The Pearl of the Soul of the World

"I'll show you," she told him. "I'll help you." Again he shook his head.



Jealousy consumed Aeriel. How dared the bandit queen? How could Sabr, who had known Irrylath only a few short daymonths, become so close to him? Surely she, Aeriel, had tried every whit as hard to touch him, to lend comfort, to know his heart—only to be repeatedly rebuffed. You cannot help me, he had told her once by starlight. No one can help me. But she did not hear him say so to Sabr now.



"Whether you love me or not," she told him, "whether you can lie with me or not, I love you. And I only wish that your heart were your own to give as you choose, not some scrap to be tugged to pieces between the teeth of the White Witch and a green-eyed sorceress."



"Oh, cousin," Irrylath told her, "if only that were so."



Sick, silently raging, Aeriel stumbled away from camp. The red sand's dry crust broke and crumbled underfoot. She met no one—No one hindered her. The pavilions fell away behind. The night all around stretched dark and still—but she could not escape the hateful words still ringing in her mind, or the memory of what had passed between Irrylath and Sabr.



"Thief!" she gasped, shuddering, scarcely able to draw breath. "Queen of thieves!" Erin had been right. Ducking, Aeriel fought back tears. "Irrylath belongs to me."



Something stirred in the darkness ahead of her. Abruptly, Aeriel stumbled to a stop. Hand at her breast, she peered through the pale glimmer of stars and Oceanuslight. Her palm hid the faint glow of the pearl. The creature before her cawed and flexed its wings. As tall as her forearm was long it stood: completely black. Its feathers threw back no sheen at all, depthless as shadow. Aeriel froze. The black bird cawed again and looked at her. In its beak it held a silver pin.



"Greetings, little sorceress," it said, taking the pin in one of its claws to speak.



Aeriel felt her skin prickle. "You are one of the Witch's rhuks."



"Yes," it laughed.



"What do you want of me?" she demanded, casting about her, wondering how she could have been so blind as to leave the camp alone, unarmed. The empty dunes stretched all around.



"Our lady has a proposition for you," chuckled the rhuk. It played with the silver pin in its toes.



"Do not call her my lady," Aeriel spat. "Your mistress was never mine."



"My lady wishes to confer with you," the bird replied. "There is no need for war. Surely this matter can be settled amicably between the two of you, face-to-face."



"I mean to face her," Aeriel returned hotly, "as soon as may be, and with an army at my back."



The black bird hissed. "Relinquish Irrylath. My mistress has a prior claim." It hopped toward her, one-footed, across the sand, its other claw clutching the pin.



"My mistress will reward you with any lover you wish. She will kill Sabr, if you wish."



Aeriel fell back before the Witch's messenger.



"My mistress will make you immortal, like herself, if you so desire," the black bird rasped. "She has always longed for a daughter, an heir…"



"She is not immortal," cried Aeriel, sick with loathing at the sight of the bird: the lorelei made her darkangels' wings from the feathers of such as these. "If she were deathless, she would not fear me."



The rhuk laughed. "Do it for Irrylath's sake," it crooned. "Things will go worse for him if you force my lady to take him from you."



"No!" shouted Aeriel, nearly losing her footing in the soft, treacherous sand.



"Yield!" the bird exclaimed. "Ravenna's luck has deserted you. You don't even know the last stanza of the rime. My mistress is prepared to be generous if you will surrender now."



Aeriel felt the ground sloping sharply upward beneath her feet. The rhuk had backed her against the steep of a dune. For a moment, panic rose in her as she realized she had nowhere left to retreat.



"Your mistress is in mortal terror of me," she answered suddenly, remembering Erin's words. "If the Witch thought she could win, she would have sent her army against us by now."



"My mistress has let your army come this far because it amuses her," the rhuk replied, "to watch children playing at war." The silver pin gleamed in its grasp. "And because you have done her the invaluable service of assembling all her enemies in one place."



Aeriel clenched her teeth. Her hand at her breast made a fist of the fabric of her gown. How dared this creature corner her and issue its demands? How dared it urge her to surrender Irrylath and the war?



As she left the dune and strode toward it, the black rhuk fluttered hastily back, raising a fine, dry rain of sand. Aeriel quickened her stride.



"Why has your mistress sent the likes of you against me?" she inquired evenly. "I have killed your kind before."



"My mistress has no intention of killing you," the black bird hissed, "for then the magic locked in you would escape and be loose in the world. One of her enemies might gather it up, as you did the magic of the starhorse. Better to pin you!"



With a raucous cry, the black bird took wing. For an instant Aeriel thought she had put it to flight.



Too late she realized it was flying at her. She felt its wings clap against her face and batted them desperately away. Again it swooped, struck, and this time as she swung and turned, the loose sand shifted beneath her heel, and she fell.



The ground came up hard against her ribs. She felt the black bird's claws upon her back—both sets of talons. It must have dropped the pin, or have it in its mouth again. Gasping, each breath a painful bite, she struggled to raise herself on one elbow and dash the rhuk away. The vile creature clinging to her shoulder made her shake with revulsion.



All at once she felt a stabbing behind her ear, sharp as a little sword. Agony overwhelmed her, too intense even to let her scream. Aeriel rolled and struck wildly at the bird with both hands. To her astonishment, the light of the pearl, no longer hidden, had become a blaze. What had caused it to do so?



It had never done so before. The claws of the rhuk abruptly released her. She felt its wings stroke stiffly across her cheek.



"The light, the light!" it crowed.



Dimly, she became aware of the rhuk thrashing on the ground beside her, writhing as though burned.



The light of the pearl was already dimming. A horrifying cold had begun to consume her. She groped, putting one hand behind her ear. Her fingers brushed the little knob of silver jutting from the bone. A piercing chill shot through her limbs. She felt as though something were being drawn from her, like the strand yanked from a string of beads. Memory scattered. She thought that she might die of the pain. It was the last thought she had before oblivion blotted out the stars.



It was hours, many hours after, that she awakened. Here her memory was very dim, for the pin in her head had stolen her name, working its terrible spell to keep her from knowing herself. The black bird lay dead on the sand beside her. She rose and stood a moment, gazing at it, before wandering away. It had nothing to do with her. She did not remember it. The pearl on her breast glowed faintly, forgotten. She strayed deeper into the desert, forgetting the camp—for that, too, had nothing to do with her now. She had become nobody. A pale, nameless girl.



"And so you wandered, stumbling down into the duaroughs' caves at last, where you felt the pilgrims'



Call still broadcasting after all these years, and found your way to me."



Aeriel stirred, hearing the Ancient's voice again. The fiery images had faded from the great glass globe. It hung before her in the air, weightless as gossamer, now showing only a faint azure glow. The room was twilit once more, no longer wholly dark. She gazed at its deep blue walls and hanging gauze.



The pallet on which she lay was low and comfortable. Someone held a cool compress to her brow. A strange stiffness prevented her from turning her head. The Ancientlady spoke again.



"Do you know the place to which you and your companions have come?"



Aeriel shifted, trying to sit up. Of course she knew. "The City of Crystalglass."



"Do you know yourself?" the Ancient asked.



That was easy. "Aeriel."



"And do you know who I am?"



Aeriel drew in her breath, realizing for the first time. "Ravenna," she breathed. "The last Ancient of the world."



The one beside her laughed, gently, quietly. "Ravenna is not my name," she replied, "but the name of this city that you call Crystalglass. Its real name is NuRavenna, after a very old city on my own world."



She laughed again, and the airy globe trembled slightly as her words eddied the atmosphere.



"My own name is nearly unpronounceable. That is why, for so long, I was simply called 'the Lady of Ravenna." Somewhere it was shortened to 'the Lady Ravenna' and sometimes even 'the Ravenna'—which the duaroughs still use—and finally, now, by the upperlanders, simply 'Ravenna." You had better go on calling me that. Do you feel well enough to rise?"



Aeriel managed a nod. Her body felt odd—stiff, yet at the same time, strangely supple—almost as though she had awakened into new flesh never before inhabited or used. The sensation troubled her. For a moment, as she struggled to sit up, the blood ran from her head, and she felt dizzy. Then she steadied.



Her hand went to her breastbone, the space there empty now.



"Ravenna," she whispered, "what have you done with my pearl?"



"Hold out your hand," the other answered gently.



As Aeriel did so, the great delicate globe drifted nearer, as if beckoned. Descending, it contracted, solidifying, its blue light deepening, until by the time it touched her palm, it was hard and dense, no bigger than the end of her thumb. Aeriel stared.



"My pearl," she breathed.



"Yes, child," the Ancientlady said. "Though I have made it much more now than a kindled lampwing's egg."



As Aeriel brought it closer to gaze at it, Ravenna's great dusky hand reached past her to touch the glowing jewel. Aeriel felt a little thrill of energy, utterly cool, like a feather's touch, and the light in the tiny corundum globe changed from cerulean to white.