by Jess E. Owen
“Oh good,” Hikaru said with relish.
As they wound through the pillars, Ume explained to Hikaru everything she’d told Shard about the pillars and the history.
Which was why, when they were still well within rows of silver columns, Hikaru looked indignant when Ume stopped before a pillar of gold.
“This one doesn’t match.”
“Because it is the Tale of the Red Kings,” Natsumi said, touching Hikaru’s wing. “It’s important, it must stand out.”
Hikaru began reading the column, and his expression narrowed to concern. “Shard, this looks just as my mother told you.”
Ume nodded. “The arrival of Kajar, as it is told to every young dragon today, as it was told to Amaratsu, as she told it to you, Shard.”
Shard, his hopes shrinking with each step around the golden tale, saw that the chronicler of Kajar’s time had recorded the details faithfully, and it was as Amaratsu had first told him. The gryfons were turned by the treasure into witless, fighting beasts, mad with greed. Kajar betrayed a dragon, and killed her.
After all that had happened, after speaking with Groa’s spirit, Shard could barely believe it.
He didn’t believe it.
He looked around. The golden tale was standing in the middle of a host of silver columns, in the Age of Silver. It didn’t make sense.
Unless…
He looked to Ume with growing understanding, and she rose slowly to her full height, three times as tall as both the young dragons and towering like one of the pillars over Shard.
“Natsumi, you were told, as all young ones are told, that this tale is in gold, and all others in silver, because it must stand out. And perhaps we chroniclers feared for ourselves too greatly, and would not stand up to the emperors throughout the ages. But I am near the end of my life. I have nothing left to fear. And you were right, Shard. It is the duty of the chronicler to keep separate the truth,” she set a claw against the highest golden panel she could reach, “from the lies.”
In one fluid movement she slashed through the gold and they saw it was only thin, delicate gilt, not as thick as the panels in the Age of Gold. It fell away like peeled birch bark and underneath, in aged silver, glittered a completely different tale.
~ 36 ~
The Ostral Shore
THEY BID FAREWELL TO the painted wolves at dawn.
“Good hunting to you,” Kjorn said to Ilesh, bowing his head.
“It has been interesting.” The painted wolf tilted his head. “Meeting gryfons so willing to befriend and hunt with us.”
“Perhaps we’ll meet again,” Kjorn said.
“I would not be opposed,” Ilesh said. “Brynja, of the Dawn Spire, and Nilsine, of the Vanhar, you are also considered friends of the Serpent River Pack. You, and those who fly with you. Fair winds, as you say.”
“Good hunting to you,” said Nilsine.
“When you see Shard again,” Mayka said, slipping forward from the pack, “tell him I remember his courage.”
“I will,” Kjorn murmured, and hoped that would be soon.
As the gryfons turned and took to the air, wolf howls followed them aloft, a warbling song on the chilly dawn wind.
“Impressive,” Nilsine said to Kjorn, soaring up to his level, “how you’ve befriended the creatures you’ve met so far.”
“It was needful,” Kjorn said, turning his gaze starward.
“It was impressive,” Nilsine said. “The Vanhar will be glad to know that not all Aesir are as arrogant and closed minded as we thought them to be.”
Kjorn glanced at her sidelong. “Thank you?”
She dipped her head, expression quirking. He realized her joke, and laughed, and Brynja flapped up ahead to lead them to the Ostral Shore.
“Hail! Hover and state your business!”
The gryfon sentry called from a good twenty wing strokes away.
They flared, wings beating in the smoky air.
From where they flew, Kjorn could see the great, mud-red lake that gryfons of the Dawn Spire called the Ostral Shores, but that was all. Deep, smoky haze hung low, obscuring the rest of the landscape, and Kjorn marveled to think that the fire and ash of Midragur still fell. With a chill, he looked starward to the mountains he couldn’t see through the smoke, and he wondered about the wyrms. And Shard.
“State your business in the Ostral Shores, Outlanders!”
“We’re no Outlanders,” Kjorn called, though they all looked a mess after hunting, eating, and sleeping in the mud with Mayka’s pack of painted wolves. Still the encounter and the time spent had been worth strengthening their friendship, he thought.
“We are Kjorn, son-of-Sverin, Brynja, daughter-of-Mar and her huntresses, once of the Dawn Spire, and Nilsine daughter-of-Nels, and her warriors of the Vanheim Shore.”
The sentry, flanked by two others, glided forward, looking them over skeptically. “What’s your business here?”
In the distance, Kjorn made out another patrol of three gryfons, winging toward them in the haze. They must look threatening, their ragged band of two score warriors and huntresses.
“We seek Asvander,” Brynja called, circling slightly below Kjorn, for it was difficult to maintain a hover just for conversation. “We’re friends, allies.”
“Friends also to Caj, who is the son of Cai, once of the Ostral Shore,” Kjorn added, feeling it couldn’t hurt, especially if Asvander was still estranged from his family as Brynja had hinted. “Is his name known here?”
The sentry’s eyes widened and he looked them over again. Before he could speak though, a strong male voice boomed from the haze, and they all looked to the newly arrived sentries.
“His name is known, and he has friends. And so do you.”
Below Kjorn, Brynja laughed breathlessly as the head of the new wedge of sentries emerged from the haze, long, broad wings sending the smoke swirling away.
“Asvander!” Only it was not Brynja, but Dagny who whipped forward from the hunting band to collide with the big gryfon and send them both toppling down through the air.
“I thought Brynja was his betrothed,” Nilsine murmured, winging up beside Kjorn.
Brynja looked more amused than jealous at the display, which strengthened Kjorn’s suspicions.
“I have a feeling her heart is elsewhere,” he said quietly, but was glad enough to have a friendly welcome. “But it looks as though Asvander won’t suffer for it.”
The sentries made room for Asvander as he and Dagny recovered and flew back up to join Kjorn, Brynja and Nilsine.
“Greetings, honored friend,” Kjorn said.
Asvander took his measure, and his gaze flickered. Kjorn had a feeling the big warrior rarely saw a gryfon larger than he was, but Kjorn had him by a head and was a bit broader besides.
“Did I hear correctly, the son of Sverin? Grandson of Per?” Asvander looked from Brynja, expression softening, back to Kjorn, as if calculating. “Did Shard bring us a new king, after all?”
“Asvander,” Brynja said quickly when Kjorn made a surprised noise, “we have much to discuss, and much to tell if the Lakelanders will offer us shelter.”
“Of course we will.” Asvander chuckled, his gaze roving over their assorted band, and banked to lead to the way to the lake.
“So I’ve been here,” Asvander said quietly. “I fled just as you did, Brynja, and my family accepted me back after hearing of the wyrm’s attack on the Dawn Spire.”
They rested at the edge of the great, red lake, and watched Nilsine and her Vanhar band swoop and dive over the water in the morning light.
Brynja nodded. “And do you know if Shard—”
“There’s been no word,” Asvander said, and Kjorn pushed himself up to pace along the damp, pebbly sand. “No word at all of Shard. I believe Valdis lives, but she wouldn’t leave Stigr’s body. He was in a bad way—the blood, the wing. I don’t know if Orn let the healers treat him, or not.” He watched Kjorn. “I sent out scouts to the Dawn Reach to see if Valdis p
erhaps went there, if she was not taken prisoner for treason, but I haven’t heard back.”
Brynja sighed in frustration, gazing out over the lake. “I should have gone to the Reach myself, but I thought Shard would come back from the Outlands, so I stayed…”
“You did the right thing,” Dagny said. “The only thing we knew to do at the time. And now, we’ve met Kjorn! What better outcome?” The brown gryfess sat closest to Asvander, Kjorn noted, and he wondered exactly how strong Brynja’s betrothal to Asvander remained, now that they were all exiles from the king who’d arranged it.
“She’s right, Brynja.” Asvander extended a wing to lay against Brynja’s back. “And I expect the scouts back any day with word. I expect they might even bring more scattered exiles. I hear Orn was on a spree of exiling and threatening executions, though most escaped his wrath.”
“Most?” Brynja asked, and Dagny left Asvander’s side to nuzzle her wingsister.
“It will all be well in the end. We have strong friends,” Dagny murmured. “Strong families. And I believe that Shard will find us again, and I believe that he had a plan.”
“Should we travel to the Reach ourselves?” Brynja asked, with a glance to Kjorn.
Before he could answer, Asvander stood, with a sharp grunt of negation.
“No. You’ve only just arrived, and look at the state of all of you. Rest here. Be patient. We must stay together, now that we’ve found each other again.” His gaze traveled from the Vanhar over the lake to Dagny, Brynja and Kjorn. “Do you agree? Now is not the time to scatter again on the wind. Stay here. Eat well, be safe. We’ll know more soon.”
Kjorn stretched. “I hate to wait, but I believe you’re right. And while we wait,” he said, looking from Brynja to Asvander with narrowing eyes, “I’d like to hear more about this new king Shard promised you.”
Brynja’s gaze darted away, and Asvander’s booming laugh rolled across the water.
~ 37 ~
Wingbrothers
SNOW DRIFTED DOWN AS Caj crept toward the slash in the rock face that he knew was a cave. A cave where, if Halvden was right, Sverin still sheltered. The mountain rose up sharply from the clustering boulders and the hump of rock cliff, the Nightrun river flowed sluggishly two leaps away, and Caj imagined the whole area would flood with the spring runoff. The steep mountain face cut the wind and terraces of overhanging rock created an area of shelter in front of the cave where the snow rose only ankle deep.
Good ground to defend, Caj thought admiringly, then less cheerfully, Good ground for a fight.
He paused, ears flicking forward as wind whispered on the rock and, more distantly, rushed through the pine boughs.
His plan was simple. Without other gryfons to make Sverin feel threatened, Caj would not offer a fight, but speak reasonably, calmly, until Sverin came to himself again. He wouldn’t engage, but defend, retreat, and keep talking until Sverin came to.
Deer bones and frozen clumps of fur littered a wide swath around the cave in the manner of a wild thing, messy and uncaring. The memory of Sverin’s blank, dead stare made Caj shudder.
He had never seen a gryfon so far gone, so fully witless and lost. There had to be something that drove him to that other than grief. During the Long Night, Ragna had hinted there was something that had passed which Caj knew nothing about, some secret that haunted Sverin not with fear or anger, but with guilt.
If only Sverin would trust him.
Trust me, he thought, bellying forward like a mountain cat, his every movement muffled by snow, ears perked and every sense taut. Snow curtained the entrance to the cave with white and deadened any sound.
It wouldn’t do to surprise him. So Caj, a safe three leaps from the entrance where the snow became less deep, stood tall, shook the snow from his body and called out.
“Son of Per! Sverin, my wingbrother. Father of Kjorn. Come out and face me.”
Wind sent the falling snow into swirls and Caj ducked his face against it, stepping forward into the scant shelter of the rock, though not near enough to the cave to appear threatening.
He checked over his shoulder, wary that Ragna’s warriors might finally have gotten the true location out of Halvden, but the valley lay empty and white. Too, he checked that the Red King was not stalking him from behind or above.
It had taken him a full day and a half to travel the length of the valley and he’d meant to watch the cave entrance to confirm Sverin’s presence, but fallen asleep, dead to the world, until a raven woke him. So he wasn’t sure if Sverin was even in the cave.
“I’ll own my part,” he said. “I haven’t been the wingbrother I should have. I lied to you and I withdrew, and I confess that and ask forgiveness. Sverin,” he called, “let’s make amends. Let us be the friends and wingbrothers we once were. The two fledges who spread our wings on the lake shore—”
A low, warning hiss cut him off.
Caj forced himself to remain still, his tail low, his wings closed. He had to remind himself it was a good thing Sverin was in the cave, but he had never fully realized the fear a gryfon of such size and might could instill, for Sverin had always been Caj’s trusted friend.
Is this how the young half-bloods felt? How Shard felt?
“I hear you. Now hear me. Hear my voice, and remember your own.” Snow coated his wings. Another quick hiss, then a rumbling growl. Caj detected movement within the dull black of the cave and he lowered his voice further, as if soothing a witless thing, or a nestling.
“I’m not here to fight, and I will trust you not to. I trust you, Sverin, as I haven’t allowed myself to since we conquered these isles.”
He’d had enough time to ponder the problems between them on his long hunt, and he poured it out to Sverin, speaking as he hadn’t for years. “Your father’s stubbornness, our own fears, this strange land, and torn loyalties made us fearful of even each other, of being honest with each other. But no more.”
The movement took form, stalking forward. Wind gusted and pelted the red gryfon with snow as he emerged, less aggressive than cautious and curious, like a wild cat, his ears twitching at Caj’s voice.
Caj stood perfectly still, not advancing, not retreating. “Sverin.” In vain he searched for a sign of recognition, of comprehension. In all his years he’d seen nothing as terrifying as the blank stare which greeted him. “Brother. Tell me what haunts you. Trust me, as I couldn’t, but should have, trusted you with the truth about Shard.”
Sverin’s gold eyes held on him, empty, watching. Fearful, Caj realized. As fearful as a wild thing.
“Tell me now,” Caj said softly, “what Ragna knows, but that you could not tell me before.” At those words, something kindled in Sverin’s gaze. Catching a careful breath, Caj forced himself not to step forward. “Whatever it is, my king, my friend, I am your servant. I am your wingbrother. We’ll fly this wind together.”
He fought not to raise his voice, to plead, to fly forward and pound Sverin’s head until he came to recognition.
“You know me. Stop hiding in fear. I thought you’d be glad to see me. Halvden told you I was dead, but that was a lie. You see me here, whole and alive.”
He clung to the fact that Sverin did not advance, did not attack, rather seemed attentive to the careful, low timbre of his voice. So he kept talking.
“Oh, Sverin, I’ve been thinking for days what to say to you, to make you remember yourself. Do you remember, our third summer as wingbrothers, when your father forbade us from returning to the Ostral Shores to watch the mating flights? He said the celebration was too wild, but I think he feared you and Elena would wing off together without another word. Too young, too feckless,” he parroted Per’s rough words, the memory fresh and alive from their time as initiates. Something flickered in Sverin’s face at the mimic of his father’s voice.
“So…” Caj edged a step closer and Sverin bent his head low, ears flat. Caj stopped, but did not retreat. “You don’t frighten me. You remember the story. You drenched poor old Ringvul
in chokecherry juice to dye him red, fruit that you’d made me smash, and swore him to silence. My talons and his feathers were stained for a fortnight. You commanded him to your sentry post at sunset, and he looked red enough to fool your father for as long as it took us to sneak away—and off we went. Do you remember?” Caj murmured, and when he slipped another two, slow steps forward, Sverin didn’t move or growl. “Do you remember Elena, sunrise by the lake? She told me once, that was the very moment she knew she would be your mate. Not because you were a prince, not because she thought you were handsome, strong, or brave, but because you dyed a poor old sentry red and disobeyed your father so you could have an adventure together.”
Sverin advanced one step, then another, out of the shadow of the rock, watching Caj. Caj was within leaping distance, and he held his ground there. “Have you ever told Kjorn that story?”
The light in the valley did not change, but a warmth seemed to come to Sverin’s face, as if the sun touched his eyes, as if Tyr awakened the knowing part of him.
Then a warrior cry cracked the frozen air.
Two half-blood Vanir, whom Caj hadn’t seen blended with the rock and snow, lunged out and dove at Sverin.
“For Einarr!”
“For the Queen!”
The light winked out of Sverin’s eyes and his ears laid flat to his skull.
They’d waited there, waited for Sverin to be distracted and emerge fully from the cave. Caj knew them. His own students, young, vigorous, honorable. Stupid.
Sverin snarled. Even through his fury, Caj thought he discerned words.
“A trap?”
The Red King ramped up to meet their dive, hissing shrilly with fury.
“No!” Caj broke out of his shock and surged forward. “Andor, Tollak, fall back!”
For half a breath he and Sverin stood side by side, flared wings eclipsing.
Tollak, lean, mottled gray and falcon-faced, banked hard, surprised by Caj and Sverin’s mixed ferocity. Andor, heavier and near black in color, swerved, but came around to redouble and aim for Sverin.