Maybe that is why we can talk to each other. I don’t understand—
But as she thought this, the fifth magician’s voice rose to a climax, and the third magician flourished the herb-bowl, so that the unburnt herbs and the ashes and embers leaped out of the bowl and fell to the floor of the dais. The embers twinkled against the border of the rainbow fabric but left no scorch marks. Sylvi sneezed, violently, and heard her pegasus sneeze as well. It was good luck to sneeze during your binding.
The fabric was pulled away and the smoke dispersed as if it had never been. Sylvi blinked in the sunlight and watched it sparkle on the flowers laced through her pegasus’ wings and mane. The magicians gathered round them—too close, Sylvi thought—and blew the spell-dust over them, and when it touched her face Sylvi involuntarily put her hand up to brush it off.
Then there was a moment’s grace; housefolk discreetly gave goblets to Sylvi’s father and Danacor, who in turn offered them to Sylvi and her pegasus. Sylvi found that she didn’t want to swallow any of the dust and ashes that had got into her mouth; she wanted to rinse her mouth and spit it out. But she knew she couldn’t. She looked up at her father; she wondered if it had been anyone but the king who held the goblet for her if she might have refused. But no. She was still a princess, and she had learnt her part of the ritual very carefully. She sipped the faintly honey-flavoured water and swallowed—with difficulty; it was like swallowing a rock. It stuck in her throat, and then lay heavily in her stomach. Her pegasus swallowed too, but she thought he drank as gingerly as she did.
Now...
Better get on with it, said her pegasus. You do remember your words, don’t you?
Of course I remember, Sylvi said, nettled, and began at once. “Welcome, Excellent Friend, on this glorious day ...”
The end of her dry little speech went “And so I name myself to thee, Sylviianel, princess of the line of Gohasson, daughter of the sixth of that line, Corone IV, and his queen Eliona, fourth child of them I call my parents,” and as she said these words out loud she added silently, I don’t even know your name yet.
They really don’t tell you anything, do they? I’ve known you were Sylvi forever. My name is Ebon.
It was not surprising that Sylvi missed her last cue. Trying to give a speech and hold a conversation at the same time would be hard work for anybody under any circumstances—and under these particular circumstances it was also not surprising she could not resist having the conversation. Nor was it surprising that she forgot what the cue was. It just seemed to her—very reasonably—that it was ridiculous that she should be bound to this pegasus before she so much as knew his name.
But her father, the king, was supposed to say Ebon’s name aloud, which was when she was supposed to hear it for the first time—and while she had learnt every moment of the ritual with painful precision, the ritual had not included that she should find herself able to talk to her pegasus directly. The ritual dictated that her father should say Ebon’s name aloud, and then she would formally kiss (or pretend to kiss) Ebon on the forehead and repeat it. But she forgot to turn to her father. She stepped forward, kissed him (he having lowered his head so she could) and shouted his name out; the crowd below the dais cheered.
She didn’t think about what she had done till much later. It was Ebon’s turn now, and he stepped forward and gave the pegasus’ great clarion neigh—far more like a trumpet than a horse’s neigh; hollow bones are wonderful for resonance—and swept his wings forward to touch, or almost touch, his alula-hands to her temples before he gave his own speech, in the half-humming, half-whuffling syllables the pegasi made when they spoke aloud, only she could understand what he was saying in silent-speech. The words were just as stiff and silly (she was rather relieved to discover) as the ones she’d had to say.
He stopped whuffling and added, I was going to say hee ho, ho hee, your wings are too short, you’ll never catch me, but my dad said he was going to be listening and I’d better get it right. I guess since you can hear too it’s good that I did.
Sylvi set aside for later the alarming thought that the pegasus king was perhaps listening in on them both, and said, Do you have any idea why we can hear each other? It’s supposed to take years to happen at all, and I don’t think it’s ever like this.
Not a clue. I know something happens occasionally.... Our dads can talk, sort of. I thought it was mostly stories. Stories about what we wanted to happen instead of what does happen.
My father says he and your dad have got like a hundred words or ideas or things they can get across pretty well and then everything else has to be built up around one of them and sometimes they do and mostly they don’t. He says it’s like shouting in a wind—you never know what’s going to get through. If you say, “To help you defend yourselves my son is sending a messenger-pigeon with news of our enemies’ victory,” and they hear “help-son-message-victory” they’re going to be looking for the son, not the pigeon, and expecting good news.
Their eyes met, and she was sure that he hadn’t liked the binding either.... There was a lot she was going to have to think about later. Too much. She wanted the happy, simple, delighted feeling of being able to talk to Ebon back again.... My mother can’t talk to her pegasus at all. Well, except for the “isn’t it a pretty day” stuff that you can guess if you have to.
Ebon made a funny noise, like a whinny with a hiccup in it. That’s because she’s got Hirishy. Well, everyone thought your dad was going to marry Fandora, and everyone thought my dad was going to marry Ponoia, and they got the bindings wrong. Your big magician was really cross about it but you can’t rebind. Hirishy barely talks to us. My mum says she was the most awful cry-baby when she was little, and all the grown-ups expected my mum to look after her because my mum was nearest her age of the cousins. Hirishy wouldn’t fly over water or over any hill higher than a—than one of your houses, and she was afraid of horses. She’s better now but.... My little sister isn’t anywhere near as awful as Hirishy was, and it’s a good thing because none of us would look after her if she was. It’s too bad, because I think my mum would have liked your mum. My mum is wasted on Lorival.
Lorival was one of the king’s cousins. Both she and her husband were bound, but they lived outside the Wall, and only saw their pegasi briefly by arrangement on the rare occasions when they came to the palace.