by Toby Bishop
They had reached the reading room. Philippa opened the door, and found it empty. The curtains were drawn against the late-afternoon sun, and the room was pleasantly dim and cool. “Larkyn will be here presently,” she said.
She stood aside. Brye walked to the middle of the room, and stood looking about him, turning his hat in his hands. “How’s the colt?”
“Growing quickly,” Philippa said. “Our winged horses mature early.”
“What does the Master Breeder say about him?” The farmer lifted his eyes to hers. She saw no diffidence in him, no sense that he was out of his depth.
She answered bluntly. “Eduard thinks he’s crossbred, as I do. He’s too small for a Noble, and he has a Foundation’s coloring. He’s small, like an Ocmarin. He might be a throwback.”
“Is that possible?”
“It has not happened for two centuries.”
“Something’s afoot, then.”
Philippa drew a careful breath. “It could be. Or it could be an accident.”
“No blame to our family.”
“Of course we don’t believe so, Master Hamley.”
“And the Duke?”
At this Philippa paused again. Brye Hamley was too straightforward and too intelligent a man to be deceived. These were difficult matters, though, issues of politics and power.
“You hesitate, Mistress Winter.” He enunciated the words so clearly that the Uplands inflection dropped from his voice. The blue eyes, so vivid in Larkyn’s face, were cool as forged steel in his.
Philippa pulled the door closed behind her. “Master Hamley, the colt’s very existence is a problem. And I will not disguise from you that the Ducal Palace has taken an interest in him.”
“Duke Frederick?”
“No. In truth, His Grace has not been well for some time.”
“So they say. Lost his daughter, didn’t he?”
Philippa pulled her gloves from her belt and pleated them between her fingers, avoiding those Hamley eyes. “He did,” she said quietly. “She disappeared without a trace. The Council of Lords has had to take up a good many of his duties.” She looked up. “It is Lord William who has been here to see the colt. Twice. He and the Master Breeder disagree about what should be done with him.”
“But this doesn’t affect Lark?”
Philippa made a slight gesture with the gloves. “If the colt is left intact, Larkyn will be taught how to work with a stallion. Eduard—the Master Breeder—thinks he should be gelded. Lord William disagrees.”
“Is Lark upset by that?”
Philippa gave a short laugh. “On that account, Master Hamley, I think you may rest easy. Your sister seems unaffected by the dispute other than to protect her colt!”
The door opened, and Larkyn, her riding cap askew on her untidy hair, boiled into the room, and threw herself into her brother’s arms with a glad cry. Her hat flew to the floor as Brye wrapped her in a huge embrace, and held her there for a long moment.
Philippa averted her gaze. Silently, she withdrew, and closed the door behind her.
“OH, Brye!” Lark breathed, disentangling herself from her brother’s arms. She smiled up at him a bit mistily, moved by the scents of Deeping Farm that clung to him.
“You look well in your fine clothes,” he said.
She smoothed her riding jacket. “It’s called a habit,” she said. “The riding coat and the divided skirt . . . and look at these wonderful boots.”
“Aye. And your peaky cap, there.”
Lark bent to pick it up from the floor. “It’s a problem,” she admitted. “My hair is hopeless. Everyone ties theirs into a riding knot, but mine won’t go. I don’t know what to do about it.” And then she laughed. “But never mind that! How I’ve missed you! How is Nick, and Edmar? The cows? Do the goats miss Molly?”
Her brother laughed. “One question at a time, Lark! But all is well at home. Nick made the blackberry jelly, in your absence.” He handed her a string-wrapped parcel. “And he sent some crooks, and a bit of cheese.”
She unwrapped the present with delight, bringing out a wax-sealed jar of ruby jelly, a packet of the long, crisp cookies, and a thick triangle of yellow cheese wrapped in oiled cloth. “Oh, thank you, Brye. You would not believe how hungry I am! They serve such tiny meals. Now tell me, how does Nick get everything done?”
“Hired a girl,” Brye said. “Peony. She comes in to milk and to cook for the crew.”
Lark nodded. “I know Peony.” She grinned, remembering the plump, pretty girl flashing her dimples at Nick. “She must be pleased.”
Brye’s eyes sparkled, though his face had settled into its usual grave lines. “Seems so.”
“Are the bloodbeets in? Are you harvesting broomstraw yet?”
“Bloodbeets were early this year. We’re cutting broomstraw now.”
Lark, with the cheese and the jelly in her hands, stood still. “Now, Brye? Then how—why are you here? Should you not be at home?”
“I should,” he agreed grimly. “But there was something I thought your Mistress Winter should know.” He told her about the market at Mossyrock, and the saddle.
Lark felt a wave of unease. She had told no one, yet, that Lord William had been in the Uplands, had come to see Tup—and had behaved strangely. It was on her lips to tell Brye now, but she remembered that magicked quirt, and the threat to Deeping Farm . . . and she did not dare. She only said, “Char’s saddle.”
“Aye. It makes sense.”
“The Master Breeder doesn’t know where she came from even now,” Lark said. “And they don’t like the name I gave Tup. Or anything else I’ve done, for that matter!”
Brye eyed her closely. “Are you unhappy, Lark?”
She hesitated. “It’s hard. I have to study things like history, and geography—Master Micklewhite knew so little. And there are lists and lists of names to memorize.”
“The other girls?”
Lark looked away, afraid he would read the pain in her eyes. “They find me—different, I think.” She thought of Hester. “But I have made a friend.” She looked back at him, and smiled. “It will be all right. As soon as I start to ride!”
“You’re not riding yet?”
She made a face. “Oh, I am to ride a great fat pony called Pig, so I can learn the saddle and the stirrups and the reins. Poor Pig hates it as much as I do!”
“Shall I speak to yon Headmistress for you?”
“Nay, Brye, thanks just the same. I have to handle this myself.”
AN hour later, a knock sounded on Margareth’s door. Philippa and Margareth had been puzzling over Brye Hamley’s news, debating what was to be done about it. At Margareth’s nod, Philippa rose and went to the door, to find Larkyn standing without.
She had removed her flying cap, and was struggling to scrape back her unruly hair. She gave it up, letting the strands fall over her shoulders, and looked from Philippa to the Headmistress. “Do you know if the saddle was Char’s?”
“Do come in, Larkyn,” Margareth said in a wry tone.
“A little more formality with the Headmistress, please,” Philippa said as Larkyn stepped past her. The girl’s blue eyes rose to hers. There was something of her brother’s wisdom in them, Philippa thought.
“We don’t know anything yet,” Margareth said.
“But someone needs to find the saddle, don’t they? Won’t that tell us Tup’s breeding?”
“Larkyn,” Philippa warned. “Speak to the Headmistress in a respectful tone.”
“But, Mistress Winter,” Larkyn blurted. “If we wait—it could be gone!”
“We know that. But we can’t simply rush off to the Uplands without consideration.”
“I’ll go!” Larkyn cried.
“And fall further behind your class? Don’t be foolish!” Philippa’s voice sounded harsher than she had intended. Still, she spoke the truth. Larkyn had a lot of ground to make up.
Margareth’s tone was kinder. “Larkyn,” she said quietly. “This may tel
l us something of Tup’s background, or it may not. But you can’t take a winged colt into an Uplands village, and you know you can’t leave him for a journey of two days. We will handle this, Mistress Winter, the Master Breeder, and I.”
Margareth stood up, a gesture of dismissal. “Return to your studies now, Larkyn. You must leave this to us.”
Philippa watched as the little chin jutted, and telltale spots of red flamed in the girl’s cheeks. Margareth, however, was not an easy person to defy. Larkyn departed moments later, her boots clicking a resentful rhythm on the tiles.
When the door had closed behind her, Philippa said, “I suppose we must tell Eduard.”
Margareth nodded. “Yes. I think he will want to see that saddle.”
“Larkyn is right, though. It could be gone.”
“You will have to fly to the Uplands, Philippa. If we send someone else . . .”
“Indeed. Word will get out. But Irina will not be pleased with me.”
Margareth’s chuckle was weary. “That can’t be helped. Leave her to me.”
“This time,” Philippa said with resignation, “I think I had best do that. I’ll go in the morning, then.” She moved to the door, but paused with her hand on the latch. She looked over her shoulder at Margareth. “Kalla’s heels, where is Mossyrock? I’ve never heard of the place.”
SIXTEEN
THE next morning dawned bright and clear, the perfect day for a long flight. Philippa rolled the map she had found in the library, and tied it behind her saddle with the packet Matron had prepared for her. She led Sunny out to the flight paddock early, before the rest of the Academy had left the Hall. Sunny danced with pleasure in the morning, the sunshine, the freedom of a solitary launch, but Philippa wished she could have chosen a different day. Today the yearlings were to fly.
One by one, the young horses’ wingclips would be removed, and their mistresses would lead them to the flight paddock, and then remove their halter leads. Philippa knew well the anxiety the girls would feel as they released the colts and fillies to the monitors. It was no small thing, this first attempt at flight. There was reason for the girls to be anxious. Though the instructors would keep a close eye on the young horses, and the monitor horses would set careful examples, it was a great thing—exciting and terrifying—to fly for the first time.
Philippa loved seeing the colts and fillies shake their wings to full length, flutter them experimentally, flick their ears in wonder at their bondmates. She thought that watching your colt fly for the first time must be like watching a beloved child take its first steps, a mix of pride and anxiety and even regret. The colts would never again be the dependent creatures they had been. The oc-hounds who had kept them company since their foalings would part from them, one by one. The colts could separate from their bondmates for a day or two, even three if necessary. The first flight was their first taste of freedom and power.
Sunny didn’t share Philippa’s mixed feelings. She stretched her neck eagerly, her wings quivering joyously as she banked to the west, toward the mountains. Philippa dropped one gloved hand lightly on her neck, remembering Sunny’s first flight.
Sunny had been a quiet filly, her movements restrained, her temper even. But on that day, when her monitor cantered down the length of the flight paddock, Sunny had dashed eagerly behind her. Her wings had stretched in perfect imitation, beginning to beat in instinctive rhythm with the older horse, and she rose from the flight paddock like a young bird, swerving slightly, dipping, then ascending as she found her balance, discovered the power of the wind above and below her wings, the incredible strength of the wing muscles that ridged across her chest.
Philippa had stood below, hardly breathing, hugging her elbows. It seemed an hour before Sunny returned, though it was really no more than a few minutes. Yearlings began with short flights, increasing the distance each time they flew, gradually adding a flying saddle, then sand weights, strengthening their wings, building their endurance.
Philippa glanced over her shoulder. She could see the gambrel roofs of the Academy stables, the morning sun brilliant in the east. She squinted against its brightness, and thought perhaps she could just make out the flyers rising into the air. Hester Beeth’s Golden Morning would be first, the most reliable of all the yearlings. Though she was a Foundation filly, she reminded Philippa of Winter Sunset at that age, steady and quiet, strong, confident. After Golden Morning would come Little Duchess, a Noble filly; then another Foundation, Dark Lad; the Ocmarins Sweet Spring and Sea Girl; and last, Isobel Burleigh’s Sky Heart, a rambunctious Noble stallion. Eduard expected Sky Heart to throw great colts one day, but when the day came for the girls to fly, Isobel would have her hands full.
Philippa turned her face forward, to where the sunburned hills of the Uplands marked her destination. Perhaps, today, she would find out something that would help them determine the future of Larkyn’s colt.
“SHE should have waited for me.” It was Eduard Crisp’s grating voice.
Lark had just lifted a forkful of soiled straw from the floor of Tup’s stall. She stopped where she was, the pitchfork suspended over the wheelbarrow. Master Crisp was coming down the aisle with the Headmistress, and Lark knew he was talking about Mistress Winter and the discovery of a saddle in the Uplands.
Hastily, she put down the pitchfork and backed away from the gate. Mistress Morgan said, “And you can fly, now, can you, Eduard?” Lark’s eyebrows lifted at the edge in the Headmistress’s tone.
“No need for sarcasm, Margareth,” Master Crisp responded. “I’m weary of all this.”
They were coming closer. Lark grabbed the currycomb and bent behind her colt as if busy with a tangle in his tail.
“Tracing the colt’s lineage has been impossible,” Mistress Morgan said. “But blame for that can’t be laid at my door, or Philippa’s. Or yours. We felt haste was essential, because the saddle could be sold and gone by now.”
“Even if she finds it, it may not mean anything.”
Lark heard the exasperation in Margareth Morgan’s tone. “Master Hamley felt it was unusual enough that he took time away from harvest to come all this way. In his oxcart.”
“Kalla’s teeth, he’s a farmer! What does he know of what is unusual or not?”
“I think, Eduard,” Margareth responded stiffly, “that if you do not open your mind, we may never know the colt’s parentage.”
Lark straightened, and faced the two of them across Tup’s back. The Headmistress’s eyebrows rose at the sight of her. “Larkyn. I thought you were having a riding lesson.”
“Yes, Headmistress. In half an hour.” Lark was on the point of bobbing a curtsy, but she caught herself just in time. Mistress Strong, like Mistress Cloud, had been very clear that horsemistresses never curtsied. And she had learned, since coming to the Academy, that they never wore their riding caps indoors, nor did they ever—no matter how dirty the task—wear aprons. Aprons were, Petra had told her condescendingly, for servants.
“Ah.” Mistress Morgan let herself into the stall, and crossed to Tup. She ran her hand down his hind leg, and he obligingly lifted his foot as she reached his fetlock. She traced the shape of his hoof, and set it back in the straw. “You see that, Eduard?” she said.
“You mean, the hoof?”
“I do.” With a little exhalation of breath, as if bending had pained her, the Headmistress straightened her back. “That is a Foundation foot, though small,” she said decidedly. “And a Noble croup, with the arching tail. And of course, there’s his color.”
“Only an Ocmarin would be so small at nine months,” Crisp growled.
“Ten,” Lark said.
“Perhaps you have the day wrong, Miss,” the Master Breeder said.
“I do not,” she said firmly. “ ’Twas just after Erdlin. Four months before the goat kids were born, or the calves. Ten months last week.”
Margareth Morgan’s gray eyes twinkled at Lark across the colt’s back. “Did you see the yearlings fly this morning
?” she asked.
Lark turned her back on Master Crisp, and threw her arms around Tup’s neck. “Oh, Headmistress!” she cried. “It was—it was wonderful and terrible, all at once! I couldn’t believe Hester was so calm. Anabel, and Beryl, and Grace and the others . . . I would be just as nervous as they were, I’m sure! But the horses were marvelous, weren’t they, and none fell, not even on landing, and every horse followed its monitor—I’m so glad I was there!”
The Headmistress smiled, a web of wrinkles spreading across her face. “I watched from my window,” she said. “I never miss it.” She patted Tup, and turned to the Master Breeder. “Eduard. Have you spoken with Frederick about this colt?”
His heavy features drooped with real sadness as he answered. “His Grace has taken to his bed, Margareth. They’re saying he may die.”
“You spoke to William, then.”
“I tried. He’s adamant.”
“He wants Tup to breed?” Lark asked.
“As if he understood the bloodlines,” Crisp muttered.
“Eduard! Careful.” The Headmistress glanced about anxiously, but there was no one to hear. The second- and third-level flights were in the paddocks, the yearlings restored to their pasture. Lark waited, hoping to understand something more, but the Headmistress and the Master Breeder only gazed at each other in a heavy silence.
“Well,” the Headmistress said after a moment. She let herself out through the gate, and gestured to Master Crisp to follow her out of the stables. “Whether we geld him or not, it’s time to give the colt a proper name. Perhaps it would be best . . .” Her voice dropped as they walked away, so that Lark could barely hear. “Perhaps you should simply declare the colt a throwback, and leave it at that.”
“Can’t do that if Lord William wants to breed him,” the Master Breeder said. “We’ll have to choose a name to fit the bloodlines.”
Mistress Morgan made some response, but Lark couldn’t hear what it was. She laid her cheek against Tup’s neck. “It doesn’t matter,” she whispered. “They can call you whatever they like. You’re still my Tup.”