Airs Beneath the Moon

by Toby Bishop

  When they were gone, William went to the foal once again, and squatted beside it in the straw. “Too bad,” he said. “The other one throve from the beginning.”

  He hooked his blanket toward him, and folded it around the colt’s face and nose. He pulled the ends tight around its head, and held them there.

  The tiny thing had grown weak, and it was all over in moments. It gave a feeble kick, and then another. Its spidery legs stiffened, trembled, and then subsided to lie limply in the straw. Its ribs no longer rose and fell, and its stub of a bristly tail lay still, as lifeless as a handful of broomstraw. Its little folded wings seemed to shrivel and dull.

  William stood, dusted his palms, and pushed the blanket away with his booted foot. He let himself out of the stall, and called, “Jinson! Come take care of this mess. And fetch Slater.”

  THE last days before the holiday were hard ones for Lark. She hardly saw Hester, or Anabel, except at meals and on the sleeping porch. All her waking hours were spent drilling on Pig, with Mistress Strong snapping orders in her flat voice, or helping Rosellen muck out stalls as part of her punishment for losing control of Tup. Lark didn’t mind hard work. She had shoveled plenty of wet straw before she came to the Academy. She did mind falling out of her saddle every day, and she minded the pitying glances of the third-level girls, the poorly hidden mirth of the second-levels, the sympathetic murmurs of some of her own classmates. And she hated the triumphant look on Petra Sweet’s face. But true to her promise, she kept her peace. She held her head high, and went about her extra chores with a will.

  The only happy moments in those cold days came when Tup flew, with Winter Sunset as his monitor. Lark had been afraid it would be forbidden, but Mistress Winter was firm about it.

  “He’s tasted it now,” Mistress Winter had said severely. “If you have to keep him on the ground, he’ll be restive. It’s best to let him have as much exercise in the air as possible. Sunny and I will see to that.”

  “Thank you, Mistress,” Lark said, in as demure a voice as she could manage.

  The horsemistress was not deceived, and her look made that clear. “But, Larkyn,” she added, and her voice grew hard. “When you’re away for the holiday, you must keep his wing clips in place. Do you understand? It’s only a few days, and he will have the distraction of travel. Your colt wouldn’t fly away from you deliberately, but without a monitor, anything could happen. He could get confused, or get into trouble, and not know how to get back to you.”

  Lark grew cold at the very idea that she could lose Tup. “Aye, Mistress Winter,” she said in a rush, and there was no pretense in her compliance. “I’ll be careful. I promise!”

  And so, every day, she stood in the flight paddock and watched Tup launch himself into the air after Winter Sunset. Each time, Lark’s own muscles tensed, as if she could do it for him. Sometimes, her arms ached afterward, as if she were the one who had circled and swooped after the Noble mare, who had skimmed the treetops and pierced the low clouds, who had sailed down at a daringly steep angle until her feet grazed the grass, found the ground firm beneath them, pinions stretched wide.

  Tup seemed to grow before her very eyes. Once, she even found Mistress Winter measuring him with her palm and outstretched fingers, murmuring to herself as she counted.

  “How tall?” Lark asked.

  The horsemistress didn’t look at her, but ran a practiced hand over Tup’s croup. “Thirteen hands,” she said shortly. “It’s time to start him with a saddle, just for ground work. He’s growing so fast it’s affecting his balance in the air. We must be careful.”

  “Oh,” Lark said faintly. “I didn’t know. I didn’t see it.”

  “How could you, when you haven’t been there yourself?” Mistress Winter said sharply.

  Lark bit her lip. She was learning that Philippa Winter spoke most harshly when she was most worried. She waited to discover what it might be that troubled her on this day.

  The horsemistress left off examining Tup, and faced Lark. “We have met with Eduard once again,” she said. “There is now, apparently, no question of gelding your colt. Lord—that is, the Duke has decided he wants to know what sort of colt he’ll throw.”

  Lark breathed, “Oh. And does that mean—they know what line he is?”

  “No.” Mistress Winter set her jaw, and stared past Lark to the east, where the spires of the White City glimmered in the dusk. The nights were drawing in, and Lark often finished her chores and studies only after full darkness settled over the Academy. “No, Larkyn. It means the Palace has chosen to ignore Eduard’s advice, and he is unhappy about it. It also means we may never know Tup’s lineage.”

  Lark hesitated a long moment, absently stroking Tup’s neck with her hand. “Mistress Winter,” she said at last, softly. “Does it matter so much? We can serve, Tup and I, whether he’s Ocmarin or Noble or Foundation . . . or a throwback. He’s a wonderful colt. Must we know which bloodline he belongs to?”

  Mistress Winter returned her gaze to Lark. She looked at her for a long moment, and the angular lines of her face softened in the gloom. “You’re right, Larkyn. He’s a fine colt, strong and agile and spirited. Not unlike his bondmate.”

  Lark dropped her eyes to hide the pride that must kindle in them.

  “It’s not about Tup, really,” Mistress Winter went on. “It’s about Oc, and all the winged horses.” She stroked Tup again, her hand tracing the line of his hindquarter. “It’s about Duke Frederick’s life work, preserving and protecting Kalla’s creatures, making certain that they are the best they can be. They are prized throughout the principality—throughout the world—and they protect Oc in many ways. But for Duke Frederick, the horses themselves have always been the point, the purity of the bloodlines, the strength of their heritage. He loved them for their beauty and spirit and . . . well, all the things we love them for.”

  She lifted her hand from Tup, and dusted it lightly against her thigh. “I like your colt, and I have no doubt that you and he will serve the Duchy well. But if someone has violated the bloodlines—then someone has committed treason. And to keep your colt intact implies further breeding violations.” Her voice dropped very low. “You must not speak of this, Larkyn, but you should be aware of it.”

  “Yes, Mistress.” Lark hesitated, and then blurted, “But the saddle? Was it not Char’s?”

  Mistress Winter’s face hardened again, all at once. “I don’t know. I never found it.”

  “Char was an Ocmarin,” Lark said with confidence.

  “You can’t know that for certain.”

  “I can, Mistress. I know the bloodlines now. Her color, her conformation, her size . . . she was an Ocmarin. A wingless one, of course.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “But Tup—his color is that of a Foundation, but he has Noble traits.”

  “You think you’ve figured all this out?”

  Lark laughed aloud. “It’s obvious! Who could miss it?” Then, suddenly, she caught herself, wondering if she had given offense.

  But Mistress Winter seemed to be in a mellow mood. “Indeed,” she said quietly. “Who could miss it, indeed.” She straightened her tabard, and picked up her quirt from the stall shelf. “Well, Larkyn. The point of all this is your colt’s name.”

  “Has Master Crisp—have you decided?”

  “Margareth decided,” she answered. “She felt some decision should be made, and Eduard agreed. He is to be called Black Seraph. Seraph is an honorable name, one of the earliest of the bloodlines.”

  “Black Seraph,” Lark repeated, a little dazedly. “ ’Tis a bit hard to say, isn’t it?”

  “No winged horse has ever had a name like Tup. It’s not appropriate.”

  “I—to me he’ll always be Tup, I think.”

  “Your situation is unique, Larkyn. The question that remains is what you’ll be called.”

  “They mostly call me Hamley, in the Dormitory.” And Goat-girl, but she didn’t say that.

  “Such names tend
to develop on their own. I was pleased to change my name to Winter. And you could be Larkyn Black, if you find Seraph difficult.”

  “I like Hamley, though. And my brothers are so proud.”

  Mistress Winter tipped her head to one side, and regarded Lark with an odd expression. “Are they, indeed?”

  “Oh, aye, Mistress! What other Uplands family has a horsemistress to bear its name?”

  ROSELLEN, forking soiled straw from the stall of one of the horsemistresses’ mounts, looked up as Lark came into the stables, a pitchfork in her hand. “Lark!” she exclaimed. “I thought your punishment was finished.”

  “It is,” Lark said. “But I thought I’d give you a hand, one more time. Tomorrow we all go off for the holiday, and you’ll be on your own. I . . .” Her cheeks warmed, and she bent to lift a forkful of straw. “I’m afraid you’ll be lonely,” she finished, not meeting Rosellen’s eyes.

  “Heh,” the stable-girl said. “Maybe a mite. Me and Herbert will have a bit of a holiday, too, though, with all the flyers gone.”

  “I suppose it’s too far for you to go home to your village.”

  Rosellen grunted. “Haven’t been back in five years,” she said. “Letters sometime, that’s all.” They worked in silence for a bit, and then Rosellen straightened, leaning on her pitchfork. “Bit far for you, too, isn’t it? The Uplands?”

  “It takes most of a day, in the oxcart,” Lark agreed.

  Rosellen tapped her nose, and grinned. “Thought you’d be going off with one of the swells, Goat-girl.”

  Lark laughed. Only from Rosellen did Goat-girl sound affectionate. “I can’t wait to see my brothers,” she said. “Although Lady Beeth did invite me, which was so kind. You should meet her. She doesn’t seem like a Lady at all, just a mother.”

  They finished the stall, and Lark helped Rosellen empty the wheelbarrow, then trailed after the stable-girl as she made her final check of the tack room and the water buckets. “Thanks, Lark,” Rosellen said, when everything was finished. “I’m sorry you got in trouble, but it was nice having company.”

  “I’m used to chores,” Lark said. They paused beside Tup’s stall, and Tup and Molly ambled over to them for a pat. Lark was startled to realize she had to reach up to touch Tup’s cheek. He was still slender and coltish, though, and he would never be as tall as Hester’s Golden Morning, or even Anabel’s Take a Chance.

  “Mind you remember them wing clips,” Rosellen said. She gave Lark her gappy grin.

  “Kalla’s heels,” Lark said fervently. “I’m not likely to forget again!”

  TWENTY-TWO

  PHILIPPA sat by her window in the Domicile, a book on her lap, watching girls depart from the courtyard. Her own flight had left early in the morning, flying off to their own homes on their own mounts, exhilarated at the taste of independence that would be theirs after Ribbon Day.

  And now the families of the younger students had come to collect their daughters. Their carriages filled the courtyard. Philippa leaned forward to watch Hester climb up beside her mamá and her plump little father. Hester waved at her departing friends, calling farewells. The perfectly matched draught horses paced away, and Golden Morning, wing-clipped and blanketed, trotted alongside, shining gold and silver in the frosty sunshine.

  Petra Sweet’s father had sent a phaeton, with a uniformed driver and a footman. Petra climbed up on the high seat, and looked down at the other girls with an expression of smug satisfaction. She was right to feel proud, Philippa thought. The phaeton was a beauty, sleek and high-wheeled, drawn by a fine pair of grays. Every head turned as it wheeled away, with Sweet Reason trotting beside it.

  The courtyard emptied, bit by bit, as servants finished hefting luggage, girls ended their farewells, a few parents greeted each other. Everyone made their way out of the courtyard in their turn, until a colorful procession wound toward the road, each carriage trailed by a winged horse. And just coming in, working its stolid way through the traffic and around the cobbled courtyard, was the Hamley oxcart.

  Philippa laid her book aside, and stood up for a better view. She was vaguely disappointed to see that it was not Brye Hamley driving this time. It was the youngest brother—what was his name? Ah, she remembered, it was Nicol. Nick. The handsome, laughing one. He seemed unaffected by the curious glances he received as he pulled up before the Dormitory, even lifting his wide-brimmed hat to one or two other drivers, shamelessly flashing his white teeth at the well-dressed ladies of Council Lords. Larkyn dashed out to meet him, her worn carpetbag in her hand. She tossed the bag into the cart, and then dodged the last of the equipages to cross the courtyard to the stables. By the time she emerged with Tup on a halter, all the carriages were gone, and the courtyard was empty.

  Philippa was tempted to check the colt to make certain he was wearing his wing clips beneath his blanket, but she refrained. Larkyn would never again forget. She had worked too hard to show her penitence, and never a word of complaint. She had learned that lesson, at least.

  When the odd party started out of the courtyard, the slow but steady ox, the prancing near-yearling colt, the little brown bearded goat, Philippa smiled to herself. She sank back into her chair, and picked up her book once more. For a time, she need not worry about Larkyn Hamley and Black Seraph. Brye and the other Hamley brothers would watch over them.

  Ten days of peace lay ahead, and she welcomed them. Her mother and brother had invited her—well, summoned was perhaps the better word—to Islington House, but she had declined. If she went, Meredith would talk of nothing but the Duke’s illness, and how Philippa might mend fences with William. Her mother and her sisters and their husbands would talk of children, society, clothes, finance, none of which interested Philippa. She much preferred the quiet of a half-empty Domicile, meals in the kitchens, aimless flights with Sunny. Erdlin, and Estian in the spring, were a time of respite.

  There had been a time when Philippa spent all her holidays at the Ducal Palace. This would be the second year in which there was, evidently, no Festival celebration at the Palace at all, no lavish banquet, no dancing, no midnight bonfire. Idly, as Philippa allowed her eyes to close and a rare afternoon sleepiness to overtake her, she wondered what Lady Sophia, and Francis, would do on that day. And William, William with his oddly affected embroidered vests, his smooth face . . .

  And the Hamleys? Would they feast, or visit neighbors, or dance in the village square? Brye Hamley did not seem the type, but perhaps, once a year, when the flutes and harps began to play, he would take some apple-cheeked girl into his embrace and dance . . .

  Philippa yawned. Her book slid to the floor, and with a sigh, she slipped into a drowse.

  “So thin, you are, Lark! As if you have birds’ bones under your skin!” Nick exclaimed as he lifted her down from the cart.

  She gazed around at the familiar buildings of Deeping Farm, and answered absently, “Oh, aye. Meals are small at the Academy! Flyers must be light—and I’m the lightest girl there.”

  “Well,” her brother said with a laugh. “We’ll soon put some meat on you.”

  “Oh, no, Nick,” Lark said swiftly. “I’ll be flying soon, and though Tup has grown so much, he’s still not very big. I don’t want to be too heavy for him to carry!”

  Nick handed her bag to her, shaking his head. “Can’t imagine that, little sister. I could carry you myself, in one arm.” And laughing, he demonstrated by lifting her and twirling her around so her skirt flew out around her ankles.

  Moments later Brye came around the corner of the barn, and the girl Peony came up the steps from the coldcellar. Lark hugged her brother, greeted Peony, and allowed her bag to be carried away while she led Tup into the barn. Molly trotted at her heels, bleating with pleasure as she caught sight of the other goats. It had been a long day, and the early darkness already enfolded the farm by the time Lark finished stabling Tup, and crossed to the house.

  She paused at the kitchen door to touch the bare skeleton of the rue-tree. It had been in full lea
f when she departed. The fields beyond the house, the kitchen garden, had all been in bloom, but now lay empty. She felt as if she had one foot in Osham, and one in Willakeep. She felt divided between the girl she was and the girl she had been, and it gave her an odd sensation of being out of balance, as if the ground beneath her feet might shift at any moment.

  She stepped into the kitchen and looked around at the old, familiar room. She tried to see it with affection, but she found herself noticing that the counter had crumbs on it, that the butter dish had a coat of old grease on its rim, that the sink needed a good bleaching.

  Peony was waving the Tarn over a garlicky pottage. She looked up, and grinned at Lark, her round cheeks dimpling. “Here you are at last!” she said. “Sit you down! Soup and bread.”

  She hung the Tarn on a hook by the close stove. Lark picked it up again, and moved it to its proper place over the sink. “Thank you, Peony,” she said politely. “I would love some of your soup, but I can’t eat too much bread. Flyers have to be thin.”

  “You’re more than thin, Lark,” Peony said in a motherly way. “Skin and bones, you are!”

  Lark flashed her a look of resentment. Peony was only a year older than she, after all. But she sat down, and began to slice cheese from the wheel, biting her lip to keep herself silent. Peony, all unaware, bustled about, ladling her pottage into the bowls, pouring glasses of milk, running to the kitchen door to call to the men.

  Lark thought the milk a bit blue. No doubt Peony had skimmed it too finely. She would let Brye deal with it, though, or Nick. She didn’t want to be like Petra, criticizing every detail, picking away at the poor girl.

  Lark looked around the old kitchen as she waited for her brothers to join her. It seemed darker than it had in her memory, smaller and dingier. Deeping Farm hadn’t changed, of course. It was she who was different, her eyes dazzled by fine china, sparkling crystal, white tablecloths, high ceilings.