The Pearl of the Soul of the World - By Meredith Ann Pierce Page 0,65

this garment you gave me," she said softly. It felt unspeakably heavy, a great burden in her hand. She did not want to don it again. "Duty."

Sacrifice.

One of the panels of the tiny pavilion was very slightly agape, where two layers of the yellow wedding sari did not quite overlap. Aeriel gazed out through the crack into the night beyond. The rain had long since ceased, the mist beginning to blow away. The starstrewn vault of heaven peered darkly through the grey-white wisps of cloud.

If you lose much, think what you and the world will gain. And others have lost still more.

Consider all my former might, reduced now to a scatter of firebeads on the wind and a murmur in your blood.

Aeriel's gaze returned to Irrylath. "This task you would hand me will stretch far beyond the life of any mortal man." o

Doubtless. And time presses even now. My sorcery scatters wider with every passing hour. You must begin to gather it, and soon.

The pale girl laughed painfully. What could that matter, without Irrylath? She thought of the task stretching before her, uncountably vast, and herself going companionless through all the years. Loneliness nearly overwhelmed her. Even the Ancientlady Ravenna had had Melkior. Heavily, she sighed.

"Must I never see Irrylath again?"

The Ancient's voice was full of regret. I fear not. Have you forgot?— Irrylath belongs to the Avarclon.

Aeriel sat upright with a jolt. Memory filled her of the pact he had struck with the newly awakened starhorse in Esternesse: a truce between them and the winged Warhorse for his steed until the Witch was overthrown. Aeriel bit back a gasp. She had forgotten that pact, put it wholly from her mind until this moment. All debate would prove meaningless if the starhorse demanded the prince's death in payment for his own.

I built my Ions to be just, not merciful, the Ancient voice within her sadly said. In truth, it was this I meant to spare you when I warned you away in haste.

The pale girl's hand upon her sleeping husband tightened. "No," she whispered. "No. Tell me what I may do…"

To save him, she meant, but the pearlstuff in her blood spoke before she could finish the thought.

We have come to the rime's end, child. I can only advise. I cannot compel. The choice lies before you: Irrylath or the world. Choose.

Aeriel struggled, fighting for breath. It was hard to speak, the words hurt so. At last she whispered,

"If I must give up Irrylath to the vengeance of the Avarclon, then let him at least go as his own man, free."

Her hand shook, but she felt the pearlstuff within her steady it. Sheathed upon the prince's sash, the Blade Adamantine glimmered. Aeriel reached to pull it free. Laying her hand on Irrylath's breast, she drew the white gleaming edge down the center of his breastbone and found her own living heart beneath, placed there two twelvemonths past upon their marriage night. Lost in sleep, the young man never stirred.

The edge of adamant held no sting.

Turning the blade to her own breast, she delved and found Irrylath's beating heart, which she had worn these last two years. The pearlstuff pervaded her, sustaining her. No blood spilled from the bright Blade's keen and burning edge. She felt only warmth hot as white Solstar. Taking her own heart from Irrylath's breast, she returned his to its place. With a motion of her hand, she closed the flesh. Then she set her own heart back in her breast and sealed the breach. No mark or scar betrayed what she had done.

"Already," she murmured to Ravenna within, "you have made me a sorceress."

Adamantine glowed bright without a stain, throwing shadows through the little pavilion. One lay now across Irrylath's face. Aeriel herself cast no shadow anymore. Unable even to weep, she turned and set the Blade back in its sheath. Voices sounded in the distance outside the pavilion. Aeriel lifted her head, listening. The prince beside her murmured, shifted, stirred. The voices sounded closer, clearer now.

"Survivors, surely!" A young man's voice. It sounded like her own brother Roshka's.

"By all the underpaths," another cried, one Aeriel had not heard in far too long: Talb the Mage. "Let it be they! The fabric of that pavilion can only be hers."

"Hollo! Hollo!"

Irrylath beside her sat up with a start. Hurriedly, she reached for Ravenna's gown, but her husband caught her hand and brought it to his lips. Without a thought, she caressed his cheek—then she remembered he did