By the Silver Wind (36 page)

Then he didn’t have to. In that moment, Andor and Halvden returned, and at their heels flew two elders of the Aesir, Vidar, Dagr, and Sigrun. Shuffling on the rocks outside told Ragna that Caj and Thyra climbed down the cliff trail.

Sigrun found Ragna, pressed her wing against Ragna’s. “Dragons,” uttered the healer. “My sister, my queen. The curse of the Aesir will fall on us.”

“We must flee,” said Caj, and to hear those words from him, above all gryfons, sent quivers of terror down Ragna’s back.

“Surely not,” she said. “We can fight—”

“Do you want to know what Ollar died of?” Caj snapped.

Ragna and Sigrun looked at him, and Thyra, whose lovely lavender face was drawn and pale around the eyes, her feathers sleek as a threatened serpent.

But it was Sverin who answered. “Fear,” he hissed. “He died of fear. We will all—”

“Silence,” barked one of the elders. “It was your cowardice that brought—”

“Must we really run?” Thyra asked her father. “We have Vanir now, more warriors, surely—”

“We cannot fight them!” Sverin said, his gaze wholly trained on Ragna. “Tell them this is foolish, tell them . . .”

“Stay with us,” Ragna said to him over the sudden chaos in the den, the two elders arguing, Halvden and Andor stepping from their posts to listen, Caj and Thyra arguing. “Sverin.” Ragna couldn’t look away from his face.

“My brother.” Caj’s calm voice and raised wing silenced the din.

With relief Sverin looked at him, away from Ragna, and for a moment it was as if the sun went behind a cloud, so intense had his attention been on her. Ragna drew away to listen to Sigrun, to hear what the other Aesir had to say, since Sverin had failed her.

“Tell me exactly what they are,” she said to Caj.

The big Aesir, his wing draped over Sverin’s back, spoke quietly, his voice flat. “Great beasts, my lady. Reptile, winged, as long as ten gryfons beak to tail and taller than a cedar.”

“I will send scouts, to speak—”

“They don’t speak,” hissed one of the elders. Sverin had fallen silent, huddled under Caj’s wing like a fledge. “They destroy. They consume your name. They—”

Caj interrupted, still matter-of-fact. “They’re Nameless, Voiceless. They don’t understand. They won’t hear even if you go yourself, my lady.”

“Like a mouse spying a serpent,” said the female elder, “you’ll lose your name. You’ll die of terror, just like Ollar.”

Caj nodded once, and the fact that he didn’t argue or claim that was exaggeration steeled Ragna’s resolve. “They hunt gryfons. But they’ve only ever flown at night. We thought they couldn’t, in daylight.”

“Well they’re flying in the day now,” Ragna said, doing her best not to snap and snarl. Perhaps it wasn’t the fault of the Aesir the wyrms had come. Or perhaps it was, and they’d been lucky these ten long years. But obviously they’d caught wind of their cursed prey over the sea, and now came to finish whatever was on their long and hateful agenda.

Ragna tried very hard not to blame them, and mostly failed.

“What will they do?” Thyra asked, with eyes only for her father.

“They’ll attack,” Caj said, his voice pitched so low it sounded like falling stone. “They’ll slaughter without sense, reason, or honor. And we don’t have the strength to fight them. In this, you must trust me.”

“Then we must leave the cliffs,” Thyra said briskly, looking out to the horizon.

The mass defined itself now. Ragna counted over a dozen individual creatures. She couldn’t quite make out their forms, just the individuals motes in the dark cloud.

From the dawnward sky, clouds piled on themselves, turning iron with a storm. Thyra looked back to them, her gaze lighting on each face when no one answered her. “We must get all of the young, the old, and the pregnant females to safety.”

“Where?” The hopeless rasp came from Sverin.

All eyes slid to him. His red feathers ruffed up, talons clenched the ground, and ears lay flat to his skull. “Where do you think we can go?”

“Underground,” Sigrun said quietly, eyeing Sverin, and Ragna could tell she didn’t add,
like when we fled from you.

Caj nudged Sverin, voice firm. “To the caves, my brother. To the wolf caves, underground. They won’t find us there. You’ll—
we’ll
be safe.”

“Then let us go now,” Thyra said. “They’re moving fast, so we must go now, calmly, and orderly. I will gather the pregnant females with me. Mother?” It was a request to follow.

She walked to the entrance and paused, looking at Halvden and taking his measure.

With a sideways look at Sverin, Thyra gave her orders to Halvden. “Gather all able-bodied, gather all males of fighting age, and all females not heavy with kit, all fit to fly. Gather all who called themselves the King’s Guard this winter past, and prove yourselves. You are my guard now, and you will hold back this scourge until the pride is safe—until your mate, and your unborn kit, and the rest of the pride are safe. My father believes you could be a great warrior. Now is your chance to prove it. Do you understand?”

Halvden gazed at her, and Ragna saw a trace of determination lace itself across the emerald face. He mantled, low. “I do, my lady.”

With a glance at Sverin, whose crouching and cowering did nothing to inspire, he rumbled Andor’s name and both sentries left the cave. Dagr left with them.

Ragna heard them shouting names into the wind as they sprang into the air. Thyra left the cave with Sigrun and the two elder Aesir, and Sigrun gave Ragna a fierce, encouraging look on her way.

“Sverin,” said Caj. He, Sverin, and Ragna were the only gryfons left in the king’s den. “Sverin, come, help me guard the rear. This is our chance for redemption, my brother, our chance to face—”

“They never fly in the day,” Sverin rasped.

Caj drew back from him, folding his wing. “Sverin.”

“I won’t,” he growled, whipping back. “Have you forgotten how horrid. . . .”

Caj stepped toward him and Sverin jerked back with a hiss.

“Go, Caj,” Ragna snapped. “We’re wasting time. I will speak to him.”

“I can’t leave him, not again—”

“To your daughter,” Ragna said. “Caj, go to your daughter, to the pride.
They
need you. Sverin is able but unwilling. Others need your help. You know this danger, and they do not. Go to them.”

Visibly torn, Caj stared at her, then Sverin, who hunched near his nest, his gaze now fixed on the line of darkness. Distantly, thunder cracked. Then someone called for Caj, he gave Ragna a pleading look, and he left.

Ragna eyed the growing cloud of wyrms, and tried to imagine herself as ice, clear and strong. They would be on the nesting cliffs fast, and Halvden would certainly have the chance to prove himself.

They all would.

S
HARD WATCHED KJORN PACE
before him as a cloudy sunrise glowed around the Dawn Spire. They’d been given a great nest high in the cliffs, lined with soft pelts and chips of juniper bark at the back for a fresh scent.

Around the fires, hearts grew alight with war.

The night before, Shard had managed to tell Kjorn of the silence in the Voldsom and the Outlands, then they hadn’t gotten to discuss it further, as gryfons dragged him away, demanding stories of the Aesir who had left ten years ago.

Shard had been mobbed by friends from the Dawn Spire. All night, it felt, gryfons had assailed Shard with their disbelief that he lived, with questions, with relief, or sometimes with anger.

While Kjorn walked among the pride, Shard gave up and had tried to stay out of the way. Brynja helped him find a quiet corner to observe, then had left to spend time with her family. In the smoke and firelight, in the shouting and singing and boasting, the night had seemed an endless, chaotic dream.

Later he’d met Mar again, and Brynja’s mother, both of whom seemed unsurprised at Brynja’s announcement that she and Shard had chosen each other. The more difficult conversation, about Brynja leaving the Winderost for the Silver Isles, would come another time.

No sooner had he finally found Kjorn again, when Queen Esla herself bid Kjorn come and meet her kit, his cousin. Shard hadn’t seen him again until the prince crawled into their quarters and collapsed in a heap at his side.

So he hadn’t gotten to speak to Kjorn, truly, until the morning.
After
he’d gotten his blood hot surrounded by battle-ready gryfons who’d been chafing to fight their enemy for years.

At last Kjorn stopped in front of Shard, and he saw by the cant of the golden head he’d made a decision. “I think . . . we should still be prepared for a fight. The wyrms could be in hiding.”

Shard dug a talon against the dirt floor. He smelled rain. “I’m telling you, they aren’t there. I know it in my heart. Have we heard roars? I and others flew across the land last night, and not a wyrm in sight. Before, they always came down on any who flew at night, if they could find us. And my dream, Kjorn. Rhydda was flying over the ocean. She remembered a red gryfon, and she saw Sverin in my mind.”

Kjorn ducked his head, looking outside. His feathers puffed slowly against the chill, or with frustration. Without lifting his head higher, he looked at Shard, fierce as a mantling hawk. “We have to meet at the Voldsom
,
at least. We have to honor the plan we told the Lakelanders, the lions, the Vanhar. Shard, half of the reason the gryfons of the Dawn Spire are following me is because they finally get to fight their enemy.”

“I think it would be wasted time.” Shard tried to keep his voice neutral. “Don’t you think they would still follow you, if you offered them peace instead of war?”

Kjorn paced, tail lashing. “I do see your point, Shard. I do. Please understand that we have to try. We have to go, we have to look. I’ve told everyone there will be a war.”

“You told everyone you would rid the Winderost of the wyrms, and maybe you already have. Maybe they fled after the Battle of Torches.” Below them, voices stirred the morning air. Warriors emerging from their nests to meet at the Wind Spire. Shard hesitated before adding, “Do you remember what Ajia and the Vanhar told you, that you confessed to me?”

Looking lost, Kjorn stared at him. “Which part?”

“I came to find the truth about why your grandfather flew to the Silver Isles.” Shard stood, managing to hold his tail still, to hide his growing frustration and dismay. “Then, I thought that you would make a better king here, because you are honorable and true, and it’s your birthright. But now—”

“I’m raising the Sunwind.”

“Yes,” Shard said quietly, and Kjorn gusted a sigh. “The wind of war.” He stepped forward. Kjorn eyed him warily. “You told me you would be open to peace, but all I see is that you’re preparing war, preparing everyone else for war, letting gryfons like Asvander tell you it’s what everyone wants—”

“I have to honor the plan,” Kjorn said, lifting his wings.

“Kjorn, if the wyrms are flying to the Silver Isles, we have no time to lose. Think of Thyra—”

“I am,” Kjorn said, his voice harsh. Shard regretted pushing him, but his muscles felt tight with unease and foreboding. “I cannot leave things uncertain here before I return with her. Shard . . .” He met Shard’s gaze, then looked away. “Just, promise me you will stay by my side.”

Shard gazed at him, struck. Then he realized Kjorn thought that if he disagreed with him, Shard would fly, would leave on his own, return to the Silver Isles.

And the worst was, he’d considered it. “Of course I will, Kjorn. You do understand my urgency though?” Shard asked tightly.

“Yes. I do. I promise, my brother.” Such relief glowed in his face, Shard felt horrible for ever considering leaving on his own. “Whatever happens here will happen swiftly. I will see to it.”

“Just remember the dragon blessing,” Shard said quietly. Kjorn tilted his head, and Shard recited, “
Whatever you are will be more so.”

Kjorn lowered his head briefly, touched Shard with his wingtip reassuringly, then pivoted and leaped from the den. Shard stared after him, at the hole of empty, cloudy sky and the view of the canyon beyond the den. Weariness needled at his eyes.

He walked to the edge of the den, looked out over the Dawn Spire and the ruined towers from his previous mistake.

The dragons of the Sunland had a unique way of training their warriors, relying on principles of the elements. They learned the way of earth, to be steady and defend. After that, they learn the art of airy evasion, then of fire, to attack. And they learned of water, to flow, to use their opponent’s strength and energy against them, no matter what direction it came at them.

Today,
Shard thought grimly,
I will be like water.

Spying Kjorn gliding through the canyon, he leaped and sped to catch up, in silence. They flew toward the nightward edge of the aerie, and without further words, they landed at the appointed spot to wait for the rest of Kjorn’s army.

As warriors, huntresses, young, and old, gathered to follow them, Shard watched for familiar faces. He saw those he’d hunted with that autumn past, saw those who’d fought when the wyrms attacked the Dawn Spire.

The queen came, and many gathered near her, rather than Kjorn, as if unsure whose war they were fighting.

There was one gryfon Shard didn’t see. As the Dawn Spire mounted its army in the morning light, Shard searched for Orn.

Brynja found Shard as the last of the volunteers flocked to Kjorn. “What troubles you?” Her voice was husky, her body roiling with the tension before a fight. Shard leaned into her, seeking enthusiasm.

“I don’t see Orn.”

Brynja tilted her head, searching, then lifted her beak to point to the Wind Spire. Shard looked up, and there spied the aging monarch, watching his pride pour out of the Dawn Spire to Kjorn’s side. He watched, Shard thought, with regret, with anger, his wings open slightly as if he could mantle and shield them all.

As if he sensed Shard looking, Orn met Shard’s eyes across the distance.

Compelled by a gnawing mix of strange pity and frustration, Shard dipped his head in respect. Orn stood frozen a moment, then inclined his head. The old king watched as Kjorn called the final summons, watched as the gold prince sprang from the ground, and Shard sensed he was watching still as his pride of ten years left their home to follow Kjorn to battle.