by Jess E. Owen
Sunlight gleamed in her mind.
“Why?” Shard asked her.
Pain.
Her great wings flared and he felt caught, swept into the dream.
Warm paws flexed against his forelegs. Claws dug at his skin, not piercing, but reminding him where he was. “Smell the river,” murmured the lioness. “Feel the earth. You are safe here. Remember your purpose.”
The ocean and the priestess had given him strength to practice his dream weaving, but here, the lioness, with four paws firmly on the ground, kept him from forgetting himself. From his safe place in the grass with Ajia, he watched Rhydda’s memories unfold again, and was not distracted by her pain.
The voices of dragons overlapped with hissing and crackling fire.
“Kill him, beast, and you will be beautiful as we are.”
“Find him.”
“They are murderers and thieves—
“—took treasures meant for you . . .” a talon slid down her jaw, then pierced, a sharp pain like a hot coal.
“ . . . and the blessing of our blood. Kill him.”
They showed her a gryfon crafted in ruby and gold.
“Kajar,” Shard told her. “His name was Kajar, but he’s dead. He’s been dead for almost a hundred years.” He didn’t know how to show her at first, so he showed the sun and moon, rising, setting. He showed her green summers and white winters passing.
“Kill him.”
Somewhere outside himself he heard a deep hum, and knew Ajia was keeping him rooted to the First Plains.
“Kill all of them.”
Shard strove to tell Rhydda that all her enemies were dead. He showed wyrmlings hatching, as he imagined them to, gryfons being whelped, growing, dying, two generations of gryfons. He showed her Kajar and imagined a mate for him, their son Per, and his mate and their son, Sverin, a red gryfon like his grandfather.
A great red gryfon, with flashing eyes like gold.
Her thought of the ruby gryfon blended against Shard’s memory of Sverin. A vision of Sverin decked with dragon gold, scarlet in the sun, standing at the edge of the largest of six isles in the starward-most corner of the world.
A dry, wicked rumbling snarl coursed through Shard’s blood, and he and Rhydda turned their faces from the desert to behold the moonlit sea.
~
Shard gasped, jerking from the vision. His heart scrabbled at his chest. He stared directly into Ajia’s eyes, silver in the starlight.
“I have to find Kjorn,” he breathed, standing. “I fear I’ve just . . . I must go. Forgive me. Thank you. Thank you for your help. I don’t think I’ll lose myself again.”
She stood, like liquid moonlight. “I’m glad to have helped you, and I wish you fair winds.”
Her voice held a note of finality. Shard hesitated. “You won’t come and see the fire?”
“I have no need. I will stay in the dark, and keep vigil with Tor in her claw time.”
“You told me you would stand with me if we faced the wyrms.”
She watched him without blinking, and he wondered if she’d seen what he had, in the dream. “And, if we face the wyrms, I will. I wish you good hunting, Star-sent.”
The sharp moon edged her in pale light, and the river leaped and laughed. Her voice sounded like an intonation, warm, thrumming from her chest, from her heart. For a moment, Shard imagined she sounded like Tor herself. “And I wish you peace, Prince of the Silver Isles.”
~21~
The Sunwind Rises
IT WAS NEARLY MIDDLEMARK when Kjorn returned with Mbari to the fire and feasting. Brynja told him Shard had gone to seek Ajia, so Kjorn didn’t worry.
“So long as he comes back,” muttered Asvander, casting frequent glances beyond the fire.
“He’ll come back,” Kjorn said. “You’re fretting like a nesting grouse.”
“He has run off before,” said Dagny, defending Asvander.
“He’ll come back,” said Brynja, so Kjorn didn’t have to. Still, now Kjorn felt uneasy, and found himself checking over his shoulder more often than not, peering into the dark for his friend.
Meanwhile, Mbari told the tale that he’d told to Kjorn, of meeting Sverin and Caj. The lion chief held his pride rapt as he paced and cavorted before the dancing fire, shadows leaping and crowding around him.
“ . . . and so we three, new initiates in our own rights, meet over the carcass of a pronghorn. The red gryfon, red like the morning sun and Sverin by name, the son of a king, stands before me so.” He ramped to his hind legs, crouching back, and the shadows behind him almost looked like great wings.
All the gryfons sat utterly entranced. Behind Mbari, the lionesses hummed a low, pulsing rhythm. Kjorn glanced to Asvander and saw the Lakelander still looking grim, his gaze flicking to the dark.
“And the blue gryfon, blue as the summer sea, Caj by name and from a line of warrior lords, circles round me so.” Mbari dropped to all fours and prowled, drawing back his lips to reveal long teeth. He perked his ears alertly and narrowed his eyes. For as much as a feline could emulate a gryfon, Kjorn thought he captured Caj’s humorless demeanor well enough.
“This is the good part,” Kjorn murmured to Asvander, hoping to distract him from being suspicious of Shard’s intentions. His wingbrother would return. Kjorn knew that. Asvander perked his ears obediently.
“Leaps the red gryfon, Sverin!” Mbari leaped, smacking a paw near the fire to send a splash of smoke and embers skyward.
“Oooh,” purred Dagny appreciatively. The cubs and yearlings yowled and cringed in delight. Kjorn winced, grateful the ground was still damp from rain.
“And I know it is a ruse, and turn rather to meet the blue, Caj.” He spun, fighting an invisible, leaping foe, long claws slashing wide.
Mbari prolonged the tale, re-enacting the fight where he always appeared to think just a moment ahead of Sverin and Caj, and eventually drove them off out of sheer frustration.
During the re-enactment of this portion, a shadow slipped through the gryfons and Dagny shifted near Kjorn to make room for Shard as he returned.
“Did you find her?” Kjorn asked under his breath.
Shard nodded, once, not sitting. “I need to speak with you.”
“Soon,” Kjorn promised, his gaze on Mbari’s performance. “I don’t want to insult him.”
Shard fell silent, standing and watching. Kjorn felt his tail twitching, and was unnerved by his restlessness.
Mbari whirled to a stop at last, all four paws on the ground, and raised his head, pacing. The lionesses’ chant dwindled, softly underscoring the end of the tale.
“. . . and never once did they hear or seem to understand my words, my challenge, then my best compliment on a fight well fought. But I did find the red feather, and kept it as a promise to meet again, as a symbol of my victory and, I hoped, honor.” He stopped before the fire, panting lightly in the heat, and sat, his tail tucking around his haunches.
“Tell them of the feathers?” Kjorn asked, for the gryfons still wondered among themselves whether the feathers were a sign of honor, or battles won.
Mbari shook his mane. “We wear feathers thus, to adorn ourselves from those whose qualities we admire. The lark’s sweet voice, the swallow’s speed, and beauty of the falcon. The gryfon’s mighty strength.” He extended a paw toward Kjorn, and inclined his head in gratitude. Shard sat, at last, perhaps sensing this was going to go on longer than he’d expected. Kjorn nudged him reassuringly.
The steady humming of lionesses ceased, and the silence pulsed loud. The fire popped.
“Now,” Mbari intoned, “bright Tor brings to us the Star-sent, and the son of Sverin, who will be kings. We will help the golden son of Sverin win back his kingdom and drive away the screaming wyrms. We will win back our sacred nights. We will find new honor and brotherhood with gryfon-kind!”
The lions stood and blared their agreement. The gryfons stood, raised their wings, and roared approval. Surprised by the sudden declarations, Kjorn stoo
d, and Asvander stood at his other side, roaring from deep in his chest. This, Kjorn knew, was the kind of ally the Lakelander had hoped for, more so than the passive Vanhar.
Shard stood more slowly, as a show of faith, but raised no shout of his own. Asvander bumped Kjorn firmly, and he raised his head, offering a hearty agreement. The firelight painted bright, warlike eagerness over the faces of gryfons and lions.
“We will fight!” Mbari roared, standing tall, his tail lashing.
“We will fight!” agreed the lions of his band.
“We will breathe the Sunwind, and we will follow the prince to war!”
“To war!”
“With great eagles and gryfons above us, and the painted packs beside us, we will fight!”
“We will fight!”
Kjorn could do nothing—he’d waited too long to speak, and now the fervor drove itself, like the fire. He felt Shard’s reproachful look burning into his feathers.
Mbari raised his face to the sky. “At last we will drive out the enemy, at last, as one, we go to war!”
“To war!”
Kjorn opened his wings, and all the gryfons around him let out a roar boomed like thunder over the First Plains.
“TO WAR!”
“What in all winds was that?” Shard demanded. He trotted with Kjorn away from the fire, for the lion’s theatrics and the war chants grew more intense than the Vanir prince looked ready to handle.
“Don’t worry,” Kjorn said, stopping once they’d reached the taller grass and the dark. “It’s bluster. It’s good, Shard. We’re only cementing our alliance—”
“It’s the Sunwind! The wind of war!” Shard flared his wings, looking as if he might burst from the ground out of sheer frustration. “You said if I could find a peaceful solution—”
“Better they shout it all out now,” Kjorn said, keeping his voice calm, “than arrive eager for battle at the Narrows when all will be meeting. It will be tense enough as it is.”
Shard looked wary, but backed a step away and folded his wings. “I trust you, Kjorn. I trust that you’ll keep your word.”
Struck, Kjorn growled. “Of course I will. I don’t want the battle any more than you do. Now brother, please, tell me what was so urgent.”
In the glow of the fire that reached him, he saw fear steal over Shard’s face. “I saw Rhydda again. She showed me things—Kjorn, I believe the dragons taught her, trained her to fear the sun. I believe—”
“Trained her to fear the sun?” Kjorn imagined the massive wyrm and could not think of anything that could cause her fear. Then he recalled Shard’s descriptions of the dragons—how huge, how intelligent they were.
“Yes. Is it so hard to believe?” Shard’s ears perked, and he searched Kjorn’s face earnestly. “Per and your father taught me to fear the night, to believe that the very moon might burn my wings off.”
“Oh.” Understanding, and ashamed once again by his legacy, Kjorn motioned with a wing for him to go on.
“I believe they can fly just fine during the day, but they’ve been afraid to. She showed me, also, that the dragons showed her a red gryfon and told her to hunt him. Kjorn, I’ve shown her Sverin. I fear—”
“Your Highness.” Asvander’s voice came from the dark, then Kjorn made out his silhouette against the fire glow. “Forgive the interruption. The chief wishes to see you.”
“Thank you, in a moment.” Kjorn tried not to flick his tail in irritation. “Shard, please finish.”
Shard continued, eyeing Asvander sideways, and the Lakelander didn’t bother to leave. “I fear she might have misunderstood me. I fear she will try to find the Silver Isles.”
Utter cold washed Kjorn’s skin. He remembered the terrible wyrms, their Voiceless hate, their deadly claws and sharp spade tails. He thought of Thyra.
“My lord,” Asvander began hesitantly. Kjorn looked at him, his mind alight with fear for his family. “My friends,” he amended, looking at Shard and then Kjorn again. “Surely you don’t believe this dream is so real that you could have shown her Sverin and she understood? And that she could even find your islands? Could this not be just a simple dream, a worry?”
Though Kjorn wanted to believe Asvander might be right, Shard’s feathers ruffed up and he moved a step forward, more aggressive than Kjorn was used to seeing him. “My visions are real, Asvander. These are very real I promise you. Kjorn, it was real.”
“I believe you,” he said, quietly, forcing the words out because they were true. Soft wind off the river brought the rich scent of water and mud. All Kjorn could think of was the Nightrun River in the Silver Isles, his Aesir, his father, Nameless and lost, and his mate, and the terrible nightmare that might even now be flying their way.
“My lord,” Asvander said. “Surely not.”
Kjorn laid back his ears. “Don’t overstep yourself, my friend. It couldn’t hurt to send scouts along to the Voldsom Narrows, to alert the eagles and to begin a search of the Outlands. If the wyrms are gone, then at least we’ve skipped a war here.” He tried to lighten his voice and sounded only dreadful even to his own ears.
“I’ll go,” said Shard immediately. “Let me go, since I can at least speak to Rhydda.”
“After a fashion,” Asvander said, eyes narrowing. “It’s foolhardy for us to send a prince.”
“Then go with him,” Kjorn said, not wanting to lose Shard at his side, but at the same time knowing it was the most logical course. It would be foolish not to send the only gryfon who might be able to get through to the monsters, even if it was a prince. Even if it was his own wingbrother. “Take the Lakelanders, the Vanhar, and go with him. I will find Rok and treat with the rogues, then meet up with you before the dark moon.”
“We can leave tonight,” Shard said, ears lifting.
“No,” Kjorn said sharply. “If the wyrms are still here, they will hunt you for flying at night.”
“If they’re still here,” Shard echoed.
Kjorn watched him a moment, still feeling torn. “We’ll split up in the morning. Asvander, make your preparations tonight.”
“I will, sire. The lion chief still wishes to speak with you.”
“I’ll be along.”
Asvander took that as the intended dismissal and left them.
“Thank you,” Shard said quietly.
Kjorn, distracted by his fears, shook himself and looked at his friend’s earnest face in the dark. “For what, Shard?”
He stepped forward, almost timid, as if they were back in the Silver Isles, and Kjorn a prince, and Shard . . . what he had always been.
“For believing me.”
“I don’t know that I quite believe all of it,” Kjorn said, watching his face in the dark. “But I trust you, and isn’t that good enough?”
“It is. Kjorn, I’ll do my best to end this.”
“I know. Come, let’s tell our company the new plan.”
The rest of the night passed in conversation with the lion chief about the best strategy for land-bound animals in a fight with winged beasts, followed by brief, troubled sleep for Kjorn.
In the damp chill of early morning, they divided their number.
Brynja would go with Shard, but most of her Aesir would remain with Kjorn while he sought out the rogues and their leader, Rok, who was a friend of Kjorn’s. He had arranged to meet them at the new moon, with all those Rok could gather. The Vanhar and the Lakelanders would fly with Shard to meet the eagles and begin scouting the Outlands.
All stretched, spoke quietly, bid their new lion allies farewell until they met again. Kjorn made his goodbyes to Mbari and turned to see Shard loping up to him through the grass.
“Fair winds, brother,” Kjorn said. “All ready?”
“All ready.” Shard bumped his head firmly against Kjorn’s shoulder. “Don’t look so glum. Whatever happens, we face it together.”
Kjorn nodded, once, but the forced cheer in Shard’s voice didn’t encourage him much. “Thank you, Shard. We’ll see you soon.
”
Shard turned to go, and Kjorn raised his wings and crouched, calling the order to fly. But just as their first down strokes beat the grass, a lioness bounded through the gathered pride, breathless as if she’d run for a day.
“My chief! Great chief. A messenger came in the dark hours. I met her, and my huntresses hold her at our starward border.”
Kjorn landed, Shard beside him. The others touched down in rustling disorder.
Mbari, lounging in the grass at the base the bluff where they’d first met him, flicked his ears forward. “What messenger? What do they say?”
“A gryfess.” Her whiskers wrinkled. “She says she comes from the Dawn Spire. She says she bears a message for the son of Sverin.”
~22~
From the Nightward Sea
RAGNA SLICED TALONS THROUGH the foaming chop, barely missing the shining back of a herring. The wind gusted so hard she could’ve shouted a curse and no one would have heard. Instead, she flapped and tucked, flapped and tucked, swooping through the currents of wind over the water. Around her, ten huntresses and two fledges also battled the wind and sea, having more luck than she did.
Shouting drew her ear, then, “My lady—Ragna! Wave!”
Ragna snapped a look over her wing when she should have been flapping, and the rogue swell rolled and leaped like a living thing, caught her wing and chest, and plunged her under water.
Roiling bubbles, drifting ice and startled fish met her blurry, spinning gaze.
Calm! Calm!
Bone-chilling cold grasped her haunches, her face, sliced under her warm, oiled feathers. Think, think, think, keep moving, don’t lock up. What would Stigr say?
She held a breath, letting the wave suck her down and in, then as the tension broke she kicked hard for the surface, fighting numbing leg muscles. The thought of having to fly out brought a shriek of dismay to the edge of her throat, but she managed an encouraging shout instead. Gryfesses clustered overhead, shouting in panic. One spotted her, pointed, and winged closer.
“I’m all right! No, stay at a safe height, I’ll . . .” before another large wave hit, and using the heat of embarrassment to warm her muscles, she pushed through the water with hard kicks and paddled to build momentum.