No, she told herself. It was too disgusting an idea even for Duke William.
It would explain, though, why Pamella steadfastly refused to return to Osham, or to see anyone in her family. And it might explain why she could not speak. Such an experience . . . Lark couldn’t imagine it.
And maybe it wasn’t true.
She glanced across at Hester as they took their places at the long table, and saw that Hester, too, had been thinking dark thoughts. Hester gave her a slow, deliberate shake of the head. Lark nodded in return. There was nothing they could do and no point in speculating. But when the chores of the day were finished at last, she lay in her cot staring out at the brilliant winter stars. For a long time sleep eluded her
as she thought of poor Pamella—Lady Pamella—and what might have befallen her. The last image in her mind, before her eyelids finally closed, was of Duke William’s hard, pale face and the cold braided leather of his magicked quirt.
FOURTEEN
PHILIPPAslept poorly in the shelter. Its sheets of canvas protected her and Sunny from the worst of the cold, but the packed sand beneath her blankets and furs was unforgiving to the points of her hips and shoulders, and the pillow, made of a folded blanket, scratched at her cheek and neck. She rose when the first gray light stole in through the spaces between the panels and the poles that supported them, rubbing her neck and grimacing. There had been a time when she slept easily on hard ground, but her body was not so flexible as it had been at twenty-four.
Sunny seemed to have fared better. She dropped her head willingly to receive her bridle, and her steps were light as Philippa led her outside and down to the stream to drink. The watchmen, arrayed around the campsite, nodded silent greetings. Philippa nodded back. As Sunny drank, she scanned the sky.
It looked to be a perfect day for flying. The weather held clear and cold. She would be glad of her woolen vest and thick stockings, but Sunny would find the frigid air invigorating. To the north, the glaciers shone like sheets of dull silver. To the south, the green waters of the Strait flickered and gleamed. It was into the east that they would turn today, toward the black beaches and the scrubby forests that stretched beyond the great plateau.
Francis and Rys emerged from one of the tents as Philippa was seeing to Sunny’s feed. She turned, leaving Sunny to it, and went to meet the men. A table had been set up in the open, and as she approached, one of the soldiers put a platter of steaming meat and sliced bread on it, with a stack of battered metal plates and flatware. Another had a huge camp pot of coffee and poured out mugs of it.
Philippa sat at one end, with Francis and Rys opposite, and they made quick, silent work of their breakfast. Moments later, Philippa was saddling Sunny, checking her gear, and preparing to launch.
Francis stood well to one side, sensitive to Sunny’s aversion, but close enough that he could speak quietly. “Philippa,” he said. “I’ve been thinking.”
Philippa ran her hands over Sunny’s breastband and rested her palm on the pommel of her flying saddle.
Everything was in order. She glanced at Francis from beneath the brim of her riding cap. “About what, Francis?”
He hesitated, his slender features tightening. “It’s about risk. About priorities.”
“Yes?” She was ready to mount, and she felt a slight impatience. Francis had always been deliberate, but now, both she and Sunny were ready to fly.
His voice dropped. “Philippa, I completely support this effort, as you know . . . I care about it . . .
but—”
She lifted her chin and pointed it at the circle of jute tents. “A little late for second thoughts, I think.”
He managed a small, tense smile. “I’m not having second thoughts. But I want you to remember—that is, I am my father’s son, after all.”
That made her chuckle. “Out with it, Francis! A snowstorm could reach us while you decide how to say whatever it is.”
His smile grew, too, but his dark gaze was bleak. “It’s this, Philippa: I cannot, as a member of the Duke’s household, equate the value of a winged horse and her rider with that of two fisher-folk children, however unfair that may seem. I must—” He cleared his throat, and looked at his boots. “I must order you, I’m afraid. To put yourself first.”
A strange warmth spread through Philippa, and she very much feared her cheeks had gone pink. She turned to Sunny, and leaped up into the saddle. She allowed herself a moment of satisfaction; she might have difficulty sleeping on the ground, but she could still perform a perfect standing mount. Keeping her face averted, she said, “Have no fear, Francis. It would not be myself, but Sunny I would always put
first.” She wished her voice did not sound so hard, but she didn’t trust it not to tremble. Francis’s concern reminded her of Frederick’s devotion, and she had not thought such a commitment would come again from a Fleckham.
He answered with mild irony. “Of course, Philippa. But Sunny can’t be protected unless you are.”
She took a steadying breath, and met his gaze. “Exactly so. Thank you, Francis.”
He bowed. She inclined her head and lifted her hand to Baron Rys, standing just outside his tent. Sunny spun on her hindquarters and set off at an eager canter. When she launched, the thrust of her hindquarters thrilled Philippa as it always did with its strength. She leaned forward, urging Sunny up and over the cliff.
The beach dropped away below them until she could no longer make out the upturned faces of the men watching. Philippa lifted the rein and laid it against the left side of Sunny’s neck, shifting her weight into her right stirrup, and the mare banked to the east to begin their search anew.
FRANCISstood on the beach to watch Philippa and Sunny leave, and he was in the same place when they returned hours later. It had been a long, idle day for him. Rys had sent a few men to climb up the cliff and scout the seaward edge of the great plateau, but there was little else to be done until Philippa found the tribe.
“They keep a great distance from each other,” Rys had said when they were still in Osham. “If one tribe trespasses on another’s hunting territory, they fight. We can expect that the tribe we find will be the one responsible for the attack on Onmarin.” He had been honing his smallsword with a whetstone, handling the weapon with the ease of long practice.
Francis had always been forbidden to use matchlocks because of the danger of their exploding in the face of the shooter, but he did have a smallsword. He had, in his youth, had some training with it. He spent the empty day waiting for Philippa’s return in sharpening and cleaning the blade, trying to remember how his fighting-master had told him to use it.
Rys came to stand beside him at about midday and gave him an easy smile. “You have not been in battle before, I expect.”
Blushing, Francis sheathed the blade, shaking his head.
“Natural to be nervous.”
That made Francis laugh. “You’ll find me ridiculous, Rys,” he said diffidently, “but in fact, I’m not so much nervous as impatient.”
“Ah.” Rys touched his shoulder lightly. “I remember the feeling.” He pointed to his men, lounging around the warmth of the fire pit in the center of the circle of tents. They kept the fire blazing hot, feeding it with driftwood. A thin, clear smoke rose from it to dissipate quickly in the cold air. “If you fight enough wars, Francis, you acquire the attitude of these men. You save your energy, postpone thinking about it. You learn to let tomorrow take care of tomorrow.”
Francis turned to face seaward, where the shore of Oc was a distant smudge beyond the icy gray water.
“It is another of the burdens of being born into a Duke’s family, I’m afraid. Our experiences are rather closely controlled.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t allowed any real danger, not even true sword practice. I’m expected to keep myself intact. If something were to happen to my elder brother, I’m meant to step into the title.”
“I would be surprised if that were an ambition of yours.”
“And so you shou
ld be, Rys!” Francis’s laugh sounded thin in his own ears. “The last thing I have ever wanted was to sit on that throne.”
Rys sobered after a moment, and Francis saw that his gaze, too, strayed to the southern horizon. Klee, of course, was a great distance from where they stood, but Francis thought he understood the Baron’s thoughts. “You feel differently about your own inheritance, I think,” he said softly.
“Indeed I do,” Rys said, just as quietly, but with an edge to his voice. “It’s not that I want to be the Viscount . . . I don’t . . . but I cannot bear the idea of spending my life fawning at various courts, with no authority to actually do anything.”
“We are at least in agreement about that,” Francis said.
Rys pointed to his soldiers around the snapping fire. “In any case, Lord Francis,” he said, “you can trust
my men to take care of the fighting.” He grinned and slapped Francis’s shoulder. “I don’t want His Grace of Oc blaming me for damage to his brother!”
Francis laughed, too, but he felt a pang of something like premonition in his gut. He drew a sharp breath, trying to banish it, and turned back to watching the sky for Philippa. At length he saw her, a tiny figure on the eastern horizon, growing steadily as she flew into the west.
The winged horses were often compared to birds in song and story, but Francis thought their magnificence outshone any bird. And their partnership with the horsemistresses set them apart from all other beasts, making them the most remarkable and the most mysterious creatures in all of creation.
Philippa and Sunny were close now. Winter Sunset spread her broad, scarlet wings, and the last of the setting sun shone through them like lamplight through parchment. She soared down past the cliff, and settled swiftly onto the narrow beach. She cantered toward the camp, wings outspread, fluttering in the breeze. She trotted to a stop, blowing clouds of mist from her flared nostrils. Sweat lathered the jointure of her wings, and Philippa said sharply, when they were near enough, “Francis! Could you fetch me Sunny’s blanket? She’s overheated.”
Francis, hiding his smile at being ordered about like a stable-man, obeyed, and stood watching as Philippa stripped the saddle from Winter Sunset, rubbed her dry, bade her fold her wings, then buckled the blanket around her. “I must walk her till she’s cool,” she said over her shoulder. “We flew a bit too far, but I saw something.”
“We’ll wait,” Rys said. He gestured to the fire. “Join us as soon as you can, and we’ll have a hot drink for you.”
Francis followed Rys to the fire and stood with the others as Philippa and Sunny paced back and forth on the beach. They made desultory conversation, and Francis feigned casualness as the mulled wine began to steam on the fire and Philippa filled Sunny’s water bucket near her shelter, but his gut was tight with impatience. He had time, as Philippa shook grain into a feed bag, to scoff at himself for his bloody thoughts. He was the bookish one, the gentle one, after all, and here he was, eager as a boy to get into his first real battle.
At last, Philippa patted Sunny and started up the beach toward the fire. She pulled off her cap and gloves, and folded them into her belt. By the time she reached the circle, one of the soldiers had poured out a mug of the hot wine for her, handing it to her with a bow. She gave him a nod of thanks and came to stand beside Francis.
“You saw something,” Rys said.
“I did.” Philippa sipped from the mug, and held her free hand out to the fire. Her cheeks and nose were reddened, and strands of gray and red hair were slipping from her rider’s knot. “I saw smoke, and what looked like buildings, just inland from the sea.” She indicated the eastern horizon with her chin. “It’s at least three days’ walk, I expect. They must have crossed the plateau and dropped down on the eastern side. There’s a valley there. I kept a prudent distance, but there must be some way to climb down from the plateau. Perhaps this is their winter camp. It has some shelter, trees for a windbreak. There’s a bay quite close. You can reach them by water and climb up from the shore.”
“They didn’t see you, then?” Rys asked.
Philippa set down her mug. “I don’t think so,” she said. Francis saw how the lines fanned around her eyes, the toll the chapping of the wind took on her face. He took her mug from her and refilled it himself from the kettle. She tucked the loose strands of hair back into her rider’s knot. “There are several buildings, low, rather long. A sort of compound.”
“Then you couldn’t see if the children were there,” Francis mused, then felt foolish. “Oh, sorry. Of course you couldn’t see.”
Philippa gave him one of her restrained smiles. “I did try,” she said. “But I didn’t want them to see us. If Rys and his men—and you,” she amended, “if you retain the element of surprise, you’ll have a better chance.”
“Very good,” Rys said. Francis glanced at him and saw that he had brought a sheet of thick paper and a charcoal stick. He began to sketch what they already knew of the coastline. “Can you show me, Mistress Winter?” he said, handing the charcoal to Philippa.
“I think so.” Setting down her mug, she took the charcoal and spread the paper across her lap. She began to draw with a sure hand, with Rys watching over her shoulder. She drew several inlets as landmarks and showed a few stands of the scrubby trees. “Here,” she said, reaching a point to the east.
“You’ll see a great black rock formation thrusting up from the sea. Sea stacks, I think they call them in the Angles. Beyond it is the bay. Sunny and I will guide you. There are many such rocks, and I can’t think how you could tell this one from the others.”
Rys was nodding and chewing on his lower lip. He called one of his captains to him, and together they pored over Philippa’s map. A moment later, they excused themselves and went to confer with the other men.
Philippa sighed then and rubbed her eyes with her fingers. They must be burning, Francis thought, after so many hours of peering down on the snowfields. “You’re tired, Philippa,” he said. “You must eat something, then rest. I wish you didn’t have to fly tomorrow.”
“One more day,” she said. She dropped her hands, and her eyes met his. “I can make it one more day,”
she repeated. “But tonight I feel every one of my years.”
“Well done, though, Philippa,” Francis said warmly. “Oc will remember this.”
“Don’t speak too soon, Francis,” she answered. “We don’t have them yet.”
FIFTEEN
WHENEVERshe was not required in the classrooms or the library or the Hall, Lark haunted the stables.
When she was forced to go to the Dormitory, to sleep, she left Bramble in Tup’s stall, though Erna frowned at her. She tried to explain to the stable-girl that she was worried about Tup, but the girl was so slow Lark ended up simply commanding her to leave be. Erna looked at her dully, and said, “Yes, Miss,”
in a way that made Lark feel a bit guilty. But it was necessary. As it was, even with Bramble sleeping in the stall with Molly and Tup, she herself could hardly sleep at night for worrying about what Duke William might do.
Every evening she and Hester watched the skies, hoping for the return of Mistress Winter and Winter Sunset, wishing for good news of the kidnapped children, praying the weather would hold. Once Lark looked across the courtyard from the Dormitory and saw Mistress Morgan standing in the window of her office, also gazing at the northern horizon. Lark almost started across the cobblestones to go to her, to share her vigil, but then she remembered who and what she was, and she turned to the stables instead.
She glanced back before going in, and saw Mistress Morgan still standing there, one hand on the sash.
And in the middle of this time of waiting, the Klee girl arrived at the Academy.
The Honorable Amelia Rys was narrow of body and face, with brown eyes and unremarkable brown hair. She wore a vivid blue tabard girdled in gold, with a full and elegantly draped skirt. Her hair was caught back in a jeweled net, and her boots, when she stepped down from her ca
rriage, were small and high-heeled. Two footmen hurried to unload several trunks and a tapestry valise. A maidservant trailed Mistress Rys as she swept up the stairs to the Hall, the footmen following.
Hester and Lark and the other second-levels came out of the dry paddock, where they had spent the morning drilling with Mistress Star. They goggled at the entourage invading the Hall. Mistress Morgan appeared in the doorway and stood waiting, her hands linked before her.
Lark whispered, “Just have a blink at all that fuss!” as the Klee girl, with the practiced grace of a courtier, dropped a curtsy to Mistress Morgan.
Everyone in the courtyard could hear Mistress Morgan’s firm admonishment. “That will be your last curtsy, my dear. Ever.”
Amelia Rys rose and stared at the Headmistress. There was a frozen, awkward moment, when the footmen’s mouths fell open and the maidservant put her hand to her throat. At length, the Baron’s daughter nodded. “Have I erred, Mistress?” she said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I do apologize. I hope you will soon instruct me as to the proper comportment.”
Mistress Morgan inclined her head, held out a hand to indicate that the girl should follow her inside, then turned with a flip of her riding skirt’s hem and went into the Hall. The maidservant started to follow, but Matron appeared, and pointed, wordlessly, to the Dormitory. The doors closed behind the Headmistress and the new student, and the Klee servants, laden with baggage, trooped back down the stairs and across the courtyard toward the Dormitory. The carriage, with its driver and four magnificent gray draught horses, stayed where it was.
The second-level girls dashed across the courtyard to circle the big grays, admiring them. The driver gazed down at them in amazed silence as they exclaimed over various distinctions of the horses.
“Look at those fetlocks!” Anabel exclaimed. “Why, you could fit two of my Chance’s onto those big bones!”
“And so tall!” Grace breathed. “Their withers are higher than my head.”
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