Ahathin nodded. “What do you remember of Nar’s pegasus?”
She didn’t quite groan. Teachers. “Um. Oh. Queen Sufhwaahf. She—she came here anyway, bringing a few courtiers who could put up with Nar’s temper. Some historians say she’s why nothing worse happened.” Which only contributed to the bound-edges feeling, she thought.
There was a little silence, and Ahathin said, “The usual reason given, if the subject comes up at all, is that we’ve always found enough to do in the lowlands. Balsin, I believe, was the first to make that excuse.”
We’re afraid, Sylvi thought with a shock. We’re afraid of what we might find, beyond the sleek pretty paper and the little embroidered bags, if we went exploring. She thought of her mother saying, You know where you are with a taralian. We’re afraid of the pegasi, thought Sylvi, but she didn’t say it aloud. If she did, Ahathin, by his silence, would make her say more, and she didn’t want to say any more. She was wrong. She had to be wrong.
After she had Ebon to talk to she said to him, You don’t mean to keep us out, do you? Out of your country, and Ebon looked surprised. No. You lot just don’t want to come.
Why? said Sylvi. Ahathin says it’s because we’ve always found enough to do in the lowlands. But there must be more to it than that.
I don’t know, said Ebon. I’ll ask.
But the answer he brought back to her was even less of an answer than what he had told her about why the pegasus shamans had not been party to the writing of the treaty. They don’t come, was the only response.
Why? Ebon had said.
Because they do not.
Sylvi snorted with laughter—she’d noticed that her laugh had become much snortier since she’d had Ebon to spend time with, who himself had a very snorty out-loud laugh. That’s not an answer, she said.
That’s what I told them!
And then what did they say?
That they began to understand why you and I could understand each other, said Ebon. And they both laughed.
That was as much as she’d ever brought up the subject of humans in pegasus country to Ebon. She’d never asked, nor even hinted, for an invitation, although she thought of it often. The tactical problems were severe enough—how long would it take a party of humans to clamber up and across the Starcloud Mountains? Longer than her father would let her be away from the palace, she thought, let alone the size of the troop he would feel it necessary to send with her; they might be safe from taralians and so on once they arrived, but they wouldn’t be on the journey. And she was careful—or she tried to be careful—not to say, Oh, I would love to see that! when Ebon told her about his home. (She had expressed a wish to taste fwhfwhfwha and Ebon had said dubiously that he’d bring her some some time, but he thought it probably wouldn’t like being bounced around in transport.) She had also asked her father why no human ever visited the pegasi: “I know it’s a long way! But it’s not as far as to Swarl or Chaugh, where the traders go every year. But nobody goes to the pegasi—not even us! Not even us who are bound to them!”
Her father smiled. “There are roads to Swarl and Chaugh, and inns and way stations. There are none over the Starcloud Mountains. I said exactly the same thing to my mother—oh, about forty-five years ago. I think I remember her saying she’d said the same thing to her father. But it’s perhaps not as simple as you think. Barring you and Ebon, no bound human has ever been quite sure what he—or she—says is heard by their pegasus the way they said it—however much faith they have in their Speaker. Ahathin has told you the failure rates among those who study as Speakers, yes? How sure are we that even those who succeed—do succeed? Why do we need magic just to talk to each other? And magic is a notoriously tricky servant, even when it’s doing something straightforward like reinforcing the Wall or helping a tracker find a strayed lamb or a taralian.
“What does our connection with the pegasi consist of—besides the Alliance itself? Which appears to include the peculiarly unquantifiable fact that our prosperity is in some fashion dependent on the presence of pegasi? And our—problematical—bindings? The pegasi, so far as we can tell, don’t use money, and there’s apparently nothing they wish to barter. They have been bringing us a few handfuls of gems from their mountains now and again since they discovered Balsin liked them—to pay for the annex, to pay for their keep. And they bring us gifts. That’s all. Although our gardeners say that their dung gives the palace the best fruit and flowers in the country. Before you had Ebon, what did you think about the pegasi?”
“Wings. Flying.” She paused. “Weird. Scary. Beautiful. And—er—maybe a little vain.”
“Yes. How could they not be vain, when they’re so beautiful? I thought exactly the same. And after you’re bound, you merely have a specific weird scary beautiful and possibly vain individual with wings to fail to communicate with, and how are you going to go about hinting to such a person that you’d like to intrude on his privacy? Especially given their deferential status here with us—and the importance of the Alliance?”
“But you’re the king.”
“Yes. So is he. And, to the extent that I know Lrrianay, ‘vain’ is approximately the last word I’d apply to him. Which makes me wonder what other human attitudes we’re assuming the pegasi share because it doesn’t occur to us they’re assumptions.”
Sylvi thought of the many times she’d said—assumed—the wrong thing with Ebon. But … there were barely any stories of humans in the pegasi country. It seemed to be almost as comprehensive a ban as on stories of friendship between pegasi and humans. There were a few folk-tales and ballads where you didn’t know which were the made-up bits or the stories themselves made it plain the travellers in question were not to be relied on. In spite of what her father had said, it seemed to her astonishing that no bound human had ever tried to visit their pegasus at home. And yet Ebon said that the pegasi said that the humans didn’t come. The pegasi made assumptions too.
She didn’t bring it up again to her father or to Ahathin—she had nearly managed to forget her disturbing conversation with Ahathin. And she was vigilant in not bringing it up again to Ebon. But she went on thinking about it. As it turned out, so had Ebon.
There were many more pegasi than usual present for the official announcement of the human princess’ impending visit to her pegasus’ homeland, more than Sylvi could remember since Danny’s ritual of acceptance as the king’s heir. They had begun streaming in the day after Ebon and Lrrianay had returned to the palace, and Ebon had made his astonishing invitation. Even the pegasus queen was here: Sylvi had only barely met the queen; she rarely visited.
“Oh, help,” said Sylvi’s mother, when she’d heard that news. “I don’t think we have a prayer of getting Lori here for it, do we?” Lorival was bound to the pegasus queen—to Lorival’s dismay. Lrrianay had made his unexpected marriage to Aliaalia over two years before Corone had married Eliona—“I spent those two years staying as far away from Cory as I could,” Lorival had said once in Sylvi’s hearing, and laughed. Lorival lived in the port city of Told, where she and her husband, Lord Prelling, were cloth merchants; neither of them came to the palace any oftener than they could help, although one of their daughters had recently married a courtier.
“She won’t thank us for trying,” said the king. “I’ve sent a messenger with strict orders not to hurry. She can come to the dinner. I think Prel’s pegasus will be here too.”
Sylvi was wondering if Lorival would arrive in time while she and Ebon waited for their official summons: lucky Lorival, who could be late. They were again loitering under the cherry tree, but they were standing stiffly, and couldn’t lounge, against the tree or each other. Sylvi was in her court dress, and Ebon was brushed and plaited, with a twinkly little bag around his neck on a wide scarlet ribbon, and neither of them wanted to appear before kings and queens wearing little bits of grass and twigs.
Ah, said Ebon.
Sylvi looked
up from examining the silver half-moons on her court shoes. Glarfin was coming slowly—grandly—toward them. He did grand extremely well. He walked toward them like someone bearing an important message to a princess and a prince. She sighed.
And although there was no one else there to hear but the birds, Glarfin bowed deeply and said, “Lady, sir, the king of the humans, the king of the pegasi, the queen of the humans, the queen of the pegasi, thus your royal parents, request your presence.”
Her father wanted the public announcement made as quickly as possible—before the rumours gained momentum. The crowd was waiting in the Great Court, but the first words would be said in the Little Court. Sylvi’s heart was beating faster again, even though she knew what was coming. There were about fifty pegasi present in the Little Court, aside from the king and queen, and about twice as many humans, all of them senators, or blood, or councillors or courtiers: all people important to the palace and the king. The pegasi were all wearing flowers and siragaa, the decorated ribbons that they sometimes wore over their necks for special occasions; the little embroidered bags, the nralaa, that hung from them glittered with tiny jewels. The humans were all wearing their best clothes, grander than the pegasi if not as beautiful; Sylvi’s father was wearing some of the sovereign’s jewels, so that he sparkled as he moved.
It’s just that no one has ever done this before, Sylvi thought, trying to swallow the lump in her throat, but she hadn’t realised she’d thought aloud till Ebon said, That’s right. Think about how much easier we’re making it for everyone who comes after us. But she looked out at the human faces turned toward them and saw that many of them looked solemn and watchful. Uneasy. Uncertain. Uncomfortable. Fazuur, who hadn’t been needed for the pegasus king to make his revolutionary invitation to the human king, looked haunted.
Most of the pegasi were on or near the dais with her and her family; she could not read the expressions of the few who stood with their humans among the audience, although she could see that their wings lay flat and smooth. Here, at the front, the pegasi outnumbered the humans.
Her father stepped forward, shining like a star, and bowed: bowed to her and Ebon. “Daughter and Daughter’s Excellent Friend, Sylviianel and Ebon, welcome. We are here to make known to both our peoples the great adventure that the two of you are about to embark upon. Lrrianay and his queen, Aliaalia, on behalf of their son, Ebon, do invite you, my daughter and daughter of my queen, Eliona, to visit them in their high land Rhiandomeer, beyond the Starcloud Mountains.”
There was a rustle of movement and a whisper of suddenly-exhaled breath at the sound of the name Rhiandomeer.
Sylvi stood frozen. She knew she had to say something—but everyone was looking at her—looking at her with those doubtful, sceptical eyes. The great adventure that no one had ever done before: she had had no ritual lines of response to learn because there were no ritual lines of response. When her father had told her there would be an official public declaration of the invitation she had known she would be expected to say something—and sitting surrounded by diagrams of the stress patterns of bridges she had written a few words for this moment, and stared at them till she knew them. But sitting at her desk with no one else present but Ebon and Ahathin and no sound but birdsong and the faintest hush of Ebon’s polishing cloth had not made her words strong enough to withstand this moment, and all those wary eyes….
There was a delicate pinch on the back of her neck, and the tickly feeling of Ebon’s feather-fingers. Say yes, babe, or I’ll spill you off over the Wall next time—got it?
Sylvi sucked in a great lungful of air and said, “I thank you, my father, my mother, and I especially thank you, King Lrrianay and Queen Aliaalia, who are father and mother of my—my Excellent Friend, Ebon, for this most gracious of invitations. I shall try my best to be—be worthy of your generosity and—and—and a—an acceptable ambassador for my people.” She’d had an awful time with that “acceptable.” What could she say about herself that she might be able to live up to, that didn’t make it sound as if she shouldn’t go—as if she knew she shouldn’t go?
She tried to find a friendly face to look at as she spoke, a friendly face among all those mistrustful eyes. There had been a minor flurry at the back of the room as her father spoke, and she looked to see who had entered late: Lorival and Prelling. They were both smiling, and Lorival must have seen Sylvi looking toward her, because she held up her hand in one of the most basic sign-gestures, which meant “excellent” or “well done” or even sometimes “thank you” if you were at a loss—or had to be seen across an audience. Lorival didn’t look to be at a loss; she looked pleased to be present at this historic occasion. Sylvi took another deep breath and said, directly to Lorival, “And I’m looking forward to it!”
This proved to be the right thing to say. Some of the watchful faces relaxed, and there was even a faint murmur of human laughter. She turned gratefully to the others on the platform with her, and she could see Lrrianay smiling—was he picking up what she’d said from Ebon, from her father, from the change in the tone of her voice, from hearing the human audience begin to relax and even laugh a little? Fazuur’s hands were motionless, his face turned away from the pegasus king. Now Aliaalia was smiling too—was she smiling to be seen smiling (how many of the humans present could recognise a pegasus smile?) or because Lrrianay had told her what Sylvi said … or because a pegasus shaman had translated for her? She recognised Hissiope, whom she knew to be a shaman. Did they have an official translator? Or more than one? There were a dozen Speakers present, including Ahathin, Fazuur, and Minial.
It was all too complicated. For a moment her courage disappeared and she thought, louder than she meant to, Oh, is this all a terrible mistake?
No, said Ebon. It’s the best idea I’ve ever had. You’ve just never learnt to like being the centre of attention.
But then her mother and father stepped forward to embrace her—and, despite the ban, to embrace Ebon too—and Lrrianay and Aliaalia followed, and did the beautiful pegasus bows, and both of them lightly touched her cheek with a feather-hand. Then Sylvi’s father said to her quietly, “Stay a little while longer, and let everyone congratulate you—including the ones who clearly don’t want to: in fact, especially the ones who clearly don’t want to. You don’t have to say anything but ‘thank you’—or ‘you’ll have to ask the king.’ And then you can go. I’ll face the mob in the Great Court. But I’m afraid you’ll have to come to a few of the discussions about ways and means: breaking tradition always comes with a noise like mountains falling.”
CHAPTER TEN
Sylvi was afraid of what great company she would perforce be assigned to, or they to her; if she and Ebon couldn’t go to a country fair without a dozen minders, what would a visit to Rhiandomeer require? And had they figured out how long it would take to climb the Starcloud Mountains on slow human feet? She kept thinking about how the Starcloud Mountains had come by their name: this too was from Viktur’s journal.
Thee land where their Caves do lie, which are thee spirit and thee heart of their people, repose beyond thee mountains to thee north and east. When they do come to visit us, and watch our toil upon thee lowlands to create thee great city-palace Balsin sees so clearly in his mind’s eye, we most of us pause in any work of our hands to watch their approach; and I will not comminate ourselves by declaring us lazy thereby. It is thee sheer sight of thee pegasi that we do not habituate to—cannot so do. I wait in expectation of what our children may make of thee pegasi, for they will have grown up accustomed to looking upon them; perhaps it may be different for them; or perhaps it is a human thing, to look upon such beauty and fail to encompass it, either when walking upon thee ground as they do, as lightly as a bird one might hold in thee hollow of one’s hand, or as great winged beings above our heads.
It was one evening at twilight, with thee last of thee lowering sunne’s rays upon them, brightening their great wings much as they had been illumi
ned on thee first day we had ever seen them, ’tis years ago now, and yet we do still catch our breaths when we look upon them so. There were many of them this evening; thirty or more, for Balsin had called a great Feast for thee laying of thee cornerstones of thee central Palace which was now accomplished, and they did come to honour him and us and thee thing we did create.
Thee border mountains behind them were dark against a blue damask sky; and thee beating of their wings did glister and coruscate. My Sinsi, who was working beside me though her belly now did make it difficult for her to bend far, stared at them and said, “They do look like a cloud of stars.” This was taken up, till all have begun to call thee border mountains Starcloud.
Sylvi’s party would only be able to ride as far as the foothills of the Starclouds. It was all very well that Ebon had permission to take her to the Caves, but how far were the Caves? Was she going to be another pathetic human who only got a day or two inside the pegasus border—and then had to turn around and go home again, because they had already been gone too long?
And could you walk over something called the Starclouds?
She did, as her father predicted, and upon his request, attend a number of meetings on the subject of her journey. These seemed mostly to be a series of prosy old bores standing up in turn and being prosy and boring, and so it was difficult to pay attention and even more difficult to understand any details they might be trying to put forward, although some of them spoke with considerable vehemence. What she did learn was that about a third of the senators, a quarter of the blood and a delegation from the magicians’ guild thought she should not go—and that if there had been so much as one sighting of a taralian or a norindour or a ladon anywhere near the Starclouds, that would have been the end of the matter, and she would have gone nowhere. But there wasn’t, and there hadn’t been for decades. (This didn’t stop her from a small anxious startle every time she saw another travel-stained messenger coming to see one of her parents. It wouldn’t be … fate couldn’t be so cruel.) She heard her father once say to Lord Cral that he was tempted to suggest that he was sending his daughter away for her safety; at present there were far too many sightings of taralians and norindours and ladons in the human lowlands.