The Starward Light Page 7

  “There we go,” Rok said, too cheerily, and plopped down beside him. “It’s decided.”

  Stigr found himself grateful for his friend’s warmth. Then, knowing Asvander was keeping a watch for stray lions, he let himself rest at last.

  They left in grumpy silence at first light, and it was middlemark by the time they returned to the Dawn Spire. Valdis met them near the stream, as Stigr was hobbling toward the healer and snapping at Rok to keep his distance.

  “What in Tyr’s bright sky?” Alviss exclaimed.

  “Lions,” Stigr grunted, glancing around to see the young gryfess from the previous day staring at him with her beak open. “Thanks. Your flower gave me luck.” He eyed Rok sideways, and the brown sentry lifted his beak higher. Stigr thought he saw the sentry slide a single black feather over toward the apprentice, but he wasn’t sure, and he didn’t see the feather later.

  “Well stop staring and get to work,” Alviss said to the apprentice, and she did.

  A young sentry found them as the healers fussed and tended their cuts and bruises. “When you’re finished here, the king would like a word, Stigr.”

  He wondered why his momentary lapse in judgment warranted an audience with the king, when it was Asvander’s place, as First Sentinel, to see to him. Stigr pushed to his feet. “I’ll go now—”

  “When you’re finished here,” said the sentry firmly. “The king was very specific that you be treated for your wounds.”

  “Good because I didn’t want to hold him down,” Rok said, fluffing his wings.

  “As if you could,” Stigr snipped, and sat.

  They bantered while the healers worked, then left, together, to meet the king.

  “ASVANDER HAS EXPLAINED TO me that you weren’t intentionally seeking lions.”

  Kjorn lounged with easy majesty along a lower tier inside the crescent of the Dawn Spire itself, holding informal court. Stigr sat before him, too weary to stand and not proud enough to hide it at the moment. Beside the king, who shone gold in the late afternoon sun that graced the Spire, sat Thyra, daugher-of-Caj.

  Daughter of Sigrun, Stigr thought, eyeing the lovely queen, and finding a disconcerting resemblance to his old love in her fierce face and brown eyes. She inclined her head to him a fraction.

  He returned his gaze to Kjorn. “That’s right.”

  “Yet you knew they might be about, and you left the aerie without any other gryfons to hunt with you?”

  “I had Rok with me.”

  Kjorn ground his beak, looking to Rok, who nodded once. Neither of them mentioned that Rok had joined late, that Stigr had left without him.

  “Stigr . . .” The king trailed off, studying him with unmasked consternation. Finally, he chose bluntness. “You are a valuable member of my pride, and from what I see, your current duties no longer suit your needs or skills. I believe it’s time for your service in the Guard to come to an end.”

  That gave Stigr the strength to stand. “Your Highness—”

  “This isn’t a discussion,” Kjorn said. He lifted a wing, as if to reach out and soothe Stigr’s temper. “And this has little to do with your capabilities. But you strain yourself to breaking for the Guard when I believe there are places where you might be less frustrated, and more useful.”

  “Such as?” Stigr growled. “You mean to say I’m not useful in the Guard?”

  He looked to Rok, but his friend remained silent, and studied the opposite rock wall with fascination. Why aren’t you backing me up? Stigr wanted to scream at him.

  But Thyra spoke, and Stigr heard Sigrun in her voice, and that silenced him for a moment. “I’ve just spoken with elder Kesvar, who tells me—”

  “I will not join the elder circle. Your Majesties . . .”

  The queen continued as if he hadn’t interrupted. “. . . who tells me that Master Lenvir tires of his duties and wishes to join the elders, himself.”

  Stigr paused, glancing from Rok’s stupidly amused expression, back to the queen. “Lenvir. Isn’t he the—”

  “Yes,” said Thyra, eyes shining with mischief. “He is.”

  Kjorn stood and stretched, at ease. “This would, of course, mean that we need a warrior to replace Lenvir in his current position. Someone with some experience, who also holds the respect of the pride. Someone, I dare say, with a bit of a frightening reputation.”

  Stigr looked between them suspiciously.

  “They mean you,” Rok supplied helpfully, and Stigr cuffed his head.

  “If this is because of my wing . . .”

  Kjorn’s gaze grew cool, and he stood, and he was as large and imposing as Stigr remembered. “I would not trust the future of this pride to a gryfon I thought anything less than capable. I believe you have much to offer in Lenvir’s place, and that is why I’m asking you.”

  Thyra stood as well, lifting her pale lavender wings. “We would be glad, honored, if you would say yes.”

  Stigr looked at his monarchs, then found himself looking at Rok, who gave the slightest nod of encouragement. Faced with all of them, and thinking of what Valdis might say later if he refused such an honor, Stigr could only bend his sore muscles and mantle low, spreading his single wing.

  “Then I accept. When will I begin?”

  “As soon as you’re healed,” Kjorn said, in a way that brooked no argument. He opened his beak in an amused expression. “You’ll need your strength. In the meantime, seek out Lenvir and see what guidance he can offer.”

  “Yes, your Highness.”

  He and Rok bowed again, and left the Spire.

  “I should check in with Asvander,” Rok said, pausing. Stigr stopped beside him, noticing the number of fledges gathered around the stream. There seemed to be suddenly more of them than he remembered.

  “See you at supper?” Stigr said, looking over at Rok.

  Rok nodded once, and turned to go.

  “Rok.”

  He stopped and turned at once, ears perking, a sudden, hopeful glimmer in his face. Stigr ruffled his feathers. “Thank you. For finding me last night.”

  One brown ear flicked, and Rok ducked his head. “Of course. Stigr—”

  “See you at supper.”

  Both ears laid back, then Rok gave a forced chuckle and nodded, bounding away to take flight down the canyon.

  IT WAS A FULL TURN of the moon before Stigr felt truly ready to begin his new duties. In the meantime, he worked with Lenvir and rested, as ordered by the king, and apologized to Valdis for getting beat up by lions without her.

  The first day in his new position dawned golden, though a hint of autumn chill touched the air. Stigr looked forward to the change of seasons. And, he found himself strangely looking forward to not climbing the Wind Spire, or struggling to keep pace with the other sentries.

  He found himself looking forward most to his new task.

  And here they came.

  Stigr had chosen new ground just outside the rock formations that formed the aerie, a nice flat expanse rounded by sagebrush on all sides. The dirt was soft and sandy, which would make for some good cushioning, and they were in sight of the sentries, so they would be safe and yet feel the pressure of an audience.

  The fledges arrived in groups and one by one, some trying to fly, some loping from trails leading out of the aerie, and lined up before him with giddy eagerness. They tried to look respectful, Stigr thought, but he was apparently something new and exciting, and they whispered and fluffed anxiously among themselves.

  “It’s going to be hard to hear me if you don’t shut your own beaks,” Stigr said. The sound of twenty beaks clicking closed ended in obedient silence.

  “I am Stigr, son-of-Ragr—”

  One flared his short wings. “Is it true you slew a wyrm without even touching it?”

  “You flew from the Silver Isles?”

  “Is it true you bested six lions last moon? In the dark?”

  “Did you really challenge Lofgar of the Ostral Shore?”

  “Did you once beat Fi
rst Sentinel Asvander in a spar?”

  Impatience and surprise silenced him a moment, then he snapped his beak and lashed his tail. They fell quiet.

  He spoke to the fledge nearest him. “You there, what’s your name?”

  The young male blinked at him in surprise, and Stigr knew why. He also knew his name. There was no other gryfon who bore similar coloring—scarlet face feathers that faded into gold like a sunrise down his back, and eyes of pale summer blue.

  There was not a gryfon in the aerie who didn’t know this fledge’s name, and Stigr had stupefied him by asking.

  “I . . . ah . . .”

  Somewhere, a young gryfess chittered a giggle.

  “Speak up,” Stigr said. “Strange, I know, but you’ll one day meet a creature who doesn’t know you, and it’s rude not to introduce yourself.”

  The fledge puffed up, eyes narrowing, expression sober. “I am Kvasir, son-of-Kjorn, Battle Born, Prince of the—”

  “That’ll do,” Stigr said. “Do you judge others by the stories you hear, Prince Kvasir, or by what you see before you?”

  The prince cocked his head, and Stigr was pleased to see him think about the question. “A little of both, Training Master Stigr.”

  “That’s an honest answer.”

  “Training Master,” Kvasir began somberly, “my father says you will also teach us of the Vanir?”

  Stigr’s chest warmed and he nodded, once. This was Sigrun’s grandson. Many of these fledges had ties to the Silver Isles, and he could teach them what they otherwise might never learn. “Yes, I will.” Another excited chitter rippled through the group.

  “You,” Stigr said to a giggling gryfess. She froze and stood tall, angling her head. She was another quarter blood, with striking jade feathers on her head that blended into pale violet-gray wings. “You’d rather serve in the Guard than be a huntress?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?” Stigr asked.

  Her green ears flicked. “Yes, Training Master. I would rather serve in the guard, like my father.”

  “And you are?”

  “Halla, daughter-of-Halvden.”

  Stigr gave her a second look, and nodded once. “I see you staring at my scar. Do you think having one wing makes me weaker?”

  “No, Training Master.” Her quiet voice carried over the now-silent, attentive group. “My father says surviving terrible wounds makes us stronger than never suffering wounds at all.”

  “Well.” Stigr flicked his tail. “He would know.” He paced down the line of eager warriors-to-be, and raised his voice. “I will teach you all I know about fighting. I will teach you how to defeat a winged foe, and a wingless one. I’ll teach you how other creatures fight, and you will heed me, because they have wisdom and cleverness you’ve never thought of, and you’ll surprise your own opponents with new things.”

  He turned at the end of the line and walked back the other way. Young heads swiveled to follow him. The sun crept over the horizon, painting his new charges in pale golden light. “There are a lot of stories about me. If you work your hardest today and manage to keep your heads out of your tails, I might tell you which ones are true.”

  This time, they remained quiet, and Stigr nodded his approval.

  “Let’s begin.” He rolled his shoulders, and glanced to the lightening sky. “I want you to imagine a sparrow . . .”

  ROK FOUND HIM AT the end of the day, sprawled in the last of the sunlight. “How goes it?”

  “Climbing the Wind Spire was easier,” Stigr mumbled against the dirt. Exhausted, but utterly satisfied with his day, he rolled to his feet. He was not nearly as tired as his trainees.

  Rok watched him stand. “Mbari’s last meeting with the king went well. I thought you’d like to know. He’s taken matters over, but he’s happy to hear we walloped on his rebels a bit. They’ve gone to ground since.”

  Stigr chuckled, and found himself oddly relieved to be out of the Guard, but grateful to Rok for keeping him up on the news.

  “Supper?” Rok offered, and Stigr nodded with a glance at the last rays of sun. Rok fluffed his feathers and turned to go.

  “Rok.” Stigr remained where he was, in the dying sunlight. Important things were best done in Tyr’s light. “I’ve thought about things.”

  “Oh yea?” Rok turned, but this time he was guarded.

  “I have an answer for you.”

  Rok perked his ears, wings lifting a little. “A true one, I hope, and why you waited so long.”

  Stigr shrugged his wing. The day had filled him with purpose, with confidence, and lightness he hadn’t felt since he’d had two wings. “I kept telling myself a lot of things—I was too old, too lame, too content being alone. But none of it’s true, and it all came down to fear of failing again.”

  Rok’s gaze hardened and he stepped forward. “You didn’t fail Baldr. You did all a wingbrother could ever do. I’ll never find a finer gryfon than you, Stigr, nor ask another for this privilege. I’d rather be alone. If you don’t want to, say so, but make it ‘no,’ and not more flying around the question without answering.”

  Stigr nodded, once.

  Then, in the last light of the Winderost sun, he extended his only wing toward Rok.

  “Wind under me when the air is still.”

  Rok’s face brightened and he stretched his wing to cover Stigr’s. “Wind over me when I fly too high.”

  “Brother by choice.”

  “Brother by vow.”

  “By my—” wings . . . Stigr faltered, but Rok continued with stopping.

  “While I breathe,” he said, “you will never be alone.”

  “While I breathe,” Stigr echoed, finding his voice again, “you will never be alone.”

  They stared at each other a moment, then Stigr forced a laugh from his tight chest. “You planned that. How long did it take to come up with those words?”

  “Not long, really. I had to have something ready in case you managed to get your head straight and accept.”

  “Fair enough. Maybe now you’ll heed my advice on Nilsine.”

  “Maybe,” Rok said cheerfully.

  Stigr folded his wing, but Rok left his draped companionably over Stigr’s back, and he found he didn’t mind. “Let’s find Valdis and supper, I’m starved.”

  “Yes, Training Master.” His piping mimic was disconcertingly similar to the fledges Stigr had chased all day.

  “Stop it.”

  “Nooo, Training Master.”

  Stigr snapped at his wing. Rok lunged forward, and Stigr beat him in a race back to the aerie, where the fires were lit and somewhere, a gryfon was singing tales.

  -OoO-

  WATER SLUICED IN A silver curtain across the entrance to Shard’s den. An overhanging ledge and the sloping rock floor ensured the torrent didn’t run into the den, but continued in a splashing waterfall down the entire face of nesting cliffs to the beach.

  If a gryfon turned his ears just right, he might hear the mutterings of the entire pride under the seemingly endless rain.

  “You might as well stop pacing,” Brynja called from the nest. Shard paused, peering out at the rain, then at his mate, whose feathers looked dark russet against the gloom. She flicked her ears forward, watching him as she dangled a frond of sea grass in front of their nestling daughter. “What will you do, fly up and stop the rain?”

  “No.” Fondness for his family and frustration at the weather flicked about Shard’s mind, then he lashed his tail to clear it. “But we must go on with the fishing, or we’ll lose the whole run. This rain promises a heavy winter later, and I won’t have hungry mouths, when we have so many to feed.”

  Brynja nodded once, eyeing the rain. “I know it. Will you take the fire stones? In case of snow in the mountains?” In her distraction, she lowered the frond a feather’s breadth.

  Little Embra, sensing an opportunity, leaped high and swiped the grass from her mother’s talons. “Ha!”

  Shard laughed, pride swelling to see h
is daughter’s small wings stretch, though they were no good for flying, yet. She clamped the grass in her beak and tumbled out of the nest, romping over to drop the grass at Shard’s talons.

  “Da, I got a salmon.” She mantled low, spreading her small wings. “For the pride.”

  Shard dropped to his belly and slid the grass frond close, nodding solemnly to his daughter. “Very well done.”

  She sat up, blinking large eyes in color somewhere between his and Brynja’s, a cool amber like a wolf’s eyes. “May I join the fishing?”

  A soft sound from the nest was Brynja stifling a chuckle, for Embra’s tone was so formal, so practiced. Shard wondered how long she’d been waiting to ask. He stretched forward to nuzzle her ears—which she had yet to grow into, large and feathery gray.

  “Not this year. Every gryfon who fishes must be able to fly. That is the rule, and the only safe way.”

  Her façade of formality and control burst into a long yowl of disappointment, and she shot up to all fours to sprint an impatient circuit around their spacious den. “But Eyvindr is going! And he’s barely older! I take care of myself. And I could catch a salmon! I’ll die of boredom here! And I want to—”

  “Stop it at once.” Shard stood up, lifting his wings, and snapped his beak to gain her attention. Embra rolled to a sulking stop nearer to the nest. Brynja remained where she was, watching calmly from the nest. Since the appeal had been to Shard, she appeared happy to let him handle the tantrum. “Eyvindr is a full year older than you, and he is already flying—”

  “Barely,” Embra muttered. Shard ground his beak against a sharp response. He understood her eagerness and hated to stifle her, but he couldn’t make exceptions for his own daughter when other nestlings would be just as excited and impatient to go. With the rain already a potential problem, looking after curious, flightless kits would be impossible.

  “Embra,” Brynja said from the nest, “your father has decided, and it’s final. Have some dignity.”

  Embra’s ears flattened and she looked briefly to the curtain of rain, then Brynja, and finally Shard. She met his gaze squarely, every feather defiant.