By the Silver Wind Read online

  Copyright © 2016 by Jess E. Owen

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed "Attention: Permissions Coordinator," at the address below.

  Five Elements Press

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  500 Depot Street

  Whitefish, MT 59937

  www.fiveelementspress.com

  PUBLISHER'S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, or incidents are the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental.

  Cover art by Jennifer Miller.

  Cover typography and interior formatting by TERyvisions.

  Edited by Joshua Essoe

  Copy Editor: AnthroAquatic Literary Services

  E-BOOK EDITION

  ISBN-13:978-0-9967676-1-3

  SHE HAD ONCE BEEN AS beautiful as the mountains. Her eyes once fierce as stars, her claws like shards of shell, her hide as strong as stone. Like a new mountain having just broken from the flat of the earth, she had been rugged, sharp, and mighty.

  Now, like the oldest mountains, she had worn down. Her hide was dull, and scored by the little talons of the unworthy. Her eyes dimmed, weaker and weaker in the dark and in the rain, and from a great distance, things were never what they seemed to be.

  The cords of muscle between her wings ached from the assault of the unworthy’s attack. Her claws flexed. Those blasphemous progeny of Tyr and Tor. How they nettled her, and strutted, and babbled, and shrieked, while she and her family—graceful, powerful, as ancient and pure as the stones and the sea—floundered in Nameless servitude.

  Her wounds had scarred, but they burned. They burned, because she had fled with her sons and her mates, and her daughters. She had fled, and her wounds festered with malice.

  The great wyrm shifted, edging deeper into the murky den that they all called home when the sun was high. Her family coiled around her protectively as they slumbered, sprawling across the rough, digging rocks.

  She remembered a nest of firm, warm gold, lined with sweet-smelling waves of raw silver, and tumbling gems that massaged her hard hide. The bright ones had come and envied her gold, and offered a trade. But that was so long ago, and in another place.

  She remembered the rich, heady scent of fallow earth and tender spring grass, green as a new hatchling before its hide hardened and turned dull. She remembered being that young.

  A low, experimental rumble rolled from her chest.

  Rhydda.

  Rhydda.

  She couldn’t form the noise as he had. Her jaws were too primitive, wide and limited in shape, her tongue too scaled and thick. The low, steady growl began to disturb her family, and they grumbled in complaint. Outside, the pale light of afternoon deepened to gold, then orange, and finally red through the haze. Sunset.

  Rhydda. Are you she?

  Over and over she turned the word, his voice, his voice. It was not like the rest of the unworthy, for he changed his tone again and again to speak to her, until she realized he was speaking after all, not just squeaking at her. Like a quick, cool, spring wind, his voice soothed the malice in her muscles, cooled the burning in her wounds. It had been a trick, though, a trick while he gathered his fire, and attacked.

  She should have known.

  Rhydda. Did you fly to the Sunland?

  The Sunland.

  The sun.

  Did you fly under the sun?

  She closed her eyes. Stretched a hind leg. There was no hurry. She mulled over his voice and why it no longer irritated her into blind anger.

  Did you fly in the sun? Is that your home?

  Home. It was not this place, though she had been here a long time. Enough to hatch two broods.

  Is that your home?

  Waves of chilly gray ocean and the boggy scent of wet peat and crawling vetch seemed to fill her senses with each breath. He flew with her, the little slip of wind and his silver voice, in her dreams now. Every night since the fires defeated them, she had flown, in her dreams, to the green land. And he had been there. Then he showed her another place. Another place like hers, but less green. Six islands in an icy sea, mountains, woods, a rich and wild place. His home.

  She opened an eye to check the sunmark, then closed it again. Red light touched the entrance of the dark cave. They would wait until night to hunt, for they were never to go out in the day.

  You are not worthy of Tyr’s light. Your kind is bred for the night, for the dark. You must always remain in the dark until you are enlightened, as we are.

  It had been so long ago. She could not remember how they learned their proper place, if it wasn’t the bright voice of Tyr himself, or thundering Tor, or the terrifying, stark voice of Midragur, the First.

  Rhydda. Rhydda.

  He was trying to find her. To give her another dream.

  Did you once fly under the sun?

  She thought of nothing. She thought of blood and stone, until his voice slipped away.

  A long time ago, she dreamed she had flown over the largest water, flown to the masters, the bright ones, so that they might return and bring gems and give names to her new brood. But then . . .

  But then . . .

  One of her sons shifted and she stretched her wing to cover him.

  Rhydda. Are you Rhydda? Did you fly under the sun?

  In her dream, the sky welled around her, blue-bird bright, and the ocean rolled cobalt under her wings, dazzling her eyes with a wash of sparkles like diamonds blazing under the sun.

  The sun?

  He’d found her. He glided beside her, and with her, beheld the vision.

  The sun! His voice, surprised, knowing, exhilarated, gusted around her and under her wings, lifting her high like a sudden, hot wind. Don’t you see? You once flew under the sun!

  It was not a dream.

  It was a memory.

  Rhydda’s eyes snapped open.

  ~1~

  The Salt Lake Shore

  SHARD HIT THE SALT WAVES with a hard splash after a flailing, spiral dive. Turning about, he kicked hard to break the surface again and gasped before hacking up bitter water. Wind buffeted around him and white-capped waves slapped his face. All around him, gryfons dove and struck the water, and he watched them with a critical eye. He had purposefully illustrated a poor crash landing, and how to correct.

  The salty waters of the landlocked lake claimed by the gryfon clans of the Ostral Shores proved to be the perfect training grounds for young, exiled Vanir. Shard knew they would need both strong swimming skills and the ability to save themselves and fly out of the water during their long flight home.

  Thinking of home, Shard recalled his dream. The lake seemed to disappear from around him, and the memory of the she-wyrm’s mind and memories held him fast.

  Rhydda, he thought with bright surprise, did we dream together?

  “Good!” hollered Stigr from the shore, snapping Shard from his thoughts. Alert, he paced as Vanir pelleted the water like gulls. The old warrior gryfon might have been missing both his left wing and his left eye, but he still knew flying and swimming better than any gryfon Shard knew, and he was grateful for the assistance. He would tell Stigr about the dream later. “Well done, Keta!”

  A high keen answered Stigr, triumphant, and the young gryfe
ss he’d addressed not only dived with ease, but flapped hard from the water and took to the air again as easily as a tern.

  A born Vanir, Shard thought. Many of them, so desperate to return home and hungry for their birthright, had learned the skills faster than Shard ever had. For the last days they’d swiftly learned and rediscovered fishing, swimming, and their own lore.

  Chilly in winter, though the sun remained warm in the day, the conditions were the perfect proving ground for any who meant to make the flight over the sea. A high wind had risen at dawn and white-capped the lake all day. For nearly a moon the entire Winderost had been obscured and buried under the falling ash of a volcano called the Horn of Midragur, but within the last couple of days the air had settled and cleared. Now, everything seemed extra sharp, bright and hopeful in contrast. It was a perfect day to fly and practice and Shard wished he could focus on it.

  “Toskil,” he called to a gray and brown gryfon, who floundered to right himself and sort out his wings. “Use your wings like fins. Try to spread them and just float.” He swam toward Toskil, a Vanir his own age just recently rescued from the wasteland that gryfons of the Winderost only called the Outlands. “And I know it’s frightening, but try to dive head first. You’re less likely to strain a wing or break a bone. Watch the gulls and terns.”

  “Yes, sire,” Toskil said, shaking his head and flinging droplets of water everywhere.

  Shard almost corrected him to use his name, but stopped himself. Stigr insisted that the Vanir needed a prince, needed a king, though he knew Shard preferred informality.

  Let them serve you. Let them respect and honor you. For one thing, the gruff warrior had said more than once, you blazing well deserve it.

  So Shard merely dipped his head as Toskil sorted himself and corrected into a respectable floating position. Stroking the water slowly, he watched as Toskil paddled noisily away from him to try flying out. He looked around for any struggling Vanir, and was pleased to see them helping each other, the older ones remembering their skills, the younger calling advice to their peers. As they learned fishing and swimming, they also strengthened, grew healthier, shed any lingering sickness or weakness from the Outlands.

  They were beginning to look like Vanir again. They were almost ready to fly home, once Shard’s business in the Winderost was done.

  Water swirled around him, alerting him to movement just before a gryfess face popped out of the waves in front of him.

  He had a flashing second to see fierce gold eyes and red-flecked cheeks before hearing a war cry of, “Sea wolf attack!” The gryfess surged forward and shoved him under the water.

  Shard shrieked out a shower of silver bubbles and wrestled away, more wiry and agile than she in the water, though her grip was strong. He twisted and stroked his wings hard, breaking the surface again two leaps away. Talons caught his tail just as he gasped a breath, grabbed his wing joint and his shoulder, and dragged him under as she used him to climb up and emerge from the water.

  Shard grasped her foreleg and thrust his head from the waves again, shaking his head to shower her. “I submit!”

  “Then you’re sea wolf food.” Brynja flicked water from her ears. The joke was a weak one. It hadn’t been so long ago that Shard had nearly been killed by whales in the arctic ocean. “How was that, my prince?”

  “Just fine,” Shard said, laughing, still gripping her foreleg gently. “If we see battle in the waves, I know you’ll hold your own. But I knew that anyway.”

  Stockier than he, with russet feathers and the broad, strong wings of an Aesir, Brynja displayed a very different picture than the rest of the diving gryfons. Her voice lowered. “Well done enough for a Vanir, or just for an Aesir, pretending?”

  “As well done as any of us,” Shard said, ignoring the eyes on them from the shore and the air. “Even Stigr approves.”

  He meant it in more ways than one. He thought of telling her about his dream right then, but decided against it, for she seemed worried about other things and he only wanted to reassure her. She searched his face, then nodded once at his encouraging look, nipped his ear, and dove under the water again. Just like the younger Vanir, she was anxious to prove herself, though for different reasons.

  Shard let out a slow breath, and before he could pursue, heard his name called.

  “My lord! Rashard, a moment, sire!”

  He closed his eyes briefly at Ketil’s voice, gathering his strength. The older Vanir gryfess was invaluable, strong, a great huntress, and a member of his pride who had suffered long years in the Outlands. He had the utmost respect for her, but she was ever after him for something. Rather than fly, for his wings ached from repeated diving exercise, he swam back to shore and shook himself, ruffling and settling his feathers in the late afternoon light.

  Ketil trotted up to him on the pebbled beach, mantled briefly, and looked out over the water.

  For most of the time Shard had been a prince, there was only his uncle, or he’d been alone. Being a prince was much different once he was actually surrounded by subjects.

  “Frar is insisting that the Aesir conqueror means to send us into battle against the wyrms again, though this time for his glory, and not your aide.”

  “Kjorn,” Shard said tightly. “His name is Kjorn. Prince Kjorn, and I doubt Frar heard correctly. Kjorn wouldn’t do that.”

  Ketil didn’t seem to hear, her gaze roving out and ears perked toward the water instead. “I’ve tried to assure him you won’t let this happen, but he goes on.”

  “I’ll speak to him, thank you for telling me.” He stretched a wing toward the water. “Keta is doing well.” The young gryfess circled, preparing for another dive. He’d changed the topic purposefully, and quickly realized he should’ve chosen a different one.

  “You think so? I agree.” Ketil’s gaze grew keen, and she paced into the water, tail flicking like a stalking huntress. “Very well indeed. As if she’d been raised on the Copper Cliffs of home like any Vanir.” She looked over her wing at Shard. “She’s learning fishing. A fine huntress on land too, though we won’t need to worry about that when we arrive home.”

  “I’m sure she is,” Shard said, keeping his voice neutral. “She’s endured much.”

  “Yes, but see how she rebounds now.” Ketil’s voice nearly shivered with pride. And calculation. “See, there, how she teaches the others, and leads them.”

  There it was, the hinting. Shard flexed his wings, hoping they would dry before night fell again. “I’m very proud and pleased for her, and glad to have her in my pride.”

  Keta prowled out of the water, and shook her talons daintily. “As you should be. If you’ll permit me to say so,” she used that phrase often, and always said whatever it was with or without permission, “you might come to know her better.”

  Shard inclined his head. “I’ll come to know all of you better as we go on.”

  “You are the very image of Baldr.” The older huntress’s gaze traveled over him, respectfully. “I know you’ll do all you can to honor his memory.” She always appeared to approve of everything about him, save one thing.

  “Shard,” Brynja called as she trotted out of the water, pausing to shake and fold her wings. Ketil looked firmly away, watching the Vanir dive. “We should start the fires now, before dark.”

  “Agreed. Ketil, fair winds.” Shard inclined his head to say goodbye.

  “Sire.” Her gaze was locked on the lake and her own daughter.

  Shard’s feathers prickled in irritation. At one time in his life, not so long ago, he would usually let slights pass. He’d rarely been in a position to defend himself or to demand respect from others. Sometimes, he still counted it not worth his time to argue over matters of simple pride.

  But a slight to Brynja, he would not let stand.

  “Ketil.” She looked at him, and his tail lashed. “You will acknowledge a fellow member of your pride, and your future queen.”

  Brynja drew herself up, ears perking. They had not formally
mated yet, but all who watched them could see their intention, and it was one of few times Shard had said it out loud.

  Ketil turned slowly, lowering her head not in respect, but in the manner of a wolf, defensive, challenging. “As a huntress, you have my respect. As a warrior who faced the enemy and flew with fire, I honor you. But I did not spend ten years in exile to acknowledge an Aesir as my queen, and I will not, until you have locked talons and vowed under the light of Tyr and Tor.” She looked between them. “And I still hold hope you will both come to your senses and see the folly of this. My lord.” She dipped her head. “Brynja.”

  With that, she stalked away.

  Shard growled low and moved to follow.

  “No,” Brynja murmured. He turned to her, expecting to see doubt. But her ears lay flat, her eyes narrowed in determination. “Don’t bother. If she wants to wait until we’ve made our vow, so be it. Who knows, maybe you will come to your senses.” She was teasing, but Shard only prickled.

  “That’s not funny.” He walked to her and butted his head against her wing, then preened lightly on her neck. “I’ll make my vow right here,” he murmured into her feathers, “on this shore, under this sun.”

  Brynja laughed, wincing away as if he’d tickled her. “No, my prince. It must be right. It must be at your—at our home. In the Silver Isles, on the Daynight as you have watched others vow before you. I want no more reason for anyone to call our decision to mate a cursed one.”

  Shard stepped back, feeling warm, feeling grateful for her honesty and for wanting to honor his traditions. “If that’s what you want.”

  “It is.” She studied his face with a warm expression. In the sunlight her feathers looked aflame, and Shard’s thoughts flashed on the Battle of Torches, when he’d first seen her again. Fire, smoke, and hulking, roaring wyrms clustered in his thoughts, and with apprehension, he thought of his dream.

  Brynja tilted her head. “What’s wrong, Shard?”

  He glanced toward the Vanir swooping and diving across the lake. “The most vivid dream of Rhydda that I’ve had. I think, maybe, I communicated with her.”