There was her cue: “And I am glad to introduce my daughter to you….” Her father’s speeches were never long—“no one listens to a long speech” was one of his precepts—but he had teased her that the real reason he wanted her to give a speech on this occasion was so that his could be shorter yet. “I can’t get my mouth around all those pegasi vowels,” he said.
“The ffff’s are even worse,” Sylvi had replied: but her father was saying aooarhwaia mwaarai—beloved daughter—as if he’d never had any problem. She sighed, and Ebon said, Three wings, which was pegasi for “good luck.” The pegasi parted before her—there was no looking around; they seemed to know where she was—and she walked, trying to feel that she was dancing, along what was now a path among them. They moved, gently, gracefully, so that their heads were toward her as she passed them: cream and gold, brown and copper. A few of them pulled out flowers or decorative feathers from their wings and manes and tossed them down before her. She went slowly, skirt swinging, and stood beside her father, who bowed to her and then moved away, to sit down again in his chair.
She folded her hands in front of her as if she were reciting a lesson for Ahathin, but also to keep her hands from trembling—her arms from trembling, her whole body from trembling. The long skirt hid her trembling knees. “I am beyond honoured to be here,” she began: “Waarooawhha niira hee.”And then she couldn’t go on.
It wasn’t that she had forgotten the words. She knew what came next: It has been my great wish since I have known Ebon that I should see his home. I knew I would not, because humans do not come here. That I am here is a gift beyond my imagining. I bow my best bow to you, to each of you I bow once, twice, three times. Respected friends, my thanks and gratitude. Thank you. But the words would not come out. They were trapped, trapped between her folded hands, between her arms and her body, between her pressed-together knees.
She took a deep breath and dropped her hands. She took a step forward. She bent down and picked up one of the flowers the pegasi had thrown in her path. She looked at it for a moment and then tucked it into the collar of her dress. She opened her mouth.
“Genfwa,” she said, thank you. That wasn’t what came next; that was supposed to come at the end. “I knew Ebon’s country would be very beautiful”—she stumbled over “very beautiful,” fffooonangirii—“but it is beautiful in a way that speaks to my …”
Spirit, she wanted to say. She could feel her mind slipping away, her memory disintegrating; spirit was the sort of word a human could not say in pegasi, nor a pegasus in human: you could say beautiful, you could even say friend; but you could not say heart or spirit, and you could not say anger or love. Spirit, she thought. She looked out into her audience; she was speaking slowly, so no one knew yet that she could not say her next word.
Pegasus eyes are mostly dark; some are copper; a few are pale honey. Ebon’s were as black as his hair. Sylvi looked at the pegasi looking at her, and her eyes met the queen’s eyes, which were a gold a few shades darker than her coat. The queen smiled at her, holding her gaze. Spirit, thought Sylvi.
“… Swaasooria.”
She thought she heard a few pegasi sigh; it was the first sound any of them had made since they parted to let her through. She held up her hands, palms together, and then spread them out, embracing her audience.
“I am not only honoured to be here,” she went on, “I am glad and grateful.” Waaee shaar daeal. “Thank you, thank you.”
She remembered something Ebon had told her: It’s not just ffff for emphasis, although that’s the usual. You ever really want to knock someone out, say “vraai.” You can stick it in pretty much anywhere, but you have to mean it. You don’t use “vraai” for … Ebon had paused and looked suddenly uncertain, and then distressed. Maybe you can’t use it. You wouldn’t use it for any of the stuff humans can talk to us about.
“Vraai,” she said. “Genfwa, esshfwa, vraai.” Heart, she thought, gafweehaa. Love, oranooiaka. Thank you from the love in my heart. “Esshfffwa gafweehaa oranooiaka gloh.” And she walked up to the queen, and unfastened the garnet from around her own neck, and lifted it up to tuck it round a lock of the queen’s mane.
Again she woke the next morning not able to remember how the night before had ended. There had been dancing, she remembered—human dancing too. She had danced with her father, who had asked her when she had rewritten her speech. “I didn’t,” she said. “Those were the words that wanted to come out.”
He had looked at her, smiling, but the smile was a little sad. “Well, I’m sure they were all excellent words—congratulations.”
But she couldn’t remember much more after that. She remembered feeling very sleepy, as if the pegasus feet and wings were writing a sleep spell…. Even before she opened her eyes she could feel herself smiling; the last thing she could remember was watching the pegasi all seem to flow together in the rhythm of their dance—was it that that made her smile?
There had been a dream—presumably after she’d fallen asleep, although perhaps it was still a result of the spell of the dancing—a dream of flying. She was flying with Ebon, but she was herself flying—she could almost feel the weight of wings now, pulling on the ordinary human bones of her shoulders as she lay on her side with her face on a pillow and the gentle hummocks of the mattress all around her. The friendly feather mattress would no doubt curl itself under and around wings as it did the rest of her. She didn’t want to open her eyes, or to move … to have her wings go away….
She woke again, knowing that it must be late—her father was leaving today! No, he wouldn’t have left without saying good-bye, but— She shot out from under the coverlet this time without thinking of either the comfort she was abandoning or the wings she had briefly possessed (for she had had them, brought momentarily out of her dream) and looked around. She heard voices, one of them human, and turned that way.
“Good morning, young one,” said her father.
“I’m sorry—”
“No, I overslept too. Something very hypnotic about the dancing, wasn’t there? If you want to call it dancing. Dancing seems too frivolous a word somehow.”
Slowly she said, “It’s as if they were making—creating something. It was like … another sort of weaving.” Or another sort of spell, she thought, remembering the rainbow veil and the smoke of binding. But it had been everyone, last night, all the pegasi, not just the shamans—and even, a little, herself and her father—who were the makers.
“Torchlight and shadow weaving,” said her father.
No, thought Sylvi. That’s just turning it into human words.
“And being pegasi,” said her father. “But what were they making? A rope, a basket, a drai, one of those amazing collars—”
“Siragaa,” murmured Sylvi.
“A tablecloth?” her father continued. “I’ve tried to ask Lrrianay, but I don’t understand his answer. Or maybe he doesn’t understand my question.” He looked a little downcast. “Mostly it’s been a little easier here—the air and my head are clearer.” He tried to smile. “I don’t suppose you’ve noticed any difference? But you and Ebon never have any trouble talking to each other, do you?”
She thought of telling him about the haziness, about the disorienting sense of standing in a huge space listening to a noise like echoes, except that what made the echoes and what they reverberated against were unknown to her—and decided not to. “No.” She looked at him and smiled. “Don’t worry.”
“I—” He hesitated. “Your pegasi has improved just since you’ve been here—two days. I didn’t understand all of your speech last night, but I could pick up that Lrrianay did.”
“I’m not sure it has improved,” said Sylvi honestly. “I was inspired, I think. Somehow. Something about last night.”
“The torchlight and shadows,” said her father. “They were weaving a …”
He stopped, but she could hear what he wasn’t saying as clearly as she he
ard Ebon’s words in her mind: “… a net to pull you away from us.”
“Dad,” she said, “I’m human. I’m a human among pegasi. I’ve only got two legs and I can’t fly. None of that’s going to change.” To her horror, her voice wavered. Almost three weeks. Here. Alone. One human among all the pegasi….
“If there is any doubt in your mind—come back with me. We’ve already made history, coming here. You don’t have to make any more if you don’t want … if you can’t … if it’s too hard. Many times in the last weeks—since you had Ebon’s invitation—I’ve thought, what are we doing, sending a fifteen-year-old child where none of us has ever been?”
“Fifteen isn’t a child,” said Sylvi. “And I’m nearly sixteen. I’m just visiting my friend at home—and you and Mum like my friend and his parents. They’ll take good care of me. And I’m going to enjoy it. I won’t make any of the kind of history anybody will have to learn later. I promise.”
“You’ll do it beautifully,” said her father. “If you find out what the dancing makes, you can tell me when you get back. But Sylviianel … be careful of your promises. I’m not going to hold you to this one,” and for a moment he wasn’t her father, but the king.
She stared at him, then looked quickly past him, not wanting to know what was in his face. She looked anxiously at the sky, wrapping her arms around herself in her nightdress, telling herself she was shivering only because she was cold, and maybe just a little because her father was going away and leaving her … but the weather was warm, and Ebon was here. “It’s already later than when we left the palace,” she said. “That was barely dawn.”
“The prevailing wind is in our favour going back, I’m told,” he replied. “Also they won’t have to spend any time or energy making any circuits so the earthbound can point and wave at one of their own flying with the pegasi. But we do need to go now—I was going to come and wake you in another minute. You’ll come and see me off?”He took her by the shoulders and stared into her face as if memorising her. “It’s not going to be easy to fly away and leave you behind.”
She smiled, but her face felt stiff. “You promised. We promised.”
“Yes. We promised. King and king’s daughter.”He stooped and kissed her, and turned away.
So she was still wearing her nightdress as she followed him to the big meadow where twenty-two pegasi had landed in a candlelit spiral a day and a half ago, and where the banquet had been held last night. The meadow was clear this morning, of both banqueting tables and spirals. She lingered briefly at the edge of the trees; it didn’t seem respectful to be in her nightdress, barefoot, her hair standing on end and her face unwashed. She rubbed her face with her hands and smoothed her hair back; but then in an odd way—a way that seemed to align itself with the haziness, which this morning seemed to be standing close to her, almost like a human or a pegasus whom she could turn to and ask questions of, like, Who are you? What are you? Why are you standing near me?—it almost seemed more respectful to be barefoot and in her shift than in the gown she had worn last night, and with her hair put up like a grown woman’s for a ball. She stepped forward, out of the trees, and the pegasi who were already there silently made room for her.
She didn’t notice when Ebon joined her; only noticed that he had. He and she and many other pegasi watched as the draia were laid out and the ropes stretched away from them. The luggage drai this time was very small, and a mere two pegasi would carry it: much of what Corone and his daughter had brought had been gifts; most of what was going back now was gifts from the pegasi.
The pegasi made everything ready just as they had done in the Outer Court of the palace; this was the way they did it, and it had nothing to do with who was or wasn’t watching. Even the way the pegasi who were not immediately concerned with the harnessing were standing seemed to be creating some kind of shape or sign; Sylvi thought it might have been an extension of the wheel-and-spokes of the draia and their ropes, only made of standing pegasi. A charm for a safe flight? They’re just naturally polite and elegant, she thought, half despairingly, holding the edge of her nightgown down against a little eddy of wind.
My father is leaving me here alone—
And then there was a violent blow to her shoulder and she staggered away, narrowly missing running into the pegasus standing on her other side.
Oops, said Ebon. Sorry.
You’re as clumsy as a human, said Sylvi.
Never, he replied. Say that again and I’ll stand on your foot.
She looked up at him and realised he was worrying about her. This seemed so implausible she laughed, and—because she read Ebon very well now—she saw him relax. You did that deliberately.
Hmmph, said Ebon. Would I do that?
This morning, because there were fewer harnesses to put on, and perhaps because her father was leaving, it seemed to Sylvi that it took no time at all before she had to say good-bye. The pegasi rearranged themselves into another shape, which made her and her father the centre of it, but they bowed their heads or turned aside as the king held out his arms to his daughter and she rushed forward into them.
“You’ll have an amazing journey,” he said. “I envy you the Caves.”
“You could have stayed longer,” she said into his shirtfront. There was a pause, and she looked up into his face. He was wearing an expression she had never seen before, quizzical and a little uncertain.
“Only you were invited to see the Caves,” he said. “I’m only here at all because I wouldn’t send you all alone to this place where almost no human has ever been—and certainly no one specifically bound by the Alliance has ever set foot. Lrrianay understood that I could not let you come alone, and so agreed to bring me too—for a day, two days, before your real visit begins, I imagine. And I agreed to that because I trust Lrrianay even more than I trust my own right hand.”
She stared up at him. “You didn’t tell me that,” she said.
He raised his shoulders. “I wasn’t planning on telling you at all,” he said. “There is something about the air of this place. Or maybe it’s just the pegasi.”
She looked around. Even in their turning-away the pegasi had made a pattern; the smaller smooth arches of their bent necks and bodies provided counter-curves like a scalloped hem, around the edge of the circle she and her father stood in. “I think it’s the pegasi.”
“So do I,” said her father, and bent and kissed her again. “I won’t tell you to be good, because I know you’ll do your best, and your best is very, very good, young one, and don’t let being my daughter blight that fact. Your mother says that I can worry that I’m not worrying well enough, and I suspect you’ve inherited that talent. I won’t tell you to take care of yourself, because I know the pegasi will take the best care of you that anyone could—better than the mere human care you mostly have to put up with. Perhaps I’ll just tell you to have fun. And that I love you and will miss you. How very unkingly of me.”
Sylvi meant to say something—good-bye, I love you—but her mouth wouldn’t work.
He turned away as if it hurt him, and walked to his drai. Two pegasi fastened the safety-ropes around him, and then stood away. The eight pegasi moved sideways, taking up the slack till the human king swung clear of the ground. Sylvi caught her breath: she heard Guaffa say the necessary word, heard it echoed by the others—heard echoes she was sure had nothing to do with her ears—heard the chord the shamans sang. Almost she saw the magic-weave that held the king’s drai twinkle into being, but perhaps that was just something about her eyes this morning, watching her father leave her—and then, in perfect unison, the pegasi broke into a canter, and almost immediately into a gallop, racing away from her. Six pegasi accompanied them; three of them she knew were shamans. The two luggage-bearers followed last, a little to one side, as if aware of the princess’ eyes on her father’s drai. It was interesting, thought Sylvi distantly, her immediate attention floundering in what her father h
ad just told her, in her awareness that she had chosen to stay, and that he was leaving right now—it was interesting seeing what was happening from the ground, seeing what it looked like. It was just another pegasus dance.
The pegasi leaped into the air. Her father raised his arm over his head. She started to raise hers in response and realised he couldn’t see her. It seemed barely a breath or even a heartbeat before he was little more than a black dot above the trees on the horizon.
Her eyes burned. She kept them stretched wide open, watching the dot disappear. Ebon had joined her, and tucked the top of an open wing around her as she stood where her father had left her. She stood like that for a long moment more, still and cold as stone, but then she began to notice the warmth of Ebon’s feathers and the gentle movement of his side as he breathed. The dot had disappeared: she was staring with her dry, burning eyes at empty sky.
“I’ll have my bath now, please,” she said aloud, as if she were talking to a human.
“Baff,” said Ebon. “Fwaayomee.” Follow me.
Those were almost the last words she said aloud for the rest of that day. As soon as her father was gone there seemed very little reason to speak out loud; there was Ebon, of course, but more mysteriously she seemed not to want to speak aloud to the pegasi. Their own oral language was liquid and musical, but it was only “spoken” with the kinetic language which the human body could not emulate, and it seemed to her, listening and watching, that the unspoken word breaks were instead created by gesture; the sound alone was a kind of murmur, like wind or water. All those pegasi vowels, she thought. This was something else she could not imitate; she had to breathe too often, and her breaths were shallow.