by Toby Bishop
Sunny pushed at the feed bag. “In a little while, my girl,” Philippa said, picking up her halter lead. “It’s a bit too soon after your flight. But we could get you some water.” She led her down the slope of the beach, both of them picking their way through sharp rocks and piles of cold seaweed.
Francis joined her at the stream’s edge, while Sunny dipped her muzzle into the water. “You didn’t see anything, I gather?” he asked.
“Snow and more snow,” Philippa said. “And rocks. How do the Aesks eke a living from this place?”
Francis lifted his head to gaze up at the plateau beyond the cliff. The wind ruffled his pale hair. “Even the fisher-folk of Onmarin must seem rich to them,” he said thoughtfully.
“I was thinking just that,” Philippa said. She tugged at Sunny’s lead. “Enough, Sunny. Give your belly a chance. You can have more soon.”
Francis, from a careful distance, asked, “Can I do anything to help you?”
“I’ll need Sunny’s blanket from my things. I believe my lord Rys’s men were to bring them ashore.”
Obligingly, Francis went back to the swiftly growing campsite and sorted through the piles of baggage. When he returned with the horse blanket folded over his arm, he said, “They’re setting up a separate shelter for you.”
“And for Sunny?”
Francis smiled. “I think that’s up to you. It looks big enough for three horses.”
“Good.” Philippa looked up into the sky. Great patches of blue separated the clouds now, opened by a rising wind. “It’s going to clear,” she said. “It will be damnably cold tonight.”
“Rys says it’s too late to start the search today.”
“He’s right. Sunny needs to rest now,” Philippa said. “We’ll go aloft first thing tomorrow. The plateau is huge, and they could be anywhere. This could take time.”
Francis made a slight sound that might have been a groan or might have been a laugh. Philippa, with one hand on Sunny’s neck, looked at him curiously. “What is it, Francis?”
He shrugged, and avoided her eyes. “I was—I was afraid, actually. But now that we’re here, now that it’s close—I find I can hardly wait to begin. I feel a bit silly, like a young boy eager to prove his courage.”
“There’s nothing silly about that,” Philippa said. “You were right to be afraid, and it’s natural to be impatient to get it over with.”
“I lack your experience, Philippa.”
“Lucky you,” she said.
A rumor had reached the Academy, and the girls whispered it to each other in the Hall and in the Dormitory. Lark heard it first from Anabel, who came to bend over Tup’s stall gate. “It’s Geraldine,” Anabel murmured, her eyes wide with excitement. “It’s Geraldine’s baby!”
Lark had been brushing tangles from Molly’s winter coat. She straightened, the stiff-bristled brush in her hands. “Geraldine’s baby? It must be six months old by now, or more.”
Geraldine had been, for a time, Geraldine Prince, bonded to a winged horse, with a bright future before her. Her pregnancy, which no winged horse could tolerate, had put an untimely end to her career and meant the death of her bondmate. Lark would never forget the death of New Prince, and her part in it. And she would never, as long as she lived, understand how Geraldine could have allowed such a thing to happen.
Anabel waved one hand. “I don’t know how old it is—he is, I mean—but Geraldine’s father has brought suit in the Council.”
“Suit? About what?”
“About the baby’s father, Black!” Anabel said. “Everyone’s talking about it!”
Lark crossed the stall with Molly at her heels. Tup whimpered and pressed close behind them. “Anabel,” Lark said, “what is everyone talking about? I don’t understand.”
Anabel opened the gate for her, and Lark went through. She shut it, then leaned against it, gazing at Tup’s shining coat, his wide, bright eyes. She remembered how the light had gone out of New Prince’s eyes, how his breath had rattled as he died. It made her shudder anew at the horror of it.
“What’s the matter?” Anabel asked.
“I was thinking about New Prince.”
“Don’t think about that now,” Anabel said. She tugged at Lark’s hand. “Come on, let’s hurry and change. We’ll be late for supper, and I’m ravenous.”
Lark turned with her, and they started down the aisle. Anabel said, “You still don’t see, do you? Geraldine’s father has accused someone of fathering her child!”
“Can you do that?” Lark asked. “At home, in Willakeep…everyone just knows. I mean, the girl will say, and usually the baby looks like someone we all recognize.”
“That’s just it!” Anabel said triumphantly.
“What is?”
At that moment, Hester came dashing around the corner from the tack room, and fell into step with them as they started across the courtyard. “Have you heard?” she demanded.
“You mean, about Geraldine and the Duke?” Anabel said. She drew breath to say something else, but Lark put a hand on her arm and held her back. Hester stopped, too.
“The Duke?” Lark said, her voice tight in her throat. “They’re accusing Duke William?”
Anabel’s pale complexion colored with excitement. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! Geraldine’s little boy looks exactly like Duke William!”
Hester nodded. “Papá just came from the Council of Lords. It’s true, Geraldine’s family is bringing a paternity suit against the Duke.”
“And the little boy…” Lark began. Her voice trailed off as the realization struck her.
“Yes!” Anabel exclaimed. “He has the same light hair, the same black eyes…he looks just like all the Fleckhams.”
Lark felt as if she couldn’t breathe. The image of little Brandon rose in her mind, his hair pale as ice, his midnight-dark eyes sparkling with laughter as Edmar teased him. Brandon, too, looked just like William. He looked just like his mother Pamella, as well…Pamella, the Duke’s own sister.
Hester’s thoughts had traveled the same path, she could see. Her eyes met Lark’s, widening with shock. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, no, Black, that can’t be.”
Anabel said, “What? What are you two talking about? Why can’t it be?”
Hester drew a breath, then shook her head. “Never mind, Anabel. It’s nothing.”
“But what—do you know something you’re not telling me? What is it?”
Lark bit her lip and turned away from Anabel’s burning curiosity. She and Hester had promised Lady Beeth not to speak of what had happened in the Uplands months ago. Lady Beeth, and Lark’s brother Brye as well, had convinced them that their silence was in the best interests of everyone, Pamella, Brandon, Oc itself—and Deeping Farm.
But the idea that Geraldine’s baby might be William’s troubled Lark deeply. So often, she knew, bulls and billies and stallions threw offspring that resembled them. It was one of the ways farm-folk kept track of which sires were most potent. What if—would it be possible that poor Pamella’s little one, little Brandon—
No, she told herself. It was too disgusting an idea even for Duke William.
It would explain, though, why Pamella steadfastly refused to return to Osham, or to see anyone in her family. And it might explain why she could not speak. Such an experience…Lark couldn’t imagine it.
And maybe it wasn’t true.
She glanced across at Hester as they took their places at the long table, and saw that Hester, too, had been thinking dark thoughts. Hester gave her a slow, deliberate shake of the head. Lark nodded in return. There was nothing they could do and no point in speculating. But when the chores of the day were finished at last, she lay in her cot staring out at the brilliant winter stars. For a long time sleep eluded her as she thought of poor Pamella—Lady Pamella—and what might have befallen her. The last image in her mind, before her eyelids finally closed, was of Duke William’s hard, pale face and the cold braided leather of his magicked quirt.
FOURTEEN
PHILIPPA slept poorly in the shelter. Its sheets of canvas protected her and Sunny from the worst of the cold, but the packed sand beneath her blankets and furs was unforgiving to the points of her hips and shoulders, and the pillow, made of a folded blanket, scratched at her cheek and neck. She rose when the first gray light stole in through the spaces between the panels and the poles that supported them, rubbing her neck and grimacing. There had been a time when she slept easily on hard ground, but her body was not so flexible as it had been at twenty-four.
Sunny seemed to have fared better. She dropped her head willingly to receive her bridle, and her steps were light as Philippa led her outside and down to the stream to drink. The watchmen, arrayed around the campsite, nodded silent greetings. Philippa nodded back. As Sunny drank, she scanned the sky.
It looked to be a perfect day for flying. The weather held clear and cold. She would be glad of her woolen vest and thick stockings, but Sunny would find the frigid air invigorating. To the north, the glaciers shone like sheets of dull silver. To the south, the green waters of the Strait flickered and gleamed. It was into the east that they would turn today, toward the black beaches and the scrubby forests that stretched beyond the great plateau.
Francis and Rys emerged from one of the tents as Philippa was seeing to Sunny’s feed. She turned, leaving Sunny to it, and went to meet the men. A table had been set up in the open, and as she approached, one of the soldiers put a platter of steaming meat and sliced bread on it, with a stack of battered metal plates and flatware. Another had a huge camp pot of coffee and poured out mugs of it. Philippa sat at one end, with Francis and Rys opposite, and they made quick, silent work of their breakfast. Moments later, Philippa was saddling Sunny, checking her gear, and preparing to launch.
Francis stood well to one side, sensitive to Sunny’s aversion, but close enough that he could speak quietly. “Philippa,” he said. “I’ve been thinking.”
Philippa ran her hands over Sunny’s breastband and rested her palm on the pommel of her flying saddle. Everything was in order. She glanced at Francis from beneath the brim of her riding cap. “About what, Francis?”
He hesitated, his slender features tightening. “It’s about risk. About priorities.”
“Yes?” She was ready to mount, and she felt a slight impatience. Francis had always been deliberate, but now, both she and Sunny were ready to fly.
His voice dropped. “Philippa, I completely support this effort, as you know…I care about it…but—”
She lifted her chin and pointed it at the circle of jute tents. “A little late for second thoughts, I think.”
He managed a small, tense smile. “I’m not having second thoughts. But I want you to remember—that is, I am my father’s son, after all.”
That made her chuckle. “Out with it, Francis! A snowstorm could reach us while you decide how to say whatever it is.”
His smile grew, too, but his dark gaze was bleak. “It’s this, Philippa: I cannot, as a member of the Duke’s household, equate the value of a winged horse and her rider with that of two fisher-folk children, however unfair that may seem. I must—” He cleared his throat, and looked at his boots. “I must order you, I’m afraid. To put yourself first.”
A strange warmth spread through Philippa, and she very much feared her cheeks had gone pink. She turned to Sunny, and leaped up into the saddle. She allowed herself a moment of satisfaction; she might have difficulty sleeping on the ground, but she could still perform a perfect standing mount. Keeping her face averted, she said, “Have no fear, Francis. It would not be myself, but Sunny I would always put first.” She wished her voice did not sound so hard, but she didn’t trust it not to tremble. Francis’s concern reminded her of Frederick’s devotion, and she had not thought such a commitment would come again from a Fleckham.
He answered with mild irony. “Of course, Philippa. But Sunny can’t be protected unless you are.”
She took a steadying breath, and met his gaze. “Exactly so. Thank you, Francis.”
He bowed. She inclined her head and lifted her hand to Baron Rys, standing just outside his tent. Sunny spun on her hindquarters and set off at an eager canter. When she launched, the thrust of her hindquarters thrilled Philippa as it always did with its strength. She leaned forward, urging Sunny up and over the cliff. The beach dropped away below them until she could no longer make out the upturned faces of the men watching. Philippa lifted the rein and laid it against the left side of Sunny’s neck, shifting her weight into her right stirrup, and the mare banked to the east to begin their search anew.
FRANCIS stood on the beach to watch Philippa and Sunny leave, and he was in the same place when they returned hours later. It had been a long, idle day for him. Rys had sent a few men to climb up the cliff and scout the seaward edge of the great plateau, but there was little else to be done until Philippa found the tribe.
“They keep a great distance from each other,” Rys had said when they were still in Osham. “If one tribe trespasses on another’s hunting territory, they fight. We can expect that the tribe we find will be the one responsible for the attack on Onmarin.” He had been honing his smallsword with a whetstone, handling the weapon with the ease of long practice.
Francis had always been forbidden to use matchlocks because of the danger of their exploding in the face of the shooter, but he did have a smallsword. He had, in his youth, had some training with it. He spent the empty day waiting for Philippa’s return in sharpening and cleaning the blade, trying to remember how his fighting-master had told him to use it.
Rys came to stand beside him at about midday and gave him an easy smile. “You have not been in battle before, I expect.”
Blushing, Francis sheathed the blade, shaking his head.
“Natural to be nervous.”
That made Francis laugh. “You’ll find me ridiculous, Rys,” he said diffidently, “but in fact, I’m not so much nervous as impatient.”
“Ah.” Rys touched his shoulder lightly. “I remember the feeling.” He pointed to his men, lounging around the warmth of the fire pit in the center of the circle of tents. They kept the fire blazing hot, feeding it with driftwood. A thin, clear smoke rose from it to dissipate quickly in the cold air. “If you fight enough wars, Francis, you acquire the attitude of these men. You save your energy, postpone thinking about it. You learn to let tomorrow take care of tomorrow.”
Francis turned to face seaward, where the shore of Oc was a distant smudge beyond the icy gray water. “It is another of the burdens of being born into a Duke’s family, I’m afraid. Our experiences are rather closely controlled.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t allowed any real danger, not even true sword practice. I’m expected to keep myself intact. If something were to happen to my elder brother, I’m meant to step into the title.”
“I would be surprised if that were an ambition of yours.”
“And so you should be, Rys!” Francis’s laugh sounded thin in his own ears. “The last thing I have ever wanted was to sit on that throne.”
Rys sobered after a moment, and Francis saw that his gaze, too, strayed to the southern horizon. Klee, of course, was a great distance from where they stood, but Francis thought he understood the Baron’s thoughts. “You feel differently about your own inheritance, I think,” he said softly.
“Indeed I do,” Rys said, just as quietly, but with an edge to his voice. “It’s not that I want to be the Viscount…I don’t…but I cannot bear the idea of spending my life fawning at various courts, with no authority to actually do anything.”
“We are at least in agreement about that,” Francis said.
Rys pointed to his soldiers around the snapping fire. “In any case, Lord Francis,” he said, “you can trust my men to take care of the fighting.” He grinned and slapped Francis’s shoulder. “I don’t want His Grace of Oc blaming me for damage to his brother!”
Francis laughed, too, but he felt a pang of something like premonition in hi
s gut. He drew a sharp breath, trying to banish it, and turned back to watching the sky for Philippa. At length he saw her, a tiny figure on the eastern horizon, growing steadily as she flew into the west.
The winged horses were often compared to birds in song and story, but Francis thought their magnificence outshone any bird. And their partnership with the horsemistresses set them apart from all other beasts, making them the most remarkable and the most mysterious creatures in all of creation.
Philippa and Sunny were close now. Winter Sunset spread her broad, scarlet wings, and the last of the setting sun shone through them like lamplight through parchment. She soared down past the cliff, and settled swiftly onto the narrow beach. She cantered toward the camp, wings outspread, fluttering in the breeze. She trotted to a stop, blowing clouds of mist from her flared nostrils. Sweat lathered the jointure of her wings, and Philippa said sharply, when they were near enough, “Francis! Could you fetch me Sunny’s blanket? She’s overheated.”
Francis, hiding his smile at being ordered about like a stable-man, obeyed, and stood watching as Philippa stripped the saddle from Winter Sunset, rubbed her dry, bade her fold her wings, then buckled the blanket around her. “I must walk her till she’s cool,” she said over her shoulder. “We flew a bit too far, but I saw something.”
“We’ll wait,” Rys said. He gestured to the fire. “Join us as soon as you can, and we’ll have a hot drink for you.”
Francis followed Rys to the fire and stood with the others as Philippa and Sunny paced back and forth on the beach. They made desultory conversation, and Francis feigned casualness as the mulled wine began to steam on the fire and Philippa filled Sunny’s water bucket near her shelter, but his gut was tight with impatience. He had time, as Philippa shook grain into a feed bag, to scoff at himself for his bloody thoughts. He was the bookish one, the gentle one, after all, and here he was, eager as a boy to get into his first real battle.