by Jess E. Owen
“Son of Sverin,” said a female gryfon’s voice, closer than the echo had been, and vaguely familiar to Kjorn. They turned, blinking at the strange shadows and light of the middle tunnel as a feline figure emerged. “I must say, this isn’t how I imagined seeing . . .” Before Kjorn could even think of her name, Ketil said it for him.
“Maja!”
“Ket? Ketil!” Maja, Halvden’s mother, who had left a fish outside Sverin’s den that summer past as a final insult before exiling herself to serve Shard, seemed to materialize from the tunnel. She stopped, stared at the Vanir who clustered forward around the cave, the mass of gryfons behind, then squarely at Ketil.
With a shriek, both gryfesses lunged at each other, wrestling for a moment like fledges before they pressed their brows together, then extended their wings, Maja’s eclipsing Ketil’s like a wingsister’s. Kjorn watched them first with a pang of guilt, then impatience, for Maja surely blocked the way to Thyra. There would be plenty of time for everyone’s reunions later.
“I didn’t think you’d survived,” Maja said.
“I did, and better.” Ketil stepped away, flapping a wing to gesture toward the group. “Meet my daughter, and my nest-daughter. Keta, Ilse, come and meet my wingsister, Maja.”
Dagny stepped up beside Kjorn quietly, then Nilsine, who watched the gryfesses in bemusement as Keta and Ilse nudged forward through the gryfons to meet Maja.
“There will be a lot of this in the coming days,” the Vanhar remarked, her red eyes strangely lit by the green fungus on the walls.
“I hope so,” Kjorn said. “I hope there will be many happy reunions. Including my own. Ketil . . .”
“Yes, of course,” she said airily. “For Rashard’s sake I will speak for you. Maja, dear one, where is Kjorn’s mate?”
“This way,” said Maja, and the way from which she’d come was wide enough for two gryfons to walk abreast, and they did, chattering the whole way. Maja answered Ketil’s questions. Kjorn listened to enough of their conversation to confirm Istra’s report that wyrms had attacked, some gryfons had been slain, no females had whelped, but none had suffered ill from fleeing the wyrms either.
“And the War King is prisoner of Queen Ragna,” Maja said, raising her voice, Kjorn thought, for his benefit. “And as Sverin cowered like a grouse, she stood her ground, and then, Sverin fled. He fled to the Star Isle and Ragna pursued. And there they stay, telling us very little. Perhaps the wolves are holding the War King prisoner, or he is afraid to come underground.”
Frustration at the lack of information about his father pricked Kjorn’s skin. “But he’s well? Caj found him, then, and he’s remembered who he is?”
“Yes,” said Maja. “Well enough.” Then, because she apparently didn’t feel a need to answer to Kjorn any more, she returned her attention to Ketil, lowering her voice again, but loud enough that Kjorn heard. “I am proud to say that at least my son Halvden matured into a better gryfon, and proved himself a true warrior against the foe, though he paid a heavy price.”
Kjorn clenched down on his frustration, knowing that truly, these gryfesses didn’t owe him anything. They didn’t owe him allegiance, or respect he had not yet earned, or even any more information. He knew enough. His father was alive and sane. He had fled his enemy again, like a coward.
Then Kjorn could think of nothing but Thyra, who had endured all of these things without him, while carrying his heir. His heart thundered, and he said nothing.
A warm wing pressed to his. Kjorn had expected Shard, then remembered his wingbrother had business elsewhere.
“Steady, my lord,” Nilsine murmured, watching him.
“Why do you call me that?” Kjorn wondered abruptly, though he had wondered it for awhile and hadn’t had a chance to speak with her. “Why did you come with me, in the Winderost, why do you follow me here, and help me, and serve me as if you were born to my pride?”
Nilsine’s ears flicked, and she fluffed her wings in a shrug, looking forward. Maja and Ketil had dropped their voices again, and Kjorn thought they must be speaking of more private things. The great band of gryfons trailed behind them in tense silence.
“The first time I saw you in the Winderost, the sun broke from a cloud and shined on your face, and ever since then you have not stopped shining. You seem to me a king, and also seem that you need friends. I always like to go where I am needed.”
Kjorn would have stopped walking in surprise if a number of Vanir and Dagny wouldn’t have bumped into him. He slowed, then continued apace, and dipped his head low to her. “You honor me.”
She chuckled, a rare sound, and tilted her head to eye the fungus along the wall. “I think it best for kindred spirits to stay close, and through their bonds, different clans are not so separate from each other. I think the Vanhar needed me to be your friend more than they needed me to be a border guard. In the coming years I hope the Dawn Spire and the Vanheim will continue to enjoy friendship.”
Kjorn had no answer for that but, “Thank you.”
They emerged into a small cavern about the size of a gryfon den, with two tunnels branching from there. Maja gestured with her talons, speaking to Kjorn.
“The pregnant gryfesses are nesting in a warren of nooks and crannies this way. The rest are to be found down these tunnels.” Her gaze brightened and she looked beyond him, lifting her voice. “Any Vanir seeking family and friends should come with me this way.”
“Thank you.” Kjorn inclined his head to her, then turned to behold the Vanir, who had all heard the statement. “I wish you had returned home to better circumstances. I know Shard will return soon with tidings for you, and he and I both believe you’re safe here.” Hard, curious, judging gazes watched him. Many had traveled with Shard and him in the Winderost, some had fought beside him at the Battle of Torches. “Thank you for granting me your trust,” he added softly. “It has been my honor to fly with you on your journey home.”
He mantled to the host of them, and straightened to see Maja observing him with an approving gleam in her eye.
“Breezy,” Dagny exclaimed. “Now for the sake of Tyr’s bright talons, go find your mate!”
Kjorn laughed, hoarsely, and lunged down the tunnel.
Despite all reassurances that Thyra had been protected and was whole and fine, Kjorn burst through the tunnels like a falcon, dodging stunned gryfons who shouted after him. He caught Thyra’s scent and followed it like a wolf on a hare. He wove through the tunnels, past exclamations and greetings and the other pregnant gryfesses, until he found the niche in the tunnel where Thyra rested.
He stopped short, gazing at her.
“Kjorn,” Thyra breathed, rolling herself to her feet. The sight of him didn’t appear to surprise her. “My mate. I knew you would be home by the Halflight.” Relief, joy, and sternness each flicked through her voice in turn.
Kjorn rushed to her and mantled his wings around her as they nuzzled their necks together, breathing in each other’s scents and releasing the last days in a long, mutual sigh.
“I promised,” he said. “How do you fare? Are you well? Are you eating enough? Is everyone well? I heard that Sverin was—”
“Oh, just let me sit with you a moment.” Her tone was tight.
They were both thinking of Sverin. How could we not?
Kjorn clamped his beak, content in just seeing her again, but she must know he was wondering. He hadn’t even meant to mention his father, and he leaned back to preen around her ears, thinking fondly that she looked like a plump wild hen, and knowing much better than to say so.
“I hear you have the pride well in wing,” he said instead.
“Ragna and I, yes. There is much to tell you. But where’s Shard?” She tilted her head, peering past him into the tunnel for her nest-brother. “He’s—he’s not . . .?” She pulled back with a pained, questioning look.
“No, he’s fine,” Kjorn said quickly. “Istra met us, and said Ragna needed to see him straight away.”
“Yes, t
hat’s right. I thought he might have come to see me, but I suppose he is a prince now.” Thyra looked placid, and nodded. “He’s home. He’s gone to treat with the wolves, to see Ragna and . . .” Her gaze flicked down.
“And my father,” Kjorn said tightly. “He’s with Ragna?” She nodded once, and the mention didn’t seem to upset her.
He had never seen her so relaxed, and wondered if that was an effect of the late stage of the pregnancy. “I should have told him to come see you first.” But all he’d been able to think of was seeing her himself.
“Perhaps, but here you are,” she said warmly. “We are lucky to have two princes among us. He’ll come. Don’t fret, it upsets me.”
Not for a moment did he believe she was upset, but looked rather amused, and so instead of talking about Shard, he asked of all that had passed in his absence, and told her his dealings in the Winderost.
She told him of Caj’s loyal hunt for Sverin, of the tense but settling relations in the pride, of Sverin’s new, sane demeanor. She would not tell him all that Sverin had told the pride when he’d returned, his outright confession of all he’d done wrong, and why.
“That’s for him to tell you.” Her voice fell low. “I’m sorry, my love. It’s for him to tell you.” Before he could ask again she said, “So, now we are exiled to the windward land?”
“Hardly exile,” Kjorn murmured. “You will be queen of the Dawn Spire. It’s our home. Our birthright, as Aesir.”
Her gaze strayed to the cavern wall, and Kjorn could have bitten himself for the foolish statement. She was half Vanir. This land was her birthright as much as the Dawn Spire. He himself had lived nearly his whole life in the Silver Isles.
Surprised voices and gasps echoed to them from down the earthy halls as more Vanir reunited. He realized he’d had half a season to grow into the idea of leaving, and Thyra had just heard that he expected her to pick up and follow him with their kit.
“It’s a beautiful place,” he added, murmuring against her feathered ear, closing his wing around her more warmly. “Rugged, rocky, but vast. And it’s much warmer. The hunting is more abundant than you could imagine. You can fly for days and days and not see the ocean. There are amazing things. Beautiful things. I believe it will suit you. I know you’ll love it there. You can see your father’s homeland.”
Her gaze refocused on him, her eyes a soft brown like Sigrun’s, but sparking with fire. “If you love it, so will I. It’s where you came from, so it must be a good place. I’ll go because I know it’s the best thing. But I’ll miss the Silver Isles.”
“I will too,” Kjorn said quietly. “I will.”
“And I will miss my family.” She squirmed under his wing.
Kjorn realized she was hot, and pulled his wings away, stepping back to give her air. “Caj and Sigrun will be welcome at the Dawn Spire. Sigrun would be an asset to the healers there, and she, I think, would enjoy the company of so many.”
Her low, rueful laugh surprised him. “My love, I don’t think my father will ever leave the Silver Isles now.”
Kjorn ruffled his feathers, dismayed. “You said his wing would heal fully.”
“His wing will fly true.” She watched him with a curious, searching expression. “But I can see his heart is here, now, even if he can’t see it yet. This place suits him—the freezing streams, the high mountains, the sea. He’s happy here. I can’t see him leaving, even if my mother agreed.”
Feeling stubborn and surprised, for the thought had never occurred to Kjorn that some full-blooded Aesir would choose to stay in the Silver Isles, he stood and paced away. “And if Shard exiles the Aesir?”
Thyra’s head rose to a hunting angle, cool, haughty, the confident look that had first snared his interest when they came of age. Her flat, unimpressed expression and her silence shamed him, and he knew her unspoken answer.
Unless a crime was too great to forgive, Shard, who had lived most of his life in fear of exile, would never banish someone if they didn’t wish to go.
“That was a stupid thing to say,” Kjorn murmured. “Please don’t tell Shard I even thought it.”
“Yes, it was,” Thyra said, but relaxed her fierce expression. “I won’t tell him.”
“My lord.” Caj’s warm, burred voice was a relief.
Kjorn tilted his head at Thyra to acknowledge her sentiment, and turned to see the large, cobalt gryfon standing a few paces away from the niche.
Having been now to the Ostral Shores, Kjorn could see the breeding in his mentor that matched the Lakelanders. A strapping build, wide shoulders, tall. It was such a relief to see another old, familiar face that Kjorn nearly buckled, finally realizing how weary he was.
“Caj. You have no idea how good it is to see you. Thyra said my father . . .”
“He’s alive. He knows himself.” Caj eyed Kjorn up and down, and seemed to disapprove. Kjorn knew he’d lost weight over the sea, and was probably muddy and in need of preening. He didn’t care. “The wolves and their companion have taken possession of him, and refuse to release him to us until Shard returns.”
“Their . . . companion?” Kjorn asked.
Caj looked wary, and amused. “You’ll see. Anyway I thought you would want to know Sverin is on the Star Isle.”
Kjorn couldn’t say he was sorry to hear that, and he was too tired to ask about the wolves’ mysterious companion. The thought of walking around a bend in the tunnels and running into Sverin was not pleasant. The last time Kjorn had seen his father, he’d still been half-mad, denied Kjorn, and flown away, Nameless.
The unspoken thing settled between them like a stone.
“He’ll want to see me,” Kjorn said, when Caj would not.
“Of course he will.” Caj ruffled his feathers, but his expression remained neutral.
Kjorn wanted to ask so much more, to know everything Caj knew, to know the things Thyra wouldn’t tell him, but suddenly the journey caught him, he sat abruptly, and shook his head. “Soon. I need to rest, to think. I’ll wait for Shard to come back. But not now. Is—is there anything to eat?”
“Of course,” Caj said. “I’ll fetch you something.”
“Thank you,” Kjorn said gratefully, and stretched on his belly. It was certainly not Caj’s duty to bring him food, but Kjorn thought he did it for Thyra’s sake.
Caj retreated, and without looking back said drily, “I hope you like fish.”
Kjorn groaned, then, struck with a thought, called, “Caj!” The blue gryfon paused, looking back over his wing. “In the Winderost, did you and my father ever lose a fight to a lion?”
A moment of quiet, then, “Well. We were practically fledges.” He left without further explanation. Kjorn felt his own beak slip open to hear that Mbari’s wild tale was true after all, and he shook his head. Perhaps Caj would tell his version of it some day.
Thyra nudged Kjorn. “There’s a story in that.”
“Oh yes,” he said, and began to tell her.
~41~
Many Greetings
WITH AN EYE NIGHTWARD TOWARD Pebble’s Throw, Shard led Brynja in a low, fast flight over the endless pine forest. Now and then he spied the gnarled, twisting branches of a rowan, and he followed the trails of them over the woods.
A dark bird appeared out of the woods and glided under them for a time, then flapped up to Shard’s level.
“Could this be? Do my weary old black eyes deceive?” The quorking, clattering voice was all too familiar.
“Ravens,” Brynja said dismissively.
“You’ll find different ravens here,” Shard said, eyeing the single, circling black bird.
When he realized who it was, fresh exhaustion washed over Shard. He would have welcomed anyone but the trickster and riddler, the dream king, Munin, whom he hadn’t seen in the flesh since he’d left. Still, he forced friendliness into his voice and called out.
“Your eyes see fine, I’ve returned. Hello, friend.”
“Ha! Friends, indeed, and such a lovely, lovely gryf
ess at your side, un-cursed Aesir!”
“What is he saying?” Brynja glided closer to Shard, ears perked. She tried, but could not always understand other creatures as clearly as Shard and the Vanir could.
“Nothing,” Shard muttered. “He likes the sound of his voice. Clever Munin,” Shard called, “I know it’s you, for you fly faster than your brother.”
“Such flattery. Such a sweet prince. Or . . .” He closed the last distance between them and looped around Shard twice, studying him with bright, fathomless eyes. “Or, or, do I spy a king? A silver king? If you were dragon-cursed, I think you’d be as bright as the son of the Red Scourge. Ha!”
Shard knew it would do no good to get frustrated, but he also knew that Munin made it his business to know important matters, portents, and patterns, and so while Brynja stared, Shard dipped his head in respect. “Munin. How good to see you in the waking world. Tell me, where does my mother wish to meet me? Will you tell us the tidings here?”
“Tidings? Tidings? The tide is in, the tide is in, but fire is in the water.”
Shard began to wish they’d taken one more meal at sea, but he hadn’t reckoned on untangling riddles upon first arriving home. “What fire?”
“The fire that buried Per!” he laughed. “The fire on Pebble’s Throw. Fire burns in the sea, snakes fly in the air while gryfons live under the river, under the stone. What days have I lived to see?”
“Great Tyr’s talon,” Brynja muttered, and Shard silently agreed, though he was happy she seemed to be understanding more now.
Still, he kept his voice neutral. “Is Catori about?”
“Is Catori about what? About the height of the shortest Vanir.” Munin flipped about in the wind, laughing. “Such dreams I saw over the sea, your band of war. Why don’t you weave them dreams of peace? Such dreams of war. They may yet come true.”
Never, in all his longing, had Shard imagined he would come home to this. Empty nesting cliffs, silent songbirds, no movement at all on the islands, except the creature which most liked to confound and frustrate him.