Airs Beneath the Moon

by Toby Bishop

  “That’s as may be,” Jolinda said tartly. “But them horses could have waited a day or so, give us a chance to get stalls ready.” She pointed with her chin to a little band of horses.

  Philippa turned to give them a curious look. A mixed lot gazed back at her above the whitewashed paddock fence, ears pricked forward. Sunny nickered, and one or two of the watching mares whinnied back. “What horses are these, Jolinda?” Philippa asked. “They look like wingless Ocmarins . . . and that’s a Noble, isn’t it? That bay in the back?”

  Jolinda cast a dark look up into Philippa’s face. “Heh. Bit odd, isn’t it, the new Duke having such a collection, him what hardly ever rides but one horse? We have to give over a wing of the stables to them. And unload an entire cart full of their tack.”

  “Jolinda . . .” Philippa hesitated, wondering if she should entrust her worries to the old stable-girl. Of course, chances were good Jolinda would hear from Rosellen in any case. “Jolinda, did a new horse come last night to the stables? A new winged horse?”

  Jolinda peered at her, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening. “A winged horse? Nay, Mistress. I mean, we have a flight of them here, with their horsemistresses living in the Palace. Not a new one.”

  Philippa looked across the cluster of carts and carriages at the Palace. Its windows gleamed back at her, the spring sun sparkling on clean glass and white stone. “I’m sorry to add Sunny to the chaos, Jolinda. It won’t be for long.”

  The stable-girl stroked Sunny’s neck with affection. “That’s all right, Miss,” she said. “Sunny and I are old friends. I’ll find a quiet corner for her, and a bit of grain. The rest of that lot can just wait.”

  Philippa left Winter Sunset in Jolinda’s care, and worked her way through the traffic in the sunwashed courtyard.

  An unfamiliar butler, a small man of middle years, bowed her in through the open doors of the Palace. “Good morning to you, Horsemistress,” he said.

  “Good morning,” she answered. She took off her cap and smoothed her hair, looking about her at the bustle of labor. “Where’s Andrews?”

  The new butler held out his arm for her things, and she gave them to him. “I don’t know Andrews, Mistress,” he said. “His Grace engaged me last week, just after the death of his father. I took up my duties yesterday.” He bowed again. “Parkson, at your service, Horsemistress.”

  “Parkson.” Philippa looked into his eyes, but saw no deceit there. “I’m Philippa Winter. Of the Academy of the Air.”

  “Of course,” Parkson said smoothly. “You’re the assistant to the Headmistress.”

  Philippa inclined her head. “I need to see Duke William without delay. Is he here?”

  “I believe he is, Mistress. His breakfast tray came down perhaps an hour ago. His man Slater is with him, and his secretary, but I will find out if he can see you.”

  Parkson turned and pattered up the stairs, moving twice as fast as Andrews could have. Still, Philippa expected to wait for some time. William would cast about for some way to avoid seeing her. She went to the tall mullioned windows and stared through the polished glass at the comings and goings outside. As she watched, two flyers circled the grounds and settled into the paddock. A young stable-girl she didn’t recognize came out to take the horses. The two horsemistresses, carrying courier bags, circled the courtyard toward the south entrance. Philippa watched them until they disappeared, wondering who might have her old apartment. Suddenly, she missed Frederick and his orderly reign with a poignancy that made her chest ache.

  She was surprised when Parkson returned within only a few moments, and bowed to her yet again. “Mistress Winter,” he said. “His Grace invites you up to his apartment, and asks if you will take coffee with him.”

  Philippa raised her eyebrows. “Coffee, Parkson? I’m surprised the Duke has time.”

  “Most generous of His Grace,” he said. “But of course, you are one of his horsemistresses. I expect he will always make time for you.” He turned away before he could see Philippa’s skeptical look. “This way, if you please.” He led the way back up the stairs, walking more slowly this time, looking over his shoulder once to be certain she followed. William’s secretary passed them on his way downstairs, and behind him came the unpleasant Slater. He peered at Philippa from beneath his heavy eyelids, and nodded his head. She gave him a cold glance as she passed.

  She braced herself, before entering what had so recently been Frederick’s rooms, for more change. But when she stepped through the door, she found that everything was as it had been. The same velvet and damask furniture, the long curtains, the windows thrown open to the bracing air of spring, welcomed her with their familiarity. Only the occupant was different.

  William stood alone by one of the windows, looking down into the courtyard. The noise had quieted somewhat, and Philippa, crossing the apartment, saw that the carriage had gone, and only two carts remained. William turned from the window, and gave her a cool smile.

  “Philippa,” he said. “What a pleasant surprise for us.”

  She pressed her lips together to stop herself asking who might be in the room she couldn’t see. William was, after all, now her liege lord. She would have to try to see him that way, for the sake of the winged horses. “My lord,” she said, with only a hint of irony in her voice. “Thank you for seeing me.”

  “A tray is on its way up,” he said. “It’s time I had a break. My secretary insisted I dictate a dozen letters this morning.”

  “It’s all happening quickly, isn’t it? You have not yet had your investiture.”

  “Well,” William said, smoothing his vest with both hands. “There is a Duchy to be governed, Philippa. Business cannot wait on ceremony.”

  She eyed him. He had changed nothing in his appearance, either. He still wore the narrow black trousers, polished black boots, the full-sleeved shirt, and the vest that was now, apparently, habitual. His white-blond hair was tied neatly back with a bit of black cord, and his cheeks and chin were smooth as if he had just been shaven. He carried a quirt in his left hand, and rubbed the braided leather with the fingers of his right hand.

  “Do I look like a Duke, Philippa?” He smiled without humor. “It will be good for Oc, don’t you think, to have a leader who is young and vigorous. Who knows the uses of power.”

  “Power,” Philippa said, “is a dangerous thing. Your father respected it.”

  William chuckled, a sound like a rattling of pebbles. “Do you not think I respect it?”

  “I think you longed for it. Whether you know how to use it we have yet to learn.”

  William’s eyes narrowed, and his lips thinned. “I caution you, Philippa. You too often presume upon old acquaintance.”

  “Ah.” She regarded him for a moment, her head tilted to one side. Her patience stretched thin at the thrust and parry of polite conversation. The old thread of pain worked its way up her neck. “Tell me, my lord,” she said tightly. “Did you steal one of our horses last night?”

  His face didn’t change, nor his eyes flicker. “They are our horses,” he said in a silky tone. “You should remember that.”

  “You don’t deny it, then.”

  He drew the quirt through his fingers, then tapped it idly on his palm. “I have no need to deny anything,” he said. “I am your Duke, and I don’t have to answer to you.”

  “You have to answer to the Council of Lords.”

  His lips curved. “For what, Philippa? Can you truly accuse me of anything?”

  “We know you had an unusual interest in Black Seraph. And now he’s gone.”

  “You’re going to carry that to the Council?”

  “I will if we don’t find him soon.”

  “The winged horses are the Duke’s concern, Philippa.”

  “Without us, William, they are useless to you.”

  His smile faded, and his eyes seemed to harden to stone as he gazed at her. “Are you certain of that?”

  A knock at the door, and a formal, “Your pardon,
my lord Duke,” interrupted them. Parkson held the door for a maid with a coffee tray.

  A few moments passed as the coffee was laid, a tray of biscuits set out, cups poured. Philippa stood in rigid silence, watching this ceremony, shaking her head at the maid’s offer of cream and sugar. When the servants had left, and the door closed, she put her hands on her hips and stared at William.

  “Irina Strong sold herself to you, didn’t she? For promotion, and to keep her father out of prison.”

  William sat down beside the coffee tray, crossing his long legs. He laid his quirt on the seat beside him, and picked up a cup. He sipped from it, watching Philippa over the rim. When he set it down, he was smiling again. “Sit down, Horsemistress,” he said. “Rest a moment. You flyers work too hard.”

  “Precisely, William,” she said, deliberately omitting his new title. She stayed where she was. “We work far too hard to have time for politics and intrigue. Margareth asks me to tell you she cannot run the Academy under these conditions. And I think—”

  “What, Philippa?” William asked lightly. “What is it that you think?”

  Philippa put her hands on the back of the chair before her, gripping it until the knuckles whitened. “I think, William,” she hissed, “that you are committing treason. That’s what you will answer to the Council for!”

  He stood up awkwardly, bumping the low table with his shin, dropping his cup into its saucer with a clatter. “How dare you,” he said. His voice sounded thin and high. “How dare you speak to me—to us—that way!”

  “I dare because they are our horses, too, William Fleckham!” she said, biting the words. “Because someone came into the Academy stables in the night, like a thief, and used a horsemistress—a flyer—to steal one of our own! Do you think we won’t report this?”

  “If you do, the Hamleys will lose their farm. How long has it been in their family? What a shame if the loss of it were laid at your door!”

  “How long has the Ducal Palace been the protectorate for the winged horses?” Philippa snapped. “Will you destroy that in the first year of your succession?”

  She raised her chin, and leaned forward over the chair, wishing almost that they could come to blows, that they could have it out, this tension that had built between them for years. “You can do nothing to me, William. I’m a horsemistress, and you simply can’t forgive me, can you? I fly one of Kalla’s creatures, a creature you can’t even get near!”

  “You just wait!” he shrilled, and then put his fingers to his mouth, as if to stop any more words from escaping him.

  “For what? Wait for what, William?” she taunted.

  He clenched his jaw, and for a long moment there was silence in the room. The sounds of the last cart trundling away carried up to them from the courtyard, and from somewhere in the park, a horse whinnied.

  Then, with deliberation, William bent and picked up his quirt from the couch. He strolled around the low table, and came to stand close to Philippa. She stepped back from the chair, but her calves struck another small table, trapping her. His heeled boots gave him a slight advantage in height. He had recovered his composure, and he looked down at her with a paternal expression. “Don’t you worry about it, Philippa,” he said. “The future of Oc is in our hands now. We do what we think is best.”

  “Don’t give me that ‘we’ nonsense,” Philippa snapped. “I know you for what you are.”

  She was close enough to hear the breath he sucked in at her words, and to watch his eyes narrowing, his neck stiffening. He raised the quirt in his left hand, and laid it against her right arm. It felt oddly cold through the fabric of her tabard. She tried to pull away from it, but his right hand came out and gripped her left shoulder.

  “I think,” he said almost conversationally, “that Irina Strong would make a very good Headmistress. Don’t you?”

  “Perhaps as good a Headmistress as you a Duke,” Philippa said.

  “You—you bitch!” William exclaimed. He lifted the quirt, and she felt certain he meant to actually strike her.

  “Don’t you dare!” Her arm, suddenly released, came up, and she thrust against his chest with the flat of her hand.

  He cried out, wordlessly, and reeled back away from her, the quirt falling to the floor. She stared at him, at his embroidered vest, and then at his smooth, pale face again. Slowly, slowly, she dropped her hand to her side.

  “William,” she breathed. “William, what in Kalla’s name . . .”

  “Get away from me,” he said hoarsely. “Get out! And don’t you dare—don’t you ever—touch me again!”

  “But William, what is it? What has—is something the matter with you?”

  He pointed at the door, his outstretched arm shaking with fury. “Get out, Philippa!” he shouted, his voice strained and high. “I tried to be polite to you, tried to show you respect, because of the Academy, because my father cared for you. You’ve always thought you were better than everyone else, and I don’t have to put up with it anymore. Get out of my sight, and don’t come back!”

  THIRTY-TWO

  BRAMBLE bent her long nose to the ground, sniffed, and growled deep in her throat.

  “Do you have it, Bramble? Do you still smell him?”

  The dog whined, and angled off to her left. Lark followed close behind. The trail led them away from the road, down a tree-shaded lane too narrow for carts or carriages. They had been moving since long before dawn, and Lark’s boots were meant for narrow stirrups, not long walks. Her feet burned, and the high tops chafed her calves beneath her divided skirt. She carried her riding coat over one arm, now that the sun was high. The swiftly moving clouds of spring fled across the sky, but fortunately no rain threatened. Rain would wash away the scent, and all would be lost.

  Bramble stopped again, briefly, to touch her nose to the dirt lane, and then trotted on. Lark, exhausted but determined, struggled to keep up. “Good girl,” she murmured to the oc-hound. “Keep on, Bramble. We’ll find him.”

  She had no idea what Mistress Winter or the Headmistress would do when they found her gone. Would they expel her? She didn’t know. She didn’t care.

  Mistress Winter had said to wait, but she couldn’t. The need to find Tup made her mind spin and her chest ache. And what must Tup be feeling? He knew Mistress Strong, he might have trusted her for a time . . . but to find himself far from his bondmate, lost and alone in . . . alone where? That was the question. And that was what she and Bramble were going to discover.

  Of course Mistress Strong had had to lead him away on foot. She could hardly have flown him, as her Foundation had never monitored Tup. By the look of the trail they had made, Irina had led both horses. Lark doubted Duke William would have walked all this way, but perhaps that third, mysterious assailant who had hurt Rosellen had tramped along after Mistress Strong, adding to the trail of scents Bramble now followed.

  Lark had to put her trust in the dog. The oc-hound had not left her side since she discovered Tup to be missing.

  Even Duke William, it seemed, had not had the temerity to lead a winged colt down the main road without his bondmate. Bramble had picked up the scent behind the stables, and followed it through the fields to a lane Lark had never seen before. One lane led to another, and then another, each narrower than the one before, more shaded by ash and spruce and oak. As they pressed on, farther and farther from the Academy, the moon glowed like a great lamp, casting leaf shadows on the ground.

  Lark twined her fingers in the oc-hound’s long coat, walking close beside her. When the moon set, and dawn painted the eastern horizon in shades of rose and gold, she let Bramble go, and the oc-hound loped ahead, sniffing the ground this way and that. When she got too far from Lark, she waited, and then started off again.

  Lark wondered how far they had come. They were three, perhaps four hours behind Tup. Surely no more than that. Had she waited to sleep, or for Mistress Winter to fly to the Palace and return . . . who knew how far away Tup might be? Or if she might ever find him aga
in?

  She was doing the right thing, she felt certain, tired though she was, impossible though it seemed. Surely Duke William, with his cold smile and that wicked quirt, would feel no compunction about keeping Tup from her until he went mad. She couldn’t let that happen, and she couldn’t trust that Mistress Winter was a match for Duke William and Mistress Strong together.

  Bramble stopped again, sniffing the ground, growling, trotting in circles.

  “Oh, no, Bramble,” Lark whispered. “You haven’t lost it, have you?”

  Bramble growled again, and stopped, snuffling hard at the packed dirt. She whined, and then spun about, dashing away from the lane and into the woods. Lark followed, crashing through underbrush, having lost all sense of direction or distance. She had no idea where she was. She could only trust the oc-hound.

  They traveled now through thick stands of ash and oak, where only the narrowest of paths must have allowed Tup to walk. Hazel catkins brushed Lark’s sleeves and sprinkled Bramble’s coat with pink and yellow pollen. Lark glanced up past the treetops, and saw that the sun had passed the zenith and begun to sink into the west. She had had nothing to eat since the night before, and only stream water to drink. Her mouth felt dry as dust, and Bramble’s must feel the same. But perhaps, if they were leaving the lane, they were close to their goal.

  She swallowed, and tried to moisten her lips with her tongue. Bramble, ahead of her, had reached the edge of the wood. She paced back and forth, whining over her shoulder at Lark.

  “I’m coming, Bramble,” Lark said. Even her voice felt dry and worn out. “I’m right behind you.”

  “WAS there any sign of Black Seraph?” Margareth asked. She had come out to meet Philippa, and she braced herself against the wall as Philippa rubbed Sunny down.

  “None.” Philippa laid down the cloth. “Jolinda hadn’t seen any winged colt. I took a turn through the stables at the Palace, and there were just the seven flyers assigned to the Duke. And the wingless horses William brought from Fleckham House, of course. They’re still preparing stalls for them—nice horses, Nobles and Ocmarins, one Foundation.”