Toby Bishop - Horse Mistress 03

by Airs of Night

  Lark shrugged. “He swells at the chest,” she said, gesturing at her own small bosom. “But when I touched him—and you can trust me, Amelia, I didn’t want to—he was furious. I suppose he thinks he can hide it.”

  “So,” Amelia said. She came to Tup’s head, and began braiding his silky mane. “His purpose was to change his scent so he could fly.”

  “Aye. I would wager the rest was a surprise.”

  “Do you think it will work? That he’ll fly his little Diamond?”

  Lark let the black strands of Tup’s tail fall through her fingers, flowing ribbons that shone in the lamplight.

  “I think,” she said, “that a rooster may cover an egg, but he’s still a rooster.”

  Amelia laughed, making Lark look up at her in surprise. She didn’t think she had heard Amelia Rys laugh before. Amelia Master, she reminded herself.

  “You’re a funny thing,” Amelia said, her laugh subsiding. “A true country girl.”

  “Aye, I am that,” Lark said. “I understand the beasts and the land. And I know something of potions and simples, too. I will be surprised if the Duke flies his little Diamond without great difficulty. He’s not really a woman, after all, despite breasts and a beardless chin. The dogs know him for what he is, and Tup does, too. Poor little Diamond simply doesn’t know any better.”

  Amelia finished a braid, and tied it off with a bit of silk. “Diamond might have been my bondmate,” she said.

  “Aye. ’Tis strange to think about it now,” Lark said. “Mahogany might have gone to some other girl.”

  “I would hate that,” Amelia said. “But I worry about the filly. She must be terribly lonely.”

  “Aye, we’re all worried,” Lark said. “All of us who care about the winged horses.”

  They finished Tup’s grooming in silence. As they left the stable, Amelia gave Lark a sidelong glance. “Tell me, Lark. Do you not think the Duke cares about the winged horses?”

  Lark didn’t answer for several steps, and then she said, “I think, Amelia, that yon Duke cares most about himself.”

  THEREwas a militiaman posted in the dining hall, watching the girls and the horsemistresses as they filed in. His presence subdued the usual mealtime chatter. Lark, passing the soldier, glanced up at him briefly.

  He was rather young, and neither particularly tall nor strong-looking. He caught her glance, and his eyes shifted quickly away, his cheeks flushing.

  When Lark reached her place at the table, she was startled to see a small, sealed square of plain beige paper propped against her water glass. She picked it up, and gazed at it with unease.

  The girls were all standing, waiting for Headmistress Star to take her seat, but Hester leaned close.

  “Who’s it from?” she whispered.

  Lark held it out to show her. “This is Brye’s handwriting.”

  “Open it!” Hester said.

  “I’m afraid to.” Lark slipped her finger under the seal but didn’t break it.

  Now Anabel and Amelia were also gazing at her curiously. There was a rustle and scrape of chairs as the Headmistress sat, then the horsemistresses, and finally the girls. Lark sank into her chair, staring at the envelope. “I know it’s bad,” she said. “Five years and more I’ve been at the Academy, and I’ve never had a letter.”

  Hester’s strong hand pressed her arm. “Get it over with, Black,” she said. “Postponing it won’t make it easier. If it were really bad news, anyway, it would have come from the Head.”

  Lark closed her eyes briefly, thinking of her brothers. Brye, the eldest, had been both brother and father to her. Silent Edmar was married now, still working in the quarry. Laughing Nick was only a few years older than she and still breaking maidens’ hearts in Willakeep.

  Hester was right. One of the girls’ fathers had died in the winter, and she had received the news directly from Mistress Star. It couldn’t be all that bad, surely.

  She opened her eyes, slid her finger under the seal, and opened the letter. When she had read it, she laid it down beside her salad plate.

  “Well?” Hester demanded. “What is it?”

  Lark took a shaky breath, then turned her eyes up to Hester’s. “It’s Nick,” she said. “My brother.”

  Hester grinned. “The handsome one?”

  “Aye.” Lark couldn’t smile in return. Her lips trembled.

  “What is it, Black? Is your brother all right?”

  “He’s in the militia. The Palace set the tithe so high, Deeping Farm couldn’t pay it. It was Nick or Edmar, and now Edmar is married to Pamella . . . so Nick went. He’s off already, and no one knows where he’s been posted.”

  SUZANNEStar, the Headmistress, said nothing to the girls at dinner. Usually there were announcements, or advice, or news from Osham or elsewhere in the Duchy, always delivered in the dining hall. But on this night, Mistress Star waited until dinner was over. Then she came to the Dormitory and climbed the stairs to the sleeping porch as the girls readied for bed.

  Lark was already in her nightdress when someone said, “Mistress Star!” Everyone stopped what she was doing and looked up. They had never seen Mistress Star on the sleeping porch before. Only Matron, or occasionally one of the junior horsemistresses, came here.

  Hester stepped forward, inclining her head. “Good evening, Mistress Star,” she said. Lark had the impression Hester had been expecting this visit.

  Mistress Star nodded. “Hester,” she said, “and everyone. Will you come close, please?”

  The girls, barefoot and in various stages of undress, came forward from their cots and arranged themselves around her. Lark had Brye’s letter in her hand, already creased and crumpled from several readings. She smoothed it between her fingers as she went to stand beside Hester.

  Mistress Star still wore her riding habit and boots, her gloves and cap tucked into her belt. Her lips were tight with strain, and a furrow showed between her eyes. “This,” she said quietly, “was the only place I could talk to you away from those soldiers.”

  The girls nodded. No one spoke, but they moved closer to each other until they stood in a double circle,

  shoulder to shoulder.

  Mistress Star nodded grim approval of this instinctive movement. “Our position, I’m afraid,” she said, “is precarious. I have been warned that the—” She hesitated, and her eyes scanned the girls’ faces. “The Palace wants to close the Academy of the Air.”

  There was a general intake of breath, and several girls put their hands to their mouths. Only Hester was unsurprised. “Mamá says it’s about the Fleckham School.”

  “So I am told,” Mistress Star said.

  One of the younger girls said, “What’s that? The Fleckham School?”

  Another cried softly, “They can’t close the Academy, can they? My papá would never allow it, now that I’m here at last, after I waited so long—”

  Mistress Star put up her hand. “We must remain calm,” she said. “I’m sure, Allison, that your father would object in the strongest way to the closing of the Academy. But the Council is not of one mind on this issue. And the Fleckham School, for those of you who haven’t heard, is meant to be a flying school for men.”

  A stunned silence met this announcement. The girls knew, of course, that Duke William had a winged filly, because she had appeared in the sky last Ribbon Day, and only quick action by Lark and Tup, risking their own graduation to the third level, had helped her come safely to ground. But no one truly expected that the Duke would be able to fly with her.

  Lark crumpled her brother’s letter against her chest and stepped back, out of the circle. Mistress Star spoke a little longer, warning the girls to be silent in the presence of the militiamen, and to say nothing that might be used against them or the Academy in anyone’s hearing. Lark went to her cot and folded Brye’s letter as carefully as she could to tuck it in the drawer of her bedstand. Worry tightened her throat.

  Nick, she knew, was being punished because of her. Mistress Wint
er had been driven away from Oc for the same reason. Neither of them would blame Lark, and they would deny that any of this was her fault, but she knew that it was.

  The horse goddess had brought Tup to Lark, and he was the greatest gift she could possibly have received. But his coming had carried a heavy price for Deeping Farm and all the Hamleys. If anything happened to Nick . . .

  Lark stood beside her cot, staring at her bare feet, wondering what she could do to set things right. She didn’t realize Mistress Star had left and that the girls were padding back to their beds until Amelia and Hester came up beside her.

  “What is it, Black?” Hester said quietly.

  Lark lifted her head, and looked at her tall, plain friend through a haze of tears. “Nick—and Mistress Winter—’tis all because of me!”

  “No,” Amelia said. “It is because your Duke—”

  Hester elbowed her. “ Our Duke, Klee, remember? You’re Isamarian now.”

  Amelia nodded. “You’re quite right, Morning. I am.” She sat on Lark’s cot, and drew Lark down beside her. “This is happening, Black, because the Duke is obsessed with the winged horses. You could do nothing to change that.”

  “He’s mad,” Hester said with a touch of impatience. “Anyone can see it. How can that be your fault?”

  “If anyone can see it—” Lark began, then stopped.

  Amelia put a slender arm around her shoulders. “You’re wondering why he gets away with it,” she said.

  Lark nodded, miserably, wordlessly. “Powerful people are invested in protecting their power,” Amelia said. “My father taught me that when I was a tiny girl. It is a rare man—”

  “Or woman,” Hester growled.

  Amelia nodded again. “It’s a rare man or woman,” she amended, “whose integrity is greater than the lust for power.”

  “True,” Hester said. She crossed her arms, tapping her fingers on her elbows. “Too many of our Council Lords think the Duke may add to their power, and they also don’t want anyone questioning their authority. If the Duke is challenged, they feel they are, too.”

  “But then what will happen?” Lark said. “To Nick—and Mistress Winter—”

  “Mistress Winter, at least, is safe,” Amelia said. When Lark looked at her curiously, she added hastily,

  “She must be. No one’s seen or heard from her in more than a year.”

  “I’m sure she’s fine,” Hester said. “But Mamá says there’s more trouble coming.”

  “Aye,” Lark said. “I wish my brother were not in the middle of it.”

  “We’re all in the middle of it,” Hester said. “Every one of us.”

  THREE

  “MYlord husband,” Constance said in her breathy voice. “Are you not due at the Rotunda this morning?”

  William snapped, “Ye gods, Constance, speak up, can’t you? Stop whispering at me!”

  “I—I’m sorry, William. I just—I had my maid lay out my things and do my hair, because I thought—”

  He leaned back in his chair and reached for the quirt he kept near at hand on his desk. He turned its braided leather in his fingers and laughed when Constance flinched. “What do you think?” he smirked.

  “That I would strike you?”

  “No—oh, no, William, of course I don’t—” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes dropped.

  He pointed the quirt at her and chuckled. “Maybe you’d like that, if I hit you. Like one of the horses, or a dog . . .” He stretched his arm so he could touch her cheek with the end of the quirt. She gasped, and trembled away from it.

  He laughed and slapped the quirt back onto the desk. “What do you want, Constance? You can see I’m working here.”

  Her eyes slid nervously across the surface of his empty desk. “Are you?” she breathed. “I’m sorry. I thought you were . . .” She took another step backward, toward the door. “I thought we were going to the Council today. I’ll go and change, and order . . . Perhaps you’d like . . .” She turned away, her voice growing softer and softer until he couldn’t hear the end of her sentence.

  He looked away from her and waited for the click of the door. Instead, he heard her say, almost inaudibly, “William?”

  “What!” he snapped. “Aren’t you gone yet? You can see I’m not going anywhere. I’m in my riding clothes.” In fact, he had been sitting at his desk debating whether today was the day.

  Her eyes flickered again. “I just wondered—won’t there be trouble? You haven’t been to the Council in more than a year. I was certain that you meant to attend today.”

  He turned his head to face her again and gazed fixedly at her until she dropped her eyes. “Since when,”

  he said in his silkiest tone, “does my lady wife take an interest in government?”

  Harsh red stained her cheeks, but she held her ground. “William—you are the Duke.”

  “How nice, Constance, that you remember that.”

  “It just seems that . . . since you quarreled with Philippa Winter . . .”

  “Philippa has been dealt with.”

  Constance’s eyes flicked up to his again. There was a flash of something in them, something he couldn’t identify. She said, still softly, but quite clearly, “But Philippa got away, didn’t she.” It was not a question.

  William’s neck stiffened with surprise, and a spurt of anger made his voice shrill. “Have no fear, Constance! We’re watching for her, and we’ll have her. She’ll take her punishment as she was meant to.”

  Constance reached for the door and opened it. From the doorway, she glanced back at him, and this time, he knew what the curl of her lips meant, and the faint widening of her eyes. She was amused. She was laughing at him, wispy Constance who cowered whenever he so much as frowned at her!

  She closed the door behind her before he could grasp what had just happened. He stared at the blankness of the wood, his jaw aching with tension. If even self-absorbed Constance thought that Philippa Winter had bested him, all of Oc could be laughing behind his back.

  He picked up the quirt again and banged it on the desk. He had to get her. He had wasted enough time.

  He knew how to lure Philippa back, and when he did, he would bring her to justice. He would show all

  those damned horsemistresses who wielded power in Oc.

  Constance, nuisance though she was, was right about one thing. It had been more than a year since he had gone to the Rotunda. Of course, he had his people—Philippa’s brother Meredith, for one—to tell him what happened there. And Meredith, sycophant that he was, was more than happy to carry his wishes to the Council Lords. Perhaps Constance worried about losing her position as Duchess, although that seemed unlikely. It had never caused her overmuch joy, so far as he knew.

  He stood and went to the window to look out into the courtyard of the Ducal Palace. He had moved Diamond to the Palace stables, in a stall far away from the other horses, where she had the run of a long, well-groomed paddock and the airiest space Jinson could provide. Even now, he felt the pull of her, that yearning to run his hands over her glossy hide, to touch the points of her silver wings, to comb her fluff of white mane. To smell her clean scent of straw and oats and sunshine.

  Odd, this compulsion. He wondered if, once he had flown her, it would subside, as desire for a woman often faded away once he had possessed her.

  And William wondered, running a hand over his pale hair, if he would ever desire a woman again. The potion that made it possible for him to bond with Diamond had erased that urge. It was a necessary sacrifice, and he couldn’t regret it. But it was an uncomfortable circumstance. It made him feel unlike himself, at odds with his own nature.

  He blew out a breath. It didn’t matter. It would all be worth it.

  And he would not, he decided with a final slap of the quirt against his leg, go back to the Council until he had flown her. Not much longer, surely. She was flying with sand weights and the saddle, working with the longue line, building her strength and learning the bit and the brid
le. Soon he would sit in that saddle, and not long after that they would take to the air. Together.

  In the meantime, he would see to bringing Philippa Winter back to Oc. It was time she paid the price for defying him.

  FOUR

  PHILIPPAand Sunny, returning from a flight to their favorite mountain lake, swooped low over the lavender fields. The delicate scent of the lavender blossoms rose to meet them. The sheep had grown used to the winged horse and lifted their heads from their grazing for only a moment. The shepherds waved. The narders, thigh deep in purple flowers, tipped their hats.

  Autumn had passed its zenith. The snowcaps on the peaks to the east stretched lower each day. As Sunny glided to her landing in the lane below the barn, Philippa noticed how strong and tall the spring lambs had grown. They dashed among the ewes, their tails flicking merrily. They made her think of the yearlings frolicking in their paddock at the Academy, sorrels and blacks and bays and palominos galloping together, tails arching, feet twinkling in the grass, and her breast ached with a sudden, helpless longing.

  There wouldn’t be many yearlings in that paddock this year. The winged foals were born in two-year cycles, and the last spring crop had been pitifully small. Too many winged mares had thrown wingless foals, thanks to William’s disastrous breeding program. Philippa had feared for the future of the bloodlines even then, and now that things had grown so much worse, she was helpless to do anything about it.

  She dismounted and led Sunny into the barn to untack her. She had filled her water bucket and was ladling a measure of oats when she heard a whinny from beyond the yard. She left Sunny munching a leaf of alfalfa, and hurried to the door. She shaded her eyes to look down the steep lane.

  A black horse was making its way up through the lavender fields at a steady running walk. At first Philippa couldn’t see who the rider was, but when he took off his hat to run his fingers through his white-blond hair, she knew.