”

  Kjorn perked his ears, fluffed with pride, and sat beside his father. Worries about Shard left his mind; he would solve that when necessary.

  “Gryfons of the Sun Isle!” Sverin’s lion voice boomed and rolled over those assembled, and all fell silent. Ears perked his way. Even kits squirming in their mother’s claws heeded that voice.

  The Red King stopped pacing and faced his pride, opening his wings to let the sunset fire catch them. “After the last hunt for the great boar, we saw new, fine warriors come into their own. Never have I or my fathers seen such prowess. Or such bravery, and loyalty.”

  Kjorn watched his father curiously, shifting his front feet. Tonight would have been the night he announced which young males could stay with the pride. Sometimes the exiles left quietly, in humiliation and fear. Sometimes they fought. It was never a happy occasion. This was an odd way to begin such a somber moment. But surely, his father knew best. Sverin glanced to him, eyes glinting, then out again over the assembled.

  “It has given me a vision.” He climbed to the next level of rock as he spoke, then up to the top of the rocks, so all had to look up to him as they would the sun. “A vision, of a great future for all of us.”

  He flared his wings, giving a piercing call to the darkening sky before lowering his fierce gaze to the pride. “It is known that affairs of gryfons are best handled under the light of day or the rising sun when bright Tyr is mighty. But a change is coming, and so I have brought you here.” The sunset rained fire through his open wings and Kjorn stared, knowing he would never be such a king. “Here,” Sverin called across rock and plain, “under Tyr’s reddest light,” his voice dipped and all shifted in to hear, “to share my vision with you.”

  A talon moon hung low in the nightward sky. Shard didn’t move, taking a moment to remember where he was. Waves washed below him. There was no wind. He sat up, stiff and crusty from salt water.

  Star Island.

  Wolves.

  He shoved to his feet and ruffled his feathers, relieved to find his wings dry, and tucked them at his sides. Blood rushed his head when he stood too fast; the dark and stars spun and tilted before his eyes and he shut them. His tongue felt stuck to his beak. Dizziness prowled at the edge of his vision. He needed water before he could fly.

  “Tyr,” he whispered, his voice a rasp, “guide me. Make me strong.”

  “I thought you’d sleep ‘til dawn,” remarked a low, coarse, male voice.

  Shard whirled, peering through the dark, and at first saw nothing. He squinted and a shadow moved, defining itself higher on the deer trail. He’d thought it was a rock. His intended roar came out as a weak, dry hiss. Gryfons could see a gull three leagues off, or a bird in a branch, a rabbit in the woods—but they could not see well in the dark.

  “Who are you? Name yourself!”

  “Well, I’m not Tyr, that’s certain. But maybe I’ll do for now, young gryfon.”

  Shard’s hackle feathers lifted indignantly. “I am a warrior of the Sun Isle.

  “Of course.” He sounded too amused. “I see that now.” The voice, low and deep, had the eagle edge of a gryfon voice, not a wolf. But it was not a voice he knew. “I’ll take you to fresh water. Come.”

  “Who are you?”

  “You asked for help,” the stranger rumbled. “Here I am.”

  In the gloom and faint silver moonlight, Shard saw the figure turn and climb up the trail. He stood for a moment, beak open, feathers sleeked, wondering what choice he had. He couldn’t fumble around in the dark searching for water. Wolves could find him. He could get lost, or run into another boar.

  “Wait!” Shard stepped forward. An ache shot up his hind leg and he hobbled another few steps. “Tell me your name. I followed wolves into the woods, trusting them, and this is what happened.” He drew a deep breath, raising his head to a proud angle, even though it was dark. “Tell me who you are.”

  Tell me how you see in the dark, Shard wanted to demand, but other things were more important, first.

  The dark figure turned and the moon and stars picked out the edge of feathers, the bend of a wing, the thick muscle of a feline haunch. His feathered tail twitched once, and he gusted a sigh.

  “My name is Stigr.”

  “I don’t know you.”

  “I know you. Trust me, warrior of the Sun Isle, and I’ll bring you to water.”

  “How is it so many creatures I’ve never met know me?” Shard muttered. But, he felt more secure knowing it was another gryfon, that he had a name, that he seemed respectful. Thirst scraped his throat and his questions dried up. Stigr turned and Shard, reluctantly, his senses tuned for danger, followed him up the cliff and into the forest.

  His foot snagged in a crawling tangle of brush and he yelped as he yanked loose, then gnawed at the tangle. “Slow down, my foot’s injured.”

  “You’ve got three others. Keep up, warrior of the Sun Isle.”

  Heat bloomed across Shard’s skin. Ahead, Stigr stopped but didn’t offer help as Shard caught up. He had no idea how far they walked and he couldn’t yet smell water. Stars peeked through the pine.

  “How do you avoid the tangles?” he snapped.

  “Go around.”

  “I can’t see them. Can you see in the dark?”

  “There are other ways of seeing than just your eyes,” the older stranger rumbled, and Shard heard him turn and continue on. “Use them.”

  Shard limped after him. “What ways? What do you mean? Is it magic?”

  A dry chuckle. “Oh yes, very old magic. The first. Your ears to hear. Your sense of smell. You’ll notice the pines have a scent. Feathers to feel, talons to part the tangles. Use them. You don’t have to bash through the woods like a boar, as if your hide was made of stone. Which it isn’t. You’ll learn that the first time you spar off with a nettle brush, warrior.”

  Shard bristled and then forced himself to walk forward without arguing. His mind swam in the dark and around the stranger’s words. More than anything, he wanted water. But he tried to slow, to see without his eyes. In the dark, he heard when Stigr shifted, edging around tougher brush. He perked his ears. He reached his talons in longer, slower steps and lowered his body to the ground like a lesser wild cat, fluffed his feathers to feel the brush around him. When the tangy sc
ent of pine drifted his way, he slipped around and avoided bumping into any more trunks. Elation at this new skill rippled under his feathers but he clamped his beak against comment, wary of the stranger’s mockery.

  It wasn’t exactly like seeing, but he avoided anymore tangles. Then, as his legs trembled with weariness and he couldn’t speak for the dryness in his throat, the trickle of water whispered ahead. In the still air the scent came to him sweetly. His new night-movement forgotten, Shard plunged forward, snapping underbrush and tangling his tail feathers. His talons splashed in the trickle and he thrust his beak down to drink.

  As he tilted his head back, Stigr spoke. “Drink slowly. Or your belly will ache.”

  Shard growled in acknowledgement but heeded. The old stranger had given him water as promised and helped him to move in the dark. There was no reason to stop listening to his advice.

  “There is a meadow three leaps dawnward,” Stigr murmured as Shard drank. “You can fly out from there.” Shard lifted his head and shuddered.

  “Tyr forbids gryfons to fly at night.”

  “Does he now?” Stigr’s tail flicked through the brush. “Then I’m sure he’ll protect you from the wolves when you sleep here tonight.”

  A small creature darted through the brush. Shard startled and Stigr chuckled.

  Shard fluffed indignantly. “It is forbidden—”

  “The red kings,” Stigr snapped, “forbid flying at night. In all my years I have never seen bright Tyr himself strike down a gryfon for opening his wings in the moonlight.”

  Shard shifted, muscles twitching to jump and flee. He forced a deep breath. Clearly, this gryfon was not part of Sverin’s pride. No one spoke of the king in that way. No one spoke so lightly of flying at night.

  But I can’t stay on Star Isle, either. Maybe once, if no one knows I flew. Surely bright Tyr can forgive me. Rather than argue he said evenly, “I’ve never flown at night. I don’t know how.”

  “It’s easier than walking the woods, which you’ve just done. Orient yourself by the Day Star. But I think you’ll see the islands clearly when you get high enough. There’s more light in the dark than you know.”

  Shard sat down to rest, taking a moment to preen salt from his feathers and think. He didn’t want to sprint away and risk a bellyache, and he felt exhausted after the trek through the forest. He supposed it was perfect terrain for wolves, but he hated it.

  Stigr sat silently while Shard preened and became aware of the night sounds; small creatures scuffling through the roots and ferns and far off, an owl called but received no answer.

  Abruptly, Shard raised his head, ears twitching to the sides with mild embarrassment. “Thank you. By the way. Thank you, for your help.” For all they might disagree, he did owe that.

  A soft rumble of acknowledgement was his answer. Or had the old stranger purred? “It was an honor, of course, to help a warrior of the Sun Isle.”

  Shard sleeked, eyes narrowing at the edge in Stigr’s voice. “Stop mocking me.”

  “I’m not,” the old gryfon murmured. “I wouldn’t. But tread carefully in life, young warrior. You think everyone has your sense of honor. That, mixed with your blinding pride, will cause more problems like this day, if you let it.”

  “I came here peacefully.”

  Stigr made a soft noise. “There is no peace between wolves and gryfons now. Why did you come?”

  “To …” Shard sighed, flexing his talons, and briefly told the tale of the hunt to this stranger. What harm can it do?

  “I see.” Stigr made another low, curious sound, an ‘mh, hm’ like a raven that was thinking.

  “Were the words magic? What would make a boar lay down his head?”

  The older gryfon chuckled, a half purr. “What makes you think I know? I’ve never hunted boar.”

  Shard blinked twice, and stood again. I think he does know. I think he knows much more than he says. How else can he walk about fearlessly at night on the wolves’ island?

  “Please. Who are you?”

  “I told you.”

  He wished he could see the stranger’s face and coloring. “You’re an exile. You must be. You show no respect to the king and I don’t know the name Stigr.”

  “Exile?” A growl sharpened his voice. “I am of the Vanir and always will be. I follow the old ways. I swear no loyalty to the red conquerors from the windward land.” Shard had the strong sense that the older gryfon stared hard at him through the dark. “If that’s what you mean by exile, then yes, I am.”

  “The Vanir,” Shard whispered, skin prickling, making his feathers ruffle. “A raven asked me—”

  Wolves howled in the night, close. Shard tensed, half crouching, and even Stigr shifted weight and lifted his head. That much he could tell, in the dark. “You should go back to Sun Isle.”

  Without thinking, Shard reached out to catch the older gryfon’s wing in his talons. “Wait, I have questions—”

  “There’s a time for questions. This isn’t it.” Wolves sang under his words. They were hunting, calling to each other. Stigr seemed to hesitate, then added in a softer tone, “If you want to know more of the Vanir, if you want to see real magic, meet me again, young warrior. Meet me on the Black Rock Isle, middle mark of the full moon.”

  “I won’t fly at night twice.”

  Stigr made a low noise. “Well. If you’re too frightened, I understand.”

  Shard ruffled, not releasing his grip on Stigr’s wing. “I’m not frightened. You’re an exile. I could be cast out too, for even speaking to you, even when I’ve just done so well on the great hunt.”

  “But not alone,” the older gryfon said, soft as a wind in the grass. “You’ve just told me. You had help, but there’s no shame in that. The Aesir of Sverin’s pride have great gifts. But the Vanir had gifts too.” He flexed his wing against Shard’s talons. “You should think about that. Think about what’s expected of you now, and what you have to offer the pride. If you don’t know your own strengths, how will you keep up? I can show you where you came from.”

  “What—”

  “What harm could it do, in the service of your king?” The old gryfon’s voice fell sly as a raven’s. Shard’s talons flexed against his wing.

  “But–”

  “Midnight of the full moon.”

  It was madness. Shard tried not to listen. Either way, he owed this stranger one more thing. Stigr tried to turn and Shard tightened his hold, catching skin without clawing or tearing.

  “Wait! Who is your family? I could send word, tell them that you’re alive, at least.”

  “That would be dangerous, Shard.” But his voice was soft, tempted. Shard didn’t recall telling the exile his name.

  “I owe it to you. Tell me what your place was, in the pride before Per the Red.” Shard loosened his talons and perked his ears. The old stranger took a slow breath.

  “I’ll tell you, if you promise only to tell one gryfon of my presence here.”

  “I promise,” Shard whispered, stepping forward. “I won’t betray you.”

  In the brief moment of silence, a high pitched howl cut the air. “You may tell my sister that I live.”

  “Who is she?”

  Another silence, another howl farther off. “Your mother.”

  Shard’s beak opened and before he could shut it, Stigr left him, disappearing in the brush as quick as a wolf. Shard blinked, flattened his ears and whirled to run. He crashed through the underbrush to the meadow the older gryfon had told him existed. My uncle. With a leap he shoved himself into the black, starlit sky while wolf howls rose around him.

  Stigr stopped and turned to watch Shard go, ears perked. The wolf howls drew closer, singing back and forth the location of their prey. They must have scented Stigr, but he didn’t fear them. The wolves wouldn’t hassle him, for he had never hunted on the Star Isle.

  “His blood runs red,” observed a voice from above and to his left.

  “I know,” Stigr murmured. Peering hard, he saw Sh
ard’s outline against the stars, correctly oriented. Good.

  The raven croaked, fluttering down to the bushy forest floor. “Too much fondness for your dead wingbrother’s son blinds you.” A wing smacked Stigr’s face. On purpose, he thought. “He would only use your knowledge to gain strength for the king.”

  “If that’s what it takes,” Stigr said quietly, and stood. “We must do whatever it takes.”

  “We, indeed,” chuffed the raven. “He won’t replace what you’ve lost.”

  “No,” Stigr murmured, peering through the dark. He’d lost sight of Shard, but felt confident he’d find his way. He was Vanir. “But he may redeem it.”

  ~ 9 ~

  The King’s Vision

  “I still don’t understand what you were doing on Star Island,” Sigrun huffed as she examined Shard’s hind paw. Dawn light warmed her empty cave.

  Shard winced when her gentle talons found a tender spot. “I told you. I wanted to try hunting on my own.”

  Her ears flattened in disbelief and annoyance. “And you decided not to fly when you saw wolves coming?”

  That time, Shard didn’t answer. He took a deep breath, smelling all the scents of his kithood. The herbs, dry rock and soft musk of his mother’s feathers comforted him. “I thought—”

  “You proved your bravery on the hunt,” Sigrun snapped, turning his paw gently. “A gryfon who doesn’t have to hunt alone, shouldn’t.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Shard muttered. He thought of the exile, Stigr, who had to hunt alone. Why had he stayed on the islands at all? As far as Shard knew, all other exiles had fled. Or died, he thought.

  “Well,” she said, standing. “This is only a strain and a bruise. If it was broken, you would know. Be easy on it for awhile. If it’s hurting you too much, eat willowherb with your meat.”

  “It doesn’t hurt,” Shard lied, and stood carefully. Sigrun fluffed.

  “Suit yourself.”

  You may tell one gryfon of my presence here. He heard Stigr’s voice again. If I don’t tell her now, then I have to keep lying. He had lied about the hunt, about his reason for flying to Star Island, and now another voice came into his mind, and it was not Stigr.