by Toby Bishop
When Brye and Edmar came in, with Nick following, tears pricked her eyelids. Her two older brothers looked so tired, and so begrimed from their day’s labors. Their cheeks and noses glowed red from the cold. Though they scrubbed their hands for long minutes at the sink, farm dirt clung to their fingernails. They began their meal in silence, with nothing like the chatter that filled the Dining Hall at the Academy.
Lark dropped her eyes to her soup bowl, not wanting anyone to ask her what was amiss. How could she explain? She was no longer Lark of Deeping Farm. But she was not really Larkyn Hamley of the Academy, either. She fit nowhere. Her throat closed so she dared not take a spoonful of pottage in case she couldn’t swallow it.
“Now, Lark,” Nick said gaily.
She blinked, hard, and lifted her face.
“Tell Brye and Edmar—and Peony—all about why you cut your hair. The whole story!”
Lark touched the icon that hung round her neck, and thought of Lady Beeth and Anabel and Hester. She began to tell the story backward, beginning with the Headmistress, but Nick stopped her and made her start again from the beginning. By the time she finished, everyone was laughing, including herself. They asked a dozen questions about Hester, and Lady Beeth, and the shops of the White City. By the time the soup was eaten, the bread polished off, and the dishes cleared and washed, Lark felt at home again. When she went upstairs to her old bedroom, and tucked herself in beneath the worn quilt, she felt whole at last. She lay awake, relishing the feeling that, at least for the moment, all the parts of her were in their rightful place.
AS Mistress Winter had warned, Tup became restive after only one day of confinement at Deeping Farm. He complained when she left the barn, chewed on his feed bucket until its edges were splintered, kicking at the wall of his stall. Brye scowled over the indentations in the planking and threatened to hobble him.
Lark took him walking in the fields, with Molly trailing behind. Tup pranced sideways, threatening to step on Lark’s feet. He tossed his head, and flexed his wings against the clips. She took him up to the north pasture to walk along the riverbank. The current swirled with clots of ice, reflecting the blackstone of the riverbed. A dusting of snow had fallen before dawn, turning the ground crisp and gray. Lark unclipped the halter lead to let Tup race back and forth. Molly bleated her anxiety, but Lark soothed her. “Don’t worry, Molly. He won’t leave us. But he needs exercise, and neither you nor I can run that fast!”
Moments later, Tup returned to stand before her, blowing, ruffling his pinions beneath the wing clips. “No, Tup!” Lark said. “You can’t fly, not alone. It’s not safe!”
He whickered, and pushed at her with his nose, and when she wouldn’t comply, he dashed off again, racing to the river’s edge and back, whinnying now, stamping his feet. Lark gave up trying to explain it to him. She replaced the lead on his halter, and led him and Molly back to the barn.
THE next day, she blanketed Tup against the chill, and took him with her when she went to visit Amberly Cloud. She found Silver Cloud almost pitifully eager for company. She turned Tup into the little paddock behind Mistress Cloud’s small stable, and let the two spend time together. She would like to have stayed with them, or even better, let Tup fly with Silver Cloud as monitor, but Mistress Cloud had an elaborate tea ready, and had no interest in coming out into the cold. Hours later, it seemed, Lark set out for home, with Tup beside her. Nick and the oxcart were to catch up with her on the road.
Tup cried piteously as she led him away from Silver Cloud, and Silver Cloud was no happier. “I’m sorry,” Lark said. “Sorry for both of you.”
Tup bobbed his head as if he understood, but the moment they reached the open road, he pranced, and tugged at the halter lead. His wings rustled beneath the blanket.
Lark glanced behind her, hoping to see the oxcart trundling toward them, but the road was empty as far back as she could see. It was a frigid midafternoon, too early for the workers to be walking back from the quarry, from the silos, or from the various shops. She peered ahead, and there was no one coming toward her, either. Tup turned his head to follow her gaze, as if he understood what she was thinking.
“Oh, no, Tup, it would be silly, wouldn’t it? I mean, I’ve never . . . and you’ve never . . .”
He whickered. It sounded, to her ears, exactly like a laugh.
“No flying!” she said sternly. “Do you understand? The clips remain!”
He shook his head to make the halter jingle, and nosed her at every step. She went on a little, torn by indecision. If she was too heavy . . . or if she should fall off . . .
But she only fell from saddles! And she knew the sand weights he’d been carrying weighed half again what she did. Laughing, feeling deliciously reckless, she looped the halter lead in her hand, turned to Tup’s left side, and took a handful of his glossy black mane.
His withers, at thirteen hands, were at the same level as her nose. In fact, Tup was only slightly taller than the redoubtable Pig, and Lark never needed Rosellen’s assistance when she climbed up on Pig. Tup twisted his nose around to watch her. His ears pricked forward, and his eyes gleamed with anticipation.
“Rascal,” she said. “You think this is your own idea, don’t you?” She took a deep breath, stretched her right arm around his spine, and jumped.
She teetered on her stomach for a moment, before she could swing her right leg across. Tup trembled, once, at the surprise of her weight, but he steadied immediately. She sat astride him, her legs fitting over the jointure of his wings, his folded pinions like the ribs of a fan beneath her calves. She looked ahead. Tup’s ears rotated toward her, waiting for a signal. His arched neck and the slope of his shoulders in front of her knees were, she thought, the most beautiful and natural thing she had ever seen. Her seat fit him perfectly, as if she had been made just for this. She caressed the icon of Kalla she now wore around her neck. Indeed, she had been made so, by Kalla’s design.
She lifted the halter rope, and pressed her heels ever so slightly to his ribs. “Let’s go, Tup,” she said. “Let’s go home!”
He stepped out willingly. She watched carefully for any sign that her weight affected his stride, that he was uncomfortable beneath her, but she found nothing. Unlike Pig, who lumbered from side to side as she rode him, Tup’s stride was even and effortless. After a few moments, she sensed his desire to go faster. She snugged her thighs tighter over his barrel, and let the halter lead swing loose. Tup broke into a trot, a smooth, ground-eating gait. Lark kept a firm grip on his mane, but she felt no anxiety about slipping off. This was easy! She could feel every action of his muscles, every movement of his joints. She knew as soon as he did where he would put his feet, how long each stride would be. His rhythm was her rhythm, the slight bob of his head as much a part of herself as the flex of her spine. Oh, if only Mistress Strong could see her! But of course, if she did, she would only scold her, first for riding Tup before she had permission, and second, for riding bareback!
Lark laughed aloud into the gloom of early twilight, and Tup, ears flicking back and forward, lengthened his stride. They would reach home before Nick did.
When they drew close to Willakeep, Lark drew up the halter lead and shifted her weight back. “Whoa, Tup,” she said. “I’ll get down now. This will be our secret.”
Obediently, Tup slowed his trot, and stopped. Lark slid down from his back, and threw her arms around his neck. “Tup!” she cried. “A lovely fine boy, you are!” He blew through his nostrils, in obvious agreement, and she released him, laughing. She dusted the back of her skirt as best she could with her hands before they started up the road again. When they turned into the lane, they were walking demurely side by side. Tup, at last, seemed calm.
The oxcart caught them there, halfway down the lane. Nick said, “Lark! Either you left Mistress Cloud’s early, or you walk faster than I could.”
Lark laughed and shrugged as she climbed up onto the seat beside her brother. Tup whickered at the ox, flicked his tail with wha
t seemed like obvious pride to Lark, and settled into a quiet walk beside the cart.
Nick eyed him. “Yon colt has settled down a bit.”
Lark blushed, and stammered a moment. She wouldn’t lie to her brother, ever, but she didn’t want to be scolded, either. She had been scolded enough in the past weeks! Finally she said, “Oh, aye. He spent a bit of time with Mistress Cloud’s gelding.”
Nick’s eyebrows rose and fell, but he made no further comment.
TWENTY-THREE
THE windows of Willakeep danced with candlelight as the Hamleys’ oxcart rolled into the cobbled square and took its place among the others. The bonfire blazed, and torches burned at every corner, driving back the chill darkness that marked the season of Erdlin. The farmers and villagers crowded the square, wrapped in woolens and wearing brightly embroidered caps pulled down over their ears. The women’s braids fell from beneath their caps, decorated with ribbons and sprigs of ivy. The men were scrubbed and shaved. The doors of both taverns stood open to the night, and a steady stream of revelers flowed in and out, tankards and cups in their hands. Music came from each open door, the tunes competing with each other in the center of the square.
Lark climbed down from the cart, and followed Brye through the crowd, working their way toward the bonfire. Nick and Edmar hurried off to the nearest of the taverns, laughing over their shoulders at their sober elder brother. People greeted Brye as he passed, and nodded to Lark. She knew every face, every name, but they had grown shy with her since the change in her fortunes. Even the girls she had known in school kept their distance. Petal, only months older than Lark herself, balanced a baby on her hip. She, too, was shy, lifting one hand in greeting, and then turning away to join another group. Only Peony came dashing up to Lark without hesitation, crying, “Lark! Brye! At last. Where’s Nick?”
Laughing, Lark pointed at the open tavern door, and then went to stand beside Brye, her back to the warmth of the bonfire, her gaze on the faces of people she had known since her girlhood. It seemed she barely knew them anymore, though she had been gone a scant six months.
A dance began in a little cleared space off to her right, one of the Uplands rounds that meant arms in the air, legs kicking high, couples spinning about with skirts and coats flying. Lark climbed the rail fence surrounding the firepit so she could watch. Everyone began to sing, Lark included, remembering the words to the old tune:
THE HAND IS OPEN,
RELEASING THE YEAR
SWING YOUR SWEETHEART,
ERDLIN IS HERE.
WINTER’S FIST WILL CLOSE SOON ENOUGH
AND THE BOOT OF SPRING IS SWIFT AND ROUGH,
SUMMER IS SHORT AND AUTUMN IS LONG,
BUT FOR NOW, ONCE AGAIN, WE SING ERDLIN’S SONG.
The dance ended in general hilarity, and as the song died away, the celebrants were washed in the clash of music from the taverns again. It was all sweetly familiar, and Lark, her back now toasted by the bonfire, pulled off her heavy coat. Brye spread it on the top rail, and she perched there to watch the next dance, the toes of her riding boots hooked through a lower rail to steady herself. Nick and Edmar returned from the tavern. Peony trailed at Nick’s heels, making Lark think of Molly tagging after Tup. Nick grinned up at Lark, and handed her a mug of something hot and fragrant. She sipped it, and found it to be strong red wine, sweetened with honey and steeped in cinnamon. She wrinkled her nose, and Nick laughed.
“If you don’t like it, sweetheart, just hold it for me!” he said.
“Come and dance, Nick!” Peony pleaded. Her dimpled cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright in the light from the bonfire. She shrugged out of her coat to reveal a scarlet tabard and a wide, flowing skirt. Her braids were woven with scarlet threads.
Nick glanced up at Lark, and she shrugged, laughing. “Your other admirers won’t like it,” she said.
“Ah, well,” he cried. “What better way to begin Erdlin than by breaking a few hearts?” He seized the delighted Peony’s hand, and pulled her through the crush to join the dancers.
Lark, truly warm now from the fire, pulled off her cap and ran her fingers through her short curls. Brye leaned against the fence next to her, content, it seemed, to simply watch, and sip the tankard of beer Edmar had brought for him. Edmar, to Lark’s astonishment, had drained his own tankard and plucked a plump woman from the crowd to dance with. Lark pointed this out to Brye, and he turned one of his rare smiles up to her. She smiled back, and returned to gazing around her at the festive scene. Surely, she thought, her classmates in their fine houses could have no better celebration, no higher spirits, than these country folk of Willakeep.
“Missy? Oh, aye, aye, you’re the flyer, aren’t you, Missy?”
Lark looked down to see a much-wrinkled woman standing beside her feet. Her gray braid was twisted around the crown of her head, and her tabard and skirt were a rusty black. She squinted up into the firelight. “Aye, aye, that’s an Academy habit.”
“It is,” Lark said. She unhooked her feet, and slid down from the rail, nodding politely to the older woman. “I’m Larkyn Hamley.”
The woman nodded, the skin of her neck pleating against her collar. “Oh, aye, I’ve heard about you,” she said, tapping her temple with one brown finger. “The girl from Willakeep. Winged foal. Academy.”
“Yes,” Lark said. For courtesy’s sake, she added, “We haven’t met before, have we?”
“Oh, no,” the woman said, shaking her head the other way. She grinned, showing small yellow teeth. “No, no, I’m from the hills. Clellum, it is, beneath the butte of blackstone.” Her grin sharpened, and she leaned toward Lark. “You ever need a potion, you come to see me! You come and see old Dorsey!”
Lark drew herself back with a spasm of distaste. The old woman cackled. “Nay, nay,” she cried. “Of course not, not Larkyn of Willakeep! Never!” She leaned in again. “Never say never, that’s the wise thing.”
“I have no need of potions,” Lark said stiffly. She wished she hadn’t come down from her perch, but she could hardly clamber back up again now without being rude. She wondered what Hester would do if an old witchwoman approached her in a public place. Hester always knew what to do.
“Nay, nay,” the old woman said again, shaking her head so gray strands flew out from her braids, gleaming silver in the firelight. “But if you ever need a simple, or a smallmagic—do you come to Clellum! I’ll take care of you, like I did that other!”
Despite herself, Lark bent a little closer to the witchwoman. She was no taller than Lark herself, and her skin looked dried on her bones. “What other, Mistress?” she asked.
“Oh, that other girl from Osham! At least . . .” The witchwoman put her head to one side, and her eyes, black and small, gleamed like a bird’s. “At least I feel sure she was from Osham. She doesn’t speak, that one.”
“What would a girl from Osham be doing in Clellum?”
“I gave her a potion, a good potion,” the woman said, as if she hadn’t heard. Her gray wisps of eyebrows drew together in distress. “Didn’t work. Or she didn’t take it. Nay, nay, never mind, never mind.” She shrugged, and grinned again. “Where’s your horse, Missy? Old Dorsey would like a blink at a winged horse, for once!”
“He’s stabled for the night.” A cold feeling stole through Lark, and she absently took a sip from the mug in her hand. The wine had cooled, and its sweetness cloyed in her mouth. Nick came reeling back, Peony in tow, and took the mug from her, shouting something she couldn’t understand. Brye turned to her, and asked if she wanted anything. By the time she had answered him, and pointed out Edmar’s clumsy but energetic dancing to Nick, the old woman had disappeared. Slowly, Lark climbed back to the top rail of the fence, and settled herself to watch the revelers. But throughout the long, loud evening, she bridled over the old witchwoman’s nonsense. Silly woman, she thought. Never say never was such a stupid saying.
“THEY’RE going to call you Black?” Brye said, staring at Lark across the breakfast table. “Larkyn
Black?”
Peony had come early and cooked a lavish holiday breakfast, and wouldn’t let Lark help her. Lark sat at one end of the table as if she were a guest, feeling restive and frustrated.
“Stick with Hamley.” This pronouncement came from Edmar, who didn’t look up from his plate as he gave it.
“I want to,” Lark told him. “But horsemistresses take their surname from their horse’s name . . . and Tup is now officially Black Seraph.”
“Oh, that’s beautiful!” Peony cried. “I love it! Don’t you love it, Lark?”
“I don’t know yet. I’m just used to calling him Tup.”
Brye leaned back in his chair, and folded his arms. “Just because they put Black Seraph in their book,” he said, “doesn’t mean you have to use it.”
“You know about the book?” Lark asked. “The one on the Headmistress’s desk?”
“Saw it,” he answered. “When I went to tell them about the saddle.”
Nick said slyly, “That did a lot of good, didn’t it, Brye? You drove all that way during harvest, and no one did anything! They still don’t know where Char came from.”
“I wish everyone would let it go,” Lark said plaintively. “Tup is Tup, and he’s the best colt at the Academy. What difference does it make?”
Brye unfolded his arms, and picked up his knife and fork. “It matters, Lark,” he said. “Because Oc matters.”
“I still don’t see—”
Nick surprised her by taking up Brye’s point. “Listen, little sister. We may think we’re independent, here in the Uplands, but we’re not. We may grumble about the Duke’s tithe-man, and turn up our noses at the high-and-mighty ways of the White City, but we need them as much as they need us. Isamar protects Oc in large part because of the winged horses. If they didn’t, there are kingdoms—Klee, for one—who wouldn’t hesitate to come ashore in Eastreach or Marin and help themselves to what little Oc has!”