The Pearl of the Soul of the World - By Meredith Ann Pierce Page 0,49
hovered above its translucent surface. A hair-thin crack ran down the wall—so fine Aeriel would never have seen it without the aid of the pearl. She heard rustling, glimpsed movement through the stone. As Oriencor laid her hand at last upon the crack, it parted smoothly, forming a doorway so low and narrow only a child could easily pass through. The White Witch smiled.
"Time for Irrylath to meet his darkangel."
A creature shaped like a human child stood in a cavity beyond the door: a parody of human form, its skin stretched dead white over sunken flesh. A dozen black wings draped its shoulders. Still caught in the Witch's grasp, Aeriel shrank away. Nothing about this thing was beautiful— unlike Irrylath when she had first known him as an unfinished icarus. In contrast, this creature seemed an automaton. It spoke no word, moved stiffly as though made of wax: an utter darkangel. The Witch had already drunk away its soul.
"Golam," Aeriel whispered, shaking uncontrollably with the cold. "Animate doll!"
"Yes."
Turning its colorless eyes toward her, the white-faced creature hissed. Delighted, Oriencor laughed.
"So, chick. Ready to fly? One of your fellows is dead," she told it. "It only makes the rest of you dearer to me. To the casement. Haste! Your task's at hand."
Shifting as though uneasy, the creature continued to eye Aeriel. It seemed reluctant to approach. As Oriencor's daggerlike nails dug into Aeriel's flesh, her knees went weak, her whole side now numb. She winced, biting back a cry.
"Oh, don't mind her, you stupid thing," the White Witch snapped. "She can't really hurt you with those eyes."
The little darkangel swept past then, gargling at Aeriel still. It bounded to the window and sprang onto the wet, watery sill, where it crouched, wings flexing like a young bird's, fanning the air. Oriencor shoved Aeriel abruptly away from her, and the pale girl staggered, falling to her knees. The little icarus whistled and yammered. Striding to the window ledge, the White Witch transfixed it with her gaze.
"Fly now," she commanded, "and bring me Irrylath."
Languidly, carelessly, the White Witch kissed her hissing, snarling creature and pushed it off the ledge.
The darkangel's wings began their storm-like, circular motion as it sped away across the air, flying as though it had known flight all its life. Crumpled against the wall, Aeriel struggled vainly to rise. Upon her brow the pearl flickered, nearly spent. Get up, something within murmured urgendy. Rise now, or you never will! With great effort, Aeriel dragged herself to her feet.
Panting, she leaned unsteadily against the wall. Through the casement, she saw Oriencor's seventh darkangel swooping across the sky toward where Irrylath hovered, calling something down to the Lady Syllva among the bowwomen of Esternesse. One of diem looked up and caught her commander's arm, pointing. Syllva turned, then Irrylath. Sweat-stained and grave, the prince looked weary but not frightened. He had not yet realized what this icarus was.
Pointing with his Blade, he spoke a word to the Avarclon. But as the bridleless starhorse wheeled, climbing the air, his rider suddenly recoiled. Aeriel beheld bewilderment, and then open dismay, break over his face. The winged Horse never checked his ascent as Irrylath cast wildly about him, counting darkangels. The little icarus stooped. Astonished, the prince spun in the saddle to face the Witch's new
"son."
It dipped low first, harrying Avarclon. With a scream of rage, the starhorse struck at the child-shaped thing, but it dodged away. Irrylath lunged in the saddle, but the icarus pivoted, swooping upward from below to bait the prince's mount. Again Avarclon plunged and once more struck only empty air. The starhorse shook his head, pawing the sky, trumpeting his fury. Face grim, Irrylath swung recklessly, repeatedly, lightning swift, but each time, the little icarus deftly evaded him, its dozen dark wings fanning like a storm. It seemed to have no wish to engage with him, only to taunt—hovering just out of range.
Weak with cold, Aeriel shuddered. Before her at the window, Oriencor stood laughing. Abruptly, the pale girl noticed that without Irrylath to command them from the air, the allied forces below had begun to waver. The Witch's smile twitched. Aeriel stared as those beautiful white lips began to move as if in speech, but no sound emerged. Instead, it was the darkangel that spoke. The heightened perception of the pearl conveyed the sound clearly to Aeriel even at this distance: the little icarus mouthing the words of its mistress in a high, locustlike singsong.