A Shard of Sun (49 page)

“You’re Rashard?”

“I am.”

“There’s someone waiting for you.” The sentry banked, stretching a wing toward the water, and Shard’s blood beat fast in his ears as his gaze roved, searching.

Then a shout from the ground. “Shard!”

A black wing flared, drawing his eye.

With a sharp sound, Shard dove, his heart clutching, diving as fast as if he meant to attack the black gryfon who ramped and called to him from the shore of the lake.

He landed hard and graceless near the lapping waves, talons crunching the wet pebbles. He managed a breath, and looked up.

Stigr bounded to him, and stopped. Stigr. His uncle.

Your uncle is alive.

So Kjorn had said, and so, there he stood. Taller than Shard. Onyx of feather. A single, fierce green eye, like Ragna’s—the other, scarred shut from his battles in the Conquering. Before Shard could form words, his gaze dragged to Stigr’s shoulders. One wing was perfectly whole. Where the other had been lay a raw, gnarled scar, and a longer, thin line, still mending, ran from the base of his neck to his hip. Sorrow hollowed his joy at finding his uncle alive, for Stigr, who had taught Shard all he knew about sea flight, night flight, and the gifts of the Vanir, would never leave the ground again.

“Shard,” the black gryfon murmured.

A quivering wave of nausea, a wash of the whole winter and all his trials buckled Shard at every joint. He sank to his belly in front of his uncle and touched his beak to the wet pebbles.

“Oh, Uncle. Please forgive me. Forgive my foolishness. Forgive me for running. I thought…I thought you were dead. I fell witless. I thought—I didn’t think I would ever see you again. It’s all my fault. Please forgive me. I would take your wound if I could.”

The shush of lapping waves and quick cries of distant lake gulls thundered in Shard’s ears.

Then Stigr bowed forward and thrust his brow against Shard’s, pressing, warm, as if to prove he was alive. They shared breath, so silent Shard heard the strong beat of his uncle’s heart. He knew in that moment Stigr had thought him dead too, and for them both, nothing mattered but knowing the other had survived.

There was no blame. There could be no regret.

“My prince,” Stigr said quietly. “You’ve done so well. Your father would be proud of you.
I’m
proud of you.”

He drew back, and Shard lifted his head. They could hear the rest of the formation approaching. There would be much to do, to discuss, to plan. Shard shook himself. “You’ll tell me everything that happened.”

“There isn’t much to tell,” Stigr said. “They imprisoned us, but Orn set his healers on me, at least. When I was well enough, Valdis and I escaped.”

“Valdis?” Shard recalled that he had seen the gryfess at the Battle of Torches, but he’d seen so much, and so many, that he hadn’t thought of it. Stigr glanced toward the water, tail twitching.

“We fled to the Dawn Reach, and others did too. She took care of me there.” He watched Shard’s face carefully. Black ears twitched back. “I suppose it will be easier, now, to tell you that I’m staying, since there’s not much choice.”

“Staying?” The idea didn’t take hold quickly. In all of Shard’s hopes for the future Stigr had been there, fishing, hunting, flying openly under the moon, and advising him. “What do you mean, easier to tell me?”

“Before the wyrm attack on the Dawn Spire, I had planned to tell you, Shard…that you were right. I have seen a different side of the Aesir than those who conquered us.” His gaze twitched to the approaching bands of gryfons.

Sunset faded toward twilight.

“Valdis?” Shard asked again, feeling slow, then sure. He thought of the long autumn and winter and Brynja’s strong-willed aunt, who had admired and challenged Stigr. He hadn’t thought what the attention meant to his uncle, then.

“That obvious, was it? Well.” He added nothing further, and flicked a pebble toward the water.

Shard knew there was no choice. Stigr could never make the flight home, and no number of gryfons could bear him over the sea for that distance. He just hadn’t realized his uncle had made the decision before losing his wing.

“I’m glad for you,” Shard said at last, and meant it. “You deserve all the honor that you’ve gained here, and all the happiness of a new mate.”

Once, it might have been Sigrun, but then came the Conquering, and Caj, and they loved each other as true mates. Shard hadn’t even realized what it would mean for Stigr to return with him and live among the mixed pride, if Caj remained.

“That means everything to me, my prince,” Stigr murmured. “My king. And I’m still your loyal servant, whether you’re close or far. Know that.”

“I know. I know you always have been.”

Stigr stood, stretching, and Shard tried not to flinch at the sight of the raw injury flexing with each movement. “I think it’s about to get busy here,” he rumbled.

“I have so much to tell you,” Shard said, though now the rush of wings and laughing voices and boasts clattered down like falling rain.

“Don’t worry, nephew.” Stigr raised his voice over the commotion. “We have time now.”

Despite their clean formations while flying, the warrior band landed haphazardly, nearly crashing into relieved family members and friends who came out to meet them, shouting, boasting, their wings stirring dust.

“Go on,” Stigr said, and Shard touched his beak to his uncle’s shoulder once more before turning to find Kjorn, Asvander, and Brynja, and see about building some fires.

“A new wind, a bright wind, a silver wind is blowing.

The winds will whisper, one and all,

To those they know are listening.

Raise your wings, young fledging,

and hark so you will know them.

A song of the Vanhar, a rhyme of the old Four Winds, rolled in hopeful, shivering tones through the Ostral Shores.

“Star shines bright with future light

Sun fills all bold hearts with might.

A Nightwind, fly with warning

At Dawn, with hope come singing.

But now a high wind, a true wind, a silver wind is blowing.”

Shard alone stood in the shallow water of the lake shore, letting the waves slip over his feet and tail feathers. Breathing the strange salted air of the landlocked lake, he was able to pretend, for a few moments, that he stood at the shore of the sea.

Bonfires dotted the nesting hollows and hills around the great salt lake, sparks and smoke twisting high into the night. All around there was laughter, singing, bragging, the scent of meat, sparring fledglings re-enacting the battle according to the stories being told.

“Too much light for a Vanir?” Kjorn walked up beside him. “I know you prefer moonlight now.”

Shard chuckled, dragging his talons absently through the sand under the water. “Not exactly.” Tiny minnows, having come to investigate his legs, scattered and flashed away into the darker water.

“I would have left you alone,” Kjorn murmured, dipping a foot into the cold water, then shaking it before stepping back to dry land. “But everyone is just begging to know more about the dragons, and I know for certain you haven’t eaten since before the battle.”

“I’ll come.” Shard filled his chest and held the breath, looking toward the sky for strength. There was something that had to be said, before they went on any longer. “Kjorn—”

“I know.” Still, it took him a long time to say it. “There cannot be two kings in the Silver Isles.”

Shard released the breath, and looked at him. He’d forgotten how large, how well built, and
kingly
his wingbrother was. Or perhaps he’d grown more so.

Be warned, with a dragon’s blessing, everything you are will be more so.

“I heard rumors that you had some grand design for all that.”

“I did think of something,” Shard said cautiously.

Kjorn paced behind him, tail flicking. “Let me see if I have it right—you thought I could return here as Kajar’s heir, unite the divided prides of the Winderost, make allies of the painted wolf packs and the eagles and all of us could drive off the wyrm scourge and live peacefully thereafter, and I could take my rightful place as king of the Dawn Spire?” He stopped, standing behind Shard as Shard look up toward the moon. “Then, you would return with the Vanir and claim your birthright as king of the Silver Isles, make peace again between gryfons and the other Named creatures of the Isles, and all would go on happily there too?”

Looking out over the black, glistening lake, Shard said, “More or less.”

“Did you have a more specific plan?”

Shard stepped out of the water. “Not really.”

“Well.” Kjorn drew a long breath, let it out, and glanced over his shoulder at the fires and feasting. Then he met Shard’s eyes. “We’d better make one.”

The End

A
S THE BOOKS GROW
, so does the list of people on whom I rely to make them happen! As always my first thanks is to my husband Dax, whose support, enthusiasm for my writing, and the occasional improvised gryfon rock ballad means everything to me. My parents, who know this is my true profession and are proud to say their daughter is an author, whatever other jobs I might be doing at the time. To my fearless and honest first readers I give huge huge thanks for your time, opinions and first impressions—Kate Washington, Tracy Davis, and my sister Jennifer Owen.

I must thank Kathy Sierra of the "seriouspony" Twitter for her inspiring images, information, and enthusiastic conversations about Icelandic horses. I'd also like to thank J.F.R. Coates of Jaffa Books for our new partnership in bringing paperbacks of the Summer King Chronicles to Australia! Thanks to the other independent carriers: the Whitefish Community Library, Cheryl and Bookworks of Whitefish, Barbara and the crew at Fact & Fiction in Missoula for all your support, the Stumptown Historical Society, Crystal Winters of Whitefish, Voyageur Books, Männerschwarm Books in Germany, and Rabbit Valley Comics.

Special thanks to Daniel Morrison of Remnant Studios for the amazing book trailer, and for helping me soon bring the first audio book to life!

To my editor Joshua Essoe, who keeps Shard awesome and my plots on course, and raises the bar for every aspect of every new book. You're worth a dragon's weight in gold. I have so much gratitude to my cover artist Jennifer Miller—for your excitement, flexibility and what I can only consider truly loving attention to detail. My layout artist at TERyvisions, for making each book stylish and professional. Richard at Crown Media for being great to work with and making the actual books so beautiful. And in the final hours, my awesome ARC readers for your early reviews, feedback, and for catching those pesky typos: Dominique Goodall, R. A. Meenan, K. M. Carroll, Kristin Yadao, Lauren Head, Eric C. Wilder of the Grimm Report, Jennifer Don and Lindsay Adams—thank you!

As a self-publishing author, I depend so much on the master mind power of many people. Thank YOU for making book 3 happen.

And now, a final thanks to my amazing, supportive, loyal Kickstarter backers for helping me turn this book into another collectible hard back. There are so many familiar names and friends on this list from my life and from previous campaigns, I'm truly humbled by your continued support. I promised to name the folks who were able to pledge generous amounts of $100 or more, but know that you are ALL AWESOME.

In no particular order of awesomeness: