Airs Beneath the Moon

by Toby Bishop

  “Your Grace,” she began, “there was no point, with Philippa there—”

  “You’re afraid of her.”

  “No. But I have to work with them, and she threatened me . . .”

  “You work for me!” he said. “She can’t threaten you!”

  “But she said when the Council learns what you’ve . . .” She stopped, her mouth still open, her face paling as he jumped to his feet.

  An idea formed in his mind, and he drew a slow breath, letting it crystallize. He took a step closer to her, leaning forward, taking pleasure in her slight shift away. He said, very softly, “Irina. There’s no need for Philippa Winter to speak to the Council at all. No need for her to put you in jeopardy, or me.”

  She got slowly to her feet, and shuffled backward until she stood behind her chair. As if that would protect her! The fear on her face gratified him. He pulled his quirt out of his belt and ran it through his fingers.

  “Go back to the Uplands,” he said in his silkiest tone. “Deal with her.”

  “What do you mean, deal with her?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” he said. He held up the quirt, and she flinched away from it. “If Philippa doesn’t come back from the Uplands, none of the rest of it will matter, not even that farm brat.”

  “My lord . . .” Irina stared at him, her eyes round, the pupils beginning to swell. “My lord Duke—what are you asking me?”

  He allowed his lips to curl, and he took a long step toward her, holding out the quirt. “Stop her,” he said smoothly. “Flying is dangerous, isn’t it? Accidents happen from time to time, tragic incidents.” Even more quietly, enjoying Jinson’s mesmerized stare, and the stupid woman’s look of horror, he said, “Horsemistresses die.”

  “Duke William,” Irina said faintly. “I could never—deliberately—”

  “You could never what?” he asked, still smiling. “You’ll do as I tell you, Irina. You’ve gone too far to back out now. I am your only hope.” He pressed the quirt into her hands. Her face was as white and stiff as a field of snow. She would do it. She had left herself no choice.

  “Jinson.” He turned to his Master Breeder, speaking almost casually. “Don’t bring in another stallion. We’ll wait for the little black to be returned. And this time, we’ll bring the brat with him.”

  He tugged down his vest with both hands, and walked from the room. It was good to be in control, to have authority. It was worth any sacrifice. And surely, had his father understood, he would have approved.

  THIRTY-NINE

  THROUGH another day they searched, and then another. Nick resumed his rounds, asking questions everywhere he went, but his inquiries yielded nothing. In truth, he said sorrowfully, he doubted there could be a winged horse in the Uplands without everyone knowing of it.

  On the fourth day Philippa, washing with water from the ewer in the bedroom at Deeping Farm, caught sight of herself in the old, shadowy glass above the bureau. She stopped, her hands dripping above the basin, and gazed at her gaunt face, her hollow eyes, her dry lips. She looked far older, she thought, than her thirty-seven years. The days of flying in circles, of little sleep, of bedeviling nightmares, had taken their toll.

  She seized the towel from its hook and turned her back on the glass. There was nothing she could do about her appearance, and she shouldn’t care. Still, she brushed her hair thoroughly before twisting it into the rider’s knot, and she rubbed a little almond cream into her skin. She avoided the mirror as she pulled on her riding habit and boots.

  Brye showed the strain of the past days as well. He seemed thinner, and he spoke less and less when they met at breakfast and at supper. Today he would take the oxcart to the west and north, to the mountain villages. Philippa, having exhausted the nearer neighborhoods, would fly ahead of him, starting at the top of the mountain and working her way down, scanning the meadows and valleys as best she could from the air.

  “I’ve been there before,” she told him, as they drank black tea and ate Peony’s coddled eggs. “I can find Mossyrock again.”

  Brye rose from the table, and took his hat from its peg beside the kitchen door.

  Philippa pulled on her own cap as she followed him out into the barnyard. After days of balmy sunshine, a spring storm threatened above the mountains. She frowned up at the sky. “Let’s hope the rain holds off.”

  Brye followed her gaze. “Can you fly in the rain?”

  “As long as it’s not too heavy. Lightning makes things a bit tricky. And wind.”

  He grunted acknowledgment.

  Philippa found Sunny well fed and rested, eager to fly. She saddled her, and led her out toward the lane. Brye was there with the oxcart. Nick, with a borrowed pullcart, had already set out with his milk and butter. The Hamleys had set out a mounting block, but Philippa ignored it. She sprang to Sunny’s back, and heard Brye murmur something. She avoided his eye, but she was gratified. Her standing mount restored a bit of her self-respect, welcome after her misadventure with the mirror.

  She fitted her boots into her stirrups, and wheeled Sunny. They passed the waiting ox at a posting trot, and Philippa raised her hand to Brye. “Good luck,” she called.

  He touched his fingers to the brim of his hat, and climbed up onto the driving seat of the cart. Sunny cantered, then galloped, and moments later, bore Philippa up into the cool grayness of the morning, turning without being asked toward the northwest. She had caught their purpose, Philippa thought. She imagined that Sunny, too, turned her eye on every open field, every clearing, every inch of ground where a winged horse and its rider might have come to ground.

  She put her gloved hand on Sunny’s neck, and murmured, beneath the wind of their flight, “You’re a grand girl, Winter Sunset. Let’s find our missing chicks today, shall we?”

  As if in answer, Sunny’s wings beat more strongly, and she banked sharply toward the green hills.

  The weather held through the morning and into the early afternoon. Philippa followed the pattern of the last few days, searching, returning to ground to rest and eat, then taking to the air to search again. They worked their way up into the hills in the direction of Mossyrock. They came upon the same meadow where they had landed months before, when Philippa came to investigate the saddle for sale in the country market. A misty rain began to fall just as Sunny touched down, slicking the grass and glistening on the blackstone butte that divided the meadow from the field beyond. Philippa buttoned her riding coat up to her neck, and led Sunny under a tree to keep as dry as possible.

  The mare dropped her head to nibble at the grass just beyond the cover of the branches. Philippa let her graze while she sat on the ground, her back against the sticky trunk. She felt stiff with fatigue. Rain pattered through the leaves to spot the bare dirt around her boots.

  She measured the dwindling light of the day, and had almost decided to turn back to Deeping Farm when Sunny threw up her head. Her ears pricked forward, and she whickered.

  Philippa knew that whicker. She jumped to her feet, stiffness forgotten, and moved out into the drizzle to see what had attracted the mare’s attention.

  In the gray distance, a flyer circled above the butte, apparently making ready to land.

  Philippa turned to Sunny, and mounted in one swift leap. Sunny whirled on her haunches, beginning her canter down the meadow before Philippa had settled properly into the saddle. Her wings flexed eagerly over Philippa’s calves as she increased her pace. Before they reached the end, Philippa cried, “Sunny! Hup!” and they took to the air.

  The other flyer was Irina.

  Strong Lady’s silhouette was unmistakable, the broad red-brown wings, the thick, short tail. Irina had always flown with a slight backward tilt to her spine, as if she was not quite sure where she was going.

  In this case, despite her posture, Philippa had no doubt Irina knew her destination. She could lead her to Larkyn and Black Seraph.

  Sunny’s wings beat with steady strength, all fatigue vanished now that their purpose was clear
. Philippa felt the same. She leaned forward, her hands and her feet alive with fresh energy. The rain intensified, and soon her face was wet, her eyelashes beaded with sparkling drops as Sunny circled the butte, following Lady.

  Philippa saw that a small, plain house nestled on the other side, almost hidden by a jutting ledge of blackstone. A narrow shed protruded from one side, and smoke rose from a tin chimney pot in a narrow gray stream that blended with the mist and disappeared.

  And in the lee of the shed, a small black horse stood out of the rain. A winged horse.

  “Kalla’s heels!” Philippa cursed. “How did I miss him?”

  She knew, though, of course. If she had not come around the cliff from the south side, if Irina had not showed her the way, the house and shed would have shielded Black Seraph from her view. She might never have found him.

  Strong Lady banked to the left in her descent, and Philippa and Sunny followed in the same circular pattern. They would come to ground just behind the other pair.

  Rain ran from Sunny’s mane and dripped from Philippa’s cap, falling faster and harder every moment. Philippa peered ahead through the grayness. As Lady turned, preparing for her last circuit of the field, both horse and rider caught sight of Philippa and Sunny. Irina’s body jerked, and Lady’s wings fluttered. Sunny spread her own wings wide, beginning her glide. Philippa sensed Black Seraph’s sudden attention as he caught sight of the two mares. She spared a glance to see that he had come out from beneath his shelter to stand with his head up, staring through the rain.

  Philippa looked forward again, and caught her breath in shock.

  Irina and Lady had broken off their descending pattern, and begun to climb, right into Sunny’s path. Lady’s wings beat laboriously, and Irina hunched over her neck. Lady’s neck stretched forward, and she flew directly toward Sunny, gathering speed with every stroke of her powerful wings.

  Below them, Black Seraph gave a full-throated neigh. Philippa felt Sunny hesitate, a question in the flicker of her ears. Her wings thrust them slightly upward. Seraph whinnied again, a long, clear sound.

  Philippa gave Sunny her head, and Sunny drove hard with her wings, making a sharp ascent, averting a possible collision. The two pairs of flyers passed each other, Sunny above, Lady below. Irina was using her quirt on Lady’s neck.

  “Irina!” Philippa cried. “What are you doing?”

  Black Seraph neighed again as Sunny wheeled in the mist at the far end of the field. Irina turned at the opposite end, Strong Lady making a ghostly figure against the blackstone of the butte. Philippa was about to give Sunny the signal to descend, when she realized, with a cold shock, that the near-collision had been no accident. Irina’s maneuvers were deliberate. Strong Lady had the thick body and neck of a Foundation, and she weighed half again what Sunny did. Lady might survive a collision in the air, but Sunny wouldn’t. And neither would Philippa.

  But she must reach Black Seraph before Irina did. And find Larkyn! Irina had nothing left to lose. She might be capable of anything.

  Again they passed each other, and again Sunny rose above Strong Lady’s path. Philippa shouted at Irina, “Get away, you fool! Let me land!”

  Irina only glared at her, and raised her quirt as if it were a sword.

  The challenge was unmistakable. Sunny felt it, too, and her body vibrated with defiant energy. Philippa had felt that vibration only once before. Sunny had been right then, and she was right now. This was a battle, and one they dared not lose.

  They flew one more arc above the field, and then the horses flew at each other, ears back, teeth bared, the battle engaged.

  Someone, Philippa thought grimly, was going to die today.

  LARK sat in Dorsey’s single chair, her leg propped on a pile of firewood. Dorsey had been called to the village to attend an illness, leaving the girl and her child with Lark.

  It had been a better day than the one before. She had taken no potion at all, and had eaten a bowl of pottage for lunch, along with more of the heavy brown bread and a slice of goatmilk cheese. She felt more lucid than at any time since her fall. The girl, silent as always, was working at the sink, but her little boy came to stand at Lark’s knee, staring up at her.

  She smiled at him. “Do you have a name?” she asked.

  He only gazed at her, his mouth open. She knew he could speak, because she had heard him chattering at Dorsey earlier, though his prattle had made no sense. He was, she judged, not quite two. About as old, in truth, as Tup. She had no idea when children should begin to talk, or to know their names. Dorsey didn’t seem to care, but it seemed wrong to Lark, somehow demeaning, that they should be simply Girl and the Child.

  “Shall I name you?” Lark asked.

  The girl looked up at her question, and left the sink to come toward them.

  Lark glanced up at her. “I know you can’t speak,” she said. “But perhaps you can write? Tell me who you are, and what your child should be called?”

  The girl’s face brightened, just a bit. Lark thought it likely that Dorsey couldn’t read. Many of the mountain people didn’t.

  Lark looked about her, wondering if any writing materials would be available in this place. The girl followed her glance, and then shaking her head, she knelt to pick a piece of charcoal from the cold hearth. She bent to begin writing something on the stones of the fireplace.

  Lark could just see past her shoulder. B-r-a-n-d-o-n. “Brandon? Is his name Brandon?”

  The girl nodded, with as much enthusiasm as Lark had seen from her. “He doesn’t know his name, does he?” Lark murmured. “Of course not, if he never hears it. I’m so—”

  At that moment, Tup whinnied loudly from outside the workroom.

  Lark sat up, wincing at the pain in her right side, but alarm quickening her heart. Tup neighed again, a sound full of alarm. “Girl!” she exclaimed. “Go see if—no, help me up! Please, Girl, hurry!”

  Another neigh shook the boards of the workroom. As if in answer, the rain intensified, pounding on the tin roof of the hut, spattering down the chimney to splash in the dead embers of last night’s fire.

  The girl cast one wide-eyed glance at the workroom, and then bent to put her shoulder beneath Lark’s arm. Lark struggled to stand. Her right side took fire, but she didn’t care. She hopped on her left foot. Her right leg felt as if it had hot coals inside its bandage. The little boy sat staring up at his mother and Lark, open-mouthed, and then, as they moved painfully into the workroom, he began to wail.

  Lark would always remember, when she thought back on this day, the cacophony that seemed to attend every detail. The child screamed for his mother, the rain pummeled the hut. When she managed to make her way outside, her short curls were immediately soaked. And Tup, the moment he saw Lark emerge from the hut, pounded away across the field, head and tail high, calling fiercely to the flyers circling above.

  Even through the thickening veil of rain, Lark knew who they were. Mistress Winter was a slender, straight figure in Winter Sunset’s saddle. Irina Strong was thicker, and hunched somehow, her mare laboring through the rain. But what were they doing? Why did they fly at each other in that way, directly, as if they were . . .

  “Kalla’s teeth!” Lark cried. “They’re fighting!”

  And they were. Mistress Winter and Sunny dropped sharply toward the rainsoaked field, but Irina Strong flew into their path, coming precipitously close to them. They would surely have collided had Winter Sunset not darted swiftly to her left, her agile wings seeming almost to swim through the clouds of rain, lifting her out of the way.

  In an abrupt, awkward turn, Strong Lady reversed, her effort obvious in the way she flew, her rider leaning into the turn, brandishing her quirt above her head.

  “Tup! Come here!” Lark cried, but the rain drowned her voice. Tup stampeded beneath Winter Sunset, whirling as she did, racing headlong across the untilled ground. Lark screamed his name again, and again, but he was following his monitor, yearning to fly.

  As Lark sank back
against the girl’s shoulder, weak with fear, Tup spread his wings and lifted from the ground to join Winter Sunset. Lark saw Mistress Winter glance down at him, and then forward to Irina and Strong Lady, who once again angled across her path. Mistress Winter looked the other way, just a quick glance, and when she saw Lark, it was as if a spark passed between them, an understanding.

  “Yes, oh, yes,” Lark moaned. “Get him away, please! Lead Tup away!”

  Strong Lady’s wings streamed rain as she drove at Winter Sunset again. Tup was behind Sunny, rising fast. If Sunny and Lady struck each other, Tup would never be able to evade the disaster. Lark clutched at the girl’s supporting arms, her mouth open, raindrops weighting her eyelashes and dripping down her cheeks. The flyers drew closer, and closer still, until Lark thought her heart would stop. Then, with a deft movement, Mistress Winter and Sunny executed the tightest, swiftest Grand Reverse Lark could imagine was possible.

  The Grand Reverse was the hardest of all maneuvers for the flying horses. It meant a complete reversal of direction, while at the same time changing the plane of flight, increasing or decreasing altitude. It was the perfect evasive action for a Noble to take under the attack of a Foundation, because the Noble was lighter, more agile than the Foundation.

  And Tup, following Sunny, performed a perfect Grand Reverse. The dip of his wings and the angle of his small body were deft as a sparrow’s. The two horses lifted, and turned to the right, out of the way of Irina and her horse.

  And Strong Lady, trying to match them, tilted wildly to her left, her wings beating unevenly as she struggled to maintain her balance.

  Irina Strong clutched at the wet saddle, at Lady’s mane, but the angle was too sharp.

  Lark’s shout of warning died in her throat as she watched the horsemistress lose her seat, and slip backward over her horse’s haunches. Irina Strong threw her arms out as if in surrender, and then fell.