by Jess E. Owen
“It is,” Shard said, looking not at Stigr, but Brynja. “But this is their way. I’ll respect it, because we’re in their home. If we were in the Silver Isles, everything would be different.”
Brynja growled low in her throat. “I should have challenged him myself.”
Shard chuckled despite himself, and Brynja gave him a half-hearted glare. He smoothed his expression. “Maybe, but you were too slow.”
“I can hardly keep up with you,” she said, with tart fondness. “If you aren’t flying across the world then you’re picking fights with marauding wyrms and gryfons near twice your size.” She butted her head against his shoulder, then glanced toward the fires and the gryfons who had stayed to gossip. “And Shard, they’ll know if he lets you win. It will be a real fight. Not a spar, a fight.”
“To the death, I suppose,” Stigr said wryly.
“To yield,” said Valdis, coming up on them. “Only to yield. But he won’t yield easily, or what’s the point?”
“Well that’s encouraging,” Stigr said, eyeing Valdis fondly.
“We can’t afford to be killing princes over things like this,” she said. “Even these big rock-heads know that.”
Stigr paced around in front of Shard, tail lashing. “I’d like to remind you, my prince, that we’re on the verge of battle with the wyrms, and you could be injured. This was no small thing you’ve done.”
Shard’s feathers prickled with irritation as he looked around at the faces of his friends. “Asvander could be seriously injured too, you know.”
Stigr inclined his head, but, ever blunt, added, “The last time you fought Asvander, you lost, and not by a near thing.”
“Thank you,” Shard muttered, ears slicking back. “But you didn’t lose.” He lifted his gaze, watching Asvander walk down from the fire to speak with his father, who looked entirely too pleased. “And you have until dawn to advise me.”
Stigr huffed, then tilted his head. “Walk with me.”
“Good luck,” Brynja said, and she and Valdis stood aside to let them pass.
They left the fire together, and Stigr began. “Now, Asvander doesn’t have any great tells to show you when he’s going to make a move, but I noticed he’ll look where he’s planning to strike . . .”
~4~
Prisoner of War
DUSK BROUGHT A DRY, cold wind from the starward quarter to buffet the nesting cliffs of the Sun Isle.
Ragna had taken to her den early after the day’s fishing and she pulled at her nesting material, fluffing it up to prepare for what would be another freezing night. Spring would be long in coming, she feared, as if it held off, holding its warm breath in wait for the return of their king.
“Shard,” she whispered as a draft bustled into her den, chilling it. “Rashard, my son. We wait for you.” Perhaps, on the wind, it might reach him, and he would know she thought of him.
With a huff, she settled, then re-settled, then growled and shifted, kicking against the deer furs that usually warmed her. They had been a gift, long ago, from the wolves of the Star Isle, a mating gift when she and Baldr made their vow. Now, their scent only reminded her of the long years of living under the talons of the Red Kings, the long, hungry winters and being forced to hunt on land and eat red meat.
Still damp from fishing and not at all sleepy, Ragna sat up to preen, and considered throwing the deer hides into the sea. But that would be foolish and leave her with a cold nest.
“Rashard,” she whispered, closing her eyes briefly. No sooner had she at last been able to finally gaze upon her son and have him know she was his mother, know that he was a prince, than he’d spirited away to foreign lands on some greater purpose.
I know it’s what you wanted, Baldr. I know he is the Summer King. But we need him home.
Her wings ached from the day’s fishing, her muscles chilled and cramped. Ten years ago she wouldn’t have felt it at all, would have stayed up late under the moonlight, laughing with Sigrun, her brother Stigr, and Baldr, watching the frost collect on the grass until dawn. Now, like an old thing, she burrowed into her den each night and pretended, in the morning, that the cold and the work only made her stronger.
She must be a queen. She must show them what it was to be Vanir.
With a sigh, she settled her feathers and crawled back into the nest. The wind sang against the rocks and grass on the cliff tops high above.
Her tail ticked back and forth.
The scent of the deer hides hung thick, heavy, smothering.
“White Tor,” she growled, and sank her talons into the leather of one hide, flinging it from the nest.
It smacked into a young Aesir gryfon who landed just inside her den at the same moment. Ragna flattened her ears at his surprised noise, chagrined. His feathers blazed the wild orange of sunset, wings flaring awkwardly as he grasped at the hide to keep it from falling out of the den.
“My lady,” he stammered, twisting the fur in his talons. “Forgive my intrusion.”
“Vald,” she said evenly. “What can I do for you?”
“Forgive me. They said to fetch you.” Looking uncertain, he tucked the deer hide against the stone wall. “He won’t eat.”
Ragna perked her ears, then shook her head and forced her feathers to sleek down, calm. “I’ll go. Fetch Caj as well.”
“My lady.” He inclined his head, glanced once more from the deer hide to Ragna, then leaped from the den and flapped away.
Grudgingly grateful to have something to do other than not fall asleep, Ragna trotted to the entryway, tossed the hide back onto her nest, and leaped into the frosty wind, opening her wings in the last light of evening.
The den of the fallen king stretched the widest of all those in the nesting cliffs, a yawning maw of rock in the cliff face, large enough for a fully-grown Aesir to flare broad wings and land inside. Ragna swooped to land easily, being much shorter and narrower of frame than even the smallest Aesir, with streamlined, angled wings besides.
She made a stark contrast to the two hulking warriors who guarded the entrance, they being half-bloods—one vivid green, the other near black, flashing blue like a crow. Sons of the Conquering. Ragna noticed since Sverin’s penitent return that all but the most stubborn of pure-blooded Aesir had ceased wearing their dragon treasures, chains, collars, gauntlets of gold and gems, and other ornaments. It satisfied her, probably more than it should have.
“My lady,” they murmured.
The green warrior stepped forward, though he didn’t mantle to her. Ragna was used to it. He recognized Thyra as his queen, not her. “Vald told you?”
“Yes. Stand aside, Halvden, let me speak to him.”
Halvden complied, looking doubtful. Ragna stood two full heads shorter than he and her feathers were quiet, pale white like sea foam, like a gull, with no outlandish hues from some mysterious ancestral curse.
She walked between Halvden and the other sentry, Andor, drawing herself up, imagining shining white Tor to cool her heat.
I am queen of the Vanir. My son lives, and he will be king. I have strength. Strength as unending as the sea.
The king’s nest sat near the back of the cave, a huge, compact construction of stick and stone atop a rock platform that overflowed with dragon treasure. The stone cave glowed with odd warmth.
“My lord,” she said firmly to the nest.
Golden baubles tumbled loose, bracers of bronze, jeweled collars and bands that caught the fading light and cast the entire rock den in sunrise colors.
A mound of red feathers stirred within the nest. Ragna twitched her tail, eyeing the fish that lay untouched near the foot of the nest platform, and moved forward three more paces.
“Sverin. Stand and address me. They tell me you will not eat?”
The great mound of feathers shifted, becoming red wings, broad shoulders, a severe, weary eagle head rising from the gold. Seeing Ragna, he pushed to his feet and climbed out. The largest of the pride, the son of Per strode down, head low, until he
stood a respectful distance from her, and inclined his head. She pressed her talons hard to the rock to keep from backing away from him, and forced her feathers to remain sleek. She was a huntress herself, a warrior, a queen. Two young, healthy warriors stood at her back. She had nothing to fear and she would not back down.
Forcing her ears forward, she watched him expectantly. She would not repeat her question.
“At least,” he said at length, “I will not eat that.”
“Our fish isn’t good enough for you?”
“I am sorry for the trouble, only I cannot bear the taste of the sea. You know why.”
She did know. It reminded him of his mate, who had drowned ten years before. “What am I to do, then, with your little rebellion?”
A strange, pained look flickered across his face. “It isn’t rebellion. Allow me to hunt.”
Ragna could have laughed, but realized he was in earnest. “No.”
He watched her, as if deciding what to say. His wicked, black talons also flexed against the rock, though what urge he suppressed, Ragna didn’t know. Once, he’d been magnificent. Even in her anger and imprisonment, she had to admire that the Aesir were impressive examples of gryfon kind. Tall, strapping and muscular, decked in golden collars and dragon jewels, Sverin had once been a sight to behold, fearless and proud.
Or so he had appeared. After nearly ruining the pride that winter, he’d fled, Nameless, into the wilds of the Silver Isles. Only his wingbrother had pursued, to find and restore him. Now the shame of his lies and his failures crushed down on his bearing, shadowed his eyes, hollowed his voice. Now the golden chains that had once adorned his crimson feathers in kingly fashion were wrapped around and around his wings, binding them.
His ears turned slowly, his gaze darting to the entrance, where the younger warriors watched, nearly unblinking, for any sign of aggression. “Then I will starve.”
Andor made a quiet noise of disgust and Ragna silenced him with a twitch of her tail.
“Then you will never see Kjorn again,” Ragna said, firm and cool, but not cruelly.
He watched her. Silent. The fallen Red King. Ragna had to admit to herself that now, now that he’d confessed his failures and stopped masquerading as a fearless tyrant, he didn’t look paranoid at all.
From the entrance, Halvden spoke, his voice low. “My lord, you must eat. The fish isn’t so bad, once you get used to—”
Sverin’s head flew up. “Silence, deceiver.”
Ragna looked between them. Halvden ducked his head, ears flat. Though he’d redeemed himself a little in helping Caj to hunt Sverin down, the young warrior had done all he could to undermine peace in the pride, and Kjorn, and to drive Sverin’s madness further. Caj had helped him see his errors, and still his loyalty to Sverin didn’t waiver. Ragna had to admire that, at least, had to respect that he was trying.
“He is right,” she said. She glanced at the fish, resisting the urge to step back from Sverin, holding her ground. “You must eat. This martyrdom is pointless.”
“I would choke on it. It represents my most evil act of cowardice.”
“It’s a fish,” Ragna growled.
Sverin measured her, and the fish lie between them, smelling of wet meat and the sea. “To you it means freedom, my lady, to practice your ways. To me it means the first step back into Nameless madness.”
Ragna stared at him, then at the fish, and for a moment, almost laughed again, but more in consternation. “That’s a long leap even for you, Sverin. I don’t think a fish will drive you mad.”
“Don’t you? I’m not so sure. Unless you’re doing it to punish me, or ensure that I won’t eat.”
Ragna growled, and almost stepped toward him. Sheer instinct and wariness of his size held her back. “Don’t be foolish. I wish you to live, to suffer for what you’ve done. You will face my son, and justice.”
“I’m not arguing the point, my lady. I’m asking you to see mine. To you, fish is freedom,” Sverin repeated quietly, eyes locked on hers. He didn’t move. He wasted no energy, like a mountain cat, standing, staring at Ragna. “To you it represents your peace. To me, it is something else.”
Ragna knew it. The conquering Aesir had forbidden the entire pride from fishing when an Aesir huntress died in the attempt. One huntress. Sverin’s mate.
He spoke quietly. “When you tasted fish again, did you think happily of your son, brother, perhaps even your mate—?”
“I see your point,” Ragna cut in sharply.
He inclined his head. His silent, sane expression—at last sane, at last grieving and accepting and humbled—gave her pause, and she found herself on the absurd edge of apologizing for giving him fish when she knew what it meant to him.
Scuffling talons and paws drew their gazes to the entryway. Caj, Sverin’s burly, cobalt blue wingbrother, had climbed into the den between the two sentries with a dark expression on his face, striding forward without asking permission. Both wings closed, one still packed in a mud cast.
Sverin’s expression cleared somewhat. “Caj. How fares the wing?” His gaze slid to green Halvden, who bowed his head. During the dark winter, it was Halvden who had tried to murder Caj in a wild effort to take his place at Sverin’s side, Halvden who had broken Caj’s wing. It was also Halvden who had helped to find Sverin and bring him back to the nesting cliffs.
What a merry band we are, Ragna thought wearily.
Caj lifted his good wing. “They’ve told me you won’t eat. Sverin, it’s unacceptable. Don’t you want to see Kjorn?”
Sverin dipped his head, gaze switching to Ragna.
“The meat . . .” She shook her head. “He won’t eat the fish.”
Caj looked at Sverin, measuring, then the fish, then Ragna. “My lady. Is there nothing we can do?”
She had been the one to summon Caj to Sverin’s den. He was not an unreasonable gryfon, he was her wingsister’s mate, but he was still Sverin’s wingbrother. Of course he would be loyal. And in the face of both of them, she couldn’t remain blindly obstinate.
“I’ll find you red meat,” Ragna said shortly. “If anyone will hunt with me on your behalf, now.”
There was a part of her, a small, ugly creature within her that enjoyed seeing Sverin brought low, that enjoyed being able to say whatever she was thinking without fear of death or banishment. She had to rise above that petty urge.
Sverin ducked his head in acknowledgement, almost humble, but that Ragna spied the slow twitch of his tail. “Thank you for your concern, my lady.”
“It isn’t concern for you.” She grasped the fish firmly in her talons. “Rest assured that I will do all in my power to keep you whole and healthy until you have faced Rashard again.”
Both Sverin and Caj murmured low, in thanks, though she saw their tension. She took the fish from the den and winged out into the dark, intending to take the meal to Sigrun in case any of her pregnant charges were hungry. In the morning, she would see if there was any gryfon left in the pride willing to help her hunt for the disgraced War King.
~5~
The Duel
FIRST LIGHT SAW GRYFONS of the Ostral Shore gathered on a flat expanse some leaps away from the nesting area, just before the landscape changed to hills.
Shard’s challenge had become a subject of gossip and great interest. Especially when word was passed around that he and Asvander were friends, that they had not always been, that Asvander had beaten Shard in a contest at the Dawn Spire when Shard first arrived in the Winderost. Even more of interest was Brynja’s dignified silence, and her refusal to tell anyone whom she hoped would win.
Shard stood with Stigr at the edge of what had become a large ring of spectators, warming his wings and muscles in the dawn light and wishing they’d opted for a later time. Peering around, he saw Brynja, who lifted her beak and perked her ears in encouragement. She hadn’t liked the idea of the duel, but understood Shard’s principle of the thing. They were both Asvander’s friend, and settling the matter would be best
.
To Shard’s surprise, he saw Vanir threading through the growing crowd of onlookers. Ketil, Keta, and her nest-sister Ilse filtered to the front to watch. Toskil and another, old Vanir named Frar sat further back, and when he caught their gazes, they called encouragement.
More gathered, and amused Lakelanders let them to the front to see, as the Vanir were almost all shorter.
“You look surprised that your pride is here to support you,” Stigr said as he came up beside Shard.
“I suppose I am. They know I fight to win Brynja, in a way.”
“They support you, Shard. You.” Stigr eyed him up and down, as if assessing his readiness. “You’re their prince.”
“Ketil doesn’t look happy.”
“That doesn’t mean she hopes you’ll lose, Shard. You represent the Silver Isles and all the Vanir and you have a reputation to uphold now.”
Shard had felt relaxed and ready, but his muscles tightened at those words. “Oh, thank you. That doesn’t make me nervous at all.”
Stigr laughed, causing Shard’s feathers to prickle in irritation. “Have faith. All of us do.” He jerked his head to make Shard look back toward the Vanir. Standing there too was Kjorn, bright in the morning, with his head high. He hadn’t wanted Shard to fight, to cause ripples, but there he stood in support. Shard drew in a long breath.
“Fight well my prince,” Stigr said, mantled quickly, and drew away.
“Fair morning winds, clans of the lake!” roared Asrik, gliding overhead. He landed hard in the middle of the ring of spectators, looking pleased that the entire pride appeared to be there, gawking and ready for a fight. “You have come to witness the challenge between Shard, son-of-Baldr, and Asvander, my son, who has until this morn been promised in mutual agreement to Brynja, daughter-of-Mar, of the Dawn Spire. This promise hearkened back to the days of Oster and En . . .”
He recited the history, as if they hadn’t just heard the song the night before. At last Shard spied Asvander, striding determinedly forward through the other big, rough gryfons. He met Shard’s gaze and dipped his head, resolved, but not unfriendly, Shard thought.
