By the Silver Wind (13 page)

“Even if I were of a mind to change mates, she wants time. She wants to go home. I think we all ought to focus on that.”

She stiffened a little, then inclined her head. “Of course, my lord.”

“And Ketil?” Shard glanced around at the camp, thought of what Kjorn had said earlier, and looked back to her. Her ears perked but she stood wary, defensive. “Thank you for coming with me. Thank you for all you’re doing for the Vanir. I’m very grateful you came to my beacon.”

Surprised, she lifted her head. “Of course.”

“Fair winds.”

“Fair winds, my lord.”

As he walked away he felt she still stood there, watching him. He wondered if she too thought he would disappear in the dark.
I did leave the fire,
he thought, suddenly gloomy.
I gathered them all and left to hunt down a missing gryfess . . . then stirred up the wyrms again.

He met Asvander and they walked in silence to the single bonfire where Kjorn, Brynja, and Dagny sat talking. Stars mingled with incoming clouds above, and Shard flopped down hard between Brynja and Kjorn.

“All well, Shard?” asked the golden gryfon.

“He needs to eat,” Dagny said wisely.

“Don’t worry,” Brynja said. “We saved you some.”

“I heard,” Shard said gratefully. He felt Kjorn’s gaze on him, searching, and knew he couldn’t hide his mood from his wingbrother. He would ask Kjorn about Asvander’s comment later, in private, if he had the chance.

The chance didn’t come then. He ate the last of his meat, the camp settled as true dark claimed the Reach, and they all gave in to the exhaustion of a full day’s flight.

Shard’s gaze lingered on the red embers when the fire flickered low and Kjorn stretched out next to him, pressing his back against Shard’s. The weight and pressure was comforting, but the moment Shard closed his eyes, he knew he should try to reach Rhydda.

Remembering Groa and her dream net, Shard slowed his breathing and pictured a spiral of sinew in a distant cave at the bottom of the world. He imagined flying along it, grasping at strands that became swirling stars, then eddies of wind. He touched the dreams of the gryfon camp with a sense of wonder and flew higher, then, feeling a touch of murky anger from somewhere, he stooped.

As he slid toward true dreams, he felt her. The hot, searing mind, devoid of words or reason and ravaged only with blood and fury and fear.

Fear.

Their bellies always felt hollow. Burning thirst cracked their tongues and hardened their hearts. The memory of green hills rolled in her mind, then confusion, a memory of soft piles of gold upon which they’d slept. Plump deer, fish, and birds on which they’d feasted.

Now, everything was lack, thirst, and fear.

Through her eyes Shard saw her brood, realized that he was dreaming, but she was awake, and in her mind, he was a daydream. He watched as they hunted in the night.

Rhydda. Did you hunt well? Did you feed your brood?

Darkness loomed like wings around his mind. Black boulders thrust up before him. She wasn’t listening. Shard tried again, differently, instead imagining the warm scent of red flesh, the taste of pronghorn and what it must feel like to be a fat, sated wyrm.

Her thoughts turned to him, answering in an image. He saw blood spilling, splashing in dry dust, a sense of satisfaction so pure and whole he shivered.

That hoofbeast had a name
, he thought softly to the she-wyrm.
Did you honor him? We honor all those we kill, even the simplest fish
.

Again, he saw black stones, this time smeared with blood. Her way, he thought, of shutting him out if she was angry, or if she couldn’t understand.

Remembering how he’d crafted a dream with Groa, he opened his wings and made one for Rhydda, grabbing and weaving memories from the dream net. He showed himself crouched by a greatbeast, murmuring his name so he would take it with him to the Sunlit Land, murmuring thanks to a dying red deer, complimenting her fast run, thanking the brief, simple life of the fish he ate each day. He recalled the moment he’d spoken the name Ahote to a dying wolf prince who had attacked Shard’s own family, so that even though they had fought, he would not die Nameless.

Blood and stone and mulling, muddy darkness. She didn’t understand, or didn’t want to.

Please,
he implored.
You are more than this!

He remembered the sunlight in her dream from before, and showed it to her. Sunlight on water. She lifted her head to see it, then sharp pain lanced across Shard’s flank. He cried out, heard Rhydda roar, and realized it was her pain, a memory of pain, and then came a voice he did not know, but the timbre of it was familiar.

You are unworthy of the sun!

Back in your hole, beast.

Shard whirled, seeking the voices, and the dream he’d crafted for Rhydda crumbled into fire and blood—

~*~

—then Kjorn bumped him awake as the big gryfon rolled to his feet with a hiss of surprise. Shard held very still, stared at the pulsing embers, not sure if he’d ever actually fallen asleep. He tried to reconcile the sudden violence of his dream with the red embers, then realized there was quiet commotion around him.

“Who goes there?” barked Toskil, from the perimeter. Shard narrowed his eyes and looked up to meet Kjorn’s gaze. Together they slipped around gryfons toward Toskil’s post. Shard heard steps behind them and suspected Asvander and Brynja followed. Someone, Dagny, began to stoke the fire to give them light.

They found Toskil standing stiff at his sentry post, taking sharp breaths as he scented the air. Shard could just see him now that the fire burned up again from the center of camp.

“What is it?” Shard asked.

“Someone’s moving about out there, but I can’t see.”

“Declare yourselves!” Kjorn boomed, making Shard jump. “We are friendly if you are. If you claim these lands, we’re only passing through.”

They tensed, standing in silence and trying to hear whatever movement Toskil had heard. The sound of a few gryfons standing, milling, moving to stand protectively behind Shard and Kjorn made it difficult to hear.

It was impossible to see anything outside the firelight.

Shard lifted his ears, and strode forward into the dark. Kjorn swiped for his tail and Shard trotted ahead. Toskil protested, but didn’t grab for him.

“Show yourselves!” Asvander shouted. Kjorn cursed when Shard kept walking, but he and Asvander didn’t leave the faint ring of light.

There, in the dark and the soft wind, Shard could see better, and hear. He shoved the troubling dream from his mind, and focused.

“If you are painted wolves, we’re friends,” he offered. “We have no meat left, but you may share our fire. Some of your number have allied with us—come and hear the tidings.”

A hoarse laugh crackled. Shard swiveled to face the sound, staring through the dark.

“Painted dogs? Don’t insult us.”

“Us?” Kjorn demanded, and immediately more gryfons joined, ringing him and Shard protectively. Shard stretched up, looking over the heads of his protectors—Brynja, Ketil, Toskil, and other Vanir. The rest remained in the firelight.

At last the shadow moved, stalking forward, raising wings to reveal a gryfon form. “Us. The free prides of the Winderost.”

“Free prides?” Asvander asked. “You mean poachers. Exiles.”

“You would call us that.”

Finally, Shard gleaned that the speaker was female, and definitely a gryfon, with raspy eagle overtones and the boom of a lion growl beneath. She raised her voice, as if make a point to those listening. “You, who think your claims on the land are stronger than others just because you can name more than one grandfather.”

Asvander rumbled dangerously, and Shard heard Kjorn take a step.

“I am Kjorn, son-of-Sverin,” the gold gryfon declared. “I have offered a number of your free pride followers a chance for honor and fellowship, to redeem their names and return to their home clans.”

“I know who you are.” Her voice lowered, dangerously soft. “I only wanted to see for myself, and show the others.”

“And you are?” Kjorn asked, and Shard heard his patience waning.

“I haven’t decided if you’ll know me. Fair winds.”

“Who are you?” Kjorn asked again, firmly, but silence answered.

Toskil shifted. No one else moved. Shard stepped toward the surrounding darkness and Brynja made a low, warning noise.

“Speak!” Kjorn demanded, ears raised, glaring.

Shard slipped around Brynja and through the protective ring of gryfons, completely out of the firelight and into the brisk, windy night. When others followed, he lashed his tail to order silence. He caught no scent of gryfon on the wind, heard only the faintest rustle of large bodies moving through the distant grass, running like lions on the ground, and already too far to pursue through the dark.

“They’re gone,” he reported, frustration and curiosity prickling his feathers. He scented Brynja before he saw her, and the stocky gryfess stepped up beside him and pressed her wing to his, a strong presence at his side. She had joined him in the dark, when the only others to leave the fire had been his own Vanir.

He brushed his tail against hers, and called to Kjorn over his shoulder. “I thought you said Rok leads the exiles. That he would bring them to your cause.”

“I thought he did,” Kjorn said quietly, from his spot within the ring of firelight.

“No one truly leads the exiles,” Asvander said. “Obviously he’s met some resistance. We’ll post a double watch. Perhaps Rok has spread word of you, and it’s only as she said, that she wished to see you for herself.”

“But not face me,” Kjorn growled.

Shard looked one last time out into the dark, then returned with Brynja and his Vanir to the fire. “Worry about the Vanhar first,” Shard advised Kjorn quietly, for the gold prince still peered beyond the fire. “When Rok finds you again, you can worry about this.”

Brynja spoke thoughtfully. “Who was she, I wonder?”

“A problem,” Asvander said darkly, and ordered four more sentries around their perimeter before all tried to settle down to sleep. Shard felt too hot, with the fire blazing again, and more gryfons now sprawled around them protectively.

“It’s all right, Shard,” Kjorn murmured thickly, already falling asleep again by the sound of it. “I doubt they’ll return.”

“I know,” Shard said, and didn’t voice his real fear, of going back to sleep. The dream had come back to him, and he remembered feeling Rhydda’s pain along his flank. As he neared sleep again it returned, flashing up his hind quarters, and he jerked awake, feeling as though he’d been slashed by claws or fire.

All slumbered around him. Kjorn hadn’t even roused at his movement.

Holding his breath, afraid to look, Shard twisted and lifted a wing to study at his flank and leg. There was no trace of injury. No scar, no slash. It had truly, only been a dream. A memory. Rhydda’s memory. He loosed a soft breath, laid his head down, and spent the remainder of the night trying to remember if the great she-wyrm had a scar as if from a whip of flame.

T
HE TROUBLE DIDN’T BEGIN
right away, for no one knew Sverin was receiving red meat. Ragna, Halvden, and Eyvin had managed to bring the first kill back in relative secrecy, for most of the Aesir sheltered in their dens when it snowed.

On the third day, when Sverin ran out of venison to eat, Ragna returned to Star Isle with Eyvin. Without a third experienced hunter, they only pursued rabbits, but four of those would be enough to tide the War King over for some time.

Ragna felt the shift in the winds that meant spring was coming. Snow in the morning often melted into freezing rain by the afternoon, with blue skies at evening. It was her favorite time of year—chaotic, unpredictable and full of the rushing, rebounding energy of the awakening earth. She relished her time flying back and forth from the Star Isle.

“You seem pleased,” Eyvin observed as they flew back to the Sun Isle, each with two rabbits clutched in their talons.

“Spring is coming. And with it, my Vanir, and my son.” She looked over. “Your son Dagr, and your mate. It’s very likely they will both return.”

Eyvin’s talons tightened on her rabbits and her ears slipped back. In her bright copper feathers, Ragna saw young Einarr’s face, and she had to turn away as a sudden rush of sadness claimed her. The ocean rolled stormy and cold beneath them, but the clouds above dropped no rain.

“I would be glad to see Dagr again,” Eyvin said at length.

“And Vidar?”

Eyvin didn’t answer. Ragna didn’t get a chance to question her further, for an angry shout echoed down the bronzy, dark rocks of the nesting cliffs.

“Ollar,” Eyvin muttered. “What a waste of wings. If only he’d died in the wolf attack last summer.”

Ragna looked at her, surprised. She’d never heard Eyvin speak ill of another Aesir. But then, Ollar, who stood on the edge of the cliff, hollering angry questions about the meat they carried, was one of the least-liked gryfons in the pride.

Caj, solid blue against the snow and muddy peat, trotted up to Ollar as Ragna and Eyvin banked to fly toward Sverin’s den.

“Stand down, son-of-Lar,” Caj boomed. “You will not question the queen.”

“The queen,” sneered Ollar, spinning to face Caj. “This is a mockery. She’s weak. See, even though he’s imprisoned and bound, she’s too afraid not to do as the Red King asks!” He raised his voice, shouting at Ragna and Eyvin. “Here now, back to the Star Isle with you, and fetch enough meat for all.”

“Shut your beak,” Caj rumbled, “or I’ll do it for you.”

Ragna watched them from the corner of her eye, slowing her flight on purpose. Eyvin slowed with her.

“It’s a mockery,” Ollar raved again. “It’s unjust. Why should a mad prisoner of war receive fresh, decent food, while the rest of us choke down cold, slimy poison from the sea?”

Eyvin tilted her head in toward Ragna. “I quite enjoy fish. I suspect Asfrid gives him rotten ones. It would serve him right.”

“Will you take these to Sverin’s den? I must see to this.” Ragna offered the rabbits, flaring. Eyvin swooped about and took them deftly, winging off without a word.