The Darkangel (19 page)

She found the wait interminable. She dared not seek out the duarough, lest she disturb his final preparations. And she did not believe that at the moment she could bear the company of the wraiths. Her one consolation was that as soon as the vampyre returned, she would have a companion. His final bride would join their plan, and then she, Aeriel, would not be so alone. She watched the sun decline through the wide casement by which she sat, licked her dry lips, and whistled Ma'a-mbai walking tunes softly to keep her courage up.

At last when the sun was low, barely an hour from setting, the darkangel came, whirling out of the west in a tangled fury of wings. Aeriel sprang up and ran to the tower, but he was already coming down the steps when she arrived— limping, favoring the foot he had burned in the water of the caves many day-months past. Aeriel stood on the inside steps of the tower, looking up as he descended. His broken wing still hung askew.

He spotted her but did not stop, came on toward her. His face was tight, his lips pressed thin. He was alone. "There you are," he said shortly; his tone was brittle. "I feared I might have to search the keep for you. Is the weaving done?"

"Yes," she said, falling back a step for sheer astonishment, "quite done. But..."

"But where is my bride?" he finished for her, clenching and unclenching his fists as he came down. "I could not find one—but no matter." That last he growled. He swept past her on the steps and continued down, still limping. Aeriel hung back a moment, then followed. "That is not to say there was not many a maid I could have plucked away with ease," he snapped, "—but they were all so ugly. I think they are hiding the pretty ones from me." He ground his teeth. "I shall make them pay for that when I am made full icarus and rule. They shall give up their pretty ones to me in plenty then."

Aeriel stared after him, bewildered. She had never before heard such a torrent of words from him.

"But as it was," he continued, ill-tempered yet, but no longer raging, "there seemed to be no maidens much prettier than you, and as my wings were beginning to tire—the one being broken puts a strain upon the rest—I decided not to bother bringing one back, when I already had a maid here that would serve well enough___"

"What?" Aeriel exclaimed. She could not believe she had heard him right. What did he mean? She let out her breath suddenly—surely he could not mean her? Apprehension took her by the throat.

The vampyre continued, taking no notice that she did not call him "my lord" anymore.

Indeed, he seemed almost mollified by her dismay. "You are not as pretty as some of my wives have been," he remarked, shrugging, "but you will do."

Aeriel halted on the steps and stared at him.

Her chest grew now so tight it hurt. "I don't understand," she heard herself saying. The echoes whispered back at her like bats' wings in the tower. She shook her head once, thought silently, desperately, no—surely he is but baiting me again.

The icarus snorted, glanced at her over his black, feathered shoulder. "Have I not made myself abundantly plain? You are to wear the bridal gown. Yes, you." He paused and stood a moment, half-turned, toying with his leaden chain. He gave her a mocking smile; she was not sure whether the mockery in it was meant for her or for himself. "Are you not honored?"

Aeriel stood dumb.

He eyed her and then nodded, to himself, as though the prospect of wiving her did not displease him as much as he had thought. "Go prepare yourself," he told her, "and I shall do the same. You know where my chambers are. I shall leave them unlocked. Be there, just at sunset, and I shall come to you."

Aeriel said nothing, nor moved.

"By the way," he remarked, almost casually. Her horror seemed to have restored his humor. "Where are my gargoyles? They are not up above."

Aeriel nodded. It was a long moment before she could speak. "I know. I set them free."

The icarus turned on her suddenly. "Freed them?" he spat. All trace of amusement washed from him. His ice eyes flashed. For the second time since her return Aeriel feared he might forget his word, spring upon her there and throttle her. But he restrained himself, barely. His cold, white eyes never left her face. "No matter," he murmured. His breath was harsh. "I shall need no more watchdogs after tonight." He fiddled with the chain about his neck. "It is well you are to be my wife, girl," he breathed thickly, "or I should be displeased."

Abruptly he swung away from Aeriel, put his back to her and started once more down the turning stair. His black wings rustled like stormwind through high grass. Reaching the bottom step, he swept out of the tower with never a backward glance. Aeriel felt dizzy.

She sat down upon the deserted stair. Her heart was beating very hard in the tightness of her throat. She could not think. She had expected an ally—no more than a frightened girl, perhaps, but some helpmate. Thought of the task ahead almost overwhelmed her. Now it fell upon her alone.

She felt crushed, breathless, but she made herself take breath. Her knees were weak, but she forced herself to rise. The duarough was waiting for her. The wraiths depended on her. And her own life hung on this now as well. A kind of calm stole over her, more numbness, she thought dimly, than calm. Slowly, she went down the stairs. Going out into the garden then, she followed the long steps into the caves.

The duarough was in the treasure room at his apparatus as she had expected him to be. He held a strangely shaped metal bowl in his hand under a glass tube that dripped, slowly dripped a clear, glowing liquid into the bowl. He glanced over his shoulder when Aeriel came in, but did not turn around.

"Has the icarus returned?"

Aeriel did not answer him at first, stood silent for a time. Then she said faintly, "Yes."

The little man murmured his acknowledgment and adjusted some coupling of his apparatus with one hand. "And you have spoken with his bride?"

Still he did not turn.

Aeriel drew breath. "I did not have to," she told him, "for it is I."

The duarough started and nearly spilled the liquid he was catching. The cup was brimful.

He reached and turned the key in the side of the glass tubing; the liquid ceased to drip. He put the bowl down beside him on the stack of books. A single drop slipped over the edge.

She saw the little gobbet of bright liquid disappear in a puff of vapor the instant it left the rim of the bowl—and Aeriel realized then that it was not a bowl at all, but the hoof of the equustel.

"Now will you tell me," she asked him, "how we shall kill the vampyre?"

The duarough stood facing her, his back pressed to the distillery. His small stone-colored eyes had widened. "Daughter," he murmured, "what did you say?"

"Tell me," began Aeriel, flatly, "how shall we... ?" but the little man's sputtering cut her off.

"Before that."

Aeriel looked away. "It is I," she repeated softly. "The vampyre has chosen me for his bride. There is no other."

The duarough let out his breath then, seemed to sag. "Ye gods," he breathed, "O Ancient Ones. What shall be done?" But in a moment he regained himself. His eyes flicked back to hers. "Aeriel," he said. "I am afraid for you. If you should fail..."

"I shall die," she heard herself saying; her voice sounded oddly dispassionate, "forever, as will my friend Eoduin, and all the others of the wraiths. Then the seven icari will be made invincible, and they will rule the world."

She felt her scattered thoughts beginning to return now, after the shock of learning she was the icarus' bride. She was more clearly aware of the chamber around her, could feel her own body more distinctly. She remembered a desert proverb suddenly, one she had learned from Orroto-to: "Go coward into battle, and you will fall. Go brave, and you may not. And if not heart-brave, at least face-brave." Aeriel put on the bravest face she could, then, and turned back toward the duar-ough.

"But I do not intend to fail." Her voice held more assurance than she felt. "Now tell me what to do."

The little man stood looking at her a moment, chewing one knuckle, his eyes deep with concern. Then he took hold of himself as well, murmured, "Ah, well, if we must, we must." He crossed the room to where the fire burned. "So little time," he fidgeted. "So little time."

Then he fell on his knees by the flickering wreath of white flame. All the floor was pale limestone, but the pits had been filled with smooth white sand. The fire had been built over one of these, Aeriel saw, as the duarough began to dig in the soft grit. The brushwood, dislodged from its stack, fell over and smothered out as the little man dug determinedly with his hands, tossing the pale grains, careless of where they fell.

Aeriel drew breath as the flames died and darkness leapt to fill the room. "Why have you done that?" she whispered at him. The sudden dark uneased her.

But then she saw that the room was not quite all dark. Tiny flames beneath the glass vessels still burned—too faint to relieve the gloom, but there was another light in the chamber. On the floor, at the very center where the duarough dug, the sand glowed—or rather, she saw, it was not the sand but something beneath the sand, shining up through the translucent grains.

"Patience, daughter," the duarough said. "We'll not need that little fire in just a moment."

He brushed the last of the sand away from the object in the small pit he had made. Its light shone forth and filled the room. It was a dagger with a blade like a snaking ray of the sun. The duarough lifted it reverently, and Aeriel saw the fine chain falling from its haft.

"What is it?" she murmured, staring. The darkness and the duarough's solemnity caused her to hush her voice.

"The edge adamantine," he answered, proudly. "It fell into my keeping—oh, a long time past." He held the dagger out to her. Aeriel drew back, surprised. "Take it with you," he explained, "when you go to the vampyre's chambers. I cannot follow until the sun is down. Keep it concealed if things go aright. But if things fall awry, draw it out: its light will blind him and its heat scathe him until you may escape."

Aeriel looked at the blade that burned like starfire, reached to take it from him and put the chain about her neck; beneath her garment, the blade fell against her breastbone, lay close against her between her breasts. She fingered its haft. The duarough rose and moved off a moment, then returned and put the hoof of the starhorse into her hands. Its contents shone.

"Only the chalice-hoof of the immortal horse can hold this liquor," he informed her.

"What is it?" Aeriel inquired.

He shook his head. "Fear not to drink of it yourself, daughter. Its properties are marvelous, and it is bane only to the vampyre and his kind."

Aeriel arose. "I must go," she told the duarough, "and prepare." The two means the little mage had put into her hands had steadied her. She cradled the chalice-hoof in cupped palms, careful not to spill any.

The duarough laid his hand on hers a moment. "Yes, child," he answered, "go. There is not time to lose."

Aeriel stood in the spinning room amid the wraiths. She knew the sun was nearly down, despite her haste to bathe her body in the warm, bright water of the cave, to comb her now electrum-pale hair, to wind about her the yards and yards of sari into a bridal gown.

But among the wraiths she stood now, attired as the vam-pyre's bride.

She said, "The time has come. I am going to slay the darkangel now, and rescue your souls." For all the bravery of the words, she could not quite keep the tremor from her voice.

"But why do you go," one of the wraiths said, "attired as a bride?" Their minds had slowly come back to them, trace by trace, over the last day-month.

"Because he means to take me as his bride," said Aeriel.

The wraiths moaned and muttered. "So this is how he punishes you for running away."

A shaky laugh escaped Aeriel. She let it go, as much to relieve her tension as express her irony. "No. He thinks to honor me."

"As he has honored us," they shrieked. "He has honored us to death."

"Hush, hush," cried Aeriel. "I will not let him kill me. I have the chalice that will lay him low, and the blade to breach his heart."

The wraiths murmured dolefully. "We fear for you," they said. "Let us come with you.

We are so thin, we may hide anywhere—in the curtains, in the bedclothes with never a wrinkle. We are not strong, but we are horrible to look at. He pretends only contempt for us, but we know we frighten him." The wasted women nodded eagerly, then consulted among themselves. "If you should falter," one of them said to Aeriel, "or things should run amiss, we might be of use to you."

She started to protest, and would have bid them stay, save that they wept and wailed and clung to her so, Aeriel knew they would not let her go until she agreed. Reluctantly, she resigned herself. And despite herself, she was glad of companions—anyone to accompany her now. She nodded.

"Follow me, then," she bade the wraiths, and their delighted laughter sounded like sand scritch-ing softly over a dry stone floor.

The nearest wraith took hold, in her frail, mummy-like hands, of the hem of Aeriel's garment. The next wraith took hold of her sister's hem, and those behind did the same until they formed a train. Seizing the chalice firmly in both hands, Aeriel led them out of their chamber and into the hall.

The white, soft setting glare of Solstar shone long veils through the windows. The broad interstices of shade in between were empty black. Passing now from light to dark to light again, Aeriel found herself sweating and shivering by turns. She tried to hold the bright bowl steady.

Glancing back over her shoulder, she eyed the crumpled train of wraiths. They were so bent and fragile now, and most of them so nearly blind, they would have lost their way at once in the rambling corridors without her guidance. So thin were they, they seemed translucent. Aeriel could scarcely see them in the waning brightness, lost them completely in the velvet shadows.

Their progress seemed maddeningly slow. Sol-star was already half sunk away. Aeriel balanced the brimming cup and urged the feeble wraiths forward. They made what haste they could. At last they reached the vampyre's quarters, set at the end of the long, empty hall. Aeriel felt all her impatience evaporating into dread.