But they were too late. Thick flakes fell fast and hard, swirling around Sunny’s head, settling on her wings, melting quickly with the heat of her blood, making a pool where more snow caught and stayed.
There was nothing for it but to turn back to the land, to find a place to return to ground as swiftly as they could. The cliffs loomed ahead of them, ghostly and grim. The plateau offered the best surface if Sunny could ascend high enough.
Philippa felt her wing muscles laboring beneath her calves. Her own thighs clenched with sympathetic effort, and she felt Sunny’s heat rising through the saddle. Snow caught on her eyelashes and her lips. She saw the mix of water and snow on Sunny’s wings, and fear made her heart thud in her ears.
They had only moments to climb high enough so that Sunny could land. Under normal circumstances, the height of the cliff would be no challenge at all, but the snow and the wind beat them back. Philippa had to remind herself to breathe, to stay loose. If she tightened her hands or stiffened her spine, Sunny would have to work even harder.
Sunny’s wings shuddered, and drove again. And again. They rose, it seemed, by inches. The snow was coming so fast now that they were almost blind. Philippa didn’t bother looking backward for the ships.
She would never see them through the storm. She peered ahead, and she could see little there either, except for the looming grayness of the rock, the whirling snowflakes around them.
And then the gray was gone. Ahead was only white snow falling sideways past Sunny’s straining neck, her now-flailing wings.
But she had done it! They were above the cliff, and the plateau stretched before them, flat, slippery with snow, its pitfalls hidden. There would be rocks and holes, snags that could trip Sunny as she came to ground. But Sunny had to land. The membranes of her wings glistened with water, and snow gathered
between the ribs, white and deadly.
Philippa did not look down at the treacherous surface. It was up to Sunny, and there was nothing she could do to help. Her fate was matched to her bondmate’s.
Sunny’s wings stilled, and her forefeet reached. Her neck stretched forward, ears laid back against the falling snow, hindquarters gathered beneath her.
“Just do your best,” Philippa called to her. She settled deep into the saddle, her weight a little back, her heels down. She gripped Sunny’s barrel with her calves, tucked her chin, and loosened the rein.
She felt the touch of Sunny’s hooves on the snow, the slide as her hind feet came down and found no purchase. Sunny lifted from the ground again, perhaps half a rod, and Philippa felt the single strong beat of her wings as she rose, then settled a second time. Her hooves skidded to one side, and Philippa compensated, leaning into the skid, staying with it until Sunny found her balance on the slippery surface, tipped her wings to catch the air, and slowed her speed.
Sunny’s wings fluttered above the snow as she cantered, then trotted roughly, and came to a stumbling halt, her head down, her wings drooping, her sides heaving.
Philippa leaped from the saddle and began brushing the snow and water from Sunny’s wings with her gloved hands. She pulled off her coat and used the woolen lining to dry the membranes before she touched Sunny’s shoulder. As Sunny folded her wings, Philippa leaned her head against her bondmate’s hot neck, shivering with dread over what might have happened. “Bravely done,” she murmured, into Sunny’s mane, hugging her tight. “Bravely done, my girl.”
She didn’t hear them coming. She didn’t know they were there until Sunny suddenly threw up her head and backed away from the hated scent. Philippa whirled to see what had frightened her, and found the dull point of a long, ugly knife pointed directly at her throat.
She gave an involuntary cry. The deep, fierce bark of a large dog made Sunny squeal in answer, and back again, hastily, ripping the rein from Philippa’s hand. Philippa backed, too, trying to stay near her.
The barbarians had sneaked up on them, their footsteps silent in the snow. There were six of them, dark-skinned, short, bearded men, swathed in thick furs and wearing greasy leather helmets. One was hauling on the lead of an enormous black wardog that snarled without ceasing, its mouth dripping froth.
Others brandished double-pointed spears. They tried to form a circle around Philippa and Sunny, but Sunny squealed, rearing, scrambling away from them. The men shrank from her stamping hooves, but the moment she was far enough away, they closed their circle around Philippa. They looked hideous to her, squat, fearsome creatures with flat faces and narrow, cruel eyes.
The man with the knife said something in a guttural language. He withdrew the knife from beneath Philippa’s chin to gesture with it, then pointed it at her breastbone. The wardog whined as his handler jerked at him.
Philippa, her belly tight with the tension of being separated from Sunny, glared down into the windburned face of the man with the knife. “You’ll regret this,” she snapped.
No understanding showed in his eyes. He shouted something at her, puffing his chest and making wild circles with the knife-point. One of his gestures caught the exposed skin of her neck with the blade. She felt a hot trickle of blood run down beneath her tabard, and Sunny squealed again, prancing frantically around the circle of men, trying to get back to Philippa.
Philippa touched her neck, then swore over the blood on her gloved hand. The man with the knife gurgled more words in his ugly language. The wardog, who wore a spiked collar, snapped at his handler, pulling on his lead until he choked. The barbarians muttered among themselves and looked nervously over their shoulders at the winged horse stamping behind them. Only the leader stood his ground, his narrow eyes glittering in his dark face. He spoke again, and pointed to the east, but he kept the knife at Philippa’s throat.
Philippa set her jaw. “I suppose I have no choice at the moment.”
The man gave some command that made two spearmen circle back behind Sunny. Two others leveled their spears at Philippa’s back, and as the leader started off through the drifting snow, they prodded her with their double points to make her follow. The man with the wardog flanked the rest of the party.
Philippa could see he had his hands full controlling the dog, and she cast Sunny an anxious look. Her
wings fluttered open, closed again, flexed. “Sunny, keep them closed! Close your wings!”
Sunny slid on the snow, and whinnied nervously, but her wings folded again over the stirrups of the flying saddle.
The Aesk leader shouted something at Philippa. Philippa lifted one shoulder. “Shout at me all you want. I don’t understand a word of it.” She slogged forward, following his footsteps in the fresh snow. “But have no fear,” she added. “Baron Rys speaks a language you will understand.”
FRANCISstood in the prow of Rys’s ship and scanned the sky anxiously. He could no longer see Philippa and Winter Sunset. The storm had blown in from the north with stunning swiftness, a wall of white tumbling across the plateau. He had seen her wave the red flag, as arranged, but only moments later she had disappeared.
“She must have landed,” Rys said quietly at Francis’s shoulder.
“She can’t fly in snow this heavy,” Francis answered. “The horse’s wings collect it . . .” He felt as if he couldn’t catch his breath. “But where could she have gone? She was over the bay when we saw her last, when the—” He broke off, clenching his jaw to stop himself from babbling.
“What do you want to do, Francis?” Rys kept his eyes ahead, on the black rock rising from the sea, the sea stack that marked their goal.
“I want to complete our mission, Rys. And hope we find Philippa safe on the beach.”
“With her horse,” Rys added.
Francis said grimly, “If her mare isn’t safe, Philippa won’t be either.”
The ship heeled about, and slipped, rocking and splashing, past the rock guarding the bay. The snow that was so treacherous for Philippa was a boon for the Klee soldiers. The white sails of the ship were indistinguishable among the snow flurries. Even from
the deck, as Francis looked up, he couldn’t see the tops of the masts or the folds of the sails as they were struck. They were heavy with snow as the sailors furled them, but they managed to get them down, swearing, calling to each other. They lowered a dinghy, just big enough for Rys, Francis, and eight soldiers. The soldiers rowed with a will, sweating with effort.
Francis, sitting still, was thoroughly chilled by the time the dinghy drew up to the black sand beach.
It was an eerie place. The snow muffled every sound, even the captains’ orders and the clanking of the oars in their locks. The snow fell silently on the water and dusted the black boulders that guarded the landward side of the beach. Francis loosened his smallsword in its scabbard and prepared to follow Rys and his captains off the ship.
He remembered reading accounts of the raid on the South Tower, descriptions of bravery and sacrifice and blood. He had been young then, barely in his teens, and he had thrilled to the battle tale, felt both glad and sorry that he hadn’t been present. Facing the reality now, he felt no thrill. He felt only determination. There was neither fear nor joy, only a compelling sense of duty. His only anxiety was for Philippa and Winter Sunset.
The stones of the beach were slick with snow, and the storm showed no signs of abating. Rys sent a half dozen of his soldiers ahead, and he and Francis followed, coats buttoned up to their throats and hats pulled low over their eyes. The soldiers were impressively efficient. They hardly spoke at all. Six of them carried the matchlocks strapped to their backs, swords and knives at the ready in their hands. The rest came behind Rys and Francis, while three sailors stood guard. To a man, their faces were impassive.
Surely, Francis thought, their stoic expressions hid some emotion, but he could not have guessed what it might be.
They climbed up through the litter of big rocks and crouched behind them to look inland. To their left, in the west, a dizzying cliff rose, obscured by falling snow. To their right was a line of scrubby trees, bent and twisted as if the wind from the sea had beaten them into submission. Directly ahead was a valley, just deep enough to be out of the worst of the wind.
There were eight structures built in the flattest part of the valley. Six were longhouses with thatched roofs, laid out around a central fire pit. At each end of the compound were smallish huts. Smoke rose from holes in the thatched roofs to vanish in the falling snow. Francis peered past the shoulder of one of the captains to make out the shapes of a few thickset figures, faces and bodies hidden by heavy furs. One
had a great dog beside him, at least half as tall as he was.
With them, Francis saw with sinking heart, was Philippa. And coming behind her, reins trailing, slender legs struggling through the snow, was Winter Sunset, with two more barbarians at her back. Snow clung to her mane and tail and dusted her flying saddle. Her ears flicked anxiously forward and back, forward and back. Through the snow, Francis heard her whinny, and knew she was pleading to be reunited with Philippa.
Rys threw up his hand. In silence, his men withdrew, keeping low behind the jumble of boulders, and retreated toward the beach. There was nothing Francis could do but go with them.
SEVENTEEN
PHILIPPAheard the name of the leader of the Aesks, the one who had scratched her with his knife, as Urg, or perhaps Hurg. He led the way down a steep crevice, where Philippa stumbled over rocks and ice, barely keeping her feet. She had lost her coat on the plateau, and she saw that one of the barbarians had it over his shoulders. She was shivering and wet by the time they descended into the valley, and miserable at not being able to respond to Sunny’s anxious calls.
The longhouses of the compound were made of sod, braced on footings of stone, thatched with some kind of grass or straw. The fire pit was enormous, circled with more stone, a great spit across it. The longhouses looked old, with their sharply slanted roofs and crooked doorways. Two huts on either end of the compound seemed to be empty, their thatched roofs crumbling, but smoke rose from holes in the roofs of the other buildings, mingling with the falling snow. Everything smelled of smoke and salt and fish, and the whole place had an air of hardship and meanness. They must have lived in these sod dwellings, oppressed by harsh weather and scant resources, for centuries, all the while Oc built its beautiful cities and cultivated its rich fields.
The snow kept coming in thick wet flakes. Philippa eyed the Aesk who had her coat, but he showed no sign of being willing to give it back. People came out of the longhouses to stare. They stood on the rough stone steps or peered around corners. The women wore long cloth dresses with greasy furs thrown over them. Dirty children peeked from behind their mothers’ skirts. Old men, one or two of them maimed, hobbled forward on crutches or in one case, on hands and knees, pointing at the winged horse and exclaiming in their harsh tongue.
Philippa kept her eyes forward, and willed Sunny to follow quietly. She was exhausted, sweaty and chilled at the same time, and she knew Sunny must be the same.
The spears worried her. Sunny’s wings were her most vulnerable part, and Philippa feared she might open them, flutter them in her anxiety to be close to her bondmate.
The procession wound past the fire pit and on past the last of the longhouses, stopping before one of the empty huts. It had no door, but a leather flap, stained and cracked, hanging over its opening. Hurg gestured at the men behind Sunny and shouted some command.
They babbled something back at him and waved their spears at Sunny’s hindquarters.
Philippa cried, “No! Don’t touch her, I beg you!” and tried to push past the guards.
One of them held his spear sideways, barring her path. As she thrust at it with her hands, he laughed.
She forgot the cold, and her fear, in a rush of fury. “That’s a winged horse , you cretin!” she shouted at the man. She lifted her fist and shook it in his face. His mouth opened in amazement, and he stared at her as if no woman had ever done such a thing to him.
Before he could collect himself, Philippa heard more laughter, first from Hurg, a great guffaw, and then from some of the other Aesks. The dark face of her tormentor grew even darker. He snarled something and shoved at her with the horizontal spear, the shaft catching her hard at the waist. She stumbled backward, lost her footing, and sprawled her length in the snow.
The wardog erupted in fury at this, barking and snarling. For one long, awful moment, Philippa thought his handler might lose control of him, that he would be on her, those terrible teeth ripping her flesh. More
dogs, from somewhere Philippa couldn’t see, began to howl and bark in response. She heard the thump and slide of Sunny’s hooves beating a frantic rhythm on the frozen ground, trying to get to Philippa while at the same time staying away from the hated scent of men.
Philippa struggled to her knees, then to her feet. Hurg was watching Winter Sunset, his laughter gone. He stood with his hands on his hips. The dog settled a bit, though it still growled a steady monotone. The howling, which seemed to come from behind one of the longhouses, subsided.
Philippa spoke to Hurg, in as level a voice as she could manage. “You have to stay back,” she said. She pointed to Sunny, and then to the men, and made a gesture with both palms apart, trying to explain.
“Keep a distance.”
The Aesk chieftain’s skin was like old leather. His lips were so dark they were almost purple. He squinted at her, brows drawn together as if in hard thought. Philippa felt a little spurt of relief that perhaps he had understood her. He gave commands, and the men between her and Sunny stepped aside. Sunny, with an eager whicker, trotted to Philippa, splashing through the thin snow cover, and pressed as close to her as she could. Philippa seized her rein with one hand, and circled the mare’s neck with the other.
Sunny’s body was blessedly warm against her cold one. She raised her face to Hurg then and waited for what would happen next.
He pointed to the hut and said something. A woman hurried forward to lift the leather panel and held it aside. She turned to face Philippa, to gestur
e to her to go in, and Philippa saw with a pang that one side of her face was ruined by a horrible scar, a burn perhaps, or a wound that had never healed. She averted her eyes, involuntarily, and hurried to lead Winter Sunset into the dark, noisome hut.
She stood just inside the door, assessing it. There was no fire pit in this one, and no chimney hole in the thatched roof. It was cramped, with a dirt floor. Parts of the thatch were drooping, as if the whole roof could fall apart at any moment. There was no water for Sunny, no bed for Philippa, no amenities at all.
She turned to Sunny, thinking that she should get her flying saddle off, rub her down, even if she had to use her own tabard. Then perhaps she could persuade someone—
Her thought was broken off when the scarred woman seized her arm and pulled her toward the door.
Philippa cried out, trying to get her arm free, and the woman produced an ugly knife from beneath her furs. She brandished it in Philippa’s face, all the while holding her arm with a grip like iron.
“What do you want?” Philippa exclaimed.
The woman only pulled on her arm again, waving the knife threateningly near Philippa’s cheek. She outweighed Philippa by half, and her fingers were thick and hard. Philippa knew her arm would be bruised, and she didn’t want that rusty knife to touch her. She let the woman draw her a step toward the door, then another. She cast one look back at Sunny, but before she could even speak to her, one of the warriors had grabbed her other arm, and between the two Aesks, Philippa found herself hauled bodily back out into the falling snow.
She cried frantically, “No! No! I need to be with Sunny!” But neither of them faltered.
She twisted her head to look over her shoulder and saw Hurg, the leader, approaching the doorway to Sunny’s hut. She screamed some imprecation, she hardly knew what, but she had no power. Her two captors dragged her the length of the compound and thrust her in through the door of a hut no larger than the one that now held Sunny, and the Aesk woman pulled the leather flap over it and tied it down from the outside.
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