By the Silver Wind (31 page)

Upon hearing Hildr’s news, Asvander, Hel, and Brynja sorted their gryfons in scouting bands. Keta led the Vanir, with Toskil and Ilse helping.

Afternoon fell with breaking clouds. Shard paced by the river, planning to scout with the Vanir.

“And Shard.” Asvander lumbered up to him. “You stay here.”

Shard fluffed, lifting his wings, tail flaring and lashing in an unconscious effort to make himself look even half as large as the Lakelander. “I will not. I know the Outlands just as well as any other. Better, in fact—”

“Your Vanir know the Outlands, and they have volunteered to lead the scouting parties. The rogues, my warriors, and Brynja’s allies will go. You will stay here,
Prince
Rashard.” His expression softened from stubborn to concern. “For Stigr and Kjorn’s sake, at least. If you insist, I’ll stay behind as well.”

Shard felt rooted. He looked beyond Asvander to his clustered followers, the Vanir who’d come to serve him. The Vanir who served Kjorn’s purposes, now, because they knew it was as Shard wished it. They had volunteered to fly back into the dead land of their exile to find the enemy. And he would sit here, tucked away like a nestling, while they all risked themselves.

He felt short of breath.

“Shard, my friend. My brother by battle.” Asvander loomed back into Shard’s line of sight. When Shard looked at him, ears flat in consternation, Asvander laughed and snapped his beak in mock aggression. “Someone must be here for the great gathering. Brynja is staying too, and she fought me harder than you are now.”

Shard eyed him. Oddly, it did make him feel better. “Why? I’m one of the fastest fliers—”

“Were,” Asvander said with grim pleasure. “Your Toskil might give you a run, and Keta. Let them serve you. You’re a leader now. You’ve done and seen things none of us will in this life, and you’ve all but returned a proper king to the Dawn Spire for us. Let us help you. Let us serve.”

It sounded so much like Stigr that Shard shut his beak. Brynja approached, and with a glance at their faces, seemed to guess what they were talking about.

“Someone has to be here,” she murmured to Shard. “Shard, we need to be here for the gathering. The lions will likely arrive within two days, and who knows how quickly the rest of the Lakelanders and the painted wolves will come? Think of Stigr. If he arrives only to find out that you’ve disappeared into the Outlands, none of us will survive until the battle.”

Shard managed a laugh. “I yield.”

“Good.” Brynja ruffled her feathers, stretching her broad, ruddy wings. “Then I’ll tell you the groups, and who will be flying where.”

As they sat, Hildr flew to them and offered her fastest scouts to accompany each group. As Shard watched them all finally take to the air and depart, he wondered with an out-of-place sense of misgiving how Kjorn fared at the Dawn Spire.

Vaguely, he remembered that outside, night had fallen. Tucked next to Brynja, he had fallen asleep to the murmur of other gryfons. Now he sought the dream realm, seeking the net that wove through the stars. He sought Rhydda.

A raven’s dark laughter followed him. Though the sound surprised him, Shard ignored it. Munin had shown him false things before, images and events out of context that put fear into his heart. He didn’t need anymore fear.

Spiraling in a dream flight, he grasped the net and flung it out wide, seeking wyrm dreams of blood and stone.

Images, laughter, raven wings flapped and scattered around him. He slipped across the dreams of the sleeping gryfons around him, many of which featured Kjorn and glorious battle, and fire.

Rhydda!

A long, clattering raven call mocked him across the stars.
You’ve scared her away, mighty prince,
Munin rasped, now winging in beside Shard.

Shard tried to shove the raven back.

You’ve reminded her of finer things and greener places.
The raven flapped his wings, conjuring up images of molten earthfire surrounded by icy sea, pine woods, and a distant range of mountains.

“Did she fly home? Was that my last dream? Tell me!”

O’ Summer King, I warn you, spring has come sooner than you know, and your pride will fly or fall without you—

With a flick of his wings, Shard dove down, leaving the raven behind in mottled, unformed images. Soaring in the odd half-light of the dream, Shard scoured as far as he could stretch, following the long spiral of scattered light.

A dragon’s voice whispered,
You should have flown. You should have flown when you knew the time was right.

“Amaratsu?” Shard cried, whirling.

A raven wing struck him and knocked him into a blazing fire. Shard was consumed in laughter and hot flames, and Munin’s voice rang on and on.
You should have flown, you should have flown, you should have flown when your heart called you home!

Munin had him now, caught in long spindly claws, and tossed him down on a familiar cliff of the Star Isle. There he found Catori, and called her name in relief. But the red she-wolf stood at the edge of the cliff and stared out over the sea, ears perked, and did not see or hear him.

Oh what darkness,
her warm voice howled into the wind,
oh what darkness have we lived to see?

He shouted her name, thrusting his wings open. When she flicked an ear his way, he managed to shove forward. His talons sank into the ground and he slogged toward his friend, her winter fur whipping in a wind he couldn’t feel.
“Catori!”

At last she turned, but as she did her red fur warped into stone-hard, leathery flesh, wings ripped up from her back and flared open, and Rhydda’s gaping jaws met him with a hollow roar.

“Oh, Shard!”

“I’m all right,” Shard whispered, freshly awake, not moving. Brynja huddled over him. Darkness cloaked the night outside the den in which they sheltered. The murmuring music of the river grounded him. His heart didn’t race as it did after most nightmares. His blood felt cool, calm. He didn’t trust Munin’s visions. They had always led him false.

“Did you see her?” Brynja hung over him, protective, stroking her talons down his back.

“I don’t know.” Shard shifted and stood, touching his beak to her neck in thanks for the comfort, and walked to the edge of the den. “It felt more like a nightmare than a vision. A raven dream.” Wind blew steadily against the canyons, and Shard perked his ears.

Brynja stood beside him. “I haven’t slept. I haven’t heard anything. Any wyrms, I mean. But maybe the scouts will turn up something when they depart tomorrow.”

“Maybe so,” Shard said, grasping at the edges of the dream even as it slid from him.

You should have flown,
the raven’s voice cackled. He saw Catori, her face aflame with horror.

You should have flown home.

He shuddered. He could not leave Kjorn. He promised not to fly alone. Even if it wasn’t a raven dream, there was nothing he could do yet.

Outside the den, a lookout called a warning. Shard and Brynja trotted out, ears alert. He found himself absurdly hoping the warning was about wyrms, but the voices were familiar.

“ . . . Rashard? Where is the prince? I have ill tidings!”

“Ketil?” Shard’s heart clenched. If Ketil had found them at night, and was alone, that did not bode well.

Stars formed a glistening corridor over their heads and shed enough light to see Ketil gliding down to meet them. Two of Shard’s Vanir had stood watch on the canyon rim, and they all flew down to land by the river. Waking gryfons peered out of the abandoned wolf dens, and eagle heads poked from nests, silhouetted against the stars. Ketil mantled before Shard, her feathers in disarray, winded and worn.

“My lord. It was a ruse. Kjorn, Nilsine, and Dagny have been captured, and I fear the warriors who met us meant to kill him. Forgive me for fleeing, but I knew it would be better to escape and tell you than to fight, lose, and leave you wondering.”

“You did the right thing,” Brynja said.

Ketil shot her a quick, surprised look, then dipped her head in gratitude. “I fear I was too slow. I got turned around when I flew to lose my pursuers and lost an entire day. We could reach them faster if—”

“I know the way,” Brynja said quickly. “It will take us only half the night to return there. You did well, you came as swiftly as you could.”

They continued speaking, but Shard stood in a daze as anger rushed him.

Captured. Meant to kill him. A ruse.

You should have flown.

I have to go.

Raven wings blended in and around his thoughts, and suddenly he realized he’d been speaking out loud. “I have to go.” Gryfons clustered around him, telling him what to do, telling him he couldn’t go, himself, alone, to the Dawn Spire.

Shard flung his wings open and ramped to his hind legs, his feathers catching starlight. “No, I
will
go. This is my doing, bringing Kjorn to this land.
I
will go. I have unfinished business with Orn and the Dawn Spire.”

Brynja and the others stood silent.

Before Shard could speak again, Asvander rumbled, “Not alone.”

Shard fell again to all fours, looked at Brynja, then at Ketil. “I will—”

“Not alone, Shard,” Brynja said sharply. “Kjorn went practically alone. Don’t you see what you’re asking of us?”

“Forgive me, my lord,” Ketil said, “but don’t be a fool. Don’t waste the loyal hearts and talons that you have here.”

Three heartbeats passed in quiet, and in it, Shard imagined what Stigr would say, what Kjorn would say. Then, he remembered he had promised he would never fly alone again. The wind left his chest, and he ducked his head. Gryfons crept from their dens, listening, catching up in muttered whispers on what was happening.

“It will be dangerous,” Shard said. “Orn hates me, blames me for the destruction and deaths from the wyrm attack, and perhaps rightly so. The wyrms haven’t shown themselves but it’s possible they would hunt a large band of gryfons flying at night. We—”

“All haste, Shard,” Brynja said quietly.

Shard shook himself, raised his head. “Who will go with me?”

A chorus of voices shouted in the night.

A
HORNED ACHE IN HIS
skull brought Kjorn around, but when he opened his eyes he saw only darkness. For a moment he feared blindness from the blow to the head, then, feeling foolish, knew it was deep night. He twitched, checking his limbs, scraping his thoughts and awareness back together.

They’d been tricked. Attacked.

Captured.

But not killed. Surely, Kjorn thought, if Mar and his warriors hadn’t killed him, they wouldn’t have killed Dagny and Nilsine.

Ahead of him, he smelled fresh night air, but heard paws and talons pacing on the rock. Sentries, guarding him. Kjorn pushed up to sit. His head bumped hard rock and he hissed, squirming back down. Testing his wings, he found he could only extend them a third of the way open before they struck rock. A tiny cave then, a cell. Festering indignation roiled under his skin, which encouraged the pounding in his head.

“Sire?”

Kjorn shook his head. The voice rang familiar, muffled, and seemed to be coming from somewhere above.

“Fraenir?” he ventured. Kjorn hadn’t seen the young rogue since he’d gone with Rok to help gather the free exiles scattered across the Winderost. This explained why.

“Yes, it’s me. Oh, but we’re glad you’re awake.”

“We?” Kjorn asked, ears swiveling to place the voice. Definitely above, speaking in another cell.

“Tyr’s foot,” said a new voice, male, also familiar. When Kjorn shifted, a rock dug into his wing. “I thought they’d killed you the way they stuffed you in that cell. Like a grouse, for later.”

“Rok?” Kjorn leaned forward but didn’t try to crawl out, wary of the pacing sentries. “Where are we?”

“As far as I can figure, we’re where they take prisoners to forget about them.” His voice came more from the side, an adjacent cell.

“Rok . . .”

Rok had pledged his lot to Kjorn, and fought gamely in the Battle of Torches, so he’d almost forgotten the rogue’s ironic and stubborn nature.

“We’re at the windward-most edge of the aerie,” Fraenir supplied more helpfully. “There are guards everywhere, I know, I tried to fly out once. You can’t. There’s a small canyon, and a wall with cells dug, like a honeycomb—”