by Toby Bishop
Worried the flight might launch before she could reach the flight paddock, she hurried to put Tup’s new halter on. The one they had arrived with had grown far too small, even with the straps let out as far as they would go. Tup now measured twelve hands at the withers, and his legs and chest had filled out. He was still small, but he had begun to look like the mature horse he would one day be. His mane and tail flowed long and full, and his eyes twinkled with intelligence and mischief. Lark touched his nose with affection as she slipped the halter over his head. “Tup,” she murmured. “You’re the most beautiful horse at the Academy, make no mistake!” He tossed his head, making the halter jingle, and she laughed.
With the short lead in her hand, Lark led him out of the stables toward the flight paddock. Once in the crisp air, Tup threw up his hind legs in a gesture of sheer exuberance, and she scolded him to behave himself. Molly trotted behind them, faithful as any oc-hound. The other colts were already outgrowing the company of the dogs. The oc-hounds, one by one, retreated to their kennels to wait for new foals to foster. But Molly had only Tup’s stall to sleep in. The little she-goat followed Tup and Lark everywhere.
As the three of them processed to the flight paddock, they passed Petra on her way into the stables. “Oh, look,” Petra said to a companion. “The goat-girl and her flock.”
The companion snickered. Lark kept her eyes on the ground, gritting her teeth to stop the retort that sprang to her lips. Bramble bounded to her side, and Lark stroked the oc-hound’s sleek head with her free hand. “Aye, Bramble. Lovely wise, you are,” she whispered.
The dog laughed up at her, tongue lolling, and then twisted her neck to cast a glance back at Petra.
Petra called, “Hamley! See that your Crybaby keeps quiet! This is an important day.”
Lark made no answer, but Bramble swung about, tail and legs rigid. She glared at Petra. Lark glanced back to see Petra staring at the dog in wide-eyed surprise.
“Come along, Bramble,” Lark murmured. “Best ignore her.” She pressed on, but Bramble stood for another moment before she spun about, and trotted after Lark and Tup. Lark grinned at her, and tugged her ears. “Fine judge of character, aren’t you?” she said. Bramble’s tongue lolled, and her tail began to wave again.
Lark’s nostrils flared in appreciation of the tang of winter in the air. The hand of the year was opening, as they said in the Uplands, opening to release the seasons. The girls of the Academy would soon return to their homes for the Erdlin holiday, and Lark and Tup and Molly would go to Deeping Farm for ten precious days.
The first-level girls were already mounted in the paddock when Lark and her little following arrived. A knot of older girls and a few instructors gathered near the gate. The first-level instructor, Mistress Dancer, was speaking in a carrying voice.
“This will be short,” she said. “Let your horses try their strength, but we don’t want to tire them. I’ll lead with Dancer, and you will follow . . . Hester first, then Beatrice, Lillian, Beryl, Isobel, Grace . . . Anabel. Anabel, are you all right?”
Anabel’s slender figure hunched over her pommel, and she looked as if she were about to be sick. Her gray gelding fidgeted, and Anabel, with obvious effort, pulled her spine straight. Lark saw her throat work as she swallowed, but she lifted the reins to calm Take a Chance. Her voice trembled, but she managed to say, “I’m fine.”
All the girls were pale and wide-eyed. The sleeping porch had been restless last night, girls tossing and turning, moaning in their dreams. And Anabel—she looked ill with fear. Lark felt a sudden wave of anxiety for her.
Only Hester looked confident, even eager. She twisted in Golden Morning’s saddle to grin at her classmates. “Come on, girls,” she called. “Goldie can’t wait, and neither can I.” Her filly thumped the ground with her forefeet, and there were a few halfhearted chuckles.
Mistress Dancer trotted Sky Dancer briskly to the foot of the flight paddock, wheeled, and began to canter. Hester came behind, and the girls lined out in order. Anabel, at the end of the line, seemed out of balance to Lark, jouncing against the cantle of her flying saddle.
Four rods from the grove at the end of the flight paddock, Sky Dancer broke into a hand gallop, and then leapt into the air with a powerful downward thrust of her wings. Golden Morning followed in perfect imitation, her tail streaming in the breeze, her breath pluming in the cold air. And Hester—Hester, so plain and angular on the ground—was magically transformed in the air. Her tall figure swayed in gentle synchrony with Goldie’s beating wings, and the reins lay lightly in her hands. She looked as slender as a willow branch, as light as a feather. Hester looked as if she had been flying all her life, and Lark beamed with pride.
The others lifted from the ground with somewhat less grace. The horses’ wings spread, membranes rippling, pinions shivering with effort. Several teetered as they left the ground, as horses and riders strove to feel this new balance. When it was Anabel’s turn, Lark found the little icon of Kalla in her pocket and gripped it till her fingers hurt. Anabel sat too straight, she thought, making it hard for Chance to lift—and then, as they ascended, Anabel slipped in the saddle, and Chance’s wings lost their rhythm. Lark felt her thighs clench in sympathy, and she knew from the little gasps around her that others, too, were following Anabel. Lark didn’t breathe again until Chance found his rhythm, and Anabel found her seat again, put her heels down, and lifted her head. The pair banked to their left, and took their place behind the others.
The young horses dipped this way and that, striving for a straight line. When a pair faltered, the watchers muttered among themselves. Lark pulled her icon out of her pocket and pressed it to her chest. It seemed to her that the flight, all at once, steadied. They flew in a long, almost even line, making a great arc above the Academy grounds.
Molly gave a plaintive bleat. Lark turned, and found that Tup was no longer beside her. In her fear for Anabel, she had dropped his lead.
She whirled, and tripped over Bramble, catching her balance just in time to see Tup, head high, ears forward, leap the fence. He raced down the grass, past the crowd of watchers, and dashed toward the grove at the end of the flight paddock, the halter lead flying out behind him. When his wings opened, Lark cried out. Not only had she dropped his lead—she had forgotten his wing clips!
His feet twinkled over the grass, faster and faster, with no sign of slowing as he approached the grove. As he neared the trees, his hindquarters bunched and drove, and his wings swept up and out. He lifted smoothly into the air, his narrow wings seeming to beat without effort. Lark stared with a dry mouth and thumping heart as he circled up after the flight. His slender neck stretched, and his hooves curled into a perfect tuck. The halter lead flew sideways in the wind and tangled in the flow of his mane. Around Lark, the instructors and older girls cried out in alarm. Lark didn’t hear them. She was lost in the wonder of Tup’s flight.
He was so beautiful. Achingly, inexpressibly beautiful. She should not have lost control of him, but all she could think of at the moment was how right he looked in the air. It was his natural home, the environment for which Kalla had created him. She clutched the icon, and watched her bondmate’s slender black figure arrow through the blue sky after the others.
Tup’s wings tilted, and he dropped his nose close to Take a Chance’s tail. Anabel looked back. Her mouth opened in surprise, and she gripped her pommel, but she didn’t slip again. The flight curved up and around in a long loop, led by Mistress Dancer. Tup followed, wings beating with joyous ease.
Mistress Dancer, on the return side of the loop, saw him. Her mouth opened, too, and she shouted something. She lifted her arm, pointing her quirt at him in a commanding way.
Tup faltered, interrupting the rhythm of his wings. His forefeet clawed the wind. Lark cried out, clutching Kalla to her breast. Tup, with that toss of the head she knew so well, arched his neck. His wings stilled, and he dropped, a rod, two rods, three, until he was well back of the flyers. When his wings began to
beat again, their tempo was faster than before. He climbed, flying higher and higher, rising above the flight of horses and girls until he could circle above their heads. Lark saw laughter in the flash of his teeth, the ripple of his tail. He darted in playful circles above the flight, swooping down in little rushes toward the other flyers, then lifting up and away at the last moment, intoxicated with his own energy and strength, his newly discovered freedom.
It could only have been moments, but the length of the flight was a lifetime to Lark. Mistress Dancer, her face set with fury, led the horses in their descent. Everyone in the watching crowd turned to the return paddock to see them come to ground.
Sky Dancer hovered aloft as Mistress Dancer called orders. Hester and Golden Morning came to ground as smoothly as if they had done it a hundred times, gliding in over the copse of trees, cantering down the paddock toward the stables. The next horse stumbled, but caught himself, and Beatrice, though she clutched at his mane, recovered her poise by the time he cantered to the end of the paddock and stood, breathing hard, beside Golden Morning. The next three also had uneasy moments, a slight wobble before finding the ground, a jolt that threw Lillian back against the high cantle, a high, jerking trot, that must have rattled Grace’s teeth. Anabel and Chance were the last pair. As Chance descended, Anabel bent too far forward over the pommel. Only at the last moment did she bring herself upright. For a bad moment, it seemed Chance might overbalance and come to his knees, but his forefeet touched the ground firmly, his hind legs collecting just in time. As he cantered up the return paddock, Anabel looked almost faint with relief.
And then Tup, riderless, ribbon of tail floating behind him, soared in over the grove. His forefeet reached, touched, his hind feet following in perfect coordination. He galloped, then cantered, dancing to a stop before Lark, blowing and proud, eyes alight.
“Oh, Tup,” Lark whispered. “Oh, Tup! We’re going to catch it, you and I.” She opened the gate, and as he came through, belatedly took his halter strap in her hand. She kept her eyes on her boots, vainly hoping to lead him away before anyone could scold her. It was, of course, Petra Sweet who caught her first.
She dashed up to her, hissing, “Hamley! Your Crybaby could have killed someone!”
Lark muttered, “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” Petra’s voice rose. “How does sorry help? You’re a disgrace! You can’t do anything right, you talk like a peasant, and you look like some sort of street urchin. If I were Head, you’d be sent down on the spot!”
Lark tried, she really did, to swallow the flare of anger that warmed her cheeks. But at that moment, Molly came trotting up, bleating her relief.
Petra exclaimed, “Oh, by Kalla’s heels, now the damn goat cries! It’s like being in a bloody nursery!” Several girls snickered. Bramble growled, and Lark lost her temper.
She stopped so abruptly that Tup almost trod on her heels. She lifted her chin, and stared into Petra’s face. “Seems to me it’s you making all the noise, Sweet,” she said. “Clack like a duck, don’t you? Nasty dispositions, ducks.”
Petra’s sharp features reddened. “How dare you!” she began, but another girl caught her arm, and whispered something to her. Petra turned her head to look over her shoulder, and then took a step back. Lark saw, with sinking heart, that she began to smile. Petra looked back at her, her smile widening. She hissed, “Good luck, Goat-girl. I wouldn’t be you for anything at this moment!”
It was not Mistress Strong approaching, but Mistress Winter. She strode toward Lark and Tup with purpose, pleating her riding gloves between her fingers. Bramble trotted to meet her. Molly pressed herself against Lark’s thigh. Tup whickered as Mistress Winter came near.
“Larkyn,” Mistress Winter said coldly. “Stable your colt and come to the Hall. Meet me in the Head’s office.”
Lark nodded without speaking. She tried to feel penitent. It had been her fault, after all, and whatever came, she had earned it. But oh, to watch Tup fly like that, in the wake of the other horses . . . it had been magnificent! She led him into his stable, and pressed her cheek to his neck. “I’ll come and brush you later,” she promised. “Whatever happens. But you looked so beautiful, Tup! So perfect! I only wish I could have flown with you!”
Tup tossed his head, and his closed wings shivered with excitement.
“Oh, I know,” Lark murmured. “And you should be proud. It was marvelous!” She slipped out the gate, saying, “I’ll be back. As soon as I can. Here’s Molly, now, and Bramble is in the aisle. You won’t be alone.”
Still, she heard his little cry as she left the stables, and she knew he wanted her there beside him, to help him shed the nervous energy created by his adventure of the day. A great day, for Tup. And for her, too, she decided, despite the dressing-down she was about to receive.
She tried, as she walked across the courtyard to the Hall, to think of some defense. She had, after all, warned Mistress Winter and the Headmistress that Tup was ready to fly. And she had been right! But Tup could have hurt himself, or another horse, there was no denying that. And she hadn’t helped matters by insulting her sponsor. And cutting her hair, and failing to learn to use the flying saddle . . .
Her steps dragged, but she reached the Hall just the same, and stood looking up at the double doors, steeling herself. She put her foot on the bottom step, promising herself she would simply take her scolding, and control her snappy tongue. She had caused enough problems for Mistress Winter already. This one time, at least, she would try not to make things worse.
TWENTY-ONE
BY the evening of the next day, William was in a towering temper. He had slept in the straw, or tried to, and his back hurt. The stable-man had brought his meals, but they were cold by the time he wended his way out of the kitchens and through the grove to the stables. The coffee was tepid and the brandy was gone. His clothes were foul with bits of straw and muck.
And despite these sacrifices, the foal would not respond to him. It quivered at his touch, shrank into a corner trembling and whimpering, and refused to suckle. If William had believed in the horse goddess, he could have believed she was playing a cruel trick on him.
William no longer recalled how Philippa’s Winter Sunset had looked as a newborn. When he had seen the little black at Deeping Farm, the colt was several months old, clean and shining, well groomed and well fed. But this foal—
William didn’t know if there was something wrong with it, or if newborns simply looked this way. Its fragile legs shook like willow saplings in a breeze, and its ears drooped to the sides of its head, giving it a stupid look. Its eyes rolled, showing the whites, and it drooled from slack lips. Its dappled coat was dry, thanks to the ministrations of its dam, but it was coarse to the touch. William could find nothing attractive about it, nothing that promised the breathtaking beauty of a flying horse.
“M’lord,” Jinson said. He stopped outside the stall gate, eyeing the trembling foal with an uneasy expression.
William was sitting on the little nest of blankets, his back against the wall, glowering at the cowering bit of horseflesh in the corner. He shot the stable-man an irritated glance. “Well, what is it?” he demanded.
Jinson swallowed, and spoke with obvious reluctance. “M’lord—if the colt don’t suckle, he’ll die.”
“Oh, yes?” William snapped. He got to his feet, groaning at the pain in his back. “Well, do something about that, damn it! I’ve tried everything I can think of.” He took a step toward the gate, and the foal stumbled back to the wall and fell to its knees. William whirled and glared at it. “There’s something wrong with it!” he expostulated.
“He—he—” Jinson’s response broke off, and he stood back from the gate, avoiding William’s gaze.
William gave a gusty sigh. The foal struggled to its feet again, and the mare stepped between William and her offspring, her ears laid back. “Go ahead, Jinson,” William said with exasperation. “Say it.”
“It’s you, sir,” Jinson blurte
d. “Sorry, but the foal won’t suckle with you there.”
“How in Zito’s hells am I supposed to bond with him if he won’t tolerate me?” William hissed. The mare twisted her head around to eye him balefully. The foal stumbled again, and fell to the straw. This time he didn’t rise.
William put his back to the gate and stared at the mare and the foal. “I don’t care,” he said. “Either he bonds, or he dies.”
“M’lord!” Jinson breathed. “He’s—m’lord, he’s a winged horse!”
William gave Jinson a cool look over his shoulder. “Don’t be a fool, man,” he said. “Of course he is. That’s the whole point. But he’s no damned good to me if he won’t bond.”
Jinson’s mouth opened and closed again, like a fish out of water. When he found his voice, he stammered, “But m’lord . . . the Duke . . .”
William allowed his lips to curve, ever so slightly. “I’ll be Duke soon enough, Jinson,” he purred. Jinson stiffened, and seemed to shrink within himself. William chuckled. “That’s right,” he said. “You don’t want to cross me, and neither should this misbegotten colt.”
Jinson dropped his eyes and stared at his boots.
William considered the foal, lying flat now in the straw. The mare nosed it, and whickered to it, trying to get it to rise. “Take the mare out,” William finally said to Jinson. The stable-man came into the stall and put a halter on the mare. He cast William one last, despairing glance, but William only pointed, and Jinson led the mare away.
