Airs Beneath the Moon

by Toby Bishop

  Rosellen muttered dire warnings throughout, even as she supplied the leather and the awl, the buckles and thongs. “Best think hard about this, Lark,” she said. “Them horsemistresses catch on, they’ll hold you back for sure. Maybe better just to muddle through.”

  “No, Rosellen. That’s not good enough. I need to do this my way.”

  Rosellen shook her head, and grumbled on about punishments and penalties, but she lent her hands just the same, holding and stretching and beveling and fitting, until the project was complete.

  And now, the day was here.

  Because the Council Lords and their ladies were eager to see who would become Oc’s newest horsemistresses, the third-level students performed their Airs first, when the sun was at its highest and the horses could be shown to best effect. The winged horses gleamed with brushing, the membranes of their wings were rubbed till they shone, and each bit of tack glowed with saddle soap. Every buckle and snap glittered with polish, every mane and tail sported black and silver ribbons. The girls, who would be women by the end of the day, walked with self-conscious pride as they approached the flight paddock. Their riding coats and divided skirts were immaculate, their boots spotless, their peaked caps tilted just so above their perfect riding knots.

  The aristocracy of the White City sat in rows of chairs in the courtyard. They wore elaborately girdled tabards and jeweled caps, ropes of pearls from the coast, soft high-heeled shoes. A few of their children sat with them, hushed and stiff in rich clothes too old for them. Lark and Hester and Anabel leaned on the fence of the flight paddock, shoulder to shoulder, gazing hungrily at Elizabeth and Ardith and the others. Their horses were six years old now, mature, well schooled. Lark hardly breathed as the flight began its canter down the paddock. They lifted into the bright sky, haloed by fluffs of white cloud. Philippa Winter led the way, the ideal figure of a horsemistress at the height of her abilities.

  Lark thought there could be no more beautiful sight than Horsemistress Winter and Winter Sunset banking, dipping, soaring above the flight. Lark knew, now, what the signals were she made with her quirt. The flight performed a Half Reverse, a Grand Reverse, hovered at Quarters. The Lords of the Council and their ladies patted their hands together, which was silly. The flyers above couldn’t possibly hear them.

  When the flight formed for Arrows and the flyers made their sharp descent, flashing down toward the courtyard and up again into the hot sunlight, the ladies in the chairs gasped. Hester said, “Thank Kalla we don’t have to do that!”

  “Nor the Grand Reverse,” Anabel whispered. “At least, not this year.”

  Lark, who had managed for a moment not to think about her own upcoming ordeal, said nothing. The third-level flyers spun above them in the first and then the second of the Graces, lovely balletic patterns designed to impress. Lark tilted her head back to watch.

  As she straightened, she caught sight of Duke William’s tall, slender figure on the steps of the Hall. His pale hair caught the sunlight. His eyes, like blackstone pebbles, met hers, and even across the courtyard, she could see how his thin lips curled.

  Lark pressed herself closer to the fence, and averted her eyes.

  William had caught her in the aisle of the stables, just as she went to braid the ribbons into Tup’s tail. He held out that magicked quirt and dared her with his cold gaze. Only Hester coming along had stopped him. If he had touched her . . . she feared she might have lost what little nerve she had left. It was, she thought, exactly what he intended.

  The afternoon seemed endless to the first-level girls awaiting their turn. After the third level finished their triumphant display, they dismounted and presented themselves to the Headmistress and the Duke for the formal recognition of their achievement. The ribbons for which the day was named were pinned to their tabards, and they accepted the Duke’s congratulations with stiff nods, then the accolades of the Council Lords. An hour passed in this fashion before the second-level flyers took to the air.

  The gallery in the courtyard began to shrink even before the second-level girls had finished their demonstration. As the sun sank in the western sky, carriages were brought round from behind the stables, and the ladies were driven away, one by one. As the second-level girls received their ribbons from the Headmistress, the gallery was reduced by half. Even some of the Lords began to depart after that ceremony was finished. Petra Sweet, smirking with pride, was the last to receive her ribbon. Lord and Lady Beeth remained to watch their daughter fly, and a few of the Council Lords also stayed. The Lady Constance, William’s colorless little wife, had been whisked away.

  Anabel said, “Look! The Duke is still here.”

  “I see him,” Hester said. “Right behind Mamá and Papá. It’s odd. Usually he leaves the moment the third-levels have finished their Airs.”

  Lark’s stomach turned over. She knew it was because of her, and because of Tup. He had stayed to watch them. And if they failed . . . He would claim Tup for his own purposes. Mistress Winter and Mistress Morgan would fight him, but the Council Lords would have seen for themselves, and they would have no chance.

  By the time Mistress Dancer summoned the first-level flyers to the stables to prepare, the disc of the harvest moon, broad and yellow, already showed above the eastern horizon. Lark glanced at it over her shoulder as she slipped into the stables. She touched the icon beneath her tabard, and whispered a prayer to Kalla to hurry the sun down, to slow the moon’s rise, to provide a little darkness.

  When the first-level flyers emerged from the stables, torches had been lighted in their sconces around the courtyard. The Lords of the Council sat in their flickering glow. The flight paddock, by contrast, seemed gloomy, but when the girls and their horses moved away from the torchlight, their eyes adjusted quickly. Horsemistess Dancer cantered down the flight paddock, leading the way. Hester came directly behind the horsemistress, and then Lillian, Beatrice, Beryl, Isobel, and Grace. Next to last came Anabel and Take a Chance, increasing the pace to a hand gallop.

  And last, lest their wobbling affect the rest of the flight, came Lark and Tup.

  She knew, the moment she felt the shiver of power that radiated from his great chest muscles through her calves and thighs, that she had made the right choice. The wind streamed above and below his wings, and her hands felt his confidence as he banked and ascended after the others. They aligned themselves in the circle for the first of the Graces, and Lark felt as if nothing, nothing at all, could stop them.

  PHILIPPA, with Sunny already brushed and blanketed, stood on the top step of the Hall. She had not changed her riding skirt, and in the cooling air she could still smell Sunny on her clothes, and on the gloves tucked into her waistband. She breathed in the scent, reminded as she always was of the nerves and excitement of her own Ribbon Days. William still leaned against one of the pillars, two steps below her. He cast her a single cool glance, and then turned back to watch the first-level flight assemble in the paddock.

  Philippa tried not to think about him, nor about the welling anxiety that had nagged at her all day. She stood with her arms folded and her back straight. She tried to expect good things for Larkyn and Black Seraph, but in truth, she had scarce confidence of their success.

  She had watched their drill the day before, and she could see that Larkyn simply had no seat in the saddle. She had flown better when she made her escape from Fleckham House than she had, even once, since her return to the Academy. And if she failed now . . . in the presence of these Lords of the Council, in the presence of the Master Breeder and Margareth . . . if she failed, William would win after all.

  The torches dazzled her eyes, haloing the winged horses in a golden fog as they cantered, then galloped, their wings spreading, catching the air, beginning to beat. They rose above the grove, one after the other, flying into the fading light of evening. Mistress Dancer led them in a slow pattern above the courtyard. Heads tipped up, and there were appreciative murmurs as the horses circled in the first of the three required Gra
ces, legs curled, wings steady, girls erect. One after another they came, faces blurred by the torchlight. When the flight had arrayed itself around the Academy grounds, Kathryn Dancer twirled her quirt, and they executed the first of their Airs, a Half Reverse that opened their formation like the petals of a flower.

  Philippa found she was holding her breath. She peered through the dazzle of light, and she sensed William, below her, doing the same. She willed Larkyn and Black Seraph to perfection, and she knew William did the opposite, searching for any sign of weakness, unsteadiness, anything he could use.

  But there was nothing. Each of the flyers performed the Half Reverse, and then held a nearly perfect pattern at Quarters, following their flight leader. Black Seraph looked, to Philippa’s hopeful eyes, as steady as Hester’s Golden Morning. Nor could she find any fault with his rider. Through the haze of torchlight, Larkyn appeared to sit as straight as any other flyer, settled deeply into her seat, her heels down, her head up.

  The second Grace was a loop, each of the flyers turning outward on a precise count of wingbeats, turning back to face each other at Quarters. Surely Black Seraph’s loop was the smoothest of all, Philippa thought, his slender wings moving effortlessly, his small body at the perfect angle, his rider leaning into the turn with just the right shift of weight! How could this be? It was as if the two of them, overnight, had found the answer they needed, the balance of strength and position and speed.

  It was enough, Philippa thought wryly, to make one believe in smallmagics.

  Kathryn led her flight in a short demonstration of Points, appropriate for the first level, and then came the last of their Graces.

  It was an elliptical pattern, the flyers soaring low, then ascending in a great curve. Kathryn led, with Hester and Golden Morning close behind, and then the others. As Goldie set her wings and glided above the heads of the watchers, a patter of applause broke out at the dramatic sight of the palomino Foundation with her hooves shining in the torchlight and the rising light of the moon. The other flyers matched her, soaring down as if they would land on the cobblestones, angling sharply up. The applause grew. Philippa had never seen such a fine performance from a first-level class. She hugged herself with delight.

  The last pair to perform the Grace were Larkyn and Black Seraph.

  Seraph was small, even for an Ocmarin, but he had flair. His tail arched, and his mane fluttered prettily over his rider’s hands. His ears, small and finely cut, turned eagerly forward. His neck stretched, showing the great muscles of his chest. And Larkyn!

  Larkyn sat Black Seraph as if she had grown there, her heels snug against his ribs, her slight body barely moving as Seraph glided downward. They reached the nadir of the pattern, seeming almost to float above the glowing circle of the torchlight. Philippa heard the little intake of breath from the watchers, and then Seraph beat his wings again, once, twice, three times, the membranes rippling like silk. He lifted easily into the twilight as if the ascent cost him nothing. In half a dozen heartbeats the two rejoined their flight, Seraph tilting, banking, finding perfect synchrony with the others.

  The moon was fully up now, bathing the return paddock in golden light. The flight circled, and began to settle, one by one, each coming to ground more nimbly than the one before, until all of them were trotting smoothly toward the stables.

  It was done. And it was nearly perfect. Kathryn Dancer would be walking on clouds for weeks to come.

  Philippa felt as if a knot in her breast had been suddenly untied. She turned abruptly on her heel, to march along the top step, away from William. She did it deliberately, resisting the urge to say something triumphant to him. Only as she crossed the cobblestones toward the stables did she cast one swift glance back. The Duke was stalking away, his man Slater scuttling after him. One or two of the Lords still in the courtyard started toward him, but then stopped. When William reached his carriage, he lifted his head, and glared across the courtyard at Philippa.

  She inclined her head to him. He turned his back without responding, leaped up into the carriage, and moments later was gone.

  Philippa felt a great smile spread across her face as she hurried to the stables to congratulate Kathryn and her flyers.

  FORTY-THREE

  LARK leapt down from Tup’s back. The grass beneath her boots felt like clouds, and her heart swelled with such joy she wanted to dance. Instead, she disciplined her feet, and led Tup toward the stables at a moderate pace, avoiding the circle of torchlight, staying well behind the rest of her flight. He pranced beside her, his head tossing with pride, folded wings rustling as if he would do it all over again.

  Rosellen met them in the doorway, her gappy grin so wide it seemed her cheeks must ache. “Hurry, Lark! Get him into the stall before someone sees . . .”

  “Larkyn!” Lark and Rosellen froze at the sound of Mistress Winter’s voice. They stared at each other, wide-eyed, and then turned slowly to see the horsemistress striding in from the courtyard. A rare smile curved Mistress Winter’s lips. “Well done, Larkyn!”

  Tup danced impatiently, and whimpered, but Lark knew she couldn’t simply walk away from Philippa Winter. Hastily, she released Tup’s rein to Rosellen, and faced the horsemistress.

  “Thank you, Mistress Winter,” she said.

  “I see I was mistaken to be worried about you,” Mistress Winter said. “Your Reverses were smooth, and your Graces were remarkable. Such improvement! How did you manage it?”

  Lark took a step forward, hoping to block the view of Tup and Rosellen walking away down the aisle. “Well, I—that is, we—”

  But she was too late. The horsemistress stared past her, watching Tup and Rosellen walk down the aisle. “What—Rosellen! Stop!”

  Rosellen stopped. Tup stopped beside her, his ears flicking.

  Mistress Winter passed Lark in two decisive strides, and reached Tup in another two. She ran her hand up over his hindquarters to his bare spine, where the flying saddle should have been—should still be. She touched the slender leather band Rosellen and Lark had worked so hard on. She put her fingers into the shallow loop at the top, and tapped the thin metal buckle that allowed it to be adjusted for length. A breast strap, no more than two fingers wide, ran from one shoulder, around Tup’s chest, and buckled in to the band at the other shoulder. Mistress Winter traced all of this with her fingers. She slipped her whole hand into the loop, and tugged. It held, of course. It had held for Lark all through her flight. Tup twisted his neck to look at her, and whickered a question at Lark.

  Lark drew a deep breath as she came to him. Rosellen backed away a few steps.

  Philippa Winter’s smile had vanished, leaving her narrow lips set in a grim line. “This is how you did it,” she said. “You flew bareback.”

  Lark’s cheeks burned, but she lifted her chin, and met the horsemistress’s steely gaze as steadily as she could. “Not exactly,” she said, in a voice that shook only a little. “I used the breast strap, as you see.”

  “You were expressly forbidden to fly without a saddle ever again.”

  “Aye,” Lark said. “But the Duke wants Tup, and if I failed, he would take him.”

  “You could have repeated the first level.”

  Lark, without intending to, snorted. The sound, even to her own ears, was very like the sound Mistress Winter so often made.

  And Philippa Winter recognized it. Her lips twitched, and she put a hand to her mouth. Lark breathed easier, knowing the horsemistress had covered a laugh. Mistress Winter coughed a little, and then lowered her hand. “You are right, Larkyn,” she said. “I admit it. Holding you back would have exposed you more to . . . to interference.”

  Rosellen said, “Excuse me, Mistress. Them Lords are going to be eager to leave. Lark should go get her ribbon.”

  “Yes,” Mistress Winter said. “Indeed she should. Rosellen, take Seraph to his stall, would you? You can untack him for Lark.” She glanced to her right, where the other girls were beginning to emerge from their horses’ stalls, a
nd she took a step to block Tup from their view. “And perhaps, Rosellen, you could hurry.”

  “Aye, Mistress.” Rosellen took Tup’s lead, and the two of them trotted down the aisle.

  A heartbeat later, Hester and Anabel came bounding up to Lark, faces shining. “You were brilliant, Black!” Hester said.

  Anabel cried, “We did it! We won our ribbons!” Isobel and Grace and the others dashed past, glowing. Mistress Dancer came after, a little slower, but a wide smile lighting her face. She touched Lark’s shoulder as she passed. “Well done, Larkyn. Very well done!”

  When they had gone, Lark faced Mistress Winter, awaiting her judgment.

  “I hardly know what to say to you, Larkyn.”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  “There’s no denying you performed well. And so did Black Seraph.”

  “Oh, wasn’t he marvelous?” Lark burst out. “I hardly had to do a thing!”

  The smile began to return to Mistress Winter’s face, first brightening her eyes, then softening her lips. “My dear . . . you can’t go on this way.”

  “It’s different for us, Mistress Winter. For Tup and me.”

  “Well.” Mistress Winter turned her face toward the courtyard, and faint torchlight glimmered on her cheekbones, on her long, slender nose. Lark thought she looked, just for that moment, like the girl she must once have been, young and vulnerable. “Well, Larkyn, that may be. And you have certainly earned your ribbon. But we will talk about this later.”

  “Oh, thank you!” Lark cried. She spun about to run to the courtyard, but Mistress Winter caught her back.

  Lark looked up at her, biting her lip with renewed anxiety.

  Mistress Winter laughed, and shook her head. She pointed to the back of Lark’s skirt.

  “You’re covered in horsehair, Larkyn,” she said. “Quick, brush it off. And then go! They’ll be waiting.”

  Please visit www.tobybishop.netor e-mail the author at DuchyofOc@aol.com.