By the Silver Wind (30 page)

“Vidar,” he tried again, coarsely, “son of . . .”

Sverin sank to the ground, dropping his head until his beak grazed the snow. His wings flexed as if he would mantle. “Son-of-Eirikur. Forgive me. There is no excuse, no recompense to give, no crime I regret more than Einarr’s death.”

His voice rasped, cracked over the name. His eyes darted to his own talons, as if he still saw blood there. Ragna’s muscles cramped as she forced herself not to intervene. Caj stepped forward and she cast him a warning look. Eyes narrowing, he stood down. She wondered what he saw in her face, if she looked cold. She wondered if he thought she was cruel, and if she even cared what he thought.

“He did everything for you,” Vidar said, his voice as warm and rich as Einarr’s had been, a singer’s voice carrying clearly over those gathered. “He dreamed of being a warrior.”

Sverin’s ears slicked back against his skull and his black talons crunched the snow, but he didn’t look at Vidar’s face again. “He was a warrior. Braver than all, braver than I ever was.”

Vidar stared at him, and Ragna could see he had no words.

“He stood against me,” Sverin said, loudly, against the snow, then raised his head, pushed himself to his feet, as slowly as if he weighed much more. He looked around, tail lashing. “He stood against me at the height of my madness, when I would have exiled Thyra herself.” His voice strained and his gaze flicked around until he found Caj, the sight of whom seemed to steady him. “He stood against me when others would not.” He drew a breath, and looked directly at Ragna.

Ice lanced down her spine.

Sverin looked away from her, back to Vidar. “He died as he lived, a warrior, with a true and courageous heart. There is nothing I can do to change the past, but I beg that someday I will have your forgiveness.”

Vidar’s wings opened slowly, his beak. He stood like a witless, vengeful hawk, ready to fly. The guards near Sverin tensed, and Caj looked ready to leap. Ragna did nothing, staring, her whole body locked to the snow and stone.

“Someday?” Vidar whispered at last, looked around him, and folded his wings. “No. I will not add hatred to the burden on my heart. I cannot bear the weight of it.” His eyes never left Sverin’s face, and though Ragna didn’t see pity, neither did she see hate. “Son of Per, for my part, I forgive you.”

Sverin released a soft, strangled sound, and bowed his head. Ragna felt a dizzying rush of relief and gratitude for Vidar’s decision.

Surprise and some unhappy mutters swept the Vanir who had already stood before Sverin, including Dagr, who sheltered Astri under his wing, as if they hadn’t separated since the day he’d returned. Eyvin stood apart from them, her eyes narrowed.

Vidar cast Ragna a quick, piercing look and an abbreviated mantle, then strode down from the rocks. When another moved to step up, Ragna forced herself forward, opening her wings to draw attention.

“That’s enough. Enough for today. He will hear all your grievances, I promise, as will I.” Their pain was as much her fault as any. She saw as they confessed that Sverin was right. She had been idle. She had been cowardly, had waited too long. “But it’s enough for today,” she murmured. “To your fishing, and your nests. I promise, we will hear more tomorrow.”

Caj stepped forward, dipping his head close to her. “Thank you, my lady. That was a kindness.”

She swiveled, watching him and feeling blank and cold as the snow. “I did it for myself, Caj.” The guards flanked Sverin and they walked down from the rocks, to the trail that led to his den. “I don’t know how much more I can bear, or if it is wise to pick our wounds this way.”

He nodded once, and Ragna resisted the urge to lean on him, understanding exactly some of the things Sigrun admired. Even with a broken wing, he emanated strength like a mountain. It was not his physical presence Sigrun had fallen in love with.

“It hurts us all. If you don’t believe me, look around. But we’re rotting with hate and pain. It’s got to be dealt with, and I hate to say it but we can’t wait for Shard and Kjorn to return. Sigrun would say you must lance a rotting wound and release the poison before you can heal.”

A laugh scraped out of her. “Yes, she would say that. You listen well.” To hear him say Shard’s name picked at the ache in her heart. She wondered how much the old Aesir missed his nest-son, how much he cared for him.

He tilted his head, watching her, she thought, with a measure of concern. “I try.”

Ragna looked away. “Go to him. Please.”

“Yes, my lady.”

He bowed his head and left her. Ragna looked around and spotted Vidar, walking along the cliff’s edge, head low. Her own heart warned her not to go to him, not yet. Or maybe it was fear. Fear that his pain would turn itself to anger with her.

Either way she stood there, staring around as the pride dispersed. She could only hope she looked regal and watchful, but feared she might only look like the rest of them—exhausted, agonized, and lost.

When Shard returned, she wondered if he would be the balm she hoped for, or if it would open the wound again. When Maja, Halvden’s mother, returned with more Vanir, she wondered if they’d relive this again.

And again.
And again, to the end of our days.

The overthrow of the Aesir, Ragna thought bitterly, was nothing as she’d dreamed it would be. The naïve fantasy of a fresh widow felt distant, unfamiliar and hopelessly foolish in the face of ten years gone by. That summer past, Sigrun had urged her to act. She should have then, that very moment, not by singing a song, but by naming her son plainly and challenging Sverin.

She should have acted when Helaku the wolf king was alive, when he might have stood with the Vanir instead of attacking the entire pride in his righteous fury.

She should have acted years ago, when Sverin exiled Vidar for merely flying at night.

She should have acted after the Conquering, should have taken the Vanir into exile and let the Aesir have the nesting cliffs—given up their home, but kept their lives and freedom.

The moment Per slew Baldr, she should have acted.

But instead she hid, she bided, she kept Sverin’s secrets, and her own, and she waited.

The waiting, regretting Widow Queen.

Perhaps it’s best that Sverin went mad,
she thought, now watching Vidar,
for I would have kept waiting for Shard. And if he’d never returned, I might be waiting still.

A breeze that smelled more of rain than of snow touched around her beak and eyes, and she searched for clouds over the sea. A large part of her still searched for Shard, but she could no longer wait for him to rule the pride.

Feeling resolute and determined, she decided to have a feast that very night. Despite their pain, they had much to celebrate, and she would declare a feast. A feast with food for all. Fish, delicacies. And she would ask the wolves for permission to hunt meat for the Aesir, red meat—deer, birds, and hare.

Surely Catori would be glad to help Ragna achieve some bonding and harmony within her pride. She would provide for her pride—
all
of them, a celebration of their healing wounds, of their returned families, and those still to come.

Refreshed by the idea, she opened her wings and sprang from the ground to find Sigrun, and plan. As she wheeled about, the sight of a large flotsam in the water caught her eye. Feeling grim, she winged out to see what washed in from the ocean.

At first, she thought it was a massive sea bird, an albatross, but size and the color told her the truth.

A gryfon, a silver gryfon, floated on the water.

“Hail!” Ragna called, distaste sharpening her words. “Ollar! Are you injured?”

There was no answer. Ragna dove hard and hit the waves, swimming toward the floating gryfon.

The scent hit her first. Bloated flesh and death. She gagged, horror and confusion flooding her veins with fire. He was not injured.

He was dead.

“Sigrun!” she shouted. “Help!”

She grasped a splayed silver wing and him hauled toward the shore, letting the waves roll her forward. She told herself it wasn’t far. By the time she was halfway, Sigrun had found her, and Vidar with her. They dove into the water beside Ragna, and together they swam the lifeless body back to the beach.

Twilight brought a frosty chill as with tight, cold muscles they dragged Ollar’s body away from the water.

“Why bother?” Vidar grunted, helping Ragna lay the body out on the gravel shore. Ragna wondered if Asfrid or someone else had told him of Ollar’s exile, or if he was simply angry with the Aesir in general.

“Our honor is defined by how we treat others,” Sigrun said quietly, sounding very much like Caj. She turned Ollar’s body to determine what killed him.

“Sea wolves?” Ragna asked haltingly.

Sigrun jerked her head sideways, sharp negation. “No. We would know without question.”

They all examined the body, the silver feathers, hindquarters, throat, head, and found no injury. An icy cold seeped into Ragna’s heart.

“He fell,” Vidar said darkly. Ragna watched him quietly. “Or dove. He couldn’t fly out, and drowned.” He met Ragna’s gaze. “It was a long flight for us. I know there were times I thought I wouldn’t make it. Perhaps he was simply exhausted, and we all know an Aesir might not be able to fly out.”

“Perhaps,” Ragna said quietly, but felt troubled. The Aesir had all made the flight over the sea once before. “Let us at least bear him to Pebble’s Throw.”

“A warrior’s death rites?” Sigrun asked, ears flicking back. “Burn him as we did Per? Does he deserve it?”

“As you said yourself,” Ragna murmured. “Let us treat him honorably, whether he deserves it or not. It isn’t for him, but us. Vidar, will you fetch Dagr and Halvden, and tell Caj what’s happened? We’ll need help with the body.”

“I will, my lady.” He took off, and Ragna hung her head.

“I was going to plan a feast,” she said to Sigrun, feeling suddenly weary. “A feast, to celebrate the Vanir, and ask the wolves for their blessing to hunt red meat.”

“I think it’s a fine idea,” Sigrun said, sounding distracted. Ragna watched her friend, still prodding the body, checking under Ollar’s tail, then walking back up to examine his nostrils. “Oh, ah ha,” she said, touching a talon to Ollar’s beak. “Look, Ragna.”

“What is it?” Ragna peered. Stubbornly, Sigrun merely pointed. Finally, just inside the nostril, where it couldn’t wash away in the sea, Ragna saw a speck of dried blood. “Blood? Yes?”

“His heart,” Sigrun said, prodding the big gryfon’s ribs. “I’ve seen this in rabbits. I don’t think he drowned.”

Ice slithered down Ragna’s spine as she met Sigrun’s eyes. “Then?”

The healer narrowed her eyes. “If I was guessing, then by Tor’s wings, I would swear he died of . . . fear.”

“Fear?” Ragna asked. “A gryfon, die of fear? Of what?”

Sigrun shook her head, and slowly they both turned their gazes toward the dark horizon.

M
ORNING SAW LOW CLOUDS
gusting across the Voldsom Narrows, and Shard and Brynja led their party forward to greet the eagles before they began searching for wyrms. The Vanir, Lakelanders, and rogues flew in a rough formation toward the eagle aerie.

No drizzle fell, but wetness clung to the air, but fresh with spring. They had four days until Kjorn arrived, rallied their forces, and attacked.

Then, the flight home. The immensity of Shard’s tasks spread before him like a field of lava.

Wind rippled across his back.

Rise higher.

Shard snapped from his reverie, staring around for the voice he thought he’d heard.

Brynja, flying beside him over one of the canyons, tilted her head inquiringly. Shard curled his talons together. “Did you say some—”

“Ho, gryfons!” called a bright voice. “Ho, Shard of the Silver Isles!”

“Hildr!” Relieved to see a familiar face and hear the she-eagle’s voice sounding friendly, Shard dipped in to greet her and the three eagles that flew with her. “Hildr, daughter-of-Brunr.”

“Shard,” she said again, eyeing him. They had not seen each other since the Battle of Torches when she’d called her eagles in to help Kjorn route the wyrms. “Brynja, of the Dawn Spire, well met. You seem underfed.”

They both laughed. “You seem fed well enough,” Brynja observed.

“Yes.” The smaller eagle circled them, and her companions hovered with effort, beating the air to remain in a rough formation. They were about a third the size of a gryfon, but Shard had seen them hunting and fighting, and didn’t underestimate their strength. “Hunting has been good in the Voldsom along the river. Have you noticed the quiet?”

Shard exchanged a look with Brynja. “We have. We mean to scout for the wyrms, to get their whereabouts to tell Kjorn for the final battle.”

“We have been scouting since the rains began,” Hildr said, nearly crowing. She swooped above them, gazing across their company of gryfons. “Come, bring your raggedy band to the river, and I will tell you what we know.”

As dawn lightened the gray clouds, warming and turning the moist air sticky, Shard and Brynja led their mixed group down into the canyon. A series of wolf dens scattered along the river, and above those Shard saw hollows and cliff-side nests, reminding him, with a sharp pang, of the Nesting Cliffs of his home. His heart quickened.
Soon.

Hildr caught them up on events in Voldsom since the battle. For a time they heard the wyrms hunting in the Outlands, but unusually, they had not broken the line of the jagged mountains on the nightward side of the canyons, nor flown near the canyons themselves. They’d spooked them, the she-eagle claimed, put the bright fear of Tyr’s fire into their hearts. Now, it was silent. They heard no wyrms, saw no wyrms, smelled no fresh scents.

Rather than feel glad, Shard fretted, wondering where the wyrms were, and what they were up to. He tried not to imagine them arriving at the Silver Isles, falling upon his unsuspecting family—but Brynja was right. They wouldn’t know the way across the sea.

Shard told himself the wyrms were in hiding after the Battle of Torches, and that it would not be a waste of time to look.