Wingborn (Wingborn 1)

Chapter 19: Lessons, Part 2

"Cyrris Peaks, sir."

Lyrai smiled, certain now. "You're Lieutenant Stirla's nephew."

Greig nodded warily. "I'm his oldest sister's son, sir. I've only met him a handful of times."

"Lucky you." Lyrai winked, pleased when the lad grinned, looking even more like his uncle.

"And your miryhl?"

"Jupi, sir."

"Pleased to meet you, Jupi. I hope you'll both enjoy your time with us." With the introductions over, Lyrai paced back along the lines. "I hope you all will. Now, to work." Putting his fingers to his lips, he let out a sharp whistle. High amongst the mountain crags, Hurricane screamed.

The students looked up in awe as the miryhl swooped, racing his rippling shadow across the grass. Circling around the field, Hurricane made sure everyone had a chance to see how huge and magnificent he was before he landed. Wings closed, he raised his head, marble feathers gleaming in the sunlight.

"This is Hurricane," Lyrai introduced mildly.

Even Fhyrin looked lost for words as the students gazed at the impressive eagle, even those who'd seen him before. The miryhls all straightened, trying to look more impressive, except for a muttering Cumulo who raked his talons across the grass and huffed sulkily.

Lyrai chuckled and, using Hurricane's lowered wing as a step, settled easily into his saddle. "Today I want you all to fly this course. It's just a few small obstacles designed to test your skills, balance and flight craft. It's not hard. I'll go first. Watch carefully."

They glided down the field to the obstacle course. As Lyrai had said, none of it was difficult. Hurricane dipped through the large hoops, swooped over and under the bars, and wove between the poles without Lyrai having to do anything. He just called out the directions – to the students as much as his miryhl.

As they swirled around the last pole, Lyrai plucked a flag from the barrel. Returning to the start, Hurricane landed gently, allowing Lyrai to plant his flag before the admiring – and faintly panicked – row of first-years.

"Well, Fhyrin? Are you going to gawp all day or will you fly?"

The boy looked at the course, back to Lyrai, then at the course again. While Fhyrin might have lost his cockiness, the shier students now gazed at Hurricane with wonder, no doubt dreaming of a day when they could emulate him. Lyrai had always known his new miryhl's worth far outweighed his size and magnificence.

Fhyrin took off and Lyrai followed, calling, "Honra, you're in charge."

Gliding after the young pair, Hurricane murmured, "So this is teaching?"

"I hope so," Lyrai replied, having only the vaguest idea of the role himself, and shouted for Fhyrin to start. The miryhl responded before the boy. Fhyrin's nerves showed as he clung too tightly, hunching away from the poles and wobbling. Lyrai wasn't sure whether to be appalled by the boy's overconfidence or impressed that he managed to stay on at all. He foresaw hard work ahead.

Hurricane circled lazily above the course. "That's a good miryhl."

"Yes," Lyrai agreed with a sigh, hoping he could train the boy to match as Fhyrin landed, flag in hand. "How come you miryhls do all the hard work, yet still make us look good?"

"That's our job," Hurricane chuckled, ruffling his feathers on landing. "You show off with weapons and strut about in shiny boots while we work. You get the glory, we the graft."

"What do you get out of it?" he asked.

"Undying loyalty," Hurricane replied tranquilly. "And a laugh when we throw you off."