by Jess E. Owen
“He showed kindness.”
“He showed generosity.”
“He showed patience.”
“He is honest in his answers.”
The priestess turned her head as each spoke, and at last looked again at Kjorn. Little chills slipped down his back and he resisted the urge to open his wings, lest he appear nervous.
“And I say he shows wisdom, by asking for help with questions to which he does not know the answer.”
Kjorn looked around the circle of ghostly elders, and bowed his head.
The priestess stepped toward him “You see, Kjorn, it was not whether your answers were right or wrong, but whether they were honest.”
She opened her wings, and when she said his name Kjorn looked at her again, mildly surprised. “You have been honest, and so we know these things about you. If you believe that it is our friends who lift us when all else fails, that shows me you can admit when you need help, which some kings may never do. If you believe love must not be clutched too tightly, that shows me your own sense of trust. If you believe you cannot know the measure of a king, it tells us you will be a humble and honest one, here to serve, not to conquer again.”
Kjorn held a breath as understanding dawned that his test, his ritual, had actually gone on all day, and cumulated in the questions. Then he felt foolish for not realizing it, as obvious as the signs had been.
“Then have I satisfied you, as far as my intentions here?”
The priestess would have answered, if a booming shout hadn’t scared the life out of Kjorn and every elder on the council.
“Your Highness!” Asvander lunged up the cliff, trailed by others Kjorn could barely make out in the dark.
“Stop!” Kjorn ordered. “We’re—”
“What’s the meaning of all this?” Asvander demanded, coming to Kjorn’s side. He scented and then heard Brynja, Dagny, and Nilsine shortly behind, then caught Shard’s familiar scent.
“Welcome,” the priestess said, apparently unruffled by the intrusion. With a note of amusement in her voice she said, “You’ve come just in time for the council to declare the alliance of the Vanhar to Prince Kjorn, and pledge our warriors to the cause of defeating the enemy once and for all.”
“Oh!” Dagny cried. “Breezy!”
Kjorn allowed himself a short laugh, and Shard came up on his other side.
“We were worried,” he murmured, his wing pressing to Kjorn’s.
“Clearly,” said Kjorn, glancing to Asvander.
“I suggest we all go back to our rest now,” the high priestess said. Asvander remained ruffled, but Kjorn knew it wouldn’t take much to talk him down. The elders dispersed without further word, congratulations or encouragement.
Kjorn led his friends back down the trail toward the beach in thoughtful quiet.
Dagny’s voice piped up. “So were we right about the riddles? Was it water, or light?”
They took their leave of the Vanheim Shore with little fanfare two days later, now with a band of Vanhar warriors added to their number. Light rain gusted along the coast, driven by wind that smelled sweetly of spring.
Kjorn bid farewell to the council and the high priestess. He bowed to her, and she approached him. To Kjorn’s surprise she dipped her head low as he bowed, and touched her brow to his, as he had seen her do with others, with warriors of the Vanhar.
“I wish you the blessing of each wind, Prince Kjorn,” she said softly. “The light of Tyr in your heart, and the wisdom of bright Tor.”
“Thank you,” Kjorn said. “And I wish you . . . fair winds.”
They stepped away from each other, and Kjorn found his company gathered only a few leaps away. From the corner of his eye he saw Nilsine approach the priestess and receive a blessing, and it seemed to Kjorn that she remained the longest.
Asvander bellowed to his Lakelanders, Brynja gathered the Aesir of the Reach and Shard, the Vanir, counting heads. When Nilsine left the priestess and appeared satisfied with her head count, they set out.
Out of respect, they would walk into the lions’ territory, as Kjorn had done before.
“You’ve met them before,” Kjorn said to Shard as they strode through the tall grass, leaving the ocean behind. “They spoke of you.
“Yes, just once. They showed me the wyrms for the first time.”
Kjorn flicked his tail, feeling disgruntled. “They didn’t make you join them on a hunt before they would tell you anything?”
Shard laughed. “No, is that what they did to you?”
“Yes. I wonder why.”
Shard ruffled his feathers, sprinkling Kjorn with drizzle. “I’m better looking, obviously. Or maybe better smelling.”
Kjorn snapped playfully at his ears and Shard ducked, flicking talons out to smack Kjorn’s shoulder. “Your Highness, be careful, you may start a war with my kingdom.”
Kjorn sobered and his step slowed. Shard winced, perhaps seeing the joke was too close to recent events.
“Not funny,” Shard agreed to Kjorn’s silent sentiment. “Well enough. I would have summoned a dragon and beaten you, anyway.”
“I’d like to see that.” Kjorn laughed. “Then again, maybe not. Any luck with Rhydda?”
As the wind steadily brought the drizzle against them, Kjorn at last felt the chill.
“Maybe.” Looking anxious, Shard straightened, setting a quicker pace that Kjorn followed. A respectful distance away, Nilsine, Asvander, and Brynja walked in the leads of their respective groups, and behind them, in rough formation, trailed the rest of their band, now swelled with the full ranks of the Vanhar warriors. Shard told Kjorn of his dream, how he’d sensed emotion from Rhydda. “And I think Ajia might be able to help even more.”
“Well,” Kjorn said, feeling more hopeful even as the sky darkened and they lost sight of the ocean. Drizzle turned to rain lashing down on them, making mud of the frost and ash. “This should be an interesting visit all around, then.”
~19~
Guardians of the First Plains
TO KJORN’S APPARENT SURPRISE but not Shard’s, a lion yearling met them at the border of the lands, where the uneven, grassy hills turned into a sweep of endless plain, dotted with gnarled trees, scrubby grass and boulders. The cub, who Shard would’ve equated with a fledging, greeted them somberly.
“Sons and daughters of Tyr. I am to lead you to Ajia, and the chief. They look forward to seeing you.”
Kjorn slipped Shard a questioning, sideways look, and Shard gave his head the slightest shake. He hadn’t met a chief either. Both of them thought Ajia led the lion pride, as the Vanhar priestess led hers.
“This way,” said the young lion, turning about.
“What,” Kjorn asked, “just like that? No riddles? No debates?”
“Kjorn . . .” Shard managed not to laugh.
“No moonlight hunts? I’m disappointed.” He looked thoughtfully across the plain. “We’re actually making progress.”
Shard laughed quietly, following the grave, trotting lion cub as he parted a corridor through the tall grass. “And we weren’t, before? Did you forget the Lakelanders and the Vanhar, and Brynja’s supporters? And the rogues?”
“The rogues,” Kjorn echoed. “But I wonder how Rok fares. We’ve heard nothing, except from those in the Reach who wanted nothing to do with me.”
“I shouldn’t have to tell an Aesir to remain in the present,” Shard said, swatting Kjorn with his tail. “We have a plan, my brother. Let’s stay on that wind. The Ostral Shores, the Vanhar, the lions, then the rogues. Then the eagles. Then—”
“The Dawn Spire,” Kjorn said, though it sounded like a sigh, and he turned his head to look starward, though from where they walked, nothing could be seen of the great gryfon dwelling.
“The Dawn Spire,” Shard said. “But now, the lions.”
“Lions.” Kjorn nodded once, casting Shard a grateful look. “What will I do when you’re gone, Shard?”
He laughed quietly, though his chest tightened. “
You’ll have Thyra, of course. And she’ll keep you on course much better than I can.”
“Yes.” The thought genuinely appeared to cheer him, as if he’d forgotten he had any support coming from the Silver Isles at all. “Yes, I will have Thyra, and maybe . . .” He trailed off. Around them, the drizzle lightened into a fog that smelled of wet earth. Sticky warmth infused the air and insects began a low, churring song.
“Maybe?” Shard prompted.
“Maybe,” Kjorn murmured with a touch of bitterness, “my father. If he’s come to his senses.”
Shard dipped his head, but didn’t answer. The last time Kjorn had seen his father, the Red King had fallen into Nameless madness and fled from him. Shard knew that place of grief, and it was not easy to emerge from it, especially bearing whatever burdens Sverin carried in his heart. Given the last ten years, Shard guessed his burdens were many.
They spoke no more, and followed the lion yearling as the wet grass thinned and squished under their feet, still dormant from winter. Shard perked his ears, trying to recall if he’d flown this far windward of the Dawn Spire, or if Ajia and her huntresses had met him closer. They must have, for the broad, pale landscape looked nothing like what he remembered.
“The border of the First Plains,” Nilsine said from Shard’s left.
Just as she said it, the yearling lion announced the same, and stopped, slinking around to face them. “Welcome, princes, Vanhar, friends. Where I lead you now is hallow ground, ancient and unchanged since the First Age, where my family dwells, where Tor first set paw to earth.”
“You honor us.” Kjorn inclined his head.
Shard marveled still at the change in his wingbrother. Kjorn, who had once scoffed to Shard—was it only three seasons ago?—that all the Silver Isles belonged to them, and he’d hoped to line his den with wolf pelts. Kjorn, who had courted war. Kjorn, who like his father and the other Aesir, had thought little of every other creature in the land and air.
Showing respect to all, now. Shard’s heart bloomed, and eased. He will make a good king, a good example for gryfons here.
He thought of the story told to him by Groa, the truth of the Aesir’s strange coloring. A dragon who’d loved Kjorn’s great-grandfather had shown that love by blessing them—blessing, not cursing. But her gift had come with a warning. With a dragon’s blessing, everything you are will be more so.
The sons and daughters of those gryfons had carried the blessing on, and their sons and daughters had, and they would, as far as Shard knew, for the rest of time. All of those Aesir descended from Kajar’s band, Per, Sverin, Caj, Thyra.
Kjorn.
Kjorn was proud, noble, honorable and just. In general, he was kind. Shard thought if any of those things were enhanced by the dragon’s blessing, it would only make him a better king. Sverin had failed, for he’d fallen toward the wrong qualities, Shard thought, with all the power of the dragon’s blessing behind them.
The young lion, satisfied with their acknowledgement of the land, turned to lead them on.
A scarlet, misty sunset blanketed the plains as they reached land that was familiar to Shard. The grass stood higher again, he smelled and heard a river, and within leaping distance stood stands of dark, grasping trees breaking the horizon.
Kjorn was looking around, nonplussed. “This isn’t where we came before,” he said to Nilsine.
“No.” She stepped up beside them as Shard took in the welcome scent of water, stretched his aching forelegs, and noticed also the musky smell of lions that permeated the very soil. The lions themselves were either not there, or kept out of sight. “That was more nightward, more their hunting grounds I believe. This is their home.”
“As she says.” The yearling lion circled back to them. “Welcome. Now, you may prepare to meet our chief.” He sat, ears lifting.
Kjorn and Shard looked at each other, and behind at Brynja, who merely blinked at Shard as if to remind him he had more experience with lions than she.
Even Nilsine looked bemused, and she lifted one wing. “If you please, what—”
“You’re covered with dust and mud,” the young cat said, his somber air cracking as he eyed them with unmasked disdain, his nose wrinkling to reveal the points of his fangs. “You reek of the sea. You may preen, or bathe in the river, or whatever gryfons do, but you must do something before you present to the chief.”
Nilsine made an abortive noise to speak, but remained quiet.
“You want us to wash?” asked Dagny, and Shard thought she didn’t know whether to be amused or insulted.
The young lion inclined his head.
Kjorn’s eyes narrowed and it seemed it was only Shard, choking back a laugh, that kept him from being mortally offended. Shard had never heard of a Named creature offended by dirt. But then, he didn’t know many large cats personally. Only Ajia, and he must have been clean enough for her then.
“You do look fairly awful,” he said to Kjorn. Kjorn’s ears slicked back.
Without another word, Shard led the way to the river. Behind them, the young lion relaxed, and began his own bath with his tongue.
And Shard did feel better, certainly refreshed, and maybe more princely, after a splash in the river and a thorough preening. The sun, setting leisurely, stroked the river with gold and red. The days are getting longer. Shard glanced around for Brynja, but she held off with Dagny some two leaps away, the wingsisters preening and laughing at their own private conversation. Shard huffed, then took a face full of water as Kjorn slapped water at him.
“Brighten up. You’re the moodiest Vanir I’ve ever seen. Worse than Stigr these days.”
“Tyr’s beak,” Shard said, mimicking his uncle. He shoved against the river bottom and smashed into Kjorn, giving the prince a good dunking to remind him who was the stronger swimmer. Kjorn came up sputtering and declared that bath time was over.
Though it was still sunset, a sliver of moon hooked in the orange sky as they dried and stretched away the aches from walking, and Shard shivered against the rising chill. He wondered, idly, if the lions would allow them a fire, and reached up to tap a talon against the little pouch that held his fire stones, to reassure himself they hadn’t come off in the river.
The yearling lion appeared, appraising them, even going so far as to lean forward and sniff delicately at Kjorn’s flank.
One golden ear ticked back, but Kjorn managed a neutral expression. “I trust we’re more acceptable now?”
“Hm,” said the yearling, circling away. “You’ll do.”
Some scents don’t wash away, Shard thought, and managed not to say, realizing the lion might’ve hoped they would smell less like gryfons by the time they were done.
“This way.”
Six gryfons fell into a line behind the yearling, Shard and Kjorn abreast, Nilsine, Dagny and Brynja, with Asvander warily taking up the rear. The rest remained near the river, in the company of two watchful, mostly silent lionesses and another yearling who had joined them during their bath.
Shard looked discreetly back at Asvander. The big Lakelander had been so silent the entire trip that Shard wasn’t sure if he was uncomfortable in the First Plains, or still moody about Kjorn’s test from the Vanhar. He would talk to Asvander, soon. After the lions. Certainly before battle, if there was a battle.
Away from the river, the lion scent saturated the air, and Shard perked his ears, looking around. He would be glad to see Ajia again, for she’d been helpful and kind, if mysterious. The chief he wasn’t sure of, but obviously they were expected, so he hoped that was good. Beside him, he sensed Kjorn tensing.
“Your Highness,” Shard said quietly, not in jest. “All will be well. We’re obviously expected, we’ve both met their most important lioness, and made friends. I wouldn’t worry. This isn’t battle.”
“Some friendships are like battles won,” Kjorn answered cryptically.
It sounded so unlike something he would say that Shard wondered where he’d heard it, then their escort stopped
. Before them, deep indents broke the long grass as if heavy bodies had slept there, and the ground swept up into a ragged bluff, reminding Shard of the landscape of the Dawn Reach. Scattered boulders piled to form small dens around the base of the bluff, and trees offered shade over those dens. Now, in the last of the sunset, it all cast long shadows toward Shard and Kjorn and their band, as if to reach out and grab them. The sky and earth looked aflame. Shard felt a moment of awe and wondered, shoving down an absurd snicker, if lions had a flair for the dramatic.
“The Chief of the First Plains,” the young lion boomed. “High leader over all the lion prides and favored son of Tor.” He turned to gaze at the top of the bluff.
Shard and Kjorn looked up, ears lifting, as the first fully-grown male Winderost lion Shard had ever seen strode from behind the bluff to its top to gaze down at them. He heard Kjorn’s breath catch, and thought his own did, too.
The chief’s heavy frame reminded Shard of a gryfon of the Ostral Shores, bulky and low to the ground, though his size nearly rivaled Kjorn. A broad, barrel chest and shoulders tapered to sleek, muscled haunches and the narrow, tufted tail. His wildfire mane of gold and black framed a wide, angled face and yellow eyes. His heavy scent drifted to them, a tang of and meat and power, mixed, Shard thought, with the essence of multiple lionesses. Shard realized that while he stared, Kjorn had mantled low, and he quickly followed suit.
When he stood tall again he was gratified to see the great cat dip his head, though not deeply enough to be called a bow.
“Welcome to the First Plains.” Shard had expected his voice to be mountain-deep like Helaku, the wolf king, but his timbre was almost mild, a tenor, a pure note that belied his size but fit him nonetheless, liquid and graceful. “We have waited for this meeting for a long time.”
Kjorn stood, resettling his wings. “We’re honored to stand in your home, and I hope for great things between us.”
“Great things,” the lion echoed, displayed his teeth in what Shard hoped was amusement. “Yes. Yes, indeed.” He tossed his mane and called several names. Lionesses appeared out of the grass, out of the rock dens, and watched him attentively. “Find us a feast,” he commanded, his gaze lingering on each of them with fondness and approval. “We know Tor, now in her claw time, will bless us with rich food for this meeting.”
