The Pearl of the Soul of the World - By Meredith Ann Pierce Page 0,48

Witch's darkangels: Nar, the eldest, astride the black wolf Bernalon, fought the icarus of Bern while Arat upon the cockatrice of Elver battled the darkangel of that land. Lern, Syril, and Poratun upon their winged mounts dived and circled above, each pursuing his airborne foe.

Below them, her own brother Roshka sat fighting side to side with Hadin, the youngest Istern prince.

Two fair-haired cousins as like as like, they looked mirror images of one another: very fierce and serious and utterly without fear. Bestriding the stag of Pirs, the Lady's son swung determinedly at the winged witchson with his hook-bladed falchion. Beside him, upon the black steed Nightwalker, Roshka guarded his back.

Dismayed, Aeriel feared them both dangerously vulnerable—until she discerned that wingless mounts actually gave them the advantage. While his brothers veered and tangled in the air above, scarcely able to land a blow, earthbound Hadin forced his icarus again and again to swoop close to the ground, within reach of his weapon and Roshka's. "Without warning, an arrow shaft made of gold buried itself in the darkangel's side. Aeriel caught a glimpse of the Lady Syllva lowering her bow.

One of Talb the Mage's arrows tipped with Ancients' silver, she realized, though the arrowhead was already hidden deep in the unbleeding flesh of the darkangel. The bloodless creature screamed and writhed overhead. Roshka hooked it with his pike and hauled it closer. Hadin thrust his falchion to the hilt in the icarus's chest, silencing its scream. As it crumpled out of the air, a great shout went up from the forces of East and West: their first great victory of the day. Elation filled Aeriel. Beside her, Oriencor bared her teeth in a snarl.

"Enough!" she growled. "Enough of this dalliance. Time to make war in earnest now."

The Witch's ivory talons bit deep into Aeriel's shoulder. A chill like none she had ever known swept through her. The pearl dimmed, fighting the Witch's cold. Aeriel gasped and struggled as Oriencor dragged her from the window.

"Tell me, little sorceress," she whispered savagely, halting before the near wall of the tower chamber.

"How many sons have I?"

"None," Aeriel flung back. "You are barren."

The Witch's grasp tightened. Her lips turned down. "True," she said. "But there are those who, could they speak, would call themselves my sons. How many icari have I?"

"Six," Aeriel gasped. "Counting the one that Hadin killed." The cold devoured her. Her shoulder was already numb. "You had seven," she managed defiantly, "but Irrylath is lost to you."

Oriencor muttered, "We shall see. But did I hear you say I have but six darkangels? You are mistaken. I have seven."

"No!" Aeriel cried. "Irrylath is mine..."

The White Witch shook her head, smiling now. "I do not refer to Irrylath. You have seen my other six upon the field—each fighting one of your husband's brothers. But you have not yet seen my newest icarus, the one I made after Irrylath, just this twelvemonth past."

Aeriel stared at her. What was she saying—a new darkangel? A seventh son?

"You have not had time—" she stammered. The chill made her teeth rattle, her jaw ache. She writhed in the other's grasp. Even Ravenna's pearl, she realized, could not long protect her against such killing cold. The White Witch gave her a little shake.

"How naive you are."

Desperately, Aeriel searched her memory. She knew the lorelei stole infants, babes-in-arms whom she raised to young manhood before drinking their blood and gilding their hearts with lead, planting a dozen night-black pinions on their backs and sending them out to prey upon the world. The pale girl protested:

"It takes years to make a darkangel!"

Oriencor sighed. "To do a proper job, perhaps. But I have grown impatient of late. Irrylath, you recall, I acquired as a child of six. I kept him mortal only ten years before I winged him."

Aeriel's eyes widened. She had saved Irrylath before Oriencor could make him into a full-fledged icarus—but what was to have prevented Oriencor from stealing another child and rendering him at once into one of her unspeakable "sons"? Reading the memories of Winterock, the pearl brought images, sure and certain, into Aeriel's mind: the lorelei building a new set of child-sized wings, gilding a small, fresh heart with lead. Grimly, the White Witch nodded.

"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