by Jess E. Owen
The regretting, waiting Widow Queen.
Perhaps, in this, the Aesir had the right of it.
“Let us mourn,” she said, haltingly extending a wing to cover him. He thrust up his wings to shrug her off. “My friend,” she continued. “Let us mourn, and then move on. There’s much to be glad for. You have a son, still. You have a new daughter, who will bear Einarr’s kit. And Eyvin—”
“That is all true,” he said gruffly, not looking at her. “But not Eyvin. I’ve begged her forgiveness. She won’t give it. She thinks I exiled myself on purpose. I cannot be with her now. I hope . . . I hope she returns with the Aesir to their land.”
Never in all her days had Ragna heard of a mated pair of gryfons parting ways except by death. Such a bond was unbreakable in Tor’s eyes. Sigrun had once said she thought love was like a broken wing, to be set and re-set after such tests and trials, and grow stronger at the broken points.
Ragna wasn’t sure she could agree. How many times could a wing be broken and re-shaped until it lost its power, and never could fly true? If Vidar and Eyvin had changed too much, perhaps they couldn’t love each other anymore.
Ragna wondered, then, if the opposite were true of enemies.
A stiff breeze gusted off the sea, and the skua’s words came back to her.
She embraced her new thoughts with relief. “I believe it may almost be time for those decisions. The thief told me he saw creatures flying over the sea, a great number of them. It could be Maja, or even Shard.”
Vidar looked at her, ears flicking back. “Creatures, though? He didn’t say gryfons?”
The question Ragna had dismissed before rose again with his simple observation. “I . . . thought he’d said it that way just to vex me.”
“That sounds more like something a raven would do.” He studied Ragna thoughtfully, then looked out over the ocean, squinting against the gray glare on the waves, his voice dipping with foreboding. “Whatever he meant, I’m sure he meant it truthfully.”
Feeling suddenly chilled by the rising wind, Ragna looked out toward the water as well.
How far, by your reckoning?
Not far.
Not far for a small seabird was not far at all, for a gryfon.
“My lady,” Vidar murmured, and pointed his talons windward. A creeping cold gnawed up Ragna’s muscles as she followed his indication, and along the horizon, she spied a dark line. She would have called it clouds, but it undulated with the movement of living things. It might have been a mass of gryfons, but she knew in her heart it was not.
She knew the flight of gryfons, even an unorganized group, but she knew not this movement, this slower, writhing mass of bodies flying hard toward her islands.
“What in all blazes,” Vidar breathed, pressing protectively closer to her. It was tempting to stand there, to stare, to wonder, as one might halt in the path of an avalanche to behold its might even at the risk of burial.
Queen, her heart reminded her in a whisper. Act.
“Come,” she said, steeling her voice. “We must tell everyone. We must go. Now. Find Thyra, and Sigrun, and bring them to Sverin’s den.”
She didn’t know the name of the nightmare flying their way, but she had a feeling that an Aesir would.
“Yes, my lady,” Vidar said, and took off. Ragna followed. A few gryfons stood on the cliffs, looking out over the sea. She heard remarks of wonder and fear as they, too, spied the dark mass.
Flaring hard, Ragna dropped onto the rock landing outside Sverin’s den. The guards at the mouth of the cave, Andor and Halvden, startled aside.
“My lady—”
“Fetch Caj,” she said. “Bring him here, and any elder Aesir you see along the way.” When they blinked at her, she gaped her beak and flapped her wings once, raising her talons. “Do I mumble?”
They sputtered and jumped from the cliff. The wind of their beating wings swept across Ragna’s face and back and she shouted into the den.
“Sverin! What blight is in my skies? Sverin! Come out now, and see what I see!”
So bright was the day, and so dim the cave, she barely saw him until he emerged from the back of the nest, where he’d clearly been sleeping. He slept too much. It wasn’t healthy for a grown gryfon to sleep so much, but then, she thought, what else was he to do?
After his atonement, as Thyra called it, when he’d finally heard the last of those who wished to lodge complaints against him, he barely stirred from his nest but to eat. Ragna didn’t pester him after that, and got her reports on his sanity from Caj.
“My lady?”
She’d never seen him look un-regal, except in his madness, but now his feathers pressed flat to one side of his neck and a small twig stuck out from the long feathers of his chest. Ragna managed not to slap it aside so he would look more like a warrior, more ready to deal with whatever was heading their way.
He shook himself, rustled, sleeked again and gazed at her, puzzled and wary. They had barely spoken since the end of the atonements.
“Come here, and look. What do you see?” She resisted the urge to shove him, not that it would have done any good. He looked as though he weighed much more than he did, for how slowly he picked himself across the stone floor. But he stepped outside with her, and narrowed his eyes against the light.
“You haven’t come in days.” His voice barely registered, low and rumbling.
“Look, look, there.” Ragna jerked her beak. Standing a wing-length away from him, she watched his neutral face, then looked out to the horizon, peering at the strange, squirming shadow.
“Clouds,” he rumbled. “The shadow of a storm.”
“It isn’t,” she hissed. “Look at it. What is it?”
His crimson hackle feathers, those that faded like sunset fire in scarlet on his back and wings, slowly ruffed. “Clouds.”
“Son of Per.”
His black talons clenched so hard at the rock she thought they would break. “It isn’t possible, they don’t fly in the day.”
“Is this your scourge?” Ragna backed away from him, seeing a change stealing over his face, seeing horror seal back his ears and turn the blacks of his eyes to pin pricks. “Did you bring this to my home? What is it, Sverin, speak!”
His name was slipping from him, Ragna saw. He didn’t hear her as he backed away, back toward the darkness of the cave. “They only fly at night, this can’t be—”
“This is your curse?” she hissed. “You brought your curse to my islands, and you will not flee it now! Stand and be a king! Be the king you never were.” She leaped, and without slicing with her talons, slapped him across the head.
In shock he fell back from her, and stared, half crouched. In a fight, she was no match for him, for any Aesir, but he looked cowed, amazed she would touch him.
“Sverin,” she growled. “Son of Per. Father of Kjorn. Once-king. You will not flee this fight again. Tell me what flies our way.”
He stared at her, and she knew he saw her, heard her, that he still knew his name. But the breath came from him in hard gasps, his wings twitched under golden chains and he seemed to have lost his voice.
“For Kjorn,” she said, and watched light come into his face again. “For Kjorn, Sverin. For your pride. Tell me what flies our way.”
His beak tapped together. He stepped toward her, looking grateful, his gaze fixed upon her face—as if to look away, or to look outside again at the encroaching monsters—would drive him back over the edge. “I can’t,” he breathed.
Then he didn’t have to. In that moment, Andor and Halvden returned, and at their heels flew two elders of the Aesir, Vidar, Dagr, and Sigrun. Shuffling on the rocks outside told Ragna that Caj and Thyra climbed down the cliff trail.
Sigrun found Ragna, pressed her wing against Ragna’s. “Dragons,” uttered the healer. “My sister, my queen. The curse of the Aesir will fall on us.”
“We must flee,” said Caj, and to hear those words from him, above all gryfons, sent quivers of terror down Ragna
’s back.
“Surely not,” she said. “We can fight—”
“Do you want to know what Ollar died of?” Caj snapped.
Ragna and Sigrun looked at him, and Thyra, whose lovely lavender face was drawn and pale around the eyes, her feathers sleek as a threatened serpent.
But it was Sverin who answered. “Fear,” he hissed. “He died of fear. We will all—”
“Silence,” barked one of the elders. “It was your cowardice that brought—”
“Must we really run?” Thyra asked her father. “We have Vanir now, more warriors, surely—”
“We cannot fight them!” Sverin said, his gaze wholly trained on Ragna. “Tell them this is foolish, tell them . . .”
“Stay with us,” Ragna said to him over the sudden chaos in the den, the two elders arguing, Halvden and Andor stepping from their posts to listen, Caj and Thyra arguing. “Sverin.” Ragna couldn’t look away from his face.
“My brother.” Caj’s calm voice and raised wing silenced the din.
With relief Sverin looked at him, away from Ragna, and for a moment it was as if the sun went behind a cloud, so intense had his attention been on her. Ragna drew away to listen to Sigrun, to hear what the other Aesir had to say, since Sverin had failed her.
“Tell me exactly what they are,” she said to Caj.
The big Aesir, his wing draped over Sverin’s back, spoke quietly, his voice flat. “Great beasts, my lady. Reptile, winged, as long as ten gryfons beak to tail and taller than a cedar.”
“I will send scouts, to speak—”
“They don’t speak,” hissed one of the elders. Sverin had fallen silent, huddled under Caj’s wing like a fledge. “They destroy. They consume your name. They—”
Caj interrupted, still matter-of-fact. “They’re Nameless, Voiceless. They don’t understand. They won’t hear even if you go yourself, my lady.”
“Like a mouse spying a serpent,” said the female elder, “you’ll lose your name. You’ll die of terror, just like Ollar.”
Caj nodded once, and the fact that he didn’t argue or claim that was exaggeration steeled Ragna’s resolve. “They hunt gryfons. But they’ve only ever flown at night. We thought they couldn’t, in daylight.”
“Well they’re flying in the day now,” Ragna said, doing her best not to snap and snarl. Perhaps it wasn’t the fault of the Aesir the wyrms had come. Or perhaps it was, and they’d been lucky these ten long years. But obviously they’d caught wind of their cursed prey over the sea, and now came to finish whatever was on their long and hateful agenda.
Ragna tried very hard not to blame them, and mostly failed.
“What will they do?” Thyra asked, with eyes only for her father.
“They’ll attack,” Caj said, his voice pitched so low it sounded like falling stone. “They’ll slaughter without sense, reason, or honor. And we don’t have the strength to fight them. In this, you must trust me.”
“Then we must leave the cliffs,” Thyra said briskly, looking out to the horizon.
The mass defined itself now. Ragna counted over a dozen individual creatures. She couldn’t quite make out their forms, just the individuals motes in the dark cloud.
From the dawnward sky, clouds piled on themselves, turning iron with a storm. Thyra looked back to them, her gaze lighting on each face when no one answered her. “We must get all of the young, the old, and the pregnant females to safety.”
“Where?” The hopeless rasp came from Sverin.
All eyes slid to him. His red feathers ruffed up, talons clenched the ground, and ears lay flat to his skull. “Where do you think we can go?”
“Underground,” Sigrun said quietly, eyeing Sverin, and Ragna could tell she didn’t add, like when we fled from you.
Caj nudged Sverin, voice firm. “To the caves, my brother. To the wolf caves, underground. They won’t find us there. You’ll—we’ll be safe.”
“Then let us go now,” Thyra said. “They’re moving fast, so we must go now, calmly, and orderly. I will gather the pregnant females with me. Mother?” It was a request to follow.
She walked to the entrance and paused, looking at Halvden and taking his measure.
With a sideways look at Sverin, Thyra gave her orders to Halvden. “Gather all able-bodied, gather all males of fighting age, and all females not heavy with kit, all fit to fly. Gather all who called themselves the King’s Guard this winter past, and prove yourselves. You are my guard now, and you will hold back this scourge until the pride is safe—until your mate, and your unborn kit, and the rest of the pride are safe. My father believes you could be a great warrior. Now is your chance to prove it. Do you understand?”
Halvden gazed at her, and Ragna saw a trace of determination lace itself across the emerald face. He mantled, low. “I do, my lady.”
With a glance at Sverin, whose crouching and cowering did nothing to inspire, he rumbled Andor’s name and both sentries left the cave. Dagr left with them.
Ragna heard them shouting names into the wind as they sprang into the air. Thyra left the cave with Sigrun and the two elder Aesir, and Sigrun gave Ragna a fierce, encouraging look on her way.
“Sverin,” said Caj. He, Sverin, and Ragna were the only gryfons left in the king’s den. “Sverin, come, help me guard the rear. This is our chance for redemption, my brother, our chance to face—”
“They never fly in the day,” Sverin rasped.
Caj drew back from him, folding his wing. “Sverin.”
“I won’t,” he growled, whipping back. “Have you forgotten how horrid. . . .”
Caj stepped toward him and Sverin jerked back with a hiss.
“Go, Caj,” Ragna snapped. “We’re wasting time. I will speak to him.”
“I can’t leave him, not again—”
“To your daughter,” Ragna said. “Caj, go to your daughter, to the pride. They need you. Sverin is able but unwilling. Others need your help. You know this danger, and they do not. Go to them.”
Visibly torn, Caj stared at her, then Sverin, who hunched near his nest, his gaze now fixed on the line of darkness. Distantly, thunder cracked. Then someone called for Caj, he gave Ragna a pleading look, and he left.
Ragna eyed the growing cloud of wyrms, and tried to imagine herself as ice, clear and strong. They would be on the nesting cliffs fast, and Halvden would certainly have the chance to prove himself.
They all would.
~32~
The Winds of War
SHARD WATCHED KJORN PACE before him as a cloudy sunrise glowed around the Dawn Spire. They’d been given a great nest high in the cliffs, lined with soft pelts and chips of juniper bark at the back for a fresh scent.
Around the fires, hearts grew alight with war.
The night before, Shard had managed to tell Kjorn of the silence in the Voldsom and the Outlands, then they hadn’t gotten to discuss it further, as gryfons dragged him away, demanding stories of the Aesir who had left ten years ago.
Shard had been mobbed by friends from the Dawn Spire. All night, it felt, gryfons had assailed Shard with their disbelief that he lived, with questions, with relief, or sometimes with anger.
While Kjorn walked among the pride, Shard gave up and had tried to stay out of the way. Brynja helped him find a quiet corner to observe, then had left to spend time with her family. In the smoke and firelight, in the shouting and singing and boasting, the night had seemed an endless, chaotic dream.
Later he’d met Mar again, and Brynja’s mother, both of whom seemed unsurprised at Brynja’s announcement that she and Shard had chosen each other. The more difficult conversation, about Brynja leaving the Winderost for the Silver Isles, would come another time.
No sooner had he finally found Kjorn again, when Queen Esla herself bid Kjorn come and meet her kit, his cousin. Shard hadn’t seen him again until the prince crawled into their quarters and collapsed in a heap at his side.
So he hadn’t gotten to speak to Kjorn, truly, until the morning. After he’d gott
en his blood hot surrounded by battle-ready gryfons who’d been chafing to fight their enemy for years.
At last Kjorn stopped in front of Shard, and he saw by the cant of the golden head he’d made a decision. “I think . . . we should still be prepared for a fight. The wyrms could be in hiding.”
Shard dug a talon against the dirt floor. He smelled rain. “I’m telling you, they aren’t there. I know it in my heart. Have we heard roars? I and others flew across the land last night, and not a wyrm in sight. Before, they always came down on any who flew at night, if they could find us. And my dream, Kjorn. Rhydda was flying over the ocean. She remembered a red gryfon, and she saw Sverin in my mind.”
Kjorn ducked his head, looking outside. His feathers puffed slowly against the chill, or with frustration. Without lifting his head higher, he looked at Shard, fierce as a mantling hawk. “We have to meet at the Voldsom, at least. We have to honor the plan we told the Lakelanders, the lions, the Vanhar. Shard, half of the reason the gryfons of the Dawn Spire are following me is because they finally get to fight their enemy.”
“I think it would be wasted time.” Shard tried to keep his voice neutral. “Don’t you think they would still follow you, if you offered them peace instead of war?”
Kjorn paced, tail lashing. “I do see your point, Shard. I do. Please understand that we have to try. We have to go, we have to look. I’ve told everyone there will be a war.”
“You told everyone you would rid the Winderost of the wyrms, and maybe you already have. Maybe they fled after the Battle of Torches.” Below them, voices stirred the morning air. Warriors emerging from their nests to meet at the Wind Spire. Shard hesitated before adding, “Do you remember what Ajia and the Vanhar told you, that you confessed to me?”
Looking lost, Kjorn stared at him. “Which part?”
“I came to find the truth about why your grandfather flew to the Silver Isles.” Shard stood, managing to hold his tail still, to hide his growing frustration and dismay. “Then, I thought that you would make a better king here, because you are honorable and true, and it’s your birthright. But now—”
“I’m raising the Sunwind.”