By the Silver Wind (2 page)

It was not a dream.

It was a memory.

Rhydda’s eyes snapped open.

S
HARD HIT THE SALT WAVES
with a hard splash after a flailing, spiral dive. Turning about, he kicked hard to break the surface again and gasped before hacking up bitter water. Wind buffeted around him and white-capped waves slapped his face. All around him, gryfons dove and struck the water, and he watched them with a critical eye. He had purposefully illustrated a poor crash landing, and how to correct.

The salty waters of the landlocked lake claimed by the gryfon clans of the Ostral Shores proved to be the perfect training grounds for young, exiled Vanir. Shard knew they would need both strong swimming skills and the ability to save themselves and fly out of the water during their long flight home.

Thinking of home, Shard recalled his dream. The lake seemed to disappear from around him, and the memory of the she-wyrm’s mind and memories held him fast.

Rhydda,
he thought with bright surprise,
did we dream together?

“Good!” hollered Stigr from the shore, snapping Shard from his thoughts. Alert, he paced as Vanir pelleted the water like gulls. The old warrior gryfon might have been missing both his left wing and his left eye, but he still knew flying and swimming better than any gryfon Shard knew, and he was grateful for the assistance. He would tell Stigr about the dream later. “Well done, Keta!”

A high keen answered Stigr, triumphant, and the young gryfess he’d addressed not only dived with ease, but flapped hard from the water and took to the air again as easily as a tern.

A born Vanir,
Shard thought. Many of them, so desperate to return home and hungry for their birthright, had learned the skills faster than Shard ever had. For the last days they’d swiftly learned and rediscovered fishing, swimming, and their own lore.

Chilly in winter, though the sun remained warm in the day, the conditions were the perfect proving ground for any who meant to make the flight over the sea. A high wind had risen at dawn and white-capped the lake all day. For nearly a moon the entire Winderost had been obscured and buried under the falling ash of a volcano called the Horn of Midragur, but within the last couple of days the air had settled and cleared. Now, everything seemed extra sharp, bright and hopeful in contrast. It was a perfect day to fly and practice and Shard wished he could focus on it.

“Toskil,” he called to a gray and brown gryfon, who floundered to right himself and sort out his wings. “Use your wings like fins. Try to spread them and just float.” He swam toward Toskil, a Vanir his own age just recently rescued from the wasteland that gryfons of the Winderost only called the Outlands. “And I know it’s frightening, but try to dive head first. You’re less likely to strain a wing or break a bone. Watch the gulls and terns.”

“Yes, sire,” Toskil said, shaking his head and flinging droplets of water everywhere.

Shard almost corrected him to use his name, but stopped himself. Stigr insisted that the Vanir needed a prince, needed a king, though he knew Shard preferred informality.

Let them serve you. Let them respect and honor you. For one thing,
the gruff warrior had said more than once,
you blazing well deserve it.

So Shard merely dipped his head as Toskil sorted himself and corrected into a respectable floating position. Stroking the water slowly, he watched as Toskil paddled noisily away from him to try flying out. He looked around for any struggling Vanir, and was pleased to see them helping each other, the older ones remembering their skills, the younger calling advice to their peers. As they learned fishing and swimming, they also strengthened, grew healthier, shed any lingering sickness or weakness from the Outlands.

They were beginning to look like Vanir again. They were almost ready to fly home, once Shard’s business in the Winderost was done.

Water swirled around him, alerting him to movement just before a gryfess face popped out of the waves in front of him.

He had a flashing second to see fierce gold eyes and red-flecked cheeks before hearing a war cry of, “Sea wolf attack!” The gryfess surged forward and shoved him under the water.

Shard shrieked out a shower of silver bubbles and wrestled away, more wiry and agile than she in the water, though her grip was strong. He twisted and stroked his wings hard, breaking the surface again two leaps away. Talons caught his tail just as he gasped a breath, grabbed his wing joint and his shoulder, and dragged him under as she used him to climb up and emerge from the water.

Shard grasped her foreleg and thrust his head from the waves again, shaking his head to shower her. “I submit!”

“Then you’re sea wolf food.” Brynja flicked water from her ears. The joke was a weak one. It hadn’t been so long ago that Shard had nearly been killed by whales in the arctic ocean. “How was that, my prince?”

“Just fine,” Shard said, laughing, still gripping her foreleg gently. “If we see battle in the waves, I know you’ll hold your own. But I knew that anyway.”

Stockier than he, with russet feathers and the broad, strong wings of an Aesir, Brynja displayed a very different picture than the rest of the diving gryfons. Her voice lowered. “Well done enough for a Vanir, or just for an Aesir, pretending?”

“As well done as any of us,” Shard said, ignoring the eyes on them from the shore and the air. “Even Stigr approves.”

He meant it in more ways than one. He thought of telling her about his dream right then, but decided against it, for she seemed worried about other things and he only wanted to reassure her. She searched his face, then nodded once at his encouraging look, nipped his ear, and dove under the water again. Just like the younger Vanir, she was anxious to prove herself, though for different reasons.

Shard let out a slow breath, and before he could pursue, heard his name called.

“My lord! Rashard, a moment, sire!”

He closed his eyes briefly at Ketil’s voice, gathering his strength. The older Vanir gryfess was invaluable, strong, a great huntress, and a member of his pride who had suffered long years in the Outlands. He had the utmost respect for her, but she was ever after him for something
.
Rather than fly, for his wings ached from repeated diving exercise, he swam back to shore and shook himself, ruffling and settling his feathers in the late afternoon light.

Ketil trotted up to him on the pebbled beach, mantled briefly, and looked out over the water.

For most of the time Shard had been a prince, there was only his uncle, or he’d been alone. Being a prince was much different once he was actually surrounded by subjects.

“Frar is insisting that the Aesir conqueror means to send us into battle against the wyrms again, though this time for his glory, and not your aide.”

“Kjorn,” Shard said tightly. “His name is Kjorn.
Prince
Kjorn, and I doubt Frar heard correctly. Kjorn wouldn’t do that.”

Ketil didn’t seem to hear, her gaze roving out and ears perked toward the water instead. “I’ve tried to assure him you won’t let this happen, but he goes on.”

“I’ll speak to him, thank you for telling me.” He stretched a wing toward the water. “Keta is doing well.” The young gryfess circled, preparing for another dive. He’d changed the topic purposefully, and quickly realized he should’ve chosen a different one.

“You think so? I agree.” Ketil’s gaze grew keen, and she paced into the water, tail flicking like a stalking huntress. “Very well indeed. As if she’d been raised on the Copper Cliffs of home like any Vanir.” She looked over her wing at Shard. “She’s learning fishing. A fine huntress on land too, though we won’t need to worry about that when we arrive home.”

“I’m sure she is,” Shard said, keeping his voice neutral. “She’s endured much.”

“Yes, but see how she rebounds now.” Ketil’s voice nearly shivered with pride. And calculation. “See, there, how she teaches the others, and leads them.”

There it was, the hinting. Shard flexed his wings, hoping they would dry before night fell again. “I’m very proud and pleased for her, and glad to have her in my pride.”

Keta prowled out of the water, and shook her talons daintily. “As you should be. If you’ll permit me to say so,” she used that phrase often, and always said whatever it was with or without permission, “you might come to know her better.”

Shard inclined his head. “I’ll come to know all of you better as we go on.”

“You are the very image of Baldr.” The older huntress’s gaze traveled over him, respectfully. “I know you’ll do all you can to honor his memory.” She always appeared to approve of everything about him, save one thing.

“Shard,” Brynja called as she trotted out of the water, pausing to shake and fold her wings. Ketil looked firmly away, watching the Vanir dive. “We should start the fires now, before dark.”

“Agreed. Ketil, fair winds.” Shard inclined his head to say goodbye.

“Sire.” Her gaze was locked on the lake and her own daughter.

Shard’s feathers prickled in irritation. At one time in his life, not so long ago, he would usually let slights pass. He’d rarely been in a position to defend himself or to demand respect from others. Sometimes, he still counted it not worth his time to argue over matters of simple pride.

But a slight to Brynja, he would not let stand.

“Ketil.” She looked at him, and his tail lashed. “You will acknowledge a fellow member of your pride, and your future queen.”

Brynja drew herself up, ears perking. They had not formally mated yet, but all who watched them could see their intention, and it was one of few times Shard had said it out loud.

Ketil turned slowly, lowering her head not in respect, but in the manner of a wolf, defensive, challenging. “As a huntress, you have my respect. As a warrior who faced the enemy and flew with fire, I honor you. But I did not spend ten years in exile to acknowledge an Aesir as my queen, and I will not, until you have locked talons and vowed under the light of Tyr and Tor.” She looked between them. “And I still hold hope you will both come to your senses and see the folly of this. My lord.” She dipped her head. “Brynja.”

With that, she stalked away.

Shard growled low and moved to follow.

“No,” Brynja murmured. He turned to her, expecting to see doubt. But her ears lay flat, her eyes narrowed in determination. “Don’t bother. If she wants to wait until we’ve made our vow, so be it. Who knows, maybe you will come to your senses.” She was teasing, but Shard only prickled.

“That’s not funny.” He walked to her and butted his head against her wing, then preened lightly on her neck. “I’ll make my vow right here,” he murmured into her feathers, “on this shore, under this sun.”

Brynja laughed, wincing away as if he’d tickled her. “No, my prince. It must be right. It must be at your—at
our
home. In the Silver Isles, on the Daynight as you have watched others vow before you. I want no more reason for anyone to call our decision to mate a cursed one.”

Shard stepped back, feeling warm, feeling grateful for her honesty and for wanting to honor his traditions. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is.” She studied his face with a warm expression. In the sunlight her feathers looked aflame, and Shard’s thoughts flashed on the Battle of Torches, when he’d first seen her again. Fire, smoke, and hulking, roaring wyrms clustered in his thoughts, and with apprehension, he thought of his dream.

Brynja tilted her head. “What’s wrong, Shard?”

He glanced toward the Vanir swooping and diving across the lake. “The most vivid dream of Rhydda that I’ve had. I think, maybe, I communicated with her.”

Her eyes widened. “As Groa said you could?”

She spoke of the spirit of a gryfon priestess who had appeared to Shard, and taught him about dreaming. He ducked his head, lowering his voice. He didn’t want everyone to hear, just yet. “I’ll tell you more after supper.”

“I hope you do,” she said quietly, following his cue. “And Kjorn.”

“Of course,” Shard said softly, and leaned in to touch his beak to Brynja’s cheek. “I must see to the fires now.”

He backed away and mantled to her, and she to him with a concerned look. Then she slipped away to help with the division of fish for supper, and as the last of the Vanir swam or flew from the water, Shard left to light the evening fires. Since Shard had acquired fire stones in the Sunland, they didn’t have to keep fires burning all night and all day as they once had at the Dawn Spire—Brynja’s home, and where Shard had first seen gryfons using fire at all. Now they rebuilt the fires every night, to give themselves warmth, and more time in the evening to see and to plan.

Remembering Ketil’s original purpose in speaking to him, Shard reminded himself to seek out Frar, the first and oldest of the exiled Vanir who had come to his beacon in the Outlands nearly a month ago, and reassure him that they would not send any unwilling Vanir into battle again.

Stigr found him as he struck sparks onto the last of the brush piles.

“Well Ketil’s in a crosswind,” Stigr said, sounding more amused than anything. “And she’s complaining to everyone but me. What did you do this time?”

“The same as every time.” Of course Ketil wouldn’t go to Stigr. Though he was Shard’s closest friend and relative present, a leader among the Vanir, he too had inadvertently bonded with an Aesir huntress. This must have disqualified him, in Ketil’s estimation, from offering any help to sort out Shard’s affairs.

“She still wants you to mate with that daughter of hers?”

“Or any Vanir, but I’m sure Keta is her first choice.” They backed away as the tinder caught and the blaze crawled over the dry wood.

Stigr watched the fire with his single eye, pale moss-green like Shard’s eyes, though Shard didn’t resemble his uncle in any other way. Half a head shorter, slighter, and gray of feather rather than black, Shard could only really claim his uncle’s teachings to give them similarity. “Best of luck. I know you won’t let them bully you.”

Grateful for his uncle’s simple, uncomplicated assessment, Shard nodded once. It was beyond the scope of any gryfon to meddle in another’s mating decision, and while Shard wished his decision was less complicated, he would choose no other.