I must tell my father, she thought. Her thought in his private office, with Lord Cral, before the news of the rocs had arrived, had been put away in the ensuing uproar; and she was half-relieved for the excuse. But she could not hide behind her uncertainty forever: she was looking at a forever about blood, not ink. Perhaps it was not forever, but it was as long as Balsinland had been in existence, and as long as it would remain Balsinland.
Everything was different since her trip to Rhiandomeer. Everything she had thought she understood was changed; how could she recognise or judge anything new? She could not forget being a tall, narrow, top-heavy human with flailing arms surrounded by pegasi; she could not forget the shock of returning to the palace after three weeks in Rhiandomeer. Perhaps I am not hearing the pegasi, she thought; perhaps it’s just the strangeness I’m hearing, the strangeness of being here, of pretending to be the old Lady Sylviianel, fourth child of King Corone IV. . . . But the lute-singing in her ears now was only like pegasi silent-speech. She knew what she was hearing, in spite of the strangeness of everything, including the strangeness of hearing the pegasi in Balsinland, where the air seemed to swaddle you round, to both muffle and protect you.
She thought clearly and calmly, I must tell my father.... If the magicians would be quiet a moment I could hear....
Eliona and Hirishy had joined the company on the low dais at the head of the king’s receiving room; Hirishy promptly found a curtain to stand behind. The scattering of courtiers, barons and senators was growing as the word spread what was happening. Once or twice the discussion broke down while Danacor and Thowara merely shouted at each other. Sylvi had never heard a pegasus shout before; it wasn’t something the pegasi did. Thowara made a noise like a combination of a horse’s neigh and the king’s Guild of Heralds on a feast-day: the only time she had heard anything like it was the day that her father had banished Fthoom, when Lrrianay had trumpeted. But today Thowara was not merely louder but angrier. The pegasi were never angry either. And Sylvi was increasingly sure that neither her brothers nor her brothers’ pegasi were understanding more than one word in five of what the other was saying—despite the Speakers. What shamans were at the palace? Would it be worth asking—or was that one of the things she dared not do, because it meant that she favoured the pegasi? And perhaps the shamans would be as confused as she was. If Hibeehea were here, would he not be able to create some symmetry to this chaos? But he had left—he was back in Rhiandomeer—because human magic made him ill.
There was a brief pause in the proceedings—while, Sylvi thought, Danacor and Thowara got their breath back—and a rustle behind her, and a silky black head appeared over her shoulder.
I hope I’ve missed most of this, whatever it is, said Ebon.
I think so, said Sylvi. I think Thowara’s winning. He wants to go with Danacor—he and the others with their bondmates.
Yes—I know about this. They’ve been rahmerarahmering about it a while.
Thowara’s determined to go. He thinks he should take a—take a—what do you call it? Regiment. Of pegasi. With him. There’re a lot of volunteers.
Rahmerarahmering was a good word for it. They were going at it again now. The magicians’ voices rose as they tried to keep pace.
I . . . Sylvi hesitated. I’m not sure the magicians are translating as well as . . . as well as we depend on them to.
Danacor’s Speaker was now translating Danacor back to Thowara, who was standing stiffly, head a little bit back so he could look Danacor, who was a tall man, in the eye. Thowara’s wings were half roused, but held rigidly back, rather than curved out to the sides. Anger, thought Sylvus. This is what pegasus anger looks like.
Should we—no, we’re not allowed, the senate and the council are still arguing about us, and Iridin—Why don’t your shamans come? In frustration, knowing the answer, she cried out, Hibeehea speaks human better than I do!
They’ve all gone home—you know that. Nmmoor’s the only one left, and she wasn’t invited here, said Ebon. Our shamans are never invited, except to parties. Not to the courts.
Who told you? said Sylvi. Who told you to come here?
Glarfin. He said “Sylviianel” and then led me here. But I should be here. Even if neither one of us is doing any good, even if—
Even if they won’t let us try. Should I tell my father—
But at this point Lrrianay stepped forward and slowly—that there could be no mistake—formally and quietly demanded his and his people’s rights as set out in the treaty. There was a collective sigh from most of the humans present, because even without the Speakers’ translation it was clear by the way Lrrianay stood—every shining hair on his body saying king, Sylvi thought—what he was declaring.
And so it was decided that Thowara and his two brothers would go with the human company; with Thowara, and under his command, would go five more, and another ten would follow, as soon as the message went back to Rhiandomeer that they were needed.
And Danacor would be carrying the Sword.
It had happened that way several times before, that the young heir rode out with the Sword while the elder ruler remained in the city, to govern and think and negotiate and plot. King Corone formally handed the Sword over to his eldest son—the Sword having agreed to be so handed—and the ceremony was a brief but very beautiful one. But what was a glorious tale in the history books was grim and awful when it was happening to you.
Dinner on Danacor’s last evening was hushed and tense. The king and queen from long practise of difficult conversations did the best, chatting about ordinary things without ignoring the fact that Danacor was riding to war. Several times when runners or other messengers concerning the campaign came to whisper in the king’s ear, the king responded as if the whispers were no more alarming than those on the night before a feast day, when the guild of flute-players was feuding with the guild of viol players and there was the dire threat that neither would appear. Danacor tried to take the lead from his father, but was only half successful. His left hand, as if involuntarily, kept touching his belt, where the Sword had hung this afternoon for the first time, and where it would hang tomorrow for . . . no one knew how long. Their pegasi had been present only briefly; Thowara and Oyry had preparations to make for the morrow—and even Ebon had said, Best I go with my brothers now, dearheart. Sylvi had nodded, feeling the difference between them again yawning like a void—or like the beak of a roc, which was big enough to catch and swallow a pegasus. Rhiandomeer seemed a million years ago.
Sylvi finally managed, at the end of the evening, to slip up to Danacor to say a private good-bye; and then she could find no words for it.
She looked up at him—she remembered when he was her age now, and she not much more than a toddler, and he had been so big and fine and grand, and she was so proud to have him as her big brother. She had been much more dazzled by the manifest splendour of her big brother than by the fact that her parents were king and queen of the country; being a king and queen seemed chiefly to mean talking to a lot of boring people about boring things (and being a princess seemed to be about being polite to people you didn’t want to have to speak to at all, and learning boring indoor book-ink-and-paper lessons even on sunny days), while Danacor was spending his afternoons in the practise yards with the horsemaster and the master-at-arms—and occasionally the queen, who didn’t like boring indoor things very much either. Sylvi, when she could escape nursemaid and governess, would hang on the fence and watch.