By the Silver Wind (43 page)

A ring of sentries stood around Orn, and Esla, who had come to greet him as well. In all the haste and planning, Kjorn had still barely spoken to his mother’s sister, nor met his own cousin who was still a nestling. He knew, somehow, that much of it would have to wait until after he’d gone and returned from the Silver Isles again.

Standing with his mate by his side, Orn looked rested, regal, alert. His stern gaze fell on Kjorn as he landed, and then Shard with some skepticism.

“I hear your great enemy has fled.”

“Our great enemy.” Kjorn folded his wings and walked forward, twitching his tail to let Shard know he would handle Orn alone. “Yes. The Battle of Torches drove them out after all.” He decided to leave out the part about Shard speaking to Rhydda, and Shard didn’t correct him. “A mere show of bravery was all it took. They are Nameless, Voiceless cowards, and I doubt if they’ll ever return.”

“Perhaps.” The older gryfon appraised him, and Kjorn was half disappointed to see that he was calm, but pleased to see he was not amused that Kjorn’s great war would not happen. Around them, sentries stood tense, including Asvander, Rok, and Fraenir, ready to leap and defend Kjorn at the first sign of aggression. It wouldn’t do.

“You can go back to the perimeter,” Kjorn said, addressing Asvander mostly. “I think lord Orn and I have an understanding.”

Asvander grated his beak together in protest, then called an order to disperse.

“That was big of you,” Orn said, and now it was only he, Esla, Shard, and Kjorn. The tawny gryfess watched Kjorn quietly, her severe, pale blue eyes alert, her manner tense. He knew she was an ally, but also that she had no desire for Orn to die. Yet the issue of the Dawn Spire remained.

“No it wasn’t.” Kjorn gave him a measuring look. “Do you think I fear you?”

For a long moment, Orn watched him. Then, to Kjorn’s surprise and the rest, he laughed, a harsh, hard laugh. “No. No, son of Sverin. I can’t see that you fear much of anything. I wanted to believe you a warmonger, a conqueror, brave when it suited you, cowardly like your father when the winds shifted. But I see you are a different gryfon. How, I couldn’t say.” His gaze did drift to Shard, then, who inclined his head.

Esla spoke to Orn, her voice like silky wind. “My lord, you see what has happened here in the meantime.”

“Yes. Indeed.” Orn looked around, his short ears twitching. “When I heard the wyrms didn’t show, I expected to be wading in the blood of these lifelong enemies. I expected bodies, and grudges, and I’ll admit I’d hoped to revel in your failure and take my pride home. Well.”

He stopped, watching as, in the distance, a yearling lion, an Aesir fledge, and a lanky painted wolf pup raced up over the rim of the canyon. Each bore a stick for the nightly fires, in a friendly contest as if they’d known each other all their short lives.

“Well,” he said again.

“Well, indeed,” purred Esla. “My lord.”

Kjorn felt Shard’s eyes on him, and wondered desperately what his wingbrother was thinking. He’d thought of challenging Orn, of slaying him in single combat and claiming the king’s tier of the Dawn Spire. But here stood an aging, reasonable gryfon, father of a nestling who was also Kjorn’s own cousin, and with a mate who was blood to Kjorn.

“What am I to do here?” Orn asked quietly.

Kjorn couldn’t answer, for he asked the same question of himself. A part of him wondered if he deserved the Dawn Spire at all, if he had not won it in battle.

The raspy laughter of eagles and gryfons, growling boasts from Mbari, telling stories around the orange fire, and the rapt exclamations of young gryfons told Kjorn a different story than war, and his heart warmed a little. Once not so long ago, Shard had not been afraid to tell Kjorn he wanted his birthright back, and surely he had earned it. Kjorn stepped forward, raising his wings.

“I want the Dawn Spire, Orn. You see what we’ve done here. I want to stand where my forefathers stood. You’ve watched over the land these ten years, and for that I thank you. But my sun rises now, and I want the kingdom.” Haltingly, he bowed his head. “But I want it only with your blessing, regent of the Dawn Spire, for I know that is the only way for true peace, and my own heart.”

Esla loosed a pleased sound, and Shard touched his wingtip to Kjorn’s flank in approval. Stars pricked the sky, Kjorn kept his head low, and at last Orn tucked his beak down, though his ears perked attentively.

“Truly, you are different than your forebears.” He lifted his head, ears alert, eyes bright. Kjorn saw that he was not any kind of grasping, aggressive warlord, but only a gryfon who had been chosen to rule, who wanted the best for the pride. They both understood that the best meant the less fighting, the better.

“Your blessing?” Kjorn asked again, quietly.

“You have my blessing,” Orn declared. “My support, my fealty, Kjorn, son-of-Sverin.” He raised his voice a little. “I think everyone here can see there is only one king of the Dawn Spire.”

Kjorn didn’t realize they’d gathered an audience until they heard the hush that followed Orn’s statement, and Kjorn glanced to the side to see all manner of creatures watching them. They’d slowly gathered to witness, and the first to raise his voice, to Kjorn’s surprise and his eternal gratitude, was Stigr.

“Hail Kjorn, king of the Dawn Spire!”

Shard joined him, Valdis, Asvander, and his aunt, all the voices Kjorn knew. The lions roared their approval, the eagles swooping through the dark, cheered him, and when he looked again at Orn, the older gryfon mantled, straightened, and raised his voice with the rest.

When the fervor died and all began to disperse, Shard slipped to Kjorn, and draped his wing over Kjorn’s back. “Well done, your Highness. With Orn on your side, the Dawn Spire will be secure while you return with me to fetch the others.”

“Yes,” Kjorn said quietly, understanding the hint. “It will.” He stepped away and met Shard’s eyes. “If your Vanir are well . . .”

Shard studied his face, and Kjorn felt the sense of urgency kindle between them. “Yes,” he murmured.

Kjorn watched as his wingbrother’s gaze wandered the gathered creatures, settling briefly on Stigr who was laughing with Valdis and Asvander. Then his eyes found Kjorn again, and he raised his head. “I’ll spread the word not to stay up too late celebrating. We can depart at dawn.”

A
STIFF, COOL WIND GUSTED
across the Voldsom, but from where Shard stood on the rim, he spied good weather dawnward. They would leave today, fly across the Winderost to the Dawn Reach and depart from that shore, where Shard had first arrived. It was, as far as anyone knew, the most direct route back to the Silver Isles.

Nerves and relief mingled in his muscles to at last be embarking on the journey home. Behind him, the Vanir woke, stretched, and the canyons filled with their buzzing anticipation.

The final evening of negotiations had seen old alliances renewed, new alliances forged, and Kjorn firmly recognized as king of the Dawn Spire.

It was the greatest meeting ever known by the Winderost since the Second Age, and so Kjorn declared it the Greatmeet, a rite of peace, and had asked that every clan of creatures send leaders to meet once again each year, every year, in the spring, to keep strong the bonds they had tied there. All agreed.

Shard had thought he would feel more pride, more awe, but all he felt was relief that it was done, and anxiousness to get home.

Shard had bid goodbye to the eagles, the painted wolves, and the lioness Ajia. He’d bid goodbye to all in the Winderost who were at the Greatmeet and who knew him, who considered him a friend.

All but one.

“Good day for flying,” Stigr remarked, walking up to Shard’s right side.

Hard talons seemed to grasp Shard’s throat. He nodded once.

“I’ll be all right, you know,” Stigr went on, blunt, as wry and dry as the first night Shard had met him on Star Island. It felt as if his uncle’s voice and presence permeated the wind all around, reverberated in the dust and in Shard’s every feather. “I’ll be all right, here. I see now what you see in Kjorn. He’ll be a good king. And I have Valdis—”

Shard turned and buried his face against Stigr’s neck, grinding his beak against fledge-like whimper. “
I’ll
miss you, Uncle. You did everything for me, and I—”

Stigr tucked his head over Shard’s and drew a ragged sigh. He preened one feather briefly, in a paternal way. “You’ll be all right too, Shard. You will.”

He stepped back, appraising Shard with a critical eye. Shard realized how desperately he would miss everything about his uncle, how he’d imagined their life in peace back in the Silver Isles.

“Thank you for everything you did for me,” Shard said, ducking his head in deference.

Stigr laughed wryly, looking over his wing at the mix of Aesir and Vanir behind him, the strange harmony. “No, Shard. Thank you.”

“Stigr . . .” Shard bit back more words and shut his eyes, trying to will some strength into his voice.

Stigr smacked him over the head with a wing. Shard jumped, laughed, and shook himself. “I’m complimenting you,” he grumbled. “I want to remember you bright, happy, princely. Give it a try.”

Shard laughed again and sleeked his feathers with more dignity, raising his head. Behind, the others waited, quietly preening, stretching, readying.

“I’ll still miss you.”

“I hope so,” Stigr said wryly. “But not too much. I think we’ll see each other again. I want to meet your kits. Maybe you can even drag that sister of mine here some day.”

Shard nodded once. There was much to do before any of that might happen. But he said only, “I will.”

Wind brought the scent of sage, a good dawn wind that would help them rise high and cover a lot of ground. They heard Kjorn, bidding farewell to those who would keep order while he was away, and gathering those who meant to escort him to the Silver Isles.

He heard Brynja and Ketil, counting heads among the Vanir. But no one approached Stigr and him. No one would interrupt or rush them.

Stigr stepped in close to Shard again. “I want you to listen to me one last time, Shard. And listen well.” Shard tilted his head, ears perking obediently. “You’ve got to let them serve you. The Vanir. You’ve got to let yourself be their prince. You were born to a great line, you’ve done great deeds already, and you’ve got work yet to do. At first they saw Baldr in you. Now, they see Rashard, the Summer King, and love you in your own right. Let them. I’ve said it once. I say it again now, while I have your ear.”

“I know.” Shard’s ears flicked back self-consciously.

“I don’t think you do.” He perked his ears sternly, watching Shard with piercing fondness. “Let them help, obey, and protect you. Above all else, when this is done,
you
must remain, you must be there to rule your pride.”

“I know, Uncle.” He pressed his talons into the hard earth, breathing the scents of the Winderost.

“You keep saying that, but listen to me, nephew. Valdis told me when they came upon you in the Outlands, you’d practically challenged that big she-wyrm to single combat after finding Toskil’s mother dead. That won’t do. It’s well enough that you’re their hero now, but now you must stay alive. Stay alive for them, for your mother and the pride, and the work to be done at home.”

Stigr’s true meaning sank in slowly, like water to his skin. Anything could happen on the journey. Even now, the wyrms might be ravaging Shard’s own homeland. “I’ll have Kjorn at my side, too.”

Stigr glanced over his shoulder. “I know Kjorn thinks he would die for you, I’ll give him that. But in the moment he’d have to decide between saving you and surviving, he would decide to live. For his pride, for the rest of his family, even if it meant losing you. You must be willing to do the same.” Shard began to argue, but Stigr moved his head sharply in negation. “That’s what it means to be a king. He knows that. You need to know it too.”

“I would die for any of them,” Shard said, eyes narrowing.

“I know, Shard. So do they. But they don’t need you to die, they need you to
live
. A living king is better than a dead one. Remember that.”

“Stigr—”

“A living king,” he said again, very quietly.

Shard drew a slow breath. His mind flickered to an old vision, a dream of a red gryfon and a gray gryfon battling over the sea. “My father,” he said as it dawned on him. “You don’t think he should have challenged Per.”

Stigr looked taken aback, as if he hadn’t been thinking of it directly, then his eye narrowed and he nodded once. “I told him not to, but I think he believed it was best at the time. But that’s long done.”

“It is,” Shard said, surprised and encouraged to hear his uncle letting go of the past, at long last.

Wind drifted, stirring the scent of dust, frost, and all their allies.

Shard felt locked to the earth. He knew there was nothing more to say.

The day of Halflight would soon rise, and with it would come the spring whelping. Shard knew that Kjorn wanted nothing more now than to be present for the birth of his heir. Shard knew that. He too wanted nothing but to ease the strong tugging in his breast that still insisted he must be home, that now felt like a hot claw in his chest.

But he could not move.

“It’s time, Shard.” Stigr backed away from him, bowing his head. “It’s time.”

Taking a long breath, Shard turned, extending his wing toward Stigr’s good side. With soft surprise, Stigr opened his wing to eclipse it.

“Fair winds, Uncle.”

“Fair winds, my prince.” Stigr gave him a long, quiet look, and a rueful laugh. “My friend
.
”

Shard met the sharp, green eye one last time, turned, and hoarsely shouted the order to fly.