Toby Bishop - Horse Mistress 01

by Airs Beneath the Moon

  Now she lifted her head again, to include all the lords in her gaze. “Foundations are strong and courageous,” she said. “Nobles are swift and intelligent. Ocmarins are quick, agile, and have great stamina. It was Duke Francis’s dream that the bloodlines would be refined so that all of these qualities would be dependable, and it was his life’s work to see that the winged horses are Oc’s unique resource.

  Duke William has violated these precepts and acted in direct opposition to the laws of the Duchy that gives him his power.”

  She turned her body to face William directly. He gazed at her beneath half-lowered eyelids. It was exactly that reptilian look, those sharp features and hooded eyes, that made her think of the Old Ones.

  “Duke William,” she said, “in collusion with his Master Breeder, has bred a winged foal in his private stable.” She lifted her arm and pointed one long forefinger at him as she said in her hardest tone, “And he means to fly this foal himself.”

  The gallery erupted in a muffled chorus of cries and exclamations. One or two of the lords swore.

  Philippa looked up to see who they were.

  Lord Beeth, plump and short, sat in his chair with his chin on his fist. Lady Beeth would be in the balcony, having given her husband clear instructions on how the matter should be handled. The other lords, Chatham and Daysmith and Bowles and the others, sat straight or leaned forward, frowning at the Duke . . . or frowning at Philippa. There would be some who would oppose her out of hand. She was a horsemistress, but she was still a female.

  Lord Daysmith, tall and stooped, with thinning white hair, came to his feet. “What say you, Your Grace?”

  he asked, in the high voice of an old man. “Do you deny it?”

  William looked up at him, and waved one languid hand. “Of course not, my lord,” he said. His voice was almost as high in pitch as Daysmith’s. “My Master Breeder and I are developing a new strain.”

  Another lord stood up. Philippa had to twist her head to see that it was Applewhite, a baron from Eastreach. “Why, Your Grace? What is the purpose of this new bloodline?”

  William’s lips curved in his crooked smile. “Why, my lord, it is exactly what Horsemistress Winter has said. We feel the time has come for a line of winged horses that will fly with men.”

  A stunned silence filled the Rotunda. Philippa stood very still, feeling her heart pound beneath her tabard.

  And then Meredith, her brother, the youngest lord in the Council, stood. “I commend His Grace,” he announced, “for looking forward and for having the courage to break with tradition.”

  Philippa stared at her brother. Pain laced up the back of her neck and into her skull. Her voice was tight when she said, “This has nothing to do with breaking tradition. Lord Islington is ignorant of the nature of the winged horses. Duke Francis understood it very well, as did the late Duke Frederick. Winged horses will never tolerate men as flyers, because they can’t. This was not a choice made by human beings, but by whatever force created them. Duke William’s interference could be the death of this foal, and perhaps many others. It’s a doomed effort.”

  William laughed, a light, dismissive laugh. “The foal yet lives,” he said. “That proves the horsemistress is mistaken.”

  Philippa eyed him, struck by a sudden, sickening suspicion. “How many foals have died, Your Grace?”

  William’s lips thinned at this, and he stiffened. He kept his eyes on her face, but he spoke loudly enough for all to hear. “We propose that Horsemistress Winter be sent down from the Academy of the Air.

  Horsemistress Irina Strong died at the hands of Philippa Winter a year ago, and we demand that the horsemistresses of the Academy give evidence about the enmity between the two. In fact”—he turned his head lazily toward Meredith—“we suggest that Lord Islington accept responsibility for his sister and confine her to Islington House until such time as she learns proper respect for her Duke. Perhaps this would be a good time to breed her mare, while she spends some time considering her errors.”

  Meredith gave Philippa a cold smile. She turned her head away, not wanting to see the triumph in his eyes. It was just what he would like, of course, and perhaps he was already in collusion with William.

  That it was at his sister’s expense would not trouble Meredith at all. It never had. What a fool her brother was! William would turn on him without a thought if it served his purpose.

  Philippa folded her arms, and squeezed her elbows tight with her fingers, trying to control her temper. “I wish the Headmistress of the Academy were with me today. She could speak more eloquently than I on this subject. But I’m sorry to say that—” Philippa paused, horrified at the sudden stricture in her chest.

  She swallowed, and lifted one hand to her throat, as if the touch of her fingers might relieve the knot there. She drew a constricted breath, and her voice was rough as she said, “I’m sorry to tell you all, my lords, that Margareth Morgan, formerly Margareth Highflyer, passed away in her sleep yesterday morning. I can tell you she cared deeply about the winged horses and was appalled at this offense against the bloodlines.”

  As murmurs, some shocked, some sympathetic, some simply curious, sped around the Rotunda, Philippa leaned forward, placing both her hands on the genealogy. Strength seemed to radiate from it, and she felt the tightness in her throat dissolve. She thought of how calmly Margareth would have addressed the Council, how pragmatic she would have been in the face of William’s counterarguments. She stood straighter, leaving her fingertips on the stamped leather covering, and waited until the presider called again for silence.

  When the room quieted, Philippa drew a deliberate breath. “Duke William,” she said in a loud, clear voice, “has altered his body. I don’t know how, but I believe this is how he may have persuaded a winged foal to bond with him. But can it last? Will this filly be wasted because of our Duke’s hubris?”

  She paused, tasting the heavy silence that stretched across the Rotunda. Curious eyes turned to William, and his eyes narrowed under their attention.

  Lord Applewhite came to his feet. “Is this true, Your Grace?” he asked. “Have you changed your . . .

  have you altered yourself in some way?”

  William shot Philippa a malevolent glance before he turned his face to Applewhite. Smoothly, he said,

  “That is a private matter, my lord.”

  Lord Beeth jumped up. “As a sitting Duke, Your Grace, your health and well-being are the concern of your Council.”

  “No, they’re not,” William said flatly. His eyes glittered in the light. “They are my own concern.”

  “But Your Grace,” Applewhite pressed, “should something happen to you . . .”

  Meredith stood up, also, and called, “Good for you, Duke William! It takes courage!”

  Philippa laughed at that and was rewarded by a hot flush on Meredith’s face. “Have a care, Philippa,” he snarled, and sat down, glowering.

  Lords Beeth and Applewhite still stood, staring at the Duke. After a long moment, Daysmith, too, stood up, and said, “I agree with Lord Beeth, Your Grace. The Duke’s health is a matter of concern to all the Duchy.”

  “I am perfectly healthy,” William said. Philippa saw Constance, behind him, shift a little in her chair, and her eyes found Philippa’s. Something strange flickered in them, something Philippa could not decipher.

  “Surely changing your body simply to fly a winged horse is unnatural, Your Grace,” Applewhite said.

  William’s voice hardened. “I will not discuss it,” he snapped. “All that needs to be said is that I have bred a winged foal, and I will fly her. Then you will see.”

  “And in the meantime, Duke William—”

  “No more!” he roared, and Applewhite took a half step back, bumping his legs on his chair, and sat down.

  Beeth and Daysmith also sat, but slowly. A speculative murmur ran through the Rotunda, until Lord Beeth put up his hand. “Let us hear the rest of Horsemistress Winter’s suit.”

&nbs
p; Philippa tried to resume her argument, but there was an edge of despair in her voice. “To interfere with the bloodlines, to risk any winged horse, is a crime of high treason. Duke Francis, indeed, William’s own father Duke Frederick, would have banished anyone who committed such a transgression.”

  William’s eyes narrowed to glittering slits, but his voice was languid. “You have no right to challenge my

  decisions, Philippa. I am the rightful Duke of Oc.”

  “And I, Duke William, am a horsemistress of Oc,” she responded. “We answer equally to the Lords of the Council.” Though she tried to speak with authority, her voice and her words sounded hollow in her own ears.

  PHILIPPAretreated to a tiny room in the rear of the Rotunda, where cloaks and boots and umbrellas were stowed, to await the Council’s deliberations. She could have gone to the ladies’ reception room, but she could not have borne the avid curiosity and forced politeness she would encounter there. Instead, she paced, pleating her gloves between her fingers, feeling utterly alone. She should have asked Eduard Crisp to join her. They had not always been in agreement, but at least she and Eduard, by rights Oc’s Master Breeder, were of one mind when it came to preserving and protecting the bloodlines. Eduard, like Philippa herself, had been trained by Frederick.

  An hour passed, then another. Philippa went out to the privy. A maid saw her on her way back, and asked if she would like a pot of tea. She gratefully accepted, and when the maid brought her tea and a plate of decorative sandwiches, she drank the tea and ate every sandwich on the tray. The room was windowless, and she had only the vaguest idea of how much time had passed, whether the early darkness had already come on. She walked to one side of the room, hoping Pig and Herbert were staying warm.

  She walked back, hoping Amelia would remember to see to Sunny, as she had promised. She made another circuit, and hoped against all hope that she would not be sent to Islington House as a prisoner, riding like a chastened child beside her brother in his carriage.

  She was still pacing when a knock sounded on the door of the little room. Hastily, she smoothed her tabard, and was checking her rider’s knot when the door opened.

  “Baron Rys!”

  He bowed to her. He was modestly dressed, his hair cut short, his narrow features composed. “Mistress Winter.”

  “Kalla’s teeth,” she said, her voice tart with surprise. “You’re the last person I expected to see in that doorway.”

  He gave her a small smile. “I should have been here sooner, but Amelia has only just found me at my lodgings.”

  Philippa frowned. “Amelia? Is she not—”

  “She couldn’t stay with me,” the Baron said. “She had duties at the Academy, she told me. I believe she promised to take care of your mare.”

  “Ah.” Philippa blew out her breath in a noisy puff. “Of course she would remember her promise. But why did she send you here, my lord?”

  “Please. Call me Esmond, at least when we’re alone, Philippa. We’ve been through too much together to stand on formality.”

  Philippa let her lips curve, and it was a great relief to smile, to feel that she had a friend in this dismal place. “Thank you,” she said. “I do appreciate that. I think I may be in some trouble, Esmond.”

  “Amelia gathered that,” he said.

  Philippa looked at him closely. “Was she—it was she, then, that I saw in the balcony.”

  “It was. She was on her way to visit me and asked her driver to stop here. She’s very perceptive, you know.”

  “I’m learning that about her.”

  “We have a small surprise for you, Philippa. I had planned it for tomorrow, but as your need is so great today, Lord Francis bestirred himself early.”

  “Francis!” Philippa breathed. “Is he better, then?”

  In his noncommittal way, Rys shrugged. “We can say, I think, that he’s no worse. Well enough to travel in a carriage, at least according to him. Come, now, let us get you out of this—this coat closet”—he made a disdainful gesture with one hand—“and go back to see what Francis may have to say to his royal brother and to the Lords of your Council.”

  He stood back, and held the door for Philippa to pass through. As she did, he murmured, “Your Council

  is unusually partisan, is it not? I find little rational argument among them.”

  She looked at him over her shoulder. “Politics, Esmond. A field in which I do not excel.”

  His smile was composed and confident. “Ah, but I do, Philippa. I have spent my life studying it.”

  “Bless you, then,” she said with heartfelt sincerity. “I am in need of a champion.”

  WHENFrancis hobbled in, his face almost as white as the snow in the plaza, his eyes hollow in his thin face, Philippa could scarcely catch her breath for a moment. Surely he should not have left his bed, no matter the provocation! He leaned on a carved stick, one she remembered seeing in the umbrella stand at Fleckham House, that must have belonged to some long-ago, much older Fleckham. His pale hair was tied back with a black ribbon, accentuating the gauntness of his face. When the Council Lords saw him, they rose as one and bowed as he worked his way unsteadily down the tiered steps. One of the nurses had come with him, and stood in the aisle above with a worried expression.

  William’s rigid features told Philippa that no one had warned him Francis was going to appear in the Council. The presider bent to mutter an order to an aide, who dashed away to find a chair and carried it back with the help of one of the pages. It was elaborately carved, high-backed, and heavy. In fact, it was a chair to match William’s, and the significance of this was not lost on the Duke. He scowled, and growled something under his breath. The Duchess shrank back in her own big chair, almost disappearing behind her fur-trimmed cloak.

  The presider formally welcomed Lord Francis back to the Council after his service in Arlton. He spoke of his mission into Aeskland to save two children of Oc, and the grave wound he received there, and congratulated him upon his courage. This won a round of applause from the lords, and a much more vigorous echo from the ladies in the balcony. Philippa could understand that; Francis looked very much the pale, worn hero, leaning back in the big chair, his long, thin fingers resting on its arms. She had no doubt many a mother would be pressing her lord husband for opportunities to introduce the younger Lord Fleckham to an unwed daughter.

  It was not exactly clear to Philippa what weight Francis’s opinion carried with the Council Lords, but judging by William’s glower, it was not inconsiderable. The presider, stumbling occasionally in his search for a polite way to state the situation, reiterated Philippa’s charge against William, and his against her.

  Francis sat with his head lowered, his eyes on his hands, listening. He was so still, in fact, for long moments after the presider stopped speaking, that Philippa worried further about his strength.

  At last he lifted his head. His dark eyes, so like William’s glittered as if with a fever. He said in a clear, though slightly thin voice, “The ancestor whose name I bear would be appalled at the actions of my lord brother.”

  There was a hiss of indrawn breath around the tiers, and one small cry from the gallery.

  William’s eyes were slits of obsidian, but Francis didn’t look at him. He glanced up into the circular aisle behind the tiers, where Baron Rys stood with his hands clasped behind him, watching the proceedings.

  “I wondered, naturally,” Francis went on, “why the Duke of Oc would disdain a mission to save two children kidnapped from a village in the Angles, or to take revenge on the barbarians who killed several citizens.” He paused for breath, and Philippa bit her lip. He looked as if this effort would sap the last of his strength. The knife wound had refused to heal, and she knew the doctors worried over lingering poison in the wound. Several of the Council Lords were frowning, too, shaking their heads over Francis’s weakness.

  “Now,” Francis went on, “I’m afraid I understand. Please forgive me, my lords, if I do not speak at length. It
’s true I was wounded, through my own foolishness, and I am not yet myself. But I felt compelled to tell you . . .” Again he paused, and breathed. “To tell you that my lord brother is obsessed with the winged horses to the exclusion of his rightful duties.”

  He let his head drop against the carved head of the chair, and his eyelids drooped.

  “Theatrics!” William snapped. “How dare you? Did you not sell one of our winged horses, our birthright, to the Klee?” Murmurs ran around the Rotunda at this accusation. Heads leaned together, and gestures were made from one tier to another. Philippa sat very still. There was more she could say, of course.

  There was the incident with the oc-hound, and with Black Seraph . . . and there was the issue, the

  mystery, really, of the Lady Pamella. But Francis knew all of these things, and so did Rys. They would know, better than she, how much was relevant to this dispute, and how much was better, for all concerned, to keep private.

  As if he had read her thoughts, the Klee Baron left the circular aisle and stepped down through the tiers, nodding to the lords as he passed them. When he reached the dais, he stopped in front of William and bowed.

  William, at the sight of him, shot to his feet, his face suffused with angry color. A pulse beat visibly in his throat, and his voice grew shrill. “Rys!” he cried. “Who gave you leave to be present at Oc’s Council?”

  Baron Rys, with icy composure, bowed again, this time to all the Council. “My lords,” he called. Silence fell, and curious glances came to rest upon him. Francis opened his eyes but did not lift his head. “I am Esmond Rys, Baron of Klee, younger brother of Viscount Richard of Klee.”