Skyfire

by Jess E. Owen

  Wind carried off the dust and brought the scent of the sea. More memories clamored at him, but he had no time to sort their meaning. The gryfess who had fought beside him so perfectly circled around now to face him.

  Three things struck him. She was as sturdily built as a full-blooded Aesir, but shorter than the average he’d seen, stocky and strong. Her ruddy feathers were the plain, wholesome color of a red hawk, faintly iridescent under the sun, but not outlandish like Sverin or the others. The final detail held him captive—her oddly familiar pale gold eyes, shining brightly above a splash of vermillion flecks along the paler feathers of her face.

  Sverin’s eyes. Sverin. The Red King. The Silver Isles.

  The Aesir.

  Words and names and memories swamped him and he strained to remember who he was in the middle of it all. His muscles twitched and shuddered with exhaustion and he fought to remain on his feet. His wings hung down at his side and his hind leg bled freely.

  Not a good first impression, he thought grimly.

  The gryfess spoke and the words slowly began to mean something to him.

  “I am Brynja, daughter-of-Mar.” Her voice lay clear as an icicle in the air. A name. It was her name. He tried to find his voice but it was buried in his long silence, flitting in the winds over the sea. When he didn’t answer, Brynja strode two steps forward, lifting her broad wings in assertiveness. “Of the sixth tier of Dawn Spire, fourth huntress to his majesty Orn, son-of-Throsver. You fought well, stranger. What’s your name, and from where do you hail?”

  The older female who’d saved them trotted back from chasing off the wolves, with a gray companion beside her.

  The older female’s coloring was similar to Brynja, though she was leaner, taller. “From the Vanheim Shore?” she asked airily. “He looks it. Well? Speak up. You trespass here.”

  When he couldn’t answer, she scoffed. “Outlander then, and witless. Nameless, useless. Off with you, shoo!” She fanned her wings and fluffed, waving her wings as if he were a crow. The dusty gray huntress who’d arrived with her twittered in amusement. Still his voice escaped him.

  Far off on the shore, a gull cried. It sounded like the albatross, before. What sound had it made?

  Rashard.

  It brought him the memory of a red she-wolf. A black, sharp, laughing gryfon male. A golden prince with a bright stare of summer blue. That golden gryfon’s mate, a sleek huntress the color of lavender dawn. Catori, Stigr, Kjorn, Thyra.

  The memories rushed in and became him. Love and memory swelled in his heart, and knowing them, he knew himself again.

  “Shard,” he whispered to himself, relieved. Windwalker had left him. Gave his name back, and left him. Shard wondered if he would ever have a chance to thank the bird, realizing with shame that they’d parted because he, not knowing himself, had attacked.

  “What?” asked the gryfess named Brynja. She watched him expectantly with eager eyes, curious, winded from the fight. Knowing himself, Shard was suddenly overwhelmed by his own name, past, and purpose, and more aware of the details around him. He shook himself, fluffed his feathers—and paused, studying Brynja and the others closely.

  The gryfess band before him stood now in a neat wedge, Brynja and the older gryfess at the front, the younger two behind. Shard had expected to see Aesir gryfons like Sverin’s pride. These four carried themselves like Aesir. They sounded like Aesir. Their builds were as strong and sturdy.

  But their feathers were as natural and plain as Shard’s own.

  Thrown off, he tried to gathered words. Were these some other, foreign, strange breed of gryfon?

  They can’t be Vanir. They’re nothing like me. Yet…

  Brynja’s eyes, beautiful yet severe, were chillingly similar to Sverin’s.

  A distant cousin? Shard thought, bewildered. Nothing was going as he’d planned or hoped.

  “Witless,” said the tall, oldest huntress again, stepping forward and raising her wings. “A witless, Nameless, trespassing, poaching Outlander.”

  “He isn’t a poacher,” Brynja said, watching Shard intently. “He flew down to help Lisbet.” She nodded toward the tawny huntress, who dipped her head in thanks to Shard. Brynja nodded approval and returned her attention to Shard. “Tell us your name.”

  Slowly, Shard found the voice buried in his chest. He knew he could speak. But what should I say? Should I lie until I know more? Until I know them, and where their allegiance falls?

  He had spent all summer lying. Lying to his uncle, to himself, to his friends and family and his former king.

  Windwalker’s call echoed in his mind.

  “My name is Rashard,” he said, his voice scratchy from disuse, but firm. “Son of Baldr. Prince of the Silver Isles in a far corner of the starward sea.”

  He extended his wing starward, to indicate the direction he’d come, in case anything in his introduction confused them. Brynja didn’t look confused. Her gaze lit and she searched his face, then whirled to face the older gryfess at her side.

  “Valdis, did you hear? Silver Isles. That’s what the other one said too.”

  “Then maybe he was telling the truth,” Valdis murmured, studying Shard.

  Brynja looked beside herself. “Do you think—”

  “Be still, daughter of my brother. This bears some thinking.”

  “What other?” Shard asked, looking from one to the other. “Who else spoke of the Silver—”

  “Quiet, Outlander,” Valdis cut him off. “Maybe you are what you say. Though I’ve never seen a prince quite so…” she eyed Shard up and down and didn’t bother to finish. By her expression, Shard was glad she didn’t. She cast a look behind her to the two younger huntresses. “Sigga, Lisbet. Fly a circle out to make sure the dogs have truly left our grounds. We’ll meet you at the outpost. Find the pronghorns and take one for our supper. We’ll deal with…Prince Rashard.”

  Shard narrowed his eyes at her tone. She didn’t look at him again, but Brynja did, and he caught her gaze. The bright, eager look in her face soothed him a little.

  Sigga and Lisbet dipped their heads and loped off, taking wing without question. Shard ached to sit down, but he stood strong, refusing to show these females weakness.

  “The starfire,” Brynja burst out once the others were gone from ear shot. “It came from the Starland Sea. And now, these two gryfons. I told you it was a sign.”

  Starfire. Before Shard could respond, she spoke again, aflame with excitement. “If you truly come from across the Starland Sea, then you must bring tidings.” She stepped forward and he caught the warm, sweet scent of her on the rising wind. “Please. What news of our lost kin?”

  “News?” Shard asked.

  Valdis stepped forward between them. “That’s right,” she said slowly, as if she’d decided Shard was dull-witted, not merely confused. “News. What news of a pride of Aesir who left these lands ten summers ago?” Her look was one of deadly focus. “What news of Per the Red?”

  16

  Reunion

  “Per is dead,” Shard managed after a moment of surprise. It was all he could think to say. “He died years ago and I’m sure he flies with Tyr in the Sunlit Land.”

  Valdis made a low, dangerous noise at his flippant tone. “What else?”

  Shard resisted the urge to growl. “I’m not an envoy for Per and his kin.” If Valdis was somehow allied with Per, he had to tread carefully. He didn’t have to let her press him underfoot like a nestling. “I have questions for you, too,” he added evenly. “I’m sure we’ll all be able to answer each other’s questions in time.”

  I just rescued one of her huntresses. All his life he’d been overlooked as a runt and an outcast and the last born Vanir, valued only because of friendship with Kjorn. No longer. And certainly not in a new land, where all they would know of him was what he presented. Valdis cocked her head, amused.

  Brynja trotted up so Valdis no longer blocked their view of each other. “Of course. Valdis please, let him be an honored guest
at our outpost. Lisbet would’ve been killed if not for him.”

  “She never should have come in the first place. Just because her father sits Second Tier. She’s no replacement for Dagny in any way.”

  “Should we speak at the outpost?” Shard prompted, wary of hearing many more names before he figured out who he was talking to in the first place. There were enough questions to go around. Namely, what other gryfon they’d met who spoke of the Silver Isles. Friend or enemy? And how they knew Per the Red.

  “Yes,” Valdis said, her tone forcibly civil. “The outpost. Let’s fly.”

  “My wing is sprained,” Brynja said. “I can’t fly, so if we want to make it before nightfall…”

  Shard had never thought embarrassment could look so charming, and caught himself staring at the details of Brynja’s face. When she looked at him, he lifted his wings in a shrug. “I can walk.”

  Valdis muttered but they set off, and Shard immediately regretted it. The painted wolf’s jaws hadn’t broken bone in his hind leg, but they had gouged and torn. Blood oozed down his paw and the bite sent a lancing stab up his leg with each step. For awhile he kept up, head high, his pace steady.

  They trekked nightward through the rolling grass hills. After the first few moments of silence, Shard caught up to Brynja. “What is this place called?”

  She laughed, ears flickering uncertainly. “You really aren’t from this land at all, are you?”

  “Or he’s playing you for a fool,” Valdis warned. Her gaze swept the hills and the plain beyond. Shard wondered, with a chill, what she searched for so alertly other than wolves. Brynja tossed her head, dismissing the idea, and lowered her voice so only Shard could hear.

  “For what it’s worth, I believe you. But watch yourself around my aunt, and watch your words when we reach the Dawn Spire. Loyalties become complicated and I would rather see you become the hero who saved a young gryfess than a meddling Outlander.”

  “The Dawn Spire? Is that the outpost?”

  Brynja stared, then laughed again in disbelief, as if Shard was the best thing the world had presented her with all day. He didn’t particularly enjoy being laughed at, but he sensed no malice from her, and the sound was rich and hearty. “It’s our aerie. It’s where the united clans of the Winderost make their home and where the king rules.”

  “King Orn,” Shard said, recalling her earlier introduction. “And this place, the Winderost, how far does it go? How far does your pride rule? Is it one pride, or many? You said clans.”

  She gave him a keen look. “You ask good questions, Prince Rashard.” Skyfire lanced from his tail tip to his chest to hear her say his title and name. “The Winderost stretches from this quarter—the Dawn Reach—to the Vanheim Shore, past the Dawn Spire, nightward to the Voldsom Narrows, starward to the Ostral Lake shores.”

  Shard nodded slowly, but his look must have been blank, for she chuckled again. “When my wing relaxes again in the morning, we’ll fly high and I’ll show you our boundaries. It’s important to know. Particularly where the Outlands begin. Where the enemy lives.”

  “The enemy?” Shard wondered, for her tone changed and her voice fell low. “The wolves?”

  “No.” Her expression closed, and she seemed confused that he didn’t know. “The great enemy, the other…you really don’t know?”

  “I don’t,” Shard said, wondering how many times she was going to ask. “Who is the enemy?”

  “It’s better you don’t know,” she said, gaze darting away. “We don’t speak of it. But I can tell you anything else.”

  “As well teach him the names of all the ruling families, our ties, and any other secrets you might know,” Valdis growled. “That’s quite enough of all this.”

  “Our boundaries aren’t secret,” Brynja replied. “If you’ll look at him and listen for more than a moment you can plainly see he isn’t from here. And he certainly isn’t from the Outlands.”

  “If you’d look and listen,” Valdis said smoothly, “You’d see he’s certainly no prince either.”

  “As for the other gryfon,” Shard began, not wanting to argue her, “who you said mentioned the Silver Isles—”

  “Best to travel silently,” Valdis cut in, raising her voice over the wind and acting as if she hadn’t heard him. “If the wolves try to ambush us, or the grass cats are trespassing again. Best to be alert. And silent.”

  The last she said over her shoulder to Brynja, who ruffled her feathers in silent reply. She gave Shard a wide-eyed look, and he ground his beak against a laugh.

  They walked inland, and a part of Shard despaired when he could no longer hear the crash of the sea. In the Silver Isles he was never more than a quarter mark’s flight away from the water.

  The late afternoon crawled toward evening, and without the conversation to distract him, every needling ache became sharper, and Shard bit down hard to keep from groaning with each step. His hind leg shuddered and cramped and he could no longer walk steady and straight, but let himself limp to relieve the pain.

  The hills stretched longer and broken, the grass stubbly and dry from wind. The sun crouched on the horizon, washing orange light across the hills. Brynja and Valdis grew more tense, and picked up to a trot as darkness crept from the nightward sky.

  “Brynja,” Shard began. “Is there something dangerous about the night?”

  “Be silent,” she reminded him, though not coldly. Shard noted how wide her eyes were, her tight stance as she walked. So, she was as fearful of the dark as any Aesir of the Silver Isles, and of traveling on the ground.

  But it is half our birthright.

  He couldn’t argue philosophy at that moment though. Any time she looked his way, he only made a point of looking unconcerned.

  The falling night brought chill. It dropped from a crisp, sunny dusk to a cold worthy of the Silver Isles, and Shard fluffed against it. Already tired from his flight, the fight with the wolves, and the long walking, he struggled with his limp and resisted asking how much farther.

  As the sun slipped below the horizon, they reached their destination. The hill they climbed rose steadily in a long, high slope before dropping sharply into a dusty rock cliff. Valdis led them single file up a long narrow trail that wound from the slope around to the front of the cliff. A single long cave gashed the rock face like a fish’s mouth, agape.

  “We’re here,” Brynja confirmed for Shard, over her shoulder. “You’ll be able to rest and eat.”

  Raw with exhaustion, Shard only grunted acknowledgement. The breeze brought the scent of meat and he knew Lisbet and Sigga had succeeded in their hunt for pronghorn. His belly roiled with hunger but he feared his long fast would make him nauseous and vowed to eat slowly.

  “Inside,” Valdis ordered. “Quickly now, it’s almost dark.”

  Shard limped after Brynja, trembling. The cave at last cut the endless wind and it was gloomy as night inside. All Shard heard was the scuff of paws and talons on rock. Lisbet and Sigga sat near the entrance with a fresh doe carcass, and exclaimed cheerfully at seeing Valdis and Brynja.

  Relief quivered under Shard’s feathers and it took all his strength not to curl up and fall into oblivion. There were still questions he needed to ask, and Brynja had offered food.

  “Shard?” demanded a familiar voice from blackest corner of the cave.

  Shard whipped about to peer into the darkness. Valdis folded her wings as she looked between Shard and the speaker he couldn’t see. “Ah, so you do know each other? The Silver Isles must be a small place.”

  “Very small,” Stigr rumbled, stalking out of the shadows.

  17

  Forbidden Songs, Forbidden Sea

  Cold hovered over the Silver Isles like a falcon stooped on its prey. Sigrun paced among the young gryfess hunters. A beautiful, clear, cold day for hunting. Chill wind wove between their legs and cold nights had hardened the peat under their talons.

  Six females preened and fluffed against the wind, waiting Sigrun’s inspection, thei
r bellies growing plump with kits. They stood at the top of the nesting cliffs above Sigrun’s den, several long leaps away from the King’s Rocks where Caj and Halvden gathered a band of the King’s Guard for a wolf hunt.

  “The herds will be going inland now,” Sigrun said to her daughter.

  “I know.” Thyra fluffed, looking hard at the horizon. Everyone tried not to stare over at the male hunters, praying to bright Tyr they succeeded. Even though Sverin had been pleased with his newly formed Guard, their continued failure to bring back a single wolf hair seemed to gnaw at the last of his good will.

  “Beware of the boar this time of year,” Sigrun added. “They guard their feeding grounds ferociously.”

  Thyra tossed her head. “Mother, I know.”

  Sigrun straightened. The damp scent of frost mocked every breeze, and the sky blazed icy blue. “I can pull you from the hunt if I feel you’re unfit.”

  Thyra dipped her head, ears still flat. “Thank you for the advice. “

  Sigrun slanted an ear toward the end of the line. Ragna was murmuring something to the young huntress there, a pale, snowy gryfess with shy eyes.

  Astri, thought Sigrun. Einarr should’ve chosen a stronger mate, to make up for his meekness. Sigrun turned her ears to hear what Ragna was saying. Other hunters perked their ears, and Ragna’s warm, low voice came to Sigrun in a singsong.

  “…when all was Nameless, the wise will tell

  It was only by knowing the other

  That they came to know themselves.”

  Terror swept Sigrun and she flung open her wings.

  “You’re all fit to fly! If you feel overheated or dizzy, you must stop and rest immediately, for the life of your kit. Don’t be proud in this.” The females dipped their heads at her instruction and Sigrun drew a deep breath. “I smell frost in the air, maybe even snow. Go now and do us well, before the weather changes. Thyra, wait a moment.”

  The young females warbled and flapped happily, and Ragna swiveled to stare at Sigrun, tail swinging slowly. Sigrun met her stare across the peat, narrowing her eyes.