Airs Beneath the Moon Read online

  The moment the men were gone, taking their hated scent with them, Tup’s ears relaxed. Lark stroked his forehead, and a moment later he and Molly put their heads in the feed box, nibbling at what was left of the morning grain. Lark leaned against the wall. She felt as if all the blood had suddenly vanished from her legs.

  Concern creased Rosellen’s freckled face. “Are you all right, miss?”

  Lark stared at the freckled girl, and her heart fluttered in her throat. “I’ve seen him before, Rosellen.”

  “Who? Master Crisp?”

  “Lord William,” Lark whispered. “Only I didn’t know it was him.”

  Rosellen leaned over the stall gate. “When? How?”

  “He came to the farm.” Lark shivered at the memory of that day. “I don’t like him.”

  “Aye.” Rosellen took a cautious glance over her shoulder. “We stays out of his way when we can, me and Herbert.”

  “What does he want with Tup?” Lark breathed deep. Her legs steadied, and she straightened. “It troubles me.”

  “Troublesome, aye,” Rosellen said. “Though it saved your colt there a bloody morning’s work.”

  “For the present, anyway.” Lark slipped through the gate, and looked back at Tup and Molly. “It wouldn’t be so bad if they’d let me do it myself, and properly, without scaring him half to death.”

  “Would you know how to do that?” Rosellen said in surprise. “Geld a colt?”

  “I could figure it out.”

  “They’d never let you do it. Master Breeder thinks it’s men’s work, cutting and bleeding and all.” Rosellen tugged at the thick, sandy braid that hung over one shoulder. “I always thought he had the right of it. Messy business, castration.”

  “I’m a farm girl, Rosellen. Animals are what I know, goats, cows, chickens. And vegetables. I’m better grubbing in my kitchen garden than mincing about the Academy.” She sighed, and gestured across the broad courtyard at the Hall and the Dormitory. “Yon girls seem to think I came covered in farm dirt . . . they wrinkle their noses when I pass, and they giggle.”

  “Lot of nobs,” Rosellen said, and spat liberally into the sawdust. “Give it time, miss. You’ll see. The riding will make the difference.”

  “I don’t know how to ride, either. Not properly.”

  “You’ll learn. It’s what the place is all about.”

  They walked together to the door of the stables, reaching it just as a flight lifted from the paddock, the horses launching themselves into the air, arranging themselves in one of the patterns—the Airs. Lark gazed up at them, open-mouthed with admiration. These were the third-level girls, their mounts already skilled. The winged horses swooped and turned, elegant as a flight of eagles. Their wings dipped in unison, and they sorted themselves into a long V, hovering there as if resting on the wind. Lark yearned to be one of them, to feel the breeze on her face, the flexing of great wings over her knees.

  Rosellen said, “That’s Open Columns.”

  “They’re so beautiful, Rosellen! What could be more beautiful?”

  “That.” Rosellen pointed, and Lark followed her finger.

  “Oh!”

  It was Philippa Winter, circling above her flight. Winter Sunset’s wings, gleaming scarlet in the sunshine, seemed barely to move as she coasted past the other flyers. Rosellen was right. Mistress Winter and her mare were so perfectly coordinated they were as one creature, as if they were created together, arms and feet and hooves and wings. Lark’s breath stopped in her breast as the great V dissolved, and each flyer turned right around in the air, tails flying, necks bowing, riders leaning into the turn, their skirts belling around them.

  Rosellen breathed, “Ah! Grand Reverses.”

  “It’s magnificent.”

  “Aye, it is. It’s also what they’re to do if something is fired at them—”

  “Rosellen! What would be fired at winged horses?”

  Rosellen blew out her lips. “You’d be amazed. Arrows. Catapults. Stones. I saw one once at the Palace, had taken an arrow through her wing. She and her rider almost died, barely made it safely to ground. That mare never flew again, and a beautiful tall Noble she was.”

  “Zito’s ears,” Lark muttered.

  Rosellen grunted assent. “War is one thing,” she said. “But I don’t understand attacking innocent animals.”

  Lark dropped her eyes to Rosellen’s plain face. “We’re the same, you and I, aren’t we?” she said. “We love all animals. Farm folk.”

  “Fisher folk, in my case,” Rosellen said. “And hardly the same, truth be told. You sleep in the Dormitory and me in a room above the stables.”

  “Nay, Rosellen. The only difference between us is my colt. Otherwise, no one would give a blink at a country girl like me.”

  Rosellen shrugged. “That’s as may be. But I should tell you, Miss Hamley—best you not be seen with me unless needs be. Won’t help you with the nobs.”

  Lark shook her head. “You’re the only one who talks to me.”

  “What about a sponsor? All new girls’re supposed to get ’em.”

  “I have one. Her name is Petra Sweet. She’s not too pleased about it.”

  Rosellen tutted, and shook her head. “Who made that choice?”

  Lark shrugged. “I don’t know. But these three days have been the loneliest of my life.”

  “Give it time,” Rosellen repeated. She lifted her hand to pat Lark’s shoulder, and then seemed to think better of it. She gave her wry, gappy smile instead. “Give it time.”

  LARK hated leaving the stables for the stiff elegance of the Hall. She had been excused from morning exercises, but now she was due to meet with Horsemistress Strong. The other girls in the first level were well into their training, practicing canters and trots and lead changes on wingless horses in the dry paddock. Lark, knowing nothing of these things, was to have private instruction. And every other girl in her level knew it.

  Lark went up the steps to the Hall, and through the big doors, but in the foyer she froze. She looked this way and that, her eyes still dazzled by the bright sunshine. She couldn’t remember where she was to meet Mistress Strong. The Headmistress’s office was off to her left, past the line of portraits, and the dining hall was to her right. She heard the clink of china and silver being laid. The classrooms were upstairs, but . . . what had the horsemistress said to her? The lounge? The reading room? Lark bit her lip, struggling to remember. So much had happened today, and the day before, and the day before that . . . the tears that had not threatened this morning, when she was so concerned about Tup, now stung her eyes. She stood in the very center of the tiled entryway, fighting them. One escaped to splash on her dusty tabard.

  “Here, now,” came a voice from her left. “Here, here.”

  Lark ducked her head to hide her brimming eyes, and found a lace-edged handkerchief held under her nose.

  “No need for that,” the voice said. Lark lifted her face to see a tall, broad-shouldered girl standing before her. “Take it,” the girl said, waving the handkerchief. “And then let’s fix what’s troubling you.”

  Lark buried her face in the handkerchief, unable to speak for a moment. The other girl waited until she had blown her nose and snuffled back her tears. When she looked up again, dabbing at her wet eyelashes, the girl gave her a good-natured grin. “I’m Hester Morning,” she said. “First-level, like you. Only I’ve been here six months already.” She tilted her head and looked Lark up and down. “Surprised to find you blubbering,” she said. “They say you’re as tough as saddle leather.”

  Lark caught her breath, surprise overcoming her tears. “Who says that?”

  “Oh, that idiot Petra Sweet,” Hester said. “Never met a girl who talks so much. Is it true you’re only fifteen?”

  Lark sniffled, and nodded. “My birthday was just last week.”

  “You’re two years younger than any other girl here! I can’t think whose idea it was to make Sweet your sponsor. She hates all us first-levels.”<
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  Lark shook her head. “I don’t know. Her horse’s stall is near mine.”

  “Well. Doesn’t matter now.” Hester took the wet handkerchief back, and jammed it into the pocket of her riding skirt. “So what’s upset you? You look lost.”

  “I am!” Lark managed a small laugh. “Lost in almost every way, and now I’m supposed to meet with Mistress Strong, but I can’t remember where.”

  “Ah! Well, I can show you. She likes to be in the reading room. Up this way.” Hester turned toward the staircase, and Lark followed.

  They were halfway up the stairs when the Headmistress’s door opened, and the unmistakable voice of Lord William floated up to them. Hester put her finger to her lips, and both girls stopped where they were.

  “I’ll be back in a few weeks,” he was saying, “to see how the colt is getting on.”

  Philippa Winter’s voice carried sharply up the staircase. “We can’t wait too long, William. If the colt matures the way Foundation foals do—”

  “I’ll tell Eduard to keep an eye on him,” William said.

  From the office, the Headmistress said something, to which Lord William responded curtly, “The Ducal Palace takes precedence over the Council, Margareth.”

  The girls shrank back against the wall as Lord William’s heels clicked across the tiles. Hester and Lark stared at each other, wide-eyed, neither moving until the heavy door had opened and shut behind his lordship.

  A heartbeat later, Mistress Winter’s voice again rose up the stairwell. “I believe both you girls have duties?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Hester grinned at Lark, and whispered, “Eyes in the back of her head!” before she led the dash up the stairs.

  THE weary afternoon was almost over before Lark was free to return to the stables, and Tup. The second- and third-level girls were bringing their mounts in to rub them down, clean their feet, brush their manes and tails. The first-levels, like Lark, were currying their horses and gossiping between the stalls. Oc-hounds trotted here and there, and Bramble, Lark’s favorite, came to sniff at Molly. The goat was just tall enough to poke her bearded chin over the gate, and the sight of the little brown goat nose to nose with the silvery-coated dog made Lark chuckle. Tup buried his nose in Lark’s shoulder and whimpered over her long absence.

  From her stall, Petra called, “Hamley! What is that noise your colt makes?”

  Lark froze, the currycomb in her hand. Cautiously, she answered, “It’s just his way. He’s always sort of—cried, like that.”

  “Cried is right.” Petra said scornfully. “You should make him stop. It’s odious.” She drawled the word, exaggerating the nasal accent Lark heard everywhere at the Academy.

  There was something wrong with Petra’s accent, though. It didn’t sound quite right—not like Mistress Winter’s, for example, or like Hester Morning’s. Hester’s pronunciation was precise, and she had a lifting intonation that gave her speech a musical sound. Petra’s was just—nasal. Forced.

  Hester spoke from Lark’s other side. “Sweet! Kalla’s teeth, leave Hamley alone.”

  “Mind your own affairs, Morning,” Petra said. “I’m her sponsor. Her comportment reflects upon me.”

  Lark went to the gate. Hester’s stall was just down the aisle from her, and she was brushing the mane of a tall, strong-looking palomino. She winked at Lark over her shoulder, and then called, “It’s your own comportment that reflects upon you, Sweet. Better mind that!”

  Petra sputtered some outraged answer, and Lark turned back to Tup, her heart lighter than it had been since the moment Brye left her standing alone in the Academy courtyard.

  A few minutes later, Hester came to lean on the gate, watching Lark finish with Tup. “He’s a pretty thing, isn’t he? Black as midnight.”

  Lark smiled up at her rangy new friend. “Yes. I think he’s perfect,” she confided. “Though everyone keeps telling me he’s too small.”

  Hester narrowed her eyes, considering Tup. “Yes. My own Golden Morning is already twice your colt’s size. Her withers are as high as my head. She’s six months older, of course. And . . .” Hester shrugged, and spread her hands. “She’s a Foundation. I’m for the border patrols, no mistake about it.” She looked down at herself, and gave a boisterous laugh. “But then, I was born for it! I’m twice your size!”

  “Not quite,” Lark said. She surveyed Tup’s coat, turned to satin under her currycomb. His mane had grown, and it ran through her fingers like black water. She had combed his tail to perfection, and his fetlocks were wisps of black silk. If only she could manage her own hair!

  Molly, too, had enjoyed a turn under the currycomb, and her light summer coat gleamed. Lark put the currycomb on its shelf, and turned to Hester. “You are a good bit bigger than me, though not twice! My brothers say I’m no bigger than a bobbin. But I think you’re lovely tall.”

  “I like the way you talk,” Hester said. “I’ve never met anyone from the Uplands.” She opened the gate for Lark. “Now, tell me about this sweet little goat. What’s her name?”

  They chatted as they crossed the courtyard to the Dormitory and walked together up to the sleeping porch. Everything smelled wonderfully of horses and straw. The girls were changing from their riding clothes, washing their hands and faces at the basins at one end of the long room, brushing out their hair. Lark stood beside her bed, struggling as she had for the past three days to twist her hair into the proper knot. She had bent a dozen pins already, but nothing would hold her curly mop. Despairing, she threw the brush onto her cot.

  Hester noticed, and leaned over to whisper, “We should get you a different hair clasp. In the city there are a hundred different shops that sell them.”

  “The city? Oh! I’ve never been to Osham.”

  “Yes!” Hester said, as if it were all decided. “We’ll go. I’ll get word to Mamá.”

  “Is that permitted?”

  “If Mamá says so, it is.” Hester grinned. “And we’ll take Anabel. She loves to shop.”

  Lark hesitated. “Hester—I—I have no money, really. Just a few pence, that my brother left with me.”

  Hester chuckled. “Oh, we’ll manage, Hamley,” she said. “We’re Academy girls. We have privileges!”

  TWELVE

  PHILIPPA led her students down the flight paddock at a canter, speeding into a hand gallop. The powerful downward drive of Sunny’s wings lifted her surely into the air. Philippa felt the shedding of the bonds in her backbone, along her arms, down her thighs, the incredible freedom of flight. High clouds puffed in a hard blue sky, and she felt the heat on her neck. The wind of their flight cooled her somewhat, but the flight would have to be short, for the horses’ sake.

  Sunny hovered at Quarters while the flight maneuvered into Open Columns. The horses’ chests and bellies darkened with sweat as their wings beat the heavy air. There were two Ocmarins, a roan and a brown. The three Nobles were dapple grays, and the Foundations were a chestnut and a bay. Their wings shone in the sun as they flew past Philippa, noses and tails aligned in the traveling pattern borrowed from high-flying birds. Columns were usually the responsibility of Nobles, but every pair that graduated from the Academy knew all the Airs, and all the Graces. Their training prepared them for whatever their careers might ask of them. Ribbon Day for these girls was a year off, but Philippa drilled them as if it were tomorrow. She knew, from experience, how crucial it was.

  Her ears filled with the exhilarating sound of great wings beating. She signaled corrections, a tap of her quirt across her shoulder, a palms-down gesture, a leveled quirt. Elizabeth adjusted Chaser’s angle, and Ardith dropped Feather’s nose until it was inches from Chaser’s tail. The leveled quirt meant that, for one precious moment, the pattern was perfect, the Open Columns for which the winged horses of Oc were famous. Frederick used to thrill to the sight of his winged horses performing Open Columns above his procession.

  Philippa relaxed into her saddle, letting Sunny come out of Quarters to flank the moving formation. Th
inking of Frederick caused her real pain. He was the father she had never had, the mentor who cared about her intelligence, her courage, her independence. Frederick had devoted his life to protecting the bloodlines, building on the legacy of his ancestors. The winged horses were the envy of every principality, every other duchy. Only Oc could send its nobility abroad escorted by Columns. When Isamar’s Prince wanted such an escort, he had to request it from the Master Breeder. Any offense to Oc meant restricting the availability of the winged horses, and other dukes and princes knew it. The winged horses and their riders kept Oc strong.

  Philippa’s neck began to burn from the sun, and she thrust aside her grief for Frederick. She lifted her quirt to signal the change to Close Columns.

  When a flight in Open Columns closed its ranks, it meant the procession beneath, or even the flight itself, was under attack. Philippa had employed Close Columns twice in her career. Both times she had blessed her instructors for drilling it into her and into Winter Sunset.

  Philippa twirled her quirt, left to right, and the column began to close. Chaser’s position didn’t change, but Feather and Angel, Rose and Racer, Cocoa and Prince shifted the angle of their flight to narrow the distance between them, to tighten the formation until, from beneath, their extended wings blotted out the sky. Close Columns made a daunting sight, seven great winged horses flying like a many-shafted arrow. Should a weapon pierce their ranks, they were there to help each other. Should an enemy stand upon a battlement, the flight could smash through their line, scattering bowmen from their perch. More than one tower had thrown down its arms at the very sight of Close Columns.

  For a moment, the pattern was perfect. Then Prince wobbled. His wings missed a beat, and the flyer behind him had to bank away to avoid a collision. Philippa wheeled Sunny about, urging her back with knees and rein, coming as close as she dared to Prince.

  “Geraldine—pull Prince back into place, you’re leaving a gap. Geraldine!”