Airs and Graces

by Toby Bishop

  “Oh, aye,” Lark assured her. She opened the stall gate and held it for Amelia. “’Twas never meant to be that I should bond with a winged horse. ’Tis why the Duke hates me so.”

  “Does he hate you?” Amelia asked.

  “He does.” Lark called to Bramble and let her into the stall.

  Amelia watched this ritual, her eyebrows rising. “Do you always leave an oc-hound in his stall? The other winged horses don’t have one.”

  “Well, they don’t have them anymore. They did, when they were foals. Oc-hounds keep the foals company when they’re small.”

  “But Seraph has that sweet little goat.”

  “Aye.” Lark shrugged. “I just feel better if Bramble’s there, too.”

  Amelia seemed to accept this without comment. Lark led the way out of the stables and across the courtyard. “My bonding was a mistake, in Duke William’s view.”

  “But not in yours,” Amelia said.

  Lark ran her fingers through her short curls, dislodging bits of straw and no small amount of horsehair. “Tup’s coming to me was no accident. I believe the horse goddess sent his dam, the sweetest little mare you could ever hope to know, to us at Deeping Farm. We didn’t know she was with foal, but we cared for her when she was almost dead from hunger. Tup was Kalla’s gift to me. That’s why I wear this.” She lifted the icon of Kalla on its thong and held it out for Amelia to see. As they turned into the Dormitory to change for dinner, she said, “I had never even seen a winged horse before he came. And once he was foaled, I slept in the barn for the better part of two weeks!”

  Amelia Rys said, “Of course. I would have done precisely the same.”

  IN the morning, Lark and Hester escorted Amelia to the Headmistress’s office. Hester’s mamá wanted to meet the daughter of Baron Rys of Klee. Hester and Amelia had not yet spoken together. They kept a careful distance apart, and their expressions were neither friendly nor unfriendly. Lark watched this with bemusement. Surely, the two had much in common, growing up as they had. Lark would not believe Hester capable of envy, but her friend seemed wary around Amelia, as if loath to reveal anything of herself.

  The girls found the Headmistress standing on the steps of the Hall, shading her eyes as she peered to the north. A thin snowfall had come during the night, frosting the paddocks and the hedgerows faintly with white. The air was cold enough to make lungs ache.

  Lark said absently, “The bite of winter has sharp teeth.”

  Amelia turned her cool glance her way. “Is that another Uplands saying?”

  Lark nodded, and said distractedly, “Oh, aye.” Like Mistress Morgan, she searched the horizon, longing to see a winged horse appear above the towers of the White City on its return flight. There was no sign of Winter Sunset.

  Mistress Morgan turned when she heard the girls’ footsteps and made some greeting, but Lark saw the worry in her eyes, and the quiver of anxiety she had felt herself ever since Mistress Winter set out for Onmarin and Aeskland intensified. The icon at her breast seemed to burn through her tabard, and she scanned the grounds of the Academy, fearful of seeing Duke William’s brown gelding. She breathed a little easier when she saw Lady Beeth’s carriage turn into the drive.

  Hester kissed her mother, then she and Lark left Amelia to go into the Hall with Lady Beeth and Mistress Morgan. They crossed the courtyard to the stables, where Mistress Star was expecting them. Lark asked quietly, “Do you not like Amelia, Hester?”

  Hester didn’t meet her eyes. “It’s not a question of liking. It’s a question of trust.”

  “You don’t trust her?”

  “Oc has plenty of reason not to trust Klee. And Amelia Rys is Klee.”

  “But—Baron Rys is trying to save Lissie and Peter!”

  They had reached Goldie’s stall, and Hester stopped. “Black, the Baron is a politician, and Amelia is a politician’s daughter.”

  Lark grinned. “So are you, Morning.”

  Hester laughed, and shrugged. “Yes,” she said. “That’s why I’m withholding judgment.”

  “Lord Francis trusts the Baron.”

  “Lord Francis is no politician. And I’m afraid he’s rather naive.”

  “Don’t you think the Baron is sincere about finding the children, then? About bonding his daughter to a winged horse?”

  “I think it is expedient for him.”

  Lark shook her head. “You should have seen Amelia yesterday with Tup. She—she came alive, for the first time since she’s come here. I believe she, at least, is sincere.”

  “Perhaps.” Hester opened the gate to Golden Morning’s stall and went in. She lifted a halter from its hook, then turned with the halter in her hands. “Ask me about the Ryses again, Black, when Mistress Winter is back safely.”

  Hester turned to her horse, leaving Lark staring at her back. Something cold clutched at her heart. Hester, she saw, was as worried as she was.

  She shivered and turned to hurry down the aisle to Tup’s stall.

  THERE was still no sign of Mistress Winter by evening. Amelia Rys spent most of the day in the Headmistress’s office. The early darkness of winter enfolded the Academy grounds before suppertime, and the girls blanketed their horses and laid down extra straw for their feet. Hester finished with Goldie, and begged Lark to hurry.

  Lark promised she would. She stepped outside the stables to call for Bramble just as cold white stars were beginning to prick the night sky.

  The sound of her calling brought Herbert out of the tack room. “What are you needing the oc-hound for, Miss?” he asked brusquely. “Surely your little black is past needing her for company.”

  Lark bit her lip. She liked Herbert, and she knew he was missing Rosellen as much as she was. But she was fearful of expressing her fears about Duke William, despite what had happened the year before. The very walls, it seemed, listened for a stray word. “I—” she began, and then faltered. Bramble saved her by bounding up, thrusting her sleek head beneath Lark’s hand, her plume of tail waving.

  Herbert’s wizened face creased in gloomy lines. “Your little stallion doesn’t need protection now,” he said. “I mean, anyone who tries to come in these stables again—that is, I wouldn’t let it happen, Miss Hamley.”

  “It was never your fault, Herbert!” Lark said hastily. “And I know you—I mean—Oh, Herbert, I just sleep better, knowing Bramble is with Tup.”

  Herbert considered this for a moment, one finger rubbing the side of his nose. At last he sighed, and said, “Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter, Miss. She’s not needed elsewhere until the spring foaling.”

  Lark gave him a grateful smile and led Bramble back inside. She leaned on the stall gate a moment, watching the beasts settle themselves for the night. Tup stood hipshot, nose tucked, eyes gazing peacefully at nothing. Molly curled at his feet, nestled deep into the straw. Bramble lay down, too, but she faced the aisle, her head on her paws, her eyes alert.

  “Lovely smart dog you are, Bramble,” Lark murmured. “I’ll see you all in the morning.” She hurried off to change. As she crossed the courtyard, her eyes strayed again to the northern horizon, but there was nothing to see.

  Halfway through dinner, the icon around Lark’s neck started to burn. She shifted it, startled by its heat, and glanced around. Hester was busy talking to her mamá, who had stayed for dinner, and Amelia was gazing around the room as if memorizing faces.

  Lark forced herself to pick up her fork and take a sliver of steamed trout. What did this mean? What was Kalla trying to tell her? She wanted to get up, leave the table, but she had no good excuse. She wasn’t ill, and her chores were done. She chafed and fidgeted, waiting through what seemed interminable courses. She barely tasted the braised rabbit or the tiny cup of pudding she was served, though she ate everything, out of habit. The moment the Headmistress rose, she made her escape and dashed across the courtyard to the stables.

  She met Herbert just coming out, his eyes wide, his step hurried. “Herbert! What is it? What’s happened?�
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  He stopped, muttering, “Don’t know just what to do! Gate open, beast gone—”

  “Beast gone!” Lark seized Herbert’s arm, feeling the trembling muscles beneath his shirtsleeve. “What beast? What gate?”

  His eyes focused on her face, all at once, as if he had only just realized she was there. “Black Seraph’s gate! And it’s Bramble…I can’t find her nowhere!”

  He tore his arm free and hurried across the courtyard toward the Hall. Lark left him to it, and dashed inside the stable, her heart pounding. She raced to Tup’s stall and almost collapsed with relief at seeing that he and Molly were still inside. Herbert had closed the stall gate again, evidently, but Lark could see that the sawdust of the aisle had been disturbed. There was a large furrow down the middle, as if something had been dragged along it.

  With a cry, she followed the track, around the corner, past Goldie’s stall, and Sweet Reason’s, on to the rear entrance that led to the dry paddock. There the track continued, marked in the snow now, and it broadened and roughened as if there had been a struggle.

  “Oh, Bramble!” Lark cried aloud. “Bramble, where are you?” A stab of guilt rent her breast, and she seized the icon of the horse goddess in her hand. “Kalla, please, watch over Bramble! This is all my fault!”

  NINETEEN

  THE Aesk woman grunted something at Lissie. Her language sounded tortured to Philippa, as if it must hurt to pronounce it. Vowels were hard to distinguish, and consonants seem to come as much from the teeth as the tongue. Both Lissie and the scarred woman were dirty-faced, wearing the long cloth dresses and draped in ancient furs. Lissie carried a wooden bowl and spoon, and the scarred woman had an armload of ragged blankets.

  “Lissie,” Philippa said. “Do you understand what this woman is saying?”

  The girl from Onmarin kept her eyes down but came forward with the bowl and held it out to Philippa. The Aesk woman said something else. Lissie, still with her eyes on her boots, held the bowl a little higher, until Philippa took it from her. It smelled of fish and some odd spice, but at least it was warm. Philippa was surprised to find that, despite her anxiety for Sunny, she was hungry. And she would need strength for whatever was to come.

  “Thank you,” she said, nodding to the woman.

  The woman peered at her from those nearly invisible eyes, then pointed to herself. She said, “Jonka,” or something like it.

  “Jonka?” Philippa ventured. She won a nod, and a little burst of words from Jonka. When Philippa shook her head, understanding none of it, Jonka gave Lissie a clout on the back of her head and snapped something at her.

  “Don’t!” Philippa said, taking a step forward. “There’s no need to—”

  Jonka seized Lissie’s hair and pulled on it until Philippa stopped where she was. She grunted something, and Lissie drew a shuddering breath. She spoke at last, almost inaudibly. “Jonka says don’t move.”

  “Move?” Philippa said, frowning. “Not move, Lissie?”

  One thin shoulder rose beneath her swath of furs. “I think so, Missus.”

  “How much can you understand, Lissie?”

  The shrug again.

  There was a pause, during which Lissie seemed to droop even more, her too-thin body sagging under the heavy fur coat someone had hung over her shoulders. She turned halfway, so that she faced neither Philippa nor Jonka, and spoke a couple of words in the Aesk language.

  Jonka lifted one thick finger and pointed at the bowl Philippa held, then made a scooping motion with her hand toward her own mouth.

  Philipa took a spoonful of the fishy soup, repressing a grimace at its raw saltiness. She took another as she looked Lissie over.

  The child was freckled, as Rosellen had been, but she was bone-thin, and she wore bruises on both cheeks. Her eyes were shadowed, and flicked anxiously from left to right. She looked as if any sudden movement might send her flying from the tent.

  “Lissie,” Philippa said. “I’m glad to find you well.”

  The girl’s eyes dropped again.

  “And Peter?” Philippa asked gently. “Is Peter—is he here?”

  Jonka interrupted with a spurt of words, and Lissie whispered, “She says, ‘hurry.’”

  Philippa took another spoonful of soup and swallowed. “Lissie, my mare needs water. Grain or grass if there is any, but she needs her tack removed, a rubdown, but above all, water.”

  Lissie’s eyes lifted to hers and away again.

  “You can’t say that? Even part of it?”

  The girl turned her body in that odd way again, halfway toward Jonka, half-away from Philippa. One pale hand appeared from the furs, fingers opening as she tried to translate.

  Jonka grinned up at Philippa, a hideous expression showing as many missing teeth as whole ones. She said something, and Philippa turned hopefully back to Lissie.

  Lissie would not lift her eyes this time.

  Not knowing what else to do, Philippa finished the last of the soup. She held the bowl out, and Lissie took it. “At least tell me about Peter, Lissie.”

  Lissie dropped her head to one side, as if that could stop Jonka hearing her as she whispered, “Peter’s always in trouble. Them barbarians hit children, and they hit Peter a lot.”

  Jonka growled something, and Lissie immediately turned about and carried the bowl and spoon out of the tent. Jonka started to follow her.

  “Jonka!” Philippa pleaded. “Please—my horse needs water.” She tried to mime the drinking of water, and pointed to the opposite end of the compound, where she had been tricked into leaving Sunny. “Water!” she said, cupping her hands, pretending to sip from them.

  The woman mimicked her gesture, then opened her hands, spilling the pretend water uselessly on the dirt floor, and barked with laughter. She dropped the armload of blankets she was carrying right where she was standing. She pointed at the far end of the hut, where the barrels were stacked. She pretended to squat as if to relieve herself, then pointed at Philippa. Philippa stared at her, shocked and offended, and the Aesk woman laughed again.

  She was still chuckling as she went out of the hut. She dropped the flap over the door and tied it, leaving Philippa alone in the dark. The wardog outside snarled as Jonka walked away.

  THE oily fish soup roiled in Philippa’s stomach as she waited for the compound to grow quiet. As the cold deepened, her shivering became unbearable, and she knew that Sunny, too, would be cold. She plucked one of the blankets from Jonka’s pile and pulled it around her shoulders. It reeked of fish and smoke and age, but it helped to shut out the chill a bit. She huddled near the door, listening to sounds diminish as people went to their beds. Even the wardogs quieted. The wind snapped through the thatch of the hut, but after what seemed an eternity of cold and dark, there was no other sound.

  Philippa was forced to use one corner of the hut, just as Jonka had so crudely suggested, since there was no chamber pot. This indignity fired her with angry energy.

  She rose, pulling the stinking blanket tightly around her shoulders, and peered with one eye through a narrow space between the leather and the wood frame of the door. The guard was still standing outside her hut, or it might have been a new guard, she couldn’t tell. In their leather helmets and thick fur vests, they looked alike to her. He leaned on his spear, his eyes half-closed. The wardog drowsed at his feet, eyes closed, its head resting on a pair of the most enormous paws Philippa had ever seen.

  This wardog, at least, she knew was different. It was black, like the first, but with white spots on its chest and head. When Philippa put one finger in the opening of the door flap, widening it just a bit, the dog’s eyes opened and fixed upon her. She froze, hardly daring to breathe. The dog lifted its head, but it made no sound. Its eyes gleamed, and after a moment it thumped its long tail, once, and put its head back on its paws.

  Philippa released the leather panel and drew back. As quietly as she possibly could, she went to the back of the hut and began to pick at the slanting wall with her hands.
r />   EVERYONE on the Klee ship retired immediately after dinner. Francis tried to do the same, but could not even bring himself to take off his clothes. He waited until he thought most of the Klee soldiers were asleep, and then he went silently up the stair to the deck. He nodded to the night watchman stationed above the Baron’s quarters, and walked to the prow to gaze out over the water. Around him the ship was dark, curtains drawn, all external lamps extinguished.

  The last of the clouds had cleared. There was no moon. Sky and water were evenly black, stars steady above, dancing in reflection on the choppy waves. The land glowed white with its blanket of snow, only the rocky shore left bare. Francis remembered something he had read years before, in his school days, lines by some poet of the Angles:

  Erd rules over the frozen land,

  crushing all beneath his hand.

  Of human want or human need

  the fist of winter takes no heed.

  Francis wished, at this moment, that he believed in the coldhearted god of the north, so he could beg him for guidance. But he was no peasant, to take comfort in superstition. He felt utterly alone at this moment.

  He thought he could just make out the glimmer of firelight from the Aesk compound. He leaned forward into the dark, trying to see better. The ship had backed out of the bay and dropped anchor behind the sea stack that marked it, but should the Aesk climb up to the plateau for any reason, they would spot it. They could fortify their position, set up their spearmen and archers. Worse, they could use Philippa and Winter Sunset to force the Klee fighters to withdraw.

  Francis spun about, thinking to wake Rys, to try again to prod him to action, but the night watchman’s stolid face dissuaded him. They would not listen, not now. Several ideas had been bandied about at dinner, but none had been settled upon.

  Francis paced along the starboard deck. The dinghy bobbed below him upon the water, tugging at its thick rope tether. He bent over the polished railing, trying to see if the oars were shipped. The boat was small. Perhaps, he thought, a single man could handle it.