Fear clutched him as Diamond rose so high that the copper dome of the Tower of the Seasons spun beneath her wings. They soared above the white, crenellated circle that was the roof of the Rotunda. The flags of the great houses fluttered in the wind, mocking him with their gay colors. William gritted his teeth so hard they hurt.
He tried to gather in the reins. Diamond shook her head against the pressure, and her flight wobbled so that William nearly lost his seat. He grasped the pommel with all of his failing strength. She would have to come to ground sometime, because she would tire. He would simply have to hang on, to outlast her.
In the meantime, their path brought them closer and closer to Black Seraph and Larkyn Hamley.
It was her fault, that damned Uplands chit of a girl. William kept his quirt in his hand, squeezed tightly between the pommel and his palm. He would, he swore, make them both pay.
THIRTY-SEVEN
AMELIAclung to Mahogany’s neck as the little boat rocked perilously on the waters of the bay. The two of them huddled behind the cabin. The Marinan was turning toward them, slowly, slowly, its great sails tilting, emptying, then filling again as it swung about. They had seen her signal. But the patrol boats were smaller, faster, far more maneuverable than the Marinan . And they, too, must have seen her signal.
There had been no other way for her to let the Marinan know—to tell her father—that she was there, that she was coming. But it seemed she had made everything worse.
Mahogany had been so obliging. She had led him to the bow, spoken softly in his ear, then removed his wingclips, admonishing him all the while. He had tucked his chin, listening to her, his ears turning to the sound of her voice, his wide, wise eyes gleaming with understanding. She touched the jointure of his wings with her hand.
Mahogany had not hesitated. With heart-stopping grace, he opened his wings. They spread wide, black and glistening, great silken flags that quivered in the wind. The pinions fluttered like the wings of the gulls that flew curiously overhead, but he held them steady, as high above the deck as he could. It seemed almost that the Ram’s Head itself might take flight.
The shout of the ship’s watchman from his perch at the crossbeam of the mainmast had carried across the water. Amelia couldn’t make out the words, but she could see the sailor scrambling down the mast, and moments later she saw the blue-uniformed officers come out of the captain’s quarters and hurry to the stern to peer across the water.
Mahogany stood like a copper statue, his red coat burning in the cool light, his black wings arched and still. He held his head high, his nose into the wind. His hind legs stretched in a proud line, and his tail arched, flowing like a black pennant. It was not natural for a winged horse to hold his wings thus. His muscles quivered against Amelia’s shoulder as he balanced against the movement of the waves, but still he kept his wings lifted, because she had asked it of him, because whether he knew what it meant or not,
he understood it was important.
Amelia’s heart pounded with pride, then relief. Someone—it may even have been her father—waved an acknowledgment with a blue-and-white flag, three deliberate passes of the flag above his head. She touched Mahogany’s wing points again, and he folded them as deliberately and elegantly as if he were folding a great fan. She had stood there in the prow of the dingy fishing boat, feeling at that moment as if she were the Viscount himself, standing at the head of a great procession. Success seemed within her grasp, and elation at having succeeded in her mission made her eyes sting.
And then Vinny, from behind her, shouted, “Patrol!”
Amelia looked back, toward the inner harbor, where the docks of the north and south sides of the bay angled toward each other. A patrol boat came skimming across the bay, its little sails full, carronades sprouting from its bow. Behind it came another, flitting across the water as nimbly as a seabird. She backed Mahogany as quickly as she could, out of the prow of the boat, turning him, scrambling back to the frail shelter of the cabin.
Just as they reached it, the first patrol boat fired its cannon.
The distance was too great to reach them, but it was a warning. The patrol boat meant to stop the Ram’s Head from reaching the Marinan .
The Klee answered with another carronade, the ball splashing uselessly into the water.
“Can you go faster?” Amelia called to Vinny.
He shook his head. “ ’Tis all she’s got,” he shouted back.
“The Marinan is turning,” she said. “If we can get behind her—”
But she could see it was no use. The big sloop, though the sailors were running up the sails as fast as they could, was not easily maneuverable in close quarters. She heard the slap of the sails in the wind, and saw the bow dip and rise again, plowing heavily through the choppy green water, slowed by the backwash of its own wake. The patrol boats were coming up fast. The nearest one fired again. This splash was closer, the boom of the gun louder.
Someone shouted from the deck of the Marinan , and Amelia buried her face in Mahogany’s neck, feeling helpless. They would take her again and separate her from Mahogany. She had failed, failed her father and failed her adopted principality, to say nothing of the Academy of the Air. The Klee would attack the city, and the war would break out. There would be no stopping it.
Mahogany threw up his head, jerking his neck away from her. He whinnied, a long, loud call that pierced the sounds of the wind and the cannon and the shouting of men.
Amelia looked up at him in surprise. He craned his neck above her to look west toward the city, his ears pricked forward, his nostrils flaring wide.
Amelia spun about to peer into the pale sky. There, winging swiftly toward the bay, was a black Ocmarin with long, narrow wings.
“Seraph!” Amelia cried. “Oh, Mahogany, it’s Seraph! And Lark!”
And then, from farther inland, just cresting the dome of the Tower of the Seasons and swooping high above the white circle of the Rotunda, came another winged horse.
Amelia didn’t recognize the second flyer. The horse was a pale gray, with silver wings and a white, streaming tail. The rider was tall, dressed in black, but there was no ripple of skirt behind the horse’s laboring wings, and there was no peaked cap to signify a horsemistress. Whoever it was hunched forward over the pommel of the flying saddle like some terrified first-level student. But no first-level girl would ever be flying over water, or flying without a monitor to watch every wingbeat, every hoof tuck, every twitch of rein and angle of boot.
A carronade ball whooshed over the prow of the boat, terrifyingly close now, and struck the water three rods to starboard. Amelia held Mahogany’s head close to her, murmuring, “Don’t be afraid, my dear.
Don’t be afraid,” as much for herself as for her colt.
The Marinan had almost come about, its starboard carronades rocking in their webs of rope, the blue-clad sailors training them on the patrol boats. But the patrols swept on, driving themselves through the water, hurrying to put the Ram’s Head squarely between their own craft and the Klee ship.
“Vinny!” Amelia cried. “Do you see them?”
And Vinny, her mercenary champion, struggled with his sail to bring his own little boat around, swearing and sweating in the cold wind. Spray shot over the deck and splashed Amelia’s bedraggled skirt.
Mahogany, too, was wet with salt water, but he stood his ground, bracing his hooves against the slippery boards. His muscled neck trembled against Amelia’s shoulder as she felt him lean with the sway of the boat. Once her foot slipped, and she slid sideways. She grasped at Mahogany’s mane, and he tucked his chin across her body as if to hold her in place beside him. When she had recovered her footing, she held his neck tightly and crooned endearments to him. She could think of nothing else to do.
She realized a moment later that the Marinan was holding its fire. She looked up, past Mahogany’s streaming mane and forelock, and saw the soldiers on deck, poised behind the rank of cannon. Behind them were blue-uniformed officers,
all of them frozen in a tableau of waiting.
It was because of the Ram’s Head . She squinted, trying to make out which of the officers was her father. He would be trying to give Vinny a chance, to give the Ram’s Head enough time to duck behind the Marinan , where the cannonballs could not reach it.
They were lowering a longboat, too, she saw, on the port side of the Marinan , but that would be of no help to her and Mahogany. It would never hold her colt, and surely her father knew she would not leave him.
Another carronade fired, with a puff of greasy smoke, and Amelia and Mahogany flinched at the same time. Amelia glanced over her left shoulder, to see how close the patrols were. She cried out again.
A third winged horse was coming across the bay, and coming fast. This horse Amelia knew. The gleaming red wings, the perfectly tucked hooves, and the elegant head of Winter Sunset were unmistakable, outlined in pale sunshine. No one had a better seat or more perfect posture in the flying saddle than Philippa Winter. She and Winter Sunset were closing on the mysterious gray, even as the gray’s flight wobbled, then steadied, only to wobble again. And Lark and Black Seraph came on, flying directly at the patrol boat nearest the Ram’s Head .
“Oh, no, Lark,” Amelia sobbed. “Don’t! Don’t!”
It was clear that Lark and Seraph meant to distract the patrol boat, to give the Ram’s Head a chance to get behind the Marinan .
“Oh, no,” Amelia cried again, her voice breaking. She wanted to bury her face in Mahogany’s mane, and not watch, but she couldn’t. She had to face what was happening. If Lark had the courage to fly in the face of such danger, then she must, also. She was a Rys. And she would one day, Kalla willing, be a horsemistress.
OFall the Airs and Graces, Arrows was the most dangerous. Lark had listened to Mistress Dancer’s lectures about it a dozen times. She and Tup had tried it only twice, and then under Mistress Dancer’s careful tutelage.
But this was what Arrows was meant for. This was why it was the final test for the flyers of the third level, why it was the last of the Airs to be performed before they earned their silver wings. Every horsemistress hoped she would never have to use Arrows, but every flyer prepared for the eventuality.
And Lark was about to try it without a saddle.
She put her hand on Tup’s neck. She felt his confidence and strength through the heat of his muscles, saw it in the stretch of his neck and the power of his wingbeats as he slowed just above the patrol boat. He liked her flying bareback. He liked to feel her legs wrapped securely around his barrel, her toes tucked tight beneath his wings. She firmed her hold on the handgrip, and pressed her calves hard against Tup’s ribs.
The Marinan dipped and wallowed as it made its turn, coming about into the wind. Lark saw Amelia’s white, upturned face. Mahogany stood on the deck, his red coat dark with sea spray. A man was pulling lines, running back and forth between the little open cabin and the piles of rope that dotted the deck. The patrol boats had all the advantage, full crews, narrow hulls, and a running start.
And on the first patrol boat, the carronade swung in its rope sling to point directly at the fishing boat, where a precious winged horse braced on the deck with his bondmate.
“Tup!” Lark cried, though she doubted he could hear anything over the wind. “Are you ready?” She
offered a silent prayer to Kalla as she let the reins swing free, and she shouted, “Now, Tup! Now!”
His slender wings stilled for just a moment, and he hovered briefly above the leading patrol boat. Then, like a hunting seabird, he dove toward the restless water.
The men on the patrol boat froze. They were citizens of Oc. They revered the winged horses, as their fathers had, and their fathers’ fathers. A winged horse had already died in the conflict, and that loss would have been a shock to every citizen.
From the corner of her eye, Lark saw the captain of the patrol boat drop his arm, ordering the carronade to fire.
But the men handling the cannon straightened and backed away from it, just as Tup’s fierce dive toward the water brought him within a wing’s length of the waves.
PHILIPPA’Sheart lurched when she realized what Larkyn and Seraph were attempting. Larkyn had always been impetuous, but this was madness. She was wagering her life, and Seraph’s, against reverence for the winged horses. Lark trusted that the patrol would not fire on another of Kalla’s precious creatures, no matter what a mad Duke ordered them to do. She could not imagine how Lark had convinced herself . . . but Lark often knew things she couldn’t know, that she shouldn’t know.
Philippa could only pray the girl’s faith was not misplaced.
And Larkyn and Black Seraph were still students, still young, and Arrows was the culmination of the six years of training required of every horsemistress and every winged horse. There were good reasons it was held until the third level. Philippa had lain awake many a night at the Academy, anxious about teaching the maneuver. The speed of descent, the strength required to pull out of it, the dangers of coming too low, of employing too sharp an angle . . . More than once she had called a pair of flyers out of the pattern, fearing a fatal mistake. And now Larkyn and Seraph were about to try it, and they were too far away for her to help them.
The Marinan rolled from side to side as it turned, its bow dipping deep into the water and rising again as it plunged through its own wake. The patrol boats surged toward the little fishing boat, where it bobbed helplessly, struggling toward the Marinan .
And between Philippa and the threatening disaster was the dapple gray filly, her tail streaming in the wind like a banner of cloud, her silver wings beating more erratically every moment. William hunched over the pommel, his tension and strain exhausting his mount as she fought to compensate for his lack of balance.
Sympathy for the filly made Philippa’s heart ache. The young horse had been too isolated, and even her monitor had deserted her. She was making a desperate effort to join others of her kind, hindered by an imperfect bonding and an incompetent flyer. Philippa feared there was no way to save her. If William fell, one or the other of the boats below him in the bay could fish him out. But a winged horse, with its wings extended and vulnerable, would be doomed. That had been proved only yesterday.
But there was no time for such thoughts. They would not help Larkyn, or Black Seraph, or Amelia and Mahogany, huddled there on the little fishing boat. Philippa resisted the urge to press Sunny to fly faster.
Sunny was doing everything she could. Philippa felt the heat of her effort through her hands, through her calves. Foam from the juncture of her wings and chest spattered her wing membranes, and her breathing grew labored. Philippa, too, found herself gasping for breath.
Old, she thought. Winter Sunset and I are both getting old. Our battles should have been behind us by now.
She peered ahead, past the straining filly. Seraph was poised over the patrol boat, his small body hesitating in the air like a hawk plying thermal currents, wings stilled, head forward, feet tucked. And then, just like a hawk, Seraph’s wings tilted and he drove toward the water. Every line of his body, every angle of his wings, was perfect. Larkyn kept her hands low, her body curled ever so slightly forward.
There would be nothing to criticize in such a performance, no remonstrance about balance or tension.
The same could not be said for William. Just as Seraph, with a flash of his shining black wings, began his precipitate descent between the patrol boat and the ungainly little fishing boat, Diamond began to lose altitude. Her wings wavered as William leaned too far forward. His hands gripped her reins too hard, pulling her chin back so that she was forced to expend even more precious energy fighting the bridle.
Philippa swore. She couldn’t reach Larkyn and Seraph, and she couldn’t stop the patrol from firing its cannon. But perhaps she could talk William and Diamond down. Furious though she was at William for creating this situation, she couldn’t abandon a winged horse, any winged horse. She would have to try.
THIRTY-EIGHT<
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TUPangled his wings, and dove so quickly toward the patrol boat that the men on board cried out. As they fell toward the water, the dark maw of the carronade trained on them, so close that Lark’s bones ached with awareness. She could almost taste the cold tang of the seawater, feel the icy surge of it over her body. All control was Tup’s. She could only cling to him, curled above his withers, her legs molded to his body. The wind burned her throat and her eyes, and her cap flew off, twirling away to land limply in the water.
And then, at what seemed the last possible moment, the tilt of Tup’s wings changed. They began to beat again, hard. His body shuddered as he exerted all of his strength to level his path, to dodge the prow of the boat. He skimmed the water, his tucked hooves almost touching the waves, for one, two, three wingbeats. Lark praised Kalla that she had no saddle to deal with. Through her thighs and her calves, she sensed every movement of Tup’s great wing muscles, every shift of his body weight. She never felt, for even a moment, in any danger of slipping. She straightened, leaning forward, and almost felt that her own will, her own strength, assisted Tup as he began to rise again. The men on the boat exclaimed in amazement as Tup ascended, lifting from the dangerous water. Lark became aware that gulls were circling them, flying with them, creating a formation rather like Open Columns. Their cries filled her ears, and she found a trickle of tears on her face, tears of pride and relief and even hope. She cried, “Lovely, fine boy you are, Tup! Brave boy! Well-done!” The gulls seemed to echo her praise.
Lark glanced back and down, and saw the captain of the patrol boat gesticulating at his men. She couldn’t hear what he was saying, but she could guess. His men had backed away from the carronade, letting its muzzle clatter onto the deck. Its web of ropes lay slack around it. Someone else had run down the sail, and it draped about the mast, flapping uselessly.
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