Wingborn (15 page)

“
Don’
t blame me,
”
she said.
“
It
’
s all
yours.
”

“Mhysra!”

She raised her head at the unexpected shout
and spotted her sister walking across the field, aided and
supported by Lieutenant Stirla
’
s arm. Mhysra couldn
’
t help smiling at the man
’
s dazed expression.

“The mighty
has fallen,” Cumulo murmured, while Milluqua thanked Stirla
prettily and dismissed him with a smile. Looking sun-struck, the
poor man wandered back to the eyries.

“Did you have
to?” Mhysra asked.

Tearing her
gaze from Stirla’s retreating back, Milluqua blinked. “Beg
pardon?”

“He’s my
lieutenant. He might be my captain when I graduate. Things could
get awkward.”

Her sister
frowned in confusion, looking beautifully feminine in lilac and
lace, such a contrast to her dusty, hoydenish sibling. “Oh, but
Lieutenant Stirla was ever so kind. He gave me a tour of the eyries
while I was looking for you. Large, isn’t it? More so than anything
at Wrentheria. And the miryhls…” Her voice trailed off as she
stared back towards the eyries. “So kind.”

Cumulo
chuckled, but Mhysra shook her head. “He’s not even a captain yet,
Milli. Father would
not
approve.”

Milluqua’s
eyes widened innocently. However, when Mhysra arched her eyebrows,
she sighed. “There are good families in the Riders.”

“Amongst
others,” Mhysra reminded her gently. “Lieutenant Stirla is of that
other variety.”

“He was nice
to me and has lovely eyes,” the older woman murmured dreamily.
“He’s terribly handsome, especially with that scar. And so tall. He
makes me feel fragile.”

Considering how small Milluqua was, Mhysra would like meet
the man who
didn’t
make her
feel fragile. Especially if he was a Rider. “He’s a flirt and Derry
says he has a shocking reputation.”

“Really?”
Milluqua asked, feigning nonchalance. “I do like to flirt.”

Rolling her
eyes, Mhysra scrubbed her hands with her scarf. “What brings you up
here anyway? Is the season so dull you must seek entertainment
elsewhere?”

Her sister
smiled, all dimples and prettiness, showing why she was still one
of the most sought after ladies in the city, even at the advanced
age of twenty-two. “Hardly. It was a relief to stay home last
night. I’ve worn through three pairs of slippers this past
half-moon!”

“It gives
Bumble something to chew,” Mhysra said absently, plucking a crooked
feather from Cumulo’s chest and making him squawk. Recalling her
manners, Milluqua greeted the miryhl and he lowered his head for a
scratch. She was one of his favourite people.

“Father asked
for you,” she said, as Cumulo returned to looking aloof and
magnificent.

Mhysra
wrinkled her nose. “He’s already seen me this quarter-moon.” Since
she’d ceased pestering her father about joining the Riders they’d
seen little of each other. Their paths occasionally crossed at
dinner, but only when he wasn’t escorting Milluqua somewhere. As
such, he called her to his study each quarter-moon for a progress
report. He thought she spent her days learning ladylike behaviour
from her sister and occasionally visiting her miryhl. The fact that
she was putting on muscle from all her training passed unnoticed.
All that mattered was whether she could pour tea correctly, was
losing her country accent and could curtsey appropriately to those
above her rank, with subtle differences for those below.

It was
immensely tedious, but since it was the only time she had to see
her father Mhysra accepted it, and valued the etiquette lessons she
suffered through at school. Part of her was sad that she had so
little in common with her father, but she was also relieved. If
they shared even one interest he might pay more attention and her
secret would be out. Which was why any change in routine made her
nervous.

“Do you know
why?”

Milluqua shook
her head. “I gave up second guessing father years ago. Mostly he’s
as predictable as the seasons, but every so often he’ll surprise us
just for the fun of it. It discourages complacency.”

“Lovely,”
Mhysra sighed and gave Cumulo a farewell pat. There would be no
flying today.

LYRAI STOOD AT
the window of the yellow parlour, counting pigeons as the
city flock wheeled over the streets below. The view was beautiful:
Nimbys basking in the winter sun. He smiled at the nearby Rider
barracks, lying so close at hand. It would have been quicker for
him to have walked than to have taken the carriage, but appearances
mattered.

So short a
journey, yet it felt vast. He’d passed this very building numerous
times since his return, but had only seen his family once. Just a
brief glimpse of his mother, father and brother on his arrival,
when Captain Myran’s officers had paid their respect to the
Stratys’ court. He’d been awaiting a summons ever since, knowing
that his mother would welcome him any time – and his father would
not. While appearances mattered to his mother, formalities were
everything to his father. She would have needed his permission
before daring to invite her second son into her presence.

Lyrai was used
to it. Much as he loved his mother and was distantly fond of his
brother and sisters, it had been years since he’d felt comfortable
with them. Their insular, rarefied world had grown stultifying long
before he’d joined the Riders. It was the one family tradition that
Lyrai had welcomed. The oldest son was the heir, the next was the
spare. One honoured the family by maintaining the legacy, the other
died gloriously.

The door
opened and heavy steps stumped to a halt. “That you, Lyrai?”

He glanced
over his shoulder and blinked. “Henryn. You look… well.”

It was a lie:
his brother looked awful. His cheeks were ruddy, while the rest of
his skin was pallid and sweaty. His blond hair, even fairer than
Lyrai’s, was a unkempt thicket. His clothes were a mess, straining
over his paunch, and his eyes were bloodshot.

“Late
night?”

Pushing the
door shut, Henryn shrugged and crossed the room until they were
face-to-face. The same height, they shared their father’s eyes
mixed with their mother’s colouring. Once they had been alike
enough to be mistaken for twins. Now Henryn’s features were fleshy
from dissipation, while Lyrai’s had been chiselled by wind and
training.

“Rider life
suits you,” Henryn said, his tone wistful and Lyrai pitied this
brother he barely knew. Their lives had been set on different paths
from birth, yet whenever they met they rubbed along well enough. It
would have been nice to have known Henryn better. Had he wanted to
join the Riders when he was young too? Was he angry that their
father – and tradition – had decided differently?

“How’s life in
Nimbys treating you?” Henryn asked. “Still flying that pretty
feather?”

Lyrai shook
his head. “Froth’s been retired. Wounded.”

“Ah. Shame.”
They dropped into an uncomfortable silence. Familiar strangers.
“You’ll get a new one soon, I dare say.”

“At the
Choice,” Lyrai agreed. “I can’t wait. It’s hard being grounded for
so long.”

“Yes, ‘spect
it is. Not that I’d know. Never flown.” There was that wistfulness
again.

While it was
tempting to offer empty platitudes about future possibilities,
Lyrai held his tongue. His brother would never get off the ground.
They lived such vastly different lives.

“How are
things in Nimbys these days?” he asked, doing his bit to keep the
conversation going.

“Pretty good,”
Henryn replied, stepping away from the glare of the window. “Though
I’ll be leg-shackled before long. Father’s insisting.”

Lyrai grimaced
sympathetically. Henryn had never been interested in girls, or
anyone much, at least not that Lyrai had ever heard. He much
preferred food, drink and gambling. “Every man has his duty.”

His brother
snorted and poured himself some wine. “Begetting brats. My heart
races at the prospect.” He drained his goblet in one. “Mother will
see to it. She has an eye for the pretty ones. Likes Princess
Demolie of Havia, though I’m not sure King Heryff’s keen. That
Kilpapan chit is top of the local list, last I checked. Her
father’d welcome the match and she’s nice enough. Good
connections.”

“Kilpapan?”
Lyrai was surprised enough to leave the window, waving away his
brother’s offer of wine. “She’s barely sixteen!” Not to mention
Wingborn and a Rift Rider in training. Lyrai didn’t add those
details – he was too stunned. Did nobles really marry off their
daughters so young these days? He stared at his brother and thought
of Mhysra. Henryn would crush her flat.

“Sixteen? Ha!
She’s past twenty. Don’t let those big eyes fool you, brother, or
those dimples. A lovely little armful, but knocking on now. Where’d
you meet? Not seen you about, though mother’d gladly accept your
escort. Ladies love a uniform. You’d cause a riot.”

Lyrai frowned,
reason finally catching up with him. Mhysra was too young to have
been brought out yet, nor did she have dimples or could ever be
described as cosy, little or an armful. A handful was much more
like it. “You mean the older girl? I haven’t met her.”

Henryn raised
a sandy eyebrow. “So you’ve met the younger? Heard she’d been
dragged in from the wilds and was something of a savage.” He
smirked. “Explains how you know her.”

“Her brother’s
a Rider,” Lyrai replied coolly. “I’ve seen her about.”

Henryn
shrugged, uninterested in people he didn’t know. “The older one’s
popular. Has been for years. Too good for me. It’d be a waste.”

“Marrying you
is hardly a terrible fate,” Lyrai murmured, returning to the
window. “Plenty of girls would jump at the chance.”

“Hm.” Henryn
didn’t sound convinced, but then who would when his worth was
measured in things he had no control over? Many assumed that Lyrai
envied his brother, but it had always been the opposite. He loved
being a Rider, loved flying. It was all he’d ever wanted. Henryn
was hemmed in, constrained and watched constantly. He had no
choices. Not even the identity of his bride. People thought he’d
have everything once he inherited, but even then there would be
restrictions. No, Lyrai would not switch for the world.

A maid crept
in while they reflected in silence. She curtsied to Lyrai, caught
sight of Henryn wallowing in his chair and curtsied even deeper.
Glancing at Lyrai again, she blushed and stared at the floor. “Her
Majesty will see you now,” she murmured, scuttling away.

“Slayer of
maids,” Henryn chuckled, draining his wine. “Is the uniform, I tell
you.”

“Go to bed,”
Lyrai advised gently as he left. “You’re slurring.”

“Huzzah!” he
cheered, toasting Lyrai’s heels. “Means I’m no’ sober ‘nymore.”

Closing the
door on his brother’s misery, Lyrai walked along the shadowed
corridor and entered an airy chamber. High windows let in light,
while fireplaces crackled behind screens, making the room
pleasantly warm. Three young women sat painting, embroidering and
reading. None of them looked up.

The fourth
lady was already on her feet. She smiled, the firelight making her
fine hair glow. “Lyrai,” she greeted, voice mellow and soothing.
Grey eyes glinted with satisfaction as she caught his hands and
opened her arms.

He stepped
into her scented embrace, the only place he was at peace in this
tower of memories. “Mama, did you miss me?”

Cupping his
face, she smiled. “Always, dearest. Always. Now come, I had tea
brought up. I thought I’d best invite you before you flittered off
again. So busy. Thank you for sparing time for your old mother, and
your sisters too. We have missed you, Lyrai.”

Knowing he’d
had no choice but to make time, he smiled at the beautiful woman
before him, so flighty, yet with a spine of steel and a mind as
sharp as a miryhl talon. Political manipulation was her favourite
hobby, so ordering her son into attendance was second nature. It
was just a shame it rarely worked on Lyrai’s father. To her
children, though, his mother was a tyrant, but a benevolent one
that he loved with all his heart. One afternoon was a small
sacrifice to ensure her happiness. Sitting down with his
indifferent sisters, he made small talk about people he didn’t
know, and all the while she smiled at him, proud of what he’d
become, and he was content.

The time
passed in pleasant idleness, with the most serious discussion
concerning the length of this season’s hemlines. By the end Lyrai
was full of sugar, tea and relief. His mother appeased, his sisters
seen, he’d even spoken with his brother. Duty done. He could go
back to his students and wait for the day when he would have wings
again.

As he
descended the stairs and crossed the entrance hall a man blocked
his path, disrupting Lyrai’s pleasant thoughts. He eyed the
intruder with a sinking heart. It was his father’s steward.

“The Stratys
will see you now.”

Raising his eyebrows, Lyrai glanced over his
shoulder, but no one else was in sight. The invitation was for him
and him alone. Wonderful.
“
Then let
’
s not keep him waiting.
”

“YOU ASKED TO
see me, sir?” Mhysra entered her father’
s study and
tugged at the riding skirt Milluqua had bullied her into wearing.
She still had her breeches on underneath but, as her sister had
pointed out, their father didn
’
t know that. It was better all round if he
didn
’
t know she
routinely paraded around the eyries in a flying coat and breeches,
with no thought to so-called modesty or propriety.