The Pearl of the Soul of the World

by Pierce, Meredith Ann

  "Did they succeed?" the Ancient persisted. "Tell me." "

  "Oh, yes," Aeriel breathed, the memory scene unfolding before her, clear as though it were this very moment happening. She nodded. "The starhorse. Yes. I remember him."

  The crowd has stood flocked in the great square before the Istern palace, all the people with their plum-colored skin, the women in their turbans and flowing trousers, the men in their long gowns, heads veiled against the white, slant morning light of Solstar. Syllva, the Lady of Esternesse, stood foremost, flanked upon one side by Irrylath, her son. Aeriel stood beside him. Craning eagerly, Irrylath's half brothers—the Lady's younger sons—stood opposite. A glimpse, a murmur from the throng, and the priestesses led forth the starhorse. Aeriel's heart leapt at the beauty of him: Avarclon, the guardian of Avaric.

  She felt her husband shiver hard, though with delight or terror at the sight, she could not tell. Irrylath no longer shunned her, as he had for the first year of their marriage. Nor did he shrink from her now. But he had seemed in awe of her since Orm: she suspected he found her presence troubling, even painful.

  Why? The question needled her, and she had no clue. Always he treated her more as some distant, valued ally than as his wife or even a friend. An overwhelming sense of failure ate at her, for Irrylath was her husband only in name.

  Overcome by longing, Aeriel pressed nearer to him, using the crush of the crowd as an excuse. He appeared oblivious to her, his gaze directed toward the starhorse, who came forth from the temple all silver fire. Those hooves, striking the paving stones, were throwing white sparks. Great wings—the pair that sprang from the Horse's withers -arched, flexing, and beat the air, while his little wings—those that dressed his fetlocks and adorned his cheeks—fluttered. He tossed his tail. He pranced, and one hoof shone brighter than the rest, dazzling in the light of Solstar.

  Aeriel sensed Irrylath beside her growing taut, his breath quickening. She felt his back arch, his own shoulders flex as Avarclon's pinions beat. Was he remembering his own wings, a dozen of them, that he had worn as a darkangel? Now it was Aeriel who shivered. Her husband had ceased to be that powerful winged creature not by his own choice, but by hers. What must it be like, she wondered, to have lost such wings? Avarclon tossed his head, his brow-horn cutting the air. His nostrils flared, and he whinnied a long, trumpeting call.

  "By Ravenna, who first made me," he cried, shaking himself, "it is a fine match. A new body as like my old as could be. You have done well, priests and wisewomen, in building this new engine for my soul.

  I thank you. It is good to be in the world again."

  His eyes like bright meteors scanned the crowd.

  "Companions," he called to his fellow guardians, the Ions, "you who were with me at our first making, I greet you. That you are all assembled can mean but one thing, that you have been rescued from the Witch's power as I was from death, and the war against her is on."

  The great lyon Pendarlon roared in answer. "Yes, you have it, friend."

  The starhorse turned his head and gazed upon the Lady of Esternesse. She went to him. "Ah, Lady,"

  he said, "king's wife in Avaric. I rejoice to see you again. What is this place?"

  "This is my land," the Lady Syllva replied, "that you would call Esternesse. Once wife to the late king of Avaric—yes, I was. But no more. I am returned again to my own dominion."

  The starhorse bowed his head. "I remember now. I saw your train departing after the death of your son."

  "You mistake," Syllva replied. "He did not die."

  Aeriel could not see her face, but from her voice, she knew the Lady must be smiling—as though she told of joyous things. Irrylath caught his breath in through his teeth. Aeriel saw only the side of his face, gone tense and pale.

  "He became the Witch's prisoner," the Lady continued undismayed, without a trace of shame, "and she made him into a darkangel."

  "A darkangel?" the Avarclon exclaimed, snorting and half rearing. "Little Irrylath that used to sit laughing on my back, and dig at me with his heels for spite and pull my hair?"

  Syllva nodded. "But he has been rescued by her who rescued both you and the gargoyles. He is mortal again, and stands at hand."

  She turned to her son as she said it, and the equustel, following the line of her sight, cast his silver eyes upon the prince, who flinched beneath that cool and level gaze. Aeriel no longer felt him breathe. The starhorse whickered darkly, low.

  "You might be he," he said at last, "that was my Irrylath. Are you also he that put me out of Avaric?"

  Aeriel felt her husband shudder. He nodded slowly.

  "How came you by those scars upon your cheek?" said Avarclon. "You were fair to look at once."

  She felt him draw a ragged breath. Without thinking, she started to take his hand—but then she did think, and did not dare. She heard a rumble from the lyon of the desert behind her. The prince's glance flicked that way for an instant, passing over her without a thought. He turned back to the equustel.

  "Pendarlon," he whispered.

  The Ion of Avaric turned his head and eyed the young man sidelong, sidling. "I died a hard death in exile because of you," he said. "I loved you once."

  Irrylath sank down, and Aeriel feared at first he must be faint or falling—but then she realized he was kneeling before the equustel.

  "Avarclon," he said. "So much has befallen since I was young and rode your back and pulled your hair, that I hardly know whether I can love you or anyone ever again. But I remember loving you—before the White Witch had me and made me what I was. Of all the wrong I did while in that shape, I swear it was killing you that was the worst. I did not know you then, or know myself. But I face you now and know you.

  "I no longer serve the Witch. The wedding toast I drank from your hoof has freed me of her enchantment. I have sworn to overthrow her now, to cast down and unmake her and all her darkangels.

  But I need a steed. Each of your fellow Ions has accepted one of my brothers as a rider. But now no mount remains for me. Will you aid me? I beg you. Let me ride you again as once we rode. Be my ally for a daymonth, a year—and at the end of this war, I shall be yours, to do with as you will."

  Aeriel paled, staring at the prince. A kind of roaring filled her ears. At the end of this war, she had had such hopes—that Irrylath might consent to be hers at last: her own true husband, her love. A bitter taste came into her mouth. Her balance swayed. Irrylath, Irrylath, she wanted to cry. But Irrylath had forgotten her. Shaken, she said nothing, eyeing the kneeling prince of Avaric. He had bowed his head.

  The starhorse was coming forward to touch his nose to the young man's brow.

  "A truce then," said the Ion, very sofdy. "As you wish. Until the Witch be overthrown. Then, make no mistake, I will have my due—but no matter! We will not think of diat now. Come take the air widi me, king's son of Avaric. Let me see if you still remember how to ride."

  Irrylath looked up. Aeriel heard his indrawn breath, saw a joy almost too strong to bear break over his face. He leapt up, catching the starhorse's mane. The silver steed danced back, his great wings stroking as if to tease the prince. Then he turned, and in a bound, Irrylath was astride him. With a mighty leap, the starhorse launched himself and sped away upon the air, circling and climbing above the square while the crowd cried out, craning to see.

  Few had heard what had passed between the starhorse and the prince, Aeriel knew—perhaps she alone had heard—and only she could not rejoice. She watched her husband soaring overhead, horse and rider swooping and diving together in dizzying arcs. She could see the prince's face, even at this distance, suffused with rapture still. Was it the wind, the sensation of flight, she wondered, or having won an old friend's forgiveness, if only for a while, or that he and his brothers might now ride against the Witch with some hope of success?

  Aeriel only knew that once more he had turned away from her. She felt one hot tear spill before dashing the others angrily aside. She refused to weep openly, here un
der public gaze. A hand slipped quietly into hers. Startled, she turned. Her friend Erin stood beside her: a tall, spare girl with skin black as night. Her eyes, like jet, found Aeriel's. The dark girl pressed her hand. Of all this great, sprawling throng, Aeriel realized, only Erin was not watching the prince and his steed wheeling and tumbling overhead.

  Only Erin had eyes for Aeriel.

  "and after the conclave?" the ancientlady asked.

  Her voice was quiet, patient, but pressing. Aeriel sensed that she must waste no time. She still could not see her questioner. All remained in darkness save for the heatless swirl of fire, but she had now become aware that it was not upon the air that the fire beads danced, but in the depths of a great glass globe that floated before her.

  "We set sail across the Sea-of-Dust for the lands of Westernesse," she murmured. "We were joined by the people of Erin's islands in their little skiffs. They have been alone upon the Sea so long, their language is hardly like ours anymore. They look at Erin, who was raised apart from them, and try to speak to her, but she doesn't understand."

  "And when you reached the Westron shore?"

  "We were met by Sabr, the bandit queen, whom many still call the queen of Avaric. Her followers are brigands—honest people once, who fled the coming of the darkangel. She is kin to Irrylath and claimed the crown when the old king died seemingly without heirs. But she calls Irrylath her sovereign now."

  Aeriel could not keep the bitterness from her voice. She pictured them, Irrylath and Sabr: two cousins as like as like. Both were of that lean and slender build, almost equally tall, with slant eyes blue as little flames and long, straight black hair worn in a horsetail down the back. She remembered landfall: Irrylath striding down the gangplank, his arms thrown wide to embrace the bandit queen. Though seemingly cool and reserved by nature, she had returned his embrace warmly, calling him "cousin" and "lord."

  Sabr wore the garb of Avaric: a sark and trousers gathered into boots with upturned toes, a dagger in her belt, a hoop of white zinc-gold piercing the lobe of one ear. Her face reminded Aeriel uncannily of someone—she could not think whom. Irrylath greeted her with more ardor than Aeriel had ever seen him display. Of course he knew Sabr, the daughter of his father's brother. Though she had not yet been born when he had fallen into the Witch's power, he had met her not many daymonths past. Finding him near death upon the drought-stricken shore of Bern, Sabr had nursed him until he could continue his quest for Aeriel and the gargoyled Ions.

  All this he told the Lady Syllva excitedly by way of introduction. Sabr smiled and allowed the Lady to kiss her brow. Irrylath introduced his brothers and their Ions, to all of whom she nodded courteously, followed by Talb the Mage, then Aeriel's brother, the prince of Pirs—and only then did he remember Aeriel. Sabr broke off her grave greeting of the starhorse and turned, a sudden look of apprehension passing over her oddly familiar features. Aeriel, too, felt a strange dread at their meeting, though she could not say why.

  "Cousin," Irrylath began, he, too, uneasy seeming, "this is Aeriel." A pause. More softly, "My wife."

  Sabr put one palm to her shoulder. Head bowed, the queen of Avaric went down on one knee before the pale girl in the wedding sari.

  "Dread sorceress," she murmured, "deliver us from the Witch."

  Aeriel scarcely caught the words, for she felt disconcerted, abandoned. Irrylath did not stand by her, but across from her, alongside Sabr.

  "Already you have returned my cousin and the Avarclon to us," the bandit queen went on, now lifting her gaze, "for which all Avaric-in-exile rejoices. Know that my people pledge to serve you in this war."

  Aeriel shivered, finding the other's proud blue eyes and the smooth, unmarred surface of her face strangely unnerving. Aeriel shook herself. Everyone was looking at her.

  "I accept your fealty, queen of Avaric," she stammered at last, feeling awkward and unprepared—she could scarcely call the woman queen of bandits to her face—"and trust that your horsemen and horsewomen will aid us bravely against the Witch. But do not honor me with grand titles, I beg you. I am only Aeriel."

  Sabr knelt still, her expression cool and serious and slightly surprised: measuring her, Aeriel realized, as one might a compeer—or a rival. Irrylath said nothing. She found herself holding her breath. No one among the company stirred. Not knowing what to do in the end, Aeriel turned abruptly and left them—prince, bandit queen, and the rest—and tried not to glimpse the look of open relief on her husband's face when he realized she was going.

  A daymonth of marching ensued, recruiting, provisioning. How slowly an army moved! Though food was scarce, it was water that was their greatest lack, for the killing drought of the White Witch lay heavy on the land. People came from far and wide, many simply to watch the army pass, but more than a few to join. The allies had gathered contingents from most of the lands of Westernesse—from Bern and nearby Zambul, from northern Pirs, from far Rani and Elver, even Terrain—by the time they reached Pendar. There a dozen tribes of the desert folk waited, among them, the Ma'ambai. Aeriel fell into their arms with a joyous cry.

  "So, little pale one, you have grown so tall that now they are calling you a sorceress," their leader laughed.

  "Chieftess, it is not so," Aeriel said, wiping tears from her eyes. Of all people, truly her old friend the desert wanderer ought to know she was no sorceress. Laughing herself now, she embraced the cinnamon-colored woman. "Oh, Orrototo, it is good to see you again."

  The army continued to grow. When Irrylath's mother, the Lady Syllva, appointed Sabr to lead the forces of the West, the young queen brought her disparate new troops to heel with a swift, sure hand.

  Each directing one wing of the great army, Sabr and her cousin the prince perfectly mirrored one another: both proud, intense, aloof. Aeriel could only admire, even envy, the bandit queen's easy, almost arrogant assumption of command.

  Now they camped at the desert's edge, soon to set out across the pale amber sands for the distant Waste and the Witch's Mere. Aeriel felt a growing anticipation, mingled with dread. She sat with Erin in the cool lee of a dune. It was nightshade, tents and pavilions pitched all around them under the ghostlight of blue Oceanus. Her friend had found them this quiet spot far from the constant bustle at the center of the camp. Aeriel was glad to get away.

  "What baffles me," she said, touching the pearl through the fabric of her gown, "is that we have seen not one glimpse of the Witch's catspaws in all the time we have been in Westernesse."

  She lifted free the pearl and cupped it in her hands like a faint, azure coal. Standing in the temple Flame at Orm had set this lampwing's gift alight—though its wan glow was difficult to discern except in shadowy darkness such as this, away from other light. Aeriel shook her head.

  "Not one scout nor dog, nor one black bird. Why has the Witch sent none to spy on us?"

  The dark girl laughed, leaning back on one elbow and poking at the dry sand. "She scarcely needs spies and catspaws to tell her the whereabouts of an army this size."

  Aeriel put the pearl away. She felt one corner of her mouth tighten. "Does she not wonder at our number, at our strength?"

  Erin found an old bead lying in the sand and held it up. It was deeply reddish, with a hole bored through one end, and carved of sandshell. The dark girl shrugged. "She knows our destination well enough. Perhaps she doesn't care."

  "But she should care," muttered Aeriel. "This seeming unconcern uneases me."

  Erin tossed the blood-colored bead aside and sat up, studying Aeriel. "Perhaps that is her intent, to unease you. This whole business hangs on you—somehow."

  "On me?" scoffed Aeriel. "Only great good chance has put me where I am."

  The dark girl shook her head. "More than chance, my true and only friend. There is a kind of power on you."

  "What power have I?" insisted Aeriel. "When Irrylath generals the Lady's Istern troops, Sabr the forces of the West—"

  "None of which would now be gathered but for you," Erin cut in gently. "The
tales you told and the Torches you lit upon your quest to rescue the gargoyles have awakened half the people in the land. You have opened their eyes to the Witch and shown them the urgency of overthrowing her—today, tomorrow, soon—lest we all perish, thirsting to death."

  Aeriel ran her hand over the fine, crusted sand. It felt cool and smooth as water in the bright starshine.

  If only it were water, she thought grimly. If the moisture-stealing lorelei were not stopped soon, the whole world would succumb to famine and drought. Again Aeriel shook her head.

  "I don't even know the rest of the rime," she murmured, "the rime Ravenna made so long ago to riddle all this out and show us how to unmake the Witch. I only have the first two-thirds."

  Leaning back against the dune once more, Erin began to sing in a voice that was low and true:

  "On Avaric's white plain,

  where an icarus now wings

  To steeps of Terrain

  from Tour-of-the-Kings,

  And damozels twice-seven

  his brides have all become:

  A far cry from heaven,

  a long road from home—

  Then strong-hoof of a starhorse

  must hallow him unguessed

  If adamant's edge is to plunder

  his breast.

  Then, only, may the Warhorse

  and Warrior arise

  To rally the warhosts, and thunder

  the skies."

  Aeriel let her mind wander back, remembering how she had found and freed the enchanted Ions in the fires of Orm before the Witch's remaining darkangels could recapture them.

  "But first there must assemble

  ones icari would claim.

  A bride in the temple

  must enter the flame,

  With steeds found for six brothers,

  beyond a dust deepsea,

  And new arrows reckoned, a wand

  given wings— "

  The rime recounted the rescued Ions agreeing to serve as steeds for Prince Irrylath's Istern brothers, the magical silver arrowheads forged by Talb the Mage for the Lady Syllva, and the Ancient white messenger bird that had come to Aeriel, melding with her wooden staff to become for a time its living figurehead.