by Toby Bishop
Amelia Rys joined them, and stood, brows slightly raised, waiting for Lark’s response.
“Oh—oh, aye, of course, Mistress Morgan,” Lark stammered. She couldn’t help glancing longingly at the doorway. She could just see the lamplight in the stables beyond the foyer windows.
Amelia’s eyebrows rose farther. She followed Lark’s gaze, then said easily, “Thank you, Larkyn. But perhaps first we could go to the stables? I would so like to see your horse.”
Lark cast her a glance full of gratitude. She bade the Headmistress good evening and walked as swiftly as she dared across the courtyard and into the stables. Amelia stayed close beside her, asking no questions, but her own steps were as quick as Lark’s.
A wave of relief swept over Lark as she reached Tup’s stall. Though the light was dim, she could see that he was there, safe and sound. Molly and he were huddled against one wall, and Bramble stood, glaring into the darkness. Lark let herself into the stall. She put out a hand to touch Bramble as she passed and found that the oc-hound’s hackles were up, her neck stiff. She didn’t move when Lark stroked her, but stared fixedly out into the aisle.
Molly and Tup were both trembling. Tup’s ears drooped, one to either side, in that oddly confused way he had when William had been near.
“Kalla’s tail,” she hissed. “What was he doing here?”
“What is it?” Amelia asked, from outside the stall.
Lark whirled. She had forgotten Amelia was there. “It’s him,” she said in a tight undertone. “The Duke. He’s been here with Tup.”
SIXTEEN
PHILIPPA let Sunny choose her own pace, circling back once in a while when the ships fell too far behind them. The glare of sun on snow of the day before had given way to a gray layer of cloud that cast shifting shadows on the dull sea below her. She felt as if she had been flying over snow, ice, and water for weeks instead of only days. Her joints ached from sleeping on the ground, and her face felt stiff and dry from exposure. Sunny, too, seemed tired, her launch a little labored, her wingbeats steady, but hardly the effortless strokes they had been when they left the Academy.
“One more day, Sunny,” Philippa murmured to her, beneath the whine of the wind aloft. “Just one more day, and we can go home.” Teaching her third-level girls would feel like a holiday, she thought, after these difficult days. Sleeping in her own bed, with her own quilt and pillow, would be bliss. And she had no doubt Sunny yearned for her straw-filled stall, the heated stables, and the occasional treat of hot mash Herbert cooked up in the cold weather.
They skirted the ragged coastline, keeping an eye on the Baron’s ships. Philippa also kept an eye on the lowering clouds, tasting the bite of snow in the air, frowning at the darkness of the northern horizon. She found that the landmark she had chosen was not so easy to identify again. There were dozens of such sea stacks, monoliths rising from the water, worn smooth by the splashing of the waves. They flew inland a half dozen times, searching for the right place, finding only empty snow-covered ground. They followed narrow inlets, estuaries, one or two broader bays than the one she remembered, without success. She began to doubt her memory and worry that she had somehow missed the spot.
They had been aloft for a long time when she saw the landmark at last. Its crenellated shape looked familiar, but in the cloud-filtered light, it was hard to be certain. The bay beyond it was oval, with a narrow, curving beach of black sand giving way to steep walls of rock on either side. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw smoke rising from beyond the bay. She and Sunny would take a quick flight inland, to make sure this was the right spot, then they would turn for home at last. They would rest in Onmarin for a night, and tomorrow, they would be at the Academy, warm, well fed, surrounded by the soothing sounds of feminine voices.
She reined Sunny to her left. She would fly just far enough to confirm this was the Aesk camp, then she could circle back, staying low in hopes she and Sunny would look like one of the large seabirds swooping and circling over the shore.
As Sunny banked, Philippa glanced to the north. Alarm thrilled through her body.
The northern horizon had disappeared in a bank of gray, and the threatened snowstorm had begun in earnest over the great plateau. Now that she had moved far enough to the east, she could see that the storm was sweeping down from the glaciers in a rolling march.
She leaned forward as the mare veered around the black sea stack. “Better hurry, my girl,” she called. Sunny responded with stronger wingbeats. Philippa shaded her eyes with her hand and peered ahead.
Now that she was so close, she saw that the Aesk compound was farther inland than she had thought. She dropped low over the tumbled boulders that marked a break in the cliff. They were black, too, like the sand, and dull in the gray light. She flew over a rock-strewn rise, and the shallow valley opened before them. To the west, the plateau rose, with its wall of forbidding gray stone. To the east, a forest of the stunted trees stretched raggedly across the horizon. And there, at last, Philippa saw the buildings she had spotted the day before.
There were eight of them, long, low structures arranged around a central fire pit. Two smaller buildings, little more than huts, stood at each end of the compound. She was close enough now to see the Aesks themselves, a dozen or more squat, thick figures moving between the longhouses, and more of them out among the trees. She reined Sunny sharply back, hoping to get back over the bay without being seen.
She was a moment too late. Just as Sunny banked, tilting her wings to turn in that precarious spot between land and sea, someone saw them.
There was a figure on the little strip of beach, one she hadn’t seen against the dark sand. An arrow sliced the cold air toward them. Philippa cried out, and Sunny responded.
Their discipline served them well. They had drilled this a thousand times, and the maneuver was automatic. Philippa shifted her weight, and Sunny’s wings tilted, her body shaking with effort. First, Arrows, descending precipitously in a path no attacker could predict. Then a Grand Reverse, a full turn, a change of altitude. Another arrow followed the first, and Sunny swerved again, driving higher, her wings shivering as she flew up and out of the archer’s range. A dog’s savage baying rose from the ground, echoing against the cliffs. No oc-hound was capable of such a noise. Philippa trembled at the sound.
Just as Sunny completed her second Grand Reverse, the snow reached them. It came on a fist of wind that slammed over the edge of the plateau and drove into Philippa’s face with shocking force. Sunny’s wings faltered, and Philippa felt the spasm that rippled through her body.
In a moment, the mare steadied, finding the lift of the wind, balancing on the conflicting currents of air rushing in from the sea. Philippa reined her to the west, back toward the convoy, to give them the prearranged signal. She waved the scarlet flag she had tied to her pommel for the purpose and saw the answering wave from Francis. It was at this moment that she and Sunny were to bank to the south, to fly across the Strait to Onmarin, and their well-deserved rest.
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 stif
fened 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 knifepoint. 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.”
FRANCIS stood 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 j
oy, 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.