by Toby Bishop
William stopped when he saw her behind the foal. His face was scarlet, and sweat darkened his pale hair. He panted, the lust for her pain still on him. “Come out,” he commanded.
She shook her head, and said, “Nay,” as stoutly as she was able. She wasn’t sure if he would strike the foal to get to her. She would have to step forward if he did. She couldn’t let him hurt a winged foal, but he didn’t know that.
William held his quirt in one fist, indecision plain on his face, and in the angle of his body. For the first time since she had met him, he wore no embroidered vest. Her eyes strayed to his chest. It was obvious now, that swelling, that strangeness.
After a long moment, he lowered the quirt, letting his arm hang by his side. His color began to fade, and his breathing to slow as he regained control. “You’re bleeding, brat,” he said.
Lark lifted her chin. “Aye.”
“I’ve told you before to stay out of my business.”
“’Tis you bashing about in mine, my lord.”
He raised one pale brow. “My, my. Spunky, aren’t we?”
“’Tis only the truth,” she said. “Threatening to take Deeping Farm, stealing my horse.” The trickle of blood ran across her eyebrow, down to her eyelid, and she dashed at it with a finger. William’s lip curled at this.
“That’s what you like, isn’t it?” Lark said. She held out her shaking finger to show him. “Blood, and hurting.”
“I love it,” he murmured. “I truly love it.” He turned the quirt in his fingers. “I could kill you now, and that would be even better.”
“Mistress Winter knows I’m here.”
His eyes narrowed. “Then I’d better hurry,” he said, and he took a step toward her. Lark thought the foal under her hand would flee at that, dash behind its mother, but it didn’t move.
Surely the Duke was too close for a winged horse to tolerate. Surely her last hope was about to vanish, and this madman would have what he wanted. She shrank back against the mare’s warmth, and a crooked smile curved the Duke’s lips.
“She’s only a wingless horse,” he said lightly. “What does she care if a flyer dies?”
“But the foal—” she began, without much real hope.
“This is my foal, brat.” He took another step. “My filly. Bonded.”
“It can’t be!” she wailed. She looked frantically about for a way to escape. The Duke blocked the gate, her only way out. The mare behind her, though she could feel her nervousness, would be no help, and the foal…
The foal took a tottering step closer to William, extending her nose. Lark stared, mouth open in wonderment.
The foal took another step, and put her nose in the Duke’s hand, and stood perfectly still while—
He stroked her.
Lark put a hand to her throat. A winged horse—it wasn’t possible. It shouldn’t be possible. But it was happening, right before her.
William fondled the filly, smiling, caressing one delicate wing, before he moved her out of his way with the gentlest of touches and reached for Lark.
THIRTY
PHILIPPA raced back inside the stables, grabbing Sunny’s bridle from the hook where Lark had hung it. Sunny whickered and stamped as she opened the gate, and a tense moment passed before Philippa could settle her enough to fit the bridle over her head. She didn’t waste a thought for her flying saddle, but leaped up on Sunny’s back, snugging her legs over the blanket, and pressing her thighs down over her folded wings. “Go, Sunny,” she cried. “We have to catch Seraph!” At the last second, as Sunny trotted down the aisle, Philippa reached to snatch Seraph’s bridle off its hook. She laid it across Sunny’s withers, reined her toward the road Seraph had charged down, and gave her her head.
Sunny, sensing the urgency of their purpose, surged into a gallop. Seraph’s footprints were still visible in the thin layer of snow, but the bright sun had begun to make the road slushy and slippery. They reached the end of the estate lane in moments, but in the main road, the last of the snow had melted. The trail disappeared, but Sunny seemed to have no doubts. She changed leads neatly, as if the surface were good turf instead of slick gravel, and turned left.
They followed the road for only a few strides before a narrow drive led down toward a stand of bare trees. A fresh alarm gripped Philippa as the memory came flooding back to her, the little hidden stable, the crisis that had started here. There was still snow in the drive, shaded as it was, and she saw hoofprints. She turned Sunny, and they raced toward the beech copse. Philippa did not urge more speed on her mare, knowing Sunny was running as fast as she dared on the uncertain ground. Philippa gripped the mare’s barrel with her thighs. She didn’t dare fall now, but it had been a long time since she had ridden without a saddle.
The drive led around the grove, and Philippa could hear Seraph before she saw him. When they cleared the trees, she saw the little stallion dashing back and forth, whinnying frantically. There could be no doubt that Lark was there.
Sunny skidded to a rough stop, and Philippa swung her leg over her back, half-falling to the ground. She raced toward the tack-room door and threw it open. She heard the voices. Larkyn was there, and so was William.
She ran toward them. She didn’t realize at first that Seraph was at her heels.
FROM outside, Lark heard her bondmate’s shrill whinnying, his frantic feet pounding back and forth, but she couldn’t call out to him. William had one hand clamped over her mouth, and with the other he lifted her off her feet, pressing her back to him as he maneuvered his way out of the stall, careful of the filly. When he had kicked the gate shut, he threw Lark against the opposite wall and put both his hands around her neck. His hands squeezed until she thought her eyes would fall out of her head.
“William! No!” It was Mistress Winter’s voice, sharp with desperation.
And then there was Tup. Mistress Winter fell to one side as he charged past her, his lips pulled back, his ears flat. He reached for the Duke’s shoulder, and his teeth closed on it. He shook him, like an oc-hound might shake a rat, and William howled with shock and pain, a thin, high cry. The mare in the stall gave a nervous whinny, and the colt dashed back and forth in the stall, whickering anxiously.
William released Lark, all at once, and the moment he did, Tup loosened his bite. The Duke whirled, lifting his quirt to strike.
Tup snorted, and backed away, his hindquarters deeply flexed, his tail brushing the sawdust of the aisle.
Philippa had recovered her balance, and she strode past Tup, hands on hips, glaring at William. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded.
Lark sagged against the wall, her hands to her throat. “He tried to kill me!”
The Duke snapped, “Don’t be ridiculous, brat. Why would I do that?”
She stared up at him. “He did!” she said faintly. “Tup knew it, that’s why he—”
Mistress Winter said, “William, have you lost your mind?”
“That will be Duke William, to you, Horsemistress,” he said. He spoke as easily as if they were sitting down together over tea, as if he had not just had murder in his heart. He dropped his hand, and Lark saw that blood from Tup’s bite seeped through his white shirt near his collarbone.
“You dishonor your title,” Mistress Winter said. “Abusing a child this way.”
The Duke adopted a negligent pose, leaning against the wall of the box stall, switching at his thigh with the quirt. “I have abused no one,” he said.
“Larkyn is bleeding,” Mistress Winter pointed out. “And I saw you with your hands around her neck.”
“She’s not hurt. Not that I have the slightest need to explain to you, Philippa, but I have simply stopped an impetuous brat from interfering with my horses.”
“Your horses?” She stepped forward, and looked past the Duke into the box stall. Lark pressed her hands to her trembling lips, and watched as Mistress Winter took a long look at the silvery foal. It trotted back and forth, ears flicking in its anxiety, its little plume
of white tail swishing. She eyed the mare, who huddled fearfully against the far wall, and then she turned to look at the Duke’s dirty coat and trousers, his soiled boots. “William,” she said deliberately. “What have you done?”
He ran a hand through his tumbled hair and pushed it behind one ear. “You can see perfectly well what I’ve done, Philippa. I’ve bred a beautiful winged filly, from a wingless dam and a wingless stallion.”
“It’s treason.”
He straightened, and his voice grew silky. “It’s a triumph.”
“What do you hope to gain from it? What’s the point?”
Lark stepped up behind Mistress Winter, but she kept a wary distance from the Duke. “Mistress,” she whispered fearfully. “I saw him touch her. And she didn’t—she—”
Mistress Winter glanced down at her, then looked back at William, her face set in sharp lines. “What is this about?”
His cold smile made Lark’s belly quake anew. Involuntarily, her hand strayed to her throat, still throbbing from the pressure of his hard fingers. He said, “It’s a new bloodline, Philippa. A glorious step forward in the history of the winged horses.”
Mistress Winter shook her head slightly, frowning. Lark took a deep breath, steadying herself. She said, in a swift undertone, “He bonded with her, Mistress. He’s changed his body so he could bond with a winged horse.”
The Duke’s eyes flashed something frightening, but Lark forced herself to hold her ground. He couldn’t hurt her with Mistress Winter here. Or Tup.
Tup, too, stood his ground, now that he was out of reach of that quirt. His head was high, his legs stiff, his tail arched above his croup. His nostrils flared red, and Lark cast him a look of pride and gratitude. He would have killed for her, she felt sure.
“Your grandfathers would turn in their graves if they knew, William,” Philippa said.
“Then,” he said with a forced laugh, “I hope their coffins are spacious.”
“I will bring this before the Council.”
“Don’t waste your time.” He tucked his quirt under his arm, and brushed bits of straw from his coat. “I’m not the only one who thinks men should be able to fly winged horses.”
Mistress Winter gave her famous snort. “You underestimate me, William, and not for the first time.” She turned her back on him and put a hand under Lark’s arm. “Come, Larkyn. Collect your stallion, and let’s go home.”
Lark, trembling with the aftermath of too much emotion, stumbled toward Tup, glad to have his neck to lean on as she preceded Mistress Winter out of the stable. She hurt all over, her legs, her head, her cheek. Her knees felt weak.
Winter Sunset came to meet them, blowing nervously. Lark patted her, then threw her arms around Tup’s neck. She whispered, “Oh, lovely Tup! Lovely brave, you are!” He dropped his head and nuzzled her shoulder.
Mistress Winter stopped in the tack-room doorway, and spoke once more to the Duke. “I suppose this is why you haven’t answered our letters, William. Certainly you look as if you’ve been living in the stable.”
“Why did you write?”
“To tell you that your brother has been injured.”
There was a little moment of silence, then the Duke growled, “What? How?”
“Rescuing two Onmarin children from the Aesks,” Mistress Winter said. Her voice, Lark thought, was as hard and cold as the Duke’s quirt. “A job you should have done, William.”
“I was otherwise occupied,” he said, but his voice seemed to falter slightly.
“Indeed.”
“Philippa—is Francis going to survive?”
“I don’t know. This is why we came here. There’s not adequate room for him at the Academy, and it’s not restful. We thought Fleckham House was empty. I suppose we will have to find some other place now.”
“Not at all. Of course he should come here to recuperate. In fact, I’ll order it. And I’ll visit him.”
“I’m sure,” Mistress Winter said in a dry tone, “that he’ll find that restorative.”
PHILIPPA and Larkyn went back to the stables of Fleckham House to retrieve their saddles and replace the borrowed blankets in the tack room. Philippa saw how Larkyn winced when she jumped down from Seraph’s back and that her face was already beginning to bruise. When she put her fingers on the girl’s cheek, Larkyn’s indrawn breath led her to lift the dark curls aside and see the great welt beneath her hair.
“What other hurts do you have, child?” she asked, anger constricting her throat.
Larkyn lifted one side of her divided skirt to show the scarlet stripes where William had struck her. As she leaned forward, Philippa saw the contusions on her slender neck. There were more on her wrists. Philippa had to fight a startling urge to draw the girl into her arms and hold her there, but she knew better. Flyers must learn to deal with adversity, and softness would not help them. “The Council Lords should see these,” she said grimly.
“And then Duke William would take Deeping Farm for certain,” the girl said. She lifted Seraph’s saddle to his back and began to do up the breast strap and the cinches.
“That’s a possibility, I fear.” Philippa finished tacking Sunny and turned to face Larkyn again. The girl was pale beneath her bruises, but her chin was lifted, her eyes bright with courage. “Margareth and I would stand up for you in the Council, of course. But there are some Council Lords who will back the Duke no matter what, simply because he is the Duke.”
Larkyn didn’t answer, but she revealed how much pain she felt by leading Seraph to a mounting block. When she was in the saddle, her knees tucked beneath the thigh rolls, she reined Seraph around and gazed out over the melting snowfields. “I doubt the lords will care much about a girl from the Uplands,” she said. “Flyer or no.”
“I won’t lie to you, Larkyn. The breeding violation will be considered at least as serious as the Duke’s attacking you, I’m afraid.”
Larkyn shrugged. “Not to my family.”
“Of course not.” Philippa mounted, suppressing a groan of her own. Seraph, when he had charged at the Duke, had banged one of his hooves on her shin, and she knew it must be black-and-blue and swollen by now. She had no intention of letting Larkyn know of it. Enough had happened to weigh on the child, and there was one more warning that had to be made. “Larkyn, I fear for the Duke’s safety if your brothers should hear of this attack.”
Larkyn’s eyes turned to her. Their violet color was so dark it was almost black, and the cruel stripe across her cheek was vivid scarlet against her white skin. “Mistress Winter,” she said softly. “We mustn’t tell them. There would be such trouble.”
Philippa gave an approving nod. “You’re a wise girl, Larkyn. And you will one day be a wise horsemistress. We flyers will stick together in this, then, as we do in everything. Come, let’s get home, and we’ll talk with Margareth.”
They launched from the park and circled to the east and south. Philippa and Sunny led, but Philippa kept a worried eye on Larkyn and Seraph. The pair looked steady to her, and Larkyn, despite her injuries, sat straight in her saddle, leaning as Seraph banked, secure as they picked up speed. By the time they had reached Osham, Philippa felt confident in the young flyers.
She looked ahead to the slate roof of the Academy Hall glistening under a thin sheen of snow and ice. Shadows already stretched toward the east, the early evening of winter fast approaching. Philippa spared a look to the west, to the hills of the Uplands, and beyond to the Marins, their peaks mantled in white, framed by the bright pale blue of a winter sky. It was a time Philippa usually looked forward to, when the weather enfolded the Academy in its cold embrace, and the Hall and the Residence and the stables were warm havens where horses, oc-hounds, and women settled in to wait out the season. She wondered if there would be any peace this winter. Conflict seemed to be building on every side, trapping her in a web of tension.
She and Larkyn flew back over the roofs of the White City, made a long, gradual descent to the Academy, and came to grou
nd in the return paddock. Philippa watched Larkyn and Seraph’s landing, the little stallion’s ebony hooves flashing against the snow, the girl’s slight body flexing and balancing just as it should.
They cantered, then trotted up the paddock to the stables. Erna came out, but Philippa waved her off. “I’ll rub her down myself,” she said. “But Larkyn—perhaps you would like Erna to take Seraph?”
She was not surprised when Larkyn shook her head. “Nay, Mistress. He’ll worry if I don’t do it.”
Erna, incurious and stolid, went back into the tack room, where a merry fire crackled in the close stove.
Philippa and Larkyn went into the stables, side by side, their horses walking quietly behind them. “I’ll ask Matron to arrange a hot bath for you, Larkyn,” Philippa said, as they reached Seraph’s stall. “Do you need a potion? Are you in pain?”
Larkyn shook her head. “Nothing’s broken, Mistress. But a hot bath will help.” She let Seraph into his stall. “The other girls will talk if they see these marks,” she said. She pointed to her bruised face. “Especially my sponsor.”
Philippa tutted. “I’ll speak to Petra, Larkyn. You’re a second-level flyer now, and have no need of a sponsor. And as to the talk—there’s no way around that.”
“I don’t want them to think I fell.”
“You can’t control what they think, I’m afraid.” Philippa bent her head, thinking. “If you speak of what really happened, you’ll be open to all sorts of accusations and slanders. The Duke will deny everything. He’ll say you made up the story to prevent him from confiscating Deeping Farm—and it will be his word against yours.”
“Aye.” Larkyn nodded and followed Seraph into his stall. “I’ll just say nothing, then,” she said. “And pretend I don’t hear them whispering.”
“It’s hard on you, Larkyn, but I think it’s best.” Sunny whickered, eager for her stall, and nudged Philippa with her nose. Still she hesitated. “Are you—you’re quite certain you’re all right, Larkyn? He didn’t—” She couldn’t bring herself to say it.