by Jess E. Owen
He stopped again in the center of the packed dirt floor. “Hail, gryfons of the Dawn Spire! Hail, Aesir! Know that I am Kjorn, son-of-Sverin, who is the son of Per. Know that I am the rightful prince and future king of the Dawn Spire and the Reach, lord of the Ostral Shores, and brother to the pride of the Vanheim Shore.”
At last silence fell, a rustling, buzzing, tense stillness.
One glance over Kjorn’s wing showed him that some of the allies who’d followed Shard there saw faces they recognized, saw friends, sisters, brothers, relatives. A season ago, all of the gryfons had nested together.
Shard caught Kjorn’s gaze as he circled around, gave his head the slightest nod.
Kjorn steadied himself. Pulsing, hot anger at how Orn had kidnapped him drove his long strides as he paced another circle. This was not how he had planned or hoped for it to happen. Orn had begun this with his cowardice. All pretense of camaraderie had fled Kjorn’s heart. The Dawn Spire belonged to him, and these gryfons needed a new king.
He tilted his wings so the firelight could shine through his long flight-feathers and flash when he shifted. In that moment Kjorn understood that his father had always purposefully presented with his back to the sun, had known what effect the sunlight had on his feathers. Regret clawed his heart to think of Sverin, and he forced his father from his mind.
He gazed up at the rows of standing places, and wondered what tiers all the cursed Aesir of the Silver Isles had held.
Not cursed, he reminded himself. Shard said we were blessed with dragon’s blood, that everything we are will be more so.
Warm, prickling pride flushed his skin.
He looked up, wanting to imagine his father at the top, only to see that Orn himself stood at the highest tier. And beside Orn . . . Kjorn had to remind himself that the gryfess above him was not his mother. His mother was dead.
“My mother’s sister,” Kjorn called to the queen, a severe, but lovely, tawny gryfess with eyes that matched his own. “Lady Esla, I bid you very fair winds. You know me.”
If she felt anything at all, she held it absolutely frozen behind blue eyes. “I know you, son-of-Sverin.”
Kjorn craved more, but understood why she couldn’t yet give it. The acknowledgment was enough for that moment.
“Son of cowards,” boomed Orn. “Son of the cursed, who left their curse to us.”
“I had better plans for our meeting,” growled Kjorn, and the acoustics of the curved stone carried his voice to every tier. “You have forced this by my kidnapping and attempted murder.” Dark gasps and murmurs swept the crowd. “But know this—you may still have honors and comfort for you and your family for the rest of your lives, if you bow to me this night.” He met the astonished eyes of the old regent, stepping forward. “You have my gratitude for stewarding the pride for so long, but the time has come for you to step down.”
“I will not bow to you.” Orn’s low rumble rolled down the rock crescent. “You will bring your curse back to blight us—”
“I won’t argue with you, Orn,” he declared. “Though I must believe that Per left not because he was fleeing, but in attempt to draw the wyrms away. Either way, it was not me. I know the truth now. I’ve come to set it right. I’ve come to drive out the enemy.”
He raised his wings higher, and let warm firelight touch his face. “I have now at my command the strength of the Ostral Shores, the Vanhar, the exiles from all lands beyond, and the estranged Aesir from the Dawn Reach. You should know that they wish me to assume my place on that tier where you stand, and they will fight to see it so.”
“You’re lying,” Orn snarled, his hard gaze turning squarely on Shard. “You have exiles, oath-breakers and traitors at your back, and they’ll do you no good in battle. Your coward father did not even join you—”
“So too do the lions of the First Plains, the united packs of painted wolves, and the eagles of the Voldsom Narrows wish me to assume my place as king.”
Kjorn drew a long breath, and glanced over his shoulder at Shard. His wingbrother tilted his head in encouragement before his gaze flicked to the restless mass of gryfons all around them, then back to Kjorn with a pointed look. Kjorn agreed. This couldn’t go on much longer, especially not with Orn pointing out Shard’s presence there.
“I challenge you,” Kjorn said flatly, not planning to waste more time or energy arguing, nor to let Orn insult him or his forefathers any more.
As soon as he’d landed, Kjorn had begun sizing Orn up. Older, yes, but wide in shape and larger, he reminded Kjorn of Hallr, Halvden’s father from the Silver Isles. They shared a common ancestor, Ingmar, of heavy, mountain stock. A gryfon just past his prime, he still looked able and ready to fight. Kjorn had faith he could defeat him, but knew it wouldn’t be the best way.
“What,” Orn scoffed, “single combat? I know stories of the duels of kings. A barbaric practice of the Second Age. You defeat me and win all these gryfons’ hearts and minds, is that it?”
“No.” Kjorn folded his wings, lifting his head high. “I challenge you to follow us to the Voldsom Narrows, and on to the Outlands. I challenge you to follow me into battle against our mutual foe, and to let these gryfons fight. Fight alongside me, and after, if you still feel you are king of the Dawn Spire, we will settle then.”
The crescent was still.
All the eyes that had stared at him now stared at Orn, waiting on his answer. At last Orn’s eyes gleamed with understanding. Kjorn didn’t just want to win the Dawn Spire, he wanted to win hearts. He wanted peace, he wanted the gryfons to desire his leadership, not to blame him for turning families against each other.
“You will kill us all,” Orn breathed. “You know not what you face.”
“I do know,” Kjorn cut in quietly. His voice carried up the echoing stone. “I have faced and routed the wyrms once—”
“Lies,” Orn hissed again, but Kjorn saw his surety slipping, his fearful walls cracking before the restless pride of gryfons around him.
“It is the truth,” Kjorn said firmly, and behind him, his allies shouted their agreement. Kjorn continued. “We have fought the wyrms, and we have won. We can do it again, this time once and for all.”
“You’re mad,” Orn growled. The sharp desperation of fear and doubt tightened the old gryfon’s eyes, sleeked the feathers of his head and neck. When he realized the crowd of gryfons was now intent on Kjorn’s every word, his desperation seemed to grow.
Kjorn’s gaze slipped to Lady Esla, and the gryfess was watching Orn with a neutral expression, though her ears had ticked back a slight degree in disapproval.
“It’s my understanding,” Kjorn continued, “that those raised at the Dawn Spire are raised as warriors, proud to fight, and ready to die. Or has that changed since Per left?”
Orn gazed at him, and Kjorn saw not anger or hatred, but sudden, impossible weariness. “But die for what?”
“What more honorable way to die than in defense of our very home ground?” Restless murmurs agreed with him. “The Dawn Spire itself stands. You have families and warriors here, still, ready to serve. How have you honored those who died during the wyrm’s attack on our home? Will you honor them by further hiding in dens like rabbits, fearing the night, as I was raised to?”
Kjorn cast his gaze around the crescent, meeting as many eyes as he could before returning his gaze to Orn. “Or will you honor them by finishing the fight, once and for all? Stop cowering, and lead gryfons to their rightful place alongside all the Named creatures, as lords of the Winderost!”
For what seemed a year, Orn stared at him.
A male voice near the top tiers broke the frozen quiet. “I, for one, will fight.” Searching, Kjorn found Mar. Gryfons swiveled and craned their necks to see him. Mar looked at Orn. “With or without your blessing, sire.”
“I will fight,” rumbled Asvander, coming forward beside Kjorn. “Will the sentries of the Dawn Spire join me?”
A cautious rumble of affirmation answered him from all corners
of the crescent.
“I will fight!”
“I would die for the Dawn Spire!”
Calls and battle cries echoed down the ring. The silent chamber exploded into shouting and roars.
“Let our kits see us fight for our home!”
“This is a true king!” yelled a grizzled male. “I will fight even if it be my last.”
When the wave faded, a single, flint-sharp voice rang out. “I, too, will fight.”
Orn looked in shock to his mate. “Esla, this is madness. Think of our son.”
The queen perked her ears, watching in challenge. “I am, my lord.”
At that, Orn looked beaten. A rush of giddiness nearly quenched the anger in Kjorn’s heart. A steady, beating murmur rose in the gryfons surrounding them.
The words were we will fight, and wings opened to beat the air.
Talons slapped the stone.
Like a thundering heartbeat in the Winderost night, the will of the Dawn Spire made itself known.
Kjorn walked the circuit of the floor, once, roaring his approval, letting gryfons touch his bright feathers for whatever meaning it had for them, and shouting his call to action.
Feeling fierce, he ended at Shard, turning to look at his friend in triumph. “Shard!”
“Congratulations, brother.” But Shard didn’t look triumphant or pleased.
Kjorn’s thundering heart skipped to see that, standing half in shadow, half in fire, the son of Baldr watched him with uncertainty. The quiet, gray gryfon watched him, his green eyes holding something older than his years, something that shot doubt down Kjorn’s spine. He found he could not look away.
“I need to speak to you about the wyrms.” Shard’s gaze didn’t leave his face. They might’ve been the only two gryfons standing there. Kjorn began to speak, and Shard lifted his head higher. “Now.”
~31~
Curse of the Aesir
SALTY WAVES BUBBLED AND trickled around Ragna’s talons as she combed the beach below the nesting cliffs. She tossed a mollusk onto a pile she was collecting, and eyed a gull that waddled too close.
“Ahh, a little food?” His elegant beak opened wide. Dusty, speckled feathers marked him as a juvenile, and she realized she hadn’t heard a gull speak in years. They were getting bolder, or she was no longer afraid to hear them. As promising as it was, their words didn’t add much meaning to her life.
“Great lady! Great queen! Have you food? A little token? Ah?”
“Away with you.” Ragna swiped at him and he trundled back, opening his wings. As a fledge, she had learned the hard way not to feed gulls out of kindness. Offer one a morsel, and soon the rest would mob her.
Spring was sluggish in coming, but all the ice was off the sea and the ground, which made foraging and fishing less treacherous. Ragna spent most of her afternoons away from the others now, telling herself she enjoyed the solitude, puzzling over Ollar’s strange death and the promise of Maja yet to return.
Enough Vanir had returned that they taught each other fishing, brought in decent catches, and she didn’t have to brave the icy water again. Let younger huntresses do that. Cold still stung the winds, and when it precipitated, it became more icy rain than snow.
The mussels were for Thyra, who in the late stage of her pregnancy couldn’t seem to get enough of them. Ragna cared for her, because helping Sigrun took her mind off other things, and she felt that showing Thyra respect won her some peace from the Aesir.
“Kind lady!” other gulls called, floating above her. “Lovely lady, kind queen, a little food? Ahh? Food for poor and loyal beggars? Ah!”
Ragna growled. She remembered how Stigr used to lure in hordes of gulls with herring scraps, then dive into their midst just to watch them explode into winged clouds of white. Hard longing for her brother and her son must have made her look wretched, for even the gulls decided not to trouble her further. The youngest beggar took off, crying for its mother.
“Pale fools. Not two thoughts to bash together and make an idea.” A sharper voice, edged with more intelligence, addressed Ragna from above.
Mantling over her precious pile of delicacies, Ragna peered up to see a skua on the boulder nearest her.
“Now I,” croaked the dusky seabird , “I would give you news, great lady, in exchange for a bite. News, from over the sea.”
Ragna huddled over her hard-collected treasures. Skua were notorious bandits, unscrupulous thieves. As a fledge, she’d been attacked by a pair, and lost the very first fish she’d ever caught. “What news?”
“First, food.”
Ragna grabbed a mollusk and made to toss it to him.
“Crack it!” demanded the pirate bird. “Crack it, or I’ll forget everything I know from hunger.”
“Pest,” Ragna growled, and smacked the shell against the boulder. She tossed it up to the skua, who caught it in his beak, then picked out the meat. Ragna waited.
“Many creatures,” he said, one webbed foot nudging the discarded shell off the boulder. “Flying this way over the sea.”
Her blood surged and she stood, wings open. Maja, at last! Or maybe even Shard. She hardly dared to hope. “From what direction?” Instinctively, Ragna looked windward. “How far away, by your reckoning?”
“Not far. But I can’t quite remember.” He opened his long wings and bobbed his head, opening his beak. Ragna grumbled and cracked him another morsel, tossing it high. He caught it, ate it, eyed her, and laughed, shoving from the rock to glide out over the choppy water.
“Wretch!” Ragna shouted. His laughter rolled into long calls, and frigid water washed over her toes, as if Tor scolded her for dealing with thieves, anyway.
“Can I be of help, my lady?”
Ragna whirled, ready to snap and pluck the next Nameless bird to interrupt her solitude. But rather, there stood Vidar, his presence oddly like a balm.
Like her, he was ever-wrapped in his mourning, his losses clouding him like fog over clearer water. Though it had only been three years, the sight of him still surprised her. The sight of every face that had gone missing during the Conquering and in the years after surprised, delighted, then saddened her. The way he had forgiven Sverin made her proud of him, sad for him, and glad to know him.
He was a well-built Vanir, slender, but every rift of his body lined with muscle from fishing and flying. His feathers were like Sigrun’s, brown but intricately patterned as the pale sand of a river bed. The sight of him brought Ragna comfort, for it reminded her of happier days, her kithood, her old friendships. She longed for Baldr, for Stigr.
At least, she thought, fighting bitterness, I still have my wingsister. Though Sigrun would be run ragged until the females whelped, and her heart ran ragged by Caj tending to Sverin.
And now Vidar, back from exile, father to a slain son, watched her with the implacable calm of a still lake, reflecting her own musings back at her. She remembered, with painful nostalgia, that he had once thought to court Sigrun, but Stigr would brook no competition even for a gryfess he hadn’t openly claimed, and had driven him off with a single spar.
“Yes,” she managed tightly to his offer of help, realizing she stood there silently. “If you would help me carry these to Sigrun’s den, I would be grateful.”
“Shall we gather more, to replace what you gave the bird?”
“Yes,” she said again, with relief. Clouds crawled along the dawnward horizon, and she wanted to enjoy the weather while she could. She hadn’t wanted to go back to the cliffs just yet, not face anyone else. The gulls had left and so she felt less wary of leaving her bounty. Keeping some attention trained on the pile, she walked with Vidar farther down the beach.
“How fares Dagr? He seems to have fallen in well enough with the others.” By others, she meant the males his own age, the half-bloods, and the other Aesir.
“Well enough. He barely leaves Astri’s side, and I believe she finds true comfort there.”
Ragna felt a little relief. They walked on in quiet for a few mom
ents before Vidar spoke again.
“I saw Eyvin this morning.”
She had noticed that Vidar and Eyvin were no longer nesting in the same den. Ragna hadn’t intended to ask him anything about her, but since he started it, she lifted her ears. “Oh, yes?”
Vidar looked impossibly weary, his voice dull and deep. “She isn’t the gryfess I remember. After the Conquering, Ragna, I . . . She seemed so strong, so sure.” He paused to dig at a promising pockmark in the sand. “We did love each other. I wanted a family. She was honorable. Like Caj, I suppose. I thought she would accept me back.”
“She is honorable. But even the best of us have our breaking points. Sverin sent you away, and killed—”
“Yes.” With a huff, he shoved his talons into the sand, and came up with a clam. “Ha.” Crouched, he turned and tossed the clam to the rest of Ragna’s forage. Then he remained there, staring at the line where the ocean met the sky.
“Vidar,” Ragna murmured. “Are you all right?” The moment she asked, she felt like a fool. Of course he wasn’t.
“I miss him,” he said tightly, looking down at the sand on his talons. “I miss my son, and my mate, and the life we were trying to make. Curse it! Bright Tor’s wings, I never should have flown that night. I don’t know what I was thinking!”
As if a wing slapped her, Ragna realized, suddenly, how self-absorbed she had been. She’d been avoiding Vidar, but he didn’t blame her, or Eyvin, or possibly even Sverin for any of it. He blamed himself for being exiled.
“Oh, my friend,” she whispered. “Vidar . . . It was Per’s ridiculous laws. It was never your—”
“I left my sons,” he snarled, turning his eyes to her, his features ragged, beak agape and eyes wide as if in physical pain. “All because I just wanted to stretch my wings in the starlight. I knew better. Ridiculous laws or not, I knew them, and I made a choice.”
Watching him, Ragna saw as if in bright crystal what Sverin saw when he looked at her. Regret. Anguish. Useless remorse over things that could no longer be changed.
