Skyfire Page 27

  Kjorn loosed a broken laugh. His wingbrother, scrawny, quick, full of wit and no sense. If it thought about it long enough, it didn’t feel as odd. His wingbrother, a fellow prince.

  A dead prince.

  “His heart burns like the sun,” Kjorn muttered at his reflection. “He brings justice to the wronged—”

  “They will call him the Summer King,” a smooth, female voice lilted off the stone. Kjorn staggered back from the pool and reeled around. “And this will be his song.”

  A female wolf stood before him. Her ruddy fur glowed with silver iridescence in the dim green of the lichens.

  “You.” Kjorn knew her. She had stayed at the wolf den that summer to warn Sverin of the ambush. Ahanu’s sister. She hadn’t attacked their dens. But she had led Shard away from him. “You took my wingbrother from me!”

  “He flies in the night,” she said, her head still high. “And in the day.”

  “Shut up!” Kjorn lurched toward her. She sprang away into the tunnel, nimble and healthy.

  “Do you listen to all who speak?” She twisted away, darting past Kjorn back into the cavern by the pool. “Do you speak to all who hear?”

  Kjorn blocked the entryway, opening his wings. He had her cornered in the cavern, if he could only catch her.

  “Is your voice the song of summer?”

  A low, kit-like keen tore from Kjorn’s throat. The last time he had heard those lines he’d felt called, felt something stir in him. The last time he’d heard that song was when Ragna sang it in high summer. Surrounded by his friends, his family, his pride, prepared to go to glorious war, and his father had named him the Summer King.

  Now Kjorn knew it was a lie. He was no special king. He was the son of a mad ruler. He had no wingbrother, he’d gotten himself lost underground by his own stupidity, a wolf’s plaything.

  “He comes when he is needed,” uttered the she-wolf, in a low singsong. Her voice in the dark cave was strangely soothing. Kjorn crouched in front of her, staring, empty as a pelt. He should kill her. Or force her to tell him the way out.

  “Who is the Summer King?” he whispered instead, and hated himself for asking her a question.

  “He comes when he is called,” she sang, eyes glowing off-amber in the dimness.

  “They will call him the Summer King,” Kjorn said dully, remembering. Any strength he’d had to attack her out of anger seeped out of him and he only felt cold.

  “Shard was called,” she said softly. “And he answered. Will you?”

  “Why are you doing this to me? Just kill me if, you that’s what you want.”

  “That’s not what I want,” she said, and Kjorn found that he almost believed her. She stepped toward him, unafraid. Kjorn had the sense that she was some kind of spirit, that he couldn’t touch her if he tried. Still, she stood so close that he could smell her. His talons seemed numb, empty, useless.

  “You’ve wandered for days on end, son-of-Sverin. In this place that challenges you.” She stood tall. “Weak and empty as a kit, and just as ready to learn?”

  “What would you have me learn?”

  “I have a message,” she said quietly. “A message from Shard.”

  “Oh yes, your brother said. I’m supposed to believe that he lives?”

  “Yes.” Her nose crinkled, exposing the points of her teeth. Somehow, Kjorn thought she looked amused, not aggressive. “When last you saw him, Shard had just come into his full powers as a Vanir. Do you think he feared the sea?”

  Kjorn stared at her, and at last he understood. “He dove.”

  “He dove,” she confirmed. “He released your father rather than kill him, and he dove. Even now he seeks an answer for peace and balance that doesn’t involve turning on you.”

  Kjorn shook his head, feeling heavy. “What…what message do you have from him?”

  “He forgives you,” she murmured. “And hopes you will forgive him for all that passed.”

  Kjorn couldn’t even laugh. He didn’t know what to do. “Everything used to be so simple.”

  “Simple,” Catori said, “because you didn’t know all there was to know about the world. Now that you can listen and see, it may be much harder for you to be as you once were. Come, golden prince, look into the pool with new eyes.”

  Kjorn met her eyes, searching for lies or mockery.

  Then, as if another force lifted his limbs, Kjorn stalked to the black pool. His head slumped and his beak touched the water, sending a ripple. As he tasted the mineral bite of the water, images played across the strange lights of the ripples.

  “Show him,” Catori whispered to someone Kjorn couldn’t see.

  Black wings seem to glide under the water, and Kjorn followed them back through the autumn, seeing through raven’s eyes.

  They slept a little, but at midnight, another cry broke out.

  Caj winced, looking toward the entrance. A few females shifted nervously, but many slept on through, as if the sound were part of a nightmare.

  “I should have stayed with him,” Caj whispered.

  Sigrun answered with a growl, tightening her wing around him. “He’s done this to himself.”

  “Have you no pity?” Caj stared through the dark. “He dreams of Elena.”

  “The Red King is alone by his own devising,” warned a low voice from the back of the cave. Caj’s hackle feathers pricked when he turned to try and see Ragna through the dark. She spoke quietly, a pale shape. “He has quartered himself off alone, and he must live with it now.”

  “Fine advice from you,” Caj growled. “You above all should have sympathy.”

  “I mourn Baldr, but I have no pity left for Sverin.”

  Another nightmare cry echoed down nesting cliffs. Caj wondered how many other gryfons remained awake to hear their king’s sorrowful, angry dreams. The same every winter, every Long Night since his mate’s death, only this was the first year Caj had not been there to wake and distract him.

  Let Halvden comfort him, he thought bitterly. Let him see what a brother is truly for.

  The sound cut off, as if Halvden had heard Caj’s thought through the dark and pulled Sverin from his nightmare.

  “The only way you could help is by flying in the dark,” Sigrun said, her voice frosty. “So he would throw you out for rule-breaking before you had a chance to help.”

  Caj feared she might be right, that the loss of Kjorn had driven Sverin so far into rage that he wouldn’t see reason. He could do nothing until after the Long Night, nothing but wait in the long, cold black.

  “Caj,” Ragna said, and he forced himself to listen, for Sigrun. “You’re his wingbrother. You’re supposed to know all of his secrets.”

  “Yes?” Caj kept his voice measured and calm, for the sake of his mate, and all the females in the den who were afraid. “Is there something you know that I don’t?”

  “Perhaps.” She shifted, leaning forward so that he could better see her face, and her expression was grim. “But I have promises to keep. You should know though, before the dawn, that something far more dangerous than sorrow haunts the king, and I fear it will drive him mad by the end.”

  Caj took a slow, patient breath. “And what’s that?”

  Through the dark she said quietly, “Guilt.”

  38

  Brynja

  Gryfons gathered within the wall of the Dawn Spire and on high ledges and along the stream, laughing and singing and listening again and again to tales of the hunt.

  Some of the older warriors spent their time feasting on fermented fruits and juniper mash that made them grandiose, adding details that had not happened and increasing the size of each greatbeast twofold.

  By the time Shard had washed and gotten a swift tutelage on courting from Dagny, it felt as if the hunt had happened years before. The sun lay low, just about to slip under the horizon and leave them in cold dark.

  Clean and smelling of juniper that Dagny had insisted on rubbing behind his ears and under his wings, Shard trotted confident
ly toward the Dawn Spire. He hadn’t seen Stigr since their argument. Either his uncle was already out feasting on his own, or had sequestered himself in his den.

  He can molt for all I care, Shard thought, feeling giddy. He was going to tell Brynja how he felt. He had to trust Dagny’s ideas and suggestions, for if a wingsister couldn’t help him, then no one could.

  On the dark, nightward side of the Dawn Spire, he found a group of gryfons preparing torches to light the fires. A little fire burned in a pit between them, near a stack of materials that they used to build their firebrands.

  “Hail,” Shard called. One fledge recognized him.

  “Hail, Shard, son-of-Baldr.”

  Shard drew a deep breath, trotting forward, wings open, ears forward. He must look confident. “I stand in for Dagny. She’s ill this night.”

  The fledge who’d greeted him exchanged a look with an older, tawny female. She eyed Shard up and down, fluffed. “The lighting of the torches of Tyr is a great honor, son-of-Baldr, reserved for the higher families of the pride.”

  Shard stretched into a respectful bow, not so much to the female, but the mention of Tyr. Dagny had prepared him for all of this. “I ask for that honor tonight. His majesty Orn has recognized me and I wish to serve.”

  The older female studied him, then nodded to the fledge, who Shard gathered was an apprentice of the fire.

  “Two torches please,” Shard asked, and all of them blinked at him.

  “It isn’t safe.”

  “Would you argue,” Shard asked, careful to keep from sounding arrogant, “that I’m not the best flier of the pride? I can carry two.”

  The older female chuckled and shrugged a wing to her fledge. “Very well. But you’ll hear me laugh when your feathers are what lights our feast tonight.”

  Shard dipped his head in respect, and waited while the fledge selected two long brands and wrapped the ends in a combination of grass, thin strips of hide and old feathers. Then he rolled the ends in a shallow trench filled with pitch from juniper trees. Warily, the fledge lifted both brands and handed them to Shard. He was grateful to see that the fledge had selected two especially long torches.

  “Light them,” said the female gravely, and they all watched in silence while Shard pressed the two branches together, gripping them as he would a large fish, and lowered the ends into the fire.

  The flames licked up, caught and crawled over the ends of his torches. For a moment Shard stared, awed at the power in his talons. Tyr’s flame, the heat of the sun, the power of skyfire, dancing tamely on two sticks. He dipped his head low, gave thanks to the flame tenders, and crouched back on his haunches.

  “You may light the seven pyres in the nightward quarter between the stream and the Wind Spire,” the female told him. Shard inclined his head to her, bunched his muscles and sprang from a sitting start into the air.

  “Don’t fly too fast!” shrieked the fledge after him, “wind can kill the fire, or blow it on your feathers! And the torch will only burn until darkness falls! Don’t take too long!”

  “Thank you!” Shard called down to them. Then he was distracted with managing his flight while neither drowning the flames in wind from his wings, or catching his feathers in the flame. The challenge thrilled him. Soon he found a gentle soaring, flapping rhythm that brushed the flame from his wings but didn’t kill the fire. That mastered, he sought out a certain nest Dagny had told him of.

  Gryfons stared as he flew through the arches and spires with two dangerous torches in his claws. He reached a series of dens carved high off the ground, in a beautiful red wall of a dawnward facing cliff.

  Hovering outside Shard called, “Hail Brynja, daughter-of-Mar!”

  A moment of silence fell. Shard flapped carefully, holding his position, watching the flames of his torches and the horizon. He had just enough time.

  Then Brynja appeared. Washed of dust and blood from the hunt, she appeared like an apparition of red from the red stone and as the firelight touched her face, Shard almost forgot his plan. Then she cocked her head.

  “Shard?” Her eyes widened at the sight of the torches. “What are you doing?”

  “Brynja!” He laughed, angling his fires carefully. “I’ve been honored with lighting the evening fires. Fly with me.”

  Don’t make it a question, Dagny had said. Brynja is kind, but she is from an old, proud, powerful line. Carry the fire to impress her family. Be strong to impress her.

  An older pair of gryfons peered out from behind her. Relief filled Shard, though he trusted Dagny, he’d had doubts—but if Brynja still nested with her parents, then she truly wasn’t tied to any other.

  They eyed him skeptically.

  “Honorable Mar and Byrja!” Grateful Dagny had passed on the name of Brynja’s mother as well, Shard lowered his head in a flying bow. He’d practiced the sentence over and over so he wouldn’t stutter. “I wish for your daughter to help me light the fires.”

  “I don’t—” began her mother, and from her Shard saw where Brynja got her beauty, but Brynja leaped from the mouth of the den.

  “It’s a good honor, Mother.”

  “Be careful!” warned Mar, her father, his gaze trained on Shard. “You’ve never flown with the fire before.”

  “Shard will teach me,” she called. Circling around Shard once, she met his gaze and asked, “Won’t you?”

  “Of course.” He cast one look around, wary of what her parents must think, and of seeing Asvander.

  What about Asvander? Shard had asked Dagny as she advised him on Brynja’s favorite songs, scents, and choice of meat from the greatbeast.

  I’ll keep him busy, she’d said. It wasn’t entirely what Shard meant, but Dagny hadn’t given up more information. The last thing Shard wanted was to be accused of stealing a mate, but Dagny had tutted, assured him they weren’t mated and that Asvander could handle a little competition. Shard had to weigh the worry of losing a new friend against the possibility of pledging to Brynja.

  You’re an honorable gryfon, Shard, Dagny had assured him finally. He ran her words over and over again as Brynja watched him expectantly, her eyes glowing with admiration at the way he held the torches.

  Declare yourself to Brynja, fight for her if you want her, and let her decide. That’s the way. The strong endure, she’d added flippantly. Asvander has plenty of options. How could you live the rest of your life not knowing if she feels the same?

  It was that last sentence that set Shard on his course without doubts. Surely it was his right to at least declare his feelings. Then Brynja could decide for herself. He thought of his single, bumbling attempt at speaking to a female of his own pride in the Silver Isles, and how Halvden had snatched her away at the end of the very same conversation. It hadn’t been right, anyway. Shard hadn’t really wanted to fight for her, couldn’t really seem himself with her.

  “Show me,” Brynja whispered, her gaze flicking to the end of the fire. Shard met her eyes, and almost told her everything. He did want to fight for her, even if it meant putting himself against Asvander. He could see himself flying with her for the rest of his days, as he had never pictured himself flying with anyone except his wingbrother. This was how Thyra and Kjorn had felt, he was sure of it. He wouldn’t bow out easily.

  “Take it carefully,” he instructed. “Keep your wing strokes higher, short, as if you’re just hovering.”

  Cautiously, he turned the brand so that the flame almost licked his face but his wing beats kept it pulsing back. Brynja gripped the end before the flames burned Shard, then laughed nervously. Shard let her experience the moment of awe of holding the fire.

  “Do everything just a little slower. Wind can put it out, but you can also protect it with your wings. Careful—there, you’ve got it.” Shard studied her wing beats, nodding. “Well done!”

  Brynja’s face shone at him like the sun. “This is amazing, Shard.”

  “If you scoop your wings a little, you can dive without putting it out. Do you think you can
do that? And point it down. The flame likes to burn up, toward Tyr.”

  She practiced, dropping a little, wings cupped to protect the fire, holding it out far enough that it wouldn’t burn her. “Yes!”

  “Good,” Shard said, confident she had the rhythm of it. Then he turned without warning and dove.

  “Wait!” Brynja laughed behind him.

  Marveling, Shard enjoyed the moment that she chased after him, then slowed so she could catch up.

  Dagny was right, he thought. She’d promised him that a little adventure would be just the thing to catch Brynja off guard.

  “We’ve been assigned the nightward quarter,” Shard said. He gauged the sunlight left, while Brynja watched him in quiet curiosity.

  She won’t ask questions right away, Dagny had promised, she’ll try to figure out what you’re up to. That’s the secret of most females, you see. We actually do want you to come after us, to court us.

  Unless she blatantly said no or hissed in his face, Shard had retorted, and Dagny agreed. But Brynja hadn’t done that. She’d followed, laughing, and mimicked the way Shard flew to keep her feathers safe from the fire.

  “Should I teach you some of my tricks now?” Shard asked. It sounded arrogant to him, but Dagny had told him to show off a little. Brynja had to know he was worthy of her, that he had something to offer, that he could be exciting and worthwhile.

  “Not with the fire!”

  Shard almost laughed at her panic. “Then just watch,” he said, amazed at how well Dagny knew her wingsister.

  “Shard, wait!”

  He rose higher, folded one wing and fell in a spiral, stretching the torch out so that it formed a swirl of fire, a tunnel that he flew straight through. He heard someone yell in amazement below. Brynja shouted breathlessly for him to stop being foolish, but there was laughter in her voice.

  Shard winged up again, closing his mind from everything else but flight. Lowering the torch, he soared up again so that he flew like the starfire over the aerie. The first unlit pyre came into view and Shard wheeled hard to the side, grazing the dry brush just before he flipped upside down, his torch gusting sparks above him.