By the Silver Wind

by Jess E. Owen

  Brynja stood beside him. “I haven’t slept. I haven’t heard anything. Any wyrms, I mean. But maybe the scouts will turn up something when they depart tomorrow.”

  “Maybe so,” Shard said, grasping at the edges of the dream even as it slid from him.

  You should have flown, the raven’s voice cackled. He saw Catori, her face aflame with horror.

  You should have flown home.

  He shuddered. He could not leave Kjorn. He promised not to fly alone. Even if it wasn’t a raven dream, there was nothing he could do yet.

  Outside the den, a lookout called a warning. Shard and Brynja trotted out, ears alert. He found himself absurdly hoping the warning was about wyrms, but the voices were familiar.

  “ . . . Rashard? Where is the prince? I have ill tidings!”

  “Ketil?” Shard’s heart clenched. If Ketil had found them at night, and was alone, that did not bode well.

  Stars formed a glistening corridor over their heads and shed enough light to see Ketil gliding down to meet them. Two of Shard’s Vanir had stood watch on the canyon rim, and they all flew down to land by the river. Waking gryfons peered out of the abandoned wolf dens, and eagle heads poked from nests, silhouetted against the stars. Ketil mantled before Shard, her feathers in disarray, winded and worn.

  “My lord. It was a ruse. Kjorn, Nilsine, and Dagny have been captured, and I fear the warriors who met us meant to kill him. Forgive me for fleeing, but I knew it would be better to escape and tell you than to fight, lose, and leave you wondering.”

  “You did the right thing,” Brynja said.

  Ketil shot her a quick, surprised look, then dipped her head in gratitude. “I fear I was too slow. I got turned around when I flew to lose my pursuers and lost an entire day. We could reach them faster if—”

  “I know the way,” Brynja said quickly. “It will take us only half the night to return there. You did well, you came as swiftly as you could.”

  They continued speaking, but Shard stood in a daze as anger rushed him.

  Captured. Meant to kill him. A ruse.

  You should have flown.

  I have to go.

  Raven wings blended in and around his thoughts, and suddenly he realized he’d been speaking out loud. “I have to go.” Gryfons clustered around him, telling him what to do, telling him he couldn’t go, himself, alone, to the Dawn Spire.

  Shard flung his wings open and ramped to his hind legs, his feathers catching starlight. “No, I will go. This is my doing, bringing Kjorn to this land. I will go. I have unfinished business with Orn and the Dawn Spire.”

  Brynja and the others stood silent.

  Before Shard could speak again, Asvander rumbled, “Not alone.”

  Shard fell again to all fours, looked at Brynja, then at Ketil. “I will—”

  “Not alone, Shard,” Brynja said sharply. “Kjorn went practically alone. Don’t you see what you’re asking of us?”

  “Forgive me, my lord,” Ketil said, “but don’t be a fool. Don’t waste the loyal hearts and talons that you have here.”

  Three heartbeats passed in quiet, and in it, Shard imagined what Stigr would say, what Kjorn would say. Then, he remembered he had promised he would never fly alone again. The wind left his chest, and he ducked his head. Gryfons crept from their dens, listening, catching up in muttered whispers on what was happening.

  “It will be dangerous,” Shard said. “Orn hates me, blames me for the destruction and deaths from the wyrm attack, and perhaps rightly so. The wyrms haven’t shown themselves but it’s possible they would hunt a large band of gryfons flying at night. We—”

  “All haste, Shard,” Brynja said quietly.

  Shard shook himself, raised his head. “Who will go with me?”

  A chorus of voices shouted in the night.

  ~28~

  Kjorn’s Homecoming

  A HORNED ACHE IN HIS skull brought Kjorn around, but when he opened his eyes he saw only darkness. For a moment he feared blindness from the blow to the head, then, feeling foolish, knew it was deep night. He twitched, checking his limbs, scraping his thoughts and awareness back together.

  They’d been tricked. Attacked.

  Captured.

  But not killed. Surely, Kjorn thought, if Mar and his warriors hadn’t killed him, they wouldn’t have killed Dagny and Nilsine.

  Ahead of him, he smelled fresh night air, but heard paws and talons pacing on the rock. Sentries, guarding him. Kjorn pushed up to sit. His head bumped hard rock and he hissed, squirming back down. Testing his wings, he found he could only extend them a third of the way open before they struck rock. A tiny cave then, a cell. Festering indignation roiled under his skin, which encouraged the pounding in his head.

  “Sire?”

  Kjorn shook his head. The voice rang familiar, muffled, and seemed to be coming from somewhere above.

  “Fraenir?” he ventured. Kjorn hadn’t seen the young rogue since he’d gone with Rok to help gather the free exiles scattered across the Winderost. This explained why.

  “Yes, it’s me. Oh, but we’re glad you’re awake.”

  “We?” Kjorn asked, ears swiveling to place the voice. Definitely above, speaking in another cell.

  “Tyr’s foot,” said a new voice, male, also familiar. When Kjorn shifted, a rock dug into his wing. “I thought they’d killed you the way they stuffed you in that cell. Like a grouse, for later.”

  “Rok?” Kjorn leaned forward but didn’t try to crawl out, wary of the pacing sentries. “Where are we?”

  “As far as I can figure, we’re where they take prisoners to forget about them.” His voice came more from the side, an adjacent cell.

  “Rok . . .”

  Rok had pledged his lot to Kjorn, and fought gamely in the Battle of Torches, so he’d almost forgotten the rogue’s ironic and stubborn nature.

  “We’re at the windward-most edge of the aerie,” Fraenir supplied more helpfully. “There are guards everywhere, I know, I tried to fly out once. You can’t. There’s a small canyon, and a wall with cells dug, like a honeycomb—”

  “Pipe down,” barked a third voice, from outside.

  Just as Kjorn contemplated what would happen if he simply crawled out the front entrance of his cell, he heard a pair of sentries stride by again, saw their movement against the rest of the dark. They stopped in front of Kjorn’s cell.

  “He’s alive,” one remarked to the other, his tone dropping with a troubled note.

  “I am,” Kjorn said. “I demand to see the king.”

  Silence. They didn’t bark at him as they had Rok and Fraenir, and Kjorn took that as good news.

  “Or the queen,” Kjorn hissed, shifting. “My mother’s sister.”

  “I’ve tried to tell them all that,” Rok drawled. “But maybe they’ll listen to royalty.” He didn’t sound optimistic.

  “Be quiet, poacher.”

  “Deserter’s son,” chimed the other guard.

  “My father was more loyal to Per than you are to your own mother—”

  “Enough,” Kjorn warned, then looked back to the sentries. “What will Queen Esla do when she learns I’m here? This is a poor way to treat even a rival prince—cowardly, and dishonorable, and Orn will hear it from me. I have forces gathered he cannot conceive of, and when they begin to miss me—”

  “Silence.”

  Kjorn perked his ears as a new speaker joined them. He knew that voice. “Mar.”

  “You remain alive at the king’s mercy,” said the older sentry, approaching through the dark. “We’re instructed to end you, if we deem it necessary.” His tone shifted as he clearly turned to address the other sentries. “Go on now, to your patrol.”

  They obeyed and Kjorn peered hard, seeing Mar’s form shift closer in the starlight. When it fell quieter, Kjorn knew the other sentries had completely gone. Mar stretched out on his belly in front of the cell so he faced Kjorn at eye level, though they could barely see each other in the night.

  “We were c
ommanded to kill you before you reached the Dawn Spire.”

  “So I surmised,” Kjorn said quietly. He hoped Rok remained silent, hoped he understood how vital this moment was.

  “You can’t kill him,” Fraenir said, quiet, and it was Rok who snapped his beak to shush him.

  Mar and Kjorn stared at each other in silence.

  “She’s well,” Kjorn said, answering the sentry’s unspoken question. “Brynja is well.” He decided not to mention Brynja casting off her betrothal to Asvander in favor of Shard.

  “And Valdis? I heard nothing after I helped her escape with Stigr.”

  It took Kjorn a moment, then he realized that Valdis was Mar’s sister. He knew Valdis was Brynja’s aunt, but hadn’t made the connection. So, Mar had helped prisoners escape once before. “She’s also alive and well. They help me to gather forces to fight the wyrms.”

  “I’ve told him all this,” Rok growled from above. “Proud fool.”

  “You never told me my daughter lives,” snarled Mar.

  “I didn’t know you had a daughter, did I? You might’ve asked me the tidings instead of—”

  “Rok.” Little talons tapped along the inside of Kjorn’s skull where Mar’s rock had struck. He flexed his talons against the ground, sensing a delicate opportunity. This gryfon had raised Brynja. Surely his ideals couldn’t be far from hers.

  “Mar,” he said quietly, firmly. “Honorable warrior of the Dawn Spire. You pulled your strike to spare me. You know I am the grandson of Per who was king here, and Orn was set to rule in our absence. He has kept the pride well in wing, but I’ve returned, and it’s clear to me his time is done. You know why I came, aside from seeing to my fellows here.”

  “I’m flattered, sire,” Rok said wryly before Mar could respond. Rather than grate, his sarcasm seemed to make the situation seem less dire. Kjorn wondered if Mar tolerated the chatter because he knew Rok’s family was once of the Dawn Spire, exiled for being too loyal to the line of Per. “But you’ve got to admit you botched this rescue. Have you got my chain? I miss it.”

  Kjorn sighed, and he heard Mar make a soft, grim noise of amusement.

  “So now,” rumbled the sentry, regarding Kjorn frankly and with almost a parental air, “what shall we do?”

  Even Rok kept quiet at the question, and Kjorn could practically hear Fraenir quivering with anticipation through the rock.

  The answer came to Kjorn as surely as if Tyr himself whispered in his ear. “I think,” he said quietly, “we should rather ask ourselves—what do we hope our sons and daughters tell their sons and daughters about us when singers tell our tale?”

  For a moment Mar regarded him levelly. Then he shifted and stood. “I have served the king of the Dawn Spire all my life, and only faltered recently, when I felt his judgment was flawed.”

  “It’s still flawed now, I can tell you.”

  “Rok,” Kjorn said, exasperated.

  “It is,” growled the rogue. “He exiled my father for being too loyal to Per. Mark my words, he’ll do the same once he learns you helped Stigr and others escape, Mar. Maybe he cared about family and loyalty once, but now he’s only clinging to the high tier like a kit on a bone, and can’t see that fellow gryfons aren’t the threat in the Winderost.”

  Mar didn’t answer, but he also didn’t stop Rok from speaking. Following a quiet instinct, Kjorn edged forward in the cell. Mar did not stop him, didn’t raise an alarm. Kjorn crawled out, watching him, holding a breath. When Mar regarded him in silence, Kjorn stood. He was taller than the middle-aged sentry, but Mar was strong, a gryfon in his prime. His silhouette reminded Kjorn very much of Brynja, and, when he thought about it, Valdis.

  When Mar spoke, his gaze wandered past Kjorn, keeping an eye out for fellow guards. “I would like to see my daughter again.”

  “We can see to that,” Kjorn said. “I know your conflict, Mar. You’re an honorable gryfon. I’ve been in your place. I know you don’t wish to betray your oaths, but I ask you to do what you believe is right.”

  Mar’s tail lashed, and he loosed a hard breath, looking around at the cells, then at Kjorn. “If you become king here, will you have oath-breakers in your pride?”

  “Did Orn also not make oaths to protect his pride, his family? How has he kept those, by putting fear into the hearts of those most loyal?” Kjorn hated Orn’s treatment of all of them, by the whole messy affair. It all could have happened much more cleanly. “I will have honorable, brave gryfons in my pride, who tell me when I am wrong.” Feeling bold and sure of himself, Kjorn stepped forward, opening a wing. “And I tell you that, since Orn has pushed this fight, I believe many will be making new oaths by the next sunrise.”

  Mar stared at him, then, to Kjorn’s pleasure, the guard mantled low. “I will be among them. Come with me.”

  Fraenir whimpered. “Hey—”

  “You too,” said Mar. “And Rok. But we must be silent.”

  They walked along a trickling stream, Mar with head held high. Kjorn forced himself not to stalk. Mar said sneaking would only draw attention.

  This way, in the dark, the other sentries would hardly take notice if they saw six patrolling gryfons calmly walking out of the prisoners’ area. They walked in threes—Mar leading Nilsine and Dagny whom they’d also freed, and Kjorn leading Rok and Fraenir an inconspicuous distance behind. Dagny had barely been able to conceal her delight, and begged Mar’s forgiveness for ever doubting him.

  Now they simply walked out of the small canyon that held all the cells, and followed the brook upstream, into the night toward the windward-most border of the aerie.

  One mighty tower drew his eye at the border, precariously tall and carved in odd curves and scoops, carved by the winds since the First Age, until it ended in a platform that was just wide enough for a gryfon to stand on—and one did, a single sentry.

  “The Wind Spire,” Mar said softly to Kjorn. “A place of honor for the sentries of the highest regard to stand their watch.” Lowering his voice, Mar added, “Your father stood there, once, when he was prince.”

  A jolt quickened Kjorn’s heart, and he looked at the spire again, knowing its history, knowing his father’s talons had touched it, knowing it had meant something to Sverin, to Per, and to Kajar. To himself.

  “How fares he?” Mar asked, hesitant. “Your father?”

  Kjorn only shook his head, tail twitching. “I don’t know.”

  They stopped at the outskirts, where two great towers marked the end of the aerie, the rock formations fell away, and the land swept out again into empty desert. They stood in the shadow of the two stone towers, and just beyond them was the Wind Spire, and the sentry.

  “Wait here,” Mar said quietly. Before Kjorn could protest, Mar flew directly to the top of the spire, up to speak with the gryfon there.

  Kjorn turned, looking behind them at the vast towers and pillars of the aerie, outlined now like great, frozen beasts under the stars. It had been foolish to come under Orn’s terms. He wondered how much more foolish it would be to run away in the night.

  Nilsine and Dagny drifted ahead to keep watch, leaving him to his thoughts, alert and waiting for Mar.

  Rok strode up beside him, beak open. Before the rogue could ask, Kjorn slipped the golden chain from around his neck and returned it, wordlessly. His talons brushed the leather thong, on which hung Shard’s fire stones.

  Even Rok seemed to know this was not the moment for a wry comment, and glanced back to the aerie as he slid the chain around his neck. “Good of Mar to help out,” he said, as if he couldn’t stand the silence. “I thought he was a good sort. Not that I doubted you, of course. You would’ve figured it out.”

  “Thank you,” Kjorn said dryly.

  Nilsine approached, her steps deftly silent on the hard earth. “What is he doing up there? We should get moving, sire.”

  “Assuring our escape,” Kjorn said, and the word tasted bitter on his tongue.

  “Ever in a hurry,” Rok murmured. “You haven’t eve
n said hello.”

  Nilsine’s feathers puffed. Kjorn eyed them sideways, knowing their unhappy history of Rok poaching on Vanhar lands, and Nilsine catching him at it. He began to wonder how often Rok let himself be caught on purpose, just for chances to run Nilsine’s feathers the wrong way.

  “If it weren’t for you,” Nilsine said coldly, “we wouldn’t be here.”

  “That’s not really true,” Dagny said as she returned to Kjorn’s side.

  “Be quiet, everyone. Please.” Kjorn’s head pulsed. “We wait for Mar. He’s making sure the sentry won’t sound alarm.”

  He wanted to curl up and sleep for a day. Even as he gazed across the desert night and thought of the relief he would feel at fleeing, his whole heart strained against it. He found himself oddly grateful that Fraenir stepped up next to him, for his size and bearing were very much like Shard—and he remained silent.

  At last Mar returned, gliding back down to land in front of Kjorn. “She’ll cooperate and turn a blind eye while you run. Stay aground for as long as you can,” he instructed. “I’ll stand the watch here to see you off. No one will follow if I can help it.”

  “Thank you, Mar,” Dagny said. “We’ll tell Brynja everything.”

  “I hope to see her soon,” Mar said, eyeing Kjorn.

  “My lord,” Nilsine said, “let’s be off.”

  Kjorn gazed at each of their faces. It was Fraenir’s face, fierce and dedicated, that made his decision.

  “I’m not leaving.” In the blazing starlight, Kjorn could see the surprise that ticked one ear back and widened Mar’s eyes. “This is my home. I’m here now, and I won’t run away like a . . .” he’d planned to say thief, but with a glance at Rok, he said, “like a rabbit, in the night.”

  “You mean to go to Orn,” Mar said flatly.

  “No.” Kjorn glanced around, noting the straggled shapes of kindling scattered across the ground. He brushed his talons over the pouch and the firestones. “I mean for Orn to come to me.”