By the Silver Wind (57 page)

“He got what he wanted,” Rok said stiffly. “Glory and honor.”

“I know you were like brothers,” Nilsine said softly. “But he did fight well.” Rok jerked his head in agreement, but didn’t look at her. “As did you. Warrior of the Dawn Spire.”

Rok’s gaze switched to her with surprise and wary gratitude. Shard watched them discreetly, glad for any small measure of hope and light in that moment.

Nilsine ducked her head, eyes averting. “I would . . . not refuse you entry to the Vanheim Shore, should you visit our borders again.”

“I’ll be awfully busy now,” Rok said, his voice gravelly as he strained for humor. “A Sentinel and all.”

Nilsine’s eyes glinted like jewels. “I’m sure you’ll find your way to the sea. From time to time.”

Shard watched as Rok gazed at her a moment, then turned, and raised his voice with the others in the ancient Song of Last Light.

“
Which rises first, the night wind, or the stars?

Not even the owl could say,

Whether first comes the song or the dark . . .”

Shard glanced sidelong at Kjorn, watching his face as they sang their warriors to rest. Many of the Aesir had chosen to have their dead rest there on Black Rock, rather than burn them at Pebble’s Throw.

“
Which fades last, the birdsong, or the day?

Not even the sky could tell,

Whether last stills the sun or the jay.”

Vanir voices rose, while Aesir unfamiliar with song remained in respectful silence. The wind carried their song to Tyr, to Tor, to the Sunlit Land and their lost family and friends beyond.

“Only the long day brings rest

Only the dark of night, dawn.

When the First knew themselves, the wise will say,

They took their names to the Sunlit Land

but their Voice in the wind sings on.”

It fell quiet again, broken only by waves breaking on the distant shore, and seabirds, calling.

Shard touched his wing lightly to Kjorn’s.

Sigrun approached them, asking quietly, “Kjorn, what are your wishes for Sverin?”

“He’s welcome here,” Shard said, turning to his wingbrother. “He’s welcome to rest here, Kjorn, with ours.”

“No.” Kjorn looked around, not seeming as lost as he had before, but still firm, and cool. Shard knew the feeling, and would remain close as long as he could. “No . . .”

Sigrun looked dawnward. “Shall we release him to the lava, like Per—”

“No,” Kjorn said sharply. “Not at Pebble’s Throw.”

“Oh, no.” Sigrun ground her beak, glancing at Shard with a look of chagrin. “Of course not.”

Then, Kjorn stared at the rest of the gryfons laid out on the black stone, almost fifty all told, and seemed at a loss. Shard met Sigrun’s eyes over his golden back, and lifted his wings a little, not sure what to do.

Warmth spread over them as Hikaru drew close, his silver scales pulsing with heat like embers. The dragon touched Kjorn very lightly with one claw.

“Prince Kjorn. King . . .” He glanced hesitantly at Shard, who nodded encouragingly. “I have an idea.”

Kjorn looked at the dragon, surprised, weary, and Shard watched Hikaru gratefully as he explained.

Building Hikaru’s idea gave them something to do on a day that seemed mockingly beautiful and bright when their spirits felt so muddy and dark. Gryfons dragged through the forest of the Sun Isle, finding whole birch trunks. No one spoke.

It was Sigrun’s idea, at last, for the gryfesses to emerge from the tunnels with their new, healthy kits. Once Shard assured her the wyrms would not fly that day, she brought them out into the light.

As Hikaru dragged birch trunks from the woods and gryfons stripped them of the smaller branches, the mewling of the kits sounded like a chorus of pure life and hope to Shard.

He found Thyra, walking slowly among the pride, just as he was. Her kit was nestled at the base of her neck in between her wings, alert and wobbly, staring around with almost unblinking eyes. Thyra and Shard met, bending their heads together, and regret lanced through him at how much he would miss her when she left for the Winderost.

“Big brother,” Thyra murmured.

Shard laughed, for she seemed so much older now, so regal, he hardly felt like her big brother any more. “Thyra. It’s so good to see you again at last. Let me meet your kit?”

She drew back and turned so Shard could meet the kit’s gaze, and the tiny beak opened—in challenge or hunger, Shard wasn’t sure. Though Thyra and Shard knew now that they weren’t siblings by blood, they had been raised in the same nest, and Shard felt his heart expand to include the new kit in his family.

“My nephew,” Shard said, his mood brightening slowly. “What is his name?”

“Kvasir,” Thyra said, her eyes bright as she watched Shard’s face. “Son-of-Kjorn.”

In the sun, the kit’s soft gray down held the faintest, promising shimmer of red and gold. Shard bent his head in, touching his beak lightly to the downy head. “Prince Kvasir, you are battle-born, and dragon blessed, and the heir to a great line. May you always reign in peace.”

“Don’t I get to reign for a bit too, first?” Thyra asked, teasing.

“Of course.” Shard chuckled. “And long may that be.”

When he drew back, the kit lifted his ungainly forefoot and pawed at Shard’s beak, then sneezed.

Thyra broke into the warm laughter Shard remembered. “Don’t worry. He’ll come to appreciate a blessing from the Summer King as he grows older.”

Shard nuzzled his nest-sister once more, and they parted, watching over their pride. With the presence of the kits and healthy gryfesses and the shining sun, Shard saw his pride begin to speak again, lift their wings, raise their heads.

Once, he even saw Ragna laugh, lifting Astri’s tiny, pale puffball of a son into the air.

Shard drew up beside the little white gryfess, touching a wing to hers. She bowed to him, and Shard didn’t stop her. “What is his name?”

“Eyvindr,” she said, her eyes shining as she watched Ragna, chittering like a starling at the amazed kit. “Son-of-Einarr. He’ll be one of the finest in your pride, my lord.”

“I know it,” Shard said quietly, touching his beak to her brow, and continued walking amongst his pride.

They didn’t rush the work, but paused to fish and eat, to breathe the fresh, cool air, to talk to those who still lived. Shard walked among them, helping with the work but mostly seeing to spirits, and keeping his thoughts twined with Rhydda’s. She would not leave Pebble’s Throw that day.

At last, in the later afternoon, they lashed Hikaru’s birch trunks together with split saplings, with sinew that Sigrun used to sew wounds. And on that platform, they built a pyre.

On the eve before Halflight under the last orange rays of the setting sun, they laid Sverin’s body to rest both at sea, where his mate had died, and with fire, like an Aesir, like a dragon.

Hikaru pulled the birch-plank craft into the water and lit the flames, and they watched the waves tug it out to sea.

Shard stood on the beach below the nesting cliffs with Kjorn, all the pride, even the newly born kits, and Catori and Ahanu, who had come to offer their respect. They watched the smoke swirl up, sparks float high, and the fire kindle hotter until red feathers became red flames.

The scent of smoke and burning flesh drifted around them, then a bright, cold wind pushed it away, and they smelled earth and pine. Shard looked across the faces of his family and his friends, and saw Ragna, watching the burning pyre, he thought, with a strange mix of pride and loss.

“Tomorrow will be spring,” he said quietly, to Kjorn. It was all he could say, but he had to say it.

Kjorn nodded, his feathers reflecting Sverin’s pyre.

The flames roared in the water, and the rising sparks seemed to become new stars. The sunset faded toward violet, and points of light pricked the blue.

Thyra joined them quietly, with Kvasir still between her wings, sleeping through all of it.

Kjorn’s eyes closed. Then, as if reminding himself of Sverin’s final words, he turned and nuzzled his mate, then his son. Shard touched his beak to Thyra’s cheek, and left them.

He walked to a lone figure, tall and strong against the sunset. Caj gazed after the pyre. Shard stood quietly beside him, and knew there were no words at all to express his sorrow that Caj had lost his wingbrother. But when he looked at his face, he seemed his same stern, peaceful self.

The older warrior tilted his head, and without taking his eyes from the fire, said, “I’m very proud of you, Shard. You will make a good king.”

“Caj . . .”

“When Sverin was Nameless,” his warm rumble continued thoughtfully, “he didn’t respond to me until I stopped fighting him. Until I trusted him. He almost killed me, but he didn’t.”

Shard thought of Rhydda, and though she was nothing like a wingbrother to Shard, he knew that was why Caj had told him. They’d been fighting, fighting, fighting. It was time to stop.

“Thank you,” Shard whispered. “I hope . . . I welcome your guidance and counsel, nest-father. Always.”

Caj looked at him then, the gold eyes that had always frightened Shard now seeming tired, but welcomingly familiar and bright. He nodded once, and in that silent gesture, Shard knew he understood that Shard invited him to stay. He was glad that it seemed he would.

Sigrun approached quietly, and Shard dipped his head respectfully before slipping away.

Around midnight, Shard ventured to the edge of the birch wood, looking out. He closed his eyes.

The pride had sheltered in the caves once more, none feeling secure enough yet to sleep in the nesting cliffs. No dragon gold was left. Nests had been torn apart by gryfons and wyrms searching for it. Some was lost in the sea, some the wyrms had taken. Maybe it would wash up one day, maybe not. Shard hoped to never see it again.

Awake, he stared out across the moonlit plain that led to the nesting cliffs and the sea, and in his mind he followed the dream net to Rhydda.

He showed her Sverin, laid out under the flames.

He crafted a dream of sunrise over the nesting cliffs, of himself standing there, of her, flying to meet him.

A rolling agreement in her chest sounded like tumbling stones.

She would meet him at dawn.

There was a curious sense to her, like a physical pain. She didn’t understand it. She tried to turn from Shard, to turn her thoughts to blood and stone, but blood and stone became Sverin, became a gold gryfon screaming anguish into the stars.

That is regret,
Shard thought, though he knew she would never understand the words.
Regret. Once our anger and hatred is quenched, it does not stay to keep us strong.

He wove a dream of a raging forest fire, of powerful, licking flames, consuming everything, killing without sense or remorse, hungry and fueled by the lives it took. Then the fire ran out of things to burn, and he showed her the ashes, and he hoped she understood.

Footsteps crunched frosty leaves behind him. Ragna found him, came up on his side, and didn’t speak.

“I saw how you looked at Sverin,” Shard said quietly. “You forgave him. I’m glad.”

Ragna bowed her head. “In the end, he did more than any of us could have asked.”

Realizing how much he craved Stigr’s company and advice, Shard was grateful to have his mother there. He turned and touched his beak to her head, gently, respectful.

“I’m meeting the wyrm at dawn,” he murmured. “Alone.”

Ragna’s eyes narrowed and she didn’t speak. The cold wind stirred their winter feathers, and Shard was grateful for it.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said quietly, “I would like a council such as the Vanhar have. I’ve seen too many kings making poor decisions on their own, unchallenged by their subjects who are afraid to speak. I want to hear others, and I want them to know they’re free to speak.” He gazed at the stars, at the dragon stars of Midragur. “I want to hear the wisdom and desires of others. If I’m away, then Brynja will lead it, then you.”

“That sounds very wise, Shard. Very good indeed.”

He could tell she didn’t like his tone, that he was speaking of
ifs.

If he was away.

If he didn’t come back from his meeting with Rhydda.