Robin McKinley - Pegasus

Fazuur bowed calmly to his sovereign as if Sylvi was supposed to go first, and the king then settled himself in his drai too—and Sylvi realised what she had done. When I blurted out Ebon’s name at our binding, I didn’t notice, she thought. This time it’s only that I’ve been doing my lessons. But I’m sure someone will tell Fthoom anyway....

Two pegasi tucked a blanket over her, leaving her gloved hands free, and one of them, one of those she didn’t know, quickly and neatly threaded and tied a light rope over her, in a zigzag through the rope-loops that edged the drai , and stepped back. Sylvi thought she felt just the lightest brush of a feather-hand against her cheek, and looked up: there was a faint smile-wrinkle across the pegasus’ nose. She smiled back, and felt a little better.

Guaffa threw up his head and lashed his tail right, left—Sylvi heard awwhinnaw, which means “listen”; but she got a bit lost after that, and he’d be mostly speaking in silent-speech. He’s just reminding us that this baggage will get a sore bum if we mess up the lift-off, said Ebon, but Fazuur was translating it as “We thank you for the extraordinary honour and privilege . . .” Blah blah blah, thought Sylvi, and stopped listening.

Then, more precisely than a company of the King’s Own Silver-swords, the pegasi moved, back and forward and sideways, till the draia were clear of the ground. Inside wings were arched to allow for the presence of ropes, and Sylvi felt the tingle of magic, felt it slipping down over her like another sort of slender pegasus cord, strong and soft as pegasus silk. Then she heard the Now! through Guaffa’s nostrils, and the pegasi burst forward in a canter that became a gallop almost at once, and then a run, the flat-out run of a sighthound after a hare, thrilling and terrifying, and before she believed it could be possible they had leaped into the air. Sylvi’s stomach gave a lurch, indicating its desire to stay behind, and she felt sick in a way she never had flying with Ebon—not only, she thought, because he was a little more gradual about their take-offs, not least to avoid spilling her off. She wound her hands through the pair of loops thoughtfully made large for this purpose and stared down at the sea of dark and pale faces staring up at her.

The pegasi banked right, for the flight round the inside of the Wall. She glanced over at her father, who was also holding on, but with only one hand, and waving with the other. She looked at her own straining fists and thought, Be a princess. Be your father’s daughter. And he’s never even flown before. She untwisted her right hand, and waved.

Once they’d flown over the Wall and were headed toward the mountains Sylvi began to enjoy herself—although she didn’t dare look down. She’d never flown in daylight before. She could look ahead toward the rise of the Starclouds’ green foothills—her view constantly interrupted by the beating wings—and up into a blue sky that seemed both close enough to touch and farther away than it ever seemed from the ground. There was more wind up here, as she’d guessed, and as they drew nearer the mountains it began to be gusty, and the pegasi side-slipped like birds to take advantage, or to keep their course, the draia swaying beneath them—and Sylvi’s stomach, having decided to make the best of it after they’d left the Wall behind, began to object to the mode of transport again.

It was not a very great distance between the two realms—ordinarily the pegasi flew it easily in less than a day—but carrying heavy burdens slowed them down and wearied them sooner. They stopped three times, in each case setting down in mountain meadows surrounded by pathless trees. Sylvi knew there were no land-routes to Rhiandomeer but there was something a bit daunting about the unbroken circle of trees, despite the size of the meadows and the bright friendly scatter of wildflowers. She thought, Yes, you would think so, you poor wingless human. She would have liked to ask her father if he felt the same way, but it didn’t seem polite to suggest that the pegasi were doing anything that might make their human guests uncomfortable (aside from failing to persuade the wind not to gust), even if they couldn’t understand what she was saying. And where were they supposed to stop, in a country with no roads?

Ebon may have guessed. What do you think? he said on their first halt. She’d been washing her hands and face and having a drink at the stream, and was now staring at the whispering trees on the far bank. The rustle of their leaves sounded like counterpoint to the noise of the water cascading over its bed: beautiful but lonely. It’s very—quiet, isn’t it? she said finally.

This wasn’t what she meant. It wasn’t quiet; there was the wind among the trees, and birdsong, and the melody of the water, and scuffling in the undergrowth, and a few hums and whiffles from the pegasi—and the occasional word from her father. She was trying to think what else to say that was nearer to what she did mean, before Ebon started teasing her for being hopelessly urban and too accustomed to the bustle of the palace, and how noisy humans were, when he said, It is a bit, isn’t it? It’s nicer at home. You’ll see.

They had set out as early as there was good daylight, and it was still nearing twilight when a huge double spiral of torches began to light up below them. There was a wide space at the centre of the spiral, and Sylvi knew they were going to land there when the pegasi tightened the ropes of her drai again—and this time, although she had not heard anything earlier, she heard all six of them say the holding-words, one right after another, a singing sort of noise on a falling scale, almost like a very short round in six parts: and then once, twice, more, as the shamans flanking them spoke. She saw the air shimmer with the ooffhaloah —or perhaps that was just her eyes, tired after a long windy day, staring at torchlight through the fast-dropping twilight—felt it settle around her, felt both the drai and the ropes stiffen with it—and her drai bobbed up till she was riding even with the straining necks of Ebon and Sorlalea on her either side, their inner wings brushing the edge of her drai .

They had set down and flown out again from their three rest stops with the great heave they’d made in the Outer Court—and counter-heave on landing, with the vast wings arched and scooping the air like bells to slow them as quickly as possible—and each time she found herself worrying about fragile pegasus legs . . . this final time, audibly enough, apparently, for Ebon to hear her, because he said, Stop it, you baggage, we know what we’re doing. She was distracted by the slight breathlessness of his remark, since they didn’t have to breathe for their sort of talking. And then they were down.

They set down with astonishing gentleness—the more astonishing for how exhausted they must all be. But her six bearers were galloping before she knew they had landed—she could see her father’s bearers galloping ahead of her and only then realised that she was hearing the faint soft tap of pegasus hoofs to either side of her as well; her drai glided as smoothly as a boat on a still lake. They galloped on through the path made by the spiral, emerging as the last torches were lit: It’s another dance, she thought, like the dance of the harnessing.

Lrrianay came forward first to greet her father—the back pair of his doorathbaa were still holding the ropes tightly while the front ropes had been gently let slacken so that he stepped, standing, out of his drai —and he put his hands on either side of the pegasus king’s eyes as the pegasus king put his feather-hands on the human king’s temples. His wings met behind Corone’s back, like an embrace.