Wingborn (4 page)

“
Little?” she gasped in astonishment. “
Little!
I
’
m taller than you, you
scrawny, mannerless git!
”
Fuming, she spun on the spot and almost tripped
over her skirt.

Honestly, it was enough to make a lady growl
in public. Behaviour that would be thoroughly frowned upon by her
sister, but then Mhysra had never pretended to be a lady. Milluqua
was a natural who wore her breeding like a fine set of pearls.
Mhysra had to work extra hard at it, and mostly didn
’
t see the point.

So she growled and stomped her foot for good
measure. When her soft-soled walking boots failed to make a
satisfactory enough sound, she kicked a stone over the edge of the
cliff. Then felt stupid when her toes started to throb.

“I hate
Nimbys.”

Hiking up her skirt, she strode over to the
nearest boulder and sat on it, glaring down at the city. Narrow,
winding and cramped, this view of Nimbys would never win any
awards, but then the dwellings directly below her belonged to some
of the poorest people in Imercian. Unlike the far edge of the
ravine, which was dotted with sprawling mansions, and one or two
even had gardens, which was the ultimate luxury in such a cramped
city. Up there the wealthy made the most of the elusive sun, but
back here, where the light so rarely reached, the tenements of
Nimbys were squeezed in tight and built up high.

Reminded of her privileged position in life,
and feeling worse than ever, Mhysra turned and shielded her eyes
against the glare of the Stratys Palace. White marble, imported
from the south at great expense, glowed in the midmorning sun. An
architectural wonder, many said, but Mhysra hated it. Just as she
hated everything else about this accursed city.

She stared across the ravine to the opposite
ridge and sighed. There was another eyrie over there, barely even a
barn – smaller, squatter, with holes in the roof and rot in the
walls. Cumulo was inside it, hunched and miserable, trying not to
complain. How she wished he was with her now. How she wished he
could do this instead of her.

But he couldn
’
t, so she must. She had to do this, for him as much
as herself. She had to get him out of that fetid building and into
this one. If she could gain official access for herself at the same
time, so much the better.

Patting her jacket pocket, Mhysra felt
reassured by the crinkle of folded newspaper within and stood up.
The city buzzed with talk about the fall of Feather Frost and the
attacks on Kevian
’
s
Edge, Heston Point and Shune. The Flying Corps were in trouble,
people said, that
’
s why
the big changes. There hadn
’
t been an opportunity like this for a hundred
years. Perhaps there wouldn
’
t be another for a hundred more. She had to seize
this chance or she might as well stay on the ground forever. It was
time.

Dusting off her skirt, she straightened her
jacket and took a deep breath. According to the newspaper in her
pocket, more than a century
’
s worth of regulation, sexism and prejudice had
been overturned. Now it was time to see if any of it was true.

It was time to join the Rift Riders.

Courage mustered, Mhysra marched towards the
headquarters and pushed open the door. Stepping inside the spacious
foyer, she quickly located the front desk, piled high with
paperwork. That
’
s when
she noticed that the entrance hall was full of Rift Riders, who
fell silent at her entrance. While she stood hesitating in the
doorway, man after man turned to look at her. Then the whispering
started.

An audience. How lovely. There would be no
turning back now.

Running a nervous hand over her hair, Mhysra
summoned up the centuries-long breeding of her ancestors and walked
across the room like she owned it. Cumulo would expect nothing
less.

“WHAT’S YOUR WAGER?
R
unaway
brat, curious miss or genuine girl?”

Lyrai looked up from studying the depressing
duty roster. He was surrounded by grumbling Riders equally dismayed
over their new assignment. Merry Midwinter, everyone.
“P
ardon?
”

“We have
another one.” Stirla nodded across the busy room, eyes bright and
mischievous.

After five years together – from
Lyrai
’
s first day at
Aquila through to their current officer training – Lyrai had
learned to be wary of that sparkle. Still, a little amusement might
ease the sting of being quartered in Nimbys until the following
autumn.

He turned to face the cluttered front desk
just as the girl reached it. Slender and tall, her dark brown hair
was pulled tightly back, accentuating the sharp features of her
sun-bronzed face. She wasn
’
t pretty, but had big, pale eyes that glanced
frequently at the Riders. Seeing the silver flashes on his and
Stirla
’
s shoulder, she
nodded respectfully before turning to the clerk at the desk.

“Strange
little thing,” Stirla murmured. “So, which is it?”

Lyrai waved him to silence, wanting to
listen and far too wise to wager with him. Even when he
wasn
’
t cheating,
Stirla
’
s luck was just
too good to trust.

“Enrolment is
closed.” Brenai the clerk had fussy ways, but he was the best
administrator in Nimbys. Lyrai smiled, wondering how the girl would
react to his sharp manner.

“
I know,
but I was unable to come until this morning.” Her
voice was
polite and clear, softened with a hint of a country burr. Well
born, but not local.
“
Since classes don
’
t begin for another five days, I hoped I might
still be admitted.
”

Her friendly smile didn
’
t sway Brenai one bit. He peered over his
glasses and sniffed.
“
Enrolment closed yesterday. Rift Riders live or die
by their punctuality. We make no exceptions.
”
The gathered Riders snickered. In theory
what Brenai said was true, but in practise
…

Irritation flashed over the girl
’
s face. Instead of unleashing it,
though, she took a deep breath.
“
I was unable to come before, sir.
”

“
Try
again next year,” Brenai advised brusquely, with more than a touch
of disapproval. Which came as no surprise.
The clerk had
been particularly vocal in opposing the recent changes to the
Flying Corps.

The girl took another deep breath and forced
a smile.
“
If I had
another choice, sir, I would not ask,
”
she said, a hint of desperation creeping in.
“
It
’
s Midwinter.
”

Brenai
’
s eyebrows drew together and he pushed his papers
aside, squaring the corners neatly as if the haphazard piles behind
him did not exist.
“
I
hesitate to be rude, miss, but what
’
s the hurry? The proclamation will still apply next
year. It
’
s a five-year
trial. There
’
s no rush
and there
wi
ll be plenty
of miryhls left, if you want this badly enough. The thinking time
will do you good. This isn
’
t an easy life. Take a little Midwinter advice and
leave it for another year.
”

The young woman
’
s hands clenched and her body stiffened with all
the hauteur that the upper classes had cultivated over the
centuries.
“You do not
understand, sir,” she growled. “I’m not some featherheaded miss
with no clue as to what Rider duties entail. I don’t need to
think
about it. A year
’
s grace will not
do me good
. I am not
anticipating an
easy life
.
”
She leaned over the waist-high desk and whispered
something too softly for the curious Riders to hear.

Brenai sat back, clearly surprised. Then he
laughed.
“
What a
Midwinter tale! Wingborn, indeed.
You must think me thirty years younger than I
am.”

Wingborn!
The shock rippled through
the room as the Riders reassessed the girl. She couldn
’
t have been more than fifteen or
sixteen and showed no signs of a life with miryhls. She was too
thin and free of scars. As wondrous and intelligent as miryhls
were, they were still giant eagles with all the sharp edges and
predatory instincts to match their wild cousins. Even the gentlest
bird might draw blood on occasion.

Unlike Brenai and the civilian population,
Rift Riders knew Wingborn existed – but they were rare. A miryhl
hatching at the exact moment a human was born, within less than a
mile of each other. One soul split in two. The phenomenon had once
been more widespread when miryhls had bred more freely, but they
ha
d never been common.
Breeding farms were now established in more remote areas,
protecting the birds and limiting human contact until they were
fully trained. Who was this girl and where was she from?

“I can prove
it,” the girl insisted, trembling with anger. “Just let me fetch my
miryhl.”

The clerk stopped laughing.
“
You have a miryhl?
”

“I am
Wingborn,” she growled.

Brenai waved her words away, all stern
business now that the joke was over.
“
Where did you get it? Name, place and date of
birth, and the same for your miryhl, if you please. You do know it
i
s illegal to own a
miryhl outside of Rift Rider purposes, do you not?
”

“Unless one is
Wingborn,” she reminded him stiffly. “Or of a ruling royal or
political house. I know the regulations, sir. I was born at
Wrentheria.”

“The village?”
the clerk asked, searching for fresh paper.

The look she shot Brenai was almost pitying.
“
The manor. I
’
ve been breeding miryhls for two
years and helping to raise others my whole life.
”

Lyrai raised his eyebrows, unsure if he
believed her. Wrentheria was renown throughout the Overworld as one
of the best – if not
the
best – breeder of miryhls. The
simple way she said the name didn
’
t sound like a boast, but nor did she look tough
enough. Miryhl breeding was not easy, especially for those of
shorter stature. The girl was tall for her age, but still barely
half the size of an adult miryhl.

Brenai looked sceptical and held out a hand.
“
Your letter of
recommendation.
”

Her shoulders sagged.
“
I don
’
t have one.
”

The clerk sighed and took off his glasses to
massage his nose.
“
You
come here making wild claims with no supporting evidence and expect
me to admit you, even though official registration closed
yesterday. Your credentials are wondrous, miss, if they
a
re true. Since you cannot prove
them
…
The Rift Riders do
not look kindly on timewasters.
”

Her jaw clenched.
“
Then I will fetch your proof,
sir.
”
Turning on her
heel she stormed away.

The watching Riders waited eagerly to see
how the drama would unfold next, whispering bets between each
other. It was almost as good as a play. When the girl was two angry
paces away from the door, it was flung open by a young man with
wind-tossed curls and a beaming smile. He wore the lightweight gear
used by messengers and carried a document bag over his
shoulder.

“Mhysra!” he
greeted and, without even a hitch in his stride, swept the girl
into his arms. “Well met and Midwinter blessings. I was coming to
look for you next so you’ve saved me an awkward meeting with my
aunt.”

“
Mherrin!” the girl squealed, completely at odds with her
previous behaviour. “What are you doing here? Where are you
staying? How long?
Is my aunt well? How is everyone?
Oh, I’ve missed you!” She
wrapped her arms around the messenger’s neck again.

“
All
right,” Stirla murmured in Lyrai’
s ear.
“
I
’
m completely lost. Are you keeping up?
”

“
At
least it’
s entertaining,
”
Lyrai replied, while the youngsters chattered
about people no one else in the room knew. There was enough of a
similarity in their sharp features and softly-burred accents for
them to be related.
“
Which is more than we usually get in
Nimbys.
”

“Seven
months,” someone else groaned, setting off a rumble of
discontent.

Brenai
stood up and cleared his throat loudly.
“Messenger, have you anything for me?”

Recalled to his duty, the lad dropped the
girl, straightened his jacket and strode across the room. He sorted
through the letters inside his bag, handing two to the girl and a
third to the clerk. That done, he straightened up importantly.

“I bring greetings from Mhylla Wrentherin
Mhynara of Wrentheria, and her personal recommendation that her
niece, Lady Mhysra Kilpapan Kilrenma, be permitted to join the Rift
Riders, in accordance with the new proclamation readmitting women
into their exalted ranks for the first time in over one hundred
years.
”