Airs Beneath the Moon

by Toby Bishop

  PIG plodded across the dry paddock behind Herbert. True to his word, Herbert had found a saddle that fitted the pony better. It was not a flying saddle, but a clumsy, elaborate thing with a broad cantle, a thick flat-topped pommel, rings and ties everywhere, and a double cinch. The cinches stretched to their maximum to reach around poor Pig’s girth, and the stirrups were of hammered iron. Lark eyed the whole thing with distaste.

  “Looks a misery to sit in.”

  Herbert said, “I wouldn’t know. Not a rider, meself.”

  As Lark came closer, Pig laid his ears back again. It made him look even more porcine, with his eyes too small and his haunches so swollen. Lark sighed, and took the rein. “Aye, Piglet,” she said. “Neither one of us is happy about this.”

  “Could wait for Mistress Strong,” Herbert offered.

  “That won’t improve the saddle.”

  Bramble came racing around the side of the stables to leap the pole fence in a flowing streak of silver. Lark was glad to see her. The oc-hound came close, pressing her shoulder against Lark’s hip, curling her lip and growling over Pig’s flattened ears.

  The pony rolled his eyes, but his ears released. He stood stiffly, legs splayed. The cinch cut into his flesh, creating piebald rolls on either side.

  “Teeth,” Herbert muttered.

  “Aye,” Lark said. She kept an eye on Pig’s muzzle as she approached, shortening the rein as she moved closer. Bramble came around to her left, and Pig’s eye shifted to the dog. Swiftly, Lark seized a handful of mane. She didn’t bother with the stirrup, but swung herself up and over until she perched on the pony’s wide back.

  It was like straddling a rock. The leather was rigid beneath her. She found the stirrups with her boots, but they, too, were hard. When she moved her legs, the leathers creaked.

  “Well, here’s your instructor,” Herbert said dourly. “Luck to you!”

  Lark looked up to see Irina Strong’s broad figure just coming through the gate. Her pale hair was neatly smoothed under her cap, and her habit was, of course, immaculate. Lark felt her cheeks warm as she looked down at herself. Her tabard was creased, her belt askew from the leap upon Pig’s back. And her hair, of course—as always—was more out of its clasp than in.

  At least she was in the saddle. She lifted Pig’s reins, and whispered, “Piglet. Help me here, will you?”

  Pig rattled his bridle with an irritated shake of his head. Bramble’s lip curled again, but Lark murmured quickly, “It’s all right, Bramble. Poor old Pig can’t help it.”

  “Well, Larkyn,” Mistress Strong said as she strode forward. The pony took a step backward, making Lark clutch at the pommel. Mistress Strong stopped where she was, and eyed the fat pony and his off-balance rider with an expression full of doubt. “Well. Let’s see if we can teach you to ride.”

  PHILIPPA flew north and west for two hours, until she felt Sunny should have a rest. She scanned the hills beneath her for a meadow where the mare could safely descend. She found a long, narrow clearing, and was glad to find, when Sunny had cantered to a stop, that a little blue stream ran at one end. Already the air seemed cooler here, the breeze tinged with the smells of burning straw and browning leaves. Philippa let Sunny drink her fill and then graze a little while she unrolled the map and spread it on a black boulder. She traced the path with one gloved finger. Another hour’s flying, she guessed, would bring her to Mossyrock. A glance at the sun, quartering from the east, told her that she would arrive before midday.

  Philippa ate the cheese and biscuits in Matron’s packet while Sunny ambled about grazing, her tail switching at flies. The sight of her red coat gleaming in the sun, her delicately flared nostrils, her intelligent eyes, moved Philippa, even after the eighteen years of their bonding. She called her close, and then leaned against her shoulder, warmed by the autumn sun, comforted by the sweet smell of horseflesh. “Oh, Sunny,” she murmured. “My faithful girl. Wouldn’t it be nice to simply fly away from everything?” Sunny blew a noisy breath, and tossed her head, making Philippa chuckle. “No, you’re right,” she said. “Duty first. And always.”

  Soon they were in the air again, and within the hour, the blackstone butte given by the map as a landmark came into view, dividing the mountain valley into two. The village of Clellum was to the north, beyond a narrow, untilled pasture. To the south of the butte was the hamlet of Mossyrock.

  It was tiny, perhaps twenty houses flanked by cottage gardens and wooden byres. The lane leading to it would surely accommodate only one cart at a time, and the market Brye Hamley had spoken of must have been small indeed. She guided Sunny in a circle above the peaked roofs. Just to the east of the village was a space of packed dirt, shaded by cottonwoods and aspen. The market square, Philippa guessed, empty now, and broad enough for Sunny to come to ground.

  She made another circle, and then came down at a steep angle beneath the cliff. Sunny cantered a few strides, trotted, and came to a stop at the edge of the houses. By the time Philippa had dismounted and pulled off her gloves, a little troop of children had already raced out of their houses, and stood staring at the winged horse with eyes wide in dirty faces. As Sunny folded her wings, rib by rib, they gaped at her.

  Philippa eyed them, too, and decided that a tall boy in the back, wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat very like Brye Hamley’s, must be the eldest. “Will you take me to your prefect?” she asked him.

  He only stared at her, his mouth hanging open. A smaller boy stepped in front of him. “I will, Mistress,” he said. “If you’ll let me pet your horse.”

  A repressive answer sprang to Philippa’s lips, but she pressed them tight and didn’t speak it. For a moment she looked down at the boy. He had dark, curling hair and a freckled face that reminded her of Larkyn, and he was too young to be a problem for a winged horse. A chuckle found its way up her throat, surprising her. She pressed that back, too. “The prefect first, please,” she said crisply. “And you may hold Sunny’s reins while I speak with him.”

  The boy grinned, and spun about to trot down the narrow lane between the houses.

  Philippa followed, with Sunny pacing beside her. The children trailed after like a gaggle of goslings, chattering to each other, calling out to their mothers as they passed their homes. By the time Philippa stood before a narrow, two-story dwelling with a sign proclaiming the prefect’s residence on its door, most of the village seemed to be gathered in the lane, watching her.

  As she handed Sunny’s reins to the boy, admonishing him to stand exactly where he was, the door opened, and a wizened man with bent shoulders and sparse white hair appeared on the doorstep. Philippa murmured a command to Sunny, tucked her quirt under her arm, and crossed the meager bit of grass between the lane and the house.

  The old man bowed from the waist. Philippa nodded to him. “Good day. Are you the prefect here?”

  “Aye, aye, Mistress,” he said. “I am he. What an honor, to see someone in the Duke’s colors here. A horsemistress! Welcome to Mossyrock!”

  “You had a market here recently,” Philippa said without delay.

  “Aye, aye,” he answered her. He negotiated the two steps from his door to the grass with care. He looked as fragile as if he might blow away in a puff of dust. His eyes were rheumy and vague, and she wondered if he could see much. “We had a market last week. Lively, it was. Village full of people.” He peered up at her through his filmy eyes. “I don’t believe we’ve ever had a horsemistress here before. Would you like some refreshment? Come in, sit you down! Dickon, tell your mother to bring some cider for the horsemistress!”

  Dickon, holding Sunny’s reins, looked as if he would burst into tears at being robbed of his special role. Philippa hastily said, “No, no, thank you, Prefect. Don’t send for anything. What I need is information.”

  The prefect indicated his cramped dwelling. “Would you like to come in?”

  “No.” Philippa looked around at the people watching and listening. “There was a saddle,” she said in a carrying voi
ce, doubting that this aged and fragile man would be of much help. “A saddle for sale in the market. The Duke would like to know what became of it.”

  The prefect looked confused. “Saddle?” he said.

  Philippa made a gesture that included all the villagers. “Did any of you see this saddle? Do you know who was selling it?”

  The villagers, mostly women and girls, murmured together, shaking their heads. The children whispered. Only young Dickon seemed to have an idea. He said, “Horsemistress! The man with the saddle came from another village, up the mountain. He let me touch it, and I asked him where it came from.”

  Philippa looked down at the boy. He stood holding Sunny’s reins carefully, his hand raised to shoulder level.

  “What village?” Philippa asked.

  Dickon’s chest swelled with importance. “It came from Clellum,” he said. “Up the mountain.” He pointed north, beyond the blackstone butte.

  “Ah. Is it far?”

  “You just have to ride around the butte, there, Mistress,” the prefect quavered.

  “But the saddle’s not there,” Dickon piped. “Not anymore.”

  Philippa stiffened. “It’s not? How do you know?”

  “A man bought it.” Dickon’s grin creased his grimy cheeks. “I had a blink at him.”

  “What man?” Philippa’s voice sharpened, and the boy’s grin faded. “Do you know his name?”

  Dickon shook his head. “No, Mistress. But he wore the same colors you do, black and silver.” He considered, scratching his scalp with a dirty forefinger. “He had a horse, too, a lovely fine brown horse. It didn’t have no wings, though. Oh, and he wore a—” He shook his head, not finding the word, and instead sketched a gesture over his scrawny chest. “Lovely rich, it was, sewn all over with blue and green and red. Never saw such in the Uplands.”

  “I slid around like a fish on a rock!” Lark cried to Hester. She tossed her gloves and cap on her cot, and turned her palms up in despair. “Mistress Strong thinks I’m hopeless!” She collapsed onto her cot with a groan of pain.

  Hester chuckled. “A bit sore, are we?” she asked.

  “My bones ache! It makes no sense. I was never sore when I rode Char. Of course, I never fell off her, either.”

  “It’s the saddle,” Hester said with a grimace. “You just have to get used to it.”

  “It’s so hard! It’s like it’s made of wood.”

  “Bits of it are wood, I’m afraid. Mistress Strong will make you learn all the parts.”

  Lark moaned, rubbing her thighs. “I wish she would just let me ride bareback. It’s so much easier! Mistress Strong says it’s all in the thighs, but mine slip on the saddle skirts and the stirrups fly out at all angles! It was nicer when I rode Char, when I could feel her, muscle and bone and hide.”

  Hester sat down next to her, shaking her head. “It wouldn’t be easier for me.”

  “Really? But it’s just—it just seems natural. The balance, the—”

  “Natural?” Petra Sweet’s drawl interrupted her. “Maybe for a goat-girl.”

  Lark sat up, and found her sponsor standing at the foot of her bed, arms akimbo, lip curled. “Stop calling me that!” Lark snapped.

  Petra’s nostrils flared. “Listen to me, Hamley. Riding bareback could get you killed.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Petra gave a humorless laugh. “You’re going to fly, you little fool. You need something to hold on to! You want to come crashing down from fifty rods above the ground?”

  “I’m more likely to fall out of a saddle,” Lark muttered. “As I did this very afternoon!”

  “Listen, Hamley,” Petra persisted. “If you fall off that little crossbreed and die, the whole Academy will look bad.”

  Lark leapt to her feet, sore bottom forgotten. “I would never fall off Tup!” she cried.

  “Take it easy,” Hester murmured. “You’re just giving her what she wants.”

  Lark turned her back to Petra, and drew a slow breath, trying to cool her flare of anger. Petra hissed at Hester, “You should stop interfering. She needs to learn.”

  “She’s doing fine,” Hester said lightly. “None of the rest of us could ride Pig without getting bitten or kicked.”

  “Pig!” Petra laughed. “I suppose flying her little Crybaby is going to be just like riding that fat piebald pony!”

  At that, Lark whirled, her cheeks ablaze. Hester took a quick step forward, putting herself neatly between Lark and Petra.

  Petra snapped, “And by Kalla’s tail, Hamley, do something about that hair!”

  Lark put a hand to her head. As usual, her mass of unruly hair was falling about her cheeks and over her neck. Petra was right about that. Her hair would not stay in its knot no matter what she tried.

  “No need to worry, Sweet,” Hester said smoothly. Lark glanced at her in surprise, hearing how she deliberately exaggerated her patrician accent. She waved one hand, a gesture somehow both casual and elegant. “My mamá is coming tomorrow with the carriage, to take Hamley shopping.”

  Envy stiffened Petra’s features. “Lady Beeth?”

  Hester said lightly, “Oh, yes. I told my mamá we simply must find a decent hairclip for my friend.” She gave the last word the tiniest, most subtle inflection.

  Petra’s face reddened, and she turned swiftly away. Lark watched her stalk away to her own cot, and a feeling of sympathy almost drowned her temper.

  Hester whispered, “I’d better send a message to Mamá. I haven’t actually asked her yet.”

  “Will she mind?” Lark whispered back.

  Hester grinned. “Oh, no. Mamá loves to shop. And we’ll ask Anabel, too. We’ll make a day of it!”

  SEVENTEEN

  STARS pricked the black sky as Sunny stilled her wings to glide down onto the broad lawns of Fleckham House. It had been a long flight from the Uplands village, and the heat of the day had given way to a chill clear night. Philippa felt sunburned and irritable. She would have much preferred to go home, to relax in the reading room with her boots off and her feet up. But she was angry. She wanted to speak directly to William, and to do it while the fire of her temper still burned hot and clean.

  The Fleckham grounds appeared exactly as they had when she was young, the new stables hidden from the house by the grove of beeches. As a girl, Philippa had often visited Fleckham House for riding or dancing parties with William and Pamella and the gentle, bookish Francis. In those days, the windows had blazed with light far into the evenings, and Frederick had always been present, smiling at the young people.

  Though Duke Frederick had inherited his title before Philippa was thirteen, he had always found a few moments to spend with her, to lend her a book he found interesting, to ask her opinion about a point of politics. Her own mother had tried to persuade her from all things intellectual. Meredith had called her pretentious. Only Frederick encouraged her, and had proved it by bonding her to Winter Sunset, foaled in his own stables.

  Philippa led Sunny across the white-gravel courtyard beneath dim, shuttered windows. She realized, with a little shock, that she was almost as old now as Frederick had been then.

  A stable-man came out to apologize for having no stable-girl. Philippa had to lead Sunny to a stall herself, slip off her saddle, give her a rubdown. The stable-man had left a bucket of water and a measure of grain waiting outside the stall. Philippa paused a moment, watching Sunny nibble her feed. Then, with a conscious straightening of her back, firming her resolve, she let herself out of the stall, and turned toward the house.

  A steward bowed her through the doors and into the wide foyer. Fleckham had always been an open, generous house, brilliant with lamplight, its fine old furniture and oaken floors polished till they shone. It seemed rather dismal to her now. Only one lamp glowed in the entrance, and every door leading off the foyer was closed.

  “Horsemistress,” the steward said. “I’m afraid Lady Constance is not receiving visitors.”

  “I’ve come to see Lo
rd William.”

  “I see.” He held out his hand for her riding coat and cap. “Fortunately, his Lordship is here this evening. I’ll call him for you.”

  Philippa nodded her thanks, and stood alone in the center of the foyer as the steward laid her things on a side table and then made a dignified progress up the stairs. She turned in a circle, feeling the loneliness, the lifelessness, of Fleckham. She must visit Frederick again as soon as possible. Perhaps she could persuade him to come back here for a time, where he had spent happy years before his succession.

  “Ah. Philippa. Such an honor.”

  She faced the staircase, and saw William standing several steps above the foyer. He was dressed, much as the ragamuffin Dickon had said, in black and silver, and an elaborate vest. His white-blond hair gleamed silver in the lamplight. “My lord,” Philippa said. She inclined her head, and saw the irritated look that passed over his face.

  “If you’ve come to call on Constance, I’m sorry to tell you that—”

  Philippa made an impatient gesture. “William, I barely know your lady wife. I’ve come to see you.”

  His smile was icy. “Indeed,” he said. “I thought perhaps my steward had misunderstood. You have business with me?” He descended the last few stairs, and led the way into the study, opening the double doors and then closing them when Philippa had passed through. There was no fire, and the oil lamp was dark. William struck a match and bent over a candelabra. The candlelight softened the gloom a bit. William rested one elbow on the mantelpiece, his back to the cold fireplace, and waved his other hand languidly at a chair. “Would you care to sit down?”

  “No, thank you.” Philippa gazed at him, feeling utterly exhausted, fed up with postures and pretense. She saw lines around his mouth and eyes, lines she had never noticed before. She supposed she must have them, too. “William. What do you know about the little black that you haven’t told Eduard?”