Misfits of Aquila (Aquila's Originals 1)

Chapter 19: Flight, Part 3

ORLA WATCHED THE girl with the pretty lilac hair tow her bratty golden miryhl back into line and stroked Milk's neck, relieved she didn't have a partner like that. Milk might have been small, but she was perfect for Orla, and her pure white feathers made her stand out just as much as Sunshine's gold.

"Orla and Milk," Captain Stirla called, but it wasn't until Taryn poked her in the back that Orla realised what that meant.

"Good luck," her friend whispered. Orla gulped.

"Come on," Milk urged, strutting across the grass. Attached to each other via the leather reins, Orla trotted to catch up instead of being towed.

Stirla and Mhylla met her with reassuring smiles, checking over the tack and instructing her how to mount. Orla didn't register a word, but some part of her must have heard because the next thing she knew she was on Milk's back.

The ground wasn't so very far away, but Orla wasn't sure she liked being so disconnected from it. She'd ridden a doelyn before, but somehow the little deer-like creatures seemed so much more solid than a miryhl. Perhaps it was the feathers, so soft and buoyant beneath the saddle, slippery as silk across Orla's clenched fingers.

Milk glanced over her shoulder with a worried eye and Mhylla showed Orla how to tie the safety straps. Almost no one had bothered with them at the beginning of the day, until that poor Storm Peak lad had been dumped by his odd-looking miryhl, then everyone had.

"You'll be fine," the legendary miryhl breeder assured her, tugging the straps into place and patting Orla on the knee. "You're not going far and Milk won't go too fast or too high, will you, Milk?"

Milk shook her head, the movement travelling down her body and rocking Orla in the saddle. "We'll go steady."

"Then away you go," Captain Stirla urged, waving at the open field before them.

Girl and eagle breathed out in unison, then Milk was moving.

"Hold on!" she called, even as Orla dropped the reins in favour of gripping the saddle.

The miryhl leapt forward, Orla lurching back and forth in the saddle with each bound. Her stomach knotted, but she was just beginning to pick up the rhythm when Milk opened her wings and pushed off with a powerful kick.

Orla leant forward, bracing herself for the landing.

It didn't come. There was no hard bounce, no force thrusting her back in the saddle. There was only wind in her face, air slicing across feathers and a breathless moment of weightlessness.

Milk flapped twice, lifting them higher, making Orla's heart clench.

"Are you well?" her miryhl called.

Orla looked at the pale feathers, the ends wafting in the breeze, and below at where their giant shadow raced over the grass. They weren't very high, less than Orla's own height, but they weren't connected to the ground at all.

They were flying.

Orla carefully straightened in the saddle and slowly, painfully slowly, prised her hands from the pommel. She didn't slip, she didn't shift, not even when Milk flapped her wings again. Centred perfectly in the middle of the saddle, she felt the miryhl rise beneath her, making her stomach skip and her heart lift.

"Orla?" Milk called over her shoulder, even as she guided them into a gentle turn. "Are you well?"

She felt so much better than that. Raising her hands in the air, she stretched her arms out to the sides as if she was flying too, tipped her head back to the overcast sky and laughed.