back to him, knowing that she was making him up—and felt a pang of loneliness and loss every bit as severe as she had the evening she had met Niahi—just before she met Niahi—when her father’s absence seemed too terrible to bear. “ Tomorrow, my sir, you will be able to ask him yourself,” and she was almost sure she kept the longing out of her voice.
But it was her father who came to stand beside her now on the dais, and Lrrianay briefly left her father’s shoulder to stand at hers. “We have already begun the discussions about how best we may use our daughter and our son for this work,” said Sylvi’s father, Fazuur’s hands flicking in counterpoint, “and if any of you wish to contribute to that discussion, you may wait upon us.”
And Lrrianay said, “Araawhaia,” which meant “I agree,” and added the gesture for emphasis, which was to drop his right wing almost to floor level and give it a tiny, scooping sweep. But in her mind she heard him say—she was sure she heard him say—well done. And she unmistakably heard Fazuur murmur to her and her father both, “The king compliments the Lady Sylviianel on her poise and clear-headedness.”
Ebon’s return was the first time she had been a part of the formal ritual of welcome to the pegasus king. Lrrianay had flown home immediately after her presentation, to escort the pegasi coming to the human princess’ birthday party, and there was to be the full ceremony of reception when the company arrived. She was still, that day, half in a daze from having given her report successfully the day before—that, and her answer to Senator Orflung’s question had instantly begun a deluge of messages, papers and requests for appointments.
“We must ask your father for a secretary,” said Ahathin.
Ahathin had appeared at his usual hour that morning, to ask her how her presentation had gone, and found her sorting through the first courier’s delivery in increasing dismay.
“I don’t know most of these words in my own language,” she said, handing him a letter from a philosopher who seemed to want to discuss the pegasi’s understanding of the nature of reality and epistemological truth. That had been six hours, two couriers and seven special messengers ago.
Sylvi pushed her chair back violently and went to stand by the window. It was raining again; with Ahathin present—and the likelihood of the next courier arriving at any moment—she decided not to lean out in it, but she did put her hand through the open pane and let a few raindrops pool in her palm. She didn’t want a secretary; she didn’t want to be tied down by more fuss and commotion, more meetings, more quacking human voices demanding she do things, more piles of paper, till her desk resembled her father’s. She rubbed the palmful of cool water over her face. “Yes,” she said. “I suppose so.” She turned round. “Can you—will you stay? Were you planning on writing the history of the world as soon as you were relieved of your duties as tutor? I don’t know what to do with a secretary.”
“I am still the princess’ adviser as well as her somewhat superfluous Speaker,” said Ahathin in his usual calm tone.“I will attend her as long as she wishes my assistance.”
“The princess is extremely grateful,” she said, and sighed.
She went back to her rooms for a quiet tea and to dress for the ceremonial meeting, thinking, Ebon will be here this evening. Ebon. And yet her best friend of the last four years seemed, for the moment, almost as unreal as her journey to his land seemed, after her cool dry recitation of pegasi food and furniture. The barrage of requests for their services as translators seemed only to push him even farther away.
Pansa had laid her topaz robe out ready for her when she brought her her tea. Sylvi went to lean against the window-sill again, holding a cup of tea, looking out—but her bedroom faced in the wrong direction to see the pegasi returning. Pansa brought her a plate with some of the food from the tray on it and said,“Lady, remember to eat something,” and jiggled it under Sylvi’s nose. Sylvi sighed and took it, went back to her chair and sat down. She looked at the robe lying across her bed: the orange-gold of the topazes, soft in lamplight, reminded her of the colours of the Caves. Pansa hovered, wanting to help her