By the Silver Wind (8 page)

Last summer, two gryfons had flown for Shard to seek the exiled Vanir. Eyvin’s first son, Dagr, had flown nightward, seeking his father and any others he could find. A Vanir gryfess, Maja, Halvden’s mother, had flown starward. They had promised to return in spring. There had been no sign, no word in the wind, not a gull or a hint of their return.

Ragna muttered a curse that was a favorite of Stigr’s, and loped back to the nesting cliffs.

Sverin’s den was gloomy, though the curtain of snow lent more of a peaceful quality than a grim one, at odds with Ragna’s fierce mood. She landed between Halvden and Vald and trotted forward. “Sverin! I hope you’re pleased. Not one gryfon in this pride will hunt for you.”

In the corner of her eye Halvden shifted, an ear ticking toward her, but other than that he didn’t move from his post.

Sverin was in the nest, and shifted to raise his head and look at her for a long, quiet moment. “Nor did I think they would. I’m surprised you did.”

“I thought perhaps mercy would overcome them.”

“As it did you? You are a singular gryfess and a queen, daughter of Ragr. Not all are as honor-bound as you.”

Ragna shook herself of snow and folded her wings, ignoring what might have been a compliment. She didn’t need compliments from him. “Not even your own family? Eyvin herself turned me down.”

Something flashed in Sverin’s eyes. Whether anger or regret, Ragna couldn’t tell, so severe and tired was his face. “That surprises you?”

“No. Though she did surprise me by laying some blame on me for not fighting you.”

Sverin perked his ears. “Now this is something. I wondered too, once. Could you not have raised a rebellion without your son?”

He appeared honestly curious, but Ragna suspected him of baiting her, of distracting himself from the fact that his own kin wouldn’t take pity on him. She forced her feathers to remain smooth, thinking of all the Vanir whom he’d sent into exile, or those his father had killed. Raise a rebellion indeed. But she would not snap back, she would not argue with him. She would not rise—or sink, rather—to his level.

“If I could have, the question is long past. I will not dwell on it.”

He tilted his head just slightly, and she flattened her ears. “Not dwell? How very not-Vanir of you.”

“You are one to speak of dwelling, Sverin. You won’t even eat a
fish
.”

At the entrance, Halvden and Vald shifted, stepping out as far as the ledge would let them, Ragna thought, to give them privacy.

Slowly Sverin pushed to his feet, and climbed down from the nest to stand in front of her. He had lost significant weight over the winter, and more in the last days. Looking at him, she felt the inverse suffering of the pride—as he diminished, they prospered, even if grief remained.

“You may have forgotten,” he rumbled, watching her, “but I didn’t kill Baldr.”

The breath flitted from her chest. Baldr’s laugh, his quick, swooping wings, and his measured voice crowded her memory. Grief and longing and fierce anger thrashed up like a skewered fish in her chest, and she breathed it away. “No, you didn’t. My wrath for you is over other things. As for Baldr, you did nothing at all.”

“It was war. We were conquering. You expected me to tell my father to stand down, to accept friendship and simply live in peace?”

Ragna could only watch him with a long, quiet look. “Yes.” Having looked ready to laugh at the very idea, instead he ground his beak and turned away, pacing back up to his nest as if to avoid her simple answer.

Ragna took one step forward. “Yes, that is what I expected. You didn’t come here to conquer. By your own admission, you fled a nightmare in your own land. Baldr offered you friendship, a new home, sanctuary. But . . .” She stopped. But, everyone knew what happened after that.

Sverin didn’t look away, and his eyes searched her, critically. “I cannot change what my father did, what I did. I cannot change Baldr’s death, Elena’s death, nor the regret, the pain and the wrongs I brought on this pride to protect myself. But I have confessed, and that has cleared my mind. I will confess to Rashard, to Kjorn, and ask their forgiveness. I grieve. I regret, and to an extent you cannot understand. What more do you want from me? All I ask is food to sustain me.”

Where was this sense of reason ten years ago? Or five? Or this winter, in those last moments before Einarr had to die?
She wanted to slash his eyes and ask him, to scream eagle’s fury and run the sun back so they could relive those horrible days with this new, quiet, sane red gryfon as king.

When she said no more, his eyes narrowed, and she knew he was trying to read her expression. Then he turned away, tail flicking once. “What will you do, if no one will hunt with you?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“You haven’t decided, then. Well enough.”

“Self-pity doesn’t become you, son of Per. Rest assured we will provide for you.”

He paused, eyed her over his shoulder, then turned twice in his nest, clawing up furs and sticks and discarding golden bracers and chains, then settled heavily. Lying that way, where it was hard to see that his wings were bound, he still managed a trace of majesty, with his feathers that matched his rubies, his eyes that matched his gold.

Ragna tilted her head, thinking of how young he’d looked when he’d first arrived with his pride. Thinking how much older, brittle and lost she’d felt, watching Baldr fall to his death in the sea. The Conquering had aged all of them.

Sverin returned her gaze, measuring, and Ragna said the next thing on her mind. “Elena brought out the best in you. Even I saw that. I sometimes wonder,” she said thoughtfully, “what sort of king you might have been, if only you had stood up to your father and followed your own heart, if only it hadn’t drowned in the sea with Elena.”

If the observation stung, he didn’t show it. He inclined his head. Ragna turned to leave.

“Funny,” his voice carried only to her, not the sentries at the entrance. “I sometimes wonder what sort of gryfess you might have been, if only you hadn’t died with Baldr.”

Ragna stopped, feeling as though her backbone locked, and with every muscle she resisted the urge to look back at him. She kept walking, and had just opened her wings to take off when Halvden’s voice made her pause.

“My lady.”

The address, from one who didn’t truly recognize her as a queen, made her look at him. He stood stiffly, with his head low in forced respect. “I have no great skill, but I did learn this autumn. If you wish, I will hunt with you.”

Ragna gazed at him, wings still open. Perhaps some of Caj’s tutelage had sunk in at last. This gryfon, who’d sworn a wingbrother vow to Sverin, look determined to honor it even though Sverin no longer acknowledged him.

“I accept,” Ragna said, though she wondered how well they would work together. “Find Tollack to take your place here, and meet me in half a mark on the Star Cliff.”

“My lady,” Vald said from his place, several paces away. His feathers looked like true fire against the snow. “I don’t think he’ll try to escape.”

Ragna managed not to laugh. “I know.”

He looked surprised, then dipped his head.

She didn’t explain her reason to these young warriors, her petty reason that she wanted Sverin to feel guarded, imprisoned, his every movement watched and judged, as the Vanir had been the last ten years.

Tor light my heart,
she thought desperately as she and Halvden flew from the den.

She hoped that seeing her own son again would drive away some of her resentment. She hoped seeing Shard take his rightful place as king would correct the sorrow in her heart. Her desperate hope was that he would be a balm to all the pride, his love and acceptance of both Aesir and Vanir enough to balance against all the wrongs of the Conquering. But part of her feared she would never know balance again.

A
SWEET BREEZE TRICKLED THROUGH
the morning over the lake, smelling of water, fish, and just a breath of warmth. The longest winter of Shard’s life was coming to an end.

“Don’t let him bear over you,” Stigr instructed firmly, as he and Shard walked through the nesting hollows where the Vanir were given quarters. “I don’t care if he becomes king of the whole blazing windward quarter of the world. You are a prince too, and you do as you see fit.”

Shard stopped walking, turning to face Stigr. They stood between hillocks, and dawn light touched the highest tips of the grass and shone off the nearby lake. “I wish you could come too, Uncle.”

“If wishes were wings, wolves would fly,” his uncle intoned.

Shard knew what truly bothered his Stigr, and it was no longer his friendship with Kjorn. During the Battle of Torches, he’d at last gotten to see the courageous, noble side of Kjorn that Shard loved. Stigr was no longer blinded by him simply being a brightly colored Aesir, and the only son of Sverin, the War King. No, it was that no matter how fast he might run, he couldn’t keep up on the journey, could not accompany and advise Shard as he’d once done.

“I’m sorry you have to stay, but I’m even more grateful that you’ll be here for the Vanir.”

Stigr grumbled. “I’d send Valdis to keep an eye on you, but—”

Shard laughed, imagining Valdis along, a sort of nest-aunt now. “No. I think she needs to keep an eye on
you.
I’ll have plenty of eyes on me, between Kjorn, Brynja, Asvander, Dagny, and the others . . .”

“You’ll need every single one of them.” Stigr watched him, appraising. “And this dream weaving, this wyrm . . .”

Shard perked his ears, attentive. It was Stigr who’d first taught Shard about Vanir visions, that Tor granted them, that Shard’s father Baldr had also been a seer. But they both knew Shard had surpassed his father by far. “Yes? What do you think?”

The old Vanir’s single, keen eye seemed to look through Shard, and he slanted one ear thoughtfully. “Mind how you put things to her. If you truly are dreaming to her, remember we don’t know how she thinks. She isn’t using words. Everything you say to her could be misunderstood.”

Shard hadn’t thought of that. “I will, Uncle. Kjorn thinks the priestess of the Vanhar might be able to help me.”

“Good. Yes, that’s good.” Stigr was gazing at him oddly and Shard shifted his talons in the grass. Around them, sleepy Vanir emerged from their dens, stretched, and climbed to the tops of their hills to watch the sun rise, respecting bright Tyr. “You’ve become so much more than any of us thought, Shard. Well, maybe Baldr knew. Who can say now.”

“I’m just following the wind,” Shard said quietly.

“But what wind?” Stigr mused. “I only hope it never carries you too far from us. I thought I waited ten years to help guide you to your kingship.”

“You did,” Shard said, firmly, “I am.”

“But it’s more now, and even I can’t pretend it’s not. You’ve traveled and had such visions . . . Ah, well. Let the others care for you, Shard. Don’t shut them out. There’s no reason for it now. We’re all in this storm together. There’s no reason to go through any of this alone.” He stepped forward, locking Shard in his gaze. “Let them help you, love you, and be there for you, now that . . . now that I can't."

Shard’s throat tightened. At those words he realized he was really leaving Stigr again, that with Kjorn’s plan to treat with the creatures of the Winderost again, this time as a conquering prince. He wouldn’t see his uncle again for nearly a moon, when, if all went according to Kjorn’s plan, their forces would meet at the Voldsom to confront the wyrms once and for all.

“Take your own advice,” Shard finally said, and butted his head against Stigr’s good wing. The older gryfon laughed and nipped Shard’s feathers before backing away, and bowing down to give a one-winged mantle.

“Now let’s go reassure your pride they’ll see you again in short order.”

Sunlight warmed the hilltops as Shard walked among his pride, reassuring them that all he did was for them. It had been his idea, after all, to return Kjorn to his birthright as king of the Dawn Spire, in order that Shard himself would take up his rightful place in the Silver Isles and avoid another war between Vanir and Aesir. It was the best solution, but not the easiest one.