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“Six hours a day?” I whined, looking up at Herne with my most pleading expression. “But it’s my birthday.”
“And you can have cake after,” he said, completely immune to my complaints. “Don’t be difficult. I thought you were a full grown demon as of today?”
He walked away and I glared, shooting him a dirty gesture behind his back. “I saw that,” he shouted, not even turning around to look. He knew me well, and I couldn’t help the little grin that tugged away my scowl.
Altair was old, but he was relentless. Because I was the only new flier in the unit, he insisted on spending the first day one-on-one while the others ran drills. He criticized my back strength, constantly reminding me to keep my wings up and off the ground. Then he criticized my stomach muscles, which were too weak to keep me balanced with the weight of the wings, and my thighs, which would never let me launch strongly enough for flight.
“So all of me is terrible?” I asked drolly, giving him a frustrated glare.
“Yes,” he said, completely seriously. “Let’s begin.”
I barely managed to stay aloft for more than two minutes by the end of the first three hours with Altair. The weapons master was equally brutal, putting me with a sparring partner who clearly knew far more about using a sword than I did, and who reveled in every victory against me. I left my first day of training sore, defeated, and cursing Herne’s name with every painful step back to my platform.
“Cerridwen!” Carnon shouted down at me when I was at the bottom of the rope ladder that led up to our platform. “Fly up!”
I climbed the rope ladder like always, much to Carnon’s disappointment. The wings were a heavy weight behind me, and I groaned at every rung. Herne was with Carnon, leaning on the railing and watching me with feline amusement.
“You look like shit,” he said, pulling me up the last few feet of the ladder when it became clear my shoulders were going to give out.
“Language,” I groaned. “And I feel like shit.”
“Language,” he laughed, dropping me gently onto the platform with a large hand. I overbalanced, nearly toppling onto Carnon, who pushed me up again with a bony shoulder.
“So you can’t fly?” he asked, looking at me with juvenile disappointment that killed me a little. “I wanted you to fly me around the city.”
“Not today, tiny king,” I replied tiredly. “I’m afraid I can barely keep myself up in the air. It’s going to be awhile before I can bring you, too.”
Carnon pouted, glaring at the wings that were clearly insufficient for his purposes. I laughed, then winced. Even laughing hurt.
“Get cleaned up,” Herne suggested, looking at me with a mixture of amusement and pride. “Want us to bring you dinner?”
“I just want to crawl into bed,” I groaned, leaning heavily on the railing. “But if you insist I eat, then yes.”
“Come on, Carnon,” Herne said, clapping my still-pouting brother on the shoulder. “Let’s feed her before she bites our heads off.”
I almost threw him another dirty gesture, but all my energy was going into standing, so I went to clean up instead. I hadn’t figured out how to bathe with the wings yet, and I was so tired that I knew I’d fall asleep if I lay in a warm bath, so I settled for wiping off the dirt and sweat with a damp washcloth and a clean change of clothes.
Several new shirts had made their way into my closet, all with buttons or ties up the back, or open like the leather training shirt. I smiled, knowing Herne was responsible for the kindness, and picking a soft sweater that tied behind my neck and under the wings. I didn’t feel like trying to figure out buttons in my state of exhaustion.
“Did you die?” boomed Herne’s voice through the door that led to the sitting room. “Because if you did, I want your stew.”
I rolled my eyes, steeling myself for Herne’s grumpiness and Carnon’s exuberance.
“Happy birthday!” Carnon shouted, jumping up and down behind what looked like a misshapen log on the coffee table. “Look, I made it for you!”
“Oh,” I said, getting close enough to examine the log and trying to look surprised and pleased, rather than extremely concerned for my health. “It’s a cake?”
“Yes!” Carnon chirped, smiling warmly up at Herne. “Herne helped me. Do you like it?”
“I love it,” I said, dropping a kiss onto his head. “Thank you.”
“Herne too,” Carnon said, pushing me toward him. “If I get a kiss, he should probably get two. He had to put out a fire partway through making it.”
Herne rolled his eyes, and I tried to stifle my choked laugh. “That’s very nice, but Herne doesn’t want a kiss from me Carnon,” I said, looking down at my brother rather than up at the huge male before me.
“Of course he does!” Carnon said, shocked that such a thing could be true. “Don’t you, Herne?”
I looked up, and Herne let out a long suffering sigh. He looked down at me, and that tug rippled through me as he tapped his cheek above his whiskery beard. “If you insist,” he growled.
