The Pearl of the Soul of the World
Page 23

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.