by Jess Owen
“Kjorn, hold him!” Both gryfons dug talons into the boar’s shoulder and neck. “Lapu,” Shard muttered, while the great boar squirmed, kicking sharp hooves and straining to toss his head and tear with his tusks.
Shard ground the hastily practiced, foreign words out of his beak. They whispered back into Shard’s mind like tumbling rock and the whisper of paws in the grass, but he couldn’t define their meaning.
Lapu blinked his tiny, hooded red eyes, shuddered, and seemed to collapse inside. Shard perked his ears and spoke the words again. Lapu tossed his head, but less in threat. Shockingly, he met Shard’s eyes, and in the glazed red depths Shard saw centuries of a long and proud life as one of the mighty princes of Star Island, saw that Lapu remembered his name, that he knew wisdom. And, as Kjorn’s talons clenched his throat, fear. Slow, hollow breaths lifted his ribs, each weaker than the last.
He grumbled something and foam dripped from his snout. Shard lifted his ears. Unlike Catori’s words that he hadn’t wanted badly enough to understand, he listened closely to Lapu’s last words, and Lapu made himself understood.
“Nightwing,” he rasped in disbelief, still clenching to life.
Shard’s beak clicked twice before he could speak. Are you Rashard, son-of-the-Nightwing? The raven had asked. He wasn’t sure if Lapu would understand in turn.
“No. His…his son.”
“Then I am at peace.” Lapu’s red eyes, ancient, baleful, and clever, held Shard’s gaze. “Thank you for a good death, brother.”
Kjorn caught his breath at last and nudged Shard aside. The last words of Lapu of the Star Isle sent Shard reeling more than the push.
“For the king,” Kjorn snarled before he swept in for the kill. Shard backed away, letting the others see the prince take the kill. Glancing around, he knew that he was the only one in the meadow who had understood Lapu’s words. As when Catori had spoken he had only heard uttered growls, so, he knew, Kjorn hadn’t understood him speaking to Lapu.
Their cry rose up, lion roars and eagle calls, echoing through the woods and rocks and streams to the sea. Shard gathered himself, lifted his voice with theirs and flared his wings.
Kjorn stepped back after wiping his beak on the grass. Ragged, bleeding, he looked as savagely majestic as a legend from the pride’s oldest songs.
Thank you for a good death, Lapu had said. Brother. Shard folded his wings and ducked his head when the prince looked his way.
“Shard,” he whispered, blue eyes half wild from the hunt. “He just…died. He was gone before I bit. I know he was. He just laid down his head. What did you do?”
Shard perked his ears toward the carcass that had been Lapu. Brother.
“Nothing.” He looked away from his prince into the dark silent woods as the birds settled back into the trees. “I didn’t do anything.”
He thought he saw amber eyes glowing back at him from the woods, but it might have been sunlight on rowan buds, or shadows, or nothing at all.
~ 5 ~
The Widow Queen
“A boar indeed. Shard, black moss, please.”
Shard sat on his haunches at the back of his mother’s den, picking through her stores of astringents and moss compresses nudged into the layered rock wall. The den was larger than most for she stored herbs in its bowled crevasses, splints of wood along jutting rock shelves, and batches of clay in scooped depressions. A healer’s cave delved deeper into the rock that held it with each new generation.
Sigrun shooed a fledgling apprentice out of the way and extended her talons to take the moss from Shard with a quick murmur of thanks. She didn’t have to check if it was the right one. She had raised him to know them all. Shard had grown up to the sharp scent of herbs, sticky clay and the blood of injuries. All of it whorled into his mother’s scent and in that place, nothing seemed as strange or worrisome as it had before.
Einarr and Halvden had come and gone with bruises and strains, and now Kjorn stood near the entrance. The den lay on the edge of the cliff facing the dawnward sea, so was one of the first to grow gloomy and cool in the late afternoon. Sigrun’s two apprentices, fledging females of questionable attention span, busied themselves cleaning up fallen feathers and the spill of bark and seeds. Shard puttered slowly, more or less helping but mostly in the way, as he thought back on the hunt.
Thank you for my good death, brother.
He didn’t know what it meant. He had understood the boar’s final words, but not what he himself had said. What did he mean, brother? There was no one he could ask. No one except the she-wolf, Catori. Or maybe one of the other old Vanir. Shard glanced furtively at his mother.
“I suppose,” Sigrun went on as she gently lifted the prince’s gold feathers to apply the thirsty moss to his wound, “next initiation it will be a flight to the White Mountains for the snow cats. Or caribou. So you may fight snow and height as well as deadly prey. Won’t that be merry? Or wolves, I suppose.”
“I hope,” Kjorn growled, then winced when Sigrun prodded his left wing. “Did Shard tell you how they ambushed him?”
One ear slanted Shard’s way, but she didn’t answer as Kjorn went on, sounding more and more like his father. They bickered politely, Sigrun longing for the less deadly initiations of yesteryear, Kjorn arguing for challenge. Shard helped the apprentices to clean, and even managed not to snort when he saw the oldest tuck a fallen green feather, Halvden’s, under her wing for keeping.
“Shard,” said the younger. “Play riddles with us?”
Shard had enough riddles for the day. But her brown eyes pleaded, reminding him of Thyra at a younger age, and he relented. He had a new riddle they wouldn’t have heard before.
“Which came first,” he murmured, “the mountain or the sea? Not even the eldest could tell, whether first came wave or—”
“Shard.”
He and the fledges blinked at Sigrun. Her wings had tensed, her feathered tail quivered. She looked surprised at herself, then her feathers slowly rose to fluff. “Here, now. I need your help.” She turned to Kjorn. “Your Highness, the wing is out of joint.”
“I know,” Kjorn said. “I felt it flying home. It’ll sort on its own.”
“It won’t.”
Kjorn shuddered a sigh. Shard trotted to them and he braced Kjorn’s wing carefully, readying to tug while Sigrun gripped the prince’s shoulder. “All right. On three now.” She caught Shard’s gaze and he dipped his head. “One …”
They wrenched together and Kjorn’s sharp cry cracked through the cave. “Windblown, mudding—”
“Language, my prince,” Sigrun eyed her ogling apprentices. Shard chuckled and butted Kjorn’s shoulder.
Wings rustled, the shadow of an approaching gryfon darkened the cave and at once Kjorn rose to full height. He sleeked his feathers down, compact against his body so that he looked smooth and proud. He didn’t even favor the wing.
“All part of it, of course. Little injuries like that.” He stretched his wings to demonstrate his health, masking a wince. “A minor thing.”
Shard ruffled and glanced to the mouth of the cave. Thyra stooped and landed. An amused sound rose in Shard’s throat and he stifled it.
“Your Highness.” Thyra lowered her head, and Shard saw that Kjorn was, in a rare moment, without words. He simply lifted his wings in acknowledgement, and winced at the motion while she stepped inside. “Mother. Is everyone sorted?”
“Well as can be,” Sigrun said, turning to finish the last of the cleaning. She gave Shard a quick, sharp glance, and he looked to Thyra to avoid eye contact. Thyra appraised Shard, then addressed all of them.
“Then the king has asked everyone to gather on Copper Cliff before sunset for the tale.”
“Shortly,” said Sigrun, who hated rushing.
Shard noticed her look between Thyra and Kjorn, and the way they didn’t quite meet each other’s eyes. He couldn’t tell if Sigrun was pleased over the prince’s interest Thyra. Not by the expression on her face, anyway. Much of Sigrun’
s work depended on hiding a truth of how grim an injury might be, for the peace of mind of her charges, and so her expression was often impassive. Shard could read her wings, though, which laid relaxed along her back, short feathers fluffed, the long flight feathers brushing the floor.
She’s pleased.
“You led us well today,” Kjorn said to Thyra, when he found his voice at last.
Shard busied himself with his mother, and cuffed the staring apprentices into work. Thyra’s eyes glimmered in the last light reaching the cave.
“Well. Thank you, my Lord. But then what hope would a lot of bumbling males have without the help of my sisters and I?”
“None at all. But you did see, of course, when I knocked the monster off its feet.”
“Everyone saw, my Lord.” But her gaze almost imperceptibly switched to Shard, who watched them sidelong, before the feathers of her face fluffed in amusement. She inclined her head. “A mighty victory.”
Kjorn drew a breath. “You’ll join us on the high rocks for the feast, of course? As one of the honored hunters.”
Thyra mantled. “If my prince wishes.”
Kjorn ruffled and Shard clinched his beak against laughter. His sister was bold. How many of the young females would simply roll at the prince’s feet? Not Thyra, daughter-of-Caj.
“I do,” Kjorn said. “That is, only if you–”
“Well then,” chirped Sigrun, turning to behold her tidy, crowded den. “Shall we be off?”
“Please,” said Thyra, turned and dove from the cave before any of the others could speak.
Shard erupted into laughter. “You’re smooth as swan down, wingbrother.” Kjorn feinted an attack, loosing a mock snarl. Shard crouched, ready to spring away. “Will you give me tips for my own lady friends?”
Kjorn barked laughter and lunged. Shard dodged toward the back of the den, the two fledges scattered with delighted shrieks and Sigrun threatened violence if they wrecked her cave. Kjorn herded Shard from the cave, and chased him all the way to the king’s rocks.
Sigrun watched them go before helping her flightless apprentices along crags to the top of the cliff. Is this how it is to be, then? She asked the pale sky. Kjorn was courting her daughter, and she didn’t know what had come over Shard.
Which came first, the mountains or the sea?
Where had he heard that song?
Wolves ambushed him, indeed. That couldn’t have been all there was to it, Sigrun was convinced. But Shard had never lied before. But then, he hasn’t lied yet. Truly, she realized he hadn’t yet said anything at all. Everyone else had spoken of what happened, and Shard neither confirmed nor denied.
“Hurry now,” she whispered to her fledges as unease curled under her wings. “The king’s patience is not to be tested.”
Shard and Thyra picked their way through other gryfons settling into the grass below the rocks. Late afternoon light warmed against a cold starward wind and rosy gray touched the sky. Kjorn had flown to the rocks to sit beside his father, who lounged on the lowest slab to be nearer to the pride and the storytellers. He looked informal, no gold and gems, ears laid back lazily as he waited for the last arrivals to settle.
“You should sit closer,” Thyra murmured as Shard claimed a bare spot, kicking away a few pebbles. “You’ll have a ways to walk when it’s your turn.”
“What will I say?” Shard muttered, shifting. His wings tensed at the thought. He looked nightward to the sun, then dawnward where the moon already hung at second mark. “I’ve never spoken to so many before.”
Thyra flickered her ears, then dipped her head down to preen at his shoulder. She was going to outgrow him, he realized, like all the other Aesir females. “Then don’t speak to so many. Just look to me when you tell your tale.”
Shard laid one ear back in uncertainty, but before he could respond, the king spoke and his low voice carried long over the grass.
“Welcome, my family.” He didn’t stand. Shard perked his ears, curious at the informality. Everyone fell silent. The king seemed pleased. “Before this day, our thoughts of the hunt were only hopes. We only imagined what our young warriors could do.” The king lifted his scarlet wings as if to enfold them all. “Now it is proven!”
Shard wondered at the king’s manner, so relaxed and, for he couldn’t think of a better expression, happy. Everyone had done well on the hunt, but now came the judgement, which was usually more somber. Sverin’s fierce red face grew still. His golden eyes seemed to light on every alert face in the pride. “I know that many of you of the old pride still question the way of my forefathers. That you still wish to hunt from the sea.”
The sudden, sharper tension among the gryfons at the words felt just as strong to Shard as he’d felt during the hunt. Many eyes averted, wings rustled, some shifted nervously as if they felt trapped.
But the king didn’t seem angry. “To hunt on land, to know the fierce struggle of battle, is one of Tyr’s great gifts to us. The sea,” he paused, ears flickering back in the rarest moment of hesitation, “brings only chill and death.”
A murmur chirruped and muttered through all. “He speaks of his mate,” Thyra whispered, and perked her ears toward the king.
Shard did the same. Sverin never spoke so openly, so calmly, as if all who lay on the grass that evening were his wingbrothers and sisters.
“But now!” Sverin stretched his wings. “Let each come forward and tell his part in the hunt.”
A nervous rustle rippled through the assembled gryfons. The king chuckled at the hesitation. Gryfons exchanged glances. They had never seen the king so cheerful after a great hunt. These tales and his judgment determined whether they remained with the pride or went into exile.
“After facing a boar, an old, wily, stone-strong boar, I’ve heard, no one will be the first to stand?”
“I will!” Halvden leaped to his feet, green feathers bright.
Gryfons churred and called encouragement as he padded up to the rocks, pausing to mantle and bow to the king before he turned to face the pride. The late light blazed on his wings and he looked the part of a fully-grown warrior. Shard curled his claws against the grass and checked a sigh.
“I sighted the boar first from the air as we scouted …”
When the pride encouraged him he grew bolder, both in his storytelling and, it seemed, on the hunt itself. Shard thought he took too long telling his part, and he drifted. I should think what I will say. He couldn’t speak of the wolves. Or the words Catori the she-wolf had told him to say. He shouldn’t have spoken strange words whose meaning he didn’t know. Shard tried to think what part he could tell to make himself sound worthy.
I will have to lie.
He looked about as Halvden droned on, scarcely noticing when the next young male climbed onto the rock. His ear twitched to hear a more confident voice; Einarr. He would probably be a good singer. Everyone looked so happy. He saw siblings lounged together like himself and Thyra, he saw mated pairs, clumps of fledges just old enough to range from the nest and climb but not strong enough to fly, all with ears perked and beaks parted in awe at the tales.
How will they feel when Sverin announces who can stay, and who can’t?
“Why are you so twitchy?” Thyra purred softly. Shard felt her contentment against his side. “Your tale will be the best.” He blinked, swiveling his face back toward the rocks.
There was a moment of silence as copper Einarr hopped down from the rocks and took his place again in the listeners. Shard tilted his head and Thyra nipped his shoulder.
“Go!”
He blinked and clawed to his feet, stepping forward, around other gryfons who dozed, or listened raptly. He nearly tripped over an old female, who hissed grumpily, then looked curiously to the rocks. Shard followed her gaze.
A gryfon had already climbed onto the rocks. Kjorn. Shard froze. By rights, the prince should speak last. Does he mean to skip me? Shard stood there, stupid, then sank to his haunches as the prince spoke.
“We
had a great hunt, with so many skilled warriors and the experienced gryfess hunters to guide us.” He dipped his head and Shard looked about to see that the prince looked directly at Thyra. Thyra ruffled and looked away in modesty, while Shard felt his own feathers sleeking down, readying for a fight.
He acknowledged Thyra, but not me? Kjorn had never slighted him before. How could he now, when it was so important? Agitation crept up Shard’s muscles and he strained to keep his wings closed as Kjorn continued.
“Some others, including my honored father who was not there, will tell you that my part in the hunt was the most dangerous, bold, and of course, I was given the killing stroke. But I know and am proud to say I couldn’t have done any of it without the others. I couldn’t have tracked and cornered the old beast.”
His summer-blue gaze lit on many faces and he stood proud, tail low and confident. “I could not have driven it into the meadow, or gotten it off its feet. Truly, I couldn’t have delivered the killing bite without the help at my side. Without all the hunters and, at the end, without my wingbrother. Tell us what befell you, Rashard, son-of-Sigrun.”
Kjorn left that astonishing statement hovering in the air as he climbed back onto his higher rock and lay down, giving Shard the last part of the tale.
He did it for me. He knew I needed an extraordinary chance to prove myself to his father, and he did this for me.
Shard sat in the middle of the grass with his beak open and ears flat, uncertain. Gryfons peered around until it seemed every face was on him. The king’s rocks felt leagues away. It would have taken forever to walk that distance. Instead, he rose to his feet where he was, swallowed whatever creature seemed to grasp his throat from the inside, and spoke from the middle of the pride.
“Ah, I helped Thyra and Kjorn to drive the boar into the meadow.” That was hardly true. His voice sounded weak and far away. “Or—or at least, I got out of his way.” Someone chuckled. A grizzled female near him shifted, bright eyes kind, others settled, more ears lifted to attend him closely.