by Jess E. Owen
Again, he saw black stones, this time smeared with blood. Her way, he thought, of shutting him out if she was angry, or if she couldn’t understand.
Remembering how he’d crafted a dream with Groa, he opened his wings and made one for Rhydda, grabbing and weaving memories from the dream net. He showed himself crouched by a greatbeast, murmuring his name so he would take it with him to the Sunlit Land, murmuring thanks to a dying red deer, complimenting her fast run, thanking the brief, simple life of the fish he ate each day. He recalled the moment he’d spoken the name Ahote to a dying wolf prince who had attacked Shard’s own family, so that even though they had fought, he would not die Nameless.
Blood and stone and mulling, muddy darkness. She didn’t understand, or didn’t want to.
Please, he implored. You are more than this!
He remembered the sunlight in her dream from before, and showed it to her. Sunlight on water. She lifted her head to see it, then sharp pain lanced across Shard’s flank. He cried out, heard Rhydda roar, and realized it was her pain, a memory of pain, and then came a voice he did not know, but the timbre of it was familiar.
You are unworthy of the sun!
Back in your hole, beast.
Shard whirled, seeking the voices, and the dream he’d crafted for Rhydda crumbled into fire and blood—
~*~
—then Kjorn bumped him awake as the big gryfon rolled to his feet with a hiss of surprise. Shard held very still, stared at the pulsing embers, not sure if he’d ever actually fallen asleep. He tried to reconcile the sudden violence of his dream with the red embers, then realized there was quiet commotion around him.
“Who goes there?” barked Toskil, from the perimeter. Shard narrowed his eyes and looked up to meet Kjorn’s gaze. Together they slipped around gryfons toward Toskil’s post. Shard heard steps behind them and suspected Asvander and Brynja followed. Someone, Dagny, began to stoke the fire to give them light.
They found Toskil standing stiff at his sentry post, taking sharp breaths as he scented the air. Shard could just see him now that the fire burned up again from the center of camp.
“What is it?” Shard asked.
“Someone’s moving about out there, but I can’t see.”
“Declare yourselves!” Kjorn boomed, making Shard jump. “We are friendly if you are. If you claim these lands, we’re only passing through.”
They tensed, standing in silence and trying to hear whatever movement Toskil had heard. The sound of a few gryfons standing, milling, moving to stand protectively behind Shard and Kjorn made it difficult to hear.
It was impossible to see anything outside the firelight.
Shard lifted his ears, and strode forward into the dark. Kjorn swiped for his tail and Shard trotted ahead. Toskil protested, but didn’t grab for him.
“Show yourselves!” Asvander shouted. Kjorn cursed when Shard kept walking, but he and Asvander didn’t leave the faint ring of light.
There, in the dark and the soft wind, Shard could see better, and hear. He shoved the troubling dream from his mind, and focused.
“If you are painted wolves, we’re friends,” he offered. “We have no meat left, but you may share our fire. Some of your number have allied with us—come and hear the tidings.”
A hoarse laugh crackled. Shard swiveled to face the sound, staring through the dark.
“Painted dogs? Don’t insult us.”
“Us?” Kjorn demanded, and immediately more gryfons joined, ringing him and Shard protectively. Shard stretched up, looking over the heads of his protectors—Brynja, Ketil, Toskil, and other Vanir. The rest remained in the firelight.
At last the shadow moved, stalking forward, raising wings to reveal a gryfon form. “Us. The free prides of the Winderost.”
“Free prides?” Asvander asked. “You mean poachers. Exiles.”
“You would call us that.”
Finally, Shard gleaned that the speaker was female, and definitely a gryfon, with raspy eagle overtones and the boom of a lion growl beneath. She raised her voice, as if make a point to those listening. “You, who think your claims on the land are stronger than others just because you can name more than one grandfather.”
Asvander rumbled dangerously, and Shard heard Kjorn take a step.
“I am Kjorn, son-of-Sverin,” the gold gryfon declared. “I have offered a number of your free pride followers a chance for honor and fellowship, to redeem their names and return to their home clans.”
“I know who you are.” Her voice lowered, dangerously soft. “I only wanted to see for myself, and show the others.”
“And you are?” Kjorn asked, and Shard heard his patience waning.
“I haven’t decided if you’ll know me. Fair winds.”
“Who are you?” Kjorn asked again, firmly, but silence answered.
Toskil shifted. No one else moved. Shard stepped toward the surrounding darkness and Brynja made a low, warning noise.
“Speak!” Kjorn demanded, ears raised, glaring.
Shard slipped around Brynja and through the protective ring of gryfons, completely out of the firelight and into the brisk, windy night. When others followed, he lashed his tail to order silence. He caught no scent of gryfon on the wind, heard only the faintest rustle of large bodies moving through the distant grass, running like lions on the ground, and already too far to pursue through the dark.
“They’re gone,” he reported, frustration and curiosity prickling his feathers. He scented Brynja before he saw her, and the stocky gryfess stepped up beside him and pressed her wing to his, a strong presence at his side. She had joined him in the dark, when the only others to leave the fire had been his own Vanir.
He brushed his tail against hers, and called to Kjorn over his shoulder. “I thought you said Rok leads the exiles. That he would bring them to your cause.”
“I thought he did,” Kjorn said quietly, from his spot within the ring of firelight.
“No one truly leads the exiles,” Asvander said. “Obviously he’s met some resistance. We’ll post a double watch. Perhaps Rok has spread word of you, and it’s only as she said, that she wished to see you for herself.”
“But not face me,” Kjorn growled.
Shard looked one last time out into the dark, then returned with Brynja and his Vanir to the fire. “Worry about the Vanhar first,” Shard advised Kjorn quietly, for the gold prince still peered beyond the fire. “When Rok finds you again, you can worry about this.”
Brynja spoke thoughtfully. “Who was she, I wonder?”
“A problem,” Asvander said darkly, and ordered four more sentries around their perimeter before all tried to settle down to sleep. Shard felt too hot, with the fire blazing again, and more gryfons now sprawled around them protectively.
“It’s all right, Shard,” Kjorn murmured thickly, already falling asleep again by the sound of it. “I doubt they’ll return.”
“I know,” Shard said, and didn’t voice his real fear, of going back to sleep. The dream had come back to him, and he remembered feeling Rhydda’s pain along his flank. As he neared sleep again it returned, flashing up his hind quarters, and he jerked awake, feeling as though he’d been slashed by claws or fire.
All slumbered around him. Kjorn hadn’t even roused at his movement.
Holding his breath, afraid to look, Shard twisted and lifted a wing to study at his flank and leg. There was no trace of injury. No scar, no slash. It had truly, only been a dream. A memory. Rhydda’s memory. He loosed a soft breath, laid his head down, and spent the remainder of the night trying to remember if the great she-wyrm had a scar as if from a whip of flame.
~11~
Thaw
THE TROUBLE DIDN’T BEGIN right away, for no one knew Sverin was receiving red meat. Ragna, Halvden, and Eyvin had managed to bring the first kill back in relative secrecy, for most of the Aesir sheltered in their dens when it snowed.
On the third day, when Sverin ran out of venison to eat, Ragna returned to Star Isle wit
h Eyvin. Without a third experienced hunter, they only pursued rabbits, but four of those would be enough to tide the War King over for some time.
Ragna felt the shift in the winds that meant spring was coming. Snow in the morning often melted into freezing rain by the afternoon, with blue skies at evening. It was her favorite time of year—chaotic, unpredictable and full of the rushing, rebounding energy of the awakening earth. She relished her time flying back and forth from the Star Isle.
“You seem pleased,” Eyvin observed as they flew back to the Sun Isle, each with two rabbits clutched in their talons.
“Spring is coming. And with it, my Vanir, and my son.” She looked over. “Your son Dagr, and your mate. It’s very likely they will both return.”
Eyvin’s talons tightened on her rabbits and her ears slipped back. In her bright copper feathers, Ragna saw young Einarr’s face, and she had to turn away as a sudden rush of sadness claimed her. The ocean rolled stormy and cold beneath them, but the clouds above dropped no rain.
“I would be glad to see Dagr again,” Eyvin said at length.
“And Vidar?”
Eyvin didn’t answer. Ragna didn’t get a chance to question her further, for an angry shout echoed down the bronzy, dark rocks of the nesting cliffs.
“Ollar,” Eyvin muttered. “What a waste of wings. If only he’d died in the wolf attack last summer.”
Ragna looked at her, surprised. She’d never heard Eyvin speak ill of another Aesir. But then, Ollar, who stood on the edge of the cliff, hollering angry questions about the meat they carried, was one of the least-liked gryfons in the pride.
Caj, solid blue against the snow and muddy peat, trotted up to Ollar as Ragna and Eyvin banked to fly toward Sverin’s den.
“Stand down, son-of-Lar,” Caj boomed. “You will not question the queen.”
“The queen,” sneered Ollar, spinning to face Caj. “This is a mockery. She’s weak. See, even though he’s imprisoned and bound, she’s too afraid not to do as the Red King asks!” He raised his voice, shouting at Ragna and Eyvin. “Here now, back to the Star Isle with you, and fetch enough meat for all.”
“Shut your beak,” Caj rumbled, “or I’ll do it for you.”
Ragna watched them from the corner of her eye, slowing her flight on purpose. Eyvin slowed with her.
“It’s a mockery,” Ollar raved again. “It’s unjust. Why should a mad prisoner of war receive fresh, decent food, while the rest of us choke down cold, slimy poison from the sea?”
Eyvin tilted her head in toward Ragna. “I quite enjoy fish. I suspect Asfrid gives him rotten ones. It would serve him right.”
“Will you take these to Sverin’s den? I must see to this.” Ragna offered the rabbits, flaring. Eyvin swooped about and took them deftly, winging off without a word.
Ragna glided down to land on the King’s Rocks, where Ollar stood fuming, with Caj ready to leap on him. Green caught her eye and she saw Halvden, trotting up the cliff trail from his own den.
“What is your complaint, Ollar?” Ragna asked, as if everyone hadn’t heard him from the rocks.
“You know it, white witch.” Silver feathers had never looked so ugly, Ragna thought. Somehow his gleaming feathers, unnaturally metallic and bright, made him look spiteful, dangerous and wild, rather than handsome. “I demand red meat as well, or I’ll starve myself.”
“Good riddance,” Ragna said, her skin heating with anger. It was not the first time the Aesir had called her a witch, accused her of bringing poor weather on them, blighting the pride, cursing all with her quiet presence. “Stand down. You embarrass yourself and undermine the peace we have gained here. No one else is complaining.”
“Because they don’t know.” Ollar climbed the rocks, stalking her. Caj shadowed him, and his steady, rumbling growl warned the silver gryfon to go no farther. He ignored Caj. “I will tell everyone and we will force you to let us hunt decent food.”
“Ollar. Stop this.” Caj’s feathers stood on end, his broken wing clamped to his side in a mud cast, his good wing arched high, tail lashing.
Perhaps Ollar, in his anger, forgot that Caj had beaten Halvden soundly even with a broken wing, and almost Sverin himself, for he whirled and hissed. “Or what? I can’t believe your cursed mate has you so pressed under her talon you can’t see what’s happening. Go on and take that step, you limp-winged—”
Ragna surged forward, smashing into the Aesir who was nearly twice her size. If anger and violence was all he could comprehend, then she would act in a way he understood. Sheer surprise helped her land a few powerful swipes to his chest, and blood splattered his bright feathers and Ragna’s.
“Stand down,” she shouted as she slapped talons toward his face. He caught her swipe and she dropped, shoving forward to fling open her wings and push him back. “Or I will drive you myself into the sea!”
He roared, rearing back to his hind feet and tossing her away. Ragna rolled through the snow. Blue and green blurred past her, then coppery feathers like flame—Caj, Halvden, and Eyvin rushing in to defend her.
The shrieks and snarls drew onlookers from the cliffs, sea, and sky. Gryfons circled, calling to each other, trying to figure out what had happened.
Ragna lunged toward the fray and it was Halvden who whirled and gnashed his beak. “Stay back!”
“What’s all this?” Thyra’s ringing voice silenced all others. Caj and Eyvin subdued Ollar and pinned him to the ground as Thyra trundled forward. With a steady diet of good fresh food, her belly swelled and her eyes looked bright and clear.
“Son of Lar, how have you shamed yourself today?”
“This is none of your affair,” Ollar snapped.
“You will answer your queen,” Halvden said coldly.
“She’s no queen of mine!” he said shrilly, and Caj ground his face into the snow with one foot.
“I see,” Thyra said, and looked at Ragna. Her brown eyes registered surprise, and Ragna remembered Ollar’s blood had splashed her feathers. Stigr had always warned Ragna of how grimly awful her pale feathers looked after fighting.
“He discovered we offered Sverin red meat,” Ragna said, shuddering with nerves and with frustration as more gryfons gathered and began to mutter among themselves.
“And that is so Kjorn may see his father again,” Thyra explained coolly to Ollar, who snarled inarticulately under Caj’s foot. “Not out of pity for the War King.”
“You are weak,” grumbled Ollar. “All of you!”
“Will you respect my mate better, when he returns?” Thyra inquired, her voice steadily colder.
Ollar barked a laugh. “No. No I will not. Their whole line is cursed and broken, and look what following them has brought us. I have a weakling mate, and a weaker daughter who mated to a weakling who’s now dead. The cursed kit will be born weak.”
Thyra’s eyes flashed and she stalked forward, a formidable sight despite her burgeoning belly. “You will not speak of Asfrid, Astri, or Einarr like that in my presence ever again.”
“I’ll do as I please.”
Caj pressed down, Eyvin crushed against him with her weight, and Ragna watched him sputter and growl, then laugh hoarsely.
“I’ll do as I please, because none of you have the courage to stop me!”
“If by stop, you mean kill, then you are right.” Thyra’s voice chilled Ragna to the bone. “None of us will kill you—”
“I might,” growled Halvden, and Thyra snapped her beak, raising her head.
“None of us will kill you, because we are heartsick from war, and still we try to heal. But I won’t tolerate this in my pride.”
“Ha,” rumbled Ollar. “What will you do, half-breed?”
“My daughter,” Caj reminded him, his words nearly lost in a snarl.
“Ollar, son-of-Lar,” Thyra said, opening her lavender wings, “your warmongering and discontent are not welcome in the new pride. You have until nightfall to leave the Silver Isles.”
All fell quiet, stunned. Ragna
looked slowly from Thyra to Ollar, then Caj, who gazed at his daughter with a mix of pride and shock. Ragna hadn’t thought, after all the grief that exiling gryfons had brought to the pride, that Thyra would have it in her to do so. But it was that or kill him, or imprison him, and why should they spend their time feeding and caring for someone who bore them no love?
Even Ollar had gone silent for a moment. But not for long. “You can’t—”
“I can, I am. Since you’re unhappy with my rule, my mate, and the new pride, you’re better off leaving us. I wish you fair winds wherever they take you.”
Without another word, Thyra turned and strode away. Gryfons—Aesir, Vanir, and half-bloods alike—fell in behind her, asking questions, demanding to know about the red meat, and if she planned to exile anyone else. Ragna saw unfortunate lines of division forming again. Vanir walked together, and Aesir walked together, each eyeing each other suspiciously. Any trust they’d slowly built was gone, as each wondered if the other was getting special treatment, or special discrimination.
Ragna stood there, watching them depart. Caj stepped back and Eyvin let Ollar stand. “Say goodbye to your mate and daughter,” the coppery gryfess said quietly. “Though I know you have no love for them. You owe them that.”
At the edge of Ragna’s vision she saw Astri and her mother, Asfrid, staring from the edge of the cliff.
“I owe them nothing,” Ollar growled, backing away, his tail lashing. “They are weak excuses for gryfon kind. Poor huntresses, and embarrassing. You’re all weak, and you will rue this cursed new pride and the pathetic princes you wait for.”
With those words, he shoved past Ragna and leaped from the cliff. Caj strode up beside Ragna to watch him fly, making sure he navigated across the ocean, and not toward another island.
Halvden trotted up, hackle-feathers standing high. “Where does he think he’ll go?”
For a moment only the wind answered, stirring the air. A light drizzle misted down. Caj shook himself, staring across the water, and said, “Home.”
“Good riddance,” Halvden hissed.
Caj eyed him sidelong, then met Ragna’s gaze over Halvden’s emerald back. It wasn’t so long ago Halvden had displayed the same insufferable, dangerous arrogance. Ragna was pleased to see changes in him, subtle as they were.
