Airs of Night and Sea

BEATRICE overheard Sarah Runner, one of the junior horsemistresses, whispering the news. Beatrice told Isobel, who murmured it in Grace’s ear. Soon word spread through all the third-level flight that the Beeths and the Beeths alone had financed the Academy’s expenses for the winter to come.

The girls clustered around Hester’s cot after the first- and second-level girls were in their beds at the far end of the sleeping porch. The third-levels were in their nightdresses, and they settled onto Hester’s and Lark’s beds, sitting cross-legged in pools of lamplight. Beatrice recounted yet again what she had heard Mistress Runner say.

Anabel’s forehead furrowed. “I’m so sorry, Morning. I begged my papá to help, but he says as the winged horses are the Duke’s, their support is his responsibility.”

Beryl said, “My father believes Oc is wise to have a stronger militia. He thinks allowing a Klee girl to bond with a winged horse will lead to Klee attacking Oc once again.”

Lark felt her cheeks flame with indignation. “It matters because Amelia is a lovely, fine girl with a good education—everything we want in a horsemistress—”

Lillian said, “But she’s right. The trouble began when she came, didn’t it? And now this Klee girl . . . Perhaps the Headmistress should have listened to our Duke on both points.”

Flame-haired Isobel leaned forward, her freckles standing out on her pale cheeks. “I like her,” she said stoutly. “Amelia, I mean.” She glanced at Lark. “And you, too, Black, of course,” she added. “Sorry.”

“Nothing needs to be proved.” This was from Grace, whose manner was usually as mild as her name. “Headmistress Winter accepted her—both of them—and that should be good enough. We owe them both our loyalty.”

They finally dispersed to go to their beds. Lark gave Beryl a last, doubtful glance as the dark-haired girl turned away. Beryl’s remarks had hurt. Lark thought such objections to her own modest background had faded away, at least among the girls of her own flight.

Hester said, when the others had gone, “It’s worse than they know, Black. Mamá says Lord Francis and old Lord Daysmith tried to raise a militia of their own, but they didn’t have the funds. Lord Francis went to Arlton, to ask Prince Nicolas for help, and that was when he learned that the Prince has taken the other side, supplying money and men to Duke William. And now they’ve blocked the shipping lanes, so that no help can come into Oc.”

There seemed to be nothing else to say. Hester climbed into her bed, and Lark folded back her own blankets and slipped underneath them. She blew out the little lamp beside her bed, and turned on her side. Hester had already closed her eyes, but Lark felt restive and wakeful.

It was, she thought, more evidence of Duke William’s failings. It was not just that he hated her for taking Tup, or that he had sent Mistress Winter down from the Academy, and she had had to leave Isamar altogether to avoid being imprisoned and losing Winter Sunset. But now the whole Duchy of Oc was being torn down the middle, people spying on each other, attacking each other. Even here, in the Academy, strife and discord were rising at just the time when they needed to pull together.

Even better, she wished she could tell Brye about it. It would be such a relief to sit at the old scarred table in the high-ceilinged kitchen of Deeping Farm and hear her older brother’s laconic assessment of events. A surge of longing for her home gave her a sudden chill despite her warm blankets.

At least Amelia had Kalla to protect her. Lark had given her own icon of Kalla to Amelia on the night her colt was foaled. Comforted by this small detail, Lark drifted into an uneasy sleep. Her last thought was a plea to Kalla to protect Amelia Rys, and Mahogany.

HEADMISTRESS Star roused the third-level flight very early, when only a faint gray light illumined the buildings of the Academy. They took a hasty breakfast in the Hall, and some of the girls grumbled at the chill of the air. Lark avoided everyone’s eyes and said nothing. She had already been out to the stables, hurrying through the cold mist with a small pack that held a change of smallclothes and a few other oddments. She had hidden it even from Hester. She was first to the flight paddock for their launch, and she kept Tup facing the other horses, so no one would notice the pack tied behind the high cantle of her flying saddle.

They rose into the air in silence broken only by the sounds of flight. Mistress Star led. Hester came next, with the rest of the flight in their usual order. Each had a portion of ground to cover, and they were to fly for no more than one hour, then return to the Academy, even if they found nothing.

Lark and Tup flew east, toward Beeth House, and the sea. Lark leaned past Tup’s shoulder, trying to spot Mahogany’s red coat against the second growth of hay or the fading green of the hedgerows. The sun quickly burned away the mist, and the landscape opened beneath them. Farmers toiled in their fields, bringing in the last of the harvest. An occasional milk cart trundled along one of the lanes, and once she saw a group of militiamen marching up the main road to Osham. She dutifully scanned everything, turned back once or twice to have a second look at something that caught her eye. Both times it turned out to be a red-and-white cow grazing alone in a field.

When the allotted hour had passed, she saw her flight in the distance, wheeling about, winging back toward the Academy as they had been instructed. She held Tup at Quarters for long minutes, waiting where she was until the winged horses converged above the Academy and assembled themselves to return to ground. When they had begun their descent, all of them turned away from her, she laid her rein against Tup’s neck and squeezed his barrel with her right calf. He banked to the left, turning to the south, away from Osham.

His wings shivered with a surprised pleasure, and his ears turned eagerly forward. Tup was always ready for an adventure. When she knew he understood their direction, she gave him his head. He ascended past a few puffs of cloud into clear, cold sunshine. Lark pulled her cap low over her forehead and settled into the flying saddle. It was a long way to Arlton, and they had never flown it before. She must watch for signs of fatigue in Tup and keep a sharp eye for the landmarks she had carefully memorized in the Academy library. The broad road that wound through the Duchy until it reached the Arl River would guide her, and there were several large towns along the way to assure her she was going in the right direction.

Baron Rys had to know what had happened. A letter would be too slow. No one would listen to her, or believe her, but Lark knew in her bones that the longer Duke William held Amelia, the more danger she was in. Mistress Star would be furious at being disobeyed, but Lark was Amelia’s monitor, and her friend. There was no one else to take action on her behalf.

When she spied the old tower that loomed above the town of Quin, she knew she was halfway to the Princely City. The tower’s distinctive pattern of black and white stones had been clearly described in the atlas. She lifted Tup’s rein, and urged him to the west, where a low ridge, topped by a grove of yellowing eucalyptus trees, ran between the town and the foothills of the Marin Mountains.

Tup descended, swooping low over the ridge, dropping behind the straggling line of trees into a grassy vale where a brook trickled southward toward its confluence with the Arl River. He spread his wings and glided down into the meadow, his feet reaching, his neck stretched. Lark let him choose his own place to come to ground, and he landed without incident, cantering with confidence toward the little stream. Tall, stiff grasses tickled Lark’s knees through her riding skirt as Tup slowed to a trot, then stopped near the water. Lark swung her leg over the pommel and slid to the ground. She made Tup walk for a moment and took the saddle and blanket off his sweaty back so he could cool a bit before dipping his muzzle into the water.

She had pocketed a bit of toast and bacon at breakfast, wrapped in a napkin from the dining hall. She took them out and ate them, though they were cold and not particularly appetizing. Tup nibbled at the tops of the grass, but with little enthusiasm. It was some tough variety, with seeded heads and thick stalks.

He tossed his head, making his bridle rattle. She led him back to the stream. “One more drink now,” she said. “Then we’re off.” He rustled his wings in agreement and dropped his head to the water. Lark paused for a moment, struck by the beauty of the sight, the late-fall sun sparkling on the brook and on her little stallion’s glossy coat and silky wings. She looked up at the foothills to the west, then to the north. The broomstraw should be in at home, the bloodbeets already on their way to market, but everything would be different this year. Brye and Edmar would have extra work with Nick away in the militia. They would be shocked to know the trouble Lark was now in.

She sighed. None of it would matter if Duke William had his way. She had no doubt he meant to stop her from winning her silver wings. In fact, despite the faith Lillian and Beryl and the other loyalists placed in the Duke, it was possible none of them would become horsemistresses.

She ran her hand over Tup’s back and found it dry. She put the blanket back on and swung the saddle up and over. As she buckled the breast strap and the cinches, she said, “This is it now, my Tup. We go on to Arlton and hope we can find the Palace, and Baron Rys, without difficulty. After that . . . I can’t tell you. I doubt the horsemistresses there will be happy to see a third-level flyer descending upon them without permission. They’ll be ordering me back to Osham within the first five minutes.”

He turned his head, and his shining black eye regarded her for a long moment. She stroked his cheek. “Aye,” she said softly. “Aye, my lovely, fine boy. Whatever happens, at least we’re together.”

THERE was, as it turned out, no possibility that she could have missed the Princely Palace. It dominated the city of Arlton, with its multicolored domes and buildings and towers. Its builders had used everything, it seemed—blackstone from the Uplands quarries, gray granite ferried by sea from Eastreach, pink marble carted across the mountains from Crossmount. The avenues and squares and plazas spilled to the north and to the south of the bright swath of water that was the Arl River. The pink-and-gray turrets of the Palace towered over the city, surrounded by manicured parks and pastures and a great circular courtyard. Long, flat-roofed stables stretched west from the Palace itself. As Lark and Tup drew near, a winged horse rose from beyond those stables and circled to the south and east.

“There, Tup, did you see?” Lark called. She felt a renewed energy in his body as he tilted to the right and began to descend. They made a circle first, scanning the ground beneath. The turrets of the Palace were even higher than Lark had thought, their small windows at a dizzying height from the ground. As Tup wheeled past them, she saw his reflection, like that of an ebony-winged bird, flashing across the shining glass. He banked again, dropping toward a perfectly green, level paddock.

Lark took extra care, settling her heels deep in her stirrups, loosening Tup’s rein, straightening her spine. Someone might be watching from those elegant stables, or from one of the windows. “Let’s be perfect, my Tup!” she called.

She felt the flexion in his spine as he tucked his hind feet and reached with his forefeet. He struck the ground as lightly as any bird. His wings fluttered saucily as he cantered up the paddock, and as she slowed him to the trot, he pranced and arched his tail.

“Show-off!” she laughed. “Even after that long flight?” He shook his head from side to side in answer, and a moment later they were at the paddock gate. Lark dismounted sedately, her right leg up and over the cantle instead of throwing it over the pommel as she usually did. She touched the point of Tup’s wings, and he folded them quickly, rib to rib, until they lay neatly over the stirrups. Lark straightened her tabard and adjusted her cap, running her fingers briefly through her curls to settle them. Then, with a deep breath, she opened the paddock gate and started toward the stables.

At her approach, a gray-haired stable-girl emerged from the stable door. She stopped a short distance away from Lark, and stared pointedly at her collar. “Who’re you, then?” she said. “Not a horsemistress yet, I see. No wings.”

Lark lifted her chin and met the woman’s eyes. They were as gray as her hair, and cool, nested in a web of wrinkles. “Nay,” Lark said. “But soon enough.”

“This is Black Seraph.” He arched his neck at the sound of his name and blew through his nostrils. “And I’m Larkyn Hamley, third-level girl at the Academy.”

Lark relinquished the reins to her. “Thank you, Sally,” she said. “I appreciate it.” She looked up, past Sally’s shoulder. The courtyard was vast, easily four times the size of that of the Academy. Beyond it, broad marble steps led up to the biggest doors she had ever seen. She felt a bit like a field mouse, dwarfed by the sheer magnitude of her surroundings. Even her voice seemed suddenly smaller as she said, “Is that—is that where I go?”

The stable-girl chuckled, not unkindly. “Oh, aye,” she said. “Someone will find you if you just go in. You’d better hope it ain’t one of them horsemistresses, though. They’ll have a fit if they see an Academy girl come here without permission.”

Lark stroked Tup, and murmured, “I’ll be back soon,” in his ear. He nosed her, and she pressed her cheek briefly against his neck. When she straightened, she saw Sally watching her with a bemused expression. Her eyes had warmed a little, and threatened to crinkle at the corners.

Lark said, “Aye, Sally. I can see that. I thank you.” She turned on her heel, straightened her back, and set out across the pink and gray cobblestones toward the Palace of the Prince of Isamar.