Airs Beneath the Moon

by Toby Bishop

  Her own Winter Sunset was of the Noble bloodline, a strain aptly named. Nobles were swift, graceful horses, prized by royals as couriers and escorts. A flight of seven Nobles signified a progress by the Prince himself, and preceded him on foreign state visits. Foundation horses were big and strong, trained for battle, for patrolling borders and defending vulnerable outposts. From the Ocmarin line came slender, agile animals, famed for endurance and intelligence. Ocmarins carried messages to the farthest corners of the principality, and even to other kingdoms.

  Thinking of the bloodlines reminded Philippa of her mission, and she hurried on toward the stables. There was nothing easy about the task that faced her this morning. There had been a time when Duke Frederick guarded the bloodlines with a ferocity that commanded respect from the Council of Lords and no small degree of fear from those who worked with winged horses. But it was not easy talking to the Duke these days, nor had it been for the past eight months. The loss of his daughter, his favorite child, had broken him.

  Herbert emerged from the stables as Philippa approached, and Bramble, the oc-hound, trotted eagerly forward to greet her. She stroked the dog’s narrow, satiny head. Bramble sat, watching her hopefully. “Sorry, Bramble,” Philippa murmured. “No time to play today.”

  “Need your mare then, Mistress?” Herbert asked.

  “Yes, please.” She adjusted her cap on her head, and smoothed her rider’s knot. She was pulling on her gloves when Rosellen appeared with Sunny, flying saddle in place. The sight of her, even now, made Philippa’s heart beat faster.

  Margareth had been right. The loss of her mount must seem, to a horsemistress, to presage her own death. There was still work to be done, of course, foalings and breedings and girls to be guided and taught. But there could be no substitute for being airborne, for looking down on the green and brown and white landscape, for flying above expanses of blue water, for being above—far above—the mundane details of life on the ground.

  Philippa turned toward the flight paddock, Sunny’s nose at her shoulder, eager to lift into the chilly golden morning.

  The doors of the Dormitory opened, and the twitter of girls’ voices reached her across the expanse of courtyard. Time to be away. With luck, she would catch Frederick at his own breakfast. With even more luck, she might find him alone.

  FIVE

  THE quickest route to the Ducal Palace led directly over Osham. Philippa thrust aside her worries for the brief flight, and gave herself up to the pleasure of feeling Sunny’s powerful wings lifting them into the wind, of the rush of the wind in her ears. They followed the twisting ribbon of the Grand River as it cut between the turrets and spires of the White City. Philippa glanced over her shoulder at the copper dome of the Tower of the Seasons, gleaming against the distant green tapestry of the sea. Beyond it the white marble rotunda of the Council of Lords sat like a fat iced wedding cake, aflap with pennants bearing the insignias of each noble family.

  In her girlhood, Philippa had spent a good part of each year in the White City, accompanying her mother and her sisters to social occasions, attending concerts, promenading their ponies through the parks. It was far better to fly above it all, as she did now, looking down on the immense houses of the Council Lords, the great brick plaza around the Tower, on the broad avenues where the gentry strolled and shopped, on the cramped neighborhoods of the working people. Sunny’s wings beat steadily, tilting as she banked to the north. Philippa shifted her weight to match the mare’s angle without thinking about it. They had flown together nearly twenty years, and Sunny knew the way to the Palace as well as she did. They had served there, on the special request of the Duke. The Palace had felt almost as much like home to Philippa as the Academy. Those days, she knew, were now gone, her friend and mentor failing, his heir poised to seize his power.

  They approached the Palace from the south and circled to approach from the north. With the wind at her back, Sunny settled toward the park. Philippa sat deep in her saddle, giving the mare her head as her wingbeats slowed and then stopped. As Sunny began her glide, Philippa looked ahead to the Palace grounds. Gardeners were taking advantage of the early spring weather to dig beds and prune dead canes from the hedges. The stables were lively with movement, several of the Duke’s flyers visible in the paddock. Philippa wished she would find Frederick about to set out on some affair of state, escorted by a flight of Nobles, as he had done so often during her years here. She knew he had not left the Palace since Pamella’s disappearance, and now it seemed likely he never would again.

  Sunny descended, her neck stretching, her haunches gathered beneath her. Philippa collected herself as well, elbows in, heels down, helping Sunny to balance, leaning back ever so slightly as the mare’s forelegs reached for the ground. The return paddock of the Ducal Palace was long and narrow, and Sunny, exuberant from the short flight, covered the length of it at a hand gallop, shaking her bridle, flaring her tail. Her pinions trailed the spring grass, and it almost seemed she would launch herself once again into the sky.

  Philippa lifted the reins. Sunny whuffed and pranced, but she slowed to a canter, and then a trot. Soon she stood, blowing and stamping, as a stable-girl came out to meet them.

  “Mistress Winter,” the stable-girl said. “Good morning.” She was, of course, not a girl at all, but a woman of advanced years, dry and leathery as an old fence, who had been in service to the Duke since his investiture, and to his father before that. In Philippa’s time at the Palace, she had come to know her well.

  “Jolinda. It’s good to see you.” The passing years had whitened the old retainer’s hair, dried her skin on her bones. Only her eyes were as bright and lively as Philippa remembered them. “Rosellen sends her greetings.”

  The older woman grinned. “Rosellen! Good girl, that.”

  Philippa smiled. “I know.”

  Jolinda took Sunny’s reins. “Best get indoors now. Your cheeks are as red as His Grace’s roses.”

  Philippa turned toward the Palace. Its marble and stone facade sparkled in the sun, its windows gleaming. Automatically, she glanced at the southern wing, where she had lived with the other horsemistresses. With the great exception of the raid on the South Tower of Isamar, it had been the happiest time of her life. “How is Duke Frederick, Jolinda? Does he ride?”

  Jolinda paused, and Sunny almost bumped into her. “No, Mistress,” the stable-girl said. “He doesn’t ride, nor hardly go out of his chambers, to hear Andrews tell it. Palace been a bleak place since they lost Pamella.”

  “She was a beautiful girl.”

  Jolinda spat into the grass between her feet. “Beautiful, heh. That’s as may be. Lady Pamella was a spoiled brat, pure and simple. Drove them tutors wild with whims and tantrums. My own mum would have put paid to such behaviors. But His Grace adored her.” Jolinda shrugged, and led Sunny toward the stables.

  Philippa strode away in the opposite direction, stripping off her gloves as she went. An oc-hound came to pace beside her, drawn as they always were to flyers. She stroked its head, and its plume of a tail waved. When she had crossed the courtyard, she patted it again. “Wish me luck, my friend,” she whispered, and waved it back to the stables. It trotted away, but stopped at the far side of the courtyard, head lifted, eyes fixed on her. The oc-hounds were as sensitive as the winged horses. A pity she had not had one when she was a lonely girl!

  Philippa climbed the broad steps, tucking her gloves into the pocket of her riding jacket. As she reached the top, one of the heavy doors swung open, and a tall, thin man in the Duke’s livery bowed to her.

  “Horsemistress Winter,” he said gravely. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  “Good morning, Andrews.” She gave him her cap and her quirt.

  “Shall I take your coat, Mistress?”

  She shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m a bit chilled.”

  “Of course. A cold morning for flying.” He bowed again. “Have you breakfasted? I could certainly bring you something in the small dining room, a
nd there’s a nice fire going.”

  “Thank you, Andrews, but no.” She glanced around at the elaborately appointed entryway. Crystal and silver and brass shone everywhere. A maid in a long apron was polishing the tall mullioned windows, and at the end of the long lower hall, other servants in livery moved back and forth laden with linens or trays of china. “Is His Grace at home?” Philippa asked. “I need to speak with him.”

  “I will ask,” Andrews said. He laid her things neatly on a side table, and disappeared up the stairs.

  He was gone for some time. Philippa paced, smoothing her hair before a beveled mirror, unbuttoning her riding coat when she finally felt warm enough. When she came near the house-maid, the girl curtsied, and scurried off down the hall. Philippa turned on her heel, pacing the other way, wondering what had become of Andrews.

  When he returned at last, and bowed to her a third time from the foot of the stairs, he avoided her eyes. “Lord William will receive you, Horsemistress.”

  Philippa paused. “No, Andrews,” she said. “I came to see Duke Frederick.”

  “Yes, Mistress. I understood you to say so. But the Duke—” His eyes flickered to one side, back again. He cleared his throat. “The Duke is not well, Mistress Winter. And Lord—that is, I am told he can’t have visitors this morning.”

  “Andrews—where is Lady Sophia?”

  The steward let his eyes flicker up to hers, just briefly, and then he dropped them again. “The Duchess has been staying at the city house,” he said, his voice weighted with sorrow. “Since they lost Pamella—Lord William says she can’t bear to stay here in the Palace.”

  Philippa felt no surprise at that. Lady Sophia’s predilections were well known, and they didn’t include maternal devotion. She was famous for her affairs and extravagant entertainments, and had never shared Frederick’s passion for the winged horses.

  “And Francis?”

  “Lord Francis is in Isamar, Mistress Winter. Lord William thought it best—that is, he sent him there, some weeks ago.”

  “That seems strange, just now,” Philippa said.

  Another voice spoke. “We needed a liaison with the Prince, of course.” Philippa stiffened, and looked past Andrews at Lord William himself, who stood now at the turning of the stair, gazing down at her.

  The old steward stepped aside, ducking his head in an uncharacteristically awkward fashion, and disappeared swiftly down the lower hall. William smiled down at Philippa.

  “Mistress Winter,” he said. His voice was light, like that of a young boy. He wore black and silver, the same hues as Philippa’s own riding habit, though he affected a thickly embroidered scarlet and purple vest over his full-sleeved shirt. He came down the stairs, setting his feet with care on the polished oak. His soft boots made no sound. He stopped on the second step from the bottom, preserving the advantage of height.

  He must have, she thought, the best barber in the Duchy. His cheeks and chin were smooth as a girl’s, and his hair, the startling white-blond of all the Fleckhams, fell at a perfect angle to his shoulders. “It’s always good to see you,” he said smoothly. He leaned forward, ever so slightly, and Philippa, standing at the bottom of the staircase, had to resist the urge to lean back. He smiled again, as if he knew. “Tell me, Philippa. What can the House of Oc do for the Academy on this fine morning?”

  How foolish a girl she must have been, Philippa thought, to have imagined herself in love with this cold man.

  But she was no longer a girl, and she knew William for what he was. Tension tightened into a knot between her shoulder blades, and the familiar thread of pain lanced up her neck and into her skull. She regarded him gravely. “Rumors reached us,” she said, “that His Grace was unwell. The Headmistress asked me to express her concern.”

  “Indeed.” William spoke lightly, but Philippa saw the glint in his eyes. “How kind of Margareth to spare you from your duties to call upon my father. And when you have been so busy, dashing about the countryside. Pressing business for the Academy, no doubt.”

  A flare of anxiety added to Philippa’s headache. Instinctively, she prevaricated. “Academy business, yes. Nothing of interest to you, my lord.”

  “You might be surprised.”

  Philippa gazed up at him, at his archly lifted brow, the expectant widening of his ice-blue eyes. “Why, no,” she said. “I doubt I would.” Her audacity was rewarded by a tinge of red creeping across William’s pale cheek. She added, “In any case, I would not dream of burdening you with the small details of school business.” She took a step forward. “And now, may I please go up to your father? It’s been too long, and both Margareth and I are concerned for him.”

  Her movement forced William to either give in, or deliberately block her progress. He hesitated no more than a moment before he took a graceful step to his left, and indicated she should precede him. “Of course you may, Philippa. Now that I know how worried you are . . . but please, a short visit. My lord father is truly unwell.” Maddeningly, he followed at her shoulder as she started up the steps. “But let me assure you, Horsemistress, that you may pursue your interests in any part of Oc without concern for your safety.”

  Philippa just prevented herself from hissing a swift breath. He meant, of course, that she was being spied upon. And there was nothing she could do about it.

  William followed close at her heels, making it clear she would have no time alone with Frederick. Sophia, Francis, Eduard Crisp . . . William had done a thorough job. Frederick must be very weak, indeed, not to protest such isolation.

  She didn’t glance back at William as she made her way to the Duke’s apartment. At her quiet knock, Frederick’s valet opened the door. He bowed when he saw her, and held the door wide.

  Frederick, her old friend and mentor, sat in a wing chair beside the tall windows. A blanket covered his long legs, and his spare figure slumped a little. The heavy drapes were pulled back, giving the Duke a clear view of his stables and courtyard, of the paddocks where winged and wingless horses grazed. As Philippa crossed to him, she saw a horsemistress in riding habit walk around the Palace from the south wing, and go into the stables.

  “Your Grace,” Philippa said softly. She drew even with Frederick’s chair, and waited for him to respond.

  His hair shone silver in the morning light, but his eyes, when they turned up to find hers, had gone dull, almost muddy. She sank into the nearest chair, pressed down by a terrible weight of sadness.

  Now that she was close to him, she saw that he held something in his long white fingers. Even as he spoke to her, he caressed it, turning it in his hand. “Philippa,” he said, a little hoarsely. “How kind of you to come.”

  “I’m so sorry to find you unwell,” she said.

  He turned the object again in his lap, and traced one finger across its surface. It was a framed miniature, a portrait. Philippa caught a glimpse of white-blond hair, a pretty face, the dark Fleckham eyes. Pamella. Frederick’s lost daughter.

  “Beautiful day for flying,” he said vaguely. He turned away from her, toward the window. A winged horse rose from the far end of the park, and banked toward the White City. Frederick followed it with his eyes. When it disappeared beyond the trees, he dropped his gaze again to the miniature.

  “Yes, it is,” Philippa said. “I thought it was a perfect morning to come and talk to you.”

  Before Frederick could answer her, William was at his elbow, bending over him with a glass of water in his hand. “Father,” William said. “Your doctors want you to drink more water.” He encouraged Frederick to take the glass with a surprisingly gentle touch, and watched to see that he drank.

  Absently, Frederick sipped from the glass. Philippa was alarmed to see how his hand trembled. When he handed the glass back, she waited for William to step away, but he remained where he was, holding the glass, leaning on the back of his father’s chair to gaze out the window as if mesmerized by the sunshine. A long minute passed.

  “Your Grace,” Philippa said at last.
She left her chair, and went to crouch beside the Duke’s knee. She felt William’s eyes on her, but she kept her gaze on Frederick’s face, and put her hand on his. “I know you’re grieving,” she said. “And I’m sorry. But Margareth and I thought—”

  “Please, Philippa,” William said sharply. “My father can’t be troubled about that now.”

  Frederick turned his attention to Philippa very slowly, as if having trouble focusing his eyes on her face. “About what?” he asked.

  “A winged colt, Frederick,” she said. “He was born out of season, in—”

  Interest seemed to spark in Frederick’s eyes, just for a moment, but before Philippa could finish her sentence, William overturned the glass in his hand, splashing the miniature with water.

  Frederick gave a wordless cry, and there was a little flurry of apologies, of drying the little portrait, of fetching Frederick a fresh blanket for his lap. When these ministrations were complete, Philippa attempted to return to the subject of the colt, but William stood behind Frederick’s chair, his arms folded, his eyes fixed on Philippa.

  Frederick’s brief flicker of interest had vanished. “Always taking chances,” he said vaguely, caressing the miniature. “Always daring, the first one over a jump, the last off the dance floor, the most admirers . . .” His voice trailed off, and his head fell back against the chair.

  “As I told you, Philippa,” William said coldly. “My father shouldn’t be troubled now.”

  “Trouble enough,” Frederick said plaintively. “One son is too gentle, the other too hard.”

  Philippa was startled to see William’s eyelids drop, his head turn away from his father. Was that pain that pulled at his mouth, that creased his brow?

  “Dear Frederick . . .” Philippa began.