or roll up or something. They’re not made of stones as big as our bodies.
And he answered all the weather-and-crops questions. He was not good about livestock questions: If I knew what would make your wethers grow faster, I wouldn’t tell you. Their lives are short enough before they go to the—the what-you -call-’em—the killer. Let them have their few months in peace. He also knew some odd herbal remedies for things that she didn’t dare pass on because neither of them had any idea whether they’d work for humans or not—although she told her mother, whose best friend was a healer (“the best friend a soldier can have,” said the queen). The queen shook her head. “We’ll have to ask your father.”
“Careful,” said the king.
“Cory—” began the queen. “Dad!” said Sylvi at the same time.
“Sylvi first, I think,” said the king.“Persuade me this is a worthwhile exception—another worthwhile exception—to the rule. You’ll be sixteen soon enough, when everything will change, and you’ll have more—”
“Of course it is!” interrupted Sylvi. “A good exception. A good exception now. This is the sort of thing that could make everyone happy that Ebon and I can talk to each other, if it turns out there’s something we can use!”
“I agree,” said the king. “And I have no intention of forbidding it. You still need to realise what you’re doing.”
He was looking at her in a way that reminded her of Ahathin waiting for her to answer her own question. She smiled involuntarily, quickly and mirthlessly. “And perhaps we’ll be grateful for a few extra friends when I turn sixteen and the Speakers’ Guild tries to block Ebon and me doing any Speaker work.”
“Perhaps,” said the king. “But the Speakers’ Guild won’t block you, if that’s what you decide you—and Ebon—want to do.”
She looked at her father, and remembered the hatred in Fthoom’s glittering eyes.
But she had her permission, and one of the remedies got the queen’s friend, whose name was Nirakla, very excited. She begged for the opportunity to speak to any of the healer-shamans who were willing to speak to her, and Minial translated.
“You’ve thrown a rock in a pond,” said the king.
“It’s a good rock,” Sylvi answered. “Why hasn’t anyone thrown it before now?”
“Good question,” said the king. “But the shamans come here very little, and those who do come stay in their annex.”
I wonder what Fthoom has heard about it, she thought, but she didn’t say it aloud.
Sylvi couldn’t help picking at the thought of Fthoom, scratching at it like a wound that won’t heal, partly because you keep scratching at it.
“Darling,” said the queen, “if you don’t stop fretting, I’ll ask your father to give you another project. You know Hester and Damha’s binding went just as it was supposed to.”
“Did it?”
“Do you mean we didn’t tell you about the ultimatum we had from Fthoom about it? Darling, don’t be silly.”
Kachakon had been the Fifth Magician, and Sylvi had thought he looked uneasy, and the other magicians furtive. Hester and Damha couldn’t talk to each other—but it had been a blow to Sylvi when she read relief in Hester’s face after the ceremony. She might just have been relieved to have the ceremony over, but Sylvi didn’t think so. She didn’t think so even more when she and Ebon went up to give the new pair their congratulations, and Hester looked worried as soon as she saw Sylvi coming toward her. What, do you think it’s catching? Sylvi thought irritably. But she said the correct words, and Hester said the correct words back, and then Sylvi and Ebon went away. Did Damha say anything to you? said Sylvi. After you said congratulations, or whatever you say.
Are you kidding? She was too busy being overcome. We’re famous, you know.
What? Oh, leave me alone.
Ebon looked at her sidelong. No, I don’t like it either.
But at that moment Lady Denovol came up to them and begged the favour of being allowed to present her son to them. The son was about Sylvi’s age, and looked even more miserable at being faced with Sylvi and Ebon than Hester had, and his pegasus seemed to be trying to hide behind Lady Denovol’s. The older pegasus stepped smartly aside and swung her head round in a gesture that needed no translation : move it, you. Sylvi used this as an excuse not to reply as she made her bow to the son and he bowed back. She didn’t catch his name.