Part 15 (2/2)

Astonishment washed over her. She knew the voice.

”Ravenna,” she breathed, shaken. When the pearl had shattered in Oriencor's hand, Aeriel had thought the Ancientlady- surely then if not before-utterly destroyed.

The still, inward voice seemed to chuckle. Hardly the whole of what Ravenna comprised, it murmured, but a little of her, yes. Call me Ravenna, if you will: I am part of what she was.

Aeriel struggled to catch her breath, to take it in. Overwhelming remorse seized her suddenly.

Why do you sorrow? Ravenna within her asked. The war is won.

Aeriel's breast heaved, but it was with dry sobs only. She felt the white marks in the shape of stars left upon her eyelids by the Witch's touch.

”Because I have failed you,” she whispered,”and all the world. What matter that the war is won, if all the world is lost?”

Lost? the voice of the pearlstuff in her blood exclaimed. My daughter's evil is at an end, child- her drought broken, her creatures drowned-and all my rime has come to pa.s.s...

”Except the last!” Aeriel exclaimed. Their shelter sighed in the gentle breeze. She gazed about her at the walls of silk, at their scattered garments, at Irrylath. Despair tasted like wormwood in her mouth. ”The last line of the prophecy is not fulfilled.

Your gift is scattered to the winds. No daughter remains to heal the world and claim the crown. All's lost.”

Not lost, the Ancient's voice within her whispered. It need not be lost.

Aeriel shook her head. How many more generations had this vast war won for the planet-a handful? A score? So pitifully few it scarcely mattered. Without Ravenna's daughter to guide the healing of the world, Aeriel thought bitterly, everything she and Irrylath had struggled for was vainglory. In the face of the all-devouring entropy, it would all wind down to nothing in the end.

That need not be, the inner voice murmured, and Aeriel realized belatedly that the pearlstuff in her blood could read her thoughts whether or not she spoke them aloud. The entropy need not prevail. Another might gather my scattered sorcery and heal the world in Oriencor's stead.

Aeriel blinked. Her own white radiance lit the enclosed s.p.a.ce softly.

”I don't know what you mean,” she breathed.

Be my successor, child, Ravenna's voice whispered. A little of my power is in you now, enough to guide you in gathering the rest.

”But,” she protested, dazed, ”I'm not your daughter. The rime says-”

Are you not? the other asked gently. Did I not tell you in NuRavenna that you and many others of your young race are descendants of my Ancient one, many generations removed? The world is yours now: your birthright, your inheritance. We Ancients are no more. Become my daughter even as Irrylath was once the Witch's son. Accept the crown of the world's heir, Aeriel. I've no one left but you.

Aeriel sat silent, unable to take it in, to fathom it. ”I can't...” she stammered. ”I don't know how.”

You underestimate yourself Enough of me remains to show you how to start. It will be a long and mighty task, but not beyond you-with my aid.

Vistas unfolded before her, misty with possibility still: Ravenna's sorcery reclaimed and the world made whole again. Aeriel blinked in surprise, beholding, until she realized that the view came to her through the remnants of the pearl.

But we must haste, the still, quiet voice urged her. Better to go at once, while still he sleeps.

The pale girl frowned, gazing at Irrylath. ”Go?”

The pearlstuff in her blood swirled restlessly. Yes. Have you not understood what I have been telling you? This task will consume you. You must leave all else behind.

Aeriel drew back, a chill breathing through her. ”Leave Irrylath?” she cried.

The voice within her subsided. At last it said, At times we all must give up what we hold most dear for the greater good. I gave up my daughter, all my sorcery, my very life- ”But Irrylath is my husband,” Aeriel exclaimed. ”We've only just found one another...”

The whole world needs you, Aeriel, the pearl's voice answered sadly. And he is only one man.

New images unfolded before her mind's eye: the planet dying.

”No,” Aeriel whispered, ”no!”

Anguish racked her. She wished that she might turn away, ignore the knowledge, refuse the gift- but the Ancient sorcery was already inside her, and there was nowhere she might turn.

”Irrylath needs me!” she tried desperately.

I am truly sorry, the pearl's voice murmured, but I have allowed you even these brief hours together at great cost.

Time presses. You must not ask more.

Aeriel gazed down at her prince. Gently, she cupped his chin in her hand and, still deeply sleeping, he turned his face as though to seek her touch. An unutterable weight descended upon her. Her breast felt heavy and sore, and she tasted the Witch's heart upon her tongue. Aeriel cradled her husband's cheek, unwilling to let him go.

”He saved me,” she whispered, remembering her terror of the flood. ”I can't swim. I'd have drowned when the palace fell if he had not...”

Drowned? the voice in her blood exclaimed. Nonsense, child. You can't drown. This new body I gave you is not so easily destroyed.

A thin thread of cold wound through Aeriel. She s.h.i.+vered hard. ”What do you mean?” she asked, baffled. ”What new body-I don't understand.”

The pin, child, the pearl's voice insisted. Did you not guess? The White Witch fas.h.i.+oned it so that it could not be removed without killing you.

Aeriel's eyes widened. Her free hand flew to the place behind her ear where the pin had been. She felt no soreness there, no scar. ”But you plucked it out,” she gasped. ”You pulled it free-”

Yes, and most of you perished in the flash. I had to rebuild the greater part-though I saved all that I could: your heart, your eyes. Your mind and soul, of course.

With a strangled cry, Aeriel s.n.a.t.c.hed her hand from the sleeping prince's cheek, recoiling in horror-not of him, but of herself. In numb dismay, she stared at the body into which she had awakened feeling so strangely new, in the City of Crystalgla.s.s, daymonths ago.

”What thing have you made of me?” she gasped. Her eyes returned to Irrylath. He had been a demon once, in Avaric, and she had made him mortal again. She herself had been mortal then-but what was she now? ”A monster...” she choked.

No more a monster than the starhorse, Ravenna within her replied, or any other of my Ions. No more than Melkior.

”A golam,” the pale girl managed, shuddering.

Yes.

”A clockwork automaton-like the duarough's underground machines...!”

<script>