by Jess Owen
“Mother,” he began softly. She tilted her head at him, ears perked, as late dawn light slipped into the cave. “After the hunt, a gryfess approached me.”
“Oh?” Her voice grew sly and Shard ducked his head.
“No, nothing like that. It was the Lady Ragna.”
Sigrun’s eyes widened and her ears slipped back, fierce as if he’d challenged her to a fight. “What did she want?”
Shard blinked and stepped back, wincing when he absently put weight on his hind paw. “She only congratulated me. She said that I’m like my father. She said you would have told me that if you could.”
“Hush now,” she rasped, ears swiveling to the cave entrance. “We don’t speak of it. I raised you. Caj has raised you.”
“But am I like—”
“Rashard,” she snapped. “We don’t speak of things past. We are Sverin’s pride.”
Shard stared at her, thought of the difference between her and Stigr. Rather than confirm his fears, her anger pushed him toward the other side. Toward curiosity. Has she hidden things from me all these years? Do the Vanir possess powers that Sverin forbade, out of fear? He had survived his night flight with nothing more than a rough landing, and great Tyr had not struck him down. He had spoken with wolves. He had spoken words that made a boar lay down its head. Shard wondered what else had the red kings told them all, that might not be true.
Feeling less afraid and more rebellious, he lashed his tail. “I met another gryfon, too. An exile. On Star Island.”
“Shard,” she whispered, looking breathless, eyes glazed with panic. “What are you trying to do? You’ve just proven your loyalty to Sverin, to your wingbrother the prince. But that means nothing if you disobey the king. Do you crave exile?”
“He helped me,” Shard said quietly. “He helped me and asked nothing in return. But I offered to tell his family he was alive, and he asked that I only tell one.”
“Who? Don’t claw anyone else into this madness. Did you actually fly home at sunrise this morning as you told me, or did you fly at night—”
“His name was Stigr.”
All breath and fight seemed to leave her at the name. Shard watched her expression soften, then grow cold and fierce. She opened her wings, stepping toward him. “You will not fly to Star Island again alone. You will not speak of Stigr or your dead father or any other of this nonsense. You are here now, my son, here safe, friend to the prince, a proven warrior and with the king’s eye on you.”
He knew she spoke the truth. But he had spoken with wolves. He had spoken to the great boar, walked at night, flown at night, spoken to an exile and come back whole. Shard had decided that he had to learn his strengths if he was going to have anything to offer Sverin and Kjorn.
“You can’t forbid me anything. I’m not a kit.”
“You are my son!” Sigrun snapped her beak, flashing her wings wide as she advanced on him a step. Shard crouched back, reminded that the healer was also a warrior, a huntress and once, long ago, had also fought against Per the Red.
“Just tell me,” he whispered, forgetting that he had once told the king he didn’t care, “if I really am like my father.”
“Tyr help us if you are,” she snarled. “Be content.”
I was! Shard stared at her in the growing light. He had never been restless before he spoke to the wolves, before he flew at night or spoke with the exile. “I just want to know—”
“Let it rest.” Sigrun folded her wings, her expression flickering back to calm. Perhaps she saw that in her rage, she was pushing him away. “It is all past.”
A draft at the cave entrance drew their attention. Caj landed roughly and trotted three steps into the cave. He paused, ears swiveling to both of them.
“My mate,” Sigrun breathed, too relieved at the interruption.
“My mate,” he murmured in return, though his gaze was on Shard. “Forgive me missing the dawn with you. The king needed me. Shard.”
“Caj.” Shard shifted his wings a little, but Caj saved him any further niceties.
“The prince is looking for you.”
Exhausted of words, relieved for the excuse to leave, Shard dipped his head and plunged out the cave mouth into the winds of dawn. Other gryfons stirred, calling greetings to him as they stretched or took off on their own morning flights. Shard sucked a deep breath of the morning air, thinking how strange it had all looked at night–dark, unidentifiable humps and looming shadows in the starlight. With his eyes nearly blind, his ears had felt sharper and he’d heard every whistle of wind in grass and through trees. After a tumbled landing, he’d slept where he touched ground.
He didn’t see Kjorn at the Copper Cliff. If the prince wasn’t out hunting for breakfast, Shard knew only one other place he might go, so he angled his flight toward the birch wood that sprawled on the far side of the nesting cliffs. A river split the land there, springing up trees and brush all along the lowland to the high, broken hills and mountains beyond. Called the Nightrun, it plunged from the gryfons’ hilly plain in a great waterfall over the steep cliffs to the sea. It was a good place to hunt small meals, for fledges to practice stalking and, closer to the waterfall, to be alone.
Below him, kits and fledges tumbled around on the grass; young males of his own year mock-battled while females looked on, lazy before their round of hunting. Shard perked his ears. Why does everyone seem so jubilant? It had to be more than the warming weather.
A flicker of gold in the woods drew his eye and he stooped, ready to crash through the trees to pounce his friend.
“Don’t,” Kjorn called from below. “I see you.”
Shard laughed and changed angle, wheeling in a tight circle to slow before dropping to earth. This time he remembered to favor his hind paw before it pained him, and trotted into the woods. The dawn light filtered golden and green through the bright birch buds, and the thought of spring leaped with joy through Shard’s body. Nearby the Nightrun splashed and rolled, swollen and ice-cold with mountain run-off.
Kjorn watched him land and padded forward, eyes narrowed. “Where were you? What happened to you? What’s this?” His face darted in before Shard could answer even the first question, preening at the faint scrapes of wolf claws on his ribs. Shard backed up, surprised at Kjorn’s irritation.
“I…tried to go hunting.”
“On Star Island? Alone?” Kjorn stood with wings half open, sleeked and wide-eyed. “Not even a gryfess hunts on that land alone. Why?”
“I …” Shard shifted his wings to his sides.
“I had to lie for you. I lied to my father for you.” Kjorn ruffled his feathers in displeasure and sleeked again. “Now listen, I have a lot to tell you.”
Kjorn turned to walk and Shard followed, out of the wood and up the slope toward the Copper Cliff. The sweet morning wind rustled their feathers and Shard felt his gnawing hunger return from the day before.
“He announced that all the males who attended the hunt could remain on Sun Isle, and the younger ones who haven’t yet hunted will have a chance again even before next year.”
Shard perked his ears, his hunger forgotten. “All of us can stay?”
“Yes. He means to settle gryfons on every isle, beginning with the Star Island, for the good hunting.” Kjorn drew a breath, and Shard watched excitement grow in the prince’s face as he told Shard all Sverin had said.
The king wanted to spread out the pride. Rather than exile, he planned to keep families and friends together and grow them across the islands, until they really did claim the Silver Isles as one land, all under gryfon rule.
Shard opened his wings, restless with excitement. The wolves, the sea, even mysterious Stigr brushed aside with the thought of it.
All he could muster in response was, “Oh.”
Kjorn laughed. “Yes, exactly! I knew you would understand his vision. He’s confident that our pride is honorable and loyal and that, with time, we could grow to be the greatest in all the history of the Aesir.”
&
nbsp; Shard considered that, his heart starting a lope, and began to speak, but Kjorn went on.
“That wasn’t all. Because we will need numbers, he said you may stay, and take a mate.”
Shard stopped walking and stared at Kjorn. In the dawn light the prince’s feathers gleamed like true gold. “A mate?”
“Yes, Shard. That’s what it takes to grow a pride. Mates. Kits. Surely your mother the healer didn’t skip over all that.”
Shard swiveled his head, looking toward the nesting cliffs. He’d never considered a mate. He had never thought he would be allowed one even if he did stay. Most bachelor males stayed only as guardians–brothers, sons, friends, but only those nearest and dear to the king’s kin were allowed a mate.
“I never thought …”
“I know. Don’t worry,” the prince laughed, “I’m sure Thyra has many friends who would love to meet my wingbrother.”
Rather than make him hopeful, the words slapped Shard’s pride.
Wingbrother to the prince.
They wouldn’t just want to meet ‘Shard, who had helped kill the boar.’ He was wingbrother to the prince. They wouldn’t be interested in Shard, the only Vanir kit to survive the Conquering, constantly under the Red King’s gaze. They saw him as a Vanir, cursed with the losers’ blood of the Silver Isles. Shard wondered what female would choose that. Who was he, Shard realized, to be worthy of anything more than to be valued because of his friends? Because of Kjorn. Even the king let me hunt only because of Kjorn.
Kjorn picked up his pace to a trot and Shard realized he’d stopped walking altogether. He pushed into a lope to catch up.
“So when you see my father, be sure to thank him and pretend you were there the whole time.”
“I don’t like lying.” Though, he realized, he would have to lie about Stigr. He had already lied about the boar hunt. Now he would have to lie about this. That made three lies. I am a liar, he realized with a twist of his belly.
“Well you’ll have to, or admit that my father bestowed honors on an idiot.”
Shard paused, realized where they were walking. “Did you say, when I see your father?”
“Yes.” Kjorn shook his head. “We have to tell him of the wolves who attacked you. The wolves who attacked you when you went off for adventure without me, wingbrother.”
Shard chuckled in spite of his new worries, realizing Kjorn’s anger was as much worry as being upset over being left out. Kjorn so badly wanted a wolf hide. In that moment, Shard thought the pelt of Ahote might be especially cozy in the prince’s den. A pang lanced up his paw and he twitched it.
“Why? Then he’ll know I was gone, and you just said—”
“No.” Kjorn nodded once, decisively. “I was wrong. We can’t hide it from him. We’ll tell him you weren’t at the meet, and we’ll pretend it was you being brave, after the success at the hunt.” The prince narrowed his eyes. “Brave, but foolhardy. He’ll want to know of the wolves. Come with me.”
Shard, ears flat, tail low, followed the prince.
“So.” The Red King lay sprawled across a slab of coppery stone on his cliffs, ears perked toward Shard and Kjorn, stretched on their bellies in respect before him.
“Wolves attacked you, unprovoked, left you to die in the sea, and you remained the night on the Star Isle. I thought I missed your faced at the last meet.” He glanced sidelong at Kjorn, for it was Kjorn who was supposed to have gathered everyone to Sverin’s call, and Kjorn who told the king everyone was there. Shard shifted nervously as the prince spoke.
“Forgive me, Father. I didn’t want Shard in trouble because I didn’t know where to find him. The fault was mine.”
“No,” Shard said quickly, “I should have told him where I was going. It’s my fault.”
“Yes,” Sverin seemed to agree with both of them. At length he continued. “You could have told me, my son. You mustn’t keep things from me.” He looked between them and relief that he didn’t seem angry relaxed Shard’s chest. “Or from each other. Wingbrothers should never have to wonder where the other has gone.”
“Yes, Father,” Kjorn whispered, as Shard said, “yes, your Highness.”
He is my king. And a just king. Maybe he doesn’t always trust me, but that is the fault of the old Vanir who fought him. Shard meant to prove himself different, and loyal.
Sverin looked back to him. “Back to this adventure of yours. You escaped. First the wolves, then the sea.” His long feathered tail brushed into a coil and back down. “I suppose that’s your Vanir blood. Good for something, anyway.”
“Yes, Sire.” Shard remained with his belly low to the ground. No gryfon was to stand higher than the king. Sverin stared hard at him, gaze flickering here and there, as if to determine if the deadly sea transformed him, somehow, into an enemy.
“I know it was foolish to hunt alone, but …” he glanced sideways at Kjorn, who tilted his head slightly to encourage him on. “But I was still feeling brave after the boar hunt.” That much was true.
“Too brave,” the king murmured. His golden eyes didn’t leave Shard’s face. Shard hadn’t been so close to the king since the day of the hunt, and forgot again how massive he was. He wore no gold and looked wild and fierce, red as war in the dawn light. “There are worse faults.” He stood and stretched, as comfortable in Shard’s presence, it seemed, as Kjorn’s. “I trust that my son has brought you up on the most recent news.”
“Yes, my Lord.” A moment of silence settled, Sverin watching him expectantly, before Kjorn tapped Shard with his tail. Face hot, Shard rose to his feet so that he could bow. “Thank you. Thank you, for the great honor and for your trust in me, my king.”
Satisfied, Sverin climbed higher on his rocks. “You know I only wish the best for you, Rashard. For my pride.”
His full name in the king’s voice shot like twin bolts of skyfire. Terror, and pride. “I–I wish the same.”
Gold eyes pierced through him. For a moment Shard felt the king could see everything, just like the sun, could see his doubts and his lies and his wings opening under the moon. He had never known a mightier gryfon his whole life, or heard of one in a song, one more worthy of serving.
“How could I not trust the one my son chose as his wingbrother?”
Wingbrother to the prince. But Shard met eyes with Sverin, and knew the Red King didn’t unintentionally use the phrase. It was a reminder of what stood between him and exile. Shard had no answer for that, so remained silent. Beside him, Kjorn puffed his chest proudly, and nudged a wing against Shard’s in encouragement.
“In fact you proved your worth so fully on the great hunt that I have decided you will be instrumental in our upcoming settlement on Star Isle.”
Kjorn tensed beside him and Shard’s muscles locked.
“My father spared your life at the Conquering,” murmured Sverin. “And twice you have met with wolves on Star Island and escaped with only a tale to tell. Whether that is your Vanir blood or some cleverness of your own, I will not ignore the signs of great Tyr. You are meant for a special purpose.”
Shard’s throat ached from holding his breath. He let it out, hollow but for his ramming heart. “My Lord?”
Sverin looked pleased as a mountain cat. “I mean to settle a colony on Star Island, Shard.” He flexed his black talons luxuriously and his next words were a boon, a command, and a dismissal all in one. “As honored wingbrother to the prince, and one who seems to have a knack for survival, I mean for you to lead that settlement.”
Kjorn waited until Shard was out of sight.
“You didn’t tell me this!”
“The last time I checked,” Sverin said, “I was king of Sun Isle, not you.”
“You would tear my wingbrother from me?”
“Star Island is a mere flight away. You may see him any time you wish.”
“Or I’ll go with him, and help the settlement.”
“You will not,” the king said easily, as if Kjorn was still a fledge declaring that he would l
eap from the Copper Cliff.
“You did it on purpose,” Kjorn growled, rebellion stalking through him. He had promised Shard safety from exile, a place in the pride, a mate, a real future, and his father dashed it all with a single blow.
“This is a great opportunity for Shard. Do you lack confidence in his ability?” Sverin watched him, talons flexing, and Kjorn ruffled.
“Of course not. But it’s an unnecessary risk. What does Shard know of leadership? Or settling? There are others with more experience.”
“I know this. I have personally selected the very best to advise him.”
“But not to lead. Not to succeed or fail or die magnificently.” Kjorn huffed, unsatisfied. “You may speak of honor and glory and special purpose, but I know why you’ve done this.”
“There are so many who are more worthy of your friendship, my son.”
“None,” Kjorn said fiercely. “You never bothered to see him as I do.”
Sverin paced away, hopping casually to a higher rock as if they only chatted about whether it would rain. “And you have never bothered to understand what I do. Let us hope he proves himself on Star Island.”
“Proves himself? Again? How many times must he prove himself, Father?” Kjorn flared his wings, ears flat, ready to leap and prove his point through violence. It would end poorly, but he was ready all the same.
Until his father rounded on him, head high, tail lashing and talons splayed.
“Always. He must always prove himself, until my heart runs dry and I fly with Tyr in the Sunlit Land. The blood of the Silver Isles is in him and I will never trust it. I will not lose you as I lost her.”
Kjorn tried to find words, argument or courage, but could only lock stare with his father and see the depth of anger and sorrow that still burned in his golden eyes.
“Father—”
“Never forget,” the king’s words cut high, “what became of your mother when she trusted the Vanir.”
~ 10 ~
Windwater
