by Jess E. Owen
9
Shard’s Choice
Wind drifted along the shore, wind that carried the scent of dying autumn leaves, ripe berries and the promise of cold.
Ahanu’s voice was deep and mild, as the end of the starfire grew dim in the windward sky, over the far horizon.
“Our mother’s mother saw it, two generations ago.” He sat slowly, nose crinkled in amusement as Shard tried to count the years. “We wolves grow faster but live longer than gryfons, I think.”
“My dam’a,” Catori said, affirming Ahanu’s words. “She was almost as old as a raven when she died.”
“And she saw the starfire,” Stigr prompted, tail sliding in irritation across the sand.
Ahanu looked toward the stars, as if his mother was there. “Yes. She was a snow wolf from beyond the mountain range of the this isle, from the cold starward edge of the Star Isle where the snow barely melts in summer. She saw the starfire many, many years ago, and dreamed one of her pups chased it down to the sea.”
Catori finished the tale. “And when our mother heard our father’s song, she went down from the mountains just as in the dream.”
For a moment, Stigr and Shard stared at them. Shard realized he’d never met Catori’s mother, actually, hadn’t even known the she-wolf lived. Stigr lifted his wings and stretched out his talons, digging long trenches in the gravelly wet sand.
“That’s all very well for wolves—”
“Summer King,” said Ahanu to Shard, just as Catori said, “Star King, Prince of the Sun Isle. What does it mean to you? Surely this is your sign.”
Shard could have told her right then what it meant. Something in Stigr’s expression stopped him and his gaze darted to the dark sea. “I have to think about it.”
The wolves took his hint, and Stigr narrowed his eye. “Enough songs for this night, I think. Tomorrow we need to make a plan before winter lands on our tails, Shard.”
“Yes, Uncle,” Shard said quietly.
For another mark of the moon the wolves milled on the shore, wishing Shard well and offering help with whatever path he chose. They took Ahanu’s word that the starfire was a good sign for them, not a warning, that it was Tor’s harbinger of strong things to come. Shard avoided the topic of it any further and pressed Stigr and Catori for lessons on the Halfnight itself.
He learned that this night was when one should stop singing the songs of summer and sing those of winter. He learned that bright Tor ruled high in winter, when the world turned its face from Tyr’s light and the days grew short and cold.
When at last the wolves couldn’t keep from yawning and the pups sprawled exhausted in the sand, Stigr and Shard bid their farewells.
Shard touched his beak to Ahanu’s nose. “Good hunting.”
“I will see you farther down the path, brother,” Ahanu said quietly. Shard closed his eyes a moment, then they stepped back and he went to Catori.
She dipped her head. “Be safe, my friend.”
“I’ll miss you,” Shard said.
She shook herself, almost laughing. “Mind your dreams. I might not be so far away. Fair winds, my prince.”
Shard displayed his wings in respect. “Good hunting to you. Catori…if you see Kjorn, somehow, tell him—tell him I want his forgiveness. And that he has mine.” She dipped her head. Then, as Ahanu had said, “I’ll see you farther down the path.”
“I think it will be so,” Catori said. With that, they parted.
He and Stigr chose to stay that night on the Star Isle, flying up to the abandoned dens of the short-lived gryfon colony of Windwater.
“Fair dreams,” Stigr rumbled from the ledge outside his chosen den. Shard nodded, memorizing his uncle’s face in that moment, happy, with a belly full of fish and a heart full of songs.
“Rest well, Uncle,” Shard said, feeling suddenly strained. “Thank you for all you’ve done for me. It means everything.”
Stigr huffed, giving him an odd look, but seemed to take it as an apology for their argument earlier. Shard had hoped he would. “See you in the morning,” Stigr said, and disappeared into the den.
Shard remained on the ledge outside his own temporary den and didn’t answer. He settled down and rested for a quarter mark, waiting until Stigr’s growling snores reverberated from the cave.
The moon sat large and full in the nightward quarter, and stars ruled the sky.
Shard stood up and faced the sea. For a moment he lifted his face, taking in the scent of pine, of wolf, the faint, familiar scent of his uncle, of earth and leaves. The scent of home.
A slow thrill climbed his muscles.
“I’ll return,” he whispered to the night, to the Isles themselves, to anyone who might’ve needed to hear his promise in the wind.
Then he leaped silently as an owl from the cliff face and soared out over the black and silver waves.
10
The King’s Guard
“This honored guard,” Sverin declared to the gryfons in front of him, “shall consist only of initiated males, whether mated or bachelor. Your sole task is the protection of the pride, from threats both without and within.”
Kjorn listened from the front of the group. Morning light washed the Copper Cliff in warmth, though the chill of autumn stalked at the edges in every little breeze. Inspired by Kjorn knew not what, Sverin had summoned all initiated males to him at sunrise, but more than males gathered to listen. Curious fledges looked disappointed that they couldn’t participate, and the huntresses exchanged worried glances. Sverin listed further duties of the King’s Guard as Caj stood beside him, watching and weighing each gryfon’s expression.
Kjorn wondered if Sverin had seen the starfire, but nothing suggested it.
No. He hates the night. He would’ve been sleeping fast.
“Most of you will be given the honored task of hunting wolves and seeking out any exiles still in hiding in the Isles.” Sverin’s gaze probed each intent face before him. “We will post a new watch, night and day, over the nesting cliffs. We will not suffer another ambush from the enemy.”
An irritated female called, “And what of the hunting, my honored lord? Sire? Will the females be expected to hunt in winter, carrying kits in our bellies?”
“No.” Sverin sought out the speaker, and so did Kjorn. Kenna stepped forward—Halvden’s mate, a proven huntress and leader, vivid violet against the yellow grass. Sverin addressed her with calm respect. “Of course not. Some will be assigned to continue training as hunters for winter—those who have proven themselves as able hunters, those of your choosing.”
“We want Einarr!” called one huntress.
Kjorn chuckled to himself as other names were called. He noticed with pleasure that Halvden’s was not among them.
“And the prince!” cried another.
Sverin laughed, lifting his wings to still the voices. He cast a surprised, proud look at Kjorn. “Indeed? Lady Thyra, and Kenna, discuss the best male hunters among yourselves and then tell me your choices. The rest will serve as honored members of the Guard, with Caj as your captain, the First Sentinel.”
Kjorn felt as if the earth swept from under him. Perhaps the huntresses wanted him for hunting, but he should be captain of the Guard.
What is my father playing at?
“Take a few moments,” Sverin said as talk erupted among the new male Guard, and the leading huntresses. “And see me after with your decisions. Kjorn, my son, come here.”
Eyes narrowed, feeling brash, Kjorn trotted forward, ready for an argument. The expression on Sverin’s face shook him. It was not haughtiness, not arrogance, but concern. Caj took the moment to slip away from them and listen in on the debate between the huntresses and the new Guard.
“My son,” Sverin said. “Know that I would’ve made you the captain, but your place is closer to home. The pride must see you, safe and healthy, and providing for your mate.”
Kjorn’s feathers prickled a little at the word ‘safe,’ but he stopped himself from speaking
too quickly. Is it the pride that needs to see me safe and healthy, or my father?
Winter would fall too quickly. With winter, darkness and cold and the memory of losing his mate would haunt Sverin deeper. Kjorn knew it. He saw it each year. Perhaps that summer and losing so many members of their pride had sharpened the Red King’s caution.
And Kjorn could hardly argue that serving with the huntresses wasn’t a place of honor.
That, he knew, would get him banished from his own nest for a fortnight.
At last he bowed his head. “Yes, Father. I know you’re right.”
Sverin lifted his wings. “Besides, how could I deny the huntresses one of their chosen?”
“Indeed,” Kjorn muttered, casting a sidelong look at the group. “I don’t want to know what Thyra would say if I told her I argued to be in the Guard instead.”
“I wouldn’t advise it,” Sverin said, with the faintest edge of humor, and they shared an amused look. For a moment, Kjorn felt closer to his father than he had since Shard’s death.
Then Halvden’s voice broke over the discussion, he already taking the opportunity to boss others around.
“He takes too much liberty,” Kjorn said, wary, for he knew that Sverin admired Halvden and had admired his father.
Sverin’s eyes cooled and Kjorn felt the moment of connection evaporate.
“He’s ambitious. Give him time. He has his father to avenge and the shame of his mother to overcome.”
His mother. Maja. One of the old Vanir, who had left the insult of a fish outside Sverin’s den before putting herself in exile. Kjorn supposed she got whatever she deserved, alone, with winter coming.
Something caught Kjorn’s gaze at the edge of the field, a movement of white.
Ragna the Widow Queen watched the proceedings in silence. Shard’s true mother, Kjorn thought bitterly, and now that he knew, the resemblance was obvious. The slight, graceful build, the slender wings and pale green eyes. That morning, she looked oddly smug. As Kjorn watched her, she turned and caught his gaze. Trapped for a moment, Kjorn stared back at her. A strange, electric knowing shot through him.
She had seen the starfire. Somehow he knew it.
What does it mean to her? What does it mean to any of us?
“Leave that one alone,” Sverin warned.
“Why do you let her stay?” Kjorn turned his back to the widow and faced his father full on. “She lied and subverted you and she makes the Vanir restless.”
Sverin’s gaze darted away and for a moment he was silent. Kjorn wondered what else he didn’t know about the Conquering, what other great lies like Shard’s parentage, and secrets, those who’d lived and died, what battles were fought and what lives spared or taken. But he never asked, and Sverin volunteered no more information.
Aesir didn’t live in the past.
The king answered abruptly, “Exiling her would cause unrest.”
Sverin’s gaze strayed as he spoke, and he and Ragna watched each other across the expanse of grass. Kjorn couldn’t judge her expression, except that it certainly wasn’t fear.
“Her son and heir is dead,” Sverin held her gaze as he spoke quietly to Kjorn. “She knows they are truly, finally beaten. We will breed them out and the Vanir will be gone. I’ll allow her to die here among the dregs of her kind. She does nothing now but wait for death.”
Kjorn agreed that she seemed as if she were waiting for something, but he didn’t know if it was death. “She did nothing before, and look what happened.”
Sverin looked at him with a strange, haunted look, then he loosed a slight hiss. “Question me again, my son? We are establishing a new order. I need you by my side. Trust that I know best, for all that you didn’t trust me before.”
Kjorn blinked and hunched down a little in acquiescence. Before, Sverin had advised against trusting the Vanir. Now, for all purposes, he appeared to be instructing Kjorn to leave them alone. Or at least the Widow Queen.
“You remember,” Sverin added very softly, “what happened the last time you doubted me.”
Kjorn hunched lower and dipped his head. “Yes, Father.”
“Well this feels a bit more like home.” Caj, perhaps sensing the brewing argument, trotted up boldly between Kjorn and the king. He pressed his wing to Sverin’s as if to steady him. “Already the males clamor for rank and recognition like the tier-climbing fools of our old nests.”
Sverin chuckled, immediately soothed by his wingbrother’s presence, Kjorn saw. “A smaller pride. They will all be recognized.”
“I think the division is good,” Caj said. “Hunters and sentinels. Everyone chose well. They’ll ask your approval of course.”
“Good.”
Caj glanced at Kjorn, as if waiting for him to add something. When Kjorn said nothing, Caj went on. “A wise move too, my brother, to divide us into hunters and guard. The pride needs meat before winter. They should know to trust your decisions, Sire.”
Shame coiled in Kjorn’s belly. Those were the words he should have said, and the sentiment he should’ve felt. Sverin had invented his own compromise before Kjorn had to intervene at all, and the tensions in the pride already lessened.
“I agree,” Kjorn said belatedly, and Sverin inclined his head to both of them.
Thyra, Kenna and Halvden approached and mantled, ready to give their decisions.
“My lord,” Caj said to Sverin. “May I borrow the prince while you speak to these three?”
“Of course.” Sverin waved them away with a wingtip and Kjorn, puzzled, followed Caj away across the grass. They walked, not minding the whispers and gossip that already circulated about the Guard, what it would mean for hunting and for the Vanir left in the pride.
They stopped a good distance from the King’s Rocks, where gulls and the crash of water below would drown their conversation from prying ears.
Caj spoke, looking out toward the sea. “Last night was what the Vanir call the Halfnight.”
“Yes.” Kjorn glanced around uncertainly. “What of it? It marks the turn to autumn.”
Caj studied him closely, as if he had actually asked a question and now awaited the answer.
A gull cried, shooting over their heads. The sound jarred Kjorn and he looked around, restless, remembering his father’s warning, thinking of the night, of the starfire.
It struck him like a stone and he looked back at Caj.
He saw it. He saw it too. Kjorn’s beak slipped open and he lifted his talons to take a step, then found he didn’t want to move. What does it mean to him?
Caj’s expression twitched just slightly in acknowledgement. He’d wanted to know if Kjorn saw it. If Kjorn, like his grandfather Kajar, had watched the starfire split the sky.
“I think it best,” Caj said in his low, rumbling burr, “that we follow Sverin’s rule as it benefits the pride. If you question him, then challenge him outright and take over the pride. Otherwise, show respect. Trust him. Follow him.”
“Winter is a difficult time for him,” Kjorn agreed cautiously, listening through the spoken words. Don’t speak of it, Caj had said without speaking. Don’t speak of it to anyone, and certainly don’t follow it as your great-grandfather did. “I won’t disrupt the pride,” Kjorn added.
Before they could speak further or Kjorn’s head spin any more, Halvden glided in to demand Caj’s time, something about an argument between the hunters and the Guard already, and Kjorn followed them back to the group.
So, he would remain in silence about the starfire. Thyra would not mention it if didn’t. He cast a long, hunting look across the pride as they walked.
His gaze ended on the hill where Ragna had stood, but she was gone, and Kjorn could only ponder the distant White Mountains and plan his moves. He would need to watch Einarr and, if his father showed any new signs of poor judgment, to act swiftly to correct it—or, as Caj suggested so bluntly, to take over the pride.
You remember what happened, the last time you doubted me.
Kjorn closed hi
s eyes against the bright autumn day, for all he could see was Shard, plunging to his death in the storm-tossed sea.
11
The Windward Sea
Dawn lit the sky at Shard’s back. He’d followed the trail of the starfire as well as he could remember it. Still it burned in his mind, an invisible line in the sky, Tyr’s unquestionable direction. As the light grew, Shard’s heady excitement from the night faded.
Endless washing sea stretched away in every direction. The scent of brine and fish wafted to him on the morning wind. No scent of earth, trees, forest creatures or rowan berries touched the air. Shard peered behind him and saw nothing of the Silver Isles. A slow, creeping panic edged into his muscles.
The exhilaration of seeing the starfire shriveled.
What was I thinking?
A madness had overtaken him, to suddenly leave the islands and fly blind over the sea.
Of course he’d been thinking it all along. Ever since Stigr had hinted that summer that he thought Sverin, his father Per and the rest of their Aesir clan had fled something, not come to the Silver Isles as conquerors. Ever since he’d shared his father’s vision.
Shard had known he would fly to the windward land. He hadn’t planned to leap headlong after a racing starfire trail, without thought or plan or any kind of goodbye.
He tightened his talons and locked his wings into an easy glide that picked all the little currents up from the waves. His wings, Vanir wings, stretched longer and with more curve than the broad, blunt wings of the Aesir. Like a gull, or a fishing eagle. If the Aesir had made the flight, so could he.
Water rolled under him. Endless, fathomless blue water. Panic prowled just at the edge of his steady flight.
“Per the Red made this flight,” he whispered. “And Sverin, who fears the sea.”
Dawnward, the sunrise bloomed like a wild rose. Nightward, Tor’s pale rim still peeked just above the sea. If he kept sun and moon on his flanks, Shard knew he would remain pointed windward, and eventually find land.