by Becca Lusher
Eight
Family Feelings
24th Cold
THOUGH HE’D EXPECTED a summons from the moment he’d set foot in Nimbys, Lyrai had still hoped for later rather than sooner. Then again, as Stirla pointed out, two moons into his seven-month residency hardly counted as soon. Regardless, Lyrai tensed when a carriage stopped outside the barracks on the third Starday of Cold.
“Trying to be discreet,” Stirla murmured, watching through the window.
Lyrai didn’t answer – he was too busy frowning at the carriage. In a gods-cursed world covered in clouds, horses were impractical and scarce. They were reserved mainly for use on low-lying farm peaks – not in narrow Nimbys, where feet worked best. However, such ideas were unfamiliar to his mother. When Stirla said she was trying to be discreet, he was right: she simply had no idea what the word meant.
“I’d best go,” Lyrai sighed, looking down at himself and wondering if he should change. Having just returned from the cathedral, he was still wearing his dress uniform, complete with impractical white breeches.
“You’ll do,” Honra assured him.
“He could be covered in mud and stinking to Heirayk’s own heaven and his mother would forgive him.” Stirla pinched his fellow lieutenant’s cheek and failed to duck the retaliatory swipe across the head. “For that I hope you meet your father.”
“And I hope Atyrn dumps you in a thorn bush,” Lyrai retorted, shrugging into his jacket.
“Not long now,” Stirla said. “You’ll be flying again soon.”
Lyrai smiled bitterly. “Comforting as that is, it wouldn’t save me from a summons.”
“True,” Stirla agreed, hooking his arm around Lyrai’s neck and dragging him from the room. “But at least I tried. Now play nicely with your sisters, give your beautiful mother a kiss from me and don’t antagonise your brother.” He paused to straighten Lyrai’s neckcloth before shoving him towards the entrance hall.
“Aye, Grandmother.” Lyrai turned and tugged his forelock. “But it’s never my brother I’m worried about.” They exchanged wry salutes before Stirla left for the eyries. Only the fact that there was no miryhl awaiting him, and thus no means of escape, stopped Lyrai from following.
Instead he turned to the waiting footman and accepted the gilded invitation, though there was no need to open it. The words inside were a mere formality and ones he could not, under any circumstances, refuse. Not even death was an adequate excuse when his mother sent a carriage.
So he sighed, nodded to the footman and climbed inside. “Milady has spoken, and like a dutiful son, I obey. Lead on.”
MAKING THE MOST of the weak winter sun, Mhysra preened Cumulo outside. Her hair was wrapped in an old scarf, there was a handkerchief tied across her nose and she was wearing her oldest clothes.
“You’re getting lazy, Cue,” she grumbled, working beneath his wing. Quill dust and dirt had turned her fingers grey and her nails a lovely sludge brown, while her palms glistened with feather oil. What he really needed was a bath, but the nearest source was the Nimbys reservoir, and having got away with using it once, she didn’t think they should push their luck.
“Why worry about deep preening when I have a Wingborn?” Cumulo rumbled as she emerged. He nudged her and sneezed.
Chuckling, she untied the handkerchief and wiped the mess from her face. As she pulled off the scarf and shook the dust from her hair, he sneezed again and gave her a baleful glare.
“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 o
f 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.”
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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.
Lord Kilpapan looked up from his account books and nodded approvingly at her outfit. The skirt was overlong and overfull, all the better for modest maidens to mount horsats without unseemly displays of ankles. It was a compromise, since it allowed women to ride astride without any loss of reputation. Side-saddles had an unfortunate habit of unbalancing all but the biggest horsat stallions, and all agreed that they were no mount for a delicate lady.
Mhysra hated riding skirts. Her long flying coat, reaching almost to her knees with a split vent at the back, was a different story. It didn’t surprise her that the earl wrinkled his nose at the coat’s condition – she wore it every day.
“You spend too much time at the eyries.”
Straightening her spine, Mhysra stared over his left shoulder. “It’s Starday, sir. I am permitted to spend this day however I wish, according to the agreement Milluqua and I drew up. Which you approved.”
Lord Kilpapan made a noncommittal noise. “I would prefer you spent less time there.”
And Mhysra would have preferred him not to be such a narrow-minded bigot, but few got what they wanted in life. If he thought she would give up Cumulo on his command, he was doomed to disappointment.
“Your sister should not have to track you down in such places. It is to her credit that she chooses to go herself rather than send a servant, but it casts shadows over both your reputations.”
Then stop asking for me when you know I’m there, Mhysra thought, but stayed silent. After the scene she’d just witnessed between her sister and Captain Stirla, Mhysra knew the real reason why Milluqua chose not to send a servant. She also had to concede that her father might have a point about eyries and reputations, but she would rather cut out her tongue than admit it. What Milluqua got up to was her own business.
At her silence, the earl nodded as though something had been decided. It had, though Mhysra doubted they’d reached the same conclusion. Silence was a valuable tool when talking with her father. The less she said the happier he was, leaving her free to carry on as before without making false promises.
Putting his quill aside, Lord Kilpapan looked at her over the ledger. “You have been studying under your sister’s supervision for two months now. From both her reports and our meetings, I have decided that it is time your new skills were put into practise.”
Mhysra tightened her hands, hoping that her father didn’t notice her white knuckles. He wanted her to enter society? To become a useless butterfly like so many others? When pyreflies hatched kittens!
“I am honoured by your confidence in me, sir,” she murmured demurely, mind racing. How many functions would he expect her to attend? When? What would Milluqua say?
“Your sister is a fine tutor.” The praise was grudgingly given.
“But am I not too young, sir?” she asked, trying to sound feeble and self-conscious. It was one of the only things Milluqua had actually taught her, claiming it never failed.
Lord Kilpapan frowned, tapping his fingers together. “You turned seventeen last autumn, correct?”
Mhysra blinked and thought a quick prayer of thanks. “I am but sixteen, sir.”
“Ah.” The earl pursed his lips. Clearly he’d hoped to be rid of her before she could start pestering about the Riders again. But although girls of Mhysra’s age were sometimes invited to society parties, it was frowned upon to engage any well-born girl before seventeen, while few married before eighteen. And if there was one thing about Lord Kilpapan that could be counted upon, it was his strict adherence to society’s unwritten rules. “Perhaps not yet then. No matter. Continue as you have been. We will review your progress in the new year.” Picking up his quill, he returned to his figures. It was as polite a dismissal as she could expect, so Mhysra curtsied and left the room.
Milluqua was waiting in the library. “Well?”
Mhysra smiled and tugged her towards the stairs. “Disaster averted.”
Raising her eyebrows, Milluqua glanced back at the study door. “For now.”
“That’s good enough for me.” Chuckling, Mhysra grabbed her skirt and hurried up the stairs, not caring who saw her ankles.
THE AUDIENCE CHAMBER was empty as the steward announced Lyrai and left him to his fate. Walking across the echoing floor, Lyrai glanced up at the galleries where pairs of guards stood at intervals, then looked at the eight men positioned around the dais. Four more waited behind him. All wore the ceremonial armour of Imercian – the sun rising over clouds – with their weapons of status – sword, axe and spear – clasped close. Their sapphire-plumed helms faced straight ahead. Statues who came to life only when the Stratys was threatened.
Lyrai wished he could send them away. How ever statue-like they appeared they weren’t deaf, and he’d never enjoyed meeting his father before an audience. He looked at the throne, unsurprised to find it empty. The Stratys knew Lyrai had no respect for his authority, especially when he lorded it over his youngest son. So instead Lyrai was forced to search the room for his eminent presence.
Wishing there was no need for such games, he paused, boot tapping impatiently. He already knew that the galleries were empty, so didn’t bother looking there. It was also unlikely that the Stratys would lurk behind his own throne. Lyrai looked towards the columned walkways beneath the galleries on the left, with their velvet-shrouded alcoves. More than one secret passageway lay behind those curtains, disguised as frescoes and statues, but Lyrai doubted his father would slink away. He preferred to give his humiliations in person.
Turning to the right, he studied the windows and, sure enough, halfway between his position and the dais, a man sat upon a cushioned sill, staring outside. A handsome specimen, even more handsomely dressed in sumptuous velvet, trimmed with the finest furs. The grey in his brown hair only added to his distinguished appearance. The face that turned as Lyrai bowed was dignified and proud, the eyes pale blue and hard as ice.
“So you have come home,” the Stratys said, his rich voice echoing in the deserted hall.
Lyrai knelt, as was expected, and lowered his head. “Majesty.”
“You have seen your mother and sisters?”
“Yes, sire.”
“They were pleased, no doubt.”
“I hope so, sire.”
“Word has reached us that you are without a mount at present, yet despite this you continue your duties and Captain Myran is full of praise for you.” There was a questioning lilt to the end of the sentence, as if the Stratys could not believe that anyone would think well of his youngest son.
Lyrai clenched his fists and kept his head down. “Captain Myran is all kindness.”
“Indeed.” A strained silence settled, which Lyrai had no idea how to break and his father had no wish to. It had always been this way between them: distant, tense, difficult. Lyrai had long given up trying to understand why. “We trust you will choose more wisely this time.”
He gritted his teeth at the censure. Like most, his Choice had been impulsive. It was just bad luck that it had ended badly. What sixteen-, seventeen- or even eighteen-year-old could be trusted to make such a decision wisely? Even now, at twenty one, his new Choice would be more luck than judgement. It was the way things were.
“We shall await news of your progress. You have not disgraced your family.” The unspoken yet hung in the air. “It was… pleasant to see you.”
Lyrai marvelled at how the man could sound fatherly yet distasteful at the same time
. He was also amazed at how many hidden messages could be conveyed in so few words. Not only had he been belittled and disparaged, but also politely banned from returning during his stay as well as dismissed. Impressive.
Rising, he bowed, studying his father from behind his fringe. The Stratys glanced at him, lips pinched disapprovingly at the length of his hair – a constant battle between them when Lyrai had been growing up, which was why he wore it so long now – before he returned to studying the view.
“An honour, as always,” Lyrai murmured, took two steps back and turned. Not for him the polite reverse shuffle all the way to the doors. A sigh huffed behind him and he almost smiled.
As he understood all of the Stratys’ slights and schemes, so his father knew his. Yet while he was within sight of the guards, whose eyes and ears were in full working order, like their loyalty to the Stratys, Lyrai’s expression remained blank.
It wasn’t until he was back in his mother’s carriage that he allowed himself a rueful smile. Such a loving family. “But what would I do with one of those?” he murmured, suddenly eager to end the farce.
The coachman looked startled as Lyrai hopped out of the moving carriage and flicked the man a casual salute. “Thanks for the lift.” Of about twenty feet. Still, he felt a lot better as he sauntered back to the barracks.
Inside the officers’ common room, Stirla looked up from reading a newspaper. “How’d it go?”
Shrugging out of his jacket, Lyrai poured himself a glass of spirits. “Duty done.” He downed his drink, enjoying the burn as it slid down his throat. “Thank the gods.”
Stirla tossed him the paper. “This’ll cheer you up. Kaz-naghkt attack on Kevian. Thirty civilian fatalities, two pyrefliers and mounts, four Riders and six miryhls.”
“Maegla,” Lyrai whispered, sinking into a chair to read the report. “The sooner I get a miryhl and we’re out in the world again, my friend, the better.”
Grunting his agreement, Stirla crossed to the sideboard and poured drinks for them both. They were going to need them.