By the Silver Wind (6 page)

Or so he had appeared. After nearly ruining the pride that winter, he’d fled, Nameless, into the wilds of the Silver Isles. Only his wingbrother had pursued, to find and restore him. Now the shame of his lies and his failures crushed down on his bearing, shadowed his eyes, hollowed his voice. Now the golden chains that had once adorned his crimson feathers in kingly fashion were wrapped around and around his wings, binding them.

His ears turned slowly, his gaze darting to the entrance, where the younger warriors watched, nearly unblinking, for any sign of aggression. “Then I will starve.”

Andor made a quiet noise of disgust and Ragna silenced him with a twitch of her tail.

“Then you will never see Kjorn again,” Ragna said, firm and cool, but not cruelly.

He watched her. Silent. The fallen Red King. Ragna had to admit to herself that now, now that he’d confessed his failures and stopped masquerading as a fearless tyrant, he didn’t look paranoid at all.

From the entrance, Halvden spoke, his voice low. “My lord, you must eat. The fish isn’t so bad, once you get used to—”

Sverin’s head flew up. “Silence, deceiver.”

Ragna looked between them. Halvden ducked his head, ears flat. Though he’d redeemed himself a little in helping Caj to hunt Sverin down, the young warrior had done all he could to undermine peace in the pride, and Kjorn, and to drive Sverin’s madness further. Caj had helped him see his errors, and still his loyalty to Sverin didn’t waiver. Ragna had to admire that, at least, had to respect that he was trying.

“He is right,” she said. She glanced at the fish, resisting the urge to step back from Sverin, holding her ground. “You must eat. This martyrdom is pointless.”

“I would choke on it. It represents my most evil act of cowardice.”

“It’s a fish,” Ragna growled.

Sverin measured her, and the fish lie between them, smelling of wet meat and the sea. “To you it means freedom, my lady, to practice your ways. To me it means the first step back into Nameless madness.”

Ragna stared at him, then at the fish, and for a moment, almost laughed again, but more in consternation. “That’s a long leap even for you, Sverin. I don’t think a fish will drive you mad.”

“Don’t you? I’m not so sure. Unless you’re doing it to punish me, or ensure that I won’t eat.”

Ragna growled, and almost stepped toward him. Sheer instinct and wariness of his size held her back. “Don’t be foolish. I wish you to live, to suffer for what you’ve done. You will face my son, and justice.”

“I’m not arguing the point, my lady. I’m asking you to see mine. To you, fish is freedom,” Sverin repeated quietly, eyes locked on hers. He didn’t move. He wasted no energy, like a mountain cat, standing, staring at Ragna. “To you it represents your peace. To me, it is something else.”

Ragna knew it. The conquering Aesir had forbidden the entire pride from fishing when an Aesir huntress died in the attempt. One huntress. Sverin’s mate.

He spoke quietly. “When you tasted fish again, did you think happily of your son, brother, perhaps even your mate—?”

“I see your point,” Ragna cut in sharply.

He inclined his head. His silent, sane expression—at last sane, at last grieving and accepting and humbled—gave her pause, and she found herself on the absurd edge of apologizing for giving him fish when she knew what it meant to him.

Scuffling talons and paws drew their gazes to the entryway. Caj, Sverin’s burly, cobalt blue wingbrother, had climbed into the den between the two sentries with a dark expression on his face, striding forward without asking permission. Both wings closed, one still packed in a mud cast.

Sverin’s expression cleared somewhat. “Caj. How fares the wing?” His gaze slid to green Halvden, who bowed his head. During the dark winter, it was Halvden who had tried to murder Caj in a wild effort to take his place at Sverin’s side, Halvden who had broken Caj’s wing. It was also Halvden who had helped to find Sverin and bring him back to the nesting cliffs.

What a merry band we are,
Ragna thought wearily.

Caj lifted his good wing. “They’ve told me you won’t eat. Sverin, it’s unacceptable. Don’t you want to see Kjorn?”

Sverin dipped his head, gaze switching to Ragna.

“The meat . . .” She shook her head. “He won’t eat the fish.”

Caj looked at Sverin, measuring, then the fish, then Ragna. “My lady. Is there nothing we can do?”

She had been the one to summon Caj to Sverin’s den. He was not an unreasonable gryfon, he was her wingsister’s mate, but he was still Sverin’s wingbrother. Of course he would be loyal. And in the face of both of them, she couldn’t remain blindly obstinate.

“I’ll find you red meat,” Ragna said shortly. “If anyone will hunt with me on your behalf, now.”

There was a part of her, a small, ugly creature within her that enjoyed seeing Sverin brought low, that enjoyed being able to say whatever she was thinking without fear of death or banishment. She had to rise above that petty urge.

Sverin ducked his head in acknowledgement, almost humble, but that Ragna spied the slow twitch of his tail. “Thank you for your concern, my lady.”

“It isn’t concern for you.” She grasped the fish firmly in her talons. “Rest assured that I will do all in my power to keep you whole and healthy until you have faced Rashard again.”

Both Sverin and Caj murmured low, in thanks, though she saw their tension. She took the fish from the den and winged out into the dark, intending to take the meal to Sigrun in case any of her pregnant charges were hungry. In the morning, she would see if there was any gryfon left in the pride willing to help her hunt for the disgraced War King.

F
IRST LIGHT SAW GRYFONS
of the Ostral Shore gathered on a flat expanse some leaps away from the nesting area, just before the landscape changed to hills.

Shard’s challenge had become a subject of gossip and great interest. Especially when word was passed around that he and Asvander were friends, that they had not always been, that Asvander had beaten Shard in a contest at the Dawn Spire when Shard first arrived in the Winderost. Even more of interest was Brynja’s dignified silence, and her refusal to tell anyone whom she hoped would win.

Shard stood with Stigr at the edge of what had become a large ring of spectators, warming his wings and muscles in the dawn light and wishing they’d opted for a later time. Peering around, he saw Brynja, who lifted her beak and perked her ears in encouragement. She hadn’t liked the idea of the duel, but understood Shard’s principle of the thing. They were both Asvander’s friend, and settling the matter would be best.

To Shard’s surprise, he saw Vanir threading through the growing crowd of onlookers. Ketil, Keta, and her nest-sister Ilse filtered to the front to watch. Toskil and another, old Vanir named Frar sat further back, and when he caught their gazes, they called encouragement.

More gathered, and amused Lakelanders let them to the front to see, as the Vanir were almost all shorter.

“You look surprised that your pride is here to support you,” Stigr said as he came up beside Shard.

“I suppose I am. They know I fight to win Brynja, in a way.”

“They support you, Shard. You.” Stigr eyed him up and down, as if assessing his readiness. “You’re their prince.”

“Ketil doesn’t look happy.”

“That doesn’t mean she hopes you’ll lose, Shard. You represent the Silver Isles and all the Vanir and you have a reputation to uphold now.”

Shard had felt relaxed and ready, but his muscles tightened at those words. “Oh, thank you. That doesn’t make me nervous at all.”

Stigr laughed, causing Shard’s feathers to prickle in irritation. “Have faith. All of us do.” He jerked his head to make Shard look back toward the Vanir. Standing there too was Kjorn, bright in the morning, with his head high. He hadn’t wanted Shard to fight, to cause ripples, but there he stood in support. Shard drew in a long breath.

“Fight well my prince,” Stigr said, mantled quickly, and drew away.

“Fair morning winds, clans of the lake!” roared Asrik, gliding overhead. He landed hard in the middle of the ring of spectators, looking pleased that the entire pride appeared to be there, gawking and ready for a fight. “You have come to witness the challenge between Shard, son-of-Baldr, and Asvander, my son, who has until this morn been promised in
mutual
agreement to Brynja, daughter-of-Mar, of the Dawn Spire. This promise hearkened back to the days of Oster and En . . .”

He recited the history, as if they hadn’t just heard the song the night before. At last Shard spied Asvander, striding determinedly forward through the other big, rough gryfons. He met Shard’s gaze and dipped his head, resolved, but not unfriendly, Shard thought.

At least no one expected a fight to the death. It only then occurred to Shard what would happen if he lost. Brynja would be expected to keep her promise to Asvander, or risk shaming him all over again by choosing Shard anyway.

Shard flexed his talons against the earth and stretched his wings. He would not lose.

Asrik finished his introductions with, “And when the fight is done, let no gryfon, common or royal, contest the fair results.” His fierce gaze passed from Asvander to Shard himself, and he opened his wings. “You do not stop for pain, blood, or broken bone. You fight until one yields.”

Folding his wings, he bowed out of the ring. Some gryfons shuffled back as Shard and Asvander stepped forward. Shard looked across the expanse at his friend, and a sense of foolishness washed over him. With a glance behind him, he saw Brynja, watching with perked ears and an entirely neutral, huntress’s look of observation.

As Shard forced his muscles forward to circle the ring and Asvander did the same, Shard distantly recalled Kenna, a Vanir from his home pride. He’d thought they might have become something more, for she was half Vanir, but she had tripped away with Halvden, a larger, stronger, louder gryfon.

As his talons crunched the frost, Shard recalled with irony how he’d wished for a female who didn’t want him to win a contest of strength in order to win her. With a final look at Brynja, he realized with mingled shame and happiness that he’d found one, and there he was, fighting anyway.

Beside Brynja, tall and shining in the light, was Kjorn. He met Shard’s gaze with firm encouragement, but Shard noticed the undertone of worry. Shard wasn’t sure if the worry was over losing clan loyalty at the challenge, or worry for Shard being injured, but either way the look didn’t inspire confidence.

His gaze flicked to the Vanir. Ketil watched him, her gaze keen, hard, and hopeful. Toskil and Ilse murmured to each other, while Keta watched Shard with bright optimism. Shard found Stigr, who nodded, and beside him, old Frar, staring at Shard as he might stare at the rising sun. Frar believed he would win. A spark flicked up in Shard’s heart.

Someone shouted for them to start fighting, they couldn’t wait all day. Shard shook himself and raised his head, looking again to his opponent, who had been waiting.

In that moment he saw Asvander’s gaze flick to the side, and remembered Stigr’s first tip. As the big Lakelander leaped forward, talons raking toward Shard’s right shoulder, Shard ducked and slid away. The match was on. Stigr’s next advice had been for Shard to do something Asvander had never seen before. Shard had confessed to observing and learning from the warrior dragons of the Sunland.

Do that, then,
was all Stigr had said.

Air,
Shard thought, thinking of the stone rings the dragons used to train, mimicking the elements.
I am air.

Asvander spun, and Shard had to admire his speed relative to his size as he dodged away. But Shard had fought gryfons, wyrms, and Sunland dragons.

Once, he would have had to plan every move and attack and defense. Now his body fell into fighting rhythm, one especially that he had learned in the Sunland that Asvander wouldn’t have seen before. Based on qualities of the elements of wind, earth, water, and fire, it dictated his responses to Asvander’s attacks.

The Lakelanders grumbled and shouted for blood, for Shard to stand and fight.

I am the Vanir,
Shard thought,
and I will fight on my terms, not theirs.

Asvander whipped in with a flurry of frustrated swipes and his snapping beak, and Shard fell back. And back, circling backwards as Asvander advanced. He didn’t scramble or hurry, but dipped, dodged and planted his hind paws firmly with each evasion.
Air, air, earth
—he blocked Asvander’s slashing talons—
air—
he slid away.

Hearty cheers and shouts from the Vanir of, “Shard! Shard, the prince!” sent strength to his heart.
I am the Silver Isles, the Vanir. And we are as strong and unending as the sea.

It came to him like a bright wind. He would win the fight not by forcing a yield, but by outlasting Asvander.

Water . . . use his strength.

Asvander shoved forward again, and Shard dropped to his belly and rolled forward into the charge, causing Asvander to all but trip over him and skid face-first in the dirt.

The Vanir roared their approval. Stigr shouted, “Ha, fast as a falcon!”

Unable to catch Shard on the ground, Asvander roared his frustration and shoved up to leap at Shard from the air.

As Asvander dove, Shard held his ground, facing down the open beak and big, curved talons. Just when Asvander’s expression changed to panic that Shard had not moved, Shard dropped to his belly and darted forward under the dive.
Air. I am wind, which does not tire or yield.

With no time to correct, Asvander crashed hard in the dirt again and rolled.

Ketil shouted for Shard to attack while he was down. In the Sunland, Shard might have attacked. But that was for a different goal—to drive an opponent from the ring. Here, he had to follow his new plan.

He circled, flexing his wings. Asvander lurched up and around and watched Shard with renewed, wary calculation. With a sharp battle cry, Shard leaped forward, talons splayed, and Asvander ramped to his hind legs to meet him.

The Lakelanders bellowed approval—at last, there might be blood—but Shard feinted to one side, then when Asvander turned, changed course and darted around behind him. Asvander twisted to follow, falling to all fours and swiping blindly. Shard scampered a quick ring around him, causing Asvander to spin almost comically after him, as if he was chasing his own tail.