Everything was very dark. Aeriel saw nothing and could feel nothing. She hung suspended in a void, so weary she could hardly think. She longed to sleep.
"Aeriel, awake."
Flickers in the darkness now, little flames of golden light.
"Waken, Aeriel," said Marrea.
The maidens encircled her, like lightbearers. Like stars - they who had once been the withered wraiths, the vampyre's brides. They were all so beautiful now.
"We followed your thread," Eoduin told her.
"Am I in deep heaven?" Aeriel asked. She had no body anymore, but she felt heavy still, weighty as dust.
"No," Marrea answered. "We are a long way from there. Deep heaven is full of light."
"But we can go there," another maiden said.
"If you will come."
Aeriel frowned - made to frown, for she found she had no face, no brows to move. She murmured, "Come with you?"
"Yes," the maidens answered. "Yes."
Marrea had not spoken. Aeriel gazed at her. She felt so tired.
"I do not want to come."
"But you must," the others cried. "You must."
"You have no kith, no one to hold you in the world."
"Roshka," muttered Aeriel. "Roshka is my kith."
"You do not know that."
"It is not certain."
"But Dirna said...," she protested.
"Dirna was mad," said Eoduin.
"I promised Erin...," Aeriel began.
"Do you love her more than me?"
The other maidens held out their hands. "We love you, Aeriel."
Still Marrea did not speak. Aeriel resisted the urge to go to them. "Hadin," she whispered,
"the princes of Isternes and the Lady love me."
"But Irrylath does not love you."
Aeriel twinged; she felt a sharp, bitter pain where her heart should have been - for she feared they spoke the truth, and she longed to turn away, shut her eyes, shut her ears to their words. But she had no body, no ears or eyes. She could not turn from the maidens or shut them out.
"No," Aeriel whispered at last. She could fight them no more. "He does not love me."
She longed to give up the world then, to go with them, leave the sorrow of that pain, and everything else behind. Almost, she told them "yes" - but stopped herself. Someone was speaking to her, from a very great distance. The maidens started and glanced at one another.
"Do not listen," Eoduin said.
"It is nothing," another told her.
Aeriel felt her body beginning to return. The feel of her own substance was unbearably heavy, smothering. Almost against her will, she began to struggle.
"Someone is calling me," she told the maidens.
"Not so."
"Come with us."
"Quickly, Aeriel."
"No," Marrea broke in suddenly.
Eoduin had drawn very near, touching Aeriel's cheek - she had a cheek now and could feel the touch. "Companion, I very much wish that you would come with us."
Aeriel gazed at her, remembering how she had loved her in childhood, and wanted to go with her. But Marrea moved between them now. Eoduin hesitated, but at last drew reluctantly away.
"Now is not the time," said Marrea.
"But it has been promised us," the maidens cried.
"That we might have our Aeriel."
"Among us."
"Soon."
"Not yet," Marrea answered them. "Nor is this the way. The White Witch is yet in the world. Aeriel may not join our company until that one has been destroyed."
"Let her join us now," Eoduin protested, "and nothing more of the world will matter to her."
But the light and voices of the maidens were growing faint. Someone was speaking to her, shaking her. There was a humming in her ears, a bitter scent. She felt her body completely once again - enfolding her, holding her to earth. She could not have followed the maidens now if she had wanted. Her flesh was numb, cold as cave water.
"Aeriel, Aeriel," the voice was saying. "Come back to me. Come back."
The dark was not utter darkness anymore. The maidens had gone. The surface beneath her shivered slightly. Aeriel heard digging, scratching. Another voice: "Stop. You will ruin that blade."
"Let it be ruined then," the first voice cried. "We must get her free."
"I have a better means."
Aeriel heard a clinging coupled with chinks, as of bright metal ringing on stone. Someone was pulling her, lifting her. The surface beneath her shuddered. Its hold weakened. Then there was a sharp pain and she moaned.
"There. She is still caught there."
The ring of metal once again. She felt a chipping, then a hard, sharp crack. A bitter puff.
The humming of the Stone fizzled in a faint crackling flash. Someone was lifting her away from it.
"Aeriel," he said. "Aeriel."
She remembered to breathe. Something brushed her lips, her eyes. She opened them, blinked in surprise. It was Irrylath bending over her. His one hand hovered above her cheek, his lips parted slightly, his eyes half wild. She lay upon the temple floor, no longer on the Stone.
The duarough stood a few paces off, beside the Stone. It crackled still, and then it ceased.
Its hum fell silent. A very fine Bernean blade lay in splinters on the floor. The little mage held in his hand the silver hammer she had brought from the un-dercaves of Pirs.
Irrylath saw her looking at him then. He snatched back his hand, leaning away from her with a start. Aeriel shuddered with the cold. Her skin felt like the shadow of night - save across her shoulders, the backs of her arms: everywhere that she had touched the Stone was fire.
She reached one hand toward Irrylath. She could hardly get her fingers to move, or her lips to part. Did he kiss me? she thought to herself. She almost felt that she would die if he had not.
But he flinched away from her. "No," he whispered, staring at her, as though she frightened him suddenly.
Aeriel put one hand to her head. "I felt something," she murmured.
Some inward part of her protested his denial. He loves me - it must be so. Oh, let him love me, for I want it so. But a great feeling of hopelessness was overcoming her. Had she only imagined his touch? She felt fainting weak.
Irrylath shuddered and pulled away from her. He rose with difficulty, as though leaving her were somehow hard, and turned away. "Not I. It was not I."
Aeriel dragged herself upright and managed to sit. She felt too spent, too defeated for tears. Dark chips of glassy stone lay on the floor. The temple chamber was very dim, for Solstar was down. Talb had put away the silver pick. He knelt beside the firepit now, throwing fuel upon the coals.
Horrible sounds came from the gargoyles, on the rocks below. Aeriel was still shaking.
Someone had wrapped her in pale gold cloth, yards and yards of it, very light and fine. It held no heat. The duarough steeped a tea over the coals and made her drink, for she was white with cold.
The pain in her shoulders and along her back was fierce. The little mage tore something into strips and bandaged her arm, which along its underside looked badly scraped. He had no salve. All this time Irrylath stood off, the light of the firepit making hollows of his eyes.
The flames in the pit died down to coals. The little mage left them and went off in search of firewood. Irrylath had taken the bandolyn from her pack, knelt gazing at it. His fingers touched the strings, at first tentatively, and then with great beauty and skill.
Aeriel recognized the melody, the haunting sweet notes almost painful to her ears. That he could be capable of such beauty and yet still hold himself aloof - surely she could never reach him.
"You play so well," Aeriel murmured at last, "much better than I. Why have I not heard you play before?"
Irrylath set down the bandolyn. He did not look at her.
"In the witch's house," he said, "I forgot such things. Only now, since I have been in Isternes, have I begun remembering." He was silent a moment, then he said, almost fiercely, "This was my bandolyn that my mother brought out of Avaric. She had no right to give it to you."
Aeriel looked down, surprised and somehow stung. She was wearing her wedding sari.
She recognized it now. She lifted a little bit between her fingers, and looked up again.
"Did you bring this with you out of Isternes?" she asked.
Irrylath breathed deep, as though the air were going bad.
"When Hadin told me you had gone," he said, "I set out in a boat to follow you." His words grew steadier now, not quite ragged. "I was becalmed. I nearly starved. But Marelon, the Lithe Serpent of the Sea-of-Dust, found me. She said she had seen you safe ashore in Bern."
Then Aeriel remembered the great plumed head that had risen from the surf and gazed at her. Had it been no dream? She stared at Irrylath. Had he come following her - was he here in Orm on her account? She shook her head. It had not occurred to her before. Her hand was shaking, as she toyed with a pebble at the firepit's edge.
"I got aid in Bern from my cousin, Sabr," Irrylath continued. "The whole country was alive with news of a green-eyed sorceress who had stolen a strange beast from the city of thieves and disappeared through the demon's pass."
"Sabr," Aeriel said, trying to recall where she had heard the name. It came to her, slowly: Nat's words in the Talis inn. "The bandit queen."
Irrylath glanced at her. "She is my father's sister's child, and rules a band of those who fled the plains. Some have been calling her the queen of Avaric, thinking me dead."
Again he was silent, looking away.
"I lost you in Zambul," he murmured. His mouth tightened. His scarred cheek twitched.
"Where have you been? I have been in Terrain two daymonths, searching for you."
"I was in Pirs," said Aeriel.
Irrylath drew in his breath. "Why did you go away from Isternes? Did you not guess the witch would learn of it?"
She nodded. "I knew." His fierceness puzzled her. How could her knowing have mattered?
The prince turned back to her. "Why, then? Why did you go? I had you safe in my mother's house."
Aeriel sighed, for sheer weariness. "I had a task." Even that did not matter anymore. The sibyl was dead. Now she would never find the Ions of Westernesse before the witch. The lorelei had won. "I came in search of winged steeds."
She looked off, then laughed a little, bitterly.
"But I have found only gargoyles instead." She turned to him again. "You cannot defeat six dark-angels alone."
Irrylath was gazing at her now as though he did not believe her - did not believe what she had just said, or did not believe she would dare such a task. Was she only a girl in his thinking, still? And what did that matter, now, in any case? The world was lost.
But he only said, "Seven darkangels, if the witch can steal another babe."
A tiny hope flared in Aeriel suddenly. She dared to breathe. "What became of the Ions of the West," she asked him, "the ones the icari overthrew?"
But hope sputtered and died as Irrylath shook his head. He spoke with difficulty - she knew how he loathed to recall anything of the witch.
"I do not know," he said distantly. "When I had captured the Ion of Avaric, I was to bring him to her. But he eluded me, in the desert died." Again he shook himself. "The Ions were to be brought to her. That is all I know."
Aeriel bowed her head. She was so weary, she ached. But she could not stop herself from asking, "Why did you come? What do you care what should befall me?" She spoke softly, barely above a whisper. "You are my husband in nothing but name. You are neither my lover nor my friend."
She was staring down, could not see his face. When at first he did not reply, she thought it was because he had not heard. But he spoke at last, the words measured.
"Before I came away from Isternes, I told Syllva what you knew I must, that it was I who had been the darkangel in Avaric that you overthrew."
Aeriel looked up. He had turned his face away.
"To which, she put her hand upon my cheek" - he touched the scars - "just here, and said she had already guessed." His voice grew dark. He gazed upward. "Syllva had known it all along."
Aeriel watched him, finding herself strangely unsurprised. "Of course she knew." How could she not? The Lady was his own mother - how could she not? "Did you think her a fool?"
Irrylath let his breath out, a short, soft hiss, as though her words had unwittingly stung.
He seemed to struggle with himself a moment, then turned to face her.
"I told her another thing also," he said, "what I was in the witch's house before she made me her darkangel."
His voice had become utterly steady now, and very still. Aeriel gazed at him, shaking her head. "What thing?" she murmured. Her despair lightened a trace: all at once something mattered again. What thing? "You were Irrylath."
The prince shook his head and shuddered, as though hating the touch of his own garb against his skin, his own flesh against his bones. He sat leaning away, gazing on her as if she were leagues distant, a world away.
"I was her lover, Aeriel."
Her throat became then dry suddenly. There was no more air in the temple, no more light.
She could not find her voice. "What do you mean?" she whispered. "You were a babe, a boy___"
"And then a youth," he said, "as now."
She could not see his face. She could not see him anymore. Everything was in darkness now.
"That is why you cannot love me."
She could hear his breathing, light and difficult.
"I may love no mortal woman while she lives. She holds that power on me yet. It is the White Witch that I dream of, Aeriel. I dream of her still."
Aeriel struggled to rise. She needed her staff to help her stand. She felt giddy, hollow within, as if the Stone had devoured some part of her that would not return. The cold moved through her, like the night.
"Oh," she breathed, "I knew this. Her lover - I knew. The wraidis, they told me once, in Avaric. I was not listening. It was so long ago, I had forgot."
Her skin was bleeding. She felt the blood. She moved away from Irrylath, toward the door, the openness, the night. She could not breathe. She could not bear to think of it anymore. She touched the bandage on her arm. The pain was fire in her skin.
"Ambergris," she breathed. "It hurts."
AERIEL STOOD UPON THE NARROW PORCH. Night around her was black, the sky above riddled with stars. Oceanus hung, white-marled and blue above the steeps. She leaned against her staff. Orm spread dark, torchlit, before her. Her bones felt broken at the joints. And she was very cold.
Gradually, she came aware of another light beside the distant fires of Orm. She lifted her head from where she had bowed it against the staff. A blue flame flickered in the offering bowl. It darted over the garlands and treasures. The bolts of silk-cloth began to burn.
The flame changed from blue to plum, then rose, growing brighter now. Aeriel saw the cakes and flowers vanish, the cloth consumed. The flame grew amber, yellow, green, then white. The coins of silver, the cups of white zinc-gold began to melt. Upon the crest of the heap, the lump of ambergris bubbled, smoking, its sweet scent filling the air.
Aeriel went to the bowl. The flame stood higher than she did now. She held her hands to the fire, but the great blaze seemed to have no heat. She touched the fire. It swirled about her hand, feeling warm, suffused with energy, but did not burn. She felt something coming back into her now.
Aeriel thrust the heel of her staff into the ground beside the bowl and stepped over the rim. She stood in the middle of the blazing dish. The fire beat around her like burning cloud. It lifted her hair, made her garment billow, but the wedding sari did not burn.
The treasure had formed a pool of liquid silver that swirled, blood-warm about her feet.
The bandage upon her arm caught fire. She saw the blood there blacken and burn away.
She felt the cold departing from her. The scent of ambergris was all around.
"Are you the sibyl?" someone said.
Aeriel turned and saw the lyonesse with the woman's face upon the temple roof was stirring. She was tawny-colored now, no longer stone. Arching her spine, catlike, she flexed her claws.
"The sibyl is dead," answered Aeriel, surprised that she could still feel surprise.
"You must be the new one, then," the lyonesse said, yawning. "None but those who have drunk the Stone's blood can stand in my fire without burning. Only my sibyls do diat. It gives them long life, and dreams."
She yawned again.
"How sleepy I am. It must be an age I have been dozing."
Aeriel drew near her and knelt at the edge of the burning bowl. "Who are you?" she asked.
"I am called the sfinx."
Aeriel felt something, some strange hope stirring. "Are you a Ion?"
The lyonesse shook her head. "No, though the Ancients made me. I was their mouthpiece hereabouts, and guarded the Feasting Stone."
"What is the Stone?" said Aeriel.
"A kind of passage," the sfinx replied, "to the Ancients in their cities. Offerings laid upon it travel to them. They studied such things."
"The duarough has destroyed the Stone, to set me free," said Aeriel.
The lyonesse shrugged. "No matter. It served no purpose anymore. The Ancients are all dead or gone away - at least, they have not spoken to me in years upon years."
She studied Aeriel.
"Are you not my sibyl, then? The satrap always sent me one, to tend the light. It is the flame that nourishes me - though it has not burned in a hundred years."
Aeriel began to feel the heat of the fire now, through the cold. Something else had begun to burn in her, too, some hope she dared not name.
"But why does it burn now," she found herself asking, "when it did not before?"
The sfinx tilted her shoulders languidly. "If, as you say, the Stone is destroyed, then that no longer feeds upon the fire's source - but I suppose it burns now because someone has fed one of the other flames with a seed from the tree of the world."
She sighed.
"This flame once had its tree as well, but my sibyl did not tend it well, and it withered."
She frowned then, peering out over the clifF. "What is that I see in my city below?"
Aeriel turned, looking, and felt a tremor pass through her. "The slave market," she said.
"Slave market?" the sfinx murmured. "How is it my satrap now traffics in slaves?" She came down from the roof in a lithe cat-leap. Her leonine brows were furrowed still. "I must see to that." She started forward.
"Wait," said Aeriel, one hand upon her temple now. The heat of the firebowl was making her giddy. "Sfinx, I have begun to feel the fire."
"Then come out," the lyonesse replied.
She did not turn. Her eyes were scanning the city below. Aeriel stepped down from the burning bowl. The night air moved, deliciously cool against her skin. She knew then what it was she hoped.
"I have a riddle," she began, then stopped herself. Her hope of answer had been dashed so many times before, she had to force herself to speak. "I came to ask it of the sibyl, but she is dead."
"A riddle?" said the sfinx, glancing back over one shoulder now. "I am good at riddles.
When I was mouthpiece of the Ancients, people came to me to find answers to what they did not know."
Aeriel felt her breath grow short.
"Half the riddle I already know," she said. "It is the second part I need:
"But first there must assemble
those the icari would claim, A bride in the temple
must enter the flame,
Steeds found for the secondborn beyond
the dust deepsea, And new arrows reckoned, a wand
given wings -
So that when a princess royal
shall have tasted of the tree,
Then far from Esternesse 's
city, these things:
A gathering of gargoyles,
a feasting on the stone, The witch of Westernesse 's
hag overthrown. "
"That is Ravenna's rime," the sfinx replied. "A part of it."
Aeriel stared at her. Hope gripped her till she shook. "Can you tell me its meaning?"
The sfinx gazed at her, calmly. "Most riddlers, I have found, already know the answers to what they ask. Who are those the icari would claim?"
"Lons," said Aeriel. "The lost Ions of the West."
"And the bride?" the lyonesse asked.
Aeriel stopped a moment, gazed at the temple, the burning beacon, her wedding sari. "I am the bride," she said softly.
"The steeds and the secondborn?"
"The secondborn are Irrylath's half-brothers, the six younger-born sons of the Lady of Isternes. The steeds are the lons again."
"The arrows and the wand?"
Aeriel shook her head. "I do not know what the arrows are: something to wield against the darkangels, I suppose. The wand..." Again she stopped. "The wand is my staff."
She turned and saw it, standing where she had planted it beside the bowl. It was different somehow: still dark, slender wood, but seemed to have grown strangely crooked, gnarled like the slim trunk of a tree. Twigs, leaflets had sprung from the knob. Aeriel stared.
"Ambergris," the sfinx remarked, scenting the air. "The dust whales live many thousand years, and what comes of them is marvelous."
Aeriel went forward, touching her staff. It had grown rooted to the soil.
"But the rime," the lyonesse continued. "Who is the princess royal? What is the tree?"
Aeriel stopped herself again. She remembered Roshka, and Dirna's words. "I am the princess royal," she said. "The tree is the lighthouse tree in Bern."
"The tree whose root reaches the heart of the world," the sfinx replied. "Perhaps this tree's root, in time, will do the same."
The branches of the slender tree had grown longer, its bole thicker. Its leaves whispered against one another. Aeriel saw a fruit forming on one bough.
"Are the gargoyles gathered?" the sfinx asked her.
"Yes."
"Has the Stone feasted?"
Aeriel nodded, shuddered. "Yes," though all mark of that upon her body had now been burned away.
"And the witch of Westernesse's hag?"
"Dirna," whispered Aeriel. "Overthrown."
"There is your riddle, then," the lyonesse said. "Look, the satrap has seen the beacon. A procession of torches comes."
Looking below, Aeriel saw a line of lights wending from the palace toward the cliffs. The sfinx arose.
"I will go to meet them," she said.
Aeriel shook her head, reached after her desperately. "But stay," she cried, dismay filling her. "The arrows, the Ions - the rime means nothing if I cannot find them___"
The sfinx regarded her a moment then, and Aeriel noticed for the first time that the cat-woman's eyes were deep violet. Her heart beat wildly.
"But you have the Ions," the sfinx replied. "They came with you."
The lyonesse disappeared in a lithe cat-bound, vanishing down the footpath toward the torches below. A moment later the gargoyles appeared over the precipice: Greyling and Cat-wing and Mooncalf, Eelbird and Monkey-lizard and Raptor.
They prowled before her on the cliff's edge, hooting and gabbling. Aeriel stared as if she had never seen them before, all wild and haggard in the light. A whitr> bird fluttered from the darkness above and alighted in the branches of the tree. Aeriel left the gargoyles and went to her.
"Wand-given-Wings," she murmured.
The heron sighed. "Ah, at last you have called me by my right name."
Aeriel asked, "Did ever you carry a green-eyed girl child...?"
"Out of Pirs?" the heron finished for her, nodded. "Yes, once. Years ago. Her mother conjured me. I was to take the babe to a certain family in the north, but a darkangel pursued me, and she slipped from my grasp. I could not find her when I returned."
"Slavers found her," said Aeriel. "I was taken to Terrain."
An apricok was growing on the bough. The heron bent and plucked it, giving it to Aeriel.
She turned and called softly.
"Raptor. Raptor, come to me."
The last of the gargoyles came then, and she fed it the golden-red fruit. Some of its haggardness left it. As with the others, it soon looked less starved. Aeriel found herself thinking of the sfinx's words. The sfinx had called the riddle solved. Solved? Aeriel clenched her teeth.
The vital lines - the arrows and the Ions - they still meant nothing to her. Nothing!
Frustration seized her. To have come so close. She held the clean seed in her hand.
Turning now in dismay, she flung it into the fire, then drew the rest of the heart-shaped seeds from her pack and flung them in as well.
"I do not know why I have been keeping these," she said, "or why the keeper bade me save them."
But the words were no more than half spoken when the gargoyles hooted and howled.
First the raptor, then the others sprang past her into the flame Aeriel cried out, starting forward, then stopped herself, for she saw they stood as she had done, and did not seem to feel the heat.
The gargoyles' collars began to melt, the brass running down their grey hides like golden blood. But the silver pins that held the bands were not melting. Instead, they were growing bright with the heat. Then the collars were gone, dissolved. The gargoyles shook their heads, and six silver pins flew, falling like glowing stars upon the ground beyond the bowl.
The apricok seeds floated upon the molten treasure and did not burn. They had begun to swell, like grain in broth. Each gargoyle took into its mouth one seed, each now the size of two doubled fists and exactly the shape of a gilded heart. The scent of ambergris rose on the night.
The gargoyles swallowed them whole, without chewing, then lapped at the running silver as though it were milk. Aeriel saw them beginning to change. Their limbs altering, their fur and their feathers growing sleek; their pebbly hides or scales lay smooth.
Then Greyling came down from the bowl, stepping from the fire, and was no longer Greyling, but a black she-wolf with silver throat and belly and legs.
"Bernalon," whispered Aeriel.
"I am she," the Ion replied, "and we are the ones that you have sought."
Catwing followed, a winged panther, pale with shadowy silver spots.
"Zambulon," said Aeriel.
"The White Witch overthrew us, one by one, using her sons," the pale cat said.
A great stag, all color of bronze, with eyes and hooves and antlers of gold came forth.
"Mooncalf," cried Aeriel, then caught herself. "Pirsalon."
"She tore out our hearts and put collars on us to strangle our strength, and our thoughts, and our speech," he said.
A copper-colored paradise bird with a snake's tail, dark green, emerged.
"Eelbird," said Aeriel. "Elverlon."
"But you have given us new hearts," she said, "new blood, and taken the witch's collars away."
A long-limbed, winged salamander that looked almost manlike came forth. His hide was as black as Erin's skin, all speckled with reddish spots.
"Ranilon," said Aeriel.
"The world is not lost while we live," he said. 'We will gladly go with you to Isternes, to serve as steeds against the witch."
Aeriel felt buoyed up, breathed in the night. A deep joy began to well in her, infusing her.
I have found them, she thought. I did not fail, and the lorelei has not yet won.
Catching movement then from one corner of her eye, she turned and saw Irrylath standing in the temple door. His face seemed haunted in the flame's pure light. He stared at her as if he did not know her, and at the Ions.
She saw the duarough too now, kneeling beside one of the silver pins. Still it glowed. He tapped it with the blunt side of his pick, shaping it. His strokes became surer and more expert as the glowing pin flattened, razor-edged.
"Strange metal, that," he murmured, "very hard and keen. Ancients' silver, I think they call it. No mortal fire could melt it, they say. Hot enough now, though, to reckon. One might make arrowheads of these."
The last of the Ions emerged from the fire, a tawny gryphon, formed like a gyrfalcon before and a great cat behind.
"Terralon," laughed Aeriel. She felt heady now, flushed with triumph. All things seemed possible.
"We must hold a council of war in Isternes,'' the gryphon said.
"And there are the free Ions yet to be gathered," said Bernalon "Marelon, and Pendarlon, and more."
The white bird upon the knotted tree rose. "I will bid them come to you in Esternesse,"
she answered. Then spreading her wings, she sailed over the cliff's edge, away over the steeps. Aeriel gazed after the line of her flight, ghost-pale against the night-shadowed hills.
"Haste, haste," the bird-of-paradise said. "We, too, must fly."
Aeriel drew a little away, reined in her exultation now. "There is a young girl in Pirs," she began. "I promised to return for her."
"The witch has already called her sons home," the panther warned. "There will be war."
"We must make plans to assail her, and soon," Pirsalon added. "Before the White Witch steals another babe to give her seven darkangels again."
Irrylath had come down from the temple porch. Aeriel could feel him in the darkness behind. The steady cling, cling of the duarough's hammer, making weapons, filled the night. Irrylath halted. Aeriel turned, and then drew back startled, for the prince was holding out his hand.
"Come, Aeriel," he said softly. "Our task is only just begun. We must return to Isternes, and hold a conclave of the Ions."
Slowly, Aeriel went to him, eyeing him carefully, for still he gazed at her, as though she were some strange, astonishing thing. There was blood in his hair where Dirna's spindle had struck him. Without thinking, she reached to touch it - and to her astonishment, he did not draw away, nor turn from her gaze.
"We must go by way of Pirs," she found herself telling him, "for Roshka and Erin are waiting for me."
"Climb on my back," the gryphon said, and Irrylath lifted her, setting her between the Terra-Ion's great buff-colored wings. Aeriel searched her husband's face, but he was not looking at her now, though he no longer shrank from her.
"Go on," she heard the duarough say, pausing a moment at his work. "Just leave me a mount and I'll follow you, as soon as I have finished these."
The arrowheads gleamed silvery white. The panther of Zambul went and sat beside Talb.
The little mage's hammer rang. Irrylath sprang onto the back of the paradise bird. Aeriel sat watching him. Perhaps you cannot love me yet, she thought. But at least we can work together now, until our task is done. Afterward, who knows?
The gryphon rose into the air, followed by the salamander and the prince's cockatrice.
The wingless stag and wolf flung themselves over the cliff, plunging in bounds no mortal creature could have made. Aeriel gripped her mount's soft, close fur as they wheeled away over torchlit Orm. The sky spanning vast and starlit before them, they sped eastward, toward Isternes.
Don't miss the startling conclusion of The Darkangel Trilogy
The Pearl of the Soul of the World
Within a small white pearl resides all of the magic and knowledge Aeriel needs to save her world. "All my sorcery," Ravenna had said of the pearl, "and you are to be my envoy.
It is left to you to save the world." But are the pearl and its powers enough to enable Aeriel to defeat the vile white witch, whose evil magic blights the land and threatens everyone Aeriel holds dear? With the help of the darkangel Irrylath and the enigmatic Erin-Black-as-Night, Aeriel prepares to confront the white witch in a desperate final battle whose outcome will determine not only AeriePs fate - but that of everyone and everything.
"In sheer power of imagination, intensity of emotion, and high drama, this would be a brilliant achievement in itself.... It enriches the entire work, heartbreaking, and heartlifting."
