William lifted one pale eyebrow. “Indeed?” he said. “And on what grounds does he object to our decision?”
Lord Carden was an old man, a veteran of many Councils. Another man might have hemmed and stammered under the dark regard of a Duke known for vengefulness, but Lord Carden was long past the point that William could hurt him or his family. He stood as straight as a man of his years could do and lifted a letter from his secretary’s hands. “Eduard Crisp writes that the new Master Breeder is unsuited to his position, and that he himself was unfairly removed from a post in which he had served honorably, as had his father before him, and his grandfather before that.”
Philippa watched William’s face during this recitation but could see no flicker of anger, no sign of indignation. William looked, as he had during this entire Council session, indifferent.
Lord Carden’s voice dropped a tone. “Your Grace, Eduard Crisp has brought a serious allegation against the Palace.”
“Because he lost his job?” drawled the Duke. “I hardly think that justifies troubling a Lord of the Council.”
“No, Your Grace,” the old lord said. “He accuses you of violating the bloodlines.”
Philippa drew a swift breath, and she was not the only one. The chamber vibrated briefly with gasps and with shock. Even the ladies in the balcony froze, sensing a confrontation.
“Surely, Lord Carden,” William began. He came slowly, almost indolently, to his feet, and tugged at the embroidered vest he wore beneath his coat. “Surely you, of all people, would not give serious consideration to such a charge.”
“Duke William, as your father so often reminded us, your great-great-grandfather Francis was a wise man, and a prescient one. When he codified the bloodlines, he made any violation of them treason, and he did it for all of the Duchy of Oc, not only for the Academy and the Palace.”
“We need no lecture, my lord,” William said silkily. “And we take offense at the very mention of treason in this Council.”
“We are a small duchy, Your Grace, and easily overrun. The winged horses are our greatest treasure.”
William lifted both hands, palms up, and cast a quizzical look around the chamber. Some lords were shaking their heads with disapproval—Philippa’s brother Meredith was one of these—but there were a few who sat gazing at the Duke with their arms folded, their eyes hard. Frederick, William’s father, had earned the respect and even the admiration of his Council Lords and his people. The new Duke enjoyed no such popularity.
Philippa drew back as she saw anger kindle in William’s face. She could see him assessing those lords who looked defiantly at him, could guess that he was already estimating which of them were vulnerable.
“The Palace,” he said, with a curl of disdain on his lips, “takes the preservation of the winged horses seriously. We work closely with the Academy. Master Crisp—” William sniffed dismissively. “Master Crisp is in error. We shall address this with him personally.”
Lord Carden was not put off by this veiled threat. Philippa knew he had no young granddaughters, no debts or family crises, nothing with which William could manipulate him. He said, with the stubbornness he was known for, “Nevertheless, I propose an investigation, Your Grace.”
On the opposite side of the chamber, Lord Beeth stood also. Lord Beeth’s daughter was a second-level student at the Academy, and would in due course become a horsemistress. Like Lord Carden, Lord Beeth was immune to William’s anger. He was a small, stout man, guided by his wife in everything he did in the Council. He spoke loudly and clearly. “I second Lord Carden’s proposal.”
A tense silence stretched over the Rotunda. The two lords looked about at their colleagues in search of support. When none came, William began to smile. “I believe, my lords,” he said, with deceptive lightness, “that three voices are required to initiate such a process. It appears that the majority of you are wiser than my lords Carden and Beeth.” He spoke the names with slight emphasis, and Philippa heard it as the warning it was meant to be.
She spun on her heel and strode from the chamber, her black riding habit whipping about her boots.
Someone must warn Eduard.
INthe ordinary way of things, Philippa would not be required to attend meetings of the Council. But Margareth Morgan, Headmistress of the Academy, had not been well for some time. She relied on Philippa to be her eyes and ears on days like this one, and though Philippa had planned to spend part of this brief holiday at her family’s home, she had willingly given it up to help her friend. Now, as she hurried to the stables on the outskirts of the White City, she was glad it had been she and not Margareth.
Margareth was too ill and tired to deal with the posturing of the Duke and the Council Lords. Philippa loathed politics, but when they concerned the winged horses, her personal feelings didn’t matter.
She retrieved her mare and hurried to the long, narrow flight paddock beyond the stables. As Winter Sunset lifted her into the cloudless sky, Philippa looked back at the white turrets and towers, the tidy green parks and neatly cobbled streets of Osham. She had always loved the White City, and never more so than when she had flown for old Duke Frederick. Now, with Frederick gone and William in the Ducal Palace, the city seemed tarnished somehow, as if the new Duke’s dark nature had dimmed its beauty.
Sunny’s wings beat strongly and steadily, carrying them toward the Academy. The flight was swift, with the wind at their backs, the slanting rays of the lowering sun in their eyes. Sunny soared above the gambrel roofs of the Academy stables, aligning herself with the return paddock without guidance from Philippa. She sensed, of course, Philippa’s feelings of urgency. She touched down, her wings wide and still, and cantered easily toward the stables. Philippa leaped down from her saddle and turned for a brief moment to lay her cheek against Sunny’s red mane. “Have a rest, my girl,” she said. “I’ll see you later, and we’ll have a good brushing.”
The interim stable-girl, a rather dull, thickset woman, came out to take Sunny’s reins, and Philippa said absently, “Rosellen not back yet?”
“No, Mistress.”
“Ah. Well, see to it you cool Sunny down. She feels warm to me.” When the woman didn’t answer, Philippa said, frowning, “Did you hear me, Erna?”
Erna sighed as if responding took too much energy. “Yes, Mistress.”
“Answer me, then, when I speak to you,” Philippa said with asperity. “Walk Sunny about, then rub her down.”
Erna nodded and turned to plod heavily toward the dry paddock, with Sunny at her heels.
Philippa pursed her lips, but she left her to it. She stripped off her gloves as she hurried across the circular courtyard toward the Hall. Bramble, the oc-hound, came to trot at her side, and Philippa touched her silky gray head with her hand. Most of the Academy was deserted, the girls and instructors not yet returned from their holiday. She left Bramble in the courtyard and took the broad steps of the Hall two at a time. She removed her riding cap and smoothed her hair in its rider’s knot as she strode past the painted portraits of winged horses that lined the foyer. She knocked once on the Headmistress’s door, and went into her office.
“Margareth,” she began. “Do you know where we can reach Eduard—” She broke off, seeing that Margareth had a visitor. “Why—Lady Beeth—I thought—were you not in the north, at your estate—with Hester and Larkyn?”
Amanda Beeth, a tall, broad-shouldered woman, turned at Philippa’s entrance, and the grim expression
on her face made Philippa put a hand to her throat. “Are the girls all right?” she demanded, sudden anxiety making her voice harsh.
“They are,” Lady Beeth said, with the directness Philippa had always admired. Amanda Beeth’s strength of character was reflected in her daughter.
Margareth Morgan nodded to Philippa. “Our girls are well,” she said. “I sent them to take care of their horses, and then to the Dormitory.”
“What’s happened?” Philippa asked sharply.
“There has
been a raid.”
“A raid? Where, and by whom?”
“Onmarin, a fishing village near our northern estate,” Lady Beeth said briskly. “Warboats, the girls tell me, sailing across the Strait.”
“The girls!” Philippa exclaimed. “Surely they weren’t there?”
“They were,” Lady Beeth affirmed. “They had gone to visit Rosellen, your stable-girl, and meet her family. The raiders came while they were there, and Rosellen’s mother—who must be a very smart woman—sent the girls off immediately. We’ve come back as quickly as we could. My phaeton makes good time. The girls wanted to fly, but I thought it was too risky. I made them ride with me and lead their horses.”
“But then—but what happened?”
“We don’t know yet,” Margareth said.
Lady Beeth’s strong features were drawn in hard lines. “I can hardly believe it, even now. There has been no trouble from across the Strait since I was a very small girl.”
“The horsemistress in the Angles didn’t see the warboats coming?” Philippa asked.
Margareth said bleakly, “There is no horsemistress in the Angles, Philippa. Duke William reassigned her to Isamar.”
“Isamar,” Philippa said sourly. “Our new Duke is uncommonly fond of the Prince, it seems.” A familiar pain lanced up the back of Philippa’s neck. She winced and rubbed at it. This was terrible news, for Oc and for the horsemistresses. There had been years of peace for Oc, ensured by the careful husbandry of old Duke Frederick. She had hoped that her own battle, and its attending tragedy, had been the last in her lifetime.
Amanda Beeth stood up. “I must reach my husband,” she said, “before the Council closes, and while the Duke is still there.”
Philippa got to her feet as well and pulled her cap from her belt. “I will go with you, Lady Beeth. Duke William must act in this matter.”
“You will need fresh horses,” Margareth began, but Lady Beeth shook her head.
“Thank you, but we changed them on our way. This pair is rested enough.”
Margareth stood behind her desk, bracing herself on her hands. “Philippa—have a care.”
Philippa paused in the act of putting on her riding cap. “What do you mean?”
“It won’t help the cause of Onmarin to make the Duke defensive.”
Philippa gave her a mirthless smile. “I’m not alone in criticizing William these days.”
“Nevertheless.”
“I’ll do my best, Margareth.” Philippa turned toward the door, already pulling on her gloves. “We must make certain the Lords of the Council understand how serious this is.”
Amanda Beeth opened the door and held it for her. “I know my husband won’t let the matter pass, and not only because it happened in our district. It is too much an admission of Oc’s weakness, or its negligence.”
“I hope the Council agrees with his lordship. Oh!” Philippa touched her forehead with her gloved fingers.
“Margareth, I almost forgot. We must get word to Eduard . . . the Council refused to investigate his case, and the Duke is furious. Eduard should be warned.”
Margareth had followed her to the door. “I’ll go myself, Philippa.”
As Philippa and Lady Beeth hurried down the steps to the courtyard and the waiting phaeton, Hester and Larkyn emerged from the stables, and dashed across to them.
“Mamá,” Hester said urgently. “Make Papá do something for Rosellen and her family!”
“We’ll try, Hester.”
The driver clucked to the horses, and the phaeton rolled smartly out of the courtyard toward the road to Osham. Philippa looked back over her shoulder at the two girls in the courtyard, tall Hester, with her fair hair smoothed into the rider’s knot, Larkyn small and vivid, with violet eyes, her dark curls cut short.
Their innocence made Philippa’s heart ache. It had been easy to believe, when Oc and Klee made their uneasy peace, that the times of war were past. She hated to face the knowledge that such times would come again and weigh on these young flyers. She knew all too well how heavy the memories of war could be.
THREE
LARKbrushed Tup’s coat until it shone like the blackstone of her native Uplands. She combed his tail, and clipped his mane. She used the hoof pick to remove tiny pebbles and bits of bracken wedged around the frog of each hoof, and then polished his hooves with pine tree oil until they glistened. Tup loved to be groomed, and would usually groan with pleasure under the currycomb, or nibble at her hair, giving his little whickering cry as she brushed his mane. Today, though, he was quiet, though his ears followed her every movement. Even Molly, the long-haired Uplands goat who kept Tup company, seemed to have caught Lark’s bitter mood. Molly pressed close to Lark as she worked, and Lark stopped from time to time to rub her poll.
When Tup’s grooming was done, she rested her cheek against his shoulder, feeling his warmth and strength, not caring that she was covered in horsehair and probably smelled as much like horse as he did.
Molly pushed between them, and Lark closed her eyes, drinking in the comfort of her bonded companion and the little brown goat. They made her feel as if she were home again on Deeping Farm, as if she could walk out of the stables and go into her own comfortable, ancient kitchen, with its slanting floor and scarred table, the rue-tree just now shedding its leaves beside the door.
She was still there when Hester came along from Goldie’s stall. Lark sighed, and straightened as Hester leaned over the gate. “I hear the carriages on the road,” she said. “The others are coming back.”
“I wonder who will tell them,” Lark said.
Hester shook her head. “I don’t want to be the one. Do you?”
“Nay. I can barely stand to think of it, much less speak of it.” Lark gave Tup one last pat and crossed to the gate. She and Hester went out into the sunshine, to stand in the cobbled courtyard and wait for the carriages to arrive.
“Poor Lissie,” Lark said softly. “Poor little lass. She must be frightened half out of her mind. I hope they won’t hurt her.”
“They’re Aesks,” Hester said grimly. “Barbarians. She may not survive either.”
“DOESit mean war?” asked Isobel softly. She and the other second-level girls clustered around Hester and Lark on the sleeping porch, on the upper level of the Dormitory. Word of the tragedy had spread like running flames at dinner, and those girls who, like Isobel, flew Foundation horses, looked especially grave.
Hester also flew a Foundation, and Lark knew she had always expected to be assigned to the Angles, or Eastreach, or the South Tower of Isamar. Foundation flyers were the first to be called upon in times of war; they were the strongest and the heaviest of the winged horses, used to patrol the coastlines, to escort armies, sometimes even to fight. Isamar and Klee, once a united kindgom, had fought a brief, bloody war more than dozen years before, but a truce had been reached between the Klee and Prince Nicolas. Though at times uneasy, the truce had held, and all of Oc clung to the hope of peace. They had believed the barbarians to the north vanquished long ago.
“It depends,” Hester answered Isobel. “on how the Council decides to respond.”
“But there can’t be any question! This have to send a force to Aeskland!” This was from Grace, a girl who flew an Ocmarin filly. “Those poor children!”
“Don’t be such a weakling,” a voice sneered. It came from the far end of the sleeping porch, where most of the third-level girls had their cots. Lark knew this voice well, with its forced accent. “There’s nothing to be done for them now. They should have taken steps to protect themselves, my father says, instead of expecting the Duke to do it for them!”
Hester’s gray eyes met Lark’s with a flash of warning, but Lark didn’t care. She snapped, “They’re citizens, Petra! They pay the tithe-man like everyone else. It’s Oc’s duty to protect them.”
“Why don’t you go after them, then, Goat-girl? If you care so much?” Petra Sweet stalked between the cots and came to stand before Lark, hands
on hips, her features looking knife-blade sharp in the flickering light of the oil lamps.
“I do care,” Lark said, lifting her chin. “And I would go in a minute.”
“No doubt,” Petra said. “You probably feel more at home with fisher-folk than with us!”
“Have a care, Sweet,” Hester began, but Petra ignored her.
“Learned to use a proper saddle yet, Black?” she said to Lark. “Or are we going to have to ship you back to the Uplands with your little crybaby and that filthy goat?”
Isobel stamped her foot. “Petra Sweet, you just leave Black alone. She flew her Airs on Ribbon Day, just as we all did. No first-level class has ever done better.”
“First-level!” Petra said. “What will you do about the second-level? Just wait for your Grand Reverses, to say nothing of Arrows!” She smiled, showing small, sharp teeth. “Without a flying saddle, your goat-girl will be tumbling through treetops, and likely bring you all down with her.”
“Petra,” Hester began, but Lark put up a hand.
“Never mind,” she said. “She doesn’t bother me. I’m an Uplander. I don’t need to argue with yon shoemaker.”
Anabel sniffed loudly, then pinched her nose. “What is that smell ?” she said. “Is that bootblack?”
Grace giggled. One or two others laughed, too. Petra glared at Lark, her eyes narrowed.
Until Lark arrived at the Academy, Petra had been the only girl there who did not come from titled aristocracy. Her father was a wealthy businessman, a manufacturer of shoes, and Petra felt her status keenly among the daughters of Oc’s barons and earls. She had seized on Lark’s country origins with fierce joy. Lark had repaid her by blacking her eye shortly before Ribbon Day.
Petra looked down her nose. “I only warn you, girls,” she said, “for your own good.”
She turned and stalked away. Beatrice, who Lark had always thought the quietest and most demure of all their class, stuck out her tongue at Petra’s retreating back. Everyone laughed.
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