by Airs
“Ah.” Philippa blew out her breath in a noisy puff. “Of course she would remember her promise. But why did she send you here, my lord?”
“Please. Call me Esmond, at least when we’re alone, Philippa. We’ve been through too much together to stand on formality.”
Philippa let her lips curve, and it was a great relief to smile, to feel that she had a friend in this dismal place. “Thank you,” she said. “I do appreciate that. I think I may be in some trouble, Esmond.”
“Amelia gathered that,” he said.
Philippa looked at him closely. “Was she—itwas she, then, that I saw in the balcony.”
“It was. She was on her way to visit me and asked her driver to stop here. She’s very perceptive, you know.”
“I’m learning that about her.”
“We have a small surprise for you, Philippa. I had planned it for tomorrow, but as your need is so great today, Lord Francis bestirred himself early.”
“Francis!” Philippa breathed. “Is he better, then?”
In his noncommittal way, Rys shrugged. “We can say, I think, that he’s no worse. Well enough to travel in a carriage, at least according to him. Come, now, let us get you out of this—this coat closet”—he made a disdainful gesture with one hand—“and go back to see what Francis may have to say to his royal brother and to the Lords of your Council.”
He stood back, and held the door for Philippa to pass through. As she did, he murmured, “Your Council
is unusually partisan, is it not? I find little rational argument among them.”
She looked at him over her shoulder. “Politics, Esmond. A field in which I do not excel.”
His smile was composed and confident. “Ah, but I do, Philippa. I have spent my life studying it.”
“Bless you, then,” she said with heartfelt sincerity. “I am in need of a champion.”
WHENFrancis hobbled in, his face almost as white as the snow in the plaza, his eyes hollow in his thin face, Philippa could scarcely catch her breath for a moment. Surely he should not have left his bed, no matter the provocation! He leaned on a carved stick, one she remembered seeing in the umbrella stand at Fleckham House, that must have belonged to some long-ago, much older Fleckham. His pale hair was tied back with a black ribbon, accentuating the gauntness of his face. When the Council Lords saw him, they rose as one and bowed as he worked his way unsteadily down the tiered steps. One of the nurses had come with him, and stood in the aisle above with a worried expression.
William’s rigid features told Philippa that no one had warned him Francis was going to appear in the Council. The presider bent to mutter an order to an aide, who dashed away to find a chair and carried it back with the help of one of the pages. It was elaborately carved, high-backed, and heavy. In fact, it was a chair to match William’s, and the significance of this was not lost on the Duke. He scowled, and growled something under his breath. The Duchess shrank back in her own big chair, almost disappearing behind her fur-trimmed cloak.
The presider formally welcomed Lord Francis back to the Council after his service in Arlton. He spoke of his mission into Aeskland to save two children of Oc, and the grave wound he received there, and congratulated him upon his courage. This won a round of applause from the lords, and a much more vigorous echo from the ladies in the balcony. Philippa could understand that; Francis looked very much the pale, worn hero, leaning back in the big chair, his long, thin fingers resting on its arms. She had no doubt many a mother would be pressing her lord husband for opportunities to introduce the younger Lord Fleckham to an unwed daughter.
It was not exactly clear to Philippa what weight Francis’s opinion carried with the Council Lords, but judging by William’s glower, it was not inconsiderable. The presider, stumbling occasionally in his search for a polite way to state the situation, reiterated Philippa’s charge against William, and his against her.
Francis sat with his head lowered, his eyes on his hands, listening. He was so still, in fact, for long moments after the presider stopped speaking, that Philippa worried further about his strength.
At last he lifted his head. His dark eyes, so like William’s glittered as if with a fever. He said in a clear, though slightly thin voice, “The ancestor whose name I bear would be appalled at the actions of my lord brother.”
There was a hiss of indrawn breath around the tiers, and one small cry from the gallery.
William’s eyes were slits of obsidian, but Francis didn’t look at him. He glanced up into the circular aisle behind the tiers, where Baron Rys stood with his hands clasped behind him, watching the proceedings.
“I wondered, naturally,” Francis went on, “why the Duke of Oc would disdain a mission to save two children kidnapped from a village in the Angles, or to take revenge on the barbarians who killed several citizens.” He paused for breath, and Philippa bit her lip. He looked as if this effort would sap the last of
his strength. The knife wound had refused to heal, and she knew the doctors worried over lingering poison in the wound. Several of the Council Lords were frowning, too, shaking their heads over Francis’s weakness.
“Now,” Francis went on, “I’m afraid I understand. Please forgive me, my lords, if I do not speak at length. It’s true I was wounded, through my own foolishness, and I am not yet myself. But I felt compelled to tell you…” Again he paused, and breathed. “To tell you that my lord brother is obsessed with the winged horses to the exclusion of his rightful duties.”
He let his head drop against the carved head of the chair, and his eyelids drooped.
“Theatrics!” William snapped. “How dare you? Did you notsell one of our winged horses, our birthright, to the Klee?” Murmurs ran around the Rotunda at this accusation. Heads leaned together, and gestures were made from one tier to another. Philippa sat very still. There was more she could say, of course.
There was the incident with the oc-hound, and with Black Seraph…and there was the issue, the mystery, really, of the Lady Pamella. But Francis knew all of these things, and so did Rys. They would know, better than she, how much was relevant to this dispute, and how much was better, for all concerned, to keep private.
As if he had read her thoughts, the Klee Baron left the circular aisle and stepped down through the tiers, nodding to the lords as he passed them. When he reached the dais, he stopped in front of William and bowed.
William, at the sight of him, shot to his feet, his face suffused with angry color. A pulse beat visibly in his throat, and his voice grew shrill. “Rys!” he cried. “Who gave you leave to be present at Oc’s Council?”
Baron Rys, with icy composure, bowed again, this time to all the Council. “My lords,” he called. Silence fell, and curious glances came to rest upon him. Francis opened his eyes but did not lift his head. “I am Esmond Rys, Baron of Klee, younger brother of Viscount Richard of Klee.”
Nods of recognition met this announcement. Rys allowed a small smile to curve his lips. “I acknowledge the uneasy relationship between our two lands and the reasons for it,” he said in a level tone. “But Lord Francis and I, who served together at the Palace in Isamar, share a commitment to peace and the free flow of commerce between our peoples. We were one land at one time, after all.”
“Commerce?” shrilled William. “You are mercenaries! Your ship and your soldiers—we know what you are!”
An embarrassed silence fell over the assembly. William threw himself back into his chair, and Philippa thought that perhaps even he knew he had gone too far.
By contrast, Rys’s refined voice seemed all the more elegant. “Lord Francis risked his own safety to take action after the brutal attack on one of your villages. He needed our help, and my daughter has longed to be a horsemistress since she was tiny. She and I know this means she will be a citizen of Oc, and not of Klee. But she, Lord Francis, and I—and Horsemistress Winter—believe this exchange will strengthen the goodwill growing between our two principalities.”
He bowed again, first
to the Duke, then to Francis, and finally to the Council Lords. He climbed back up through the tiers, his slender figure straight and dignified.
Francis, leaning on the arms of his chair, forced his body upright once again. “This foal,” he said in a
trembling voice, “this winged filly William has turned to his own purposes—this filly should have been bonded to Amelia Rys. Horsemistress Winter is right. My lord brother has committed treason, and his Master Breeder should be accused with him.”
A storm of shouts erupted through the Rotunda. Francis sank back into his chair, his eyes flicking once to Philippa, then closing. Through the tumult, she leaned close to the presider and begged him to send for Francis’s carriage, to send him home. The presider, without asking the Duke’s permission, gave the order. Then he proceeded to bang his gavel on its sounding block, over and over, without success.
Philippa saw that beyond the tall windows, darkness shrouded the White City. There would be no decision of the Council today, she felt certain. She rose, nodding to the presider. Helplessly, he shrugged, and bowed his permission for her to leave.
William glared at her as if he would happily strike her dead with his own hand. “I’m going to have you sent down,” he grated. “And put away where you can no longer harm us. You have brought your own destruction on your head.”
“I don’t believe you have the power,” she said through tight lips.
“I tell you, Philippa, you can’t defy me this way.”
“Stop posturing, William. I have already done so.”
As she turned, her back rigid with fury, to climb up past the lords to the doors, she saw that Constance, the wan Duchess, watched her with an avid, almost greedy expression. As Philippa gathered her cloak and hat and gloves, she wondered upon which side of this great gulf Constance stood.
THIRTY-THREE
LARKspent the day cleaning tack, brushing Tup, changing the straw in the stall, even lending Erna a hand trundling barrows full of muck out of the stables. At every opportunity, she put her head out to watch for Mistress Winter. When evening came, the girls trailed across the courtyard to the Hall, their noses and cheeks pink with cold. Lark, reluctantly, went with them. The sky above them was clear and moonless, the stars like crystal flames in the blackness. Lark took one last, longing look toward the road before she went in through the big doors.
She sat down for supper with Hester on one side and Amelia on the other. As the soup was served, Hester leaned forward. “Amelia, where did you go today? I saw you climb into the hack.”
Lark thought there was a slight edge to Hester’s voice, but Amelia said only, “My father is in Osham,”
as if she hadn’t noticed.
“So you went to visit him? Is that all?”
Even Lark could tell that Amelia managed to skirt the question. “He’s leaving for home tomorrow. For Klee. I don’t expect to see him for some time.”
Lark frowned down into her bowl. She felt Hester’s elbow in her side, and she knew Hester was wondering the same thing she was. She felt torn between loyalty to Hester and concern for Amelia—she was supposed to be, after all, her sponsor. But if Amelia persisted in hiding things from her…
Hester, with her usual directness, leaned past Lark again, and said, “Amelia, we flyers need each other.
We have to trust each other.”
Lark kept her head down, but she looked sideways to watch Amelia’s reaction. The Klee girl hesitated for a long moment, almost too long, then she looked up at Hester. “I know, Hester,” she said quietly.
“Morning,” Hester corrected.
Amelia smiled. “Yes. Sorry. Morning.” The smile faded, and she toyed with her soup spoon. “I have been schooled in diplomacy,” she said slowly. “Since I was tiny, in truth. I was taught never to reveal anything you don’t have to.”
Lark touched her hand, and Amelia laid down the spoon. “I know you mean well, both of you,” she said. “And I would like nothing more than to forget all of that, simply be one of you, one of the Academy students. A flyer.”
“You will be,” Lark said.
Amelia’s eyes lifted to hers, and Lark was stunned to see that they glistened with tears. “He took my foal,” Amelia said in a broken voice.
Hester said, “What?” but Lark put up her hand and hoped Hester would understand.
Amelia said, “She should have been mine, my filly, my bondmate…he took her, and I have to go on waiting, pretending…”
“It’s true,” Lark said, in an undertone to Hester. “I saw her. Today, the Council Lords are considering—”
“I know about that,” Hester said impatiently. Amelia looked up at her, startled. Hester gave a short, subdued laugh. “You’re not the only one who was brought up to diplomacy, Amelia. My father is Lord Beeth, of the Council, and everything that happens in our world has at least two meanings, sometimes three.”
Amelia brought her napkin to her eyes, then to her nose, sniffling. “Sometimes,” she said, “I get so tired of all of that, of trusting no one…”
“Then you see,” Hester said firmly. “We have to depend on each other. Because otherwise we become pawns in their game. My mamá says—”
Lark interrupted to murmur to Amelia, “Hester’s mamá is the most brilliant mother in the world. And very kind to boot.”
Hester nodded. “She is indeed. And she says, now that I am to be a horsemistress, I must be above politics. And you, too, Amelia. You must be above politics, as much as you can.”
Amelia dropped her eyes. Lark watched as two tears dripped down her cheeks and splashed into her empty bowl. At last, the Klee girl said, “I’ll try, Morning. I will. It’s hard.”
“No, it’s easy,” Hester said, flashing her characteristic grin. “By comparison, anyway. You’ll find out it’s the Graces that are hard.”
LARKinvented more tasks to do in the stables so she could watch for Mistress Winter’s return. The other girls, including Amelia and Hester, settled their horses for the night and crunched across the icy courtyard to go to bed, but Lark dallied. The night was bitterly cold, the stars reflecting in the frozen snow. Erna was in the tack room, keeping the close stove hot, and the Beeth watchman shivered and shifted from foot to foot outside the stables, finally moving as close to the tack-room door as he could for its warmth. Bramble, almost fully recovered now, tagged at Lark’s heels as she raked the sawdust of the aisle and made unnecessary adjustments to Tup’s blanket. She went to check on Winter Sunset, but Amelia had left the mare and her stall in perfect order.
She had almost decided that Mistress Winter was going to spend the night in Osham when she heard the clop-clop of Pig’s hooves turning in from the main road and plodding down the lane. Lark dashed out into the courtyard.
Mistress Winter untangled herself from the heavy blankets wrapped around her legs and climbed rather awkwardly down from the gig. Herbert nodded to Lark and clucked to Pig. Lark managed to pat the pony and whisper a greeting in his ear before Herbert flicked the reins, and Pig pulled the gig on around the corner toward the back of the stables.
“Larkyn,” Mistress Winter said. “You should be in bed.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” Lark said. “Not knowing what happened.”
“Well. I have no answers for you, so you might as well be off.”
Lark groaned. “More waiting? At least tell me what happened, please, Mistress! I’ve been dancing on pins all day.”
Mistress Winter sighed. “Have you seen Sunny?”
“Yes, a dozen times, I promise you! But I’ve been so worried.”
“You’re not a child, Larkyn. You must try to practice patience.” Mistress Winter turned toward the Domicile. “But you can come along with me. No one will be in the Hall, but we’ll go to the small kitchen and get Matron to make us a cup of tea.”
Matron, they found, had also been watching for Mistress Winter’s return. By the time they had shed their coats and hats and gloves and walked to the small kitchen, the kettle wa
s singing on the five-plate stove Matron used for making late-night tea or predawn breakfasts, as she sometimes needed to. She set the table with cups and saucers, a dish of cream, and a small plate of the flat white biscuits the girls sometimes had for dessert at supper. Mistress Winter frowned at the biscuits, but Lark said, “What a good idea, Matron. Mistress Winter is thin as a cottonwood at Erdlin!”
She was rewarded by a slight quirk of Mistress Winter’s thin lips and a chuckle from Matron. Lark pushed the biscuits closer to Mistress Winter, and she took one. “You’re probably right, Larkyn. I doubt Sunny will notice the weight of one or two biscuits,” she said. As she nibbled at it and took a sip of Matron’s clear tea, her stiff spine seemed to relax and the tension around her eyes and mouth to release.
She sighed. “It’s been a long day,” she said.
“A bad day?” Lark asked.
“Hard,” Mistress Winter said shortly. She sighed again and rubbed her eyes. “Kalla’s heels, I don’t know how they stand it.”
“Stand what?” Lark asked.
“Politics. Diplomacy. All that wrangling. What does it accomplish, after all?”
“Government?” Matron suggested.
Mistress Winter gave her usual snort, making Lark smile. “Government,” Mistress Winter said sourly.
“Governing gets done, I suppose. But the weaker the leadership…” She stopped, and looked around at Matron, apparently wondering whether she was going too far.
Matron said, “Aye, Mistress. The weaker the leadership, the more the argument. We’ve seen it before, haven’t we?”
“Well, Matron, not I. All of my service was under Duke Frederick, and it seemed to me then—but perhaps I was young and naive—it seemed that everything ran like clockwork, issues before the Council, debate by their lordships, decisions handed down.”
“Ah,” Matron said. She brought her own cup to the table and sat down next to Lark, reaching for one of the biscuits. “But before His Grace’s day—His old Grace, that is—I heard stories of endless disputes among the Council Lords, threats, promises, bribes, and payoffs.”
