But I’m falling to pieces, she thought, but she knew he heard her.
You are not. Five days is a long time to be in the Caves for anyone but a sculptor or a shaman; no one is expected to remain in the Caves five days on their first visit. But we did not have time to be gradual. We wanted you to see.... Child, may I touch you?
She had entirely forgotten the human ban on touching pegasi; the silk of Ebon’s mane and the velvet of his shoulder were as familiar to her as his words in her head, and since she had been here in their country, especially since she had first heard Niahi, she had fallen in with the pegasus habit of touching each other as they spoke—of touching as part of communication.
Except the shamans. She learnt, without realising she had learnt it, to recognise the shamans partly by the fact that no one touched them, except formally, and with permission first formally granted. She had been presented to several other shamans after her dramatic first meeting with Hibeehea, but she had known, before she had been told, that they were shamans; she had thought it was the slightly aloof, rather regal austerity they all seemed to bear that gave them away; it took her a little while to realise that an important clue was that no one touched them. And they did not touch you. She thought now that she could still feel the spot where Hibeehea had touched her—so lightly and briefly—with the tips of his pinions, at the end of that first meeting, so long ago. She hadn’t thought about it at the time; only that she’d needed to prevent herself from flinching.
Ye-es, she said now, hiccupping through her tears even in her mind-speech. I—I would be honoured.
He unfolded his wings with a tiny, curiously silvery noise like the faintest distant sound of ringing bells, and reached his feather-hands toward her, and touched her temples. It was not a quick brush of blessing, this time. He touched her, and left his fingers pressing gently against her skin.
It was like . . . the warmth of summer with the endless skies of a cold winter day; the bursting greens of spring and the rich russet-gold of autumn. It brought her back into time, into her body; her feet were on the earth, her hands were tangled in Ebon’s mane, and Hibeehea’s feather-hands were touching her temples. Some thing, some energy, passed between them, real as his hands on her face, something . . . slow, liquid, viscous . . . something tawny or golden, like barley syrup or honey. Without meaning to, she let go of Ebon’s mane with one hand and held it out, cupped, as if the syrup-honey were a real liquid being poured.... She looked down, and something translucent pale gold was pooling in the palm of her hand. She raised her hand to lick it off . . . and saw a woman standing smiling at her, holding a small ewer whose lip glinted with the amber yellow that also lay in Sylvi’s hand.
As Sylvi’s tongue touched the little shining puddle, the woman said, “We’re not all bad. Don’t make that mistake.”
Sylvi said wonderingly, “You’re a magician.” The taste in her mouth was a little like barley syrup, a little like honey . . . but most like something else. Something sublime.
“I am.” The woman laughed. Her hair was grey and her hands gnarled, but she laughed like a young woman.“Your amazement is not flattering. Minial is a magician. Ahathin is a magician.”
“Yes. I—I sort of keep forgetting. Minial mostly knits. And she talks to you like you’re just another person. Ahathin does too. Athathin doesn’t—he doesn’t act like a magician.”
“How should a magician behave? Ahathin is a very good magician.”
“Is he? Who are—oh”—because at that moment she realised that some of the dark dappled shadows in the trees behind the woman was a pegasus, coming to join them. He was a dark iron grey—not quite so dark as Ebon’s blackness—and as he stepped out of the trees and the sunlight struck him, he briefly glinted silver, and she found herself bemusedly thinking of the Sword: so too did it flash suddenly, as if it were alive, like a pegasus or a human was alive. She looked at him wonderingly. Pegasi were nothing like swords.
I am Redfora, said the woman. This is Oraan.
She knew at once and without thinking answered silently, as the woman had spoken: You’re bound.
We are, said the pegasus.
But—magicians aren’t bound.
Occasionally they are. I too am the daughter of a king. And Oraan is the son of another.
But—Sylvi had only just realised they were using mind-speech—And you can speak to each other!
Yes.
Why have I—why don’t we know about you? Who is your father? Are you queen after him? I need to know about you—Fthoom—Ebon and I—
But they were gone, and she was standing outside the Caves with Hibeehea’s hands on her temples, and she had stopped crying. Hibeehea was looking into her face as she blinked and looked back at him.
He said, Are you with us again here, little one?
Redfora and Oraan, she thought. Yes. A woman gave me— She looked down; she was still holding her hand out, elbow bent and palm up, but there was nothing in it now. Hibeehea dropped his hands and stepped back.
I am further in your debt, she said, and bowed.
We are more in yours, said Hibeehea. Who is the woman you saw?
Do you know a human king’s daughter named Redfora, bound to a pegasus named Oraan, son of his king?
There was a pause, and gestures she didn’t recognise flickered over both Hibeehea and Lrrianay. If they were human, she thought, they would look at each other. She thought there was a quick burst of silent-speech between them. She couldn’t hear any words, but she felt Ebon, as she was still leaning against him, startle.
It was Lrrianay who answered her. They are a tale out of legend. She was great-granddaughter to Balsin, your first king—so the story goes. She was the eldest child of her father, but while that should have made her queen, her brother said she was not fit, because she had trained as a magician. Lrrianay paused. And because she could speak to her pegasus. That is almost as much of the story as there is. No one knows what the people thought, nor what the king thought, nor if the brother was honest—nor why she trained as a magician, for your monarch’s family does not take such apprenticeship, I believe.
The only other part of the story is that the question was never put to trial, because while her father was still king, she—and Oraan—disappeared.
Lrrianay stopped. After a moment Sylvi said, Disappeared?
That is all the story says. That, and that either her father or her brother declared that her name should be erased from all records of the realm.
Sylvi found herself wrapped fiercely in a large black wing as Ebon said, Well, we aren’t going to disappear.
Let go, said Sylvi. I’m going to break feathers just by breathing, you’re holding me so tight. Of course we’re not going to disappear. And I’m not a magician. I’m not the oldest, either, and Danacor is very honest—and there’s Farley and Garren after him too. She thought of the sharp silver flash as Oraan stepped into the sunlight. I wonder if anyone asked the Sword what it thought about Redfora?
I hope they ran away, said Niahi. I hope they ran away because everyone was being so stupid. I hope they ran away to somewhere really nice.