by Toby Bishop
Amelia stopped, and Mahogany stopped with her. Bramble looked up expectantly, her tail waving.
Duke William said, “Go in.”
Amelia lifted her chin. “I will not,” she said.
The Duke smiled at that and stepped closer, his quirt held lightly in his fingers. Mahogany began to snort and stamp, and flex his wings against his wingclips.
The Duke bowed to Amelia, and when he spoke, his gentle tone frightened her more than if he had shouted. He said, “Go in, Klee. Or I will drag you inside, and leave your colt out here by himself. He’ll likely injure himself trying to get to you.”
The oc-hound growled, and Amelia put a hand on her narrow head. “Never mind, Bramble,” she said. She took the cheek strap of Mahogany’s halter and led him forward. He walked obediently beside her, and Bramble, with a last growl in the Duke’s direction, followed.
They went into the dim shed through the open door. Scythes and saw blades hung here and there on the walls. The graying boards were at least three fingers thick, and the wooden door was half that again. Amelia doubted she could shift it so much as a hand’s breadth by herself.
William pushed the wagon out of the shed into the half-grown hay. He grunted with effort as he slid the door on its hinge, the wood screeching against the iron. When it closed at last, it clicked against the far jamb, blocking the last shaft of evening light. Amelia and Mahogany and Bramble stood in darkness.
Amelia called loudly, “Your Grace! My horse needs water, and so does this oc-hound!”
“Of course,” he said smoothly. “Look in the corner.” There was the rattle of a chain, then the snick of a padlock clicking into place.
Amelia placed her ear against the wall and listened to the Duke’s footsteps rustling through the hayfield. She put her eye to a slit between boards, receiving a splinter in her forehead for her trouble, but the angle was wrong, and she couldn’t see him.
In fact, she couldn’t see anything but a blur of trees and a bit of the green hay—timothy, she remembered, from her Academy classes. Dusk overtook the meadow as she stood there, and her heart sank. Unless he came back soon, it seemed Duke William meant her to spend the night in this lonely place.
For a moment, Amelia stood, her forehead against the weathered wood, her eyes prickling with tears. She took a deep, steadying breath, and thought of her father.
What would Esmond Rys do in her place? He certainly, she admonished herself, would not give in to the weakness of tears. He would assess his surroundings, deal with the most immediate needs of his animals, then think through his situation to the best of his ability. And he would expect his daughter to do likewise.
She turned from the lowering evening beyond the shed. It took a few moments for her eyes to adapt to the darkness within. Faint glimmers of twilight filtered through the chinks between the wallboards, revealing a dirt floor and scattered tumbles of equipment she didn’t recognize. There was no window.
Mahogany stamped uneasily, and Amelia went to her colt and put her arm around his neck to reassure him. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I couldn’t think what to do, and now we’re in a spot, aren’t we?” In the far corner she saw an iron-staved barrel with a flat lid. “Come, Mahogany, and Bramble, you, too. That must be water. Let’s have a drink.”
The oc-hound whined, and licked her hand. Amelia squatted beside her and stroked her head. “I know, Bramble. But we’ll stay calm. We’re flyers, aren’t we? Or we will be soon. And I am my father’s daughter. We’ll think of something.”
She stood again and pressed her fingers to her temples. She had been schooled in politics since her childhood. She should be able to figure this out. “He must have a purpose in taking us. He wants something.”
As Mahogany bent his head to drink from the barrel, Amelia said, “We’re hostages, aren’t we, my friends? I don’t know why, but that’s what we are.”
Mahogany lifted his head, and Bramble stood on her hind legs to reach her nose into the barrel. Amelia pressed her cheek to Mahogany’s tangled mane. “My father will come for us when he knows. And I have no doubt Mistress Star will see to that without delay. I’m an Academy girl, after all.” She took a deep breath and bent to cup a handful of water from the bucket.
It tasted surprisingly fresh. He must have filled the barrel recently. She drank her fill, then straightened. She could just make out a pile of blankets against one wall, and a flake of loose hay waited nearby. He had arranged this in advance, obviously, but if these were their provisions, it didn’t look as if he expected to keep them long.
“Well, my friends.” The steadiness of her own voice filled her with pride. “We had best find a way to get comfortable. I doubt we’re leaving this place tonight.”
LARK tried to do as Mistress Star had asked, to eat her supper, to see to Tup, then go to bed, but anxiety for Amelia distracted her so that she had no appetite, and her fumbling with Tup’s halter and wingclips made him fretful. He backed away from her, tossing his head, whimpering in that way he had.
Hester came to lean over the stall gate. “What’s bothering Seraph?”
“I think I am.” Lark turned toward Hester, and water slopped out of the bucket she was holding, to soak the straw beneath her boots. “Kalla’s teeth, take a blink at what I’ve done now!”
Hester said, “Come now, Black. I’ll give you a hand cleaning that up. You should try to calm down.”
Lark put down the bucket and let herself out of the stall gate. “It’s just that I remember too well,” she said glumly. “Duke William is capable of anything, and Amelia . . . well, Amelia is a baron’s daughter. Diplomacy is what she understands, but yon Duke won’t care about that.”
The girls went down the aisle to the tack room to get a pitchfork and barrow, and trundled them back to the stall. Hester propped the gate open, and Lark began to fork up the wet straw.
“I don’t think he’d dare hurt her,” Hester said.
“But she must be terrified.”
Hester shook her head. “I don’t think Klee frightens all that easily.”
Lark propped the pitchfork on the floor and looked at her friend. “You should really stop calling her Klee.”
Hester shrugged. “I know. Calling her Master is just so awkward.”
“And yet you tease me endlessly about what I call Tup,” Lark said testily.
Hester put out her long arm to take the pitchfork from Lark’s hand. “There, now, Black,” she said. “Don’t take it out on me. I feel just as badly as you do. Let’s get this done and get some rest. We’ll find her tomorrow.”
Lark took a shaky breath, and relinquished the pitchfork. “I’m sorry, Hester,” she said. “It’s just that I’m so afraid for her. ’Tis a bad business.”
“We all feel the same, I think,” Hester said. “But you’re the only one blaming yourself.”
They finished Tup’s stall in silence, then went to see that Goldie was settled. When they started out of the stables toward the Dormitory, they stopped, side by side, in the doorway. A new moon glowed on the tiled roofs of the Hall and the Domicile, and the windows shone with yellow lamplight. Before the Hall, a coach waited, its two fine gray horses standing hipshot and drowsy in the darkness. At the top of the steps, clearly outlined against the open door of the Hall, the Headmistress stood beside a tall, angular woman.
“Hurry, Black,” Hester said. “It’s Mamá!”
THE shed cooled quickly as night fell. Slivers of moonlight slanted through the cracks in the walls. Amelia had rubbed Mahogany with one of the blankets, and now she sat down on the stack, pulling a blanket around her shoulders against the chill. It smelled of hay and dust and mold, and it was a sort of raw, scratchy wool, but it was warm. Bramble pressed close against her, and Amelia put an arm around the oc-hound. Mahogany stood with his head near her shoulder, and she put up her free hand to touch him in the darkness.
Messages would already be flying from the Academy, alerting the Council that an Academy student was missing,
sending word to Baron Rys that his daughter had disappeared. In the morning, the winged horses would fly over the fields and the forest, scanning the ground for them. They had only to hold on, to take care of each other, to remain calm. This would be the undoing of Duke William of Oc.
And she would not, no matter what the provocation, tell him what she knew.
“I won’t do it,” she whispered to Bramble and Mahogany. “No matter what he does, I won’t tell him. Mistress Winter put her trust in my family. I’m honor-bound.” Bramble tilted her head to one side, watching and listening, and Amelia patted her.
“I don’t think he could have known we would be alone,” she said softly. “Odd how someone who is mad can sometimes be lucky.”
She patted Mahogany’s cheek and sighed. She was almost as high in her station as William himself. In the long tradition of hostages, he might imprison her, even starve her, but she didn’t think he would kill her. She would be of more use to him alive.
But would Mahogany?
Amelia lay down, at last, on the blankets. She must stop the whirling of her brain, or she would get no rest at all. Tomorrow, surely, he would come for her. She was no good to him shut up like this, no one knowing where she was, or that he had her.
As she forced her breathing to slow, she kept thinking of that dark glitter in the Duke’s eyes. Bramble snuggled close to her, and Amelia pillowed her head on the oc-hound’s silky fur. She would figure it out tomorrow. Things were always clearer in the morning.
EIGHT
BEATRICE overheard Sarah Runner, one of the junior horsemistresses, whispering the news. Beatrice told Isobel, who murmured it in Grace’s ear. Soon word spread through all the third-level flight that the Beeths and the Beeths alone had financed the Academy’s expenses for the winter to come.
The girls clustered around Hester’s cot after the first- and second-level girls were in their beds at the far end of the sleeping porch. The third-levels were in their nightdresses, and they settled onto Hester’s and Lark’s beds, sitting cross-legged in pools of lamplight. Beatrice recounted yet again what she had heard Mistress Runner say.
Anabel’s forehead furrowed. “I’m so sorry, Morning. I begged my papá to help, but he says as the winged horses are the Duke’s, their support is his responsibility.”
“The problem,” Grace said, “is that the money which should be set aside for hay and grain and other things has all gone to support the soldiers.”
Beryl said, “My father believes Oc is wise to have a stronger militia. He thinks allowing a Klee girl to bond with a winged horse will lead to Klee attacking Oc once again.”
Lark said indignantly, “You can’t believe that, Beryl!”
Hester said, “Shhh, Black, let’s not disturb the younger ones.”
Beryl’s lips tightened. “It doesn’t matter what I believe, Black. We serve at the Duke’s pleasure, do we not?”
Lark felt her cheeks flame with indignation. “It matters because Amelia is a lovely, fine girl with a good education—everything we want in a horsemistress—”
“Like you?” Beryl said slyly. Lark, stung, bit her lip and fell silent.
Anabel said, “Beryl! Don’t talk to Lark like that!”
Lillian said, “But she’s right. The trouble began when she came, didn’t it? And now this Klee girl . . . Perhaps the Headmistress should have listened to our Duke on both points.”
Flame-haired Isobel leaned forward, her freckles standing out on her pale cheeks. “I like her,” she said stoutly. “Amelia, I mean.” She glanced at Lark. “And you, too, Black, of course,” she added. “Sorry.”
“You like everyone,” Beryl said sourly. “That doesn’t prove anything.”
“Nothing needs to be proved.” This was from Grace, whose manner was usually as mild as her name. “Headmistress Winter accepted her—both of them—and that should be good enough. We owe them both our loyalty.”
“Our first loyalty is to the Duke—” Beryl began, until Hester interrupted her, putting up a hand, and gazing around at all of them.
“Girls. If we fight among ourselves, we’re no better than the Council Lords. Mamá says all they do these days is argue.”
Beryl said under her breath, “Your mamá is not actually on the Council, Morning.”
Hester’s eyes flashed in the dimness. “But Papá is wise enough to consult her in everything.”
“Lady Beeth is brilliant,” Anabel said, making Lark look at her with approval. They exchanged a smile, and Lark felt a bit better.
They finally dispersed to go to their beds. Lark gave Beryl a last, doubtful glance as the dark-haired girl turned away. Beryl’s remarks had hurt. Lark thought such objections to her own modest background had faded away, at least among the girls of her own flight.
Hester said, when the others had gone, “It’s worse than they know, Black. Mamá says Lord Francis and old Lord Daysmith tried to raise a militia of their own, but they didn’t have the funds. Lord Francis went to Arlton, to ask Prince Nicolas for help, and that was when he learned that the Prince has taken the other side, supplying money and men to Duke William. And now they’ve blocked the shipping lanes, so that no help can come into Oc.”
Lark hugged herself, feeling a sudden chill. “What will happen, Hester?”
Hester lifted one shoulder. “No one knows. But it won’t be good.”
Lark hesitated, then said, “Hester, you must agree with me that someone should tell Amelia’s father.”
Hester heaved a tired sigh. “Mistress Star says the Academy is in enough trouble without bringing the Klee forces down on our heads.”
“But he should know what’s happened,” Lark said.
Hester spread her hands. “No one knows what’s happened. Not yet.”
“I do,” Lark said.
“You think you do. Not the same thing at all.”
There seemed to be nothing else to say. Hester climbed into her bed, and Lark folded back her own blankets and slipped underneath them. She blew out the little lamp beside her bed, and turned on her side. Hester had already closed her eyes, but Lark felt restive and wakeful.
It was, she thought, more evidence of Duke William’s failings. It was not just that he hated her for taking Tup, or that he had sent Mistress Winter down from the Academy, and she had had to leave Isamar altogether to avoid being imprisoned and losing Winter Sunset. But now the whole Duchy of Oc was being torn down the middle, people spying on each other, attacking each other. Even here, in the Academy, strife and discord were rising at just the time when they needed to pull together.
Lark wished she could talk it all over with Lady Beeth. Hester’s mamá always seemed to know what to do.
Even better, she wished she could tell Brye about it. It would be such a relief to sit at the old scarred table in the high-ceilinged kitchen of Deeping Farm and hear her older brother’s laconic assessment of events. A surge of longing for her home gave her a sudden chill despite her warm blankets.
She turned to the other side and curled against her pillow. Poor Amelia! Where was she tonight? Would she get any sleep at all?
At least Amelia had Kalla to protect her. Lark had given her own icon of Kalla to Amelia on the night her colt was foaled. Comforted by this small detail, Lark drifted into an uneasy sleep. Her last thought was a plea to Kalla to protect Amelia Rys, and Mahogany.
HEADMISTRESS Star roused the third-level flight very early, when only a faint gray light illumined the buildings of the Academy. They took a hasty breakfast in the Hall, and some of the girls grumbled at the chill of the air. Lark avoided everyone’s eyes and said nothing. She had already been out to the stables, hurrying through the cold mist with a small pack that held a change of smallclothes and a few other oddments. She had hidden it even from Hester. She was first to the flight paddock for their launch, and she kept Tup facing the other horses, so no one would notice the pack tied behind the high cantle of her flying saddle.
They rose into the air in silence broken o
nly by the sounds of flight. Mistress Star led. Hester came next, with the rest of the flight in their usual order. Each had a portion of ground to cover, and they were to fly for no more than one hour, then return to the Academy, even if they found nothing.
Lark and Tup flew east, toward Beeth House, and the sea. Lark leaned past Tup’s shoulder, trying to spot Mahogany’s red coat against the second growth of hay or the fading green of the hedgerows. The sun quickly burned away the mist, and the landscape opened beneath them. Farmers toiled in their fields, bringing in the last of the harvest. An occasional milk cart trundled along one of the lanes, and once she saw a group of militiamen marching up the main road to Osham. She dutifully scanned everything, turned back once or twice to have a second look at something that caught her eye. Both times it turned out to be a red-and-white cow grazing alone in a field.
Lark took great care not to miss anything, but she had no real hope of seeing Amelia and the missing Mahogany. Duke William would have hidden them well.
When the allotted hour had passed, she saw her flight in the distance, wheeling about, winging back toward the Academy as they had been instructed. She held Tup at Quarters for long minutes, waiting where she was until the winged horses converged above the Academy and assembled themselves to return to ground. When they had begun their descent, all of them turned away from her, she laid her rein against Tup’s neck and squeezed his barrel with her right calf. He banked to the left, turning to the south, away from Osham.
His wings shivered with a surprised pleasure, and his ears turned eagerly forward. Tup was always ready for an adventure. When she knew he understood their direction, she gave him his head. He ascended past a few puffs of cloud into clear, cold sunshine. Lark pulled her cap low over her forehead and settled into the flying saddle. It was a long way to Arlton, and they had never flown it before. She must watch for signs of fatigue in Tup and keep a sharp eye for the landmarks she had carefully memorized in the Academy library. The broad road that wound through the Duchy until it reached the Arl River would guide her, and there were several large towns along the way to assure her she was going in the right direction.
