A Shard of Sun (45 page)

“All true,” Tocho said, ears perked. One ear flicked back to Caj, and the gold wolf stepped forward, nosing behind Catori’s ear. “I will tell you the tale of it, tonight, if you wish.”

Catori shook her self and considered him, head tilted, as if they’d only just met. “I would like that.”

Caj saw the quiver of happiness that took Tocho’s body, saw him repress it and move back, stiff-legged. “Good. We’ll hunt together, tell stories, and sing.” He broke into a pant, Caj suspected to relieve his nerves, then calmed. “But you brought news. Forgive me.”

She chuckled, taken aback, considered Tocho again, then bowed before the gryfons.

“Wait,” Sigrun said, poised to fly. “I’ll fetch Ragna first. If it’s something she should hear?”

Catori pawed the snow, full of energy. “Yes, fetch the queen! I’ve dreamed, a vision that I trust to be true, and I have news.” When she raised her head, her amber eyes glittered with joy. “At last, I have news of Shard.”

T
HEY WORKED DEEP INTO
the night. Frar agreed to tend the fire while Shard flew to hunt food. A brief flight away, he found a thin trickle of a spring that tasted of mud and mineral, but it was good enough. Good that it was close, and it drew prey.

There, Shard waited, with the bonfire winking reassuringly in the distance, until a hare came to the stream to drink. Shard struck, but took that first meal to Frar. Then he went back again and again, hunting small game and taking it to the fire so that should more Vanir arrive, there would be food and welcome for them.

At last, he ate, after felling a starving greatbeast calf that had somehow lost its herd. Shard thanked it for its life but was almost glad to end its suffering. He ate his fill of the red meat, then dragged the rest to the fire, calling to Frar for help.

The old Vanir remained mostly silent, as if he couldn’t believe how his fate had turned. Shard shared the sentiment and didn’t invite conversation. His body was weary, but his heart alight. If Frar was the only Vanir he found, it would be enough to justify his journey.

But he was not.

When the moon hung nightward, a band of three gryfesses crept into the firelight, their gazes on the food, then on Shard. One was his mother’s age, two of them perhaps a year older than Shard. By their size and bearing and color, he knew at least two of them were from the Silver Isles.

“Welcome.” He stood, raising his wings.

“What is this?” asked the eldest female, whom Shard was certain was a Vanir. Frar confirmed it by coming around the fire to address her.

“Ketil,” said the old gryfon, and she looked to him in surprise. “Yes, I still live.” He lowered his voice, though it brimmed with mischief. “My old friend. Do you not know your own prince?”

The Vanir gryfess started, stepping fully into the light and looking Shard up and down again. With a soft sound, she mantled. “Rashard, so it is, little Rashard—my lord, I knew your mother. I knew Sigrun, too. I am Ketil, daughter-of-Var. This is my daughter, Keta, and Ilse, a huntress of the Winderost, though her family was exiled from the Dawn Spire.” She nodded to the third gryfess, who looked indeed like an Aesir. Firmly, she said to Shard, “She is like another daughter to me.”

“You’re all welcome.” Shard inclined his head. “I’ve come to gather you, to find all of you that I can. Others have flown nightward and starward from the Isles to find the other lost Vanir, and we will all return home.”

Ketil’s ears swiveled forward. “Does this mean the conquerors are overthrown?”

“The conquerors…” Shard chose his words carefully. “The tyranny of the Red Kings has ended. But their prince, Kjorn, is my wingbrother, and I hope we will have peace with them from now on. I’ll tell you all that’s passed, but please, eat now. Rest. We have much to do.”

Ketil bowed to him again, as did Keta and Ilse.

He answered their questions, and told his tale. He told them even of Stigr, for Ketil and Frar had known him, and told them that Ragna was well, and Sigrun was mated to an Aesir and their daughter was Kjorn’s queen.

He told them everything.

“Tell us how we may serve you,” said Ketil after they’d eaten, her pale eyes taking in Shard’s face, his wings, his whole body. In a motherly fashion, she seemed to disapprove of his state of health.

“You can hunt,” Shard said. “Bring food. We’ll need it if more come. Bring food, and find others.”

They bowed to him, even the young Aesir, who didn’t appear bothered by the differences between them, or that Shard was a prince she’d probably never heard of.

More came in the night.

It was like a dream. Shard’s plan was working. For a long while he paced and searched the skies for signs of wyrms. Far off, he thought he heard roars, but they never came, so he might have dreamed them. He didn’t leave to hunt again, for now that they had help, Frar had insisted Shard remain by the fire to greet the new arrivals, as their king.

Prince,
he thought.
I’ve earned no kingdom yet.

Yet as they came, they cried out in joy and disbelief to see him, and bowed, and pledged their loyalty. And he promised to take them home.

He told them all what had passed in the Silver Isles. He told the tale each time a new gryfon came, told them of his travels until his voice gave out, and was stunned at how many Vanir had lived, barely lived, there in the Outlands.

The more who came, the more went to search and spread the word, the more left to hunt. By the time dawn brushed the sky, they’d run out of tinder, and more than fifty gryfons slumbered around the dying embers of the fire.

Shard looked at them—very old Vanir like Frar, some his mother and uncle’s age, and some younger who had been only kits during the Conquering. Kits like him, but whose parents carried them away from the conquered Isles in search of a new life.

There were males his age, and a few females, young and hopeful Vanir huntresses, who beheld him shyly. Shard had once thought there might be a Vanir female for him among the exiles, but when he met their gazes, he could think only of Brynja.

“These are as many as we could gather,” Frar told him, speaking quietly so as not to wake those still resting. Shard had managed some fitful sleep and eaten plenty, but the night had wrung them out, all of them.

“There’s someone missing,” Shard said, searching each face. “We must stay longer. I met a gryfess here, and her son, when I wandered Nameless. Who else fled here?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t know there were this many.” Frar watched him, one ear swiveling to track their little pride.

“A gryfess of middle years,” Shard insisted, recalling her more clearly. “A son my age. They were here in the Outlands. I won’t leave them. I won’t leave any Vanir who still breathes.”

“My king,” Frar murmured, and dipped his head. “We will find her.” He gestured with a wing. “Perhaps in the those fanged mountains—”

“Not the mountains. It was starward. Farther, almost to edge of the Outlands, starward of the Voldsom.”

Frar flattened his ears uncertainly. “The wyrms are sheltering there. It’s too dangerous.”

“Then I’ll go alone,” Shard said.

“Please,” Frar said. “We’ve just gotten you back. You can’t leave us now. You must let others search.”

“No,” Shard said. “It must be me. I’ll remember the way once I get closer, and I’ll find their den.”

“Please,” Frar tried, one last time, stepping forward.

“Watch over them for me,” Shard murmured. “Stoke the fire. Keep it burning. Any exile is welcome here—Vanir, Aesir, painted wolf, starving eagle. They are all welcome.” He opened his wings. “Tell the Vanir where I’ve gone. And tell them I’ll return.”

Frar dipped his head, and when Shard looked back from a greater height, saw that the Vanir was still watching, and would watch, until they could no longer see him.

O
N
A
SVANDER’S SUGGESTION AND
Stigr’s insistence, Kjorn himself led a warrior party to the Outlands. By putting together all they knew of Shard’s ultimate mission, they could only assume that he had gone there to track down any lost Vanir who, over the course of time, had ended up in the wasted fringes of the Winderost.

They didn’t know what they would face there, but Asvander convinced the clans of the Ostral Shore to assist, for what glory there might be, for any warriors who faced the wyrms again.

Brynja and her huntresses, Dagny, Nilsine and the Vanhar and fifty assorted warriors of the Ostral Shore flew in a layered formation back over the hills.

With what Kjorn had seen of the wyrms, he felt better with nearly a hundred gryfons at his back. With what Brynja and Asvander had told him about the attack on the Dawn Spire, he knew it was not nearly enough.

Hopefully we won’t see them at all, but hide in the night, fly in the day, find Shard and his Vanir and be gone.

“I wouldn’t mind a few more talons,” he’d said hopefully to Asvander just as they set out.

The Lakelander had shaken his head. “I wouldn’t say that too loudly, or the ones you have will feel unwelcome. I truly wish I could do more, Kjorn, but these are all the volunteers I could muster.”

“And well needed. I didn’t mean any insult.”

“Of course not,” Asvander said. “Anyway, I agree with you.”

But that had been the last word on the topic. They left the large pride at the Ostral Shore with what volunteers could be had from the young and eager, those who wished to see the wyrms, and some older, who felt a drifting sense of loyalty to Kjorn’s bloodline, from the old days.

They settled for the first evening in the same spot he and the others had met with the painted wolves. No sooner had they landed than a shout went up from one of the sentries Kjorn had posted around the outskirts of their camp.

“Painted wolves?” Kjorn expected the warning to be about the pack, but there was no scent of Ilesh, Mayka or the others on the wind.

“No,” the sentry called. “Gryfons, nightward.”

Kjorn spotted them, a whole band of gryfons flying fast toward them.

“Ready up,” Asvander ordered.

They formed a circle on the ground, faces up and out, every warrior crouched and ready to fly. Brynja fell into the formation by Kjorn, talons digging into the scrubby grass. Kjorn readied himself for a fight, then paused, peering at the approaching band of gryfons.

“Nilsine,” he called uncertainly. The Vanhar was on the other side of the circle. “Isn’t that—”

“Oh, we surrender, mighty warriors!” called a wry voice from the approaching band.

“Rok,” Nilsine barked, half in recognition, half in surprise. “You devil, what’s the meaning of this?”

“We’ve come to help!” called a younger, brighter voice. Behind the lanky rogue, but flapping fast to catch up, was Fraenir.

“Quiet, traitor,” Rok ordered, in good humor.

Kjorn spied Frida, and at least twenty scruffy, ill-fed gryfons besides. He stood straight, watching as the band of rogues landed. Before Kjorn could speak, Nilsine broke their circle formation and trotted up to Rok, wings and feathers raised.

“You haven’t had enough of poaching the Vanheim?” She demanded, in his face, and Kjorn tried not to be amused for she stood a head and a half shorter than him. “Now you bring your scoundrels to hunt this land? I doubt you can count on the Lakelanders to be more merciful than us.”

“You’re looking well, daughter-of-Nels,” he said, smoothing his feathers from his flight. “For the romp you’ve all been having with His Highness, there, I mean. Pardon me, but I’m not here to speak to you and unless I’m mistaken, you have no say, here.”

He inclined his head, and stepped past her to see Kjorn. “Your Highness. A pleasure to see you again, and drier this time.”

Nilsine turned to keep watching him, half-crouched and ready to spring.

“What
is
the meaning of all this?” Kjorn strode forward with Asvander behind, and the rest of his band fanned out from a circle to form two lines, facing the rogues with admirable restraint.

“Friends of yours?” Asvander wondered.

“We’ll see,” Kjorn said shortly.

Before Rok could answer, Fraenir trotted forward, bowing to Kjorn. “I shouldn’t have run, but I’d never seen the wyrms so close, and they surely would have killed me. I know I was a coward, but look, I’ve brought friends, and Rok, and he’s a fine fighter, Kjorn…”

Kjorn glanced past Fraenir to Rok, who watched him with a gleaming look.

“My young friend is convinced,” Rok said, more seriously, his look challenging, “that we might be of service, and for that, we might be pardoned of our crimes and taken back with open wing to the clans we’ve hailed from.” He extended a wing to point to his rabble. “There are many more than these, believe me, but these are who I found on the way to you. And I promise you, all can fight.”

Nilsine’s response to this was a snort, and she paced away, studying the assorted gryfons who’d flown with Rok.

“Perhaps,” Asvander said thoughtfully, while Kjorn remained quiet. “It has been done before. I have a little say at the Ostral Shore, and could speak for any who serve bravely.”

“And I at the Vanheim,” Nilsine said, her beak raised high, “though why I would speak for any of you—”

“Yet I have no power at the Dawn Spire,” Kjorn said evenly, “and that is where your father was exiled from, isn’t it, Rok?”

“Not yet,” Fraenir said brightly. “But you will.”

“Will I?”

Rok looked at the sky. “He’s convinced you mean to return and take your—what did you call it, Frae? Rightful destiny? Kingdom? Something like that.” He shook his head and watched Kjorn, expectantly.

Kjorn flicked an ear to Fraenir. The quiet question in his heart about his own destiny pulsed, like an ember, like a heartbeat. “Whatever gave you that idea? I’ve come here to find Shard.”

“The signs,” Fraenir insisted. “The starfire last autumn, the volcano, and then, what the lioness said about the Sunwind—”

“That’s enough,” Rok said. “Make of all that what you will. Anyway, if there is genuine honor to be had and glory won, we’re here to serve.”