But by the time he reached the stable door, he had forgotten her. The dead militiaman, the drowned horse, even the Klee and the Prince faded from his thoughts. His mind filled with anticipation until there was no room for anything else. He could already smell Diamond’s essence, that sweet broth of horseflesh, straw, oats, and alfalfa.
He seized Diamond’s bridle from its hook in the tack room, checked to see that the flying saddle was ready and waiting, and hurried eagerly toward her stall.
HEhad meant to make his first flight with Felicity Baron and Sky Baron to monitor him, but they were nowhere to be found.
He could have ordered one of the horsemistresses assigned to the Palace to do it, he supposed, but he didn’t know if he could trust any of them. It had been a shock to see how few of those at the Academy had followed his orders the day before. He had no intention of exposing himself to more betrayals. He would do this alone, as he had to do everything else.
This would solve all his problems. Once he had flown, Prince Nicolas would give way. The Council would cease challenging his every decision. Even the horsemistresses would come to heel, knowing their futures depended on accepting the new order in Oc.
That horsemistresses had no future in Oc—none at all—was a secret he would keep to himself just a little longer.
His pulse quickened when Diamond’s finely cut head lifted above the half-gate of her stall. She shone like a jewel in the shadows, her great eyes gleaming, her coat bright as new satin. He approached her slowly, his boots soft in the sawdust, and held out his hand. She bent her muzzle to sniff at his palm, and her ivory forelock fell across his wrist like the silken drift of a lady’s scarf. William breathed a sigh of pure pleasure and not inconsiderable relief.
It would be all right. It was going to be perfect.
He reached across the half-gate to stroke her neck, and the smooth muscles shivered beneath his hand.
Gently, he slipped the bridle over her head and snugged the nosepiece lightly down over her muzzle. He thought he could not have borne it if she had shied away from him or shivered in that way she sometimes did. She tossed her head and blew through her nostrils, but she seemed eager to leave her stall.
She made no demur as he walked her down the aisle, dropped the reins, and brought the saddle from the tack room. His stable-man poked his head out of one of the stalls in the connecting aisle, and said, “Do you need anything, Your Grace?”
“No, Blackley. Stay where you are.”
“Aye, m’lord.”
William smoothed the saddle blanket over Diamond’s back and lifted the flying saddle into place. She snorted as he connected the breast strap and shied away as he tightened the cinches. “Quiet, Diamond,”
he said. “Quiet. We need these today.” He ruffled her mane. “We’re going to fly, my girl. Today. At last.”
Her head went high, and white showed around her eyes. He stood back and stared at her. It was as if she understood his words, knew his intentions. Perhaps this explained why the horsemistresses were obsessed with their bondmates, why his father . . .
He picked up the reins and turned abruptly toward the paddock. His father couldn’t have known this feeling. It was not possible for Frederick even to get close to a winged horse. Only he, William . . . He was the first.
His heart beat so hard he could barely hear Diamond’s hoofbeats behind him. He led her to the mounting block and stepped up on it. She sidestepped, shying away from him. He had to step down and urge her close to the block again. He realized, as he did this, that he had not removed her wingclips. He hesitated, his hand on her near wing, wondering if he should wait, or release them now. He couldn’t remember if Felicity Baron had said anything about it.
He closed his eyes, trying to remember. It seemed to him that when Diamond flew with Sky Baron, Mistress Baron removed her wingclips just as they went into the park. William glanced up at the windows of the horsemistresses’ apartment, in the south wing of the Palace. He could, he supposed, send someone to ask them, but the idea of having to argue with them, of having to endure their sour expressions, that look of resentment at his daring to do what they did every day, was just too much.
He released the near wingclip, then stepped around Diamond’s head to undo the other one. As he stepped up on the mounting block one more time, he said, “You and I, Diamond. You and I will do it our way, alone.”
This time she stood still. He put his right leg over the cantle and settled into the saddle, snugging his knees beneath the thigh rolls, checking to see that Diamond’s wings were free of the stirrups. The high cantle felt odd against his back. First-time flyers sometimes used leg straps, but he disdained them. If women could fly without being strapped in, it couldn’t be hard.
Diamond shuddered once, then quieted.
He lifted the reins and turned her toward the park.
ITwas not, he thought, what it looked like from the ground.
Diamond, of course, knew what to do. His weight did not seem to trouble her, though her balance wavered, just once, as she sped from the canter to the hand gallop, her wings outstretched, her neck beginning to reach forward. When they reached the level part of the park, where a narrow brook meandered over white stones, he felt her gather herself. It was the place Sky Baron used, launching just short of the little stream to skim the tops of the live oaks at the end of the park.
It was the launch that surprised him. He heard his own indrawn breath, even over the sound of the wind rushing past his ears and the beat of Diamond’s wings. His muscles cramped beneath the thigh rolls as he gripped the saddle with all his strength. He hung on to the pommel with his right hand, only barely managing to keep the pressure out of his left, to let her have her head.
When he watched her fly from the ground, the process seemed as smooth and effortless as the flight of a bird. From a distance, she seemed to soar upward, weightlessly, as if the air caught her and lifted her almost without her volition.
Now that it came to the actual fact, the power in those silver wings stunned him. As Diamond leaped from the ground, he felt the strain across her chest as her wings caught the air. When she tucked her hooves beneath her, the movement nearly jarred him from his seat. Her wings beat once, twice, a third time, propelling them up and over the trees, and the ground fell away from them in a dizzying swirl of green and brown and remnants of white where the snow of the day before had not yet melted.
William’s head swam with a sudden, vertiginous nausea, and he wished he had eaten something after all.
His own muscles felt like butter in the sun compared with the hard, driving strength of this perfect, magnificent Diamond.
As she banked to the west, the usual flight path she and Sky Baron took, William remembered to sit deep in the saddle, to hold his hands low, to keep his heels down. He was startled to find tears on his
cheeks and to feel a sob burst from his chest. He was terrified, and elated almost past bearing.
Flying! I’m flying. At last.
THIRTY-FIVE
PHILIPPArose, dry-eyed and weary, after sleeping no more than three or four hours. A glance in the glass above the bureau made her groan. She poured water from the ewer into the basin resting on the marble-topped side table and splashed her face with it. She took a long time drying her face, breathing ragged sighs into the soft, thick towel. She treasured the moment of peace, of oblivion, before she put the towel down and went to the window.
Amanda Beeth had given her a room facing east. Only pastures and farmhouses lay between Beeth House and the sea. The early sun brightened the fields, emptied now of their harvests of alfalfa and timothy. The green water glittered, empty as the fields. The light from the North Tower was dimmed by the sunshine, and Philippa could just see, if she leaned very close to the glass, the tips of the masts of the Klee ship above the muddle of city buildings. There was nothing in the scene to hint at the forces set to explode into action.
But there were such forces, and she had to face them.
Amanda’s housekeeper had left an assortment of brushes and creams and lotions on the bureau for Philippa’s use. Philippa looked these over, but she had no idea what most of them were for. She picked up a jar of cream scented faintly with almond, which seemed safe. She smoothed some of it into her cheeks and throat. She brushed her hair and tied it in its rider’s knot. It was nearly as much gray as red now. An old woman’s hair, she supposed regretfully. She clicked her tongue with impatience at her vanity and turned resolutely away from the mirror. What did it matter? There was no one who cared about her appearance.
Someone had brushed her tabard and skirt and muddied boots, and laid out a set of clean smallclothes.
With an inward nod of thanks to Amanda’s excellent staff, Philippa put everything on, buckled her belt, and tucked her cap and gloves into it.
The main floor of the house was busy, though quietly so. Lord Beeth was going from ballroom to parlor, from dining room to morning room, giving instructions to the men in each. Maids hurried here and there with trays of coffee and sausages and baskets of fresh bread. Amanda Beeth, who Philippa doubted could have slept even half as long as she herself had, was in the foyer conferring with her housekeeper and caught sight of Philippa descending the stairs.
“Ah, Philippa,” she said, as if it were any ordinary morning, and all of these people were ordinary houseguests. “Everything is in such a bustle. Won’t you come to the kitchen with me for your breakfast? I swear, it will be quieter there than in any of the parlors.”
“Thank you, Amanda. Good morning.” She followed her hostess beneath the broad staircase and through double baize doors into an airy, high-ceilinged kitchen where three cooks were at work at a broad stone sink. Flames roared in an enormous close stove, and freshly made loaves were rising near the heat.
Amanda led Philippa to a worktable snugged under a slanting section of ceiling that was probably the underside of the main stairwell. There Philippa found Larkyn tucking into a plate of sliced bloodbeets and boiled eggs. Larkyn jumped up when she saw her.
“Oh, Mistress Winter!” she said. “ ’Tis such a relief to see you well!”
“Well enough,” Philippa said, her tone tart to disguise her own pleasure at seeing the girl. Larkyn, at least, looked as fresh as a spring rose, the sunrise color blooming in her cheeks, her violet eyes sparkling. Her short hair sprang in vigorous curls around her face, and her tabard and skirt, like Philippa’s, had been thoroughly brushed. “You certainly look well, Larkyn.”
“ ’Tis because I’ve found Nick!” the girl exclaimed. “My brother Nick is here.”
“Indeed,” Philippa said in a dry tone. She pulled out a chair and sat down, nodding thanks for the cup of
coffee Amanda handed to her. “Indeed he is, Larkyn. As you would say in the Uplands, ’tis lovely fine to see him again.”
Larkyn grinned. “And as you would say, Mistress Winter, precisely so!”
Philippa laughed. Larkyn twinkled at her. “Take a blink at you!” she said impertinently. “You should smile a bit more often.”
“Larkyn!” admonished Lady Beeth.
Larkyn sat down again, still smiling. Philippa, soothed by the exchange and the company, accepted a plate with a boiled egg and a few slices of dark red bloodbeets. One of the cooks brought a platter of rolls fresh from the oven, and Philippa took one. “Have you seen the horses yet this morning, Larkyn?”
“Oh, aye, Mistress Winter,” the girl said. “Of course. I went straight there when I woke up. Both their stalls are cleaned and their water buckets full.”
“Was Sunny calm?”
“Not last night, when you were away, but she knows you’re back now. And there’s an oc-hound with her.”
“Very good, Larkyn. Thank you.”
“And Mistress Winter—” The girl broke off, the color surging and receding in her cheeks.
“Yes, Larkyn?”
“They say that Caroline Rambler—well, I don’t know what you call her now—survived. The patrol boat pulled her out of the water, half-drowned, but breathing.”
“But Rambler . . .”
Sudden tears glimmered in the girl’s eyes. “They never found him,” she said. “The poor horse . . . he couldn’t have . . .” Her lips trembled, and she pressed a finger to them.
Philippa touched the girl’s shoulder. “Try not to think about it now, Larkyn,” she said, striving for a gentle tone. “There will be time later.”
“Aye,” Larkyn said sadly. She dashed at her tears. “They say in the Uplands, a thousand days to grieve.”
“Wise,” Philippa said. “Like so many other things they say in your Uplands.” She sighed, and started on her breakfast, though she would have liked to simply sit here in this bright, warm kitchen and drink cup after cup of the good black coffee. It was likely to be a long and difficult day, unless something good had happened she hadn’t yet learned about.
“Isuppose it’s too much to hope that Amelia turned up overnight?” Philippa asked.
Francis gave a mirthless chuckle. “Yes, Philippa. Too much to hope.”
They stood side by side on the front steps of Beeth House. The air had a bite to it that stung Philippa’s nose and fingertips. She pulled her gloves from her belt, and shrugged into her coat. It was a good day for flying, at least.
Francis pointed to the men gathered in the oval courtyard. “We sent a patrol of our own out into the city last night, hoping for some sign of her. They found nothing. They stayed until the sun came up, to ask shopkeepers and warehousemen—those who have the fortitude to actually go to their businesses—but no one has seen her.”
“She could have gone the other way,” Philippa said. “To the foothills. Or even south, toward Isamar.”
Francis nodded. Philippa glanced at him and saw that his eyes were as heavy-lidded as her own, his face drawn. “Francis, you look as old as I do,” she said abruptly.
He managed a crooked smile. “That’s not so old,” he said.
She snorted. “You’re being gallant. I look a hundred today, and worse, I feel it.”
He said, “You know, Philippa, these men have gathered to follow my lead. And I haven’t the least idea what to do next.”
The men stood in squads of ten or twelve. There were a few smallswords, and not a few long pistols and muskets in evidence, but the lack of uniforms made them look ragtag and disorganized. Still, they were men who had come together out of conviction, Philippa thought. The lack of uniform should not matter, and they had proved themselves last night.
She caught sight of Larkyn flanked by her brothers. She was talking to them, gesturing, her black curls
shining in the sun.
“Look, Francis. Do you see Larkyn, and Nick and Brye Hamley?”
He stepped forward a little. “Yes. Nick Hamley was lucky his captain didn’t shoot him in the back.”
“They are so close, the Hamleys. You and I, unfortunately, have had no occasion to understand that sort of family. But they and families like them are what’s at stake here.”
“I do know that, Philippa,” he said. His voice was weighted with emotion. “I wish there were a wiser man to protect them.”
“They’re lucky to have you, Francis,” she said. She put her gloved hand on his arm. “You will know what to do, when the moment comes.”
“I hope you’re right,” he said, and patted her fingers.
“I believe,” Philippa said, with as much conviction as she could muster, “that I would rather have a leader who questions himself than one who thinks everything he does is right simply because he is the one to do it.”
Francis grimaced. “William was always that way, even as a boy.”
“I remember that very well,” she said. “And now, Francis, I am off to the stables at the Rotunda. I hope to talk some sense into Catherine Cloud and Elspeth Summer and the other horsemistresses who have apparently taken up residence there.”
Francis said, “I’m doubly sorry this rift has reached the Acad
emy.”
“I am, too, but perhaps we can at least heal our own differences. That would surely be of more help to you, to have a united flight to support you.”
“Indeed. Although I hope it won’t be needed.”
LARKwatched Mistress Winter take her leave of Lord Francis and stride across the courtyard toward the stables. She was so slender, Lark thought, her back so straight and her movements so quick, that she might have been a girl were her hair not going gray and her face weathered from flying.
Her own face would look the same before long, tanned and lined by the wind and sun aloft. She wouldn’t mind it. Such a face was a badge of office for a horsemistress.
She put a hand to the plain black fabric of her collar, where she hoped one day to pin the silver wings. If Duke William prevailed, her dream of becoming a horsemistress could vanish as swiftly as yesterday’s snow had disappeared before the rising sun.
She shivered a little. Nick looked down at her, frowning. “Feeling peaky, Lark?”
She shook her head. “Nay. I’m fine.”
The stable-girl met Mistress Winter, and they went into the stables together. A moment later Mistress Winter came out again, and beckoned to Lark.
Lark said, “Nick, Mistress Winter wants me. I need to go.”
“Have a care, then, lass,” he said, and patted her shoulder.
“ ’Tis you in danger, not me,” she said. “Are you going off to fight the Duke’s militia?”
“Only if Duke William does something—”
“Or if the Klee attack,” Lark said.
Nick’s cheerful features darkened. “We have no quarrel with the Klee. Their complaint is against the Duke.”
“I know.” Lark sighed. It was all so complicated. She saw no way out of this impasse, and no good resolution. She hugged her brother and crossed to the stables.
She paused at the door, looking east to where the sea glimmered green beneath the pale blue sky. Here and there thin streams of smoke rose from the plowed fields where farmers were burning the stalks of corn, the stubble of straw, the empty vines of peas and beans. Char was what they called that smoke, in the Uplands. They had called Tup’s dam Char, because she had been the color of that smoke.
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