by Toby Bishop
Her own face would look the same before long, tanned and lined by the wind and sun aloft. She wouldn’t mind it. Such a face was a badge of office for a horsemistress.
She put a hand to the plain black fabric of her collar, where she hoped one day to pin the silver wings. If Duke William prevailed, her dream of becoming a horsemistress could vanish as swiftly as yesterday’s snow had disappeared before the rising sun.
She shivered a little. Nick looked down at her, frowning. “Feeling peaky, Lark?”
She shook her head. “Nay. I’m fine.”
The stable-girl met Mistress Winter, and they went into the stables together. A moment later Mistress Winter came out again, and beckoned to Lark.
Lark said, “Nick, Mistress Winter wants me. I need to go.”
“Have a care, then, lass,” he said, and patted her shoulder.
“ ’Tis you in danger, not me,” she said. “Are you going off to fight the Duke’s militia?”
“Only if Duke William does something—”
“Or if the Klee attack,” Lark said.
Nick’s cheerful features darkened. “We have no quarrel with the Klee. Their complaint is against the Duke.”
“I know.” Lark sighed. It was all so complicated. She saw no way out of this impasse, and no good resolution. She hugged her brother and crossed to the stables.
She paused at the door, looking east to where the sea glimmered green beneath the pale blue sky. Here and there thin streams of smoke rose from the plowed fields where farmers were burning the stalks of corn, the stubble of straw, the empty vines of peas and beans. Char was what they called that smoke, in the Uplands. They had called Tup’s dam Char, because she had been the color of that smoke.
Lark touched her chest, where the icon of Kalla had hung until she gave it to Amelia. Thinking of Char always gave her a twinge of guilt, the feeling that she had failed her. And now she was Amelia’s sponsor, and she had failed her, too. “Oh, Kalla,” she breathed, “if only I knew where my icon is, there would be Amelia!”
She imagined she felt the faintest heat at her breastbone, where the icon had hung, the residue of its power. She had made a gift of it to Amelia when her foal was on its way. Amelia had been so frightened that the foal might not survive, or might be wingless, or might not like her, but all had gone well under Kalla’s protection that day. Perhaps, even against these odds, Kalla could protect her creatures and the women who flew them.
Tup, hearing Winter Sunset preparing for flight, was hanging his head over the half-gate of his stall, whickering impatiently. As Lark passed Winter Sunset’s stall, Mistress Winter said, “Saddle Seraph, will you, Larkyn? I want to get to the Rotunda right away.”
“Aye, Mistress Winter.” Lark started off, asking over her shoulder, “Why the Rotunda?”
“I have hopes it may not be too late to forestall another tragedy.”
“Aye.” Lark hurried down the aisle to Tup, just as he banged on the wall with one hind foot. “Tup! Tup! Be still,” she whispered as she reached him. He tossed his head in answer and made his whimpering cry.
She let herself into the stall and made him back away so she could slip on his bridle. The stall needed mucking out again, but she would have to leave it to the Beeth staff.
She slipped the saddle blanket over Tup’s back, and he sidestepped and threw his head, impatient to be moving. “Tup!” Lark said. “Not now!” She shortened the reins and made him bend his neck, snugging his head against her side. “Now, be quiet. Let me put the saddle on, then we’ll be away.” He blew against her tabard, but he held still. She released him, and lifted the saddle from the dividing wall.
“Larkyn! Are you ready? Let’s get Seraph out of there before he does damage to the Beeths’ stables!”
“Aye, Mistress. Coming!”
Lark, with her saddle already in her hands, saw that she had forgotten the saddle blanket. She set the saddle down in the straw, and spread the blanket over Tup. Winter Sunset, on her way out of the stables, whinnied.
Tup, hearing his monitor’s call, began to prance. The saddle blanket slipped from his back and fell to the floor of the stall. When Lark picked it up, she saw that it was fouled with wet straw. She brushed at it with her hands, but the straw stuck to the wool. She couldn’t put a wet, dirty blanket under the saddle.
“Larkyn!” Mistress Winter called again, and Lark heard the impatience in her voice.
“Wait here!” she commanded Tup. “And don’t kick!” She raced down the aisle to the tack room, hoping to find a clean saddle blanket.
Just as she opened the door, she caught sight of Mistress Winter riding across the courtyard toward the ride used as a flight-and-return paddock at Beeth House. At the same moment, Tup’s resounding kick against the wall of his stall made her exclaim, and whirl to see if he had broken something.
“Larkyn! Now!” An edge had come into Mistress Winter’s voice.
Lark said, between her teeth, “Kalla’s tail! I’m betwixt and between!” as she ran back down the aisle to Tup. She left the saddle where it was in the straw. She hastily unbuckled her old breast strap, the same she and Rosellen had made so long ago, and which she kept looped on one ring of her saddle skirt. It was the width of two fingers, and ran from one shoulder, around Tup’s chest, and buckled in at the opposite shoulder. She had passed her first Airs by using this breast strap, though she had been scolded soundly when Mistress Winter discovered her subterfuge.
She slipped it around Tup’s chest now, and buckled it. The leather was well used and pliable, and in a flash it was secure. She tested the handhold and leaped onto Tup’s back.
“It will have to do, my Tup,” she said, as she urged him out through the gate and down the aisle. “And after all, we’re only flying to the Rotunda.”
LARK hurried after Mistress Winter and Winter Sunset, taking Tup at a trot down through the courtyard, past the long cow byre, on toward the break in the hedgerow that opened into the ride. The men parted for her to pass and touched their caps as she rode by.
Nick called a farewell, and she flashed him a smile.
Behind Nick loomed Brye, a reassuring presence. “Be careful, Philippa,” he said, his low voice rumbling across the courtyard as they reached the byre.
Lark caught up with Mistress Winter in time to see her cheeks flush pink as she inclined her head to Brye and touched the tip of her quirt to her cap.
Lark was so startled by this exchange, and especially Mistress Winter’s blush, that she almost missed the turn into the ride. It was Tup who reminded her, tossing his head against the bridle, turning to the right without being bidden.
Lark recovered herself and set Tup to the canter a few paces behind Winter Sunset. Halfway down the ride, a gentle decline wide enough for two carriages to roll abreast, Tup sped to the hand gallop on the dry grass, and Lark gave him his head. At the far end, the land sloped upward again just a bit, with the bare branches of a hedgerow marking the lane beyond. Sunny ascended ahead of them, her broad wings shining like flame in the cold sunshine. Tup’s haunches collected beneath him, and well before the hedgerow, he launched.
Even in the darkest and most fearful moments, the power and magic of the launch never failed to exhilarate Lark. Tup’s wings caught the air with powerful downbeats, his hooves tucked tightly up against his body, reducing the drag of the air, and his neck stretched forward, as if he could swim upward from the land into his natural home, the sky. She remembered how overwhelming it had been, that first time, to feel the sheer strength of the launch, how improbable—how magical—it had been to shed the bonds of earthbound life.
The wind from the sea was sharp, buffeting Tup as he ascended. Mistress Winter led the younger flyers in a banking turn to the east, riding the wind’s energy. When they reached altitude, she banked again, turning to the west where the fat wedding cake of the Council Rotunda nestled among boulevards and parks.
Lark pulled the peak of her cap down over her eyes against the glitter of sunlight
reflected from the sea. Now she could see the Klee ship in the mouth of the harbor. It was long and narrow, with five masts of various shapes jutting above it, sails furled. A longboat hung in ropes at its side.
A much smaller boat was crossing the bay toward it, tossing in the choppy water. Lark squinted, trying to make it out. It wasn’t one of the patrol boats, with their snapping black-and-silver pennants. This little boat bristled with poles, and she supposed it must be a fishing boat. But what was it doing there? She touched her fingers to her breastbone in the habitual gesture.
A tingle in her fingertips made her peer harder at the harbor. Something—some spark of intuition—called to her.
Her lips parted, and she narrowed her eyes. Was the spark on the Klee ship, or on the small boat? Was it possible the smaller craft was on its way to intercept the Klee ship? Why did that matter?
The sensation of a spark, like a small flame, intensified. She shaded her eyes with her hand, trying to see. Someone was on the deck of the little boat, standing among the poles. The someone was waving flags, black flags that tapered at the ends . . .
Kalla’s teeth, those weren’t flags! They were wings!
“Amelia!” Lark breathed. “It’s Amelia—and Mahogany!” She urged Tup to a faster speed, trying to catch up with Mistress Winter. She called out, but the wind caught her voice and swirled it away. Winter Sunset was already beginning her descent toward the park across from the Rotunda. Mistress Winter didn’t look back, and Lark couldn’t catch her attention.
A carronade fired.
Lark gasped, and frigid air shocked her throat. Tup faltered, just for a wingbeat, enough to make them fall behind Winter Sunset.
She twisted her neck to look back at the harbor. It wasn’t the Klee ship that had fired its cannon. A puff of gray smoke rose from the inner side of the harbor, and she saw that it came from a patrol boat just setting out across the water, angling toward the fishing boat. As it approached, it fired again. The ball splashed uselessly into the water, halfway between the patrol and the fishing boat, but the patrol boat was moving fast, its sails puffing in the wind.
The spark Lark sensed flared brighter, like an ember from a banked fire. She knew what it was, though Mistress Winter would have scoffed.
It was her icon, calling to her.
The Klee ship’s sails began to unfurl and open. They belled majestically, each great white canvas filling with wind as it rose above the decks. The ship heeled, coming about, but its size made it slow.
A second patrol appeared from inside the docks, its sails fluttering as it sped across the bay. A battle was building even as Lark watched, and those awful cannonballs would fly right into the path of the boat carrying Amelia and Mahogany. How was it that she could see that a winged horse was on its decks, and they couldn’t?
Or perhaps . . . perhaps they could. Perhaps that was the whole point.
“Kalla help me!” Lark cried into the wind. She reined Tup up away from the Rotunda park, out toward the harbor. She had to help Amelia. She didn’t know what she could do, how she would stop the patrol boat before it engaged the Klee ship, catching Amelia and her colt in the middle of their battle. She didn’t have an idea yet, but she would have to do something.
Lark glanced over her shoulder and saw Winter Sunset was coming to ground in the Rotunda park. She could almost feel Mistress Winter’s fury when she looked up and saw that Tup was not behind her, that he and Lark were winging out toward the bay. Lark was sorry about that, regretting that once again she had caused Mistress Winter aggravation and concern.
But this was no time to think of the trouble she herself was in. She was the only one who saw what was happening. Amelia and Mahogany had no one else to help them.
“Hurry, Tup!” she cried, loosening his rein and shifting her weight a little forward so the angle of his wings could be sharper, could catch more of the clear, chill air, drive them faster toward the harbor. He responded, his wings beating harder, the flex of his muscles radiating through her thighs and her calves. As he tilted, she felt every movement, felt as if she and he were one body, one will. Praise Kalla she had no saddle to impede her!
“Oh, Tup, my lovely, fine boy! Fly as fast as you can!”
THIRTY-SIX
WILLIAM found that his teeth were chattering from excitement as much as from the chilly air aloft. Diamond flew straight toward the hills, her wings glistening an exuberant silver in the sunshine, her neck stretched, her ears pricked forward. William experimented, just a little, with his seat in the flying saddle. It seemed that the deeper his heels were in the stirrups, the more he could settle his weight against the cantle and press his thighs and calves against the stirrups, the better he could feel Diamond’s movement. He was glad of the thigh rolls that helped him keep his knees down, and he tried to loosen his grip on the pommel, to trust Diamond’s balance to keep him in the saddle.
The ripple of muscle across her chest caught his eye, and he looked down, past her beating wings. It was dizzying to see the ground spin by so far beneath him, the farmhouses like chess pieces on a great, uneven board of fallow fields and narrow lanes. Only the road from Osham, twisting away toward the Uplands, gave him some certainty that he knew where he was.
When he judged they had flown far enough to the west, he laid the rein gingerly on the left side of Diamond’s dappled neck and pressed his left calf against her shoulder, just beneath the jointure of her wing. Obediently, as if it were a logical thing to do, she banked and turned.
William seized the pommel with both hands in a sudden spasm of terror at the change in angle, and his thighs clenched beneath the knee rolls. Diamond’s body quivered in response. He struggled to relax, to keep the rein loose. Her flight evened out in a few seconds, and soon he felt secure again, heels down, head up, hands low on the reins. They were flying north now. Perhaps they could take a turn above Fleckham. Perhaps the lads there would look out their windows, stream out into the courtyard, and catch a glimpse of the glorious future that awaited them.
They flew on for perhaps ten minutes, and William’s thighs began to tremble with effort, his neck to feel rigid from holding his back straight. They would, he thought, take the turn over Fleckham, then go straight back to the Palace. They still had that first landing to deal with. Mistress Baron had warned that coming to ground was more perilous than the launch. He felt a jolt of anxiety as he thought about how far down he had to go, how hard the ground would be when they got there.
But first, the slate roofs of Fleckham House beckoned ahead of them. He saw the tops of the trees of the little beech grove and the clean-swept stones of the courtyard. With a little more confidence, he reined Diamond in a big circle. As her right wing dipped, he couldn’t help seizing the pommel again, leaning to the left, and he wished, after all, that he had strapped himself into the flying saddle. There might have been no shame in that.
He gripped the pommel until he thought his knuckles would split as Diamond banked through the turn, wheeling high above the park. The paddocks and gardens spun beneath them, tiny rectangles of brown and green and beige, set off by the rail fences and the hedgerows. And now they were above the house, the Fleckham School. A surge of pride flooded William’s chest, making him giddy. He dared to rein Diamond around again, a smaller circle this time.
He must, he thought, give credit to Felicity Baron for her flights with his filly. Diamond’s wingbeats were so smooth, her balance so perfect, that although he was quite naturally nervous for his first flight, his confidence grew with each passing moment.
And there they were! The boys of his very first class, the lucky young men who would—after William himself—be the first horsemasters, the genesis of a new breed. They came out of the house, and stood in the center of the courtyard, staring up at him, just as he had dreamed they one day would.
He wanted to wave at them. He forced himself to loosen one hand from the pommel, to lift his quirt in a salute.
And one of the boys below, the one called F
rederick, no doubt, with his pale hair shining in the cold sunshine, gave an answering salute, arm lifted, white face turned up to the sky.
William’s heart pounded with a burst of reckless energy. He would land here, at the Fleckham School! It was a momentous occasion, and it should be shared, celebrated, with these fine lads whose futures had just been assured.
He reined Diamond around one more time, aligning her with the lane other winged horses used to come to ground. It was raked smooth, rocks and clods picked from the surface. He pressed his knees against her shoulders, as Mistress Baron had told him to do, and he loosened the rein. She had to have perfect freedom of movement, he knew. She had done this dozens of times, following Sky Baron, gathering herself, tucking her hind legs, reaching with her forelegs. The only difference was balance.
And if the girls of the Academy could do it, he could most certainly manage. For a wingbeat, two, Diamond hesitated, as if she might refuse his direction. His heart nearly stopped until he felt her acquiesce, give in to his will. She pointed her ears forward, stretched her neck, and began to descend.
And then, abruptly, she beat her wings again, hard. She ascended, skimming along the lane, her tucked hooves nearly brushing the heads of the boys in the courtyard.
William shouted at her. “Diamond! No! No! Down!”
Her wings beat harder, rippling with effort as she drove upward, away from Fleckham House. She turned to the east, banking so sharply this time that William had to lean forward over the knee rolls, grasping desperately at the pommel to avoid sliding out of the saddle. His muscles felt like water, and he wished again that he had eaten something, anything, that would have given him strength. He dared not look back to see the boys gawping at him, watching him lose control of his filly, observing this utter humiliation.
“Diamond!” he cried. “What are you—”