by Jess E. Owen
“Thank you,” she said to all of them, breaking the silence. The she added in particular, “Halvden, thank you for intervening.”
He glanced at her, then turned his head away. “I should go back to Kenna now.”
“Yes. Go. Caj, will you help Thyra and me to talk everyone down? They do deserve an explanation. We should have done it before, instead of skulking back and forth like thieves.”
“Yes, my lady. Let me fetch Sigrun as well. Both sides have respect for her.”
Feeling relief at the thought of her wingsister by her side, Ragna reminded herself not to try and do everything alone. “Of course, yes. Thank you. I’ll just follow the mob and you can find us.”
She stretched a wing to indicate the group of gryfons who still followed Thyra as the young queen walked along the cliff, calmly answering their questions.
Caj dipped his head, left her, and Eyvin followed him, leaving Ragna alone on the King’s Rocks. For a moment she stood, looking back across the sea. She spied Ollar flying. Standing in the cold spring wind, she watched until he disappeared from sight, to make sure he didn’t turn around.
~12~
Spring Rite
A BLACK SERPENT’S EYE REGARDED him, scouring him for more dreams.
“Rhydda. Did you hunt well? Did you feed your brood?”
A dream formed for him of a night hunt, wyrms soaring across a ragged moonlit plain and coming upon a herd of pronghorn.
Shard, aware at once of his body by the cold ashes of their fire, Kjorn’s warmth at his back, and of the sharpness of the dream, kept his breathing slow, trying not to wake.
“You are mighty hunters,” he acknowledged. “Did you thank them for their lives?” He felt she had returned to her den, was sleeping, was listening to him more clearly because she was dreaming of him. He remembered the pain across his flank, the whip of flame. “What was that?”
Her hard, rumbling growl seemed to shake his body although they were lands apart. Stones jutted up before him. She didn’t want to remember that pain.
“Why do you hunt us?” He showed her herself, winging after gryfons in the night, ravaging the Dawn Spire. With it he tried to impart the feeling of sorrow, but wasn’t sure how to show her.
A tiny flame flicked in her. A tiny spark of understanding, or memory.
Then he saw a gleaming sheet of gold, inlaid with carved ruby. It was the sharpest, clearest thing in her mind, as if she’d seen it the day before.
It took Shard a dumbfounded moment to realize the ruby inlay formed the image of a gryfon. A tall, sleek, gryfon rampant, carved in ruby with eyes of gold. Recognition shot down Shard’s spine.
It was not Sverin or Per, though . . .
“Dragon craft,” he told Rhydda. “That is dragon-made, and the gryfon is—”
“Bright with dragon’s blood,” hissed a voice he didn’t know. It was the same as the one who’d whipped her. “. . . hear me, beast!”
Pain lanced across Shard’s wings, then his face, and he lunged up snapping. He was himself, and Rhydda, and together they roared, rage consuming them at another slash of pain.
“Stop it!” he shrieked, spinning around to see his attacker—
~
“Shard. Shard!”
He came to his feet with a sharp cry, gasping hard in the quiet morning light. His chest burned. His neck and feet ached as if he’d battled a foe, and he glanced furtively at his talons, half expecting to see blood. But they were clean, gray, clenching at the dusty earth.
Kjorn stood before him, wings open as if he’d mantled over Shard protectively, the early sun sparkling on his golden feathers. Shard backed away from him, tail lashing as he scavenged his memory for the end of the dream. It slid away like wet sand and he snapped his beak in frustration.
“Mudding, windblown—why did you wake me?” he demanded, snarling at Kjorn. “She heard me! All winds, Kjorn, she was showing me! I almost . . .” He trailed off at Kjorn’s expression.
The gold prince stepped back, bemused, ears perked. “Shard,” he murmured. “Calm down. I had to.”
“Why?” Then Shard paused. All around him, the rest of their company was awake, some standing, some still laying down, or stopped in mid-stretch.
All stared at him with wide eyes and open beaks.
Kjorn lowered his head, regarding Shard warily. “You were screaming. I’ve never heard such a sound.”
Shard gathered a breath, looking away from the staring group. “I’m fine. It was a dream.”
“Shard—”
“It was a dream. I said the dreams couldn’t hurt me.” He looked around sharply at the rest. They broke their stares, looking away, then leaned in to each other to whisper. Every nerve along his spine prickled, and he took another ragged breath.
“Are you sure?” Kjorn asked sharply. “You don’t know that. You didn’t hear yourself. You sounded in true pain—”
Shard steadied his breath and met his wingbrother’s gaze. “It was a dream, Kjorn.”
Kjorn remained quiet, watching him with a hard look. Shard sought some sight of Brynja, and found her nearby, wings up, one foot half raised. She watched him with steady but calm concern. Unlike Kjorn, she seemed aware that his scream was from the nightmare. Not a nightmare, a memory. Rhydda’s memory.
Shard glanced to the other Vanir, Ketil, her eyes wide as eggs. Another day of flying had seen them to the edge of the Dawn Reach, and this was the first time he’d managed to dream of Rhydda again.
He ducked his head, refusing to feel embarrassed, and addressed Kjorn. “You have to let me fight through the dreams for any hope of speaking to Rhydda.”
Kjorn narrowed his eyes and ruffled his feathers, looking toward the dawn sky. “Very well. But you might have warned us what to expect.”
Shard looked again at his talons, then shook his head. “I didn’t know.”
Asvander loped up to them. “The Lakelanders are ready to depart. All well, Shard? Bad dreams eh?”
“Yes,” Shard said with feigned curtness. “I dreamed I had to serve you as a sentinel of the Dawn Spire. It was horrible.”
Asvander’s tail twitched, then he laughed, and even Kjorn managed a chuckle, though he watched Shard sideways. Brynja and Dagny approached.
“All stand ready,” Dagny reported, glancing at Shard with concern.
“All well?” Brynja murmured, stepping up beside him.
“Yes.” Shard touched his beak behind her ear, grounding himself in her scent. She fluffed her feathers and he promised, “I’ll tell you on the way.”
Kjorn nodded to Dagny. “Then let’s fly. I’m anxious to reach the Vanheim Shore.”
Soon they were airborne, and Shard’s thoughts cleared in the bright wind, tinged with the faintest hint of rain. He spied the shadow of clouds on their horizon.
“Now tell me,” Brynja said, pumping her wings and settling into a glide alongside him.
Shard tucked his talons into his chest feathers and recounted the dream. Off to his other side, he saw Kjorn’s ear flick back, listening over the wind, but the gold gryfon let him speak to Brynja in relative private.
When Shard spoke of the ruby gryfon, Brynja sucked in a breath. “Kajar? The red gryfon,” she said slowly. “It has to be Kajar, doesn’t it? But you told us that the Sunland dragons had the feud with him, not the wyrms.”
Shard tried to remember anything else from the dream, remember exactly what the hissing voice had said. The hissing voice, he became more and more sure, had to be a dragon of the Sunland. “The Sunland dragons I spoke to think that the wyrms were jealous of the gryfons, of the treasures and favor they showed the gryfons. Or at least,” he added grimly, “that’s what they told me.”
Brynja tilted her head, eyeing a stretch of clouds that loomed closer. They flew lower than Shard would have liked, but it was that or go above the clouds, and they preferred to track the landscape. “Yes, I remember. You said that after Kajar went to the Sunland and they had the falling out with the dragons
, the Sunlanders sequestered themselves.”
“Which meant they didn’t go to the home of the wyrms anymore, they didn’t make them treasures, they didn’t show them favor.” Shard thought aloud, hoping he might speak an answer. There was something missing, some link, that would bring sense to the wyrm’s hatred.
There had to be.
Hear me, beast.
“But one wyrm went to the Sunland,” Brynja said quietly, and that was the part that burned his mind like a nettle, and would not be solved. Rhydda had gone to the Sunland, and she had almost told him what happened there.
“And that’s all I know,” Shard said quietly. “The chronicler tried to show me the truth, but we were interrupted. There’s a secret they didn’t tell me. There’s something else. Something else about why the wyrms are angry. It couldn’t be just gold and jealousy, could it? I could swear there was something she thought . . .” He trailed off, ruffling his feathers. “And Rhydda might have been about to remember for me, but Kjorn woke me up.”
“You can’t blame him,” Brynja said. “You didn’t hear yourself.” When Shard didn’t answer, embarrassed and angry, she said firmly, “We’ll figure it out. These dreams, they’re obviously getting clearer. You’re helping Rhydda to remember. Maybe you’ll be able to speak to her, truly, to find common ground and peace.”
They were all the things Shard hoped for, and had said aloud. But hearing another gryfon, his future mate, his friend, talking it over with him, Shard felt many times better. He was not alone. He didn’t have to solve it alone.
“Thank you,” he said, focusing on her stern and hopeful gaze.
“Just keep talking to me,” Brynja said, the gray light bright on her face. “If the dreams get worse, or you feel in danger, you must tell me, tell Kjorn. You’ve been alone for a long time, but you aren’t now.”
That she echoed his thoughts made him laugh. She looked startled, then laughed as well, relieved. “Thank you,” he said again, brushing her wingtip on his next down stroke.
They fell quiet then, and focused on flying as the weather began to turn windy and damp.
The storm unleashed just as they spied the sweeping shore the Vanhar called home. Shard caught up with Kjorn to fly on point, and sentries rose through the gloom and battering sky to meet them.
“Fair winds, Kjorn!” A gryfess shouted through the driving rain. She winged up, looking them over, and Shard recognized her from the Battle of Torches.
“Hail, Nilsine!” Kjorn called. “Fine weather here!”
She laughed, and welcomed them to land, then ordered one of her sentries to take word back to their pride of the incoming force of gryfons.
Shard called to his Vanir for descent, gladly, for they couldn’t fight the rain any longer. With Nilsine in the lead, they sprinted on the ground for shelter. This turned out to be a cliff that soared up majestically from the shore, riddled with dens and little grottos along the bottom. The wind lashed rain against the high ground and over the sea, effectively transforming the cliff into a sheltering roof. It was quiet and warmer under the overhang, with only drumming rain above, like a herd of Silver Isles horses parading on top of the cliff.
An uncountable number of Vanhar gathered on the beach, laughing, apparently in buoyant celebration.
Kjorn shook himself, dousing Shard with his drops, and Shard returned the favor, puffing up cold feathers away from his skin. A glance over his shoulder showed his Vanir looked more invigorated than worn.
“What’s the occasion?” Kjorn asked Nilsine, just before a deafening crack of thunder. All fell silent, and heads turned expectantly toward the sea. Skyfire darted in silver claws over the white-capped waves. A cheer rose, laughter, and Shard chuckled, perking his ears.
“Spring rite,” Nilsine said, looking over their group. “The first true thunderstorm of the season. Winter is leaving us. This year, Tor roars like a lion. A good omen.”
Rather than look happy, Kjorn’s expression darkened. “How long until the Halflight?”
“Two moons, no more.” Her exuberance calmed. “Ah, yes. You think of your mate. Don’t worry, my lord. We’ll return you to her in short order.”
Shard would’ve reassured him too, but he didn’t feel so certain. Most of the Silver Isles gryfesses would whelp on or near the Halflight, the sun’s turn toward spring. Thyra had demanded Kjorn be there for the birth of his kit, but Shard feared his task in the Winderost would take longer.
The gold prince tipped his head stiffly, politely. “Yes. But I’ve been remiss. Nilsine, you never received a proper introduction to my wingbrother. Rashard, son-of-Baldr, future king of the Silver Isles. Shard, please meet Nilsine, daughter-of-Nels, sentry of the Vanhar and lately a steadfast companion and friend.”
To Shard’s surprise, Nilsine mantled for him as she would a prince.
Of course, I am a prince. . .
Somewhere, he could imagine Stigr grumbling. He must stop looking surprised at acts of deference. At his back stood loyal Vanir. He would be a king. He dipped his head to her. “It’s an honor. Kjorn told me all you did for him during his hunt for me in the Winderost, and I thank you for your part in the Battle of Torches.”
“I was honored.”
Shard nodded toward the rest of their companions. “I think you’re acquainted with Brynja, daughter-of-Mar, of the Dawn Spire. But do you know Asvander, from the Ostral Shores?”
The gryfesses inclined their heads to each other. Asvander stepped forward with ears perked, but then Dagny moved in front of him, wings lifting as she eyed Nilsine.
Shard saw Kjorn mask a look of amusement. “And this is—”
“Dagny,” Nilsine said, looking from Asvander to her. “I remember. Well met!”
“Well met,” Dagny said, and flicked water from the end of her tail. To Shard’s delight, Asvander leaned into Dagny just a little, perhaps reassuring her that he didn’t plan to wing off with the sentry from the Vanheim Shore.
Ketil and her daughters came forward then, and thus continued a long and cheerful round of introductions as the rain clattered and thunder boomed.
Nilsine drew Kjorn and Shard aside. “I hope you will not feel offended,” she began quietly. “Our elders won’t meet with you during the spring rite, but they know you’re here, they welcome you. And they look forward to speaking at sunrise, weather holding.”
Kjorn eyed the rain and shivered. “Well enough. Thank you. I don’t know that any of us want to stand around talking in this. While we’re here, I ask another favor.”
She regarded Kjorn with her strange ruby eyes. “I’ll do anything I can to be of service.”
Kjorn nodded to Shard, who straightened. “My wingbrother hopes to speak to your priestess.”
Nilsine looked between them curiously. “Oh?”
“I was hoping she could tell me more about the vala,” Shard said. “And . . . their powers.”
“I am certain she would be glad to speak with you.” Nilsine inclined her head to both of them. “But for now, rest, eat. Let us revel in mighty Tor.”
“Indeed,” Kjorn murmured, and a timely roll of thunder punctuated their words.
Supper was fish, and more fish, a variety and amount which the Vanir and Lakelanders fell on with enthusiasm, while Kjorn looked rueful.
“You’ll get used to it,” Shard said.
“It isn’t the taste. It’s what it reminds me of.” His ears slicked back, and his blue eyes shadowed, and Shard thought of what fish had meant to them, once. The act of hunting in the sea, forbidden by Sverin.
“It’s over,” Shard said quietly. They lounged now in a semi-private grotto carved into the cliff side, with a good view of the sea and the surrounding beach. Vanhar fledges and some of the Vanir ventured out into the evening to frolic in the rain, and this cheered Shard. “It’s all over.”
“But it lingers,” Kjorn said, his talons sliding into the meat of the fish with vengeance. “Like an illness. Your exiles here, that was Per’s doing, Sverin’s doi
ng. My bloodline, Shard. It doesn’t go away. There will be a lot of work to be done here, and in the Silver Isles.”
“And we’re doing that work. You’re doing all you can now. We will have peace, brother.”
“Because of you, Shard,” he said harshly, and Shard tensed. Kjorn sighed, tail dusting the sand. “Don’t you understand? None of this is because of me, not even the allies I have here. You laid a path for my coming. And before that, you had a chance to kill my father. And you didn’t. I can’t say I would have done the same, in your place.”
“Not before, maybe.” Shard studied his friend, the long, strong lines of him, the exhaustion. “But now you would.”
Kjorn flexed his talons in the sand and met Shard’s gaze. “Yes. Now, I would do what I understand was a great act of honor and courage on your part.” His eyes searched Shard’s face, the whole history of their lives together, and their lives apart. “But only because of you.”
“You were never your father,” Shard said quietly. “I have faith you would have been more just.”
“Maybe,” Kjorn sighed. Then, with a stubborn and mischievous air added, “Because. Of. You.”
Shard laughed, and Kjorn watched him. He saw, Shard thought, all they’d both become in the last year.
One year. This upheaval and change has taken course over one year.
One hundred years since Kajar had flown to the Sunland. Ten years since Per had conquered. And one year since Ragna sang the Song of the Summer King to the pride in the Silver Isles. So much could happen in a year. A lifetime could happen, Shard thought. Some lifetimes did happen.
Hikaru. With a talon of piercing fondness and regret Shard thought of the Sunland dragon, who would be fully-grown by summer, and old by the time the first autumn leaf dropped free. I shouldn’t have left him. I should have stayed. I should have demanded he come with me.
“What is it?” Kjorn asked quietly.