Pegasus

by Robin McKinley

  Although Ebon was the only black, the pegasi were variously coloured, from white to cream to gold to copper-red to dark, fresh-ploughed-loam brown and deep shadow or silver grey, and the three groups that made the three circles, six or eight spokes around each central boss, seemed to be creating some pattern with some meaning beyond the simple fact of preparation for the flight to come. Some … Sylvi shook her head; I’m just a little dizzy, she thought. Too many people watching us. Too many people watching the princess who is going to the pegasus country—and the pegasus Caves. How many of them know about the Caves?

  Ebon caught her eye. Don’t worry, he said. We’ve got this netted. Tight as silk.

  It comes with the breathing, she said. Worrying.

  When every particle of harness was secure exactly where it should be, the accompanying pegasi moved away from the carriers. For a moment—as if the purpose of the pattern they had created was about to be revealed—all twenty-two carriers stood motionless, perfectly arranged in their three circles, tails and necks arched, wings only a little roused—and more beautiful than moonlight or summer dawn or the face of your true love. The mutter of excitement and curiosity among the human crowd died away to silence.

  And then Guaffa, who was, in the absence of Lrrianay, leader of the pegasi, bowed his neck, stamped one foot, and lashed his tail twice, left, right, and murmured a few words: and Sylvi, without thinking about it, only grateful to understand something, and having spent the last several weeks cramming herself with the pegasus language including everything Ebon told her about the doorathbaa, immediately moved forward to settle herself in her drai, because she knew that was the signal. There was a quick rustling whisper through the crowd, but she didn’t think about that either.

  Fazuur bowed calmly to his sovereign as if Sylvi was supposed to go first, and the king then settled himself in his drai too—and Sylvi realised what she had done. When I blurted out Ebon’s name at our binding, I didn’t notice, she thought. This time it’s only that I’ve been doing my lessons. But I’m sure someone will tell Fthoom anyway….

  Two pegasi tucked a blanket over her, leaving her gloved hands free, and one of them, one of those she didn’t know, quickly and neatly threaded and tied a light rope over her, in a zigzag through the rope-loops that edged the drai, and stepped back. Sylvi thought she felt just the lightest brush of a feather-hand against her cheek, and looked up: there was a faint smile-wrinkle across the pegasus’ nose. She smiled back, and felt a little better.

  Guaffa threw up his head and lashed his tail right, left—Sylvi heard awwhinnaw, which means “listen”; but she got a bit lost after that, and he’d be mostly speaking in silent-speech. He’s just reminding us that this baggage will get a sore bum if we mess up the lift-off, said Ebon, but Fazuur was translating it as “We thank you for the extraordinary honour and privilege …” Blah blah blah, thought Sylvi, and stopped listening.

  Then, more precisely than a company of the King’s Own Silver-swords, the pegasi moved, back and forward and sideways, till the draia were clear of the ground. Inside wings were arched to allow for the presence of ropes, and Sylvi felt the tingle of magic, felt it slipping down over her like another sort of slender pegasus cord, strong and soft as pegasus silk. Then she heard the Now! through Guaffa’s nostrils, and the pegasi burst forward in a canter that became a gallop almost at once, and then a run, the flat-out run of a sighthound after a hare, thrilling and terrifying, and before she believed it could be possible they had leaped into the air. Sylvi’s stomach gave a lurch, indicating its desire to stay behind, and she felt sick in a way she never had flying with Ebon—not only, she thought, because he was a little more gradual about their take-offs, not least to avoid spilling her off. She wound her hands through the pair of loops thoughtfully made large for this purpose and stared down at the sea of dark and pale faces staring up at her.

  The pegasi banked right, for the flight round the inside of the Wall. She glanced over at her father, who was also holding on, but with only one hand, and waving with the other. She looked at her own straining fists and thought, Be a princess. Be your father’s daughter. And he’s never even flown before. She untwisted her right hand, and waved.

  Once they’d flown over the Wall and were headed toward the mountains Sylvi began to enjoy herself—although she didn’t dare look down. She’d never flown in daylight before. She could look ahead toward the rise of the Starclouds’ green foothills—her view constantly interrupted by the beating wings—and up into a blue sky that seemed both close enough to touch and farther away than it ever seemed from the ground. There was more wind up here, as she’d guessed, and as they drew nearer the mountains it began to be gusty, and the pegasi side-slipped like birds to take advantage, or to keep their course, the draia swaying beneath them—and Sylvi’s stomach, having decided to make the best of it after they’d left the Wall behind, began to object to the mode of transport again.

  It was not a very great distance between the two realms—ordinarily the pegasi flew it easily in less than a day—but carrying heavy burdens slowed them down and wearied them sooner. They stopped three times, in each case setting down in mountain meadows surrounded by pathless trees. Sylvi knew there were no land-routes to Rhiandomeer but there was something a bit daunting about the unbroken circle of trees, despite the size of the meadows and the bright friendly scatter of wildflowers. She thought, Yes, you would think so, you poor wingless human. She would have liked to ask her father if he felt the same way, but it didn’t seem polite to suggest that the pegasi were doing anything that might make their human guests uncomfortable (aside from failing to persuade the wind not to gust), even if they couldn’t understand what she was saying. And where were they supposed to stop, in a country with no roads?

  Ebon may have guessed. What do you think? he said on their first halt. She’d been washing her hands and face and having a drink at the stream, and was now staring at the whispering trees on the far bank. The rustle of their leaves sounded like counterpoint to the noise of the water cascading over its bed: beautiful but lonely. It’s very—quiet, isn’t it? she said finally.

  This wasn’t what she meant. It wasn’t quiet; there was the wind among the trees, and birdsong, and the melody of the water, and scuffling in the undergrowth, and a few hums and whiffles from the pegasi—and the occasional word from her father. She was trying to think what else to say that was nearer to what she did mean, before Ebon started teasing her for being hopelessly urban and too accustomed to the bustle of the palace, and how noisy humans were, when he said, It is a bit, isn’t it? It’s nicer at home. You’ll see.

  They had set out as early as there was good daylight, and it was still nearing twilight when a huge double spiral of torches began to light up below them. There was a wide space at the centre of the spiral, and Sylvi knew they were going to land there when the pegasi tightened the ropes of her drai again—and this time, although she had not heard anything earlier, she heard all six of them say the holding-words, one right after another, a singing sort of noise on a falling scale, almost like a very short round in six parts: and then once, twice, more, as the shamans flanking them spoke. She saw the air shimmer with the ooffhaloah—or perhaps that was just her eyes, tired after a long windy day, staring at torchlight through the fast-dropping twilight—felt it settle around her, felt both the drai and the ropes stiffen with it—and her drai bobbed up till she was riding even with the straining necks of Ebon and Sorlalea on her either side, their inner wings brushing the edge of her drai.

  They had set down and flown out again from their three rest stops with the great heave they’d made in the Outer Court—and counter-heave on landing, with the vast wings arched and scooping the air like bells to slow them as quickly as possible—and each time she found herself worrying about fragile pegasus legs … this final time, audibly enough, apparently, for Ebon to hear her, because he said, Stop it, you baggage, we know what we’re doing. She was distracted by the sli
ght breathlessness of his remark, since they didn’t have to breathe for their sort of talking. And then they were down.

  They set down with astonishing gentleness—the more astonishing for how exhausted they must all be. But her six bearers were galloping before she knew they had landed—she could see her father’s bearers galloping ahead of her and only then realised that she was hearing the faint soft tap of pegasus hoofs to either side of her as well; her drai glided as smoothly as a boat on a still lake. They galloped on through the path made by the spiral, emerging as the last torches were lit: It’s another dance, she thought, like the dance of the harnessing.

  Lrrianay came forward first to greet her father—the back pair of his doorathbaa were still holding the ropes tightly while the front ropes had been gently let slacken so that he stepped, standing, out of his drai—and he put his hands on either side of the pegasus king’s eyes as the pegasus king put his feather-hands on the human king’s temples. His wings met behind Corone’s back, like an embrace.

  Sylvi had belatedly stripped her gloves off and was fumbling for the ends of the lacing that held her in her drai.

  Hey. Move before I strangle.

  She wanted to say something appropriately rude—the harnesses were made so beautifully they didn’t move a finger’s breadth, or a feather-hand finger’s breadth, as the draia swung up or down—but she was too occupied. And then she realised they had stopped, and she was standing too. She let the last lace-end drop, and stepped forward, and her pegasi all moved lightly toward her, so the last ropes fell slack and her drai fell to the ground. She half heard a kind of exhale—not the pegasi—no, as if the magic were sighing in relief—and there was a faint twinkle on the ground, as if the magic had coalesced, and fallen, as a kind of shining sand.

  Oh, thank you, she said. Thank you, thank you.

  Lady, your closed-wing servant, said Ebon drily.

  Remembering her manners she said aloud, “Genfwa, esshfwa,” which was the best all-purpose thank you she knew—the pegasi had rather an abundance of different thank yous for different occasions. There was probably a better one for now, but Sylvi’s memory refused to provide one. She turned where she stood, and all six of her bearers nodded, and five of them smiled—she couldn’t see whether black Ebon did or not, in the torch-flickering dark. But by then she was facing forward again, and the knots were let loose and rope-loops lifted off her bearers, and here was the pegasus queen herself to welcome her. Sylvi took a deep breath and bowed.

  “Welhum, fwooth shile off humaa hing an swaah bohn-bluah uff ouu deeahss Ebon,” Aliaalia said, or almost sang: Welcome, fourth child of the human king and sworn bond-blood of our dearest Ebon. Ebon sounded like a verse in the song: Ehhboohn, and she swept her wings out and back in a gesture so grand and beautiful and effortless it brought a prickle of tears to Sylvi’s eyes. The queen’s golden wings caught the torchlight and for a moment there was no sky and no land, just two vast burning wings. And then she folded them and was the queen of the pegasi again, greeting the strange human child—briefly she half roused her wings to stretch her tiny feather-hands toward Sylvi, and softly brushed her temples.

  Sylvi thought, even their speech is a dance, and, shyly, because her own voice seemed rough and flat, with none of the singing echoes of the pegasi’s voices, replied, “Genfwa, ihhu, Ebon sa sshira sshira fra, dooafwa swhee,” and she held her hands out, one toward the queen and one toward Ebon: the important person she was speaking to and the important person she was speaking about. It was a much grander gesture when you had wings: her arms felt very thin and naked. She hoped she’d said, Thank you, crown-wearer, Ebon is my very best friend—and was feeling a little bit pleased with herself, because it wasn’t a sentence she’d memorised, as she’d memorised her speech, and the words had come to her as if she were speaking a language she knew.

  It was only then that she noticed another pegasus standing near the queen, and without knowing anything about him except that he was important enough to be standing alone by the queen she knew immediately that he was much more than that—that he was terribly important—perhaps more important than the queen, possibly as important as the king himself. The queen dropped her hands and stepped back and Sylvi was left to face this alarming pegasus by herself. She wasn’t accustomed to pegasi being alarming.

  No, not quite by herself; five of her six bearers had left her, but Ebon had stepped forward and was standing by her right shoulder. Even without his silence warning her, she knew not to speak to him in front of this pegasus.

  She had no idea what to do. The queen’s gesture had been both generous and flattering; putting your hands on someone’s temples in greeting was both a great honour and a great intimacy. She had no trouble resisting any temptation to reach out to this pegasus; she felt that trying to touch him might be like putting your hand in a fire—while the queen’s burning wings had seemed like a blessing. She shook herself out of her paralysis, folded her hands over her breast and bowed.

  When she stood up again and looked at him, he was still looking expressionlessly back at her. Pegasi were rarely expressionless, even if you couldn’t read what the expression was, and after four years with Ebon she read most pegasi very well. After a silence that could have been no more than a few heartbeats but felt like a century he said, “And so you have come to us, Sylviianel, bond-sister to Ebon.”

  She blinked. He’d spoken the words aloud—managing the individual words very clearly. The oral pegasus language all ran together; there were breaks between phrases, not between words—and the phrases tended to be long (pegasus lung capacity had something to do with this). On the rare occasions Sylvi had heard a pegasus try to speak human—usually Lrrianay—they sounded as the queen did, a kind of singing blur with no sharp consonants. She’d never heard a pegasus speak as this one just had—but he had also, she thought, half said them in her mind. In her mind? Like Ebon? In this case—if she weren’t imagining it—it was an uncomfortable and off-balancing mode of communication, almost scratchy, as if she were sitting on a burr. No, she thought, don’t be silly, it’s just strange. And it’s too strange after the day I’ve had, she thought, hopefully or sternly, not wanting to be frightened if she didn’t have to be, when she’d only just arrived, when her father was leaving her here alone the day after tomorrow…. Her father was standing statue-still on the far side of a row of torches. She knew that stillness: he was stopping himself interfering. He was leaving the day after tomorrow…. But the queen hadn’t frightened her.

  “Sir,” she said, “ffffffwifwif.” Great sir. There were several more ff’s than she needed, because she was stuttering with nerves, but that made his greatness greater, which was perhaps a good idea. She did not try to speak silently—she didn’t want to speak silently to this pegasus, even if she was able to. She tried not to shrink toward Ebon, although out of the corner of her eye she saw that his feathers were ruffling up, which indicated he was upset too.

  The queen said, “Thiiss iss Hibeehea, ouu gheaaesss shamaaahn.”

  “And Speaker,” said Hibeehea. “A service you appear not to require.”

  “Oh, sir!” she blurted out, too miserable at the revelation that she’d gone wrong already to try to think what she ought to say, or whether she could say any of it in pegasi. “I only wished to show that I am trying!” Awkwardly she added, “Ffffwhifwif. Sangharaharah. Tisianhaa!” Sir. Beg much pardon. Am trying!

  Mysteriously, this was the right thing to say. Some of the stiffness went out of Hibeehea, and the queen laughed aloud, raising her head and letting a long, light, singing heeeee slip out between her lips.

  “It is partly my fault,” said her father from where he stood next to his bond-brother, and Sylvi noticed that he was not speaking slowly, as he did when, in the human palace, he hoped Lrrianay might understand. “I have told her to study your oral language and to ask Ebon to help her. I’m afraid I have led her to believe that the unusualness of the bond betwe
en her and her bond-brother puts a greater responsibility on her, in this and in other things.”

  “As it does, king,” said Hibeehea. “As it does. And it is not to be expected that children should understand all the ways of speech and courtesy, especially in a stranger’s home. Nor perhaps should it be expected that an old shaman, long accustomed to the undisturbed ways of his people, should at once perceive what is happening under his nose—especially in a strange child of a people whom my people have believed for a thousand years cannot learn to speak to us as we speak to each other. Welcome, small one, you have studied well.”

  Now what? Do I say thank you or genfwa? she thought. Oh, wasn’t there a thank you just for shamans? What … mlaaralalaam perhaps? Should she risk it? So she said all three, getting into a muddle about the aa’s, and added some extra ff’s again to ffffwifwif. To her surprise he unfolded one wing and touched the centre of her forehead with the tips of his primaries. And then he walked away.

  Whew, said Ebon. That was worse than flying over the mountains with Guaffa and a boulder.

  What just happened? Can he hear us?

  Not now. I mean, yes, me anyway, but he won’t be listening. Shamans don’t listen unless they give you fair warning. But don’t talk to me if he’s talking to you!

  But what happened?

  I don’t know exactly. But he hasn’t been happy with you and your dad coming here. You particularly. Your dad didn’t get a Speaker here because he and my dad are bond-blood. If you can talk to the reigning monarch you don’t have to be able to talk to anyone else—that’s something out of one of the oldest chronicles, from before your first king, before the Alliance—I don’t know who else we’re supposed to be able to do silent-speech with, but it’s a really long time ago. And then you humans happened and you couldn’t talk to our sovereign but we were still allies, and this bonding thing was invented. Although before you and me they’d decided being able to talk to the sovereign was symbolic—but humans never come here so the rule never got used with you anyway. Some of the older ones, especially the shamans, who—who hold us together, you know? The shamans hold all of us together like those words they taught us hold the draia—they got really worried about the old rule with you coming here and they decided that our dads were going to count as being able to talk to each other, but what about you?