Airs Beneath the Moon Page 24

  Tup, at that moment, reared, tearing the lead free of Hester’s hand. With a squeal that Lark had never heard from him, he broke away, and tore after Goldie. Lark cried out, and Goldie, hearing the hoofbeats behind her, broke into a gallop. Lark clutched at the pommel, and called over her shoulder, “No, Tup! No!”

  Hester, too, was shouting, something Lark couldn’t hear. Tup was coming after Goldie at a dead run, ears back, tail high and streaming. Lark had no idea what to do. The end of the paddock was ahead, where the grove met the hedgerow. Desperate, not knowing whether to be most fearful of falling beneath the galloping hooves, or of what Tup would do when he caught up with Goldie, she held on tight, and shouted, “Whoa!”

  The filly, obedient to the urgency in her voice, skidded to a rough stop. Lark lost her grip on the pommel and the reins, and flew in an arching somersault over Goldie’s head, landing on her back with her feet in the branches of the hedgerow. The fall drove the breath from her lungs. She heard Tup’s squall, and she closed her eyes tightly, dreading what she might see when she opened them.

  Even as she struggled to breathe again, every warning of Mistress Strong’s about a stallion’s behavior ran through her mind. What if Tup hurt Goldie? What if he tried, Kalla forbid, to mount her, saddle and all? Or if Goldie kicked him, broke his wing or his rib or . . .

  Something like prickly velvet touched her forehead, and then her cheek. She felt a rush of warm, oaty breath, and she heard Tup’s familiar, comforting cry. Her own breath returned in a sudden flood of welcome air, and she opened her eyes.

  Her bondmate stood over her, lipping at her face, whimpering at her to get up, to tell him she was all right. Beyond him, Goldie loomed, reins dangling, a look of puzzlement in the tilt of her ears.

  Hester came running, breathlessly crying Lark’s name. “Are you all right? Lark, say something! Are you hurt?”

  Lark wriggled her shoulders. She reached up with her arms to Tup, and found that everything still seemed intact. With some difficulty, she extracted her feet from the hedgerow. “Oh, damn. Look at my boots!”

  Hester, pale with anxiety, bent over her to pull her up. “Kalla’s heels, Black, I’m so sorry! He just got away from me! I know better, with a stallion, but I . . . oh, tell me you’re all right!”

  Lark started to laugh, a little weakly. “I’m fine, though I’ll be buffing scratches out of my boots half the night . . . but, oh, Tup, you bad, bad boy, what am I to do with you?”

  Tup whickered, and nuzzled her hair.

  When Lark was on her feet, and both horses in control again, Hester began to regain her color. She leaned against Goldie, shaking her head. “Your cap is gone,” she said, “and you may have torn your skirt.”

  “I don’t care,” Lark declared. “I’m not hurt, and neither are the horses.”

  “He was jealous, wasn’t he?”

  Lark circled Tup’s neck with her arm. “Yes, he was. I should have known.”

  “Why should you have known? I rode other horses all the time at Beeth House, before I was allowed to ride Goldie. It didn’t seem to bother her then.”

  Lark bit her lip for a moment. “Hester,” she said. “I haven’t told anyone, and you mustn’t tell either . . .”

  Her friend arched an eyebrow. “What have you done now, Black?”

  “I’ve been riding Tup. Since Erdlin.”

  Hester stared at her. “Riding? But then why—”

  “We ride bareback. It’s so easy!”

  “But, Black, you can’t—when you fly, you can’t ride without a saddle!”

  “But without a saddle, I can feel Tup’s movement. I know just what he’s going to do, and when, and he seems to know just what I want!”

  Hester shook her head and clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Asking for trouble, Black,” she said gloomily. They turned the horses and started through the grove, back toward the stables. “Ribbon Day is only six months off, and you have to fly to pass the Airs. You’re asking for trouble.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  THERE was something special, Philippa thought, about the way the spring sunlight glittered on the towers of the White City, and turned the twists of the river into shining silver ribbons. It was like the light of early morning, bright with promise and energy. Spring should be a season of joy, the anticipation of new life. It was a terrible time to be preparing for a death.

  Yet death was now preoccupying all of Oc, from the highest born to the lowliest of servants. Word had come to the Academy, by way of one of the horsemistresses in residence at the Ducal Palace, that Duke Frederick’s doctors believed the end was near.

  Philippa had been aloft with her flight when an Ocmarin gelding angled beneath them toward the Academy grounds. The horsemistress, Marielle Star, one of Philippa’s former students, was now in service at the Palace. Philippa looked away from her flight to watch Marielle and Star glide down into the landing paddock, and she felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cool air aloft.

  She held Sunny at Quarters while Elizabeth and Chaser led the flight into the first segment of a relay. It was a tricky maneuver, and not all the flyers had mastered the intricacy of a baton passed from one to the other. It required precise timing, and careful spacing so that one flyer’s wings would not interfere with the movement of another’s. Elizabeth and Chaser performed it perfectly, but the next pair had some trouble, and the baton, which in actual service could be a scroll or a package, or even a weapon, went spinning into the clear air, out of reach. Philippa sighed, watching it fall. She had an extra on her saddle, of course, but she was distracted by Marielle’s arrival, and the news she must bring.

  She signaled the end of the flight, and Elizabeth and Chaser swooped to the head of the line to lead the flyers back to the Academy. Philippa and Sunny followed, above and a little behind the others. Sunny seemed to have caught Philippa’s anxiety, and her approach was efficient, a straightforward landing, a hard canter to the end of the paddock. Within fifteen minutes of Marielle and Star’s arrival, Philippa was hurrying up the steps to the Hall, pulling off her gloves and cap as she went.

  It had been as she feared, bad news carried swiftly. And now, only a few hours later, she was on her way to the Palace for what must be her final farewell to her old friend.

  Sunny’s wings shone red against the white stone turrets of the city and the circle of the Rotunda in the middle distance. As they passed the dome of the Winter Tower, Philippa felt a stab of nostalgia for the days when her family would join the Duke’s for the Estian Festival, she and her sisters and Pamella dancing in the brick plaza with Meredith and William and Francis and even Frederick himself, showering each other with dried, perfumed flower petals, preserved from the previous spring. The priests sold those petals in tiny baskets, promising Estia would endow long life to those who received them. Estian had done Frederick no good, but then, Philippa had never expected it would. She placed no faith in such things, not even as a girl.

  There had been no magic in her life until Kalla brought her Winter Sunset. Kalla’s power, at least, was demonstrable. It carried her even now to the deathbed of the old Duke, and the bitter dawn of a new era for his Duchy.

  Jolinda, grim-faced, was waiting for her. Philippa slid down from the saddle, touched Sunny’s wingpoint gently with her quirt. As Sunny folded her wings, Philippa said, “She’s had a busy morning, Jolinda. Would you take her saddle off, give her a rubdown? A half-measure of grain, and some water, please.”

  “I’ll see to it, Mistress Winter,” the elderly stable-girl said. “You best get on, now. Them doctors been scurrying around like ants this morning.”

  A brown riding horse with a black and silver saddle put his head out of one of the stable stalls as Philippa passed. William’s horse, if she remembered correctly. Of course William would be keeping the deathwatch. She pressed her lips together as she stripped off her gloves and reached up for her riding cap. William’s ambitions were about to be fulfilled.

  As she moved into the
foyer of the Palace, a slender blond man stepped from the library to her left. “Philippa!” he said softly. “How good you are to come.”

  She stopped in the act of smoothing her flyer’s knot. “Why—Francis! It’s been years.”

  Francis, Frederick’s younger son, came to her. Presuming on their childhood friendship, he pressed his cheek to hers, and she smiled at him. “I’m sorry, Francis, that we don’t meet again under happier circumstances.”

  His eyes, dark like all the Duke’s progeny, were heavy with sorrow. “It won’t be long, I’m afraid, Philippa. It’s good you’re here. Come, I’ll take you up to see Father myself.”

  As they climbed the stairs, she asked, “How did you come so quickly from Isamar?”

  “I was already on my way,” he said. They reached the landing, and he paused. Two servants passed them, hurrying downstairs with basins and towels, their faces grave. Francis watched them go, and Philippa had a chance to look at him. He was younger than she by almost ten years. He looked superficially like his older brother, but his eyes were warm and his mouth full and gentle.

  He said, “I had a wild letter from Father, raving on about Pamella and saying no one cared, not even Mother. He must have written it himself. His secretary would have edited out half of it. He sounded so . . .” Francis’s voice trembled. Philippa thought how deep his voice was in comparison to William’s. “He sounded like a foolish old man in his letter, Philippa. Nothing like the father I knew.”

  “His heart is broken, Francis.”

  “Yes.” Francis gestured to the stairs, and they continued climbing. “I know. She was the repository of all his affection. Neither William nor I . . .” He let the words trail off, and she knew he found them too painful to speak aloud. She put a sympathetic hand on his arm. She knew how it hurt to love someone who did not love you in return.

  They met Andrews outside the door of the Duke’s apartment, and he bowed them inside.

  Philippa had expected a darkened room, hushed voices, hovering doctors. Instead, she found spring sunshine pouring through the window, the velvet curtains tied back, the sash up. Francis said, “He likes to see his horses.” Philippa glanced out the window, and saw that the winged horses were turned out to graze in the grounds. Their wing clips were in place, but they roamed freely over the grass.

  The doctors, it seemed, had been sent away for the moment. Only William sat beside the Duke’s bed.

  He rose when Philippa and Francis entered, and nodded to them both. He was dressed, as he had been every time Philippa had seen him of late, in narrow black trousers and a full-sleeved white shirt, with the embroidered vest. His hair was perhaps not quite so neat as it usually was, but his cheeks and chin were smooth-shaven. “Philippa,” he said gravely. “I’m glad you’re here. My father wanted to speak with you.”

  Philippa nodded, and crossed the room to the high bed to look down on the sunken face of her old friend. He lay propped, half-upright, on scattered pillows. She hardly recognized him in the skeletal profile, the wisps of white hair. His breath rattled in his chest, and his eyes were closed. She found his hand among the layers of blankets, and pressed his fingers. “My lord Frederick,” she said quietly, but clearly. “It’s Philippa Winter. Philippa Islington. I’m much grieved to find you so ill.”

  Francis stood opposite her, watching, his mouth drooping. Frederick’s eyelids lifted slightly, but fell again. He took a noisy, shallow breath, and then another. It seemed he had to gather his energy to speak. “Philippa,” he rasped. “Good. Thank . . .”

  There was a long pause. William leaned against the head of the bed, and Philippa, glancing up, saw that he watched his father with an odd expression. He did not appear as pleased at his father’s imminent passing as she would have expected. His mouth twisted, and she wondered if, now that the moment was at hand, he might be remembering the affectionate parent of his boyhood, or feeling some sorrow for the end of a distinguished career.

  She held Frederick’s cold, dry hand in both of hers. “Dear Frederick,” she said. “You have done so much for me, and for all of us who fly. Margareth wanted me particularly to tell you that.”

  Hoarsely, he whispered, “Please . . .”

  She waited for him to go on, but a long pause stretched while he struggled to breathe. At last she bent closer to him. “Frederick? Can I do something for you?”

  His fingers moved feebly in hers, and his eyelids struggled to rise. For one moment, they succeeded, and Philippa had one last look into his dark eyes, bright with intelligence and determination. He said, with a rush of breath as if exhausted, “Pamella. Please.” And then his eyes closed again, his fingers went limp, and his chest sagged. Long seconds passed before it rose again with another ragged breath.

  Philippa stayed where she was, waiting, hoping he might say more. She looked up at William. Did he know what Frederick wanted of her?

  Francis bent forward from his side of the bed, and said urgently, “Father. Philippa doesn’t understand. What is it about Pamella? What do you want Philippa to do?”

  There was an agonizing pause, and then Frederick said, “Remember.”

  Philippa met Francis’s anguished gaze. She shook her head slightly, and he lifted one slender shoulder. For a long time they stayed where they were, listening to the rattle of Frederick’s breathing. William, after a time, moved to the window, and stared out. One of the doctors came back, put his hand on Frederick’s forehead, and then left. Andrews came in a moment later to stand at the foot of the bed, his head bowed. Philippa’s back began to ache from bending, and she pulled a chair to the bedside and sat down. Another doctor came in, and took a chair near the door, where he dozed, snoring lightly. In this tableau, this moment frozen in time, they waited.

  It was midafternoon when Frederick drew one last gravelly breath, released it, and didn’t take another. The doctor bent over him, straightened, and shook his head at Andrews.

  Andrews turned to the window, to William, and bowed. “Your Grace,” he said solemnly. “Your lord father is dead. Long life to the new Duke.”

  William turned slowly from the window. His eyes swept the still form on the bed, and then rested on Francis and Philippa in turn, and then Andrews. Philippa thought she had never seen an expression of such complexity. There was real grief in the twist of his mouth. There was also, unmistakably, a gleam of triumph in his eyes.

  “Andrews,” he said, in his high-pitched voice. “Take word to my lady mother, and tell my father’s secretary to write the pronouncement.”

  Andrews bowed again, and withdrew. The doctor also bowed to the new Duke, and followed Andrews out of the apartment.

  “And now,” William said. He stood very straight, and pulled down his vivid vest with both hands. Philippa imagined that it was to her his words were addressed. “Now, it begins.”

  EDUARD Crisp was relieved of his duties within three days of Frederick’s death.

  Philippa and Margareth were assembling the second- and third-level students to fly above the funeral cortège. The first-level girls, whose horses were not yet old enough for a long flight, would be taken into the White City by carriage, to follow the procession on foot. They stood admiring the older girls and their horses as they prepared for their first ceremonial function.

  Black ribbons twined in the manes and tails of every flyer, Foundation, Ocmarin, or Noble. Their saddles bore black and silver streamers, and the girls wore silver armbands over their black riding coats. As the flyers moved out to the flight paddock, Margareth said quietly to Philippa, “The new Master Breeder is someone named Jinson.”

  Philippa sighed. “Poor Eduard. And his son! It has always been an inherited position.”

  “No longer, I’m afraid.”

  “Is there any sign that this new man knows anything about the bloodlines? About the dangers of inbreeding, about promoting strengths, diminishing weaknesses?”

  Margareth gave an expressive shrug. “All I know is that this Jinson is the new Duke’s private
stable-man.” She sighed. “And there is something else.”

  The flyers were all in the flight paddock now, and Rosellen stood in the courtyard with Sunny, waiting for Philippa. Philippa and Margareth walked down the steps. “What else?” Philippa asked.

  “I received an order this morning,” Margareth told her. “Directly from His Grace.”

  “Did you, Margareth?”

  “I did,” Margareth said lightly. “On a fine piece of paper with the Ducal seal. Irina is to be made senior instructor.”

  Philippa stopped where she was, one foot on the cobblestones, one on the bottom step. “That seems very odd. Why would William care about what position Irina holds?”

  “The order spoke of her service in the Angles.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Margareth looked past Philippa to the ranks of winged horses, their horsemistresses, the students and instructors in her charge. “I’m going to obey the order,” she said. “I’ve been in the Duke’s service more than forty years, Philippa. Obedience is my duty.”

  LARK, like the other students, was dressed in her best tabard and a clean riding skirt, boots polished, gloves clean, her hat carefully pinned onto her short curls. She tried hard to feel solemn, but the hills to the west blossomed in vivid shades of green, and birds twittered from the hedgerows. The freshly whitewashed pole fences shone in the sun. More than a hundred flyers assembled in four lines in the flight paddock, fluttering with black and silver ribbons. Wings rustled, restless hooves scuffed in the new grass. Two horses, a chestnut Noble and a brown Ocmarin, squealed, and their horsemistresses wheeled them out of the line to trot in tight circles, necks arched, chins tucked. When they had calmed, both returned to their places.

  From the stables, Lark heard Tup whinny, and then bang his heels against the wall of his stall, piqued at being left out of the excitement.

  Hester murmured in her ear, “All our horses wish they could be part of this.”