By the Silver Wind (56 page)

She understood that, and agreed, and then she turned her mind from him, and he was too exhausted to pursue any more dreams.

“Shard!” Ragna’s voice brought him back to his own surroundings. “Shard, come, they’re retreating, we don’t know why. Come to safety. It’s over.”

Then Shard remembered, and his heart skittered. “Sverin—”

“Hikaru has him.” Her voice was hollow. “Hikaru caught him, and even now is bearing him to the Sun Isle.”

“Mother—”

“Come with me, Shard. It’s done. They’re fleeing, we don’t know why they . . .” She trailed off and her green eyes, glassed and weary, stared at Shard, then the departing wyrms. With a glance at the exhausted ranks of gryfons, a light came into Ragna’s face, as if she understood they couldn’t possibly have suddenly frightened off the horde. She looked over her wing at Rhydda, then Shard. “You’ve done this,” she breathed. “You called her off.”

“I think she understands,” Shard said, his voice hoarse in his own ears. “We’ll be safe for now.”

“Come,” she said. “My son, fly with us now.”

Shard glanced once more at the fleeing wyrms, then followed Ragna. Rhydda turned her mind from him, blood and stone. He followed his mother, a point of white in the dark.

K
JORN SPED AFTER THE
silver dragon, shouting the entire way for him to slow down.

He isn’t dead. He isn’t dead.

His father had not finally conquered his cowardice and flown against the wyrms and put himself in harm’s way to save Kjorn’s life . . . only to die.

“Father!” he shouted. The dragon made some sort of musical bird sound that he supposed was meant to be reassuring, and Kjorn shouted again, hoarsely. He didn’t know who followed him. He didn’t know who lived, or had died. He didn’t know where Shard was.

The rage and pride that had swelled to blazing in him had quenched and died at the sight of Rhydda striking Sverin down. Now he was shuddering and hollow. His wings felt like ice, his talons freezing, sticky with blood.

They flew back the same route they had come, and it took too, too long. Much longer than it had taken to fly to Pebble’s Throw, surely. His father needed a healer, not to be dragged through the night air by a dragon for unending, agonizing moments.

It took them a full mark of the moon to reach familiar territory again, to reach the birch wood, the Nightrun, and the entrance to the caves.

Hikaru couldn’t fly through the dense trees and clearly didn’t want to overshoot the entrance to the caves, so he landed in a clearing, and walked. Kjorn landed and loped after him.

The silver dragon carried Sverin the whole way, ignoring Kjorn as he stumbled and followed through the underbrush. Some gryfons still bore torches, and they cast yellow light against the muddy forest.

The river mumbled and rolled ahead, impossibly peaceful.

Gryfons called each other’s names through the woods. Some answered. Some didn’t.

Kjorn thought he saw wolf ears perk and a shadow dash off into the forest, perhaps to deliver news. He looked up once to see a snowy owl staring at him from a high birch tree, shining under the moon. When he looked again, she was gone.

At last they reached the series of stone slabs that formed a cave, formed the entrance to the caverns. The wyrms had dug out one side of it, throwing up earth in horrifyingly large clumps to create a yawning, jagged entrance. But they hadn’t gotten far.

It became quickly clear that it wouldn’t do to drag Sverin down into the cave. So there at the entrance where the earth wasn’t torn to pieces, Hikaru laid Sverin out on the driest stone. He moved away to make room for Kjorn, though he ringed his serpentine body halfway around the red gryfon like a barrier between him and the river.

Kjorn staggered forward.

It was hard to tell where the red feathers ended and the wounds began. His wing was bent oddly, broken, a long slash from his shoulder under the wing joint to his hindquarters bled onto his golden flank. Kjorn collapsed near his head, and saw his eyes were still open and seeing.

“Ah, Kjorn. Good.” His beak opened in a slow pant, the blacks of his eyes pinpointed in the uneven torchlight when they should have been wide in the dark. “Good.”

“Healers!” Kjorn shouted, to no one particular, to everyone. But he knew Sigrun was far underground with the whelping gryfesses. The woods were frozen and dead, no herbs or salves available. And where was Shard? He’d been behind Kjorn, he’d fought. With dread, Kjorn wondered if Shard had also fallen. Desperately, he searched the gryfon faces around him, then, when Sverin drew a shuddering breath, focused in on him.

“Father. Don’t worry. We have healers coming.”

“I’m not worried,” Sverin whispered, staring at him. “You’re well?”

“I’m well. Well enough.” Kjorn didn’t feel his own wounds, though he had them, sprains, bruises, cuts. Shame and anger battled and died in him, he had nothing left. It had been a fool’s mission, and he knew it now. He had fallen victim to his own pride and arrogance and fear.

Gryfons crept forward and stopped. Kjorn felt eyes on his back. Asvander, Dagr, the Vanir, the half-bloods, the old Aesir who had followed him faithfully to his battle. A small number of torches still flickered, lighting his father’s wounds, his face.

“Healers!” Kjorn rasped again.

“A wolf went down,” murmured Asvander. “My lord, a runner went. They’ll be here as fast as they can.”

“No,” Sverin said sharply. “No, tell them to stay, to stay with Thyra, with the rest of the . . .”

When he tried to rise, Kjorn pressed talons gently to his shoulder. It took no strength at all to hold him down.
Where is Shard?
Does he even care that my father lies bleeding?

As he thought it he knew it was unfair, but where was Shard? If he was not there at Kjorn’s side, Kjorn was terrified what that might mean.

He stretched out along Sverin’s side, curling talons over his foreleg, spreading a gold wing to cover the rest of his wounds from sight.

Sverin closed his eyes, breathing slowly, seeming only to be glad that Kjorn was there. For aching moments, Kjorn couldn’t think of a single thing to say to his father.

A murmur broke through the onlookers.

A voice, demanding they make room.

Shard.

“Shard,” Kjorn pleaded. “Shard.” He had nothing else to say. He saw the small, silent, gray Vanir prince shoving through the gryfons, and realized why he’d taken so much longer. He carried moss, herbs, salves. He’d gone to the nesting cliffs, to Sigrun’s den, to gather a healer’s tools.

Kjorn moved his wing, and Shard worked in silence, his ears flat, his tail sweeping across the stone. Hikaru watched in silence, his eyes enormous, luminous. Torches flickered in the dark, and no one said a word. Shard took in the wounds, then pressed the black moss to the worst of them. Behind him, Kjorn saw Ragna, watching with an expression of stone.

Kjorn touched his father’s feathers gently. “Shard, will he—”

“Kjorn,” Sverin’s ragged voice rattled now, as if water sat in his chest. “Kjorn, you must know that I’m proud of you. I’m so proud of you. You are everything I wanted to be. You are everything I hoped. More than I ever was.”

“Save your breath,” Shard said softly. “My lord.”

Sverin chuckled, a low, coughing sound. “Are you glad, Rashard?”

“Of course not.” He stopped, his talons bloody and pressing moss to the worst wound that ran the length of Sverin’s body. “No. This isn’t what I wanted. It never was.”

Kjorn watched them look at each other, and he believed Shard, and knew that Sverin believed him too.

“You dove,” Sverin rasped, and both Kjorn and Shard perked their ears, unsure of what he meant. “When we fought. You didn’t fall into the sea. You let go. You could have drowned me.”

“Save your breath,” Shard said again, working quickly, silently.

“Kjorn,” Sverin murmured.

He looked at his father. “Forgive me,” Kjorn whispered.

“There’s nothing to forgive. I would die for you.”

Kjorn tightened his talons around Sverin’s foreleg. Another scuffle drew his ear and he hated them, all of them, all of them standing witness. They had injuries and friends to tend to, they didn’t need to stand staring like this. He and Shard would take care of him.

“Kjorn.” A panting wolf approached. Kjorn recalled he was a friend of Caj, one of the swiftest wolves of the pack. “Kjorn, your mate is due. She is whelping—she wants you. You must hurry.” Amber eyes flicked to Sverin, widened, and the wolf ducked his head low in apology, his gold coat like a corona in the torch light.

Kjorn looked desperately back to Sverin, whose face lit up at the news. “Kjorn, go. You must be there. You must go.”

“No,” Kjorn growled. “I’m not leaving.”

“There’s nothing left for you to do, here. You’ve done all I—all I ever wished for you. You’ve lifted our curse, Kjorn.”

A thought blazed through him and he lifted his wings, nearly bumping Shard, who he realized had stopped working and was merely sitting, quiet. “Oh, Father. I never told you. Open your eyes, listen to me. We were never cursed. We were
blessed
. Shard told me.” He shook Sverin gently, forcing him to focus, to listen, to know. “A dragon so loved Kajar that she blessed him, blessed the Aesir in the Sunland with her blood. She wanted us to know how she saw us, strong and beautiful. Father.” His eyes had closed again, and he looked pleased, peaceful. He opened his eyes when Kjorn touched his beak to his ear. “Please. I didn’t mean anything I said. Come home with me. Come back to the Dawn Spire. I was angry and foolish. We’ll stand together—”

“I love you, Kjorn.”

Kjorn choked on the words in his throat.

“My lord,” whispered the wolf. “Your mate . . .”

Sverin tilted his head. His talons closed briefly, flexing, as if gripping something Kjorn couldn’t see. “Go to her. Kjorn, always go to her.”

Kjorn’s throat locked, and he looked at Shard, who didn’t return his gaze, but gave his head the slightest shake, telling him to stay. With a breath, Kjorn pressed his head to the feathers of Sverin’s neck.

“Fair winds,” he whispered. “It will always be light in Tyr’s land.”

“Ah, my son,” Sverin said, so softly Kjorn thought he’d imagined it. “I’m no longer afraid.”

A great breath lifted his ribs, relaxed. Kjorn pressed his flank to Sverin’s, and felt the beats of his heart. Then he felt when the heartbeats stilled.

Torch bearers stepped hesitantly closer, spilling light on them so that he would not pass in the dark, and the fire laid his crimson feathers out in gold.

“He flies with Tyr,” Shard said, so simple it cut to Kjorn’s marrow.

“What am I to do?” Kjorn whispered, clenching his talons, looking at Shard desperately, at his wingbrother, around at the torchbearers, dozens of gryfons with heads bowed in respect. “Shard, I did this. What am I to do?”

Shard stared at him, but a different voice answered, low but clear.

“You were always his light,” said the Widow Queen, stepping forward, her head low. “And you didn’t do this. Now, go to Thyra. That is what you must do now. Kjorn, go to your mate. “

Kjorn looked at Sverin. He couldn’t fathom that the great, red body was only a body, that he was gone, that the gryfon he had loved, resented, longed for, was gone from the world.

“Kjorn,” Shard said. “Go. I’ll stay with him. We’ll stay. He won’t be in the dark.”

“Shard . . .”

“Go to her.”

Kjorn managed to stagger up. He hesitated, looking at Sverin’s body, just in case. But he was still. With a soft sound he straightened, raised his head, turned to acknowledge the gryfons who stood vigil.

He was a king, and his father had died in battle, as many other gryfons had died before him. Kjorn managed to keep his head up. They bowed to him, and to Sverin, and drew closer, and the dead king was ringed with the silver of Hikaru’s body and by flickering fire.

Kjorn turned and followed the wolf down into the caves. He barely remembered the walk or how long it took, only arriving where he knew Thyra to be. Sigrun sat outside her little niche in the stone, her face gentle.

“She won’t let anyone in but you.”

He inclined his head, walked in, and stood over his mate. She looked especially strong, and beautiful, gazing at him with bright, brown eyes, her nares flushed pink and her face fierce and so, so alive.

“My lord,” she murmured. “You have a son.”

He looked at the ball of fluff between her talons. It wriggled and squirmed around to peer at Kjorn with huge, hungry eyes. At the sight of those eyes, his world warped, turned on end, and in that moment he understood everything his father had ever done.

A
T DAWN, THEY STOOD ON
Black Rock, and sang the Song of Last Light.

Shard stood by Kjorn, barely able to raise his voice. With the strongest warriors and Hikaru’s help, they had retrieved bodies from the shore around Pebble’s Throw. The wyrms laid low on some far side of the broken lava isle, and the gryfons didn’t see them at all, not when they returned to the island, and not when they took the bodies from the shore and the sea.

Rhydda’s gloomy dreams flickered against Shard’s, as if she sought him now, and he pressed the image of dead gryfons against her, which seemed to pin her in place as if he physically held her.

The final tally broke what was left of Shard’s heart. He watched as Sigrun, her apprentices, and other warriors laid them out. Istren, his wings spread as if he would leap from the rock and fly into dawnward sky. Orange Vald, who was pureblooded Aesir but born in the Silver Isles.

Other half-bloods had sacrificed their lives, two of the older Aesir, and warriors who had flown from the Winderost. Shard stared at the faces of Vanir who had flown home, who’d fought, and died, whom he’d never even met.

He looked firmly away from their horrid injuries, focusing on their faces, and the memories of those he’d known in life.

Movement in the rows of mourning gryfons made Shard look to see Nilsine, with bad cuts mending, approach Rok, who stood a few gryfons down the line from Kjorn. The former rogue stared in grim silence at Fraenir’s body, laid out beside a fallen Lakelander.