by Toby Bishop
She turned toward Tup’s stall.
When she first reached it, she thought the moon must have already set. She couldn’t see her colt at all. “Tup? Where are you?” She opened the gate.
Molly came stumbling forward, bleating with misery. Bramble suddenly appeared behind Lark, a growl growing in her throat.
Lark pushed past Molly, and peered into the shadowed stall. She saw nothing.
With a strangled cry, she turned about, stretching her hand out into the darkness. She found nothing.
Bramble’s growl grew louder, and Molly bleated again and again. But there was no sound from Tup. The stall was empty.
Tup was gone.
THIRTY
PHILIPPA felt as if her very bones ached with exhaustion. Margareth had needed to rest, and it had fallen to Philippa to confer with Herbert, to speak to Matron about beds and trays, to greet returning flyers. She had rubbed Sunny down, and given her extra feed, and then toured the stables, making certain every winged horse had the same comforts. She had stood in the doorway to the Hall, pointing out the visitors’ table, welcoming the horsemistresses she knew, introducing herself to the few she didn’t.
Irina Strong wore a triumphant expression on her heavy features, but Philippa was too distracted and weary to bother with her. She simply, mutely, pointed to the head table, and then turned away to greet a horsemistress from Eastreach.
The evening seemed as endless as the day had been. When at last she was free to trudge up the stairs to her own apartment, she felt edgy and restless. She put on her nightdress, and then, as she often did, wrapped herself in a quilt from the bed and sat beside her window, watching the lights wink out around the courtyard, the Dormitory first, then the Hall, the two windows above the stables, and the last lamp in the Domicile.
Still she sat on, as her eyelids grew heavy. It felt good to have her feet up on the windowsill, her head supported by the cushioned back of her chair. The moon shone its silver light over the stables and the paddocks, and peace settled over the Academy of the Air.
When a slight figure in a black riding coat crossed the courtyard, Philippa almost didn’t notice. She had just been thinking of rousing herself enough to get into bed. The slender wraith moved quickly, with the agility and ease of youth. One of the girls, then. Why was she not in her own bed?
Philippa put her feet on the floor, and leaned toward the glass. The girl slipped into the stables, out of her sight.
Rarely, if a horse were ailing, a student might have permission to leave the Dormitory at night to check on her bondmate. But if a horse were ill, Philippa and Margareth would be the first to know.
Philippa stood, hesitating. Hope for sleep had fled, all at once, though she would be exhausted in the morning. Slowly, keeping an eye on the stable door, she reached for her boots and her clothes. She had an uneasy, premonitory feeling that something was about to happen.
She had had that same uncomfortable presentiment the night before the raid on the South Tower, that nagging twinge beneath her breastbone. She wished she could banish it, erase it so she could rest. But she knew from experience such an attempt would be pointless.
The small figure of the student came dashing back from the stables toward the Domicile barely ten minutes later, an oc-hound pacing beside her. Philippa swore, and hurried out of her room and down the stairs. The girl pounded on the locked door only seconds before Philippa shot back the bolt and threw the heavy door open.
She was not at all surprised to see that it was Larkyn Hamley on the doorstep. The girl’s face was a pale blur in the moonlight. The oc-hound at her side gave an urgent whine.
“Mistress Winter!” Larkyn cried. “It’s Tup—they’ve taken him!” And she started to sob.
“Shush, shush, child,” Philippa said, stepping outside and pulling the door shut behind her. “He must be there somewhere. Come, let’s not wake the women. Everyone’s exhausted. Let’s get Herbert, and a lantern, and we’ll see what’s happened.”
She spoke with a confidence she did not feel. The quivering in her belly foretold trouble. She put her hand on Lark’s shoulder as they hurried back to the stables, feeling the shudders of the girl’s weeping. She climbed the stairs to Herbert’s apartment and thumped on his door, then went to the tack room for a lantern without waiting for him. By the time she had found matches, lighted and trimmed the lantern, Herbert was on his way down the stairs, his hastily donned shirt misbuttoned and flapping over his trousers. Lark led the way down the aisle to Black Seraph’s stall, stifling her panicked sobs as she went.
Philippa held the lantern high, and looked over the wall.
Only the little goat looked back at her, eyes glowing in the lamplight. Molly caught sight of Larkyn beside Philippa, with Herbert on her other side, and gave a single, desolate bleat.
“Kalla’s heels,” Philippa gritted. “Do you have any idea, Herbert?”
“None,” he grunted. “And Rosellen’s not in her room.”
Philippa turned to stare at him. “She’s not? Do you think she might have had something to do with this?”
Larkyn snuffled, “Rosellen? She would never . . .”
Herbert shook his head. “Right you are,” he said. “That girl would never be part of anything hurtful to a horse.”
“Let’s look.” Philippa turned on her heel, and marched back toward the tack room. She swept the light over the inside of the tack room, and then the feed room next to it. She gazed down each aisle, and winged horses put their noses out to see what was happening, but she saw nothing amiss. “Outside,” she said. Herbert and Larkyn followed her out of the stables, where she turned left, toward the flight paddock. Herbert swore steadily under his breath, and Philippa could feel Larkyn’s struggles to keep her panic under control.
“Larkyn, Black Seraph is a winged horse. No one would dare hurt him.”
The girl’s wide eyes rose to hers, and then turned away, searching. She didn’t answer, and Philippa didn’t blame her.
They circled the stables, past the closed gate to the flight paddock, past the return paddock, on around the side of the stables to the dry paddock. It was there that they found her.
“Rosellen!” Larkyn cried, and ran to kneel beside the stable-girl.
Rosellen lay facedown on the ground, a dozen paces from the rear door of the stables. Philippa handed the lantern to Herbert, and crouched beside Larkyn, her hand on Rosellen’s back. She felt the movement of her breath through her thin shirt.
“She’s alive,” she said in a low tone. “But she must have been on her way to bed. No jacket, and . . .” She scanned the girl in the lamplight. “And no boots.” She moved to Rosellen’s other side, and with a nod to Larkyn, the two of them gently turned the stable-girl, Philippa cradling her head and shoulders on her knees.
Rosellen’s freckled face was smudged with dirt, and her hair, undone as if for sleep, straggled over her shoulders. “Rosellen,” Philippa said firmly. “Rosellen. Do you hear me?”
The girl groaned, and her eyelids flickered. A great knot already swelled on the back of her head. It was hot to the touch. “Herbert, we need ice. Could you go to the Dormitory and ask Matron, please? Leave the lantern with Larkyn. And ask Matron to return with you.”
“Best call a doctor,” Herbert said in a shaky voice. “She looks that bad.”
“No,” Rosellen moaned. “No, please.”
Larkyn bent to Rosellen, and peered into her half-open eyes. “Rosellen, can you open your eyes? It’s Lark.”
Rosellen’s eyelids fluttered again, and then lifted. Weakly, she said, “Oh, Lark! Lark! I tried to stop them, but—”
“Never mind that now,” Philippa said.
Larkyn said with confidence, “Her eyes look all right. I don’t think she needs a doctor. The ice should do it.”
Philippa gazed at her with some doubt. “How would you know that, Larkyn?”
“I’m a farm girl, Mistress. People get hurt on a farm, or in the quarry. If she was bad off, h
er eyes would be funny.”
Rosellen heaved a great sigh, and said, “Zito’s ass, my head hurts, Lark.”
“I know,” Larkyn said softly. She stroked Rosellen’s freckled forehead. “Herbert is fetching ice, and Matron. You’ll be better soon.”
“What happened, Rosellen?” Philippa said, knowing her tone was sharp, but too upset to modulate it. “Can you remember?”
“They took him,” Rosellen said. Her eyes, still a little bleary, but focused, found Larkyn’s face. “They took Black Seraph, and I couldn’t stop them!” Fat tears began to run over her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Lark!”
“Who was it?” Larkyn asked. Her eyes were terrible, the pupils enormous.
“I didn’t know him,” Rosellen sobbed. “A little man, youngish, fearful.”
“But Tup would never go with a man!”
Rosellen started to shake her head, and then cried out with pain. “Nay,” she said miserably. “Nay. It was Mistress Strong was leading him. And this man with a lantern. I tried to stop them, I said, Mistress, what are you doing? But then . . .” She winced, and touched the back of her skull. “Oh, aye, and then someone hit me from behind. Went down like a broken mast, I did! Don’t remember hitting the ground at all.”
“It was William!” Larkyn breathed.
“Larkyn!” Philippa snapped. “Take care! You’re speaking of the Duke.”
The girl’s stricken face turned up to her, full of horror. “He’s the Duke now, and he thinks he can get away with it! He’s stolen my horse!”
PHILIPPA had feared they would have to carry Rosellen up the stairs, but by the time Matron and Herbert returned with ice wrapped in a cloth, and pressed it to her injury, she was able to stand, and walk with steady enough steps, leaning on Larkyn. Both girls were weeping, but silently, clinging together. Waiting, and expecting, Philippa thought grimly, that she could do something.
Rosellen told her story in bits and pieces, Philippa asking questions, Larkyn listening with streaming eyes and fingers pressed to her trembling lips. Apparently Rosellen heard someone in the stables when she had just taken off her boots and coat. Herbert’s light was already extinguished, and she assumed he was asleep. She had hurried down to investigate, and found a strange man standing in the aisle near Black Seraph’s stall, a lantern in one hand. And in the stall—here Rosellen blinked, as if she could hardly believe her own account—in the stall was Irina Strong, putting a halter and lead on Black Seraph, leading him out.
“And Bramble, Bramble was growling, and the man kicked at her, and she slunk back into the shadows. And then I tried to take Seraph’s lead from her, but he—he had this quirt, and he put it on me, right across my neck, and I couldn’t move a muscle!”
“Smallmagic,” Larkyn breathed. “Zito, or some such.”
“Nonsense,” Philippa said firmly.
Larkyn’s violet eyes, glistening with her tears, came up to her again. “It was the same for me, Mistress Winter,” she said in a shaking voice. “Duke William did it to me, at Deeping Farm. Froze me where I was.”
“I don’t blame you for being frightened, either of you,” Philippa said. “But that kind of magic is only real to those who believe in it.”
She saw the girls’ eyes meet, and she knew she had not persuaded them, but that was not her main concern at the moment.
She left Larkyn and Matron ministering to the injured girl, and she rose and strode to the window of Rosellen’s cramped apartment. Surprisingly, no one else had been roused by Larkyn’s knocking on the Domicile door, or by Herbert’s wakening Matron. Of course, everyone was tired, including herself.
Dawn would come all too soon. Philippa had to think what to do.
“If this man and Mistress Strong were in front of you, Rosellen, do you have any idea who might have hit you?”
Rosellen frowned, and then grimaced at the pain that caused her. “I—I followed them out of the stables, Mistress, and I started to call out for Herbert. I heard footsteps behind me, heavy ones, and then—there was a smell, like of someone who doesn’t wash—and then that’s all. Whoever was behind me hit me, and I fell, and then—then you were there.”
Herbert said glumly, “Didn’t hear a thing.”
Larkyn stood up, and came to stand beside Philippa. “Mistress Winter,” she said in a low, intense voice. “Can we go after him? Can we get Tup back?”
Philippa’s throat tightened. She felt the child’s misery as if it were her own. She forced herself to meet Larkyn’s eyes.
“We have to discover who took him.”
“Who dares steal a winged horse except the Duke?”
“I don’t know.” Philippa found herself hoping, almost violently, that it wasn’t William who had abducted a winged horse. The political implications were staggering. Eduard, certainly, would have laid down his life before he would have let such a thing happen. But this new Master Breeder, clearly, was in William’s pocket.
Would the Council move against the new Duke? She didn’t know what the law might say. Or what leverage William might have.
Fresh tears welled in the violet eyes, but Larkyn did not sob. “Why do they want him, Mistress? Do you know?”
“I don’t, Larkyn. But I will ask, I promise. I’ll go to the Palace tomorrow, and I’ll ask.”
“Take me with you!”
Philippa, her heart aching, shook her head. “No, child,” she said softly. “I think not. I know it’s hard, but it’s best you wait here. Black Seraph will be all right without you for a day.”
She watched Larkyn wrap her arms tightly around herself, and press her trembling lips together. The girl gave a single nod, and then turned back to Rosellen’s bed.
Philippa folded her own arms, and glared out into the fading night. It was as she and Margareth had feared. She didn’t want to admit to the girls that she thought they were right, that it was William who had arranged for Black Seraph to be stolen. The new Duke had his own intentions for the winged horses, and for Oc, and he must feel some need for hurry.
Whatever William’s scheme, it would be in his own interests, and not those of the horses or their riders. And there was, it seemed, very little any of them could do to stop him.
THIRTY-ONE
“HE wants to breed him, of course,” Margareth said. “That’s why he stopped Eduard from gelding Black Seraph, why he removed Eduard from his position. He wants to breed a colt who is already crossbred. He must have a mare in season somewhere.”
“I’m going to the Palace, Margareth. Someone will have to take my flight—but someone else, please, not Irina!”
Margareth gave her a grim smile. “Irina is not here,” she said. “She was ‘called away on the Duke’s business,’ according to the note I had on my desk this morning.” She rose stiffly from her chair, and trailed her fingers over the genealogy before her. “I cannot run the Academy this way,” she said, her eyes and her voice full of bitterness. “I wish you would tell William so.”
Philippa stood, too. She pulled her riding cap on above her rider’s knot and began to draw on her gloves. “We may both lose our posts, but I will tell him that, and more.”
“I’ve sent for Larkyn. We’ll need her to be circumspect.”
“I warn you, Margareth, she’s upset. Just as you or I would be, in the circumstances.”
“Yes, I’m certain she is.”
“We’ll need to devise some explanation for Black Seraph’s absence.”
Margareth said tiredly, “I suppose we must.”
“It would be wise, Margareth. Rosellen and even Larkyn are at risk. I fear Larkyn is in danger in any case, if William wants her colt enough to steal him right from our stables.”
“That is my fear, too, Philippa. You know William better than I. I’ve heard him described as a devious man, but I’ve never heard that he was an evil one.”
Philippa smoothed her gloves over her fingers. “He has a cruel nature. I learned that as a girl. And he is ambitious. But I never thought he would commit
treason.”
“Perhaps you should talk to him before you draw your conclusions.”
“I will try. And as to the other girls . . . you could put it about that the new Master Breeder wanted to examine Black Seraph.”
“That should suffice.” Margareth glanced at the old brass-encased clock on the mantelpiece. “Larkyn should have been here by now.”
“It was a late night. Let’s hope the child was able to sleep in a bit.”
“I’ll check with Matron.”
“I’m going to leave that to you, Margareth, and be on my way. I saddled Sunny myself—Rosellen is having a lie-in, too. Perhaps Matron could check on her later.”
“I wish you luck with the Duke, Philippa.”
“Thank you. I have no doubt I’ll need it.”
THE Ducal Palace, not surprisingly, was abuzz with activity. Philippa and Sunny soared gently in, Sunny’s wings fluttering in the cool spring morning. They trotted up from the grounds to the courtyard, passing a line of laden carts busy moving the new Duke’s household from Fleckham House to the Palace. A carriage was drawn up before the door and three ladies were being handed down from it by Andrews even as Philippa dismounted, ordered Sunny to fold her wings, and handed the reins to Jolinda.
“Good Duke Frederick barely cold before it started,” the elderly stable-girl grumbled.
“I suppose you can understand it, Jolinda,” Philippa said. She took off her gloves and tucked them in her belt, eyeing the hubbub around the steps of the Palace. One of the ladies was William’s wife, the reclusive Constance. She didn’t recognize the others. “Little point in postponing the move.” A line of servants began unloading a cart, hauling trunks and boxes around to the side door, carrying armloads of linens up the steps to the foyer. A supervisor called orders, and the servants shouted to each other. It all had an air of cheerful industry.
