Pegasus

by Robin McKinley

  “Welcome to my world,” her father had said gently. “I’m sorry, my love, you and Ebon will have to make some decisions in a little while—after the senate decides what decisions you’re allowed to make, and if the Speakers’ Guild ever lets them decide. All your secretary can do meanwhile is sort into categories and write acknowledgements—and draw up summaries.”

  She said—it was the nearest she had ever come to telling her father the hidden truth about her journey, and she said it absent-mindedly—“Hibeehea told me, the last morning in Rhiandomeer, that I had changed the world. But this …” She was watching her new secretary pressing her emblem, the princess’ seal, onto the back of a folded letter. The secretary, whose name was Iridin and who was not a magician, looked up and smiled, and put the letter on a pile of other letters.

  “Sometimes it only takes a moment for everything to change,” said her father, unknowingly echoing what the queen had said two days after her daughter’s return from Rhiandomeer. “More commonly, however, it takes forever, and an astonishing amount of ink. This is only the fresh beginning of a new forever.”

  But her father and Lord Cral were both clearly and genuinely and openly absorbed by everything she could tell them, and they asked many questions based on what she’d described during her presentation—although Lord Cral asked more, and once or twice when she had felt herself floundering it had seemed to her that her father had deflected Cral’s questions by talking about what he had seen during his brief visit. Lord Cral had said more than once, “Cory, we must look again at the possibility of building a human way through the Starclouds.”

  The second or third time he said this, her father caught her eye and smiled.

  She thought, I must tell my father. I must tell him I can … I could … Niahi … She looked first at Ebon, standing at her shoulder—just behind her shoulder—in the correct way a bound pegasus in the human court—in the way that no longer seemed at all correct to her. Her eyes shifted to Lrrianay, who smiled at her also, but she could read nothing in his face or posture—she could read nothing of him, like any human failing to read any pegasus, like any human who had never spent three weeks in Rhiandomeer surrounded by pegasi. What if it was only Niahi, aside from Ebon? It could easily be only Niahi.

  And at that moment the messenger was announced, a Lightbearer lieutenant. She came from the camp in the Greentops, and she came to report a norindour sighting.

  But not of one norindour: of seven.

  This was bad enough; there were too many sightings now, of all their old enemies, taralians and norindours, ladons and wyverns. We haven’t got any quiet borders left, Danacor had said to his sister. But the sightings were still of ones and twos—unwelcome, especially as they kept coming, but nothing that the now-regular patrols could not deal with.

  Not seven. Seven norindours presented a serious danger, even to a regiment. They were bigger than taralians, and they had wings. And norindours were normally solitary, barring breeding pairs. What would bring seven together?

  But even that was not all of her news. The rest was much worse: there was a roc with them. A roc that made no attempt to hide itself, who saw them seeing it, and let them look. A roc who was—probably—the reason seven norindours were hunting together. Hunting—what? Even a greyear stag, some of which grew as big as horses, could not feed seven norindours.

  “Y-yes, my king,” said the messenger upon questioning. “Yes, I was there. It—the roc—is bigger than you—than I—can imagine. It stood there, watching us watch it—watching us fall back—watching us trying not to stumble over each other to get away from it—and then it spread its wings and flew. It … it wasn’t just that its wings blotted out the sun, that there was darkness over us at midday. The darkness in the shadow of a roc’s wings is like the end of the world….”

  Taralians are intelligent enough to be deadly enemies; norindours are cleverer than taralians. But rocs are at least as intelligent as humans or pegasi—and they had some powers of magic, possibly powers as strong as human magicians’. A confirmed roc sighting was the worst news the country had had in generations.

  Everyone who lived in the king’s palace, and everyone who had ever attended one of the high festival days when the king carried the Sword, had seen it flame up at the king’s touch, but no one had ever seen it glare and dazzle as it did on this day. The news was already spreading, and people began to pour into the Great Hall to hear what the king would say—this too was reported, while the messenger still stood before the king.

  “I—I came as fast as I could, my king,” said the messenger. “As fast as I could without foundering my horse. But other people saw the roc, my king.”

  “Yes. A roc that wishes to be seen will certainly be seen,” replied the king. “Go get yourself some food and rest.” He put a hand on Sylvi’s shoulder. “I’m afraid our previous discussion, infinitely to be preferred though it is, must now wait.” He led the way toward the Great Hall, briskly, but not hurriedly. Sylvi, feeling superfluous and lagging a little behind, discovered Glarfin to have materialised at her other elbow. One did not lag with Glarfin at one’s elbow. She caught up with her father and Lord Cral, all three pegasi dropping back to allow her more room. They are always behind us, she thought. And Lrrianay is king, and I am only king’s daughter.

  When the little group paused at the door, Sylvi’s father said to her, “Walk with me, young one; we’re all we’ve got at the moment. Danny should be around here somewhere, but everyone else is out on patrol.”

  The king went up to the burning Sword and laid his hand upon it; Sylvi thought that she would not have touched it if her life depended on it. There was a great shout, or clap of thunder, a sound that was more of a buffet than a noise, that no one afterwards was sure they had heard, and the Sword’s light went out. Everyone found themselves gasping for breath; everyone except, perhaps, the king, who had turned to look at his eldest son, who had just appeared in the doorway next to the mural of King Fralialal and had paused, staring at the Sword. From where Sylvi stood at the king’s side, her brother’s face was in shadow, but she could see that his head was turned toward the Sword.

  “I will ride west this afternoon,” said Danacor. “The Skyclears are ready.”

  Danacor went with a party not only of his Skyclears, but also magicians and specialist trackers; he went to the mountain where General Randarl now watched, and where the roc had been seen. Danny had seen the roc—he had seen two rocs, although that was not generally known “—I hope,” read the private letter that came with his official report. “We are doing our damnedest to make it only one roc; one roc is bad enough.” The chief thing that he stressed and reiterated in all his reports—as well as why they had some prospect of preventing knowledge of the second roc—was that both rocs were still well to the far side of the boundary of the land King Corone called his, at the edge of the wild lands, where only the boldest hunters went, where there were known to be basilisks and chimeras as well as taralians and norindours and ladons and a wyvern or two. This territory had never been claimed by any human government because of the difficulty of administering it—although there were rumours of encampments of humans as wild as any of the beasts, and the occasional mad magician living there.

  But if the rocs as yet came no nearer, neither did they go away. It had been two generations since anyone from Balsinland had seen a roc to be sure it was a roc—and more than one had not been seen, even in the wild lands, since the Great Hunt.

  Farley took his own company of the Queen’s Own to a different mountain, and Farley’s company had also seen a roc. The messages he sent made it clear that Farley’s roc was a third.

  A little over a fortnight after Sylvi’s birthday party there was a terrific row—between Thowara and Danacor. Thowara had Poih and Oyry with him. Danacor had returned long enough to speak to his father in private, and was going out again at once. The pegasi were insisting on going with Danacor and Garren, who was
accompanying his brother. Danacor was equally insisting that he did not want to risk them—as he put it. If they came, he said, they must not fly, on account of the norindours, on account of the rocs—in which case they should stay away altogether. They replied that this land—Balsinland—lay next to their own Rhiandomeer, and that they were the bound and sworn allies of the sons and daughters of Balsin, which meant that they were bound and sworn to protect Balsin’s land, or hadn’t Danacor read the treaty lately?

  Eight Speakers were present to translate between the two humans and three pegasi—plus Lrrianay and Corone. Corone had sent a message to his daughter, requesting her presence, and so she had to go, however much she shrank from hearing—or not hearing—three humans and four pegasi talking to each other—arguing with each other.

  At first she could hear nothing but the ordinary murmur of human voices—the ordinary murmur that was to her no longer ordinary—saying the sort of courtly-negotiation things that typically made her struggle to stay awake. Even in this case the orotund flow of the Speakers’ voices—they spoke in a kind of overlapping chant, like a part-song—began to make her feel sleepy. Perhaps this relaxed her concentration till she began to pick out the three separate strands of the conversation: the humans, the Speakers—and the pegasi. She could not hear precisely what the pegasi said, but she felt she could not hear them as one might not be able to hear a lute if a huge drum was thundering away beside it. She was hearing the strange singing rhythm of the pegasi silent-speech, and she heard it because it was so different from the rhythms of human speech. She could hear what Danacor said because he was accustomed to addressing crowds, and because when the king’s heir or his brother spoke, the other humans fell silent. When a pegasus spoke, a magician, or more than one, spoke at the same time, translating; sometimes a third or fourth magician broke in to add something. Sylvi began to wake up again, and listen hard. And she became uneasily certain that the magicians’ translation was less than perfect. By accident or incapacity? Or by design?

  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 t
he 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.

  Her mother told her years later that her governess had let her escape far oftener than a stricter or more traditionalist educator would have. The young woman gravely told the queen that fresh air was always good for a growing child, and that since children will find people to idolise, it seemed to her a good thing to indulge the lady Sylviianel in idolising such a fine young man.