by Airs
Her case was considerably weakened, she feared, without Margareth. Margareth’s pragmatic voice, and the length and honor of her service, would have carried a lot of weight with the Council. Eduard Crisp would have stood beside her, defying the Duke without hesitation, but the new Master Breeder, the ineffectual Jinson, would be no help at all. They could have asked Eduard to come and support her
cause, but she and Margareth had felt that the two of them, in their crisp black riding habits, their hair in the rider’s knot and wings glittering on their collars, would make an impressive and unambiguous presence in the Rotunda. Now it was too late to reach Eduard. He had retired, after his own suit against the Duke failed, to the relative safety of his family estate in Eastreach.
Francis lay ill at Fleckham House. Margareth was gone. There was no one to speak for the bloodlines but Philippa herself.
She stood back from her mirror to survey her appearance. She had smoothed almond cream into her skin and brushed her hair thoroughly. Reflectively, she touched her rider’s knot. The vivid red of her girlhood had given way to a muted auburn, softened now by streaks of gray. Lines fanned around her eyes, the toll of sun and wind aloft. Her tabard was freshly pressed by Matron, her belt cinched around her lean middle, and her boots sparkled with polish. It was the best she could do.
She wished, briefly, that she had an icon of Kalla, like the one Larkyn wore, to carry with her. It was an absurd thought. She had never placed faith in such things, and it was foolish to think she could start now.
The threat of more snow meant she could not fly into the White City as she would have preferred.
Herbert had hitched the piebald pony, Pig, to the gig, and was waiting for her now outside the Domicile.
Philippa put on her warmest coat and pulled on her gloves. She picked up the genealogy, which she had carefully wrapped in linen, and held it to her chest as she climbed into the gig. The genealogy might not help to persuade the Council, but its weight and its significance strengthened her own resolve.
Herbert snapped the reins and spoke to Pig, and the pony set off toward Osham through the frozen landscape.
THEwhite marble Rotunda sat on a low hill, its colorful pennants drooping and stiff in the cold. Carriages and phaetons waited before its grand entryway, their drivers spreading blankets over their horses, chatting together, smoking pipes under the bare branches of the ancient wych elm that dominated the plaza. They straightened and bowed to the horsemistress when they caught sight of her, and she nodded to them in return, before she bade Herbert a brief farewell and climbed the wide steps.
Today she could not pace the outer aisle of the Rotunda, as she preferred to do. Holding the genealogy in one arm, she stepped down past the tiers where the Council Lords sat in their carved chairs, their secretaries and pages arrayed behind them. She didn’t look up at the balcony, but she heard the voices of the ladies as they murmured and whispered to each other. They would have heard from their lords, she supposed, that another suit was being brought against the Duke. Though this one hadn’t the prurient appeal of the paternity suit, it would still command a good bit of attention and provide gossip for the Erdlin festival soon to come.
A page met Philippa, bowing, gesturing to a chair that had been set for her behind a long table with two other petitioners. She took the chair and unwrapped the genealogy to lay it on the long table. Its embossed lettering gleamed. She laid her hand upon it and waited.
William must have been awaiting her arrival so that he could make his own entrance. No more than a minute passed before the doors to the Duke’s private chamber opened, and William and Duchess Constance appeared. The Duchess, looking wan and rather faded in an elaborate cloak edged with dark mink, lagged behind the Duke like a lost child. William bore himself proudly, his gilt hair shining, his high-heeled boots clicking on the marble floor.
He had worn them to make himself taller than she, Philippa thought, and was tempted to laugh. He wore a fashionable waistcoat tightly buttoned to the neck, with white fur at the collar and cuffs. It completely hid the swell of his chest.
Behind the two of them came Jinson. He avoided Philippa’s eyes.
Philippa, with the Council Lords and the watchers in the gallery, stood while the Duke and Duchess made their way to the central dais and sat down. Jinson stood to one side, staring at his boots. As Philippa resumed her seat, she caught sight of a young woman in the aisle above the tiers. She was slender, and dressed in black, standing half-hidden by a pillar. Philippa narrowed her eyes, trying to see who it was, but the presider began to speak.
“My lords,” he intoned, striking a tiny marble gavel on its sounding block. “Duke William of Oc is now in attendance upon the Council of Lords. Let all hear and remember.”
Philippa’s summons had told her that hers would be the last case to be heard today. It was the most serious, requiring deliberation and discussion by the lords.
The first two petitioners were heard and dismissed quickly. Philippa heard not a word of their cases. She bent her head, concentrating on what she would say, what she and Margareth had discussed. She was startled when she heard the presider speak her name, and she wondered for a bad moment if he had had to say it twice.
She drew a deep breath, and stood, straightening her tabard. She lifted her head to look around at the thirty-eight Lords of the Council. Her brother Meredith was there, glaring at her. He would never forgive her for this, but there was nothing she could do about that. He should have learned by now that he could not stop her from doing her duty. It served him right, in any case. He had been eager to bond her to a winged horse solely for the purpose of ingratiating himself with the Palace. He had never once asked her about her own feelings on the matter.
She turned her face to the Duke and Duchess. Constance tilted her head to see past William’s shoulder.
William said something to her over his shoulder, and she shrank back again, dropping her head, toying with her great rope of pearls.
“My lords,” Philippa began. She fixed her eyes on William’s black ones as she spoke. “I have come before you to lodge a complaint about a breeding violation, a breaking of the law as it was set down by good Duke Francis of memory. I accuse Duke William of this crime, and by the dictates of his great-great-grandfather, of treason.”
She heard the delighted hiss of indrawn breath from the balcony and a slight shifting among the lords themselves. William’s face did not change, but his eyes glinted dangerously. She understood it was a warning. He had come prepared.
Philippa lifted her hand from the genealogy and pushed the book forward on the table. “This, my lords,”
she said, “is the genealogy of the three bloodlines of the winged horses. The ancestors of our Nobles, our Foundations, and our Ocmarins are written here, and the Master Breeder—” She let her eyes shift slightly to Jinson, but she could see only the top of his head. He stared at the floor and twisted his fingers together behind him. “The Master Breeder and the Headmistress of the Academy of the Air confer with the Duke on every breeding, in a constant effort to improve the bloodlines, to ensure that stallions and mares throw winged foals, that the distinguishing characteristics of each bloodline are kept pure.”
Now she lifted her head again, to include all the lords in her gaze. “Foundations are strong and courageous,” she said. “Nobles are swift and intelligent. Ocmarins are quick, agile, and have great stamina. It was Duke Francis’s dream that the bloodlines would be refined so that all of these qualities would be dependable, and it was his life’s work to see that the winged horses are Oc’s unique resource.
Duke William has violated these precepts and acted in direct opposition to the laws of the Duchy that gives him his power.”
She turned her body to face William directly. He gazed at her beneath half-lowered eyelids. It was exactly that reptilian look, those sharp features and hooded eyes, that made her think of the Old Ones.
“Duke William,” she said, “in collusion with his Mas
ter Breeder, has bred a winged foal in his private stable.” She lifted her arm and pointed one long forefinger at him as she said in her hardest tone, “And he means to fly this foal himself.”
The gallery erupted in a muffled chorus of cries and exclamations. One or two of the lords swore.
Philippa looked up to see who they were.
Lord Beeth, plump and short, sat in his chair with his chin on his fist. Lady Beeth would be in the balcony, having given her husband clear instructions on how the matter should be handled. The other lords, Chatham and Daysmith and Bowles and the others, sat straight or leaned forward, frowning at the Duke…or frowning at Philippa. There would be some who would oppose her out of hand. She was a horsemistress, but she was still a female.
Lord Daysmith, tall and stooped, with thinning white hair, came to his feet. “What say you, Your Grace?” he asked, in the high voice of an old man. “Do you deny it?”
William looked up at him, and waved one languid hand. “Of course not, my lord,” he said. His voice was almost as high in pitch as Daysmith’s. “My Master Breeder and I are developing a new strain.”
Another lord stood up. Philippa had to twist her head to see that it was Applewhite, a baron from Eastreach. “Why, Your Grace? What is the purpose of this new bloodline?”
William’s lips curved in his crooked smile. “Why, my lord, it is exactly what Horsemistress Winter has said. We feel the time has come for a line of winged horses that will fly with men.”
A stunned silence filled the Rotunda. Philippa stood very still, feeling her heart pound beneath her tabard.
And then Meredith, her brother, the youngest lord in the Council, stood. “I commend His Grace,” he announced, “for looking forward and for having the courage to break with tradition.”
Philippa stared at her brother. Pain laced up the back of her neck and into her skull. Her voice was tight when she said, “This has nothing to do with breaking tradition. Lord Islington is ignorant of the nature of the winged horses. Duke Francis understood it very well, as did the late Duke Frederick. Winged horses will never tolerate men as flyers, because they can’t. This was not a choice made by human beings, but by whatever force created them. Duke William’s interference could be the death of this foal, and perhaps many others. It’s a doomed effort.”
William laughed, a light, dismissive laugh. “The foal yet lives,” he said. “That proves the horsemistress is mistaken.”
Philippa eyed him, struck by a sudden, sickening suspicion. “How many foals have died, Your Grace?”
William’s lips thinned at this, and he stiffened. He kept his eyes on her face, but he spoke loudly enough for all to hear. “We propose that Horsemistress Winter be sent down from the Academy of the Air.
Horsemistress Irina Strong died at the hands of Philippa Winter a year ago, and we demand that the horsemistresses of the Academy give evidence about the enmity between the two. In fact”—he turned his head lazily toward Meredith—“we suggest that Lord Islington accept responsibility for his sister and confine her to Islington House until such time as she learns proper respect for her Duke. Perhaps this would be a good time to breed her mare, while she spends some time considering her errors.”
Meredith gave Philippa a cold smile. She turned her head away, not wanting to see the triumph in his eyes. It was just what he would like, of course, and perhaps he was already in collusion with William.
That it was at his sister’s expense would not trouble Meredith at all. It never had. What a fool her brother was! William would turn on him without a thought if it served his purpose.
Philippa folded her arms, and squeezed her elbows tight with her fingers, trying to control her temper. “I wish the Headmistress of the Academy were with me today. She could speak more eloquently than I on this subject. But I’m sorry to say that—” Philippa paused, horrified at the sudden stricture in her chest.
She swallowed, and lifted one hand to her throat, as if the touch of her fingers might relieve the knot there. She drew a constricted breath, and her voice was rough as she said, “I’m sorry to tell you all, my lords, that Margareth Morgan, formerly Margareth Highflyer, passed away in her sleep yesterday morning. I can tell you she cared deeply about the winged horses and was appalled at this offense against the bloodlines.”
As murmurs, some shocked, some sympathetic, some simply curious, sped around the Rotunda, Philippa leaned forward, placing both her hands on the genealogy. Strength seemed to radiate from it, and she felt the tightness in her throat dissolve. She thought of how calmly Margareth would have addressed the Council, how pragmatic she would have been in the face of William’s counterarguments.
She stood straighter, leaving her fingertips on the stamped leather covering, and waited until the presider called again for silence.
When the room quieted, Philippa drew a deliberate breath. “Duke William,” she said in a loud, clear voice, “has altered his body. I don’t know how, but I believe this is how he may have persuaded a winged foal to bond with him. But can it last? Will this filly be wasted because of our Duke’s hubris?”
She paused, tasting the heavy silence that stretched across the Rotunda. Curious eyes turned to William, and his eyes narrowed under their attention.
Lord Applewhite came to his feet. “Is this true, Your Grace?” he asked. “Have you changed your…have you altered yourself in some way?”
William shot Philippa a malevolent glance before he turned his face to Applewhite. Smoothly, he said,
“That is a private matter, my lord.”
Lord Beeth jumped up. “As a sitting Duke, Your Grace, your health and well-being are the concern of your Council.”
“No, they’re not,” William said flatly. His eyes glittered in the light. “They are my own concern.”
“But Your Grace,” Applewhite pressed, “should something happen to you…”
Meredith stood up, also, and called, “Good for you, Duke William! It takes courage!”
Philippa laughed at that and was rewarded by a hot flush on Meredith’s face. “Have a care, Philippa,”
he snarled, and sat down, glowering.
Lords Beeth and Applewhite still stood, staring at the Duke. After a long moment, Daysmith, too, stood up, and said, “I agree with Lord Beeth, Your Grace. The Duke’s health is a matter of concern to all the Duchy.”
“I am perfectly healthy,” William said. Philippa saw Constance, behind him, shift a little in her chair, and her eyes found Philippa’s. Something strange flickered in them, something Philippa could not decipher.
“Surely changing your body simply to fly a winged horse is unnatural, Your Grace,” Applewhite said.
William’s voice hardened. “I will not discuss it,” he snapped. “All that needs to be said is that I have bred a winged foal, and I will fly her. Then you will see.”
“And in the meantime, Duke William—”
“No more!” he roared, and Applewhite took a half step back, bumping his legs on his chair, and sat down.
Beeth and Daysmith also sat, but slowly. A speculative murmur ran through the Rotunda, until Lord Beeth put up his hand. “Let us hear the rest of Horsemistress Winter’s suit.”
Philippa tried to resume her argument, but there was an edge of despair in her voice. “To interfere with the bloodlines, to risk any winged horse, is a crime of high treason. Duke Francis, indeed, William’s own father Duke Frederick, would have banished anyone who committed such a transgression.”
William’s eyes narrowed to glittering slits, but his voice was languid. “You have no right to challenge my decisions, Philippa. I am the rightful Duke of Oc.”
“And I, Duke William, am a horsemistress of Oc,” she responded. “We answer equally to the Lords of the Council.” Though she tried to speak with authority, her voice and her words sounded hollow in her own ears.
PHILIPPAretreated to a tiny room in the rear of the Rotunda, where cloaks and boots and umbrellas were stowed, to await the Council’s deliberat
ions. She could have gone to the ladies’ reception room, but she could not have borne the avid curiosity and forced politeness she would encounter there. Instead, she paced, pleating her gloves between her fingers, feeling utterly alone. She should have asked Eduard Crisp to join her. They had not always been in agreement, but at least she and Eduard, by rights Oc’s Master Breeder, were of one mind when it came to preserving and protecting the bloodlines. Eduard, like Philippa herself, had been trained by Frederick.
An hour passed, then another. Philippa went out to the privy. A maid saw her on her way back, and asked if she would like a pot of tea. She gratefully accepted, and when the maid brought her tea and a plate of decorative sandwiches, she drank the tea and ate every sandwich on the tray. The room was windowless, and she had only the vaguest idea of how much time had passed, whether the early darkness had already come on. She walked to one side of the room, hoping Pig and Herbert were staying warm.
She walked back, hoping Amelia would remember to see to Sunny, as she had promised. She made
another circuit, and hoped against all hope that she would not be sent to Islington House as a prisoner, riding like a chastened child beside her brother in his carriage.
She was still pacing when a knock sounded on the door of the little room. Hastily, she smoothed her tabard, and was checking her rider’s knot when the door opened.
“Baron Rys!”
He bowed to her. He was modestly dressed, his hair cut short, his narrow features composed. “Mistress Winter.”
“Kalla’s teeth,” she said, her voice tart with surprise. “You’re the last person I expected to see in that doorway.”
He gave her a small smile. “I should have been here sooner, but Amelia has only just found me at my lodgings.”
Philippa frowned. “Amelia? Is she not—”
“She couldn’t stay with me,” the Baron said. “She had duties at the Academy, she told me. I believe she promised to take care of your mare.”
