The Starward Light Page 4

  Brynja felt a purr rising in her chest. Perhaps all the time she thought Ragna was being distant, the widow was trying to give Brynja space to be her own queen . . . “I will,” she mumbled, and fell to sleep, dreaming fretfully of the next “day’s” preparations, and a kit with wings made of fire . . .

  MORNING CAME, BUT IT was night. It was dark. Brynja and the pride moved strangely, as if in a dream, and she stared at stars she’d never seen before.

  After speaking with Ragna about the rest of the celebration, she was able to take a little more time to rest, confident that others could help her see to the details. Watching Maja and Ketil help the Widow Queen, she slowly realized that they didn’t want to control what Brynja did, but only to be noticed, involved, and remembered.

  In the dark, she became intimate with the stars, watching them as she would’ve watched the sun pass overhead.

  The Second Night festivities filled the Sun Isle with song. Astri’s pure, sweet voice led them off with a traditional Vanir lullaby that Brynja hadn’t yet heard. They called it “The Starward Light.”

  The shortest day is done

  The Long Night has begun

  But fear not, my love, the dark

  The dark

  The darkness can be bright.

  Behold the starward light

  Behold the longest, brightest night.

  We rest as winter winds blow

  We sing as the darkness grows

  Fear not my love the cold

  The cold

  We will make the cold warm and bright

  Behold the starward light . . .

  Brynja found herself humming the melody throughout the following day, and into the Third Night, when they honored the dead. It was a quiet affair. Brynja learned that the gathered rowan berries were collected in honor of the dead, and the Vanir used to cast them into the sea. This night, Vanir did so for their dead, but the Aesir cast theirs into the fires, and another new tradition was born. Clouds blotted their stars, and snow flurried around the gathering.

  Brynja watched Caj’s face as he named those who’d died in battle that year, including Einarr, including Sverin. For each name he added a virtue, and cast a red berry into the fire.

  Frar remained seated to name the dead who’d passed by natural causes, but their number was few. The fire popped and sizzled as snow struck it. Through unspoken agreement they lit fires each night to hold the dark at bay.

  Some mutterings and disapproval came to Brynja, from the Vanir. How were they to honor the night and dark if they kept lighting fires? But they’d been in cold darkness for so long, and nightmares followed some of the gryfons when all the light went out. Sigrun had confessed to Brynja that Caj struggled against memories of Sverin and the king’s suffering during the Long Night, and how the light of the fires eased his anxiousness. Brynja never would have guessed by the old warrior’s bearing and stoic face that he suffered any unease.

  But many of the old Vanir grew unhappier as the twelve days went on.

  The Fourth Night, when they taught the fledges the stars and the stories, the Vanir had to lead them farther from the nesting cliffs and the fires so all the stars could be seen. Brynja remained close to the flames, though Shard went with the others.

  She felt Maja, Ketil, and others’ eyes on her, as if waiting for her to extinguish the fires. She refused. The warmth was doing good for herself and the other expectant mothers, and those who were afraid of the dark.

  Besides, if Ragna or Shard had any doubts about her choice, they didn’t speak it, so she assumed they agreed.

  Or perhaps they were just letting her lead in her own way.

  You’ll never make everyone happy, Shard had said. The more Brynja told herself that, the more the voice sounded like Valdis, then herself, less practical and more critical.

  You’ll never make anyone happy . . .

  They ran through their wood stores quickly and sent out gryfons, in the dark, to gather more wood for the rest of the nights. Dagr and the others seemed happy to oblige, though Brynja learned of Vidar and other’s disapproval from Shard after the celebrations of the Fifth night.

  “It’s too cold,” she argued, though she also feared what the Aesir might do if they were faced with the dark without the fire to shield them. She couldn’t ignore the memory of the wyrms, of the nightmarish period of silence and fasting and darkness Shard told her the pride had endured for the last ten years. “I thought they’d be happy to have the fire.”

  “They are,” Shard said quietly, tucking hides about her and fidgeting with the pine boughs. “But . . . balance in all things. How can the Aesir learn not to fear the night if they never really experience it?”

  “The Long Night is mine to lead. And I choose to have light in the dark.” She huffed and settled, staring out of their den where the faint glow of firelight could still be seen from above.

  For a moment Shard was quiet, then he said, “Do you remember when we flew above the fires of the Dawn Spire so that I could show you the stars?”

  Warmth swept down Brynja’s back. How she remembered. “So you could ask me to mate with you, you mean?”

  Shard chuckled, but perked his ears, refusing to be blown off course. “It was then you also saw there was light in the dark.”

  Brynja lowered her head, tail twitching once. He was right. But she knew how the Aesir had suffered in the dark . . .

  “I honor your choice,” Shard said quietly, sitting. “As does the rest of the pride.”

  Brynja nodded once, though she felt uneasy. Her kit had moved a little, but seemed sluggish compared to the fall, and she worried she’d harmed it from her over-exertion. “Will you sing to me?”

  Shard laughed quietly. In honor of the season he began, “The shortest day is done, the Long Night has begun . . .”

  They woke the next black, starry “morning” to commotion on top of the cliffs. Gryfon voices raised—some in protest, some in happiness and surprise. Shard jostled Brynja with apologies as he scrambled out of the nest toward the sound of growing arguments.

  Brynja stretched carefully and trundled up the cliff trail to find him, and all the fuss. Their pride mates had returned not just with fire wood, but meat. Red meat, and birds.

  “This is blasphemous and disrespectful!” Ketil’s voice cracked through the dark. “Already we can barely see the stars because of the fires. Now you would feed us with the same food forced on the pride by the conquerors?” Apparently catching scent of Brynja, Ketil whirled, eyes fierce. “We have not once seen the Wings of Tor this winter, surely it’s a sign—”

  “A sign of nothing,” growled old Frar from somewhere in the dark. “I saw several years without the Wings of Tor in my day. Ketil, remember you speak to your queen.”

  Dagny oozed around Brynja, brushing a reassuring wing against her as she went to stoke the fires.

  “I wish only for my queen to respect our ways. We will not eat red—”

  “It was a gift,” Dagr said evenly, still holding a ptarmigan. “A gift, from the king and queen of the Star Isle. They’ve seen our fires and heard our songs over the water, and wished us a happy Long Night. It’s as simple as that.”

  Ketil fell silent, and fuming. Brynja eyed the meat with longing, but in this, she looked to Shard.

  The gray king dipped his head a little, and she saw him searching the faces of the gathered gryfons, seeking out the desires of the pride. There was a clear line of response between the Aesir and the Vanir. After a moment, she realized he was watching her now.

  Because it was still the Long Night, he meant for her to decide.

  Brynja’s belly snarled. She was certain that hearty red meat would do her sluggish kit some good, but she also felt the icy and expectant stares from Ketil and other Vanir. She thought of what Ketil said, about not having seen the Wings of Tor—the brilliant aurora that usually lit the night skies. Her dream haunted her again, of a sun that wouldn’t set, and she wondered if there could ever really be balance i
n their pride.

  Balance in all things.

  She opened her wings, feeling cold wind brush under her feathers. She had her fires. The Vanir needed something too. “We’ll send word to the wolves that we accept their generous gift—”

  Grumbles and shouts rose, and Brynja narrowed her eyes, loosing a snarl to silence them.

  “We will accept their generous gift, freeze it in the ice near the shore, and partake of it after the Long Night is done. I know how important the vows of the Vanir are.”

  Low murmurs. She saw ears twitching against the starlight. But no one could find a protest to raise against that. To return a well-meant gift—or worse, waste food, would be a more awful crime than eating it a bit later, surely they could see that.

  Shard approach Brynja and nuzzled behind her ears. “Well done,” he murmured. “I know you want the meat. Thank you for waiting.”

  “For you and them,” she said quietly. “I can wait. Now, walk with me please. I have an idea for the Twelfth Night, but I’ll need your help.”

  After that, the energy of the pride waned with the moon, which had been half full at the beginning of the Long Night. The wind shuddered the darkness around them, rattled the dry and stripped branches of the birch, and froze the shallow banks of the Nightrun.

  The sea shushed and moaned with forming and cracking ice.

  Clouds obscured their stars for multiple days of murky dark, glowing violet with their fires when they deemed it was evening time.

  Brynja strained not to wallow in the dark, and was grateful for the second half of the nightly celebrations. The Sixth night they sang lullabies, mother’s songs, which reminded her that the earth needed time to rest and restore, and that the sun would come again.

  It seemed it would never end—but it was only a long night, not an endless night.

  She had to remember that.

  At last, when only a sliver of moon rose and set, it was the Twelfth Night. A strained and sun-starved pride met Brynja’s welcome under the starlight and the fire. Shard and others were ready to help her enact a plan she hoped would make the Vanir happy on the last night of their celebration. Ketil had managed to stir unease, talking about the firelight insulting Tor, driving off the very goddess they hoped to honor.

  Brynja would hope the great mother would understand their need for warmth in the dark. She hoped her last act during the Long Night would appease some of the unhappiness.

  “It is the last evening of darkness,” Brynja called from the top of the King’s Rocks. “Welcome, my pride. My family. Tomorrow we will see a true sunrise again.”

  Some grumbled. Many were ready to be well shed of the exuberant, but exhausting celebrations in the unending dark, yet there was a strange regret too. The darkness gave excuse for longer periods of rest and time in their nests with their families. The kits and fledglings remained unruffled and excited, playing games of hide and seek in the snow and firelight.

  “We thank the stars for helping us to track the days,” Brynja said, her voice firm and hard against the frosty cold and black air. Ears remained tuned to her. “We thank Tor for her light and her guidance. We thank the sea for unending bounty. I thank our hunters, our warriors, our fathers and mothers for their strength and the light in their hearts. And thank all of you for allowing me to lead this Long Night, for accepting my need for warmth and fire in the darkness, though it goes against the oldest traditions. I hope we will find balance in all things.”

  She took a deep breath, listened to the quiet mutters and exclamations. “We are a new pride, making new traditions, so let this be one. On this night, we know the sun will rise again tomorrow. This night, we sit vigil to wait for the sun, because we know Tyr will rise again.” Cold wind raked at her ears and she sucked a breath against it. “The days will grow longer and spring will come. So, let us observe the final eve of the Long Night as we were meant to. We will honor the Twelfth Night vigil for the dawn as the Vanir have for long centuries . . . in the dark.”

  She had planned ahead with Shard, Dagny, and others, and warned those who might be sensitive to the cold as to her plan, but all had chosen to leave their warm nests and attend.

  When she flared her wings, gryfons moved forward to douse the flames with snow, plunging the pride into utter blackness. Gasps and a few happy calls, and unhappy, met her ears, a few moments of wing-ruffling chaos.

  Then, they went still. Brynja waited, with them. Gradually their eyes widened and adjusted to the fireless dark.

  One by one, faces turned skyward. Vanir, Aesir. The littlest kits.

  Brynja looked up, felt warmth at her side as Shard joined her, and with a shiver of awe, saw that indeed it was the brightest night.

  The stars, unhindered by the light of the fires, blazed forth with the might and shocking intensity of the First Light that had ever touched the world. Midragur, the dragon stars, slashed across the sky, revealed in layers of white starlight, violet sky, and streaks of distant copper fire. The Swan flew high above all, a guide. The immense blackness and unending shower of stars seemed, for a moment, as if they would consume Brynja and all the pride. She grounded herself by finding stars she knew—the wolf stars, the High Pack. The Mare. The Talon hovered near the horizon, and Brynja knew the Long Night was almost done.

  No one spoke.

  A gentle, frigid wind caressed them, but she felt the warmth of the pride.

  A pale presence approached, and without having to look and catch a scent, Brynja turned and mantled to Ragna. “Thank you for supporting me,” she whispered, unable to raise her voice against the overwhelming night.

  “Thank you,” the white gryfess said quietly, and it was all Brynja needed to hear. She stood tall again, and they turned their faces to the sky.

  A new light flickered, a faint spear of color. It died . . . then wisped again, like a ripple across the night.

  Brynja sucked in a sharp breath, and held it.

  A bolt of green shot over the White Mountains and unfurled like a shining emerald wing across the sky. Luminous rose glowed and undulated in silken sheets along the green, and the stars dimmed behind the display.

  “The Wings of Tor,” Shard breathed, and his voice made her shiver. “I’ve never seen them so bright.”

  Brynja stared, enveloped in impossible light, color, and dazzling movement as if the goddess flapped slow, divine wings over their heads.

  Cries of joy resounded in the night. Gryfons leaped forward and up into the air to fly and dance in the light.

  A pale form swooped past with a call of “Well done!” as if Brynja herself had summoned the light. She realized after a stunned moment that it was Ragna, praising her again, and more unrestrained in her joy than Brynja had never seen her before.

  The Widow Queen led a flight high into the very light of the Wings, and Brynja’s heart flamed and grew and flew with them.

  In her belly, the kit shifted in a quick surge, kicking and flaring with renewed strength, as if the light shining on Brynja’s face had poured through her into its heart. She was certain, certain then, that her kit would be a huntress, a queen.

  Silhouettes of flying, exulting gryfons darted about in the caress of the shifting lights, and joy radiated from the entire pride like the warmth from a massive fire. The Vanir swooped over her head and thanked her, even Maja, even Ketil. Half-bloods joined them, and even a scattering of Aesir, including Caj and Eyvin. The coppery gryfess met Vidar in the sky, and they swooped around each other in hesitant circles, like younger gryfons on the Daynight. Brynja felt hopeful they might reunite as mates, or perhaps even just mend their wounds as friends.

  The very young and old remained near the fires. Brynja saw Pala curled up next to Frar, and he, surrounded by adoring nestlings and fledges who loved his stories. Astri remained on the ground with Eyvindr, watching the Wings with shining eyes.

  Brynja leaned into Shard, letting herself relax at last under the Wings of Tor, and waited for the dawn.

  “HE PASSED IN THE FI
RST light,” Pala murmured to Brynja and Shard. They stood together in the healer’s den, over the still and peaceful body of Frar. The apprentice had summoned her to inform her of his death in the night. Sigrun and Idunn had flown to the Star Isle to gather what herbs could be found in the new light of day, and they were alone in the den.

  He waited for the Long Night, Brynja thought with a surge of sadness, but also strange relief. He earned his rest. She lifted a wing to cover Shard’s back, for she knew what the old gryfon had meant to him. Frar was the first exiled Vanir Shard had found in the Winderost, the first to come to his beacon, and the most stalwart in making the long and difficult flight home.

  “He told me how pleased he was with your celebration,” the young healer murmured to Brynja, then addressed both of them, formally. “He wanted to celebrate one last Long Night in his home. He died without pain, in his sleep, and Tyr’s first light summoned him to the Sunlit Land.”

  Brynja looked at the apprentice healer, at her startling but appropriate colors, like blood and starlight, and thought what good healers she and Idunn would make for the pride in their futures together.

  “Thank you for caring for him,” Shard said, dipping his head to Pala. His voice grated, tight, as if he’d swallowed gravel. Brynja pressed close to his side. “I’m glad he had good company on his last night.”

  “He will be the first we name next winter,” Brynja said quietly, gently running her talons over the old gryfon’s head, as if he were a kit. “When we honor the dead on the Third Night.”

  “Very good, my lady,” Pala said, then looked to Shard. Her gaze was quiet, serene, a healer’s inscrutable expression. She and Idunn had grown up fast after the wyrms attacked, Brynja thought grimly. “Shall I summon warriors to bear him to Black Rock?”

  Shard gazed at Frar. “No, I’ll find them, and help bear him myself.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Pala said, and mantled low.

  “Go,” Brynja said to Shard, when he looked at her with concern. “I’ll be fine.” She looked beyond him to the growing light outside the den. She thought of the long days of darkness, of the passing seasons, of losing one gryfon after a long life, and of the new lives that would come in spring. They could turn outward again now, do what work needed to be done, be grateful for each other, and for the light.