Corone had married Eliona—“I spent those two years staying as far away from Cory as I could,” Lorival had said once in Sylvi’s hearing, and laughed. Lorival lived in the port city of Told, where she and her husband, Lord Prelling, were cloth merchants; neither of them came to the palace any oftener than they could help, although one of their daughters had recently married a courtier.
“She won’t thank us for trying,” said the king.“I’ve sent a messenger with strict orders not to hurry. She can come to the dinner. I think Prel’s pegasus will be here too.”
Sylvi was wondering if Lorival would arrive in time while she and Ebon waited for their official summons: lucky Lorival, who could be late. They were again loitering under the cherry tree, but they were standing stiffly, and couldn’t lounge, against the tree or each other. Sylvi was in her court dress, and Ebon was brushed and plaited, with a twinkly little bag around his neck on a wide scarlet ribbon, and neither of them wanted to appear before kings and queens wearing little bits of grass and twigs.
Ah, said Ebon.
Sylvi looked up from examining the silver half-moons on her court shoes. Glarfin was coming slowly—grandly—toward them. He did grand extremely well. He walked toward them like someone bearing an important message to a princess and a prince. She sighed.
And although there was no one else there to hear but the birds, Glarfin bowed deeply and said, “Lady, sir, the king of the humans, the king of the pegasi, the queen of the humans, the queen of the pegasi, thus your royal parents, request your presence.”
Her father wanted the public announcement made as quickly as possible—before the rumours gained momentum. The crowd was waiting in the Great Court, but the first words would be said in the Little Court. Sylvi’s heart was beating faster again, even though she knew what was coming. There were about fifty pegasi present in the Little Court, aside from the king and queen, and about twice as many humans, all of them senators, or blood, or councillors or courtiers: all people important to the palace and the king. The pegasi were all wearing flowers and siragaa, the decorated ribbons that they sometimes wore over their necks for special occasions; the little embroidered bags, the nralaa, that hung from them glittered with tiny jewels. The humans were all wearing their best clothes, grander than the pegasi if not as beautiful; Sylvi’s father was wearing some of the sovereign’s jewels, so that he sparkled as he moved.
It’s just that no one has ever done this before, Sylvi thought, trying to swallow the lump in her throat, but she hadn’t realised she’d thought aloud till Ebon said, That’s right. Think about how much easier we’re making it for everyone who comes after us. But she looked out at the human faces turned toward them and saw that many of them looked solemn and watchful. Uneasy. Uncertain. Uncomfortable. Fazuur, who hadn’t been needed for the pegasus king to make his revolutionary invitation to the human king, looked haunted.
Most of the pegasi were on or near the dais with her and her family; she could not read the expressions of the few who stood with their humans among the audience, although she could see that their wings lay flat and smooth. Here, at the front, the pegasi outnumbered the humans.
Her father stepped forward, shining like a star, and bowed: bowed to her and Ebon. “Daughter and Daughter’s Excellent Friend, Sylviianel and Ebon, welcome. We are here to make known to both our peoples the great adventure that the two of you are about to embark upon. Lrrianay and his queen, Aliaalia, on behalf of their son, Ebon, do invite you, my daughter and daughter of my queen, Eliona, to visit them in their high land Rhiandomeer, beyond the Starcloud Mountains.”
There was a rustle of movement and a whisper of suddenly-exhaled breath at the sound of the name Rhiandomeer.
Sylvi stood frozen. She knew she had to say something—but everyone was looking at her—looking at her with those doubtful, sceptical eyes. The great adventure that no one had ever done before: she had had no ritual lines of response to learn because there were no ritual lines of response. When her father had told her there would be an official public declaration of the invitation she had known she would be expected to say something—and sitting surrounded by diagrams of the stress patterns of bridges