humans want to fly, that you dream about it. Like we dream about having large strong hands with wrists. But maybe it’s—you can want something and not want it—I felt that way about being your pegasus. It’s okay if you don’t want to fly. I—I won’t think you’re like Hirishy.
This made Sylvi laugh, which, in the middle of crying, made her choke, and it was a minute before she could breathe or think anything at all. I want to fly more than anything else in the world, she said. But there’s no point in wanting something you can’t have, is there? We’re taught that pegasi are not for riding before we’re old enough to know what riding or flying or pegasi are. It’s like—it would be like trying to steal the Sword or something.
Grown-up rules, said Ebon. Human grown-up rules. You people have too many rules. So, can you get up, or do we need to find a bench for you to stand on? You can’t kick my wing on the way. If I lose any feathers I won’t be able to carry the extra weight. I think maybe if you lie along my back, you can maybe hook your feet under the back edges of my wings.
But Sylvi stood, shivering with fear and longing, and stared at him. I—can’t. It’s—it’s rude. It’s horribly rude.
Ebon was silent a moment. You mean to me, I guess. I think this is another of those things like what you asked me earlier—don’t we mind that we have to come to you and stand around in your Court and take places you give us in your rituals. This is a human thing, this making it matter who stands where. We think that it is mixed up in why you won the war. We do not mind standing where you want us to. If you had not won the war we would not stand anywhere at all.
I know humans don’t ride us, but I don’t know any great forbidding about it. You don’t ride us because we’re too small and you’re too big. It’s rather nice of you, I think, to make it into a big forbidding. It’s—it’s to do us honour, I can see that. Human honour. Thank you. But I would like to take you flying. My dad would tell me no—that’s why I’m here in the middle of the night—not because it’s rude but because it’s dangerous. I bet you aren’t allowed to climb down the wall from your window, are you?
No.
Well then.
He moved around till she was facing his near shoulder. He’d flattened that wing and stretched it as far back as it would go; she put one hand on his withers and one just behind, and gave a little heave, and lay belly down over his back. She could do this without thinking on her own pony who was, in fact, a little shorter than Ebon, but who was also, of course, uncomplicated by wings. She lifted her right leg very gingerly as far as it would go and then laid it along his back—his right wing was now stretched out horizontal to prevent her rolling off the other side—wriggled her body around, laid her left leg beside her right, took hold of his mane and wriggled a little further forward. Except for his (mercifully low) withers gouging into her breastbone, she was—surprisingly—fairly comfortable.
Okay?
Okay.
He walked forward a little cautiously. She could feel him trying to adjust to the weight of her; his wings were half spread, and they vibrated as he sought his balance. He bowed his head up and down a few times, stretched his wings to their full extent—they seemed leagues wide to Sylvi—said, Here we go, and shot forward at a gallop. The powerful wings seemed to grab the air; she could feel not only the great muscular thrust down, but the kick of the released air again as the wings rose and freed it; and with each downstroke, Ebon—and Sylvi—briefly left the earth in a long bound. One ... two ... three ... the sweep of wings and the boom of wind deafened her to any other sound; she could just feel the tap of Ebon’s galloping feet, one-two-three, one stride for each wing-stroke, beneath her ... four ... five ... six....
They were airborne.
Sylvi was crying again, but it might have been the wind. She could guess at the extra effort Ebon was making to carry her; the body beneath her was taut with exertion, the