by Toby Bishop
They strolled past the stables and paddocks and out into the rolling parks of the Palace grounds. A well-kept path wound between shrubs and groves, descending to a clear stream that burbled happily away toward the eastern sea. “Autumn comes so late here in Arlton,” Philippa mused, trailing her hand through the drooping, still-leafy branches of a vine maple. “The leaves have all fallen in Osham, and the nights are drawing in.”
Francis smiled. “It is a gentler climate,” he said. “But I miss the air of Oc. It seems—cleaner, somehow. Sharper.”
Philippa cast a glance at him from beneath the brim of her riding cap, thinking how appealing the Fleckham features were on this younger brother, when they were so hard on William. The Duke’s black eyes were cold and full of danger. Perhaps it was simply because she knew Francis so well, but in him, those same eyes spoke to her of his sympathetic nature, his intelligence and sensitivity. He was a little shorter, a little more slender than his brother. Even his hair seemed softer, framing his face with ice-blond wisps. She wondered how he managed, here in the Princely City, where politics ruled and every word had two meanings.
“Francis,” she said abruptly. “I presume upon our old acquaintance.”
“Feel free,” he said. “We’ve been friends since we were young.”
She inclined her head, accepting the assurance. “Your brother’s accession has been fraught with problems.”
Francis raised one pale eyebrow and waited for her to go on. They reached a carved stone bench, and he gestured for Philippa to sit. She did, but stood again almost immediately, feeling restless. She pulled her gloves from her belt and creased them between her fingers.
“Duke William removed our Master Breeder and replaced him with a young man with no experience. Eduard Crisp accused him of violating the bloodlines, but the Council refused to prosecute the charge.”
“Then that must not be why you’ve come.”
Philippa lifted her face to meet his eyes. “No,” she said shortly. “At least, not that alone. There’s been a raid, Francis. On a tiny northern fishing village.”
“Aeskland?” he asked, frowning. “But the barbarians have been quiet for years.”
“They killed several villagers—including one very dear to us at the Academy, our stable-girl. They stole two children. We have all heard the terrible tales of how such kidnapped children are treated, Francis, but William—with the support of the majority of the Council—refuses to do anything.”
Francis dropped his chin, thinking. “It surprises me.”
“His attention is engaged elsewhere,” Philippa said. “And that is why I think the two events are connected.”
“The Master Breeder?” Francis said. “Then this is about the winged horses.”
Philippa breathed a sigh of relief at Francis’s quick grasp of the situation. “It is indeed, Francis,” she said. “It’s about the winged horses. And about treason.”
He looked around them then and put a hand under her arm. “Come,” he said. “I doubt anyone is nearby, but let’s be certain. We can walk farther, and you can tell me all of it.”
FIVE
FRANCIS left Philippa at the stables after hearing her out and walked alone toward his rooms in the Palace. The bustle had begun, as it did every afternoon, cooks and servants and delivery people hurrying this way and that. No evening passed at the Palace without some sort of official entertainment, visitors from Marin or Crossmount or Oc, or simply a reception for one of the nobles of Isamar. Francis didn’t know who it might be this evening, but he knew he would be expected at dinner, to speak of import tariffs or the need for stronger diplomatic ties with Klee or with setting export prices. Everyone present would have an opinion on every issue. Such debates were the part of his duties he hated most. He didn’t mind being a sort of glorified accountant for the Prince—accounts had to be kept, after all, and might as well be kept properly—but the posing and pretensions of diplomats irritated him.
Tonight, in particular, he doubted he was capable of pretending interest in such matters. His mind teemed with the images of nightmare, barbarians descending on a peaceful village, their painted warboats carving the cold green sea of the Strait, old men slaughtered in the streets, mothers wailing for dead children, two innocent ones carried off. The thought that his brother would allow such a thing to pass without retribution made his jaw ache with fury.
“Philippa,” he had said finally, after she recited the whole story, “I don’t understand my brother. William was never altruistic, but this is Oc! These are our citizens!”
“I’m sorry to speak ill of your brother. It’s his obsession with the winged horses.”
“My father was obsessed with them, too,” Francis said. “But he put his people’s interests first.”
“He did,” Philippa agreed. “I think ‘obsession’ is the wrong word for the way Duke Frederick felt about the bloodlines. I know you and William sometimes felt he cared more for the horses than he did for you—”
At this Francis put up a hand. “Those were childish feelings, Philippa. It troubled William far more than it did me.”
“I know.” She had nodded then, and let her eyes stray to the west, where the mountains rose like pale ghosts beyond the foothills. He watched her profile, appreciating its ascetic strength. She was not a beautiful woman, and she was ten years older than he, but he had always admired her. He would have been happy to have Philippa Islington as his sister.
“It’s different for William,” she said finally, then bit her lip in uncharacteristic hesitation. He waited, wondering what mystery might unfold.
Philippa dropped her eyes to her hands, where she had folded her gloves into a nearly flat square of black leather. “Francis, William has altered his body.”
“Sorry?” Francis thought he must have misheard her.
She looked up. “I believe he is taking some potion, some medicament. His—” She made a gesture over her own meager bosom. “He swells, here. Like a woman.”
“But that can’t be!”
“No, it can’t. Not without interference.”
“Why would my brother do such a thing? Is he mad?”
“Perhaps he is. But this is how much he wants to fly a winged horse.”
“But men can’t fly—” Francis heard his voice rise, and he swallowed, trying to wrap his mind around this offense.
“No,” Philippa said flatly. “Men can’t. But William, it seems, will stop at nothing to change the fact.”
Quietly, there by the flowing water, Philippa had told Francis of William’s illegal breeding attempts, of his removal of the Master Breeder from his post, of his interest in a crossbred winter colt foaled in the cow barn of an Uplands farm. And now, at the end of the day, Francis was left to wonder what William hoped to gain. He had always known his brother to put his own interests before those of others—any others, including parents and siblings. He also knew how fiercely William had resented his father’s obsession with the winged horses, and with the girls and women who flew them. Francis could guess that if William intended to fly a winged horse, he expected to profit from it. He could also guess where that profit was meant to be found, and it was a truth he did not want to accept. Philippa had come to ask for his help, and as yet, he had no idea how to provide it.
As he had expected, the dining room with its silk draperies and banks of candles was full of elaborately dressed emissaries and lordlings with their ladies. Prince Nicolas was already present, a glass of champagne in his hand, his cheeks red and perspiring, laughing. Francis slipped into the room unnoticed, and stood beside an arched doorway, eyeing the crowd.
“My lord Francis,” a voice murmured, with the unmistakable accent of the east.
Francis turned to the side, and found the ambassador from Klee standing at his elbow. He bowed. “Baron Rys,” he said. “No champagne for you?”
The Baron, a short, slender man with graying hair and finely cut features, shook his head. “There are weighty matters to discu
ss tonight,” he said. “I prefer a clear head.”
“Ah.” Francis sighed and turned his eyes back to the crowded room. “It never ends.”
“No.” Rys’s lips curved. “And I hear you, too, have matters to deal with.”
Francis gave a short, humorless laugh. “My lord,” he said. “Your ears must be the sharpest in all of Klee.”
“News has ways of reaching me, it’s true,” the Baron said. “You had a distinguished visitor today.”
“She’s an old friend,” Francis said. “Almost a sister to me.”
Rys gave him a slantwise look. “Of course,” he said smoothly. “And a friend of the new Duke as well, I believe?”
Francis shook his head, chuckling. “Baron Rys, I suspect there is little I can tell you of Horsemistress Winter’s relationship with my brother that you don’t already know.”
“Hmm. Well, one does hear things…about arguments on the floor of Oc’s Council of Lords, for example.”
Francis pursed his lips. “Spies, my lord?”
“Not at all.” Rys gave a cool smile. “Business associates. But I understand your wariness. Peace between our lands is tenuous, is it not?” Rys made a gesture to invite Francis out of the overheated dining room. Francis glanced around to be certain his prince did not need him at the moment, then followed the Klee Baron out into the cooler air of an anteroom. They sank into comfortable chairs, and Rys leaned forward.
“I’ve heard,” he began, “that Oc suffered an attack on its northern coast by a band of barbarians.”
“My brother calls it a skirmish,” Francis said. “A minor raid.”
Rys straightened, and shrugged expressively. “Minor, perhaps. Not to the dead. Or to the families of the kidnapped children.”
Francis nodded, and clenched his jaw.
“Further,” Rys said, “I’m told that Duke William refuses to spend money retrieving these small citizens.”
Francis looked away, but anger burned in his cheeks.
“Yes, I see this shames you,” the Baron said evenly. “I’m not surprised, Lord Francis. Your reputation is an honorable one.”
“You flatter me.”
“Not at all. I’m a diplomat. I know character when I see it.”
“I am powerless in this matter,” Francis said. “The Council has ruled with my brother.”
“Ah. But I have a proposition that may help you.”
Francis leaned back in his chair. In the dining room the clatter of china and glass had begun. “Tell me your proposition, my lord,” he said. “Although I can promise nothing. I am—as are you, I believe—only a younger son.”
“I am exactly that,” Rys said. He sat back, too, and steepled his fingers. Francis eyed him, seeing the gleam of intelligence in his eye, the easy confidence that made him, although a small man, seem an imposing presence. “My older brother inherited the title of viscount, which carries with it lands and the position,” Rys went on. “But we have an amicable relationship, and in the normal way of things, I enjoy diplomatic work. This situation, however, provides me with an opportunity to satisfy a secret ambition.”
Francis waited. Rys gave him a small smile, and said, “I have a daughter—well, to be honest, I have three daughters, but this one is my particular pride. She’s bright, and she’s fiercely independent. She’s not pretty, though I care nothing about that. I want her to have a life of her own, not to be married off like some expensive doll, to do a husband’s wishes and abandon her own abilities.”
“And what does she want, Rys?”
Rys said, with evident pride, “She yearns to fly a winged horse.”
Francis’s mouth opened, but for a long moment he could say nothing. The idea was revolutionary, but it had merit. Even Francis, who disdained politics, could see how such an alliance—the bonding of a Klee daughter to one of the winged horses—could help to stabilize relations between Klee and Isamar. “My lord,” he said slowly. “What would you offer the Duchy of Oc to secure such an honor?”
“I,” Baron Rys said, “will fund a war party, and lead it. To rescue the children.”
PHILIPPA planned an early departure for the long flight back to Osham. One of the resident horsemistresses of the Palace arranged an early breakfast for her, and went to order Winter Sunset saddled. Philippa drank a cup of strong coffee and ate a dish of coddled eggs the cook had waiting. The cook also had prepared a packet of sandwiches, which Philippa accepted gratefully. She would rest Sunny halfway, then press on. With luck and good weather, she was hopeful of having dinner in the Hall tonight.
She walked across the courtyard to the stables, buttoning her coat over her habit, pulling on her warmest gloves. Frost rimed the grass in the paddocks, and her nose tingled with the early morning chill. Flying would be easier for Sunny, in the cold air, but Philippa knew she would have cold toes and icy fingers for the first hour, until the sun was well up into the sky.
Sunny was ready and waiting when she reached the flight paddock. She took the reins from the stable-girl and removed Sunny’s wingclips, slipping them into the pocket of her tabard. She was preparing to mount when she heard her name called. She turned and was startled to see Lord Francis sprinting across the courtyard. He stopped at the paddock fence, out of breath.
“Philippa! I hadn’t thought you would be away so early,” he panted.
“Why, Francis,” she said. “I didn’t expect to see you again this morning. I know there was a dinner last night, and you must have been late to bed.”
He shrugged his slender shoulders and gave her a wry smile. “There’s a dinner every night here,” he said. “I excused myself early.”
“It’s kind of you to come to say goodbye,” she said.
He leaned against the fence, catching his breath. “I did want to wish you a good flight, of course. But there’s something else.” He looked over his shoulder, and across to the stables, and gestured her toward him. She dropped Sunny’s reins and crossed to the fence.
“I had not thought there would be anything I could do to help,” Francis said quietly. “But now it seems there might be something.”
Philippa put one gloved hand on the top rail. “What is it?”
“Do you know Baron Rys, of Klee?”
“No. We have not met.”
“He’s a clever man, and I believe an honest one,” Francis said. “As much as any diplomat can afford to be honest, that is. He has offered to fund a war party to rescue the children from the Aesks.”
Philippa drew a swift breath. “Francis—to do such a thing, the Baron must be asking a high price.”
“Yes,” Francis said. “But it may be one we can afford.”
“Tell me.”
“His youngest daughter—Amelia, her name is—longs to fly a winged horse.”
Philippa dropped her hand from the fence, and folded her arms. “This is his price. That we bond his daughter—a daughter of Klee—to one of Kalla’s creatures.”
Francis nodded. “It’s a good trade, Philippa. It’s politically expedient, and it gives us a chance, at least, to recover the children.”
“But we know nothing about this girl.”
Francis smiled. “I think you often know little about the girls who bond to the winged horses, Philippa. You accept the recommendations of their parents and their tutors. Rys assures me his daughter is strong and intelligent. And independent,” he added.
“Independent,” Philippa repeated. “That may be a parent’s euphemism for ‘ill behaved.’”
Francis shrugged again. “It may be. Can you trust a father’s word?”
Philippa snorted. “Sometimes not,” she said. “But you’re right. We’ve done it before.”
Francis sobered. “Philippa, I think you must decide this, here and now. There’s no time to waste, and Amelia Rys is already eighteen.”
Philippa nodded. Francis was right. With every day that passed, hopes dimmed for the safety of the two children from Onmarin. And for a girl to be bonded, eighteen wa
s none too young. She bent her head, thinking hard. “I gather you trust Baron Rys’s judgment.”
“I believe I can. I like him, even admire him. Of course, parents and their children…”
“He and his daughter must both understand that she will be bound to Oc for the length of her horse’s life.”
“He tells me they do.”
“Well. Kalla’s heels, this is odd, but I believe I can persuade Margareth,” Philippa said. “It is your lord brother who may object.”
“And the new Master Breeder.”
Philippa shook her head. “Jinson is in over his head in almost everything relating to the bloodlines. He will say what William tells him to say and no more.”
“Ah.” Francis ran a hand over his fine hair. “Will the Council Lords support us?”
“Some of them,” she answered. “Certainly Lord Beeth will. He knows I came to beg your help. And there are several who stood with him in the Rotunda, demanding action.”
Francis gave a small nod. “I shall tell Baron Rys, then, to send for his daughter. The Prince will give me leave to be away for a time, if I ask him carefully. I had better send word to my brother myself.”
“I think you must,” Philippa said. “I wish you joy with it.”
Francis laughed, a sound without mirth. “Thank you.”
Philippa inclined her head. “I thank you, Francis, and the people of Onmarin will be grateful. Come to see us when you arrive.”
“Look for me in three days.”
A few minutes later, Philippa turned Sunny’s head for the gallop down the flight paddock. As the mare’s wings drove them up and away from the Palace, Philippa glanced back over her shoulder. Francis still stood beside the paddock fence, a slender figure in a long dark coat, shading his eyes to watch her flight. She lifted one hand in farewell, and he raised his arm in return.
As she settled into her saddle, Philippa thrust away, for the moment, her worries over the missing children, the coming conflict with the Duke, the dissent among the Council Lords. There was nothing more she could do today but enjoy the freedom of flight. She put one hand on Sunny’s withers, feeling the heat of her muscles, the wondrous strength of her body.