Skyfire Page 20

  Chill wind dusted into the cave and Sigrun smelled the dampness of snow. Then music was there as Einarr warmed his voice into the first notes. Sigrun nearly melted. She had never heard Einarr in full song, only spoken tales, and his clear, gentle speaking voice became like lark song.

  “Eyes wide, heart full

  Stand my nestling, tall and proud

  Stand my nestling tall and proud.”

  Astri sang the refrain with him, the song meant to show the hard difference between what a proud gryfon mother would say to her kit, and what she felt on the inside.

  “Stay my young one

  Stay with me

  The world is dark and harsh and bleak

  Don’t fly, don’t fight, just let it be

  And stay, young one, with me.”

  Einarr sang the next verses and each time Astri joined him for the chorus, and Sigrun found herself yearning to sing along, yearning to say it to all the young warriors, to Caj, even to Sverin if he would only relent, to keep them all safe in her wings and never speak again of war.

  “Wings wide, heart free

  Fly my fledgling, far from me

  Fly my fledgling, far from me.

  Claws wide, heart cold

  Fight, my warrior, fierce and bold

  Fight, my warrior, fierce and bold.”

  Together Einarr and Astri sang the refrain, their voices dipping in a chilling harmony, her voice hopeful, his determined but grim, the whole chorus a mixture of love and fear.

  The last verse began and Sigrun’s chest tightened, for she knew it.

  “Eyes closed, heart still

  Rest my young one…”

  All the gryfesses in the den leaned forward, but the two didn’t finish singing. Silence trickled in. Sigrun blinked out of her listening trance and looked up to see Einarr staring at the entrance of the den. Sigrun turned.

  So wrapped in the song, none of them had heard a gryfon flying through the snow, landing, standing there and watching for who knew how long. Sigrun’s heart, which had seemed to pause to listen started up again, hard and nervous.

  “In Tyr’s bright hills.” Caj’s low, rough voice touched the back of the cave. He stepped forward, watching Einarr and Astri expectantly. “Rest, my young one…”

  “In Tyr’s bright hills,” Einarr finished, raising his head.

  Sigrun gazed at her mate.

  “I’ve heard it’s ill luck to leave a song unfinished,” Caj explained to the staring females. They watched him like a riddle, as if something they knew for certain had become uncertain. He stood too wiry thin those days, watching over the Guard, over Sverin, and Sigrun herself. Finally the females offered quiet respect, breaking their trance, though many feared him as much as they feared the king. He was the king’s wingbrother, after all, and supported him. Sigrun pushed forward through the females and shoved her face in the feathers of Caj’s neck.

  “My mate.”

  “The king calls a meeting.”

  “But it’s so cold,” whispered Astri.

  Caj didn’t look at any of them. “Anyone who doesn’t attend will be considered—”

  “We know,” Kenna saved him the trouble of saying “traitors” yet again. The King’s Guard and Sverin himself threw down the word at the slightest provocation as the days grew shorter. Kenna looked around to the others and, as if she instructed them, added, “And we will be proud to listen to the king’s words.” She walked to the entrance, slipping past Caj, gave the others a challenging look, and shoved off to fly crookedly up and out of sight.

  Ragna walked to the entrance. “I’ll help anyone who doesn’t feel up to flying.”

  “So will I,” said Thyra. “Let’s go.”

  They stood, chirruping wearily, and followed. Ragna paused, catching Sigrun’s gaze over Caj’s shoulder. Sigrun inclined her head just slightly, to show that she still supported Ragna.

  “It was good of you to sing for them,” Caj murmured to Einarr as he passed, just as if he’d fought an admirable spar. Einarr paused in surprise, then continued out with Astri, to help her climb the cliff.

  When all had gone and her large den felt unnaturally empty, Sigrun lowered her head and said again, “My mate.”

  “My mate,” Caj breathed, relieved to be alone with her. In her mind, Sigrun couldn’t help but feel like a traitor to him, thinking of Ragna and her talk of traitors. Shard lived, and as far as she knew, he planned to return, but in what way she couldn’t fathom. The last time she’d seen Shard he had been among two exiles who promised to seek out other Vanir and return. Sigrun couldn’t say what would happen to those who served Sverin now, if Shard managed to wrest the Silver Isles away from him.

  Caj had always stood by Sigrun’s side, and so she would stand by him. Whatever happened she would remind Shard, if she had to, that Caj had also been instrumental in saving his life so many years ago.

  “Eat something before we go,” she whispered. “It will take a while for the females to climb, and everyone to gather.”

  Usually he argued. That afternoon, he lay obediently on his belly and perked his ears. Sigrun stepped to the back of her den and clawed a flat rock away from the wall to reveal a deep, dark cubby carved into the rock. Usually it lay empty, one of many storage spots in her den. Sigrun had stuffed it full over the fall.

  “What is that?”

  “Protection against winter,” Sigrun said, heart beginning to pound. He would have found it eventually. It was best to show him while they were alone. “Our store for the Long Night. And ration for the pregnant females. How do you think we’ve been keeping them healthy, with this poor hunting?”

  Caj stood, wings opening. Sigrun brought him a long, dry strip of venison and he looked at it as if were a writhing serpent. Slowly, he bent his head to tear a bite, swallowed, and rasped.

  “Salt? Are you mad? Everything I do is to protect you and you flaunt Vanir ways in my face? In the king’s face?”

  “Vanir ways?” Sigrun crouched, ears flat. She’d known he would react this way, but it still broke her heart to fight her chosen, her mate, her protector. “You told me yourself that in the greatland the pride would preserve winter meat with salt!”

  “Salt from the earth,” Caj whispered. Then he slapped the meat back to her. “You’ve used salt from the sea! Sverin will…” his eyes had pinpointed like a savage eagle, scarcely believing what he saw.

  “What?” Sigrun demanded. “What will he do to me, for keeping the son of his son alive in Thyra’s belly? For keeping his pride fed and alive through winter? I wasn’t fishing. I wasn’t even in the water. How will he know the difference between salt from the earth and sea when he can’t even tell the difference between his enemies and his friends?”

  “He sees you.” Caj lashed paced away. “He isn’t half as mad as everyone whispers, and you know that. He has been betrayed. His own son barely heeds him. The wolves mock us from underground.”

  “It was for our daughter,” Sigrun said. “For all of us.”

  “When have you done this? The sentries see everything.”

  Sigrun was silent. Caj’s eyes widened, he looked at the cave entrance, then her face again.

  “At night? You’ve gone out at night and down to the shore? Why didn’t I know? Why didn’t I wake when…” He looked breathless, Sigrun fought the urge to cower. “You’ve put sleep on me somehow. Some herb. Something in my food. I can’t eat my own food, now? Sigrun, where am I to stand, with you and Ragna scheming behind my back?”

  Sigrun’s voice cracked. “I scheme to keep this pride alive through winter. We will eat salted meat or we will starve.”

  They stood, feathers on end, tails lashing.

  Sigrun met Caj’s pale gold eyes and saw their whole history–the moments after the Conquering when she knew he would make the gentlest mate of all the Aesir, the moment when she saw the nobility in him. The moment she began to love him, and chose to fly with him always. The moments he spent teaching their daughter and the son he’d
tried to raise as his own.

  In that heartbeat, Sigrun ached for nothing more than to go to ground with him and wait for one king or another to rise and rule, to live peacefully with her mate. That was all.

  “I’ll rub the meat with herbs,” she whispered. “Heavy enough that he won’t taste, that you can tell him it was those that preserved—”

  “More lies,” Caj rumbled. Noble Caj, had been his nickname.

  “Only until spring.”

  “What happens in spring?” He lifted his ears, eyes narrowing in suspicion.

  Sigrun glanced away, closing her wings tightly. Spring was when Dagr and Maja had vowed to return to Shard, bringing whatever Vanir they could gather.

  “In spring,” she began again, trying to smooth the irritation from her voice, trying to think what to say. Then, for the first time in their history, she lied to Caj.

  “When we can hunt again. After the whelping. When we can have fresh meat.”

  Caj stared at her. Sigrun stared back, trying to discern in his face if he knew she was lying, and if it mattered. If he would still protect her.

  “Let’s go,” he said, turning his back. “Sverin will be looking for us at the gathering.”

  “Please eat,” Sigrun asked. “I’ve made a special batch too, with sleeping herbs, to soothe Sverin during the Long Night. I know how it haunts him.”

  Caj hesitated, glancing back. “Oh, the same herbs you gave me?”

  He huffed in disgust and jumped out of the den into the whirling, freezing winds.

  Sigrun stared at the yawning mouth of her den. Exhaustion clawed her heart. She looked at the piece of meat on the stone floor and for the first time, the sight of it filled her with shame.

  I should have told him.

  Caj barely heard Sverin’s words during the meet. More rules, stricter and particularly harsh against the Vanir. He could hardly argue the points, still seething over Sigrun’s deception.

  He sat still on one of the lower levels of the king’s rocks, trying to lock his muscles against shivering. The gray sky pressed low and dampness clung to the wind.

  With a quiet, creeping dread, Caj watched as snow at last began to fall.

  The first snow of the winter punctuated Sverin’s warnings about the night, the sea, the cold, the importance of keeping Tyr in their hearts.

  Eyes darted away from the king to the snowflakes that grew thicker and faster by the moment. At last Sverin drew to a close, bidding the hunters good luck, and those tracking wolves all haste and safety. By the time those gathered had stood and stretched their cramped muscles, a blanket of white covered the ground.

  Caj stood, shook snow from his feathers and climbed up to the top of the rocks to meet Sverin.

  “Only another moon until the Long Night, Sire.” He drew a slow breath as Sverin looked at him. Weighing truths, weighing his honor against his friendship, his mate, his own heart, he quickly chose a side, as he had the last ten years. “Sigrun has prepared special meats, preserved with salt from…flats on the Crow Wing Isle. Some are rubbed with herbs to aid sleep, if you—”

  “No.” Sverin stood like a red stone in the falling snow, watching every gryfon stand and walk, or fly, watching Kjorn and Einarr gather their hunters, and Halvden and the Guard taunt them, lightly under the king’s eye, before setting out. “I will remain awake for the Long Night.”

  “If you change your mind—”

  “Is there a reason I should sleep, brother?” Sverin eyed him, tail twitching.

  Caj dipped his head. “Whatever you wish, of course. But I know the dark troubles you. I know…Elena’s memory troubles you.”

  It was a risk to say her name, but Caj had to draw attention from the salted meat. Sverin shut his eyes at the name and a low growl built in his throat. “They stole her from me. The widow witch convinced her she could fly as the Vanir do, tempted her to the sea, and she died for it.”

  “Exile her,” Caj growled, knowing it was a betrayal to Sigrun, but he also saw Sverin’s pain, and it would solve many problems. With no Ragna, Sigrun’s heart would not be so split. “Be rid of Ragna for good. She has no place.”

  “Exile your own mate’s wingsister? Don’t think I don’t know.” Sverin looked away from Caj, found Kjorn among the departing hunters and watched as the golden prince soared starward with Einarr and the others. “Did you know that Shard wasn’t Sigrun’s kit, when you mated?”

  Caj’s voice froze, and only after a moment was he able to answer, whispering, “Yes. I knew.”

  Sverin barked a cool laugh. “Don’t worry. I guessed that you knew. I just wanted to see if you would tell me the truth, this time.”

  “Forgive me.” Caj hunched down, mantling, bowed his head. “My wingbrother, my king. I didn’t know what your father would do. Shard was only a kit. There’d been so much death already. I planned to raise him as my own.”

  “You failed.” Sverin moved at last, ruffling snowflakes from his wings and pacing away. Slowly Caj raised his head. “The exile Stigr took him out from under you. The wolves. The Vanir. His father’s ghost. Then he tried to kill me. Do you mourn his death?”

  Caj could barely answer, but Sverin would’ve sensed a lie. “I…mourned losing him.”

  “Hm.” The Red King’s tail swung back and forth. “Go, lead the wolf hunt.”

  Caj stood straight again, surprised at the quick dismissal. He murmured farewell and jumped from the rock into the cold air.

  Would I have mourned Shard’s death? He remembered the seconds, the awful seconds of seeing Shard and Sverin falling together toward the waves. He couldn’t have said then, and couldn’t bear to think now, whose death he feared the most.

  Then he narrowed his eyes, realizing something else. Sverin had completely diverted him from the question of exiling Ragna.

  I’ve hidden things from you, Brother, it’s true, Caj thought grimly. But what are you hiding from me?

  He peered down and back toward the king’s rocks. Sverin had walked to edge and stood staring out at the sea, as the snow fell down and tried to mask his red feathers with white.

  29

  A Painted Wolf Speaks

  After Shard told Stigr all that he’d seen with the lions, the old warrior advised him to silence. He reclined on the floor of Shard’s den, looking grim, while Shard paced and told the tale. Morning light suffused the air and Shard knew they’d both be late to their posts if they didn’t leave soon. His limbs quivered and threatened to collapse from exhaustion.

  Stigr’s tail dusted the floor. “I’m sure if King Orn gets word of your little night flight, that will be the end of the Dawn Spire for us. If you go again, I’m coming with you. Even if it means I have to stay in your den to make sure you don’t sneak out again.”

  Shard resisted the urge to lower his head, chagrined. “I had to go.”

  Stigr shook his head, ears slipping back. “I came here to help you. To protect you. How can I do either if you won’t tell me your plans? Even Baldr let me advise him.”

  “I know. If I leave again, I’ll tell you.”

  “Fine.” He stood and stretched, sliding his talons across the dirt floor. “Shall I tell Brynja you’re ill?”

  “No.” Shard yawned, then shook himself. “I can hunt.”

  Stigr made a gruff sound and trotted out of the cave. Shard followed. He had a feeling Brynja wouldn’t notice his condition, one way or the other.

  And she didn’t. He hunted that day, and the next and next, watching the full moon wane. He had to go out again, but not to the Outlands.

  He wanted to see what the painted wolves knew of the enemy, if they could tell him more to settle the nagging questions he couldn’t put name to. He pictured the beasts over and over again soaring up out of the black canyon, their great jaws full of teeth, the powerful wings, the thick, curving talons on the end of blunt forepaws.

  On the night of the talon moon, Shard planned to sneak out again and seek the painted wolves. He told Stigr, and the warrior was
waiting for him when Shard slunk out just before midnight.

  “Not leaving me again,” he growled. Shard lifted his wings in assent, and showed Stigr the path to sneak out of the Dawn Spire.

  Feathery clouds drifted high above, masking stars and the weak moonlight. Between them, Shard and Stigr had enough experience with the painted wolves to know their hunting routes and track them through the night. Farther starward than the First Plains, back toward the Dawn Reach where Shard had first arrived.

  They flew low, in silence, Stigr just behind Shard. Distantly, dragon roars cracked the night. Though they grew farther away the longer Shard and Stigr flew, instinct chilled Shard into landing, walking, when they reached painted wolf grounds. He kept his breath slow and didn’t speak to Stigr, who landed and walked beside him without question, as if he were only Shard’s shadow.

  The scent of wolf came to them on a rising wind. Together, they turned to follow it across the broken, grassy hills.

  Shard’s ears twitched, seeking the sound of warbling barks in the night. No sounds came. The dogs were hunting. Shard crept forward, trying to determine how many and how far. He knew he shouldn’t plunge in while they hunted, that they’d think he was trying to steal their kill. He loped forward after determining their direction, ears perked, head lifted to scent the wind. There was no trace of lion there, or dragon.

  “The kill,” Stigr said quietly, and Shard halted. Wind brushed grass against his hindquarters and he smelled blood. The wolves had brought down prey, and their triumphant growls and warbles filled the night.

  He and Stigr remained where they were, resting and waiting for the wolves to feed.

  Wind sang by. The growls died down.

  “Enough,” Shard said. He raised his head loosed his imitation of a wolf howl.

  The last of the happy snarling and cavorting ahead of them fell dead.

  Shard flicked his tail, and howled again. “I’m here, earth brothers,” the low song proclaimed through the night, “no threat, earth sisters.”

  “Well done,” Stigr murmured, but didn’t raise his voice with Shard’s.

  Rough paws scuffed through the grass. The wind was wrong to bring the dogs Shard’s scent.