by Jess E. Owen
“Father. Don’t worry. We have healers coming.”
“I’m not worried,” Sverin whispered, staring at him. “You’re well?”
“I’m well. Well enough.” Kjorn didn’t feel his own wounds, though he had them, sprains, bruises, cuts. Shame and anger battled and died in him, he had nothing left. It had been a fool’s mission, and he knew it now. He had fallen victim to his own pride and arrogance and fear.
Gryfons crept forward and stopped. Kjorn felt eyes on his back. Asvander, Dagr, the Vanir, the half-bloods, the old Aesir who had followed him faithfully to his battle. A small number of torches still flickered, lighting his father’s wounds, his face.
“Healers!” Kjorn rasped again.
“A wolf went down,” murmured Asvander. “My lord, a runner went. They’ll be here as fast as they can.”
“No,” Sverin said sharply. “No, tell them to stay, to stay with Thyra, with the rest of the . . .”
When he tried to rise, Kjorn pressed talons gently to his shoulder. It took no strength at all to hold him down. Where is Shard? Does he even care that my father lies bleeding?
As he thought it he knew it was unfair, but where was Shard? If he was not there at Kjorn’s side, Kjorn was terrified what that might mean.
He stretched out along Sverin’s side, curling talons over his foreleg, spreading a gold wing to cover the rest of his wounds from sight.
Sverin closed his eyes, breathing slowly, seeming only to be glad that Kjorn was there. For aching moments, Kjorn couldn’t think of a single thing to say to his father.
A murmur broke through the onlookers.
A voice, demanding they make room.
Shard.
“Shard,” Kjorn pleaded. “Shard.” He had nothing else to say. He saw the small, silent, gray Vanir prince shoving through the gryfons, and realized why he’d taken so much longer. He carried moss, herbs, salves. He’d gone to the nesting cliffs, to Sigrun’s den, to gather a healer’s tools.
Kjorn moved his wing, and Shard worked in silence, his ears flat, his tail sweeping across the stone. Hikaru watched in silence, his eyes enormous, luminous. Torches flickered in the dark, and no one said a word. Shard took in the wounds, then pressed the black moss to the worst of them. Behind him, Kjorn saw Ragna, watching with an expression of stone.
Kjorn touched his father’s feathers gently. “Shard, will he—”
“Kjorn,” Sverin’s ragged voice rattled now, as if water sat in his chest. “Kjorn, you must know that I’m proud of you. I’m so proud of you. You are everything I wanted to be. You are everything I hoped. More than I ever was.”
“Save your breath,” Shard said softly. “My lord.”
Sverin chuckled, a low, coughing sound. “Are you glad, Rashard?”
“Of course not.” He stopped, his talons bloody and pressing moss to the worst wound that ran the length of Sverin’s body. “No. This isn’t what I wanted. It never was.”
Kjorn watched them look at each other, and he believed Shard, and knew that Sverin believed him too.
“You dove,” Sverin rasped, and both Kjorn and Shard perked their ears, unsure of what he meant. “When we fought. You didn’t fall into the sea. You let go. You could have drowned me.”
“Save your breath,” Shard said again, working quickly, silently.
“Kjorn,” Sverin murmured.
He looked at his father. “Forgive me,” Kjorn whispered.
“There’s nothing to forgive. I would die for you.”
Kjorn tightened his talons around Sverin’s foreleg. Another scuffle drew his ear and he hated them, all of them, all of them standing witness. They had injuries and friends to tend to, they didn’t need to stand staring like this. He and Shard would take care of him.
“Kjorn.” A panting wolf approached. Kjorn recalled he was a friend of Caj, one of the swiftest wolves of the pack. “Kjorn, your mate is due. She is whelping—she wants you. You must hurry.” Amber eyes flicked to Sverin, widened, and the wolf ducked his head low in apology, his gold coat like a corona in the torch light.
Kjorn looked desperately back to Sverin, whose face lit up at the news. “Kjorn, go. You must be there. You must go.”
“No,” Kjorn growled. “I’m not leaving.”
“There’s nothing left for you to do, here. You’ve done all I—all I ever wished for you. You’ve lifted our curse, Kjorn.”
A thought blazed through him and he lifted his wings, nearly bumping Shard, who he realized had stopped working and was merely sitting, quiet. “Oh, Father. I never told you. Open your eyes, listen to me. We were never cursed. We were blessed. Shard told me.” He shook Sverin gently, forcing him to focus, to listen, to know. “A dragon so loved Kajar that she blessed him, blessed the Aesir in the Sunland with her blood. She wanted us to know how she saw us, strong and beautiful. Father.” His eyes had closed again, and he looked pleased, peaceful. He opened his eyes when Kjorn touched his beak to his ear. “Please. I didn’t mean anything I said. Come home with me. Come back to the Dawn Spire. I was angry and foolish. We’ll stand together—”
“I love you, Kjorn.”
Kjorn choked on the words in his throat.
“My lord,” whispered the wolf. “Your mate . . .”
Sverin tilted his head. His talons closed briefly, flexing, as if gripping something Kjorn couldn’t see. “Go to her. Kjorn, always go to her.”
Kjorn’s throat locked, and he looked at Shard, who didn’t return his gaze, but gave his head the slightest shake, telling him to stay. With a breath, Kjorn pressed his head to the feathers of Sverin’s neck.
“Fair winds,” he whispered. “It will always be light in Tyr’s land.”
“Ah, my son,” Sverin said, so softly Kjorn thought he’d imagined it. “I’m no longer afraid.”
A great breath lifted his ribs, relaxed. Kjorn pressed his flank to Sverin’s, and felt the beats of his heart. Then he felt when the heartbeats stilled.
Torch bearers stepped hesitantly closer, spilling light on them so that he would not pass in the dark, and the fire laid his crimson feathers out in gold.
“He flies with Tyr,” Shard said, so simple it cut to Kjorn’s marrow.
“What am I to do?” Kjorn whispered, clenching his talons, looking at Shard desperately, at his wingbrother, around at the torchbearers, dozens of gryfons with heads bowed in respect. “Shard, I did this. What am I to do?”
Shard stared at him, but a different voice answered, low but clear.
“You were always his light,” said the Widow Queen, stepping forward, her head low. “And you didn’t do this. Now, go to Thyra. That is what you must do now. Kjorn, go to your mate. “
Kjorn looked at Sverin. He couldn’t fathom that the great, red body was only a body, that he was gone, that the gryfon he had loved, resented, longed for, was gone from the world.
“Kjorn,” Shard said. “Go. I’ll stay with him. We’ll stay. He won’t be in the dark.”
“Shard . . .”
“Go to her.”
Kjorn managed to stagger up. He hesitated, looking at Sverin’s body, just in case. But he was still. With a soft sound he straightened, raised his head, turned to acknowledge the gryfons who stood vigil.
He was a king, and his father had died in battle, as many other gryfons had died before him. Kjorn managed to keep his head up. They bowed to him, and to Sverin, and drew closer, and the dead king was ringed with the silver of Hikaru’s body and by flickering fire.
Kjorn turned and followed the wolf down into the caves. He barely remembered the walk or how long it took, only arriving where he knew Thyra to be. Sigrun sat outside her little niche in the stone, her face gentle.
“She won’t let anyone in but you.”
He inclined his head, walked in, and stood over his mate. She looked especially strong, and beautiful, gazing at him with bright, brown eyes, her nares flushed pink and her face fierce and so, so alive.
“My lord,” she murmured. “You have a son.”
He looked at the ball of fluff between her talons. It wriggled and squirmed around to peer at Kjorn with huge, hungry eyes. At the sight of those eyes, his world warped, turned on end, and in that moment he understood everything his father had ever done.
~51~
The Silver Wind
AT DAWN, THEY STOOD ON Black Rock, and sang the Song of Last Light.
Shard stood by Kjorn, barely able to raise his voice. With the strongest warriors and Hikaru’s help, they had retrieved bodies from the shore around Pebble’s Throw. The wyrms laid low on some far side of the broken lava isle, and the gryfons didn’t see them at all, not when they returned to the island, and not when they took the bodies from the shore and the sea.
Rhydda’s gloomy dreams flickered against Shard’s, as if she sought him now, and he pressed the image of dead gryfons against her, which seemed to pin her in place as if he physically held her.
The final tally broke what was left of Shard’s heart. He watched as Sigrun, her apprentices, and other warriors laid them out. Istren, his wings spread as if he would leap from the rock and fly into dawnward sky. Orange Vald, who was pureblooded Aesir but born in the Silver Isles.
Other half-bloods had sacrificed their lives, two of the older Aesir, and warriors who had flown from the Winderost. Shard stared at the faces of Vanir who had flown home, who’d fought, and died, whom he’d never even met.
He looked firmly away from their horrid injuries, focusing on their faces, and the memories of those he’d known in life.
Movement in the rows of mourning gryfons made Shard look to see Nilsine, with bad cuts mending, approach Rok, who stood a few gryfons down the line from Kjorn. The former rogue stared in grim silence at Fraenir’s body, laid out beside a fallen Lakelander.
“He got what he wanted,” Rok said stiffly. “Glory and honor.”
“I know you were like brothers,” Nilsine said softly. “But he did fight well.” Rok jerked his head in agreement, but didn’t look at her. “As did you. Warrior of the Dawn Spire.”
Rok’s gaze switched to her with surprise and wary gratitude. Shard watched them discreetly, glad for any small measure of hope and light in that moment.
Nilsine ducked her head, eyes averting. “I would . . . not refuse you entry to the Vanheim Shore, should you visit our borders again.”
“I’ll be awfully busy now,” Rok said, his voice gravelly as he strained for humor. “A Sentinel and all.”
Nilsine’s eyes glinted like jewels. “I’m sure you’ll find your way to the sea. From time to time.”
Shard watched as Rok gazed at her a moment, then turned, and raised his voice with the others in the ancient Song of Last Light.
“Which rises first, the night wind, or the stars?
Not even the owl could say,
Whether first comes the song or the dark . . .”
Shard glanced sidelong at Kjorn, watching his face as they sang their warriors to rest. Many of the Aesir had chosen to have their dead rest there on Black Rock, rather than burn them at Pebble’s Throw.
“Which fades last, the birdsong, or the day?
Not even the sky could tell,
Whether last stills the sun or the jay.”
Vanir voices rose, while Aesir unfamiliar with song remained in respectful silence. The wind carried their song to Tyr, to Tor, to the Sunlit Land and their lost family and friends beyond.
“Only the long day brings rest
Only the dark of night, dawn.
When the First knew themselves, the wise will say,
They took their names to the Sunlit Land
but their Voice in the wind sings on.”
It fell quiet again, broken only by waves breaking on the distant shore, and seabirds, calling.
Shard touched his wing lightly to Kjorn’s.
Sigrun approached them, asking quietly, “Kjorn, what are your wishes for Sverin?”
“He’s welcome here,” Shard said, turning to his wingbrother. “He’s welcome to rest here, Kjorn, with ours.”
“No.” Kjorn looked around, not seeming as lost as he had before, but still firm, and cool. Shard knew the feeling, and would remain close as long as he could. “No . . .”
Sigrun looked dawnward. “Shall we release him to the lava, like Per—”
“No,” Kjorn said sharply. “Not at Pebble’s Throw.”
“Oh, no.” Sigrun ground her beak, glancing at Shard with a look of chagrin. “Of course not.”
Then, Kjorn stared at the rest of the gryfons laid out on the black stone, almost fifty all told, and seemed at a loss. Shard met Sigrun’s eyes over his golden back, and lifted his wings a little, not sure what to do.
Warmth spread over them as Hikaru drew close, his silver scales pulsing with heat like embers. The dragon touched Kjorn very lightly with one claw.
“Prince Kjorn. King . . .” He glanced hesitantly at Shard, who nodded encouragingly. “I have an idea.”
Kjorn looked at the dragon, surprised, weary, and Shard watched Hikaru gratefully as he explained.
Building Hikaru’s idea gave them something to do on a day that seemed mockingly beautiful and bright when their spirits felt so muddy and dark. Gryfons dragged through the forest of the Sun Isle, finding whole birch trunks. No one spoke.
It was Sigrun’s idea, at last, for the gryfesses to emerge from the tunnels with their new, healthy kits. Once Shard assured her the wyrms would not fly that day, she brought them out into the light.
As Hikaru dragged birch trunks from the woods and gryfons stripped them of the smaller branches, the mewling of the kits sounded like a chorus of pure life and hope to Shard.
He found Thyra, walking slowly among the pride, just as he was. Her kit was nestled at the base of her neck in between her wings, alert and wobbly, staring around with almost unblinking eyes. Thyra and Shard met, bending their heads together, and regret lanced through him at how much he would miss her when she left for the Winderost.
“Big brother,” Thyra murmured.
Shard laughed, for she seemed so much older now, so regal, he hardly felt like her big brother any more. “Thyra. It’s so good to see you again at last. Let me meet your kit?”
She drew back and turned so Shard could meet the kit’s gaze, and the tiny beak opened—in challenge or hunger, Shard wasn’t sure. Though Thyra and Shard knew now that they weren’t siblings by blood, they had been raised in the same nest, and Shard felt his heart expand to include the new kit in his family.
“My nephew,” Shard said, his mood brightening slowly. “What is his name?”
“Kvasir,” Thyra said, her eyes bright as she watched Shard’s face. “Son-of-Kjorn.”
In the sun, the kit’s soft gray down held the faintest, promising shimmer of red and gold. Shard bent his head in, touching his beak lightly to the downy head. “Prince Kvasir, you are battle-born, and dragon blessed, and the heir to a great line. May you always reign in peace.”
“Don’t I get to reign for a bit too, first?” Thyra asked, teasing.
“Of course.” Shard chuckled. “And long may that be.”
When he drew back, the kit lifted his ungainly forefoot and pawed at Shard’s beak, then sneezed.
Thyra broke into the warm laughter Shard remembered. “Don’t worry. He’ll come to appreciate a blessing from the Summer King as he grows older.”
Shard nuzzled his nest-sister once more, and they parted, watching over their pride. With the presence of the kits and healthy gryfesses and the shining sun, Shard saw his pride begin to speak again, lift their wings, raise their heads.
Once, he even saw Ragna laugh, lifting Astri’s tiny, pale puffball of a son into the air.
Shard drew up beside the little white gryfess, touching a wing to hers. She bowed to him, and Shard didn’t stop her. “What is his name?”
“Eyvindr,” she said, her eyes shining as she watched Ragna, chittering like a starling at the amazed kit. “Son-of-Einarr. He’ll be one of the finest in your pr
ide, my lord.”
“I know it,” Shard said quietly, touching his beak to her brow, and continued walking amongst his pride.
They didn’t rush the work, but paused to fish and eat, to breathe the fresh, cool air, to talk to those who still lived. Shard walked among them, helping with the work but mostly seeing to spirits, and keeping his thoughts twined with Rhydda’s. She would not leave Pebble’s Throw that day.
At last, in the later afternoon, they lashed Hikaru’s birch trunks together with split saplings, with sinew that Sigrun used to sew wounds. And on that platform, they built a pyre.
On the eve before Halflight under the last orange rays of the setting sun, they laid Sverin’s body to rest both at sea, where his mate had died, and with fire, like an Aesir, like a dragon.
Hikaru pulled the birch-plank craft into the water and lit the flames, and they watched the waves tug it out to sea.
Shard stood on the beach below the nesting cliffs with Kjorn, all the pride, even the newly born kits, and Catori and Ahanu, who had come to offer their respect. They watched the smoke swirl up, sparks float high, and the fire kindle hotter until red feathers became red flames.
The scent of smoke and burning flesh drifted around them, then a bright, cold wind pushed it away, and they smelled earth and pine. Shard looked across the faces of his family and his friends, and saw Ragna, watching the burning pyre, he thought, with a strange mix of pride and loss.
“Tomorrow will be spring,” he said quietly, to Kjorn. It was all he could say, but he had to say it.
Kjorn nodded, his feathers reflecting Sverin’s pyre.
The flames roared in the water, and the rising sparks seemed to become new stars. The sunset faded toward violet, and points of light pricked the blue.
Thyra joined them quietly, with Kvasir still between her wings, sleeping through all of it.
Kjorn’s eyes closed. Then, as if reminding himself of Sverin’s final words, he turned and nuzzled his mate, then his son. Shard touched his beak to Thyra’s cheek, and left them.
He walked to a lone figure, tall and strong against the sunset. Caj gazed after the pyre. Shard stood quietly beside him, and knew there were no words at all to express his sorrow that Caj had lost his wingbrother. But when he looked at his face, he seemed his same stern, peaceful self.
