Airs Beneath the Moon

by Toby Bishop

  Mistress Strong almost lost her hold on it in her surprise. She glared down at Lark. “Back away,” she said, with more energy than Lark had ever heard her use. “I know how to deal with a bad-tempered colt.”

  “But he’s not bad-tempered!” Lark cried. Mistress Strong pulled on the quirt, but Lark didn’t let go. She was vaguely aware that Rosellen had come to the gate, drawn by the excitement. She said, “Let me do it, please, Mistress! He won’t kick me. I’ll let him smell it, let him get used to it.”

  “Nonsense,” Mistress Strong said.

  Tup stamped his hind foot on the floor. He made a good strong bang, and Mistress Strong took a step back.

  “Take care,” she warned, as Lark bent to pick up the saddle. “You wouldn’t be the first girl to get kicked by her horse.”

  Lark barely heard her words. She heard Tup’s rapid breathing, saw the flinching of his ribs and the stiffening of his pinions. As she drew close to him, she smelled the change in him, the sweet peppery tang of his flesh deepening to the acid of fear. It made no sense. Tup wouldn’t be afraid of a saddle, a mere collection of leather and wood and metal.

  “If you can’t get it on him,” Mistress Strong said, “we’ll get him out to the dry paddock and tie him to a post till he gets used to it.”

  “We will not,” Lark muttered under her breath. She lifted the saddle as she walked around Tup’s hindquarters and approached his shoulder.

  The saddle was half the weight of the one she used on Pig. It was still rigid and slick, though, and hung all over with ties and cinches and a wide, stamped breastpiece. She leaned against Tup’s shoulder, the saddle on her right hip, and she caressed his neck with her fingers. “Here, Tup,” she crooned. “Here, lovely boy. Look what I have here! Let’s just take a moment to see what it’s like, shall we? There, lovely boy, there, just a saddle. You see them every day. Just a saddle.”

  Tup whimpered, and she shushed his complaint. She stepped back, and held the saddle under his nose, letting him sniff the slender pommel, lip at the high cantle, nose the breast strap. In moments he relaxed, and lifted his head as if to ask what would happen next. Lark folded back the right stirrup and cinches, and lifted the saddle onto his back, murmuring to him all the while. He accepted the weight without tremor.

  Mistress Strong stood with her arms folded, watching. When Lark brought Tup’s head around, and coaxed him into taking a few steps around the stall carrying the uncinched saddle, Mistress Strong harumphed. “Well. Worked this time, Larkyn. But you’ll have to take a firm hand with that one. They’re still horses, wings or no. They have to know who’s in charge.”

  Other girls and horses were starting to come into the stables. Mistress Strong, distracted, turned to see who had arrived. Girls called to each other, and their horses whickered.

  “Leave it on him for fifteen minutes,” the horsemistress said, not returning her gaze to Lark. “Again tomorrow. Try the cinches, but have a care. Black Seraph has a black temper.”

  Mistress Strong sidled out past Rosellen and the oc-hound, and Lark stared after her, mystified. When she was gone, Rosellen whispered, “Tup doesn’t have a bad temper. Strong Lady does, though. Terrible for kicking if you’re not careful, and the kick of a Foundation is nothing to sneeze at! I’ll wager Mistress Strong has felt the bite of those heels more than once.”

  “Tup doesn’t like her,” Lark said, shaking her head. “I don’t understand it. He seems to like everyone else at the Academy. He just doesn’t like her.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TRUE winter slowed activities at the Academy of the Air. It seemed to Philippa that horses, hounds, even the girls walked slower. The long nights and short days limited the amount of work that could be done, and tempers frayed. Snow glittered in the return paddock and frosted the bare branches of the hedgerows, and the cobblestones of the courtyard were treacherous with ice. Each morning, Rosellen and Herbert had to break a thin glaze of ice on the oc-hounds’ water trough.

  The winged horses grew impatient from lack of exercise, but there were some days simply too cold to be in the air for more than a few minutes. This was one of those days, and Philippa had decided to drill her flight on the ground. She watched from the side of the dry paddock as Elizabeth and Chaser circled slowly at a collected canter. The air was so cold it seemed one could take a bite of it, and all the horses were restive. When Elizabeth cued a lead change, Chaser’s wings unfolded impatiently.

  “Elizabeth, use your quirt. Don’t let Chaser open his wings. There will be times flying is not possible.”

  Elizabeth tapped Chaser on the point of each wing. He shook his head from side to side, and his canter grew a little rough, but he obediently refolded his pinions. Before the next girl made her round, Philippa reminded them all of the importance of practicing each command. As she spoke, her breath curled from her lips in the still air.

  As she released her flight to go back into the warmth of the stables, Larkyn came out, leading the old piebald pony. Bramble trotted beside her.

  “Larkyn,” Philippa said. “Surely you’re not still riding Pig?”

  The girl’s vivid gaze came up to her face, and she flushed. Not, however, as hotly as she once had, Philippa thought. Larkyn was gaining some composure.

  Larkyn said, “Mistress Strong says I must ride Pig until I can hold my seat in the saddle.” She added, a bit mournfully, “I fall off. Every time I canter. I have a terrible seat.”

  Philippa pursed her lips. Absently, she put out her hand to take the pony’s bridle, and he bared his teeth. Startled, she snatched her hand back. Bramble growled, and her hackles rose.

  “Oh, I’m sorry!” Larkyn said hastily. “I should have warned you. Pig’s a biter.”

  “Kalla’s heels! Has he bitten you?”

  “Oh, no. He wouldn’t bite me. But Herbert, several times, and Rosellen, once.”

  Philippa folded her arms. “Larkyn, I don’t know if it’s possible for you to catch up with your class by Ribbon Day. But if there’s even a chance, you must not only ride, but fly. You can’t do that on a pony.”

  “I know.” Lark stopped where she was, and Pig’s heavy feet stopped, too. The snow had worn off the dry paddock, leaving a sort of icy mud. Not, Philippa thought, a surface one would want to fall on.

  “Mistress Winter,” the girl began, and then faltered.

  “What is it?” Philippa saw Irina Strong crossing the courtyard, and she felt a sudden rush of impatience. Her own temper was not helped by the restrictive weather.

  “If I could only ride Tup . . . instead of Pig . . .”

  Philippa had no chance to answer. Irina had arrived at the pole fence, and was unlatching the gate and coming through. Philippa nodded to her. “I’m going to watch Larkyn ride today.”

  “You and the Head don’t trust me, I suppose.”

  “It’s not a question of trust, Irina.” She could have explained further, but the very thought of putting it all into words gave her a sense of ennui. She leaned against the fence, and watched through narrowed eyes as Larkyn struggled to turn the stirrup toward her foot while still keeping an eye on the piebald’s teeth. Irina snapped Pig’s rein, making him jump, and Larkyn dropped the stirrup. The girl cast Irina a wary glance, and Philippa had no doubt that had she not been there, Irina would have said something cutting to the girl.

  Philippa sighed, and let her eyelids close. She listened to the creak of saddle leather, the familiar jingle of bit and bridle. The pony’s footsteps plodded around the paddock, approaching her and then receding. Irina gave commands, and Philippa opened her eyes to see how Larkyn responded.

  The girl, unfortunately, had been right. She had a terrible seat. She hunched over the pommel as if she had no balance at all, and she clutched at the reins with her left hand, the pommel with her right. There seemed to be no coordination between her hands and her feet, and Pig labored around the paddock in a sort of confused waddle. Irina, instead of correcting Larkyn’s posture, commanded her to trot the pony
. Philippa wanted to close her eyes again, but she forced herself to follow the scene.

  Larkyn jounced in the big saddle like a dry pea in a cup, only saving herself from falling by standing in her stirrups. The pony’s gait was rough and irregular, and Philippa had to clench her jaw to keep from snapping commands of her own.

  And when Irina ordered Larkyn to the canter, the girl tilted to one side, lost her left stirrup, then lost her rein, and then, as Pig stepped on the dropped rein and tripped, Larkyn lost her seat entirely.

  With a grunt, the girl fell to the frozen ground of the paddock. The pony lurched to a halt, and whirled as if he might step on his fallen rider. Bramble, sitting at Philippa’s side, leaped forward, curling her lip, but Irina at least had the presence of mind to seize the piebald’s drooping rein. She kept it at a good length, Philippa saw, no doubt aware of those teeth.

  Irina looked up at Philippa. “You see?” she said dully. “I have nothing to work with.”

  “If I didn’t know better, Irina,” Philippa said crisply, “I would think you have deliberately sabotaged a young rider. Start again at the beginning. Help Larkyn with her posture, and check the stirrup lengths. I’m going to have a word with Margareth.”

  She turned, her back stiff with anger, and left the paddock. She glanced back once through the rank of poles to see Larkyn, like a redfaced, curly-haired urchin, dusting the seat of her skirt and approaching the pony once again. Sympathy did Larkyn no good, but she felt it anyway. It was no wonder Irina had never been made a senior instructor. She showed, as far as Philippa could tell, absolutely no aptitude for the job.

  LARK made her escape from the dry paddock as soon as she possibly could. Her bottom ached from falling on it, and her calves burned from struggling to stand in the stiff stirrups. She crept into Tup’s stall, and crouched beside him, her back against the wall, her head buried in her sleeve to muffle her sobs.

  She wept for only a few moments before Tup’s velvet muzzle found her cheek. He lipped at her tears, and whimpered at her. Molly butted at her, trying to push her arm away from her face, and under these awkward ministrations, Lark began to giggle.

  She lifted her face, still wet with tears, and laughed at the colt and the little she-goat. “Aye, rascals,” she said. She swiped at her running nose with her hand. “Crying won’t help, will it? If it’s hopeless, it’s hopeless, and they’ll just have to send me away. As long as you both come with me, I swear I don’t care!”

  She clambered to her feet, and took Tup’s halter from its hook. “Come along, my lovely boy. It’s exercise time.” She checked his wingclips, and slipped the halter over his head. He already was wearing his blanket against the cold.

  Every afternoon he was allowed to run in the yearlings’ pasture. They were in the middle of the two-year cycle, and there were no yearlings at the moment except for Tup.

  She led him out of the stables, past the other girls working with their horses. Molly trotted beside her, and as she emerged from the stables, Bramble loped across the courtyard to lead the way. The whole little entourage moved through the gate and into the pasture. Lark unclipped Tup’s halter lead, and he cantered down the length of the pasture toward the stand of spruce trees that marked its far end. Lark strolled after him, glad to stretch sore muscles. Molly and Bramble followed, each at their own speed, Bramble stopping to sniff every shrub, Molly snuffling at the snow in hopes that a blade or two of grass had survived the cold.

  When they reached the grove, Tup came galloping up to Lark, snow flying from his hooves. He skidded to a stop before her, and bumped her chest with his nose.

  She rubbed his forehead. “I’d love to have a ride, Tup,” she said. “But I don’t dare. Not here! What if someone saw us?”

  Tup snorted, and dashed away from her again to make a circuit of the pasture. When he came back, he nosed her again, then offered her his side in clear invitation.

  Lark glanced back at the Academy buildings. No one was in the courtyard at the moment. Everyone was either in the Hall, out of the cold, or working in the stables. The early evening already shadowed the pasture and the lane, and a ghost of moon showed above the western hills.

  Bramble stood beside Tup, laughing up at Lark. Molly was contentedly pawing at the snow. Lark looked back down the length of the pasture, and seeing no one, sprang to Tup’s back. Surely, she thought, her standing mount was as good as anyone’s. She tightened her riding cap on her head, and said softly, “Let’s go, Tup. But through the trees. The grove will hide us.”

  What a relief it was to ride him again! Her calves snugged easily beneath the points of his wings, her feet curling around his ribs. Her seat conformed to his spine, his short back and fine withers a better fit for her than any saddle could be. She had only the halter lead, but she didn’t need even that. With one hand on Tup’s mane, the other on his neck, the two of them were in perfect accord.

  Surely, she thought, to canter through the grove was almost as marvelous as flying. Tup’s gait on the snow-covered grass was like flowing water beneath her, without jolt or bump or break. He responded, it seemed, to her every thought. He changed leads, and swept around the farthest tree. She leaned into the turn, balancing easily, thighs tight on his barrel as if they were glued there. Tup’s ears turned forward, and his breath and hers mingled to rise in frosty spirals. They were both, for the moment, supremely happy.

  PHILIPPA found a moment, late in the afternoon, to talk with Margareth about Irina Strong’s failure to help Larkyn progress. “There’s nothing worse than a stubborn woman who’s also stupid,” Philippa said.

  “Now, Philippa,” Margareth responded. “Perhaps she’s not so much stupid as unimaginative.”

  “I can’t think how she ever learned to fly herself!” Philippa snapped. “She hasn’t taught her anything, except to fall on her country backside every time the pony changes gaits!”

  Margareth rubbed her eyes, and Philippa immediately regretted her temper. “Never mind, Margareth,” she said more quietly. “I’ll deal with it. I’ll—I’ll take over her training myself.”

  “Kalla’s teeth,” Margareth said. “Irina will be unbearable if you do that.”

  “Then things will hardly be different than they are now!”

  Margareth stroked the leather-bound genealogy on her desk with her fingers. “It’s difficult to like Irina,” she said quietly. “But I try. Her father was in some sort of trouble, and for a time there was talk he might be imprisoned. I don’t know how he got out of that.”

  Philippa sighed. “I’ll try to have more sympathy for her. But it won’t be easy.”

  Margareth gave her a tired smile. “Thank you. Now go, spend some time with Sunny. Put it out of your mind for a bit.”

  Philippa nodded, and took her leave of the Headmistress. She shrugged into her riding coat as she went down the steps of the Hall, and pulled it close against the cold as she crossed the courtyard. No one was about. The sky was as gray as lead, the pallid sun invisible behind snow-laden clouds. When Bramble trotted from the flight paddock to greet her, her silvery fur made her almost invisible against the gray and white background.

  Philippa reached to stroke the oc-hound, but Bramble dodged her hand, leaping to one side as if about to run off, then standing still, tail high, fixing her with an expectant black gaze.

  “Bramble!” Philippa said. “What are you up to?”

  For answer, the dog came close again, and then dashed a few steps off, turning to stare at her. Philippa laughed, and moved toward the oc-hound, her hand outstretched. Bramble waited until she was within arm’s reach, and then ran a few more steps.

  “Kalla’s heels, Bramble,” Philippa said. “I’m tired, and all I want is to give Sunny a brushing and go sit by a warm fire.”

  The dog’s tongue lolled as she stared at Philippa. She backed away two more steps and then sat, waiting. Philippa clicked her tongue, and gave in.

  The moment she moved forward again, Bramble whirled, and trotted purposefully towar
d the yearlings’ pasture. Philippa followed. As they reached the fence, Bramble leaped over it, and stood waiting, tail waving, while Philippa came through the gate.

  “If you’re just trying to get me to play, I’m going to be very cross with you,” Philippa warned her. Bramble grinned up at her, and trotted off. Philippa pulled on her gloves, and walked after the dog.

  In truth, the fresh air felt sweet in her lungs, and her eyes were soothed by the pale landscape and muted sky. Philippa walked faster, braced by being out-of-doors, by the crunch of dry snow beneath her boots and the sweet silence of the deserted pasture. She drew breath to call out to Bramble, who had dashed ahead of her to the spruce grove. She released the breath, the call unvoiced. Bramble had reached the trees, and sat down in a clear spot beneath one of them, her task accomplished.

  Philippa stood where she was, and watched, amazed, as the girl and the horse dashed between the trees, cutting in and out, changing leads every three or four strides, whirling at the end of the grove and galloping back. They moved as one, as beautifully as Philippa had ever seen a rider and a horse work together. Larkyn’s slight form seemed melded to the winged horse’s back. Her spine was straight, swaying easily with the horse’s movements, and her hands were low, invisible in the flying strands of his mane. Tup ran without effort, every step full of the joy of being young and strong. He carried no tack except a halter, its lead swinging in a loose arc beneath his neck.

  Philippa turned her back on the scene. She should scold the girl, of course. She should inspect the colt for injury, issue an ultimatum to Larkyn. She should report to Margareth, and take the whole matter in hand.

  But she wouldn’t.

  As she walked, Bramble came bounding after her, apparently satisfied she had done her duty. Now she let Philippa stroke her head, and walk along with her fingers twined in the oc-hound’s silky fur.

  Philippa pondered what had just happened. Larkyn weighed so little. She couldn’t possibly hurt Black Seraph. And though, obviously, this was not the first time she had ridden the colt, he glowed with health. If Philippa reported their infraction, that fragile ecstasy she had just witnessed—the perfect joy of bondmates in movement—would be extinguished, would be buried under rules and orders and discipline. Irina Strong would be delighted.