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  Grateful for his time running with the wolves, Shard fell into a traveling pace at her side, and she cast him a look of approval. Her gaze settled forward, and Shard felt the heat of the lionesses around him. “We go to the Serpent River Gorge that separates us from the Outlands.”

  “You don’t have to go there. I can fly there alone, and faster.”

  “No. They hunt gryfon above all else. Alone, they would kill you or drive you to Nameless terror. Travel with us, and our scent will mask you.”

  Shard fell quiet after that. It was what he’d wanted, after all, but a raw fear crept through him at her warning. He kept pace with the lions and noted the landscape changing under their feet and around them. The moon slipped lower from her midnight perch. His muscles clawed and protested but he kept up as the grass plain changed back to the rough ground closer to the Dawn Spire, and when that flattened into long, barren slopes of desert far windward of the Dawn Spire. Shard knew if they turned and walked starward, they would end up in the Voldsom Narrows.

  They swam a wide, shallow river. Shard had flown over it when he left the Dawn Spire but he swam, in respect for the lionesses. Ajia said nothing of the ability nor seemed surprised by it. Shard hadn’t seen Brynja or any other Winderost gryfons swim, but he hadn’t heard or asked if it was forbidden, as it was in the Silver Isles. At least under Sverin’s rule.

  “You called your home the First Plains,” Shard said as they shook themselves dry. “Is it a hallow place?”

  “All places laid by Tyr and Tor are hallow places, but some are older than others.” Ajia paused to wash, and made sure that her collar of feathers laid flat. Shard had yet to ask her about it, afraid he wouldn’t like the answer. She shook again and watched Shard a moment. “Just as all creatures are worthy. Named, Nameless, Voiced or silent. Because gryfons rule both earth and sky does not make them better than others.”

  “I know,” Shard said, feeling edgy, though her lecture didn’t seem directed at him.

  “For we know,” she said, low, a warm purr in her voice, “we know that we walk in the image of Tor, who first walked the earth as a great cat.”

  Shard looked at the moon, surprised. He had never heard that particular version of the mother goddess. “But, she is mother to gryfons…”

  “Yes.” Ajia turned and trotted on and Shard followed, ears perked to her tale. “She first made us in her image, and then she saw the great, bright eagle in the sky, and fell in love with him and his winged children.”

  “Tyr?” Shard whispered. Stigr had never told him any legends that cast Tor as a great lioness, and Tyr as an eagle.

  “And he found her beautiful, and called her to join him in the sky. And she bore him many children. So, Rashard, gryfons may be the favored children of Tyr and Tor, but they are not the first, nor the oldest. Tor lives high with her eagle mate most nights, but we know the holiest time is the time of no moon, when she returns to us and sets her paws on the earth again.”

  So wrapped up in the tale, Shard barely noticed where they were.

  The scent of sulfur and rotting flesh slapped him. Another league ahead he discerned the sudden drop of the wide gorge that formed the edge of the Winderost, the dank, deep canyon that separated them from the Outlands. Shard couldn’t force himself to take another step, and even the lionesses stopped. They clustered around Shard and he remembered what Ajia had said about masking his scent from the enemy.

  “The wind is good,” Ajia murmured, curling her lips in a grimace, ears flat. “We will have to smell them before we see them, but it means they won’t smell you.”

  Before they saw or smelled the enemy, they heard them.

  A roar shook the dry earth beneath their feet and Shard fought the urge to cower. They stood a long distance off from the gorge, and Ajia didn’t look afraid.

  The roar split into discordant notes, a wracked cacophony like an eagle and a shrieking boar.

  A rush of wind hit them and Shard braced, shocked, sucking a breath. Ajia was right. The stench of old blood, dung, and under it all a waft of reptilian flesh overwhelmed Shard.

  He held his breath.

  The first of them launched out above the canyon rim. The full, dark wings of Shard’s nightmare swelled against the night. Silvered by the moon, he could only tell they were dark, but whether black or brown or some other murky hue he couldn’t see.

  Roars cracked against the rock walls and bounded along and along, unending, echoes of fury. Shard flattened his ears, crouching down despite himself and pressing himself to the nearest warm lioness, who did not pull away, but offered a reassuring purr.

  The gloom of the gorge exploded into five worming, shrieking forms, each ten times the size of a gryfon.

  The largest swept up high into the air. Shard caught his breath, his talons spread and clenching against the ground, tail whipping to either side as he fought to control his terror and comprehend the monsters he saw.

  A head at least the size of Shard’s body, reptilian and wedge-shaped and crowned with a thick, sweeping crest of horns. The long, thick neck broadened into a body as stout and muscled as boar, with a serpent’s sinewy grace, forepaws and hind legs tucked up for flight. The forepaws clenched against a deep chest, each boasting four thick, curving talons like a enormous cat.

  Something niggled at Shard at the sight of those claws. Then his gaze caught movement and the thought fell away as the creature’s tail swept out like a serpent tail. It ended in a sharp spade.

  Veined wings blocked the moon. Membrane that stretched taut across the wings turned the white moonlight to muddy brown and green. As the monster opened its jaws to scream again, Shard beheld rows of shark-like fangs.

  That was the beast that stalked his dreams, the beast he had seen burst through the snow in his nightmare. The monsters that screamed in the night.

  The four others flew up to join the first, gazes casting around the ground below them. Shard hunched lower among the lionesses.

  “Do…” his chest clasped tight as if he were underwater and he struggled for words. “Do they fly during the day?”

  “Never,” said Ajia. “They seem to fear Tyr’s light.”

  “Or perhaps they’re too ugly to face the light,” offered another huntress, trying to make Shard laugh. Shard could only make a soft sound of acknowledgement, still struggling for breath.

  They only flew at night. They only screamed their hatred into the dark. As Ajia said, they lived only to drive terror into the hearts of other creatures.

  So this was Sverin’s nightmare.

  Shard thought of Kjorn’s great-grandfather and the glorious tales of his war and his victory and his gold. Then he thought of Per the Red fleeing his own homeland. He thought of Sverin’s fear of the dark, his tyranny of the Silver Isles, and the mighty aerie of the Winderost gryfons brought low each night the sun went down.

  And last, there in night, Shard understood that an epic war and great treasures of gold were not Kajar’s legacy at all.

  “We should leave now,” Ajia said calmly, and Shard’s gaze darted up to see that one of the creatures had spotted them, or at least turned attention their way. They must have the vision of eagles, or owls, to see in the dark. As one, the lionesses turned and walked calmly away, as if they only searched for prey. They shouldered Shard into their center.

  “Be calm, gryfon prince,” Ajia’s low voice was the only thing connecting Shard to his body. He felt the monsters’ stares at his back, felt the heat of their hatred. The Nameless, animal part of him screamed in every muscle to flee, to fly, but that would bring him a swift death, and the lionesses with him.

  “They don’t care for lion kind,” said the other who’d tried to make him laugh. “Think of your name. Think only of things you love, don’t let them frighten you into darkness.”

  Shard took slow, gulping breaths, grasping to follow her suggestion. His name. Son-of-Sigrun. No, Baldr. Son of Ragna, the white Widow Queen. He scrambled for all those who loved him, those he loved, and
walked as if he were only another lion on the hunt. He thought of pronghorn deer and grass and the scent of frost in the air.

  Then he was swimming. They’d reached the river.

  The roars faded behind them. Shard fell gasping on the opposite bank of the river and Ajia nuzzled his neck with a motherly growl. “Stand up. Walk.”

  He dragged himself up and followed. Soon it was easier to breathe, the animal fear slipped back like a wave and he felt like himself.

  Ajia stopped him and with surprise Shard recognized the First Plains again. “They haven’t followed this far. We must leave you now and hunt. You are safe to fly to the Dawn Spire, and you should. The dawn comes.” She considered him for a moment, then tilted her head. “Know this, Star-sent. If you choose to fight the enemy, we will stand by you if you ask.”

  As they slipped away Shard bid a quiet farewell, thanking them again, promising to do what he could for the Winderost. He blinked slowly. Dawn. It had been just after midnight when they found the dragons. They had walked hours again and he, so wrapped in fear, hadn’t noticed.

  As he took to the sky, muscles tight and heart fearful, he searched the horizon like a nervous sparrow. The dragons, as they must be, were nowhere in sight, and faint gold shone in the dawnward sky.

  His mind turned over and over the thought of the dragons’ blunt, powerful forepaws. Something bothered him about the thick, sharp claws beyond their impressive danger. Something. Something was missing, something wasn’t right.

  He landed a distance off from the Dawn Spire and slipped past the sentries by way of the creek, making it look as if he’d gone out for a morning drink of water.

  When he at last crawled back into his den, Stigr was waiting for him.

  “Well,” said the black warrior, face hard with anger. “Since you couldn’t be bothered to take me along wherever you’ve been, maybe you’ll be good enough to tell me the tale.”

  28

  A Gryfon Mother’s Lament

  Sigrun huddled in her cave with as many pregnant females as could fit, rubbing the little fresh meat available with herbs to calm and warm them.

  We could be fat and sleeping if the king let us fish, she thought bitterly, and perked her ears toward the crashing of the sea.

  Ragna remained stubbornly with the pride, and was at that moment crooning a lullaby to the youngest of the bunch, Einarr’s mate Astri, who quivered with fear and cold. Einarr and three others had been gone for three days, hunting.

  The sound of male voices and calls turned every female face hopefully toward the entrance. It was a long, tense, cold wait. Then males streamed in and out with small offerings. Rabbit, a fox, half a deer carcass. Sigrun supposed the males had been unable to keep from eating some themselves. No one could blame them, and she saw shame on one young male face when he presented his own mate with the pathetic offering of half a rabbit. He left, his face dark with determination to control his hunger next time.

  Sigrun watched Ragna’s face as each of the males left their pitiful bounty. Her expression was cold, unforgiving, and growing angry, but Sigrun knew she wasn’t angry at the young males. It was Sverin. Always Sverin.

  If only we could fish the sea, Sigrun thought vaguely, as if it were a distant, unattainable dream, as if her talons had never touched saltwater. Next to Ragna, young Astri’s pretty, delicate face suddenly lit with the light of a thousand stars and Sigrun swiveled to see Einarr dragging in a large, strange carcass, with the help of two other sturdy males.

  “What is that,” demanded Kenna. She stood near Astri, and Sigrun wondered idly if the meek little female and the brash one might make good wingsisters. Sometimes it was good to have a close friend who evened out one’s weaknesses. Kenna had somewhat adopted the younger gryfess, chiding her for being too quiet, while Astri, when she got her nerve up, could sometimes soften Kenna’s edges.

  “Sea lion,” grunted Einarr’s friend.

  “Where did you get it?” Kenna eyed the large carcass warily, but with a raw, hungry edge.

  “We flew to the starward edge of the Sun Isle,” Einarr said. “Beyond the mountains to the shore. There’s a colony there, but they’ll move after this we think. Share it,” he said gently to Astri, tilting his head to indicate Kenna and the other, wide-eyed females. “There’s plenty.”

  Sigrun had seen Einarr change slowly over the autumn and winter. Once timid and soft-spoken, he had become a leader among the hunting males. Still soft spoken, he usually said correct and wise things, and his face was set with a firmness and strange, distant quiet. Sigrun wasn’t sure how faithfully Einarr prayed, but his demeanor as the winter grew darker reminded her of fervent followers of the distant god Tyr, reminded her of a gryfon who sees not the night, but the gleam of stars or the distant dawn.

  Of all the gryfons in the pride, she saw in him the light of hope. She couldn’t help but wonder at its source. Ragna had the same look about her, but Sigrun knew that was because of Ragna’s faith in Shard’s return. She didn’t know what lit Einarr’s hope, but whenever he came, it filled the den.

  Kenna sniffed and looked as if she might refuse—but everyone in the cave knew that Halvden would bring her no meat. He hunted wolves.

  Little white Astri wriggled out from under Ragna’s wing and cuddled up to Einarr as if the meat wasn’t there. Slowly, the other males greeted their mates but then squeezed out of the den again. It was too crowded, and they had to hunt more before the Long Night, which stalked ever closer. In the days of darkness, there would be no flying, no hunting. Einarr lingered a moment, dipping his head to preen at Astri’s ears.

  “Eat,” he whispered.

  She nipped at him but turned to fall on the sea lion carcass. Kenna joined after with a grudging word of thanks, and others, even Ragna at Einarr’s quiet encouragement. All of them were keenly aware of the scent of blood and seawater—but surely even Sverin wouldn’t grudge a hunting male keeping his mate alive by whatever means necessary.

  After another look around, Sigrun was certain no one in the den would be telling Sverin of the sea lion, anyway, or the smell of salt water. She caught Einarr’s gaze and he raised his head, shrugging one wing, as if he couldn’t have cared less for the king’s new law.

  It didn’t take the pregnant females long to strip the carcass and begin gnawing on the bones. Sigrun didn’t even have time to try to salvage the pelt. They ate it all.

  Ragna helped her clean the blood while the females, at last feeling full, settled into their usual corners. The lingering scent of seawater put several of them on edge, the thought that Einarr had hunted near the forbidden shore. All the edicts and rules drifted silently around the den.

  “The trouble,” Kenna said to no one in particular and yet to everyone, “is that the king isn’t mad. We do have traitors among us.”

  “Quiet,” whispered another, ears flat. Sigrun lifted her head, glancing to Ragna.

  “Let her speak,” said Ragna, still and white as the gray and white world outside. “But know this. A traitor is only a matter of the current king.”

  Soft hissing greeted that statement. Kenna, particularly, was unsympathetic to Ragna’s ideas. Unrest grew against the Vanir, and Sigrun feared Ragna’s plans would turn against her in the end. But she remained still and calm, and presented an alternative to fearful, ranting Sverin. Still, Sigrun couldn’t leave her wingsister to fly this wind alone. She stood, speaking quietly to all of them.

  “All we did, we did to save the life of Ragna’s son.” Sigrun stared hard at the young faces in front of her. “All of you carry lives in your bellies now, sons, daughters, your own legacy, the kit of your chosen mates. Would you have done less?”

  In the silence they all heard wind moaning along the rocks, and the fierce crash of freezing waves far below.

  “Well Shard is dead now,” Kenna snipped, though she wouldn’t meet Sigrun’s eyes again. “Was it worth it?”

  “Oh, yes,” whispered Ragna, and some of the softer females grew looks of sympathy.
Violet Kenna lashed her tail and lowered her head in disgust. Sigrun happened to glance at Einarr, and he was staring hard outside the den, as if he might see something fly in from the sea.

  A few stood to help Ragna and Sigrun finish clean the den of bones and blood, as if to say that they weren’t on Kenna’s side, though none pledged undying allegiance to Ragna either.

  Once the den was clean and all settled in for a nap, Einarr, who had remained silent during Kenna’s accusation, turned to go.

  “Einarr stay,” Astri whispered. “My mate, please.”

  “It’ll be dark soon, we won’t be able to hunt.”

  “Stay,” Sigrun said quietly, watching Astri’s desperate face. There were some medicines not even the greatest healer could deliver without help. Astri needed love. “For a few moments more.”

  Einarr looked askance, but he wouldn’t argue with a healer.

  “Sing us a song.” Everyone turned to stare at Ragna. She sat pale and quiet at the back of the cave, demure, as if she knew she’d stepped a talon too far the last time she spoke. “Einarr,” she clarified, her gaze quiet and admiring on the young gryfon. “You have a fine voice. Do you know any appropriate winter songs?”

  For a moment his silence was filled with the heartbeats of the gryfesses in front of him, Ragna’s quiet request hovering in the air. He glanced to Sigrun and she inclined her head just slightly. Some things were more important than food. He walked back to Astri and sat, ears slipping back into a shy expression Sigrun hadn’t seen since the summer.

  “A song my mother sang me…” It remained quiet and he hesitated. His mother was full-blooded Aesir, distant kin to Sverin, a gryfess Sigrun rarely spoke to, a gryfess who had lost her Vanir mate and her oldest son to exile. Einarr glanced to Astri.

  “Will you help me? It’s really for a female to sing.”

  She looked pleased and pushed herself up to sit, recognition lighting her eyes. Einarr nodded and turned to his audience. “Then, I sing you the Gryfon Mother’s Lament.”