by Toby Bishop
Francis felt a turning in his heart. Esmond Rys’s calm courage stirred his blood. What Oc might have become had such a man succeeded to the Dukedom! William, alas, suffered no lack of courage, but his spirit was turned inward, feeding upon envy and resentment and shallow ambition. He would never lead Oc as Rys might have done, nor would Rys in all likelihood have the opportunity to lead a duchy of his own.
Francis stood and bowed to Rys. “It will be a privilege to serve with you, my lord.”
Rys gave him a grim smile. “Let’s hope so, Francis. We have a great task ahead of us.”
Francis did not miss the glance that passed between Margareth and Philippa. It, too, was grim, and determined. Again his heart turned. He would be proud to be part of such an alliance, a brave man and two brave women. He hoped his own courage would not fail in the test ahead.
LARK rose before dawn the next morning, propelled by unease at knowing that a Fleckham slept beneath the roofs of the Residence. The other girls still slept, lulled by the unusual feast of cakes and biscuits the evening before. Lark pulled on her riding habit and tugged her cap down over her short curls. She carried her boots in her hand. She sat on the bottom of the stairs from the sleeping porch to pull them on and let herself out as quietly as she could through the heavy door.
She was relieved to find Tup waiting for her in his stall, ears flicked forward. He had sensed her early rising, and now was eager for whatever exercise or adventure awaited. She unbuckled his blanket and slipped a bridle over his head. Surely, while everyone else at the Academy was still abed, a little private practice in the air would go unnoticed. Dutifully, Lark lifted the flying saddle from its peg. She put the saddle blanket on Tup, smoothing his coat beneath it so it would be comfortable, then put the saddle on him, too. He twisted his neck back, nipping at her coat to protest.
“Hush, my Tup,” she murmured. “We have to learn to fly with it. You and I both!”
He sidestepped and whimpered, making her task difficult. Molly bleated once at this activity, and when the saddle was secure, Lark bent to nuzzle her warm neck. The little goat’s winter coat was coming on quickly, a long undercoat of fibers like strong silk, much prized in the Uplands. It smelled like home to Lark. “Just wait for us, Molly mine,” she said. “We won’t be long. Back before breakfast is laid in the Hall!”
She whispered to Tup to be quiet and led him out through the back of the stables and around to the flight paddock. The sky had brightened to a pale blue, with wisps of rippled, grayish cloud drifting gently before the steady breeze from the mountains. They could be off and back before anyone noticed.
The snowfall had stopped during the night, leaving the grass crisp with crystals but not slippery. Everything was perfect. Lark braced herself for the standing mount, then leaped into the saddle, her belly touching first, her leg swinging easily over the cantle. The standing mount, at least, she had mastered. It had been easier for her than for most of the girls, because though her legs were short, her weight was slight, and her muscles were strong from spending the years of her childhood heaving and stacking and carrying around Deeping Farm.
She lifted the rein and leaned forward. “Let’s go, Tup,” she called. “Hup!”
Tup was now two and a half years old, sturdy and strong although still small. When he began his gallop down the paddock, she could feel the bunch and stretch of his muscles beneath her hands and wished for the hundredth time she could fly without the saddle. When she flew bareback, she felt every muscle flex beneath her thighs, felt every tilt and flex of his wings. When there was no leather and steel to impede them, they executed Reverses sharper and swifter than any other pair in their class. But today, with the saddle, Lark confined their practice to the drills Mistress Star would no doubt put to them later this same day.
She laid a rein against Tup’s glossy black neck and pressed her left knee into his shoulder. Obediently, he performed a Half Reverse. She held him at Quarters for four wingbeats, then urged him into a Full Reverse, something he performed deftly, quickly. She had learned to snug her thighs hard beneath the thigh rolls to keep from slipping. Without the saddle, there was no need. Her body knew what his was going to do before he began the movement. There was never a question of slipping. They were as one body at those moments.
But the Academy was not satisfied with that. Mistress Star insisted that the two of them learn the Airs and Graces with a flying saddle. Lark understood they worried about her safety. She had no words to convince them that she and Tup would work better unhindered by tack. She knew in her bones that she could fly Arrows without a saddle, but it was that Air in particular that troubled her instructor. That, of course, and the balletic Graces, which would be the seal of her second-level test. All she could do to earn her second-level Ribbon was to master the saddle as she had everything else. When she did, all doubts about her future would fade.
The sun had risen above the mountains, and the icy branches of the treetops glistened in the light. It was time to return to the Academy. Lark spoke to Tup with her hands and her feet, and though he tossed his head, loath to give up their brief taste of freedom in the air, he tilted obediently to the left to circle the grounds, beginning his descent. He flew past the gambrel roofs of the stables and on toward the end of the flight paddock, where the stand of spruce trees guarded the hedgerow beyond. Lark closed her eyes, just for a moment, to feel the chill wind on her cheeks. Tup’s wings stilled, and he began his glide.
She opened her eyes, looking ahead. Just outside the paddock, between the stables and the pole fence, stood a slender figure in a black cloak. His hair was almost as pale as the snow that clung to the roof and the post-caps. Lark’s heart missed a beat, and she cried, “No, Tup!”
Willingly, even eagerly, Tup gave a strong downward beat of his wings, and they began to ascend again. Beyond the man, Lark saw Erna come out of the stables, leading a winged horse. In the hall, lights were burning through the dim winter morning, and a door opened in the Residence. She would be late for breakfast, perhaps miss it altogether. She would be scolded for going out without telling anyone, for being aloft by herself.
Which Fleckham was watching her from the end of the paddock? Duke William, or Lord Francis? It didn’t matter. They both terrified her.
Tup soared higher, turning away from the Academy. They flew past the grove, past the hedgerow, past the turning of the lane into the road. And Lark, in the grip of an irresistible impulse, turned her bondmate toward the Uplands. Home.
Against the skin of her breast, the little icon of Kalla grew cool, its smooth wood as comforting as a mother’s hand.
NINE
PHILIPPA was at breakfast in the Hall when Matron came in, threaded her way through the students, and approached the high table. She stepped up on the dais, walking behind the other instructors. When she reached Philippa’s chair, she bent, and murmured, “Mistress Winter. Lord Islington is here to see you.”
Philippa stiffened, and Margareth, next to her, lifted her eyebrows. “Is it Meredith?”
Philippa laid down her napkin. “It must be. There is no other Lord Islington as yet.” She pushed back her chair and stood up. “Thank you, Matron. Is he in the foyer?”
“I put his lordship in the Headmistress’s office,” Matron said. “I didn’t feel he would wish to come into the dining hall.” She directed this statement to Margareth, who nodded. “I ordered coffee for him and asked him if he had breakfasted. He said he had.” She turned and bustled away. Philippa followed.
In Margareth’s office, she found her brother standing before the tall window behind the desk. He had opened the heavy drapes and stood looking out into the cold gray morning. When the door clicked behind Philippa, he turned.
“Philippa. It’s been a very long time since we’ve seen you at Islington House.”
“Good morning, Meredith.” Philippa walked with deliberate steps toward the desk and stood facing her brother across its mahogany expanse. She laid her fingertips on the leather-b
ound genealogy that lay on it, mimicking Margareth’s habitual gesture. “I do apologize for not coming for Erdlin. I was otherwise occupied.”
“Yes, Jessica told me you had sent a note.”
“And how is Jessica?” Philippa asked. She hated small talk, but she needed a moment to assess Meredith’s mood, to try to guess why he was here. He wanted something, naturally. There was not the slightest chance he had come merely from filial affection. None had ever existed between them.
Meredith’s cool blue eyes told her nothing. The features which on herself looked bony and plain were striking on Meredith. He had always been a handsome man, but now, approaching middle age, the slight silvering of his red hair had added a distinguished air. He carried himself with confidence, even arrogance. He had high hopes for the advancement of the Islingtons, for more power and more profit from their ventures. Her refusal to be his liaison with Duke Frederick, when she was still flying for the Ducal Palace, had infuriated him.
“Jessica is well,” Meredith said. “And our daughters thrive.”
“I am glad to hear it.”
“You’re making a great mistake, Philippa.”
Philippa said dryly, “Why, Meredith, because I’m glad your family is well?”
“Don’t be a fool,” he said. He left the window and came to lean on the high back of Margareth’s chair. “Your mistake is in taking Lord Francis’s part against that of the Duke.”
“Oh, by Kalla’s heels, Meredith! Surely that’s not why you’re here?”
“That is exactly why I’m here,” her brother answered. “This is our chance to mend the relationship of Islington House and Fleckham House. I won’t stand by and see you destroy it.”
“It’s you playing the fool, Meredith.” Philippa drew her gloves from her belt and slapped them into one palm. “You can’t have been paying attention! Duke William’s tenure is likely to be a short one. Where will you be if he’s deposed?”
“Deposed?” Meredith gave an incredulous laugh. “Where do you come up with such ideas? His Grace settled the issue of Onmarin in the Council. What gives you and Francis the right to gainsay him?”
“William didn’t settle the issue.” Anger roughened Philippa’s voice. “He ignored it.”
“He is the Duke, and it falls to him to make these decisions.”
“Or not make them. And how, pray tell, do you think there is anything I could do that would improve relations with William?”
“Duke William, Philippa. Show him the respect he’s due.”
“When he earns it, I will.”
Meredith drew himself up very straight and looked down his nose at her. She recognized the posture. She had the same habit.
“Philippa,” he said, “I want you to refuse Lord Francis’s plan. Decline the Klee girl, and turn your back on this ridiculous scheme.”
Philippa laid her palm flat on the book of the bloodlines, feeling its bulk and substance beneath her hand. She narrowed her eyes at her brother. “You,” she said bitingly, “cannot give me orders. I am a horsemistress, Meredith.”
“You are an Islington, and I am the head of our house. You owe me loyalty.”
Now Philippa did laugh, though there was little mirth in it. “Loyalty,” she said sourly. “You mean, such as the loyalty you always showed to me when I was a girl?”
Meredith’s lips pulled down. “I was young, Philippa.”
“I was sixteen. And you laughed at me, you and William. You have daughters now, Meredith. Would you like them to have that experience?”
His eyes flickered away from her. He turned back to the window, and his posture softened a little. “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “It was cruel.”
“Ours was always a cruel family,” Philippa said. “I suppose you should not bear all the blame. And it did work out for me, after all. Duke Frederick not only bonded me to Sunny, but he became the affectionate father our own never was.”
A silence stretched between them. Philippa closed her eyes for a moment, tasting the comforting scents of leather and wax and lamp oil. There was also, of course, the omnipresent smell of horses in this room, as in every room at the Academy. She should explain to Meredith how much she loved this life, how little she regretted that other life that might have been.
She opened her eyes, and opened her mouth to tell him, but he forestalled her, turning abruptly to face her. “None of that matters now, Philippa. What matters is the future. And William can help or hinder our fortunes.”
“Duke William,” Philippa said slyly.
Meredith’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t take part in this, Philippa. It’s madness.”
“Madness.” Philippa lowered her voice. “Meredith, listen. In all truth, I fear for William’s sanity. You and I have known him since childhood, and he is much changed recently.”
“That’s a treasonous remark,” Meredith said.
“Some would say abandoning two young citizens to the barbarians is treason.”
“That’s not a decision for us to make. I don’t want you involved, Philippa. I order you.”
“Order me? I’m a horsemistress of Oc, Meredith. I take orders from no man.”
“Except the Duke.”
She shrugged. “Even the Duke. He has to answer to the Council Lords, and that is by no means a foregone conclusion in this instance. The Academy—and Francis, I should point out—have supporters in the Council.”
“Damn you, Philippa! I swear—”
“Swear away, Meredith. It will do you no good.”
FRANCIS and Rys were to leave a day before Philippa. As she would be flying, her journey would be swifter than theirs. Lord and Lady Beeth had offered a carriage for the two men and their servants. Francis had directed his man not even to unpack, other than what was needed immediately, and so there was nothing for him to do but wait for the Beeth carriage. He was standing in the foyer of the Academy Hall, gazing at the paintings of the winged horses that hung on its walls. One, in particular, interested him. It was a lean, muscular brown horse, painted with its wings extended over a snowy landscape, no tack or rider to obscure its sleek lines, the depth of its chest, the neat cut of its hooves.
“He was one of the founders of the Ocmarin line.”
Francis turned his head at the sound of Philippa’s voice. She had come to stand beside him, her riding boots making almost no sound on the tiled floor. “He’s beautiful,” he said.
“They say he was. And he threw nothing but winged foals,” she told him.
“What was his name?”
“Seraph,” she said. “One of our girls—Larkyn Hamley—flies a colt named for him. Her horse is named Black Seraph, in honor of his forebear. Black Seraph is a good bit smaller than his ancestor, though, I think.”
“Larkyn? That’s an unusual name, is it not?”
Philippa’s lips pursed. “She is an unusual girl,” she said in a dry tone. “With an unusual history. And, Francis…”
“What is it, Philippa? It’s not like you to hesitate.”
“I don’t know how much your brother has told you of the events of the past year.”
Francis turned away from the painting and faced Philippa. Her features were drawn with fatigue and tension. He supposed his own were no better. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but he was afraid of what was coming in Aeskland. He cleared his throat. “William and I have not corresponded on anything but official business,” he said. “Nor have we spoken privately since my father died.”
“Have you heard from your sister?”
“No. My father’s old steward tells me she’s in seclusion, residing with a family in an outlying district.”
“The family is called Hamley,” Philippa said bluntly.
“Hamley? The same name as your student?”
“The very family,” Philippa answered. “The Hamleys of Deeping Farm, the Uplands.”
“How did such a coincidence come about?”
“It’s a long story, Francis, but coincidence has no pa
rt of it. There is still a mystery to be solved, but your sister is unable to speak.”
Francis frowned. “She could have written to me, surely. If she needed help…”
“I do not wish to interfere in your family’s affairs,” Philippa said. She glanced around, and Francis followed her gaze. The foyer was empty. Margareth was in her office, and the instructors and students were in the paddocks.
Francis put a hand under Philippa’s elbow and led her to one of the long benches opposite the windows. “Tell me, Philippa,” he said. “I never doubt you have only our best interests at heart.”
Her mouth twisted. “Well, yours at least.”
“Tell me.”
Philippa had been right. It was a long story, of intrigue, of an illegitimate child, of deceit and sacrifice. Francis dropped his head, listening, trying to imagine his pretty, prideful sister banished to an Uplands village, cared for through a traumatic pregnancy by a village witchwoman, residing in the end in a sympathetic farmer’s house.
“Brye Hamley,” Philippa finished at last, “is a man of honor, the sort of man Oc can be most proud of. William now has two reasons to hate him and to threaten to confiscate the lands the Hamleys have held for centuries.”
“Two reasons.”
“I fear so.” Philippa had pulled her gloves from her belt, and was creasing them in her fingers. “William is obsessed with Black Seraph, Larkyn’s winged horse. He was furious when he found she had bonded with the foal, and he tried once to take him from her. But he fears what Pamella might tell the Hamleys should she begin to speak again.”
“Who is the father of her child?” Francis asked. His heart weighed heavy in his breast. He knew how such a thing must have wounded his father, and he understood also that his mother would never allow Pamella to return to Osham with a bastard brat at her knee. Poor Pamella! It seemed her life was ruined, in more ways than one.