Airs of Night and Sea

by Toby Bishop

  Baron Rys had to know what had happened. A letter would be too slow. No one would listen to her, or believe her, but Lark knew in her bones that the longer Duke William held Amelia, the more danger she was in. Mistress Star would be furious at being disobeyed, but Lark was Amelia’s monitor, and her friend. There was no one else to take action on her behalf.

  When she spied the old tower that loomed above the town of Quin, she knew she was halfway to the Princely City. The tower’s distinctive pattern of black and white stones had been clearly described in the atlas. She lifted Tup’s rein, and urged him to the west, where a low ridge, topped by a grove of yellowing eucalyptus trees, ran between the town and the foothills of the Marin Mountains.

  Tup descended, swooping low over the ridge, dropping behind the straggling line of trees into a grassy vale where a brook trickled southward toward its confluence with the Arl River. He spread his wings and glided down into the meadow, his feet reaching, his neck stretched. Lark let him choose his own place to come to ground, and he landed without incident, cantering with confidence toward the little stream. Tall, stiff grasses tickled Lark’s knees through her riding skirt as Tup slowed to a trot, then stopped near the water. Lark swung her leg over the pommel and slid to the ground. She made Tup walk for a moment and took the saddle and blanket off his sweaty back so he could cool a bit before dipping his muzzle into the water.

  She had pocketed a bit of toast and bacon at breakfast, wrapped in a napkin from the dining hall. She took them out and ate them, though they were cold and not particularly appetizing. Tup nibbled at the tops of the grass, but with little enthusiasm. It was some tough variety, with seeded heads and thick stalks.

  “You’ll eat better tonight, I hope,” Lark told him.

  He tossed his head, making his bridle rattle. She led him back to the stream. “One more drink now,” she said. “Then we’re off.” He rustled his wings in agreement and dropped his head to the water. Lark paused for a moment, struck by the beauty of the sight, the late-fall sun sparkling on the brook and on her little stallion’s glossy coat and silky wings. She looked up at the foothills to the west, then to the north. The broomstraw should be in at home, the bloodbeets already on their way to market, but everything would be different this year. Brye and Edmar would have extra work with Nick away in the militia. They would be shocked to know the trouble Lark was now in.

  She sighed. None of it would matter if Duke William had his way. She had no doubt he meant to stop her from winning her silver wings. In fact, despite the faith Lillian and Beryl and the other loyalists placed in the Duke, it was possible none of them would become horsemistresses.

  She ran her hand over Tup’s back and found it dry. She put the blanket back on and swung the saddle up and over. As she buckled the breast strap and the cinches, she said, “This is it now, my Tup. We go on to Arlton and hope we can find the Palace, and Baron Rys, without difficulty. After that . . . I can’t tell you. I doubt the horsemistresses there will be happy to see a third-level flyer descending upon them without permission. They’ll be ordering me back to Osham within the first five minutes.”

  He turned his head, and his shining black eye regarded her for a long moment. She stroked his cheek. “Aye,” she said softly. “Aye, my lovely, fine boy. Whatever happens, at least we’re together.”

  She leaped into the saddle, adjusted her boots in the stirrups, and they were off again.

  THERE was, as it turned out, no possibility that she could have missed the Princely Palace. It dominated the city of Arlton, with its multicolored domes and buildings and towers. Its builders had used everything, it seemed—blackstone from the Uplands quarries, gray granite ferried by sea from Eastreach, pink marble carted across the mountains from Crossmount. The avenues and squares and plazas spilled to the north and to the south of the bright swath of water that was the Arl River. The pink-and-gray turrets of the Palace towered over the city, surrounded by manicured parks and pastures and a great circular courtyard. Long, flat-roofed stables stretched west from the Palace itself. As Lark and Tup drew near, a winged horse rose from beyond those stables and circled to the south and east.

  “There, Tup, did you see?” Lark called. She felt a renewed energy in his body as he tilted to the right and began to descend. They made a circle first, scanning the ground beneath. The turrets of the Palace were even higher than Lark had thought, their small windows at a dizzying height from the ground. As Tup wheeled past them, she saw his reflection, like that of an ebony-winged bird, flashing across the shining glass. He banked again, dropping toward a perfectly green, level paddock.

  Lark took extra care, settling her heels deep in her stirrups, loosening Tup’s rein, straightening her spine. Someone might be watching from those elegant stables, or from one of the windows. “Let’s be perfect, my Tup!” she called.

  She felt the flexion in his spine as he tucked his hind feet and reached with his forefeet. He struck the ground as lightly as any bird. His wings fluttered saucily as he cantered up the paddock, and as she slowed him to the trot, he pranced and arched his tail.

  “Show-off!” she laughed. “Even after that long flight?” He shook his head from side to side in answer, and a moment later they were at the paddock gate. Lark dismounted sedately, her right leg up and over the cantle instead of throwing it over the pommel as she usually did. She touched the point of Tup’s wings, and he folded them quickly, rib to rib, until they lay neatly over the stirrups. Lark straightened her tabard and adjusted her cap, running her fingers briefly through her curls to settle them. Then, with a deep breath, she opened the paddock gate and started toward the stables.

  At her approach, a gray-haired stable-girl emerged from the stable door. She stopped a short distance away from Lark, and stared pointedly at her collar. “Who’re you, then?” she said. “Not a horsemistress yet, I see. No wings.”

  Lark lifted her chin and met the woman’s eyes. They were as gray as her hair, and cool, nested in a web of wrinkles. “Nay,” Lark said. “But soon enough.”

  The stable-girl sniffed. “That’s as may be.” She turned a curious eye on Tup. “And who’s this?”

  “This is Black Seraph.” He arched his neck at the sound of his name and blew through his nostrils. “And I’m Larkyn Hamley, third-level girl at the Academy.”

  “Oh, aye?” The woman stood back a little, eyeing Tup. “Pretty little thing,” she said, and her voice was a bit softer.

  “Aye,” Lark said. “That he is. What’s your name?”

  “I’m Sally,” the stable-girl said. “What deviltry be you up to, Miss Hamley? I don’t see a messenger pouch on your belt, neither.”

  “No,” Lark said. “I need to find Baron Rys of Klee.”

  “Well. Can’t help you there. But you can trust me with your Black Seraph, here. I’ll cool him and give him a rubdown.”

  Lark relinquished the reins to her. “Thank you, Sally,” she said. “I appreciate it.” She looked up, past Sally’s shoulder. The courtyard was vast, easily four times the size of that of the Academy. Beyond it, broad marble steps led up to the biggest doors she had ever seen. She felt a bit like a field mouse, dwarfed by the sheer magnitude of her surroundings. Even her voice seemed suddenly smaller as she said, “Is that—is that where I go?”

  The stable-girl chuckled, not unkindly. “Oh, aye,” she said. “Someone will find you if you just go in. You’d better hope it ain’t one of them horsemistresses, though. They’ll have a fit if they see an Academy girl come here without permission.”

  “ ’Tis an emergency,” Lark said.

  “Aye. I thought as much. You’d best get about your business, then.”

  Lark stroked Tup, and murmured, “I’ll be back soon,” in his ear. He nosed her, and she pressed her cheek briefly against his neck. When she straightened, she saw Sally watching her with a bemused expression. Her eyes had warmed a little, and threatened to crinkle at the corners.

  “He’s in good hands,” the stable-girl said. The edge had
disappeared from her voice.

  Lark said, “Aye, Sally. I can see that. I thank you.” She turned on her heel, straightened her back, and set out across the pink and gray cobblestones toward the Palace of the Prince of Isamar.

  NINE

  AMELIA woke when the first morning light slanted between the wallboards. She stirred and sat up, surprised to find that she had slept right through the night. Bramble sat up immediately, panting, and Mahogany rustled his wings.

  “Well, friends,” Amelia said. “We’re still here. What shall we do about all this?”

  Bramble stood, waving her tail, and went to the water barrel to drink. “Good idea,” Amelia said. “Let’s start with that.” She led Mahogany to the barrel for the same purpose. She scooped up a palmful of water for herself and drank it, then another. “I would never have thought I’d drink from the same place as an oc-hound and a horse,” she said, stroking Bramble’s narrow head. “But I’m glad to share with you both.”

  She stretched her arms and her spine, and grimaced at their stiffness. She scratched at her shoulders. She felt as filthy as a barn cat, and she needed to relieve herself.

  Now that a bit of daylight illuminated the shed, she saw that some of the boards were wider than others. One or two were splintered, as if they had been broken and then mended. She stood for a moment, looking about her at the array of tools hanging on rusted nails and that heavy, padlocked door.

  The scythe looked useless, but there was a sort of spade next to it, with a long, narrow blade. She had no idea what its true purpose was. It took some effort to wiggle it from its nail, and a shower of dirt and sawdust sprayed over her hair as she did it, but in a moment she had the spade in her hand. She took it to the widest slot of light she could find, and began to pry at a board, using the boards next to it for leverage.

  When the board popped out of its place, falling with a thump to the ground outside, Amelia exclaimed, startled by her own success. Mahogany shied away, and Bramble trotted over to put her head into the space she had opened up. “Look at that, Bramble,” Amelia said with some pride. “I can wiggle through that opening, don’t you think?”

  The dog’s tail waved, and she stood watching as Amelia put one leg through the narrow space. Mahogany whickered uneasily. Amelia wrapped her divided skirt as closely around her legs as she could, and wriggled her slender hips into the opening. The old wood caught at her tabard and at her hair, which had fallen out of its rider’s knot to tumble down her back, but she persisted, and soon she was standing outside the shed in the half-grown timothy. She said to the animals, “Wait for me! I’ll be right back.” She hurried toward the trees to find a place.

  Much more comfortable afterward, she came back to the shed, and circled it, speaking reassuring words to Bramble and Mahogany. Bramble thrust her nose through the opening in the wall, but didn’t try to climb through. Mahogany whinnied, a loud, anxious call. Amelia came back to the open place, and worried at the boards next to it with her hands. “If I could just get one more out,” she muttered. “You could get out, Bramble. But for Mahogany, I’d have to remove at least four of these cursed things. I can’t risk his wings.”

  She reached back inside the shed, and maneuvered her spade out into the open. The sun was fully up above the trees now. She worried at the boards with the heavy tool. It was harder from the outside, and she was just thinking she would climb back in and try it from there when she heard him behind her.

  “My, my, Klee,” he said lightly. There was no mistaking the high pitch of his voice. She hadn’t heard his footsteps. “You’re very quick to dirty your hands.”

  She froze for only a moment, and then, slowly, propped her spade against the wall. She brushed at the muck and dust on her tabard and put her hands up to try to tidy her hair a bit before she turned, and inclined her head to him. “Good morning, Your Grace,” she said. She attempted a tone as light as his own. His own clothes were immaculate, a pair of narrow trousers and a new pair of boots, intact. He wore a vest embroidered in elaborate patterns of red and purple and blue.

  “What are you doing outside at this hour?” he asked.

  “Surely, Duke William,” she said, “you did not expect me to perform my necessaries on the ground in that noisome place?”

  One corner of his mouth curved in a cold smile. “Forgive me,” he said, with a slight bow. “I forgot your high breeding.” His face was composed, his ice-blond hair brushed back into its queue, but something about his eyes, the not-quite-rightness of them, made her feel queasy.

  She breathed the feeling away, and stood as straight as she could. She met his black gaze with her own. “I see you are an early riser yourself.”

  “Well,” he said. “I have guests to attend to.”

  “Indeed,” she said. Her mouth was dry, and she swallowed to moisten it, hoping he wouldn’t notice. “And how do you propose to care for us?”

  He took his quirt from under his arm and pointed it at her. “Stay right there,” he ordered. He pulled a heavy iron key from his pocket, and worked it into the padlock that secured the hanging door. She saw that it took all his strength to slide the door open. She braced herself, thinking that when Mahogany emerged from the shed, they could make a run for it. Perhaps Bramble could keep the Duke busy while they dashed for the trees.

  He anticipated her thought. When the door was open enough for the animals to come through, he stepped to Amelia’s side, and seized her arm. She was acutely aware of the quirt in his other hand. “This way, Klee,” he said in his silky tone. “Allow me to escort you.”

  As he forced her to walk back beneath the oak and ash trees that circled the hayfield, she heard the unmistakable sound of great wings beating the air. Two winged horses appeared from the east, soaring across the sky like great bright eagles. Amelia tried to pull back, to stay in the open, but Duke William forced her into the cover of the woods with the power of his greater strength. Amelia cried out, “Mahogany! Back!” But her colt threw up his head in confusion, and danced around her, stamping through the hazel thicket and flexing his wings against his wingclips. He wouldn’t come close because of the Duke at her side, but he was too upset to listen or understand. The winged horses flew over the hayfield, slowly, tantalizingly, but they were gone in moments. Amelia could not even see who it was who had come looking for her.

  The Duke chuckled, and she looked up at him. “I’ve been unable to imagine what it is you want.”

  “Well, my lady of Klee,” he said conversationally, “it’s not your diplomatic skills.”

  “No. I thought not, though I assure you, my lord, they are considerable.” Mahogany had settled a bit, snorting, and followed them at a little distance, his ears drooping with misery. Bramble stayed at Amelia’s heels. Her ears flattened every time the Duke spoke.

  “I confess,” the Duke said, steering her down a narrow path between two ancient oak trees, “that you were not my first choice.”

  Amelia looked up at him in surprise. Of course! She should have thought of that. He had come for someone else and found her and Mahogany by chance. “Who was your first choice, Your Grace?”

  “You need not worry about that,” he said, smiling. “I’m content with my prize.”

  Amelia dropped her eyes, thinking furiously. The path opened out onto a grassy meadow that sloped downward to its center, then up again to a small, neat stable. There was a grove beyond that, and the roofs of a great house just showed above the trees. The busy sounds of hammering and sawing carried on the still air.

  “And so,” she said. “Mahogany and I are your prisoners by mistake.”

  “It’s true, I’m afraid.” William scanned the sky, then pressed her forward, hurrying her down the slope. “But I’ve come to see it as an omen. A good omen. It strikes me that it can be most useful to have someone the Council Lords care about.”

  “An Academy student?” Amelia said.

  “Better than that,” he answered. “A daughter of Klee.”

  “For what purp
ose?”

  His mouth twisted. “Philippa Winter defied our authority. It sets a bad precedent.”

  “And you think this will bring her back?”

  “Oh, I do indeed, Klee. I do indeed.”

  Amelia said coldly, “That makes no sense at all. It isn’t reasonable.”

  “No?” he said, sounding amused. “But I am the Duke. I have no need to be reasonable.”

  “My father would say precisely the opposite.”

  “Would he indeed?” He spoke coolly, but iron edged his voice.

  “Of course, Your Grace. My lord father taught me early that with power comes responsibility. Authority must be rational and reasonable, above all.”

  His grip on her arm tightened, and she knew she would be bruised by tomorrow. He forced her to walk faster, and she stumbled briefly, then caught herself. “Miss Rys,” he began. She interrupted him.

  “Master,” she said coldly. “My colt is Master Mahogany, and I am called Master.”

  He sneered at her. “Don’t mistake my polite conversation for weakness, Klee. Soon I will fly my Diamond, then my power will be absolute. You would be wise to stay on my good side. The reign of women over the winged horses is coming to an end.”

  “If you think I would help you in any way toward that purpose, you are more foolish than I thought possible,” Amelia said tartly.

  His fingers bit more deeply into her skin, and his mouth twisted. In a near whisper, he said, “Don’t push me, girl. You’ll do as you’re told. And I am not averse to causing a little pain.” He pursed his lips, then his lips curved in a lopsided, mirthless smile. “Or a lot of pain, should it come to that.”