by Airs
Lark cast Hester a look, and her friend grinned wickedly. “Yes, Black,” she purred. “Whereis your saddle?”
Lark tossed her head, and said to the child, “I like riding bareback, Peter. The saddle gets in my way, and Tup’s, too.”
“Them horsemistresses don’t like it, though.” Rosellen said.
“No,” Lark admitted. “They don’t.”
“Black got through Ribbon Day by the skin of her teeth,” Hester said. “And now she has to learn to ride like a grown-up.”
Lark’s tart response was interrupted by a shout from the docks. Rosellen’s mother glanced at her daughters. “Annalee, do you go and see…”
Before she finished her request, a terrible sound, like the roar of some great beast, came to their ears.
Annalee dashed around the side of the cottage.
What she saw made her cry out, and press her hands to her cheeks. Another shout followed, and then a cacophony of howling, human and animal, setting all the girls and children on their feet. The horses threw their heads up, and Tup began a nervous whickering.
“What is it?” Lark asked. She seized Tup’s rein, afraid he, too, would dash to see what was happening.
Rosellen had followed her sister, but now she ran back to Lark and Hester. Her face had gone pale, her freckles standing out like flyspecks. She cried faintly, “It’s—it’s barbarians! I think they’re Aesks—they’re on the beach!”
Lark thought she could not have heard right. Barbarians? Surely there had not been an attack from Aeskland for…well, not in her lifetime. She moved to see for herself. “How do you know, Rosellen?
How would you—”
Hester strode past her, Goldie close behind. As she stepped out into the wind, strands of her long hair escaped her rider’s knot and whipped around her shoulders. “She’s right, Black,” Hester snapped.
“Kalla’s teeth, the Council will be furious! Rosellen, can your family get away? Get inland?”
Lark hurried around the cottage, and gazed out to sea. What she saw stunned her.
In school, she had seen the books with pictures of barbarians coming to Oc in their warboats, but those were old books, old like the stories the girls whispered on the sleeping porch. Lark had never expected
to see barbarians for herself. Every book claimed that the Duchy had ended their raids forever. All her life she had believed that Klee was Oc’s only enemy, and that a subtle one, marked by intrigues and deceptions and endless diplomatic maneuvering. Danger came from the east, not sailing across the Strait from the north.
But here, in fact, it was, in the shape of red and black boats, quivering spears, archers with bows poised, and great, awful dogs even now bounding up from the beach.
Lark clutched Tup’s mane, and her heart pounded in her ears. He stamped his feet and snorted and switched his tail.
And then Rosellen’s mother ordered, “You two girls, Lark and Hester! Get away from Onmarin, now!”
Hester and Lark stared at her. She looked utterly different at this moment, as if she stood taller, straighter, her freckled features gone hard.
“But—” Hester stammered, poise gone for once. “But—but what about you, Mistress? What about your girls, the children—your village? Your men are out to sea—”
“Don’t know” was the abrupt answer. “But we don’t want the devils to capture two flying horses! Go!”
When the girls still hesitated, Rosellen snapped, “Go, Lark! And Hester, get you to Lady Beeth and tell her—that’s all you can do for us!” Without waiting to see if they obeyed, she turned back to her mother.
“Come on, Mam, let’s take the children—try for the dunes!”
Screams rose from the docks. A few women with babies in their arms fled past the cottage, wailing.
Rosellen’s sisters and the little gang of boys dashed away toward the dunes, but Rosellen, with a cry of
“Lissie!” turned back to the house and disappeared inside.
Lark and Hester leaped aboard their horses and reined them in a half circle, looking for a place to launch. Lark, though her heart rebelled against abandoning the village, knew Rosellen had been right. It was her duty to protect Tup, her bondmate, even if it meant her own life.
They found a relatively flat place between the winding dunes, a path of packed sand, ridged and rutted.
Hester led the way, grim-faced and pale. Lark and Tup followed.
Sensing their riders’ intensity, the horses fairly leaped into the air. It was hard, because they had to canter away from the prevailing wind. The ground was uneven and the launching space cramped, but they made a gallant effort. Their ascent was wobbly and uneven, but they succeeded. They were aloft.
As they rose above the dunes, the barbarians caught sight of them, and a great shout rose, words in some guttural language Lark couldn’t understand. A cloud of arrows flew from the lanes of the village, but they fell short by many rods.
Lark took one agonized look back at the village. The battle on the docks was already over, the old men slumping beneath their racks of fish. One of the barbarians also lay still, short, thick legs dangling absurdly into the water. The wardogs had the run of the village, and Lark heard a hoarse screaming from one of the cottages that made her blood run cold.
Kalla’s heels, what could they want? What could Onmarin have that barbarians desired?
She turned her face away and called to Tup. “Faster, Tup, fly faster!”
He responded, driving his wings harder against the wind, his neck stretching forward.
Lark tried to concentrate on her balance, on gripping Tup’s barrel with her calves. She breathed in great gulps of sweet cold air, fighting nausea at the thought of the terrible things happening behind her. How fragile a thing was peace! The safety she had taken for granted an hour before had been shattered in a heartbeat.
She gritted her teeth against despair, and prayed to Erd, the warrior god of the north, to defend Rosellen and the villagers of Onmarin.
TWO
PHILIPPAWinter pleated her gloves between her fingers as she gazed across the Rotunda. The thirty-eight Council Lords sat in tiered rows of elaborately carved chairs. Each had a secretary at his elbow and a page standing behind him. Their ladies filled the balcony with the glitter of jeweled caps and tabards girdled with gold. The autumn sun glared on the windows, and the air inside the Rotunda was close, heavy with too many perfumes.
Philippa was glad not to be forced to sit. She paced the outer aisle, looking down over the heads of the lords to the dais. There Duke William lounged in his high-backed chair, lifting one languid hand to smooth his white-blond hair. His timid wife, the Duchess Constance, huddled in the chair next to him, looking lost in her heavily brocaded tabard. A great rope of pearls twisted about her neck and hung to her waist. It looked as if it might strangle the poor woman.
“Your Grace,” intoned one of the lords. Philippa stopped pacing, and leaned forward to see who it was.
As she did so, William’s gaze lifted, and found her. His eyes, dark and glittering, held hers with a look that made her skin go cold. The animosity between them had grown more bitter with each passing year.
She supposed now, since the Academy was opposed to him in the present complaint, it would intensify even more.
It was Lord Carden speaking, his secretary holding his notes for him. “Your Grace,” he said again, forcing the Duke to turn his attention to him. “The former Master Breeder has lodged a protest against the Palace regarding his removal from office.”
William lifted one pale eyebrow. “Indeed?” he said. “And on what grounds does he object to our decision?”
Lord Carden was an old man, a veteran of many Councils. Another man might have hemmed and stammered under the dark regard of a Duke known for vengefulness, but Lord Carden was long past the point that William could hurt him or his family. He stood as straight as a man of his years could do and lifted a letter from his secretary’s hands. “Eduard Crisp writes that the new
Master Breeder is unsuited to his position, and that he himself was unfairly removed from a post in which he had served honorably, as had his father before him, and his grandfather before that.”
Philippa watched William’s face during this recitation but could see no flicker of anger, no sign of indignation. William looked, as he had during this entire Council session, indifferent.
Lord Carden’s voice dropped a tone. “Your Grace, Eduard Crisp has brought a serious allegation against the Palace.”
“Because he lost his job?” drawled the Duke. “I hardly think that justifies troubling a Lord of the Council.”
“No, Your Grace,” the old lord said. “He accuses you of violating the bloodlines.”
Philippa drew a swift breath, and she was not the only one. The chamber vibrated briefly with gasps and with shock. Even the ladies in the balcony froze, sensing a confrontation.
“Surely, Lord Carden,” William began. He came slowly, almost indolently, to his feet, and tugged at the embroidered vest he wore beneath his coat. “Surely you, of all people, would not give serious consideration to such a charge.”
“Duke William, as your father so often reminded us, your great-great-grandfather Francis was a wise man, and a prescient one. When he codified the bloodlines, he made any violation of them treason, and he did it for all of the Duchy of Oc, not only for the Academy and the Palace.”
“We need no lecture, my lord,” William said silkily. “And we take offense at the very mention of treason in this Council.”
“We are a small duchy, Your Grace, and easily overrun. The winged horses are our greatest treasure.”
William lifted both hands, palms up, and cast a quizzical look around the chamber. Some lords were shaking their heads with disapproval—Philippa’s brother Meredith was one of these—but there were a few who sat gazing at the Duke with their arms folded, their eyes hard. Frederick, William’s father, had earned the respect and even the admiration of his Council Lords and his people. The new Duke enjoyed no such popularity.
Philippa drew back as she saw anger kindle in William’s face. She could see him assessing those lords who looked defiantly at him, could guess that he was already estimating which of them were vulnerable.
“The Palace,” he said, with a curl of disdain on his lips, “takes the preservation of the winged horses seriously. We work closely with the Academy. Master Crisp—” William sniffed dismissively. “Master Crisp is in error. We shall address this with him personally.”
Lord Carden was not put off by this veiled threat. Philippa knew he had no young granddaughters, no debts or family crises, nothing with which William could manipulate him. He said, with the stubbornness he was known for, “Nevertheless, I propose an investigation, Your Grace.”
On the opposite side of the chamber, Lord Beeth stood also. Lord Beeth’s daughter was a second-level student at the Academy, and would in due course become a horsemistress. Like Lord Carden, Lord Beeth was immune to William’s anger. He was a small, stout man, guided by his wife in everything he did in the Council. He spoke loudly and clearly. “I second Lord Carden’s proposal.”
A tense silence stretched over the Rotunda. The two lords looked about at their colleagues in search of support. When none came, William began to smile. “I believe, my lords,” he said, with deceptive lightness, “that three voices are required to initiate such a process. It appears that the majority of you are wiser than my lords Carden and Beeth.” He spoke the names with slight emphasis, and Philippa heard it as the warning it was meant to be.
She spun on her heel and strode from the chamber, her black riding habit whipping about her boots.
Someone must warn Eduard.
INthe ordinary way of things, Philippa would not be required to attend meetings of the Council. But Margareth Morgan, Headmistress of the Academy, had not been well for some time. She relied on Philippa to be her eyes and ears on days like this one, and though Philippa had planned to spend part of this brief holiday at her family’s home, she had willingly given it up to help her friend. Now, as she hurried to the stables on the outskirts of the White City, she was glad it had been she and not Margareth.
Margareth was too ill and tired to deal with the posturing of the Duke and the Council Lords. Philippa loathed politics, but when they concerned the winged horses, her personal feelings didn’t matter.
She retrieved her mare and hurried to the long, narrow flight paddock beyond the stables. As Winter Sunset lifted her into the cloudless sky, Philippa looked back at the white turrets and towers, the tidy green parks and neatly cobbled streets of Osham. She had always loved the White City, and never more so than when she had flown for old Duke Frederick. Now, with Frederick gone and William in the Ducal Palace, the city seemed tarnished somehow, as if the new Duke’s dark nature had dimmed its beauty.
Sunny’s wings beat strongly and steadily, carrying them toward the Academy. The flight was swift, with the wind at their backs, the slanting rays of the lowering sun in their eyes. Sunny soared above the gambrel roofs of the Academy stables, aligning herself with the return paddock without guidance from Philippa. She sensed, of course, Philippa’s feelings of urgency. She touched down, her wings wide and still, and cantered easily toward the stables. Philippa leaped down from her saddle and turned for a brief moment to lay her cheek against Sunny’s red mane. “Have a rest, my girl,” she said. “I’ll see you later, and we’ll have a good brushing.”
The interim stable-girl, a rather dull, thickset woman, came out to take Sunny’s reins, and Philippa said absently, “Rosellen not back yet?”
“No, Mistress.”
“Ah. Well, see to it you cool Sunny down. She feels warm to me.” When the woman didn’t answer, Philippa said, frowning, “Did you hear me, Erna?”
Erna sighed as if responding took too much energy. “Yes, Mistress.”
“Answer me, then, when I speak to you,” Philippa said with asperity. “Walk Sunny about, then rub her down.”
Erna nodded and turned to plod heavily toward the dry paddock, with Sunny at her heels.
Philippa pursed her lips, but she left her to it. She stripped off her gloves as she hurried across the circular courtyard toward the Hall. Bramble, the oc-hound, came to trot at her side, and Philippa touched her silky gray head with her hand. Most of the Academy was deserted, the girls and instructors not yet returned from their holiday. She left Bramble in the courtyard and took the broad steps of the Hall two at a time. She removed her riding cap and smoothed her hair in its rider’s knot as she strode past the painted portraits of winged horses that lined the foyer. She knocked once on the Headmistress’s door, and went into her office.
“Margareth,” she began. “Do you know where we can reach Eduard—” She broke off, seeing that Margareth had a visitor. “Why—Lady Beeth—I thought—were you not in the north, at your estate—with Hester and Larkyn?”
Amanda Beeth, a tall, broad-shouldered woman, turned at Philippa’s entrance, and the grim expression on her face made Philippa put a hand to her throat. “Are the girls all right?” she demanded, sudden anxiety making her voice harsh.
“They are,” Lady Beeth said, with the directness Philippa had always admired. Amanda Beeth’s strength of character was reflected in her daughter.
Margareth Morgan nodded to Philippa. “Our girls are well,” she said. “I sent them to take care of their horses, and then to the Dormitory.”
“What’s happened?” Philippa asked sharply.
“There has been a raid.”
“A raid? Where, and by whom?”
“Onmarin, a fishing village near our northern estate,” Lady Beeth said briskly. “Warboats, the girls tell me, sailing across the Strait.”
“The girls!” Philippa exclaimed. “Surely they weren’t there?”
“They were,” Lady Beeth affirmed. “They had gone to visit Rosellen, your stable-girl, and meet her family. The raiders came while they were there, and Rosellen’s mother—who must be a very smart w
oman—sent the girls off immediately. We’ve come back as quickly as we could. My phaeton makes good time. The girls wanted to fly, but I thought it was too risky. I made them ride with me and lead their horses.”
“But then—but what happened?”
“We don’t know yet,” Margareth said.
Lady Beeth’s strong features were drawn in hard lines. “I can hardly believe it, even now. There has been no trouble from across the Strait since I was a very small girl.”
“The horsemistress in the Angles didn’t see the warboats coming?” Philippa asked.
Margareth said bleakly, “There is no horsemistress in the Angles, Philippa. Duke William reassigned her to Isamar.”
“Isamar,” Philippa said sourly. “Our new Duke is uncommonly fond of the Prince, it seems.” A familiar pain lanced up the back of Philippa’s neck. She winced and rubbed at it. This was terrible news, for Oc and for the horsemistresses. There had been years of peace for Oc, ensured by the careful husbandry of old Duke Frederick. She had hoped that her own battle, and its attending tragedy, had been the last in her lifetime.
Amanda Beeth stood up. “I must reach my husband,” she said, “before the Council closes, and while the Duke is still there.”
Philippa got to her feet as well and pulled her cap from her belt. “I will go with you, Lady Beeth. Duke William must act in this matter.”
“You will need fresh horses,” Margareth began, but Lady Beeth shook her head.
“Thank you, but we changed them on our way. This pair is rested enough.”
Margareth stood behind her desk, bracing herself on her hands. “Philippa—have a care.”
Philippa paused in the act of putting on her riding cap. “What do you mean?”
“It won’t help the cause of Onmarin to make the Duke defensive.”
Philippa gave her a mirthless smile. “I’m not alone in criticizing William these days.”
“Nevertheless.”
“I’ll do my best, Margareth.” Philippa turned toward the door, already pulling on her gloves. “We must make certain the Lords of the Council understand how serious this is.”
