by Jess E. Owen
She had not been prepared for them to arrive so soon. She hadn’t thought it would be so abrupt, so unexpected, but surely would be after the Halflight, or early summer, or not until Shard’s return. There was much to do.
“But where is our prince?” Dagr asked, stealing the thought from her as they swooped around each other to stay aloft. He was all brightness and strength, though he’d grown thin. “The Vanir fly free, which means we’ve come too late for the overthrow?” He eyed the Aesir below, whom Ragna had clearly not exiled nor imprisoned. “Where is the son of Baldr?”
“He’s . . . oh, but there’s too much, and you’ve flown far. Land with me,” Ragna said. “Land, all of you! Rest, eat, we’ll tell all the islands, and I’ll catch you up on what has passed.”
In his eager face she saw Einarr, and like a bolt the thought nearly dropped her.
I’ll tell you your brother was slain. Her throat clenched.
She caught sight of Vidar, and he called a greeting. Vidar was Dagr and Einarr’s father, and one of Ragna’s old friends. Sverin had exiled him for the crime of flying at night. Weight dragged at her wings.
Dagr landed with Ragna. Vidar touched ground some leaps off, looking around for Eyvin, his mate. Ragna spied her, standing away with the other Aesir, but she did not immediately go to him. Vidar paused to bow before Ragna, and before she could wonder at Eyvin’s hesitance, Astri approached through the muttering throng of gryfons.
The little white gryfess trundled to Dagr, ears perked, face burning in the twilight. “You’re . . .” Her expression broke, crestfallen.
She couldn’t really have thought it was Einarr, could she? We left him to rest on Black Rock.
“Dagr,” he said cautiously, watching her with gentle curiosity. “Son-of-Vidar. I knew you as a fledge, but I regret I’ve forgotten your—”
“Astri,” she managed, staring at the gryfon who looked so like her mate should have, in perhaps three years. “I’m . . . I was . . . Einarr’s . . .”
Ragna watched, sapped of strength to intervene. By any wind, she decided, it was right for Astri to tell Einarr’s family. Ragna looked sideways at Vidar, who was watching Astri, then, slowly realizing, he raised his head to search the gathering for his younger son.
So invigorated by the arrival home, it seemed Dagr didn’t notice Astri’s sorrow at first. “Einarr’s mate! Ah, yes, Shard said he’d won a fine huntress, and I see he was right.” He dipped his head to her. “And has already started a family of his own I see. I should rush to catch up, if any gryfess will have an exile.” He laughed, and no gryfon around seemed able to move. “But come now.” He opened a wing to embrace the dainty white gryfess, as if they’d been close all their lives. “Where is Einarr? I’ve brought our father home, whom he hasn’t seen in . . .”
At last, he paused. At last, halted by the look on Astri’s face, Ragna’s face, and the silence that fell over the pride at Einarr’s name, he fell quiet. His ears tilted back in uncertainty, and he appeared to realize there was one face not there to greet him.
“Where is my brother?”
The wind moaned across the rocks and the ice that jutted from the sea. The buoyancy dissolved from the gathering. Distantly, Ragna heard a raven call, and watched as the simple question rent open the fragile wounds in her pride.
Astri drew herself together, lifted her beak in a show of pride, and managed four words. “Einarr flies with Tyr.”
Wind stung at Ragna’s face and she closed her eyes.
“No,” Vidar breathed at last, “my son?”
Ragna could not look at him.
Dagr managed only a sharp growl of negation, and Astri loosed a soft, choked sound before she collapsed under the wing of her new brother.
~23~
The Invitation
THEY SOARED ON A HIGH, warm wind.
“I guarantee this is a trap,” Asvander said again, calling over the wind for Kjorn’s ears. Shard glanced over at Kjorn, who merely shook his head. Shard, Kjorn, and Brynja flew at the head of a diamond with Asvander, Dagny, Nilsine, and Ketil ranged behind.
Asvander had argued the moment Kjorn wanted to go. First, Kjorn had wanted to go alone, merely to hear the message. Shard insisted he accompany, then Asvander, Brynja, and Dagny also volunteered to go. And since Shard was going, Ketil demanded a Vanir be present for his interests. Shard tried to remember the time he’d been able to do things without an entourage, and decided he missed it. Still, the presence of his friends, future mate, and a member of his own pride always at his side had begun to feel normal.
For a moment, he remembered the summer before everything was swept up into madness, and he, Thyra, and Kjorn had frolicked before their initiation hunt.
Only a year ago. A year. Less than a year. How many times have we all been reborn in these seasons?
Meanwhile, Kjorn didn’t answer Asvander. He didn’t have to, Shard knew, and they flew in silence. Whatever message, whether truly from the Dawn Spire or elsewhere, they had specifically named and asked for Kjorn. It was not in him to ignore it. The exhausted lioness had told them that the gryfess waited with other lioness hunters at the border. That alone surprised Shard, that a gryfon would respect the boundary of the First Plains.
They had little time to discuss the matter further, if anyone had a mind to, for they were nearly at their destination, according to the lioness’s description.
“There!” Shard stretched a talon to point, and Kjorn followed his direction. Three lionesses lounged in the grass around a gryfess, who sat stiffly, searching the sky. Her gaze found them. Her ears perked, and she stood.
Just as Shard recognized her, Brynja cried out.
“Sigga!” She tightened her wings, paused, glanced at Kjorn. “My lord. She is—was—one of my huntresses. I’ll introduce you.” And without leave, Brynja tucked and dove. Dagny followed Brynja’s lead and they landed first, trotting forward to meet their estranged comrade. Ketil winged up closer to Shard, wary of the whole thing, and Nilsine seemed to share her caution.
Kjorn looked at Shard, who clenched his own talons. “I knew her,” Shard confirmed. “We hunted together. We weren’t exactly friends, but if anything it means the message is truly from the Dawn Spire.”
From him, Kjorn looked to Asvander. “She is honorable,” Asvander said. “Dawn Spire to the core. I don’t believe she would desert or bear a false message.”
“Well enough,” Kjorn murmured, and at his signal, they glided down to land.
Brynja bounded up to Shard, her face alight.
Shard felt better just looking at her. “Did she have news of your family?”
“Yes.” She stretched her wings happily. “They’re well. Orn didn’t imprison either of my parents, for they weren’t really involved with you or any of it.” A chilly, bracing wind made dignity and quiet conversation nearly impossible, for their feathers ruffed all the wrong ways and the whipping grass made them raise their voices.
“You weren’t really involved either,” Shard muttered. He had been the one to draw the wyrms down on the Dawn Spire, but Orn, the current ruler, had considered his friends traitors for associating with him.
She nipped his ear lightly and, opening her wings for attention, led the males back to the huntress. “Sigga, let me present prince Kjorn, son-of-Sverin. Kjorn, Sigga, daughter-of-Syg, huntress and lately, messenger.”
Sigga mantled respectfully, though she eyed Shard with a dark look. When she straightened, her gaze was only for Kjorn. “Well met, my lord. I am sent to invite you to the Dawn Spire.”
“Invite? Or command?”
Shard watched Kjorn carefully, saw his ears tilt back, his stance stiffen. They had not planned on revealing his presence to the Dawn Spire until all their allies were certain, and assembled. But Shard didn’t know how long they really could have expected to move large numbers of gryfons, painted wolves, eagles, and lions around without someone noticing. Still, he wondered how they knew of Kjorn himself.
Sigga laughe
d, too brightly. Shard supposed Kjorn could be intimidating. “My lord, I am one gryfess. I certainly can’t command you anywhere. You are invited, an honored guest, to speak of . . . current tidings.”
“And if I don’t go at your invitation?”
“Then I am to tell you that we hold a gryfon who claims to be one of your captains, working under your command to gather others in preparation for a war.”
Kjorn’s expression grew icy. “What gryfon?”
“Rok, son-of-Rokar.”
Kjorn cursed. Shard glanced around as if he might see confirmation of the claim—but then, it couldn’t be a lie. There would be no reason for the Dawn Spire to know the exiled gryfon now served Kjorn, except if they had captured him. Kjorn touched a talon to the chain he wore, a chain that represented promises between himself and Rok. “Yes, he is one of mine. But my war is against the wyrms, not the Dawn Spire.”
Sigga’s expression grew serious, she ducked her head a little. “We know. That is why I was sent. I was told to tell you this—come, present yourself to the king, be known, be seen, and stop skirting the borders like a rogue thief in the night.” She raised her head, meeting his gaze fully, and seemed to take a bracing breath. “Come and see the Dawn Spire.”
Kjorn glanced to Shard. Shard tilted his head slightly in negation, and tightened his talons against the grass. Something didn’t feel right, but he had no answer for Kjorn.
Asvander did. Feathers ruffled, wings lifted in agitation, he snapped his beak. “If Orn thinks he can lure the prince in with some—”
“I’m only the messenger,” Sigga said tightly, not looking at Asvander. Her gaze remained fixed wholly on Kjorn. “Take what you will from my message, but please give me an answer to return, or accompany me yourself. Prince Kjorn.” She appraised him, extending an inviting wing starward. “Won’t you come and see the Dawn Spire? Won’t you come and see your home?”
Shard saw, immediately, that Kjorn could not refuse. A light had come into his face at continued talk of the Dawn Spire, a fierce longing, a hunger that Shard feared would steal reason from his head. “I will go,” he said quietly, and in his face they saw there would be no arguing.
So, rather than argue, they planned.
Shard, Brynja, and Asvander would return to their larger group, and lead them on to the Voldsom Narrows, with warrior lions following on foot behind. There they would meet the eagles, the Lakelanders who would be traveling with Stigr and the rest of the Vanir, and the Serpent River pack of painted wolves. There, they would wait for word, or for Kjorn himself for the final onslaught against the wyrms.
Nilsine would go with Kjorn, for protection and to represent the Vanhar. Dagny would go with him, for she knew the Dawn Spire, had family there, and could protect him and speak for the gryfons Orn had exiled.
“Won’t you take more?” Asvander asked. “We’ll send along more Lakelanders and the Aesir of the Reach to protect you.”
“No,” Kjorn said. “I don’t want to look like I plan to attack. An escort will do.”
Asvander exchanged a dark look with Shard.
Ketil listened to the plan, and spoke up quietly, surprising Shard. “As much as I wish to stay by your side, my prince, I will go with Kjorn if you permit it, to represent the Vanir.”
Shard tilted his head, studying her stiff posture, and worried that she might hold too much of a grudge against all the Aesir in general to make a good representative. But then, so had Stigr. With her eyes she challenged him, lifted her beak, and opened her wings a little in deference.
“Thank you,” he said at length. “I accept. I know you’ll speak well for us.”
“Thank you, my lord. Please tell Keta and Ilse.” She mantled. Shard fluffed and resettled his wings, and looked at Kjorn, gauging him.
Kjorn nodded to the rest, and drew him aside to speak privately. “I haven’t forgotten your worry. Send your scouts to the Outlands and see what the wyrms are up to.” His gaze trained starward, toward the Dawn Spire. “I want to be prepared as soon as we arrive.” As if sensing Shard’s unhappy expression, Kjorn finally turned about to meet his gaze. “Shard, if you can reach Rhydda before we go to battle, and change her mind, all the better. If she’s gone,” he drew a deep breath, “we shall make all haste to the Silver Isles.”
“I feel strongly you shouldn’t go,” Shard said quietly. “Even more strongly that I should be with you.”
“I do too.” Kjorn loosed a wry chuckle. “I don’t have a warm feeling about this. But I have keen huntresses at my side. We’ll remain aloft as long as possible. Shard, you have to investigate whether the wyrms have gone or not. I must attend to Rok and make sure they’ve treated him well. He’s been loyal and I can’t return that favor by ignoring his capture.”
Shard had almost forgotten about Rok. “Curse your sense of honor,” he said, nipping the air in frustration.
“You would do the same for one of your own.”
Shard tried to think of another argument, but by the fierce light in Kjorn’s face, he knew it would be windless, get him nowhere, win him nothing, and now he was just wasting time.
He remembered what Asvander had said. “I suppose I won’t do you any good at the Dawn Spire anyway. Orn hates me.”
“That too,” Kjorn said.
Inspired, Shard slipped the pouch with the dragon firestones from around his neck. “Here, at least. Take these.” He stretched his foreleg, offering. “Give them back their fires. Return to the Dawn Spire in glory, bearing Tyr’s flame.”
“Ooh,” Dagny said, and they both realized the others had been eavesdropping anyway. “Breezy. Good idea, Shard.” At Kjorn’s look of confusion, she added, “The wyrms destroyed our fires when they attacked. Pyres fell or were allowed to die.”
Asvander stepped up beside her. “We don’t have firestones like the dragons—we came upon it by luck after skyfire struck dry wood a long time ago. Now you can bring it back. A fine idea, Shard.”
“A fine idea indeed,” Kjorn said, accepting the pouch and slipping it by the leather thong around his neck, where it rested with the golden chain. He drew close, resting a wing over Shard’s back to say farewell. “Never fly alone,” he said, voice low. “Promise me, Shard, that you will not face her alone again.”
“I won’t,” Shard said. When Kjorn didn’t move, he echoed Kjorn’s words. “I promise I will not fly alone, Kjorn. Never again. For you, for Stigr, my mother, and my pride. I promise. And you stay alert.”
“Of course. Fair winds,” Kjorn said tightly, drawing away. “We’ll meet you and the rest at the Voldsom within five days. If we don’t—”
“Five days,” Shard said. He stretched out his wing, and Kjorn extended his to cover it.
Kjorn looked at the others who were leaving with Shard. “Fair winds. Thank you.”
The gold prince’s ears lay half slanted, his tail twitching intermittently. Catching Shard’s gaze, he dipped his head, then looked starward. “Let’s not delay any longer.”
“We fly,” Shard said.
With a firm nod, Kjorn turned away, jumped into a lope, and took to the air with the gryfesses forming an honor guard behind him. Shard stood, watching Kjorn’s bright form against the sky, and his throat caught.
“Shard.” Asvander bumped him firmly. “It’s the right thing. Orn wants no part of you, and maybe it’s better this way. Kjorn can reunite with his mother’s sister. The queen,” he reminded Shard. “He can make his first approach to the Dawn Spire alone. We’ll be there for him at the Voldsom. It’s only five days.”
“Yes,” Shard added dryly. “What could possibly go wrong?”
Thinking of at least a dozen possibilities in the span of a heartbeat, they all looked skyward again. But, rather than make him feel worse, Shard found the thoughts made him break into nervous, hearty laughter. Asvander followed suit.
Brynja spread her wings. “Let’s fly. We have a lot of ground to cover, not to mention explaining to rest of the allies why Kjorn has left without s
o much as a fair-winds-to-you.”
“Let’s fly,” Shard agreed. The chilly wind grew damp as they soared, and rain speckled the dry ground as they reached the lions’ den again.
There, they told Mbari of Kjorn’s invitation to the Dawn Spire, and they bid farewell to the lion pride, promising to meet them at the Voldsom in five days.
By the time they explained everything to rest of the gryfons and convinced Nilsine’s Vanhar not to go after her, and Keta and Ilse not to go after Ketil, low gray clouds rushed across the plains as far as a gryfon could see. Rain lashed down as they took wing, and the ozone scent of skyfire suffused the air, along with rain and the petrichor from the earth.
“I hope this isn’t an omen,” Asvander shouted at Shard over the rain.
Shard thought if it were any omen, it was a good one. Rain was spring. Rain was change, and life, and skyfire. “Maybe it’s a blessing,” he offered. “Fire, and then rain. Perhaps it’s a blessing from Tor!”
Some of the other Lakelanders had words for that, but thunder cracked and drowned them out.
“We need a warrior blessing,” Asvander said grimly.
“Or a huntress,” Brynja said, eyeing the sky.
To Shard’s surprise, Keta stroked hard against the rain to catch up with them. “Prince Rashard and Brynja are right! My mother taught us a rhyme.” She raised her voice high, cutting through the rain, her gaze on Asvander now. “Tor is the mother, but also the huntress!”
Ilse’s voice raised with Keta. “Tor is the thunder, Tor is the thunder. . .”
“Tyr is the wrath and the rain!”
Keta spun, flapping, looking surprised as a Vanhar gryfon swooped in below them, echoing and adding to the rhyme. “We know this one too. Surely the Vanir of the Silver Isles are one blood with us.”
Shard laughed, and called out as rain battered and slid down his face. “Tor is the thunder . . .” He would have answered Asvander’s grim look, but a low, thrilling hum wove through the storm. The Vanhar, and the Vanir, chanting.
