The Pearl of the Soul of the World - By Meredith Ann Pierce Page 0,50
winged witch-child said. "Though I speak with another's voice, know that it is I, Oriencor."
Irrylath started, staring at the little darkangel. A strangled cry escaped his lips.
"You loved me once," Oriencor's catspaw droned. "Do you not love me still, who mothered you after your own dam deserted you? I who gave you wings? I will give you wings again—such wings!—if only you will return to me."
Stumbling, Aeriel groped her way to the window. Oblivious, silently whispering, Oriencor never turned.
"Behold the one I have made to take your place among my darkangels," she breathed, and the little icarus repeated her words. "For you have proved yourself worthy of a far grander rank. Be my consort!
Return and sit beside me upon the siege as white as salt. Rule the world with me."
Irrylath sat gazing at the soulless thing before him as one mesmerized. The vampyre child whirred nearer, still just out of reach. Avarclon could only tread air, snorting with fury, unable to strike. The White Witch's fingernails grated on the slick, dripping sill.
"Come back," she crooned. The icarus echoed her. "You love me still. Admit it. You love me still."
Irrylath shuddered, breathing hard. Aeriel clung desperately to the cold, wet window ledge.
"Don't listen!" she gasped.
But his eyes were fastened on the darkangel. It floated before him, filling his gaze. Though the pearl enhanced Aeriel's senses enough to see and hear what passed between Irrylath and the darkangel, she knew her own weak protests could never hope to reach him. Clearly the White Witch's words in the darkangel's mouth were the only ones he heard.
"You are mine and you know it, and always have been. You came all this way not to destroy me but to bring me souls! Look at your followers scattered below you. How small they are! How high above them you ride. They cannot stop you from rejoining me now. Come, my love. Give me your hand. My seventh son will pluck you away to me."
Like a man in a dream, Irrylath lowered the Edge Adamantine. The little darkangel fluttered nearer, fixing him with its colorless eyes. If the prince had reached out, he could almost have touched it. The breath of its wings stirred his long, black hair. Oriencor sighed, laughing. She had him.
"No!" Aeriel screamed. "Irrylath—"
She might as well have tried to outshout the wind. Her words were lost in the clamor of battle.
Horrified, she remembered her nightmare: Irrylath falling headlong toward oblivion. She could not save him. I should never have stolen your heart, she thought wildly, bitterly. I should have let you die in Avaric— it was what you wanted— rather than bring you here for the Witch to claim! Tears burned on her cheeks, hardening as they cooled. She brushed at them distractedly, and they fell like little beads of colorless stone.
At the casement, Oriencor murmured silkily, "Come back to me, my own sweet son. Come, love.
Son. Come."
Battle below had come almost to a standstill, all eyes fixed on Irrylath above. The prince's darkangel hovered within reach now, holding out its hand. Slowly, Irrylath raised his own—hesitated—then in one swift lunge, he caught the inhuman thing before him by the wrist. With a cry of triumph or of agony, he dragged the Witch's golam down against the frantic beating of its wings and plunged the Blade Adamantine into its breast.
13
Dragons
Pierced to its leaden heart, the little darkangel fell, wings stiff, feathers fluttering like rags. Aeriel felt giddy, light. Irrylath had not returned to Oriencor! Leaning against the casement for support, Aeriel felt that she might die of happiness as, without a ripple, the lifeless body of the Witch's seventh son disappeared into the still, black waters of the Mere. Avarclon gave a great neigh of victory, and a shout went up from the army of the allies below. Irrylath wheeled to face Oriencor.
"I will not come back to you, Witch," he shouted. "I serve the Aeriel now."
"Have a care, my one-time love," she answered savagely, seizing her prisoner and dragging her into the prince's view. "Your Aeriel is in my hands."
The pale girl saw him start.
"Aeriel!" he cried. Beneath him, Avarclon wheeled sharp in the air, his great wings beating. Oriencor laughed.
"Fool," she spat. "If you had come back, I'd have given her to you. Now I will keep her for myself.
She will die very slowly at the end of this war. As will you."
Rage swept over Irrylath's face. The knuckles of his