Part 1 (1/2)
The Pearl of the Soul of the World.
by MEREDITH ANN PIERCE.
The Darkangel Trilogy.
ONE.
Pearllight
She had no idea where she was-only that she was in a cave, the walls pressing close about her, all of white stone. Light came from somewhere, dim and diffuse, and the air was old: musty and bonedry. She was thirsty, so thirsty. All her limbs felt stiff, and behind her right ear crouched a pain she knew she mustn't touch. Her hair felt sticky, matted there. She gazed at the featureless walls of the cave. She had been lost for a long time.
Her stomach knotted, doubling her over. She knelt on the hard, gritty surface of the tunnel floor until the spasm pa.s.sed.
She must keep moving-find food and water-or die. She had no idea how she had come to be in the cave, only the certainty that something was hunting her, following relentlessly: a Shadow, some living being, black as night. She was glad of the light.
She managed to rise, and realized then where the light came from. It came from her, from the s.p.a.ce between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.
Puzzled, she reached into her gown to lift out what lay against her breastbone, glimmering softly through the gauzethin fabric: a pearl, big as the end of her thumb. It glowed with a faint blue light.
Memory teased her, only a glimpse, of a tiny creature with lacelike wings, laying the pearl upon her hand. How long ago had that been? She could not g. She put the pearl back into her gown and, s.h.i.+ning through the pale yellow cloth, its light seemed white again. Frowning, the girl examined the garment: yards and yards of air-thin stuff. A wedding sari. Why was she wearing a wedding sari?
An image formed itself unbidden in her mind: a young man with dun-colored skin and long black hair. His eyes were clear blue, almond shaped; one cheek was scarred. What had he to do with her gown? Dizziness overcame her, and she clutched at the wall, sure that if she fell again, she would be too weak to rise. She struggled to recall who the young man was and what the pearl upon her breast might be. But all her memories slipped away: beads hopelessly scattered from a broken string. The fierce ache in her head would not let her gather them.
A sheet of mirrorstone loomed before her, darker than the rest of the cave. She saw a figure in its smooth, polished surface: a tall, thin girl just crossing into womanhood, cheeks hollowed, fingers like bone. The pale, pale hair that fell to her shoulders was disheveled. Slant green eyes gazed blinking, huge as a bird's. She cast no shadow in the wan pearllight.
The girl halted, gasping, as the pang in her skull spiked almost unbearably. She must not see herself! The pain behind her ear forbade it, as it forbade her to know or to remember herself. She wrenched her gaze away from her own image and hurried past, for in that moment she realized just how lost she truly was: she had no idea who she was.
The sound of water came to her, a distant lapping plash. She stumbled into a run. The endless twisting corridor opened abruptly into a lighted chamber. A tiny stream cut through it, barely a handspan wide in a bed thirty paces across. A mighty river had flowed here once, in ages past, reduced now to a mere trickle: its clear, clean brilliance played across the cavern's ceiling and walls.
The pale girl fell to her knees beside the stream and plunged her hand into its light. It was warm as lamp oil. She hadn't realized how she was s.h.i.+vering in the cool, dry air. Desperately, she licked the delicious drops from her fingers. Savory, full of minerals, the water tasted like crushed herbs. She knew there must be an easier way to drink, but she could not remember how. The trickling stream held her whole attention-so that she did not even notice the others standing in the chamber until the young one dropped his pick.
The sound rang sharp as a silver pin. The pale girl started up, water dripping from her forearms, and stared at the three people gazing curiously at her. They were very short, only a little over half as tall as she, and were dressed in trousers and sarks with many pockets. The two men wore caps. Their leader seemed to be the woman, whose fair, silver-coppery hair fell in four thick braids, one before, one behind each ear. She stood upstream, hands on her hips. The younger of her companions hastily caught up his pick.
”Reckon it's dangerous, Maruha?” the boy asked. The woman shook her head. ”Can't say, Brandl. An upperlander-from- under-the-sky, by the look, if I remember my learning.”
She c.o.c.ked her head and studied the girl. The upperlander stared back, wide-eyed, afraid to move. The squat little woman's eyes were the color of dark grey stones.
”But what's it doing so far underground?” the young one, Brandl, asked.
”Witch's work,” the older man murmured, stroking his beard. ”Could be the Witch's work.”
”Bite your tongue, Collum, you fool.” Maruha turned on him. ”None of hers could ever get down here. We've wards.”
”That one got through,” the bearded one answered. ”Perhaps only the first of many. We've known for a long time the end must come.”
”Enough,” hissed Maruha with a glance at Brandl. ”You'll frighten the boy.”
The pale girl watched them, her heart banging painfully against her ribs. She had seen such a creature once before. A little man with stone-grey eyes. The fragment of memory needled her, merciless, then vanished. The woman took a step toward her.
”You, upperlander, who are you?” she called.
The other flinched. She wanted to answer, but her throat tightened till she could hardly breathe. ”Uh, uhn...” she managed, choking. A thin wail threaded past her lips. Her head pounded. She stopped, whimpering.”Can't speak,” bearded Collum breathed. ”Witch's work.”
”Look how thin,” Brandl said, bolder now. He pointed, taking a step closer to Maruha. ”Cheeks all sunken in.”
Collum snorted. ”All the upperlanders look that way: spindly as spiders.”
”Nonsense!” Maruha exclaimed. ”She's done in. Look at her hair and the dirt on her face.” She came a few paces closer.
”Girl, can you understand me?”
The upperlander tensed, ready to run-but she didn't want to leave the water. A kind of shriek issued from her lips. She understood, but she could not answer.
”Aye, but look at her robe,” Brandl whispered, fear sharpening his voice suddenly. ”Fine yellow stuff and not a rip or a smudge. It s.h.i.+nes, almost. Like ghostcloth.”
His companions started, and the three of them drew back. The pale girl's knees gave. She sank down, unable to go another step. Collum gripped his pick and pushed past Maruha and Brandl.
”She's the ”Witch's work, I tell you, and the sooner done with the better.”
”No!” Maruha cried, catching Collum's arm. ”She was drinking from the stream. None that serve the Witch can abide clean water's touch-”
Collum hesitated, lowering his arm. He glanced at Maruha.
”Marvels, I grant you, as yet unexplained-and her coming here may indeed be Witch's work,” Maruha insisted. ”But I do not believe that she is Witch's work, or that she means us any harm.”
The girl sat in the sand, not looking at them. She no longer had the strength to lift her head. She heard Brandl edging closer to the other two.
”There's blood in her hair,” he whispered. ”Look.”
”You see?” snapped Maruha, giving Collum a shake. ”That is why she cannot speak.” She took his pick from him roughly and thrust it into her own belt. Turning from him, she softened her voice. ”Here, girl. You're hurt.” Moving closer, she continued, ”We are duaroughs, child. Let us help you.”
The pale girl felt the little woman parting the hair just behind her ear and started. She batted at the square, nubby hands feebly, once. Gendy, the duarough's touch returned.
”You needn't fear us. Sooth! What's this? Collum, Brandl, look. There's something here, behind her ear-jabbed in through the very bone.”
All three crowded around her then. She did not look up. She gazed at the sand, at the warm, fragrant water lying beyond her reach now. She longed for it.
”Sweet Ravenna!” the young one, Brandl, exclaimed. ”It's a silver pin.”