Without hesitation, the prince swooped to her rescue, cutting down half a dozen of her attackers and scattering the rest. Cheering, the riders of Avaric sprang to fill the gap. Aeriel's heart clenched. She did not know whether to rejoice or weep. Surely she had no love for the bandit queen—yet because of her, the allied forces now had a chance to win free. Fighting forward again, Sabr gazed up at Irrylath. For barely a moment, he returned her gaze before, without a word, he wheeled away.

Aeriel spotted the prince's half brothers now, engaging the Witch's darkangels: Nar, the eldest, astride the black wolf Bernalon, fought the icarus of Bern while Arat upon the cockatrice of Elver battled the darkangel of that land. Lern, Syril, and Poratun upon their winged mounts dived and circled above, each pursuing his airborne foe.

Below them, her own brother Roshka sat fighting side to side with Hadin, the youngest Istern prince.

Two fair-haired cousins as like as like, they looked mirror images of one another: very fierce and serious and utterly without fear. Bestriding the stag of Pirs, the Lady's son swung determinedly at the winged witchson with his hook-bladed falchion. Beside him, upon the black steed Nightwalker, Roshka guarded his back.

Dismayed, Aeriel feared them both dangerously vulnerable—until she discerned that wingless mounts actually gave them the advantage. While his brothers veered and tangled in the air above, scarcely able to land a blow, earthbound Hadin forced his icarus again and again to swoop close to the ground, within reach of his weapon and Roshka's. "Without warning, an arrow shaft made of gold buried itself in the darkangel's side. Aeriel caught a glimpse of the Lady Syllva lowering her bow.

One of Talb the Mage's arrows tipped with Ancients' silver, she realized, though the arrowhead was already hidden deep in the unbleeding flesh of the darkangel. The bloodless creature screamed and writhed overhead. Roshka hooked it with his pike and hauled it closer. Hadin thrust his falchion to the hilt in the icarus's chest, silencing its scream. As it crumpled out of the air, a great shout went up from the forces of East and West: their first great victory of the day. Elation filled Aeriel. Beside her, Oriencor bared her teeth in a snarl.

"Enough!" she growled. "Enough of this dalliance. Time to make war in earnest now."

The Witch's ivory talons bit deep into Aeriel's shoulder. A chill like none she had ever known swept through her. The pearl dimmed, fighting the Witch's cold. Aeriel gasped and struggled as Oriencor dragged her from the window.

"Tell me, little sorceress," she whispered savagely, halting before the near wall of the tower chamber.

"How many sons have I?"

"None," Aeriel flung back. "You are barren."

The Witch's grasp tightened. Her lips turned down. "True," she said. "But there are those who, could they speak, would call themselves my sons. How many icari have I?"

"Six," Aeriel gasped. "Counting the one that Hadin killed." The cold devoured her. Her shoulder was already numb. "You had seven," she managed defiantly, "but Irrylath is lost to you."

Oriencor muttered, "We shall see. But did I hear you say I have but six darkangels? You are mistaken. I have seven."

"No!" Aeriel cried. "Irrylath is mine..."

The White Witch shook her head, smiling now. "I do not refer to Irrylath. You have seen my other six upon the field—each fighting one of your husband's brothers. But you have not yet seen my newest icarus, the one I made after Irrylath, just this twelvemonth past."

Aeriel stared at her. What was she saying—a new darkangel? A seventh son?

"You have not had time—" she stammered. The chill made her teeth rattle, her jaw ache. She writhed in the other's grasp. Even Ravenna's pearl, she realized, could not long protect her against such killing cold. The White Witch gave her a little shake.

"How naive you are."

Desperately, Aeriel searched her memory. She knew the lorelei stole infants, babes-in-arms whom she raised to young manhood before drinking their blood and gilding their hearts with lead, planting a dozen night-black pinions on their backs and sending them out to prey upon the world. The pale girl protested:

"It takes years to make a darkangel!"

Oriencor sighed. "To do a proper job, perhaps. But I have grown impatient of late. Irrylath, you recall, I acquired as a child of six. I kept him mortal only ten years before I winged him."

Aeriel's eyes widened. She had saved Irrylath before Oriencor could make him into a full-fledged icarus—but what was to have prevented Oriencor from stealing another child and rendering him at once into one of her unspeakable "sons"? Reading the memories of Winterock, the pearl brought images, sure and certain, into Aeriel's mind: the lorelei building a new set of child-sized wings, gilding a small, fresh heart with lead. Grimly, the White Witch nodded.

"Irrylath's replacement," she said. "My new 'son' has never flown, but it is high time now. Your husband's warhost is having far too easy a time."

Slow dread filled Aeriel. She stared at the wall in front of her. The palm of Oriencor's hand just hovered above its translucent surface. A hair-thin crack ran down the wall—so fine Aeriel would never have seen it without the aid of the pearl. She heard rustling, glimpsed movement through the stone. As Oriencor laid her hand at last upon the crack, it parted smoothly, forming a doorway so low and narrow only a child could easily pass through. The White Witch smiled.

"Time for Irrylath to meet his darkangel."

A creature shaped like a human child stood in a cavity beyond the door: a parody of human form, its skin stretched dead white over sunken flesh. A dozen black wings draped its shoulders. Still caught in the Witch's grasp, Aeriel shrank away. Nothing about this thing was beautiful— unlike Irrylath when she had first known him as an unfinished icarus. In contrast, this creature seemed an automaton. It spoke no word, moved stiffly as though made of wax: an utter darkangel. The Witch had already drunk away its soul.

"Golam," Aeriel whispered, shaking uncontrollably with the cold. "Animate doll!"

"Yes."

Turning its colorless eyes toward her, the white-faced creature hissed. Delighted, Oriencor laughed.

"So, chick. Ready to fly? One of your fellows is dead," she told it. "It only makes the rest of you dearer to me. To the casement. Haste! Your task's at hand."

Shifting as though uneasy, the creature continued to eye Aeriel. It seemed reluctant to approach. As Oriencor's daggerlike nails dug into Aeriel's flesh, her knees went weak, her whole side now numb. She winced, biting back a cry.

"Oh, don't mind her, you stupid thing," the White Witch snapped. "She can't really hurt you with those eyes."

The little darkangel swept past then, gargling at Aeriel still. It bounded to the window and sprang onto the wet, watery sill, where it crouched, wings flexing like a young bird's, fanning the air. Oriencor shoved Aeriel abruptly away from her, and the pale girl staggered, falling to her knees. The little icarus whistled and yammered. Striding to the window ledge, the White Witch transfixed it with her gaze.

"Fly now," she commanded, "and bring me Irrylath."

Languidly, carelessly, the White Witch kissed her hissing, snarling creature and pushed it off the ledge.

The darkangel's wings began their storm-like, circular motion as it sped away across the air, flying as though it had known flight all its life. Crumpled against the wall, Aeriel struggled vainly to rise. Upon her brow the pearl flickered, nearly spent. Get up, something within murmured urgendy. Rise now, or you never will! With great effort, Aeriel dragged herself to her feet.

Panting, she leaned unsteadily against the wall. Through the casement, she saw Oriencor's seventh darkangel swooping across the sky toward where Irrylath hovered, calling something down to the Lady Syllva among the bowwomen of Esternesse. One of diem looked up and caught her commander's arm, pointing. Syllva turned, then Irrylath. Sweat-stained and grave, the prince looked weary but not frightened. He had not yet realized what this icarus was.

Pointing with his Blade, he spoke a word to the Avarclon. But as the bridleless starhorse wheeled, climbing the air, his rider suddenly recoiled. Aeriel beheld bewilderment, and then open dismay, break over his face. The winged Horse never checked his ascent as Irrylath cast wildly about him, counting darkangels. The little icarus stooped. Astonished, the prince spun in the saddle to face the Witch's new

"son."

It dipped low first, harrying Avarclon. With a scream of rage, the starhorse struck at the child-shaped thing, but it dodged away. Irrylath lunged in the saddle, but the icarus pivoted, swooping upward from below to bait the prince's mount. Again Avarclon plunged and once more struck only empty air. The starhorse shook his head, pawing the sky, trumpeting his fury. Face grim, Irrylath swung recklessly, repeatedly, lightning swift, but each time, the little icarus deftly evaded him, its dozen dark wings fanning like a storm. It seemed to have no wish to engage with him, only to taunt—hovering just out of range.

Weak with cold, Aeriel shuddered. Before her at the window, Oriencor stood laughing. Abruptly, the pale girl noticed that without Irrylath to command them from the air, the allied forces below had begun to waver. The Witch's smile twitched. Aeriel stared as those beautiful white lips began to move as if in speech, but no sound emerged. Instead, it was the darkangel that spoke. The heightened perception of the pearl conveyed the sound clearly to Aeriel even at this distance: the little icarus mouthing the words of its mistress in a high, locustlike singsong.

"Come back to me," the winged witch-child said. "Though I speak with another's voice, know that it is I, Oriencor."

Irrylath started, staring at the little darkangel. A strangled cry escaped his lips.

"You loved me once," Oriencor's catspaw droned. "Do you not love me still, who mothered you after your own dam deserted you? I who gave you wings? I will give you wings again—such wings!—if only you will return to me."