read a copy of the treaty, with Ahathin’s help: the second commander’s diary was mostly perfectly comprehensible if oddly spelled, but the treaty, aside from being written in a script that hadn’t been used in five hundred years, was in desperately old-fashioned formal language, plus (Ahathin said) Gandam had tried to incorporate some pegasus phrasing. It could have said almost anything and she wouldn’t have known.
She had thought, since her binding, that she would like another look at it, now that what it said was a real part of her life too, but she had kept putting off asking. Ahathin would be more than happy to help her, but she felt awkward around Ahathin about anything even remotely to do with Ebon. And she didn’t want to read the schoolroom copy again—she wanted to try to read the true one on the wall of the Great Hall. Perhaps she could read the flower petals. But she would be seen to be doing so. And wouldn’t that look silly and pretentious in a superfluous princess?
And wouldn’t someone report to Fthoom what she was doing—the superfluous princess who had spoken out against him in open court? She didn’t want any extra reports on her activities going to Fthoom.
Danacor continued, “You think you know about pegasi; you’ve grown up with them, you know Lrrianay’s face almost as well as you know Dad’s. You know what happens. And then it happens to you: your pegasus is a here-and-now, living-and-breathing individual. And it’s not just real, it’s real in ways you didn’t know. But, Syl, nobody’s had a binding like yours.”
“Being made heir—that must have changed everything. More.”
“Yes. But we knew it was coming.” There was a little silence. Danacor was watching her. But she couldn’t make herself say the name of her enemy out loud. “Try not to worry about Fthoom,” Danacor said at last. “Dad’s got him fully occupied and better than half the magicians and scribes working for him report to Dad or me. Enjoy that we don’t have to listen to him bullying everyone in council any more.”
Sylvi rubbed her face in a gesture she realised she ’d learnt from her father. She took her hand down and looked at it as if it didn’t belong to her. “But we have to listen to Soronon going on and on. Who cares that magician apprenticeships are down three percent this year? Or that rituals requiring magicians are up five percent in Hillshire? Can’t he just submit the report and anyone who wants to know can read it?”
“Poor old Soronon. Farley calls him Snore-on. But it’s not entirely his fault—everyone’s really jumpy because of what happened with Fthoom, and Snore-on doesn’t want anyone to think the magicians’ guild is hiding anything.”
“I know everyone’s jumpy. Even the Sword is.”
Danacor looked startled. “The Sword?”
“Oh, well,” said Sylvi. “I mean, it flickers. It flickers blue all along its edge sometimes, so it almost looks like it’s moving. Like Fralialal’s wings in the mural. Especially when we’re in the Great Hall and it’s hanging on the wall—it almost looks like it’s going to leap out of its stays. If someone’s going to jump I’d rather it were Fralialal, but if the Sword would make Snore-on stop talking I’d be all for it.”
But Danacor was looking at her oddly.
“What’s wrong?” she said. “It does flicker—doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Danacor. “But most people don’t see it. Not even the magicians. Usually only Dad and me.”
Sylvi stared at him, a prickle of cold moving up her spine.
“Don’t spread it around that the Sword’s awake, okay?” Danacor said, trying to sound as if he were talking about something of no importance, and failing. “It’s ...” He stood up abruptly and went to look out the window as if he’d heard someone call his name. He turned back again. “It’s never good news.”
Sylvi attended court and council meetings, took her hours in the practise yard under the master-at-arms, bowed to people in the corridors and tried to accustom herself to the fact that there was almost always someone with her now. At first she had thought that was just a part of having turned twelve, of being bound, of being a princess with her first adult responsibilities. But the tall, expressionless footman who’d thrust her behind him when Fthoom had roared at her—and whose name, she learnt, was Glarfin—had seemingly been assigned specially to her. And there was something familiar about Lady Lucretia, who had replaced the lady who didn’t like her relationship