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  Another, younger male on a lower tier took up the rock throwing idea and spun around to kick a chunk of rock down, striking Stigr in the shoulder. “No more rogues in our nests!”

  “Here now!” Stigr crouched, ears flat.

  “No, don’t,” Shard said, whirling around as more shouts rose against them. He looked desperately up to Brynja, who stared around, eyes wide. She turned and spoke pleadingly to Valdis, who watched calmly. Then, after Stigr had to dodge another rock, Valdis looked meaningfully toward the king’s tier, as if to signal someone.

  “Silence!” A female voice whipped against the stones. It was not Valdis. The shouting died.

  The speaker stepped forward from behind Orn. It could only be his mate. She stood tall, tawny gold, and with eyes so blue and familiar Shard gasped.

  “Uncle,” Shard breathed, and Stigr growled low to silence him.

  “I like the look of these two,” the queen declared, and her voice rang against the stones. As tall as the king, bright, sleek and beautiful, she looked a good deal younger than Orn, but older than Shard by many years. His mother’s age. Orn didn’t interrupt her, but watched with interest how Shard reacted.

  Shard couldn’t find his voice, and at last Stigr said for him, “We seek a chance to prove ourselves to you and your lord.”

  The queen crouched, tail lashing like a huntress, to peer at Stigr and Shard with eyes of ice-blue. Kjorn’s eyes.

  “Y-yes,” Shard managed, staring at the queen, who hadn’t bothered to give her name. “With your permission—”

  “Winter comes,” said the queen to Orn, her eyes on Shard. “What harm could two extra sets of talons do, my lord? I trust the lady Valdis and her niece to bring us worthy gryfons.”

  “Very well,” agreed Orn, and the quiet words sent relief through Shard’s heart, even as he stared at the queen’s familiar face and bearing. Chatter erupted at once, some curious, some grim, until a young, ringing male voice broke above them all.

  “A moment, my lord! A moment, my queen!” The chatter slipped down to murmurs and then quiet. “With your permission, I have questions for these Outlanders.”

  Shard spied him on a wide, red ledge just below the king’s perch. The gryfon looked Shard’s age, his broad, falcon-colored wings open in easy arrogance, his face the color of raw, blue-gray iron.

  He met Shard’s bewildered look with one of keen intelligence and skepticism. “If that’s who they really are.”

  21

  First Sentinel

  Once the young Aesir warrior said he had questions, it seemed others did too. The great tumult of gryfon questions and voices rose so that Orn the king flared his wings and dismissed all but the heads of the leading families in the pride. Long sunset light cast the inner tiers of the Dawn Spire in shadow. Heat rippled up off the stone but Shard smelled the night chill trickling in, and the sweetness of foreign autumn blooms still drifting.

  Shard and Stigr watched as dozens of gryfons took wing or silently paced out of the red-rock crescent. The echoes still dripped off the stones.

  Orn waited until the rest silenced. Shard watched him quietly. Then he narrowed his eyes, studying the king’s feathers. Again the ordinary color of the Aesir there struck him, and as the last of the low-ranking gryfons took wing, he leaned in to murmur to Stigr. “Have you noticed, about these Aesir—”

  “Now,” boomed the Aesir who’d spoken before. “That’s better.”

  Shard jumped back to attention when the speaker glided down from his tier below the king’s. Closer up Shard saw the detail of his falcon coloring. Ruddy brown coated his long flight-feathers and haunches, and his face gleamed rich gray and black with hints of iron blue. Something about his face and his heavily muscled build reminded Shard of Caj, and he wondered if they shared any family tie.

  Sigrun had taught Shard as a kit ancient lore telling that long, long ago, gryfons had once been more like the lesser eagles and falcons. Their clans, markings and breeding had been more pure, but travels and alliances in the Second Age had muddied those lines. It was nearly impossible to tell heritage by color markings alone, though Shard could still tell Aesir from Vanir by build and beliefs.

  The gryfon before him was an Aesir to the core.

  Guessing by his tier, Shard supposed this was a gryfon of some importance, so he inclined his head. “Thank you for coming down here to speak with me face-to-face.” He met the other’s startled eyes directly, and beside him, Stigr covered a chuckle with another disgruntled huff. “You honor me.”

  In the moment it took the gryfon to recover his intentions, the other leading gryfons flew down, weary of the shouting back and forth, Shard presumed. Orn himself stepped up to Shard, and Shard bowed low again. To his relief, so did Stigr beside him. He wasn’t used to his uncle being so silent, and it unnerved him.

  Does he mean to show them that I’m leading? He didn’t feel like a leader. I am a prince. A prince.

  Still, just being told he was a prince didn’t make him better at speaking, or facing this tall, old king and the ten gryfons with him.

  Behind Orn stood the queen, whose wild gaze had calmed as the larger group of gryfons left. To one side of the queen and behind Valdis, Shard caught sight of Brynja. She blinked to see him looking at her, and quickly glanced away.

  “Well?” King Orn asked quietly, once all had flown down and gathered, sat or paced, circling behind Shard to peer at him from all angles. He wished he’d preened his tail more thoroughly.

  “Your Highness,” said the falcon-colored gryfon in front of Shard. “They look too sleek to be Outlanders to me.”

  “We’re just better hunters than the rest,” Stigr said, sizing up the young warrior with his single eye.

  Shard set one hind paw back, then at Stigr’s huff, stood proud and lifted his wings. “I don’t know why you’re questioning us. The king has already offered us a place with the pride.”

  I am a prince, Shard repeated in his head. The more he thought it, the truer it felt. I am a prince. A prince among my pride. Son of a king who was killed by a king. I am a prince.

  His challenger looked to Orn. “My lord, surely you don’t believe them!”

  “Believe us,” Shard cut in, before the king or the challenger or even Stigr could say anything else. He had to prove himself. “Respect your king’s decision.”

  The challenger’s eyes widened. “You give me orders?”

  The king said nothing, nor did the queen, as if waiting to see what would happen. So Shard’s gaze darted to Brynja, then Valdis, who watched him, eyes gleaming with approval. So, he was to act like an Aesir and prove himself.

  “I challenge you,” Shard corrected the other, and slapped his talons against the stone, hunching his wings over his shoulders. “If that’s what it takes.”

  His challenger laughed in disbelief. Shard could see why. He stood almost as tall as Orn, his hindquarters and shoulders defined by thick muscle, his feathers and coat shining and healthy. Shard doubted many of the gryfons there would have challenged him even if they matched him in size. When Shard only met his laughter in silence, his gaze flickered to Orn. “My lord?”

  The king’s expression remained mild if even a little impatient, and the others present appraised Shard with a kind of pitying excitement. “You’ve been challenged, Asvander. Do you accept?”

  The gryfon, Asvander, looked at Orn, and then Shard again. “You’re not serious.”

  “Afraid?” Stigr offered, and a female near the back of the group chuckled. Shard thought it was Valdis.

  “I accept,” Asvander snarled. “First blood, or yield.”

  “First blood, or yield,” confirmed Orn.

  Before Shard could speak, Asvander lunged with talons splayed. Shard dodged aside and felt talons scrape his tail. The rest of the gryfons scattered, including Stigr.

  Shard whirled and leaped at Asvander with a shriek, all while his mind screamed—madness! They slammed into each other and Shard, stunned by Asvander’s weight, rela
xed his muscles in a practiced fall, letting Asvander roll him over. I have speed, I have speed and surprise, he won’t expect me to be a challenge…

  Shard’s back hit the ground and he shoved his hind paws into Asvander’s stomach. Asvander coughed and fell forward, his talons and chest dipping toward Shard’s face. Shard caught Asvander’s front feet in his own, jammed his hind paws into Asvander’s stomach again and used the other gryfon’s falling weight to launch him over into the dirt.

  Dry red dust clouded up around them. Shard hopped to his feet just in time to discover that Asvander, despite his size and muscle, was fast too. He’d already recovered and lunged.

  He smacked into Shard again, shoved him to the ground and reared back to his hind legs with a challenging shriek. Shard scrabbled up and beat the air with his wings, scattering dust toward Asvander’s face as he kicked up off the ground. Two wing beats up and he dropped again onto the Aesir’s back, hooked talons around his wing joints and pumped his wings hard, dragging Asvander backwards but careful not to puncture skin.

  He didn’t want first blood. He wanted the haughty warrior to yield.

  As Asvander wrestled forward, trying to keep his feet, laughing calls reached Shard’s ears.

  “Looks bad for ours,” laughed a male.

  “Two rabbit pelts on Asvander,” called Dagny.

  “I’ll meet that bet,” said another. Shard would have sworn it was the queen. He wrenched back, twisting until Asvander lost balance and crashed backwards. Shard shoved up to keep from being crushed, spun mid-air and dropped hard, straddling Asvander’s chest and shoving talons to his chest.

  “Yield!”

  Asvander snarled and kicked both hind paws into Shard’s stomach. Shard coughed and black lights flashed in front of his eyes. Talons dug into his shoulders, his world swung and crashed as Asvander lifted him and threw him to the ground. Shard’s head smacked a rock and he groaned, blinking hard to clear his vision, thrashing his wings to try and shove Asvander away.

  “First blood!” Stigr shouted. “It’s done!”

  But Asvander wasn’t done. Talons grabbed the long muscle of Shard’s right wing and he felt a searing strain, but he couldn’t seem to move fast enough to break away.

  A baleful yell broke through the dull ringing in his ears. Asvander released him, swearing. Wild commotion blurred before Shard’s ears and eyes. He lurched up, shaking his head hard to clear it.

  After five breaths of confusion, everything fell quiet.

  As the dust cleared he saw Stigr, crouched back on his hind paws, the talons of one forefoot gripping Asvander’s foreleg to hold him back, the other clenched around Asvander’s throat. Shard stared, swallowing dust, and shame swamped him.

  “Do you yield?” Stigr’s voice dripped ice. “Or shall it be blood?”

  Asvander gurgled something. It must have been, “I yield,” for, with an expression of disgust, Stigr dropped him and trotted to Shard.

  “Nephew,” he breathed, meeting Shard’s eyes, then, seeing he was coherent, searched him for injury. “Are you well?”

  “Fine,” Shard muttered. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “He was going to break your wing. I saw. Foul fight,” he growled louder for all to hear. “Shard had thrown him down. Wing breaking? Is that respected here?”

  “No,” said Valdis, stepping forward from the group of observers. She didn’t look amused. “It isn’t. You drew first blood, Asvander. That was uncalled for.”

  “You’d won,” rumbled the king.

  “I was angry,” Asvander argued, ears flat. Then he realized he’d snapped at the king, and lowered his head. Seeing all eyes on him, and unhappy looks, he slowly smoothed his feathers down. He looked at Shard, and his expression was entirely different than Shard had expected. His eyes still sparked with anger, but in his face was also an honest measure of shame. “Forgive me, Outlander. I lose myself in a good fight.”

  “A good fight?” Stigr rasped.

  Shard decided, in order to keep the peace of those present, to believe Asvander for the moment, though he still felt the strain in his wing. “Don’t call me Outlander,” he said. “My name is Shard.”

  “Very well then, Shard. And you?”

  “Stigr. You didn’t hear before?” Stigr’s tail switched back and forth in irritation. “And you are?”

  Asvander addressed them both, undeterred by Stigr’s sharpness. “I am Asvander, of the Ostral Shores. Second tier,” he lifted his head even higher, “of the Dawn Spire. Captain of the King’s Guard and First Sentinel to his Majesty Orn.”

  Shard hesitated. They had so many names and titles. Suddenly the Silver Isles seemed so small. So simple. But there was one name he hadn’t heard in the introduction.

  Asvander hadn’t named his father. Until that summer, Shard had always been son-of-Sigrun. Fatherless. Son of a nameless, conquered warrior. Now he knew his father had been a king. Asvander was also young, Shard’s age, maybe a year older. For whatever reason, Asvander hadn’t named his father and for a brief breath, Shard saw himself in his challenger, and was able to relax, and incline his head in respect, despite Asvander’s foul play.

  “Good fight,” Shard said quietly.

  The surprised expression on Asvander’s face was worth the moment of humility.

  “So,” said Orn. “You’ve met the head of my Guard. I respect his judgment. You the lost the fight. Do you have an answer for him?”

  “Yes,” Shard said, carefully stretching his wing. A little strained, but not broken. He’d be able to fly in the morning, and that was all he needed. “My answer is that what we’ve said is still true.”

  A strange smell drifted to Shard, woody and sharp. He’d only ever smelled it once before, when skyfire struck dead timber on the Crow Wing isle, and the forest burned. He didn’t have time to wonder about it.

  The queen sidestepped Orn and strode up into Shard’s face, lashing her tail to clear others from her space. “Enough of this feather fluffing, with darkness coming on. Has everyone proven themselves satisfactorily?”

  Shard met her clear, hard gaze, so like Kjorn’s. He felt, for a wild moment, that he knew her. He didn’t dare look away before she did.

  “My queen,” Asvander pleaded. “Surely you can see these two aren’t all they seem.”

  “Perhaps,” purred the queen, searching Shard’s face with narrowed eyes. “But I see no ill in them. And clearly they’re fine warriors.” Abruptly, she turned and walked back to king, tail flicking in Shard’s face. “Even you have to admit that, Asvander.”

  “This is folly,” growled Asvander. “Taking new blood just before winter—”

  “Calm yourself, Lakelander,” Valdis said, but Asvander ruffed opened his wings wider, drawing more attention.

  “As First Sentinel, Sire, I insist you let me run them off. They fight too well, look too well fed, too alert. I’ve never seen Outlanders such as these. I name them spies and liars.”

  Shard wanted to ask for whom Asvander thought he might be spying, but that would make him look like more of a stranger. Surely even Outlanders knew of the enemies of the Dawn Spire. Brynja had mentioned rogue clans and those who didn’t pledge loyalty to Orn.

  “You windblown fledge,” Stigr snarled at Asvander. When he stepped forward, six other gryfons stepped forward in turn, warning ‘enough,’ and ‘the challenge is done.’ Asvander turned to face Stigr, unafraid.

  “Undisciplined and foul-mouthed,” Asvander said. “Not good to have in our ranks at all.”

  Stigr tossed his head in disbelief. “I’m undisciplined, wing-breaker?”

  Shard glanced to the king, who made a low, quiet cough. “Your style of challenge does bring that out, Asvander. But I trust your instinct.”

  “Your Highness,” Shard said firmly. He curled his talons against the rock, grounding, trying to gain strength from the desert wind, to remember how strong he had felt, soaring over an endless sea. This couldn’t be harder than that. The smell of wood smoke
filled the air now and drove him almost to distraction, but none of the others seemed worried. “You’ve seen us fight. Let me prove myself in your pride. Let my uncle prove himself. Even if you aren’t glad of me, you will be of him. He’s the finest warrior I’ve ever known.”

  Silence.

  They couldn’t contest it, not after seeing Stigr beat the head of their Guard in less than ten heartbeats, and even Shard had managed to get him on the ground. Orn didn’t argue Shard, but his expression was almost worse. Pity. He does think I’m a poor Outlander desperate to gain entry into the pride. I suppose that’s good for now.

  Shard locked on the king’s eyes. He didn’t seem an unreasonable gryfon. “Let me prove myself, let me guard for you, hunt for you, patrol, prove myself.”

  “Let him,” the queen said, overlapping Shard’s words. He wondered why she was so eager to have them join the pride, and recalled that Valdis had left earlier to speak with the queen. Shard was wary of being drawn into whatever tangled loyalties there might be at the Dawn Spire, but he wouldn’t argue with the queen just then, not when her apparent desire aligned with his.

  “My mate,” she crooned to the king, “at least it will be interesting.”

  Another silence full of evening wind and the disconcerting scent of smoke fell on them.

  “Very well,” Orn said at last.

  Asvander angled his head high. “Well I won’t have him in my Guard.”

  Before Shard could think up an argument, a quiet voice offered, “He may hunt with us.” Brynja stepped forward from behind the queen, and Dagny beside her. Shard looked at her gratefully, but she didn’t meet his eyes.

  Asvander whipped his head around, looking betrayed. “Brynja!”

  She tossed a quick, annoyed look to him, but the king clapped his beak together and they fell silent again.

  “Very well. And you?”

  With a blink, Shard realized the king addressed Stigr. The older black gryfon lifted his head, met the king’s stare, then turned a challenging look to Asvander. “Your Highness, I will serve in the Guard.”

  Asvander looked ready to argue, but something about Stigr’s stance and the dangerous tilt of his head made him nod, once, instead. Shard wished he had some of his uncle’s ferocity.