by Jess E. Owen
“The most powerful alliance of gryfons under Tyr’s eyes. I still wished to honor it. My family didn’t. They won’t see me now.”
The sheer number of gryfons living at the Dawn Spire overwhelmed Shard. He tried to imagine an even larger alliance than that, and wondered what in the world any such pride would fear, or what could break them apart.
“What changed?” Shard whispered.
They’d finished their work and as they leaped into the sky to join rest, Asvander said simply, “The king.”
They split then, Asvander called away, and Shard to Stigr. He pondered Asvander’s answer and realized he didn’t know if he’d meant that Orn himself had changed in some way, or if a different king had ruled before, and the clans didn’t support Orn. He would ask the next chance he had.
They left the salt grounds by afternoon, and when they neared the Dawn Spire the whole sky glowed rose with evening light. Warmth rushed up from the ground to speed their flight.
The hunting band splintered off as they reached the Dawn Spire, some still bearing meat for their families and the great feast, and others, like Stigr and Shard, glided in toward their dens to rest and preen. From what Shard had gathered by eavesdropping, this was one of the greatest events of the Aesir’s year, second only to the first day of summer when they, like the Vanir of the Silver Isles, chose their mates. That made him think of Brynja, and he wondered exactly what Dagny intended to do to help him.
Shard and Stigr landed just outside their dens, and Stigr broke Shard from his thoughts. “Valdis told me that after the feast they have a meet to plan the winter, the guarding, and division of meat. Since Orn has recognized you, she said you may speak there if you like, and ask what questions you will.”
“All right,” Shard said absently. All around them soft evening light fell gray on the red rock maze. Stigr eyed him skeptically.
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” Shard lied, “I’m just tired. I think I’ll rest before the feast.”
“My prince,” Stigr began. “Before we left for the hunt, you said you’d dreamed.”
“Just dreams—”
“You are Vanir,” he said firmly. “Son of a seer. You’ve had visions of your own. Tell me what you saw.”
Shard took a deep breath and looked toward the highest, distant red spires. The unbelievable acts of Sverin’s rule winged forward, but he hesitated to tell Stigr everything.
“Things we could have guessed without the help of raven dreams, Uncle. Sverin is playing the tyrant, and we must get home as soon as possible.”
Stigr ground his beak. “I knew it. I knew this would happen. We never should have left.”
Shard faced his uncle fully, surprised the argument had taken so long to arise. “Even my father’s vision showed him the Winderost.”
Usually mention of his father cowed Stigr, but not this time. Baldr’s wingbrother snarled and lifted his wings. “That was his vision. I thought you came here to follow it, but we’ve been here through autumn and it’s winter now.”
“We had to make allies here, Uncle.”
“Yes,” Stigr said, keeping his voice low as gryfons winged by above. “But you don’t belong here, and I see you getting more comfortable every day.”
“Not like you I suppose!” Shard burst out. “Winging with Asvander as if he was your own kin, consulting Valdis, you look to be getting along with the Aesir fine. Or am I wrong?”
Stigr looked stricken. Then he narrowed his eye and lowered his head in threat. “I fit in here because I must. I do it for you.”
“I have to know the history of my enemy, the history of my brothers, Uncle, I can’t betray Kjorn again. It will split the pride.”
“The pride is already split,” Stigr hissed, fighting to keep his voice low as Aesir romped and laughed around them, trickling toward the Spire for the great feast. “Those who belong, and those who don’t. Shard, be a king. Declare yourself, reclaim the Isles, get rid of Sverin, keep those who are loyal, and exile the rest.”
Shard stared at him, unable to believe the words, or that Stigr couldn’t truly hear himself saying them. He wondered how long Stigr had wanted to say those things, if his hatred was truly that strong.
“I will be a king,” he managed after a long, tight moment. Stigr nodded, satisfied, and turned to go. Shard finished quietly, “But not a king like Per.”
Stigr stopped, tail twitching, but he didn’t turn, and without a word he stalked into his den.
Shard fought guilt. There was a time when he’d told his uncle nearly everything, when he’d taken Stigr’s advice and listened.
But how can I talk to him about the kind of king I want to be when anger rules him, or ask his advice on Brynja when he hates Aesir, or hearing the dragon’s song in my dreams, or what I saw at home? Why can’t he see my side?
The other possibility, and Shard was keenly aware of it, was that Stigr was right. Perhaps Shard was being weak, and he should have followed the way of the conquerors and simply killed Sverin when he had the chance. Even now, they could have been mending the pride, striving through winter, and none of it would be a question.
He told himself all of that, but the thought of killing Kjorn’s father made him balk. Glad he had kept the description of Sverin’s manic rule somewhat vague, Shard walked into his own den.
A gryfess sat there waiting for him. Shard started, glancing over his shoulder, then back to her.
“If you’re done dallying,” Dagny said, a strange and frightening gleam in her eyes.
“I don’t think this is a good idea after all,” Shard said, glad his den was tidy.
“Why?” She stood and stretched luxuriously, scraping her talons along the floor, then hopped forward to examine him. “Because of your uncle? I wouldn’t worry about him.”
Shard huffed, wondering if she had eavesdropped, and swiveled his head to watch as she circled him. “Why not?”
“He’s being two-faced, that’s why. In case you haven’t noticed him swapping purrs with Auntie Valdis here and there, you can take my word for it, even if he pretends otherwise.” She stopped in front of him and Shard watched her, amused and grateful for her cheer.
“So,” Shard began slowly, “Brynja has told you who we are.”
She tilted her head. “Of course. She’s my wingsister. Don’t worry. Your secrets are safe.”
“Thank you,” Shard said, and she circled him again, examining.
“Anyway, if he disapproves of you courting Brynja, let him know that you know about Valdis. Listen, I don’t mean to be crude, but you need a rinse in the stream. Nothing to worry about, just two days of hunting and dust. Go on and come back and we’ll begin.”
Shard blinked, then let himself laugh, relieved by her attitude. “Yes, my lady.”
Ready for distraction, for anything to take his mind from his trouble, Shard bounded out of his den and flew to the stream. Many other gathered there already, bathing and swapping stories of the hunt. To hear Dagny openly say the word “courting” in reference to Brynja brightened his heart, let him know that she approved. As Brynja’s wingsister it was critical that she did, and gave him a glimmer of hope.
He needed a night of hope. He needed to answer his own heart, to clear his mind, to not worry for a little while what Stigr thought. High above, someone began singing a ballad, and from there the song caught and carried through many voices throughout the spires and dens, all in celebration for the feast about to begin.
Laughing and recounting the tale of the hunt with others bathing in stream, Shard let his heart be light. Tonight, he would tell Brynja how he felt, he would speak reasonably to King Orn, ask openly what they knew of Per, and he would show Stigr that the issue of his kingship could be solved with reason, and without further bloodshed and hate.
37
In the Long Night
“Brother,” Caj huffed as he landed inside the king’s den. His fore claws overflowed with strips of long, dried meat. Sverin paced near the
back wall, stopping to watch Caj. “Meat, for the Long Night, since you won’t sleep.” He paused while Sverin stepped forward, then added, “Preserved with salt from the flats on the Crow Wing isle.”
Sverin chuckled wryly and tried to meet Caj’s eyes. Caj kept his gaze on the wall. If Sverin met his eyes, he would surely be able to tell that Caj lied. “You aren’t happy with me,” Sverin murmured. “Why?”
“You’ve quartered off my mate and daughter,” Caj growled, and dropped the meat at Sverin’s nest.
The Red King didn’t answer right away, but walked to the nest to sniff the meat. Gold and gems flowed over the sides of the nest, long, intricate chains of dragon craft, gauntlets thin enough for gryfon forelegs.
The sight of the treasures used to fill Caj with awe, now everything about them struck bitterness into his heart. They were too heavy. Too bright. They caused the young males of the Guard to squabble.
Wolf pelts bunched among the gold. Caj eyed one massive fur that lined the bottom of the nest in indigo black and pale cream and gray. The pelt of Helaku, dead wolf king of the Star Isle.
“I only quartered off your mate,” Sverin said when he was done examining the meat. “Thyra chooses to stay with her and the white witch. Don’t pretend you don’t see them talking behind my back—and yours.”
Caj ruffled his feathers in displeasure. “Winter is driving everyone mad. I won’t choose between you. Sigrun would never do anything to endanger the pride in winter.”
“The pride?”
“Or you,” Caj amended, finally meeting Sverin’s eyes. Outside, winter wind howled against the dens that riddled the nesting cliffs. “This half,” he laid his claws over several strips of the meat, “are rubbed with an herb to help you sleep. If you desire.”
“So your mate would have me think.”
Caj rumbled deep in his chest and lifted his wings. “I trust my mate. Do you trust me?”
Sverin dipped his head, but gave no more answer. “Will you settle? The sun is setting.”
Caj looked away, hesitating before he answered. “I’ll spend the Long Night with my mate. With the pregnant females who shelter with her.”
Sverin raised one forefoot, surprised. “Why?”
“In my place, you would do the same.” Caj hesitated, then stretched out his wing, prepared to renew his wingbrother pledge, to remind Sverin of his loyalty and friendship. Sverin watched him, hard, then opened his red wing to cover Caj’s.
“Wind under me when the air is still,” whispered the Red King.
Relief filled Caj’s heart. “Wind over me when I fly too high.”
“Brother by choice.” Sverin studied Caj closely.
“Brother by vow,” said Caj, and together both began, “By my wings—”
“My lord!” a voice called from outside the cave, and Halvden swooped in to land, his emerald wings dusted with snow. Caj tried to hold Sverin’s gaze, but Halvden sauntered in, eyed their joined wings and dipped his head.
As if he ever feels like an intruder, Caj thought, stifling a growl. The arrogant jaybird.
“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Sverin folded his wing though their vow was incomplete, and lifted his head. Caj felt the chill settle over his wing when Sverin moved away to speak to Halvden. “What news?”
“Everyone is settled in their dens.” Halvden glanced at Caj, then the meat, and mantled low to the king. “The Vanir are quartered in the old starward dens, the sun turns down, and we are prepared for the Long Night.”
“Any sign of Kjorn?”
At that quiet question, Halvden only bowed his head lower. Sverin loosed a soft noise and paced away to his nest. Caj stepped forward to comfort him and the king’s tail lashed, warning him away. “Caj, be well my friend. Watch over them. I will see you…at dawn.”
Caj blinked at the dismissal, murmured respect and left the den. Halvden did not follow.
Caj launched up, hovered for a moment and landed in silence to the side of the entrance, careful not to stir the snow. Watching Shard fly, he had learned some graceful tricks. He crouched near the entrance, ears lifted to Halvden and Sverin’s voices.
“…provisions, my lord?”
“Yes.”
“From the Vanir witch?”
“From Caj’s mate,” said the king, with too much patience, Caj thought. Can’t he see how every word out of Halvden’s beak is to turn Sverin against me?
The light dimmed as clouds thickened over what was left of the sun.
“Preserved with witchery,” Halvden said loudly. “My lord, since Caj would rather be with others, I would be honored to guard the entrance to your den over the Long Night.”
Caj dug his talons against the rock
“Oh?” Sverin’s sounded relieved. “You won’t spend the Long Night with your mate?”
“She is with the others. How could I leave my king alone?”
Without prompting Sverin said, “The meat is preserved with salt from the flats on Crow Wing.”
Halvden spoke hesitantly. “My lord…”
“Speak openly,” Sverin growled impatiently.
“There are rumors — that the meat is preserved with sea salt.”
Caj’s tail twitched and he glanced around to make sure no one saw him listening. Halvden added quickly, “I’m sure Caj meant well. I’m sure sea salt has no effect on a Vanir, but…”
“I trust my wingbrother,” Sverin said.
“Do you trust his mate?”
Curse him, Caj thought. Curse his mudding, tier-climbing, dead father. I hope he lives forever in a land without sun. Something kept him from plunging into the cave, from challenging Halvden, from ending his slimy, dangerous charade.
Guilt. And fear.
If he fought, Sverin would know that Caj was defending Sigrun, that they’d both lied. He might have faced Sverin alone, but he would lose a fight to Sverin and all of the Guard who were loyal to the king. They would kill him—but not before they killed Sigrun.
Caj shut his eyes, listening hard, but silence stretched in the cave. Sverin didn’t answer, which meant he did not trust Sigrun. Which means he doesn’t trust me, Caj thought. And he shouldn’t. I’m a liar and traitor.
At last Halvden spoke again. “I would be proud to taste it for you, to test—”
“No,” Sverin whispered. “No, leave it. I will fast the Long Night as I have before.”
A soft scuff would be Halvden bowing. The light was almost gone, Caj knew he had to fly soon, or be accused of breaking the king’s law.
“Of course, my lord. Shall I leave you?”
“No,” said the king again, through the gloom. “The sun is gone. We mustn’t fly in the night.”
Darkness loomed. As silently as he had landed Caj leaped from the cliff again and glided to Sigrun’s den. Her worried expression as he made his way through the clumps of pregnant females only hardened his heart. He couldn’t speak to Sverin now, or he’d know Caj had flown in near-dark. He couldn’t speak to Sigrun. He couldn’t do anything.
“Father,” Thyra whispered, coming up beside him. Her warmth steadied him, her strength filled him with pride. Sigrun joined them, they curled up together and listened to the wind and snow.
It was only a quarter mark later that the first of Sverin’s tortured screams broke the night.
“There’s nothing you can do,” Thyra said, when Caj made to move. Caj looked out, silent, and knew that she was right. Sverin’s nightmares were his own.
His family was all that mattered now.
Warbling howls and wolf song rolled off the damp stone. Kjorn lay on his belly in the middle of a tunnel, peering through the gloom. Something moved at the edge of his vision and he twitched, peering around. It felt as if ants crawled just out of sight, drawing his attention. His belly cramped with hunger.
He didn’t know how many days he’d been underground.
The wolves led him on a distracted chase through the tunnels and now there were no marks on the
walls, either from wolf claws or his own talons. He was lost. A wolf’s laugh echoed down the tunnel.
“Silence!” Kjorn shouted.
Laughter answered him. He scraped his talons against the stone and shoved to his feet. Weak with hunger, he trembled and wove a step to one side. He forced himself to walk forward, drawn to the scent of water.
Ahead lay a small cavern, smooth and round, carved by earthfire long ago. A subterranean stream trickled into a thin waterfall down the far wall, splashing into a black pool of water a wingspan long and round. All glowed misty green and gray from the lichens and fungus clumped in rock shelves all around.
Kjorn had no concept of how long he’d been underground, and knew only by his hunger that it had been days and days. At least he’d found water, and he was reluctant to leave it.
Things he wished he’d said and done, harsh regret welled in him, then anger. An image of his mother swelled before his eyes, though it was vague. She’d died their first winter there, when he was only a kit.
Then the only other living kit of the pride was put into his nest to comfort him.
Shard.
I’m a fool. My wingbrother is dead. My father is witless with anger. I have a mate to feed and cannot hunt.
“I won’t die down here,” he whispered. He’d walked to the pool without thinking. For a moment he thought he saw his mother in the water, then realized it was his own dim reflection. His face, stern but softer in angles than his father, looked haggard. His eyes, bright blue, were his mother’s.
“Eyes like the sky,” he whispered hoarsely at the water, “his heart burns like the sun.” The words of the Widow Queen’s song. A Vanir legend. A stupid, mudding song of the Vanir, and his father had tried to take the name of the Summer King and make it Kjorn’s.
Now Kjorn knew why Ragna had sung that song, before their war with the wolves began. To call out a hero. To call out Shard.
Shard, prince of the Vanir.
