by Airs
Amelia stopped, turning her eyes to Lark. Lark showed her the icon and then held up the cord, offering it to her. Amelia started to refuse, but then, with a little sigh, she took it in her hands and hung it around her own neck. “Thank you,” she murmured. “It will be a comfort.”
“You’re welcome,” Lark said. “Come now. Let’s go and see if your bondmate is here!”
JOLINDAhad timed Amelia’s arrival perfectly. The foal had already presented when the girls reached the stall, its nose and two tiny front hooves just visible through the birth sac. The mare, a beautiful bay Noble with shining dark wings carefully clipped to protect them during the birth, grunted, and her sides contracted visibly. Amelia put both hands to her mouth, and Lark and Hester crowded close to her, supporting her with their strength.
In some ways, Lark was to think later, it was very much as if Amelia was the one in labor. She moaned at every contraction, and panted with the mare. When the foal slid smoothly out onto the fresh bed of straw, she gasped as if it were her own body doing the work. Jolinda swiftly cleared the foal’s nose and mouth and then stood back.
“Winged foal, young ladies,” she said shortly. “Whichever of you is the bondmate should get in here quick and give him a breath.”
Amelia exhaled. “Me,” she said, her voice high and thready. “That’s me!” She hurried to open the gate, to cross to the foal where it lay on the straw. As if she had done it a hundred times, she cupped the foal’s nose and blew gently and surely into its nostrils. Without regard for her clothes or her hands, she brushed away bits of gelatinous stuff from its eyes and cheeks and ears. The mare whickered, and stood, breaking the umbilical cord with her movement.
“Good,” Jolinda said. “Now let me clean this up, and you get yon foal to nurse, Miss.” She went to the corner and retrieved a stack of folded towels. Lark glanced up the aisle and saw a pitchfork and a barrow, and hurried to bring them to the stall. The stable-girl nodded approval at her assistance. Lark went in to help her scrape up the afterbirth, and together they stood over it, examining it to make certain every bit of it was intact.
“Perfect,” Jolinda said.
“Aye,” Lark agreed.
Jolinda squinted up at her. “Worked a few foalings, have you?”
Lark shook her head. “Only one. But goats and cows aplenty.”
“Aye. Good job.”
Lark followed Jolinda out and stood leaning on the half-gate, watching Amelia with her foal and its dam.
All Amelia’s doubts seemed to have evaporated in the face of the actual event. She guided the foal to suckle, then stood rubbing it with towels until its soft fur was dry and standing up in little waves all over its back and chest.
Now they could see that the foal was a colt. Its wings, like its dam’s, were as dark as its black mane and tail. Its body was a rich red, the color of mahogany. Amelia stood back as it nursed and turned to face the other girls. Tears streamed down her face, and her mouth curved in a trembling smile.
“Isn’t he magnificent?” she sobbed.
And her friends, laughing, shedding tears themselves over the marvel of the event, agreed that he was, indeed, magnificent. Another of Kalla’s miracles in the flesh, fur, bone, and membrane. A brand-new winged horse, and Amelia Rys’s bondmate for life.
THIRTY-NINE
PHILIPPAsat at Margareth’s desk in the Head’s office, with Suzanne Star and Kathryn Dancer opposite her. Together they pored over the notes that had arrived from the Ducal Palace, from Beeth House, and from two other stables where the spring foals had been born. They made a list of the students they could expect in the fall and made another list of those girls who had been disappointed, who had attended births only to find that the foals that arrived were wingless.
“I can’t remember when there were so many failures,” Philippa said. “The breeding program is a mess.”
“Eduard would never have let this happen,” Kathryn said. Eduard Crisp had spent hours poring over the genealogies with Margareth Morgan, planning, recording, comparing. Jinson had done nothing of the kind.
Philippa sighed, and all three women were silent for a long time. Finally Suzanne said, “Still no word about the Council’s decision.”
“Neither yea nor nay,” Philippa said. “We have no Headmistress, and if this keeps up, we will have no winged horses.”
“It’s not quite that bad yet,” Suzanne said. “Is it?”
Philippa pushed the list she had just completed across the desk so Suzanne could see it. “Only five winged foals this spring,” she said. “And of five more expected, all were born wingless. Another year or two of this, and we won’t have full flights.”
Kathryn touched the genealogy, open to a page with the names of Noble sires and dams on it. “It would have been better simply to repeat Eduard’s pairings,” she said. “Eduard knows which sires throw winged foals.”
“At least the Klee girl is bonded,” Kathryn said.
Philippa said sharply, “We mustn’t call her that, Kathryn! She’s ours now. It’s important to call her by her name. She feels isolated enough.”
“I’m sorry,” Kathryn said stiffly. “I’ll address her properly in her presence of course.”
Philippa put up a hand. “Forgive me,” she said more gently. “I apologize for my manner of speaking. I don’t meant to do it, but it just comes out that way.”
“It’s all right, Philippa,” Suzanne said. “We understand you.”
Philippa ran a hand over her face. “We need a Headmistress,” she said. “Someone who is better at diplomacy than I am.”
Suzanne smiled at her. “You’re doing fine, Philippa. It’s a hard time.”
Philippa leaned back in her chair. “That’s kind of you. But I wish with all my heart Margareth were here.
I have never longed to sit in her chair.”
“Truly?” Kathryn said, a touch of asperity still in her voice. “I thought you had planned to succeed her all along.”
Philippa’s lips tightened. “I only planned, all along, to serve the bloodlines and the Duke. I never expected to feel torn by my loyalties. I’m not sure I’m suited to be Headmistress.”
Suzanne said, “This is not the time to be discussing this. Philippa is under terrible pressure, Kathryn.”
“We all are,” Kathryn said.
Suzanne put a hand on her colleague’s arm. “But the Duke has threatened to send Philippa down from the Academy. You and I don’t have that to contend with.”
Kathryn’s eyes widened. “Send her down?”
“I thought everyone knew that.”
Philippa looked away, out the window to the spring day, where a sharp breeze tossed the tops of the spruce trees at the end of the flight paddock. The winter had felt like a season of suspension, of waiting for something to break. Somehow Philippa did not feel ready for spring, for buds and flowers and nesting birds. Too many issues were left unresolved—hers with William, his with her, and Francis still lying weak and ill at Fleckham House. She tapped her fingers on the desk. “Yet another reason why I should not be Head,” she said, half to herself. “I am as much at odds with our current Duke as I was devoted to Duke Frederick.”
“But, Philippa—on what grounds could Duke William send you down?”
“He accused me of deliberately causing Irina Strong to fall.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“Yes, of course. But I brought suit against Duke William in the Council, you know that. For a breeding violation.”
“Yes, of course, But I didn’t hear—”
Suzanne said quickly, “Philippa didn’t want the girls to be talking about it.”
“Amelia Rys knows, I’m certain,” Philippa said. “Her father would have told her, and he was there. But she—unlike me—knows when to hold her tongue.”
“So,” Kathryn said thoughtfully, “the Council Lords didn’t rule on your suit against Duke William, but they also didn’t rule on his against you.”
“Precise
ly so.”
“That was months ago,” Kathryn said. “How could they put off a decision for so long?”
“Because Duke William has not been present in the Council in all that time,” Philippa said in a flat voice.
“Then where has he been?”
“I believe,” Philippa said, “that he is at Fleckham House. Or more precisely, at the small stable he built on the estate. Where he and Jinson evidently bred the winged foal.”
“Diamond,” Suzanne said.
“Diamond?”
“I’m told that’s what he calls her. A single name.”
“Like the founders,” Philippa said grimly. “He is serious about this new bloodline.”
Kathryn said, in a hushed tone, “Can he do that? Will it happen?”
Philippa shook her head. “Unless he finds a flight of men willing to take potions, it won’t happen. They must be willing to nearly become women to do it.”
“But he hates women,” Suzanne said.
Surprised, Philippa asked, “Do you know the Duke, then, Suzanne?”
“When I was young,” she said. “When I was bonded, he—he tried to—” Suzanne dropped her eyes, and looked away. “I hate speaking of it.”
“At least you resisted him,” Philippa said, sympathy softening her voice. “There are some who were not so strong.”
“I was fortunate,” Suzanne said. “He tried to force me, but someone interrupted him.”
“According to Geraldine Prince’s suit against him, he succeeded with her.”
“I heard about that,” Suzanne said. “But I didn’t know what I should do. My family said to keep it quiet.
I think William threatened them.”
“Geraldine’s family has paid dearly for their suit,” Philippa said. “I believe the Duke confiscated some of their property in the Angles.”
Kathryn Dancer had been listening to all of this, shaking her head. “And now there is this rumor,” she said, “that he had something to do with Lady Pamella’s disappearance.”
Philippa’s back stiffened, and she gazed at Kathryn. “What rumor is that?”
“I heard Erna talking with Herbert,” Kathryn said. “The servants say Pamella is living somewhere away from Osham, and that—” She broke off. “It’s gossip. I shouldn’t repeat it.”
“Probably not,” Philippa snapped. Kathryn blushed, and Philippa said hastily, “I’m sorry, Kathryn. I’ve done it again. It’s only that we have enough problems with William—Duke William, I mean—as it is. We don’t need him hearing through his spies that gossip about him is coming from the Academy.”
A silence fell over the office as they all considered this. At last, thinking there was nothing more to be said about it, Philippa stood up. “Well,” she said, “we’ll have to resign ourselves to a small class for you, Kathryn.”
Suzanne stood, too. “If he tries to send you down, Philippa, we’ll do something.”
“There will be nothing you can do,” Philippa answered. “I can fight William, but if the Council opposes me, I’m finished.”
“Can he learn to fly without us?” Kathryn asked.
Philippa gave a short, mirthless laugh. “We may find out.”
SUNNYhad no misgivings about the advent of spring, Philippa soon knew. She had taken to visiting Francis at the end of each week, on the only day she had no flights. Winter Sunset loved these visits, flying with no younger horses to monitor, no student flyers to lead. She shook herself with pleasure as Erna brought her out into the bright morning, and danced sideways, wings lifting, when Philippa reached for her reins.
“Sunny, you rascal,” Philippa said indulgently. “You’re acting like one of the yearlings.” She patted Sunny’s neck and tapped her wingpoint to make her fold her wings.
She led her mare to the mounting block. She didn’t feel so young herself this morning. She had slept poorly. She felt, as she stepped up on the mounting block and swung her leg over Sunny’s back, that the weight of the world weighed on her shoulders, that every worry added to the tightness in her neck, sending needles of pain into the back of her skull. The restfulness of her Erdlin holiday was long forgotten, its energy evaporated. The memory of Brye Hamley’s steady strength and surprising sensitivity stayed with her, but she already found it difficult to recall how he had looked that Erdlin night, with the firelight shining on his hair.
As she turned Sunny down the flight paddock, she found herself thinking that it might not be so bad if the Council Lords sent her down from the Academy after all. Perhaps she could find some out-of-the-way post, some distant town, where she could be the resident horsemistress. She could carry messages, be a
liaison with the Academy, and do little else. She would be lonely, bored perhaps, but not under such constant, wearing pressure.
She felt a bit better as Sunny cantered easily down the paddock, her mane and tail streaming as she sped to the hand gallop and launched into the sunshine. As they rose above the grove and banked toward the White City, the Grand River shone with a sparkling exuberance, and the green sea glittered in the distance. The sky was a clear pale blue, with shreds of cloud scudding before the wind. It hardly seemed possible that such a lovely day could hide so much darkness and anxiety.
By the time she reached the park at Fleckham House, Philippa had come to a decision. Secrets and rumors and whispered stories were doing Oc no good, nor the Academy. By association, that meant they were doing the winged horses no good. She slid out of her saddle, and led Sunny into the stables, her mind clear for what seemed the first time in months—the first time since that awful winter day in the Rotunda. She was done waiting for someone else to decide her future. She was ready to take matters into her own hands.
Her improved mood faltered slightly when she saw Francis. He lay on his pillows, his features pale and drawn. She went to him and touched his hand. It felt cold under her fingers.
His voice was clear, though not strong. “Philippa,” he said. “You’re so good to come every week. I’m sorry I’m not able to get up and greet you properly.”
“Francis,” she said, trying to keep the worry from her voice. “Are you feeling worse?”
“No, no,” he said, without much conviction. “I’m just a little tired today.”
“Did you see the doctors this week?”
His mouth curved in a crooked smile, making him look like a younger, more benevolent version of his brother. “I did,” he said. “And I sent the quacks away. All they talk of is bleeding and leeches and cupping.” He held up one arm, and Philippa saw the bruising along the inside of the elbow. “Cupping, ye gods,” he said, with bitterness. “Barbaric practice.”
“I wish I knew what that ghastly woman had put on her knife,” Philippa said.
“Never mind,” he said. His eyes closed briefly, and he sighed. “I’ll be better soon, I’m sure. I just need rest—and no more bleeding!”
Philippa held his hand for a moment, then stood to pour him water from a carafe on the night table. “Do you not sleep well?” She held the glass for him to drink.
When he had swallowed some of the water, he shook his head. “I don’t, as it happens,” he said. “I hear noises in this house, which is supposed to be empty. And hooves on the gravel of the courtyard.
Everything seems…” He sighed.
“What, Francis?” she asked gently, sitting down beside the bed. “How does it seem?”
“Exaggerated,” he said, with an empty chuckle. “I suppose because it’s so quiet, and because I have nothing to do. I have nothing to do, and yet I feel exhausted.”
She patted his hand, and set the glass down again. As she did so, a sudden thought struck her, and she
turned to him with a smile. “Francis! I have a wonderful idea.”
“What is it?”
She looked down at him, lying so thin and wasted beneath the blankets. “I had the best rest of my life over the Erdlin holiday,” she said. “I was in the Uplands.”
“The Uplands?�
�� he said, his eyes brightening a bit. “How nice that sounds. Far from the Palace, the city, and the Council.”
“It was perfect,” Philippa said. “I spent the holiday with the Hamleys.”
“Hamleys? Is there a Hamley in the Council?”
“No, Francis. You may remember that your sister, Pamella, is staying with them, with her little son.”
“Pamella…it would be nice to see Pamella. And to meet the boy.”
“Pamella is still troubled, though. She still is unable to speak. Except, as it turns out, to the middle Hamley brother, who hardly speaks himself.”
Francis frowned, but listened as Philippa told him of the rumors about Pamella, the stories about William’s misdeeds, about her concerns for the bloodlines and the disappointing foalings. But most of all, she told him about Deeping Farm, about the comfortable ancient farmhouse, the hearty food, the bracing air. She concluded by saying, “I’ve decided something else, Francis.”
He smiled at her. “You look better as you say that, Philippa. Less weary.”
“Ah. You’re being diplomatic, Francis. You mean I look less aged.”
“I should never have said such a thing.”
“It doesn’t matter. It would be true.”
He managed a weak chuckle. “So, Philippa, tell me what decision you’ve reached.”
She pulled her gloves from her belt to pleat them between her fingers. “I’m going back to the Council Lords,” she said. She turned her head to the window, where she could see the hills greening to the west.
“The whole winter has gone by, and they have dawdled and dithered without William’s guidance. I’m going to demand they appoint someone to the post of Headmistress at the Academy, and I’m going to serve poor Jinson up to their judgment. I don’t blame him, really. William should have known better than to replace Eduard Crisp.”
“William is insane, Philippa.”
She turned to him, her brows rising. “Have you seen him?”
“He hit me,” Francis said with a wry twist of his lips. “He struck me with that quirt he carries everywhere.”
“While you lay in bed, he struck you?”
