Skyfire

by Jess E. Owen

  Shard twitched his tail and it sent a bump through his flight. “I’m not.”

  “Good.”

  The Winderost looked endless. Endless, solid land stretching out before Shard just as the ocean had. Higher now, his head clearer, Shard took in all he could. At their backs lay the coast. They soared toward the distant rock formations and the farther nightward and inland they flew, the more broken and craggy the land became.

  “Brynja,” Shard said, floating closer to her. “You said you’d point out the boundaries.”

  She cast a furtive look at Valdis and then flapped once to angle in toward Shard. “Behind, of course, is the Dawn Reach. Those rolling hills. Where it flattens out ahead and windward of us is lion territory. See the coast curving round there?” She stretched out talons and Shard peered behind them, noting how the shoreline just out in a fat, wide curve. “Where it curves back in is the Vanheim shore. A rogue gryfon clan lives there, not allied with the Dawn Spire.”

  “I see,” Shard murmured. Valdis had asked him if he was from the Vanheim Shore. “What sort of gryfons?”

  She looked back at him, gliding smoothly along. “The sort that don’t answer to a king.”

  “Mm. And your starward boundary?”

  She studied him a moment, and looked forward again, squinting. “You can’t see it from here. The Ostral Shores are a great, salt lake. Also overrun with rogue prides.”

  “So many,” Shard said thoughtfully, wondering what reason they might have not to answer to Brynja’s king.

  “It’s a big land,” Brynja said. “You have only one pride in the Silver Isles?”

  “Yes, just one. Though I suppose we could break into more, if there were reason.”

  “Reason?”

  “Reason,” he said. “I’m sure these rogue clans have reasons for not following King Orn?”

  Brynja searched him with a piercing look and for a moment he feared he’d said the wrong thing. Then she broke into a cool laugh. “Yes. I suppose they must. Anyway, the final boundary is the Voldsom Narrows, nightward of us, part of a long canyon—well, you can see it there.” She pointed again, and he admired her neat, sharp talons before looking.

  Nightward, perhaps a half day’s flight away, the land broke into a massive, serpentine gorge. It stretched for leagues and leagues starward and windward as if great Tyr himself had gashed a talon across the face of the earth. Smaller canyons spidered off from it. Shard chirruped quietly, impressed.

  “We do much of our hunting in the Narrows, though sometimes we hunt the Reach to make sure the lions and the rogue clans aren’t trespassing.”

  “I see.” Shard angled in closer to Brynja, twining his talons together to keep from fidgeting. “And there, on the other side?”

  Beyond the large gorge a haze cloaked the land. The earth there paled to gloomy, infertile brown and gray. “What is that place?”

  “The Outlands.” She didn’t even look toward it. “Where there is no hunting. Where the enemy lives. Where the exiles go and die.”

  Shard felt a chill. Valdis ordered them to silence from the front of the group, and another withering look from Stigr quelled any more questions Shard had. He squinted toward the Narrows, staring at the dark, desert land beyond.

  Where the enemy lives. Where the exiles go and die.

  Shard wondered if any Vanir had tried to flee to this land during the Conquering. He wondered, with a sudden, leaden sense of responsibility as prince and heir of the Vanir pride, if any of them were lost and suffering as exiles in a place not even the Aesir would fly.

  If they were, he vowed silently, he would find them. He would find them all, and bring them home.

  20

  The Dawn Spire

  Tyr soared higher above them, then low toward the nightward horizon as the land below changed from grassy plains to drier, scrubby, broken earth.

  If I’d flown this long in the Silver Isles, Shard mused, I’d be out to sea.

  Below, the landscape of the Aesir stretched on and on in all directions. Stigr broke the last sunmark of silence. “Tyr’s wings,” he whispered, and Shard shook out of his thoughts to peer forward.

  The aerie of the native Aesir towered up from the earth before them. A scattering of stacked rock columns, ribboned red, ochre and brown sprawled for a league. Shard’s gaze traveled up rock towers that met each other by impossibly delicate bridges of stone. Spires balanced precarious boulders on their crowns and the whole place formed a maze of tower, canyon, gorge and spire. A sparkle of water caught Shard’s eye, a stream darting and splashing through one of the shallow canyons between the red arches.

  Some miracle of the First Age had created this place, Shard thought wildly. Ancient wind, the First Wind, and vast ocean, and Tyr’s mighty talons had fought each other and carved this place from the earth.

  The smell of juniper smacked his senses with the feeling of home, for it smelled the same as the trees of the Silver Isles. The scent of gryfons overpowered everything. Shard couldn’t fathom how many must live in the red maze of rock.

  This is where my wingbrother was born. Where Sverin was born. Where Per the Red was born, who killed my father. He wondered if Kjorn remembered it at all, then he tightened his talons, narrowing focus again. He couldn’t let himself be distracted.

  Brynja glanced at him furtively and Shard looked directly at her, trying to summon an intelligent response. “It’s beautiful.”

  She looked away and keened a greeting toward a sentry standing on one of the high, rock-crowned towers along the outskirts. A sentry stood on every high post of rock. So many sentinels. Shard thought of the Aesir’s unconquerable terror of the night and wondered what enemy, other than darkness, they feared.

  Each sentry post had what looked like a large matted nest atop it along with the gryfon guard. Every few moments Shard saw young, barely fledged gryfons adding long dry grass or chunks of dead wood to the pile.

  “What are those?” he asked Brynja. She shifted her wings to swoop ahead of him, almost in challenge.

  “You’ll see.”

  They flew through the arches and towers of red stone and the ancient weight and presence of them sent exhilaration through Shard’s veins. It took all his reserve not to plunge ahead and dive in wild, acrobatic spirals around the maze.

  Ahead, the maze ended to reveal a central clearing of rocky plain. In the center of the little plain, another rock formation jutted out of the earth like a leviathan fin, massive and slightly twisted to form a peak like a horn. Gryfons soared all around it and dwelling-caves pocked its red face.

  “Dawn Spire?” Shard asked lightly.

  “How did you guess?” Brynja replied, and called a third ringing cry into the wind. “Summon our Lord Orn!”

  Shard’s feathers prickled to hear her molten voice ringing back from the Spire.

  “Summon the chiefs!” She flapped hard to gain altitude and Shard lifted his wings to follow her, but Valdis hissed a warning for him to remain low.

  Brynja circled high, calling. “A meet! A meet! We bring Outlanders to speak with the king!”

  Gryfons stopped their business to turn and stare. Sentinels watched from their quarters, gazes trained on Shard and Stigr as they glided in toward the Dawn Spire. One broad flank of the Spire faced dawnward. Shard imagined that morning light must pour into it the moment the sun touched the horizon.

  A bright call answered Brynja’s announcements and a bolt of dark brown shot toward them from under one of the arches.

  “Sister!” cried Brynja, and the bolt of brown collided with her in a tangle of happy trilling and playful shrieks. Shard blinked twice and squinted, finally managing to see the new gryfon’s face when she broke from Brynja. She was as brown as fertile earth, dark and shimmering with bronze highlights where the sun touched her feathers.

  “My grounding has ended!” declared the new gryfess as she and Brynja flapped and regained proper flight position. They hovered, wings beating, forcing the rest of Brynja’s group
to do the same. “The queen and Asvander agree that my, hm, how did they put it? My enthusiasm might have been out of place, but that hunting eagles is not a crime. Next time you travel to the outposts,” she declared, “I shall be at your side again. Who’s this now?”

  “Outlander wreckage,” Valdis offered introduction before Shard or Brynja could speak. She was rewarded with a growl from Stigr.

  The brown gryfess, whose quick eyes and bright voice Shard was beginning to enjoy, glanced to Shard. “Well met, Outlander.” She tapped her beak playfully toward Stigr. “And Wreckage, I presume. I am Dagny, daughter-of-Jor, third huntress and so on and such. Wingsister to the finest huntress of the Dawn Spire. Are you joining our pride for the winter?”

  Shard’s beak slipped open and he almost laughed. Before Stigr could mutter something rude, Shard quickly replied, “That’s what we hope.”

  “Breezy,” she declared. “Then I look forward to many fireside tales. Sister, I must fly, before my father starts squawking about proper tier.”

  She and Brynja laughed before Dagny flipped down and dove fast toward a narrow alley between rock columns, swooping toward the Dawn Spire.

  “My wingsister,” Brynja supplied at Shard’s struck look. Her eyes sparkled as she studied Shard and he could tell that being around her wingsister made her feel more at ease.

  “What did she mean, fireside?”

  “Oh,” Brynja said, “That’s—”

  Valdis chattered her beak impatiently. “Brynja.”

  Brynja flew to her and Shard knew he shouldn’t listen, but he tuned an ear their way as he and Stigr hovered.

  Between the growing excitement of the gryfons around them and the wind of many wing beats, all he managed to hear was, ‘watch them,’ and ‘speak to the queen.’ Then Valdis flew up above Shard and Stigr.

  “You two. Mind my niece. I have other business.”

  “We’re glad you could spare the time for us,” Stigr said. From his tone, Shard wasn’t sure if he was being honest or rude, and from her expression, neither could Valdis. She left them without answering, though Shard thought he heard her mutter something about winged boar, just as Stigr muttered, “Insufferable harpy.”

  “This way, friends,” Brynja called.

  She led their group in a small spiral to the nightward flank of the Dawn Spire. There, it curved to form a thick crescent of rock layered with ridges and shelves of red stone. They landed in a line on the flat ground in the center of the crescent and Shard stared up at the curving wall of red rock, clutching at the earth. His talons barely glazed the dusty rock. He missed the cushioned peat of the Sun Isle, the carpet of sweet pine needles on Star Island, the smell of ever green trees.

  Those are sitting places, he realized, staring at the tiers. This is a meeting place. Like the King’s rocks back on the Sun Isle, but so much larger. He tried to fathom how many gryfons lived there. How many gryfons lived there and saw him as a stranger, a threat, a possible enemy.

  These are the cousins of my wingbrother, Shard told himself, reminding himself why he loved Kjorn—for his honor, his courage, his strength. Those were the supposed values of the Aesir. He must respect them to work with them. Surely, not every Aesir was as arrogant and willful as red Sverin. Brynja was a perfect example, and Dagny seemed friendly enough.

  He stared up, and up, at the gryfons making themselves comfortable in the layers of rock ledges above. Gryfons poured in, curious, though Brynja had only called for chiefs and the king.

  Shard glanced at Brynja. “What will happen?”

  “You’ll meet the king,” she said, also eyeing the gathering crowd. “You can speak your piece, but please remember what Valdis said.”

  Shadows rippled over them. Gryfons, circling above and diving in to land. In the shadow of the towering rock, the fire of Brynja’s feathers dimmed. Shard thought again of their coloring, and as he peered once again at the gathering throng, he realized that none of them possessed the jewel-bright feathers of Sverin’s pride either.

  “Thank you—”

  “Speak well,” she said quickly. “I have to go to my tier.”

  She pushed back into the air and flapped up to the sixth highest shelf of rock from the top. Shard cramped his neck staring up at the high tiers. He saw Valdis fly in to land near Brynja, and they conferred. Now her introduction made sense. Sixth tier. So, whoever sat highest was of the highest rank. Closest to the king.

  “There’s so many,” he whispered, looking to Stigr for guidance.

  “I see that.” His uncle swung his tail in a low arc, his black feathers standing out as foreign as a snowflake in the red desert. All the colors before them were of the desert, russets, duns, grays and golds and some pale, sage green.

  After a moment Stigr added some wisdom. “Don’t say anything stupid.”

  “But what do I say at all?”

  “Remember what they said. We’re from the Outlands.” Stigr swiveled and Shard swallowed his own fear, staring at his uncle’s one good eye, then the scarred one. An Aesir gryfon had taken that eye. Blue Caj, during the Conquering. Shard’s nest-father. Now they were surrounded by the enemy.

  But are they my enemy?

  He waited, tail swinging slowly as more and more gryfons flew in. Chatters, mutters and shouting clamored through the crescent of rock until Shard thought the echo would break his skull.

  One wing stroke, he bid himself, then another. One foot in front of the other. Stigr’s lifted wings and ruffed neck feathers made him look ready to fight the first gryfon who sneezed in his direction.

  “Peace, Uncle,” Shard said. “We have friends here.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” Stigr rumbled, settling his wings slowly. Shard pressed his talons against the red ground.

  A shadow swooped over the tumult, and a booming roar rolled down the face of the rock. Beside Shard, Stigr tensed again, looking up. Shard followed his gaze. A normal beast would’ve strained to see who circled above, but Shard’s sharp gaze showed him a well-built gryfon of later years, tan in coloring with just a hint of iridescent green where the sun hit. It wasn’t a flashy green like Shard’s old rival, Halvden, but subtle, like a desert plant.

  Coloring more like a Vanir, Shard thought uselessly. Like all of them. But that was the only similarity. The build, carriage and voice were Aesir.

  Tawny colored, with handsome, rangy spots along his flight feathers and sleek golden haunches, the final gryfon landed and stared down at Shard with light brown eyes in a face paled by age.

  “I am Orn, son-of-Throsver,” he declared. “King of the pride of Dawn Spire and the Dawn Reach of the Winderost Plain.”

  Orn had the look of wisdom, of strength, and Shard saw none of the hard, wild edge that Sverin carried in his face. He stretched into a low bow, splaying his wings over the ground in a mantle of respect. After a short huff, Stigr did the same. Shard straightened and waited, uncertain, taking a moment to settle his wings. He felt very small. Rock towered over him. At least a hundred gryfons peered down at him, rustling, judging, each half again as tall as he.

  “Speak, strangers,” said the king in a deep, easy voice that the rock carried down to Shard in a soft echo. He looked at Stigr, the elder. “If you are friends, you’re welcome here.”

  Shard tried to swallow his fear and a rock lodged in his throat. Stigr swatted him with his tail. “Go on,” he whispered, inclining his head to Shard so that all could see who was considered in charge of their pair. More rustles. But no one spoke, not under the eye of King Orn. Shard stepped forward.

  “Mighty Lord Orn,” he called, opening his voice so it would carry. The echo spat back at him and he jumped at the booming call. A few chuckles rippled through the gryfons. Shard laid his ears flat, gaze flicking to Brynja, on her tier. She didn’t laugh, but looked at him a little wide-eyed, as if he were mad. Hadn’t he noticed how Orn’s quiet words carried, she seemed to ask. Shard drew another breath, and tried again, lowering his voice.

  “My lord.” That
was better. His own voice reflected back to him, smooth and light and distracting.

  Is that what I sound like? He sounded weak compared to Orn. He tried to imagine Sverin speaking in the crescent and knew the Red King’s voice would rattle the stones. “I am Rashard, son-of-Baldr.” Conquered king of the Silver Isles.

  For a moment he planned to defy Valdis and simply declare who he was and what he wanted.

  But he couldn’t say it. Suddenly, he realized they might consider him an enemy. Valdis had hinted as much. Now he knew she’d done it on purpose, keeping her own information secret so she could keep control of Stigr and him. There was so much he didn’t know. What if they weren’t friendly with Per and his clan? What if Per’s family denied Orn’s rule, like the other rogue clans?

  He would have to stay with Valdis’ plan, Valdis’s advice, until she was willing to tell him more. I’ve lied before, he thought grimly. I’ll lie again until I learn the truth of things here, and then if I need to reveal myself, I will. What do these hundreds of gryfons care for my problems at home? Saying he was from the Silver Isles would probably amount to the same respect as saying he was from the Outlands, and Valdis had seemed so adamant that he not mention Per.

  “I fly with my uncle, Stigr, son-of-Ragr.” Before anyone could rustle again at their names or shift, Shard forced himself to go on, striving not to let the sound of his own nervous voice distract him.

  “We’ve come from the Outlands to ask a place in your pride.” The murmurs rose into a wave of disapproval and shouting. “You’ll find us capable warriors,” Shard raised his voice above the din, “skilled hunters…” The chatter grew into shouting and demands and swelled, and Shard couldn’t quiet them.

  I followed a starfire, Shard thought to say, and almost laughed as nerves crawled up his throat. One elderly female on the second tier shoved a scatter of rocks off the ledge and hissed as Stigr and Shard trotted aside from them. They were only pebbles, but the gesture was large enough.

  “Out of here, Outlander filth!”