Pegasus

CHAPTER 8

The next day was a beautiful one, and she and Ebon were together. Ebon was at the palace more than any other pegasi but Lrrianay and Thowara, but he had to go home sometimes, and he’d been gone nearly a fortnight before returning three days ago in time for Hester and Damha’s binding. They had had lessons to do in the morning, but it was afternoon now. Sylvi half sat, half lay with her head on Ebon’s shoulder and the tip of his half-open wing negligently across her lap. There was grass under them, and trees nearby if the sun grew too warm, or more wing if Sylvi felt chilly, and the smell of flowers drifted over them. This had used to be enough—especially after they had been separated—especially when their next public appearance wasn’t till the day after tomorrow—especially when they’d gone flying two nights in a row. This had used to be enough, before they’d been to too many fêtes, and been asked too many questions that only a real oracle could answer. Before their cousins had found them intimidating because they were famous. Before it was that much sooner till Fthoom presented his findings.

But she and Ebon had had almost four years of flying together—glorious, intoxicating flying. How they had remained undiscovered Sylvi had no idea, only that it was one more thing she would not think about. Ebon could do almost anything with her lying along his back that he could without her, and while his family teased him about the muscles he had developed—his nickname was Whyhrihriha, which meant Stone-Carrier—and occasionally one of his brothers or his sister called him a cart-horse, so far as either he or Sylvi could tell, no one thought any more about it.

The sun was warm and she felt sleepy. She had often felt sleepy in the last four years. She and Ebon mostly managed to go flying at least one night a week when Ebon was at the palace; they made it more often when they could. But the demands on even the fourth children of kings can be considerable, and she and Ebon had become very popular. Two nights in a row was very unusual.

One week about six months after their binding, when she and Ebon had slipped off three times, and gone farther than they had before because Ebon’s wings were suddenly growing stronger, she fell asleep so much that Ahathin, abetted by Lucretia, Guridon and Glarfin, decided not unreasonably that she must be ill. (Lucretia had said, “If you were a little older I’d say you were sneaking out at night to meet your lover.” Sylvi held her breath: if they started keeping watch on her.... “But you don’t have quite the dazzled, fatuous look of first love.” Lucretia grinned. “And I haven’t heard of any footpages—or any of the young stablefolk—falling asleep a lot either.”) Sylvi only avoided the doctor’s prescription of bed for a week by agreeing to take the most ghastly, horrible, revolting tonic as she described it to Ebon. Nirakla made it! I thought she was my friend!

She yawned. They’re going to start threatening me with that unspeakable tonic again, she said. I can see it in Mum’s eye.

Ebon rubbed her hair with his feather-hand: mane-rubbing among pegasi was considered comforting. I’m sorry, he said. Day naps aren’t so unusual with us, any more than night flying is. My problem is trying to explain where I go on all these dark expeditions. Pegasi did not sleep alone: Ebon’s absence would be noted every time, and would need explanation every time.

It’s a good thing our parents don’t talk to each other, said Sylvi, or somebody would have noticed I’m sleepy the days after you’ve been flying at night.

Eah, said Ebon. Dad’s pretty okay about it. But Gaaloo and Striaha and Dossaya and . . . well, several of the rest not only notice but have to talk about it.

But you had that brilliant idea, she said, shifting her position so she could rub his mane.

It was brilliant, wasn’t it? said Ebon, not quite smugly. There started off what looked like a big commotion about it, did I tell you? Because we don’t do human stuff in the Caves. But my master spoke up for my idea, saying that the land wasn’t human, that we used to live on it ourselves a long time ago before the taralians came, and then Dad started wittering about how this could strengthen the Alliance and . . . well, the rest of’em listened, he finished. Sylvi wondered what he wasn’t telling her, but she wouldn’t ask; both of them knew that each protected the other from some of the fuss their friendship produced among the grown-ups. He hurried on: And I’m making sketches, which is pretty unusual. You don’t get to make your own sketches till you’ve been an apprentice forever.

Sylvi tried not to be jealous. Ahathin and her father were pleased with Sylvi’s work on rivers, dams and bridges, but it wasn’t like it had been her own idea. Ebon wanted to be a sculptor more than anything—he’d never admitted it, but Sylvi was sure that the reason he’d tried to escape being bound was that he knew it would interfere with his chances at being accepted for apprenticeship. But Ebon had told his father after his—his and Sylvi’s—third night flight that he wanted to work toward doing something about the landscape of the palace grounds at night. My master did say I had to focus. But he didn’t tell me what I had to focus on. The funny thing is that no one has done this before.

Not so funny maybe, said Sylvi. How many sculptors are bound to humans? And it’s only you bound pegasi who ever come to the palace much. It’s like Nirakla talking to your shamans. Funny. Not funny.

Hmmmh. I think my master has only been here when your dad was crowned.

Well then. Sylvi wasn’t sure what exactly Ebon wanted to do with the night landscape they flew over, only that, if he succeeded in becoming a sculptor, he would some day begin to carve some of it into a piece of wall somewhere in the Caves; and, later still, his apprentices would help him.

He’d shown her some of his drawings and she’d had to squint to see the tiny pale lines. Pegasi drew with their feather-hands, which were only just strong enough to hold a light pen. Pegasi pens were noro reeds, which were too light and fragile for humans; one stab with a human hand and the tip broke off. She’d known not to comment on how faint the pen-strokes were, but Ebon mentioned it himself, bending one wing forward to lift her hands on its leading edge, and then stroking them with his other feather-hand. This tickled. You’ve said so many times how much humans envy us flying, he said. We envy you the strength of your hands . . . more than I can tell you.

But your drawings are so beautiful, she said, truthfully. They shimmer. They may, he said sadly. But I would give anything to be able to make big black marks. Like you do just writing your name.

Ebon saw her making her big black marks because sometimes they studied together, she with her books and notebooks and diagrams of dams, he making a curious almost humming noise which was saying over his lessons. Sometimes he did apprentice work with his hands, which was usually accompanied by a different, fainter but more complex sort of humming. Ahathin presided over these occasions—it had been Ahathin’s idea to allow them to work together: “I do not see that it is much different from Lrrianay attending court with your father, or Thowara accompanying Danacor on convoy or survey,” he said. Ahathin did not tell them about his conversation with either king, but permission had been granted.

The pegasi had very little written language—We’ve got some really old scrolls and some of the stuff in the Caves is more like letters than like pictures—but a great deal of history, tale and song was passed on orally. Every pegasus child memorised the treaty, for example. Old Gandam never used one word when three would do. Hunh. They also had to memorise certain scenes in the Caves—When they’re doing stuff for record, everything means something. You can pretty much read what a sovereign’s reign has been like by the plaits in their mane and what they’ve got round their neck and the way whoever’s near them is standing. If there’s a rearing shaman, uh-oh.

And sometimes he brought a tiny piece of wood or stone that he spent hours polishing, which (he said) was a sculptor technique: One of the nicknames for sculptor apprentices is Shiner. Or Polishhead.

These tiny scraps of matter looked—and felt—like jewels by the time he was finished with them; even when she watched him using a variety of bits of cloth (both the cloths and the fragments he used them on he carried in a little bag around his neck), it had only looked like someone polishing something: a pegasus someone, lying down, balancing the shining atom between his folded-under knees, polishing away with a series of cloths in his feather-hands, his pinions trailing (carefully) through the grass or on the floor under his belly. Until he decided it was finished, and let her look at it.

She was lying wrong: whatever was in the little bag around Ebon’s neck at present was digging into her back. She sat up to shift it.

Sorry, he said. But—oh. I wanted to show you. He bowed his head, and rubbed the ribbon that held the bag off over his head with his feather-hands, and then carefully spilled its contents on the ground. There were several of what Sylvi recognised as the polishing cloths—and one tiny gleaming stone. He picked this up. This one turned out really well. It almost . . . um. It’s pretty good for an apprentice. I wanted you to see it.

He held it out to her and she accepted it on her palm. It was darkest red, almost black, and the pinprick of its centre seemed to glow like the heart of a fire. This is some kind of—magic, she said. It was a soft sort of magic though, she thought. Soft not itchy.

Ebon frowned—ears halfback, head turned slightly to one side—I don’t think so. Well . . . there are words you say while you’re doing it. Different words for different cloths. He picked one up, and then another one, and handed them to her, and Sylvi could feel—faintly, subtly—that the two cloths had different textures. It’s a . . . it’s a . . . I don’t know how to explain it. It’s a little like learning stories or histories. You kind of go to a different place in your head. You go to a different different place from the lesson-learning different place to say the words while you’re polishing. And it was a shaman—several shamans—who made up the words originally, but that was thousands of years ago. Some of the words don’t exist any more, except in these chants.

Sylvi, fascinated, said, Could you tell me one of the chants?

Ebon looked surprised (drawing back of head, raising nose, slight rustle of feathers at the shoulders). Probably. We’ll have to stand up.

Usually we do it like this, and he put his feather-hands to her temples. This is the first one, the simplest one. These words are all normal. And then he began to make one of the funny almost-humming noises again, and Sylvi heard the words he was saying in her mind, as she usually heard Ebon, but they sounded strangely far away and slightly echoing, as if she were listening to her father addressing an audience in the Outer Court and she was at the back, next to the Inner Great Court wall.

And as she thought that, another picture began to cohere as if it were being built by the clean shining words Ebon was saying, and she closed her eyes to see it better. It bloomed from the blackness as if she had been walking in a dark place and had now stepped into light. Candlelight, firelight, light flickering off the glossy black flank of the pegasus standing just in front of her, polishing, polishing, polishing some curve—some complex series of curves—on the wall in front of him; the flame-light made those curves flicker with movement, with life: a human woman stood, holding a sword....

He stopped humming. He took his hands away from her temples, but patted her face as he did so. Syl?

Oh, she said. Oh, I . . . oh . . .

Golden summer sunrise and blue winter sunset, he said, don’t tell me you had a vision.

Well . . . yes. I think so. Perhaps she had imagined it; she knew that this was to do with Ebon’s desire to be a sculptor, and the pegasus Caves—it was an obvious thing for her to imagine. But the black pegasus was bigger even than Ebon—and a human woman with a sword? She suddenly and powerfully did not want to tell him what she had seen.

Golden, he said wonderingly. Gold and blue. Well. That doesn’t happen all that often. It happened to me. It’s a good omen if you want to be a sculptor. Or a shaman. Never knew it ever happened to humans.... But then I don’t suppose there’ve been a lot of humans who’ve tried. Maybe you should be a sculptor too.

Or a shaman, she thought involuntarily. She noticed he didn’t ask her what she’d seen, nor tell her what he had seen. I’m hungry, she said abruptly. Let’s go find something to eat.

Yes, let’s, said Ebon, who was always hungry. Usually they went to the pegasus annex because Sylvi liked to pretend that the palace’s best fruit was always given to the pegasi—and because she’d discovered she loved the open feeling of the rooms with only three walls. The windbreak of trees kept the worst of the weather out, and in winter she tended to stay on the lee side of Ebon, pressed up against his side or tucked under a wing. Sylvi had also developed a taste for pegasus bread, which had a lighter, airier texture than dense human bread kneaded by strong human hands.

The first time he had offered to take her there, she had hesitated. Won’t they—the others—mind?

You and your minds, said Ebon. As long as you don’t eat all the grapes or pull anyone’s tail they won’t mind. Grapes were very popular; the pegasi could not grow them.

Ebon wrapped the little black-red stone up again, tucked it into its bag, flipped the ribbon over his nose with a feather hand and tossed his head in an obviously habitual gesture so the little bag settled round his neck again. As they walked down the corridor Ebon said, apparently as eager to change the subject as she was, We’re going out again tonight, aren’t we? You can stay awake tomorrow? Even between themselves they rarely said “flying.” The weather’s going to change; this is our last chance.

Yes, said Sylvi. There’s that stupid banquet—you have to come too, don’t you?—for the Echon of Swarl, because Dad wants to use some of his soldiers. They’re good at climbing trees. Swarl is all forest. But we can go straight from there and no one will notice. I’ll wear my flying stuff under my dress.

They did. But Sylvi, choosing in the dark, had not been lucky with the tree she had left her banqueting clothes in, and she had green smudges and bird slime to explain the next morning. But no one had been very surprised that she had crept outdoors after the banquet. Lucretia said, “Get one of the Echon’s folk to show you how to climb trees in daylight next time, okay?”

But she couldn’t think about unimportant things like her court clothes when she was focussed on flying. They had explored the countryside in every direction, up to almost half a night’s flight away, and there had been one or two terrifying near-dawn returns. Sylvi had learnt the rota and schedule of the Wall guards at the very first, so that they could fly over a bit whose sentries were at the other end of their span; the same pegasus seen flying regularly over the Wall at night would be taken note of, and Ebon was black, which was an unusual colour in pegasi, and therefore would be recognised too easily as himself. That he was known to be flying at night for a project he was doing as part of his apprenticeship was some help, but they wished to take no more chances than they had to.

Spring and autumn were the best seasons for their expeditions, when the nights were longer than they were in the summer, and warmer than in winter. Summer used to be my favourite season, Sylvi had said to Ebon as they snatched a quick midsummer’s flight between late and early twilight, in the first year of their friendship. I used to love the long days and short nights.

Even Ebon could not fly very far carrying a passenger; they set down once, twice, maybe three times in a long night’s flying, to let him rest and stretch his wings: Sylvi had learnt where to rub and dig in her thumbs along his shoulders, especially the thick heavy muscles that were the beginning of his wings. Mmmmmmh, Ebon would say. Harder.

They discovered which villages had nervous dogs that barked at everything, and which villages had easier-natured dogs who, once they’d met you and sniffed you thoroughly, never bothered you again, except perhaps for petting. (Sylvi began to seek out dogs at the fêtes they went to, as a form of pre-emptive security—and she watched any accompanying palace dogs for their reactions to those they met.) They discovered which meadows were nice and flat for landing and taking off, and which had nasty hollows and hummocks that didn’t show up properly when there was only moonlight to steer by—and which, once or twice, had short-tempered bulls in them.

There were a few very alarming occasions when it had seemed that Ebon wasn’t going to be able to get aloft again with Sylvi’s weight on him. This had never quite happened, but the worst night was when he’d had to gallop down a road through a village. Not only did this make them conspicuous to any insomniac who might choose to look out a window at that moment or any light sleeper who might be awakened by an odd, not-quite-horse-sounding half thud, half patter of galloping hooves—and while Sylvi wore black clothing, she was still far too visible—and even with Ebon’s wings spread, the pounding was very hard on his legs as well as making too much noise. It was, furthermore, a bad road, with the worst of the ruts carelessly half filled with rocks and rubble. Ebon took no harm of it, but he did admit to being a little stiff the next day. About six months later they were invited to a fair at that village and Sylvi arranged for it to be pointed out that the road in and out of their village was in sad repair which should be remedied.

What had made them both extremely stiff—although Sylvi more than Ebon—for much of the first six or eight months of their adventures was learning to land. Sylvi’s mother had become seriously worried that her daughter had developed a strange bone or muscle disease which would explain why a twelve-year-old creaked out of bed some mornings like a little old lady. As an emergency measure Sylvi had considered deliberately falling off her pony, but in the first place, on top of the bruises she had already from (obligatory) falling off Ebon she could not face this with equanimity; also she guessed it might worry her mother more rather than less. She put up with being cross-examined by Nirakla nearly weekly, and prodded by a series of healers. . . . She balked at being prodded by magician-healers, but allowed Minial to touch her; Minial, like Nirakla, could find nothing wrong—beyond the bruises.

“Child, what are you doing to yourself?” said the queen. “If Lucretia—”

“It’s not Lucretia! Diamon says I’m not ready for Lucretia yet!”

“Or Diamon—”

“Diamon’s on my side! He’s not going to get me in trouble with you!”

The queen laughed.“Very well. But what is happening?” She ran her finger lightly along Sylvi’s purple forearm, and Sylvi bravely managed not to wince. Her bruises weren’t usually so conspicuous, but there’d been a lamentably ill-placed rock two nights ago in one of those lumpy fields. At least there hadn’t been a bull. “It’s true that physical stoicism is a very useful attribute in a soldier, but it’s not something I recommend practising in advance. The world will take care of it. And you’re not going to be a soldier anyway; you’re going to be a negotiator like your dad.”

There was a silence. Sylvi knew this silence; the queen wasn’t going to go away till she got an answer she found acceptable. Sylvi should have been prepared for this moment, but she wasn’t. Then she thought of something Ebon had said, the night of their binding. It wasn’t a very good excuse, but it was better than blaming anyone at the practise yards—or telling the truth. And it would help provide an excuse for the concomitant sleepiness. “I—I’ve been sleepwalking,” she said. “Since—since Fthoom.”

The queen let out a long sigh. If she hadn’t been a colonel of the Lightbearers, thought Sylvi, she ’d’ve drooped. “Oh, my dear. Well—”

Sylvi said hastily, “I never go far. I bump into something and wake up. But sometimes I bump kind of hard. And sometimes it’s hard to get back to sleep again.”

The queen looked at her and Sylvi stared back, trying to look like the king staring down a miscreant. The queen began to look a little amused. “And you’ll flatly refuse to agree to someone sleeping in your room with you, won’t you?”

“Yes,” said Sylvi in her kingliest manner.

“Well, I don’t blame you,” said the queen.“I’d refuse too. And there’s always someone outside your door—you know that, yes? Your father said you weren’t best pleased not to have been told. Very well. But if this goes on much longer we’ll have to think again. I could ask Nirakla if she has anything for sleepwalking.”

She didn’t, but she gave me some liniment that your shaman-healer gave her the recipe of—she said it was better than the stuff she’d always used before—you don’t have to rub so much. I thought that was pretty funny.

It’s for flying bruises, said Ebon. The first few years you’re flying you go through the stuff by the lakeful. Maybe some of us more than others. I was maybe one of the mores.

She and Ebon finally began getting this sorted out just before the queen made a real fuss, and the danger passed. The experience had a further interesting effect however. Sylvi had always had to fight for her time at the practise yards; everyone kept telling her to wait till she’d grown a little—even the queen, who had introduced her there in the first place. She was thirteen when she was finally allowed her first mounted lessons—and Diamon said that she fell off better than any student he’d ever had. “Anyone would think you’d been riding with the horse-dancers,” he said.

Everything was an adventure, at night, when you were where you shouldn’t be, even if it was somewhere you could go perfectly well in daylight, and it was then only ordinary. The scrumped apples (they only stole a few) tasted better than the ones from the bowl in your study; the wind in your ears sang secrets it never whispered under the sun; even the dogs that came out wagging their tails were an adventure at night, and it wasn’t only because you were glad they weren’t barking at you. Everything was an adventure, at least when you could stop yourself thinking that you were defying your father’s ban.

Everything was an adventure at night, but not every adventure was a good one. There were the bulls, and the big snarling dogs, and once they saw a magician walking swiftly down a little side street and knocking on a door before he slipped inside. Sylvi had just time to wonder what a magician in his official robes was doing in a tiny country alley before panic swamped her thoughts and she and Ebon spun round and headed for the deepest dark they could find—which happened to be a barn, luckily dog-free; a few of the cows glanced at them, and returned to cud-chewing.

But the worst was the night that Ebon, gliding for a landing, suddenly changed his mind, lurched frantically in the air, nearly unseating Sylvi—Don’t fall off she heard—and clawed his way upward again while Sylvi clung on, slithering with every wingbeat and miserably aware that if he failed to get aloft again it would be her fault—but he banked clumsily as soon as they were clear of the ground and flew away faster than they’d ever gone. He didn’t stop till they were back over the Wall, and then he came down like a stone dropping, and when he fell on landing this time—neither of them had fallen on landing in months—it was a second or two before he got up again. Long enough for Sylvi to have taken a first running step toward him, shouting Ebon! in her mind and breathing his name aloud, as if mind-speech was not enough in this extremity.

But he was on his feet before she reached him. Sorry, he said, and that was all.

Ebon—?

After a long pause, he said, Norindour. I smelled it.

Norindour!

Norindour—so close to the palace. Just outside the Wall. Norindours didn’t come this far from the wild lands. Taralians sometimes. Never norindours.

You’re sure? I—I wouldn’t know.

We’re taught norindour, although they don’t like our mountains—oh, you don’t teach smells, do you? We’re taught taralian, and ornbear, and norindour—well, and human—and, he went on desperately, also stuff like if a drak bush is fruiting or not—it all goes on underground so you can’t see it, you have to know what it smells like because they’re poisonous if they’re fruiting, and they can do it any season although sometimes they don’t for years. . . .

Sylvi could hear how frightened he was—frightened and exhausted—so she didn’t say anything, but put her arms round his neck, and after he’d run through a little more pegasus botany he fell silent. At last he sighed and said again, Sorry. I’m so tired I can’t. . . . We’ll have to walk the rest of the way.

Sylvi had not had a chance to think about how close inside the Wall they had come down; it would be a long walk, and not without its own danger of discovery. But they did it, Sylvi guiding them, both because she knew the grounds better, but also because Ebon stumbled along with his head down, barely noticing anything. She took him right up to the pegasus annex of the palace—as close as she dared. There was a faint flicker of candlelight through the trees, and she thought she could see a smudge of pegasus silhouette. She stopped.

When she stopped Ebon stopped too, and raised his head and looked around. Oh—Syl, go away. We can see better in the dark than you can.

Yes, it was an honour to do you a service, she replied.

When he gave a little humming snort of laughter she felt better. Thank you, he said. Thank you, beautiful human of the bright wings and the matchless sagacity—He stopped abruptly. I’ll have to tell my dad, you know.

Tell him anything you need to. Do you want me to say anything?

No. They know I go out flying at night. I just have to figure out what I was doing out there over . . . over . . .

Stonyvale, she said.

Oh, but—rain and hail—do I know it’s Stonyvale?

She thought a moment. Yes—we were there for a fête. The little girl with a spotted zurcat.

Okay. Good. Thanks. But he didn’t immediately move away, and she could feel the tension in him. She put one hand to his face and rubbed his mane with the other, and he touched her temples with his feather-hands, and they parted.

The next morning when she tried to get out of bed she made a little squeaking noise and fell back on her pillows.

“Lady?” said the attendant who had just set the tea tray beside Sylvi’s bed.

Sylvi lay motionless and then said calmly,“It’s only a bad dream. I’ll get up in a moment.” The attendant bowed and left. Gingerly Sylvi turned over and discovered that most of her left side was one long, angry, midnight-purple bruise. She hadn’t noticed last night: she didn’t even remember falling, only being afraid for Ebon.

Well, I’m not going to be caught out, she thought. She’d just have to be sure neither her mother nor her attendants saw her undressed for the next fortnight or so; she didn’t think she could pass this off as the result of a sudden return of sleepwalking—or if she did her mother would insist on someone sleeping in her bedroom with her. If she didn’t tie her to the bed.

Sylvi was (apparently) deep in her papers when the study door opened and Ahathin came softly in. She looked up, trying to smile as she always did. Trying to pretend that she didn’t know why Ebon was late this morning; he sometimes was late. Ahathin stopped a little inside the door and looked back at her soberly. Suddenly it was too difficult to keep the corners of her mouth turned up, and her smile disappeared.

“Ebon has reported the scent of a norindour—possibly more than one—outside Stonyvale,” said Ahathin.

It was easy to look shocked and horrified—she was shocked and horrified—but surprise was harder. Maybe shock and horror would do. “Oh,” she said faintly.

“He was flying last night,” Ahathin went on, his eyes never moving from her face. “He flies somewhat regularly at night, I believe, but—I believe—it was something of a revelation that he flies beyond the Wall.”

She could think of nothing to say.

“Our king has already sent a company to investigate,” said Ahathin, and paused. Sylvi felt as if her bruises were glowing—that Ahathin would be able to see them too, even under two shirts and a tunic. They began to itch furiously, and she had to twist her hands together not to scratch.

Ahathin took two steps forward and leaned over her study table. He put his hands over her knotted fists—his hands were barely bigger than hers—and said suddenly, urgently, “Child—both you children—be careful. No, don’t say anything. I don’t want to hear it. Because I stand at your elbow so often I think you, both of you, forget why else I am there, why else beyond that I am the princess’ tutor, because you do not need me.”

“Ahathin,” she said, distressed, “we—”

Ahathin shook his head. “ That does not matter in the slightest, and I do not think it is rudeness. But it is carelessness. I am a Speaker, and perhaps I hear more than you guess. And if I hear anything at all, then it is possible that others may hear something too.”

She wanted to shout at him, Would it be so terrible if we were found out? If it was known we went flying together? But she remained silent because she knew the answer: Yes, because it was forbidden. Yes because if they tried to claim that they had not been expressly forbidden to go flying together it would mean they were irresponsible children. And yes because everything about the unprecedented strangeness of their relationship was risky, because some people were frightened by strangeness. Because some people listened to Fthoom.

There was a knock on the door. Ahathin stepped back from the table and became his normal self again, small, faintly rumpled, mild, ordinary, nearly invisible, except for the fact that he was tutor and Speaker to the princess. “Come,” she said, and one of her mother’s women entered, bowed first to Ahathin, and then a much deeper bow to Sylvi: “A change of schedule, princess, because of this news your pegasus brought. . . .”