by Toby Bishop
William struck at him with the quirt, catching him on the point of his shoulder. Tup’s neck stretched, his white teeth snapping at William’s full sleeve. As William jumped aside, Tup sidestepped in the other direction, coming as close to Lark as the wall would allow.
She tensed her thighs, bent her knees, and gave a great leap.
The hundreds of standing mounts she had practiced served her well in that moment. As Tup flinched away from another blow, Lark’s left hand found his neck, and her right reached over his back. For half a breath, she balanced on her belly across his withers, and then she swung her right leg up and over, winding both hands into Tup’s mane. Her legs clamped over his wings, and she bent low over his neck. “Go! Tup, go!”
Tup leaped forward.
William jumped aside barely in time to avoid being flattened by the colt’s lunge. Lark felt just the brush of his quirt on her calf as she and Tup pounded past him, out of the stables, and on toward the meadow.
PHILIPPA took to the air with Sunny in the cool violet light of early evening. Hester followed on Golden Morning, and Philippa was glad of her company. Though Hester was only a first-level student, her maturity gave Philippa confidence. Theirs was a strange mission, and their path was anything but clear.
They had concluded that William and Irina could not have taken Black Seraph far, since they had to go on foot. Irina’s Strong Lady made a poor monitor. She was known to be testy with young horses, and surely, Philippa thought, even Irina would not take such a chance with a colt. They already knew Tup had not shown up at the Palace stables. Where would it be safe for William to hide a stolen winged horse? Philippa remembered the new stables built at Fleckham House, separated from the main estate by the grove of beech trees. It was the only place any of them could think of. If Black Seraph wasn’t there . . . Kalla’s heels, Philippa thought, if the colt wasn’t at Fleckham House, and if Larkyn had followed him to someplace unknown . . . they might never know what had happened to either of them.
She tried to tell herself, as the horses rose into the darkening sky and banked to the west, that even William would not truly harm a winged horse or a young rider, but nothing eased the tension in her belly and the pain stabbing the back of her neck. It was a short flight to Fleckham House, but a strained one.
They flew to the north of the estate, and came to ground in the park in the dim light of evening. Philippa was a little worried about Hester flying back in the dark, but a full moon would soon be rising. If the sky stayed clear, they would have enough light.
The horses trotted to a halt, and Philippa peered ahead at the great house, its windows gleaming blank and empty with the last of the light.
“It looks deserted,” Hester said.
“Yes, it does, and a good thing,” Philippa said grimly. “Where I think—I hope—Black Seraph might be is beyond that beech copse, there. Come now, quietly.”
The horses folded their wings, and they rode down a slope of grass. There was silence around them except for the brief song of an evening bird, a faint rustle of wind-stirred leaves. They heard nothing else until they reached the edge of the grove.
When the sounds exploded through the quiet, Philippa jumped as if someone had struck her. A horse squealed, and hooves banged on wood. There were voices, and then a great crash. Philippa urged Sunny to a canter.
Sunny dodged through the trees. Branches caught at Philippa’s hair and her coat, and tugged her cap from her head. They broke from the grove into a grassy verge above the small stables. A dappled gray mare ran nervously to and fro in a paddock, and William’s tall brown gelding was tethered just outside. Shouts erupted through the twilight, and then Philippa heard Larkyn’s voice, clear and determined, crying, “Go! Tup, go!”
Philippa urged Sunny forward just as the girl and the horse dashed from the stables and galloped toward the meadow beyond. Behind them an oc-hound raced, tail low, ears flattened. The moon had only begun its rise above the hills to the east. The vale and the wood above it lay in near-darkness.
Tup and Larkyn had not gone a dozen strides before William came out of the stables at a dead run. He yanked his gelding’s rein free and leaped into the saddle. He began to use his whip before his horse had even rounded the stables. His path led right past Philippa.
“William!” she shouted as he galloped by. “Let them go! This is dangerous!”
Over his shoulder, William snarled, “I’m going to kill that brat!”
Philippa gave Sunny her head, and the mare plunged after William’s gelding. Hester and Goldie thundered after, the Foundation filly’s feet sinking into the spongy ground as she labored to keep pace with Sunny.
In the faint moonlight, Philippa could see that William was gaining ground on Larkyn, and pulling away from Sunny. Sunny had already had a long day, and William’s gelding was known for speed. The brown horse surged up the slope on the far side of the meadow just as Black Seraph, with Larkyn bent close over his neck, reached the top of the hill.
But there was a wood there, thick with ash and oak and spring-blooming hazel. It wouldn’t be possible to gallop through it. Larkyn would be trapped.
Philippa urged Sunny faster, and felt the mare’s wings flex against her stirrup leathers. Of course, Sunny would not understand why, if speed were required, she couldn’t take to the sky. “Just run, Sunny,” Philippa cried to her. She hoped the ground of the meadow was even. At this pace, a rodent’s burrow or a stray rock could be disastrous.
Sunny sped faster, fairly leaping up the slope toward the wood, leaving the heavier Golden Morning far behind.
Black Seraph reached the dark thicket of the wood, where the moonlight could not penetrate. He turned right, racing along the upper edge of the meadow.
William also reined his horse to the right, angling across the open space on a course to intercept them. He slashed his gelding with the quirt, and screamed something, but his high-pitched voice didn’t carry enough for Philippa to hear what it was. His path and that of Larkyn and Black Seraph would converge in seconds, and though Sunny was in a flat run, they would never arrive in time. If the gelding crashed into Black Seraph at such a speed, anything could happen—a leg, a wing, a neck could break—and not only those of the horses. Larkyn looked as fragile as a butterfly, clinging to her colt’s back.
“Kalla protect us!” Philippa cried into the wind.
A heartbeat later something metal flew from Larkyn’s hand, something that glittered in the growing light of the moon. A second time her hand came up, and she cast another shining object into the air. It twirled away, out of the light, disappearing into darkness. Philippa didn’t understand what Larkyn had done until she saw Black Seraph’s wings open, stretch, begin to catch the air.
Wing clips. Larkyn had thrown off Black Seraph’s wing clips.
Half a dozen strides, and William’s gelding would run headlong into Black Seraph. William must be mad! He could destroy the winged colt, injure the girl, even hurt his own mount. Still, his quirt rose and fell as he drove his horse faster and faster.
Philippa urged Sunny on, knowing she couldn’t reach them in time, not knowing what else to do but try.
Another stride, and another. And then Black Seraph, with Larkyn clamped to his withers like a small, curly-headed burr, rose into the air.
Philippa watched, open-mouthed, her heart in her throat. Seraph’s wings beat strongly, once, twice, three times, as he launched himself up into the moonlight.
William screamed a futile protest. His gelding reached the spot where Seraph had been, overran it, William’s quirt still cutting at his hindquarters.
Philippa straightened, and murmured to Sunny. The mare slowed her gait to an easy gallop, and then to a trot. Golden Morning caught them at the far edge of the meadow, and all of them, including William, came to a stop, horses and riders breathing hard, every head tipped up to the sky.
Black Seraph, with no tack and little experience, rose above the wood, his bondmate’s legs tucked beneath his wings,
her hands entwined in his mane. The moon had risen above the hills, full and yellow, and its light framed the little stallion as he banked to the east. He looked like a dark bird with long, slender wings, flying steadily away from them.
“Shall we go after them, Mistress Winter?” Hester gasped.
“We must,” Philippa said, struggling for breath. “But we can’t launch here. I don’t know how Seraph did it.”
“She has no saddle, no bridle, nothing! And Lark has never flown!”
William wrenched his mount around, his hands cruel on the bit. His gelding snorted in protest, and chewed on the bit with a jangle of metal. William snarled, “I’ve warned you for the last time, Philippa.”
Philippa turned on him, her jaw so tight it ached. “Have a care, my lord,” she said, stressing his title. “I will expose you, Duke or no Duke!”
She shifted her weight to the right, and lifted her rein with the lightest hand. Sunny spun on her haunches, not making a sound, as if to show William’s poor gelding how it should be done. She trotted easily down through the meadow. Philippa glanced back to see that Hester and Golden Morning were following, and caught her breath at the sight of Bramble loping out of the woods and down the slope to join them.
A moment later, William charged past them at an angry gallop. He flung himself from the saddle the moment he reached the stables.
Jinson was there to meet him, reaching for the gelding’s reins, barely missing becoming another victim of William’s slashing quirt. The Duke strode past him into the stables. Philippa said, “They’ll head back to the Academy. Seraph knows the return paddock there.”
“I hope so.” Hester sounded doubtful. “I don’t know where else they could go.”
“Let’s hurry. We can launch from the park. We can help them down.”
They gave the hapless Jinson a wide berth, keeping to the trot as they wound their way through the grove to the park. Philippa said, “If Golden Morning seems tired, let me go ahead.”
“We’ll be all right,” Hester said stoutly. “What about Bramble?”
“We’ll have to trust her to find her own way home.”
They hurried, emerging from the grove moments later, in time to see another winged horse rise into the moonlit sky. It was a long, low launch, a slow banking turn to the west. Irina Strong, and Strong Lady.
“Kalla’s teeth,” Philippa muttered, as she and Hester took their positions to gallop down the park. “Where do you suppose she’s going?”
THIRTY-FOUR
LARK’S heart drummed in her chest, and the night wind whipped tears from her eyes as Tup drove them up, up, beyond the trees, beyond the hilltop, far beyond the reach of Duke William’s quirt. Tup’s wingbeats sent waves of power through Lark’s calves and thighs, through her hands, through her feet tucked hard around his barrel.
The moon shone so brightly Lark thought it might blind them both. Tup turned into the light, and then, leveling his flight, he turned south and west. Lark clutched his mane, and held on. She had no rein, not even a halter rope, nor would she have known where to guide him if she had. He flew strongly, without hesitation, as if he knew exactly where he was going.
She had to trust him. He, at least, had flown before. For her, it was all new, and confusing, even in the brilliant moonlight. The landscape looked utterly different from the air. The twisting lanes, the peaked roofs, the oddly perfect rectangles of cultivated fields, were alien and confusing. She hardly knew where she was.
And she was frightened. In the rush to escape from William and Mistress Strong, there had been no time to think about what she was doing. She had pulled off Tup’s wingclips as the only thing she could think of to get him free. And the flood of power from his beautiful wings, the reach of his slender neck, the smoothness of his flight filled her with such joy that for long moments the glories of flying intoxicated her.
Only now, looking down on the landscape flowing so swiftly beneath her, did her courage falter. Where would they go? How could she be sure Tup could come safely to ground?
Tup flew toward the western hills, over villages and lanes, hedgerows painted silver by the light of the moon. Lark wondered how long it was safe for Tup to stay in the air. What if he grew tired, if carrying her was too much for him?
He appeared to be untroubled by her slight weight. When the hills rose up before them, he climbed higher without effort, his wings finding purchase on the cold air, his body growing hot beneath her, but his breathing strong and steady.
Lark knew, though, that having a rider changed Tup’s balance, most especially upon landing. She racked her brain for everything she had learned in her classes, had heard the horsemistresses tell the other new flyers. Weight down. Heels in. Hands low, and back straight but not rigid. She knew she had to grip with her thighs and calves. Chin in—or chin up? Weight forward, or weight back—she couldn’t remember. There was always a first landing, of course . . . but that was at the Academy, where the return paddock was kept smooth, every hole filled, the grass as soft and thick as the groundskeepers could make it. And those flyers were fresh, having taken short flights, taking care not to fatigue their mounts, having horsemistresses to watch over them.
As Tup flew on into the west, Lark tried to put worry from her mind. There was nothing to be done about it now. They must return to ground sometime, and she only hoped Tup had an idea where that would be.
As they flew on, the houses grew farther apart, the fields broader, the lanes longer and narrower. The moon appeared to flee before them, beginning its sink into the west as they pursued it. The air grew noticeably colder, and Lark’s thighs and calves and fingers began to ache. She tried to release their tension, just a bit, and found that she was perfectly secure in her seat. Still, she kept a tight hold on Tup’s mane, and kept her heels firmly against his ribs. To fall from this height would be the end of everything.
She felt, after a time, almost euphoric with exhaustion. She had not slept for two nights, and had eaten nothing at all yesterday. Tup, she hoped, had at least had grain, perhaps some hay. She began to shiver. She peered cautiously past Tup’s shoulder at the ground, and saw a formation of road and lane and hedgerow that seemed vaguely familiar. She wrinkled her brow, trying to see it from a different angle, to imagine what it would look like if she were on the ground instead of high in the air.
Suddenly the pieces came together, a jigsaw of images and impressions resolving into a landscape she knew as well as she knew her own face. Tup had flown directly to the Uplands, his path as unerring as that of a homing bird. The faint glow of windows reflecting moonlight, a little to the south, was the town of Dickering Park. There, just to the north, lay the quiet streets and modest homes of Willakeep. And soon, directly below, Lark saw the turning of the lane that led to Deeping Farm. The kitchen garden, the house with its sloping roof, the barnyard, the whitewashed barn gleaming in the light of the sinking moon. Home.
But where could Tup land? There was no return paddock. There was only the field of bloodbeets, studded with knee-high spring starts. There were the rough furrows plowed for the broomstraw crop. And there was the packed dirt of the lane.
Tup, it seemed, intended to come to ground just as Winter Sunset had, on that winter afternoon that now seemed so long ago. Sunny had landed in the lane, cantered into the barnyard, with Mistress Winter sitting effortlessly straight in her saddle.
Tup slowed, banked, and soared over the barnyard. Lark took a deep breath, and held it. Tup circled Deeping Farm once, twice, and then his wings stilled, spreading wide, pinions fluttering in the wind. She sensed him choose his spot, saw his neck stretch, felt his hooves begin to reach.
That was when she saw the other horse.
She was unmistakable, even in the fading moonlight, her wings half again as wide as Tup’s, her nose and neck thick with muscle. The perfect Foundation specimen.
Of course, she could not fly as fast as Tup, but Foundation horses were known for stamina. She was not a pretty flyer, but she was
a powerful one. She came winging in from the east, perhaps ten minutes behind them, and she had the advantage of experience, though she had never, as far as Lark knew, been to Deeping Farm.
Irina Strong and Strong Lady would be here in moments, and would betray Tup to Duke William.
“Tup!” Lark shrieked. She bent far forward over his neck, and felt his wings ripple, adjusting for the shift of her weight. “No! No! Look!” She dared to put out a hand, to point to the east.
Tup’s wings shuddered, and then began to beat again, though the lane was no more than four rods beneath them. Now she felt, with a certain despair, her bondmate’s fatigue. Tup drove them up again, but slowly. Her muscles labored with his, her heart thudded with his effort. The heat of his body burned her calves as he climbed, and she feared he was too tired to go on. What would they do? Where could they go? “Oh, Tup!” she cried. “I’m so sorry!”
As if to reassure her, to tell her it was all right, his wings beat faster. He didn’t ascend, though, but skimmed the hedgerows, turning north toward the river, where they had once wandered the meadow by the grove of cottonwoods.
Lark looked over her shoulder, and saw the outline of Strong Lady and her rider against the stars that twinkled weakly in the wake of the setting moon. She saw now that they could use Tup’s fatigue, that it was best to fly low, to disappear against the shadowed hills and woods of the Uplands, to fly where Strong Lady could not follow.
“Good!” she called to Tup, as he banked above the river and turned higher into the hills. “That’s good! Just a little farther, lovely brave boy!” She prayed to Kalla to help them. It seemed to her, for an instant, that the icon that hung against her breast flared with heat, that if she could spare a glance at it, it would be glowing in the dark.
Just ahead, a small mountain meadow stretched beneath a blackstone butte. “There!” Lark called, and Tup seemed to understand. He tilted in his flight, took aim at the meadow, and once again stilled the beat of his wings.
