Ebon saw where she was looking and said, Hey, don’t worry. They’re only stone.
We’re so ugly, said Sylvi miserably.
Ugly? There was a pause, as if Ebon were considering the matter; he was certainly looking first at the carved humans and then at Sylvi, and then back. I don’t think so. I like the way it’s all up and down with you, and no sideways. It’s very—direct. Like you humans are. Although you’re better-looking than that lot. He looked hard at Sylvi, seemed to make up his mind about something, and went on: When Dad first told me I was going to have to be your pegasus, I used to come here and stare at these guys. I’d only seen live humans a few times, when a crowd of us went to your palace for some big rite or festival or other, after I was big enough to fly that far. And then us kids were always kept well back and never went to the banquets.
I never saw you, said Sylvi. I’d remember, black is so unusual. I can hardly remember seeing any young pegasi, unless it was one of you being bound to one of us.
Yes—well—you do have to be nearly grown to fly that far. Ebon was silent a moment, and then went on: You—you humans—saved our lives—and you go on saving our lives. The taralians and their friends would be all over us in a few generations if you left. And we’d just sit here and let them, because we wouldn’t leave the Caves, and without the llyri grass we’d stop flying within a generation or two. We’d stop flying but our legs still wouldn’t be tough enough to run like deer and horses run. Our shamans say the grass grows out of the stone that the Caves are made of, that’s what makes our wings strong enough to carry us. Two thousand years ago the taralians found us—that’s what the stories say—we could have run away, but we couldn’t’ve either, right?
Taralians and norindours and ladons don’t like our mountains much and don’t like our Caves at all, but we couldn’t stay here all the time. Did you know that we used to raise llyri grass where your palace now sits? That field of it your gardeners keep for us has been growing there for probably four thousand years. Even the barn where you keep it after harvest is where our old winter pavilion used to be. A roc knocked it down a century or two before you came…. That’s pretty much when we pulled out of the lowlands.
Our shamans told us we’d get rescued at the last minute. And we did—you came. But something went wrong….
Sylvi turned and walked toward the wall where the carved stone humans stood. It took her a moment to realise why the scene looked familiar. It was where she had just been, what she had just seen, although she was seeing it now from a different angle, as if the army camp was behind her, and the way she had come with the hundreds of pegasi in front of her. The humans were now on her left and the pegasi on her right. Even now that she could not hear them speak, the strangeness of the humans’ armour drew her attention; even now that they were inanimate images on a wall she could see the tension of them, the set concentration of their faces.
And she could still pick out the two magicians although the baton was not visible. One of them looked as the other humans looked, fixed on the matter at hand but worried about its outcome. The other was the one who reminded her of Fthoom.
She knew he was not Fthoom; this man did not even look like him. But that sense of power, of power held for hidden purposes, held in a way meant to be intimidating so that the wielder of it can better judge the strength of any opposition—that was Fthoom. That inward look, the look of a miser always preoccupied with his private treasure, of the greatness of what was his and his alone, and of how to make it greater yet—that was Fthoom. She found herself thinking that this man even moved like Fthoom—except that she was looking at a sculptured wall. Perhaps the candlelight slid over him differently than it glinted over the others.
I don’t like this one, she said.
I don’t like him either. He’s ugly, if you like.
Ugly, she said. Why did you come here? When you knew you had to be my pegasus.
The skin over Ebon’s shoulders shivered and he nodded his head once quickly, a sign of embarrassment. Well. These are the only humans in the Caves. If I wanted to look at humans, these were it. That was a long time ago, okay? I was a lot younger, and I hadn’t met you.
These are the only humans in the Caves? I’m surprised there are any, she thought. Why these?
Ebon looked at her in surprise—tall neck drawn up even straighter (how regal he looks, she thought), ears stiffly pricked, just one wrinkle across his nose. That’s the signing of the treaty, he said. I thought you’d recognised it. That’s your king Balsin, and our Fralialal. And that’s Dorogin, the ugly one, and Gandam.
The signing of the treaty.
Ssshasssha. History and … recollection.
The motionless stone picture was taking place just after she had watched the living scene: the two humans were still holding the treaty paper flat against the table, but a pegasus—it would be the pegasus king—was holding one wing, with the first three primaries curiously spread, just above its surface. These were astonishingly artfully done, for the shadows fell in such a way as to show, now that she was looking for this, the inked tips of those feathers. As the candlelight flickered she felt she saw him draw his feather-tips across the surface of the paper in the quick, graceful, triple stroke she had seen replicated on so many documents, so many commemorative plaques and paintings at the palace. She thought of the mural in the Great Hall where, when she was younger, she had thought she could hear Fralialal stepping down from the wall onto the floor. That Fralialal was bigger, grander—more human. This one, here, on the wall of the Caves, this one was a true pegasus: smaller, finer, graceful as candlelight … exotic. Inexplicable. Unknowable.
The signing of the treaty.
She had just been standing on eight-hundred-year-old grass, smelling the smoke of the eight-hundred-year-old war that had given her people and Ebon’s their Alliance. She had seen the treaty itself unrolled, when it was only a new piece of fine paper with some writing on it—she had seen it before it was signed, before it was the treaty, before it hung on the wall of the Great Hall, before Balsin’s signature on it had become the reigning monarch’s mark.
She had met Dorogin’s eyes.
And Dorogin looked like Fthoom. In the mural at the palace, none of the human faces stood out: they were just humans. Only the pegasus king and the treaty itself had any reality.
No—she would not think of it any more. She would not think of the fact that she had been there, the fact that something about the Caves had made her imagine that she had been there. She would not think of it. But she could—she would—she must think about Dorogin and Fthoom.
So it began … at the beginning, she said slowly, what went wrong.
She held her hands out—her human hands—and looked down through them at her single pair of human feet. It’s a good thing I didn’t … know all this. Or I’d’ve been too frightened to come.
Eah. I’d be the same.
You would not, she thought.
I’d be the same, but I’d do it anyway, just like you would.
Well, I’m here, she said slowly, staring at the wall—at Dorogin’s stony eyes watching her. What am I going to tell my father? She wasn’t sure if she’d said that so Ebon could hear it, and she moved nearer to him, and twisted her fingers in a handful of his long mane as it spilled down his shoulder. He turned his head, and his nose rested for a moment on the back of her hand. The glow from the bead that hung round his neck haloed him.
They turned together, and found Lrrianay and Hibeehea standing at a little distance, watching them—letting us talk together privately, Sylvi thought in surprise. Before she lost her nerve, she let go of Ebon’s mane and stepped forward quickly, ahead of him. What can I tell my father? she said.
What have you seen, child? said Hibeehea. What do you want to tell your father?
You know what I saw, she said. Didn’t you send me? This is more of what I’m here for, isn’t i
t? Ssshasssha, that humans don’t understand? Is there any more you haven’t told me? That you’re going to throw me into without telling me? Well, I have heard—and spoken—and seen, and perhaps I understand—a little. But even if my father believes me, he will say, What can we tell our people? Our people, who think the pegasus ssshasssha is a bard’s fantastic tale? How is a picture carved on a wall anything but a picture carved on a wall?
And how will you answer him?
She took a deep breath. I will say, because I was there, and I saw them. Why did you bring me to the Caves and not him? He is the king. He is the one you have to convince. And he loves you—you pegasi. He would listen to you. He envies me coming to the Caves. But he let me come—alone—because that is what you wanted. And this is why you brought me, isn’t it? I’m already half in your—your world, because of my friendship with Ebon—because I can talk to Ebon. Because—and now I can talk to all of you, all you pegasi. I went there—she gestured at the stony Alliance—I went there. I walked into that scene. I saw them breathing. I smelled horses and campfires and human food cooking and human sweat. Did you send me because you could not send him?
There was a little pause, but Sylvi was too angry and shaken to think about how she was addressing the king and his shaman.
We cannot send you or anyone—we cannot send ourselves, or each other, said Hibeehea. But we can recognise those who may be able to go themselves. It is an unusual talent. Most of those who have it become shamans. I am one of them. We don’t know what that talent would look like in a human—we have never seen a human who has made us wonder if they might carry that talent. But we have wondered about you a great deal since Lrrianay came back from your binding to say that you and Ebon could speak to each other.
And then Ebon came to us with his mad idea of bringing you here as what he called a birthday present, said Lrrianay, smiling, but he held his head low and worried.
What is it you humans say? That we backed into their hands? said Ebon.
Played into their hands, said Sylvi, and curled her fingers into fists. She turned around quickly and looked again at the signing: and she was sure—except that she knew it was nonsense—that Dorogin’s eyes moved to meet hers and his mouth turned up in a gloating sneer, a sneer that said, There’s nothing you can do.
I don’t know what I can do, she said, because silent-speech had become her ordinary way of speech; and then she added aloud, as if for Dorogin’s benefit, “But I will do something.” The vibration of her larynx felt strange to her, and she uncurled one of her fists, and put her long nimble fingers on her throat.
CHAPTER 15
Usually there were other pegasi with them, or nearby; in all the big chambers they entered there were sculptors working, with their tiny knives and brushes and picks and whisks and rubbing cloths, and they were in some of the smaller rooms and alcoves too, and occasionally in the corridors. She was told she might watch them, if she wished, so long as she did not speak to them or touch them or their tools or otherwise disturb them. But once one spoke to her.
Welcome, small human child, daughter of the bond-friend of our king, and bond-friend of our king’s son.
Oh—I’m sorry—I’m not supposed to—
You did not disturb me, said the pegasus. I disturbed myself, that I might speak to you. So it is true—you can speak to us, and he laid his brush down and turned fully round to look at her. She had to stop herself from blinking or fidgeting under that steady regard, but there was nothing hostile in his look or his posture. His neck was gently arched, his body relaxed, tail lying flat, and when he laid his brush down, he folded his wings only loosely. He nodded his head in an acknowledgement not unlike the similar human one and then held it down longer in an almost-bow and said, I am honoured to meet you, little girl, king’s daughter.
She didn’t mean to, but thoughts and silent-speech still got confused, and she said so that he could hear her, I am not little.
His laugh started with the nose-wrinkle smile and ran in ripples all the way to his hindquarters. He was a dappled brown, and his dapples twinkled as he laughed. He was smaller than Ebon or Lrrianay, but not so small as Hibeehea. I beg pardon, he said. When I was younger, I went several times to your palace, and I have seen a few humans, and they were great clumsy creatures. You are not. You are smaller than I was expecting. Smaller and neater.
For an awful, heart-stopping moment she thought—He’s guessed about Ebon and me, he knows about the flying!—and she clutched that thought to her as she might clutch an escaping puppy, all legs and wriggle, that the sculptor should not hear it too. I am sorry, she said. I have always been … among humans I am too small. She thought—and pushed that thought forward, toward the dangerous speech boundary—of the years she had spent sitting on cushions so she could eat supper with her family, and the fact that she still used a child’s sword in the practise yard.
You are not too small here, he replied. Here you are just right.
She couldn’t help smiling. Thank you, she said, but her eyes drifted to the wall, where the pegasus had been working. Sometimes the walls were sculpted only, but here there were colours too: yellows, browns, umbers, dark reds and blues and greens. She thought she saw tree shapes, and if they were tree shapes, she thought she saw bird shapes among their branches.
It is the Forest of Areeanhaaee in autumn, said the pegasus. Where we hold our main harvest festival, and the birds sing so loudly you cannot hear the sound of hundreds of us running the great rune-sign that is laid out as a path among the trees.
There is so much I—we—humans don’t know, she said sadly. I do not know the Forest of Areeanhaaee, although Ebon has told me something of your festivals.
You know more now, said the pegasus. And you will take it home with you, and tell other humans, and you will tell it well, because you have been to the Caves and spoken to its sculptors. You will find the Forest and the festival on many other walls here, till it is more familiar to you than if you had been there—because that is what happens in the Caves. He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, and then unfolded one wing, and tapped the bead that hung round her neck with a tiny feathery finger. That is nicely done, he said.
Ebon made it for me, she said proudly, and looked round for him. He was standing with his father, but as if he felt her gaze on him he immediately looked toward her. He made a tiny, curiously stiff bow of acknowledgement to the sculptor she stood with, and looked away again. Surprised, she looked at the sculptor, who was smiling.
He works hard, said the pegasus. The extra burdens on him must make him weaker or stronger, and they have made him stronger. We are all bound by what fate chooses for us. I am proud of him. I am proud of you too, not-little Sylvi. And he turned away from her, and picked up his brush again.
They walked farther and farther into the labyrinth of the Caves, and while Lrrianay went always in the lead Sylvi was glad of the presence of the shaman, even when that shaman was Hibeehea—although she could not have said why she was glad, nor why she knew that Lrrianay depended on him too. Sylvi also knew by the third time they stopped to rest and eat that they would not leave at nightfall, that they would sleep in the Caves. But her fears of the morning seemed long ago, almost as long ago as the last time she had seen her father. By that third stop—leaning against a wall with a candle in a niche just over her head, a piece of bread in one hand and a handful of dried plooraia in the other—she had already watched the signing of the treaty and spoken to the sculptor; nor had her sense of ssshuuwuushuu left her. She was still aware of the weight of the mountain over her head—and it was by this that she knew that they were going farther in—but she also sensed Cuandoia looking out over his domain, and felt no apprehension.
They slept in special chambers that the pegasi had hollowed out or closed off from the surrounding Caves for this use. These were small and plain, but Ebon taught her to recognise them by the small low doorways and the scatter of single fl
owers carved round the openings—and in each there was a strong draught of fresh air, like opening a window before you went to bed in your bedroom. (There were equally mysteriously well-ventilated little water-closets at irregular but frequent intervals along the corridors, awkward but not impossible for a small human to use, and with sweet-smelling rushes scattered on the bare floors; there seemed always to be one close to a bedchamber.)
At their first evening halt she was missing the prospect of hot food very badly—if it was evening, and if it was the first and not the fifth: the breadth and balance of sshuuwuushuu or no, Sylvi was so exhausted that she was occasionally putting a hand against a corridor wall to push herself upright. Some weary longing for sky and grass and trees had also crept into her consciousness, and she was cold and stiff and feeling her most homesick and alien, but she was careful to say (and think) nothing about it, and tried not to let her drooping spirits be too visible to her companions.
But she was tired enough that the moment they walked into one of the little rooms and there were a few of the familiar bags and panniers of her journey with the pegasi waiting for them, she sat down at once, as if her knees had given way. Ebon dropped down to lie beside her, and put a wing round her, and she felt more relaxed and a good deal warmer immediately. She leant back against his shoulder and sighed. You should stuff mattresses when you moult, she said. You’d make a fortune selling them to us.
What would we do with a fortune? said Ebon. Our old feathers go with the rest to fertilise our fields. But I’ll save you some if you like. They’ll keep you a lot warmer and softer than dumb old duck or goose.
Lrrianay and Hibeehea were still standing, and she tipped her head back to look up at them. Pegasi didn’t stand up as much as horses did, but they didn’t immediately sit or lie down when they were tired the way humans did either. She still had to listen carefully to understand pegasus speech, and it generally had to be addressed to her for her to understand it; two of them speaking quickly and emphatically to each other made a musical, if in this case somewhat edgy, noise in her head, but was entirely untranslatable. The one thing she thought she could pick out was that Lrrianay and Hibeehea’s body language declared they were not happy with each other.