by Jess Owen
Behold! They seemed to say with dazzling flight. Behold your future king and queen.
Queen! Shard thought with a dizzy rush of joy, as if he flew with them. All other thoughts left. This was Daynight. This was joy and love. My nest-sister will be queen. Any doubts Shard had dimmed. Sverin would not be king forever. One day it would be Kjorn, and Thyra.
And then what? a deeper part of him asked.
We will never have peace or freedom as long as a Red King rules.
But Shard didn’t think Kjorn was as severe as his father.
More gryfons watched from the cliff. Rebellious against his thoughts, Shard leaped to the edge and roared his approval. Others joined, even Sverin, from the top of the rocks. Kjorn and Thyra dropped until they were two leaps from the waves, then broke and glided low across the water.
As the other dancers in the air broke off, flying away in pairs, the gryfons wandered from the cliff edge to clear away the bones from their meals, rest and gossip over the pairings. Some winged away in the direction of Windwater, to check their dens, patrol or sleep. They had all agreed not to leave the settlement alone for the whole night.
Shard paced in the grass. He needed a plan, some way to address his situation with Halvden and Hallr that wouldn’t make him look like a coward.
A presence as quiet as a cloud approached him from the side. He looked over and saw Ragna the Widow Queen. He blinked and bowed his head low.
“There was no gryfess who caught your eye?”
He swiveled both ears to her, showing respect. She looked older, tired, a little sad. Perhaps seeing the mating flights reminded her of her own dead mate. The old king. Shard looked away, tail twitching. “No. It all happened so suddenly.”
“Everything in its time.” She seemed to approve, which made him feel better even though it was only the second time in his life they’d spoken. For a moment it was quiet between them, until Shard glanced away to watch some gryfons drifting toward their caves to nap. Some still romped, or watched the last of the mating flights.
The sun was a glowing ball of fire in the nightward sky. Dawnward, the golden-yellow edge of the half-moon peeked over the gray sea. Tyr and Tor, Shard thought, watching the mating flights. From the Daynight began high summer and then, Shard thought, the slow descend back to autumn and winter again.
Kjorn may have a kit next year! The thought was enough to keep Shard silent for another moment. Time seemed to fly before him.
“When I was young,” murmured Ragna, “our celebrations would last all through the night.”
“You honored Tor,” Shard said, feeling bolder. He lifted his head. Ragna perked her ears, then her gaze traveled sideways, wary.
“You shouldn’t speak of such things where the king may hear.”
“What things?” He stepped forward, lifting his wings a little. “Vanir things? I’m of Vanir blood. Why shouldn’t I know where I came from? The king knows I serve him.”
She watched him, a strange brightness in her moss-green eyes. “There’s been a change in you since the spring.”
He didn’t answer. He had no answer. Of course there had been a change, but she considered him closely, as if waiting for some answer from him, or from the sky, or the earth or wind, to a question she hadn’t spoken out loud.
“In all of us,” he finally said breezily. “It is a great time for our pride.”
“Yes,” she said softly, though her tail twitched as if agitated. “It is. Are you content?”
“Of course,” Shard said, blinking. Something snagged his mind. “Honored by the king. Happy.”
“Good,” she said, dipping her head and turning. “Enjoy this Daynight, Shard.”
“And you,” Shard whispered.
Are you content?
The voices he’d heard in the cave not hours ago. Sigrun, arguing over what sounded like rebellion with a gryfess whose voice he couldn’t place. Arguing for something to be done soon, or never. Arguing with a gryfess she called wingsister. Now he knew the second voice.
Ragna, the Widow Queen.
A little shadow swooped overhead. A raven. Shard couldn’t fathom why they always watched him. Maybe Stigr sent them.
Then a larger shadow swooped above, dark and fast.
Kenna, newly mated to Halvden, Shard realized, glided over those remaining and landed in a stumble in front of the king. She and Halvden and others had flown back to Windwater earlier. Unease slipped through Shard. Why would she return?
Gryfons parted for her, muttering. Her eyes gleamed wildly, her faced shocked, feathers ruffed.
“My Lord!” She tried to shout over the pride, but none heard until Sverin snapped his wings and beak for silence.
“Your Highness,” she panted. “We returned to Windwater—”
“What is it?” the king rumbled.
Kenna looked around once, staring at the pride, and then the king.
“Wolves, my king. They ambushed us when we returned. Hallr is dead.”
All gathered below the king’s rocks as the half-light of the Daynight waxed toward dawn. The king’s voice boomed over the rolling plain and echoed on the sea.
“This vile, unprovoked attack on one of our own, honored warriors will not go unpunished.”
Shard had to strain his neck to watch the king, for Sverin paced on the highest rock, red sun striking him from the dawnward sky. All night gryfons had milled under the low sun and flower yellow moon, awaiting the king’s words. Now, every one fell silent.
“Too long I have forsaken the way of my fathers, the way of the Aesir. I have worked to build our pride back after the Conquering, to learn, as we have, to become one blood again. This, we have done. We have made great plans for the future of our pride, but been too timid in seeking it. We tried to share the land with those who would see us dead.” He paused, talons clenching the rock as his golden eyes pierced every face.
Shard glanced down at his feet.
“Now it is time to remember how we began.”
A slow wind picked up, rustling feathers, cool enough to raise shivers. Or is it the king’s words? Shard shifted, itching, restless.
“The Aesir,” Sverin’s voice avalanched over them in growing light, “are conquerors. Now that you know my desire for all of you to remain on Sun Isle, for all of you to become great hunters, great warriors, to find a true mate, to live well under my reign and that of my son, know this: We will outgrow this island as my father’s pride outgrew the land across the windward sea. I will not see any of you struggle and fight all your lives. We will take what is ours, without question.”
The breath of the pride went out. Shard stared, his heart thundering. All around him, the young, the newly mated, the initiated warriors, trembled with excitement and exchanged gleaming looks.
“Brave Hallr’s death is a sign to me.” The Red King paused again, taking a deep breath. The pride drew a breath with him. “It is a sign to continue what my father started on these isles, and we will do so without wolf interference. We won’t fight and scramble for food until the end of our days.”
Silence and morning breezes passed between them. Shard let his breath out.
“How?” someone raised the cry. The king laughed.
“Another great hunt. Those who wish to prove themselves, who wish for places of honor in the coming days should be the first in line. All will be rewarded. But on this hunt, our quarry is not boar or deer.” His tail lashed, his gaze pierced starward as if he could see every creature on the Star Isle. “This time, we hunt wolves.”
“All of them?” someone else called incredulously.
“All of them,” Sverin echoed without irony. “All that there are. I mean to rid the Silver Isles of wolves forever.”
Silence. In the moment when Sverin said it, the thought prickled Shard’s feathers to think of having his revenge on the wolf brothers who tried to kill him.
Then he thought of Catori. I think we could be friends, you and I. Laughing under the moon.
He t
hought of what Stigr would say. I thought the knowledge would change you.
An ember in his heart licked up to flame and he fought against springing up into the sky to escape his own thoughts. He should have felt excited. Elated. A chance for glory. A chance to end the little skirmishes and doubts.
Only in stillness, the wind, his mind babbled.
Only from ice the flame.
The king slowly folded his wings as another timid voice called, “You speak as if it will be easy!”
“No,” said the Red King in the first red light of true day. “It will not be easy.” His face burned like an ember. “It will be war.”
Only the wind stirred.
A murmur rippled through the assembled. Gryfons shifted, parting for someone. Shard, restless and twitching, stood, lifting his head to peer over shoulders and wings.
Slowly through the crowd, wings politely folded and every step graceful, walked Ragna the Widow Queen. She advanced all the way to the king’s rocks and mantled, her pale wings shimmering.
“My Lord.” Her voice carried over the pride, but with a different quality than the booming king’s. Like rain. A breeze. Shard took a slow breath. No one moved, not even the king. The pale widow raised her head.
“It is still the Daynight celebration. A time for songs, and honoring bright Tyr.” She swept a look over the pride and in that glance Shard saw what she must have been as a queen. She returned a huntress’s gaze to the king.
“In light of your tremendous news, I ask your leave to sing a tale.”
~ 20 ~
The Song of the Widow Queen
The king slowly folded his wings again, recovering from surprise. Ragna stood calmly, waiting. At last the king raised his head, crimson feathers shining in the morning sun. All stared, breaths held. Shard flexed his talons and released his breath only when the king spoke.
“Of course. What an…unexpected privilege. Gryfons of the Sun Isle, the lady Ragna will sing for us.”
An excited, hushed trill wove through the pride. Shard glanced about and saw some bright eyes narrowed with suspicion. Aesir eyes. Older gryfons. Old Caj though, he thought, looked indifferent. Or maybe curious. At last he saw Thyra and Kjorn, up closer to the rocks. They watched with ears perked as Sverin stepped down to the lower rocks and Ragna climbed sedately higher. The dawn light edged her softly, like sun on a dove’s feathers.
Moonlight would become her, Shard thought, feeling anxious. Does this song have something to do with her conversation with Sigrun?
“I am Ragna,” the old gryfess began. “And I welcome you. We have arrived at a difficult time. This is the song I offer you now. This is a summer song, a song older than the oldest here, older than the trees on Star Isle, as old as the sea and the sky.”
Her pale green eyes surveyed her audience. They were still. Her voice wove through them like spider silk, soft but infinitely strong. Gryfons didn’t sing as wolves did, with long, piercing notes and melodies. They sang in the hushed, lulling tones of the waves murmuring to the shore, back and forth, the wind in the mumbling trees. Ragna remained standing.
“It is the song that Tyr and Tor sang to the world when it was as young as a fledging gryfon. As a gryfess sings to her kit of all the things to come, so they sang the world this song of hope, of fear, of love.”
Older gryfons shifted uneasily; those of the old, Silver Isles blood, the Vanir. Shard watched them from the corner of his vision, saw recognition in their faces. They knew this tale. Are they uneasy, or excited?
He tuned into Ragna’s voice, watching her soft face, wondering briefly who her mate had been, what the old king had been like. Wondering what she planned to do.
Her voice lifted from speaking into song and Shard’s heart caught with it, questions brushed aside the youthful, lilting melody, sweet as spring wind, hopeful.
She sang of the beginning of the world, that Tyr forged it in fire and watched over it in the day, and Tor cooled it with the sea and watched over it in the dark. She sang of the struggles of all their children, of fear, and courage, and hate. When the tale grew darkest, a nameless one appeared to lead all back into the sunlight.
The verse wove into Shard’s heart and cracked the last of his surety in decision to serve Sverin as plant roots cracked stone. The Aesir would never sing a tale like this.
“One will rise higher,
One will see farther,
His wing beats will part the storm.
They will call him the summer king
And this will be his song.”
He heard rustling. Whispers. Old Vanir, whispering the words as she sang them. It was like watching someone wake from a deep sleep to see the familiar world with delight. It felt as if he, too, remembered something. It felt as if his face burned. He scrambled to recall why it was so familiar. Never, not once, had he ever heard this tale clearly in his memory. But he knew it.
Ragna’s voice rang like sharp wind filled with snow. Undeniable, inescapable, a single spoken line in the middle of the song.
“When seers dream of his coming, it is always the same.” She opened her wings as if to encompass all of the assembled pride.
“He sees all like sky
His heart burns like the sun
He brings justice to the wronged.
They will call him the Summer King
And this will be his song.”
Shard held his breath, stealing a glance around to see what others were thinking, to see what he was supposed to think. All the Vanir faces had gone carefully blanked, schooled to quiet attention. Even Sigrun lowered her eyes as Ragna sang on.
“He flies in the night
And in the day
And his wings are like light on water.
He listens to all who speak, speaks to all who hear
And his voice is the song of summer.
He comes when he is needed
He comes when he is called
He is called the Summer King, and this is his song.”
Her voice floated on as if toward another verse, then checked, falling silent. Shard felt there was more to the song, but the Widow Queen lowered her head. A slow, steady wind picked up over them, brushing feathers, caressing the long grass. Far off, Shard heard the rustling of the leaves in the birch wood.
Furtively he glanced around, gauging others’ reactions. He could have heard a feather fall to moss in the silence. After a moment Ragna began to step down from the rocks, then paused and mantled to the king.
Sverin rose to his feet. All were silent, watching tensely as the king climbed back to the highest rock. Shard couldn’t tell if he was angry. His heart battered in his chest as if he’d been flying in high winds. Why that song?
Call him out, Sigrun had said to Ragna last night, when Shard overheard. Call him out. Call who, Shard wondered. A nameless Summer King?
Shard looked around, and saw that, from her spot, Sigrun was staring at Ragna. And Ragna looked straight as a falcon across the assembled to meet his eyes.
The memory crashed against him. He had heard the song before.
And she had sung it.
A flash of red drew his eye. Sverin opened his wings, though with less grace and subtlety than Ragna the Widow Queen.
“Thank you, Ragna. Surely your song has stirred the hearts of all here. It was needed in this time.”
He’s being gracious! Shard let his breath out. Ragna merely dipped again to him and walked back down among the gathered gryfons. Shard stood there panting, fighting the urge to leap up and fly. She had sung that song to him, for him, he was sure of it.
I thought the knowledge would change you.
Only in stillness the wind, only from ice the flame, Shard thought.
The king’s voice cracked the dawn air and all heeded.
“I have heard this song once before. You may not have known. But I heard it when first we came to the Silver Isles. I didn’t take its meaning then, but I do now.”
Shard held his breath, fearful that the k
ing sense rebellion. Ragna couldn’t possibly expect him to play some part in that. Because I’m friend and family to both Vanir and Aesir?
But we are already one pride!
But his own thoughts betrayed him. He knew he had already planned, without truly accepting it himself, to talk to Kjorn. His wingbrother would be king one day. His nest-sister, queen. Shard realized, after hearing the song and feeling the gaze of the old Widow Queen, that he wanted more freedom for the way of the Vanir in the pride. He wanted change.
And he certainly didn’t want war. Not with wolves. Not with each other. Not with anybody.
He stared as the Red King spoke.
“It may surprise you,” the king declared in his purring baritone, “but I agree with the honored Widow Queen. A great time is upon us. A time to rise higher. A time to see farther. And we need great hearts to lead us there.”
He climbed higher on his rocks. The red dawn darkened under storm clouds rolling in from the sea.
“I believe the Summer King is quite real.” Sverin’s ringing declaration silenced the murmurs.
Ears flicked. Shard stared at him, then at Ragna. Everything felt as if a storm wind had picked up, but every gryfon remained still as ice.
“I say he is real, that he is among us now!” The king’s tail lashed and murmurs erupted again. “His eyes see all like the sky,” he quoted from the song. “That would make him a leader among his kind. His heart burns like the sun. Wings like light. Only one among us can truly claim that.” The king glanced over the pride, as if he might call out the legend from among them. “A Summer King would be one is heeded, who will be great in his time.”
The pride held its breath. Sverin opened his wings in the dawn.
“I say our Summer King is my son, Kjorn, prince of the Sun Isle, of the Star Isle, and all the rest under Tyr’s light that will soon be ours!”
A shock rippled through the pride. Surprised and then affirming chatter erupted, roars and calls for the prince to rise.
