The Pearl of the Soul of the World - By Meredith Ann Pierce Page 0,18

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