by Toby Bishop
Constance, nuisance though she was, was right about one thing. It had been more than a year since he had gone to the Rotunda. Of course, he had his people—Philippa’s brother Meredith, for one—to tell him what happened there. And Meredith, sycophant that he was, was more than happy to carry his wishes to the Council Lords. Perhaps Constance worried about losing her position as Duchess, although that seemed unlikely. It had never caused her overmuch joy, so far as he knew.
He stood and went to the window to look out into the courtyard of the Ducal Palace. He had moved Diamond to the Palace stables, in a stall far away from the other horses, where she had the run of a long, well-groomed paddock and the airiest space Jinson could provide. Even now, he felt the pull of her, that yearning to run his hands over her glossy hide, to touch the points of her silver wings, to comb her fluff of white mane. To smell her clean scent of straw and oats and sunshine.
Odd, this compulsion. He wondered if, once he had flown her, it would subside, as desire for a woman often faded away once he had possessed her.
And William wondered, running a hand over his pale hair, if he would ever desire a woman again. The potion that made it possible for him to bond with Diamond had erased that urge. It was a necessary sacrifice, and he couldn’t regret it. But it was an uncomfortable circumstance. It made him feel unlike himself, at odds with his own nature.
He blew out a breath. It didn’t matter. It would all be worth it.
And he would not, he decided with a final slap of the quirt against his leg, go back to the Council until he had flown her. Not much longer, surely. She was flying with sand weights and the saddle, working with the longue line, building her strength and learning the bit and the bridle. Soon he would sit in that saddle, and not long after that they would take to the air. Together.
In the meantime, he would see to bringing Philippa Winter back to Oc. It was time she paid the price for defying him.
FOUR
PHILIPPA and Sunny, returning from a flight to their favorite mountain lake, swooped low over the lavender fields. The delicate scent of the lavender blossoms rose to meet them. The sheep had grown used to the winged horse and lifted their heads from their grazing for only a moment. The shepherds waved. The narders, thigh deep in purple flowers, tipped their hats.
Autumn had passed its zenith. The snowcaps on the peaks to the east stretched lower each day. As Sunny glided to her landing in the lane below the barn, Philippa noticed how strong and tall the spring lambs had grown. They dashed among the ewes, their tails flicking merrily. They made her think of the yearlings frolicking in their paddock at the Academy, sorrels and blacks and bays and palominos galloping together, tails arching, feet twinkling in the grass, and her breast ached with a sudden, helpless longing.
There wouldn’t be many yearlings in that paddock this year. The winged foals were born in two-year cycles, and the last spring crop had been pitifully small. Too many winged mares had thrown wingless foals, thanks to William’s disastrous breeding program. Philippa had feared for the future of the bloodlines even then, and now that things had grown so much worse, she was helpless to do anything about it.
She dismounted and led Sunny into the barn to untack her. She had filled her water bucket and was ladling a measure of oats when she heard a whinny from beyond the yard. She left Sunny munching a leaf of alfalfa, and hurried to the door. She shaded her eyes to look down the steep lane.
A black horse was making its way up through the lavender fields at a steady running walk. At first Philippa couldn’t see who the rider was, but when he took off his hat to run his fingers through his white-blond hair, she knew.
She dusted her hands against her divided skirt, and stepped out into the yard. When he drew close enough, she raised her hand, and called, “Francis! Welcome to Marinan!”
Francis smiled down at her as he reined in his horse. “Philippa,” he said. “I’m glad to have found you at last.” He threw his leg over the saddle and slid easily to the ground.
“I’m always glad to see you, Francis,” she answered. “And especially now. Esmond has been my only visitor all these months. What brings you to Klee?”
He looped his mare’s reins over his arm. “I had a mission for Prince Nicolas in the capital, and I met a young Klee lord there, Esmond’s nephew.”
“That must have been Niven,” she said. “The Viscount’s son.” She took his horse’s rein, and led the way toward the barn. “A great favorite of Esmond’s.”
“That’s the one. He knew of our adventure in Aeskland, apparently, and confided to me that you were here. Rys had given him permission.”
“It was good of you to make time to visit.” Philippa led the black mare into a stall, and Francis began to unbuckle her cinches. “How long can you stay?”
He glanced at her over his shoulder. “I have to get back to Osham soon,” he said. “This trip was a special favor for the Prince, but I’ve been working in the White City since last winter. My lord brother—” He lifted the saddle and hoisted it up onto the stall gate. He leaned on it a moment, his elbows against the smooth leather seat. His tone was wry. “My brother, Philippa, has stopped attending Council meetings. It falls to me to represent the Ducal Palace.”
Philippa handed Francis a towel. “I’m surprised William allows that,” she said, as he turned to begin rubbing the mare’s sweat-stained back.
He gave a humorless laugh. “Oh, William doesn’t mind,” he said. “As long as I make no decisions. Or the Council Lords either, for that matter. He refuses to sign any ruling of any significance.”
“That’s not government, is it?” Philippa said.
“Indeed not.”
They worked in silence for a time, laying out hay and oats for the mare, spreading fresh straw beneath her feet. Sunny whickered from her stall, and Philippa went to pat her before she and Francis walked back out into the cool sunshine.
“A beautiful place,” he said, tipping his head back to admire the old house.
“It is indeed,” Philippa said. “You see how steep that roof is? It’s because of the snow. We had drifts higher than my head last winter. We were snowbound. No one stirred from the place for entire weeks.”
Francis gave her a sympathetic look. “That must have been lonely.”
She shrugged. “I confess, Francis, I enjoyed it. Something of a holiday.”
“Marinan reminds me of Deeping Farm,” he mused, as they walked in through Lyssett’s fragrant kitchen and on into the dining room. “Bigger, of course, and more elegant. But that same air of age and—I don’t know—reverence.”
Philippa smiled. “The Ryses are noble, and the Hamleys are farmers, but the families are not so different. They respect their heritage. And each other, too, which is no small thing.”
He gave her a lopsided smile. “I think you rather liked Brye Hamley.”
She turned her back on him to straighten a crooked curtain and to hide the heat in her cheeks. “Larkyn is the most fortunate of girls to have such a brother.”
“You and I were not so lucky in our brothers.”
“No.” She composed her features and turned back to him. “Quite the opposite.”
Lyssett bustled in with a teapot and a platter of tea sandwiches, eyeing Francis as she set them down.
“Lyssett,” Philippa said. “This is Lord Francis Fleckham, of the Duchy of Oc in Isamar. He’s a friend of the Baron’s. Francis, Lyssett has been cook and housekeeper here since before Esmond was born.”
Lyssett curtsied. “My lord,” she said.
Francis, who had taken a chair, rose and bowed to her before sitting down again. Lyssett colored and smiled as she poured out the tea and set the plates, then disappeared into the kitchen. Francis took a sandwich and devoured it in three bites.
“It’s so gratifying, Francis,” Philippa said, “to see you completely restored to health.”
He gave her a boyish grin. “I didn’t dare die of that woman’s blade,” he said. “William would never have l
et me forget it!”
She chuckled, but the memory still pained her. Francis had come perilously close to dying of his wound. Only the country air and good food of Deeping Farm had wrought the miracle of his healing, and she would always be grateful, for the Duchy and for herself, that the friend of her childhood had survived.
“So,” she said, picking up her cup and shaking off her brief nostalgia. “What news do you bring? I’ve heard nothing but rumors all these months, passed to Lyssett by the grocer or the fruit-vendor.”
“What rumors?”
She shrugged. “Some are wild—Nicolas threatening to invade, or even William disbanding the Council. I couldn’t believe those.”
“No, there’s no truth in those stories.” Francis took another sandwich and ate this one more slowly. He cradled the teacup in his sun-browned hands and let his eyes stray to the hills beyond the window. “But I’m afraid it’s true that William and Nicolas are in collusion.”
Philippa put her own cup down. “Why do you think so?”
“Nicolas sent a thousand militiamen to Oc.”
“Kalla’s teeth! What are they for?”
“William has posted militia in every town,” Francis said. He drank his tea and set the cup in its saucer with a click of porcelain. “To enforce his extraordinary tax.”
“But, Francis—that’s martial law!”
“It is very like.”
“Surely the Council Lords will not stand for this!”
“You would think not.” He turned in his chair, and leaned toward her. “The temptation is too much for them,” he said in a low tone. “For some of them, in any case. They want to see their Duke as a visionary, someone who will usher in a new day for Oc.”
“In which men fly winged horses,” Philippa said in a flat voice.
“Precisely so.”
“And we horsemistresses? The Academy of the Air?”
Francis hesitated, then said, “I can’t pretend there’s no risk. Some have said—openly, in the Rotunda—that closing the Academy would go further toward building the Fleckham School than levying the extraordinary tax.”
She closed her eyes briefly, assailed by a wave of the fatigue she thought she had banished months ago. “Why does it make Oc stronger to take the winged horses away from women?” she asked.
“It doesn’t,” Francis answered. “It makes William stronger.” She opened her eyes again, and looked into his gentle face, so like and yet so unlike his elder brother’s. “It shocks me, Francis. I’ve always placed my faith in the wisdom of the Council. And now . . . this is misogyny, is it not? A resentment that women hold any power.”
“I doubt they think of themselves as misogynists.”
She snorted. “Do you know another word for it?”
“No.” He leaned back, his eyes on her face. “Is it possible, Philippa? For men to fly?”
She shook her head. “No. I believe it is not.”
“But if William succeeds in flying this filly of his,” Francis said, “there are young men waiting to be bonded. There is already a list, being kept by—” He broke off, coloring faintly. He cleared his throat. “Well. Let’s just say by one of the lords.”
“Oh, do let me guess,” Philippa said. “My brother Meredith.”
He gave her a gentle, rueful smile. “Yes. Sorry.”
“Do these young men know what they will be asked to do?”
“There is talk of a potion. But no one seems too worried about it. Some feel that because men don’t conceive in any case, there is less risk to the winged horses to bond with men.”
“Then they haven’t seen their Duke’s swelling bosom or noted his beardless chin.”
“He has managed to stay out of sight.” Francis shrugged. “But he can’t hide forever.”
“If he is to fly,” Philippa said, “it could be soon. She was a winter foal. She’ll be coming two before long.”
A little silence fell. Lyssett came in to take the empty teapot, and Philippa looked up to see with some surprise that evening had fallen around Marinan while they talked. There were voices in the kitchen, the shepherds and the narders gathering for their supper.
“You’re staying, of course, Francis,” Philippa said.
“If that’s acceptable. It was a long ride up from the capital.”
“I’m sure Lyssett has already prepared a room for you, and no doubt is cooking up one of her wonderful meals.” Philippa stood up. “I’ll go and ask.”
Francis stood up, too. “I should see to my mare. Should I blanket her?”
“The nights are cool here,” she said, “but she won’t need a blanket. The barn is as well built as the house, and the shepherds keep a little close stove going in the feed room.”
She turned toward the kitchen, and Francis followed. After a brief conference with the excellent Lyssett, Philippa led the way to the barn.
Francis sniffed the air. “Everything smells of lavender,” he said, and smiled. “Although perhaps you can longer smell it? You must be used to it by now.”
“I can smell it, and I like it.” She stopped just outside the feed room and stood for a moment, tracing the pattern in the wooden wall with her fingers. “Francis—if William fails—could all these troubles just go away?”
“He has gambled everything on his success,” Francis answered gravely. “It’s my belief that my brother will either fly this filly—Diamond, he calls her—or die in the attempt.”
PHILIPPA slept poorly that night, plagued by nightmares as she had been when she first came to Marinan. She dreamed of that awful day in the Rotunda when William had ordered her into confinement at Islington House, parting her from Winter Sunset and condemning her mare to a certain death, from heartbreak or madness. She dreamed of soldiers at the Academy, her students fleeing, their horses screaming alarm in the stables. In one of these dreams, the frantic neighing seemed so real that it shocked her out of sleep, and she sat bolt upright in her comfortable bed, stunned and relieved to find that Marinan was quiet as always. Not even the rooster had yet announced the morning. The first streaks of light had just begun to paint the eastern sky in shades of blue and gold and pink. She got up to splash water on her face, brush her hair, clean her teeth, and dress.
She crept downstairs, hoping not to wake anyone else, and was startled to find Francis already in the kitchen. He was measuring tea leaves into a pot, and the kettle had begun to steam.
“Good morning,” Philippa said.
He looked up. “You couldn’t sleep, either.”
She crossed to the big stone sink and looked out the kitchen window toward the barn. “And you? I’m sure your bed was comfortable.”
“I have worries enough to make any bed hard.”
“It’s a shame.” Philippa propped one lean hip against the edge of the sink and watched him pour boiling water into the teapot and wrap a cozy around it. “You seem to have acquired some domestic skills,” she said.
He smiled at that and pushed his pale hair back from his face. He had cut it very short, in the Isamarian style, and it made him look boyish and rather dashing. Half-consciously, Philippa smoothed her own graying red hair, wound as always into the rider’s knot.
“I learned a few things at Deeping Farm,” he said as he reached into a cupboard for teacups. “I can cook a bit, and I can till a field and chop a cord of wood.”
Philippa allowed herself to ask, “Do you know how they are? The Hamleys?”
His face hardened. “It’s the extraordinary tax,” he said. “William saw to it that the tax on Deeping Farm was much too high to pay. And so Nick—the youngest brother—has been impressed into the militia.”
“And Brye?” she asked.
“Brye is well,” Francis said. “But he’s furious.”
“Of course he would be,” Philippa said. She toyed with the end of a tea towel. “If he knew that William had tried to hurt his sister, there would be no controlling him.”
“I know. I worry that—” Francis broke of
f as he poured out the tea.
“What, Francis?”
He picked up his teacup. “William would love any excuse to confiscate Deeping Farm,” he said. “And not just because of Larkyn.”
“Because of your sister,” Philippa said wearily. “Because he’s afraid she’ll expose him.”
“Precisely so.” He sipped his tea and gazed past her to the day brightening over the lavender fields. “I’ve thought of exposing him myself, except that such a scandal would only further divide the Council, to say nothing of ruining what’s left of our house’s reputation. Whether William forced Pamella or not, if I tried to accuse him, half of the Council would refuse to believe me, and the other half would take up arms against him. Such a disgrace would leave the Duchy with no leadership at all. Oc would fall apart.”
They drank their tea in silence after that until Lyssett came down. She shooed them out of her kitchen, tutting over their having had to make their own tea. They went out to stand on the gravel walk, breathing the chilly air of the autumn morning.
Francis said, “Even my pillow smelled of lavender.”
“It’s lovely, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“I will be sorry to leave it.”
“You mustn’t leave, Philippa. It’s not safe for you to come back to Oc. You have to stay here, where you’re safe.”
She turned to face him, lifting her chin so that she could look straight into his face. “Francis, you’re like a brother to me—better than a brother, in my case. You know I can’t languish here, doing nothing, if the Academy is at risk.”
“I’ll do all I can to protect it,” he said.
“But how can you stop him?”
“I don’t know,” Francis said heavily, “I wish I did.”
“There must be something I can do.”
He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t know what it would be.”
