by Jess E. Owen
Shard trilled and then chuckled, looking away before he said something stupid. They resumed their hunt for goat and felled three beasts to haul back to the Dawn Spire. Shard learned about the precision of their hunting and the group-thought of it. It was almost like hunting with the wolf pack on Star Isle. He noticed, but did it all through a cloud of pride and happiness and a distracted habit of checking to see if Brynja was watching him.
When they returned to the aerie that evening and Shard found his crack in the wall that Valdis had called a den, Stigr had plenty to say about his first day in the Guard, and Asvander, and what he thought of the Aesir.
Shard made appropriate listening noises, until finally Stigr asked, “And how was the hunt?”
Shard curled up on the ground, nudging away a rat skull. “It was fine.”
Stigr made a low sound of disapproval at Shard’s vagueness but didn’t press him, and as he curled up, Shard drifted toward sleep. His thoughts drifted on buoyant winds. Knowing that Brynja respected his skill in flight, he was sure she would tell him more about the Winderost and the enemy soon, if he asked.
At first dark the horrible roars broke again in the distance, but since no other gryfon roused, and no alarm raised again, Shard found them easier to ignore. The nightmare beast of his first evening didn’t seek him out in dreams again.
Instead, in his dream he flew with a gryfess, a huntress who matched him for wit and skill, a gryfess who could become his queen.
But in that dream, her feathers were not the color of violet twilight.
24
Blending In
After the successful hunt and fight with the eagles, the gryfons of Dawn Spire grew less wary of Shard and more curious about him. The hunting never ended. It took a dozen bands of hunting gryfesses and the occasional male, like Shard, trying to earn a place, to feed the massive pride of the Dawn Spire. Unofficial hunting was not outlawed, Shard learned, but other than the occasional rabbit or small game bird, generally not encouraged. The king and the huntresses were to approve game hunts and make sure no one was crossing out of their territory or taking more than their share for their own clan.
A stretch of days passed as he learned the laws and unspoken routines. The nightmare beast of his first evening did not come again. Each night Munin brought him vivid dreams of the Silver Isles. He had to trust the raven, though Catori and even Stigr warned him that Munin was a trickster, that raven dreams were their own message, on their own timeline and meaning and not necessarily to be believed.
When he could call Catori to him in the dream, Shard had her confirm anything she knew. Kjorn and Sverin had an unsteady truce, though in his dreams, Shard could see the Red King growing edgy and tense as winter drew in, dark and cold.
His daylight hours at the Dawn Spire found Shard receiving more recognition for his work than he ever had from his own pride in the Silver Isles. Random gryfons found reason to trot by his and Stigr’s den, pause, and size Shard up, as if to gauge his true size and coloring and the measure of his wings for themselves.
His fight with the eagles found its way into more than one conversation even as the days passed.
“Two eagles,” Brynja recounted again to one of her many cousins, nearly a fortnight later as they gathered for a morning hunt. She sat close to Shard, and her warm scent distracted him from stopping her telling the tale again. Dagny sat at the back of the dozen huntresses, counting heads while Brynja told the tale.
“He held them both in a spiral dive, straight down toward the river, then a leap’s distance from the water…” she popped her wings open and the others jumped. “Just like that, he opens to a glide. I wouldn’t have thought it was possible until I saw it. I’ve never seen a gryfon fly like that.”
Stigr, walking by on his way to the Wind Spire, paused near the gathered hunters. “Nor will you. At our home, he is the best flyer known. At home, they call him the Stormwing.”
Heat swept under Shard’s feathers when the gryfess hunters swiveled to peer at him, unbelieving, and Shard tossed his head back in disagreement. “My uncle’s being kind.”
“Stigr’s never kind,” Dagny chirruped, and all the females laughed.
Stigr bumped a wing against Shard and he straightened, remembering that he had to let Stigr build him up if they were to prove themselves to the pride.
“I almost hope we run into eagles again,” Brynja said to the gaggle, “So you can see what I mean.”
“I don’t think we will,” Shard said, thinking of Hildr. “Not in the Narrows, anyway.” Before Brynja could ask why, a shadow swooped over them and Asvander landed, feathers ruffled, and trotted forward to stand in Stigr’s space.
“You, Outlander, you’re late.”
“Show respect, fledge,” Stigr rumbled, rustling his wings. The huntresses fell quiet, watching the exchange. Stigr made a show of fluffing his feathers. “We frail elders take a little time in the morning.”
Shard noticed Dagny shift and straighten when Asvander paced nearer. Asvander narrowed his eyes, then flattened one ear in amusement. “By the time you get to full speed, the dogs will be whelping in our dens.”
Shard looked between them, surprised. Asvander’s taunt sounded more like a jest than an insult. Maybe Stigr was carving a place for himself in the Guard, after all. He and Shard had barely had time to speak the last fortnight, to regroup and form plans, so exhausted from the hunts and the visits from Aesir gryfons.
Brynja swatted Asvander’s tail feathers. “Leave Stigr alone. You’re lucky to have him.”
Stigr coughed but Shard noticed a pleased gleam in his eye. Asvander turned to stand closer to Brynja, but looked at Shard. “And you, more bird catching today?”
“Maybe,” Shard said. “If there’s anything worth catching.”
Brynja chided, standing. “Show respect, Asvander. Shard is proving himself well.”
“As a hunter.” Asvander didn’t take his eyes from Shard, and Shard didn’t like how close he stood to Brynja. Close enough to flick his tail lightly against hers, which nearly distracted Shard from his next words. “How will you fare on the Wild Hunt, I wonder? Brynja, should we have him hunt with the clans of Oster?”
“I’m claiming him for En!” Dagny declared, springing forward, but it was Asvander she bumped against, like a playful kit. “You can fight me for him.”
Asvander chuckled, nudging her off with a wing, though he gave her a fond glance.
Shard looked between them. “The Wild Hunt?”
“The midwinter feast,” Brynja said, moving away from Asvander to face Shard. “The first chance at initiation for our young warriors, huntresses, and—”
“And Outlanders?” Shard guessed.
“And Outlanders,” Asvander said. “And you.”
And you. Why did he say it that way? Shard tilted his head, glancing from Asvander to Brynja. Did she tell him who we truly are? “I’ll just hope to prove myself well then.”
Asvander chuckled. Shard braced himself for an insult, ready to exchange wit or talons with Asvander if he challenged again.
“If you hunt and fly as well as Brynja says,” the big gryfon said instead, with no trace of mockery, “then I just might fight Dagny to have you hunt with our groups. Son-of-Ragr,” he said to Stigr, “we’re late. Good hunting, Brynja.” He dipped his head to her before loping off. The gryfesses scattered to make room for his large wings as he jumped into the sky.
“Good hunting,” Stigr said unhelpfully to Shard, and followed.
Shard, his blood up, wings tensed, could only stand a moment and stare after them.
Brynja laughed at him. “What did you expect him to say?”
“I thought he didn’t like me. I expected…” He’d expected someone more like Halvden. Incurably arrogant and boastful and cruel.
Dagny chuckled. “Asvander will surprise you. Of course, he wants to be the best at everything, but when he’s not, he’ll admit it.”
“You’d do well to make a friend of him,�
�� Brynja said quietly. Shard met her gaze, searching, trying to see what she might have told him, or her wingsister for that matter, or anyone else, about where he’d really come from.
Dagny stretched her long forelegs in front of her. “Anyway it’s two moons still until the Wild Hunt. By then I imagine you can hunt with whoever you like.”
“I’m remember that.” Two moons. Two moons was too long. Shard couldn’t wait until midwinter to gain Orn’s approval to roam. He had to seek his vision, seek the white mountain peak and whoever called him, he had to remember why he’d come.
Dagny called the huntresses back to attention and told them the hunt plan.
Brynja walked back Shard and tilted her head in close to murmur, “I truly hope you’ll choose to hunt with me.”
Warmth flushed Shard’s face again. “Oh, well…”
Brynja bumped him fondly and pushed off the ground with the others, and all he could do was follow.
Dagny flew in close to inform him that pronghorn deer grazed on the plain, since he hadn’t yet had opportunity to hunt there. The danger lay in the vast herds and their aggressive, protective nature, and the great prides of grass lions who competed with gryfons for meat.
As they flew and narrowed in on a herd for the hunt, Shard noted the heavy scent of lion in the grass, and paw prints the size of gryfon hind paws in the dusty earth. No lions showed themselves, but Shard sensed their heavy presence. Even as the gryfons felled five plump deer, no challenged rose. Perhaps the lions were less aggressive than the eagles.
Shard wondered if they really were arrogant or Voiceless or Nameless, as Brynja suggested, or if nobody bothered to speak with them, as he suspected. The eagle had been willing enough to answer his question about the mountain peak, the Horn of Midragur. If he’d gotten to speak with her longer, she might have told him about the enemy in the night.
What might the grass lions of the Winderost know?
Shard looked over to Brynja as he worked with others, tearing the pronghorn carcasses to carry back to the Dawn Spire. She wouldn’t tell him about the mysterious enemy, or what it meant to Kajar in turn, Kjorn.
There was a reason the Red Kings had forbidden flying at night, a reason the gryfons of the Dawn Spire retreated to their fire lit dens after sunset. But the beasts must affect all of the Winderost, too. If the gryfons wouldn’t tell him, perhaps another creature would. He would wait until the moon grew full, to have as much light as possible in the strange land.
The laws of the Aesir and their fear of the night were not Shard’s laws or fears.
He could blend in at the Dawn Spire and live as an Aesir as needed, but now it was time for him to resume the forbidden, Vanir art of flying at night.
25
The King’s Decree
A cloud of black crows alerted the King’s Guard to the body. Vald discovered the dead gryfess at first light, washed up on the shore, her flesh swelled from the sea and feathers soaked in salt water.
Sigrun was in her den when the young orange gryfon landed, eyes wide and feathers on end, to tell her. By the time she flew down, a crowd of gryfons gawked and whispered in a ring around the dead gryfess. Sigrun shouldered through them, but there was nothing left for her to do.
“Her spirit flies with Tyr,” she said calmly, lifting her gaze to those around. There was no cry, for the old gryfess had no family left, her mate and grown offspring all slain in the Conquering. Caj’s big, warm presence loomed up beside Sigrun, and he draped his wing over her shoulders. Before anyone else could speak, Sverin’s voice cut the chill air.
“Have I not spoken on the danger of the sea?”
“She was out of practice,” Sigrun whispered. “Out of practice and hungry.” The last fortnight of hunting gained slim results, a deer here or there, but the game of the Star Isle was going to ground.
“Have I not spoken of the dangers of flying at night?” Sverin said, striding forward.
The gryfons parted in waves around him. He stopped and stared at the dead gryfess, and an old pain flashed in his eyes. Sigrun watched him closely, watched as he thought, she was certain, of his own drowned mate whose body had never washed up on the shore. “Let us bear her to Pebble’s Throw to burn the flesh and release her to bright Tyr.”
“She was Vanir.”
Sverin’s head flew up, eyes narrowed.
Gryfons stepped aside to reveal Ragna, standing at the edge of the group. As they had for Sverin, the gryfons parted again for the Widow Queen. “Let her body rest among the dead on the hallow ground of Black Rock. She was Vanir.”
“Black Rock?” Sverin scoffed. “Where the dead and the exiles go?” He stretched open his wings and cast the group in a shadow of red. “So you can bear her body there and meet with the last dregs of your kind? So you can form new plans against me?”
Those gathered held a collective breath, staring at the open accusation. Why? Sigrun wondered wildly. If he hates and fears her so, why does he let her remain? The question lay on everyone’s face.
Ragna inclined her head. “No more Vanir but those in your pride dwell in the Silver Isles. At least none I know of. Let her rest on Black Rock.” It was the first time she had ever spoken up over a Vanir death, the first time she had asked for a proper burial.
Chill wind and the slip of waves across the pebble shore whispered while the king stood silently, eyes locked on Ragna. Something passed between them, though what, Sigrun couldn’t say. Sverin broke the stare, looking windward.
“Very well. Leave her on your cursed rock, and hope that Tyr can find her there.”
Ragna lowered her head in thanks, though Sigrun watched her ears lay flat. As the Red King turned to go, she raised her head high.
“Who will help me bear her?”
No one volunteered. Propelled by duty and pity for her wingsister, Sigrun stepped forward, feeling the heat of Caj’s stare at her back.
“I will.”
“And I,” called Einarr, slipping around other staring gryfons to stand over the dead gryfess.
“And I,” said Kenna, and Halvden hissed in surprise.
“I will,” whispered Vald, still staring at the body.
Sverin stopped, tail twitching once. As he turned, Caj walked to Sigrun’s side.
“I will help,” he rumbled, and at Sverin’s betrayed expression said only, “Brother, she was starving.”
Tension pulled the air taut as a feather vein.
“She flew at night and died for it,” Sverin said. “The night, as I’ve implored you to understand again and again, is our deadly enemy.” His gaze burned the gathered gryfons. “Any gryfon found out of their den after twilight will be considered in defiance of my law. The King’s Guard will enforce this.” Low murmurs grew, but that law was hardly new, even if the hour was now earlier.
Sverin stalked away and leaped onto a boulder, raising his voice to proclaim, “The sea, too, is our deadly enemy. From this day on, no one is to go nearer than ten leaps to the shore. There is no reason,” he said sharply at the shocked expressions before him. “To venture closer. No reason.”
No one argued, no one offered agreement. Caj pressed his shoulder reassuringly against Sigrun’s before he walked over to stand beneath the king, and supported him by stating, “Any gryfon seen within ten leaps of the seashore will be considered in defiance of the King’s Law.” He sounded weary, unable to meet the eyes that stared at him in disbelief. “For your own safety,” the blue gryfon reminded. The dead gryfess felt huge in front of them all.
“My den is only five leaps from the shore!” cried an old female.
Caj’s eyes found her, hard and cold. “Find a new one.”
Sigrun stared at him, torn, knowing he had to support the king, but feeling betrayed. She would have to sneak out at night to salt more meat for winter. She would have to break two of the king’s laws, under the very eyes of the captain of the King’s Guard. I’ll have to drug him, she thought dismally, staring at Caj. Betray my own mate.
She snuck a look at Ragna, but the pale gryfess had locked eyes with Sverin. By their hot, challenging stare, Sigrun feared this would only be the first of many new laws they would see that winter.
26
Nightmare
The creek splashed and laughed, rolling through a cedar forest in the mountains of the Star Isle. Larks twittered and starlings chattered gossip among the higher branches. Summer sun glowed in lances, spearing the shadowy woods with pockets of warmth. Shard stretched on his belly in front of the stream, a talon dipped in the water.
“Wait quietly,” he told the gryfess snuggled under his wing. She watched intently, though it was his face she studied, not the stream.
“I like this form of hunting,” she said, and yawned, rolling to her belly in the lazy sun. Shard laughed, frightening the first trout that investigated his talon.
“Brynja, I like—” a roar cracked the summer day and the woods shattered into a cloud of gray dust.
Brynja shrieked, fighting an enemy Shard could not see. Dark wings that first looked like raven’s wings and then monstrous bat wings swept between them, knocking Shard away.
He landed in a snow drift in the woods. Brynja was gone. Summer was gone. Snow pelted him and he lurched to his feet, staring. Deep winter cloaked the Star Isle in snow, and he looked down to see a dripping trail of red glimmering in the twilight. He raced it over a hill and stopped, stunned.
At the bottom of the hill he saw a large blue gryfon, sprawled broken and unmoving in the snow. Ravens swooped and circled, laughing, and wolves gathered around the body.
“No!” Shard tried leaping but couldn’t move. The snow dragged him away and down like water. “Caj! Nest-father…Catori! How could they?”
His friend’s mournful howl sang through the winter woods, but he couldn’t see her. “Shard, beware of raven dreams…”
Shard cried out again but sank into the snow, and through, and dropped until he was in the sky again, gliding over a high mountain peak. The song called him again but at his back he felt heat, and hate, and fear. He whirled to face it…
