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  “Mother? You needed something?”

  Sigrun looked at Thyra. “Yes. Bring me half the meat from your kills. Down to the shore at even light.”

  Thyra tilted her head uncertainly. “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  Her daughter’s soft brown eyes widened, and she glanced furtively toward the king’s rocks, where Halvden, Caj, and a band of others took wing. “And what shall I tell the king when we have little meat to show?”

  “That the hunting was poor. That the lesser beasts have gone to ground.”

  “Lie to the king? My mate’s father?”

  Sigrun paused, wings tensed, and stared at Thyra flatly. It had been Sigrun’s lying to the king, Caj’s lying, Ragna’s, that had saved Shard’s life many years ago during the Conquering.

  I risked my life for the life of my prince, for my wingsister’s son. For everything. And now Shard is in exile and has left the islands, for what? The fight is here.

  None of that mattered now. All that mattered was surviving the winter, and if that meant further deceit, so be it. She had to take Munin’s warning seriously and prepare.

  Thyra shifted, talons pressing the frozen ground. Then, under Sigrun’s silent stare, bowed her head. “Yes, Mother. Hunters, to me!” she called into the still, bright air, and the plump hunting band pushed into the sky.

  Sigrun waited, but Ragna didn’t walk to her. She had once been the queen, after all, and expected others to come to her. After a moment, Sigrun did.

  “Ragna. Why would you sing that song?”

  “Sometimes all we have is songs.” She looked to Sigrun, and the semblance of her green eyes to Shard’s lanced a talon through Sigrun’s heart. He was my own. My own son.…nest-son. That was all. Adopted. Raised. At the end of the day he is Ragna’s blood. Prince of the Silver Isles.

  Where he was, no one could say. Munin said he had followed a flying star, if that had even been the truth.

  Sigrun shook herself of warnings and ravens and fear, and spoke to Ragna. “You’ll get her in trouble, maybe even exiled in winter. You don’t fear Sverin as you should.” Ragna lifted one wing in dismissal and Sigrun ruffed. “Hear me, sister! You can’t fly this wind alone. You can’t skulk at the edge of the pride, ready to flee, unafraid of the king while you put others in danger. Because your mate is dead, your son in exile, doesn’t mean the rest of us wish to die. Obey the king. See us through winter, stop spreading old songs and seeding unrest until Tyr is strong and may guide us again.”

  “In winter, I listen not for Tyr, but wise Tor.” Ragna turned, pale as a spirit. “I don’t wish to die. But I don’t fear it. I don’t fear songs, or the past, or the night. Do you? Tell me, sister, when did you become an Aesir?”

  The words locked Sigrun’s chest.

  “Everything I do,” she whispered, “I do as healer to this pride.”

  “Now is not the time for healing,” Ragna murmured. “We are at war. Sverin knows it, though he, like I, will not split the pride in winter. Not before they have seen Shard again, have seen the prince, the king they could have. But we are at war. There will be wounds. There will be pain. I sow the seeds for Shard’s return and not all will welcome him with heads bowed.” She turned her head to survey the distant gryfons and the edge of the nesting cliffs. “I am still queen of the Vanir, and I will see my son stand on the top of the Copper Cliff, as king of this pride.”

  Sigrun stared at her. To others, Ragna seemed quiet, wise, the distant, gentle widow of the conquered Vanir king. Sigrun knew the gryfess behind the quiet. She knew that the quiet masked plans, not meekness. Sigrun knew the gryfess who had won Baldr’s shy heart, who had, in her youth, slain a sailfish in the middle of the sea. A queen who relished prosperity and peace and exploration, who now burned under every feather to have to stomach the rule of greedy, arrogant Sverin.

  Before she was a queen, she was my wingsister. The sister who Sigrun had pledged to fly by until her last breath died in the wind.

  I will see my son as king of this pride, she’d vowed.

  Sigrun bowed her head. “So will I.”

  Ragna made a soft sound of acceptance, and Sigrun lifted her head to meet Ragna’s eyes again. “But you’re also my wingsister. Help me see this pride through the winter.”

  “So I will,” Ragna whispered.

  Dark clouds rolled against the horizon and Sigrun shuddered. “I must go to the seashore. Distract the king?”

  “The king is already distracted,” Ragna said, and it was true. He spoke now to Kjorn, purposefully keeping him behind, Sigrun thought, safe from hunting meat or wolves, safe from anything. “Go, sister.”

  Sigrun hesitated, then stretched out her wing. Ragna fluffed, surprised, and, with a glance toward the king, opened her wing to cover Sigrun’s.

  “Wind under me when the air is still.”

  Sigrun spoke the next line. “Wind over me when I fly too high.”

  “Sister by choice.”

  “Sister by vow,” Sigrun spoke the words to herself as much as to Ragna, and the last line they said together under a rising wind. “By my wings, you will never fly alone.”

  They broke, before any could see, and Sigrun loped to the edge of the cliff. Carefully she climbed down toward the craggy rocks, toward the pools and crevices of salt-crusted stone.

  The smell of seawater, fish and salt gathered so thickly that Sigrun knew no gryfon would track her scent there. There, where tide pools looked haphazard to anyone who didn’t know what else to see, Sigrun knew there was a stash of salt. The Vanir built the gathering ponds in the Second Age when they arrived in the Isles, and used them to preserve meat if omens portended a long winter, or bad fishing. It became a matter of raking talons through the crusty stones and gathering the salt into her wings, dropped down and cupped inward, the same way she carried herbs and flowers from the woods. It would be long and tedious work to gather the salt, and then to preserve the meat, all in secret.

  Sverin would not approve. In her deepest heart, Sigrun knew he would not approve of using salt from the sea. The sea that he didn’t understand, and feared. The sea that had drowned his beloved.

  Still it had to be done.

  In the corner of her eye she spotted a raven, watching her.

  “Do you follow Shard’s dreams?” Sigrun asked. The raven didn’t answer. It had to be Munin. “If you do, guide him to us. Let him see how the War King rules, tell him of the harsh winter to come, that his pride might starve. If you really do hear all things in the wind, then I hope you can tell us soon of his return.”

  The raven gabbled darkly and took wing into the chill blue sky.

  18

  Strange Nestfellows

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?” Stigr demanded.

  Shard stretched on his belly a few steps outside the cave, digging the last of the marrow from a leg bone—all that was left of the meal they’d given him. The meat sat heavy in his belly but he relished it slowly. Stigr had let him eat before swooping in with questions, and Shard’s head cleared enough to hold conversation. They had moved outside of the cave, as far as Brynja and Valdis would let them go, to speak in private.

  “It was time,” Shard said without meeting his uncle’s gaze. “And I knew you would try to stop me.”

  Stigr huffed. He look a little battered and Shard imagined that his uncle hadn’t been as courteous to the huntress band as Shard had tried to be. The last glow from the sun faded and stars pierced the darker air. Shard glanced toward the cave, but the gryfesses spoke among themselves, perhaps about what to do with their captives. Or guests, as Brynja said.

  “Time?” Stigr drew his attention back. “Time to fling yourself headlong over the sea without so much as a word? I had to ask a gull if it knew your direction. A gull, Shard, do you know how maddening they are, when they’re bright enough to speak at all? Worse than ravens, the lot of them, because they think they’re clever and they’re not.”

  For the first time, irritation
fluffed Shard’s feathers. He calls me his prince but treats me like a kit. I don’t owe him an explanation. So Shard didn’t offer him one.

  “How did you get here before me?”

  Stigr glanced toward the cave. “It was only a matter of hours, nephew. I flew high. Covered more distance. I saw a storm and took a more windward route. After that I just…flew.” His eye narrowed. Shard studied his uncle’s severe face, wondering if Stigr had lost himself the way Shard had.

  Shard also wondered, idly, if Windwalker had known Stigr was following, and led Shard to avoid him. Surely Stigr wouldn’t have tried to take him back to the Silver Isles, not after the decision was made.

  Brynja walked out of the cave. “You should come in now that it’s dark.”

  “Hm,” said Stigr, but deferred to Shard, who agreed. Whatever put the fear of the dark into the Aesir, he didn’t want to face it. Yet.

  As they walked back in, Brynja’s face, amused and curious, was the opposite of Valdis, who only looked suspicious and irritated. Brynja settled near her aunt against one wall and Shard and Stigr sat opposite them. Lisbet and Sigga had retired to the back of the cave, though Shard suspected they still eavesdropped.

  “Now,” said Brynja, “why have you come?”

  Shard found himself briefly locked in her gaze, glinting through the gloom. Stigr’s presence beside him suddenly filled him with relief, instead of irritation.

  At Brynja’s question, Stigr gave him a warning look. These females were harsh, but reasonable, though Shard had no way of knowing how much power they had in their pride, or how the rest of the Aesir would receive him. Better to have Stigr at his side, even if he could be too narrow-minded.

  With that thought Shard realized Stigr wasn’t angry that Shard had left, but angry that Shard had left him behind. He addressed Brynja’s question.

  “First, you must believe we’re not just Outlanders.”

  “Whatever you mean by that,” Stigr grumbled, eyeing Valdis.

  “It means you’re not of our aerie,” she said coolly. “If that’s simpler for your simple mind.”

  “Listen, female, I’ve had enough of your mudding—”

  “Uncle!” Shard stood, touching his wing to Stigr’s. They couldn’t afford to insult these Aesir. Deeper in the cave, Sigga twittered and laughed at Stigr’s swearing.

  Stigr only flattened his ears. “Nephew. You haven’t been nest-sat by these nattering fish hawks all afternoon. You don’t understand.”

  “I understand,” Shard said quietly, and managed to catch Stigr’s eye. I understand you’re humiliated to have been captured and held. I understand you hate the Aesir. But I need you now.

  It was good to have a friendly face near, but Stigr’s intolerance could very well cost Shard his purpose. Reading Shard’s expression, Stigr looked away.

  “Forgive my uncle,” Shard said, looking first to Valdis, who loosed a derisive chirrup, as if Stigr’s opinion couldn’t matter one way or another, then to Brynja, who only watched with steady curiosity. Shard found himself wishing they could have met differently.

  “As I said,” Brynja began after a moment of waiting for Shard to speak, “you’re here now. What are we to do with you? Why did you come? You spoke of silver islands, and flying over the sea.”

  “You’re going to have him repeat what I’ve already told you, I see.” Stigr’s one-eyed glare bore down on Brynja. Soon it would be too dark too see his face at all, but Shard could still see the venom there.

  He moved to step between them, but paused and watched as Brynja turned to face Stigr. After the two stared at each other for a moment, Brynja lowered her head and mantled.

  “You’re obviously a seasoned and accomplished warrior, Stigr, from across the sea, who doesn’t stand for nonsense, and your sense of pride is strong. For that I hold you in high regard.” She stood tall again, neatly folding her wings, and held Stigr in her gaze, calmly bewitching. “I hope that as we come to know each other, you’ll also hold me in high regard. And yes. I would like to hear the story as Rashard tells it, if you’ll advise him to do so.”

  Shard kept still, delight springing up in him to see his uncle speechless. When Shard met his gaze, Stigr gave the slightest nod.

  Satisfied, Brynja turned back to Shard. “So.”

  They want to see if our stories match, he thought, and fluffed his feathers calmly, as if he were among friends. He had a feeling Stigr had told them as little as possible. He probably wouldn’t want to mention the Conquering, or that Shard was a prince.

  Too late for that.

  Shard drew a breath.

  “Years ago our islands were overrun by Aesir conquerors. Per killed my father. The king.” At that statement, Valdis and Brynja exchanged a quick look, and Shard continued, watching their expressions while Stigr loosed an irritated breath. Shard didn’t look at him. He’d spent his entire summer hiding the truth and lost all those dear to him for it. He wouldn’t start out that way in this land.

  “Many of the native gryfons, we of the Vanir, were exiled, killed, or forced under the rule of the conquerors.” He watched as Brynja’s expression searched him. “You said Per was your kin and I don’t know if you’re a friend or enemy now. The Aesir are turning tyrant, banning Vanir ways, repressing any talk of the past, and threatening exile or death to any who don’t follow their laws. I don’t know if this is the normal way of your kings, but we won’t have it any more.”

  When none of the gryfesses responded to that, Shard strained to see Brynja’s expression through the dark. Will she laugh, become my enemy? Is that just the way of the Aesir kings? He couldn’t read her, and she was silent.

  “Nephew,” Stigr warned, but Shard gave him a look that suggested silence. He has to let me do it my way.

  He took a step toward Brynja, ignoring Stigr’s seething expression. “I was raised among them and don’t consider them my true enemy. Though I know it’s the way of the Aesir to conquer new lands, we don’t think they came at first as conquerors.” He drew a deep breath. “I want to make peace, but I need to know why they came. They arrived with all their possessions, as if they were fleeing something. They came with young kits, and dragon-made treasures.”

  “Dragon treasures,” Brynja breathed.

  Shard’s heart pounded. Perhaps they were close. “Yes,” he said intently, as if he spoke only to Brynja. “Do you know why—”

  Brynja whirled and flicked out her wings in excitement, nearly smacking Shard’s face as she blurted to Valdis. “Only one family and followers would bear those! It has to be the truth!”

  Valdis’s face was unreadable. “I advise silence, Brynja.”

  “But it was a sign! Kajar’s Sign, it was for us after all, to watch starward, to tell us of the return—”

  “Be still!” Valdis crouched back in the face of Brynja’s excitement.

  “Kajar’s Sign?” Shard asked, heart thudding. “I followed a starfire windward. Is that what you speak of?”

  In answer, Brynja only whipped her head back to stare at Valdis, and her excitement felt like an updraft in the cave. Shard’s wings twitched. He took a slow breath.

  “This is the truth. Per is dead. His son Sverin rules. His son Kjorn was my wingbrother, before I learned the truth and tried to right the wrongs in the pride. Neither of them knows I’m alive.”

  “Sverin,” Valdis murmured, as if tasting the name. Shard noticed Stigr watching her closely, waiting for reaction, but she had mastered a neutral expression. “And Sverin’s mate? How does she fare in these Silver Isles?”

  “Dead,” Stigr said, as if he’d been waiting for the chance to deliver bad news.

  Valdis’s expression shifted to disdain. “You seem pleased by that.”

  “Your kind killed my king,” Stigr growled. Shard tensed as his uncle gathered into a crouch. “Per killed my wingbrother and threw his body into the sea. Your kind overrun our home and kill and pillage the forests as they please, making enemies of all the other creatures in the Is
les. Your precious Sverin would have killed my nephew, my prince, if Shard hadn’t been a better warrior.”

  Valdis scoffed. “A better warrior than the son of Per? This dull, strapling—”

  Stigr lunged at her. Brynja and Shard jumped between them at the same time and collided. Stigr smacked into Shard, knocking him down as Brynja tore away to one side to stop Valdis, who shrieked a battle cry.

  Lisbet and Sigga scrambled forward from the back of the cave, then hesitated in joining the fight when they saw that Shard was handling Stigr. He managed to hook his talons around Stigr’s wing joints and drag him back. Pain shot up his hind leg when he put weight on it and he yelped.

  “Enough, Uncle! We need them.”

  “We don’t,” Stigr roared, having borne the last insult he could stand. He crouched again. Shard shoved him to the rock wall, pinning the best he could, and heard Brynja.

  “Valdis,” she pleaded, shouldering her aunt toward the far wall. “Stop this. Don’t you see what their arrival could mean?”

  “Call your best!” Stigr shouted at Valdis, though mostly in Shard’s face. “Take us to this Dawn Spire and call the best warrior in your whole mudding pride, and see Shard throw him down.”

  Distraught at the fighting, but distractedly pleased with Stigr’s faith in his ability, Shard kept a tight grip on his uncle’s shoulders, squeezing in warning. Stigr’s breath was ragged, at last his wings sagged in defeat.

  “Stop this,” Shard whispered. “Please, Uncle. I need you.” At last Stigr met his gaze. Shard heard Brynja murmuring a similar request of her aunt. To his surprise, Stigr relaxed his ears and lowered his head.

  “Forgive me, my prince. I won’t hear anyone speak ill of you while I have breath.”

  “Thank you,” Shard murmured, and meant it. “But let’s not make enemies our first day.”

  Stigr ground his beak so hard that Shard winced, and he knew the argument Stigr was biting back. They’re all our enemy. All of the Aesir, everywhere.

  Except, they weren’t. Not to Shard.

  “You can let me go now,” Stigr said. “I’ll be good. Unless the lady feels the need to insult you again.”