By the Silver Wind (50 page)

The sentry turned out to be Dagr, and he mantled to Ragna. “My lady. It’s a relief to see you well.”

“And you,” she said quietly, thinking of others lost in the fight with the wyrms.

They wouldn’t even have been able to bear the dead to Black Rock, though she supposed the Aesir would wish their dead to be burned, later, at Pebble’s Throw, if they could ever go there again with the wyrms in residence.

Other gryfons came forward curiously, and Ragna saw that more tunnels branched out from there. She spied Vidar, with relief, and Caj, who stood up at the sight of them. She would let him deal with Sverin.

“Dagr, will you take me to the other Vanir who arrived with Maja? I would very much like to spend time with them. I’ve waited too long.”

Feeling self-conscious that she had been gone from the pride, that she had chosen to remain with Sverin, Ragna peered around to see the survivors. She didn’t see Halvden.

Before Dagr could answer, a bright voice rang through the cave.

“Brynja!” A gryfess whom Ragna didn’t know, with the height and build of an Aesir but plain, earth-brown feathers, bounded forward from a corner of the cavern. Though Hikaru had explained to her why some Aesir were brightly colored and some were not, it was strange. The new gryfess and Brynja greeted like wingsisters, then Brynja introduced her as Dagny, to Ragna, and then Sverin.

“Oh,” Dagny breathed, ogling Sverin up and down, openly, as if he were not a thinking creature and gryfon lord, but a jewel at which to marvel, a legend. Ragna wanted to cuff her ears to stop her from staring like a witless magpie. She seemed to gather herself, and offered him a slight mantle.

He dipped his head. “Dagny. I believe my mate hunted with your mother, before we left the Dawn Spire.”

Her beak slipped open. Ragna couldn’t watch her silliness anymore. Did she not know Sverin was a warlord, a coward, dangerous, not something to admire? Clearly she didn’t care about his history. She glanced at Brynja, and saw admiration in her face too, though more reserved, perhaps, more aware of what had passed. Perhaps their reactions would make Sverin feel better about returning to his homeland.

Dagr opened his wings for her attention, and she gave it gladly. “My lady. I’ll take you around to the Vanir. They’ll be glad to see you, relieved. We’re a bit scattered now, but everyone’s holding strong. I think some of the gryfesses are even about to whelp. Astri would be especially glad to see you. I don’t know that everyone heard the news about the dragon, yet.”

Ragna should have been happier at the news that the gryfesses would begin whelping, but she could only nod once. She glanced sideways to Caj and Sverin, who greeted and spoke quietly.

“My lady,” Dagr urged, as if the matters of the Aesir should no longer concern her. “Let me take you.”

“Yes,” she said, distracted. She turned to her companions. “Catori, thank you for leading us. Brynja, you’ll be all right here?”

The russet gryfess nodded once, worried for Shard, Ragna saw, but happy in the company of her wingsister. Dagr touched a respectful wingtip to Ragna’s shoulder, and they turned together toward one of the tunnels.

The sight of Halvden, hobbling determinedly down the tunnel, stopped her short and prickled Ragna’s feathers in sudden, vast relief. Then when she saw why he was limping, horror turned her belly.

The wyrm had not killed him, but had completely severed a foreleg just beneath the elbow joint. It looked as if it were mending well enough, a clean cut, patched with black moss and bound with sinew twine. His gaze was fixed on Sverin as he hobbled forward. He seemed not even to notice Ragna standing there in his path.

“Halvden,” she breathed, then gathered herself, and opened her wings for his attention. “Halvden. Son of Hallr.”

The emerald warrior halted with a lurch, still learning his new gait. Yellow eyes bore into Ragna, then he dipped his head a fraction.

She met his gaze, determined not to stare at what remained of his leg. “Thank you,” she said quietly, firmly. It was all she could say, all she had to offer him for leaping to her defense, for risking his life and losing a limb on her behalf. “Tyr will surely hold you in the highest regard for your courage.”

Surprise twitched across his face and he merely ducked his head. “I fought for the pride.”

The pride,
Ragna thought. One pride. She had seen all of them fighting as a single, united pride against the enemy, and now even Halvden acknowledged they were one. She lowered her head. “And you fought well. I’ve never seen a gryfon fight so well, and lead the others as you did.”

“Nor I,” added Caj from where he stood with Sverin. “Don’t you agree?” he asked the red gryfon.

Sverin lifted his gaze to Halvden. He considered the missing leg, Halvden’s proud, unyielding posture, and the desperate need for approval in his eyes.

“I do,” Sverin said at length. “I have never seen the like in all my days. Well done, Halvden.”

Amazement and gratitude warmed Halvden’s face, and his beak opened. He surely would have said something to the gryfon he still considered his king, if someone else hadn’t spoken first.

“I’m surprised you stayed to see him fight at all, Father.”

Ragna turned, surprised at Kjorn’s voice, and at his tone. She had never heard such bitterness from him. He looked taller than Ragna remembered, strong, lean and golden, striding from one of the tunnels with a thunderous look, and straight toward his father.

“B
EFORE YOU FLED, I
mean,” Kjorn added. Any talk in the cavern died.

His father’s expression warped from surprise and gladness to sudden, unreadable stone. Kjorn hadn’t expected to see Sverin yet when he’d come down the tunnel. He’d been looking for Caj. He wasn’t ready, and the shock of seeing the gryfon who had put all of Kjorn’s loved ones in mortal danger plunged him into icy anger.

“Leave us,” Kjorn barked, eyes on his father. Sverin didn’t move, and everyone glanced at each other before realizing he’d meant all of them, not Sverin.

“Leave us, please,” Kjorn said, more quietly, more respectfully, with a glance around. Halvden began to move away, and a couple of the other gryfons followed. Kjorn met Ragna’s gaze across the dim cavern, and offered a low mantle. She and Thyra had taken over the wounded pride when he’d left to find Shard and the truth, and he hadn’t meant to shout at her. Brynja and Dagny murmured respectfully, and Dagny led her and others out of the cavern.

Even Catori slipped back into the tunnel he presumed she’d come from.

Ragna, Dagr, and Caj didn’t move, however.

“It’s all right,” Sverin said quietly to Caj, who looked prepared to stop a fight.

Every feather on Kjorn’s back prickled in outrage.
Am I not the ruling prince, now? They still wait for Sverin’s word to leave?

Caj’s gaze flickered to Kjorn, pained and rueful. He was wrong, he realized. Sverin was speaking to Caj as his wingbrother, not his king, and Caj still honored him as such.

Kjorn struggled against unreasonable anger and pride. He wished he’d had a little more warning, time to prepare, any time to know what to say or think or feel.

The last time he’d seen his father, the king was almost Nameless with his strange madness, and was about to kill another innocent half-blood gryfon for disobeying him. Halvden had told Sverin that Kjorn was an apparition, not his son, in order to protect his own hide. Sverin had fled, flown, shrieking and mad.

He’d thought he would feel glad to see him in his right mind, but all he felt was fury.

“You’re still a prisoner,” Dagr growled at Sverin. “Don’t forget it.”

Kjorn startled slightly, staring at him. The last time he had seen Dagr was when Sverin banished him, in front of his mother and his younger brother, Einarr. The day of their initiation. The day Shard had met Catori . . .

The day everything we were flew apart in the wind.

“Dagr—” Caj began, but the strong, coppery gryfon’s ears slicked back and he marched to the entrance where the others had left, pausing there to look at Ragna.

“My lady?”

“Yes,” Ragna agreed, her green eyes flicking from him to Caj, then Sverin, and Kjorn. “For Shard’s sake, Prince Kjorn, and because you returned and I believe you are a gryfon of honor, we will leave you alone. But remember he is still a prisoner of the Vanir.”

Kjorn’s temper seethed and cooled at once. He managed to smooth his feathers and offer the Widow Queen another bow. He noted her odd stance, that she, like Caj, stood at a diagonal to Sverin as if to partially block Kjorn from him, in an almost unconscious, protective position. He wondered at it. He wondered what had passed since he’d left, since Caj had clearly succeeded in bringing Sverin to reason.

“Sverin?” Caj asked again, low.

Apparently, to his mind, being wingbrothers was more important than following Kjorn or Ragna’s command. Perhaps it was. Kjorn thought of Shard, and couldn’t blame his old mentor.

“It’s all right,” Sverin said again, but his gaze never left Kjorn’s face.

They left. Kjorn wondered. He wondered at it all, wondered if his father’s sanity was so fragile that they were hesitant to leave him, wondered if Ragna thought seeing Kjorn might drive him back to the brink.

But it appeared to be having the opposite effect.

“Kjorn.” A season of exhaustion seemed to lift from the shining gold eyes. He stepped forward.

“Don’t.” Kjorn lifted his wings in warning, half crouching, managing not to hiss in feral anger. “You denied me. You would have exiled my mate. My mate, Father! Your own wingbrother’s daughter. My kit might have died. I believed in you, I believed in everything about you, and you nearly destroyed our pride. I see that others have forgiven you, but it was
me
you harmed above all.”

Sverin’s eyes flashed as he tilted his head, hissing in a breath. Perhaps the rest of the pride’s anger had cooled. Perhaps begging forgiveness before Ragna and all the pride had done Sverin some measure of good, but Kjorn had seen none of that. Sverin came forward slowly, his head dipping low to a submissive angle. Kjorn expected him to defend himself, to claim he was mad, to say none of it mattered.

“Yes,” he said quietly, in a tone Kjorn hadn’t heard since his kithood. “I did all those things. I did, my son. And they broke me. You mother’s death broke me, our cowardice in leaving the pride of Dawn Spire destroyed me, but I have no excuse for what I did to Thyra, and to you.”

It was satisfying and appalling to see his father grovel, and Kjorn’s skin felt tight, hot. He wanted to run. “Thyra told me you confessed something to the pride, but she wouldn’t tell me what.” Kjorn glanced beyond Sverin to the tunnels, but they were truly alone. “She said it was for you to tell me.”

“Oh.” Sverin stopped, shifting, his tail lashing. His ears laid back in dismay, as if he’d hoped someone would tell Kjorn his terrible secrets for him.

“Tell me,” Kjorn growled. “Tell me what you’ve told everyone else. Tell me so I can know who you are, like everyone else.”

The fallen Red King watched him longingly, as if from a much farther distance, as if they didn’t know each other, or would never again be close as they once were.

As we never really were,
Kjorn thought bitterly.

The ember of anger that had glowed in his heart at missing his battle in the Winderost breathed to life again, heating his chest.
We were never what I thought we were. He was never who I thought he was.

“It was about your mother’s death. She did drown . . .” His voice was utterly devoid of emotion. “But she flew out at my insistence.” Kjorn watched his face, his blank, red mask, the regal mask he’d worn for ten years that Kjorn had always mistaken for strength. “My goading. I drove her out, Kjorn, and I—”

“That’s enough,” Kjorn whispered. He remembered the night. As a kit, he remembered his father’s shrieking, he remembered his years of mourning, of at first not understanding where his mother was, of watching his father slip further away.

He remembered knowing the sea was wicked, was dangerous, was to blame. First the sea. Then the Vanir.

“I might have been able to save her, but I was too afraid.” Sverin went on as if he hadn’t heard Kjorn, or as if he wasn’t even there, as if once he started the story, he couldn’t stop saying the whole thing.

The cave pressed in on Kjorn, dark, wet, freezing cold, and he wished there was a fire. The thought of fire made him wish fervently Shard had come back with them.

Why did they need him on Star Isle? Shouldn’t they have been done by now?

Sudden worry for Shard eclipsed his anger, but then he realized if something had happened, Brynja or Ragna would have told him immediately.

“I was too afraid,” Sverin repeated, drawing his attention back. “But Ragna tried. She tried to save your mother, and she kept the secret that I cowered there, watching, and didn’t fly out. And your mother . . .”

“You . . .” The news felt as if he’d been plunged into choking, icy water. “You let her die!”

Sverin’s ears laid back, his feathers sleeked, he looked like a red serpent in the cave. “Kjorn, I beg you to forgive me. You don’t understand how I—”

“I understand.” Kjorn’s voice scratched, cracked. “I understand that you fled our homeland because of the wyrms, and you lied to me and said we were conquerors, honorable, that we were warriors. My mother died because of your cowardice. And you lied to me and blamed the Vanir so much that I didn’t trust my own wingbrother. Then you succumbed to fear and fled. Everything I thought I was is because of who I thought you were, and I was wrong. I understand, Father. I understand everything.”

“Kjorn—”

“You are not welcome at the Dawn Spire.” Kjorn snarled out the words. He didn’t want to hear anymore. “I won back our homeland, and I did it without you. I did it in
spite
of you. So, when I return home as king, you will not be at my side. Consider yourself an exile.”

Sverin gazed at him, then sank down until his belly pressed to the stone. He mantled his wings, and lowered his head.

Kjorn, battling a tempest in his heart, turned without another word. He chose a tunnel at random and walked, hard and fast, shoving past roots and narrow places. Gryfons saw him and quickly backed out of his path.