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  “I came from a place in the Starland Sea called the Silver Isles. It won’t mean anything to you until I tell you that it’s now the home of the son of Per the Red and all who flew with him.”

  Shard expected another outburst of murmurs, but it was silent. His tail twitched with rising nerves and he glanced at Stigr—but his uncle was watching the crowd with a wary eye.

  They could have heard a feather touch rock.

  “Per?” Orn demanded. “What is this?”

  Shard knew he had to hold strong, that Valdis had said Orn wouldn’t like to hear Per’s name for some reason. Perhaps, like the outlying clans, Per hadn’t been as loyal to Orn. Shard wondered if it was that simple, if that’s why he’d flown to the Silver Isles.

  “What game?” Orn glared down at Shard. “I’ve offered you honors—”

  “Hear him,” said the queen, from behind Orn and to Shard’s surprise. “He has earned his place here. He hasn’t acted as a spy. My honored lord,” she said to Orn. “Hear him.”

  Shard bowed to the queen and Orn made a rough noise. Shard continued, looking around but letting the faces blur as he spoke, afraid to meet too many eyes too closely. “I flew here to learn why they came to my home, and I think I understand now. They fled the enemy here that you don’t talk about.”

  Uncomfortable shifting began and Shard took a steadying breath, trusting his words to Tyr and to Tor, who’d guided his visions and dreams. Expressions darkened all around him and Shard forced himself to go on. He had to finish what he’d started, or everything was for nothing.

  “And I had to learn why. Because Per and his kin didn’t just escape to the Silver Isles. Rather than take my father’s offer of friendship, Per turned violent, and he and his followers conquered and killed my family. They took our land. Members of my pride, the Vanir, were killed or driven away.”

  The crescent filled with restless, dark muttering. Shard turned a half quarter so that he addressed King Orn and his fierce mate. Sister to Sverin’s dead queen.

  “Thank you for speaking up for me, my lady. I understand you loved your sister. I’ll tell you what happened to her. You deserve the truth, for welcoming us here.” She watched him with her cool blue eyes, so like Kjorn’s, and he could not read her face.

  “The Aesir’s first winter in the Silver Isles was the harshest in many years.” Shard had been too young to remember, but Stigr had told him the tale that autumn. “The hunting was poor. The pride was starving. The females of the Vanir tried to teach Sverin’s mate to fish from the shallows, but she flew too far. She tried to dive. But Aesir wings aren’t made for the sea.” Shard took a breath, holding the queen’s gaze. “She died.”

  A soft, mournful gasp swept the onlookers. “She died,” Shard said again, almost apologizing to the gold gryfess above him. The briefest sorrow flashed over her face and was gone, hidden, behind a cold, regal expression.

  Shard looked around, eyes narrowing. “But Sverin and Per didn’t blame her inexperience. They blamed the Vanir. They blamed the winter and the sea and they forbid fishing. That started a war with the wolves of the next isle, because we forced ourselves onto their hunting ground.”

  They weren’t happy. Shard knew he stood on dangerous ground, accusing their missing kin of violence and ignorance. He didn’t care. He was done pretending to be a begging, grateful Outlander.

  “Last summer Sverin’s plan to slaughter the wolves was turned against him. The wolves attacked us on our own ground.”

  Dark murmurs of ‘dog’ and ‘treacherous.’

  “But,” Shard called, and his voice bounced hard against the stone, deeper, harsher with his growing anger. “Sverin brought it on himself. I called him out. I challenged him.”

  Slowly he raised his wings. He expected to hear chuckles and snorts at the thought of him challenging Sverin, but it was silent. Even Stigr stared at him as if he was a strange, foreign thing.

  “I could have killed him.” Shard stared around, eyes narrowed at the angry faces. “I could have dragged him with me into the sea. But I didn’t.” He drew a slow breath, flexing his talons against the grounding red stone. “I didn’t, because Sverin’s son is my wingbrother. Kjorn, prince of the Aesir in the Silver Isles.”

  “This is boastful treachery!” shouted an old male on the high tiers. “He’s clearly an enemy and a spy. Send him to the Outlands!”

  “Hear him,” Stigr countered. Voices rose in argument. Wings flared, talons slapped the rock and Shard flapped his wings for attention.

  “I came only to learn the truth of the Aesir’s coming. I can help here!” Shard raised his voice against the rising noises of dissent. “I forged a peace with wolves of the Silver Isles. The painted dogs of the Winderost are no different, and not your enemy! The same for the lions, the eagles! You share this land!” Laughter, shouting, argument. Shard turned in a circle again. “Don’t you see, if you all came together, you could fight the dragons, you could drive them away, and claim the Winderost without fear!”

  “The dragons?” shrieked an ancient female.

  “Peace with wolves?”

  “Fight the dragons indeed!”

  “Witless Outlander!”

  “Why did you come here?” King Orn’s smooth voice fell on the din. “Why did you come here, really? You speak the names of cursed exiles and throw out suggestions of war? Foolhardy, wild suggestions for my pride? Who are you?”

  Shard noticed that the queen remained silent, and stared at him with the intensity of the sun. He glanced to Brynja, Valdis, even Asvander, who watched him with an odd, keen look. Finally Stigr, who only lashed his tail, wary. Arguments stifled to low chiding and restlessness.

  “Who are you?” demanded a female of Orn’s tier.

  Shard held his head high.

  “I’m Shard. Rashard, son-of-Baldr the Nightwing and Ragna the White.” Shard dug his talons against the rock. “Rightful prince and future king of the Silver Isles.”

  40

  Shard’s Offer

  The crescent exploded. Shocked laughter and enraged shrieking rattled off the faces of rock. After his tale of Per, it seemed that to claim he was king of a foreign land was too much. Stigr leaped off his tier to glide down and stand protectively at Shard’s side, a solid black rock of gryfon.

  “Fancy you getting better at speaking to large groups,” Stigr muttered, his wing pressed to Shard’s wing, “at a time like this. Now what?”

  “That’s up to Orn,” he muttered, still feeling raw over Brynja, over wasted time, all of it.

  “I will hear no more!” Orn’s voice silenced all. The gryfons stilled, ears perked toward their king, suspicious glances sliding sideways to Shard.

  “Go, all of you, back to the feasting. This is a mockery. The family chiefs and I will discuss this. And you.” He swiveled to stare at Shard. “I offered you shelter, safety, good hunting, and a chance for a place here, and you return the favor with slanderous tales and insulting suggestions for ruling my land. If I find that you are a spy from the clans beyond, here to cause unrest, I won’t wait for the beasts of the Outlands to kill you.”

  “I helped saved the hunt,” Shard reminded him. “I won my initiation fairly.”

  “That is why I give you a single second chance to live in peace here. No more of these tales. You will be silent.” He raised his voice again. “Everyone, to the feast. We enjoyed a great victory at the hunt. Forget the tales this Outlander has told to shock us, and feast!”

  Shard stared as the gryfons leaped down from their tiers or flew up and away to the scatter of boulders where the feast would be held. Brynja and Valdis began to fly, and Orn’s voice cut the air.

  “You two. Stay. And you,” he said to Stigr and Shard. “Valdis, did you know of this?”

  Shard watched Valdis closely. She exchanged a look with Brynja, then bowed low toward the king, mantling. “I did.”

  Orn’s hackle feathers ruffed up and his gaze darted to Brynja. “You?”

  “Yes, my lord.
”

  He stared at them. “You bring friends of Per into my very nest? Into the pride? What were you thinking? I could slap your families to the lowest tiers or into exile for such a thing.”

  “We thought of the queen,” Valdis said. “Who would wish to know of her sister.”

  Orn looked sharply to the queen and Shard wondered, suddenly, if she had known since the first day of their arrival and simply bided her time. If Valdis told her that first day, why? What game are they playing here?

  “Valdis and Brynja acted for us,” Stigr said to Orn, his voice calm and grave. “Everything my nephew says is true. And we’re no friends of Per.”

  “I wish you no ill,” Shard said to Orn. “I don’t want to cause unrest here or hurt your pride. But my pride is hurting. Valdis said you might not give me a chance if you knew my tale. I needed answers here. I have them. I didn’t wish to lie to you about who I am any more.”

  Orn measured him, tail swinging back and forth, then eyed Valdis, Brynja, Stigr, and his queen. “No more talk of these Silver Isles, Per’s kin, or war with the dragons. That is too dangerous a proposition, and the thought will distract my warriors from their current duties. If you abide by that, then you may remain.”

  “Thank you,” Shard said, then, “I have another favor.”

  Stigr made a low, warning noise.

  “And that is?” Orn said, staring.

  “I need to explore the Winderost to search for missing, exiled Vanir of my home pride. I ask your leave to travel unhindered.”

  “No.” Orn glowered. Shard lowered his head, eyes locked on the king’s face, and bit back argument. “An unnecessary privilege in the face of the unrest you’ve caused tonight.”

  “My lord—”

  “If I find,” Orn growled, “that you have been traveling for any reason other than to hunt or fulfill your duties as a pride member, conversing with rogue clans or venturing near the Outlands, I won’t stop at exiling you.” He snapped his beak in warning. “Asvander.”

  The First Sentinel snapped to attention. “Your Highness.”

  “You and the Guard will make sure Shard and his uncle heed my instructions.”

  Without even a sideways glance to Shard, Asvander bowed and murmured assent. Orn excused Shard and Stigr and kept the others back, his voice rising in anger.

  “Now what?” Stigr muttered as they left the crescent.

  “Now,” Shard said, feeling rebellious, “I’ll just have to try talking to someone else.”

  Stigr looked toward the sky. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  The celebration lasted almost until dawn. Shard and Stigr sat alone on the outskirts and ate little. Bits of conversation floated to Shard, songs, the laughter of romping kits.

  “And they won’t even look at us now,” Shard muttered, pacing. He eyed Stigr, lying on his belly close by, picking apart the leg bone of a greatbeast bull. “They won’t even talk about it. Or us. The Aesir like to forbid things, don’t they?”

  “You will be a different kind of king?” Stigr offered. It was more of a question than a statement.

  “Yes,” Shard said.

  Stigr watched him, his single eye hard and bright. “Finally starting to think of yourself as a king? That was something, your little speech. I’m glad to see you won’t need me as much anymore.”

  Shard felt uneasy. “That’s not true, I don’t feel that way. You’re my father’s wingbrother. When we return home, when Sverin is gone, you’ll help me…”

  Stigr stood and stretched. “Shard, I’ve taught you all I can about flying, about fighting, and the sea. What I know about being a king could fit on the tip of my talon.”

  Shard sat down, feeling hollow. Somehow, he’d always had a vision of his uncle guiding him, telling him what his father would have done.

  As if in answer to that silent thought, Stigr said, “You’ll be your own kind of king. I know your father would be proud. And your mother will be there.”

  “But you’ll be there too.”

  Stigr inclined his head and glanced toward the Dawn Spire. “What are we going to do with this bee’s nest you’ve stirred?”

  “I don’t know,” Shard whispered. “I couldn’t lie anymore. I was angry. Maybe it was stupid.”

  “Very stupid,” agreed Valdis’ smooth voice from the shadows.

  Stigr and Shard startled, turning to see the gryfess appear from the dark around the corner of a towering stone spire. She trotted up with Brynja and Asvander behind her. Shard stepped one hind paw back. He didn’t want to see any of them.

  “What did you think would happen?” Valdis looked from Stigr to Shard. “I thought you were going to wait, to let us help you. Now not only did you mention Sverin and Per in one breath, but you’ve suggested that Orn is a poor leader and a coward.”

  The way she said it made it sound as if she agreed, but Shard didn’t dare interrupt her.

  “Be still,” Stigr said, lifting his wings, as if she were a hunting female in his own pride. To Shard’s awe, Valdis lowered her head a little, watching Stigr warily.

  Unease tightened Shard’s belly at the display and he wondered how much things would be different if Valdis was not an Aesir, if that was the only thing Stigr held against her. He realized Stigr hadn’t answered his question about returning to the Silver Isles. He wondered, feeling hollow, what Stigr had wanted to talk to him about, before the Wintermeet.

  “Is that all true?” Asvander asked Shard. “About Per, and his family, and you, fighting Sverin?”

  “Of course it’s true,” Shard said wearily, feeling ill toward Asvander only for the way Brynja stood at his side. “If I were going to lie I would’ve thought of something that wouldn’t get me exiled.”

  He noticed, in that moment, that Dagny wasn’t there. I’ll keep Asvander busy, she’d promised, to give Shard time to court Brynja. He couldn’t figure out before why she would do it if she knew they were promised. Finally it dawned. Why would she have told me not to worry unless she thought she could win Asvander herself? She must have had as much luck as I did.

  His bitterness toward her eased only a little.

  “I’ve told Orn for years,” Asvander said quietly, with a sideways look to the festivities, “that we must take the offensive. That we must fight the dragons. They don’t belong here.”

  Shard stared at Asvander, at the gryfon that he wanted to hate, but couldn’t.

  “But Shard, you haven’t seen them fighting and hunting. Even with all our numbers, it isn’t enough. You don’t know what it’s like. You lose yourself in fear. We can’t keep ourselves together. If we could, it might be different…” He lifted his wings in a shrug.

  The night chill seeped in, a cold wind rising to sing between the red rock towers. The faint scent of smoke and sage stirred Shard’s imagination.

  Maybe they could speak to the dragons. Maybe, like gryfons and wolves, they just misunderstood each other. Or, if they couldn’t make peace, maybe there was another way.

  Shard studied Asvander quietly. “What of help from the painted wolves?”

  Valdis tapped her beak in a laugh and Brynja snorted, “Unlikely.”

  “What of the eagles?” Shard looked over at Brynja, challenging. “What if the wolves did fight with you? And the grass cat prides? What if all the Winderost rose against them? What of my pride? What if you had help from the Silver Isles? Everyone says the dragons don’t belong here. They haven’t been here forever, have they?” A thought hit him and he look around at each gryfon. “Only since Per’s father claimed dragon treasure.”

  Valdis nodded.

  So not only had Per and his kin and friends stolen dragon treasure, they’d brought doom on the Winderost and then fled. Shard’s view of them as conquerors darkened to something much worse.

  He nodded once, completing his own thoughts while the others watched him. “They don’t belong here and you can send them back where they came from!”

  Stigr stared at him. “Shard, this isn’
t our—”

  “You said the lost Vanir would return to the Silver Isles in spring. In what numbers, Uncle?” Shard paced in a tight circle. For half a breath, he felt like a prince, and he stopped pacing to look at Stigr. “What if I sent a message through the winds and the birds for the Vanir to fly to the Dawn Spire? Can it be done? Can you help me?”

  Before Stigr could respond, Shard whirled to face Asvander, Brynja and Valdis.

  “How many dragons are there? Does anyone know? A great pride of them, or only a few?”

  “No one knows,” Brynja whispered, trying to meet his gaze. “No one has ventured into the Outlands to find out.”

  “Then the exiles may know,” Shard said grimly. “If any survive. Exiles, living in the Outlands.”

  The wind picked up, carrying away sounds, and the smoke of the fires gusted between them. Shard faced the gryfons before him, drawing a breath.

  “What if we banded together? Made new allies, re-forged the ties of the Dawn Spire? What if you were free of the dragons, not for a season, but forever?”

  They stood, staring, then exchanged glances. Shard saw their hope, the bright light of the hunt in their eyes—then saw it die.

  Brynja lowered her head, ears flat. “Orn would never agree.”

  “You forget who has the loyalty of the Guard,” Asvander said, fluffing.

  Brynja flashed Asvander an admiring look and an ugly creature wriggled up in Shard’s heart. He looked away.

  “There are enough loyal,” Brynja said uncertainly after seeing Shard’s expression. “Loyal to Orn, and afraid of the enemy, who would keep their kin from fighting.”

  “The Lakelanders would follow me,” Asvander insisted. “And those most loyal to them. We could fly to the Ostral Shores, and to the plains, the Vanheim shore, to the scattered clans that don’t nest at Dawn Spire!”

  “You’re speaking of full rebellion now,” Brynja said quietly.

  “Orn is an old coward,” Valdis muttered, and Shard and Stigr looked at her in surprise. She lifted her head proudly. “A pathetic replacement for the line of Kajar.”