Airs of Night and Sea Read online

  He bowed, and was speaking to the militiamen when she crossed the broad foyer and started up the stairs. A serving-maid scurried out of her way as she reached the first landing, fearful as a mouse in the presence of a cat.

  Philippa pursed her lips and stripped off her gloves as she walked.

  She found the door standing open to the rooms where she had so often spent time with Duke Frederick, both as a girl being guided in her studies by the Duke and later as a horsemistress, serving at the Palace. She paused in the doorway, the oc-hound beside her.

  William stood beside the wing chair that had been his father’s. He wore one of the embroidered vests he affected, but he could no longer close it across his chest. He was twirling his braided quirt between his thin fingers. A fire blazed in the fireplace and cast shadows through the fire screen that stretched and shrank around the low tables and the plush divan.

  “Philippa,” William said in his high-pitched voice. “We meet again at last.”

  Alice growled, and Philippa put a hand down to quiet her. “You left me no choice.”

  William laughed at her rudeness. “Philippa, you always have presumed upon old acquaintance. And now that you’ve presented yourself to fulfill your sentence, we’re inclined to let you have your say before you begin your confinement.”

  She kicked the door closed with her boot, not taking her eyes from his face. It had grown round, though his body was so thin it seemed the firelight might illuminate his very bones.

  “You’ve lost a horse, William, wasted one of Kalla’s creatures with your recklessness.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You dare speak to me of recklessness?”

  “Did you learn nothing at all from your father?” she demanded. “He would never have ordered such a thing.”

  “These things happen,” he said stiffly. “Naturally we regret the loss of a winged horse, but this is war.”

  Philippa resisted the urge to rub her neck, to relieve the pain that shot up from her shoulders. “I know Baron Rys has set an ultimatum,” she said. “You must produce Amelia.”

  He shrugged, and the swell of his chest moved with the gesture. “We don’t know where she is. The chit disappeared.”

  “What!” For a moment she lost control of her voice, and it shrilled in the high-ceilinged room. “Kalla’s heels, William! You lost her?”

  “She’s run off. Who knows where? You know what girls are.”

  “Girls?” Philippa gritted. “She’s an Academy student, bonded to a winged horse. And even if she weren’t, she’s hardly just any girl. She’s the niece of the Klee Viscount.”

  “She should have thought of that before she took to her heels.”

  “You’ve gone too far, William. This is beyond endangering the bloodlines. You’ve endangered all the people of Oc. Your actions this morning—”

  “You mean because we sent a flight of winged horses to distract the Klee? Nonsense. The Klee understand the gesture for just what it is.”

  “Which is what, William?”

  “You will refer to us by our title, Philippa. You would never have called my father by his given name.”

  She stepped forward onto the thick hearthrug. When she took a breath to speak, she detected something odd in the air, some faint, slightly repugnant perfume. “Your father, William,” she hissed, “never spoke of himself in the plural. What pretense is this?”

  “Shall we stick to the subject, Philippa?” he purred. He walked around the front of the wing chair and settled himself into it, draping his long arm across the back.

  “The subject is Oc’s future,” she said.

  He smiled, the old crooked smile she had found appealing when she was sixteen. The memory turned her stomach. “The subject is your punishment, ruled upon by the very Council you put so much faith in.”

  “The Council is divided now,” she answered. “You can’t make that ruling hold.”

  “It won’t matter,” he said lightly, with a dismissive gesture of his pale hand. “We will enforce it, now that you’ve done your duty and presented yourself. Where is your mare? We’ll see she’s taken safely to the Fleckham School. She’ll be put to good use.”

  “That would kill her, William, and you know it.”

  His smile held. “You should have thought of that, Philippa.”

  She shrugged. “As it happens, I did. She’s well out of your reach.”

  “Nothing is out of our reach,” he answered. He crossed his legs. “We’re almost there, Philippa. All that’s needed is one day of good weather, and everyone will know we were right.”

  “What do you think will happen, William? That you will fly your filly, and everyone will fall on their knees before you?” She laughed, a harsh sound in the lovely old room. “You’ve always been arrogant, but this is insanity.”

  At the word, he stiffened. He uncrossed his legs, got to his feet, and advanced toward her, his quirt in his fist. “We don’t need anyone to fall on their knees, Philippa,” he hissed. “But you and the rest of those bitches at the Academy will curtsy to me before the year’s out!”

  She lifted her chin and smiled at him. “Never.”

  He lifted the quirt, and his face suffused with color. “How dare you!” he cried.

  She put up a hand. “William, please. A moment.” He lowered the quirt, eyeing her narrowly. “Yes, I know,” she said. “I do presume upon acquaintance. We’ve known each other all our lives, and I do think—your father—”

  “Don’t talk to me of my father!” he shrilled. “He had no vision!”

  “He had courage,” Philippa said, keeping her voice level. “And he was devoted to his people. He made great sacrifices for that.”

  “All he cared about were the winged horses, and the women who flew them.”

  Philippa sighed. “Because they are precious to Oc, William. Surely you can see that?”

  “Do you think it was right for him to ignore his sons in favor of them?” He blew air between his lips and turned his face toward the fire. “And then, of course, there was Pamella.”

  “Pamella,” Philippa said wonderingly. All at once, everything came into focus, as if an obscuring mist had suddenly cleared. Duke Frederick had indeed loved the winged horses, and by association, the horsemistresses. And now William was obsessed with them, but his preoccupation had nothing to do with affection. His allegiance was twisted, tortured into some strange, unmanageable emotion. And Pamella!

  “That’s why you did it, isn’t it, William?” she whispered, shocked into comprehension.

  He stared into the red flames. “Did what, Philippa?”

  “It’s why you drove Pamella away. And why you—” For a moment she couldn’t push the words past her lips. She shook herself, disgusted. She was a horsemistress, for Kalla’s sake, intimate with breedings and birthings and all manner of animal behavior. “It’s why you raped your sister,” she finally said, her voice flat and weary.

  “Did she say that?” he asked, lightly, almost humorously.

  “You know she doesn’t speak,” Philippa said.

  “She could write it down. She’s had a child, but I don’t believe she’s lost her wits.”

  “Your cruelty shocks me, William.”

  “The whole idea that Pamella’s son is my child is absurd,” he said.

  “It’s sordid, William. And I suspect Pamella won’t speak of it because, even now, she’s protecting the family. The throne comes before everything, doesn’t it?”

  When he didn’t answer, Philippa crossed the room so that she could see his profile. “Look at you. Your bosom swells, and your chin is as smooth as a girl’s. You’re trying to turn yourself into a woman, but you hate women. You blame that on your father, but I think, in some way, you’ve always hated women. It’s no wonder your mind is affected.”

  “My mind is not affected!” When he turned on her, the fist with the quirt raised toward her face, he looked more like Alice the oc-hound than he did the Duke of Oc. He snarled at her, and his lip
lifted away from his teeth. “You will not stand in our way, Philippa.”

  “It won’t work, William.”

  He froze for a long moment, his eyes on her face. Then, forcing a laugh, he lowered the quirt. “Wait and see,” he said, tugging at his vest. “Just you wait, Philippa, and you’ll see.”

  THIRTY

  “WE’RE close now, Mahogany,” Amelia murmured. She kept the lead short, his head at her shoulder. She shivered with fatigue and cold, and struggled to keep a steady hand for her colt’s sake. “See there, just around the corner of that shop. There’s the Tower!”

  It rose just to the east of where they huddled between two rickety buildings. Snow shrouded its windowed top. The keeper’s light glimmered yellow through the flicker of white flakes. Around it the streets were deserted, the cobblestones shimmering with a thin, unbroken film of snow. Amelia’s stomach quivered, and she tried to think when she had last eaten. She couldn’t remember, and so she forced the thought from her mind. Just a few more steps, and they would be there. They had only to persuade the lightkeeper, one solitary man. Amelia thought she would appeal to his good nature, and if that didn’t work, she would promise a reward. Something had to work out. Mahogany couldn’t spend another night in the cold.

  She drew a deep breath and felt Mahogany, beside her, do the same. Impulsively, she hugged his neck. “We’re together. That’s the main thing, my love,” she said. He nosed her cheek, and she managed a shaky smile. “Come on, then. Let’s go.”

  With his chin softly bumping her shoulder, as if they were leaning on each other, they hurried, side by side, to the end of the street. A sign with a painting of a boat was nailed above the door of the corner shop, but the windows were shuttered and the door conspicuously locked with an enormous padlock. It seemed no one was about in the city this early evening. The lightkeeper must feel terribly solitary.

  The snowfall softened their steps as they pressed on. Mahogany’s forelock and mane were white with it, reminding Amelia of a sort of cake Lyssett sometimes made at the old estate. It was flavored with cinnamon and dusted with sugar, and it always tasted of lavender. The thought made her mouth water, and she swallowed. Better not to think of food.

  As they approached the corner, Mahogany’s steps faltered, then stopped. He threw up his head and flattened his ears.

  Amelia knew better than to ignore him. She stopped, too, her back against his warm shoulder. She leaned forward to peer cautiously past the weathered planks that formed the outer wall of the shop, then, with a swiftly indrawn breath, she pulled back.

  She had had a glimpse of the bay at last, and in the distance, shrouded by the falling snow, she had seen the lanterns in the prow and the stern of the Marinan. So near and so far at the same time!

  And between her and the Tower was another contingent of Duke William’s militia.

  Mahogany had caught their scent and stopped her before she plunged right out into the full view of six black-uniformed guardsmen.

  Silently, she backed away, past the door with the boat sign, past the nameless building beside that, down the road again in the direction they had come. She felt a complete fool. She had simply not thought . . . but of course Duke William would set a guard at the North Tower. There were probably militiamen in the Tower itself, watching her father’s ship.

  With leaden feet, her hands feeling like ice, she turned Mahogany down one of the empty lanes and walked in the opposite direction. She struggled with a sense of despair. She had to reach deep within herself for some shred of hope that would keep her feet moving. She would not—she could not—let Duke William win. She would not, she promised herself for the thousandth time, be the reason for a war between their people; she simply would not!

  She stumbled on a roughly placed cobblestone and felt Mahogany stumble with her. They were both too tired and too cold. They couldn’t keep this up much longer, she knew. She would have to knock on someone’s door, give herself up, without knowing on which side’s mercy she was throwing herself.

  The idea was so repugnant that she felt a brief burst of strength and managed to work her way down another road, this one broader, leading south away from the harbor and toward one of the residential neighborhoods. Outlined against the snow, she saw that the roofs here were higher, the buildings wider, separated by spaces filled now with snow, but which might be gardens.

  “What would Lark do, or Hester?” she asked Mahogany. And then she remembered the icon of Kalla Lark had given her, which hung even now beneath her borrowed tabard.

  She touched the little wooden figure, feeling the horse head at its top, the plume of tail that curled up and around the shoulders of the woman, the goddess. “Kalla,” she whispered. “For Mahogany’s sake—one of your creatures—help me!”

  She knew she had no right, really, to be praying to Kalla. She had been raised to be skeptical of gods both great and small, and though she had no wish to offend Lark, she privately considered her friend’s faith in such things naive.

  But even as she thought that, the icon began to grow warm against her breast.

  She touched it again. It was no illusion. Her fingers, cold as they were, felt the heat in the icon, just as Lark said happened often to her. It was a gentle warmth at first, then, as she and Mahogany walked beneath a snowy hill with a drive curving up it, the icon grew nearly too hot to touch.

  Amelia stopped, looking about her. What could it mean? At the top of the hill the drive led to a big house. Its windows were alight, and even from where she stood she could hear the sounds of people, men’s voices calling and laughing. To her right was a wide gate, shaded by enormous holly trees. It seemed to be the sort that might be opened to let a carriage through. Beyond it, tucked beneath the hill, was some sort of smallish building. She moved around Mahogany to stand on tiptoe and look over the gate. He crowded behind her, his ears turned forward.

  Tentatively, Amelia tried the latch. To her surprise, it clicked smoothly. The gate swung inward on silent hinges.

  Mahogany snorted and nudged her forward with his shoulder. Amelia cast another glance around and saw a pony cart making its way up the street from the city. She went ahead of Mahogany, slipping through the gate, closing it when they were both through. They ducked behind one of the hollies, wary of the prickly leaves, and watched as the cart passed by. Two moments longer in the street, and the cart would have caught them.

  The pony cart turned into the drive and started up the hill toward the big house. When it was out of their sight, Amelia led Mahogany toward the little building. Beneath the layer of snow, the drive was gravel, and there were hitching posts set in front of the building.

  “It’s a carriage house, Mahogany,” she whispered. “If it’s empty . . . we can at least get out of this cold!”

  The door to the carriage house was of the sliding kind, with big hinges above it. As Amelia began to push it open, the hinges squealed, making her glance anxiously over her shoulder, but there seemed to be no one to hear. It wasn’t until they were both inside, in a gloomy interior that smelled of saddle soap and leather and the faint tinge of lamp oil, that Amelia realized the icon had cooled again. Mahogany snorted, his head high and his eyes showing white. “It’s all right, my love,” Amelia said, and hoped she was right. She pushed the door closed again, wincing at the noise it made. When she was certain it was secure, she turned to assess their hiding place.

  It was much bigger inside than she had thought it would be, extending back into a shadowed dimness. Some moments passed before her eyes adjusted to the darkness. The only light came from cracks around the door, from a space between the roof and the walls, and from what seemed to be another door leading out the back. A gig loomed in one corner, its shafts resting on the wooden floor. Amelia could make out shelves on the nearest wall, and when she felt along them with her hand, she found folded lap robes among bits of equipment and tack. The lap robes were a boon. She felt warmer already, just being indoors, and if she could wrap a blanket around her, she could
manage one more night. She was awfully hungry, but she would settle, she thought, for water for Mahogany.

  She shook out one of the lap robes and draped it over his back. “Now, just wait here,” she said, patting his cheek. “Let me see what’s out back.”

  She walked toward the door, careful of where she placed her feet in the darkness. The floor was reasonably smooth and clean, and she supposed that was a warning sign that the carriage house saw regular use.

  Mahogany snorted again behind her, and his hooves scraped on the floor. “Wait,” she told him again. “I’ll be right back.”

  She couldn’t see the latch for the door, so she put out her hand and groped along the wall to find it. When her fingers encountered warmth, the resilience of flesh beneath woolen fabric, she cried out. She snatched her hand away, stumbling backward. “What! Who’s—who’s there?” she faltered.

  At her cry, Mahogany whickered, and came closer, then stopped, blowing uneasily.

  A man, she thought. It’s a man.

  She took a step back, then another. Whoever it was separated himself from the wall but didn’t make a sound.

  Amelia spoke again, with more authority. “Who is it, please?”

  She would have sworn she was answered with a sob, or a whimper.

  A bit more gently she said, “I’m sorry if we’ve intruded. We’re rather desperately cold.”

  Boots shuffled on the wood floor, and the person stepped forward into a dim shaft of light that slanted from the rafters. He said, “Miss, please. Don’t tell them, will you?”

  Now that a bit of light was shed on his features, she saw that he was not so much a man as a boy, perhaps just into his teens. He was certainly not as old as she, and he was barely taller. His face, as much as she could see of it, was a picture of misery.

  “Tell whom?” she asked.

  He made a small gesture with his thin shoulders. “Them soldiers at the house, Miss. I can’t—I can’t fight. I just can’t!” His voice rose, and broke. He was indeed very young.