Toby Bishop - Horse Mistress 02 Read online

  Royal treatment

  Duke William’s lip curled. He turned the quirt in his hands. “Your little stallion has a terrible temper.”

  Lark thrust her chin out. “He does not,” she said. “What he has is a good memory.”

  The Duke scowled. “You would be wise, brat, to mind your own memory. Remember to whom you’re speaking.”

  A retort sprang to Lark’s lips, but she thought of the Duke’s threat to her family, and she bit it back.

  “Yes,” William said, with a cold smile. “I see you understand.” He slapped the quirt into his palm. “You may have passed your first Ribbon Day, but you have other tests facing you. And with an unruly stallion.”

  He took a single step closer.

  “One failure,” William murmured. His eyes were like black ice. “Just one, Miss Hamley, and he’s gone.”

  AIRS ANDGRACES

  TOBY BISHOP

  ACE BOOKS, NEW YORK

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24

  Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  AIRS AND GRACES

  An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2008 by Louise Marley.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 1-4295-7962-5

  ACE

  Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. ACE and the “A” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  PROLOGUE

  THEYcame across the water in the early morning, emerging from the fogbank like figures from a nightmare. The warboats pierced the rolling mist, long, narrow shapes of bloodred and midnight black against the gray. Huge dogs with metal collars snarled and slavered in the bows, but the warriors themselves, squat, bearded men in leather helmets and jerkins, stood in ominous silence, swaying with the rocking of the boats. The long oars dipped again and again into the cold green sea. Every boat bristled with spears, and in each stern an archer was poised, ready to send a covering barrage of obsidian-tipped death.

  The men of Onmarin, which meant every male above the age of ten, were out in their own small boats, fishing for the cod and plaice that swam beneath the glacier. The village was empty except for the old men who stayed behind to work on the drying racks ranged along the docks, women and girls mending nets in their thatched cottages, and little children. There was no one to protect them, but there was no reason to believe protection was needed. Old Duke Frederick had put an end to the raids from across the Strait, and the fishing villages of the Angles had lived in peace for more than twenty years.

  The first shout from the docks brought only raised eyebrows and curiosity.

  But the shout was too much for one of the dogs. He roared, and then leaped, huge and black and terrifying, over the bow of the warboat, crashing into the water with a great splash, swimming with powerful strokes toward the land. Moments later the first boat ground into the sand of the beach, and its ugly warriors swarmed over the sides, no longer silent, but yelling in their brutish language.

  The fisher-folk of innocent Onmarin understood then. Women began to scream and children to wail.

  Mothers clutched babies to their breasts and herded toddlers and young boys ahead of them as they dashed inland, seeking the dubious safety of the dunes. The old men on the docks stood their ground, shakily, but bravely, wielding their filleting knives against the spears of the raiders.

  The awful dogs bounded up the narrow lanes between the cottages, howling. Spears rose and fell, and the filleting knives slashed. Blood began to spill over the weathered boards of the docks and drip through into the icy water below.

  And behind the farthest cottage, where a corridor of packed and rutted sand ran between the dunes, two winged horses rose, one shining black, one pale gold. Their powerful wings drove against the cold air, and their riders bent low over their necks.

  One of the barbarians caught sight of them and gave a gleeful shriek. A volley of arrows spewed into the air, but by Kalla’s grace, the winged horses were too far away, their ascent too swift and steep.

  They flew as high and as fast as they dared, leaving the coastline behind, banking above the dunes and into the morning sunshine, escaping from the carnage on the ground, fleeing to the safety of Lady Beeth’s protection.

  ONE

  ATthe summer home of Lord and Lady Beeth, Larkyn Hamley reined her horse into the salt-scented wind. Tup broke into an eager trot, then a canter. His ears pricked forward, and his black hooves drummed on the grass of the park, faster and fast
er, blazing toward the grass-covered dunes that formed the northern boundary of the estate. Lark snugged her right hand into the handgrip of the breast strap, and held the reins loosely in her left. She gripped Tup’s ribs with her calves, and he sped to the hand gallop.

  His long, narrow wings opened, rippling in the breeze. The ribbed membranes caught the cool morning light in their ebony folds as they stretched to catch the air.

  “Hup!” Lark cried, and Tup sprang upward. The wind rushed above and beneath his wings as he lifted above the narrow beach and out over the green sea. His hooves curled tightly beneath his body, and he ascended steadily. A fogbank obscured the horizon, hiding the glacier from view. Lark glanced over her shoulder to see Hester Beeth and her palomino, Golden Morning, launch above the dunes behind them.

  Goldie, a Foundation filly, was heavier and slower than Tup, but her flight was as elegant and deliberate as an eagle’s.

  Beneath the winged horses the cold green waves splashed against the land, edging the beach with amber foam. Tup’s wings stroked harder, and they rose high into the misty morning, banking to the west along the coast. Hester and Goldie flew close behind. Gulls darted above and below the winged horses as they carved an arc above the gentle inlets of the district known as the Angles. The Ocmarins rose in jagged splendor ahead, already white with snow. At home in the Uplands, Lark thought, the autumn fires would be set to burn the bloodbeet husks, sending ribbons of char drifting above the fields. Here in the Angles, the season brought fog in the morning and chill sunshine in the afternoon.

  She glanced to her right, marveling at the nearness of Aeskland, the forbidden country. The girls of the Academy of the Air whispered midnight tales to each other about the barbarians who lived beneath the glacier. The stories said they were savage men and fierce women who lived in dirt houses, obeyed no law, and disdained all gods. With a shiver, she turned her eyes forward again.

  It was tempting to fly on all morning, for the sheer joy of fresh air and freedom, but they had promised Hester’s mamá to obey the Academy rules. Unsupervised flights could last no more than an hour. They would soon come to ground on a sandy spit near the fishing village of Onmarin where Rosellen, the Academy’s stable-girl, lived with her family. The girls carried gifts, a tiny pot of fresh honey from the Beeth hives, a skein of dyed wool, twists of silk ribbon.

  Their brief holiday was almost at an end. In two short days they must return to their studies, but until then, Lark luxuriated in Lady Beeth’s indulgence. Lark could not remember her own mother, and she had worked hard on her brothers’ farm since she was a tiny girl. She loved being petted and spoiled by Hester’s mamá.

  The chill of the sea air made Tup’s flying seem effortless. Lark felt the brush of his wings over her calves, the warmth of his muscles beneath her legs. He swerved a little, flicking his tail to tease Golden Morning.

  Goldie ignored him, flying steadily onward in her dignified way.

  Hester pointed, and Lark saw the jumbled roofs of the village ahead. They clustered around a little bay created by a narrow spit of sand. Docks and mooring posts edged the water. The fishing boats had already gone out, but gentle smoke curled from fires beneath racks of drying fish. A few figures moved

  between the racks.

  Lark moved her right knee against Tup’s shoulder, and he slowed, stilling his wings to glide on the air currents rising from the land. Hester and Golden Morning hovered to their right, as if they were flying Points, and the flyers circled, twice, three times, each pass a little lower, giving them a chance to find a landing place, look for obstacles. They came to ground neatly, first Tup, then Goldie, the horses’ hind feet thumping lightly on the strip of sand, forefeet reaching, wings fluttering as they balanced.

  By the time they trotted to the end of the spit, a band of small boys appeared between the cottages, pointing and calling. Before the girls had dismounted, and the horses had folded their wings, Rosellen herself appeared. She came running, the crowd of ragged boys at her heels.

  She slowed to a walk as she came near the winged horses, saying to the children, “You lot stay back.

  Winged horses don’t like men, and are not overmuch fond of boys, neither.” The urchins exclaimed in disappointment, but they stopped where they were, goggling at the flyers. Rosellen gave the girls her gap-toothed grin. “What a gammon my mam is! Didn’t believe two Academy girls would visit the likes of us.”

  Lark laughed. “Hello, Rosellen. What a pretty village!”

  Hester stood with one hand on Goldie’s neck, looking about her. It was possible, Lark thought, that she had never stood on her own feet in such a place. She would be accustomed to passing through rural villages in the comfort of her mother’s carriage. Every Academy girl, except for Lark herself, had been brought up in wealth and comfort.

  Rosellen came to Tup, and he nuzzled her shoulder and made the little whimpering sound that was his and his alone. Rosellen chuckled, rubbing his forelock, then dropped an awkward curtsy to Hester.

  “Thank you for coming, Miss.”

  “It’s good to see you, Rosellen,” Hester said. If she felt at all uncomfortable, she didn’t show it. But then Hester, like her mother, was a born leader, and Lark imagined that included making herself fit into all kinds of situations. Hester held out the little bag of gifts. “My mamá sent these for your mamá.”

  As Rosellen thanked her and accepted the bag, one of the little boys dared to move a step closer to Tup. Lark smiled down at him. “Would you like to pet him?”

  His mouth opened, round as his awestruck eyes. “Really? Even though I’m a boy?”

  “Aye,” Lark said. “You won’t be a man for quite some time, I’m thinking.”

  “Soon enough!” the boy said stoutly, puffing out his chest.

  Lark laughed. “Well, if it’s as soon as all that—maybe you’d best keep your distance after all.”

  The urchin’s face fell, and with it, his thin chest. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, but—but maybe not just yet, Miss.”

  “Nay, I think you’re right, lad. Come now. Walk up slowly, and let’s see how Tup feels about you.”

  The boy crept slowly toward the horse, one skinny hand extended. Lark felt certain there was nothing to worry about. This lad would see many more summers before he became a man. Tup only flicked an ear toward him and didn’t budge. A blissful smile spread over the child’s face as he stroked the glossy black

  coat and touched one silky wingpoint with a tentative finger.

  “What’s your name?” Lark asked.

  He said softly, “Peter, Miss. Your horse is so beautiful!”

  “Aye, Peter. You’ll get no argument from me.”

  A straggling line of children formed, each waiting for their chance to touch a winged horse. Rosellen shrugged apologetically. “Them’s never seen such,” she said to the girls. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  Hester stepped forward, leading Goldie. “Of course we don’t mind,” she said. “Come along, children.

  Goldie loves to be stroked.”

  By the time the children had each had their turn, patting first Tup, then Goldie, Rosellen’s mam had come out of her cottage and walked down to the beach. She wore a shawl around her shoulders and a scarf covering her sandy hair. Lark and Hester inclined their heads to her at Rosellen’s introduction, and Lark marveled at how much Rosellen looked like her mother, freckled, sturdy of figure. The gifts were bestowed, and greetings passed along from Lady Beeth, which made the fisherwoman blush furiously.

  She whispered in Rosellen’s ear, and Rosellen turned to Hester.

  “Mam wants to send some dried fish to her ladyship,” she said. “If she’d like it.”

  “Of course she would,” Hester said warmly. “Mamá loves fish.” She smiled at Rosellen’s mother, and the woman seemed to gather a little courage. She nodded, and curtsied, and spoke to the scrawny boy who had first approached Tup. “Peter, do you run to the docks and fetch a packet of fish for Lady Beeth.”

&nbs
p; He grinned at Lark and touched his forelock with two fingers before dashing away.

  “My father and most of the men are out fishing, but my sisters want to meet you,” Rosellen told the girls.

  “Will you come to the cottage?”

  Soon girls, horses, and the gaggle of youngsters, shoving and shushing each other, trailed through the crooked sandy lanes of the village to Rosellen’s tiny cottage. It was a ramshackle affair, thatched and sun-bleached, the walls leaning inland as if giving way before the incessant wind from the sea. Rosellen called, and two sturdy girls, as freckled and square-faced as Rosellen herself, emerged. A third hung back in the doorway. She was small, and painfully thin, with pale hair and only a scattering of freckles across her delicate face.

  Rosellen pointed to her sisters. “Annalee, and Ginetta. Yon shy one is Lissie.”

  The girls stared as if frozen at the Academy students in their black riding habits, until their mother hissed at them, “Manners, you girls! We may be fisher-folk, but we know how to greet our betters!”

  Lark dropped her eyes, embarrassed, as Rosellen’s sisters curtsied. She wanted to explain that she was no higher in her station than any of them, but she knew they would never accept it. Now that she flew a winged horse, and kept company with the daughter of Lord and Lady Beeth, things were different.

  Already she was called Black by the other flyers, after her horse’s proper name of Black Seraph. Only in her heart was she still Larkyn Hamley of Deeping Farm, the Uplands.

  Hester spoke a courteous greeting to the girls, and Lark did her best to imitate her. In a few moments, Annalee and Ginetta relaxed and began plying them with questions. Only Lissie hung back, disappearing into the cottage the moment introductions were complete. Their mother brought out a simple breakfast, and an assortment of rickety chairs appeared so that everyone could sit down in the lee of the house, away from the wind. One of the urchins brought a few morsels of grain for the horses, who accepted them as graciously as Hester Beeth accepted the heavy dark bread and smoked fish presented by Rosellen’s mother.

  “Where’s your saddle?” the boy named Peter demanded of Lark. “The big horse has one.”