"Survivors, surely!" A young man's voice. It sounded like her own brother Roshka's.
"By all the underpaths," another cried, one Aeriel had not heard in far too long: Talb the Mage. "Let it be they! The fabric of that pavilion can only be hers."
"Hollo! Hollo!"
Irrylath beside her sat up with a start. Hurriedly, she reached for Ravenna's gown, but her husband caught her hand and brought it to his lips. Without a thought, she caressed his cheek—then she remembered he did not belong to her anymore, and froze. Other voices hailed them from without. Aeriel heard the high, ululating trill that was the greeting cry of the desert wanderers. The prince's head turned in surprise.
"Someone comes," he murmured.
Sick at heart, Aeriel pulled free of him and turned away. His touch was torture to her now. She could not bear to look into his eyes, to see his feelings change as soon as he realized his heart was once again his own. She donned the Ancient's weighty gown. Beside her, the prince caught up his own garments. As he knotted the sash about his waist, he reached to draw her to him again. Aeriel shrank from him.
Shaking, she rose to fold the flap of their tent aside and step out to meet the ones who came.
16
Crowns
Spread out over the vast black plain moved a great band of people, combing for survivors or the perished, Aeriel guessed. After the rain, the mudflats were beginning to drain. A tiny frog, pale rose, sprang away from her tread with a jewellike chirp. A damselfly with lacelike wings darted past her ear.
Little shoots of frost green had sprung up everywhere. Silvery minnows and other fry swarmed the tiny pools. Gazing at them, both creature and leaf, Aeriel understood for the first time how they interlocked, like beads in a tapestry, each dependent upon the others for its niche in the greater scheme. The pearlstuff stirred and whispered in her blood.
"This will never be a Wasteland again," she murmured full of wonder, "but a fertile marsh."
Catching sight of her emerging from the tent, the searchers hurried toward her with great glad cries.
Irrylath's mother, the Lady Syllva, led them, flanked by her bowwomen. The Ions of Avaric and elsewhere dotted their ranks. Aeriel spotted others: the chieftess Orrototo and her desert wanderers, the dark islanders of the Sea-of-Dust. Erin stood beside Pendarlon upon the verges of her people. The Sword hung sheathed and burning at her side. Elation rose in Aeriel, strong as a well-spring, to find the dark girl safe.
Irrylath ducked through the entryway to stand half a pace behind her as the others neared. His brothers gave a triumphant shout. Sabr, heading her cavalry along the party's near flank, looked on, her proud and somber countenance lifting with joy at the sight of him. Aeriel felt her heart constrict, struck suddenly how nearly the face of the prince's cousin resembled his own: Irrylath as he might have looked without scars. Aeriel dared not turn to see how her husband returned the queen of Avaric's gaze.
Drawing close, the others halted before Aeriel. Her brother Roshka stood near the head of the band, Talb the Mage at his side. She felt a momentary surprise to see the Lady's mage above-ground without a daycloak, before she remembered that since nightshade had fallen, he was safe from Solstar's glare. The duarough wizard hobbled toward her across the drying ground.
"So, dear child," he exclaimed, "you are alive, as we had not dared hope, and Prince Irrylath is with you."
She felt the prince's arm slip around her then and tensed, longing desperately both to lean back into his embrace and to draw away—for it could not last. She held herself erect, wondering how soon he would release her and turn to Sabr.
"Yes, we are safe," she managed, to Talb. "How is it, little mage, that I never saw you among the others in battle?" His cloak of obscurity might hide him from the light of Solstar, but surely never from the sight of the pearl.
The other smiled. "I was occupied below-ground, aiding my fellows, the free duaroughs, in the rescue of our folk."
Aeriel nodded. "And those aboveground," she asked, lifting her gaze. "How is it so many are come alive through the flood?"
Hadin, the Lady's youngestborn, answered. "Most were already aboard the barges when the palace fell, and the Ions saved many of the rest. Marelon alone rescued scores upon scores."
Aeriel spotted the great coils of the plumed, vermilion serpent far away toward the rear of the company. The lithe Ion of the Sea-of-Dust bowed to her. Nearer to hand, Roshka joined his cousin Hadin, laying one hand upon his battle companion's arm-
"Nevertheless, we have been dozens of hours finding one another again."
Aeriel felt the pearlstuff within her blood begin to surge, the white radiance of her skin brightening.
Unsure of the effect this inner pearlfire would have on any whom it touched, she laid her hand upon Irrylath's wrist, meaning to thrust him away—but, misinterpreting, he took her hand. She stiffened, recalling in alarm the scathing flame of Erin's sword, but he seemed to suffer no ill. The Lady Syllva gazed at them.
"Children, are you well?" she asked, brow furrowed with concern.
"Truly well, mother," the prince replied. "The war is over, and it is won."
The crowd shifted suddenly, parting and drawing aside. Aeriel saw Avarclon coming forward, tossing his long silvery mane. His nostrils flared wide as he snorted, his pale eyes intent and hard. His hooves rang like cymbals upon the stones embedded in the soft, black silt.
"Indeed, Prince, the battle is done," the Warhorse said. "But there is yet our bargain to be kept."
Aeriel paled, her hand in Irrylath's growing cold. Had he, too, put the anticipation of this moment from his mind, just as she herself had done? Avarclon had not. How could a Ion forget or forgive his own death at the hands of a darkangel— one that, as a mortal boy, had once been his dearest friend?
She saw apprehension flood the Lady Syllva's face as well. The prince's brothers shifted, murmuring.
Erin muttered something urgently to Pendarlon, but the lyon shook his mane. Sabr cast about wildly, hand at her knife hilt. Aeriel felt her husband's arm about her tighten, and for a moment, she allowed herself to rest against him before he turned her in his arms.
"Forgive me," he whispered, "for not reminding you that this end must come. I wanted you to think of me alone, these brief hours past, since we had so little time."
His eyes searched hers. The scars on his cheek were full of shadow and light. When he kissed her, the taste of him was so sweet she wanted never to stop. The pearlstuff in her blood flared, as if in warning, but she clung to him, heedless, unwilling to let him go, until at last he pulled free and told her softly, "Fare well."
Turning, he went to kneel before the winged horse. The Ion of Avaric whickered, stamped. His great grey wings beat, fanning the air. The prince faced him unwavering.
"What you say is true," he replied. "I have a debt to you."
His voice was steady, calm, shaded only with regret and not a trace of fear. The Avarclon shook himself, sidling. His long tail lashed.
"As a darkangel, I ended your life," Irrylath told him. "Yet once the priestesses of Esternesse had brought you into the world again, you made yourself my steed and bore me bravely, with never a bid for revenge."
"Watching them, Aeriel felt the pearlstuff subsiding, moving coolly within her, full of light. Before the kneeling prince, the grey horse shifted, danced.
"One shrug of your shoulders would have plunged me to my death," said Irrylath quietly. "Instead, faithfully, you kept your oath. Now I must keep mine. Take your vengeance, Avarclon. It is only just. I am yours. Do with me as you will."
As he fell silent, the winged horse tossed his head, the long horn of twisted silver glinting keen upon his brow. The air hummed softly with its passing.
"Dying in Pendar was a hard thing," the starhorse answered. "For a long time, my ghost thirsted for your death."
Coming forward, Avarclon bowed his head till his mane brushed Irrylath's cheek. His horn rested blade-sharp upon the young man's shoulder, beside the great vein of his throat. The prince neither flinched nor pulled away. He only waited.
"But all have suffered the Witch's harm," the Warhorse said, "you as much as I or any other. One thing alone will satisfy me now. Do it, and I will count our score settled and done. Help me to repeople my deserted land. Aid me in rebuilding the great kingdom over which I once kept watch. Sit upon your father's throne at Tour-of-Kings, Prince Irrylath. Be king in Avaric."
Aeriel felt the sweet rush of relief filling her. It swept over the other listeners like a tide. Roshka and Irrylath's Istern brothers gave a ragged cheer. White-faced, the Lady Syllva leaned in the arms of her youngest, Hadin. Sabr bowed her face to one hand and set her drawn dagger back in its sheath. Irrylath himself gazed at Avarclon in astonishment. The winged Warhorse pulled back a pace, snorting, his breath stirring the long strands of Irrylath's black hair. The prince reached up to him.
"That I will do," he whispered, "and gladly."
He turned to Aeriel, jubilant, holding out his hand as though to share his joy with her—but Aeriel drew back. Talb's eye caught hers. Did he know? Did he guess?
"So the war is done," the duarough mage said, "and Irrylath is Avaric's king. But what of you, child?
What will you do now?"
Aeriel could not reply. She wanted so to go to Irrylath, to take his hand, but she felt the radiance of the pearlstuff in her blood intensify: a warning. The Lady Syllva, her color regained, left Hadin and turned to Aeriel.
"I and my train return soon to Esternesse," she said. "But most of my sons must stay behind, each to aid his Ion in the rebuilding of the West. Only Hadin returns with me, for your native Pirs already has a sovereign."
The Lady held out her hand to Aeriel.
"Will you not come with us, dear child, lend Hadin and me your company? Esternesse will be a lonely place without his brothers."
The Lady's eyes invited her, her smile hopeful yet sad.
