Airs Beneath the Moon Read online

  She gave up on it, simply pushing the mass of it back over her shoulders as she came out into the cool sunshine. A freshening breeze blew from the slopes of the Ocmarins. Beguiled by the promise of spring, she lifted her face to the sky.

  Her eyes went wide, and her mouth fell open. Her fingers dropped from the tangle of her hair, and she clasped them before her chest. She forgot about Micklewhite, and Brye, and the threat of the Duke’s ire. For a long, wondrous moment, she even forgot to breathe.

  The great, slowly beating wings were red and translucent, the sun shining through their membranes like lamplight through a parchment shade. The legs were curled close to the body, hooves shining like polished glass. The mane and tail streamed like banners of red silk as the winged horse circled Deeping Farm.

  It should not have been possible for such a creature to fly. It was the great mystery of Oc that the horse goddess should endow them with such ability. Surely the cows and goats, twisting their necks up to watch this miracle, must envy the horse its freedom, its power, its impossible grace. Such a sight must make them lament their own earthbound state.

  And the rider!

  The winged horse dropped lower with each circuit, until Lark could clearly see the tall, slender figure astride it, dressed in the black and silver colors of the Duke, a long divided skirt, a belted tabard with full, fluttering sleeves buttoned tightly at the wrists. A peaked cap was pulled low over her forehead, and her hair was knotted neatly on the back of her neck.

  Larkyn gulped, and drew her delayed breath. Nothing had prepared her for the heartbreaking beauty of the woman and the horse descending from the sky. Her eyes stung with it, and her heart sped.

  Everyone in the barnyard froze, Brye with his hat in his hands, Micklewhite gaping, Nick in the lane with the oxcart. The winged horse made a last, slow circle above the farm buildings, and then spread its wings wide and still. It glided down over the blackstone fence that lined the north pasture, dropping over the heads of the watchers to come to ground with running steps, cantering across the barnyard, then trotting, whirling with a creak of saddle leather, and coming to a halt. For a long, stunned moment, no one moved. Then Micklewhite, with a little, urgent moan, hurried toward the flyers.

  The horsemistress gave him a cool nod, and dismounted, right leg up and over the pommel of the saddle. She touched her horse’s shoulder with a slender quirt and spoke some command. The sorrel shook its wings, once, and then began to fold them, rib to rib, the membrane darkening as it contracted, until the length of its magnificent wings tucked in neat layers over the saddle stirrups.

  The horsemistress, unsmiling, surveyed the group in the barnyard. “Where’s the foal?”

  The Hamleys stared at her, immobilized by wonder. It was the prefect who answered, bowing, bobbing his head like a duck in a pond. He removed his narrow-brimmed hat and then stuck it on again, babbling, “Well, yes, of course, Horsemistress, right down to business, naturally . . .”

  Brye pointed to the barn, and said, “There.”

  The horsemistress nodded again, tucked her quirt under one arm, and strode across the barnyard without hesitation. She was tall, with dark red hair and a long, plain face. She wore a slender jeweled insignia, in the shape of wings, pinned to her collar. As she walked, she stripped black leather gloves from her hands and tucked them into her belt.

  Lark braced herself in the doorway.

  The woman stopped a few steps away, and tipped her head back to look down her nose. “You’re the girl? You were present at the foaling?” Her accent was different from that of the Uplands, slightly nasal, with clipped vowels. Her upper lip flexed as she spoke.

  Lark’s voice scraped in her throat. “Yes. I’m Larkyn Hamley.”

  The woman eyed her. “Indeed. Larkyn. Unusual name, isn’t it?”

  Micklewhite, at her elbow, burbled, “Oh, no, not really, Horsemistress. The Uplands, you know, the dialect . . . the country names . . . there’s a tradition . . .”

  She withered him with a sidelong glance, and he fell silent. “I’m Philippa Winter,” she said, and then moved forward with such a sure step that Lark, though she meant not to, fell back. The horsemistress swept into the barn, her heels kicking up little puffs of sawdust. Lark stumbled after her. Brye and Micklewhite followed, Brye’s boots making a solid thumping, Micklewhite scuffling along behind him.

  The newcomer’s spotless riding habit, her clean hands and neatly knotted hair, made Lark uneasily aware that the barn floor needed fresh sawdust, that one of the cow stanchions had a broken crossbar, that the straw in the goats’ night pen should be changed. But there was nothing to be done about any of it now, and the horsemistress was on her way to the box stall.

  Lark dashed ahead. The colt, as the men drew near, backed away until his rump struck the far wall. Everyone stopped, Micklewhite muttering under his breath, the horsemistress staring at Lark with her eyebrows raised.

  “Step aside, please.” Philippa Winter took the quirt from under her arm, and Lark thought, for a wild moment, she was going to use it to make her move.

  “If you’ll just give him a minute, Mistress . . .”

  “I’ve come a long way,” the woman said. “And there’s no time to waste.”

  “My—that is, he’s nervous around strangers,” Lark said hastily. “Men especially.”

  “I think, my girl,” the woman drawled, “that I know how to deal with a winged foal.”

  “Oh. Oh, well, of course you do, but I—”

  “Please.” The word was a command.

  Still Lark didn’t move, though her throat was dry and her heart hammered in her chest. “I’ve been feeding him by hand,” she blurted. “First I took what I could from Char, and now I’m using goat’s milk, like we do with the bummer calves. And I’ve been keeping him warm at night. I’ve hardly been out of the stall since—”

  “You mean to say you’ve been sleeping here?” Philippa Winter threw a look of fury at the prefect.

  The prefect tutted at Lark. “I told you, Larkyn Hamley, always in trouble . . . should have reported the horse . . .”

  Old resentments boiled in Lark, and she pointed her chin at him. “What would you have me do, Master Micklewhite? Leave a newborn foal alone all night in a freezing barn?”

  The prefect subsided, but gave the horsemistress what was meant to be a speaking glance. She pressed her lips together.

  Lark said hastily, “We did try to find Char’s owners. No one spoke up, and she was starving and lost . . . I think Kalla brought her to me, especially. To take care of her.”

  “Hmm.” The horsemistress eyed her, one brow arching high. “Why do you think Kalla would choose a backwater like this for one of her creatures?” She gestured with a long, slim hand at the plain surroundings. “I feel sure you have your own little small-god, some spirit of the dirt or grass or something.”

  Lark closed her eyelids hard for a moment, trying not to be afraid of this woman and the power she represented. It was true, the Uplands had their own deity, a little hunched creature with enormous eyes and ears and a great, embarrassing phallus. The farmers called upon Zito to make their fields fertile, their seeds productive. Kalla, the horse goddess, was represented by a tall, fierce statue of a woman with a horse’s head, and a sweeping mane and tail. Lark had always much preferred her, though she had never seen one of the beasts under her protection until the arrival of the foal.

  Lark opened her eyes. “Kalla is a goddess of the air. She can be anywhere she chooses. And Char would have died if I hadn’t—”

  “Ah,” the horsemistress snapped. “But she did die, didn’t she?”

  At this barb, Lark’s bravado faded. She hung her head to hide her reddening eyes. “I did all I could,” she choked. “The foal came widdershins. I had to pull him by his legs, and Char pushing all the while. It was too much for her. She had grown so thin, you see, and though I fed her and warmed her . . .” Her voice broke with fresh grief.

  The horsemistress gave an exaspera
ted sigh. “Yes. I suppose so. Sometimes foalings don’t go well.” She paused a moment, as Lark snuffled into her sleeve. “Well, don’t cry, child. It probably wasn’t your fault.”

  Behind her, the colt gave his little whimper. The horsemistress put her quirt under her arm again, and pushed Lark to one side, gently but firmly. She stepped forward, and peered into the stall.

  “Hmm,” she said.

  The black foal, eyes wide and head high, took two mincing steps toward the horsemistress.

  A wave of possessiveness swept over Lark. She opened the gate and slipped through. The foal came to her, and she put her arm around his neck, stroked his ears with her fingertips, rubbed his withers with her palm. One day, she supposed, his mane would flow long and fine, like that of the beautiful horse waiting in the barnyard, but it was only a stubby brush now, matched by a wispy tail. The top of his head came just to her breast. His wings folded tight to his ribs, reminding Lark of batwings, satiny smooth beneath her fingertips. He butted at her pockets, looking for the bottle of goat’s milk, and whimpered again. “Shush, Tup,” she murmured. “You have to wait a bit.” She kept a hand on his neck as she looked back at Philippa Winter. “You can see, can’t you, Horsemistress? He’s mine.”

  Something powerful flashed from the redheaded woman’s eyes. “Really. Are you going to tell that to Duke Frederick yourself?”

  Lark’s voice grew small, but she would not—she could not—give in. “I will. If I have to.”

  Micklewhite snapped, “Larkyn! Never a day’s peace . . . how dare you defy—”

  Lark swung toward him again, anxiety flaring into anger. “What do you think, Master Micklewhite? That I stuck wings on the colt with my own two hands?”

  “Mind your snappy tongue, young lady,” the prefect began, but the horsemistress put up a hand to silence him.

  She nodded to the foal. “What did you call him?”

  Lark hugged the colt’s neck tighter, taking strength from his warmth. “Tup,” she said.

  Mistress Winter’s mouth turned down as if she had tasted something nasty. “More Uplands dialect, I suppose.”

  Lark looked down at her soiled boots. At least here, in Tup’s stall, the straw on the floor was fresh. She said hesitantly, “It’s a two-penny coin we have here. Nick said he wouldn’t bet two pennies on the foal’s chances. But he made it, so I called him that, a tup.”

  “Hmm. Well, the name won’t do. Naming is the duty of the Master Breeder.”

  Lark lifted her eyes. Her belly roiled with nerves, but she said as firmly as she could, “But the colt already knows it. And he knows me.”

  Philippa Winter made an exasperated noise in her throat, and turned away. “You have no idea, my girl,” she said, “what it is you’ve done.”

  TWO

  PHILIPPA pulled off her cap as she entered the Hamley kitchen, and stood folding it between her fingers as she looked around. An ancient pendulum clock ticked in one corner. Two scarred counters flanked an enormous stone sink, and a bare wooden table filled the center of the room. Pots and pans, battered and dented, swung above the sink.

  The girl, Larkyn, lifted the lid of the close stove and added twigs to its embers. As these flamed, she pumped water into a kettle, and set it to boil. The older brother—Brye, another name unfamiliar to Philippa—stoked the open fireplace, and then pulled out a chair for her. “Sit you down, Mistress.”

  “Thank you, Master Hamley.” He merely nodded. The grimness of his expression told her he at least understood the gravity of the situation the Hamleys found themselves in.

  Micklewhite sat at the opposite end of the table, in a chair that didn’t match Philippa’s. In fact, none of the chairs matched, though they were in good repair. She found hers surprisingly comfortable, as if generations of Hamley backsides had worn the wood into the perfect shape. Aromas of past meals clung to the shabby curtains and ghosted in the bare-beam rafters. Sealed jars and bags and baskets of ingredients crowded the open shelves. Philippa had no idea what they might be for, but then, she rarely visited kitchens.

  Larkyn, at one of the counters, measured tea leaves into a pot. Philippa waited for the brothers to sit, Brye and the younger one, Nick. A third was apparently away, working in a quarry or some such place. Philippa laid her cap on the table, and addressed Brye, who seemed to be the head of the family. “There are all kinds of difficulties we must address, Master Hamley. Larkyn is too young, for one thing.”

  The girl whirled, her cheeks flushing pink. “I’m fourteen!” she protested.

  She was a pretty thing, really, though her black hair was matted, bristling with bits of straw, and though she smelled more like the foal than the foal himself. Her eyes were the delphinium blue of the garden borders at the Academy, and her skin clear and pale. This one, no doubt, could have married whom she liked.

  Philippa pursed her lips. “Fourteen. No doubt in the Uplands that seems an age for finding a husband, spawning a flock of children. But at the Academy—”

  Brye Hamley laid an oversize fist on the table with a muted thump. “Academy?” he said, his tone low and dark. His sister stood frozen, the color draining abruptly from her cheeks.

  Micklewhite squeaked, “Academy!”

  Philippa set her jaw. These Uplanders clearly had no comprehension of the gravity of what had happened. She chose the prefect as the repository of her irritation, fixing him with her hardest gaze. “I’m far too late, Micklewhite. The foal has imprinted.”

  Brye Hamley was as tall as Philippa herself, and powerfully built. He had removed his broad-brimmed hat when they came into the house, revealing a thick shock of graying black hair, bluntly cut at the neck. His eyes were dark, and Philippa thought there must be many a farmhand who would quail before the look he turned on her now. “Explain yourself,” he growled.

  His tone might have given offense, but Philippa took none. This farmer was sure of himself, and of his place in the world. And they were talking, after all, about his sister. Would that one’s own brother had cared half as much!

  The kettle began to whistle, and the girl hurried to lift it. She poured the boiling water, and then lifted a little fetish from a hook above the sink and waved it over the teapot. Her small hands moved economically, as if she had had much practice. Philippa watched her, and wondered where her parents were.

  “Lark,” Brye commanded. The girl turned with the teapot in her hands. Her brother pulled a chair out with his foot, and the child obediently put the teapot in the center of the table, and sat down. Brye returned his black gaze to Philippa and leaned forward into the heavy silence, waiting. The girl, too, waited, her pink lips parted.

  Philippa sighed, and crossed her booted feet at the ankle. “You’ve allowed one of the Duke’s winged horses to bond with you,” she began.

  No remorse clouded the deep blue of Larkyn Hamley’s eyes. “Animals take to me, Mistress,” she said. “Goats and cows. Chickens. Even yon great ox in the lane turns his head for a blink at me. I’m a farm girl, after all, born and bred.”

  “I can see that you are,” Philippa said dryly. “Unfortunately, such credentials may not impress the Duke. Or his Master Breeder.” She accepted a thick pottery cup from Nick, who was dark like his brother, but smaller and quicker of movement. The hearth fire crackled, and a welcome warmth swept across the stone-tiled floor.

  “I suppose you understand the rarity of the winged horses,” Philippa said. Micklewhite nodded, and slurped his tea. The Hamleys only gazed at her, each very still. These Uplanders, it seemed, felt no need to fill every silence with chatter. Philippa found this oddly restful, and she wished the situation weren’t urgent.

  But it was. She turned the cup in her fingers. “Every winged foal is precious, to the Duke, to the Council of Lords, to all of Oc,” she said. “The girls who bond with them are chosen with care. Such events are never accidental.”

  “No, no, of course not, Horsemistress,” the prefect began.

  Philippa barely resisted smacking the
table to get the damned man to hold his peace. She glared at him, and he shrank back in his chair. She said to the Hamleys, “All these girls come from good families.”

  “I dare say,” said Nick with a jaunty air. “But where in the Duchy will you find a better family than the Hamleys? We work hard, we have no debt, we have a good reputation. We own our land and this house. Where would the likes of you and His Grace be without us? Even girls of ‘good families’ need meat and milk and eggs!”

  Micklewhite sucked in his breath, but Philippa inclined her head to Nick. “Of course, Master Hamley. Allow me to apologize for putting that badly.” She hesitated, searching for how to go on. “I feel certain I can assure my Headmistress that none of you intended this.”

  The younger Hamley laughed. “Intended!” he chortled. “We couldn’t have imagined it!”

  “Have a care, Nick,” Brye said. Nick grinned at his older brother.

  “You’ve buried the mare, I suppose.”

  The girl’s eyes flooded with sudden tears, and she dropped her head. Brye Hamley said, “North pasture. Had to.”

  “Yes, I do understand. But the Master Breeder wants a description. We have no record of a horse of the bloodlines gone missing.”

  “Half dead when Lark found her,” Brye said.

  Nick put in, “Lark’s a wonder with animals. A soft heart for every beast.”

  Larkyn said in a choked tone, “She was a little thing, dun in color, with a black mane and tail. We named her for the autumn chimney smoke, that we call char.” She sniffed, and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “She was lovely sweet in her ways, Mistress. She let me ride her everywhere, when she was stronger, though I had no saddle nor bridle.”

  Philippa looked away, digesting this. Abruptly, without apology, she rose from the table and went to the kitchen window. The branches of a rue-tree, laden with spring buds, slanted above the window-frame. Philippa looked past them into the barnyard.

  Sunny stood where she had left her, drowsing in the pale sunshine, her pinions drooping. Empty fields stretched to the south. To the north, a lane curved through pastures just starting to show green between patches of graying snow. “Where’s the Black River from here?”