by Jess E. Owen
Ketil bristled and stepped forward, though she did lower her head a degree to show a small measure of deference. “With utmost respect I must disagree. My lady, the Aesir have had their way on these isles for the last ten—”
“Have they?” Brynja asked, looking from Ketil to Ragna. “It was my understanding they also cowered and fasted in the dark right alongside the Vanir, and slept, and waited long, uneasy nights for the dawn. That does not sound like the traditions of the Aesir I know.”
Silence stretched between them as Ketil’s ears laid back. Ragna broke it, looking away toward the icy sea. “That is true. Sverin’s fear of the darkness and his nightmare of the wyrms prevented any of us from acknowledging change of season properly.”
“My lady,” Ketil said, looking betrayed.
“We will observe traditions of the Vanir,” Brynja said firmly, “and the Aesir who have also lived unhappy days in the dark. We will help them overcome the last ten years of fear, learn to celebrate Tor’s time, and fly a new wind of celebration.”
“What did you have in mind?” Maja asked, and Ketil offered her a skeptical look as well.
“A feast, as well,” Brynja said. “On the Second Night.” When the other gryfesses would have argued, she lifted her wings. “Shard has allies on other isles who may grant us rights to hunt red meat, or birds, or the like. You’ve told me that aside from the Daynight, the Vanir treasured this time of year above all others. I hope, when we’re done, the entire pride will feel the same. Now,” she looked again at Ragna, “Tell me of the other eleven nights. But let’s walk,” she said, wincing at demanding kick from her kit.
“Very well,” said Ragna, and Brynja could not read her still, regal face.
“If you need more help do let us know,” Ketil said, but challenge edged her voice, and Brynja did her best not to bristle. I’m not a brittle twig, about to snap in the cold. I’ll show them I can do this, and I will make Shard proud.
“Thank you,” she said, as smoothly as she could manage. “I’m sure I can handle it from here.” She looked to Ragna, and tilted her head. “My lady?”
Ragna nodded, and they walked, and she explained the twelve days of the Long Night.
The Second Night is the time of songs and indulgence. The grown warriors and huntresses not bearing kits may eat the fermented fruits, and we feast. We sing the winter songs, and teach them to the youngest fledges. You will want a good voice to lead us.
BRYNJA SCOURED THE PRIDE for their knowledge of who had the finest voice, and one name came above the rest: Astri, daughter-of-Ollar. Brynja didn’t remember her singing at all over the spring or even at the exuberant Daynight and Halfnight celebrations. When she dug deeper, most cautioned that she might not accept the request if Brynja made it. Brynja was too closely related to Sverin, who had killed Astri’s mate, and whom she had not yet forgiven despite all the time that had passed.
“Let me speak with her,” said Dagr, Astri’s brother-by-mate. Brynja stood with him at the edge of the birch woods, where more bachelor males gathered wood for the fires she still planned to have for the twelve cold nights of celebration. “Let me talk to her before you do, my queen.”
Brynja shifted her feet in the snow, seeking solid ground, but only packed ice and snow met her talons. “That seems cowardly . . .”
Dagr, slender but strapping with handsome feathers that glinted copper against the snow, shook his head. “Let me? The Vanir call it ‘breaking the ice.’ She still has a . . . a shield of ice about her. I’ll speak to her of the celebrations and mention the night of singing. I know she’ll be excited to honor the traditions of our Vanir ancestors. Then, she might be more open to hearing from you.”
Brynja considered him, the warrior whose father was once exiled, who had defied Sverin by flying to find exiled Vanir, returned again to find his younger brother dead, fought the wyrms, and chose to live in Shard’s mixed pride . . . if there were any she trusted to be forthright, it was him. “Thank you. I accept.” She glanced to the low, weak sun. “We don’t have much time.”
“I’ll speak to her when she returns from fishing.”
Brynja nodded once. Tollak approached from the woods then, mantled briefly to Brynja, and stepped up to Dagr with the closeness of a wingbrother. He paused, giving Brynja a quick look up and down. “My lady, are you well?”
Brynja lifted her head higher, wondering if she looked weary. She felt warm, but healthy. “Just fine. The exercise is good. Thank you.”
One ear ticked back skeptically, but Dagr nudged him with a wing and they began to discuss the wood stores rather than continue to stare at her.
Brynja turned from them her next task, running through all Ragna had told her.
The Third Night, we honor the dead who have passed during the year. You will need one to speak for those who died of natural ways, and those who died in battle.
Brynja went for the easy one first, and found Caj afield with the fledges, overseeing their spars in the snow.
“My lady!” he called, when he saw Brynja trudging forward through the snow. “Stop, I’ll come to you.” He leaped forward, bounding until he jumped into the sky, and flew the distance between them to save her the trouble. It was good to see him flying again, after having first met him when he had a broken wing.
She longed to fly but felt too heavy. Her own muscles had warmed from all the walking around, though they quivered slightly. Sigrun had warned her against overexertion, but Brynja couldn’t imagine such a thing. Her female forebears had carried and whelped kits for generations before her, and surely they didn’t sit around eating and watching the sun rise and set from their nests all day. She had a celebration to plan.
“Caj,” she said as he landed before her, and wondered if she sounded too relieved at not having to walk any further. Thinking of Sigrun’s warnings, she sat down to rest, knowing he wouldn’t be offended. “I have something to ask of you.”
“Anything within my power to give,” he rumbled, folding his broad, cobalt wings.
Perhaps it was a mistake to ask an Aesir when the tradition was of the Vanir—but then, who better? Caj had chosen the Silver Isles over returning to his homeland, even though his own daughter ruled as queen of the Dawn Spire there now. He was a warrior, respected, advising the King’s Guard Sverin had created and Shard had kept intact, and overseeing the warrior training of all the fledglings in the pride. Who better?
“We are preparing to observe the Long Night as the Vanir have done in days past. One of the nights is devoted to honoring those who fell in battle during the last year.” She paused, and knew they were both thinking of his wingbrother, Sverin, the Red King, and all the rest who had fallen to the claws of the wyrms that spring. “I was hoping you would speak for them.”
“A Vanir tradition?” His hard, pale yellow eyes flickered with surprise, and he looked across the snowy plain toward the sea. Clouds pressed low, dimming the light, and Brynja thought of all that was left to do.
Everyone had offered help—Shard, Dagny, Ragna, the half-bloods who fully honored her as their queen—but these were things she wanted to do on her own. She would show Ketil, Maja, and any others who doubted her sincerity that she could rule the mixed pride well, honoring Tor, honoring all. And she could do it alone, as she was meant to.
“Say you will,” she urged Caj. “You’ve chosen a life here. Show them we honor the Vanir traditions by partaking in them.”
He made a gruff noise, eyed her plump form and, she thought, probably considered what his mate would think if she found out he turned down the honor. Finally, he lowered his head, lifting his wings. “I will. Though I can’t promise how well anyone will like it.”
“Oh, thank you,” she breathed. For a moment she thought of abrasive Ketil, but decided she didn’t give two feathers if the gryfess liked her choices or not. “Ragna will tell you all you need to know.”
He ducked his head, and as Brynja rose to go asked, “Would you like to stay a bit and see how the fledges
are coming along?”
Brynja hesitated. A well-disguised and tactful attempt to get me to rest longer, she thought indignantly, and managed not to sweep her tail through the snow. “I wish I could, but we have only a mark of the sun left and I still must arrange the rest of the nights.”
For a moment, it looked as if the big, burly old warrior would force her to sit, then he appeared to think better of it and nodded once. “If you need help, my wings and talons are yours.”
Touched, Brynja shook herself and smoothed her feathers, trying not to feel so defensive. She knew that Shard sometimes felt uncertain as a Vanir king overseeing Aesir who chose to live under his rule—but still he made confident choices, knowing they had chosen him.
No one had chosen Brynja but Shard. She had to prove herself to them. “Thank you. I will keep that in mind.”
Caj watched her with his hard, unreadable eyes. “Do, my lady.”
She cast a gaze over the snowy field. “Have you seen any of the elders today?”
“Any in particular?” His eye strayed toward the fledges, who without his stern guidance had dissolved into an aimless, shrieking pile of tumbling snow-covered rumps and wings.
“I was hoping to speak to Frar.” She thought of the old, frail Vanir, who had managed to make the long flight from the Outlands in the Winderost to his home, but whose every day, it seemed to Brynja, might be his last. He had no living family, but he was content with Shard as king, and being home. Sometimes it seemed he was waiting for something, clinging to life for one last task. She planned to give him something to do for a little while, anyway.
“I would try the shore, then. Sigrun said he’s . . . been speaking to birds quite a lot, of late.” Caj offered that news hesitantly, as if it were something to be ashamed of. Brynja wondered at that, for Shard spoke to birds often, though not seabirds. With the exception of a few, he said in general they were only concerned with their next meal and their own pecking order.
“Thank you.” She turned, and braced herself for the trek across the snow and down the cliffs to the shore. She felt Caj’s eyes on her every step of the way.
By the time she reached the shoreline, her back ached, her neck had tightened and her hind legs, bearing the brunt of her burden, shook like old tree trunks in a hearty wind. The sun touched the horizon, ready to set after only three marks of daylight, and Brynja could have screamed her fury. How are we meant to have energy to spare for these preparations when we have so little daylight? Or are we meant to prepare in bitter cold darkness, when all I want is to curl up under Shard’s wing and sleep? The thought of another cold fish dinner followed by a dry, bitterly cold night nearly swept the last of her strength from her.
Then she felt the eyes on her. Gryfons sitting atop the cliffs or on the ledges outside their nests near the top had paused speaking, sparring, and decorating with pine boughs and rowan berries to watch her. Brynja realized she stood at the very edge of the cliff, weaving as if dazed, her talons clutching the hard ridge of snow at the precipice.
She forced her ears forward, her back straight, and looked around at the staring eyes. “Has anyone seen Frar?”
“Yes,” called Pala from down the cliff. The healer’s apprentice was a small, fledging half-blood, her wings and face streaked with a blend of scarlet and striking white. She tended to another pregnant gryfess who appeared to be in the throes of the same cramps Brynja suffered. “Down by the shell-digging rocks. Shall I fetch him to you?”
Brynja bit back a scoff. Fetch an elder who might very well be on his last wing beats to the top of the cliff—indeed, when she was young and strong? “No. Carry on. Thank you.”
But the apprentice watched Brynja’s entire ungainly, half walking, half sliding trek down the cliff trail, and she felt attention move from her only when she stood safely on the snow of the beach.
Great hunks of ice loomed off shore in the freezing, dazzling sea, creating new temporary obstacles which the Vanir used as watch-posts for fishing. The low, silvery sun lanced through the ice towers and painted them impossible shades of blue and white. The snow that covered the beach was well-packed by gryfon and gull feet, slick with ice here, crunchy and melting with sea salt there, so that Brynja had to watch nearly every step of the way.
Heat pounded through her body, a relief against a rising, frigid wind. Her head felt light, but she carried on toward a place well-known for being rich with mussels. At last she spied old Frar, digging down through the snow to reach the sand and, she supposed, find the mussels and clams the Vanir seemed so fond of on special occasions. The thought of the slick, salty tidbits of meat tightened her belly with nausea and she halted, swallowing hard.
She hoped Shard might’ve made some progress speaking to the keepers of the herds of the Sun Isle, or the wolves, about red meat for the Second Night celebrations. Since they indulged in fermented fruit and fish eggs and other rich delicacies, red meat or even fowl didn’t seem so out of place to Brynja. But no answer had come.
For a moment she stood locked in place, staring at the shadows that gathered on the beach, watching Frar, then the icy waves, pulling in and out.
Her muscles seized against taking another step. She thought of red meat, and how it would offend Ketil, and why she thought it shouldn’t.
But what do I know? I’m just an oppressive Aesir, who doesn’t respect the traditions . . . lights swam before her eyes, the Wings of the Tor.
The rays of the sun.
They rippled in blinding sheets together, green and gold and shocking rose.
The sun was not setting for the Long Night, and gryfons glared because they knew it was her fault . . . the green became Shard’s eyes, disappointed, accusing . . . the sun wasn’t setting, and it was all her fault . . .
“My lady!”
A warm head nuzzled her. Brynja twitched, and realized she’d sunk to the snow and closed her eyes, passing into a fevered dream. Fear lanced through her, quick and stabbing. Frar had laid beside her and covered her with a wing, but she was hot, too hot, and she tried to nudge him away, but her tongue stuck to her beak.
When did I last drink water? It couldn’t have been the day before . . .
Frar was wise enough to see her distress and moved his wing, but stayed at her side. Through a roaring in her ears, she heard him call for help. For a moment she laid there catching her breath, then, there was the last thing she wanted—fuss and commotion absolutely everywhere.
Pala streaked down from the cliffs, a scarlet and white blur, her talons squeezing around a bundle of herbs, which she stuffed into Brynja’s beak without so much as a “by your leave.” Behind her came Tollak, Caj, then Ragna, green eyes sparking with worry—or judgment. Brynja couldn’t tell . . .
Her head surged with dizziness and she vaguely minded her feet as too many gryfons crowded forward and helped her climb the cliff trail. She managed to croak pathetically, alerting them to her thirst. Firm, gentle talons pressed soaked moss to her beak and she stumbled to a halt. She drank, and more came. They resumed the climb, though she wanted only to curl up on the snow and sleep.
Big males hauled her to her nest, and she couldn’t fight them, or refuse help, or admit she needed it. Ashamed, mortified, she collapsed with her back to all of them, drinking in the scent of her own furs and the sweet, warm scent of pine all around.
Blinking back a wave of exhaustion, the last thing Brynja felt was alarm that she hadn’t talked to Frar about Third Night, or Astri about singing, and she couldn’t remember the tradition of the Twelfth Night . . .
Then she heard Shard’s voice, thanking everyone and ordering them out. A familiar, slender wing came around her, and she blinked once, staring blankly at the pine branch near her beak, covered in crystals of salt that glinted like frost in the last light of the last evening.
NIGHTMARES STABBED BRYNJA’S FITFUL sleep. A sun that wouldn’t set, burning hot in winter against blinding ice. The kit in her belly felt like a ball of fire, but she was so weary she woke only
to suck more water from moss pressed to her beak, and to eat tiny strips of fish that some gryfon—Shard, or Sigrun—fed her, like a kit.
Slips of words came to her. Fever. Overworked. Stressed.
Then, sunset. She had to wake for the last sunset . . .
But Shard and Pala gave her fish coated in herbs to make her sleep through the night, and the last hours of daylight slipped through her talons like river water.
When Brynja woke again, it was dark, and she knew the Long Night had begun without her. Disappointment and frustration quickened her heart. She had failed to finish the preparations.
She pushed herself up to a sitting position. “Shard.”
Her king was curled up at her side, having slept the last afternoon with her. Her fevered two days of preparation would not be enough, for she hadn’t had time to ask Frar to speak on behalf of the dead, or Astri to sing, or the fathers and brothers to teach the fledges all the constellations on Fourth Night . . . none of it would be done, because she was weak, because she had failed. Ketil and Maja would be happy to be right, and Ragna would be disappointed.
And Shard, her Vanir king . . .
“Shard.” Cool fear washed her. She had overexerted, made herself sick, put their kit in jeopardy. Shard mumbled something about a few more moments, and tucked his head under his wing. Brynja sat, unmoving, ears ticking back and forth to the sounds of gryfons moving on different levels of the cliff. Her kit. Surely they would’ve woken her if something was wrong with the kit.
But maybe they didn’t know.
Drawing a slow breath, she nudged Shard once more, nibbling at his neck feathers. “Shard, wake. The sun has set. The Long Night has begun and we must gather for the Mother’s Night.”
It was the very last thing Brynja wanted to do, and clearly, Shard as well. He lifted his head, and immediately stood, looking her over. Their nest was large, and well built, but standing together they almost filled it to overflowing. They would need to expand it as their kit grew. Through the dimness, she felt his eyes pierce her.