By the Silver Wind (22 page)

“Brighten up. You’re the moodiest Vanir I’ve ever seen. Worse than Stigr these days.”

“Tyr’s beak,” Shard said, mimicking his uncle. He shoved against the river bottom and smashed into Kjorn, giving the prince a good dunking to remind him who was the stronger swimmer. Kjorn came up sputtering and declared that bath time was over.

Though it was still sunset, a sliver of moon hooked in the orange sky as they dried and stretched away the aches from walking, and Shard shivered against the rising chill. He wondered, idly, if the lions would allow them a fire, and reached up to tap a talon against the little pouch that held his fire stones, to reassure himself they hadn’t come off in the river.

The yearling lion appeared, appraising them, even going so far as to lean forward and sniff delicately at Kjorn’s flank.

One golden ear ticked back, but Kjorn managed a neutral expression. “I trust we’re more acceptable now?”

“Hm,” said the yearling, circling away. “You’ll do.”

Some scents don’t wash away,
Shard thought, and managed not to say, realizing the lion might’ve hoped they would smell less like gryfons by the time they were done.

“This way.”

Six gryfons fell into a line behind the yearling, Shard and Kjorn abreast, Nilsine, Dagny and Brynja, with Asvander warily taking up the rear. The rest remained near the river, in the company of two watchful, mostly silent lionesses and another yearling who had joined them during their bath.

Shard looked discreetly back at Asvander. The big Lakelander had been so silent the entire trip that Shard wasn’t sure if he was uncomfortable in the First Plains, or still moody about Kjorn’s test from the Vanhar. He would talk to Asvander, soon. After the lions. Certainly before battle, if there was a battle.

Away from the river, the lion scent saturated the air, and Shard perked his ears, looking around. He would be glad to see Ajia again, for she’d been helpful and kind, if mysterious. The chief he wasn’t sure of, but obviously they were expected, so he hoped that was good. Beside him, he sensed Kjorn tensing.

“Your Highness,” Shard said quietly, not in jest. “All will be well. We’re obviously expected, we’ve both met their most important lioness, and made friends. I wouldn’t worry. This isn’t battle.”

“Some friendships are like battles won,” Kjorn answered cryptically.

It sounded so unlike something he would say that Shard wondered where he’d heard it, then their escort stopped. Before them, deep indents broke the long grass as if heavy bodies had slept there, and the ground swept up into a ragged bluff, reminding Shard of the landscape of the Dawn Reach. Scattered boulders piled to form small dens around the base of the bluff, and trees offered shade over those dens. Now, in the last of the sunset, it all cast long shadows toward Shard and Kjorn and their band, as if to reach out and grab them. The sky and earth looked aflame. Shard felt a moment of awe and wondered, shoving down an absurd snicker, if lions had a flair for the dramatic.

“The Chief of the First Plains,” the young lion boomed. “High leader over all the lion prides and favored son of Tor.” He turned to gaze at the top of the bluff.

Shard and Kjorn looked up, ears lifting, as the first fully-grown male Winderost lion Shard had ever seen strode from behind the bluff to its top to gaze down at them. He heard Kjorn’s breath catch, and thought his own did, too.

The chief’s heavy frame reminded Shard of a gryfon of the Ostral Shores, bulky and low to the ground, though his size nearly rivaled Kjorn. A broad, barrel chest and shoulders tapered to sleek, muscled haunches and the narrow, tufted tail. His wildfire mane of gold and black framed a wide, angled face and yellow eyes. His heavy scent drifted to them, a tang of and meat and power, mixed, Shard thought, with the essence of multiple lionesses. Shard realized that while he stared, Kjorn had mantled low, and he quickly followed suit.

When he stood tall again he was gratified to see the great cat dip his head, though not deeply enough to be called a bow.

“Welcome to the First Plains.” Shard had expected his voice to be mountain-deep like Helaku, the wolf king, but his timbre was almost mild, a tenor, a pure note that belied his size but fit him nonetheless, liquid and graceful. “We have waited for this meeting for a long time.”

Kjorn stood, resettling his wings. “We’re honored to stand in your home, and I hope for great things between us.”

“Great things,” the lion echoed, displayed his teeth in what Shard hoped was amusement. “Yes. Yes, indeed.” He tossed his mane and called several names. Lionesses appeared out of the grass, out of the rock dens, and watched him attentively. “Find us a feast,” he commanded, his gaze lingering on each of them with fondness and approval. “We know Tor, now in her claw time, will bless us with rich food for this meeting.”

With not even a glance at the gryfons, the lionesses slipped away into the twilight.

As the chief moved to step down from his place, Shard glanced to the shaggy mane again, and saw multiple long, twisted locks with bits of claw and talon woven in. A display of feathers of all colors and sizes were knotted into the mane, and Shard recalled that Ajia wore feathers too, but hadn’t said why.

He examined the chief’s, which started behind his ear with the smallest, the yellow feather of a meadow lark, and trailed in a diagonal curve down his neck, growing larger until they stopped in the center of his chest. There Shard’s gaze locked, and Kjorn’s, for there hung the unmistakable feather of a gryfon, a feather of the brightest red.

“We’re honored,” Kjorn said tightly, containing his surprise, Shard thought. The red feather stood against the darkest part of the lion chief’s mane.

“Honored,” Shard said, taking over when it was clear Kjorn would speak no more. “I am Shard, son-of-Baldr, prince of the Silver Isles. My wingbrother is Kjorn, son-of-Sverin, heir to Kajar and the lands of the Dawn Spire.”

The long tail swung back and forth and the lion displayed his teeth. “I know.”

“And will you honor us with your name?” Shard asked, while Kjorn recovered from his surprise. He took a furtive glance around for Ajia, and didn’t see her.

“Yes, of course.” He hopped lithely down from the slope and advanced on them, a slow, rocking stride, leaving deep paw prints in the grass and soft dirt. “I am Mbari the Brightest, the only son of Badriya, Who is Pale.”

“Badriya,” Shard murmured, unable for a moment to remember where he’d heard the name.

It was Kjorn who said, “You’re Ajia’s brother.”

“Yes, though this has little consequence on our ruling now.” He stopped before them, just taller than Shard, but much larger of frame. “She did speak well of both of you, and this will enlighten my decisions.”

“That feather,” Kjorn said, and Shard flattened his ears at the blunt remark. “Where did you get it?”

Usually I’m the one to speak impulsively.

Mbari looked at him with placid yellow eyes.

“That feather belonged to my father. How did you come by it? Why do you wear it? He never told me he had dealings with lions, what do you mean by wearing that to meet me? Is it a threat?”

“Kjorn,” Shard murmured, surprised at the outburst, though saw that Chief Mbari’s eyes only glittered with amusement, as if Kjorn were a small bug he planned to bat about in the grass. Or as if he were already batting him about.

“A threat? No. A promise, maybe. We met once over a kill, myself and the red gryfon fledge, though he didn’t hear my words at the time. I bested him then, and his companion, though I only won the red feather, not the blue. I looked forward to meeting him again on better ground, and then, when he never came, to meeting you.”

“You fought,” Kjorn said slowly, “fought, and bested, my father? And Caj?”

“And a good match it was. But if we’re to repeat all that is said this night,” the lion purred, “it will be a long negotiation indeed.”

Shard felt Kjorn’s ribs swell with a great breath, hold, and release slowly. Clearly the feather was not meant to be an insult. Perhaps it was an honor, or a show of good intentions. “Kjorn,” he began, but Kjorn canted his head. He appeared to be in possession of himself again.

“I look forward to meeting your family,” Kjorn said with strict formality. “And discussing all that’s important to both of us. And, if you’re willing, to hear more of your meeting with my father.”

Shard stepped forward. “And, as a show of things to come, and friendship, I’d like to offer you fire.”

Mbari shook his mane in apparent pleasure as darkness thickened around them. “I’ve heard of this dragon fire. The birds make much of it. Yes, we accept.” And to Kjorn he said, “Come, let us speak privately of our wishes, and of your father.”

He turned to walk away, and Kjorn looked at Shard. “What do you think?” He hesitated, looking toward Mbari’s disappearing form. The sun was gone, shadows crawled from the rocks and over the grass.

“Go on. I’ll start the fires. And remember, these are friends. Whatever happened between him and Sverin—”

“If only he were here,” Kjorn murmured, and Shard realized what was troubling him. He loosed a low, angry growl. “He should be here, beside me, but instead, he’s . . .” He didn’t finish.

Shard touched his beak to a golden wing. “Kjorn, I know what it is to wish you had your father by your side. But you’re here now, and he isn’t. You’ve got to go forward with what you have now.”

Kjorn eyed him, as if finally remembering Shard had never known his own father, then lifted his head. Whether Shard had truly gotten through, he couldn’t tell, but at least his friend appeared genuinely calm now. “You’re right. I know you are. You’ll be well, with the others?”

“We’re fine. Go on.” Shard butted his head against Kjorn’s shoulder, for Mbari was disappearing into the dark without looking back. “We’ll see each other after.”

Kjorn dipped his head and didn’t run, but took long, dignified strides to catch the lion chief, and Shard turned to the task of fire.

“Another feast?” Dagny looked dismayed. They gathered dead branches from the trees and driftwood from the river bank, with the help of enthusiastic lion cubs. “This war is going to make me fatter than a grouse.”

Brynja laughed.

Asvander murmured something in the negative and Shard, building another little pyramid of sticks, was distracted, looking around for a familiar lioness face. Ajia had not shown herself, and he tried not to be disappointed. She’d been so welcoming of him when he’d flown to find the lions, to learn more of the wyrms. Certainly she must know he was there, and he’d thought she would be interested in the fire, and all that had happened since they’d met.

“Shard,” Brynja murmured, slipping up next to him. “Are you well?”

Am I well?
Shard twisted a cluster of dry grass in his talons, thinking how short a time ago he would’ve given anything for Brynja to walk up and stand so close and speak to him so softly.

Am I well?
He thought how short a time ago it had been that he’d learned to make fire, that he hadn’t known when or if he would see Kjorn again, that he’d thought he could solve every problem of the world by talking. How long ago since he’d kept a newly-hatched dragon warm in his wings, then the same dragon had carried him safely from the grasp of death. How long ago since he’d left his home . . .

“Shard.” Brynja nipped him, bringing him back to himself.

How long ago since she asked her question?
He thought wryly. “Too distracted for words. I hoped to speak to Ajia, but I haven’t seen her.”

“You think she can help you more than the priestess did?”

“I think she can help me in a different way.” Shard lifted his wings restlessly, soaking up the strength and determination in Brynja’s expression. “I hope she can help me figure out what to say, or show, to Rhydda.”

After a thoughtful moment, Brynja said, “I don’t understand this dreaming that you do. But I know it is real, and I have faith in your strong heart. Don’t you? You’re the one who inspired us to band together, to listen, to see beyond our own borders and troubles. What do you fear?”

Shard twisted grass, looking down at his talons. “Before, in the Silver Isles, I spoke to the wolves, to boar, to creatures no one thought could speak. Here, I spoke to the lions, the eagles, the painted wolves. I spoke to the blackfish, even though they didn’t listen. I even spoke to the dragons. I haven’t been afraid like this before, afraid to speak—”

“Afraid to be wrong?”

“Afraid to be wrong,” he agreed, breaking a twig in two. “Brynja, what if I really can’t speak to them? I’ve failed every time.”

“You haven’t failed at all. Rhydda has shown you things.”

“But she doesn’t answer. She shows me pain, anger, hatred. What if she doesn’t understand me? What if they really are Nameless, Voiceless, like fish in the sea, and I’m wasting my time?”

“Then we will fight,” she said firmly. “As we did before. We will fight, and drive them from this land. This doesn’t all rest on your wings.”

“Yes,” he said, feeling hollow. “We will fight. And many will die.”

“They’ll die anyway,” she said, tossing her head. “Of old age, or disease, or flying in a storm. We are warriors, Shard, proud to fight, proud to die to defend our home.”