Airs Beneath the Moon Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  Ready for take off

  Brye Hamley leaned toward his sister. “Lark,” he said. “Won’t be easy. But—” He paused, as if to gather enough words to express himself. “Mum worked herself to death on Deeping. You look so like her.”

  Larkyn bit her lip.

  “Be a good thing,” Brye finished, sitting back with an air of finality, “not to see you grow old before your time.”

  Fresh tears reddened Larkyn’s eyes, and a jolt of emotion tightened Mistress Philippa’s throat as she watched brother and sister. She recognized the emotion exactly for what it was. It was envy. She gritted her teeth against it.

  “You want me to do this, then?” Larkyn asked.

  “You have to,” Prefect Micklewhite burst out. “It’s not as if you—”

  Philippa hissed. “For the last time, hush, you old fool!” The Hamleys stared at her, and Lark’s cheeks flushed.

  “Larkyn Hamley,” Philippa said curtly, “do you want to go to the Academy of the Air?”

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content

  AIRS BENEATH THE MOON

  An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Ace mass-market edition / January 2007

  Copyright © 2007 by Louise Marley.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without

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  the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-440-60967-1

  ACE

  Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ACE and the “A” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Susan Allison, who sowed the seed

  I am much indebted to the following people for their judgment, talent, knowledge, and generosity: Nancy Crosgrove, R.N., N.D., and Equine Therapist, and all the denizens of Second Wind Ranch in Newport, Washington; the young equestrienne Margaret Schroeder; my agent Peter Rubie, faithful through thick and thin; my editor Susan Allison, for her vision, patience, and graciousness; Zack Marley, for reading with a critical eye, and Stephanie Phillips, the same; Catherine Whitehead, trusted first reader; the members of Redmond Riters, who are Richard Paul Russo, Kij Johnson, Melissa Lee Shaw, and Mark Bourne; and of Tahuya Writers Catherine Whitehead, Dave Newton, Niven Marquis, Brian Bek, and Jeralee Chapman. It is an honor to have worked with all of you.

  PROLOGUE

  BEYOND the barn’s single, unglazed window, the stars began to dissolve, one by one, drowning in the chill gray light of dawn. The cows huddled together, head to tail, for comfort and for warmth. The goats stood silent and uneasy in their night pen, listening to the little dun mare laboring in the box stall. It had gone on all night, Char and her mistress grunting and groaning together. Now, as the sky began to brighten, Char’s time had come at last.

  Char pushed. Larkyn Hamley, boots braced in the wet straw, pulled. Birth fluids soaked her tabard and her tangled skirts, and filled the stall with an odor both acrid and sweet. Lark knew the smell to be the essence of coming life, of the force that made the crops grow and the moon wax and wane. It was also the scent of death, of the melting of one time into another. Larkyn Hamley was a girl of the soil and the seasons, and her blood surged with the power of the moment, the alchemy of life striving to be.

  “Once again, Char,” she panted. Salty sweat dripped in her eyes, but she had no hand free to wipe it away. She tried to lift her shoulder to get the worst of it, but a fresh spasm wracked Char’s body, and Lark set herself again to pull on the foal’s slick fetlocks. “Lovely girl,” Lark said. “That’s my brave girl. Once again!”

  The mare’s sides rippled with effort. Lark’s hands cramped, and she begged Kalla for strength, even though she, an Uplands farm girl, had no right to pray to the horse goddess. It was for Char, poor little Char, her foundling.

  Lark knew nothing of horses except what the dun mare had taught her. Horses were rare in the Uplands, and there had never been one on Deeping Farm, nor in the village of Willakeep. Lark had stumbled upon Char standing ankle-deep in the icy waters of the Black River, her ribs standing out like the curved pickets of the haymow, and her hide, the color of smoke from the autumn chimneys, torn by brambles. Neither Lark nor her brothers knew then that Char was with foal, but now, just as sharp-toothed winter began to loosen its bite on the Uplands, she had come to term.

  The foal lay widdershins, hind feet first. Lark had tried everything she knew to turn it, without success. Once it was on its way, there was nothing left but to see it through. She gasped for air, in rhythm with Cha
r. She tugged, and Char groaned. The mare gave one last heave. There was a deep, rushing sound, and the foal’s body slid, limp and awkward, legs asprawl, to the matted straw.

  A gray shroud, streaked with red, masked its nose and mouth. Lark ripped at the gelatinous stuff with her fingers, clearing the tiny muzzle. She bent, and blew fiercely into the foal’s nostrils. A shuddering breath rewarded her, and a little mewling cry. She cried out herself, exclaiming in wonder as she cradled the wet creature in her arms. His coat felt gluey and rough beneath her hands.

  When she was certain his breathing was steady, she lifted her eyes. “Char, look!” she said softly. “Look at your little one!”

  The mare always responded to Lark’s voice, had done so even on that very first day, when she was so weak she could barely walk. Lark had coaxed her, stumbling step by stumbling step, through the fields to the barn. But now, Char lay exhausted. Her ribs barely moved, and her black forelock tangled in her long eyelashes. Even as Lark watched, the little mare’s breathing slowed, and her dark eyes fixed on some point only she could see.

  “Oh, no,” Lark whispered.

  Lark was a country girl. She knew the look of death, from slaughtering days, from accidents, from her own mother’s illness. She understood the dimming of the light in the mare’s eyes, the rattle of her last breath, her sigh of release, the stare into nothingness.

  Lark, little more than a child herself, hugged the motherless foal to her breast, and cried. She gave in to her grief and exhaustion and shock, and sobbed.

  The foal began to mewl and wriggle in her arms, reminding her of the dawn chill. Her wet clothes were icy, and the foal, too, was wet and cold to the touch. She had to get him dry.

  She had brought a pile of old towels to the barn with her when she saw that Char’s time had drawn near. Now she plucked one from the stack and gently rubbed the foal’s head and neck. He struggled to his feet, leaning against her, long-legged, big-eyed, quaking with weakness. She steadied him with one hand, and reached along his withers and spine with the other to scour away the remnants of the birth sac.

  The slow morning sun slanted through the window. Lark felt it on her cheeks. It would be gilding the frosty grasses in the north pasture, glittering on the fallow fields to the south, shining on the slate roof of the farmhouse, silvering the scraps of late snow. It brightened the stall so she could see that the colt was as black as the blackstone of the Uplands that gave the river its name.

  She slid the towel down the foal’s ribs, and stopped. Something stayed her hand, some solid, living structure beneath the towel.

  The foal made the little choked sound again, a sob of his own. With care, Lark pushed him away from her to see what it was that grew below his withers, behind his shoulders.

  What she saw filled her with awe and dread.

  Everyone knew that an animal such as this belonged to the Duke, and the Duke alone. Oc was a tiny and beleaguered duchy, with scarce resources. Its desolate coastline lay open to the sea lanes, coveted by other duchies, by bigger principalities. Creatures such as this, Char’s foal, were Kalla’s special gifts. They were Oc’s most precious resource, the envy of every duke, prince, and king. To tamper with their bloodlines was to commit high treason. Had any of the Hamleys realized . . .

  But of course they hadn’t. How could they? They could never have guessed that little Char carried such a marvel. That such a being would appear here, on Deeping Farm, was an event of such magnitude Lark could hardly comprehend it.

  With trembling fingers, she caressed the colt’s slender head, and then held him close, her arms gentle around his fragile neck.

  “By Zito’s ears, little one!” she breathed. “You have wings!”

  ONE

  THE hand of spring was rarely gentle in the Duchy of Oc. By day it crooked a teasing finger, coaxing every branch and blade to open, spilling new light over meadows and groves, grassy ditch-mounds, fallow fields awaiting the plow. By night it was a fist, hard and cold, the stars like shards of ice, the northwestern peaks of the Ocmarins ghostly white in the black sky. The last winds of winter glazed the puddles in the paddocks of the Academy of the Air, and rimed the windows of the Domicile. The glass still gleamed with the night’s frost as Philippa Winter stepped out of the Hall.

  The headmistress followed her to the doorstep, hugging her thin body against the cold. Her hair shone silver in the early sun. Wrinkles fanned from her eyes as she squinted into the light. “Use your judgment, Philippa. You may be in time, after all.”

  Philippa pulled on her peaked cap, and buttoned her riding coat to the neck. “I’ll do my best, Margareth. Either way, I’ll be back before dark.”

  Margareth nodded, and stood watching as Philippa crossed the courtyard to the flight paddock. Philippa wore a woolen vest beneath her riding tabard, and thick stockings inside her boots, but the cold stung her cheeks. She shivered at the prospect of the frigid air aloft.

  At her approach, Sunny stamped her feet and nickered a greeting. She tossed her head, tugging at the lead in the stable-girl’s hand. Philippa pulled on her gloves before she unclipped the lead to let the stable-girl coil it over her arm. “Thanks, Rosellen.” She unhooked the reins from the pommel. “Sunny’s as cold as we are, I think.”

  “Aye, Mistress. She’ll be warm soon enough, I expect. Bit of exercise, isn’t it, all that way to the Uplands?”

  “Indeed,” Philippa said. “Sunny will be warm, but I’ll be a block of ice.”

  Rosellen showed her freckled, gap-toothed grin. “Want one of them holding straps, like the first-level girls?”

  Philippa snorted. “I’ll take my chances.” Her mare danced sideways, swishing her tail.

  Rosellen stood back, rubbing her reddened hands together. “Must be something important in the Uplands,” she said, with a hopeful tilt to her head. “To take you so far, and away from your flight.”

  “There may be.” Philippa braced herself, flexing her knees, and then leaped into the saddle, a perfect standing mount. Other flyers her age depended upon the mounting block, but she disdained it, a matter of pride. “I hope to know by nightfall.” She lifted the rein, and Sunny whirled with a rustle of silken membranes. Frost rose in crystal sprays where her pinions touched the grass.

  “Well.” Rosellen gave a good-natured shrug at her curiosity left unsatisfied. “Good morning to you then, Horsemistress. Safe flying.”

  Philippa touched her quirt to the brim of her cap, and gave Sunny her head.

  LARK had not slept in her own bed since the foal’s birth. Her brothers objected, Edmar scowling, Brye saying the colt should get used to being alone, Nick offering to stay in the barn through the night. Lark refused every suggestion. Somehow, she couldn’t bear to leave the tiny creature, nor could she bear the thought of someone else being with him. Her brothers gave in. Edmar still scowled, but Nick brought her quilts and pillows, and Brye found an old blanket to tie around the colt to ward off the night cold. Lark left the stall only for meals and the milking, and to churn the butter for Nick’s rounds. She abandoned all her other chores. Already it seemed she could hardly remember her life before the foaling.

  Brye roused her from a sticky sleep at midmorning, calling to her from the barn door. He didn’t come near the stall. All the brothers had quickly learned that the colt could not abide them nearby. He mewled and struggled to get as far away from them as possible, causing Lark to beg them to keep a fair distance. They gave up, one by one, leaving the care of the foal entirely to their sister, taking her chores for her when they could, leaving them undone when they couldn’t.

  The foal lay sprawled in heavy sleep beside her. She uncurled herself from her bed of straw and blankets, and went to open the top half of the stall door. “I’m here,” she answered. The colt lifted his head, and stood, his blanket slipping awry as he shook himself.

  “Prefect’s come!” Brye’s announcement was as brief as possible, but Lark understood the weight of information in his announcement. The arrival of Mas
ter Micklewhite, prefect of Willakeep, meant that the horsemistress from Osham must also be near.

  Lark unlatched the gate to let herself out. The foal, balancing on his impossibly slender legs, his ears flicking nervously, tried to follow.

  “No, no, little one,” Lark murmured. She stroked his neck, and breathed reassuringly into his nostrils. “You stay here. I won’t be long.” She slipped through the gate and latched it. The colt whimpered, and she reached back to rub his stubby mane with her fingers. “Don’t cry,” she said. “I won’t let them take you.”

  And she wouldn’t, she promised herself, as she tried to straighten her skirt and brush the straw and dirt from her tabard. The foal was hers, Duke or no Duke.

  “Larkyn?” The querulous voice belonged to Master Micklewhite. “Larkyn Hamley!” Lark grimaced as she turned toward the barn door. She would rather have faced the horsemistress outright than deal with this pudding-waisted, foolish old man. But this was no time to offend Willakeep’s prefect. The Hamleys found themselves in a precarious situation, and they needed the support of every authority.

  “Coming,” she called. She took a step away, and then turned back for one more caress, one touch of the colt’s rough fur, one more sniff of his sweet, spicy scent. It was hard to separate from him, even for a short time. It was as if they were connected by some invisible thread, a spider’s web of destiny. It stretched only just enough to allow her to do what she must do, then tightened, pulled her back, again and again. She had to force her feet to carry her away, down the aisle to the barn door.

  As she walked, she put her hands to her head, and found her hair sticky with straw. She undid her thick braid, and struggled to comb it out with her fingers. Her hair was always a problem, its curls tangling and twisting, defying brush or clasp.