by Jess E. Owen
The older warrior tilted his head, and without taking his eyes from the fire, said, “I’m very proud of you, Shard. You will make a good king.”
“Caj . . .”
“When Sverin was Nameless,” his warm rumble continued thoughtfully, “he didn’t respond to me until I stopped fighting him. Until I trusted him. He almost killed me, but he didn’t.”
Shard thought of Rhydda, and though she was nothing like a wingbrother to Shard, he knew that was why Caj had told him. They’d been fighting, fighting, fighting. It was time to stop.
“Thank you,” Shard whispered. “I hope . . . I welcome your guidance and counsel, nest-father. Always.”
Caj looked at him then, the gold eyes that had always frightened Shard now seeming tired, but welcomingly familiar and bright. He nodded once, and in that silent gesture, Shard knew he understood that Shard invited him to stay. He was glad that it seemed he would.
Sigrun approached quietly, and Shard dipped his head respectfully before slipping away.
Around midnight, Shard ventured to the edge of the birch wood, looking out. He closed his eyes.
The pride had sheltered in the caves once more, none feeling secure enough yet to sleep in the nesting cliffs. No dragon gold was left. Nests had been torn apart by gryfons and wyrms searching for it. Some was lost in the sea, some the wyrms had taken. Maybe it would wash up one day, maybe not. Shard hoped to never see it again.
Awake, he stared out across the moonlit plain that led to the nesting cliffs and the sea, and in his mind he followed the dream net to Rhydda.
He showed her Sverin, laid out under the flames.
He crafted a dream of sunrise over the nesting cliffs, of himself standing there, of her, flying to meet him.
A rolling agreement in her chest sounded like tumbling stones.
She would meet him at dawn.
There was a curious sense to her, like a physical pain. She didn’t understand it. She tried to turn from Shard, to turn her thoughts to blood and stone, but blood and stone became Sverin, became a gold gryfon screaming anguish into the stars.
That is regret, Shard thought, though he knew she would never understand the words. Regret. Once our anger and hatred is quenched, it does not stay to keep us strong.
He wove a dream of a raging forest fire, of powerful, licking flames, consuming everything, killing without sense or remorse, hungry and fueled by the lives it took. Then the fire ran out of things to burn, and he showed her the ashes, and he hoped she understood.
Footsteps crunched frosty leaves behind him. Ragna found him, came up on his side, and didn’t speak.
“I saw how you looked at Sverin,” Shard said quietly. “You forgave him. I’m glad.”
Ragna bowed her head. “In the end, he did more than any of us could have asked.”
Realizing how much he craved Stigr’s company and advice, Shard was grateful to have his mother there. He turned and touched his beak to her head, gently, respectful.
“I’m meeting the wyrm at dawn,” he murmured. “Alone.”
Ragna’s eyes narrowed and she didn’t speak. The cold wind stirred their winter feathers, and Shard was grateful for it.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said quietly, “I would like a council such as the Vanhar have. I’ve seen too many kings making poor decisions on their own, unchallenged by their subjects who are afraid to speak. I want to hear others, and I want them to know they’re free to speak.” He gazed at the stars, at the dragon stars of Midragur. “I want to hear the wisdom and desires of others. If I’m away, then Brynja will lead it, then you.”
“That sounds very wise, Shard. Very good indeed.”
He could tell she didn’t like his tone, that he was speaking of ifs.
If he was away.
If he didn’t come back from his meeting with Rhydda.
For a moment the night was dark and still around them, and Ragna said, “It will be as you desire. But I wish you wouldn’t go to the wyrm.”
“Every time I’ve tried to talk to her, I either did the wrong thing, or we were interrupted. This time, I believe she’ll listen.”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Ragna said again quietly.
Shard closed his eyes, taking in the scent of chill wind, the rain-scent of spring on its way. Tomorrow was the Halflight, a time of balance between night and day. Then all things would turn toward the light.
Finally, Shard spoke. “Mother, you sang the Song of the Summer King to me. I learned to speak to wolves, to birds, to lions, and dragons. You put your trust in me. You asked great things of me. I’ve traveled across two seas in search of the truth. I’ve only, ever, done what I hope is right.” He tilted his head to see her clearly. “Put your trust in me again. If I’m your chosen king, then trust me, one last time.”
Ragna gazed at him, then bowed her head. They didn’t speak again after that, and before long, took to their rests.
Shard slept aboveground, outside the tunnel. As much as he wanted to and knew he should be with his pride, his heart closed at the sight of the black hole in the ground. He remained with Hikaru outside, curled in the dragon’s warm scales.
He woke before first light.
When he crawled out of Hikaru’s coils, the young dragon barely stirred.
He stalked through the tall, white birch. An awareness drew his attention, and he looked up to see the white owl, who remained silent. Around her perched other birds, silent, staring at him with bright, expectant eyes.
Shard dipped his head to them and walked on.
Low, purple light lay over the plain between the woods and the sea, and a pale line traced the dawnward sky. He walked, didn’t fly, toward the nesting cliffs. He let his talons sink down through the patches of snow to squeeze the frozen peat of the isle, his home. He relished the taste of the wind. If Rhydda didn’t listen, he took every moment to savor what might be his last moments.
For Ragna, he’d been confident. In his heart, he wasn’t certain he would live. He thought of his father, Baldr, flying out to meet Per, and with a sting of regret, he thought of Stigr’s words to him.
A living king.
A step drew his attention.
A glance to one side showed Ragna, walking a respectful distance behind him. Beside her walked Brynja. Shard didn’t say anything.
“We won’t interfere,” Brynja said. “But you’re not going alone.”
Shard didn’t want to argue. “Show her respect. Do whatever I do. Say nothing. She doesn’t understand words. I must try to do something she understands.”
They murmured agreement. He turned and walked on. The cool morning wind brought him the scent of the river, the mountains. He remembered what the priestess of the Vanhar had said about places giving him strength, and held to the memory of Ajia’s paws, holding him to the earth. The mountains and the river at his back made his heart swell with strength.
Then a new sensation, a prickling awareness, made him look back again. More gryfons appeared from the woods, in silence. When they saw him, they inclined their heads, and didn’t walk any farther than Brynja or Ragna.
Shard lifted his wings to them before turning to walk on.
Drawing strength from his pride, from the mountains, Shard let his talons sink into the damp peat and soil. The muddy scent of spring and the salt of the sea brushed his mind with every memory of his lifetime in the Silver Isles. He had promised he would return, but not for how long. If Rhydda misunderstood him, or decided on one last piece of Nameless violence and killed him, he would end just like his father.
He could not fail.
The wind shifted and another scent drew him around once more. Behind the ranks of gryfons, from the shadow of the tree line, he saw Catori slipping out to join them. With her came Ahanu, Tocho, and half of their pack, walking in silence behind the gryfon pride.
Shard halted only long enough to raise his beak in acknowledgement of them, as a chill washed his spine. They came to give him strength. To honor him.
To see him, maybe, for the last time.
Drawing a hard breath, Shard turned and continued forward, but a soft sound from Brynja paused him again, and he looked back.
To his surprise, beyond the line of gryfons and wolves he saw a trio of caribou. Old Aodh, who had once advised him, and two other elders emerged from the trees. Their steps were slow, solid, deliberate as the earth.
When you rise, I will be there to honor you. Aodh had said that. Shard remembered.
At the sight of them Shard thought of thundering herds, the power of Tor, the pure, trusting courage of them to come out of the woods and walk near dangerous hunters just to honor him.
His throat closed, his gaze traveling over each face. His talons clenched the earth, his tail lashed into the wind. Gray dawn touched the tops of the mountains and Shard knew it was best that he’d chosen to do this last task under Tyr’s first light.
A sound drew his ear, and he opened his wings a little when Hikaru snaked up out of the trees, making wide, silent circles above the woods. After him, a cloud of birds burst up in eerie quiet before settling again into branches, at the edge of the tree line, and on the ground, just letting Shard know of their presence. A few hawks circled. Ravens, crows. Hikaru hovered, sleek wings beating the sweet morning air.
Shard stared. He thought of turning once more, but he couldn’t move. He could hardly believe the display, the faces of his pride, the wolves, birds, and hoofed creatures walking, standing, arriving to acknowledge him.
For a moment, he and the creatures who had come to honor him regarded each other in silence. They remained far back as he’d asked, and a good fifty leaps stood between them. But he couldn’t turn from them without acknowledging them in turn.
Hikaru settled on the ground at the end of the line of gryfons, and many of the birds lighted on and near him. From the trees, Shard saw smaller animals, bright eyes, the flicking ears and tails of red deer. Watching. Listening.
Shard spoke, and the wind carried his voice to every ear.
“The song said that the Nameless shall know themselves, and Voiceless will once again speak.”
He lifted his gaze to the hovering birds, then dipped down to see Catori standing near Ragna, her eyes shining.
“But those of us who looked down on other creatures as Nameless, Voiceless, witless, know better now. Now we listen. Now we hear. We honor the hoofed creatures of the isles. We honor the wolves, and all the smaller creatures who burrow and run and hunt. We honor the birds in the winds.”
Not a paw or a wing shifted. All listened. All heard, and Shard hoped his voice sounded like hope and summer. He met Brynja’s eyes across the field, and her expression burned with pride and with love. Kjorn gazed at him steadily, earnest and hard. Caj. Ragna.
At last, all of them heard, and Shard knew he had been wrong when he’d thought the song meant Rhydda would speak. They’d all been wrong.
Shard went on, pitching his voice low, but they heard.
“As we recognize those truths, let us recognize the wyrms as creatures of a different, darker, harder Age. I believe the wyrms will never speak like us. That doesn’t make them evil.”
Lifting his ears forward in determination, Shard raised his wings.
“I will be Rhydda’s voice, if she’ll let me. As we respect the earth and the sea, let us respect them, too. We united in war, so let us unite, now, in compassion. Thank you, all of you. Now you must let me go on alone.”
They watched him, dipped their heads, and didn’t speak. Shard realized that he was their prince, and they would do whatever he asked.
So he walked on, feeling his feet on the earth, opening his wings to the morning breeze.
He chose the Copper Cliff, the King’s Rocks, but he stood at the base of them, not on top. For long moments he stood, and the light gathered, and he felt the silent support of a wall of creatures far behind him.
A wind rushed them and Shard looked up to see Rhydda, enormous wings shadowing the sky. She stooped, landed on the King’s Rocks, and clenched her great talons around them. When she saw the great host on the plain beyond, she bellow a challenging roar.
Shard dipped low, like a wolf, bowed his head, and mantled his wings as if to a queen. He didn’t say a word. Heart galloping in his ears, he prayed that others would follow his lead. Tilting his head slightly, he saw with amazement that every gryfon and wolf behind him also bowed to Rhydda. He spied even Kjorn, forelegs stretched, head low.
He remembered Hikaru, telling him of the dragons and the wyrms. They responded to food, beautiful things, and to kindness.
When she was silent, Shard lifted his head. Rather than speak, he loosed a soft, warm birdcall, like a parent summoning a juvenile. She lowered her horned head, and a rumbling, grating sound answered him.
Kindness.
Shard stepped forward.
She reared back, jaws snapping, her wing beats sending a rush of wind that battered him and brought him low again.
Murmurs and alarm swept the others. Shard whirled. “Stay where you are! Do nothing. Say nothing.”
When he was certain that they would obey, he turned back to Rhydda, crouching low.
All the strength and surety he’d gathered on his slow walk answered to his call. Closing his eyes, he felt the bright spiral of the dream net, connecting them, all of them. He felt Rhydda.
She was angry that she didn’t understand his speech, so he crafted one last dream. He showed her all Hikaru had told him. He showed her own story of the dragons, of Kajar, his own long journey, his loss. His knowledge, his truth. He showed that he knew what she’d gone through. He showed her Lapu the boar, old and angry, and Helaku the wolf king, almost Nameless with anger by the end, just like her.
She answered with memory of herself and the battle, and roaring at him during a storm, and cutting Stigr down, and her battle with Sverin. A bitter, hot feeling accompanied the images.
Yes. Yes, that’s right. Anger, hate. I understand, Rhydda. I understand everything. Come with me. Let me show you one thing more.
Glancing one final time at Ragna, at Brynja, Shard bounded twice, and leaped into the sky. He caught a wind and spiraled up around Rhydda, and with a cheerful, inviting, witless sound, flew higher.
After three pounding heartbeats, she launched from the rocks, and with great, hard, wing beats, followed.
Shard laid a dream over them both. He had to show her one final thing, one thing so she would know what he wished for her.
At last alone together, he tried to show her joy.
The sun peeked over the ocean and pale light glittered across the waves. Shard wove around her, and she whipped about to keep up with him, not attacking, but curious, he thought.
Rise higher, he whispered, in the dream.
He washed them both in the light of sun. Careful not to appear threatening, he followed his instinct, flying with her. He flew, thinking of Caj’s words about trust. He stayed close to Rhydda, thinking of the path between all things that the dragons called sky. He tucked into the wind, rolled, and she followed, and the sun rose on them.
This is joy, Rhydda.
She showed him a forest of ashes.
That is regret. Anger and hate are powerful, but they don’t keep us strong.
To his surprise, she returned the forest image to what it was before. She thought of green, green hills, she thought of her home, her brood.
That is love. Shard spun around her, and she snapped her jaws, but not in threat, he thought.
He showed her Hikaru hatching.
He showed her Stigr, training him over the sea, Brynja laughing, and his mother, who did everything for his sake. He intertwined the green, living forest with the idea of love. Swimming in the sea, fishing, flying with his Vanir—he tried to show her every joyful thing, every reason he had pursued her and tried to understand her. Everything she could have.
In silence, they soared high, and looked down. The sun crept above the sea and spilled light on the water and the islan
ds, and for a moment they did look truly silver.
It was the Halflight, when all things would turn toward the light.
Shard circled around to see her fully. They hovered, as they once had in the Winderost, but this time no one would interrupt them.
This time, she heard.
“Do you understand?” he whispered, and it didn’t matter that his words were lost in the wind. Shard finally understood that she was a creature of the First Age. She knew hunting, breeding, blood, and stone. She would never speak the way Shard knew how to speak. Shard at last understood that she had learned of anger, of resentment, of hatred. But in all her long years, she had not learned of joy, or love.
He flew in close, for he knew from his mother, from his wingbrother, from Brynja, and from Hikaru, that love began in one place.
“I trust you,” he said softly. He flew in close, stretched out his talons.
Her wings beat hard. Shard drifted closer, wings aching at the sustained hover.
“You don’t have to be like us,” Shard murmured. “But you can be with us.” He offered his talons, offered his trust, knew that with a single swipe, she could kill him and send his body into the sea.
“Rhydda,” Shard murmured. He thought of the dragon who had blessed Kajar, and wished he could bless Rhydda.
Her black eyes stared at him. Sunlight touched them with pale gold.
Then, she bowed her head.
Without fear, Shard slipped closer, and pressed his talons to her brow.
A warm, sweeping rush seemed to fill and spill over from him, a sense of the dream he’d crafted for them, and the real sunlight around them, as if he could feel every living thing.
A great sigh heaved in Rhydda’s ribs, and as she breathed in, Shard felt a little piece of himself join her. He released it, a little piece of his heart, for her, so she could hold on to this moment when she understood love, and joy.
“You’re free,” Shard whispered.
Her great, dark, serpent eyes met his, and in them Shard saw himself. For one heartbeat they were one. His mind flashed on the dream of the forest fire, the ashes. Then, she added something. For Shard, she imagined rain.