Toby Bishop - Horse Mistress 01

by Airs Beneath the Moon

  “I warn you, William. I will not see Duke Frederick’s legacy destroyed.”

  “And I,” William said, “will see every bitch of a horsemistress curtsy to me before I am done.”

  EIGHT

  THEgirls of the Academy were atwitter about the forthcoming visit of the Duke’s younger brother, but Lark felt nervy and anxious.

  “What are you worried about, Black?” Hester asked her quietly. All three flights were gathered in the Hall, awaiting the arrival of Duke William’s younger brother. An elaborate reception had been arranged, and the girls, hungry as always, hovered near the tables, awaiting the signal that meant they could start on the tiny sandwiches, buttery biscuits, and iced cakes laid out in readiness. Lark and Hester stood before the windows in the foyer, watching the courtyard for Lord Francis’s entourage. Unseasonable snow had begun to fall in small, dry flakes that made swirling patterns on the cobblestones.

  “I just have a bad feeling.” Lark twisted the icon of Kalla that hung around her neck. It felt hot all the time. It made her skin burn, and she had taken to wearing it outside her tabard. She wished she knew a witchwoman she could trust, here in Osham, who could explain it to her.

  “Well,” Hester said darkly. “I can’t tell you not to have a bad feeling. These are dark times, as Mamá says. The Council is divided, the Duke is negligent, and the Prince is lazy.”

  She broke off when they caught sight of two riders, coming at a posting trot from the road. They wore the Prince’s crown and lily on their fluttering cloaks, and behind them came a well-sprung carriage, drawn by two draught horses. The royal insignia was gilded onto its doors, and embroidered on the heavy jackets of the footmen who clung to its rear posts. Two more liveried riders followed the carriage, but it was the pair behind them that caught Lark’s attention.

  There was no mistaking the white-blond hair of the Fleckhams. On this member of the Duke’s family, it was softer than on William. Its strands lifted in the breeze like spider silk.

  “Lord Francis,” Hester murmured.

  “I thought it must be,” Lark said. She cupped her hands around her eyes to see better through the glass.

  Lord Francis Fleckham was a bit shorter than his brother the Duke, and younger. He had the same lean figure, and dressed in the black and silver colors of the Duchy. As he pulled up his horse before the Hall, threw one lean leg over the cantle and dismounted, she saw that he had the same narrow features as his brother, too. Lark’s arms prickled with unease. He brushed snow from his sleeves as he waited for the other rider, a shorter, darker man, to dismount and join him. His companion preceded him up the steps.

  Lark shrank back into the window, a familiar chill stealing through her chest and stomach.

  “Lord Francis is bookish, according to Papá,” Hester said. “More interested in libraries than in government.”

  Bookish or not, to Lark he looked like another William, another threat to Tup and to her family. The doors were thrown open, and the two men, with two of the liveried riders behind them, came into the foyer on a gust of cold wind and a dusting of snow that melted swiftly on the tiles. Lark stayed behind Hester, but she watched with held breath, hugging her elbows.

  Headmistress Morgan stood in the very center of the entryway, supporting herself with one hand on the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. She looked elegant in her black riding habit, her white hair

  smoothed into the rider’s knot. Her back was very straight. She waited for the men to come to her, and bow, before she inclined her head to them. The girls in the Hall and in the foyer fell instantly silent, listening.

  “Mistress Morgan,” Lord Francis said. “How good to see you again.”

  “Welcome home, Lord Francis.”

  “I’ve looked forward to it.” He gestured to the man beside him. “May I present Baron Rys, of Klee? My lord, this is the Headmistress of the Academy of the Air, Margareth Morgan.”

  The Baron bowed again, and murmured greetings. Mistress Morgan answered him, then turned to Mistress Winter, who stepped forward from the corridor behind the staircase. Introductions were repeated, and the group moved into the Hall. Lark and Hester followed at a little distance. By the time they came into the crowded Hall, most of the other girls had filled their plates and were chattering among themselves. The dignitaries had taken seats at the high table, and two maids were bringing them cups of tea and platters of food.

  Hester said, “Hurry, Lark! All the cakes will be gone.”

  Lark followed her, but her eyes strayed again and again to Francis Fleckham. She was hungry, too. But she wished she could flee to the stables.

  FRANCISfollowed Philippa and the Baron on a cursory circuit of the dining hall. The young flyers inclined their heads as they passed. He and Rys greeted the horsemistresses waiting at the head table and drank obligatory cups of tea. Francis had always liked visiting the Academy. The fresh faces of the students, the weathered and experienced faces of the instructors, refreshed him. It was a beautiful old place, elegant and utilitarian at the same time. He liked the scent of horseflesh that permeated everything, and he liked the sense that these women and girls were doing work that mattered. There was, as a rule, less talk and more action here than in any other place his duties took him.

  As they walked out through the doors of the Hall, Francis felt someone’s gaze on him, and he looked around.

  One girl had left her companions and stood watching him. She was small, and she wore her black hair differently from the others, cropped very short so that it curled over her forehead and behind her ears.

  Her eyes were violet, and they fixed on him with an intensity that made his skin prickle. He nodded to her, and she bent her head solemnly, as if the moment were important to her. Francis hurried on after Philippa and the Baron, frowning. He would have to ask Philippa who the girl was.

  There was no time at the moment. Philippa showed them into the Headmistress’s office, and Margareth waved them all to seats. She sat behind her desk, resting her head against the back of her carved chair.

  She had aged greatly since Francis had last seen her.

  Baron Rys said, “We’ve gone ahead with arrangements. My ship will arrive on your northern coast within the next two days, if all goes well. The winter tides are beginning, and there can be ice in the Strait.”

  “We’re grateful for your help,” Philippa said.

  The Baron nodded. “It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.” He brought a miniature from an inner breast pocket and opened its chased-silver lid. “My daughter, Amelia.”

  Philippa leaned forward to take the miniature, then stood to cross to Margareth’s desk and lay it on the polished wood. Francis moved behind her. He had not yet seen the picture.

  A thin girl with brown hair looked out of the little silver frame. She looked very like her father, with a narrow chin and small, sharp nose. There was something direct in her gaze, even in the painted miniature.

  She was not smiling.

  Baron Rys said, with a deprecating gesture, “I know she’s not beautiful.”

  “She resembles you,” Philippa said.

  “She’s bright, and she’s brave. I think you’ll be glad to have her.”

  “You understand,” Margareth said, “that she will become a citizen of Oc upon her bonding. The winged horses live thirty years or more, and she will be ours for all that time.”

  Rys’s voice was steady. “I assure you, Headmistress, that I considered that.”

  “You must care a great deal,” Margareth said, her eyes still on the miniature, “to risk your soldiers on our

  behalf, and hers.”

  “I do, of course. I care for Amelia, and I care about the fisher-folk who live and work near the glacier.

  The Klee have long experience with Aeskland.” His voice hardened. “We share our northern border with them, and we know how brutal they are. It may already be too late for these children.”

  “Let us hope it is not,” Margareth said. “And we
appreciate your haste.”

  Philippa asked, “How will you find them? I understand they’re nomadic, these tribes.”

  He said tonelessly, “In the ordinary way of things, Mistress Winter, we would petition Oc for one of your Foundation flyers to help us find them.”

  “Yes.” Philippa folded her arms. “But in this case . . .”

  “In this case,” Francis said, “we can hardly ask my brother for such a service.”

  “Then what—” Margareth began.

  Philippa interrupted her. “I will go,” she said flatly.

  Margareth hesitated, her faded eyes on Philippa’s face. “Are you certain, my dear?” she asked quietly.

  “Of course, Margareth.” Philippa gave a firm nod. “I must.”

  Francis drew breath to protest, but then released it. The set of Philippa’s jaw, the resigned sigh of Margareth Morgan, confirmed there was no other choice. Fresh anger at William burned in Francis’s chest. Philippa Winter had performed extraordinary service at the battle for the South Tower. It was unfair that she and her mare should be put at risk again, at a time when they were meant to be pursuing peaceful activities.

  A long moment of heavy silence passed, in which Esmond Rys shifted his weight. He pursed his lips but said nothing. Francis admired his patience. He was, wisely, giving everyone time to reflect and accept the necessity of this decision.

  Margareth said at last, “Baron Rys, I trust you will not allow Philippa to be in more danger than necessary.”

  Rys bowed to her from his chair. “That, at least, I can promise you, Mistress Morgan.”

  Philippa snorted. “I am no novice flyer,” she said in her sharpest tone. “Worry about me and Sunny if you like, but trust us to know what we’re about.”

  “Of course, Philippa,” Margareth said. Her tone was as mild as Philippa’s was harsh. “But remember,”

  she went on, one pale finger raised. “Winter comes much earlier in the north. The winds and snow will be unpredictable.”

  “You may count upon me,” Philippa said, “to take every care. But I promised Rosellen’s mother.”

  “When will you leave?”

  Rys stood, his slight figure full of purpose. “A week has already passed,” he said. “There is no time to lose. We will meet my ship at the dock of Onmarin, ready to set sail.”

  Margareth got to her feet, a little grunt of effort escaping her lips. Philippa stepped toward her, hand outstretched, but Margareth shook her head, forestalling her help. “My lord Rys,” she said. “We are already committed to bonding your daughter Amelia. Don’t take unnecessary chances for yourself, either.

  Do what you can, and no more.”

  Rys bowed again. “I am not a man given to wild gestures. I have my family to think of, and my men to consider. But these children—” His thin features darkened, and his mouth turned down. “I have three children of my own. I love each one differently, but deeply. These poor children of Onmarin must be saved if they still live. Life as an Aesk slave is not to be borne.”

  Francis felt a turning in his heart. Esmond Rys’s calm courage stirred his blood. What Oc might have become had such a man succeeded to the Dukedom! William, alas, suffered no lack of courage, but his spirit was turned inward, feeding upon envy and resentment and shallow ambition. He would never lead Oc as Rys might have done, nor would Rys in all likelihood have the opportunity to lead a duchy of his own.

  Francis stood and bowed to Rys. “It will be a privilege to serve with you, my lord.”

  Rys gave him a grim smile. “Let’s hope so, Francis. We have a great task ahead of us.”

  Francis did not miss the glance that passed between Margareth and Philippa. It, too, was grim, and determined. Again his heart turned. He would be proud to be part of such an alliance, a brave man and

  two brave women. He hoped his own courage would not fail in the test ahead.

  LARKrose before dawn the next morning, propelled by unease at knowing that a Fleckham slept beneath the roofs of the Residence. The other girls still slept, lulled by the unusual feast of cakes and biscuits the evening before. Lark pulled on her riding habit and tugged her cap down over her short curls.

  She carried her boots in her hand. She sat on the bottom of the stairs from the sleeping porch to pull them on and let herself out as quietly as she could through the heavy door.

  She was relieved to find Tup waiting for her in his stall, ears flicked forward. He had sensed her early rising, and now was eager for whatever exercise or adventure awaited. She unbuckled his blanket and slipped a bridle over his head. Surely, while everyone else at the Academy was still abed, a little private practice in the air would go unnoticed. Dutifully, Lark lifted the flying saddle from its peg. She put the saddle blanket on Tup, smoothing his coat beneath it so it would be comfortable, then put the saddle on him, too. He twisted his neck back, nipping at her coat to protest.

  “Hush, my Tup,” she murmured. “We have to learn to fly with it. You and I both!”

  He sidestepped and whimpered, making her task difficult. Molly bleated once at this activity, and when the saddle was secure, Lark bent to nuzzle her warm neck. The little goat’s winter coat was coming on quickly, a long undercoat of fibers like strong silk, much prized in the Uplands. It smelled like home to Lark. “Just wait for us, Molly mine,” she said. “We won’t be long. Back before breakfast is laid in the Hall!”

  She whispered to Tup to be quiet and led him out through the back of the stables and around to the flight paddock. The sky had brightened to a pale blue, with wisps of rippled, grayish cloud drifting gently before the steady breeze from the mountains. They could be off and back before anyone noticed.

  The snowfall had stopped during the night, leaving the grass crisp with crystals but not slippery.

  Everything was perfect. Lark braced herself for the standing mount, then leaped into the saddle, her belly touching first, her leg swinging easily over the cantle. The standing mount, at least, she had mastered. It had been easier for her than for most of the girls, because though her legs were short, her weight was slight, and her muscles were strong from spending the years of her childhood heaving and stacking and carrying around Deeping Farm.

  She lifted the rein and leaned forward. “Let’s go, Tup,” she called. “Hup!”

  Tup was now two and a half years old, sturdy and strong although still small. When he began his gallop down the paddock, she could feel the bunch and stretch of his muscles beneath her hands and wished for the hundredth time she could fly without the saddle. When she flew bareback, she felt every muscle flex beneath her thighs, felt every tilt and flex of his wings. When there was no leather and steel to impede them, they executed Reverses sharper and swifter than any other pair in their class. But today, with the saddle, Lark confined their practice to the drills Mistress Star would no doubt put to them later this same day.

  She laid a rein against Tup’s glossy black neck and pressed her left knee into his shoulder. Obediently, he performed a Half Reverse. She held him at Quarters for four wingbeats, then urged him into a Full Reverse, something he performed deftly, quickly. She had learned to snug her thighs hard beneath the thigh rolls to keep from slipping. Without the saddle, there was no need. Her body knew what his was going to do before he began the movement. There was never a question of slipping. They were as one body at those moments.

  But the Academy was not satisfied with that. Mistress Star insisted that the two of them learn the Airs and Graces with a flying saddle. Lark understood they worried about her safety. She had no words to convince them that she and Tup would work better unhindered by tack. She knew in her bones that she could fly Arrows without a saddle, but it was that Air in particular that troubled her instructor. That, of course, and the balletic Graces, which would be the seal of her second-level test. All she could do to earn her second-level Ribbon was to master the saddle as she had everything else. When she did, all doubts about her future would fade.

  The sun had risen abo
ve the mountains, and the icy branches of the treetops glistened in the light. It was time to return to the Academy. Lark spoke to Tup with her hands and her feet, and though he tossed his

  head, loath to give up their brief taste of freedom in the air, he tilted obediently to the left to circle the grounds, beginning his descent. He flew past the gambrel roofs of the stables and on toward the end of the flight paddock, where the stand of spruce trees guarded the hedgerow beyond. Lark closed her eyes, just for a moment, to feel the chill wind on her cheeks. Tup’s wings stilled, and he began his glide.

  She opened her eyes, looking ahead. Just outside the paddock, between the stables and the pole fence, stood a slender figure in a black cloak. His hair was almost as pale as the snow that clung to the roof and the post-caps. Lark’s heart missed a beat, and she cried, “No, Tup!”

  Willingly, even eagerly, Tup gave a strong downward beat of his wings, and they began to ascend again.

  Beyond the man, Lark saw Erna come out of the stables, leading a winged horse. In the hall, lights were burning through the dim winter morning, and a door opened in the Residence. She would be late for breakfast, perhaps miss it altogether. She would be scolded for going out without telling anyone, for being aloft by herself.

  Which Fleckham was watching her from the end of the paddock? Duke William, or Lord Francis? It didn’t matter. They both terrified her.

  Tup soared higher, turning away from the Academy. They flew past the grove, past the hedgerow, past the turning of the lane into the road. And Lark, in the grip of an irresistible impulse, turned her bondmate toward the Uplands. Home.

  Against the skin of her breast, the little icon of Kalla grew cool, its smooth wood as comforting as a mother’s hand.

  NINE

  PHILIPPAwas at breakfast in the Hall when Matron came in, threaded her way through the students, and approached the high table. She stepped up on the dais, walking behind the other instructors. When she reached Philippa’s chair, she bent, and murmured, “Mistress Winter. Lord Islington is here to see you.”

  Philippa stiffened, and Margareth, next to her, lifted her eyebrows. “Is it Meredith?”