The Pearl of the Soul of the World

9

Bright Burning

Aeriel traveled alone over the endless dry dunes toward the Witch's Mere. The pearl helped her see soft places in the sand, avoid those banks that had begun to shift. She walked a long time before pausing to rest, and even then it was not fatigue that stopped her. If I press on too hard, Erin will do the same, she found herself thinking, illogically, and yet she halted, strangely sure it was for Erin's sake.

She envisioned the dark girl, miles away, sinking down, one hand resting on the pommel of the sword, unwilling to unfasten it, even now. When Erin brought her little skin water bag to her lips, Aeriel tasted water. The dark girl took a handful of flavorless chickseed from her pouch and chewed on it, coughed dryly, sipped again. She sighed heavily and at last lay down, cheek pillowed on her arm.

Shoulders slumping, Aeriel felt a kind of resonant fatigue. Abruptly, she caught herself, surprised how vivid her imagining had been. It was not her own weariness she sensed, but that of her far-off friend. Did some connection now link them: pearl to sword? Aeriel frowned, wondering. The dark girl's presence seemed to overlie her own vision—lightly, yet as distincdy as an image reflected on water. If she ignored it, it faded. Yet when she paid it heed, it sharpened, growing more vivid. Exhausted, Erin slept. Later, when she awoke, Aeriel rose and walked on.

The night lengthened. At last Aeriel neared the desert's edge. The sand underfoot turned from pale orange to greyer drab. Bits of parched, broken ground showed through. An occasional frayed shoot thrust up through a crack. She sensed Erin, leagues distant, also nearing the desert's edge. The dark girl hove into sight of the allied camp sooner than Aeriel had expected. The terrain of the Waste was uneven there, fraught with canyons and cliffs. Guards and sentries stood posted everywhere. They stared at Erin as though she had returned from the dead.

"You know me," she snapped wearily. "Stop gaping." They made no attempt to stop her, only called for their captains. "Where is he, Irrylath?" Erin demanded. "I bring word of Aeriel."

They stared at the glaive, burning white in its sheath. "The Aeriel!" she heard others murmuring, abuzz.

"A message from the Aeriel…"

Far away, the pale girl had to smile. Already her name, like Ravenna's, was being used as a title.

Impatient, Erin strode past the sentries without waiting for their leave. She headed toward the great council tent at the center of the camp. Rose silk, it billowed huge, breathing and sighing in the slight desert wind. Again, the sentries gaped, but these had the presence of mind to cross their pikes. Erin halted.

Aeriel heard voices through the tent's open entryway.

"My son, we must press on…"

"Brother, Aeriel or no Aeriel, our troops cannot simply continue to languish here."

"… nightshade upon daymonth, Cousin, going nowhere—"

Hand resting on the pommel of her sword, Erin told the sentries, "Let me pass. I come from Aeriel."

Within, the drone of discussion abruptly ceased.

"Who's there?" demanded a voice. Though rough, it was surely Irrylath's. Aeriel fought the leaping of her heart.

"Sentry, answer your commander," a second voice directed, lighter pitched, but for all that, more like the prince's than Aeriel had ever realized: his cousin, Sabr.

Aeriel's throat knotted, and a bitterness welled in her mouth. She had not wanted to think of the bandit queen again so soon. Other voices murmured. At Irrylath's word, the two guards uncrossed their spears and stood aside. Erin entered. Through the dark girl's eyes, Aeriel glimpsed the Lady Syllva and her Istern sons, her own brother Roshka and Talb the Mage—even the lyon Pendarlon.

They clustered about a folding camp table on which rested a map weighted with odd objects: a sheathed dagger, a flagon, a stone. Someone moved through the others from the table's far side. Walking the Wasteland, absorbed in her vision, Aeriel stumbled. Dismay glanced through her. She scarcely recognized the man. She felt Erin's start of surprise echo her own.

"Oh, husband," Aeriel murmured. "Irrylath."

He was so thin, he looked weadiered to the bone. The broad, high planes of his cheeks stuck sharply out, the cheek beneath hollow and shadowed. His sark hung loose from the shoulders, the sash at the waist cinched tight. He looked like a whippet, like a desert racing cat, like a man in whom some guilty inner fire burned, consuming him.

"He won't live to reach the Witch's Mere!" Aeriel found herself whispering in terror, and the image came to her again, unbidden, of Irrylath falling toward stormtossed emptiness. Desperately, she thrust the fearful thought away. She stood halted in the middle of the flat, grey expanse of Wasteland now, staring at nothing, seeing only what was happening in Syllva's camp leagues upon leagues away, watching through Erin's eyes.

"You are much changed, Prince," the dark girl said. A gap of several paces separated them.

"And you," the one before her answered, "late companion to my wife, you who deserted us so abruptly—in secret, so soon after she was taken— that many wondered what your part in her abduction might have been." His words were quiet, keen and hard. "I, too, had a trusted companion once," the prince continued, "one who betrayed me to the Witch."

Miles distant, Aeriel flinched at the barely veiled accusation. Before him, Erin snorted, refuing to be baited.

"I left because my errand was urgent," she snapped. "Now I have returned, having lately been with Aeriel."

The others in the tent stirred, murmuring. Syllva, the Lady of Esternesse, took a step forward as though to speak, but her son the prince of Avaric spoke first.

"Have you?" he scoffed. "Then you have been to the Witch's palace and back." His voice held such a brittle edge that Aeriel shuddered.

"I have been to the City of Crystalglass," the dark girl replied, her own voice angry but controlled.

The prince's very presence grated on her. Aeriel had never before this moment realized the extent of their antipathy. " That is where Aeriel had gone."

"You lie!" His vehemence surprised even Erin. "Either way, you lie! If you have been to the City, you have not been with Aeriel. If you have been with her and are now returned, you belong to the Witch."

Irrylath's brothers shifted, shaking their heads. Hadin, the youngest, murmured, "Brother, hold…"

But Irrylath ignored them all, his eyes locked on Erin's.

"I have been with Aeriel," the dark girl told him quietly, firmly, "at Crystalglass—"

"And is she well?" the prince exclaimed, almost calm again suddenly. "Then tell me what the Witch had made of her: is it a lorelei like herself that devours men's souls—or perhaps a female darkangel, an icare? She needs another to replace me, you know. She's only got six now. Or a harridan, perchance, such as we met at Orm—or even a wraith? Is that it? Has she made my wife into a wraith? Tell me."

Aeriel stood, fists doubled at her breasts, able to perceive it all so vividly across the miles, yet powerless to intervene. Rather than stand helpless, she almost wished that she could break the link between the dark girl and herself: tear the pearl from her own brow, or the sword from Erin's hand. But she dared not lose sight of Irrylath, even for a moment.

"She was well when last we spoke, earlier this fortnight," Erin replied, outwardly implacable now. Yet Aeriel felt how hot the dark girl's anger burned just beneath the skin.

"Then why has she not returned with you?" Irrylath's cry was not so wild this time, but full of anguish and a fury to match and overmatch the dark girl's ire. Aeriel stood dismayed.

"She is on her way to face the Witch," Erin replied evenly.

"Alone?" The prince of Avaric shook his head. A weak, unsteady laugh escaped his lips. One hand was in his hair now, clenched, become a fist. He whispered, "Lies."

"Irrylath, Irrylath, calm yourself," Aeriel exclaimed.

No one heard—but her words were echoed by the Lady Syllva. Pendarlon rumbled. Roshka spoke low and urgently to Hadin beside him. Talb the Mage shifted uneasily, fingering his beard. Unheeding, Irrylath touched the hilt of the Edge Adamantine, much as Erin's hand rested upon the broadsword Bright Burning. Aeriel felt the dark girl's jaw hardening.

"I am not a liar, Prince Irrylath."

Her hand tightened on the sword. With a start, the young man leaned forward suddenly, staring at Erin's weapon. Aeriel heard the sharp intake of his breath. His eyes had become like blue lamp-flames burning.

"That glaive you bear is Witch-made," he breathed. "I doubt it not. Her handiwork is unmistakable—"

" Aeriel gave me this," Erin grated. "Disbelieve if you dare, you faithless wretch!" She spat the last word. "It is only your own falsehood gnawing at you. That and the knowledge that this whole war hangs on her, and you are nothing beside her. No match to her and never will be…"

Hoarse as a madman, the young man cried, "You are some catspaw of the Witch!"

Without warning, he sprang, covering the paces between himself and Erin in less than a moment. The dark girl's eyes widened. Through her, Aeriel saw the sweat on Irrylath's brow, the scars threading one cheek, the animosity in his hot blue eyes.

"My son, no!" the Lady Syllva gasped.

Adamantine flashed in the prince's hand: its snaking blade gleamed with a white radiance, its edge so keen it could cut anything. Already Pendarlon was springing. Behind him, Roshka and the prince's brothers shouted, bolting forward to stay him. The guards in the entryway were nearer— but they would all be too late. The sword was beginning to fall. It would be over between one heartbeat and the next.

Perceived through the dark girl's eyes, Irrylath's blade almost appeared to Aeriel to be flashing down upon herself. Seething, the dark islander stood, refusing to retreat.

"Erin!" Aeriel screamed, throwing up one arm as though somehow to fend off the adamantine blade.

In that same instant, Erin unsheathed the sword. She brought her own long, straight, burning blade up in a clean arc to meet the white serpentine edge of the prince's shortsword. The two blades met with a sound at once like a silver bell and a low flute note and a bandolyn string sharply plucked. Aeriel fell to her knees, feeling the shock resonate along her whole length as the Edge Adamantine was blocked and held. The blade that could cut anything could not cut the burning sword.

Irrylath cried out. Grimacing, he clutched his wrist as though he meant to release his weapon or lift it away, but it seemed he could not move. The white fire that swirled about the dark girl's blade threaded upward along Adamantine to touch the prince's hand. With a groan, he sank to his knees. Erin stood gazing at him, astonished.

"Let be!" Aeriel cried out. "Have done!"

And this time, somehow, the others in the tent leagues distant heard. The Lady Syllva halted where she stood. Roshka and Irrylath's brothers broke off their headlong rush. Pendarlon checked, snarling.

The guards dashing in from the doorway froze. As Erin lifted Bright Burning away from Irrylath's blade, the fire touching his hand vanished, and the prince slumped, sword arm falling heavily to the ground.

Adamantine made a clean, dustless cut in the earth. Sabr ran to him, her own dagger drawn. Erin ignored her, holding the glaive upright before her, staring at it.

"I did not mean to draw this blade," the dark girl whispered. "Something seemed to steer my hand. I meant only to stand defiant until the last moment, to see if you truly meant to have my life." Still staring at the blade, she was speaking to the prince. "I thought no need for swords. I thought the others would stop you."

The broadsword sang and hummed. Aeriel heard her own sobbing in the sound. Panting, Irrylath cradled his arm as though it were painful—or numb, A stab of fear went through Aeriel. She had no idea whether the sword's fire had harmed him permanently. He seemed dazed. All the others in the tent were casting about with baffled or frightened looks, save Pendarlon, who, staring at Erin's blade, was making a low cat-growl.

"Stop, stop," Aeriel wept, hardly realizing that she spoke aloud.

Now everyone was staring at the glaive, even Irrylath. Sabr steadied his head, which lolled as though he might swoon. Through Erin, Aeriel watched the sword begin to flicker and waver, like a long white flame. The misty candescence and the blade itself merged until the whole sword was a tongue of fire.

Aeriel staggered to her feet. The flame also rose, elongating, narrowing. Through the dark girl's astonished eyes, she saw the flame taking on a human shape. With a start, Aeriel recognized herself, then felt her own being drawn irresistibly across the miles until it merged into the flame. Turning to her husband, she called his name.

"Irrylath," she said urgently. "Irrylath, heed me. You are not mistaken. Erin's sword was Witch-made once, but Ravenna has changed it to serve our cause."

The prince of Avaric shook his head, gazing at her in disbelief. Aeriel saw Sabr's hands upon him tighten.

"Pay no heed, Cousin," she murmured. "That is some image of the Witch. The shadowmaid is in league with your tormentor. She was never your friend."

Irrylath seemed not to hear her, his attention fixed on the image in the sword. Aeriel choked down her sudden fury at the intervention of Sabr. An outburst of jealousy now would serve neither herself nor Irrylath. Resolutely, she ignored the bandit queen, spoke only to the prince.

"Husband, it is I."

"You can't be," Irrylath cried out hoarsely. "The Witch sent her darkangels to steal you away."

Aeriel shook her head. "Not so. One of her black birds set a pin behind my ear."

"I would have told you that if you had let me," Erin growled between her teeth. She pulled the folded sari from her shift and tossed it down before the prince who, with a gasp, touched the cascade of yellow silk about his knees. Lifting his eyes, he gazed at the sword, as a man dying of thirst might gaze upon a mirage of water.

"Oh, Aeriel," Irrylath whispered. "If only it were you…"

"It isn't," Sabr hissed desperately. "An image! Some clever trap."

Aeriel felt the pearl upon her brow gleaming coolly. An idea formed itself in her mind.

"The rime," she said. "I have the last of Ravenna's riddle now. Will that convince you?" She raised her eyes and voice to the others in the tent. "Will that convince you all?"

Irrylath struggled to his feet, throwing off Sabr's persistent hands. His voice rang clear and certain suddenly. "Speak it," he cried. "Say the rime, and if you are truly Aeriel, unharmed and not in the Witch's power, I will know you."

His one hand was clenched about their wedding silk. The other, his sword hand, twitched as though trying to close. He bent his arm, with the help of the other, and winced. Reaching out to him, Aeriel said:

"Whereafter shall commence

such a cruel, sorcerous war

To wrest recompense

for a land leaguered sore.

With a broadsword bright burning,

a shadow black as night

From exile returning

shall champion the fight

For love of one above who, flag unfurled,

lone must stand,

The pearl of the soul of the world

in her hand.

When Winterock. to water

falls flooding, foes to drown,

Ravenna's own daughter

shall kindle the crown."

Silence. No sound in the tent but the fizz of lampwicks and the night wind sighing. Her brother Roshka eyed her uncertainly. Syllva stood mute beside her Istern sons. The bewildered sentries glanced at one another. Then she heard Talb the Mage chuckle and Pendarlon begin to purr. But her gaze remained on Irrylath.

"Oh, husband," she breathed, "believe in me."

Coming forward, he knelt before the flame that Erin held. His sword arm seemed nearly recovered now, for with it, he reached toward Aeriel.

"I do," he whispered, "for it is you. Forgive my doubting."

His hand passed through the flame, without harm this time. She experienced a flickering, and the odd feeling of something broad and insubstantial passing through her, but then it was gone, and her vision of Irrylath and the rose silk tent steadied again. Sabr had come to stand beside the prince. She touched his shoulder, mistrust plain upon her face.

"Cousin," she warned. "How can you be sure? We have known for months that Aeriel is lost—yet now this apparition claims it is not so! Dare you trust the rime that she has given you?"

The prince rose suddenly and turned on her. "Unhand me," he spat, his voice like burning oil. "It was you I let convince me that Aeriel was lost, you I let persuade me to turn from her memory! We have dallied here at desert's edge uncounted hours on your advisement. This is Aeriel. I know her. Do not presume to advise me further, queen of thieves!"

His tone was savage, his expression furious. Aeriel felt an ugly little thread of satisfaction run through her.

"My thought was for you," Sabr cried, stumbling back from him as though she had been struck. Her face held a look of desperate betrayal. "Always and ever for you."

Turning, the prince's cousin fled, disappearing into the night. Irrylath watched her go, his expression hard, full of fury still. It was the Lady Syllva who spoke at last, coming forward to touch the prince's arm.

"You are too hard, my son," she reproved him sternly. "Too hard by half. Aeriel is your wife, but Sabr is your cousin still, and a commander in my warhost—your equal in rank. What she says is true: she thinks only of you. She has been the one to lead our desert trek, keeping our forces together against desertion and despair, and not two daymonths past, it was she alone that stood between you and your own dagger."

The prince glared at the Lady, but made no reply. Aeriel put one hand to her temple. Her head was spinning. A heavy weariness had begun to steal over her. She had not realized the effort that speaking through the sword required. Perception through it was much more intense than through the pearl, arduous even, sapping her energy. Its strange sensation of heatless burning had hollowed her.

"I must leave you," she said unsteadily. Irrylath and the others turned.

"No!" the prince began, reaching for her again. "Don't go."

She shook her head. "I must. Spanning the distance between us is difficult… and I have Ravenna's task to fulfill."

"Aeriel," cried Irrylath. "Stay. Stay."

Again she shook her head. She must be gone, at once. The strain was growing dangerous.

"Sheathe the sword, Erin," she whispered. "Be quick."

Irrylath was reaching for her. "Don't—"

"Look for me at the Witch's Mere. Erin!" Aeriel hissed.

"Farewell," the dark girl whispered. "And goodspeed."

In one swift motion, she sheathed the sword, and the sensation of draining ceased. Spent, Aeriel sank to her knees. The Waste stretched flat, grey, and broken around her, misty by pearllight. Her eyelids strayed shut. Hours. It would take hours for the pearl to restore her. She must guard her strength in future. As fatigue dragged fiercely at her, she shook her head. Sleep—she needed sleep. Aeriel lay down upon the cracked and bitter surface of the Waste. The pearl brought her only a faint echo of Irrylath's distant, despairing cry.

"Aeriel!"

It was the last she heard before falling headlong into troubled dreams.