FRANCIS lay in his childhood bedroom at Fleckham House, in the ancient post bed he had slept in since he was a small boy. The exertions of the day before had left him so weak that the short-tempered housekeeper, Paulina, had had to call for the day nurse to come and assist in carrying him up the staircase. It was humiliating, but then, there had been a string of humiliations since the foray into Aeskland.
Rys had tried to convince him that his knife wound could hardly be considered his own fault, but Francis, reliving it a thousand times in his mind, knew he had been impulsive, reckless. He remembered the warning, “Have a care, my lord,” from the Klee captain, remembered it as clearly as if he had heard it only moments ago. Why had he not heeded it then? Why had he turned his back to that woman? He had stretched out his arm to the child from Onmarin, leaving himself unprotected, needlessly vulnerable.
And now he lay here, helpless as an infant.
The doctors mumbled together in the corridor when they thought he couldn’t hear them, wondering why he had not yet recovered, speculating about poisons, proposing wild treatments, then rejecting them. Francis wished he could help them, but despite all the books he had read, including medical texts, he knew of nothing else they could try. The pain of the wound had lessened to a dull, persistent ache, but the lethargy and weakness remained.
He gazed out at the clear, cold, winter day, and waited to see whether he would live or die. He wanted to recover, to reclaim his life. But sometimes, especially when he woke in the small hours, he thought that it would be better to die than to live out his days as a useless invalid.
When he heard horses in the courtyard, he pulled himself up against his pillows and laid the book he had been halfheartedly reading on the bedside table. He hoped it was Philippa, though he had not caught sight of Winter Sunset making her descent over the park. It couldn’t be Rys. He had sailed for Klee. Francis leaned forward from his stack of pillows, but he couldn’t see the horse or its rider. He heard the tall front doors open and close, and the steward speaking with someone. It sounded like a woman’s voice, so perhaps it was Philippa after all.
Francis put his feet over the side of the bed and straightened his dressing gown. He grasped the bedrail and pushed himself to his feet. He could at least sit up to receive a visitor. As the footsteps ascended the stairs, he lowered himself, with a groan of effort, into the chair beside the bed.
The door slammed open, banging against the wall with a force that made the water glass on the bedside table jump.
William stood in the doorway, one hand on the jamb, the other holding a quirt. Deep creases marked his eyes and his mouth. “Damn you, Francis,” he said. His voice had grown so high that even in anger, it sounded feminine. “Have you not the slightest shred of family loyalty?”
Francis stared at his elder brother in amazement. William wore a vest so covered with embroidery it was hard to tell what fabric it was. His cheeks and chin were smooth as a girl’s, and there was something odd about the shape of his hips in his close-cut trousers. “William,” Francis said, ignoring the question. “Is it true? What Philippa said?”
His older brother stamped into the room and threw the door shut behind him. “Damn her, too, and all those women!” he shrilled. “It’s my business and no one else’s!”
“How did you do it?” Francis asked weakly. He fought an urge to laugh. Laughing at William, when he was in a temper, was never a good idea.
William ignored the question. He stalked across the room, slapping the quirt against his thigh. “You betrayed me in my own Council—”
“Your Council, William? I hardly think—”
“You sat there, all wan and heroic, pretending to be so noble! You took her part, that bitch Philippa Winter, you supported her instead of your own brother, your duke, and you did your best to make me look like a fool!”
“I did not, William. You’re managing that very well on your own.”
William’s face suffused, and he gripped the quirt in his fist. “You’re jealous!” he said. “You covet the title, don’t you? This was your revenge.”
“Oh, give over,” Francis said tiredly. “I’ve never wanted to be duke, and you know it.”
“Liar!” William snapped.
Francis tipped his head back against the chair. “You’ve disgraced us, William. It’s no longer an honor to be a Fleckham.”
“Just wait. When a whole new generation of winged horses carry men into the sky, I’m the one who’ll be remembered as a hero. Unlike you, getting yourself stabbed by a barbarian, and a woman at that!”
The barb found its mark. Francis dropped his eyes.
William leaped on his advantage like a hound on a hare. “What did you think, that you could go straight from your books to a war? It’s a wonder the woman didn’t kill you outright!”
“You’re right,” Francis said. “It is a wonder. And a little girl defended me, a little girl who had been beaten and abused and dragged all over Aeskland for weeks because you couldn’t be troubled to go after her.”
“Father was always ashamed of you,” William sneered. “His womanish son.”
At this, Francis couldn’t help laughing, though it was a weak, breathy sound. “You’re calling me womanish?” He took a quick breath, wincing at the pain in his back. “Your bosom swells more than Philippa’s.”
“It’s a side effect, nothing more. I’m still a man.”
“But you sound like a twelve-year-old boy.”
William swiped irritably at the bedpost with his quirt. “Mind your tongue, brother, or I swear I’ll whip you like a dog.”
“Ah,” Francis said, truly breathless now, and feeling rather faint. “I’ve heard how you like that. Two dead girls, is it? Or more? Perhaps I should have revealed that to your Council!”
With a cry, William lunged at him, and struck him full across the face with the quirt.
He pulled his arm back to do it again, but Francis put up a hand, and when the quirt fell, he seized it, and pulled. William yanked back, hard, and Francis’s brief strength gave out. He fell from his chair, his shoulder crashing against the bedside table so that the glass and carafe went spinning to the oak floor, smashing into a dozen pieces, drenching Francis’s dressing gown, and spattering William’s boots.
A knock sounded immediately on the door, and the nurse put her head in. “Are you all right, my lord?” she asked, and then saw Francis sprawled on the floor. “Oh, my lord!” she said, starting toward him.
William waved her off. “An accident,” he said smoothly. “I’ll help my brother back to bed myself. Fetch him a fresh dressing gown, though. This one is soaked.”
He bent, and lifted Francis bodily from the floor with hands that were surprisingly gentle, as if his anger had spent itself all at once. He stripped the wet dressing gown off, dropped it to the floor, and pulled back the blankets of the bed. “Really, Francis, you must be more careful,” he said. “It’s disturbing to see how weak you are.”
Francis slipped his legs under the sheets, suppressing a groan at the pain the movement gave him. He lay back on the pillows, staring at his brother. “William,” he said. “Are you mad?”
“No, no,” William answered. He gave Francis the old crooked smile that had once been appealing in a young man’s face. “If I were mad, I would stop you from ever telling anyone anything again.” He bent over Francis, and Francis could not help but flinch away. William smiled again, and touched Francis’s cheek, where the stripe from the quirt stung. “I could certainly do that. But it would not be good for the Duchy, would it? You are all the heir I have.”
“William,” Francis said faintly. “You must stop this—whatever you’re doing to your body. You’re not yourself.”
“I’m not going to stop,” William said. “I’m going to fly. I have a beautiful silver filly in my private stable, just there.” He pointed to the window with the quirt, in the direction of the beech grove. “She’s mine, Francis. Bonded to me.”
“Father would be revolted,” Francis whispered, “at the waste of a winged horse.”
William scowled. “She won’t be wasted, I promise you,” he said icily. “And perhaps Father would have noticed a son who could fly.”
“So,” Francis said, “the jealousy is yours, isn’t it? You could never forgive him.”
“All he cared about were the winged horses,” William said. “And the women who fly them, of course.”
Francis couldn’t bring himself to laugh. His brother was a cruel and selfish man, but he had never been a stupid one. As William left him, and clattered down the stairs, Francis reflected that it was a measure of how far gone William’s mind was that he couldn’t see the irony himself.
WILLIAM rode down the lane from Fleckham House, but turned to the left at the road to go to the small stable, where she waited for him. He slid down from the saddle, and Jinson came out to take the gelding’s reins. William walked slowly as he went in through the tack-room door, savoring the anticipation of seeing her again.
He paused just outside the box stall. The mare eyed him with only casual interest. The oc-hound jumped to his feet, stiff-legged and growling. But the filly—his filly—trotted forward, her ears pricked, her delicate nostrils flaring at his familiar scent. William opened the gate and let the foal butt her head against him. He rubbed her pale, stubby mane, and ran his fingers over the faint dapples on her silvery back. Every inch of her gleamed in the winter sunlight. His own nostrils flared, tasting her fresh, oaty smell. He still felt surprise at how pleasant it was to touch her, and to feel her velvet lips nuzzle his palm, looking for treats. In the past, he had only cared about how fast a horse could carry him. He had never expected actually to like the little creature.
The oc-hound stalked past him, tail stiff, lip curled. William kicked at him, and the dog snarled, but ran off down the aisle to Jinson, who had just come in from the tack room. Jinson stroked the dog, then straightened. “Can’t you get a different dog for her?” William said testily. “I don’t like that one.”
“There’s a bond between the winged horses and the oc-hounds, my lord,” Jinson said with irritating sincerity. “We’re pressing our luck as it is.”
William was tempted to order him, but the warmth of the filly pressing against his hip distracted him. He cradled her delicate cheek in his hand. “All right, little one,” he said indulgently. “If you like him, I won’t make him leave.”
Jinson kept his distance, but he said, “She’s growing fast, m’lord. I think we could start her on some mash.”
“She’s still suckling, though?”
“Aye, but the winged horses mature earlier than wingless ones. She could use more.”
“Good, Jinson. See to it.”
“Aye, m’lord.”
“When will she fly?” William asked, still stroking the satiny hide.
“Well, m’lord—the horsemistresses say—”
William raised his head. “You’re my Master Breeder,” he said in a silky tone. Jinson, it seemed, understood that voice. He took a half step backward. “I don’t want to hear what they do. I want to know what I can do.”
Jinson cleared his throat and looked miserably unhappy. William teased the filly’s forelock with his fingertips. “Well,” Jinson said. “They—that is, I understand that winged horses fly at about twelve months. Then they begin to carry saddles, and sand weights to gain strength. They don’t carry the girls—that is, riders—until they’re about eighteen months.”
“It seems a long wait.”
“Aye, m’lord, but you don’t want to injure your filly.”
William raised his head again and fixed Jinson with a hard gaze. The man dropped his eyes to his boots, and William chuckled. “No, no, Jinson, you’re right, as it happens. I don’t want to injure her.” He stroked her once more, and then stepped back, out of the stall. “She’s perfect,” he mused, looking down at her. “My little jewel.”
“Aye.”
“Diamond,” William said.
“Beg pardon?”
“Diamond. Her name is Diamond. A single name, like the founders of the other bloodlines.”
“Beautiful, m’lord. It’s perfect.”
“Indeed. As she is.” William shut the half-gate, and nodded to Jinson. “You can let the damned dog back in now.”