Toby Bishop - Horse Mistress 01

by Airs Beneath the Moon

  “My lord Francis,” a voice murmured, with the unmistakable accent of the east.

  Francis turned to the side, and found the ambassador from Klee standing at his elbow. He bowed.

  “Baron Rys,” he said. “No champagne for you?”

  The Baron, a short, slender man with graying hair and finely cut features, shook his head. “There are weighty matters to discuss tonight,” he said. “I prefer a clear head.”

  “Ah.” Francis sighed and turned his eyes back to the crowded room. “It never ends.”

  “No.” Rys’s lips curved. “And I hear you, too, have matters to deal with.”

  Francis gave a short, humorless laugh. “My lord,” he said. “Your ears must be the sharpest in all of Klee.”

  “News has ways of reaching me, it’s true,” the Baron said. “You had a distinguished visitor today.”

  “She’s an old friend,” Francis said. “Almost a sister to me.” Rys gave him a slantwise look. “Of course,”

  he said smoothly. “And a friend of the new Duke as well, I believe?”

  Francis shook his head, chuckling. “Baron Rys, I suspect there is little I can tell you of Horsemistress Winter’s relationship with my brother that you don’t already know.”

  “Hmm. Well, one does hear things . . . about arguments on the floor of Oc’s Council of Lords, for example.”

  Francis pursed his lips. “Spies, my lord?”

  “Not at all.” Rys gave a cool smile. “Business associates. But I understand your wariness. Peace between our lands is tenuous, is it not?” Rys made a gesture to invite Francis out of the overheated dining room. Francis glanced around to be certain his prince did not need him at the moment, then followed the Klee Baron out into the cooler air of an anteroom. They sank into comfortable chairs, and Rys leaned forward.

  “I’ve heard,” he began, “that Oc suffered an attack on its northern coast by a band of barbarians.”

  “My brother calls it a skirmish,” Francis said. “A minor raid.”

  Rys straightened, and shrugged expressively. “Minor, perhaps. Not to the dead. Or to the families of the kidnapped children.”

  Francis nodded, and clenched his jaw.

  “Further,” Rys said, “I’m told that Duke William refuses to spend money retrieving these small citizens.”

  Francis looked away, but anger burned in his cheeks.

  “Yes, I see this shames you,” the Baron said evenly. “I’m not surprised, Lord Francis. Your reputation is an honorable one.”

  “You flatter me.”

  “Not at all. I’m a diplomat. I know character when I see it.”

  “I am powerless in this matter,” Francis said. “The Council has ruled with my brother.”

  “Ah. But I have a proposition that may help you.”

  Francis leaned back in his chair. In the dining room the clatter of china and glass had begun. “Tell me your proposition, my lord,” he said. “Although I can promise nothing. I am—as are you, I believe—only a younger son.”

  “I am exactly that,” Rys said. He sat back, too, and steepled his fingers. Francis eyed him, seeing the

  gleam of intelligence in his eye, the easy confidence that made him, although a small man, seem an imposing presence. “My older brother inherited the title of viscount, which carries with it lands and the position,” Rys went on. “But we have an amicable relationship, and in the normal way of things, I enjoy diplomatic work. This situation, however, provides me with an opportunity to satisfy a secret ambition.”

  Francis waited. Rys gave him a small smile, and said, “I have a daughter—well, to be honest, I have three daughters, but this one is my particular pride. She’s bright, and she’s fiercely independent. She’s not pretty, though I care nothing about that. I want her to have a life of her own, not to be married off like some expensive doll, to do a husband’s wishes and abandon her own abilities.”

  “And what does she want, Rys?”

  Rys said, with evident pride, “She yearns to fly a winged horse.”

  Francis’s mouth opened, but for a long moment he could say nothing. The idea was revolutionary, but it had merit. Even Francis, who disdained politics, could see how such an alliance—the bonding of a Klee daughter to one of the winged horses—could help to stabilize relations between Klee and Isamar. “My lord,” he said slowly. “What would you offer the Duchy of Oc to secure such an honor?”

  “I,” Baron Rys said, “will fund a war party, and lead it. To rescue the children.”

  PHILIPPAplanned an early departure for the long flight back to Osham. One of the resident horsemistresses of the Palace arranged an early breakfast for her, and went to order Winter Sunset saddled. Philippa drank a cup of strong coffee and ate a dish of coddled eggs the cook had waiting. The cook also had prepared a packet of sandwiches, which Philippa accepted gratefully. She would rest Sunny halfway, then press on. With luck and good weather, she was hopeful of having dinner in the Hall tonight.

  She walked across the courtyard to the stables, buttoning her coat over her habit, pulling on her warmest gloves. Frost rimed the grass in the paddocks, and her nose tingled with the early morning chill. Flying would be easier for Sunny, in the cold air, but Philippa knew she would have cold toes and icy fingers for the first hour, until the sun was well up into the sky.

  Sunny was ready and waiting when she reached the flight paddock. She took the reins from the stable-girl and removed Sunny’s wingclips, slipping them into the pocket of her tabard. She was preparing to mount when she heard her name called. She turned and was startled to see Lord Francis sprinting across the courtyard. He stopped at the paddock fence, out of breath.

  “Philippa! I hadn’t thought you would be away so early,” he panted.

  “Why, Francis,” she said. “I didn’t expect to see you again this morning. I know there was a dinner last night, and you must have been late to bed.”

  He shrugged his slender shoulders and gave her a wry smile. “There’s a dinner every night here,” he said.

  “I excused myself early.”

  “It’s kind of you to come to say goodbye,” she said.

  He leaned against the fence, catching his breath. “I did want to wish you a good flight, of course. But there’s something else.” He looked over his shoulder, and across to the stables, and gestured her toward him. She dropped Sunny’s reins and crossed to the fence.

  “I had not thought there would be anything I could do to help,” Francis said quietly. “But now it seems there might be something.”

  Philippa put one gloved hand on the top rail. “What is it?”

  “Do you know Baron Rys, of Klee?”

  “No. We have not met.”

  “He’s a clever man, and I believe an honest one,” Francis said. “As much as any diplomat can afford to be honest, that is. He has offered to fund a war party to rescue the children from the Aesks.”

  Philippa drew a swift breath. “Francis—to do such a thing, the Baron must be asking a high price.”

  “Yes,” Francis said. “But it may be one we can afford.”

  “Tell me.”

  “His youngest daughter—Amelia, her name is—longs to fly a winged horse.”

  Philippa dropped her hand from the fence, and folded her arms. “This is his price. That we bond his

  daughter—a daughter of Klee—to one of Kalla’s creatures.”

  Francis nodded. “It’s a good trade, Philippa. It’s politically expedient, and it gives us a chance, at least, to recover the children.”

  “But we know nothing about this girl.”

  Francis smiled. “I think you often know little about the girls who bond to the winged horses, Philippa.

  You accept the recommendations of their parents and their tutors. Rys assures me his daughter is strong and intelligent. And independent,” he added.

  “Independent,” Philippa repeated. “That may be a parent’s euphemism for ‘ill behaved.’”

  Francis shrugged aga
in. “It may be. Can you trust a father’s word?”

  Philippa snorted. “Sometimes not,” she said. “But you’re right. We’ve done it before.”

  Francis sobered. “Philippa, I think you must decide this, here and now. There’s no time to waste, and Amelia Rys is already eighteen.”

  Philippa nodded. Francis was right. With every day that passed, hopes dimmed for the safety of the two children from Onmarin. And for a girl to be bonded, eighteen was none too young. She bent her head, thinking hard. “I gather you trust Baron Rys’s judgment.”

  “I believe I can. I like him, even admire him. Of course, parents and their children . . .”

  “He and his daughter must both understand that she will be bound to Oc for the length of her horse’s life.”

  “He tells me they do.”

  “Well. Kalla’s heels, this is odd, but I believe I can persuade Margareth,” Philippa said. “It is your lord brother who may object.”

  “And the new Master Breeder.”

  Philippa shook her head. “Jinson is in over his head in almost everything relating to the bloodlines. He will say what William tells him to say and no more.”

  “Ah.” Francis ran a hand over his fine hair. “Will the Council Lords support us?”

  “Some of them,” she answered. “Certainly Lord Beeth will. He knows I came to beg your help. And there are several who stood with him in the Rotunda, demanding action.”

  Francis gave a small nod. “I shall tell Baron Rys, then, to send for his daughter. The Prince will give me leave to be away for a time, if I ask him carefully. I had better send word to my brother myself.”

  “I think you must,” Philippa said. “I wish you joy with it.”

  Francis laughed, a sound without mirth. “Thank you.”

  Philippa inclined her head. “I thank you, Francis, and the people of Onmarin will be grateful. Come to see us when you arrive.”

  “Look for me in three days.”

  A few minutes later, Philippa turned Sunny’s head for the gallop down the flight paddock. As the mare’s wings drove them up and away from the Palace, Philippa glanced back over her shoulder. Francis still stood beside the paddock fence, a slender figure in a long dark coat, shading his eyes to watch her flight.

  She lifted one hand in farewell, and he raised his arm in return.

  As she settled into her saddle, Philippa thrust away, for the moment, her worries over the missing children, the coming conflict with the Duke, the dissent among the Council Lords. There was nothing more she could do today but enjoy the freedom of flight. She put one hand on Sunny’s withers, feeling the heat of her muscles, the wondrous strength of her body.

  William was wrong to toy with the bloodlines, wrong to endanger these amazing creatures. She would not give in to his meddling. She would fight him every step of the way.

  SIX

  LARKand Hester and the rest of the second-level girls were in the dry paddock behind the stables when they saw Philippa Winter and Winter Sunset winging toward the Academy through the dusk. Hester

  tipped her head back to watch them and lost her place.

  Their instructor, Suzanne Star, had been drilling them in unmounted Points. On foot, the girls moved in the figures they would later translate into flight, practicing the formations over and over until they became second nature. “Hester,” the horsemistress said sharply, “you will not learn the pattern if you don’t pay attention. Remember, it is not only you who could be at risk. Whoever flies close to you depends upon your accuracy.”

  Hester said, “Yes, Mistress Star. I’m sorry.” She stepped back into place. Lark tried to keep track of where she was supposed to be, but her eyes strayed to the sky, too, watching the sorrel mare’s descent.

  Both girls hoped that Mistress Winter had gone in search of help.

  Hester had heard through her mamá that the Council Lords had declined to act in the matter of the attack on the northern village. The death toll, they said, was small, only six, and the kidnapped children were probably dead already. No one seemed to care that one of those slaughtered by the Aesk was a stable-girl from the Academy. Thinking of poor Rosellen’s savage death dismissed in such a heartless way made Lark’s eyes blur, and she stumbled out of the pattern.

  Mistress Star clicked her tongue. “Larkyn, not you, too. Kalla’s teeth, you girls must concentrate! Now, again. Anabel, you’re first on the left. Everyone, mark your own position and that of the girls on either side—remember to make wing room—and now, right for a count of five—watch your leader! Descend, and left for a count of five. Half Reverse, and . . .”

  It seemed to Lark to go on forever. Hester, on a Grand Reverse, grimaced at her. Lark closed her eyes briefly. Neither of them had been able to concentrate on their studies since the tragedy. Only flying distracted them, however briefly, from grief and worry and awful memories.

  When Mistress Star released them at last to go and blanket their horses for the night, Winter Sunset was already in her stall. The new stable-girl, Erna, was filling her water bucket and shredding a flake of hay into her bin. Hester and Lark paused in the sawdust-strewn aisle and waited for the other girls to walk past.

  “Erna,” Hester said, when the others had gone. “Where is Mistress Winter?”

  Erna gave the two girls a disinterested glance. “Gone to the Hall, ’s far ’s I know,” she said offhandedly.

  “Prob’ly wants her dinner. Just left me with her mare to see to.”

  Hester rolled her eyes at Lark as they turned away. When they rounded the corner into their own wing of the stables, she whispered, “That one won’t last long. What a sourpuss!”

  “Aye. She is that. Rosellen would never—” Lark’s throat closed.

  Hester put a hand on her shoulder. “Give it time,” she said softly. “We’ll get over it.”

  “A thousand days to grieve, we say in the Uplands,” Lark said. “And we’ve only been through a few so far.” She sighed. “I only hope Mistress Winter—” A crash of hooves on wood interrupted her, followed by a girl’s shout. She gasped, “Oh, Zito’s ears! That’s Tup!” She started to run. Hester was close on her heels.

  They rounded the corner into the aisle where Tup and Golden Morning had their stalls, and both skidded to a stop in the sawdust.

  Tup’s hindquarters were turned toward the gate of his stall. Just as they got there, he kicked out, his hooves banging hard on the gate. The latch creaked so Lark thought it might break. Molly, the little brown goat, cowered in one corner of the stall.

  Petra Sweet, pale and furious, stood with her back against the opposite wall, shouting, “Quiet, Seraph!

  Quiet!”

  And beyond Petra, quirt in hand and face like a thundercloud, stood William of Oc.

  “What’s going on?” Lark demanded. At the sound of her voice, Tup whirled, and pressed his rump against the back wall. His head was high, his ears laid back, and sweat dripped down his sides, striping his folded wings. Lark hurried to let herself into the stall and cross to him.

  With one hand on Tup’s hot neck, she glared at the Duke and Petra. “What did you do to him?” she demanded.

  “Nothing!” Petra shrilled. “What’s the matter with your crybaby that a person can’t walk past—”

  “He’s always been bad-tempered,” the Duke said lightly. He stepped forward, and Lark felt Tup tense.

  “Hush,” she murmured to the horse. She pressed her body against his shoulder. “Hush, now, Tup, it’s all right.”

  “It is not all right!” Petra declared.

  Lark said, through a tight jaw, “What were you doing?” She meant to speak to the Duke, but Petra intervened.

  “The Duke was only strolling through the stables.” Petra shook a finger at Lark. “As is his right, and no other horse behaved in such a way. Seraph is out of control, if you ask me!”

  “Good job I didn’t ask you, then,” Lark snapped.

  Duke William’s lip curled. “But it’s true,” he said. He turne
d the quirt in his hands. “Your little stallion has a terrible temper.”

  Lark thrust her chin out. “He does not,” she said. “What he has is a good memory.”

  The Duke scowled. “You would be wise, brat, to mind your own memory. Remember to whom you’re speaking.”

  A retort sprang to Lark’s lips, but she thought of her brothers, and of the threat to Deeping Farm, and she bit it back.

  “Yes,” William said, with a cold smile. “I see you understand.” He slapped the quirt into his palm. “You may have passed your first Ribbon Day, Miss Hamley, though we hardly expected it—”

  Petra smirked at that, and Lark’s heart began to pound with fury.

  “But you have other tests still facing you,” the Duke said. “And with an unruly stallion.” He took a single step closer. Tup trembled against Lark’s shoulder, and she felt him tense. She gripped a handful of his mane and willed him to be still.

  “One failure,” William murmured. His eyes were like black ice. “Just one, Miss Hamley, and he’s gone.”

  “It won’t happen,” she managed to say through tight lips.

  “I do hope not,” William said in the silky voice that chilled anyone who recognized it. “What a shame that would be.” He slapped the quirt into his palm one more time, and Tup flinched. William’s smile grew, seeing it. “Good luck to you.” He tucked the quirt under his arm, wheeled about, and strode away down the aisle.

  Petra stood with her hands on her hips, glaring at Lark. “How dare you speak to His Grace that way?

  Your behavior was inexcusable! I believe the Headmistress should—”

  “Oh, give over, Sweet,” Hester snapped. “There are things you don’t understand.”

  “What does that mean?” Petra asked, spinning about to face Hester. “Why do you always act like you know more than anyone else? Just because your father is one of the Lords of the Council—”

  Lark said in a low tone, “Let it go, Hester. It doesn’t matter what she thinks.”

  Petra cried, “I’m telling you, Larkyn Black, I’m going to speak to the Head about this!”

  And Hester said firmly, “Do that, Petra. Enjoy yourself.”