Shaking, Aeriel gazed down at the battlefield, expecting to see the lorelei's forces regathered in an instant to attack. Yet her monstrous crew remained in utter rout. Only isolated bands of resisters still fought. Directly below, Erin, with broad sweeps of the burning sword, attacked the doorless palace. Its crystal hissed and vaporized at the bright blade's touch.
"You don't," Aeriel stammered, mystified. "You don't seem to care."
The Witch glanced at her. "You mean that my troops have been slaughtered? I don't. They were supposed to be slaughtered, you little fool. Did you think I would really rely for long on soulless drones to defend me? They're far too much trouble to control."
Stunned, Aeriel felt her heart constricting painfully. It was she who had been the dupe, not Oriencor.
Beyond her, in the air, the last, wounded darkangel fled screaming. Irrylath's twin brothers, Syril and Lern, sped in pursuit. Arat, nursing a torn and bleeding shoulder, sat bowed in the saddle, his brother Poratun bending close to examine it. Irrylath turned his gaze toward the Witch's tower. Oriencor pierced Aeriel with green eyes as she laughed.
"Don't you realize this has all been for my pleasure?" she inquired, almost companionably. "I have allowed this battle, this massacre, solely for my delight. Mayhem amuses me. Ah, I see your little friend below us has breached the wall."
Looking down, Aeriel saw Erin cutting a wide entryway into the great doorless palace.
"As soon as they land, your forces will storm the keep," Oriencor said. "But they are not guided and protected, as you were, by Ravenna's pearl, are they?" Her laugh was deep. "Winterock will swallow them. Then they will wander, lost and shivering, for a time—not long—before I go to gather them."
Aeriel recoiled. The Witch's words unnerved her. Desperately, she glanced at the window. How long before the barges landed? Oriencor lilted on.
"Some of them will die before I reach them, which will be a pity—a great waste of souls. But I will have enough. Only the best and the bravest, the hardiest and most fearless of your people will survive long enough for me to sip their lives away."
Aeriel bit her lip, panicked. She had to find a way to stop the Witch before Syllva and her followers reached the keep! Far below, Erin and Pendarlon paced, impatient for the barges. The dark islanders patrolled the thin, icy ledge, driving off the Witch's creatures that occasionally surfaced. Aeriel's thoughts spun. Even if she shouted from the tower, her voice would never be heard above the din of battle. And yet, she must warn them! She felt the warmth of the pearl upon her brow brighten suddenly. All at once, she remembered. Of course. She could speak to Erin through the burning sword.
Aeriel shut her eyes. Ignoring all distraction, she willed herself to make contact, to merge once more with the flame of the blade. A moment later she felt the familiar disorientation, sensed herself being drawn into the sword, her substance drained. Erin's face loomed before her, half an arm's reach away. She felt the motion of the dark girl's stride.
"Aeriel!" her friend gasped, halting. "Where are you?" she cried. "It's been nearly a daymonth—"
"Above you in the tower," Aeriel whispered urgently. "Listen! Fly for your lives. The castle's a trap!
Don't enter—"
An open-hand blow knocked her to the floor.
"Silence! Not another word, you stupid girl," Oriencor snarled.
Half-stunned, Aeriel moaned and blinked back tears. Her cheek stung, numb with cold. The bone of her jaw smarted. Her neck felt wrenched. The White Witch stood over her.
"Did you think I would let you alert them?" she grated. "You are here because it amuses me to let you watch. You will not be allowed to interfere."
Poised, Ravenna's daughter glared down, her green eyes merciless. In another moment, Aeriel was sure she would swoop and throttle her. Beyond her captor, the casement held nothing but distant darkangels and open sky—but through the pearl's link to the sword, Aeriel glimpsed the dark girl's startled look, then saw her turn, crying out to the approaching barges, gesturing them frantically away.
Aeriel fought to keep relief and triumph from lighting her face for the Witch to read.
"I will have my souls," Oriencor growled, plainly unaware of what was occurring below. "The very finest, the most alive, shall make me strong for my journey across heaven."
Aeriel felt the swordlink flicker. She let it die. It had achieved its end—and cost her much of her remaining strength.
"But they're dust," she protested weakly, drained. "The people of Oceanus died…"
The other laughed. "They would have died, long since, if they were mortal like you. But they are not.
They are Ancients, and live a very long time."
She still doesn't understand, Aeriel thought wearily, in wonder. She doesn't know about the plagues and the destruction. She thinks if she goes there, she will find all Oceanus alive. Then, If she knew— if I could show her— would she stop?
"All the Ancients of Oceanus perished," Aeriel managed, speaking as plainly as she knew how, "in a great war dozens of thousands of daymonths ago."
Ravenna's daughter laughed again. "Lies! My mother told you that. It's all nonsense. The Ancients are as gods, are gods. And soon I will join their ranks. I have proven myself their equal in sorcery. Soon I will claim the birthright of my Ancient blood and walk at last upon my mother's world."
"There's no one there!" Aeriel searched feverishly for a way to convince her. "Their chariots have long since stopped coming. They no longer speak across the Void."
The White Witch scoffed. "Tired of us. Tired of little minions, little golams, little living toys.
Weary—as I am weary—of all the lesser creatures of this world. Weary of you all! Do you think, once I am on Oceanus, that I will deign to return ever again to this place? That I will trouble myself to speak with any of you across the Void?"
"They're dead!" Aeriel insisted, despairing, realizing as she did that it was hopeless. No words she could speak would ever persuade Oriencor.
The bitter savor of the Witch's heart lingered even now upon her tongue. She would have spat, if it could have done any good, but the grains had long since dissolved. She could not get the taste out of her mouth. Ravenna's voice came back to her then, or perhaps it was the pearl's murmuring again: Crush the Witch's army. Destroy her darkangels—and without so much as a jolt of surprise, Aeriel understood why she must give the pearl to Ravenna's daughter.
The Ancient jewel enabled its bearer to separate genuine from illusory. Fiery images of Oceanus's destruction burned bright in Aeriel's mind, with none of the mistiness of possibility and all the unmistakable clarity of fact. Only in claiming the pearl would Oriencor know, beyond all doubt, that Oceanus was dead and the Ancient race no more, that no end could come of killing and abandoning the world. Better to use her vast sorcery to heal it now—it was the only birthright Ravenna's heir would ever know.
Have you ever treasured something, child, a thing so dear you thought you could never give it up— then learned you must? Aeriel understood the Ancient's question now as well, and suddenly all courage failed her. Without the pearl, she would be bereft, robbed forever of its subtle, all-pervading light. It had been a part of her so long that now she could feel its substance in her very bones.
Relinquishing it would be like cutting off her own hand, like dying. Doubdess she would die—for without the pearl to keep away the cold, she would swiftly freeze.
"Oceanus is dead," she told the other, with all the certainty and conviction at her command. Rising painfully, Aeriel reached to pull the pearl's chain from her hair. "Take this if you do not believe. Take your mother's gift, Oriencor, and behold for yourself."
Her hand shook. Holding out the pearl to the Witch was the hardest thing she had ever done. Take it, she wanted to cry. Take it quickly! But all at once, she heard a shout. Startled, the pearl still in her hand, Aeriel turned. Avarclon wheeled and thrashed to a halt just outside the broad, high window of the tower.
His hooves clattered against the winterock as he flailed and scrambled, unable to hover easily so near the keep. Irrylath leaned forward, clutching the starhorse's mane.
"Aeriel!" he cried. "Aeriel!"
Oriencor turned from the pale girl to sneer at him. "Begone, traitor," she spat. "You and your Horse and your Blade do not frighten me. Aeriel is mine."
"Monster! Lorelei," Irrylath shouted at her. Turning his gaze once more to Aeriel, he cried urgently,
"Has she harmed you? Give me your hand."
Avarclon's hooves clashed and rang against the frigid stone. His wings, fanning the air, swept and battered against the tower's outer wall. Irrylath strained forward, reaching his free hand for Aeriel, but he could not get close. The window was not large enough for Avarclon to pass through. Irrylath hacked at the casement relentlessly with the Blade Adamantine. Ignoring him, the White Witch turned away.
"What is it you would give me?" she said contemptuously.
Aeriel gazed back at her. The jewel glimmered in the pale girl's outstretched hand. "That with which your mother entrusted me," she whispered. "The pearl of the soul of the world."
Oriencor tilted her head, eyeing the pearl with new interest. The pale girl nodded.
"Who bears it cannot be fooled by lies."
The other's green eyes studied Aeriel intently suddenly. "Has my mother acknowledged my birthright at last?" she murmured.
"All Ravenna's sorcery is in here," Aeriel told her, "all her knowledge for the running of the world. The making of it cost her life."
Oriencor's eyes grew hungry, bright. "Give it to me, then," she answered, reaching.
"Don't let her touch you!" Irrylath cried. Great chunks of winterock broke and fell away from the Blade. The wall had a gap in it now, still not large enough. Avarclon whinnied and smote with his hooves.
