By the Silver Wind

by Jess E. Owen

  “I . . .” He realized he’d been about to lie. It was so easy, so tempting to keep his fears and his failures from them. He thought of saying he’d seen a fish, had dived on purpose. “I dreamed,” he said, clearly enough for all to hear. “And she’s there. Rhydda. She’s in the Silver Isles.”

  “No,” whispered Kjorn.

  “Shard,” Asvander growled from above him, “are you certain?”

  Shard looked sharply at his friend. “Yes.” He worked his wings, and raised his voice, clear, hard, for all to hear. “Friends, hear me! The wyrms have flown to the Silver Isles. I’m certain of it now.” He circled, winding up to fly above them all. His voice rang out in the cold, cloudless night, and wary gryfon eyes watched him. “They have flown, and we must be ready.”

  ~39~

  A Quiet Welcome

  THE LAST DAYS OF THE FLIGHT wore heavily on the eldest of their number, especially after Shard’s grim announcement. Old Frar flew slower and slower, and Shard often glided back to him to encourage him personally. It seemed to be the only thing keeping him aloft.

  Meanwhile, Shard felt the pace like an ache. The whole group worked to keep him awake, present, alert, but a sickening, familiar sense stalked at the edge of his awareness. Alone, he was certain he could have reached the islands much faster. But he could not leave his pride, his friends. Stigr’s last words to him beat a steady rhythm in his heart.

  Kjorn kept him present by working out their plan. “If all’s not well at the nesting cliffs, we’ll fly straight away to the wolf caves and see what’s happening. I’m certain they would have sheltered there, and they’ll be safe below ground.”

  “Unless the wyrms dig,” Asvander said, having been listening from Kjorn’s other flank.

  Shard recalled the images in silver and gold relief in the halls of the Sunland dragons, of wyrms mining gold and gems. “I think they do. They dug out the gold and stones the dragons used to make their crafts.”

  Kjorn’s feathers pricked in alarm and Asvander eyed Shard with growing wariness. “Let’s hope they haven’t figured out where your pride has fled, then.”

  Shard didn’t answer.

  They all fell into a long routine of keeping each other awake, floating on the waves to rest briefly, slowing, and slowing more for the oldest of them who’d grown tired. Shard’s determination grew, and his sense of anger at the idea that somehow he himself might have led Rhydda to the Silver Isles.

  Stigr’s warning rang truer, that everything he’d tried to communicate to the wyrm might have been misunderstood.

  If that is so, Shard wondered, and met Toskil’s gaze across the waves to let him know he was well awake, then how am I to tell her anything or learn anything from her at all?

  In the blur of travel with companions, Shard did not fall Nameless, but he didn’t track the days. He thought it might have been a fortnight of flying, which would put their arrival almost straight on the Halflight. The days grew longer, the nights shorter, and the stars shifted toward their spring and summer stories.

  Then one morning, like a vision, a dream, in the soft dark before sunrise, Shard realized the clouds he’d been watching on the horizon were not clouds. They were islands.

  His heart soared to his ears, to the sky, to the wind.

  The last time he’d seen his home from this angle was the last time he’d glanced back over his wing when he left the islands, following a starfire. For a moment, he thought it was still only longing, and blinked hard.

  Then Frar, old Frar, cried out, and Shard knew they saw the Silver Isles.

  “Steady my friend,” Shard said, circling back to glide just under and to the side of the elder. “We’re almost there.”

  “Yes, my king,” breathed Frar, his gaze locked on the little bumps in the distance.

  His heart pounded hot. Silence clenched the flock of them and they all strained into the morning breeze, which flicked of ice and snow, but also that touch of spring that marked the Halflight coming.

  The Sun Isle loomed first, jutting up from the water, crowned with the White Mountains that looked gray before sunrise. Behind and starward of it he saw the humped mass of the Star Island, dark with forest. They flew too low to see the rest, but the Sun Isle stood hard and gray and real in the morning shadow, and as the wind picked up, he discerned the first scent of pine in the wind.

  “Shard!” Brynja’s bright voice called him back.

  Shard wheeled, not realizing he’d pulled nearly a league ahead of the main group. He soared back to them, his heart light. Then, it grew heavier with each wing beat.

  “Welcome home,” he said grimly to Brynja, swooping once around her. She laughed harshly, her eyes bright with a hunting light. They both knew danger lurked there, that it was not to be the homecoming either of them ever imagined.

  Shard straightened into a glide beside her, raking his gaze over the distant islands. From there, everything looked as he remembered, but heaviness clenched his heart, and a shadow hulked and shifted in the back of his mind, the familiar shadow of Rhydda that lurked through his dreams in the Winderost.

  “I wish I could have brought you here on a fairer wind,” he said quietly to Brynja.

  She shook her head. “I would rather fly rough winds with you than fair winds alone.”

  “Eyes forward,” Asvander said, not just to them, but to all the gryfons who were whispering and fidgeting. “Keep alert.”

  “Remember the plan.” Shard raised his voice so all could hear. “If there is danger at the nesting cliffs, don’t stop to fight. No one,” he repeated, “will stop to fight yet. You flee. Flee to the forest near the river. If the enemy comes, Kjorn’s warriors will distract them until the eldest and youngest have time to escape.”

  He looked to Kjorn, who had been to the caves, and the gold prince described the place again. “You’ll find a wide cluster of birch by the river, and a long stretch of bank with slabs of black stone. A cave entrance there marks our sanctuary.”

  “My plan,” Rok called wryly from the back, where he flew with Nilsine and three Vanir, “is just to follow you, my lord.”

  Others murmured amused agreement.

  Shard nodded, and he and Kjorn turned their faces forward, watching the islands. Tension crept across Shard’s muscles, and he forced himself to look back at his pride, to make sure none were struggling. All flew straight, ears alert, eyes bright. No one pulled recklessly ahead as he had done.

  No gulls stirred the air near the shore, which sent prickles down Shard’s back. No sound came from the islands, no tiny spring bird song drifting out on the ocean breezes.

  Then, movement. An avian shape lifted from the nesting cliffs to the sky.

  Asvander barked an order and four of his sentinels whipped forward to flank Shard and Kjorn.

  Shard squinted, but in the half-light before true dawn he couldn’t tell if it was gryfon, eagle, or gull. All he could tell, with relief, was that it was much too small to be a wyrm.

  The shape flew right at them. Shard loosened his talons from their clenched bunches against his chest, ready for a fight.

  Then . . .

  “Hail, gryfons! Hail Vanir!”

  Shard didn’t know the voice, but at last he discerned a gryfess, flying fast at them over the waves.

  “Hail!” Shard called, pulling ahead of the whole group. Asvander hissed at him to stay back, but Shard feared no gryfon in the Silver Isles, especially not one who would call out specifically to the Vanir. “I am Rashard, son-of-Baldr.”

  “My lord!” cried the gryfess. She looked about Shard’s age, pale dove brown with soft rosy highlights on her head. He didn’t recognize her, which meant she was an exile.

  Shard’s heart quickened, wondering how many of the exiled Vanir might have already returned home. “I am Istra, daughter-of-Norin.” Her gaze flicked over the mass of gryfons, hardening at the sight of so many Aesir, then brightening with joy at the sight of Frar and the other Vanir. “Welcome home!” she called to them. The
n, “Welcome home, my prince.”

  “Well met,” Shard said, his heart glowing to see this young, healthy Vanir flying out to greet him. He gave a swift round of introductions for Kjorn, Brynja, Nilsine, Asvander, and Dagny. “What news?” he asked quietly.

  “The queen posted sentries to watch for your return.” Her pale gray eyes seemed to darken, and she clenched her talons. “I’m afraid you return home to grim tidings. But this will make her glad.”

  “The wyrms?” Kjorn asked tightly.

  Her gaze flicked to him and she nodded once, stiffly. “We fought. I will tell you everything on the way back. We haven’t much time.” She dropped her voice as alarm grew in the faces of some elders, who hovered with difficulty behind them. “The wyrms often fly a mark or so after sunrise, once their wings are warm. I have orders from the queen,” she said, looking between Shard and Kjorn. “Things you need to know, and what Queen Ragna and Thyra wish you to do.”

  “Let us land,” Shard said, with a glance behind him to see the elder Vanir struggling to hover in the cold, still air.

  Istra nodded, and winged about with the neat precision of a Vanir to fly just under Shard. He noted with sudden gratitude and humility that she didn’t presume to fly ahead and lead the way.

  That was his duty.

  He glided about, found the first warm current of the morning and rose above all the others to call out, “A little further, my friends!” He dropped down near Frar and the elders. “Let’s go home.”

  As in Shard’s dream, everything was eerily quiet.

  Wind moved the waves and shuddered along the cliffs, but there were no birds, no smaller creatures scuffling about, no gryfons along the cliffs. The familiar scent of snow and frozen, wet peat and ocean all blended together, and the warring joy and worry in Shard’s heart threatened to rupture him.

  He flew nearest to Frar, who struggled the last league, as if seeing his goal finally threatened to unravel him.

  The host of gryfons landed on the Copper Cliff, near the King’s Rocks.

  Shard landed with Frar, in the slush snow that remained, and the old gryfon sank to the ground and buried his beak in the mushy peat as if he might devour the island from joy. Shard brushed a wingtip over his back, relieved the elder had made it home again. Raising his head, he saw the exhausted gryfons all flop to the cold ground, squeezing the earth in their talons, laughing, talking mutely, their eyes warily on the sky.

  The fields that stretched out and inland from the cliffs ranged between melted pocks of snow and rich, muddy earth.

  Spring.

  Shard realized by some strange turn of Tor’s wings he had left the Silver Isles during the Halfnight, when the year turned toward autumn and winter, and return exactly half a year later, when all winds brought spring.

  He was home. It was home, and yet . . .

  Shard felt strange, as if he had cast off an old skin for a new one underneath, as Hikaru told him the dragons did. A new skin, like a snake, a new color, in the dragon’s case, for every season. If Shard had been one thing when he’d left, he was certainly another thing now, though he couldn’t say what that thing was.

  Istra trotted up to him, followed by Kjorn, Nilsine, and Brynja. Dagny and Asvander made rounds, making sure all gryfons were hale.

  “Prince Kjorn,” Istra said with a slight dip of her head. “Your mate demanded that we send you to her at once. And, my lord prince,” she said to Shard, more warmly, “you are called to the Star Isle.” Istra glanced behind at their massive army, and Shard thought she looked both reassured and uncertain. “As for the rest . . .”

  She obviously had not expected there to be “the rest,” which meant Ragna and Thyra hadn’t either.

  Shard saved her from her bafflement by speaking quickly. “Kjorn, go to Thyra. Take the warriors and let them join Ragna’s sentries for now. Brynja, lead the Vanir to safety.”

  “No.” Brynja’s feathers ruffed, her tail twitching as her gaze darted to the dark, forested hump of Star Isle. Shard blinked at her, lifting his talons uncertainly. “No, Shard,” she repeated. “I will stay with you. Ketil can lead the Vanir. If there are wyrms here, you’re not going anywhere alone.”

  Kjorn and Shard exchanged a look, and Kjorn tilted his head as if to agree with her.

  “We should move quickly,” Nilsine murmured, her voice quiet and reasonable.

  “Yes,” said Istra, eyeing the Vanhar curiously. “The wyrms will stir soon. They will fly, and we must be under cover by then, and my lord, you must be to Star Isle.”

  Burning with curiosity, Shard turned to her. “Where on the Star Isle?”

  She looked briefly baffled, then bowed her head. “I’m sorry, my lord. The queen said she would meet you there, and that you would know the place.”

  “How should I know . . .” Shard cut himself off, not wanting to look doubtful with so many eyes suddenly on him. “Of course. I’ll go to her. We’ll go to her,” he corrected, looking at Brynja.

  Asvander trotted up to them. “All well, my lords?”

  “All’s well,” Kjorn said. He looked distracted, strained. “Gather the Vanir and all our warriors. We go to the river.”

  “And you?” Asvander looked at Shard, and Shard recalled Asvander’s doubts about him.

  Well, I’m home now. This is my land, my kingdom, and I will do what I see fit. “I have business on the Star Isle.”

  Asvander inclined his head, though doubt sparked in his gaze. Without a word, he turned about and roused the weary gryfons, forming them into orderly clumps to fly to the river.

  “Why Star Isle?” Kjorn demanded suddenly, looking from Shard to Istra.

  The Vanir gryfess straightened, her beak clamped shut, and her gaze flicked to Shard.

  Shard lifted his wings a little. “Kjorn, if my mother wishes to meet me there, I’m sure there’s good reason. I’ll see you after. Go to Thyra, find Caj, and find out about your father. Reassure the pride I’m well, and we’ll all be together soon. Here.” He tugged the pouch that held his fire stones from around his neck and passed it to Kjorn. “Take these, in case the caves are cold.”

  Kjorn ducked his head, letting Shard slip the leather thong over his neck, but said nothing.

  “And Kjorn . . .” Shard hesitated, but knowing the wyrms were at large in his home, and seeing the army of gryfons at Kjorn’s back, he quietly added, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Funny,” the golden prince said, “I was just about to say the same thing to you.”

  “My lord,” Istra said tensely. “You must fly now, or not at all. I will lead Prince Kjorn to the others.”

  “Thank you, Istra,” Shard said. Then, since he knew she must have only recently arrived said, “And welcome home to you, too.”

  She brightened, her feathers fluffing with pleasure, and mantled low.

  “Fair winds,” Kjorn said to Shard, opening his wing.

  Shard stretched his to cover Kjorn’s. “I’ll see you soon.”

  They broke, Kjorn calling out to the larger force to follow, and Shard with Brynja loping off to dive from the nesting cliffs as golden dawn at last broke over the sea.

  As they soared across the long sea channel between the islands, Brynja broke the silence. “Not that I doubt you, but do you actually know where the queen wants to meet you?”

  “I have an idea,” Shard said.

  Before he could say more, a distant, familiar, horrifying scream shattered the morning from the direction of Pebble’s Throw. It bounded across the lapping waves in rolling echo, fracturing Shard’s calm.

  “Race you,” he said to Brynja, and she laughed grimly as they stroked hard toward the dark, sheltering forests of Star Island.

  ~40~

  Queen of the Aesir

  STILL VAGUELY FAMILIAR WITH the river tunnel, Kjorn wormed his way forward like an eel, barely heeding the Vanir and the rest behind him. The way narrowed in some places so he had to contort his wings and limbs to crawl through, and he heard surprised and
worried exclamations behind him.

  Once Istra had led them to the place, he remembered well how to get where the larger cavern would make more room for all of his company, and took the lead. The Vanir gryfess seemed content to fall in with the others, helping the elders and catching up on the stories of their exile.

  “Don’t worry,” Kjorn called back, still bellying forward, “it widens ahead.”

  And so it did. It also grew less frighteningly murky. Though Kjorn’s vision was dim from morning light, he made out the pale, off-green fungus that laced the tunnel walls ahead and cast an unearthly light.

  Ahead the tunnel widened, branched into three, and the labyrinth began. The wolves and gryfons had placed stone markers at tunnels that led to other islands, and at tunnels that led to larger caverns where it was more comfortable to dwell. Kjorn recalled the cave under Star Island where the wolves had turned him around and gotten him lost, and he’d finally met the seer Catori. He shook himself of the memory.

  “Thyra!” Wedging himself through the narrowest turn in the tunnel, he at last shoved through to the wider way and bounded ahead, his talons scraping stone and earth. “Caj! We’ve returned! Shard and I . . .”

  He stopped, remembering he was not alone, feeling breathless with anticipation. If the wyrms had come, as Shard feared, then anything could have happened. Anyone could be injured, or dead. But no, Istra had said specifically that Thyra was alive, and wanted to see him. He hurried forward.

  “Thyra!”

  Ketil trotted up alongside him, wincing at his shout as the echo rebounded along the damp, cold stone. “Where did they shelter, before? If the caves extend under all the isles, they could be anywhere.”

  “Just ahead!” Istra called from behind. “Keep going!’

  Kjorn could have burst. His tail lashed. He forced his ears forward, hearing the last echo of his own voice fade in the distant caves.

  An echo answered Istra’s call.

  Here! Here, here.

  But he couldn’t tell which way the voice had come from. Ketil turned slowly, ears twitching back and forth, a surprised look on her face, as if she’d recognized the voice.