The Pearl of the Soul of the World

by Pierce, Meredith Ann

  "Irrylath's replacement," she said. "My new 'son' has never flown, but it is high time now. Your husband's warhost is having far too easy a time."

  Slow dread filled Aeriel. She stared at the wall in front of her. The palm of Oriencor's hand just hovered above its translucent surface. A hair-thin crack ran down the wall—so fine Aeriel would never have seen it without the aid of the pearl. She heard rustling, glimpsed movement through the stone. As Oriencor laid her hand at last upon the crack, it parted smoothly, forming a doorway so low and narrow only a child could easily pass through. The White Witch smiled.

  "Time for Irrylath to meet his darkangel."

  A creature shaped like a human child stood in a cavity beyond the door: a parody of human form, its skin stretched dead white over sunken flesh. A dozen black wings draped its shoulders. Still caught in the Witch's grasp, Aeriel shrank away. Nothing about this thing was beautiful— unlike Irrylath when she had first known him as an unfinished icarus. In contrast, this creature seemed an automaton. It spoke no word, moved stiffly as though made of wax: an utter darkangel. The Witch had already drunk away its soul.

  "Golam," Aeriel whispered, shaking uncontrollably with the cold. "Animate doll!"

  "Yes."

  Turning its colorless eyes toward her, the white-faced creature hissed. Delighted, Oriencor laughed.

  "So, chick. Ready to fly? One of your fellows is dead," she told it. "It only makes the rest of you dearer to me. To the casement. Haste! Your task's at hand."

  Shifting as though uneasy, the creature continued to eye Aeriel. It seemed reluctant to approach. As Oriencor's daggerlike nails dug into Aeriel's flesh, her knees went weak, her whole side now numb. She winced, biting back a cry.

  "Oh, don't mind her, you stupid thing," the White Witch snapped. "She can't really hurt you with those eyes."

  The little darkangel swept past then, gargling at Aeriel still. It bounded to the window and sprang onto the wet, watery sill, where it crouched, wings flexing like a young bird's, fanning the air. Oriencor shoved Aeriel abruptly away from her, and the pale girl staggered, falling to her knees. The little icarus whistled and yammered. Striding to the window ledge, the White Witch transfixed it with her gaze.

  "Fly now," she commanded, "and bring me Irrylath."

  Languidly, carelessly, the White Witch kissed her hissing, snarling creature and pushed it off the ledge.

  The darkangel's wings began their storm-like, circular motion as it sped away across the air, flying as though it had known flight all its life. Crumpled against the wall, Aeriel struggled vainly to rise. Upon her brow the pearl flickered, nearly spent. Get up, something within murmured urgendy. Rise now, or you never will! With great effort, Aeriel dragged herself to her feet.

  Panting, she leaned unsteadily against the wall. Through the casement, she saw Oriencor's seventh darkangel swooping across the sky toward where Irrylath hovered, calling something down to the Lady Syllva among the bowwomen of Esternesse. One of diem looked up and caught her commander's arm, pointing. Syllva turned, then Irrylath. Sweat-stained and grave, the prince looked weary but not frightened. He had not yet realized what this icarus was.

  Pointing with his Blade, he spoke a word to the Avarclon. But as the bridleless starhorse wheeled, climbing the air, his rider suddenly recoiled. Aeriel beheld bewilderment, and then open dismay, break over his face. The winged Horse never checked his ascent as Irrylath cast wildly about him, counting darkangels. The little icarus stooped. Astonished, the prince spun in the saddle to face the Witch's new

  "son."

  It dipped low first, harrying Avarclon. With a scream of rage, the starhorse struck at the child-shaped thing, but it dodged away. Irrylath lunged in the saddle, but the icarus pivoted, swooping upward from below to bait the prince's mount. Again Avarclon plunged and once more struck only empty air. The starhorse shook his head, pawing the sky, trumpeting his fury. Face grim, Irrylath swung recklessly, repeatedly, lightning swift, but each time, the little icarus deftly evaded him, its dozen dark wings fanning like a storm. It seemed to have no wish to engage with him, only to taunt—hovering just out of range.

  Weak with cold, Aeriel shuddered. Before her at the window, Oriencor stood laughing. Abruptly, the pale girl noticed that without Irrylath to command them from the air, the allied forces below had begun to waver. The Witch's smile twitched. Aeriel stared as those beautiful white lips began to move as if in speech, but no sound emerged. Instead, it was the darkangel that spoke. The heightened perception of the pearl conveyed the sound clearly to Aeriel even at this distance: the little icarus mouthing the words of its mistress in a high, locustlike singsong.

  "Come back to me," the winged witch-child said. "Though I speak with another's voice, know that it is I, Oriencor."

  Irrylath started, staring at the little darkangel. A strangled cry escaped his lips.

  "You loved me once," Oriencor's catspaw droned. "Do you not love me still, who mothered you after your own dam deserted you? I who gave you wings? I will give you wings again—such wings!—if only you will return to me."

  Stumbling, Aeriel groped her way to the window. Oblivious, silently whispering, Oriencor never turned.

  "Behold the one I have made to take your place among my darkangels," she breathed, and the little icarus repeated her words. "For you have proved yourself worthy of a far grander rank. Be my consort!

  Return and sit beside me upon the siege as white as salt. Rule the world with me."

  "No," Aeriel whispered, weak still, her breath coming short. "Husband, no!"

  Irrylath sat gazing at the soulless thing before him as one mesmerized. The vampyre child whirred nearer, still just out of reach. Avarclon could only tread air, snorting with fury, unable to strike. The White Witch's fingernails grated on the slick, dripping sill.

  "Come back," she crooned. The icarus echoed her. "You love me still. Admit it. You love me still."

  Irrylath shuddered, breathing hard. Aeriel clung desperately to the cold, wet window ledge.

  "Don't listen!" she gasped.

  But his eyes were fastened on the darkangel. It floated before him, filling his gaze. Though the pearl enhanced Aeriel's senses enough to see and hear what passed between Irrylath and the darkangel, she knew her own weak protests could never hope to reach him. Clearly the White Witch's words in the darkangel's mouth were the only ones he heard.

  "You are mine and you know it, and always have been. You came all this way not to destroy me but to bring me souls! Look at your followers scattered below you. How small they are! How high above them you ride. They cannot stop you from rejoining me now. Come, my love. Give me your hand. My seventh son will pluck you away to me."

  Like a man in a dream, Irrylath lowered the Edge Adamantine. The little darkangel fluttered nearer, fixing him with its colorless eyes. If the prince had reached out, he could almost have touched it. The breath of its wings stirred his long, black hair. Oriencor sighed, laughing. She had him.

  "No!" Aeriel screamed. "Irrylath—"

  She might as well have tried to outshout the wind. Her words were lost in the clamor of battle.

  Horrified, she remembered her nightmare: Irrylath falling headlong toward oblivion. She could not save him. I should never have stolen your heart, she thought wildly, bitterly. I should have let you die in Avaric— it was what you wanted— rather than bring you here for the Witch to claim! Tears burned on her cheeks, hardening as they cooled. She brushed at them distractedly, and they fell like little beads of colorless stone.

  At the casement, Oriencor murmured silkily, "Come back to me, my own sweet son. Come, love.

  Son. Come."

  Battle below had come almost to a standstill, all eyes fixed on Irrylath above. The prince's darkangel hovered within reach now, holding out its hand. Slowly, Irrylath raised his own—hesitated—then in one swift lunge, he caught the inhuman thing before him by the wrist. With a cry of triumph or of agony, he dragged the Witch's golam down against the frantic beating of
its wings and plunged the Blade Adamantine into its breast.

  13

  Dragons

  Pierced to its leaden heart, the little darkangel fell, wings stiff, feathers fluttering like rags. Aeriel felt giddy, light. Irrylath had not returned to Oriencor! Leaning against the casement for support, Aeriel felt that she might die of happiness as, without a ripple, the lifeless body of the Witch's seventh son disappeared into the still, black waters of the Mere. Avarclon gave a great neigh of victory, and a shout went up from the army of the allies below. Irrylath wheeled to face Oriencor.

  "I will not come back to you, Witch," he shouted. "I serve the Aeriel now."

  "Have a care, my one-time love," she answered savagely, seizing her prisoner and dragging her into the prince's view. "Your Aeriel is in my hands."

  The pale girl saw him start.

  "Aeriel!" he cried. Beneath him, Avarclon wheeled sharp in the air, his great wings beating. Oriencor laughed.

  "Fool," she spat. "If you had come back, I'd have given her to you. Now I will keep her for myself.

  She will die very slowly at the end of this war. As will you."

  Rage swept over Irrylath's face. The knuckles of his hand that clasped the Edge Adamantine whitened. "Dare harm even one hair of her, Witch," he shouted hoarsely, "and I'll put this dagger through your heart!"

  Avarclon plunged forward as though spurred, climbing swiftly through the air. The White Witch stood unflinching, eyes fixed beyond him, her countenance betraying not the slightest fear. Softly, not to Irrylath, she spoke.

  "Harry him."

  Instantly her five remaining darkangels broke away from Irrylath's brothers and veered back toward their mistress's keep. In another moment, they were swarming about the prince: baiting, feinting, striking and darting. He kept them at bay with the Edge Adamantine. Aeriel spotted those of Irrylath's brothers who rode winged Ions hastening to him through the air. Oriencor stood at the casement, watching intently, seeming to take no further interest in the contest of the Lady's army against her own forces below.

  The pearl gleamed warm on Aeriel's brow. With a start, she realized that, led by Sabr, the allies had broken free of the Witch's vise at last and cleared a path to the Mere. Under their yellow banner, the Istern and Westron forces were surging toward the black water, dragging barges. Aeriel saw the slender Mariners of the Sea-of-Dust dashing ahead of the rest.

  Setting small, light skiffs upon the water, the dark people began to row. If they succeeded in crossing the Mere, Aeriel realized, the Lady's forces could storm the keep. Aeriel's heart quickened—she almost dared to hope. Though badly outnumbered still, the allies were fighting forward again. The tide of battle had begun to turn.

  Far to the fore, the skiffs of the dark islanders cut across the oil-smooth Mere. Just as they reached the middle of the lake, Aeriel saw something huge breaking the surface. All at once, the vast black, dull-gleaming head of one of the Witch's water dragons rose from the lake. A moment later, its companion reared beside it, breathing sulfur and smoldering flame. With a roar, the pair of them lunged at the Mariners' skiffs, swallowing half a dozen in the space of a breath.

  Aeriel cried out. The formerly tight, orderly fleet of the Mariners drifted, floundering. Seizing another skiff between their jaws, the two dragons tore it asunder, worrying the splinters. Its occupant fell flailing into the poisoned water and disappeared. His fellows hurled javelins, but the mereguints scarcely flinched. Those islanders who tried to row around and on toward the keep, they snapped up and devoured.

  Oriencor remained oblivious, eyes fixed above on the battle of Irrylath and his brothers against her icari. Beyond and below, on shore, Pendarlon charged down the beach, scattering a host of the Witch's creatures. With a bound, the lyon of the desert plunged from shore—and did not sink into the flat, reflectionless waters of the Mere. Aeriel swallowed her surprise. The flighdess Ions could do that, she recalled: run across a fluid or fragile surface without breaking through. A dark rider clung to his radiant mane.

  "Erin!" Aeriel cried, recognizing her friend in a rush of euphoria and fear.

  Bright Burning hung, still sheathed, at the dark girl's side. Why? Aeriel cried inwardly, furious. Why hasn't she drawn it? And then the answer came to her, plain as the light of Solstar: Because the glaive is linked to me. She cannot draw it except when I will. Aeriel flushed in horrified chagrin. Pendarlon bounded over the black, smooth Mere.

  "Draw the sword," Aeriel breathed.

  Upon Pendarlon's back, Erin's head snapped up. She cast about her, frowning. Aeriel slapped her own hip, where the sword had once hung. So strong was the connection now, pearl to glaive, that Aeriel half imagined she could feel the sword-belt about her own waist still.

  Desperately, she whispered, "Now!"

  And a moment later, as the lyon neared the Witch's dragons, the dark girl seized Bright Burning and pulled it from its sheath. The glaive coruscated, ablaze in her hand. Aeriel felt the well-remembered sense of vertigo and, reeling, fought against being drawn into the flame of the blade as, with a savage swipe of the burning sword, Erin slashed the dark, liquid eye of the nearest mereguint as it stooped to seize another of her people's skiffs.

  A moment later, Aeriel saw Marelon, the Feathered Serpent of the Sea-of-Dust, breaking the surface of the Mere beside them. Her great vermilion jaws snapping, she twined about the throat of the injured dragon. Their thrashing scarcely disturbed the glass-smooth surface of the Mere. Erin and Pendarlon sprang on as Marelon dragged the mereguint under. Erin brandished her glaive at the other dragon, but it recoiled, diving, and disappeared. Pendarlon roared in fury. The dark girl called out and gestured toward the halls of Winterock. Behind her, the Mariners regathered and rowed.

  But how do they mean to enter? Aeriel wondered suddenly. The keep has no door. On the shore, the Witch's forces, now gravely disarrayed, were growing ever more ragged. Most of Syllva's people had crowded into the barges now to cross the Mere. Not far from shore, the mudlick, jaws gaping, reared up before the Lady's barge. Syllva shot it through the mouth with an arrow made of silver and gold. Ahead, Erin and Pendarlon had nearly reached the keep.

  Without warning, the second mereguint broke the surface of the Mere before them. Its breath smoked, sulfurous yellow. Thundering, the dragon rose, towering over them. With a snarl, the lyon dropped to a crouch. Erin sprang to stand upon his back as, like a black bird, the mereguint's vast head swooped, jaws wide, its teeth each as long as Erin's arm. The dark girl let go of the lyon's mane, taking hold of her blade's hilt in both hands.

  "Erin!" Aeriel screamed, reaching out across a hopeless distance—and yet it seemed her own voice echoed in the singing of the blade.

  As the dark girl swung the burning sword, Aeriel shut her eyes, feeling a sense of motion and of draining, a sweeping rush as though she herself were circumscribing an arc. Through her own body, she felt the crunch of broken scales, cloven spine, and the waft of something dark and mighty above her collapsing in coils upon coils into the Mere—until gasping, shuddering, Aeriel pulled back, opening her eyes, willing herself away from merger with the sword.

  In the lake below, the dead mereguint floated, head severed from its body, black blood iridescent upon the shadowy surface of the Mere. A haze of acrid yellow smoke drifted over it. Not far from it, the lyon, with the dark girl still crouched upon his back, bounded onto the ledge of the castle directly beneath Aeriel. The burning sword blazed in Erin's hand. Drained by even such brief contact with the glaive, Aeriel tottered.

  "Erin. Oh, Erin," she breathed.

  In the sky overhead, one of Irrylath's brothers sliced a darkangel with his hooked Istern sword.

  Oriencor's lip curled in a snarl. Eyes fixed on the battle in the air, she seemed not to have noticed Erin vanquishing her dragons below. Aeriel wondered if the White Witch had even heard her crying the dark girl's name. Above, the prince of Avaric finished off his brother's darkangel with the Edge Adamantine. In silence, like its fellow, the icarus fell
.

  "Irrylath fights well," Ravenna's daughter murmured, "with great brilliance and passion. I will grant him that. One by one, my darkangels topple."

  On the far shore, her troops no longer held any semblance of order. Company by company, her minions were straying to a stop. Absorbed in the aerial battle, Oriencor remained oblivious. A rush of sudden understanding overtook Aeriel. Like an overambitious juggler unable to catch and rethrow all of her many beads, the Witch was allowing her forgotten ground forces to falter. Such numbers, Aeriel realized, must require tremendous concentration to control—and Irrylath's betrayal had clearly shaken her.

  "Traitor!" the Witch muttered bitterly. "I never thought he would desert me in the end."

  Keep her distracted! Aeriel told herself. Oriencor could regather her scattered battalions in a moment, if she chose. Desperately, the pale girl searched her mind for something, anything to keep the other's attention from the battle below.

  "Yes, my husband has deserted you," she said, throwing into her voice a hard edge of confidence she did not feel. "As the Ancients of Oceanus once deserted you—as did Melkior."

  With a hiss, the White Witch turned from the casement, her green eyes blazing. "What do you know of Melkior, you little fool?"

  Aeriel's heart quailed beneath the ferociousness of that gaze, but she steeled herself to stand firm, not to flinch. "That he is a halfling, like you," she flung back, using the word she knew would cut. "That he was your friend once, but he turned from you. He served your mother in the end."

  "My mother is dead," the White Witch snarled, "and Melkior no more than her clockwork golam.

  Gears and wires! He is unimportant."

  Angrily, she made as if to turn back toward the fray. Aeriel stifled the cry of protest that would betray her as surely as would Oriencor's taking note of events below.