by Jess E. Owen
The sparks flared, raining from the stones in his talons and lighting a grim expression on Brynja’s face. Then it was dark again. Shard struck the stones again, again, until an ember caught and glowed. In that whisper of light he felt Brynja watching him. He waved his wing gently at the ember, fanning it to a trickle of flame, and stuffed the little tinder nest under their kindling.
“I can speak to him.”
Shard wanted to shake his head, to growl, to ask her why she thought she might have a better chance than himself, but he didn’t. “If you think it will help.”
“Shard. What aren’t you telling me?”
He tucked the fire stones away in their pouch and glanced to her, backing away from the kindling as his blaze grew, spilling heat and light. “You know what I think. The wyrms have gone. They could very well be searching for the Silver Isles right now. There’s no reason to have summoned everyone here, and now we can barely keep them from fighting with each other.”
She inclined her head, and he couldn’t help but admire the gold of the fire on her face, the splash of red flecks along the paler feathers near her beak. Her eyes, stern, made him check his skepticism. “What would you have done, in his place?”
“With my wingbrother arguing against me? I . . .” Shard trailed off. He and Kjorn had advanced a long way since they’d both left the Silver Isles. They saw each other more clearly. They saw themselves more clearly. “I would have . . .” Shard sighed, digging a talon against the dirt. “I would have wanted to check for myself.”
“There’s trust,” Brynja said quietly, “and there’s leadership. Kingship. If Kjorn hadn’t doubted that the wyrms were gone, someone else would have. He’s doing it to stay everyone’s doubts, not just his own.”
“But I would have checked for myself, then brought my army.”
“Fair enough.” Her tail twitched back and forth as she watched him. “Would you like me to speak with him? We share distant bloodlines, we are both Aesir of the Dawn Spire.”
“Thank you, Brynja, but we’re already here. We must fly out this wind where it takes us, and hope it doesn’t end with all these armies fighting each other.”
“Well aren’t we the hopeful bunch.” Stigr approached Shard from the river, Valdis at his side. She almost never left his side, like ballast, as if her presence somehow balanced his missing wing. Maybe it did. “Meanwhile, the rest of the camps are getting jealous of this blaze. The Lakelanders and the lions have kindling gathered for their own bonfires, if you have time.”
“Give me the stones, Shard.” Brynja stepped forward, ducking her head. “I will light a few more fires while you two catch up.”
Shard hesitated, then took the leather thong from his neck and slipped it over hers. As she raised her head, she brushed her feathered ear along his and nibbled lightly with her beak in a way that washed a shiver down his back.
“Be of a bright heart, my lord.” She drew back to watch him sternly. “It’s one of your traits that I fell in love with.”
“Yes, my lady,” Shard said quietly.
“Valdis,” Brynja said with more air, “will you join me? I’ve missed you. We can find my father and catch up.”
Valdis eyed Stigr. “I suppose I can trust you not to get into trouble for a few moments?”
“I’ll give it a try.” They grazed beaks in a fond gesture and the huntresses left, leaving Shard alone with his uncle at last. “Let’s have a walk by the river, and you tell me what’s got your ears flat.”
They reached a place where the river widened and the choice was turn around, swim, or fly. They turned, now standing well in darkness beyond the fire. More fires winked to life in the moments Shard and Stigr stood in silence. Three in the canyon, two above for the lions and for the gryfons of the Dawn Spire who didn’t wish to nest so closely to the wolves and eagles.
“We heard no wyrms either,” Stigr said at length, staring at the river. The muttering and rumor that the wyrms were no longer in the Outlands had clearly spread—or perhaps began on its own. “On the journey from the Ostral Shores.”
Shard’s gaze slid to his uncle’s shoulder and the thick scar where his wing used to be. The last time he’d made a mistake, his uncle had paid a horrific price. Now everyone cried out for battle, for justice, for war, and Shard felt squeamish and uncertain. He didn’t know what was right anymore.
“I don’t know what to do, Uncle.” Shard sat as close to Stigr as he could without nudging his uncle into the water. “If the wyrms are gone, I know Kjorn will deal with the consequences here. We will, together. Then I must take the Vanir home. And then? If the wyrms are nowhere to be found? I spoke to Rhydda. I’m learning her past. Do I pursue her until we understand each other?”
“That’s a lot of questions about things that haven’t happened yet,” Stigr said quietly. “Why don’t you focus on the wind that’s under your wings now.”
“The wind of war,” Shard said sourly, dipping his talons idly into the slow waters of the river. Farther downstream he knew it broke into dangerous rapids, but this area flowed full and slow, and soothed him.
“You’re a good warrior,” Stigr said. “What do you fear?”
“It isn’t fear so much as . . . I know that the Winderost has been terrorized by the wyrms, and that they seem to kill out of hatred and without mercy. I know I should wish to fight. But I don’t. I don’t want to fight the wyrms. I don’t want to fight anyone. But I know Tyr looks highly on brave warriors, and I fear I’m becoming a coward.”
He held his breath after this admission, and waited, shamed, fully expecting his uncle to call him on his cowardice. He watched the older Vanir’s face, edged in starlight, the scar of his missing eye a testament to his own courage and warrior heart.
“Well.” He sighed, and Shard flinched a little. “Who really knows what Tyr looks highly on. We all seem to die, lose wings, eyes, love, and friends without much regard for who is a better gryfon and not. There is a difference between being a coward, and not wanting to fight.” Stigr’s tail swept the sand, back and forth. “Shard, I will always look highly on you for following your heart, for trying so hard to do what you think is right, and by that I mean, what you think will be best for everyone.”
Shard sat very still, ears tuned to his uncle’s every breath. It wasn’t the answer he had expected, but perhaps it should have been. “The Summer King is supposed to bring peace.”
“That’s not exactly what the song says, actually,” Stigr said. He went on, looking down and digging a talon into the sand of the riverbank in a fidget similar to Shard’s. “Shard, we can’t always know what’s best for everyone. These warriors of the Ostral Shores, for instance, they’ll never feel worthy and whole if they don’t see battle. That is in their hearts.”
He looked down the river toward the distant bonfire. “The Vanhar, on another wind, seek peace and wisdom. We Vanir like our harmony too, but we will fight if needed. I believe bright Tor blesses those who seek understanding and peace, but for a worthy cause, I’ll go to battle with Tyr’s light in my heart.” Stigr tilted his head to eye Shard with his good eye. “Knowing all that, who’s to say what’s best for me?”
“Valdis?” Shard joked weakly, and Stigr’s rough laugh was a balm.
Once again, Shard’s throat locked to know that he would be leaving Stigr in the Winderost, the closest gryfon to his own father that he’d ever known. Briefly, with regret and guilt and a touch of anger, he thought of Caj. But he could not fly that wind now.
“Rashard. Son of my wingbrother.” Stigr stood, walking around to stand between Shard and the river. “Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
“No," Shard admitted, almost laughing, until Stigr gusted a growling sigh.
“I’m telling you that you aren’t a coward. And you haven’t failed. You’ve done all we could have ever asked, and more. The Summer King listens to all, speaks to all, his wing beats part the storm. He is borne aloft by the Silver Wind, by the truth, by understanding, a
s you are.”
The black gryfon raised his head, eyeing the twinkling stars, and the fires on the rim. “This will be Kjorn’s kingdom now, and he’ll win it, and rule it, as he sees fit. You can do your best to avert him from evil air if you see it, you can stand by him if you wish it, but in the end, you can only serve your own heart. I follow and help you because you are my prince, and, I believe, my Summer King, and because that’s all my heart has ever told me to do.”
Shard closed his eyes, grasping the sand and gravel in his talons as if it would keep him from flying apart. “Thank you,” he whispered.
“Come now.” Stigr perked his ears toward the fires. “I think I hear another argument breaking out. What do you suppose it’s about this time? Wingspan, or the advantage of beaks over fangs?”
Shard managed a laugh, and walked close to his uncle, and for a few moments he felt like himself again. For a few moments the stars seemed clear, his path felt right, and beyond it all he knew he would be going home soon.
Between himself, Stigr, Kjorn, Asvander, Nilsine, and the other leaders of eagles and wolves, they managed to avoid any more arguments that evening.
Then dawn brought no word from the scouts.
Nerves and tempers flared as cool, damp wind gusted through the canyons and along the river. Impatience and suspicion showed itself in duels that became brawls which turned deadly, and most over misunderstandings. A young lion was nearly slain in a duel with a gryfon of the Dawn Reach.
Kjorn stepped in then, ordering all gryfons unable to control themselves to keep to their own camps. He posted level-headed sentries around, those trusted to soothe tempers and stop fights before they began.
Ajia set the young lion right—their healer, their priestess, and Mbari forbade any lions from mingling with gryfons again, for the time being.
Shard and Kjorn passed the rest of time with the leaders by planning strategies for facing the wyrms with the best strengths of their gathered warriors, but that ended in arguments too.
The Vanhar attempted to sing some of their old songs, and were silenced by loud and boorish complaints from the Lakelanders. Shard watched the goodwill and battle-frenzy stretch taut, tighten, and begin to fray.
A second night brought a gloomy, strained silence over the Voldsom.
A second dawn brought back Shard’s Vanir scouts, and they had no word of the wyrms. That afternoon, the eagles returned. The Lakelander scouts and those of the Dawn Spire returned with the same reports.
The wyrms were nowhere to be found, and no fresh tracks, scat, or kills. Shard wanted to feel vindicated, but he only felt worried. He thought of the Silver Isles. Once or twice when he was near Kjorn, he noticed the prince’s smooth, cool expression faltering, and seeking Shard out with growing apprehension.
The last of the scouts, the painted wolves, returned at dusk. They came at a lope, breathlessly, with the same news as the rest. They brought this word to their leader, Ilesh, who sent a messenger to the bonfire of the Ostral Shore gryfons, where Kjorn had chosen to spend his evening.
Shard sat with him, Brynja next to Shard, with Stigr and Valdis to one side. The leaders of the Lakelanders had claimed spots nearest the fire, and they stared at Kjorn after the painted wolf gave her report.
“I will tell my leader you know all that we know,” she murmured, “and we will wait for your word.” She slipped away into the shadows again.
In the silence, fire popped and hissed along nodules of sap, sending a sweet, sharp aroma. Shard stared at Kjorn’s face, which appeared to have hardened into true gold, for all Shard could read his expression.
“Don’t,” he breathed, for Shard’s ears alone.
“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Shard began.
Lofgar, the big, scarred, rough Lakelander that Shard recalled from the last meeting at the Ostral Shores, made a rough, derisive noise. Kjorn’s gaze flicked to him, but he did not move as the big Lakelander stood. The firelight threw a massive shadow on the canyon wall behind his massive frame.
“Well, my friends.” His powerful, burred voice reverberated with unfortunate clarity up and down the canyon walls, and his beady eyes fixed on Kjorn. “Someone has made fools of us all.”
~35~
Kjorn’s Challenge
“THAT ISN’T TRUE.” KJORN remained seated, but Shard stood, eyeing the Lakelanders warily.
“You knew the wyrms were gone!” Lofgar shouted.
Shard eyed Kjorn, wondering, after his challenge with the Vanhar, if he would answer that honestly. Kjorn glanced to Shard, and then back to Lofgar.
“When I summoned you, and all the rest of these warriors here, I didn’t know if the wyrms were still here. I had suspicions, but you must believe that I thought they remained.”
Around them, Shard sensed Stigr and Valdis moving forward to flank Kjorn. Brynja stepped around behind. Asvander and Dagny parted from their company across the fire and walked casually to stand behind Shard, as if the heat was too much for them.
Lofgar gnashed his broken beak. “I knew this was a terrible idea from the start, allying ourselves to the Dawn Spire after it was their ilk who brought the enemy on us, then refused to fight them. Then, he promised a grand war, and now the enemy has fled.”
“Funny.” The steely voice was Valdis, and Shard looked to her warily. So did Lofgar. “I thought the Ostral Shores broke ties with the Dawn Spire when Orn refused to fight the wyrms. Kjorn wants to fight the wyrms and now you’re angry with him?”
“Because he lied,” Lofgar hissed. “I see no wyrms here.”
“I didn’t lie,” Kjorn said, his voice low. Shard pressed close to him.
“And other reasons,” declared a female Lakelander, from behind Lofgar. “You seem to weigh the opinion of savage painted dogs and grass cats equal with ours. We don’t like it.”
“Your reasoning seems muddled,” Valdis said, dangerous and silky, “like your mind. Let those wiser and with a better memory plan your battles for you.”
Shard thought Lofgar would leap. His feathers puffed out and his tail whipped back and forth, actually slapping the gryfons behind him until they stepped back. “Say that again, arrogant, Dawn Spire vulture—”
Valdis stood, hackle feathers lifting. “Your reasoning seems—”
“Enough,” Kjorn said.
Nilsine, followed by Ketil, and the she-eagle Hildr, glided down and landed several paces away from the fire, approaching quietly, as if they’d heard the commotion. In the light, Nilsine’s strange red eyes glowed like gems.
“Nilsine,” Shard greeted, using her as a distraction to stay the tension. “We were just discussing what to do, now the scouts have confirmed the wyrms are gone.”
Nilsine looked between all of them, clearly noting the tension. “I see.”
“Oh good,” Lofgar grumbled. “The fishmongers are here to smell up our camp.”
Nilsine’s ruby eyes flicked to him. “Better a fishmonger than a warmonger. Live by war, and you will die by war.”
“Better to die by war than old, limp, and flea-bitten in my nest.”
“Lofgar,” Asvander admonished, eyes narrowing. “You insult our allies.”
“Don’t address me, son-of-Asrik. You can’t even keep hold of a mate for more than a fortnight.” He whirled back to Nilsine. “Why are you even here? Pacifist, cloud-chasing—”
“Watch your words,” Kjorn said, his voice low and grating. “The Vanhar are friends to me.”
“My lord,” Nilsine began, but Lofgar cut her off.
“I thought we were friends to you as well, my lord.” Mocking Nilsine’s respectful address, Lofgar furthered the insult by mantling low, dipping his head to them both. “She insulted me, too. But I see, like your father, you’re brave when there’s no real enemy, and your words are the only thing impressive about you.”
Shard growled and moved forward, but Stigr, who had been sitting in silence, beat him to it. Apparently unable to stand further insult to his new chosen monarch, he lea
ped and swiped his talons through the embers at the edge of the fire, splattering Lofgar’s bowed head with burning coals and sparks. The big gryfon scuttled back with a choked gurgle of surprise, batting at his face, though Shard could see that nothing was truly burning.
“Wretch! Wingless, one-eyed—”
“Show respect to the prince!” Stigr demanded. “You gaumless, thin-feathered jaybird. I’ve a mind to show you what I can do with one eye and one wing and if you don’t shut your broken beak. You saw Prince Kjorn fight at the Battle of Torches, you saw Nilsine, Valdis, and all here prove their mettle against our common enemy. Why stand here now and throw insults? This pointless nattering is why your cursed land is broken.”
“Enough of this,” Kjorn said, holding himself tall, though he flicked a look of gratitude to Stigr. Shard stood next to him, quiet, wishing he could will strength into his wingbrother. “We will hold a council at dawn, with representatives of all of my allies present, at the top of the canyon above these dens. If anyone has concerns before then, you know where I’ve made my nest.”
Without even a look at Shard, Kjorn turned from the firelight and walked into the dark, with so heavy a step and grim an expression, not even Shard dared to follow.
A ring of creatures gathered in the sun’s first light. Shard had slept little, so weary he couldn’t even pursue Rhydda in his dreams to see where she might be.
He looked now with unease at the faces before him, a great circle near the canyon rim. Shard had started a fire in the center so everyone would know where they gathered, to offer warmth and perhaps some sense of fellowship. To his left stood Kjorn, who Shard was certain hadn’t slept at all. The golden prince’s blue eyes were dull with weariness and his tail hung low.
Beside Kjorn, and ringing left, stood his aunt Esla, tawny and blue-eyed, Nilsine, Asvander, the rogues Rok and Hel, and three leaders of the Lakelanders—Lofgar, Asrik, and a female whose name Shard hadn’t learned.
