It's the penultimate chapter of On the Fly. If you missed the first four chapters, read them here.

On the Fly
By Bonnie Rutledge
Chapter 5

Zephra could not wait any longer. She had made up her mind about leaving, yet now that she could spy the postman approaching the Aenarii villa, her feet were slow to move away from the window.

For nearly a week, she had clung desperately to the idea of remaining with Desonir. Mary's words had played a part in boosting her stubborn streak, but more than that, Zephra was reluctant to admit defeat. It was odd, but for the first time she experienced a measure of dread at the prospect of moving on to a new life. Zephra told herself that she should be eager to travel. She was bored, wasn't she? Whenever Zephra was bored, it was time for new escapades, new scenery--new men. Leaving was the simple, obvious answer.

But simple answers do not always bring simple comfort. Now that she was confronted with a practical resolution, Zephra managed to feel worse. Where was the passion in giving up? What adventure lay in being reasonable?

Lyrio, bless him, remained easygoing. "Have you ever been to the capitol? Ah, the sights!" he said. "You'll never think of Mal Nassrin as a city once you've seen the Imperial palace. Why, this place is like a dirty old stocking, while Azmadisha is the polished crown of Rhyth! I'll show you! There's the Imperial Arena, the Imperial Menagerie, the Imperial Gardens..."

"It all sounds very imperious," Zephra teased.

Lyrio rattled on, rapt with the prospect of playing her tour guide. "And the Imperial Post Office! They handle letters from Primarch Zaluris, herself, there. Did you know Imperial stamps are made of gold? The Primarch's postal officers use wax underneath to bevel the emperor's profile into the foil." The elf clasped his hands together and issued a wistful sigh.

Zephra did her best to appear appreciative. It was, after all, the plan. Zephra put the fact that this excellent progress depressed her down to last-minute nerves.

It wasn't that she feared that Mary or any of the other house men-at-arms would stop her from going. Not this time. The day prior had been fraught with intrigue, serendipitously easing her path out the door.

Not all of these guests were allowed to remain, of course. Zephra watched the footmen come and go, seeking guidance from the Master in private as to who was allowed a chair. If a visitor was found unwelcome, Mary promptly escorted them out into the street. If these undesired guests dug up the nerve to complain over sticky patches of honey, new wrinkles or a film of glass dust soiling their garments when they were retrieved from the cloakroom, Mary silenced them with snarls, bruises and a gruff goodbye.

Curiously, Mary and his men did not stay indoors the entire day. The butler and his footmen had swarmed out of the villa more than once like wasps from an overturned nest, each searching for an informant to sting. They appeared less fierce upon their return, with a faint hint of defeated bewilderment. She would notice their clenched fists and tight shoulders, lost for any target to hit, and Zephra sensed how strange circumstances must be at the capitol building if the usual rounds of the brute squad could not handle the problem. She tried to question them, but the men offered little more than a grunt for her trouble, turning their backs on her queries.

She drifted among the company. The opportunity of meeting the notable residents of Mal Nassrin or feeding her own notoriety no longer drew her interest. Zephra felt impatience swelling inside her as they chattered. Zephra found no entertainment in their bickering small talk. The longer Desonir remained sequestered from sight, the more she worried. If there had been an attack on the Capitol, if the power of the Council was threatened, a nagging sensation pushed at her that she should be with Des in his time of trial.

The loitering guests whispered of coups and assassinations through luncheon. The details of who, what, why and how, however, remained open to conjecture. The guild chiefs and league matrons gnawed at their meal, lamenting the tax receipts delivered to the Capitol the night before. For all the mourning of coin, the threat of lost revenue did little to ruin their appetites.

Zephra silently left the table and slipped through the halls toward Desonir's private chambers, only to find two of the footmen drones waiting to bar her entry.

Now, they deigned to speak to her. "The Master specifically said you're not allowed."

Zephra began to bristle and fuss, but Mary chose that moment to return from his latest fact-finding mission.

"This isn't a party, girl. You're in the way," he said. Mary brushed past her, and the footmen hastily unbolted the doors and swept them open for the Feyborn's entry.

Mary. He trusts Mary and not me...

Zephra stood numbly for a blink of an eye before attempting to dash into the room after him. One footman caught her around the waist while the other sealed her access. She struggled for a glimpse of Desonir as the doors closed, metal scraping against stone. She saw his red mask turned toward the caucus of his peers and called his name, but he made no sign that he heard her voice. Then the bolt landed home, and Desonir was gone from sight again. Zephra wandered back to the parlor--angry, humiliated, lonely--and resumed waiting.

It wasn't that she feared what Desonir might do if she left. She feared that he might not even notice.

She did not engage in the lively conversations. She listened with disinterest, their problems sounding petty. She petulantly rebuked any notice until one trader slipped a flask of brandy out of his sleeve and began to pass it around his company. Zephra did not say a word, merely took the flask, threw it through the window, then resumed her seat as the guests erupted in a fresh uproar.

Footmen came running at the sound of the broken glass. The trader made the mistake of complaining over his loss. The footmen looked to Zephra with understanding and the first sign of sympathy. They nodded, Zephra nodded in return, and the sputtering trader found himself hauled out to the front stoop.

Meanwhile, the gossip boiled. Zephra watched as the house slaves scurried into the parlor with brooms to clear her mess. She felt a light breeze waft in through the jagged opening. Zephra watched as the servants carefully removed the window frame and a footman was dispatched to the glazier.

The company eyed her oddly as she curled into the window seat. It fueled their talk, but the lure of fresh air was too powerful. Zephra dangled her sandaled feet outside the villa for the first time in three seasons.

She breathed in the scents of the city--perhaps fresh air had been an overstatement. Zephra could smell life teeming in the streets below, a busy perfume of baked air and livestock, clumsily masked by the next-door neighbor's jasmine shrubs. The wheels of delivery carts squeaked along the cobbled roads as loudly as she remembered. Zephra turned her ears toward the arena, wondering if the day's spectacle had been called on account of the trouble at the Capitol building, but comforting cheers rumbled in the distance.

The show must go on.

Zephra leaned forward and turned her head. She spotted a bird perched in one of the linder trees lining the promenade leading to the marketplace. She could hear it singing for its mate. Zephra tilted further, wanting to see more and refresh her memory of the city.

A hand softly touched her arm. "Careful, Zephra. That cannot be safe."

Lyrio had arrived. Sweet, dependable Lyrio. He smiled with relief to see Zephra pull her legs back inside the window. He clasped her hands warmly. He acknowledged that she was there. Simple little things in a day of sound and shadows, and they made Zephra feel real again. "Not everything can be safe, Lyrio."

That was the moment Zephra decided. She slipped her arm through the postman's and pulled him toward the cloakroom. When they were alone, she said, "If I asked you to fly me over the walls of Mal Nassrin, never to return, would you do it?"

Lyrio's mouth twitched habitually whenever he gave an idea earnest consideration. His lips jerked once, twice, then he replied, "Yes."

Yes. No questions asked. No qualifications. No denials. It was done.

That was the moment Zephra began to regret her decision.

A day had passed, and she regretted it still. Zephra pictured Lyrio as he traversed the enclosed portico to meet her. She should be moving to greet him, she should be leaving, but as Zephra began to walk, she found her feet progressing in the opposite direction, down the hall, toward the double doors leading to Desonir's chambers.

The smart thing to do would be to depart without saying a word, but the idea wormed its way into her head and burrowed into her heart. She had an oversized tapestry bag filled with personal belongings that she had intended to take with her. Zephra began to pull items out, strewing them along the floor with her progress.

The doors were open and unguarded today, perversely offering her welcome entry. No one waited to block her path. She halted at the threshold, unable to see Desonir, and she pictured him deep in study or correspondence. As if reading her thoughts, a footman jogged from the room's interior, vellum packet in hand. He paused briefly enough to give her a shrewd look. He knew she was not supposed to be there, but he had his orders--apparently urgent ones, for he kept moving swiftly toward the exit.

Call after him. Stop him. What if he catches Lyrio?

Zephra remained silent. She played a quiet guessing-game with fate, instead. If Lyrio ran into an impossible obstacle, it would be a sign that she was not meant to leave. If Lyrio found her, she wasn't meant to stay.

She signed peacefully. Silly omens had become far more reasonable territory over the past weeks. They saved her from having to decide for herself, and she could obviously not be trusted if she wanted...

Desonir.

Zephra stepped forward. She could spot Des now writing urgently at the long marble table just as she had pictured him. He still wore the mask; Zephra could see its red edges lining his black cowl. More vellum and a spare quill waited on the tabletop, as did the dishes and cutlery of an abandoned attempt at breakfast. She closed her eyes, swept with a sudden need for guidance but lost as to whom she should pray.

Thieron, bid me good travel. Lathuz, steal my heart back. Abandon me, Uulix, god of the forgotten, the pointless...

Cathoun.

Cathoun, the two-faced.

Zephra had no kind wishes for Cathoun.

She moved forward. Zephra made it halfway when Des stilled, sensing her presence. He did not look up from the table. He said nothing. Zephra wished to the heavens that she could read his mind then, but she could not unravel his thoughts.

Zephra shifted direction, veering toward the consoles lining the far wall. She snipped the flame on the beeswax candles out with her fingertips, then tucked the golden candlesticks inside her bag. She lifted a glowing flue figurine of Yssindarya carved from sealight for consideration, but rejected it as too breakable.

"What are you doing?"

Ah, he noticed.

"I am leaving you," she said.

"Indeed? Redecorating would have been my first guess."

Zephra glared at him defiantly before opening a meshwork box filled with fobs and rings and dumping the contents into her bag. "No," she said in a smug tone. "I do not wish to live here."

Desonir turned his chair and stretched, leaning back as if settling in for an entertainment. "Then you'll want to pry the diamond knobs off the cabinets, I should imagine."

Zephra scowled. He wasn't supposed to be humored. He was supposed to hurt. It had become crucial that her leaving hurt him.

She traipsed over to the bronze cabinet that guarded his books and was rewarded with a frown as she opened it. "Not those," he said. "You won't get your money's worth."

"I don't care," Zephra countered, cradling a large leather-bound tome against her chest. "Darling, you are being robbed. It is hardly going to be convenient."

"There's no value in a musty history volume dissecting the fall of Aemir."

"Oh, I don't know," Zephra said as she nonchalantly filled her bag with book after book. It grew heavy to hold, and Zephra allowed the sack to slide down her leg and rest on the floor. "Perhaps I shall find some dull scholar longing to give up a fortune so he can fill his days fondling page after page of alchemy and military stratagems."

She could not resist taunting him. Zephra dragged her bag of treasures for a few steps before letting it go as she leaned over him, smiling into his narrowed gray eyes. "Will you miss them, Des? Will you be terribly angry with me when we have gone?"

He breathed slowly, watching her with a fathomless stare. "They can be replaced."

Zephra ground her teeth, thinking. He would replace her soon enough with the next greedy minx that pricked his interest. How long would it take? A day? A week? The hell...

The thought of it drummed up a violent storm inside her. Rebelliously, Zephra straddled his lap. Desonir tensed at the contact; he always resisted when she tried to touch him, pushing her away at the earliest opportunity. Zephra was beyond pushing. She pressed against him, holding Des in the chair with the weight of her body. The muscles of his leather-bound forearms pulsed under her grip. She imagined that he could toss her aside with little effort, but--no--he was tolerating her presence.

Incensed, Zephra let out an exasperated cry. "Why aren't you angry? I am going to leave you. I am going to rob you of your property. Doesn't it bother you? Doesn't it infuriate you?"

Desonir remained detestably calm. His gaze scoured her with its frankness. "People come, people go. I have been robbed before. Do you think you are special?"

His composure was unbearable. Inside, Zephra's heart pounded with frenetic desperation that she was fervent to share. She lunged forward, seizing a knife Desonir had propped against the platter of forgotten beefsteak and eggs and brought the point against his throat.

"Yes," she said, willing him to show fear or fury--anything other than indifference. "I deserve a man who adores me. One who cannot keep his hands off of me. A man who cannot bear to be parted from me. Who would face fire and hell to protect me!"

"Now you are just being dramatic." Desonir caught her wrist easily and twisted the tender flesh, urging her to drop the knife.

Zephra squeezed her eyes shut. She would not cry over him--never in front of him. She resisted and held on tightly to the blade, jerking her arm against his strength. "You're hurting me!"

"Then stop fighting so hard."

"No!" Zephra struck heatedly at his arm with her other hand. "I am too good for you," she added, her voice petty. "You never even tried to kiss me. Not once. Even the postman was man enough to give into the urge. You're pathetic."

She was getting to him. Zephra could tell when he sneered, "And you aren't? You're here."

"Not anymore. I'm gone." She stopped fighting him then. Zephra threw aside the knife, caught by a new desire. She ran her fingertips down the planes of his red mask, relishing the fact that the act stunned Desonir temporarily. She traced the sanguil coins marking each cheek, then the cobweb beveled in silver sprawled across his forehead. The mask was a work of art, yet Zephra had grown to hate the sight of it. Daring, brash Zephra--she wanted more than painted faces could deliver.

"Last chance, Desonir," she whispered, gently tilting the mask's rim. "Last chance to kiss me goodbye." Zephra felt a light pressure at her waist; he had dropped his hands to hold her in place. Emboldened, she dared another inch, pouting when it revealed that his cowl covered his jaw. "One little kiss won't hurt..."

Survive the torture.

Her sweet breath touched his cheek. Desonir's fingers dug into her softness, and he considered the cost of surrender. He was so close...

His fear still remained, but the temptation that was Zephra held it at bay. Des found himself reaching for his familiar sense of dread, needing the protection and drive that only fear could bring.

Last chance to kiss me goodbye.

Hell, but Zephra was a cruel bitch when she put her mind to it. She couldn't just go; she couldn't just abscond with a few trinkets to teach him a lesson; she had to draw blood. With blade or words or soft lips, she'd leave him wounded.

One little kiss won't hurt...

He was near to begging. Go, stay...

Gods, he loved her.

The padding of rushed footsteps brought his salvation. The postman appeared, skidding to a confused halt at the sight of them entwined.

"Zephra?" Lyrio said it as though he was genuinely only there at her behest, a surprisingly good acting job for the meek little hired man.

The elf met his gaze with a nervous twitch, driving Desonir to dig up the will to follow through with his purpose before they both faltered. Lyrio would take her north. Lyrio would keep Zephra safe, and Desonir would pay him a Primarch's ransom to keep her that way. Zephra would be removed from danger, leaving Desonir to his demons in Mal Nassrin.

Desonir dared a tiny, brief caress of Zephra's hip before he steeled himself, throwing her body out of his lap to land at the elf's feet.

"Get her out of my sight," he snarled.

Desonir watched her shoulders slump with failure, and he struggled to stay rooted to the spot. They were too close. He could ruin everything in a moment of weakness.

"Zephra?" the postman repeated. He sounded just sad enough at the scene before him that Desonir imagined she would look up at Lyrio with thankful eyes. Once he flew her to her liberty, she would always hold the elf in admiration.

Yes, Lyrio would keep Zephra safe. Desonir would survive on her disdain.

Zephra climbed to her feet regally, keeping her back to him. It was for the best that she did not turn around. One reproachful stare could shake his resolve.

"My things," she murmured.

Lyrio rushed to yank the bag of valuables from the floor and stumbled a step when the sack would not lift with ease.

"I'm sure they have rocks in the north," the postman said in a placating tone.

Zephra held firm and hissed under her breath, "I will leave Mal Nassrin with an empty heart; I'll not leave it empty-handed!"

"But it's heavy! I have to fly the lot out of here!" the elf balked.

Desonir caught Lyrio's eye, daring him to hesitate one more moment with a murderous glare. The postman got the message, hefting the bag over his shoulder with a spate of coughing as he shepherded Zephra out of view.

Minutes passed. Desonir stood silently, counting out reasons he should turn back to his table and bury himself in letters. The unrest in the city had grown flagrant, the population's confidence in the Council obviously shaken. If he held any value to his power, he would delve into the mystery of whatever force had overrun the Capitol building without further delay. Letters to write, meetings to gather, resources to rally, assassinations to plot... so many things he should be doing as the city paced and cowered.

Damning himself for a fool, Desonir could only stare with longing out the window.

Flying is like falling, only without the messy landings.

"Hold on!" Lyrio called.

"I am!" Zephra yelled back. "Gods, this is high! I never realized how high we would be!"

"If you become sick to your stomach, that's normal." Lyrio refrained from mentioning he had lost his stomach a half-dozen times when he'd started flying. Confessions of vomiting robbed something from the glamour of defying gravity. "It's a side-effect of the cross-winds once we clear the buildings. The air gets a bit chaotic up here. It makes for a bumpy start."

"Can't you... uncross the winds?" Zephra asked, her voice slightly nauseous. "You are a master of the air!"

"I'm more concerned with keeping you and your luggage aloft at the moment," he grumbled.

Zephra made a sound that landed somewhere between a huff and a belch.

"On the bright side," Lyrio offered, "we won't hit any rain until we reach the coast!"

A sudden gust tilted the wings of the glider sideways, and Zephra shivered. "There'll be rain?"

"For certain!" Lyrio assured her. "A rain shower is as good as a bath!"

Lyrio spat her hair out of his mouth yet again and lamented at his poor flight planning. He should have considered the havoc a woman's unbound tresses would play with his visibility. For lack of a simple braid, he'd nearly crashed into a spiked cupola upon liftoff. The local birds could get quite vindictive when you winged them.

He felt a small trickle of sweat meander between his tense shoulder blades and glowered resentfully at the tapestry bag propped in the corner of the glider's leapwood frame. "Zephra, what do you have in that sack that is so important?"

She was slow to answer, too busy gazing with wonder at the marketplace passing beneath their noses, the merchants whizzing by as busy dots, their caravans decorating the landscape like brightly colored lollipops. "Desonir's things," she said absently.

"What?" The glider bobbled momentarily from his surprise.

"A few books, gems, some candlesticks..." Zephra listed. Suddenly, she let go of the glider frame to point in the distance at one of Mal Nassrin's neighborhoods. "Look! Is that Primarch's Walk? It's so clean and pretty from up here, like a bit of ribbon tied around the city in a bow!"

They dipped again as Lyrio struggled to support her weight. "Hold on!" he yelped. "You cannot wiggle like that!"

"Sorry."

The whistling wind muffled any sound of regret that may have been in her voice. It wasn't surprising. From the moment Lyrio had lifted her toes off of the ground, Zephra had ceased to treat her surroundings gravely. He tried to explain that she the first passenger to tag along on his aircraft, and that his expectations regarding how the entire experience would work out were lowering with each passing minute. He told her not to open her mouth unless she wanted beetles stuck in her teeth, yet she continued to exclaim over the lovely view. For his part, Lyrio had quickly perfected his tight-lipped shouting into an art form.

"For Gods' sake, Zephra, quit pointing!" Perfect diction with barely a labial twitch. Perhaps he could gain fame as a ventriloquist once they reached Azmadisha.

If they made it to Azmadisha.

Lyrio had learned how to read the wind when it angled against his belly from below when he was on his own. It was rather his specialty. Now he had Zephra's curvaceous backside nestled against him in place of the wind, and he could not read her mind or her... well, it was safe to say that he was flying blind at the moment.

Zephra did not offer much useful help. When Lyrio asked for feedback regarding the direction of the currents below, she waved her hands, threatening to plummet to the earth below, and dismissed the weather as "breezy." Lyrio, convinced that he would have been better off investing a portion of the Councilor's coin payoff in a swift wagon, despaired.

Finally, Zephra's words seeped past his bothered thoughts. "You stole from Aenarii?"

"We cannot live off of rain clouds," Zephra countered airily.

"I have money!" Not his own, but that wasn't the point. He had it, had it belted securely about his waist. Zephra's backside bounced roughly against the coin stash with each bout of turbulence, the bruises reminding him of its presence.

"You don't have to stretch the truth for my benefit, Lyrio. Where would you get money?" She giggled incredulously. Feelings hurt, Lyrio hoped that she swallowed a runaway feather.

"Look, Zephra. I got into a spot of trouble in the postal office, so I was more than happy to leave town. I've embezzled funds," he said meaningfully.

"What?" Zephra shook her head as if that would clear the air rushing past her ears. Her curls promptly threatened to choke him again.

"We do not need Aenarii's baubles," Lyrio declared, coming to an impulsive decision. He gave the bag a push, grunting with satisfaction as it plunged toward the high walk. "I could use the lighter load," he added, grunting with satisfaction.

Zephra flailed beneath him as she instinctively moved to catch the dropped goods. Lyrio sighed and matter-of-factly guided her hands back to the glider's crossbar as he fought for balance. "Hold on!"

"What if you hit someone?" Zephra shouted accusingly. "Head on, that bag is as good as a cannonball. They'll be killed!"

"People are clever enough to duck out of the way when strange objects come hurtling out of the sky. I'll show you!"

Lyrio tipped the glider's right wing, spiraling them lower in a graceful circle. The ribbon that was Primarch's Walk doubled, tripled, until the buildings were the size of letters bundled for delivery.

"I don't see anything."

"It was a small bag, Zephra, not an elephant."

Lyrio scanned the rooftops for fresh holes. He found one, a gory pock-mark among the nicely layered clay tiles. "See there, Zephra. To the southwest. Someone's lodging acquired a sky view, that's all. It's not the disaster you--"

In that instant, Lyrio felt an eerie silence in the air. The glider stopped moving, and the wind hovered in an infinite yawn. In the midst of the abrupt quiet, Lyrio listened for his next heartbeat. It never came. Instead, he dangled in the sky with Zephra and wondered why her unruly locks seemed suspended in motion. He may have tried to comment as much, but the moment felt illusory. He could not be certain that his mouth moved--it was as though Lyrio had just opened his eyes and realized he was roaring drunk. A man could imagine a lifetime in one drunken second. The stillness surrounding him was like that, only in this inebriated hiccup of time, Lyrio began to suspect that he did not exist.

Somewhere, a clock ticked.

"--think."

The air began to scream.

Lyrio lashed one lanky arm around Zephra's waist as he realized they were falling. "I can fly," he muttered. "I can fly!"

The glider obviously disagreed and flipped forward at a dangerous angle. Lyrio closed his eyes, not altogether certain he wanted to see where they were going.

Amidst the cacophony, he heard a single, pure question called in the tones of Zephra's voice. He supposed it was her, but sound had twisted what was liltingly familiar into something mechanical to his ears, each syllable dropping with the accompaniment the winding of gears.

"What is happening?"

Lyrio's eyes snapped open. He forced himself take in the scene--the ground would be hurtling ever closer were it holding still, but the earth proved contrary to nature. It seemed to ripple before his eyes, the level rising and falling several storeys' worth in an instant. The buildings were not exempt, the walls of stone shimmering and expanding before his eyes as if flexing a muscle to take in a deep lungful of reality. The trees bristled, their branches appearing to stretch and blacken before the leaves tautened and shattered.

Lyrio attempted to make out the people below, but as soon as he swore his gaze was trained on a running citizen, the figure seemed to disappear.

Lyrio implored the wind to obey him once more. "Fly! Fly!"

From below, there came an echoing pop, and the world as he knew it collapsed in an expanding circle. A whirling dervish of dust and debris followed in its wake, blossoming like a mushroom as it exploded from the ground. The screaming became liquid then, oil greasing the gears, a thousand voices flowing upward to welcome them into the fold. Lyrio imagined the cold breath of a dying chorus wafting against his face, and his teeth chattered. He wrangled the idea into a glimmer of truth, and suddenly the magic returned. The wind curled--first around his body, then Zephra's. Their fall slowed, then they were alight again.

Lyrio twisted the glider toward the sun, rearing his body painfully backward. By now, the cloud of carnage chased them from below, shooting like a wayward arrow into the sky.

Lyrio shouted in a victorious laugh "Fly! Yes! Fly!"

The explosion had shocked Zephra into learning her lesson, and she now clung to the leapwood bow of the glider with an iron grip. The wind ceased its kind interlude and proceeded to swat the pair them about the sky. Lyrio battled the angry whirlwind, willing the air to spin in a tranquil bubble about them. They enjoyed a few moments of peace, but he let his guard down too quickly. The wind punched upward, followed by a boom of sound. The gale knocked Zephra's body at an sharp angle, ripping her out of his control. She cracked her head against the glider frame and lost her hold, causing one of her elbows to snap back and jab his solar plexus. Lyrio coughed, his focus scattered, and the glider dipped once more.

The blur of dust churning from below took advantage, swallowing them in a haze of ash and sand. Lyrio tilted his chin forward and battled to gather together the remnants of his concentration. Through force of will, they began to float higher among the rain of dust, their clothing soaked in a downpour of powdered rubble.

Fly.

But there was more to this cloud than a mist of dust. Debris that had been cast toward the heavens during the explosion now careened back in the opposite direction. Lyrio found himself dodging the glider between volleys of falling rock and timber. Each misjudged turn brought with it another slash through the stretched lambskin of his glider's wings and more bruises on his shoulders and back.

The subsiding cloud of wreckage lured Lyrio into keeping his lookout for falling objects pinned above. His magic rippled again, and the wind played its tricks. A free-falling iron grate smashed into them from a side angle, hitting Zephra with the brunt of the blow. Lyrio scrambled to catch her as she tumbled forward without warning, her body limp.

The glider frame cracked ominously. Lyrio watched in horror as splinters of wood peeled away from the girders and fluttered out of sight.

The air had begun to clear into a light red-gray fog. Lyrio tried to be pleased that he could see where he was going again, but the glider lurched awkwardly, bending the leapwood at an impossible angle for him to control.

In that instant, Lyrio realized he would crash. He had to make a choice if he wanted to avoid it. He could maintain his grip on Zephra, and the glider frame would inevitably break in two. They would both tumble into whatever fate the remains of the maelstrom had in store. His alternative was letting go of Zephra's dead weight. He might manage the glider over the city walls with a lighter load on the frame, perhaps as far as the channel if he took it gently.

The leapwood creaked and bowed as Zephra continued to hang limply over the crossbar. Lyrio made his decision. He swept the glider as low as he could, until the fragments of supporting walls threatened to scrape their knees. It wouldn't be such a bad fall, Lyrio thought bravely. He might even manage a full landing if he was lucky...

Lyrio blinked as a wall seemed to appear out of nowhere before him. The air swelled in a buzzing aftershock, and he reacted in blind terror. The air seared his lungs, full of remnants of ash and who knew what else, but he was alive. Lyrio tried to recall how it felt the first time he realized he had his power, and he let Zephra fall, the faint echo of her body hitting the ground haunting him as he drove for the north sky.

Life changes in an instant. Lyrio knew this fact from experience.