A Shard of Sun (44 page)

“Hail!” He shouted to the empty, flat land. The sun hung high and warm on his back, though a chill winter wind still ruffed his feathers. “Vanir of the Silver Isles! If you shelter here, come forth! Vanir!”

He shouted himself raw, and no answer came. In the hottest part of the day—so odd, he reflected, to feel hot in winter, but such was the landscape—he landed in a shelter of rocks and collapsed. For a while he lay out of the heat, waiting for evening to cool the air and fiddling with the silver chain around his neck.

He’d thought that any gryfons there would come, curious at his voice, or the name of their homeland. But maybe they didn’t recognize it, or maybe they were gone. Or dead. Or simply too far away. Maybe the gryfess had been a hallucination when he’d traveled near the Outlands. He touched the silver chain, and his talons bumped the pouch that held Groa’s fire stones.

Or maybe,
he thought, pushing himself back to all fours,
I’m going about it wrong.

Despite the heat of the afternoon, he knew the night would grow chill. Perhaps instead of wearing himself down and flying for leagues and days across the Outlands searching, he could draw any exiled gryfons to
him
instead.

So, as the afternoon crawled toward evening, Shard hunted not for gryfons, but kindling.

It was well after dark before he’d gathered a large enough supply. He flared to land, dropping the last bit of kindling on his pile of brush and dead wood as tall as himself and twice as wide.

Ravenous again, thirsty, he planned to the light the blaze and find food and water, letting the fire attract the curiosity of the Outlanders in the night.

Shard sat in darkness, tail dusting back and forth in concentration. He wound a bit of dead grass into a little nest, as Hikaru had shown him. That nest, he tucked under a pyramid of grass and brittle twigs. Then he drew out the fire stones, and recalled with a soft chuckle how Hikaru had shown off and created sparks by merely swiping his own claws across rock.

For a moment, as a cool breeze flicked around him, Shard closed his eyes. He pushed hunger from his mind—and his fear that the fire would have the wrong effect, that it would not draw gryfons, but his enemy.

Still he had to try.

Thinking of dragon claws, he swiped the flint across the stone. The surprising rain of sparks made him drop both stones, but he laughed, ears perking. After collecting the firestones again, he sat on his haunches near his little tinder nest, and swiped again. Sparks flashed, lighting on the tinder. Pinpoint embers glowed.

Again he slashed the stones together, sparks showering like Tyr’s bright breath from his own talons. Laughing, bristling with glee, Shard struck the stones again and again until at last the tinder caught, flickered to life, and burned. Carefully he nudged the tinder nest under the kindling under the fire caught and crawled, leaping high on the dry brush pile.

The heat forced him to back away and he did so laughing, eyes stinging from the smoke. Like a fledge, for a moment he was rushed with energy and he frolicked around the fire in leaps and rolls.

“The brave will call fire from stone,” he breathed, recalling Hikaru’s dragon rhyme. He skidded to a stop in the dust. “Ha! I did it, I…” He looked around, almost expecting to see others come out of the dark into his ring of light. It felt absurd that Stigr was not there, Catori and Kjorn and all those he loved were not there.

He was alone. There was no one to hear. No one to share the moment with him, see the miracle, behold the crackling beast he had created and tamed. In that heartbeat, he knew all he wanted was to go home, to see his family, assorted as they were, to have peace.

Shard forced himself to calm down, to remember that he must save his energy for hunting food, wood, and water. He tucked the stones back into the safety of the pouch and tugged it closed.

And then, he was not alone.

Turning once more toward the fire, he saw a gryfon face appear in the orange light, a feline form slinking forward from the dark. At first the other didn’t look at Shard, only the waving fire, ears lifted. Shard stood very still, hoping to recognize the face, to see the female or her son who had called to him when he was Nameless, but it was not. He feared that the exiles would be lost and witless as he had been, but he saw immediately that the gryfon, an old male, was aware, knowing, Named.

He was not witless, but he was afraid. Wiry, too thin, and pale brown in coloring. Still, he looked like a Vanir.

“What is this?” whispered the old gryfon. “Tyr’s flame…”

Shard straightened, lifting his wings in welcome. “A beacon.”

The old gryfon’s gaze darted to him and his eyes widened, scouring Shard with a look. As if no longer able to support his own weight, he sank to his belly on the dry ground. “So I have finally succumbed. Are you here to greet me, my king, who I watched fall into the sea, slain by Per the Red? Have I reached the Sunlit Land, at last?”

Shard’s throat caught. “You’re alive and well, and we’re still in the Outlands of the Winderost. I’m not Baldr, but his son, Rashard. Tell me your name?”

“Frar, son-of-Eyvar. And if you are Baldr’s son…” Understanding lightened his gaze, and he stood quickly, only to mantle low, but his hungry eyes locked on Shard’s face. “My prince. You lived. You live. I never gave up hope. And you’ve come, you’ve come…” his voice broke and he lowered his head, shaking it slowly. “I knew…”

Shard walked to him, set talons on his wing and murmured for him to stand. “Yes, I’ve come.” He met the old Vanir’s eyes. “I’ve come to bring you home.”

C
AJ SAT ALONE ON A
cliff overlooking the sea, staring out toward the windward quarter. Toward home.

It had been days since Sverin’s confession, Ragna’s sentence, and the former king’s imprisonment. They would not allow Caj to stay all the time in the den with him—even Ragna’s trust in him had limits, though Thyra had vouched for him. But he went to see the king every day, to assure Sverin that he would not abandon him, he wouldn’t hold old faults against him.

The Red King remained quiet, but sane, and would sometimes even speak of Elena.

Perhaps, as Ragna had said, now that he could grieve openly and honestly about all that had passed, he could heal.

The pride continued to do their hunting, their fishing, for winter and hunger would not relent to give time for their shock and grief.

Caj couldn’t have fooled himself into believing that all would be forgiven, all peaceful, that Sverin would wait idly by while they waited for Kjorn and Shard’s return and that it wasn’t needful to imprison him. Logically he knew Sverin must be imprisoned, but neither had he expected Ragna’s vehemence.

Perhaps he should have.

Sigrun found him there, sitting at the edge of the cliff. The sea crashed on icy banks far below them, and great hunks of frozen sea ice jutted from the waves. Caj couldn’t help but think of the milder, rainy winters of the Winderost.

“How do you fare, my mate?” Sigrun asked, landing beside him as evening fell.

“Well enough. I’ll see Sverin when the hunters return with supper.”

She nodded once, crisply, and both of them glanced in the direction of the red gryfon’s den.

Sigrun folded her wings, her gaze distant. “What do you think will happen?”

He knew she meant in general. To the pride, to any of them, to their lost princes—whose return seemed as distant and fragile a promise as the spring.

“I don’t know,” Caj said quietly, opening his wing to invite her to his side. She ducked in against him, and Caj drew a deep breath. Gulls cried, and farther out, they saw Vanir, swooping over the waves in the last gray light.

“Shard won’t be the only Vanir to return in spring,” Sigrun reminded him, though after Sverin had first fled, she’d told him everything. Einarr’s brother Dagr had flown to seek their exiled father and other lost Vanir, and Halvden’s mother, Maja, had done the same. They’d been gone the long winter too, and would return in spring. The healer’s gaze searched the far horizon. “I wonder what those who were exiled will think of us who stayed, and those Aesir who are now our friends.”

“Some chose their exile,” he reminded her quietly. “I know he did send many away, but some left rather than be ruled by Per.”

“Did you think I forgot that?” Her tail twitched. “Or are you speaking of Stigr?”

“Of any of them,” Caj said mildly, though she knew him too well. He had indeed been thinking of Stigr, who would’ve been Sigrun’s mate but for the Conquering. Or not. He’d gathered that the Vanir warrior had never quite committed to mating, and in the meantime Sigrun had waited, and waited for him. He preened gently behind Sigrun’s ears. “Whatever happens, I vow that we will face it together.”

She swiveled to meet his eyes, hers soft, brown, and keen. “I vow that, too.”

“And I will fight for you again, if needed. I will take his other eye.”

She sighed, and lifted her talons to tap against his restored cast, as if to remind him that she was weary of his fighting. “Hear me. No matter what friends, what family, what lost Vanir return to this pride, you are my true mate. I will stand with you. You don’t have to fight for me. You’ve won. I
choose
you, Caj, son-of-Cai.”

Admonished, Caj dipped his head against her neck.

A scuffling drew their attention to the foot of the rocks, and Sigrun perked her ears to see Thyra, climbing up from the cliff trails to meet them. She looked as Caj knew he must often look, a strong facade of stone masking other fears.

“Mother, Father,” she said quietly, gaze averted. “May I nest with you tonight? I’d rather not be alone anymore, until Kjorn returns.”

In answer, Sigrun opened her wing. Still Thyra hesitated, though her posture was proud. “Father, about sending the sentries to hunt him, I hope you can—”

“It’s done,” Caj said to stop her, then more warmly, “my daughter.”

With relief, Thyra stepped forward and stood next to them.

“How fairs my grandson?” Caj asked, ears perking toward Thyra’s round belly.

“Or grand
daughter
,” Sigrun said.

Thyra laughed, seeming surprised, and nipped the air. “Feisty.” Wryly she added, “He, or she, likes when I eat fish.”

Caj grumbled as if the very idea of fish offended him, Sigrun fluffed between them, and despite all that had passed, they spoke only of the next day’s fishing, how each pregnant gryfess fared, and the curious customs of the wolves who came and went on the Sun Isle now like extended members of the pride.

A scent filtered to them on the rising evening breeze.

“Speak of a creature and he appears,” Caj murmured, turning to see Tocho loping toward them across the sweeping  plain of snow.

“Caj, my friend! They told me where to find you.” He trotted up and turned a quick circle, showing off a flash of blue in his neck fur. “A raven tied it for me. What do you think?”

“Very handsome,” Caj said, and it did look dramatic, the cobalt feather against his pale gold fur. “Tocho, this is my family. Queen Thyra, and the pride’s healer, Sigrun.”

“Yes, I have heard of you both.” Tocho dipped his head low, showing just the points of his teeth. “It’s an honor.”

“Thank you,” Sigrun murmured, “for all you did to help Caj.”

“Hear, hear,” Thyra said. “The feather does look very handsome. You’ll surely be the only wolf, ever, to sport a blue one.”

“Ever?” Tocho looked hopeful, and Caj glanced sidelong at Thyra.

Thyra looked at him, her expression still one of deep admiration. “My father chooses his friends very carefully.”

“But did it impress your lady?” Caj wondered, catching Thyra’s gaze. She looked amused.

Tocho huffed. “I haven’t seen her yet.”

“When you see her, show confidence,” Caj instructed, and felt Sigrun giving him a sideways look. “And dignity.”

“Confidence.” Tocho’s ears flicked, and he lifted his tail. His nose quivered, and his ears flattened. “Oh…”

He turned just as Caj caught the same scent, another wolf on the wind, then appearing against the snow, using Tocho’s trail. This was a she-wolf, long and lean and with fur like cedar bark, and sprinting toward them from the river.

“I fear why she’s running,” Sigrun said, ears laying back as she watched the wolf’s swift approach.

“Some news,” Caj said vaguely. He was distracted by the sight of her, certain by Tocho’s sudden, low whine that this was the object of his affections. He had to admit to himself that she must be very striking, for a wolf.

“Queen Thyra!” she called, her voice a warm, low alto, “Hrafn’s daughter, and Noble Caj. If only Ragna were here, I have such news! Such tidings…” She slowed to a canter, then a trot. Caj noticed feathers braided into the shaggy fur of her neck, one pale gray, one rich black.

“Catori!” Tocho turned in another circle, then Caj could’ve sworn he heard the young wolf mutter, “dignity,” to himself as he straightened and waved his tail in greeting.

“Tocho.” She paused and they greeted each in wolf fashion, sniffing delicately. She seemed to take particular interest in the feather, looking from Caj to Tocho again, her ears flickering. “I see perhaps the rumors of your recent adventures are true?”