The Pearl of the Soul of the World

15

Rime's End

Inward voice whispered. The pale girl shifted, dozing. Her husband lay sleeping beside her, his breaths even and deep. The strange pattering of rain drummed lightly now. Their makeshift tent rustled gently with the soft, constant wind. Aeriel pressed closer to Irrylath, too drowsy to listen to any sounds but these.

After the flood, Irrylath had made them this small pavilion out of her wedding sari. Gathering poles from the surrounding flotsam, he had set them upright in the soft ground, then draped and wound the yards and yards of yellow stuff about their frame. The magical airthin cloth kept out the damp. Their clothing dried quickly, and the ground over which their shelter stood soon, inexplicably, became dry.

The quiet murmur came again: Aeriel, awake. Still half-dozing, she forgot it the moment she opened her eyes. Pillowing her head on one arm, she gazed at Irrylath. For the first time since she had known him, his face was at rest—no longer troubled by the Witch's dreams. Smiling now, she remembered the heat of his body these few hours past: what she had hungered for all these day-months, ever since their marriage day.

"No longer my husband only in name," she murmured, kissing him as she reached to pull a few stray strands of hair back from his lyon-scored face.

Irrylath shifted, sighing, deeply asleep. He never roused. Only a little while ago, he had clasped her to him with such urgency and passion—as though some intervention loomed to part them, as though only a little time remained. Aeriel laughed, amazed at her own unaccustomed happiness. Here beneath their wedding silk, she gazed at her husband with the greatest attention, a lover's gaze. Every inch of him was beautiful to her.

Aeriel. The soft utterance came again, more insistently. Aeriel sat up with a start. She cast about her, baffled, but she and Irrylath were alone. The voice—eerily familiar—seemed to come from the air.

"Where are you?" she whispered.

Here, the answer came. Within. I am within you now.

Aeriel felt a tremor, something stirring in her blood. The scent came to her suddenly of Ancient flowers, dusky and sweet. Astonishment washed over her. She knew the voice.

"Ravenna," she breathed, shaken. When the pearl had shattered in Oriencor's hand, Aeriel had thought the Ancientlady—surely then if not before—utterly destroyed.

The still, inward voice seemed to chuckle. Hardly the whole of what Ravenna comprised, it murmured, but a little of her, yes. Call me Ravenna, if you will: I am part of what she was.

Aeriel struggled to catch her breath, to take it in. Overwhelming remorse seized her suddenly.

Why do you sorrow? Ravenna within her asked. The war is won.

Aeriel's breast heaved, but it was with dry sobs only. She felt the white marks in the shape of stars left upon her eyelids by the Witch's touch.

"Because I have failed you," she whispered,"and all the world. What matter that the war is won, if all the world is lost?"

Lost? the voice of the pearlstuff in her blood exclaimed. My daughter's evil is at an end, child—

her drought broken, her creatures drowned— and all my rime has come to pass…

"Except the last!" Aeriel exclaimed. Their shelter sighed in the gentle breeze. She gazed about her at the walls of silk, at their scattered garments, at Irrylath. Despair tasted like wormwood in her mouth.

"The last line of the prophecy is not fulfilled. Your gift is scattered to the winds. No daughter remains to heal the world and claim the crown. All's lost."

Not lost, the Ancient's voice within her whispered. It need not be lost.

Aeriel shook her head. How many more generations had this vast war won for the planet—a handful?

A score? So pitifully few it scarcely mattered. Without Ravenna's daughter to guide the healing of the world, Aeriel thought bitterly, everything she and Irrylath had struggled for was vainglory. In the face of the all-devouring entropy, it would all wind down to nothing in the end.

That need not be, the inner voice murmured, and Aeriel realized belatedly that the pearlstuff in her blood could read her thoughts whether or not she spoke them aloud. The entropy need not prevail.

Another might gather my scattered sorcery and heal the world in Oriencor's stead.

Aeriel blinked. Her own white radiance lit the enclosed space softly.

"I don't know what you mean," she breathed.

Be my successor, child, Ravenna's voice whispered. A little of my power is in you now, enough to guide you in gathering the rest.

"But," she protested, dazed, "I'm not your daughter. The rime says—"

Are you not? the other asked gently. Did I not tell you in NuRavenna that you and many others of your young race are descendants of my Ancient one, many generations removed? The world is yours now: your birthright, your inheritance. We Ancients are no more. Become my daughter even as Irrylath was once the Witch's son. Accept the crown of the world's heir, Aeriel. I've no one left but you.

Aeriel sat silent, unable to take it in, to fathom it. "I can't…" she stammered. "I don't know how."

You underestimate yourself Enough of me remains to show you how to start. It will be a long and mighty task, but not beyond you— with my aid.

Vistas unfolded before her, misty with possibility still: Ravenna's sorcery reclaimed and the world made whole again. Aeriel blinked in surprise, beholding, until she realized that the view came to her through the remnants of the pearl.

But we must haste, the still, quiet voice urged her. Better to go at once, while still he sleeps.

The pale girl frowned, gazing at Irrylath. "Go?"

The pearlstuff in her blood swirled restlessly. Yes. Have you not understood what I have been telling you? This task will consume you. You must leave all else behind.

Aeriel drew back, a chill breathing through her. "Leave Irrylath?" she cried.

The voice within her subsided. At last it said, At times we all must give up what we hold most dear for the greater good. I gave up my daughter, all my sorcery, my very life—

"But Irrylath is my husband," Aeriel exclaimed. "We've only just found one another…"

The whole world needs you, Aeriel, the pearl's voice answered sadly. And he is only one man.

New images unfolded before her mind's eye: the planet dying.

"No," Aeriel whispered, "no!"

Anguish racked her. She wished that she might turn away, ignore the knowledge, refuse the gift— but the Ancient sorcery was already inside her, and there was nowhere she might turn.

"Irrylath needs me!" she tried desperately.

I am truly sorry, the pearl's voice murmured, but I have allowed you even these brief hours together at great cost. Time presses. You must not ask more.

Aeriel gazed down at her prince. Gently, she cupped his chin in her hand and, still deeply sleeping, he turned his face as though to seek her touch. An unutterable weight descended upon her. Her breast felt heavy and sore, and she tasted the Witch's heart upon her tongue. Aeriel cradled her husband's cheek, unwilling to let him go.

"He saved me," she whispered, remembering her terror of the flood. "I can't swim. I'd have drowned when the palace fell if he had not…"

Drowned? the voice in her blood exclaimed. Nonsense, child. You can't drown. This new body I gave you is not so easily destroyed.

A thin thread of cold wound through Aeriel. She shivered hard. "What do you mean?" she asked, baffled. "What new body—I don't understand."

The pin, child, the pearl's voice insisted. Did you not guess? The White Witch fashioned it so that it could not be removed without killing you.

Aeriel's eyes widened. Her free hand flew to the place behind her ear where the pin had been. She felt no soreness there, no scar. "But you plucked it out," she gasped. "You pulled it free—"

Yes, and most of you perished in the flash. I had to rebuild the greater part— though I saved all that I could: your heart, your eyes. Your mind and soul, of course.

With a strangled cry, Aeriel snatched her hand from the sleeping prince's cheek, recoiling in horror—not of him, but of herself. In numb dismay, she stared at the body into which she had awakened feeling so strangely new, in the City of Crystalglass, daymonths ago.

"What thing have you made of me?" she gasped. Her eyes returned to Irrylath. He had been a demon once, in Avaric, and she had made him mortal again. She herself had been mortal then—but what was she now? "A monster…" she choked.

No more a monster than the starhorse, Ravenna within her replied, or any other of my Ions. No more than Melkior.

" A golam," the pale girl managed, shuddering.

Yes.

"A clockwork automaton—like the duarough's underground machines…!"

No. Never. A biological construct. You are still flesh, child, not gears and wire.

Staring at herself, Aeriel laughed weakly, dismayed. "A fine match," she repeated softly, thinking of the starhorse, "this new engine for my soul."

She moved her fingers, clenching and opening her hand—but the motion had become accustomed now, no longer felt odd. Something slid along her arm: a tiny chain, scant as spider's silk—so fine she had not noticed it before. She recognized the filament Ravenna had used to fasten the pearl to her brow. It had become entwined about her wrist somehow—when she had handed the pearl to Oriencor?

Distracted, Aeriel shook her head, still staring at her strange, new flesh.

"As like my old form as like…"

The words trailed away.

It is the soul that makes us human, not the flesh. Believe me, child, if I had had another choice

—

"Why did you not tell me?" Aeriel grated furiously. She sat gasping, scarcely able to speak. Outrage and a crushing sense of betrayal strangled her voice.

I did not think that wise, the song in her blood

Rime's End ow answered deftly, dispassionately. I had to conceal my design from your adversary at all costs. If the Witch had read even a glimpse of it in your eyes or so much as suspected what it was you carried, she'd have destroyed you long before you could give her the pearl.

Aeriel shook her head. Oriencor's words came back to her: Little fool… no more than her clockwork golam…unimportant! Slowly, realization dawned. To Ravenna within her, she said at last,

"You meant to sacrifice me—our entire army— to that end if need be."

A weary silence.

She was my daughter, Aeriel. I had to try.

No sound in the tent then but night wind's gentle gusting and Irrylath's soft, even breaths. The voice of the pearl said no more for a time.

"I've been your catspaw all along," Aeriel said quiedy, amazed. "We have all been your gaming beads." Then, suddenly, sharply, "Did you know the pearl would destroy her when I put it into her hand?"

The pearlstuff widün her roused sluggishly, as if reluctandy, seemed to sigh. I greatly feared it, if she would not accept the gift.

"And now you would make me the world's heir in place of Oriencor."

She worried the fine, weightless chain about her wrist, but it would neither break nor slip free."

"Ravenna's daughter,"she said bitterly. "Some called me that even before this war. And 'green-eyed enchantress.""She felt the pearlstuff moving in her blood and shivered. "Perhaps those titles have a grain of truth to them now, after all."

Behold.

Aeriel felt a change within her. Her vision sharpened, becoming infinitely more keen. Everything around her resolved into litde burning filaments that twined and juggled, mated and danced. Her own hand, Irrylath, the Edge Adamantine— everything was made of them: strung together from beads of fire.

The stuff of all the world, the voice within her said. These are my gaming beads. Return to NuRavenna, wearing the crown as my heir, and I will teach you the juggling of them, the spinning and weaving of their strands. You will become a mighty sorceress, Aeriel.

The pale girl sat gazing at the sleeping prince beside her. She shook her head. "I don't want your sorcery," she whispered. "I want to remain with Irrylath."

The pearlstuff in her blood began to simmer

Rime's End ow and seethe. Once again the images of the encroaching entropy flooded her mind.

You must leave him, the Ancient's voice persisted. The task awaiting you brooks no distraction.

You will be far too busy in NuRavenna for such mundane cares.

Aeriel leaned back and longed to weep. Her eyes stung, but no tears would fall. Despair overwhelmed her. Undeniable as the chain, everything the Ravenna within told her was true.

Child, you are not mortal anymore. Irrylath deserves a bride who will age with him.

The Ancient's words were full of compassion and sorrow, but some stubborn part of Aeriel refused to give in.

"I am his bride," she whispered.

You drank your wedding toast to a half-darkangel in Avaric, Ravenna within her answered gently. One who meant to kill you in the next hour. But you overcame him with the help of Talb the Mage. The one you wed no longer exists! Irrylath is a man again; the darkangel is no more.

"He lives!" cried Aeriel. "My own heart beats within his breast."

Because his heart was plucked from him unawares, while he lay helpless beneath the Mage's spell. Don't you see, child? Irrylath is bound to you whether he would or no. Did you not once yourself hear him say he would turn to Sabr if only he were free?

"No," Aeriel whispered, resisting still. "He would not—it's me he loves now…" But the words trailed away. Doubt gnawed at her. Gazing at Irrylath, she began to fear all his late passion, all his love were but the outcome of a stolen heart and Talb the Mage's spell. Aeriel groaned. "But he is my husband. He's mine"

Are you like the Witch, then, devoid of true love? Do you want only to possess him?

"No!" The misery that gripped her was almost unbearable.

Then set him free.

Silence.

Come, Ravenna's voice reasoned. You have freed the wraiths that were the darkangel's brides, and my Ions that had been made into gargoyles. You have freed the whole world from my daughter's power. Will you not give Irrylath his freedom now?

Aeriel sat shaking, frozen. Ravenna's exhortation filled her with terror. If she gave Irrylath back his heart, would he be lost to her? She could not bear the thought—and yet, now that the seed of suspicion was planted, it seemed she could do nothing to check its growth. Cold certainty crystallized in her: once freed, he would choose Sabr. The fine chain chafed against her wrist. The pearl-stuff in her blood waited, whispering. Her gaze fell upon the white gown into which she had awakened in NuRavenna.

"I know now what is the fabric of this garment you gave me," she said softly. It felt unspeakably heavy, a great burden in her hand. She did not want to don it again. "Duty."

Sacrifice.

One of the panels of the tiny pavilion was very slightly agape, where two layers of the yellow wedding sari did not quite overlap. Aeriel gazed out through the crack into the night beyond. The rain had long since ceased, the mist beginning to blow away. The starstrewn vault of heaven peered darkly through the grey-white wisps of cloud.

If you lose much, think what you and the world will gain. And others have lost still more.

Consider all my former might, reduced now to a scatter of firebeads on the wind and a murmur in your blood.

Aeriel's gaze returned to Irrylath. "This task you would hand me will stretch far beyond the life of any mortal man." o

Doubtless. And time presses even now. My sorcery scatters wider with every passing hour. You must begin to gather it, and soon.

The pale girl laughed painfully. What could that matter, without Irrylath? She thought of the task stretching before her, uncountably vast, and herself going companionless through all the years. Loneliness nearly overwhelmed her. Even the Ancientlady Ravenna had had Melkior. Heavily, she sighed.

"Must I never see Irrylath again?"

The Ancient's voice was full of regret. I fear not. Have you forgot?— Irrylath belongs to the Avarclon.

Aeriel sat upright with a jolt. Memory filled her of the pact he had struck with the newly awakened starhorse in Esternesse: a truce between them and the winged Warhorse for his steed until the Witch was overthrown. Aeriel bit back a gasp. She had forgotten that pact, put it wholly from her mind until this moment. All debate would prove meaningless if the starhorse demanded the prince's death in payment for his own.

I built my Ions to be just, not merciful, the Ancient voice within her sadly said. In truth, it was this I meant to spare you when I warned you away in haste.

The pale girl's hand upon her sleeping husband tightened. "No," she whispered. "No. Tell me what I may do…"

To save him, she meant, but the pearlstuff in her blood spoke before she could finish the thought.

We have come to the rime's end, child. I can only advise. I cannot compel. The choice lies before you: Irrylath or the world. Choose.

Aeriel struggled, fighting for breath. It was hard to speak, the words hurt so. At last she whispered,

"If I must give up Irrylath to the vengeance of the Avarclon, then let him at least go as his own man, free."

Her hand shook, but she felt the pearlstuff within her steady it. Sheathed upon the prince's sash, the Blade Adamantine glimmered. Aeriel reached to pull it free. Laying her hand on Irrylath's breast, she drew the white gleaming edge down the center of his breastbone and found her own living heart beneath, placed there two twelvemonths past upon their marriage night. Lost in sleep, the young man never stirred.

The edge of adamant held no sting.

Turning the blade to her own breast, she delved and found Irrylath's beating heart, which she had worn these last two years. The pearlstuff pervaded her, sustaining her. No blood spilled from the bright Blade's keen and burning edge. She felt only warmth hot as white Solstar. Taking her own heart from Irrylath's breast, she returned his to its place. With a motion of her hand, she closed the flesh. Then she set her own heart back in her breast and sealed the breach. No mark or scar betrayed what she had done.

"Already," she murmured to Ravenna within, "you have made me a sorceress."

Adamantine glowed bright without a stain, throwing shadows through the little pavilion. One lay now across Irrylath's face. Aeriel herself cast no shadow anymore. Unable even to weep, she turned and set the Blade back in its sheath. Voices sounded in the distance outside the pavilion. Aeriel lifted her head, listening. The prince beside her murmured, shifted, stirred. The voices sounded closer, clearer now.

"Survivors, surely!" A young man's voice. It sounded like her own brother Roshka's.

"By all the underpaths," another cried, one Aeriel had not heard in far too long: Talb the Mage. "Let it be they! The fabric of that pavilion can only be hers."

"Hollo! Hollo!"

Irrylath beside her sat up with a start. Hurriedly, she reached for Ravenna's gown, but her husband caught her hand and brought it to his lips. Without a thought, she caressed his cheek—then she remembered he did not belong to her anymore, and froze. Other voices hailed them from without. Aeriel heard the high, ululating trill that was the greeting cry of the desert wanderers. The prince's head turned in surprise.

"Someone comes," he murmured.

Sick at heart, Aeriel pulled free of him and turned away. His touch was torture to her now. She could not bear to look into his eyes, to see his feelings change as soon as he realized his heart was once again his own. She donned the Ancient's weighty gown. Beside her, the prince caught up his own garments. As he knotted the sash about his waist, he reached to draw her to him again. Aeriel shrank from him.

Shaking, she rose to fold the flap of their tent aside and step out to meet the ones who came.