"It is to my rue that I bore only sons—never a daughter to be my heir. You are my niece, the daughter of my birthsister, who once ruled my dominion in my stead. Come across the Sea-of-Dust with us," she said. "Be heir to the Ladyship of Esternesse."
Aeriel shook her head, refusing the other's hand. "If it is the law in Esternesse that says no man may rule as Lord, then it is an unjust law. If it is merely custom, let it be custom no more. It is Hadin who shall be with you in Esternesse. Make him your heir."
Syllva and her youngestborn exchanged a glance.
"Since you wish it," the Lady replied at last, "it will be so."
Hadin bowed to Aeriel, his face full of wonder and delight. One by one, his Istern brothers came forward, each accompanying his Ion. The wolf of Bern spoke first.
"Come rule in my land, which was so pleasant once. Together, we shall make it so again."
Aeriel shook her head. "Let him who was your rider rule your land."
Red Arat, one arm bandaged in a sling, came forward beside Elverlon.
"Be queen of my strange and wondrous land, Aeriel," the cockatrice urged.
Shaking her head, she answered, "Let Arat rule for me."
Dappled Zambulon came forward, Syril at his side.
"Mine is the fairest land by far," the winged panther purred. "I and my people would welcome you."
Again she shook her head. "Let that be Syril's task."
Brass-colored Terralon approached, accompanied by Syril's birthbrother, Lern.
"You spent your childhood in my land, great Aeriel," said the gryphon of Terrain. "Return. Be sibyl on the altar-cliffs of Orm, before whom even the satrap bows."
Sadly, Aeriel cast down her eyes. "The sibyls of Orm are no more, I fear, and your consort the sfinx has deposed the satrap for trafficking in slaves. Let Lern replace him as ruler in my stead."
Drawing near, Poratun in purple robes beckoned her from beside Ranilon.
"You have never seen my land," the winged salamander said. "But it is marvelous strange and fair.
Come sample it and be its queen."
Regretfully, Aeriel turned away. "Give the crown to Poratun."
Lastly, her own brother Roshka came forward beside the bronze stag Pirsalon. Hadin, who had been that Ion's rider during the war, stood back holding the reins of Nightwalker, Roshka's steed. This time it was the man who spoke and not the Ion.
"Erryl, my sister," said Roshka, "now called Aeriel, you are our father's firstborn and the right heir in Pirs. Return with me to take your place as suzeranee."
With the greatest sorrow yet, Aeriel shook her head. "It is true I am Pirs's rightful heir. But you have been its crown prince all the years that I was lost, a slave in Terrain. Be suzerain in my stead, brother. It is what I wish."
Roshka bowed and fell back a pace as the others had done. Another came forward, laughing, then.
"So, little pale one," Orrototo chided, her desert walking stick in hand. Aeriel eyed the cinnamon-colored chieftess of the Ma'ambai and felt her spirit ever so gently lift. "You are refusing all honors and offers of crowns. Could it be, having accomplished your task, you now wish to rest?"
Wearily, Aeriel closed her eyes. If only she might rest. The dark chieftess touched her cheek.
"Come with me," she said. "Wander the dunes of Pendar as once you did. There, everyone goes where she wishes, and everyone is free."
But Aeriel could only shake her head. "Chieftess, my task is not yet done, and I am not yet free."
The other's eyes grew rueful, but at last she, too, fell back. Talb the Mage spoke.
"Daughter, I, also, must go. Now that all this water is back in the world, the mighty underland streams of Aiderlan will once more begin to flow, and someone with a small store of sorcery"—here he scoffed modestly—"should be on hand to help things along. I'd beg you to come and lend your aid, if I'd the least hope of your saying yes."
His wistfulness almost made her smile, though her heart was very sore—but a commotion parted the ranks of Syllva's bowwomen suddenly. The Isterners stepped hastily aside to allow a tight knot of little waist-high people through. None of them were any taller than Talb.
"Sorcery indeed!" the foremost snorted, her red hair falling in four thick braids, one before, one behind each ear. "We can put all in Aiderlan to rights with machines alone, brother. You can keep your sorcery."
Maruha stood indignantly before the little mage. She was garbed all in padded leather, a round shield slung behind one shoulder and a shortsword at her belt. Aeriel spotted Collum and Brandl behind her, and others in battledress—but many in the group wore only the grey tatters of slaves. Marks upon the necks and wrists of some showed where collars and shackles had chafed, though those had now been struck away. They looked thin but flushed with triumph, still dizzy with disbelief. So these were the ones Oriencor had taken, Aeriel guessed, now rescued by their kith. Talb started back from Maruha in surprise.
"Well, sister," he exclaimed. "I vow! It has been a world's age since last we met."
"Longer, since you traipsed off to Lonwury to study your nitpated sorcery. Never had any use for honest machinery, did you? Except apparatus for distilling your infernal drams."
She humphed in disgust. Collum and Brandl exchanged a glance which, Aeriel noted wryly, held more than a little sympathy for Talb. Maruha caught the look and glowered.
"Now your nephew has gotten like notions of running off overland to become a bard! I haven't been able to keep his fingers off that little harp since we left the City of Crystalglass."
"Nephew?" cried Talb, starting forward to embrace the younger duarough. "Young one, well met! I thought you had a family look about you. Would you be a singer of tales, a bard? Best go with the Lady Syllva then and learn her craft."
"Sooth!" exclaimed Maruha. "Such talk simply encourages him."
What more they said, Aeriel did not catch, for Irrylath, kneeling still, had reached and taken her hands. His words were low, for her alone.
"Aeriel," he whispered. "What is this, all these others holding out to you crowns and inviting you to go with them? You mean to come with me, of course."
She met his eyes. They were full of misgiving. Heavily, she shook her head. "I cannot"
His gaze grew baffled. "But the war is over," he cried. "The Witch is dead."
"And the pearl of the world's soul broken," she answered. "Ravenna's sorcery scattered to the winds.
It was all that stood between us and the winding down of the world. That is the true war," she whispered, struggling. "Our victory at Winterock has only won a respite. We must use it wisely. Someone must regather the lost soul of the world."
Irrylath's grip on her hands tightened, his words, his look suddenly desperate. "But not you. Not you, Aeriel! You have already done far more than enough. Let another undertake the task."
"What other?" she asked. "There is none. Ravenna chose me."
The pearlstuff in her blood stirred uneasily. Stand firm, it murmured. You must not waver. Did you rescue the world only to abandon it now?
"I must return to the City of Crystalglass," Aeriel whispered. "I must learn to read the Ancient script…"
The pearl's vision loomed before her. Overwhelmed by the task's immensity, she made to turn away.
Almost roughly, the prince pulled her back to him.
"I will go with you," he started, and for a moment his eyes burned with hope.
"You cannot!" she cried. "Don't you see? You have sworn to obey the equustel's charge, to be king in Avaric…"
He stared at her, his face stricken, his breath grown short.
"Stay," Irrylath implored her. "Only stay with me, Aeriel. I will make you queen in Avaric."
Lifting her gaze, she looked past him to Sabr, dismounted now, near enough to overhear. She stood watching the two of them with astonishment and barely guarded joy.
Aeriel told Irrylath, "Avaric already has a queen."
He whirled to see to whom she looked, then turned back with a cry. " You are my wife. I married you."
Shaking her head, she touched his cheek. "Two years were all we had, love," she whispered, "and we squandered them."
The pearlstuff in her blood was seething now. Make an end to it, quickly, Ravenna within her warned. If passion overrules you, all the world is lost.
"Be king in Avaric," Aeriel managed, "and think no more of me."
Fierce triumph lit the eyes of the bandit queen. Her gaze pounced on Irrylath.
"No!" he cried. "Don't leave me. Aeriel, you are my wife, the keeper of my heart..."
Grief had her by the throat. She could not speak. The pearl's radiance within her brightened dangerously. Her breast ached where there should have been no pain. Irrylath, too, seemed to feel some twinge. He frowned, wincing, laying one hand upon his breastbone. His gaze fell on the Edge Adamantine.
"What have you done?" he gasped, astonished, like one pinned through with a sword. She knew that she must pull away from him at once, lest the roiling sorcery within her scathe him. "Aeriel, what have you done?"
"Give your heart to Sabr," she managed. "Of course you are drawn to her." Fool! she cursed herself.
Fool not to have understood before. "For you see yourself in her—your very image—unbroken and unscarred. You as you might have been if the Witch had never touched you."
Sabr started eagerly forward, but her cousin warned her away with a savage look. "Never!"
Aeriel tried desperately to pull away, but he still held fiercely to her hands.
"I'll not wed Sabr."
The joy that lanced through Aeriel to hear him say it was almost too sweet to bear. She wanted to savor it, so tempted then—as she had been in the Witch's tower—to forget the world and go with him.
She wanted to weep, to fall into his arms, but her eyelids were marked with white stars from the Witch's touch, and she had no power of tears anymore.