Wingborn Series Volume 1: Wingborn, Rift Riders and Dragongift

By Becca Lusher

Books 1-3 in the YA Fantasy Wingborn Series!

Includes: Wingborn, Rift Riders and Dragongift.

For over one hundred years, women have been banned from joining the Rift Riders. No one really remembers why, or much cares, it’s just the way things are.

Or were. Because the Overworld is in trouble. The vicious kaz-naghkt are growing in strength, the dragons have hidden themselves away and humanity has only itself to turn to for help. And front and center, the pride and protectors of the Overworld, are the Rift Riders.

With their numbers dropping and recruits become hard to find, the Riders are about to make a drastic decision – to readmit women. And standing right at the head of the line is Lady Mhysra Kilpapan, daughter of an earl, niece of the best miryhl breeder on the Overworld, and Wingborn to Cumulo.

Girl and giant eagle were born to be Rift Riders – and now, thanks to the new proclamation – they can be. But getting in is only the start of the adventure, and Mhysra, Cumulo and friends are about to discover that the Overworld is a far bigger and more dangerous place than they could ever imagine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Becca Lusher
• Release date: Apr 27, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463016893

Becca Lusher

Having an overactive imagination hasn’t always been a good thing: I spent much of my childhood scared of the dark and terrified by the stories my older sister told me (mostly to stop her being the only one afraid of the dark). These days I find it useful. I love stories, I love fantasy, I love things with wings, stars and the world around me, and I have great fun combining them all into my stories.Born in the UK, I live in the wild south-west where I run around with my dogs and get bossed about by cats, while taking photos of gorgeous landscapes, reading lots of books and climbing rocks.I’ve also been known to write stories.

Book preview

WINGBORN

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

For anyone who dreams of wings.

And for anyone who’s ever had their dreams diminished by doubt or been told no, simply because they weren’t born the right particular way to fit the perfect mould.

Fly fast, fly high, fly free,

and may the wind be ever at your back.

Bright sun and clear skies, everyone.

~ ~ ~

Prologue

Feather Frost, Etheria, the Greater West

32nd Cold Month, 784 Cloud Era

THERE WAS NO BLOOD.

A hint of smoke lingered in the air, more imagined than real, and charcoal crunched beneath Lyrai’s boots as he entered the remains of the base. Mist twisted and crept across the ground, drifting on gentle breezes that were so at odds with the season. A blanket of snow had fallen overnight, but the damage was too great to be hidden.

Feather Frost was dead.

Once it had been the pride of Etheria; a defensive bastion that protected trade and lives right in the shadow of the World’s End mountains. From a humble military camp to an impressive citadel, it had been home to over five hundred Rift Riders, half of the Greater West’s force. Feather Frost was both the heart and the frontline of the war against the kaz-naghkt.

Gone.

Nothing remained, neither feather nor bone. All was ashes. The ground was snow-locked, the buildings burnt, the reek of death long faded away. There was no blood. How could almost seven hundred men – the barrack staff, attendants, Riders and all their miryhl eagle mounts – simply vanish? No one had escaped. This attack could have been as much as a month old, leaving plenty of time for survivors to have reached safety and sent out word. It was only due to a returning circuit messenger that anyone had discovered the attack at all.

How could this happen? Stirla joined Lyrai on the take-off platform, which commanded an overview of the destruction.

Unable to speak, Lyrai shook his head. Flying sweeps with their captain out of Kaskad, they had been the closest Riders when the news broke. Not that anything in the hysterical messenger’s report had prepared them for this. Nothing could have prepared them for this.

Lieutenant Stirla, take your flurry down and see if there’s anything to salvage. Captain Myran emerged from the mists, limping up the slope. Fleik’s waiting for you. Lieutenant Lyrai, divide your Riders. Send half with Stirla, the rest remain with you. Find shelter and get a fire going. We’re going to need it.

Both men saluted, and Stirla and his Riders were soon picking their way across the frozen remains. Numb from both cold and shock, Lyrai watched them go, his captain by his side. The wind picked up, scattering snow over their boots.

Speak, lieutenant.

Freshly graduated from Aquila, the silver stitching still bright on his stripes, Lyrai wasn’t sure that there were any words for this, except: There’s no blood.

Myran rested a hand on his youngest lieutenant’s shoulder. Shelter, Lyrai. Fire and food. There’s plenty in life that we can’t change, so let’s focus on the small things we can. Look to your men, lieutenant. With a nod of dismissal, he called for his miryhl and Lieutenant Imaino’s flurry.

Left alone, Lyrai watched his fellow Riders search through the wreckage, while others took to the skies. A fierce wind howled over the ridge, wiping the platform momentarily clean.

Blood. Mostly hidden by the scorched wood and stone beneath but there nonetheless. Hunkering down, Lyrai chipped at the ice with his knife and at last found evidence of struggle and slaughter.

He rested his palm over the stain. Be at peace in the halls of Typhaestus, brothers. Rest well. We shall avenge you.

Shivering beneath a fresh gust of wind, he straightened up and called for his Riders. It was time to seek shelter beneath an ever-darkening sky.

Overhead, it began to snow.

One

Wrentheria

Wrentheria, the Lowlands

15th Gale, 785 CE

NOT EVERYONE COULD handle raw meat first thing in the morning. Then again, Lady Mhysra Kilpapan had never considered herself entirely normal. Not when she spent every possible moment in the eyries. Dawn was her favourite time of day, when the rising sun spread golden fingers through the hatches to make the feather dust dance. Even in winter, if the sun rose cleanly, the eyries became a slice of Heirayk’s own heaven. Except for the meat in her hands.

Sadly, the sounds of the eyries rarely matched the perfection of its sights. Miryhls were far more raucous than their smaller, wild eagle cousins. They muttered constantly, like discontented dowagers at a ball. At all times the eyries bubbled with their low purring hum, which was occasionally shattered by a shriek just because they could. Breeding miryhls were a fractious lot, but the chicks were the worst.

Which was why Mhysra was there before the sun, bird dust in her nose and chunks of raw venison in her hands. Five chicks jostled around in front of her, trampling each other in their eagerness to gain her attention. Barely a month old, the ugly chalky-white creatures were covered in clumps of ash-grey down, long scrawny necks wobbling beneath their oversized heads. They were already as large as a medium-sized dog and growing fast. Not too long ago, their enormous beaks had seemed too heavy for them, meaning they spent more time on their faces than their feet. With their increased size came the strength enough to lift their heads, ready to gape their plaintive demands for the bloody meat clenched in her fingers.

Behind them, two yearlings waited. The size of pit ponies and highly irritable, they looked like hedgehogs; glossy brown bundles pinpricked by the emerging quills of their first flight feathers. They tried so hard to act fully grown but hunger always defeated them, and the squalling chicks were drowned out by a cracked scream, silenced only when Mhysra tossed a chunk their way.

Dignified, a hoarse voice muttered behind her, rough-edged with sleep.

She glanced over her shoulder, smiling. As if you weren’t the same at their age.

On first glance, the young miryhl looked barely any different to the other adult eagles slowly waking in the glowing dawn. Their feathers shimmered through every shade of brown, from near-black down to honey-gold. The bird at her back was a conker-coloured giant, streaked with hints of gold. Cumulo, her Wingborn.

Snorting, he glowered at the chicks vying for her attention. Remember it well, do you?

Mhysra chose to ignore him, preferring to focus on feeding the babies instead. Of course she didn’t remember Cumulo as a chick; she’d been a helpless babe at the time. He had hatched at the exact moment she came into the world, creating that most coveted and rare of bonds – the Wingborn – and tying them together for life. Rift Rider legends were full of daring Wingborn, describing them as one soul divided. One will, one reason, one heart.

She’d tried reading such stories to Cumulo once. He told her not to be so soppy and, that if she insisted on reading to him, could she please not make it such sentimental drivel. Whatever the Wingborn bond meant to historians and storytellers, to her it was family. No different than siblings or cousins. Quite disappointing, really.

Oblivious to her thoughts, Cumulo eyed her jealously as she fussed over the baby miryhls. No Riders in their right minds would choose to partner with creatures like these, he muttered disdainfully. Which was slightly unfair since the chicks weren’t exactly at their best – covered in strips of meat, their down clogged with blood. One tripped over its own feet and Mhysra bit back a smile.

You’re such a snob, Cue, she said. And anyway, expecting a Rift Rider to have any mind, let alone a right one, is asking a bit much.

As if you wouldn’t sign up tomorrow if you were a boy.

She answered his grumbling with a wistful sigh. It would be wonderful to join the Riders, the miryhl-riding protectors of the Overworld and pride of the Flying Corps. Except the entire Corps, from Rift Riders to doelyn scouts, were men, and had been for the past hundred years. It was a waste of time to even dream of joining. So she didn’t. She was happy breeding miryhls on her aunt’s farm; Cumulo was the one who wished for more.

Throwing down the last chunks, Mhysra rinsed her bloody hands in a bucket and watched her sated chicks settle inside their nesting pen for a nap. Another two bells and they’d be shrieking again, but it was no longer her task to take care of. Her life was about to change, though sadly not for the better.

Eager for a distraction, she unlatched the gate and entered the pen. Don’t come in here, she warned as Cumulo shuffled along his perch.

Why would I want to? he sniffed, preening his shining wings, which were a stark contrast to the scrawny babies.

Mhysra ignored him and started grooming the fledglings, running her fingers through their new feathers and rubbing away the quill-tips they couldn’t reach. It was a task she’d been doing for years and she loved it. These fledglings in particular were extra special – she’d helped to match the parents, turned the eggs, watched them hatch and seen them through their first year. They were as much her babies as the miryhls who’d conceived them.

You’re practically clucking.

She scowled at Cumulo, though silently grateful for the distraction. The thought of leaving her fledglings almost brought her to tears. Cumulo would never let her live that down, so she sniffed and plucked a loose feather from the nearest wing.

What’s wrong with that?

Cumulo eyed her coolly. Nothing. So long as you stick to feathered things.

She rolled her eyes. I’m barely sixteen, Cue. I’m hardly breeding age.

Nor me, he agreed. Which is all I’d be fit for if you took up such a ridiculous notion.

Mhysra chuckled. Most male miryhls didn’t sexually mature until they were twenty years old, so even a precocious Wingborn would be lucky to father anything before eighteen.

He huffed reproachfully. Don’t deny you’ve been broody this past year.

Over chicks, Cue! I don’t even like the boys around here.

He snorted scornfully. I don’t blame you. A more pitiful human flock is hard to imagine.

She grinned, tugging on a wing stub and stroking the crinkled skin, making the chick chuckle in its sleep. They’re not all bad.

You’ll have more to choose from when we reach Nimbys, he said, reminding her of what she was desperately trying to forget. Best set your priorities now.

Turning her back on the thought, and him, Mhysra worked on the chicks, running her fingers through their fluffy down. They soon woke, making her task significantly harder, thanks to their lively mood. Since playful miryhls – even chicks – usually resulted in copious amounts of blood loss, she left the eyries with a shallow scratch on her face, two deep ones on her arm and a crunched toe.

Such rewarding work, Cumulo teased, when she emerged into the slushy snow. Perched on the paddock fence, he looked like an overgrown rooster – albeit an impressive one. Big for his age, shining, beautiful and hers, just as she was his. Neither had been given a choice, but on good days Mhysra acknowledged that the gods had smiled on her.

This was not a good day, so she flipped a rude gesture in his direction and limped on. He cackled and flapped to the next post. Mhysra eyed his landing, waiting for the tell-tale groan to assure her that he was still enjoying his growth spurt. Another half-moon and she’d have the delight of watching him break another rail made brittle by the winter frosts. She was looking forward to it, if only because Cumulo was a tad too fond of his dignity.

Or she would have been, had she been permitted to stay. Muttering the foulest words she knew earned her whistles of approval from the nearest stable lads, donning their armour before feeding the pyreflies. The screaming beasts kicked at their doors, flames spouting around the edges, and Cumulo soared on the rising heat.

Hurry up and stop growing, Cue, Mhysra murmured, watching him spiral higher, wings spread wide. Her chest tightened with longing. Soon, her aunt said. Soon, Cumulo promised. Soon, one way or another, she would fly again. If only on the deck of the Illuminai.

As she passed the horsat barn, a silky ball of fluff scampered out of the shadows, yipping with excitement. Laughing, Mhysra knelt and caught the eager pup, smoothing ruffled fur and tugging loose down from its undeveloped wings.

You found me.

The black and white nakhound pup licked her chin. Mhysra grimaced and held it at arm’s length, rubbing her face on her shoulder. Bright eyes glittered, while a plumy white tail whirled.

Cute, she conceded, putting the dog down. It yapped and gambolled about her feet before lolloping away up the slope.

Sighing, Mhysra turned to follow and looked up at Wrentheria Manor, her home for the past sixteen years and the place she loved most in all the world. Except her view was spoiled by the three-tiered skyship coming into land: the Illuminai. The countess had arrived.

HALFWAY UP THE slope, Mhysra’s aunt stood watching the Illuminai approach. As the owner and manager of Wrentheria, Mhylla Wrentherin was famous across the Overworld for breeding the best feather-wings money could buy. Whether it was miryhls, nakhounds or doelyns, the quality of Wrentheria’s bloodstock could not be denied.

So when her younger sister married into the wealthy Kilpapan family, eager to explore the world on her new trade skyships, it had seemed wisest to leave the children in the care of Mhylla. Luckily, Mhylla had transferred her skills with animals easily over to children, and if given the choice between her mother’s ships and her aunt’s eyries, Mhysra knew where she’d pick to stay. Always. Every time.

Sighing, Mhysra joined her aunt to watch the skyship edge into the docking cradle, timbers groaning as it came to rest. It’ll be years before I can come home.

Her aunt raised her eyebrows. I don’t think that’s quite what your parents have in mind.

"No, it’s what I have in mind, Mhysra grumbled. I like raising miryhls. Who’ll take care of my chicks when I’m gone?"

I’m sure we’ll manage somehow, Mhylla said dryly, having been breeding miryhls for nearly forty years.

Her niece smiled with little amusement. I know, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. Where do I belong if not here?

Wrapping an arm about Mhysra’s shoulders, Mhylla gave her a squeeze. You can belong anywhere you choose, sweetheart, and this will always be your home. Stop fretting. I bet your feather duster isn’t.

Cumulo? Mhysra snorted. All he cares about is whether he has to fly all the way to Nimbys or not.

See. Mhylla squeezed her again. If he’s not bothered, you’ve no cause to be. Wherever you go, he’ll go too. Gods have mercy.

Hey! Mhysra pulled away. Don’t insult my miryhl.

Why not? You do.

He’s mine, I’m allowed.

Mhylla smiled. And that makes all the difference. If you didn’t have him, I might worry about you. Then again, maybe I wouldn’t. You’ve a wise head on those shoulders, when you choose to remember it. And if, in five years or so, it’s still what you want and your parents agree, come back and we’ll be happy to have you. Who knows what’ll happen twixt then and now? We can’t even predict tomorrow. But I’m sorry to lose you. Bad enough that Kilai deserted me, though I knew Milluqua would never stay. But you, Mhysra, I’ll miss you.

Since her aunt had three sons and two daughters of her own, all still at home, Mhysra felt no guilt about leaving. Especially when it wasn’t her choice. Kilai was always headed for the Riders. Her father’s family had a long and distinguished history of serving in the Rift Riders, one Kilai had been eager to continue. And I am a Kilpapan. My parents were bound to remember that one day.

Mhylla chuckled at her gloomy tone and walked towards the ship. Buck up, chick, your mother’s here.

Mhysra pulled a face behind her aunt’s back. That’s what I’m worried about, she muttered, watching a slender woman disembark: Countess Kilpapan was here.

Mhylla.

Lunrai! The two women embraced and Mhysra felt forgotten as the worlds of the manor and the skyship intermingled around her. Once she’d had her own allotted place in the dance, but no longer. She’d been tugged apart and left to drift.

You’re brooding, a rough voice rumbled in her ear, and she smiled, having felt Cumulo land behind her. An eight-foot tall eagle with a wingspan of over twenty feet would never be famed for his stealth – the downdraft always gave him away.

Good morning, Cumulo. I trust I find you well. Lunrai bowed, hand across her heart in deference to the one to whom miryhls were sacred: Goddess Maegla, Lady of Storms.

Tradition stated that miryhls only ever spoke directly to their bonded partners, but Cumulo had always disregarded that to include those he considered family. With Lunrai, though, he merely inclined his head in a slight, polite bow. Head still lowered, he rubbed his beak against Mhysra’s back, apologising because her mother had greeted him before even looking at her.

Mhysra was used to it. Her mother was a businesswoman, her social skills honed to deal with clients, potential customers, traders and skyship crews. Since Mhysra came under the haziest of headings – family – Lunrai had never quite known how to treat her. Unlike her older sister Milluqua, a born society hostess, Mhysra took after her aunt. Without having had the benefit of raising her during which to learn this, Lunrai treated her youngest child like the stranger she was.

Mhysra. I trust you’re ready to depart tomorrow. Her mother kissed her stiffly on the cheek and Mhysra jerked with surprise. Not at the throwaway token of affection, but because Lunrai had to stretch up to reach her. When had she outgrown her mother?

Mhylla draped a scarred arm across her niece’s shoulders and smiled. You’ve a fine girl here, Lunrai. Well-mannered and intelligent. She’s been rearing miryhls on her own these last two summers, and I daresay they’ll be some of our best.

Lunrai raised delicate eyebrows. Have you enjoyed your time with your aunt, Mhysra? she asked, as though she’d merely been on holiday.

Mhylla’s grip tightened in warning when Mhysra bristled on her aunt’s behalf.

Swallowing her anger, Mhysra forced herself to be polite. Yes, Mother. I doubt there’s anyone or any place in the world that could have raised me better.

Lunrai’s eyebrows remained high. Oh? she said, as if amazed that anyone could like Wrentheria. Then she smiled with surprising sweetness. Good. Thank you, sister, for taking such excellent care of my children. I’m sure you’ll be relieved to relinquish the last of them. I’ve brought letters from Milluqua and Kilai. He mentioned something about nakhound pups?

While the sisters talked, Mhysra slipped free. She’d done her duty, greeted her mother and been made uncomfortable. Usually she’d help her cousins tally the new supplies and claim her stake for the miryhls, but that wasn’t her role anymore.

You’re brooding again. Stop it.

Scowling, she tugged her braid free as her miryhl tweaked it. What else can I do? Tomorrow I’m leaving everything I’ve ever loved, known and wanted to know, to go where I know no one but my sister, who I haven’t even seen for three years!

You’ll still have me. He nudged her in the back. I hope you know and value me.

Only as much as you do me, she retorted.

Look on the happier side of this tragic tale, chickling, he purred. It’ll be an adventure. Who knows what excitement lies just around the corner?

I already do, was her gloomy reply. Dress fittings, etiquette lessons, morning calls, deportment lessons, long dinners, breakfast parties, afternoon tea, dinners, balls, musicales and boredom, boredom, boredom.

Hmm. Cumulo turned to arrange his flight feathers just so. That doesn’t sound so terrible.

That’s because you won’t have to suffer any of it, she growled, stomping off. Her uncle wouldn’t turn her away if she offered to muck out horsat stalls. The world didn’t stop just because the countess had arrived.

Wherever you roam, there I shall be, Cumulo told her, gliding overhead. We’ll suffer it together and then we’ll come home. At least you won’t be relegated to some gods-forsaken shed, as I shall be. He landed in front of her, shuffling his wings into place. It will be dirty, have rats and be rampant with disease. Scurf will be the least of my problems.

Her lips twitched at his disgruntlement. Look on the happier side of this tragic tale, Cue, she mocked. It’ll be an adventure. And you might not get feather mites. Ducking a swipe from his wing, she laughed and darted into the barn.

16th Gale

HAVE YOU HEARD the latest?

Mhysra rolled away from the window where she’d watched Wrentheria become a speck, a valley, then a mountain, until it was finally shrouded by clouds. Home was out of reach now.

Not still moping, are you? Slapping a newspaper on the bed, Derrain fra Canlen, an Illuminai midshipman she’d known since he was a cabin boy, jumped up to join her on the top bunk.

Her mother hadn’t said anything when Mhysra chose to stay with the crew rather than in the state rooms set aside for important guests and family. Derrain wasn’t her only friend amongst the younger crewmembers and right now she needed friendly voices around her.

Anyone alive in there? Derrain rapped her forehead with his knuckles.

Sapskull. Catching him off-guard with a swipe of her leg, she knocked him off the bed.

A seasoned skysailor, Derrain twisted, landed on his toes and bounded up again. Nice try.

Knowing she’d never get rid of him, she picked up the newspaper. What have I missed?

Derrain said nothing, waiting while her eyes scanned the worn print. The corners of the four-sheet were dog-eared and the ink was smudged after passing through many eager hands. The paper crackled as she read the headline and tightened her grip.

Eyes wide, she checked the date: thirteen days old. Thirteen days and she hadn’t known. Hadn’t even heard a rumour.

Gods, she whispered.

Grinning, Derrain swayed in excitement. Isn’t it great?

She motioned for him to be quiet, scanning the words over and over, fearing that she’d read something wrong. She hadn’t. The words remained the same. For the first time in over a hundred years, the Flying Corps were relaxing their rules. Women, banned for some arcane reason no one could remember, were allowed to fly again. To protect the skies and mountains from threats both winged and grounded. It wasn’t just messengers and pyrefliers admitting women again, but the best of them all: the Rift Riders.

Ai Maegla, Mhysra breathed. Tell me this isn’t a joke, Derry.

No joke, he vowed solemnly. Heirayk knows they haven’t any choice.

Taking a shuddering breath to still the fever dancing through her veins, Mhysra frowned. What do you mean?

Derrain’s expression was grim as he tapped the story below the headline. Fresh losses. Riders, miryhls, messengers, doelyn, bullwings, horsats, pyreflies and –fliers, artillerymen. Every aspect of the Corps was suffering. Not just skirmishes, but attacks on bases, selection schools, farms, stables and eyries. Nothing connected to the defence of the Greater West had been spared, and the results were costly.

They can’t afford to keep women out. Not after Feather Frost.

Her excitement turned numb. Feather Frost was a year ago. They said it was because the winter was so hard. They said –

They lied, Derrain interrupted grimly. His uncle had been a bullwing artilleryman stationed at Feather Frost. They lied to the press, the world, even the families, because they didn’t want everyone to know what it meant.

What does it mean? she asked, head spinning with the implication that things had grown so bad the Corps were willing to admit women again. They’d been adamantly opposed to it for so long.

They’re scared. The losses are coming too fast and they can’t replenish them with a shrinking intake of boys every year.

Gods. She scanned the article again, turning the page and searching for more amongst the gossip, the politics and the pointless. Nothing, just two short articles to change her life.

Well? Derrain asked, when she finally folded the paper and met his dancing dark eyes.

Mhysra raised her eyebrows, a move which he mimicked, and smiled. Try and stop me.

OH, MY, MHYSRA said, entering the hull eyries with her hands in her pockets, purposefully ignoring her miryhl’s dejected stance. Look at all this space.

Cumulo huffed and shuffled his wings. I am making the most of my luxury. I doubt I’ll see such accommodations again for a long while.

She patted his beak consolingly. It was her fault he had to put up with things like this. Well, partly her fault. If they weren’t Wingborn he’d still be at Wrentheria, being trained for his future life. At just sixteen, however, he’d have another two years to finish growing first. Or longer, since male miryhls were usually allowed to mature until twenty before they were sent to the life-changing Choice and paired for life with just one Rider.

Being Wingborn, Cumulo’s development matched hers, making him advanced for his age. But, for all the closeness of their bond, she was no compensation for his own kind. It was because he was bonded to her that he suffered these moments of isolation. It would have been different if she were a boy; they’d have been sent to Aquila as soon as they were fit enough to fly. Because she was a girl, though, her miryhl was condemned to live away from his own kind, exiled for things not of his making. Or so they’d always thought.

Are you looking forward to seeing Nimbys again? she asked, sitting on the perch opposite his. The eyrie was designed for five miryhls to roost in comfort, or as many as ten in a pinch. With only one occupant, no matter how big and impressive he might be, it looked empty, despite most of it being used as an overflow storeroom, with feed bins and pieces of bullwing tack lying carelessly around.

Cumulo shrugged, a mannerism picked up from humans. The city is beautiful enough, but the public eyries… He didn’t finish – he didn’t need to: they were filthy, neglected and rarely used. Why should they be anything else when Nimbys was home to the Eastern Flying Corps’ headquarters?

To be so close to the heart of things and yet still be excluded had always chafed them. Their trips to the city had always been just shy of torment: she was trapped, he was lonely. Until now.

How would you like to change your life, Cue?

He looked at her with deep gold eyes, crackled his beak and tilted his head. Something’s happened. When she answered him with a sly smile, the feathers on his head and cheeks rose eagerly. Tell me.

Fancy becoming a Rift Rider?

Two

Nimbys

Nimbys, Imercian

6th Blizzard

THE FLYING CORPS’ headquarters in Nimbys was an uninspiring sight. It looked like so many other civic buildings in the city – the Records Office, the City Hall, the Public Infirmary. It was tall, clean, rigid and, unlike the others, surprisingly large as it sprawled across the ridge; a rarity in a city where space was at a premium. Then again it was built several hundred feet above the rest, so it could afford to spread out.

As Mhysra topped the rise and got her first proper look at it all, she felt both underwhelmed and intimidated all at the same time. True, the building didn’t look like much, but it represented everything she cared about. Hopes, dreams, disappointments, despair, honour, courage, power… the list went on. Her legs felt heavier with every step, and that had nothing to do with the long, winding walk up from the city.

I can’t do this, she muttered, her strides getting shorter and slower. Arriving at a fork in the path, she ducked cowardly off to the left.

If the headquarters was an uninspiring building, the one she faced now was just disappointing. It looked like a giant barn perched on the edge of a cliff. Which was what it was. Except that it wasn’t home to any ordinary form of livestock.

With each step towards the barn, Mhysra felt lighter until she was practically bouncing. Roof hatches were propped open around the highest level, letting in the bright winter sun and letting out high-pitched shrieks, mutters and screams. Everyday sounds from a miryhl eyrie.

Grinning, she headed for the door and almost collided with the man coming out of it. Liquid sloshed from the bucket in his hand, releasing the unpleasant odour of blood. Mhysra leapt back with a yelp, barely saving her skirt from a soaking. The man’s boots were not so lucky.

He glared at her. Can’t you read?

Startled by the harsh tone, Mhysra blinked. She’d only spent eight days in Nimbys but had already fallen into the habit of being treated like a lady. No one had dared speak so sharply to her since she’d left the Lowlands.

There. He jabbed a callused finger at the sign on the wall. Shift them big eyes there and look close.

"Rift Rider property. Keep out! Civilian access by appointment only," she read aloud, feeling her heart sink again. Gods, she hated this city.

Got an appointment, have you? asked the man, smirking.

Nettled, Mhysra drew herself up to her full height, putting them eye to eye. My brother is a Rift Rider, she announced with all the ceremony she normally despised.

The man rubbed his stubbly chin with a hint of uncertainty, assessing the cut of her clothes. Skirts and dresses were not her favourite attire, but she had to admit that in this city they had their advantages.

What’s his name? he demanded, not prepared to admit defeat just yet.

Kilai Kilpapan.

The man wrinkled his nose. Kilai? he repeated, scratching his head. Don’t know a Kilai. You sure he’s meant to be meeting you?

Hardly. Mhysra chuckled. He’s at Aquila.

Her adversary scowled. What you doing looking for him here then? he demanded, since Aquila was half the Overworld away.

I wasn’t, Mhysra told him, trying not to laugh. And I never said I was.

Any hint of deference vanished as he dropped his bucket and folded his arms across his skinny chest, blocking the door. "Then what you wasting my time for? Civilian access by appointment only." He jabbed his finger at the relevant words.

Frustrated, Mhysra balled her hands in her skirts. I don’t want access. Since she clearly wasn’t going to get it. I just wanted to look. She edged a little closer and tried the winsome smile that so often worked for her older sister. Please?

The man shuffled his feet, uncomfortable with her increasing proximity. Mhysra debated whether or not to bat her eyelashes. Deciding that it might be too much, she sidled forwards again, backing the man ever so slowly through the doors and into the shadows beyond.

A demanding shriek shattered the gloom, making them both jump.

No! the man suddenly shouted, startling her into stepping back. I’m too busy to watch over the likes of you. Think you’re the first to come sniffing ‘round here, wanting a gander? Ever since that fool proclamation I’ve been booting them out ten times a day. Get along with you. This ain’t no place for bored little ladies. Snatching up his bucket, he stepped into the eyries and slammed the door in her face.

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, one or two of which even had gardens, 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 Thrift 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? Runaway 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. Pardon?

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 practice…

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 will 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 had 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 is 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 are 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.

Three

Enrolment

THE RIDERS GAPED – the girl was telling the truth! She really was from Wrentheria, the best miryhl breeders on the Overworld. More than that, she was related to the family and was one of the rich, influential Kilpapans.

Brenai paled and fell back into his chair. "Lady Mhysra Kilpapan, did you say?" he asked weakly, the letter in his hand apparently forgotten.

Yes, the lad replied cheerfully, as if he hadn’t just dropped a burning pyrefly egg on the clerk’s desk. Didn’t she tell you? Mhysra, didn’t you tell him?

The girl’s smile was wry. I was trying to get in on my own.

You didn’t mention Cue?

She shrugged. I tried, but Wingborn don’t exist.

Mherrin chuckled. I’ll let you tell Cumulo that. I stopped by after I settled Ripple. He seemed happy to see me. His bag whined and he twisted to reach it. Oh, I almost forgot. Mam sent you something else. Delving inside, he pulled out a bundle of fur and feathers, black patches on white, rumpled and growling. A nakhound pup. Seeing the girl, the puppy yipped, fluttering its black-barred feathery wings, paws scrabbling at the empty air. Merry Midwinter.

What did you bring that for? the girl demanded, yelping as the boy threw the pup into the air, where it flapped with more enthusiasm than success, forcing Lady Mhysra to dive to catch it. Tail whipping about happily, the puppy washed the girl’s face.

She pined for you, cousin. Saddest thing I ever saw. She searched all over the eyries. Your chicks almost ate her, but they fought so loud about it that they woke Mhylo. They’re missing you too, but Mam’s doing her best. The fledglings looked for you a couple of times, but Da rounded them up before they reached the village. Without Cumulo to compete with they’re a lazy pair.

Holding the nakhound at arm’s length, Lady Mhysra shot her cousin an exasperated look. She’s one of Kilai’s. He’ll kill me.

He left them to Mam, and she knows best. Besides, he got one when he joined the Riders.

I’ve got Cumulo.

And he has Cirrus. All’s fair, cuz.

She scowled at him, tucked the puppy under her arm and turned back to the desk. Does this meet with your requirements, sir?

Brenai was still blinking in astonishment at the previous revelations. I – I believe so, my lady. Though parental permission is preferred.

I was raised by my aunt, she said, icily polite. She has every right to decide my future.

Fidgeting, the clerk scanned the letter again. Your aunt says you are Wingborn?

Yes.

And that you are a Kilpapan? Brenai sounded as though he was being strangled.

Yes.

Yet your letter of recommendation is from Mhylla Wrentherin?

The cousins shared a glance, and the girl nodded. My maternal aunt, yes.

Umm… Brenai tugged at his neckcloth, sweating at the prospect of either turning away this gift of a student or offending the influential Kilpapan family. Would it be possible to receive a letter from your parents?

Lady Mhysra pursed her lips. At this present moment, no.

Ah.

Not when enrolment closed yesterday.

Brenai coughed. Well, classes do not begin for another five days. If you were given the opportunity, do you believe it would be possible to gain permission before then?

Her smile was beautiful. For this chance, sir, I could do almost anything. You’ll have your letter before the first day of classes. The cousins shared another look and the boy winked. Lyrai wondered how legitimate any letter signed by Lord Kilpapan would be, but it was no business of his. A Wingborn belonged in the Riders, male or female.

You have five days, Lady Mhysra.

Thank you. She bowed to the clerk and jerked upright when the puppy licked her nose. Casting it a disgusted look, she turned away, then paused. Might I request a favour?

Exhausted by the morning’s tribulations, Brenai waved her towards the two lieutenants.

Ever curious, Stirla stepped forward. How may I assist, my lady?

She studied his uniform, eyes lingering on his shoulder stripes. It’s about my miryhl, sir.

Please, call me Stirla. He swept up her hand – the one not holding the puppy – for a kiss.

Her eyebrows rose and she bobbed a curtsey. Thank you, Lieutenant Stirla.

He patted her hand and Lyrai had to stifle his amusement. He couldn’t believe that Stirla was flirting with a girl seven years his junior – even if she was connected to two of the most powerful families in the East Overworld. Girls her age, in Lyrai’s experience, were either unbearably silly or simply not interested.

Tell me about your miryhl, Stirla prompted.

She frowned and dragged her hand free, surreptitiously wiping it on her coat, proving Lyrai right. He’s at the city eyries –

Every Rider within hearing winced and Stirla dropped his flirtatious air. Say no more, my lady. You should have come to us sooner.

Taken aback by such swift acceptance, she smiled shyly. I wasn’t sure a civilian would be welcome, sir. Many don’t agree with a girl having a miryhl, Wingborn or not. And I’m afraid he’s not looking his best.

Understandable considering where you’ve had to keep him. Stirla shuddered, and he wasn’t the only one. The Riders had been trying to get the city eyries closed down for years, but since the place was also used by pyrefliers and horsat messengers they had yet to succeed. Miryhls are Rider business, my lady, and we’re always prepared to listen to those who live with them. I’ll send someone to fetch him immediately. When the girl opened her mouth, Stirla chuckled. Or you could bring him yourself.

Thank you, sir. Dipping another curtsey, she hurried after her cousin.

Well. Stirla turned to Lyrai, eyebrows raised. That was interesting.

And no doubt will continue to be so, Lyrai agreed, nodding for his men to disband, since they weren’t on duty until the afternoon.

Spending seven months in Nimbys doesn’t seem so bad now, does it? Stirla chuckled, accepting his packet of instructions from the harassed Brenai. Girls in the Riders again and we’re here to help. We live in interesting times, my friend. If you’ll excuse me, I have to go and prepare a space for our special guest. Stirla set off towards the eyries, whistling as he went.

Interesting times, indeed, Lyrai murmured, and left to find his sergeant. A surprise inspection of his flurry’s mounts sounded like a marvellous plan.

THE AIR HAD an icy bite as Mhysra exited the headquarters and raised her face to the watery sun, murmuring prayers of thanks to as many gods as she could name. Two for Maegla, since the Goddess of Storms was Mhysra’s favourite and the patron deity of the Riders. Opening her eyes, she looked down across the city to where the Storm Goddess’ cathedral rose high above the docklands like a finger of divinity pointing to where all should look for guidance.

Beyond it rolled the Cloud Sea, an everlasting blanket of pure whiteness. Under the soft winter sun it looked plush and inviting. Yet to step onto those false waves was to fall for all time. Or so the legends said. But once there had been something beneath it, once there had been a whole world down there, before the gods cursed the people and covered the world in white.

Hey, Mhysra!

Wrenching her thoughts away from gods and curses, Mhysra grinned and ran to where her cousin was waiting for her.

Thank you, thank you, thank you! she shouted, throwing an arm around his neck and hugging him hard. Caught between them, the puppy yipped happily and tried to wash both their faces at once.

You’re – urgh! Pup slobber. Mherrin pulled free and scrubbed his sleeve across his cheek, looking less and less like a professional messenger by the moment. Instead he was just her favourite cousin, with his wind-tossed curls, dancing eyes and ever-present smile.

You’re wonderful, she told him, popping onto her toes to kiss his brown cheek. I was beginning to doubt they’d let me in, until you arrived like the south wind at the end of winter.

You know me, he demurred with false modesty. I always show up when I’m wanted.

And even more often when you’re not.

Chuckling, Mherrin threw an arm around her shoulders and they began the long descent to the city. There’s my Mhysra. I was starting to think Nimbys had got to you already. At her wince, he laughed. Deportment lessons going well?

Gods, don’t! she groaned. "You’d think I’d been a hunchback all my life. It’s all sit up straight, Mhysra. Lift your shoulders, put your chin up, don’t slouch, breathe properly. As if I’d been doing it wrong all these years."

Since you’re still alive, I assume you’ve been getting some of it right.

You’d think so, but no, apparently not. I’ve developed some shockingly bad habits, or so Milli says. Having spent eight years living in the whirl of Nimbys society, Mhysra’s sister Milluqua had taken on the daunting task of teaching her youngest sibling how to behave. Much though Mhysra loved her sister, things were not going well.

Mherrin laughed again. Well, no surprise there. You’ve got a terrible predilection for things with wings and the amount of clothes you got through back home was appalling.

Says you, the soot and scorch king of Wrentheria, she defended hotly. At least mine was only blood.

"Only. He snorted. As if that makes it any better."

Well, at least my clothes could be cut up for rags afterwards. There was never anything left of yours once the pyreflies were done with you. She nudged him with her shoulder. Did you ever think those burns were a hint that they didn’t like you?

Her cousin gave a delighted chuckle – as well he might. Everyone liked Mherrin, even bad-tempered, fire-breathing, winged horses. As much as they liked anyone, anyway. If that’s so, what’s your excuse? That blood didn’t get all over your shirts by accident.

Miryhls eat raw meat, she protested. And they’re messy feeders. The blood wasn’t mine. Mostly, she added, to be fair. Besides, everyone knows miryhl chicks play rough.

Since they both knew she would never admit to a fault in her beloved birds, Mherrin ruffled her curls and changed the subject. I take it from the scene I just interrupted that the earl’s answer is still no.

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 not 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