Airs of Night and Sea

by Toby Bishop

“Not over the issue of men flying!” Larkyn said hastily. “But some of them—and some of the students, too—feel they owe the Duke their loyalty no matter what he does.”

  “I wish they would put their horses before any other consideration.”

  “Aye.”

  Lyssett bustled into the dining room with a fresh pot of tea. “I hope you slept well, Miss?” she asked Larkyn.

  Larkyn gave a glorious smile that made Philippa’s heart turn over. Despite all the girl had done in these past few days, she was so very young, and so innocent. They all were, all the girls still yearning for their silver wings. They didn’t know what it could be like, and Philippa wished with all her heart they wouldn’t have to find out.

  “I slept wonderfully,” Larkyn said. “The bed is so soft, and the sheets smell delicious!”

  “Everything here smells like lavender, I’m told,” Lyssett said. “Though we can’t smell it anymore, ourselves. Too many years with the scent in our noses!”

  “ ’Tis delightful,” Larkyn said, and added, “At my own home, everything smells of broomstraw from midsummer till harvest.”

  Lyssett set the teapot down and looked at her curiously. “Your own home? You’re not from the White City, then?”

  “Nay,” Larkyn answered, with pride in her young face. “Nay, I come from the Uplands of Oc, and my family grow bloodbeets and broomstraw, and keep goats and chickens.”

  Lyssett tilted her head to one side, regarding the girl. “I understood the girls of the Academy were always . . . That is, they’re meant to be . . .” Her cheeks colored, and she stepped back from the table. “I’m sorry, Miss. I was surprised, and I spoke without thinking.”

  “Nay, Mistress, I’m not offended. You’re right. The Academy bonds winged horses only to girls of good birth. Tup and I—Black Seraph, that is—we were a surprise!” She laughed, and Lyssett chuckled.

  Philippa pressed her lips together. How much time had passed, after the battle of the South Tower, before she had been able to laugh again?

  When Lyssett left the dining room, Larkyn leaned forward. “Did I say something wrong, Mistress Winter?”

  Philippa busied herself pouring each of them another cup of tea. “No, Larkyn. You said nothing wrong.”

  “But you’re upset.”

  “Not really.” Philippa took another slice of the white cheese and laid it on her plate.

  Larkyn persisted. “Something’s wrong. What is it?”

  Philippa lifted her eyes to Larkyn’s face again. The violet eyes had darkened, and a furrow appeared between the girl’s black brows. Her short curls shone like ebony. Philippa leaned back in her chair and breathed a great sigh. “It was such a good idea,” she said, “for you to cut your hair.”

  “Aye. ’Twas the only way, just as Lady Beeth said. Though I longed for the rider’s knot, when I was a first-level girl!” Larkyn smiled a little, and pushed her fingers through the curls. “Tell me what troubles you, Mistress Winter,” she said. “I do know there is much to worry about. ’Tis why I’m here, after all.”

  “Yes, of course.” Philippa sighed. “I had hoped, Larkyn, that what happened at the South Tower would never come again. I thought we had learned something.”

  “You were in the battle of the South Tower,” Larkyn said.

  Philippa grimaced. She knew perfectly well the child was leading her. She supposed all the students whispered stories to each other in the Dormitory. Her own class had done the same. And perhaps it was better that they knew the truth rather than imagining things, getting it wrong.

  Larkyn prodded gently. “A horsemistress died.”

  “Alana Rose, and her lovely Summer Rose, the sweetest mare. And all the hostages died, too, of hunger and cold. It was a terrible thing. A siege that went on for weeks, Klee against Isamar. When things got desperate, Duke Frederick sent us to help.”

  “Why did it all happen?” Larkyn asked.

  “The Klee claimed that Isamar’s Prince had blocked the shipping lanes, so that southern imports like coffee and some spices couldn’t get through.”

  “Was it true?”

  Philippa lifted her shoulders. “It may have been true. Or it may simply have been a struggle for power, for control of one principality over another.”

  “What happened then?”

  “The Klee attacked the South Tower, where Prince Nicolas’s father had imprisoned some of the Klee diplomats working in Arlton. Sadly, he made their families go with them. And Duke Frederick sent us out to defend the Tower, out of loyalty to the Prince, and against the advice of the Council. It was a terrible mistake, and though he never spoke of it again, I know that till the day he died, he never forgave himself.”

  She looked past Larkyn to the vista of meadow and sky beyond the window. “We were sent against the Klee marksmen, and Summer Rose took an arrow through her wing. She fell, screaming.” Now she closed her eyes, seeing again that awful descent, the roan mare spiraling toward the ground, one wing crippled, the other flailing uselessly against the air. “Alana never made a sound.”

  “Kalla’s heels,” Larkyn breathed.

  Philippa opened her eyes. “Indeed. I hope you never see such a thing. But should it happen—it’s one reason we train you all so hard.”

  “I know, Mistress Winter.” Larkyn chewed her lip for a moment. “So this is what Duke William has done to Amelia. Taken her hostage.”

  “It does sound like it.”

  “Her father will never rest until he has her safe.”

  “It was a great mistake. Esmond Rys is one of the most capable men I’ve ever met, as I learned in Aeskland two years ago.”

  “What will happen?”

  “I can’t see a good way out of this.” Philippa spread a bit of lavender jelly on a yeast roll and pushed the pot closer to the girl. “Enjoy this while you have it, Larkyn. We don’t get lavender jelly in Osham. And tell me what news there is of your brother—I mean, of your brothers.”

  “Nick is in the militia,” Larkyn said. “The extraordinary tax was more than Deeping Farm could pay.”

  “And the others?”

  “Edmar and Pamella were married at Erdlin. You were meant to be there, of course—they do seem happy. Pamella speaks no more than a few words, still.” Larkyn’s eyes twinkled. “They haven’t said yet, but I think she may be breeding.”

  “Really!” Philippa still could not get past the idea that the Lady Pamella, the Duke’s sister, should actually have married silent Edmar, the quarryman. “And Brandon?”

  “He thinks of Edmar as his father. We never speak of who his father might actually be—but he looks, even now, very like the Duke. Fortunately, few people from Willakeep have ever laid eyes on Duke William. If they saw Brandon in Osham, tongues would wag.”

  Philippa turned the yeast roll in her fingers. “And Brye?” she asked. “Without Nick, the workload must be crushing.”

  “He hasn’t complained, but of course it must be. The harvest was hard for everyone, with so many men in the militia. Brye is mostly worried about Nick. No one knows where he was posted, and we don’t know when he’ll be allowed to come home.”

  “My holiday with your family,” Philippa said, as lightly as she could, “was one of the best in my memory.”

  Larkyn, all innocence, said, “Brye admires you so much, Mistress Winter.”

  Philippa let her brows go up. “Indeed?”

  “Oh, aye. I’ve heard him tell Nick how strong and smart you are.”

  “I’m flattered,” Philippa said.

  “Oh, aye, but I thought you knew,” the girl said, dimpling. “ ’Tisn’t easy to please him. A good man, though, and he raised me as if I were his daughter instead of his sister.”

  “Yes,” Philippa said. She drew a deep breath, a little embarrassed to have been fishing for compliments. “Yes, your brother is a fine man. I admire him, as well. And now, finish your breakfast, Larkyn. We should be off and make use of the daylight.”

  THE storm of the night befo
re had rattled the tiles of Marinan’s roof, but by the time Philippa and Larkyn stepped outside to go to the barn, nothing was left of it but shreds of emptied clouds. The lavender fields sparkled with fresh moisture, and the lane was packed and damp but not muddy.

  “Will we go back to Arlton?” Larkyn asked, as they went into the barn.

  “No. It’s closer, of course, but we should be able to make it to Oc without difficulty. We’ll fly north along the coast, stop and rest, then set out for Osham.” She cast the girl a wry glance. “And this time,” she added, “we’ll fly in daylight.”

  Larkyn grinned at her, acknowledging the point. She said, “Baron Rys’s ship will already be there. He was gone before I left yesterday.”

  Philippa opened Sunny’s stall gate. “We’ll sleep at the Academy tonight.”

  “Aye. And Mistress Star will be that glad to see you,” Larkyn said.

  Philippa paused, one hand on Sunny’s neck. “Will she, Larkyn? Are you so certain?”

  “Oh, aye,” Larkyn said without hesitation. “I heard her say it.”

  Philippa slipped Sunny’s bridle over her head, and led her out into the aisle. She paused for a moment, looking at the girl with her pretty stallion. “I’m proud of you, my dear.”

  “I thought you would scold me.”

  “No doubt I should have done so.” Philippa led Sunny toward the tack room, and left her standing in the aisle as she went in for her saddle. Larkyn followed, though Philippa noticed she looped Seraph’s reins through one of the iron rings set into the barn wall. She had learned, it seemed, that he could be impetuous. She lifted her own saddle and carried it back to Seraph.

  Philippa followed with her own tack. “Of course you should not have left the Academy without permission, Larkyn, but—”

  “Mistress Star would never have let me go if I had asked.” Philippa allowed herself a narrow smile. “I know.” She spread the saddle blanket over Sunny’s back, tucking it beneath her wings, then hefted the saddle up to settle it over her spine. “I’m sure Suzanne did what she thought was best, but I fear for our people.”

  “Aye,” Larkyn said gravely. “There will be real fighting if something isn’t done.”

  “Precisely so. And no one will be pleased that a girl of Klee is the cause.”

  “But she wasn’t, Mistress Winter!”

  Philippa held up a gloved hand. “You have no need to tell me, Larkyn. The question is whether the people of Oc can be convinced of it.”

  LARK understood there were dangerous times ahead, but it was so good to canter behind Winter Sunset, to launch with Philippa Winter’s straight back and narrow shoulders ahead of her, that for a few precious minutes she allowed herself to revel in the moment. She could feel Tup’s eagerness, too, his delight in flying with his monitor once again. He was more obedient than usual, quicker to obey the touch of her hand or her knee.

  The storm of the night before had blown past, leaving the newly washed sky fresh and sparkling. Soon they would be in Osham again, in the thick of the troubles. But before that time there would be lovely hours of flying, and in the best possible company.

  Lark even dared to hope that when they arrived, they might find Amelia set free, the Klee ship departing the harbor, the horsemistresses and girls of the Academy once more in accord.

  Perhaps it would all blow over as swiftly as the storm had expended itself last night. Maybe when the Council Lords realized how close Duke William had brought them to war, they would all see the folly of the Fleckham School, of abolishing the Academy, of endangering the bloodlines.

  Lark sighed with admiration as Philippa Winter and Winter Sunset banked above the coastline, their slender silhouette framed by the green gleam of the sea. She pulled her cap down against the glare of the morning sun. She would give it all up to Kalla. Surely, with the help of the horse goddess, anything was possible.

  NINETEEN

  AMELIA heard Slater shout after her, once, and then nothing. His silence was somehow the more frightening, but she dared not stop. Mahogany, sensing her fear, give a shrilling cry, and she ran faster. The hard ground jarred her ankles in her soft riding boots.

  She had taken only a dozen strides when she heard the pinto’s hooves behind her. Slater was coming at a gallop and would run her down in moments.

  They had not gone far, not even reached the main road. She dashed toward the beech grove, striving to be within sight of the guards before Slater reached her. It was the only hope she had, that he would not actually shoot her in the presence of the soldiers. The pinto clattered up behind her, and she heard the thump of Slater’s big boots as he jumped out of the saddle and skidded in the gravel. Amelia kept her eyes on the stable and the grove. Where were the guards? Had they left when their prisoner was taken away? Was there anyone to help her?

  She barely had breath, but she used what she had to call, “Help! I need help!”

  Mahogany neighed from the dry paddock. Bramble’s barking grew frantic.

  Someone came out of the stable, running. He stopped when he saw Amelia, and she saw, with a sinking heart, that it was only Jinson. His figure looked slight as a boy’s, and his face was white with fear. He would be no protection against Slater’s bulk. There would be nothing he could do against Slater’s pistol.

  Despairing, she whirled to face her pursuer.

  Slater had stopped perhaps two rods away from her. He flung down the pinto’s reins, and the gelding backed away, his skinny neck bobbing awkwardly. Slater reached into his pocket as he stalked toward Amelia. She backed away, too, one step, then two, until he pulled the pistol from the depths of his black coat and pointed it at her.

  The muzzle looked enormous, its barrel black and thick. From her vantage point, no more than a few steps from it, it looked very like the carronades. It made her nerves jump.

  “Get back in the saddle, Klee,” Slater snarled.

  “N-no,” Amelia said. Her voice caught in her dry throat. She set her feet in the gravel, straightened her shoulders, and stiffened her back. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing a daughter of Klee scuffling away like a frightened rabbit. “I’m staying with my colt,” she said. Her voice steadied, carrying clearly through the cold air. There was, she suddenly realized, no sound of hammering or sawing coming through the grove from Fleckham House. Where had they all gone?

  “You’re coming,” he said, “the easy way or the hard way.” He started toward her.

  “What do you want with her, Slater?” Jinson’s voice wasn’t so strong as Amelia’s, and it quavered. “What’s your intention?”

  “Show her to the Klee,” Slater said. His thick features twisted with fury, and he waved the gun in the direction of Amelia’s head. “Get this damned war started.”

  “Not on my account,” Amelia said. “I won’t do it.” She lifted her chin and found that she felt stronger for having defied Slater. Later—if there was a later—she supposed she would marvel at the way her training took over. She was frightened—it would be foolish not to be—but she was composed. She was a baron’s daughter, after all, and she knew better than to quail before a common ruffian.

  “You will, my lass,” Slater said. He strode toward her with his coat flapping about him. “You’ll do just as I say.”

  He brought the gun to her chest, no more than a hand’s breadth away from her heart. “We’re going,” he said.

  She said in a chilly voice, “No.”

  Jinson, behind her, stammered, “Slater—the Duke—”

  The gun swung around to point at Jinson, and Jinson stumbled backward. “The Duke will thank me,” Slater said. Now his ugly grin returned, and he gestured with his head at Amelia. “I’m taking the Klee problem off his hands.”

  “Where is His Grace?” Amelia tried to speak as if she expected an answer.

  “He’s riding,” Slater said, with a leer. “Riding his Diamond.”

  “With the Klee ship in the harbor?” Jinson blurted. “War looming?”

  Sl
ater gave a phlegmy chuckle. “Our Duke cares more for flying than warfare,” he said. “We’ll just give him a little push.”

  “Not we, Master Slater,” Amelia said stiffly. “I will have no part of this folly.”

  He stepped forward, and seized her arm with his sharp-nailed hand. “You will, lass,” he said, his foul breath gusting in her face. “Because I says you will.”

  She drew breath to refuse again. Then, to her astonishment, Jinson jumped forward to shove at Slater, forcing him back so that his hand released her arm. Both of them, Slater and Amelia, flailed for balance. Gravel skittered from beneath his boots, and he tottered.

  Slater fell hard, landing on his backside as a great whoof of air rushed from his lungs. His black coat spread around him in a layered, greasy pool. He gave a breathless grunt of pain, and his pistol clanked against the rocks.

  Jinson turned his back on Slater to ask Amelia, “Are you all right, Miss? Not hurt?”

  Amelia had lost her footing for only a moment. Bramble was at her knee, and she leaned on the dog as she steadied herself. She pulled at her overlarge tabard to straighten it, then looked up past Jinson’s shoulder.

  Slater was scrambling to his feet. His face had gone purple with rage, and his lips pulled back from his long yellow teeth so that he looked like a snarling dog.

  Amelia gasped, “Master Jinson! Behind you!”

  Jinson’s eyes widened, and he spun about.

  Slater had retrieved his pistol from the gravel, and he swung it up.

  Amelia would never know if he meant to point it at her, or at Jinson. She didn’t know if his choice was deliberate or random. All she knew was that he gave Jinson no time to choose whether to stand his ground and protect her, or to step aside and give her up.

  The report of the long pistol came in two sounds, a heavy click as the cock struck the frizzen, then a sickening hiss as the ball left the barrel. Amelia screamed.

  Jinson fell before her scream died away. He collapsed, as thoroughly as if his legs had turned to water, and he lay in a boneless heap at Amelia’s feet. Blood poured from beneath his coat to spread in a dark pool that drained swiftly through the gravel to soak the ground below. Bramble whined, and backed away.