by Jess E. Owen
Sverin gave him a sideways look. They’d walked to the edge of the cliff and stood there, listening to the crash of icy waves. Soon, chunks of ice would roll in along with the water. Soon, more cold than Kjorn could bear to think of. Kjorn thought of Shard, falling into the sea, and shuddered.
“Do you remember her?” Sverin asked, his voice changed and quiet. Kjorn looked over furtively. Sverin’s gaze fixed firmly on the sea.
“Remember…” Kjorn paused, feeling foolish. It was not Shard who Sverin thought of when he gazed out to sea. “Yes, of course. A little. I would know her scent, and her voice.”
“Good,” Sverin whispered, and turned abruptly from the waves.
“Father…”
But Sverin’s expression turned stony and Kjorn saw that he was watching the division of meat. There among the huntresses and those flocking in for food stood Ragna, like a phantom in the frost.
Kjorn loosed a hiss. “Why do you let her stay, if you hate her so?”
“Such an early frost,” Sverin muttered, his talons sinking into the white. “It seems unnatural.” Kjorn heard the crunch as the powerful claws broke through the frozen ground, clenching peat and earth as if it were flesh.
“Father—”
“Go make sure Halvden is fair,” Sverin said. “I have things to tend to.”
Before Kjorn could ask what things, Sverin loped away and jumped up into the sky, flapping away in the gray air. Kjorn shivered in the cold rush from his wing beats.
“Because I’m healer to this pride!” Sigrun snapped when Halvden asked her why she demanded extra meat. “You arrogant buffoon. Will you question me when your mate is whelping, too, and needs my help?”
“Don’t threaten me on account of my mate,” said Kenna, sidling in between them. All around, fledges and elderly stopped to stare at Sigrun’s outburst. Sigrun, normally so quiet. Don’t they notice that no ravens or crows are flocking to this kill? Even they know we will need the meat and take pity. Soon, she feared, the Isles themselves would turn their backs on Sverin’s pride and they would find no meat at all.
“Halvden,” Kenna said, “Surely as healer, Sigrun knows what she’ll need later on.”
“Fine,” Halvden muttered, throwing the disputed sheds of meat at Sigrun. “How long until it rots though?” He strutted off toward another argument.
“Thank you,” Sigrun murmured to Kenna, who fluffed her violet wings.
“I meant what I said, that’s all. Do you have all you need?”
Sigrun dipped her head in answer. The only challenge would be finding a time to salt the meat with no one seeing. Kenna walked off to help see to other arguments, and then with relief Sigrun saw Kjorn approach to mediate. She took her own stash and turned, nearly bumping into Ragna.
“Sister,” Ragna greeted, out-of-place amusement on her face. “How goes all?”
“I’ll need time at the shore tonight.”
“I can help make a distraction,” she said, gaze roving the pride. It settled on Kjorn. “I think Sverin’s son resents me.”
“Of course he does. Ragna…” Sigrun glanced to both sides, but no one listened to them, all concerned with getting their share of the meat. “I know why Sverin tolerates me, but why did you come back? Why does he let you stay? I couldn’t believe this summer when he said nothing about you returning.”
Ragna’s ears twitched back and her gaze grew distant. “He said nothing, because to him, I am nothing. To him, my heir is dead. Killing or exiling me would cause rebellion.”
“Would it?” At the question, Ragna’s expression quirked and she peered at Sigrun, who dipped her head, chagrined.
“I only meant, he’s exiled others. So many others. Are you telling me the truth?”
“I’m telling you all I can,” she said quietly. “Honor binds the rest.” She met Sigrun’s eyes. “You understand.”
Ablaze with curiosity the new knowledge that Ragna had a secret from her, Sigrun could only say, “Yes.” She did understand secrets, but it almost became to much, and she blurted, “I wish none of this had happened. Sometimes I wish we’d secreted Shard away as Stigr wished, to let Stigr raise him, gather the other Vanir and…”
“And?” Ragna prompted, voice dropping low. “Come storming back in on the wings of war to challenge a conqueror who’d already beaten us? To lose more lives? To tear apart a pride of half-bloods and friends?”
“Conquered friends.”
“And if Stigr flew in, and he and Caj battled once again?” Ragna tilted her head, and Sigrun tightened her wings to her sides, knowing full well she had argued the opposite scant weeks ago. She sympathized with Shard’s plight, torn between two prides. Or are we one, damaged pride now? Ragna nodded slowly at her expression. “Who would you cheer to win? Your first love? Or your true mate?”
Sigrun couldn’t answer, and she knew Ragna had meant it that way. “But even Shard’s heart is torn. And Kjorn’s. Sometimes I want to tell him, just tell him Shard lives and that he’ll return and…” once again she couldn’t finish. What would Kjorn say, to know that Shard plans to return and claim his islands? “Why did we do it this way?”
“Because,” Ragna said, her gaze flicking to the sea. “It was Baldr’s vision. It was his hope that we would have peace, that through his son there would be balance. He asked if I could do it, to raise Shard among the Aesir. It was his hope and his dying wish.”
Sigrun blinked at her. “Per killed him over the water. He died in the sea. How do you know his last wish?”
Ragna’s look was wistful. “Oh, Sigrun. We couldn’t have won. Something had to end the fighting, and you knew Baldr. He knew himself. Do you think he really believed he would survive a fight against Per the Red?”
Ragna shook her head and left Sigrun then, left her standing in snow with caribou meat steaming at her feet. She stood there blankly, imagining the humble gray king on his final night of life, speaking in secret to his mate, then going forward into a fight he fully knew he wouldn’t win.
It was then that Sigrun realized, for the first time since the Conquering, that rather than force his pride to flee or draw out the fighting into a sad and bloody end, Baldr the Nightwing had sacrificed himself to end the war.
23
The Voldsom Narrows
Morning wind suffused with sweetness buffeted Shard’s face and pushed under his wings. He soared with Brynja and her band of huntresses toward their hunting grounds for that day. His dream of the roaring beast from the night before still haunted him, and waking to find that the nightmare sounds had been real.
“Hunters!” Valdis called over the wind. “Today we raid the Narrows for goat. Keep alert for eagles!”
Valdis divided the group into two parties, assigning Brynja to lead her hunters in from the windward side of the canyon.
Shard peered forward at the smaller series of canyons branching off from the massive gorge that separated the Winderost from the Outlands. He had never had enmity with an eagle of the Silver Isles or truly spoken with one. Perhaps they were larger and more intelligent here. He looked over to ask Brynja and found that she had already banked toward the dawn wind.
Shard ground his beak and turned sharp to catch up. “What sort of eagles live here?”
“The sort that fly and hunt. What sort do they have in the Silver Isles?” She scanned the horizon and added, “Stay alert. Prove yourself here and Orn will give you more freedoms and acclaim.”
Shard clenched his talons, feeling like a fledge on his first hunt all over again. His gaze swept across the canyon. Far in the distance he saw circling motes. Eagles. Surely they wouldn’t fly all the way over to harass a gryfon hunt.
“On the windward ledges!” called Sigga, the gray gryfess Shard had met his first day. Shard looked, and missed the sharp, formulated turn that Brynja and Sigga made toward the windward edge of the canyon.
Brynja loose a frustrated sigh as he caught up. “Pay attention,” she ordered. “I know you’re male, but I still expect
you to keep up.”
Shard flattened his ears in consternation. “I’ll keep up.” He was the best flier in the Silver Isles. He could stay in a formation.
Brynja growled low and Shard saw the twitch of her tail as she formed into a dive. That time, he anticipated the dive and kept up, neatly mimicking her wing movements. Valdis, Dagny and a third huntress Shard didn’t know dropped below, to keep the goats from scattering down.
Shard, Brynja and Sigga dove in a tight wedge, straight at the far canyon wall. The wind slapped him, smelling of sage and the elusive flower. Then warming rock. The scent of water wisped up from far below, a tributary of a larger river that had worn down the layers of rock into canyons.
Looking to the wall again, Shard spied the goats. Compact and stout in the shoulders, they boasted thick, curling horns that reminded Shard of seashells. Their ruddy coats blended with the canyon walls and Shard marveled at how they held themselves nearly flat against the steep rock face.
“Shard!” Brynja called, and a thrill slipped through him to hear her call his name. “Drive in from the flank!” She shouted similar instruction to Sigga. They broke their wedge and dove in from three sides to keep the goats from scattering up the rock face.
Hunt-thrill woke in Shard’s chest to see prey so close and he stretched his talons, ready for Brynja’s word to close in.
An eagle shriek broke his concentration and pain lanced his back. Talons caught his wing joint, wings thrashed in his face and he barely had time to smash his beak against the attacking eagle’s beak to protect his throat.
“Eagles!” Brynja’s screech bounded down the canyon walls. They’d come in from high, silently.
If he hadn’t been under attack, Shard would have laughed. Surely the eagles were outmatched. A fourth the size of a gryfon, with no forepaws, they had distinct disadvantages.
He squirmed against the female who clung to his wing joint as she slashed her beak toward his throat. A smaller male eagle swooped from below to attack Shard’s belly, and yet another male slashed at his hindquarters. His urge to laugh died when he understood their strategy.
They attacked in threes.
Valdis swooped in with her hunters but they all focused on helping each other, with none to spare for Shard. No time to help a foreigner like him. Harried and unable to defend all points, Shard folded wings and dove, while Brynja shouted directions that he couldn’t hear.
The female eagle clung to Shard’s shoulder though he sped past the males for a few seconds. Talons caught Shard’s ear. He grabbed the she-eagle’s foot. The wind swallowed her cry and Shard yanked her from his shoulder and held her, flapping wildly, in his claws. A young male caught up and dove in at Shard’s face.
Shard flared to a hard stop, clapped his wings together and flipped backward to kick the male’s face with a clawed hind foot. Then he snagged the male’s wing and held tight, satisfied at the sound of crunching feathers.
With both struggling eagles in his grasp he spiraled back into a dive. The third male eagle hung back, calling alarm to the others above. Distantly, he heard Brynja shout his name.
“I am Shard, son-of-Baldr!” he shouted into the wind. Witless screams answered him. The ground and the roiling, muddy river leaped closer. “I know you understand me! Leave our hunt alone!”
He hadn’t heard them speak, but any creature that attacked hunting gryfons with such strategy had to be more than witless animals defending territory. They were intelligent. They were Named.
The female slashed with her free foot, wings wild and slapping Shard’s face. They hurtled toward the river.
“Poachers.” A word formed out of the she-eagle’s beak at last, and Shard flung his wings open, falling into a swift glide just above the water. He raced the river downstream, so close to the water that the eagles stopped struggling for fear he would drop them in.
Poacher, Outlander. Trespasser. Everywhere Shard went in that land, it seemed someone had claimed the territory, and he couldn’t see where they drew their lines. It was easier in the Silver Isles, with territory divided by the sea.
“Tell me your names,” Shard demanded, carefully working his wings against the competing canyon winds and the eddies of cooler currents above the river.
“Release me!” ordered the she-eagle.
“As you wish.” Shard dipped lower, loosening his grip so that her sprawling wingtips brushed the river.
“Hildr!” She flapped hard, smacking Shard’s face again. “I am Hildr of the Brightwing aerie, daughter-of-Brunr. My consort is Arn, son-of-Arn.”
They named themselves like gryfons. Surprised, Shard banked hard around a jutting rock, and just managed not to make a fool of himself by saying his thought out loud. For all he knew, the eagles might consider that gryfons named themselves like eagles, rather than the other way around.
More rocks broke out of the water ahead, forming white, foaming rapids. The male, Arn, hung loose in his grip, either wary of being dropped or deferring the situation to Hildr. Either way Shard was grateful that he held still.
“Fly higher, Outlander.” Hildr laughed hard, breathless. “You’re in dog territory now.” Shard held her upside down and kept a grip on Arn’s wing, not truly wanting to drop him in water. Little paw trails, caves and tracks marred the canyon wall, but he saw no painted wolves.
“Why do you call me Outlander?”
“You’re not of Orn’s pride. That’s clear. The Vanheim Shores perhaps, but not the Winderost. Release me now.”
“Do we have a peace?”
She only swore in defiance. Shard dipped lower. “This day,” she cried. “This day, we will leave your greedy hunters alone.”
Shard flapped hard to gain height and give the two eagles room to correct their flight, then released them. The male sped off toward the other eagles in crooked flight on his damaged wing. Hildr corrected to a dignified glide and glared over at Shard.
“Gryfons ruin our hunts and trespass without thought to our rituals or territory. They won’t hear us. They think us witless.”
Shard couldn’t decide why she would tell him that, or what she expected him to do. “I know you aren’t.”
“Who are you, graywing?”
“I told you my name.”
“But who are you? You don’t smell of the Winderost. You smell of fish and evergreen and the sea. On the Halfnight our seer said the great starfire was a sign of something coming from the top of the world. Is that where you flew from? What is your true name?”
Shard stared at her, and it felt as if someone else answered. “I am Rashard. Son of Baldr the Nightwing. Prince of the Silver Isles in a sea far starward. I followed the fire in the sky, though I don’t know yet to what end.”
She loosed an amused twitter, a motherly sound, then angled her wings to catch an updraft. Maybe she had expected a different answer. “I’ll remember your name, Shard of the Silver aerie. And our fight this day.”
Shard couldn’t tell, the way she said it, if that was a good or bad thing. She called a word into the canyon and her band gathered to fly upriver. She turned to follow.
Thinking of his vision, Shard called, “Wait! Do you know of a high, solitary mountain peak anywhere in the Winderost?”
“A high mountain?” She circled him once, keening a laugh in to the wind. “Not in the Winderost. A hard flight starward, beyond the end of the great gorge, beyond the Ostral Shore and the Forest of Rains. You seek the Aslagard Mountains. You seek the Horn of Midragur.”
With that she caught an updraft and soared out of earshot. Shard craned his neck to peer after her, then movement on the shore caught his attention.
One of the strange, painted wolves padded along the canyon wall, watching. When she saw that Shard looked her way, she broke into a run.
“Wait!” Shard turned off the river. She stopped, bared fangs to warn him off, then sprinted toward the canyon wall. Before Shard could say another word, she disappeared into a narrow hole.
Shard landed in fron
t of the cave, wings still lifted, panting, and peered into the darkness. It would be madness to step inside, but he had spoken with eagles. Maybe he could speak with the painted dogs.
Why would you? He could just hear Stigr, chiding him for being distracted.
But the Summer King listened to all who spoke. His mother had sung the song that summer, on the Daynight. She had sung to tell Shard something, to call him out. She believed he was the Summer King, born to bring justice and peace.
He couldn’t do any of that without knowing what he faced. Maybe the dogs would give him the information that Brynja wouldn’t. Or maybe Hildr or another eagle would. They, too, lived in the Winderost. They must face the same enemy that roared in the night.
And they must also wish to be rid of it.
Above, Brynja shouted for him. He peered again into the darkness of the den in front of him, thinking he saw movement. Brynja called again. Shard hesitated, then turned and flew up to rejoin the hunters in the sky. He angled into formation quietly, his mind awhirl. No one suffered major injuries and so the hunt continued. They ranged down the canyon, searching for the goats that had scattered and fled during the flight.
It took him awhile to realize that Brynja was staring at him. He laced his talons together uncomfortably but let her speak first.
“How did you do that?”
“Do what?” Shard’s thoughts loped back to grabbing the eagles, diving, the glide over the water, unsure which part she referred to.
“Do—all of it! I’ve never seen a gryfon fly like that.”
“Oh.” Shard relaxed his talons, shifting his wings as the wind shifted under them. A furtive glance ahead showed him that an ear on each gryfess slanted his way, though they tried to look as if they were only hunting. A flush of pride crept from the tip of his tail to his face, and he was glad for his dark gray feathers.
“I’ll show you some time.”
She loosed a light sound, half laugh, half breath. Shard kept her gaze, waiting for a true answer. She glanced half away, then perked her ears forward, looking as if she was trying not to laugh. “I look forward to it.”
