Wingborn (6 page)

Her shoulders slumped.
“
He won
’
t listen to me and actively avoids me now. I only
see him at meal times, and I
’
m not allowed to ask then in case I give him
indigestion.
” She’d been so
excited when she’d found out about the proclamation, thinking that
maybe moving to Nimbys would turn into a wonderful opportunity.
Instead it was just a constant disappointment.

Mherrin hugged her shoulders.
“
I
’
m sorry, cuz. For what it
’
s worth, Mam thinks the earl
’
s a gods-blasted fool. And I
can
’
t repeat what she
said about the countess.
”

That brought a trembling smile to
Mhysra
’
s lips. Mhylla
Wrentherin and her sister, Lunrai, Countess Kilpapan, could
n
o
t have turned out more
different. Both were excellent business women in their own right,
but Mhylla was proud of her rough edges granted by her Lowland
upbringing, while Lunrai had worked very hard to scrape hers
off.

Mhylla was up-front, occasionally brusque,
but always honest about what she was thinking and feeling.
Wrentheria was important to her, but family came first. She would
do anything to ensure the happiness of her children, and ever since
Mhysra had been left to her care at a month old she
’
d counted as one of
Mhylla
’
s.

Lunrai was considered by many to be the
epitome of an Imercian lady. Well-bred and refined, with a sharp
business brain and excellent conversation. Family was important to
her, but only so far as it could further the Kilpapan interests.
Which was why Mhysra and her older siblings had been left at
Wrentheria to grow. It was far more convenient to keep the children
out of the way until they were useful.

As such this was the first time in
Mhysra
’
s life that
she
’
d had to live with
her parents. She
’
d spent
time with them before, of course, but only briefly, during
occasional Midwinter and Midsummer holidays, or when her mother
stopped at Wrentheria to replenish supplies. It was the first time
Mhysra couldn
’
t just
grit her teeth and tick off the days until she went home. Nimbys
was
home now. Her time as a Kilpapan had arrived.

Mherrin rubbed her arm.
“
Cheer up, cuz. Remember how miserable you
were before you heard about the proclamation.
”

Gods, that was not a happy thought.
“
You always know just
what to say to make me feel better.
”

He
chuckled. “
I
’
m
here to help.
”

Before the letters had arrived informing
Mhysra of her new future away from Wrentheria, she had just started
taking on more duties at the farm – tending miryhl eggs, watching
the chicks hatch, nursing them through their first few months.
True, every Wingborn in the history of the Overworld must have
dreamed of becoming a Rift Rider, but Mhysra was practical. She was
a girl, and girls did not join the Flying Corps. Yes,
Cumulo
’
s presence in her
life meant she had always been a little different, but, well, the
Riders were the elite and it was highly unlikely they
’
d make an exception for one girl.
Even a Wingborn.

So she
’
d set her heart on following in her aunt
’
s footsteps instead and breeding
the best miryhls the Overworld had ever known. It was a quiet dream
but within reach, one that would have meant Cumulo could have
company.

Until the letter arrived and her mother had
appeared. Whatever dreams Mhysra might have had of returning to
Wrentheria had been swiftly snuffed out on her arrival in Nimbys,
when she
’
d been spun
into the life she
’
d
supposedly been born to.

Mhysra knew nothing of balls, parties or
afternoon tea. Her world was a dawn wake-up call, a bucket of
bloody meat and a mob of scrawny dog-sized chicks, scrabbling to be
fed. She hadn
’
t even
owned a skirt back at the manor. The summons had been a nightmare –
until the news of the proclamation had reached her.

For the first time, the ten-day sail from
Wrentheria to Nimbys had been exciting. Mhysra couldn
’
t wait to reach the city and gain
her parents
’
permission.
Surely they couldn
’
t
refuse, not when her brother Kilai was already a Rider and she had
her own miryhl bound to her by ties more important than blood.

Except the earl had refused, and continued
to do so whenever she managed to squeeze a word into the
conversation.

No.
That was all he
’
d had to say when she
’
d finished her first breathless,
haphazard, enthusiastic and probably incoherent request. According
to a later angry tirade, the Rift Riders might have been accepting
women again, but no Kilpapan lady was going to prostitute herself
to their lax morals and lowborn ruffians. Or something.

Her mother had simply laughed, as if
Mhysra
’
s dream was
nothing but a joke. Gods, was it any wonder she hated Nimbys so
much?

“Don
’
t fret, cuz,
”
Mherrin told her, as they reached the hustle of
the streets below.
“
You
’
re
in now and if you keep your head down long enough, you
’
ll be off to Aquila before the
earl and countess can blink.
”

Mhysra summoned up a smile. It
wasn
’
t quite the way
she
’
d wanted this to
happen, but if it was the only way, then that was what
she
’
d do.
“
Thanks, Mherrin,
”
she murmured and kissed his cheek again.
Her cousin meant well, but he had two parents who supported him
whole-heartedly in whatever way he wanted. Still, it was good of
him to come.

“Chin up, spine straight, shoulders
back,
”
he ordered, in an
unerringly accurate impression of Milluqua at her most militant.
“
Now off to tell that
feather-duster of yours the good news. And it is good news, Mhysra,
remember that.
”

This time her smile was broad.
“
You
’
re right.
”

“I always am,
”
he sighed.
“
I
’
ve
been telling you that for years.
”

She laughed.
“
It is good news. Cumulo will be so pleased.
You
’
re the
best!
”
Squeezing him
again, she darted off into the crowds, while the nakhound puppy in
her arms barked with excitement.

A
T FIRST GLANCE
there didn
’
t seem to be much wrong with the city eyries. The
front section was a little shabby, perhaps, but it was spotlessly
clean and the bedding smelled fresh. Bright-eyed horsat heads
bobbed over the top of almost every door, their odd bat-like ears
swivelling to follow every sound. This part of the eyries was
always busy, with messengers coming and going, and stablehands
scurrying to keep the large stalls clean.

Weaving between the frantic activity, Mhysra
headed for a familiar horsat head. Scratching Ripple
’
s muzzle, she peered over the door
to check that all was well. The stone walls may have been old, but
the stall was big enough for the horsat to lie down in, as well as
wide and high enough for the beast to flex its large, leathery
wings.

Satisfied, Mhysra snitched an apple from a
nearby bucket and waited while the nakhound pup and horsat
exchanged a sniff of noses.

“Good boy,
Rip,” Mhysra said, once the pup was done and, handing the stallion
the apple, she took the path that skirted the second section of the
eyries.

Here the walls were blackened and scorched,
looking rough and ready where newer sections had been patched in.
Which was not unusual for a pyrefly roost. Nor was the heavily
locked door. Angry screeches sounded from inside, making the puppy
cringe, but Mhysra walked on unconcerned. Pyreflies were always
screaming about something. It was hard to believe that they
ha
d started from the
same place as the placid, reliable horsats, mixing an equine body
with bat ears and wings.

Pyreflies had an added extra, though –
dragon blood. Thanks to that, the flying horses had talons instead
of hooves and the ability to breathe fire. They were also
foul-tempered and moderately intelligent – just enough to make them
cunning and spiteful. Mhysra was not fond of the creatures, but her
cousin Mherrin loved them. To each their own.

Rubbing the pup comfortingly on the head,
Mhysra left the pyreflies behind for the third and final section of
the eyries. Unlike the busy horsat stables or the locked pyrefly
roost, this area was deserted and filthy. There were holes in the
roof, the walls were a badly maintained mixture of stone and rotten
timber, and there were rat droppings on the floor. Not to mention
the mess that had been left behind by roosting pigeons. The far
corner was the only dry portion left and it was mostly being used
as a store room.

A large perch had also been squeezed into
the space, propped up on grain barrels, with hay bales stacked
behind to block out the worst of the drafts. It was here that
Cumulo sat hunched, forlorn and shivering.

Despite the dowdy surroundings, he was still
an impressive sight. Almost fully grown, the young miryhl was a
conker-coloured giant with hints of gold in his glorious feathers.
When stretched to his full height he towered above Mhysra to almost
eight feet, and when he opened those magnificent wings they spread
for twenty feet or more. In all, he was a very fine example of the
miryhl breed.

Not to mention Wingborn, which made him
bigger, bolder, brasher and braver than all the rest. And he was
hers, just as she was his.

The puppy barked, squirming to get down, so
Mhysra let it flap its ungainly way to the ground. By the time it
was racing off to explore the nearest rat hole, Cumulo was watching
her.

“Merry
Midwinter, Cue.”

He hunched his wings.
“
What
’
s merry about it?
”
His voice was hoarse, rough-edged from breathing
the damp, cold air. Back home in Wrentheria the eyries were large
and spacious, filled with the comforting warmth of more than thirty
miryhls. Here Cumulo was completely alone. A pang of guilt shot
through her, but thankfully, that was all about to change.

“
You’
re a mess, Cue.
”
The ground around his perch was littered with
scurf and feathers. His golden eyes were dull and the skin around
his beak, eyes and talons looked cracked and sore. Aunt Mhylla
would have her hide for letting him get into such a state, but if
they
’
d been at
Wrentheria he never would have ended up like this. Cumulo was big,
brash and vain, but without company he
’
d given up.

He sniffed at her rudeness.
“
I saw your cousin. He seemed
cheerful.
”

“
Mherrin
always is.” Cumulo had always liked Mherrin. No doubt they’
d
enjoyed a nice long chat about her, Wrentheria and the city.

“He brought
you a gift, he said.” Cumulo eyed the bundle of fluff chasing
feathers across the dirty floor. “I’d hoped it would be something
useful.”

“
She’
ll grow.
”

They watched the puppy trip over a grain
sack, roll in a tangle of silky feathers and sprawl in the dirt.
Cumulo clucked disapprovingly.
“
You should call it Bumble.
”

Mhysra rolled her eyes.
“
If you
’
re going to be like that I won
’
t share my news. Which would be a shame,
since I ran all the way from the Rider offices, icy streets and
all.
”

Cumulo straightened, feathers rising all
along his crest with interest.
“
Enrolment ended yesterday,
”
he pointed out cautiously.

“
Do you
really think they’
d turn a Wingborn pair away?
”
she scoffed, as though their
acceptance had never been in doubt. Walking up to the desk that
morning had been the hardest thing she
’
d ever done. When the clerk had laughed at her in
front of all those Riders, she
’
d wanted to sink through the floor.

“And did
they?” Cumulo asked breathlessly.

She smiled.
“
Buck up, Cue, you
’
ve got a new home to go to.
”

He threw back his head and screamed,
terrifying pigeons out of the rafters. More than one precariously
placed slate teetered through a roof hole and smashed on the floor.
Cumulo opened his wings with a crack and sent dust, snow and dirt
whirling into the walls.

Mhysra winced, covering her ears and face,
while the puppy howled. The neighbouring pyreflies set up a ruckus,
surges of flame licking around the edges of their high windows.

“Enough,
Cumulo! Enough!” she shouted, when he paused for breath.

“
Sorry.”
He hunched his wings with a sheepish cough. “
When do I
leave?
”

“How about
now?”