dreams.
“The lions,” Kjorn confirmed. “Then the Voldsom and the eagles, then . . .”
“The wyrms,” Asvander said, with relish, as if he looked forward to battle.
A battle Shard hoped not to fight.
“Kjorn,” Shard began quietly. “I meant to tell you sooner, to tell all of you sooner, that I had a dream of the she-wyrm, Rhydda.” They looked at him, ears perked. Stigr shifted, his eye narrowing. “But not a normal dream. It was more like a vision, I knew it was real. I was with her, in a memory. We flew together and I felt almost as if I could speak with her.”
Kjorn’s face lit. “Truly? Do you think you could do it again?”
“I’m going to try,” Shard said, letting his tail sweep the dirt in determination. “When I was in the Sunland and the spirit, Groa, spoke to me, she said I could talk to others in their dreams. She showed me how, though I haven’t tried since. Maybe I still can. Maybe I can even speak to Rhydda.” He looked around at the faces of his friends—Kjorn, fierce and hopeful, Stigr, pensive, Dagny and Asvander doubtful, and Brynja, her quiet look of observation.
Kjorn spoke. “If that’s so, do you think you could speak to her before we come to battle?”
Shard raised his head, trying to look strong and sure. “I hope, if I can talk to her, that you won’t need a battle at all.”
~6~
Huntress
S NOW FELL LIKE OWL DOWN as Ragna paced before a group of huntresses who’d answered her summon. Only six had come, and those were near her own age. The rest were too old, too young, pregnant, or, once they heard her briefest reason, refused to come at all.
“I hold Sverin captive until my son and Kjorn’s return,” Ragna said. She caught the gaze of Asfrid, a full-blooded Vanir who was the mother of Astri—Astri, whose mate Einarr was slain by Sverin’s own talons. She tried to think how to say any of it so they would understand, and had to remind herself why she had understood, when Sverin told her. “He refuses to eat fish, in honor of his drowned mate. I have chosen to recognize this grief. Who will help to hunt for him?”
The gryfesses exchanged looks. Asfrid met Ragna’s gaze, though her head was low. “I will not,” she said quietly. “My daughter still grieves Einarr. Forgive me, my queen.”
At Ragna’s nod, she turned and walked back toward the nesting cliffs. Ragna’s chest constricted, both in frustration and sadness.
“Well?” She looked at the five remaining, and saw only anger and pain. A chorus of, “I cannot,” and a quiet, “Are you mad?” forced Ragna to dismiss them. She would not punish them. If not for her sense of duty to keep him well, she wouldn’t have been there herself. She looked to the last gryfess remaining, a strapping, broad-shouldered Aesir of ruddy color with copper highlights.
“Eyvin. You are his father’s cousin—”
“This did not stop him from killing my son.”
Ragna ducked her head, hunching her wings slightly in acknowledgement. Einarr’s death pressed talons against her own heart. Still, Eyvin had come. There must be some shred of pity in her. “Einarr flies at Tyr’s right side, the most courageous of all of us—”
“Why him?” asked Eyvin sharply.
“In the height of Sverin’s madness—”
“No,” snarled the gryfess, her wings tensing as if she meant to fly at Ragna. “I mean, why was he the only one to stand against Sverin? Why not the Vanir? Why not you? Why did he stand alone?”
Snow dusted down, the quiet between them so fierce Ragna could hear the flakes hitting her own wings. “I have no answer for you.”
“Then I cannot hunt with you.”
“Have mercy, Eyvin—”
She tossed her head, feathers prickling against the snow. “As Sverin had mercy on Vidar, for flying at night? As he did when he exiled Dagr? As he had mercy on Einarr, my youngest, the only gryfon left of my nest? He severed our family bond, not I. I tell you I was glad to see Shard fight Sverin, glad to see
“The lions,” Kjorn confirmed. “Then the Voldsom and the eagles, then . . .”
“The wyrms,” Asvander said, with relish, as if he looked forward to battle.
A battle Shard hoped not to fight.
“Kjorn,” Shard began quietly. “I meant to tell you sooner, to tell all of you sooner, that I had a dream of the she-wyrm, Rhydda.” They looked at him, ears perked. Stigr shifted, his eye narrowing. “But not a normal dream. It was more like a vision, I knew it was real. I was with her, in a memory. We flew together and I felt almost as if I could speak with her.”
Kjorn’s face lit. “Truly? Do you think you could do it again?”
“I’m going to try,” Shard said, letting his tail sweep the dirt in determination. “When I was in the Sunland and the spirit, Groa, spoke to me, she said I could talk to others in their dreams. She showed me how, though I haven’t tried since. Maybe I still can. Maybe I can even speak to Rhydda.” He looked around at the faces of his friends—Kjorn, fierce and hopeful, Stigr, pensive, Dagny and Asvander doubtful, and Brynja, her quiet look of observation.
Kjorn spoke. “If that’s so, do you think you could speak to her before we come to battle?”
Shard raised his head, trying to look strong and sure. “I hope, if I can talk to her, that you won’t need a battle at all.”
~6~
Huntress
S NOW FELL LIKE OWL DOWN as Ragna paced before a group of huntresses who’d answered her summon. Only six had come, and those were near her own age. The rest were too old, too young, pregnant, or, once they heard her briefest reason, refused to come at all.
“I hold Sverin captive until my son and Kjorn’s return,” Ragna said. She caught the gaze of Asfrid, a full-blooded Vanir who was the mother of Astri—Astri, whose mate Einarr was slain by Sverin’s own talons. She tried to think how to say any of it so they would understand, and had to remind herself why she had understood, when Sverin told her. “He refuses to eat fish, in honor of his drowned mate. I have chosen to recognize this grief. Who will help to hunt for him?”
The gryfesses exchanged looks. Asfrid met Ragna’s gaze, though her head was low. “I will not,” she said quietly. “My daughter still grieves Einarr. Forgive me, my queen.”
At Ragna’s nod, she turned and walked back toward the nesting cliffs. Ragna’s chest constricted, both in frustration and sadness.
“Well?” She looked at the five remaining, and saw only anger and pain. A chorus of, “I cannot,” and a quiet, “Are you mad?” forced Ragna to dismiss them. She would not punish them. If not for her sense of duty to keep him well, she wouldn’t have been there herself. She looked to the last gryfess remaining, a strapping, broad-shouldered Aesir of ruddy color with copper highlights.
“Eyvin. You are his father’s cousin—”
“This did not stop him from killing my son.”
Ragna ducked her head, hunching her wings slightly in acknowledgement. Einarr’s death pressed talons against her own heart. Still, Eyvin had come. There must be some shred of pity in her. “Einarr flies at Tyr’s right side, the most courageous of all of us—”
“Why him?” asked Eyvin sharply.
“In the height of Sverin’s madness—”
“No,” snarled the gryfess, her wings tensing as if she meant to fly at Ragna. “I mean, why was he the only one to stand against Sverin? Why not the Vanir? Why not you? Why did he stand alone?”
Snow dusted down, the quiet between them so fierce Ragna could hear the flakes hitting her own wings. “I have no answer for you.”
“Then I cannot hunt with you.”
“Have mercy, Eyvin—”
She tossed her head, feathers prickling against the snow. “As Sverin had mercy on Vidar, for flying at night? As he did when he exiled Dagr? As he had mercy on Einarr, my youngest, the only gryfon left of my nest? He severed our family bond, not I. I tell you I was glad to see Shard fight Sverin, glad to see
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