“No, you don’t,” Francis said. Lark felt that her eyes must be stretched as wide as Diamond’s. It didn’t seem possible that Lord Francis, gentle, kind Francis, could stand against the violence and madness of his brother. Duke William began to turn his quirt in his fingers, and his eyes hardened. Lark looked around for someone to help, but the lords and ladies kept their distance, though they looked on with avid expressions. The horsemistresses watched from the steps of the Hall. Mistress Star, it seemed, was poised to act if necessary, but Mistress Star was a slight woman, only barely taller than Lark herself.
Lark clung to Tup’s rein. She kept her chin thrust out, but she trembled inside. She struggled for something to say that would forestall such a disaster. If she were forced to go to Fleckham House—this madman would kill her! He would find an opportunity, catch her alone, and there would be no one to protect her.
But Francis, in a mild tone, said, “William. Let’s talk a moment.” To Lark’s surprise, Francis put a hand under William’s arm and led him across the courtyard. It seemed to her that the Duke resisted, but briefly. When they were out of earshot, Francis began to speak. He kept his hand on the Duke’s arm,
and Lark remembered how hard that hand had grown, doing a farmer’s work. Francis spoke, and William pulled back, glaring at him. Francis spoke again, his free hand making a sharp movement, his face intent. The two brothers stared at each other for long moments as Lark held her breath.
And then William gave a short, humorless laugh that carried across the courtyard in the dusk. He turned his back on Francis and strode back to Tup and the filly.
Jinson handed him the halter and lead, and William went to the filly and buckled it on. She tolerated this, but Tup backed away, making Diamond whicker longingly at him. William tugged on her lead, and she followed him, her wings flexing, her ears turning back to Tup. To Lark, every line of her body spelled reluctance, spoke of her longing to be close to another winged horse.
The Duke gave Lark one last, malevolent look over his shoulder. He didn’t speak, but the glitter in his black eyes made her blood run cold.
She shivered and turned to Jinson, forcing herself to speak in a level voice. “Does the little one have an oc-hound to foster her?”
“She did, but the dog didn’t like the Duke,” he said. “So he sent him away. Her dam is breeding again, so she’s off at the Ducal Palace. The filly just has His Grace for a companion.”
“She’s sad,” Lark said.
“Aye, Miss. I fear so.”
“You should find her a wingless horse, at least, something for company.”
Jinson glanced down at her. “Young or old?”
Lark shrugged. “That doesn’t matter so much as that they like each other. Some horses take to each other, and some don’t.”
Jinson sighed and started after the Duke, who was tying the filly’s halter lead to a ring behind the phaeton.
“Oh, and Jinson,” Lark said, trotting after him. “She’s tired. She flew much too far for such a young horse, and on her first flight. Keep a gentle pace as you go back.”
“I’ll try, Miss. But His Grace likes to take the reins.”
Moments later, they were gone, the Duke whipping up the bays, the little silver filly trotting prettily behind the phaeton. Tup whickered as she left the courtyard, and she whinnied a response.
Lark stood with one hand on Tup’s neck, frowning. When Lord Francis came up to her, to hand her the ribbon she had earned that day, she dropped Tup’s reins and stepped away to meet him. Francis smiled at her as he pinned the ribbon on her tabard.
“Lord Francis,” she said. “What did you say to the Duke?”
“I warned him,” Francis said quietly. “That I would tell these lords and ladies in the courtyard all about Pamella. It’s the only real threat I have to control him.”
“Aye,” Lark said, nodding. “He would not want that to come out.”
“No. He hasn’t admitted anything, but he knows there is too much talk already.” Francis looked after the Duke’s phaeton as it turned into the road. “I think I will ask the Prince to release me from his service so that I can come home to Osham. Someone must prevent William from further madness.”
“Lord Francis,” Lark asked. “Do you know where she’s gone?”
He knew, it seemed, who was on her mind at that moment. “No, Larkyn. I don’t. But I can guess.”
“Will you tell me?”
“It’s better you don’t know. Better for you, and safer for Philippa.”
She released a long breath, full of the excitement and the fear and the tension of the day. “I wish she could have seen me,” she said. “Winning my second-level ribbon.”
“I’m sure she feels the same, Larkyn.” He smiled. “Let us hope that one day, William and the Council Lords will reconsider, come to their senses.”
“Could she return then? Come back to the Academy?”
“Amnesty could be granted. But William would have to agree.”
Lark shook her head. “I don’t think he ever will.”
“Anything can happen, Larkyn, if an Uplands farm girl can become a horsemistress.”
She flashed him a grin. “Oh, aye. Miracles! We’d best put Mistress Winter in Kalla’s hand and see what
happens.”
Tup whickered at her, and she turned to speak to him. “Aye, Tup, I know. Excuse me, Lord Francis.
Tup here wants his supper.”
“Go, then. I’ll see you in the Hall. Your Headmistress invited me to celebrate this great day with all of you.”
“Aye, my lord. A lovely great day indeed.”
As Lark turned into the stables, where the other girls had already untacked and fed their horses, she was still thinking of Mistress Winter. She wondered if, wherever she might be, Philippa would know that she and Tup had passed their Airs and Graces.
At Tup’s stall, Amelia Rys was waiting for her, holding the gate open, a faint smile on her narrow face. It occurred to Lark that there might be one person, after all, who knew where Philippa had gone.
As Lark led Tup in out of the cooling evening air, Amelia said, “Congratulations, Black! I watched everything. You and Seraph were marvelous.”
“Thank you,” Lark said. “It was mostly Tup.”
“I’ll help you rub him down.”
They went into Tup’s stall and rubbed him dry. Amelia filled his water bucket while Lark measured grain and buckled his blanket over him. The nights were drawing in, and soon there would be frost on the grass in the mornings.
“Your class will be arriving before long, Amelia,” Lark said. “You’ll be flying before you know it.”
“I can hardly wait.”
As they left the stables and climbed the steps to the Hall for the festive supper awaiting them, Lark looked hard into Amelia’s eyes, trying to guess if she knew something.
Amelia smiled as if she understood perfectly, but she said not a word.
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Royal treatment
Duke William’s lip curled. He turned the quirt in his hands. “Your little stallion has a terrible temper.”
Lark thrust her chin out. “He does not,” she said. “What he has is a good memory.”
The Duke scowled. “You would be wise, brat, to mind your own memory. Remember to whom you’re speaking.”
A retort sprang to Lark’s lips, but she thought of the Duke’s threat to her family, and she bit it back.
“Yes,” William said, with a cold smile. “I see you understand.” He slapped the quirt into his palm. “You may have passed your first Ribbon Day, but you have other tests facing you. And with an unruly stallion.”
He took a single step closer.
“One failure,” William murmured. His eyes were like black ice. “Just one, Miss Hamley, and he’s gone.”
PROLOGUE
THEYcame across the water in the early morning, emerging from the fogbank like figures from a nightmare. The warboats pierced the rolling mist, long, narrow shapes of bloodred and midnight black against the gray. Huge dogs with metal collars snarled and slavered in the bows, but the warriors themselves, squat, bearded men in leather helmets and jerkins, stood in ominous silence, swaying with the rocking of the boats. The long oars dipped again and again into the cold green sea. Every boat bristled
with spears, and in each stern an archer was poised, ready to send a covering barrage of obsidian-tipped death.
The men of Onmarin, which meant every male above the age of ten, were out in their own small boats, fishing for the cod and plaice that swam beneath the glacier. The village was empty except for the old men who stayed behind to work on the drying racks ranged along the docks, women and girls mending nets in their thatched cottages, and little children. There was no one to protect them, but there was no reason to believe protection was needed. Old Duke Frederick had put an end to the raids from across the Strait, and the fishing villages of the Angles had lived in peace for more than twenty years.
The first shout from the docks brought only raised eyebrows and curiosity.
But the shout was too much for one of the dogs. He roared, and then leaped, huge and black and terrifying, over the bow of the warboat, crashing into the water with a great splash, swimming with powerful strokes toward the land. Moments later the first boat ground into the sand of the beach, and its ugly warriors swarmed over the sides, no longer silent, but yelling in their brutish language.
The fisher-folk of innocent Onmarin understood then. Women began to scream and children to wail.
Mothers clutched babies to their breasts and herded toddlers and young boys ahead of them as they dashed inland, seeking the dubious safety of the dunes. The old men on the docks stood their ground, shakily, but bravely, wielding their filleting knives against the spears of the raiders.
The awful dogs bounded up the narrow lanes between the cottages, howling. Spears rose and fell, and the filleting knives slashed. Blood began to spill over the weathered boards of the docks and drip through into the icy water below.
And behind the farthest cottage, where a corridor of packed and rutted sand ran between the dunes, two winged horses rose, one shining black, one pale gold. Their powerful wings drove against the cold air, and their riders bent low over their necks.
One of the barbarians caught sight of them and gave a gleeful shriek. A volley of arrows spewed into the air, but by Kalla’s grace, the winged horses were too far away, their ascent too swift and steep.
They flew as high and as fast as they dared, leaving the coastline behind, banking above the dunes and into the morning sunshine, escaping from the carnage on the ground, fleeing to the safety of Lady Beeth’s protection.
To read more about the winged horses of Oc,
please visitwww.tobybishop.net .
Toby Bishop can be contacted at [email protected].
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
Teaser chapter
About this Title
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