Airs of Night and Sea

by Toby Bishop

  “Which means,” Hester said, “that no one was in the stables. Where’s Herbert?”

  “He’s having his supper in the kitchen. He hasn’t seen her since this afternoon.”

  “And Mistress Star?”

  “She was in her office, but now she’s gone to the Dormitory to look for Amelia.”

  “There are militia everywhere,” Hester snapped. “Didn’t one of them see anything?”

  “They say not. But you know, they stay away from the stables, because of the horses.”

  Lark put a hand to her throat, and stared at Anabel, then at Hester. “He’s taken her.”

  Hester’s mouth opened, and then closed. Anabel said, “Who? Who’s taken her?”

  “Don’t you see, Hester?” Lark said. She spun about, and started across the courtyard to the Dormitory to find Mistress Star. Hester and Anabel trotted beside her.

  Hester groaned, and Anabel said, “What is it? What are you two talking about?”

  They reached the Dormitory and pressed through a little knot of first-levels huddled together on the steps, their eyes wide. When they reached the stairs, out of earshot of the others, Lark said, “It’s the Duke, Anabel. He’s taken Amelia, and he must have taken her colt and Bramble, too.”

  “Taken—but—why?” It was almost a wail.

  “He wants to force Mistress Winter to come back,” Hester said.

  Just as they reached the top of the stairs to the sleeping porch, the Headmistress came out. “Hester,” she said in a hard voice, “gather your flight, and meet me in my office.”

  She walked past them and started down the stairs. Lark gazed after her, biting her lip. “Oh, Kalla’s heels,” she breathed. “ ’Twas me he wanted.”

  Hester said, “You don’t know that, Black.”

  “Aye, but I do. He hates me. And I wasn’t here, so he took . . . Oh, poor Amelia! She must be frightened to death.”

  “He wouldn’t dare hurt her, would he?” Anabel begged them, as they started down the stairs to find the rest of the third-level girls.

  “He tried to hurt me,” Lark said, making Anabel twist back to stare at her. “Aye, ’tis true. Last year. That’s one of the reasons he forced Mistress Winter to flee, because she knew.”

  “But—he has his filly now. Isn’t that what he wanted?”

  They left the Dormitory and started back across the courtyard. Soldiers stood stiffly beside the doors, but Lark felt their eyes on her, as she had done these past weeks. She wondered where Nick had been posted, and she prayed it was as safe a place as the Academy of the Air.

  Hester said, “Mamá says that once started, it’s hard to reverse the drive for power. Duke William wants power over the winged horses, and over the horsemistresses—and Mistress Winter has become the symbol for that power.”

  “And me?” Lark said. Guilt dragged at her as she walked close to Hester’s warmth. “Our farm is at risk because of me. My brother Nick is impressed into the militia because of me.”

  Hester’s long arm encircled her. Lark wished she could turn her face into her friend’s strong shoulder and weep out her anxiety and fear. But she was eighteen now, a child no longer. She was a third-level flyer, and would soon be a horsemistress, by Kalla’s grace.

  “Tied in somehow to Pamella,” Hester said in a low tone. “And to Seraph, too, I expect. Someday we’ll understand, Black.” They reached the stables, and Hester pointed to her left. “Go that way and see if you can find Beatrice and Grace. I’ll go the other way and look for Beryl and Lillian and Isobel.”

  It didn’t take long to collect their classmates and lead them across to the Hall. They found Mistress Star waiting for them. The girls crowded into the office and stood next to the bookshelves while Mistress Star gazed up at them from her desk. Lamplight gleamed on the embossed leather of the great book of the genealogy that lay near her hand. Mistress Dancer stood behind Mistress Star, her arms folded.

  Just so, Lark remembered with a pang, had she first met Headmistress Morgan, with Mistress Winter standing by her side. And now both of them were gone.

  She had a sudden, vertiginous sensation of time speeding away from her, of the precious days at the Academy dwindling all too fast, and with dangers all around. She looked around at the members of her flight. Anabel was the prettiest, with her silky blond hair and white skin; Isobel and Beatrice were both sturdy girls with merry smiles; dark-haired Grace and red-haired Lillian were almost as small as Lark herself; Beryl was wiry and outspoken. They had wanted nothing to do with a farm girl from the Uplands when she first arrived at the Academy, these aristocratic young women. Yet now, through one of Kalla’s mysteries, they had become her friends. They all stood together on the threshold of their careers as horsemistresses of Oc.

  Unless Duke William succeeded in displacing them.

  Mistress Star stood up, placing her fingertips on the genealogy. Lines of worry creased her weathered face. “No one seems to know what has become of Amelia Rys. We will all search for her again in the morning.”

  Mistress Dancer said, “We rely on you third-levels to help the younger girls stay calm.”

  “We hope there will be a reasonable explanation,” Mistress Star began, then, with a helpless gesture, she sank down into her chair. She bent her head, and took a shaky breath. “Kalla’s tail, I wish Philippa were here,” she said.

  Lark said hesitantly, “Mistress Star. Someone should get word to Amelia’s father—”

  Mistress Star shook her head. “No. Not yet. Let’s see if we can’t find her first.”

  “But—the Duke—”

  “Have a care, Larkyn!” Mistress Dancer said. “The militia are watching and listening.”

  “In any case, it’s just not possible that the Duke would have anything to do with Amelia’s disappearance,” Mistress Star said. “It makes no sense at all.”

  “But what will we tell the first- and second-levels?” Anabel asked.

  “I can search for her now,” Lark began.

  Mistress Star shook her head. “Absolutely not. Not in the dark.”

  Mistress Dancer put a hand on her shoulder and looked around at the girls. “Do your best, girls,” she said bluntly. “I have no advice for you except to rest as well as you can. We’ll fly first thing in the morning.”

  SEVEN

  AMELIA didn’t know where she was.

  Her previous experience of Oc consisted only of the Academy grounds and a brief view of the White City from the window of her father’s carriage. She hadn’t ridden her colt yet, and she didn’t know the countryside, or the roads that led between plowed fields and cow pastures. When Duke William drove her and Mahogany out of the back door of the Academy stables, she had plunged away through the woods beyond the dry paddock. They ran, she and Mahogany, with Bramble at their heels. The Duke had been close behind, and Amelia had no chance to look around, to see in which direction she was fleeing.

  Duke William had come into the stables, slapping his thigh with his quirt, prowling the aisles as if he were looking for someone.

  It never occurred to Amelia at first to be fearful. She was just putting Mahogany’s halter on to join the other first-levels for their ground drills. The second- and third-level girls were flying, and Herbert had gone off with his fishing tackle. Even the oc-hounds were off in the fields, except for Bramble. When Amelia looked up to see Duke William coming down the stable aisle, she stepped to the gate of Mahogany’s stall, his lead in her hand.

  “Good afternoon, Your Grace,” she offered.

  He scowled at her. “Where is everyone?”

  Amelia stiffened at the abruptness of his tone. She said coldly, “Everyone is working.”

  His lip curled. “Working.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Two flights are aloft. Mine is in the paddock, and I’m about to join them. Can I do something for you before I do?” She took a step forward, with Mahogany at her heels, expecting the Duke to move back out of her way.

  Instead, he put his ha
nds on his hips and eyed her for a long moment. She had to stop where she was. The realization crept over her, bit by bit, that she was utterly alone in the stables. There was not even a militiaman nearby. Bramble, lying just outside the stall, had come to her feet and now stood facing the Duke, her hackles up. Amelia knew the oc-hound to be sensitive, and Bramble’s wary attitude added to her own growing alarm.

  The Duke ignored the dog. “Miss Rys,” he said coldly. “Well met.”

  She inclined her head briefly. “Your Grace.”

  Duke William’s eyes narrowed, glittering slightly in the fading afternoon light. He took his quirt from under his arm and pointed it at her. “Come with me.”

  “Duke William, I’m not at liberty to—” Her words cut off abruptly as he sprang at her, and pressed his quirt against her throat. Mahogany whinnied, and reared away from the Duke. Amelia lost her hold on his lead, and for a moment she lost her breath, too. The Duke lifted the quirt, and she put one hand on the side of the stall, gasping. She could not have been more shocked if he had seized her by the neck with his thin white fingers.

  “Now, let’s make this easy,” William said in a low tone that made her bones quiver. “You just lead your horse out into the aisle, Klee, and we’ll go out the back. That way.” He pointed the quirt at the gate that led to the dry paddock. “Go now.”

  Amelia choked for a moment, then forced a single word from her tight throat. “No.”

  For answer, he gripped her arm with iron fingers and dragged her into the aisle, pulling her right off her feet. Bramble began to snarl, and Mahogany snorted nervously, stamping, switching his tail.

  Amelia stumbled, falling against the Duke’s whip-thin body before she found her feet again. No one, in all her life, had ever laid hands on her in such a way. She stammered, “Your Grace—what is it you—”

  “I gave you your chance!” he hissed. He yanked her to one side and pushed past her to try to seize Mahogany’s halter lead.

  Mahogany squealed, and one black forefoot flashed out, striking at the Duke’s leg. The hoof caught the upper edge of his riding boot, tearing the fine, thin leather from the top to the toe.

  William swore. Without a moment’s hesitation, as if he had been waiting for an excuse, he laid into Mahogany with his quirt. Amelia shrieked the same word at him, “No!” but the Duke paid no attention. He struck the colt’s neck and shoulders, one side, then the other. Mahogany tried to back away, but had no room. He flailed with his hooves, and the Duke’s blows fell harder, coming dangerously near his wings. Amelia shouted, “Stop!”

  As the Duke lifted his quirt one more time, Mahogany, teeth bared and eyes white, stormed past him through the open stall gate, knocking him to one side. The colt raced down the aisle at a full gallop. Bramble lunged into the stall to snap at the Duke’s ankles. Amelia seized upon the distraction to race after Mahogany, calling his name. She heard the thud of the Duke’s quirt across Bramble’s slender skull, then the oc-hound’s whine, but she couldn’t turn back for her.

  She ran straight back to the dry paddock. The gate was closed, and Mahogany was dashing from side to side, whinnying, trying to find escape. Amelia reached him and fumbled with the gate latch. When it released under her fingers, she threw the gate wide, and they dashed through it side by side, leaving it open behind them.

  Together, they turned toward the woods. Bramble caught up with them and loped beside them as they made for the trees. The Duke came after, his long legs leaping across the grass, seemingly without effort.

  Amelia could hardly think for shock. It had all happened so fast, without warning. None of it made sense, but then, Duke William himself made no sense. He was whip-thin, the sinews of his neck standing out like cords against his pale skin. His black eyes glittered, and his near-white hair hung loosely upon his shoulders, turning him into a creature of nightmare. He pursued them into the woods, dodging and turning as they did, shouting at them to stop.

  Cold with fear yet sweating with effort, Amelia struggled to keep up with Mahogany. Bramble crowded her heels as they forced their way into the woods.

  The forest was too thick to run through. Hazel thickets blocked the passages between stands of ash and oak, and time and again Amelia and Mahogany, with Bramble close behind, had to turn aside and find another way. And always, the black-garbed figure came behind them. After a time he stopped shouting, but he never ceased following them.

  Amelia began to understand that he was herding them. It had seemed, when he first accosted her in the stables, that he had no plan at all, but now he appeared determined. When they turned a way he didn’t want them to go, he hurried ahead to block them, forcing them to veer off in another direction. When their route pleased him, he kept a distance, silent except for the twigs and brush that broke beneath his boots.

  Mahogany, praise Kalla, was wearing his wingclips, but still Amelia worried about him. He had only his halter, no blanket to protect him, and his hide was scratched and bleeding. She tried to guide him away from the worst of the brambles and branches, fearful for the membranes of his wings. Her own arms and face were scratched, and thorns caught at her tabard and skirt.

  Her mind raced. Her gentle upbringing had not prepared her for this outrageous flight through the forest. She was lost. She didn’t know whether she fled west or east, and she had no idea what to do when the Duke caught her. And why had he done this? He knew who she was, what her connections were. Surely he knew this was the sheerest folly!

  She couldn’t think how to evade him. After seeing him strike her colt with his quirt, without care for his safety or pain, she would give anything to keep Mahogany away from him. She had no plan, and no time to formulate one. She could only run deeper and deeper into the woods and hope some way to escape would present itself. Her desperate breathing rattled in her ears. Bramble panted noisily beside her, and Mahogany grunted as he struggled beneath low-hanging branches and squeezed through the thickets of hazel.

  When they reached a wide stream, studded with great gray boulders, Mahogany skidded to a halt on the strand. Amelia clung to his neck, sobbing for breath. Bramble turned back the way they had come, her hackles up, her tail straight out behind her. She snarled and growled, then barked furiously as Duke William emerged from the woods. His pale face had gone scarlet, and sweat darkened his hair. The torn boot flapped around his foot.

  Mahogany snorted and reared. His hooves slipped on the rocky beach, and he backed into the swiftly moving water until the current swirled around his hocks.

  Amelia cried, “No! Mahogany, stop!” She stumbled after him into the stream, fearful he would slip and fall, perhaps break a leg or injure one of his delicate pasterns.

  Mahogany stopped, but he held his head high above her, so she couldn’t reach the cheek strap of his halter. He laid his ears flat and glared at the Duke. His upper lip lifted to show his teeth. Amelia leaned against him, willing him to be still.

  Bramble dashed back and forth along the shore, barking. The Duke snarled at her, and brandished his quirt. Bramble backed to the water’s edge. Her hackles stood up across her shoulders, and she eyed the Duke, growling deep in her throat whenever he moved.

  They stood in tableau for a long, tense moment, the winged horse up to his knees in water, Amelia’s boots wet to the ankle, and Bramble crouched, ready to spring.

  Duke William’s lip curled. “Ah,” he panted. “Klee. Brought to ground at last.”

  Amelia brushed hazel catkins from her tabard as she stepped out of the water. Her boots squished wetly on the gravel of the bank, but she held herself straight, gazing directly into Duke William’s black eyes, gathering her dignity about her as best she could. “What, my lord Duke,” she asked, “could you possibly want of me?”

  He did not answer but pointed downstream with his quirt. She looked behind her. Thick, impassable willows overhung the far bank of the stream. Going upstream was impossible, and the Duke blocked the way they had come.

  “Your Grace,” Amelia said. Her brea
th sobbed in her throat, and she cleared it. “You don’t have to go on with this. It is not too late to set things right, and no need to inform my father—”

  His laugh was short and shrill, interrupting her. “Go,” he said. He took a step forward, the quirt lifted, and she knew he would not hesitate to strike her colt again.

  There was nothing to do but move in the direction he pointed. Amelia stretched onto her tiptoes until she could just reach Mahogany’s halter. She persuaded him to relax his neck and lower his head, then she started him along the gravel bank. Bramble walked at Mahogany’s heels, and the Duke’s boots crunched against the stones as he followed.

  Before long they came to a narrow wooden bridge. When they passed over it they left the woods behind, finding themselves in rolling parkland, with the roof of a great house showing in the distance above a grove of beeches. Amelia turned toward the house, thinking they had reached their destination, but the Duke said, “No, Klee. Too obvious. Turn to your right.”

  He had recovered himself, it seemed. His hair was pulled back again, tied in its queue, and the color in his cheeks had subsided. He pointed again. “Go. Not much farther.”

  Amelia’s feet hurt. Her riding boots were not made for long walks, nor for rough ground. Sweat soaked her tabard. The look in the Duke’s eyes frightened her, but she refused to allow any sign of fear to reach her face or her voice. “What can you hope to gain from this?”

  “Go!” he commanded, and shook the quirt.

  She stumbled forward, leaning more and more on Mahogany. He lowered his head so she could hold his halter with one hand and brace the other on his withers. Bramble moved close to her opposite side. Amelia felt the strength of the two animals supporting her, and she took heart. After all, she was Klee, and the niece of the viscount. Whatever mad scheme the Duke of Oc had in mind, he would not dare harm her.

  The sun dropped below the hills to the west, streaking the sky with the red and rust of a harvest sunset. The colors were just beginning to fade when they came upon a shed sitting all by itself in the middle of a hayfield. The crop had been scythed once already, and the second growth was as high as Amelia’s knees. A hay wagon with a broken axle rested half in and half out of the single door, which was a heavy panel of unpainted planks hung from an iron track.