L i r a e l

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L i r a e l

Daughter of the clayr

L i r a e l

Daughter of the clayr

G A RT H N I X

Ginee Seo, my editor at HarperCollins, is owed many

thanks for her editorial advice, particularly for encouraging

me to go back and tell more of Lirael’s story.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and

incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination

or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to

actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living

or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent

of either the author or the publisher.

book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever

without written permission except in the case of

brief quotations embodied in critical articles and

reviews.

AdobeAcrobat E-Book Reader edition v 1. May 2001

ISBN 0-06-000544-0

Print edition first published in 2001 HarperCollins

Publishers

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To Anna, my family and friends,

and to the memory of Bytenix (1986–1999),

the original Disreputable Dog

Contents

Prologue 1

Part One 9

1. An Ill-Favored Birthday 11

2. A Future Lost 22

3. Paperwings 32

4. A Glint in the Snow 41

5. An Unexpected Opportunity 49

6. Third Assistant Librarian 57

7. Beyond the Doors of Sun and Moon 67

8. Down the Fifth Back Stair 77

9. Creatures by Nagy 85

10. Dog Day 95

11. Search for a Suitable Sword 102

12. Into the Lair of the Chief Librarian 110

13. Of Stilken and Strange Magic 119

Part Two 131

14. Prince Sameth Hits a Six 133

15. The Dead Are Many 144

16. Into Death 153

17. Nicholas and the Necromancer 161

18. A Father’s Healing Hand 170

19. Ellimere’s Thoughts on the Education

of Princes 180

20. A Door of Three Signs 190

21. Beyond the Doors of Wood and Stone 202

22. Power of Three 218

23. A Troublesome Season 226

24. Cold Water, Old Stone 242

25. A Family Conference 253

26. A Letter from Nicholas 262

27. Sam Makes Up His Mind 270

28. Sam the Traveler 277

29. The Observatory of the Clayr 288

30. Nicholas and the Pit 302

31. A Voice in the Trees 313

32. “When the Dead Do Walk, Seek

Water’s Run” 328

33. Flight to the River 344

Part Three 359

34. Finder 361

35. Remembrancer 370

36. A Denizen of Death 381

37. A Bath in the River 391

38. The Book of the Dead 401

39. High Bridge 411

40. Under the Bridge 422

41. Free Magic and the Flesh of Swine 431

42. Southerlings and a Necromancer 442

43. Farewell to Finder 457

44. Abhorsen’s House 470

Epilogue 481

Appendix: A Special Work in Progress:

Preview of the third book in Garth

Nix’s The Old Kingdom Trilogy, Abhorsen. 489

About the Author 500

Credits 501

About the Publisher 502

Prologue

It was a hot, steamy summer, and the mosquitoes

swarmed everywhere, from their breeding grounds in the

rotten, reedy shores of the Red Lake up to the foothills of

Mount Abed. Small, bright-eyed birds swooped among the

clouds of insects, eating their fill. Above them, birds of prey

circled, to devour the smaller birds in turn.

But there was one place near the Red Lake where no mosquito

or bird flew, and no grass or living thing would grow. A

low hill, little more than two miles from the eastern shore.

A mound of close-packed dirt and stones, stark and strange

amidst the wild grassland that surrounded it, and the green

forest that climbed the nearby hills.

The mound had no name. If one had ever appeared on a

map of the Old Kingdom, the map was long lost. There had

once been farms nearby, but never closer than a league. Even

when people had lived there, they would neither look at the

strange hill nor speak of it. The nearest town now was Edge,

a precarious settlement that had never seen better days but had

not yet given up hope of them. The townsfolk of Edge knew it

was wise to avoid the eastern shore of the Red Lake. Even the

animals of the forest and the meadow shunned the area around

the mound, as they instinctively stayed away from anyone who

seemed to be going there.

Such as the man who stood on the fringe of the forest,

where the hills melted into the lakeshore plain. A thin, balding

man who wore a suit of leather armor that covered him from

ankle to wrist, reinforced with plates of red-enameled metal at

his neck and every joint. He carried a naked sword in his left

hand, the blade balanced across his shoulder. His right hand

rested against a leather bandolier worn diagonally across his

chest. Seven pouches hung from the bandolier, the smallest no

larger than a pillbox, the largest as big as his clenched fist.

Wooden handles hung downwards out of the pouches. Black

ebony handles, which his fingers crawled across like a spider

along a wall.

Anyone who had been there to see would have known that

the ebony handles belonged to bells, and that in turn would

identify the man by kind, if not by name. A necromancer, he

carried the seven bells of his dark art.

The man looked down at the mound for some time, noting

that he was not the first to come there that day. At least two

people stood on the bare hill, and there was a shimmer of heat

in the air that suggested that other, less visible beings stood

there, too.

The man considered waiting till dusk, but he knew he didn’t

have that choice. This was not his first visit to the mound.

Power lay far beneath it, imprisoned deep within the earth. It

had called him across the Kingdom, summoning him to its

presence on this Midsummer’s Day. It called him now, and he

could not deny it.

Still, he retained enough pride and will to resist running the

last half mile to the mound. It took all his strength, but when

his boots touched the bare earth at the lip of the hill, it was

with deliberation and no sign of haste.

One of the people there he knew, and expected. The old

man, the last of the line that had served the thing that lay under

the mound, acting as a channel for the power that kept it

hidden from the gaze of the witches who saw everything in their

cave of ice. The fact that the old man was the last, without some

sniveling apprentice at his side, was reassuring. The time was

coming when it need no longer hide beneath the earth.

The other person was unknown. A woman, or something

that had once been a woman. She wore a mask of dull bronze,

and the heavy furs of the Northern barbarians. Unnecessary,

and uncomfortable, in this weather . . . unless her skin felt

something other than the sun. She wore several rings of bone

upon her silk-gloved fingers.

“You are Hedge,” the stranger declared.

The man was surprised by the crackle of power in her

speech. She was a Free Magic sorcerer, as he’d suspected, but

a more powerful one than he could have guessed. She knew his

name, or one of them—the least of his names, the one he had

used most often in recent times. He, too, was a Free Magic sorcerer,

as all necromancers had to be.

“A Servant of Kerrigor,” continued the woman. “I see his

brand upon your forehead, though your disguise is not without

some skill.”

Hedge shrugged, and touched what appeared to be a

Charter mark on his forehead. It cracked in two and fell off

like a broken scab, revealing an ugly scar that crawled and

wriggled on his skin. “I carry the brand of Kerrigor,” he replied

evenly. “But Kerrigor is gone, bound by the Abhorsen and

imprisoned these last fourteen years.”

“You will serve me now,” said the woman, in tones that

brooked no argument. “Tell me how I may commune with the

power that lies under this mound. It, too, will bend itself to my

will.”

Hedge bowed, hiding his grin. Was this not reminiscent of

how he had come to the mound himself, in the days after

Kerrigor’s fall?

“There is a stone on the western side,” he said, pointing

with his sword. “Swing it aside, and you will see a narrow

tunnel, striking sharply down. Follow the tunnel till the way is

blocked by a slab of stone. At the foot of the stone, you will

see water seeping through. Taste of the water, and you will perceive

the power of which you speak.”

He did not mention that the tunnel was his, the product of

five years’ toil, nor that the seeping water was the first visible

sign of a struggle for freedom that had gone on for more than

two thousand years.

The woman nodded, the thin line of pallid skin around the

mask giving no hint of expression, as if the face behind it were

as frozen as the metal. Then she turned aside and spoke a spell,

white smoke gushing from the mouthpiece of the mask with

every word. When she finished, two creatures rose up from

where they’d lain at her feet, nearly invisible against the earth.

Two impossibly thin, vaguely human things, with flesh of

swiftly moving mist and bones of blue-white fire. Free Magic

elementals, of the kind that humans called Hish.

Hedge watched them carefully and licked his lips. He could

deal with one, but two might force him to reveal strengths best

left veiled for the moment. The old man would be no help.

Even now he just sat there, mumbling, a living conduit for

some part of the power under the hill.

“If I do not return by nightfall,” the woman said, “my servants

will rend you asunder, flesh and spirit too, should you

seek refuge in Death.”

“I will wait here,” Hedge replied, settling himself down on

the raw earth. Now that he knew the Hish’s instructions, they

represented no threat. He laid down his sword and turned one

ear to the mound, pressing it against the soil. He could hear

the constant whisper of the power below, through all the layers

of earth and stone, though his own thoughts and words could

not penetrate the prison. Later, if it was necessary, he would go

into the tunnel, drink of the water, and lay his mind open, sending

his thoughts back along the finger-wide trickle that had

broken through all seven thrice-spelled wards. Through silver,

gold, and lead; rowan, ash, and oak; and the seventh ward of

bone.

Hedge didn’t bother to watch the woman go, or stir when

he heard the sound of the great stone being rolled away, even

though it was a feat beyond the strength of any normal man,

or any number of normal men.

When the woman returned, Hedge was standing at the very

center of the mound, looking south. The Hish stood near him,

but made no move as their mistress climbed back up. The old

man sat where he always had, still gibbering, though whether

he spoke spells or nonsense, Hedge couldn’t say. It was no

magic he knew, though he felt the power of the hill in the old

man’s voice.

“I will serve,” the woman said.

The arrogance, though not the power, was gone from her

voice. Hedge saw the muscles in her neck spasm as she spoke

the words. He smiled and raised his hand. “There are Charter

Stones that have been raised too close to the hill. You will

destroy them.”

“I will,” agreed the woman, lowering her head.

“You were a necromancer,” continued Hedge. In years

past, Kerrigor had drawn all the necromancers of the Kingdom

to him, to serve as petty underlords. Most had perished, either

in Kerrigor’s fall or, in the years after, at the hands of the

Abhorsen. Some survived still, but this woman had never been

a Servant of Kerrigor.

“Long ago,” said the woman.

Hedge felt the faint flicker of Life inside her, buried deep

under the spell-coated furs and the bronze mask. She was old,

this sorcerer, very, very old—not an advantage for a necromancer

who must walk in Death. That cold river had a particular

taste for those who had evaded its clutches beyond their

given span of years.

“You will take up the bells again, for you will need many

Dead for the work that lies ahead.” Hedge unbuckled his

own bandolier and handed it over cautiously, careful not to

jar the bells into sound. For himself he had another set of the

seven, taken from a lesser necromancer in the chaos following

Kerrigor’s defeat. There would be some risk retrieving

them, for they lay in that main part of the Kingdom long since

reclaimed by the King and his Abhorsen Queen. But he had

no need of the bells for his immediate plans, and could not

take them where he intended to go.

The woman took the bells but did not put on the bandolier.

Instead, she stretched out her right hand, palm upwards. A tiny

spark glinted there, a splinter of metal that shone with its own

bright, white fire. Hedge held out his own hand, and the splinter

leapt across, burying itself just under the skin, without

drawing blood. Hedge held it up to his face, feeling the power

in the metal. Then he slowly closed his fingers, and smiled.

It was not for him, this sliver of arcane metal. It was a

seed, a seed that could be planted in many soils. Hedge had a

particular purpose for it, a most fertile bed where it could grow

to its full fruit. But it would likely be many years before he

could plant it where it would do most harm.

“And you?” asked the woman. “What do you do?”

“I go south, Chlorr of the Mask,” said Hedge, revealing

that he knew her name—and much else besides. “South to

Ancelstierre, across the Wall. The country of my birth, though

in spirit I am no child of its powerless soil. I have much to do

there, and even farther afield. But you will hear from me when

I have need. Or if I hear news that is not to my liking.”

He turned then, and walked off without further word. For

a master need make no farewells to any of his servants.

Part

One

The Old Kingdom

Fourteenth Year of the

Restoration of King Touchstone I

Chapter one

An Ill-Favored Birthday

Deep within a dream, Lirael felt someone stroking

her forehead. A gentle, soft touch, a cool hand upon her own

fevered skin. She felt herself smile, enjoying the touch. Then

the dream shifted, and her forehead wrinkled. The touch was

no longer soft and loving, but rough and rasping. No longer

cool, but hot, burning her—

She woke up. It took her a second to realize that she’d

clawed the sheet away and had been lying facedown on the

coarsely woven mattress cover. It was wool and very scratchy.

Her pillow lay on the floor. The pillowcase had been torn off

in the course of some nightmare and now hung from her chair.

Lirael looked around the small chamber, but there were no

signs of any other nocturnal damage. Her simple wardrobe of

dressed pine was upright, the dull steel latch still closed. The

desk and chair still occupied the other corner. Her practice

sword hung in its scabbard on the back of the door.

It must have been a relatively good night. Sometimes, in

her nightmare-laced sleep, Lirael walked, talked, and wreaked

havoc. But always only in her room. Her precious room. She

couldn’t bear to think what life would be like if she were forced

to go back to family chambers.

She closed her eyes again and listened. All was silent, which

meant that it must be long before the Waking Bell. The bell

sounded at the same time every day, calling the Clayr out of

their beds to join the new morning.

Lirael scrunched her eyes together more tightly and tried to

go back to sleep. She wanted to regain the feel of that hand on

her brow. That touch was the only thing she remembered of

her mother. Not her face or her voice—just the touch of her

cool hand.

She needed that touch desperately today. But Lirael’s mother

was long gone, taking the secret of Lirael’s paternity with her.

She had left when Lirael was five, without a word, without an

explanation. There never was any explanation. Just the news

of her death, a garbled message from the distant North that

had arrived three days before Lirael’s tenth birthday.

Once she had thought of that, there was no hope for sleep.

As on every other morning, Lirael gave up trying to keep her

eyes shut. She let them spring open and stared up at the ceiling

for a few minutes. But the stone had not changed overnight.

It was still grey and cold, with tiny flecks of pink.

A Charter mark for light glowed there too, warm and

golden in the stone. It had shone brighter when Lirael had first

awoken and grew brighter still as she swung her feet out and

felt around with her toes for her half-shoes. The Clayr’s halls

were heated by the steam of hot springs and by magic, but the

stone floor was always cold.

“Fourteen today,” whispered Lirael. She had her half-shoes

on, but made no move to rise. Ever since the message of her

mother’s death had come so close to her tenth birthday, all her

birthdays had been harbingers of doom.

“Fourteen!” Lirael said again, the word laced with anguish.

She was fourteen, and by the measure of the world outside the

Clayr’s Glacier, a woman. But here she must still wear the blue

tunic of a child, for the Clayr marked the passage to adulthood

not by age, but by the gift of the Sight.

Once again, Lirael closed her eyes, screwing them tight as

she willed herself to See the future. Everyone else her age had

the Sight. Many younger children already wore the white robe

and the circlet of moonstones. It was unheard of not to have

the Sight by fourteen.

Lirael opened her eyes, but she saw no vision. Just her

simple room, slightly blurred by tears. She rubbed them away

and got up.

“No mother, no father, no Sight,” she said as she opened

her wardrobe and took out a towel. It was a familiar litany.

She said it often, though it always made her feel a terrible stab

of sorrow in her stomach. It was like worrying a toothache

with her tongue. It hurt, but she couldn’t leave it alone. The

wound was part of her now.

But perhaps one day soon, she would be summoned by the

Voice of the Nine Day Watch. Then she would wake and say,

“No mother, no father, but I have the Sight.”

“I will have the Sight,” Lirael muttered to herself as she

eased open the door and tiptoed down the corridor to the

baths. Charter marks brightened as she passed under them,

bringing day from twilight. But all the other doors in the Hall

of Youth remained shut. Once, Lirael would have knocked on

them, laughing and calling the other orphans who lived there

to an early bath.

But that was years ago. Before they had all gained the

Sight.

That was also when Merell was Guardian of the Young,

one who had governed her charges with a light hand. Lirael’s

own aunt Kirrith was Guardian now. If there was any noise,

she would emerge from her room in her maroon-and-whitestriped

bathrobe, to order silence and respect for sleeping

elders. She would make no special allowance for Lirael, either.

Quite the reverse. Kirrith was the exact opposite of Lirael’s

mother, Arielle. She was all for rules and regulations, tradition

and conformity.

Kirrith would never leave the Glacier to travel who knew

where, only to return seven months gone with child. Lirael

scowled at Kirrith’s door. Not that Kirrith had ever told her

that. Kirrith wouldn’t talk about her younger sister. The little

Lirael knew about her mother came from eavesdropping on her

closer cousins’ conversations. The ones during which they discussed

what to do about a girl who so obviously didn’t belong.

Lirael scowled again at that thought. The scowl didn’t go

away, even when she was scraping her face with pumice stone

in the hot bath. Only the shock of the cold plunge in the long

pool finally smoothed the lines away.

The lines came back, though, as Lirael combed her hair in

the communal mirror in the changing room next to the cold

pool. The mirror was a rectangle of silver steel, eight feet high

and twelve feet wide, rather tarnished around the edges. Later

in the morning it would be shared by up to eight of the fourteen

orphans currently in the Hall of Youth.

Lirael hated sharing the mirror, because it made yet another

difference more obvious. Most of the Clayr had brown skin

that quickly tanned to a deep chestnut out on the glacier slopes,

as well as bright blond hair and light eyes. In contrast Lirael

stood out like a pallid weed among healthy flowers. Her white

skin burnt instead of tanning, and she had dark eyes and even

darker hair.

She knew she probably took after her father, whoever that

had been. Arielle had never identified him, yet another shame

for her suffering daughter to carry. The Clayr often bore children

fathered by visiting men, but they didn’t usually leave the

Glacier to find them, and they made no secret of the fathers.

And for some reason, they almost always had girls. Fair-haired,

nut-brown girls with pale blue or green eyes.

Except for Lirael.

Alone in front of the mirror, Lirael could forget all that.

She concentrated on combing her hair, forty-nine strokes to

each side. She was feeling more hopeful. Perhaps this would be

the day. A fourteenth birthday marked by the best possible present.

The gift of the Sight.

Even so, Lirael had no desire to eat breakfast in the Middle

Refectory. Most of the Clayr ate there, and she would have to

sit at a table with girls three or even four years younger, sticking

out like a thistle in a bed of well-tended flowers. A blueclad

thistle. Everyone else her age would be dressed in white,

sitting at the tables of the crowned and acknowledged Clayr.

Instead, Lirael crossed two silent corridors and descended

two stairways that spiraled in opposite directions, down to the

Lower Refectory. This was where the traders ate, and the supplicants

who came to ask the Clayr to look into their futures.

The only Clayr here would be those on the kitchen or serving

rosters.

Or almost the only Clayr. There was one other who Lirael

hoped would come. The Voice of the Nine Day Watch. As she

walked down the last steps, Lirael imagined the scene. The

Voice striding down the main stairs, striking the gong, then

stopping to make her announcement that the Nine Day Watch

had Seen her—Seen Lirael—being crowned with the circlet of

moonstones, had Seen her gaining the Sight at last.

The Lower Refectory wasn’t very busy that morning. Only

three of the sixty tables were occupied. Lirael went to a fourth,

as far away from the others as possible, and drew out the bench.

She preferred to sit alone, even when she was not among the

Clayr.

Two of the tables were occupied by merchants, probably

from Belisaere, talking loudly of the peppercorns, ginger,

nutmeg, and cinnamon they had imported from the far North

and hoped to sell to the Clayr. Their conversation about the

quality and strength of their spices was all too evidently meant

to be heard by the Clayr working in the kitchens.

Lirael sniffed the air. Their claims might even be true. The

scent of cloves and nutmeg from the merchants’ bags was very

strong, but pleasant. Lirael took it as another good omen.

The third table was taken up by the merchants’ guards.

Even here, inside the Clayr’s Glacier, they wore armored coats

of interlocking scales and kept their scabbarded swords close

by, under the benches. Obviously, they thought bandits or

worse could easily follow the narrow path along the river gorge

and force the gate that led to the Clayr’s vast complex.

Of course, they would not have been able to see most

of the defenses. The river path crawled with Charter marks of

hiding and blinding, and under the flat paving stones there

were sendings of beasts and warriors that would rise up at the

slightest threat. The path also crossed the river no less than

seven times, on slender bridges of ancient construction, apparently

spun from stone. Easily defended bridges—with the river

Ratterlin running below, deep enough and fast enough to keep

any Dead from crossing.

Even here in the Lower Refectory there was Charter Magic

lying dormant in the walls, and sendings that slept in the

rough-hewn stone of floor and ceiling. Lirael could see the

Charter marks, faint as they were, and puzzle out the spells

they made up. The sendings were harder, because only the

marks to trigger them were clear. Of course, there were clearly

visible marks as well, the ones that shed light here and everywhere

else within the Clayr’s underground domain, bored into

the rock of the mountain, next to the icy mass of the Glacier.

Lirael scanned the visitors’ faces. Without helmets, their

close-cropped hair made it easy to see that none had the

Charter mark upon their foreheads. So they almost certainly

couldn’t see the magic that surrounded them. Instinctively,

Lirael parted her own rather too-long hair and felt her mark.

It pulsed lightly under her touch, and she felt the sense of connection,

the feeling of belonging to the great Charter that

described the world. At least she was something of a Charter

Mage, even if she didn’t have the Sight.

The merchants’ guards should trust more in the Clayr’s

defenses, Lirael thought, looking at the armored men and

women again. One of them saw her glance, and met her eyes

for an instant, till she looked away. In that fleeting moment,

she saw a young man, his head even more closely shaven than

the others, so his scalp shone when it caught the light from the

Charter marks in the ceiling.

Though she tried to ignore him, Lirael saw the guard get

up and walk across, his scale coat too big for someone who

would not see his real growth for several years. Lirael scowled

as he approached, and turned her head away even more. Just

because the Clayr did occasionally take lovers from amongst

the visitors, some people thought that any of the Clayr visiting

the Lower Refectory would be hunting for a man. This notion

seemed particularly strong among young men of sixteen or

thereabouts.

“Excuse me,” said the guard. “May I sit here?”

Lirael nodded reluctantly, and he sat, a cascade of scales

rattling down his chest in a slow waterfall of metal.

“I’m Barra,” he said cheerfully. “Is this your first time here?”

“What?” asked Lirael, puzzled and shy. “In the Refectory?”

“No,” said Barra, laughing and stretching his arms out

to indicate a much larger vista. “Here. In the Clayr’s Glacier.

This is my second visit, so if you need someone to show you

around . . . though I guess your parents might trade here

often?”

Lirael looked away again, feeling bright spots burn into

her cheekbones. She tried to think of something to say, some

snappy rejoinder, but all she could think was that even outsiders

knew she wasn’t really a Clayr. Even a stupid, undergrown,

rattling clod like this one.

“What’s your name?” asked Barra, oblivious to the blush

and the terrible emptiness that had grown inside her.

Lirael swallowed and wet her lips, but no answer came.

She felt as if she didn’t have a name to give, or an identity at

all. She couldn’t even look at Barra because her eyes were

full of tears, so she stared at the half-eaten pear on her plate

instead.

“I just wanted to say hello,” said Barra uneasily, as the

silence stretched out between them.

Lirael nodded, and two tears fell on the pear. She didn’t

look up or try to wipe her eyes. Her arms felt as limp and useless

as her voice.

“I’m sorry,” Barra added as he clanked to his feet. Lirael

watched him go back to his table, her eyes partly covered by a

protective fall of hair. When he was a few feet away, one of the

men said something, not loud enough to hear. Barra shrugged,

and the men—and some of the women—burst into laughter.

“It’s my birthday,” Lirael whispered to her plate, her voice

more full of tears than her eyes. “I must not cry on my birthday.”

She stood up and clumsily stepped over the bench, taking

her plate and fork to the scullery hatch, being careful not to

catch the eye of whichever first, second, or third cousin worked

there.

She was still holding the plate when one of the Clayr came

down the main stairs and struck with her metal-tipped wand

the first of the seven gongs that stood on the bottom seven

steps. Lirael froze, and everyone in the Refectory stopped talking

as the Clayr descended, striking each gong in turn, the different

notes of the gongs merging into one before they echoed

away into silence.

At the bottom step, the Clayr stopped and held up her

wand. Lirael’s heart leapt inside her, while her stomach knotted

in anxiety. It was exactly as she had imagined. So like it

that she felt sure that it hadn’t been imagination, but the onset

of the Sight.

Sohrae, as her wand declared, was currently the Voice

of the Nine Day Watch, the Voice who made the announcements

when the Watch Saw something of public importance

to the Clayr or the Kingdom. Most important, the Voice also

announced when the Watch had Seen the girl who would be

next to gain the Sight.

“Know one, know many,” proclaimed Sohrae, her clear

voice carrying to every corner of the Refectory and the kitchens

and the scullery beyond. “The Nine Day Watch with great

gladness announce that the Gift of Sight has Awoken in our

sister . . .”

Sohrae took a breath to go on, and Lirael shut her eyes,

knowing that Sohrae was about to say her name. It must, it

must, it must be me, she thought. Two years later than everyone,

and today my birthday. It has to—

“Annisele,” intoned Sohrae. Then she turned and went up

the stairs again, lightly striking the gongs, their sound a soft

undercurrent to the talk that had resumed among the visitors.

Lirael opened her eyes. The world had not changed. She

did not have the Sight. Everything would go on as it always

had. Miserably.

“Can I have your plate, please?” asked the unseen cousin

behind the scullery hatch. “Oh, Lirael! I thought you were a

visitor. You’d better hurry back upstairs, dear. Annisele’s

Awakening will start inside the hour. This is the Voice’s last

stop, you know. Whyever did you eat down here?”

Lirael didn’t answer. She let the plate go and crossed the

Refectory like a sleepwalker, her fingers listlessly brushing the

table corners as she passed. All she could think of was Sohrae’s

voice, running over and over in her head.

“The gift of Sight has Awoken in our sister Annisele.”

Annisele. Annisele would be the one to wear the white

robe, to be crowned with the silver and moonstones, while

Lirael once again would have to put on her best blue tunic, the

uniform of a child. The tunic that no longer had a hem because

it had been let out so many times. The tunic that was still too

short.

Annisele had just turned eleven ten days ago. But her birthday

would be nothing compared to this day, the day of her

Awakening.

Birthdays were nothing, Lirael thought, as she mechanically

put one foot in front of the other, up the six hundred steps

from the Lower Refectory to the Westway, along that path for

two hundred paces, and then up the hundred and two steps to

the backdoor of the Hall of Youth. She counted every step, and

looked no one in the eye. All she saw was the sweep of white

robes and the flash of black-slippered feet, as all the Clayr

rushed to the Great Hall to honor the latest girl to join the

ranks of those who Saw the future.

By the time she reached her room, Lirael found that any

small joy to be had from her birthday was gone. Extinguished,

snuffed out like a candle. It was Annisele’s day now, Lirael

thought. She had to try to be happy for Annisele. She had to

ignore the terrible sorrow that was welling up in her own heart.

Chapter Two

A Future Lost

Lirael threw herself on her bed and tried to

overcome her despair. She really should get dressed for Annisele’s

Awakening. But every time she started to get up, she felt unable

to continue, and sat back down. For the moment, getting up

was impossible. All she could do was relive the awful moment

in the Lower Refectory when she had not heard her name. But

she managed to wrestle her mind away from that, to think

about the immediate future, not the past. Lirael made a decision.

She wouldn’t go to Annisele’s Awakening.

It was unlikely anyone would really miss her, but there was

a chance somebody might come to get her. This thought gave

her enough strength to finally get off the bed and investigate

hiding places. Under the bed was traditional, but the underside

of Lirael’s simple trestle bed was both cramped and very dusty,

since she hadn’t followed the standard cleaning routine properly

for weeks.

She considered the wardrobe for a little while. But its spare,

box-like shape and pine-plank construction made her think of

it as an upended coffin. This was not a new thought for Lirael.

She had always had what her cousins considered a morbid

imagination. As a small child she had liked to playact dramatic

death scenes from famous stories. She had stopped playacting

years ago, but had never stopped thinking about death. Her

own, in particular.

“Death,” Lirael whispered, shivering to hear the word

aloud. She said it again, a little louder. A simple word, a simple

way to avoid all the things that plagued her. She could avoid

Annisele’s Awakening, but she probably couldn’t avoid all the

ones that would come after that.

If she killed herself, Lirael reasoned, she wouldn’t have to

watch girls increasingly younger than herself gaining the Sight.

She wouldn’t have to stand with a bunch of children in blue

tunics. Children who all peeked at her under their lashes during

the Awakening ceremony. Lirael knew that look and recognized

the fear in it. They were afraid that they might be like

her, doomed to lack the only thing that really mattered.

And she wouldn’t have to put up with the Clayr who looked

at her with pity. The ones who always stopped and asked how

she was. As if mere words could describe how she felt. Or as

if even if she had the words, Lirael could tell them what it was

like to be fourteen and without the Sight.

“Death,” Lirael whispered again, tasting the word on her

tongue. What else was there for her? There had always been

the hope that one day she would gain the Sight. But now she

was fourteen. Who had ever heard of a Clayr Sightless at fourteen?

Things had never seemed quite so desperate as they were

today.

“It’s the best thing to do,” Lirael pronounced, as if she were

informing a friend of a vital decision. Her voice sounded confident,

but inside she wasn’t so sure. Suicide wasn’t something

the Clayr did. Killing herself would be the final, terrible confirmation

that she just didn’t belong. It probably was the best

thing. How would she actually do it? Lirael’s eyes strayed to

where her practice sword hung in its scabbard on the back of

the door. It was blunt, soft steel. She could probably fall on its

point, but that would lead to a very slow and painful death.

Besides, someone would almost certainly hear her screaming

and get help.

There was probably a spell that would still her breath, dry

up her lungs, and close her throat. But she wouldn’t find that

in the school texts, her workbook of Charter Magic, or the

Index of Charter Marks, both of which lay on the desk a few

paces away. She’d have to search the Great Library for such a

spell, and that sort of magic would be locked away by charm

and key.

That left two reasonably accessible means of ending it all:

cold and height. “The glacier,” whispered Lirael. That would

be it, she decided. She would climb the Starmount Stair while

everyone else was at Annisele’s Awakening, and then throw

herself onto the ice. Eventually, if anyone bothered to look,

they would find her frozen, broken body—and then they

would all realize how hard it was to be a Clayr without the

Sight.

Tears filled her eyes as she imagined a great crowd silently

watching as her body was carried through the Great Hall, the

blue of her child’s tunic transformed to white by the ice and

snow encrusted upon it.

A knock at the door cut short her morbid daydream, and

Lirael jumped up, relieved. The Nine Day Watch must have

finally Seen her, for the first time ever. They’d Seen her climb

out onto the glacier and go plunging down, so they’d sent

someone to prevent that future, to tell her that she would gain

the Sight one day, that everything would be fine.

Then the door opened, before Lirael could say “Come in.”

That was enough to tell her that it wasn’t a Nine Day Watcher

concerned for her safety. It was Aunt Kirrith, Guardian of the

Young. Or more the other way round, since she never treated

Lirael any differently from the others, and particularly didn’t

show her the affection you might expect from an aunt.

“There you are!” boomed Kirrith unnecessarily in her

annoying, falsely jolly voice. “I looked for you at breakfast,

but there was such a crush I just couldn’t find you. Happy

birthday, Lirael!”

Lirael stared at Kirrith and at the present she was holding

out. A large, square package, wrapped in red and blue paper

dusted with gold. Very pretty paper, too. Aunt Kirrith had

never given her a present before. She explained this by saying

that she never accepted presents either, but Lirael thought that

this missed the point. It was all about giving, not receiving.

“Go on, open it,” exclaimed Kirrith. “We haven’t got much

time till the Awakening. Fancy it being little Annisele!”

Lirael took the package. It was soft, but quite heavy. For a

moment, all her thoughts of killing herself were gone, driven

away by curiosity. What could the present be?

Then, as she felt the package again, a terrible presentiment

stuck her. Quickly, she tore a hole in the corner of the paper,

and saw the telltale blue. “It’s a tunic,” said Lirael, the words

seeming to come from someone else, and a long way away. “A

child’s tunic.”

“Yes,” said Kirrith, resplendent in her own white robe, the

circlet of silver and moonstones secure on her white-blond

head. “I noticed your old one was too short, not really seemly,

with the way you’ve grown. . . .”

She kept on talking, but Lirael didn’t hear a word. Nothing

seemed real anymore. Not the new tunic in her hands. Not

Aunt Kirrith talking away. Nothing.

“Come on then, get dressed!” Kirrith encouraged her,

straightening the folds of her own robe. She was a large and

tall woman, one of the tallest of the Clayr. Lirael felt very small

in front of her, and somehow dirty compared to the great

expanse of white that was Kirrith’s robe. She stared at that

whiteness and began to think again of ice and snow.

She was lost in her thoughts when Kirrith tapped her on

the shoulder.

“What?” Lirael asked, realizing that she’d missed most of

Kirrith’s words.

“Get dressed!” repeated Aunt Kirrith. A slight frown folded

the skin on her forehead, making her circlet move down and

shadow her eyes. “It would be terribly rude to be late.”

Mechanically, Lirael pulled off her old tunic and slipped on

the new one. It was heavy linen, stiff with newness, so she

struggled a little with it, till Aunt Kirrith pulled it down

smartly. When her arms were through and the tunic settled on

her shoulders, it reached just above her ankles.

“Plenty of room for growth,” remarked Aunt Kirrith with

satisfaction. “Now we really must get on.”

Lirael looked down at the sea of blue cloth that swathed

her entire body, and thought that there was more room than

she could ever possibly fill. Aunt Kirrith must expect her never

to wear the white of the Awakening, for this tunic would fit

even if she kept on growing till she was thirty-five.

“You go on—I’ll catch up in a minute,” she lied, thinking

of the Starmount Stair, the cliffs beyond, and the waiting ice.

“I have to go to the toilet.”

“Very well,” said Kirrith as she hurried back out into the

corridor. “But be quick, Lirael! Think of what your mother

would say!”

Lirael followed her, turning left towards the nearest water

closet. Kirrith turned right, clapping her hands to hasten on a

trio of eight-year-olds who were dressing as they walked, their

tunics half over their heads, smothering giggles.

Lirael had no idea what her mother would have said about

anything. She had been teased about Arielle often enough when

she was younger, before she became too much of an outsider

to be teased. It was quite normal for the Clayr to seek casual

lovers from visitors to the Glacier, and not even that uncommon

to find one outside. But it was unheard of not to record

the parentage of children.

Her mother had compounded her strangeness by leaving

the Glacier—and a five-year-old Lirael—called by some vision

she had not shared with the other Clayr. Years later, Aunt

Kirrith had told Lirael that Arielle was dead, though no details

ever came. Lirael had heard various theories, including Arielle

being poisoned by jealous rivals in the court of some barbarian

lordling in the frozen wastes of the North or killed by

beasts. Apparently she’d been serving as a seer, something that

no Clayr would think was a suitable occupation for people of

their Blood.

The pain of losing her mother was locked away in Lirael’s

heart, but not so deep it could not be uncovered. Aunt Kirrith

was an expert at bringing it back.

Once Kirrith and the three suddenly chastened girls were

gone, Lirael doubled back to her room and got her outdoor

gear: a coat of heavy wool, greasy with lanolin; a cap of double

felt with earflaps; oilskin overshoes; fur-lined gloves; and

leather goggles with lenses of smoked green glass. Part of her

said it was stupid to get these things, since she was going to

her death anyway, but another small voice inside her said that

she might as well be properly dressed.

Because all the inhabited parts of the Clayr’s domain were

heated by steam piped up from the deep springs, Lirael carried

her outdoor gear, the smaller items wrapped in the coat. It was

going to be hot enough climbing the Starmount Stair without

wearing all that wool. As a last-minute gesture of defiance, she

pulled off the new tunic and threw it on the floor. Instead, she

chose to put on the neutral garments worn when the Clayr

were on kitchen or scullery duty in the Lower Refectory, a long

grey cotton shirt that came down to the knees, over thin blue

woollen leggings. There was a canvas apron that went with this

ensemble, but Lirael left that behind.

It was strange slinking down the Northway with no one in

sight. Normally, there would be dozens of the Clayr going

about their business on this busy thoroughfare, either heading

to or from the Nine Day Watch or engaged in the myriad more

mundane tasks of the community. The Clayr’s Glacier was

really a small town, albeit a very strange one, since its primary

business was to look into the future. Or, as the Clayr had to

constantly explain to visitors, the numerous possible futures.

At the point where the Northway met the Zigzag, Lirael

made sure she was unobserved. Then she went a few steps

along the first zig of the Zigzag, looking for a small, dark hole

at waist height. When she found it, she took out the key she

wore on a chain around her neck. All the Clayr had such keys,

and they opened most of the common doors. The Starmount

Door was not often used, but Lirael didn’t think it needed a

special key.

There was no sign of a door around the keyhole until Lirael

put in the key and turned it twice. Then a faint silvery line

spread from the floor and slowly traced a doorway in the yellowish

stone.

Lirael pushed the door open. Cold air rushed in, so she

went through quickly. If there were any other people about,

they would notice a cold breeze more quickly than anything

else. The Clayr might live in a mountain that was half smothered

by a glacier, but they didn’t revel in the cold.

The door swung shut behind Lirael, and the silver lines that

marked its outline slowly faded. Ahead of her, the steps rose

up in a straight line, the Charter marks above them providing

light that was dimmer than that in the main halls. The risers

were higher than usual, something Lirael hadn’t remembered

from a class excursion many years before, when all steps had

seemed high. She grimaced as she started to climb, knowing

that her calf muscles would soon protest the extra sixinch

rise.

There was a bronze handrail for the first hundred or so

steps, where the Stair went up in a dead straight line. Lirael

gripped it as she climbed, the cool of the metal soothing under

her hand. As was her habit, she started counting steps, the regular

rhythm temporarily banishing the mental images of herself

falling down an endless slope of ice.

She hardly noticed when the handrail stopped and the steps

began to turn inwards, into the long spiral that would take her

to the top of the mountain, Starmount. Its sister peak was

Sunfall, and the two mountains held the glacier between them.

The glacier had once had its own name, but it was long forgotten.

So for thousands of years it had been called after the

Clayr who lived above, beside, and sometimes beneath it. Over

time that name had come to be extended to the Clayr’s realm

as well, so both the great mass of ice and the halls of stone were

known as the Clayr’s Glacier, as if they were all one.

Not that the Clayr chose rooms too close to the glacier as

a rule. They had lived in the mountain for millennia, following

the tunneling of the now almost extinct drill-grubs or carrying

out their own magical or physical excavations. At the same

time, the glacier had continued its inexorable march down the

valley, and into the mountains that gripped its sides. Ice ground

down and broke through stone, and the glacier was indifferent

if that also meant crashing through the tunnels of the Clayr.

Of course, the Clayr could See where the glacier was going

to have its unthinking way, but that hadn’t stopped various

ambitious builders of bygone days. Obviously they had felt

their extensions would last as long as they did, and probably

for at least three or four generations after them—time enough

to make the work worthwhile.

Lirael thought of all those builders and wondered why the

Stair had been made with such uncomfortably high steps.

But after a while, even mechanically counting steps couldn’t

keep her imagination under rein. She started to imagine how

Annisele would be looking right at that instant. Perhaps she was

standing at the children’s end of the Great Hall, a single figure

in white amidst a field of blue. She would be staring down the

other end, no doubt, barely aware of the ranks and ranks of

white-clad Clayr, sitting in the pews that lined both sides of the

Hall for several hundred yards, twenty-one ranks deep. Pews

made from ancient dark mahogany, with silk cushions that

were replaced every fifty years, with considerable ceremony.

At the far end of the Hall, there would be the Voice of the

Nine Day Watch, and perhaps some of the Watchers too, their

business permitting. They would be standing around the

Charter Stone that rose up from the floor of the Hall, a single

menhir swarming with all the glowing, changing marks of the

Charter that described everything in the world, seen or unseen.

And on the Charter Stone, higher than anyone could reach,

save the Voice with her metal-tipped wand, there would be the

circlet of the new Clayr, the silver and moonstones reflecting

the Charter marks of the Stone.

Lirael forced her tired legs up another step. Annisele’s walk

wouldn’t be tiring at all. Just a few hundred steps, with smiling

faces on all sides. Then, when the circlet was placed on her

head at last, the tumult as all the Clayr rose to their feet, followed

by the great cheer that would echo through the Hall and

beyond. The Awakening of Annisele, a true Clayr, a mistress

of the Sight. Acclaimed by one and all.

Unlike Lirael, who was, as always, alone and unregarded.

She felt like crying but brushed the tears away. Only another

hundred steps to go, and she would be at the Starmount Gate.

Once through the gate and across the wide terrace in front of

it, Lirael would stand on the edge of the glacier, looking down

into icy death.

Chapter Three

Paperwings

At the top of the Starmount Stair, Lirael rested for a

while, till the chill coming through the stone got too much to

bear. Then she donned her outdoor gear, turning the world

green as she slipped on her goggles. Last, she drew a silk scarf

from the pocket of her coat, tied it across her nose and mouth,

and folded down the earflaps of her cap.

Dressed like that, she might be one of the Clayr. No one

could see her face, hair, or eyes. She looked exactly like any

other Clayr. When they found her body, they wouldn’t even

know who it was till cap, scarf, and goggles were removed.

Lirael would look like one of the Clayr for the last time.

Even so, she hesitated before the door that led from the

Stair to the Paperwing hangar and the Starmount Gate. It probably

wasn’t too late to go back, to say she’d eaten something

that disagreed with her so she’d had to stay in her room. If she

hurried, she’d almost certainly be back before everyone

returned from the Awakening.

But nothing would have changed. There was nothing to

look forward to down there, Lirael decided, so she might as

well go and look at the cliffs. She could make her final decision

there.

She took her key out again, clumsy in her gloves, and

unlocked the door. A visible one, this time, but magically

guarded as well. Lirael felt the Charter Magic inside it flow out

through the key, through the fur of her gloves and into her

hands. She tensed for a moment, then relaxed as it ebbed away

again. Whatever it guarded against, the spell wasn’t interested

in her.

It was colder still past the door, though Lirael was still

inside the mountain. This large chamber was the Paperwing

hangar, where the Clayr kept their magical aircraft. Three of

them slept nearby. They looked rather like slim canoes, with

hawk-wings and tails. Lirael felt an urge to touch one of them,

to see if it really did feel like paper, but she knew better than

that. Physically, the Paperwings were made from thousands of

sheets of laminated paper. But they were also made with considerable

magic, and were partially sentient as a result. The

painted eyes at the front of the closest green and silver craft

might be dull now, but they would light up if she touched it.

Lirael had no idea what it might do then. She knew the craft

were controlled by whistled Charter marks, and she could

whistle, but she didn’t know the marks or any special technique

that might be required.

So Lirael crept past the Paperwings, across to the

Starmount Gate. It was huge—big enough for thirty people or

two Paperwings to pass abreast—and easily four times as tall

as Lirael. Fortunately, she didn’t have to even try to open it,

because there was a smaller sally port cut into the large Gate’s

left quarter. A moment’s work with her key, the touch of the

guarding spell, then the door was open, and Lirael stepped outside.

Cold and sunshine hit her at the same time, the former

strong enough to feel even through her heavy clothes, and the

latter fierce enough to make her half-close her eyes, even

behind goggles.

It was a beautiful summer day. Lower down in the valley,

below the glacier, it would be hot. Here it was cold, the chill

mainly coming from the breeze that blew along the glacier and

then up, over, and around the mountain.

Ahead of Lirael, a broad, unnaturally flat terrace was

carved into the mountainside. It was about a hundred yards

long and fifty yards wide, and snow and chunks of ice were

piled up all around it in deep drifts. But the terrace itself had

only a light dusting of snow. Lirael knew it was kept like that

by Charter sendings—magically created servants who shoveled,

raked, and repaired all the year round, oblivious to the

weather. There were none to be seen now, but the Charter

Magic that would send them into action lurked beneath the

paving stones of the terrace.

On the far side of the terrace, the mountain fell away in a

sheer precipice. Lirael looked across to it but saw nothing but

blue sky and a few wisps of low cloud. She would have to cross

the terrace and look down to see the main bulk of the glacier

a thousand feet below. But she didn’t cross. Instead, she pictured

what might happen if she jumped. If she threw herself

out far enough, she would fall free, down to the waiting ice

and a speedy end. If she fell short, she would hit a spur of rock

maybe only thirty or forty feet down, then slide and tumble the

rest of the way, breaking a new bone with every momentary

impact.

Lirael shivered and looked away. Now that she was actually

here, only a few minutes’ brisk walk from the precipice, she

wasn’t sure that making her own death was such a good idea.

But every time she tried to think of a continuing future for

herself, she felt weak and blocked, as if all the ways forward

were closed off by walls too high to climb.

For now, she forced herself to move and take a few steps

across the terrace, to at least look at the drop. But her legs

seemed to have a life of their own, walking her along the length

of the terrace instead, without getting any closer to the cliffside.

Half an hour later, she headed back to the Starmount Gate,

having walked the length of the terrace four times without once

daring to go anywhere near the cliff on the far side. The closest

she’d got was the sudden drop at the end of the terrace,

where the Paperwings actually took off. But that was a fall of

only a few hundred feet, down a much less steep face of the

mountain, and not onto the glacier. Even then she hadn’t gone

within twenty feet of the edge.

Lirael wondered how the Paperwings would launch off

that far end. She had never seen one take off or land, and she

spent some time trying to imagine how it would look. Obviously,

they would slip along the ice and then at some point leap

into the sky, but where exactly? Did they need a long run-up

like the blue pelicans she’d seen on the Ratterlin, or could they

shoot straight up like falcons?

All these questions made Lirael curious about how the

Paperwings actually worked. She was thinking of risking a

closer look at one back in the hangar when she realized that

the black speck she’d noticed high above wasn’t a product of

her imagination, or a tiny storm cloud. It was a real Paperwing,

and it was obviously coming in to land.

At the same time she heard the deep rumble of the Starmount

Gate as it started to swing open. She looked back at it,

then at the Paperwing again, her head moving in frantic starts.

What was she going to do?

She could run across the terrace and throw herself off, but

she really didn’t feel like doing that. The moment of her darkest

despair had passed, at least for now.

She could just stand on one side of the terrace and watch

the Paperwing land, but that would almost certainly lead to a

serious scolding from Aunt Kirrith, not to mention several

months’ worth of extra kitchen duties. Or some even worse

punishment she didn’t know about.

Or she could hide and watch. After all, she had wanted to

see a Paperwing land.

All these options raced through her mind, and it took only

an instant for the last one to be chosen. Lirael ran to a snowdrift,

sat down in it, and started to drag snow across herself.

Soon she was almost completely hidden, save for the line of

footprints that led across the snow to her hiding place.

Quickly, Lirael visualized the Charter, then reached into its

eternal flow to pull out the three marks she needed. One by

one they grew into brilliance inside her mind, filling it until she

could think of nothing else. She drew them into her mouth,

then puffed the marks out towards her tracks in the snow.

The spell left her as a whirling ball of frosted breath that

grew until it was an arm’s span wide. It drifted back across her

path, sweeping her footsteps clean. Then, its work done, the

ball let itself be taken by the wind, breath and Charter marks

dissolving into nothing.

Lirael looked up, hoping whoever was in the Paperwing

hadn’t seen the strange little cloud. The aircraft was closer now,

the shadow of its wings passing along the terrace as it circled

once more, losing height with every pass.

Lirael squinted, her sight obscured by goggles and the snow

that covered nearly all her face. She couldn’t quite see who was

in the Paperwing. It was a different color from the ones used

by the Clayr. Red and gold, the colors of the Royal House. A

messenger, perhaps? There was regular communication between

the King in Belisaere and the Clayr, and Lirael had often

seen messengers in the Lower Refectory. But they didn’t normally

arrive by Paperwing.

Some whistled notes, redolent with power, drifted down

to Lirael, and for a nausea-inducing moment she felt as if she

herself were flying and must turn into the wind. Then she saw

the Paperwing come swooping down once more, turn into

the wind, and come to a sliding, snow-spraying stop on the

terrace—much too close to Lirael’s hiding place for comfort.

Two people climbed wearily out of the cockpit and

stretched their arms and legs. Both were so heavily wrapped in

furs that Lirael couldn’t see whether they were male or female.

They weren’t Clayr, though, she was certain, not in those

clothes. One wore a coat of black and silver marten fur, the

other a coat of some russet-red fur Lirael didn’t recognize. And

their goggles were blue lensed, not green.

The russet-furred one reached back into the cockpit and

pulled out two swords. Lirael thought he—she was reasonably

certain this one was a he—would hand one over, but he

buckled both onto his broad leather belt, one on either side of

his waist.

The other person—the one in black and silver—was a

woman, Lirael decided. There was something about the way

she took off her glove and rested her palm on the nose of the

Paperwing, like a mother checking the temperature of a child’s

forehead.

Then the woman also reached into the cockpit, and she

pulled out a leather bandolier. Lirael craned forward to see

better, ignoring the snow that fell down inside her collar. Then

she almost gasped and gave herself away, as she recognized

what was in the pouches on the bandolier. Seven pouches, the

smallest the size of a pillbox, the largest as long as Lirael’s

hand. Each pouch had a mahogany handle sticking out of it.

The handles of bells, bells whose voices were stilled in the

leather. Whoever this woman was, she carried the seven bells

of a necromancer!

The woman put the bandolier on and reached for her own

sword. Longer than the ones the Clayr used, and older, too.

Lirael could feel some sort of power in it, even from where she

was hidden. Charter Magic, in the sword, and in both the

people.

And in the bells, Lirael realized, which finally told her who

this person must be. Necromancy was Free Magic, and forbidden

in the Kingdom, as were the bells that necromancers

used. Except for the bells of one woman. The woman who was

charged with undoing the evil that necromancers wrought. The

woman who put the Dead to rest. The woman who alone combined

Free Magic with the Charter.

Lirael shivered, but not from cold, as she realized that she

was only about twenty yards away from the Abhorsen. Years

ago, the legendary Sabriel had rescued the petrified prince

Touchstone and with him defeated the Greater Dead creature

called Kerrigor, who had almost destroyed the Kingdom. And

she had married the Prince when he became King, and together

they had—

Lirael looked at the man again, noting the two swords and

the way he stood close to Sabriel. He must be the King, she

realized, feeling almost sick. King Touchstone and the Abhorsen

Sabriel here! Close enough to go and talk to—if she was brave

enough.

She wasn’t. She settled further back into the snow, ignoring

the damp and the cold, and waited to see what would

happen. Lirael didn’t know how you were supposed to bow or

curtsy or whatever it was, or what you were supposed to call

the King and the Abhorsen. Most of all, she didn’t know how

to explain what she was doing there.

Having equipped themselves, Sabriel and Touchstone

drew close together and spoke quietly, their muffled faces

almost touching. Lirael strained her ears but couldn’t hear

anything. The wind was blowing their words the wrong way.

However, it was clear that they were waiting for something—

or someone.

They didn’t have to wait long. Lirael slowly turned her

head towards the Starmount Gate, careful not to disturb the

snow packed around her. A small gathering of the Clayr was

issuing out of the Gate and hurrying across the terrace. They’d

obviously come straight from the Awakening, because most of

them had simply thrown cloaks or coats over their white robes,

and nearly all of them still wore their circlets.

Lirael recognized the two in front—the twins Sanar and

Ryelle—the flawless embodiment of the perfect Clayr. Their

Sight was so strong they were nearly always in the Nine Day

Watch, so Lirael hardly ever crossed paths with them. They

were both tall and extremely beautiful, their long blond hair

shining even more brightly than their silver circlets in the sun.

Behind them came five other Clayr. Lirael knew them all

vaguely and, if pressed, could recall their names and their

familial relationship to her. None was closer than a third

cousin, but she recognized all of them as being particularly

strong in the Sight. If they weren’t part of the Nine Day Watch

right now, they would be tomorrow, and probably had been

last week.

In short, they were seven of the most important Clayr in

all the Glacier. They all held significant ordinary posts in addition

to their Sighted work. Small Jasell, for example, bringing

up the rear, was First Bursar, in charge of the Clayr’s internal

finances and its trading bank.

They were also the very last people Lirael wanted to meet

somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be.

Chapter Four

A Glint in the Snow

As Sanar and Ryelle led the others forward, Lirael

thought she would see them do whatever it was you did when

you met the King and his Queen, who had the added distinction

of being the Abhorsen.

But Sabriel and Touchstone didn’t wait for whatever

that was. They met Sanar and Ryelle with hugs and, after

pushing up their goggles and removing their scarves, with

kisses on both cheeks. Once again, Lirael leaned forward to

hear what was being said. The wind was still blowing the

wrong way, but it had lessened, so she could catch the conversation.

“Well met, cousins,” said Sabriel and the King together,

both smiling. Now that she could see their faces, Lirael thought

they both looked very tired.

“We Saw you last night,” said Sanar—or Ryelle—Lirael

wasn’t sure. “But we had to guess the time from the sun. I trust

you haven’t been waiting long?”

“A few minutes,” said Touchstone. “Just long enough to

stretch.”

“He still doesn’t like flying much,” said Sabriel, with a

smile at her husband. “No confidence in the pilot.”

Touchstone shrugged and laughed. “You get better all the

time,” he said.

Lirael sensed that he wasn’t just talking about flying

Paperwings. There seemed to be a semi-secret line of energy

and feeling that ran between Touchstone and Sabriel. They

shared something unseen, something that brought laughter and

the smile in Sabriel’s eyes.

“We didn’t See you staying,” continued Sanar. “I take it we

got that right?”

“You did,” replied Sabriel, and the smile was gone from

her eyes. “There is trouble in the West, and we cannot linger.

Only long enough to take counsel. If you have any to give.”

“The West again?” asked Sanar, and she shared a troubled

look with Ryelle, as did the others of the Clayr behind her. “We

See nothing for too great a part of the West. Some power exists

there that blocks all but the briefest glimpses. Yet we know that

it is from the West that trouble will come to pass. So many

futures show snatches of it, but never enough to be useful.”

“Plenty of present trouble, too,” said the King, sighing. “I

have raised six Charter Stones around Edge and the Red Lake

in the last ten years. Only two remain from year to year, and I

can no longer spare the time to keep repairing the others. We

go there now to quell whatever the current trouble is, and to

attempt to find the source, but I am not confident we will.

Particularly if it is strong enough to hide from the Clayr’s

Sight.”

“It is not always strength that can blind our Sight,” said

one of the Clayr, the oldest there. “Nor even evil. There are

subtle powers that divert our Sight for reasons we can only

guess, and there is always simply the fact that we See too many

futures, too briefly. Perhaps whatever blinds us near the Red

Lake is no more than this.”

“If it is, then it also breaks Charter Stones with the blood

of Charter Mages,” said Touchstone. “And it draws the Dead

and Free Magic to it more than anywhere else. Of all the

Kingdom, it is the region around the Red Lake and the foothills

of Mount Abed that most resists our rule. Fourteen years ago,

Sabriel and I promised that the broken Charter Stones would

be made anew, the villages re-established, the people once

again free to go about their lives and business, without fear of

the Dead and Free Magic. We have made it so from the Wall

to the Northern Desert. But we cannot defeat whatever it is

that opposes us in the West. Apart from Edge itself, that part

of the West is still the wilderness that Kerrigor made it over

two hundred years ago.”

“You grow weary of your toils,” said the old Clayr suddenly,

and both Touchstone and Sabriel nodded. But their

shoulders were straight, and while they admitted the weariness,

they gave no sign that they refused the burden.

“We get no rest,” said Touchstone. “There is always some

new trouble, some danger that can be dealt with only by the

King or the Abhorsen. Sabriel gets the worst of it, for there are

still too many Dead abroad, and too many idiots who would

open further doors to Death.”

“Like the one who is currently causing havoc near Edge,”

said Sabriel. “Or so the messages say. A necromancer or Free

Magic sorcerer, one who wears a bronze mask. She—for it is

reported she is a woman—has a company of both the Dead

and living men, and they have been raiding farms and steadings

from Edge to the east, almost as far as Roble’s Town. Yet we

have heard nothing from you. Surely you must have Seen some

of this?”

“We rarely See anything near the Red Lake,” replied Ryelle

with a troubled frown. “But we usually have no problem farther

afield. In this case, I regret that we have given you no warning

for what has happened, and can no give you no guide as to what

will.”

“A company of the Guard is riding from Qyrre,” said

Touchstone. “But they will not arrive for at least three days.

We plan to be at Roble’s Town ourselves by the morning.”

“Hopefully a bright morning,” added Sabriel. “If the

reports are true, this necromancer has many Dead Hands

under her control. Maybe even enough to attack a town at

night, or under heavy cloud.”

“I think we would definitely See an attack upon Roble’s

Town,” said Ryelle. “And we have not.”

“That’s some relief,” said Touchstone, but Lirael saw that

he didn’t entirely believe them. She was herself shocked,

because she had never heard of the Sight being blocked, or of

there being some place where the Clayr couldn’t See. Except

beyond the Wall to Ancelstierre, of course, but that was different.

No magic worked in Ancelstierre, at least not once you

got well south of the Wall. Or so the stories said. Lirael didn’t

know anyone who’d ever been to Ancelstierre, though the

rumor was that Sabriel had grown up there.

The wind strengthened as Lirael mulled over what she’d

heard, so she couldn’t quite catch the next bit of conversation.

But she saw the Clayr bow, and Sabriel and Touchstone motion

for them to rise.

“Don’t get formal on me!” exclaimed Touchstone. “You

can’t See everything, just as we can’t do everything. Somehow

we’ve managed so far, and we’ll keep on managing.”

“‘Keeping on’ being the watchword of this year and all the

years behind it,” said Sabriel, sighing. “Speaking of such, we’d

best turn the Paperwing around and take flight again. I want

to visit the House on the way to Roble’s Town.”

“To take counsel with—?” asked Ryelle, but the rest of her

words were lost to Lirael, carried away by a gust of wind. She

leaned forward a bit more, still trying not to dislodge the snow

from her cap.

Sabriel said something in return, but Lirael couldn’t make

it out, save for the last part. “. . . still sleeps most of the year,

under Ranna’s . . .”

Then there was more lost talk, as they all clustered around

the Paperwing and slid it around. Lirael craned forward as

far as she dared, snow slipping from her face. It was infuriating

to see them and hear the occasional word but not be able

to understand. For a moment she even wildly thought of casting

a spell to improve her hearing. She’d seen references to

such a spell, but she didn’t know all the marks. Besides, Sabriel

and the others would almost certainly notice Charter Magic

nearby.

Suddenly, the wind dropped, and Lirael could hear clearly

again.

“They’re still at school in Ancelstierre,” Sabriel said, obviously

in answer to a question asked by Sanar. “They’ll be here

for the holidays in three, no . . . four weeks. If all works out

with this current emergency, we might just get to the Wall in

time to meet them, and we had planned a few weeks together

in Belisaere. But I expect some new trouble will arise that will

take at least one of us away until they have to go back.”

She sounded sad when she said that, Lirael thought.

Touchstone must have thought so, too, because he took her

hand, lending support.

“At least they’re safe there,” he said, and Sabriel nodded,

her weariness showing through again.

“We have Seen them crossing the Wall, though it may be

the next time, or the one after that,” affirmed Ryelle. “Ellimere

looks . . . will look . . . very like you, Sabriel.”

“Fortunately,” said Touchstone, laughing. “Though she

takes after me in some other respects.”

Lirael realized that they had been talking about their children.

They had two, she knew. A Princess who was roughly

her own age, and a Prince who was younger, she didn’t know

by how much. Sabriel and Touchstone obviously cared about

them a great deal, and missed them. That made her think of

her own mother and father, who must not have cared about

her at all. Once again she remembered the touch of that soft,

cool hand. But her mother had still left her, and who knew

whether her father ever even knew of her birth?

“She will be Queen,” said a strong voice, dragging Lirael’s

attention back to the present. “She will not be Queen. She may

be Queen.”

It was one of the other Clayr, an older woman, speaking in

the voice of prophecy, her eyes Seeing something other than the

lump of ice she was staring at. Then she gasped and stumbled

forward, hands flung out to break her fall into the snow.

Touchstone lunged and caught her before she could hit the

ground, setting her back on her feet. She swayed there, still

unsteady, her eyes wild and dreaming.

“A far future,” she said, the strange timbre of foreseeing

gone from her voice. “One in which your daughter, Ellimere,

was older than you are now, reigning as Queen. But I also Saw

many other possible futures, side by side, where there is nothing

but smoke and ashes, the whole world burnt and broken.”

Lirael felt a shiver pass through her entire body as the old

Clayr spoke. Her voice carried so much conviction, Lirael

could almost see the desolate ruins herself. But how could the

whole world be burnt and broken?

“Possible futures,” interjected Sanar, trying to sound calm.

“We often catch glimpses of futures that will never be. It is part

of the burden of the Sight.”

“Then I for one am glad I don’t have it,” replied Touchstone,

as he let the still shaky Clayr go into the helping hands of Sanar

and Ryelle. He looked up at the sun, and then across at Sabriel,

who nodded. “I regret to say that we must be on our way.”

He and Sabriel shared a smile at this unintentional rhyme,

turning their heads so that only they and the hidden Lirael saw

it. Touchstone took off his swords and stowed them in the

cockpit, then took Sabriel’s sword and put that away as well.

Sabriel took off the bell bandolier and gently laid it down, careful

to not jar the bells. Lirael wondered why they had bothered

to get them out for such a short time. Then she realized that

they lived so much in danger that it was second nature to keep

weapons close at hand. Like the merchants’ guards in the

Refectory that morning. The realization that the Abhorsen and

the King didn’t trust the Clayr’s protection made Lirael suddenly

think of her own weaponless state. What would she do

if she were attacked out here after everyone had gone? She

wasn’t sure if her key would open the sally port from the outside.

She hadn’t even thought about it on the way up.

Lirael stopped watching the Paperwing in order to panic,

imagining a night out here and a monstrous claw dragging her

out of the snow. The prospect of an unchosen death didn’t

appeal to her at all. Then a sudden movement caught her eye.

Sabriel, now in the Paperwing, was pointing. Pointing straight

at Lirael’s hiding place in the snow!

“You might want to investigate that green glint,” said

Sabriel, her words all too clear for once. “I think whatever lies

beneath it is harmless, but you never know. Farewell, cousins

of the Clayr. I hope we can meet again soon, and tarry longer.”

“As we hope that we can be of greater service,” said Sanar,

looking where Sabriel pointed. “And See more clearly, both in

the West and under our own noses.”

“Farewell,” added Touchstone, waving from the rear of the

Paperwing. Sabriel whistled, a pure sound infused with magic.

The whistle rose up into the wind, turned it, and brought it

down to lift the Paperwing, sending it sliding along the terrace.

Sabriel and Touchstone waved; then the red and gold craft shot

off the end and dropped out of sight.

Lirael held her breath, then sucked air in with relief as the

Paperwing suddenly soared back into sight. It circled higher,

then turned to the south and shot away, faster and faster as

Sabriel called the wind behind them.

Lirael watched it go for a second, then tried to burrow

deeper into the snow. Perhaps they would think she was an ice

otter. But even as she disappeared into the drift, she knew it

was no use. All seven of the Clayr were advancing upon her

hiding place, and they did not look pleased.

Chapter Five

An Unexpected Opportunity

Lirael wasn’t quite sure how they got back into

the Paperwing hangar so quickly. She knew she was grabbed

by more pairs of hands than seemed possible for seven people

and hustled across the snow much more uncomfortably than

she could have managed on her own. For a few seconds she

thought they were very, very angry with her. Then she realized

they were just cold, and wanted to get back inside.

Once all were inside, it was clear that while the Clayr were

not exactly furious, they weren’t too happy, either. Hands

snatched off her cap, goggles, and scarf without regard for the

hair that was caught up in them, and seven somewhat windchilled

faces looked down at her.

“Arielle’s daughter,” said Sanar, as if she were identifying

a flower or a plant, dredging it up from a list. “Lirael. Not on

the roster of the Watch. Therefore, not yet with the Sight. Is

that correct?”

“Y-yes,” stammered Lirael. No one had ever peered at her

so intently before, and she generally avoided talking to other

people, particularly fully fledged Clayr. Important Clayr

made her nervous even when she was behaving herself. Now

there were seven of them giving her their undivided attention.

She wished she could somehow sink through the floor and

reappear in her own room.

“Why were you hiding out there?” asked the old Clayr,

who Lirael suddenly remembered was named Mirelle. “Why

aren’t you at the Awakening?”

There was no warmth in her voice at all, just cold authority.

Belatedly, Lirael remembered that this grey-haired, leatherfaced

old woman was also the commander of the Clayr’s

Rangers, who hunted and patrolled across Starmount and

Sunfall, the glacier, and the river valley. They dealt with everything

from lost travelers to foolish bandits or marauding

beasts, and were not to be trifled with.

Mirelle asked her question again, but Lirael couldn’t answer.

Tears came into her eyes, though she managed to hold them

back. Then, when it seemed Mirelle was about to shake both

answer and tears out of her, she said the first thing that came

into her head.

“It’s my birthday. I’m fourteen.”

For some reason, this seemed to be the right thing to say.

All the Clayr relaxed, and Mirelle let go of her shoulders. Lirael

winced. The woman had gripped her hard enough to leave

bruises.

“So you’re fourteen,” said Sanar, much more kindly than

Mirelle. “And you’re worried because the Sight hasn’t woken

in you?”

Lirael nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

“It comes late to some of us,” continued Sanar, her eyes

warm and understanding. “But often the later it is, the more

strongly it wakes. The Sight did not come to me and Ryelle till

we were sixteen. Has no one told you that?”

Lirael looked up, fully meeting the Clayr’s gaze for the first

time, her eyes wide with shock. Sixteen! That was impossible!

“No,” she said, the surprise and relief clear in her voice.

“Not sixteen!”

“Yes,” said Ryelle, smiling, taking over where Sanar left off.

“Sixteen and a half, in fact. We thought it would never come.

But it did. I suppose you couldn’t bear another Awakening. Is

that why you came up here?”

“Yes,” said Lirael, a small smile beginning to creep across

her own face. Sixteen! That meant there was hope for her yet.

She felt like jumping forward and hugging everybody, even

Mirelle, and running down the Starmount Stair yelling for joy.

All of a sudden, her plan to kill herself seemed incredibly

stupid, and the hatching of it long ago and far away.

“Part of our problem back then was having too much time

to think about our lack of the Sight,” said Sanar, who had not

missed the signs of relief in Lirael’s face and posture, “since we

weren’t part of the Watch and didn’t have the Sight training.

Of course, we didn’t want to do extra shifts on the roster

duties, either.”

“No,” agreed Lirael hurriedly. Who would want to clean

toilets or wash dishes any more than she had to?

“It wasn’t usual for us to be assigned a post before we

turned eighteen,” continued Ryelle. “But we asked, and the

Watch agreed that we should be given proper work. So we

joined the Paperwing Flight and learned to fly. That was in the

time before the return of the King, when everything was much

more dangerous and unsettled, so we flew far more patrols,

and farther afield, than we do now.

“After only a year of flying, the Sight woke in us. It could

have been an awful year, as was the one before it, waiting and

hoping for the gift, but we were too busy to even think about

it much. Do you think that proper work might help you,

too?”

“Yes!” replied Lirael fervently. A post would free her from

the child’s tunic, let her wear the clothes of a working Clayr. It

would also give her somewhere to go, away from the younger

children and Aunt Kirrith. She might even be able to stay away

from Awakenings, depending on what the work was.

“The question is, what work would suit you best?” mused

Sanar. “I do not think we have ever Seen you, so that’s no help.

Is there any posting you would particularly like? The Rangers?

Paperwing Flight? The Merchant Office? The Bank? Building

and Construction? The Infirmary? The Steamworks?”

“I don’t know,” said Lirael, trying to think of all the many

and various jobs the Clayr did, in addition to the rostered community

duties.

“What are you good at?” asked Mirelle. She looked Lirael

up and down, clearly measuring her up as a potential recruit

for the Rangers. The slight lift of her nose showed that she

didn’t seem to think much of Lirael’s potential. “How’s your

swordcraft, and archery?”

“Not very good,” replied Lirael guiltily, thinking of all the

practice sessions she’d missed lately, having chosen to mope

in her room instead. “I’m best at Charter Magic, I think. And

music.”

“Perhaps the Paperwings, then,” said Sanar. Then she

frowned and looked at the others. “Though fourteen is perhaps

a shade too young. They can be a bad influence.”

Lirael glanced at the Paperwings and couldn’t hold back a

small shiver. She liked the idea of flying, but the Paperwings

frightened her a bit. There was something creepy about their

being alive and having their own personalities. What would

happen if she had to talk to one of them all the time? She hated

talking to people, let alone Paperwings.

“Please,” said Lirael, pursuing that thought to the logical

place where she could avoid people the most. “I think I would

like to work in the Library.”

“The Library,” repeated Sanar, looking troubled. “That

can be dangerous to a girl of fourteen. Or a woman of forty,

for that matter.”

“Only in parts,” said Ryelle. “The Old Levels.”

“You can’t work in the Library without going into the Old

Levels,” said Mirelle somberly. “At least some of the time.

I wouldn’t be keen on going to some parts of the Library,

myself.”

Lirael listened, wondering what they were talking about.

The Great Library of the Clayr was enormous, but she had

never heard of the Old Levels.

She knew the general layout well. The Library was shaped

like a nautilus shell, a continuous tunnel that wound down

into the mountain in an ever-tightening spiral. This main spiral

was an enormously long, twisting ramp that took you from

the high reaches of the mountain down past the level of the

valley floor, several thousand feet below.

Off the main spiral, there were countless other corridors,

rooms, halls, and strange chambers. Many were full of the

Clayr’s written records, mainly documenting the prophesies

and visions of many generations of seers. But they also contained

books and papers from all over the Kingdom. Books of

magic and mystery, knowledge both ancient and new. Scrolls,

maps, spells, recipes, inventories, stories, true tales, and Charter

knew what else.

In addition to all these written works, the Great Library

also housed other things. There were old armories within it,

containing weapons and armor that had not been used for

centuries but still stayed bright and new. There were rooms

full of odd paraphernalia that no one now knew how to use.

There were chambers where dressmakers’ dummies stood fully

clothed, displaying the fashions of bygone Clayr or the wildly

different costumes of the barbaric North. There were greenhouses

tended by sendings, with Charter marks for light as

bright as the sun. There were rooms of total darkness, swallowing

up the light and anyone foolish enough to enter unprepared.

Lirael had seen some of the Library, on carefully escorted

excursions with the rest of her year gathering. She had always

hankered to enter the doors they passed, to step across the red

rope barriers that marked corridors or tunnels where only

authorized librarians might pass.

“Why do you want to work there?” asked Sanar.

“It—it’s interesting,” stammered Lirael, uncertain how she

should reply. She didn’t want to admit that the Library would

be the best place to hide away from other Clayr. And in the

back of her mind, she hadn’t forgotten that in the Library she

might find a spell to painlessly end her life. Not now, of course,

now she knew that the Sight might come. But later, if she grew

older and older without the Sight and the black despair welled

up again inside her, as it had done earlier today.

“It is interesting,” replied Sanar. “But there are dangerous

things and dangerous knowledge in the Library, too. Does that

bother you?”

“I don’t know,” said Lirael, honestly. “It would depend on

what it was. But I really would like to work there.” She paused

and then said in a very low voice, “I do want to be busy, as

you said, and forget about not having the Sight.”

The Clayr turned away from Lirael then, and gathered together

in a tight circle that excluded her, speaking in whispers.

Lirael watched anxiously, aware that something momentous

was going to happen to her life. The day had been horrible,

but now she had hope again.

The Clayr stopped whispering. Lirael looked at them

through the fall of her hair, glad that it hid her face. She didn’t

want them to see how badly she wanted them to let her work.

“Since it is your birthday,” said Sanar, “and because we

believe it will be best, we have decided that we will put you to

work as you ask, in the Great Library. You should report there

tomorrow morning, to Vancelle, the Chief Librarian. Unless

she finds you unsuitable for some reason, you will become a

Third Assistant Librarian.”

“Thank you,” cried Lirael. It came out as a croak, so she

had to say it again. “Thank you.”

“There is one more thing,” said Sanar, and she came and

stood so close that Lirael had to look up and meet her eyes.

“You heard talk today that you should not have heard. Indeed,

you have seen a visit that did not take place. The stability of

a Kingdom is a fragile thing, Lirael, and easily upset. Sabriel

and Touchstone would not speak so freely elsewhere, or to a

different audience.”

“I won’t say anything to anyone,” said Lirael. “I don’t talk,

really.”

“You won’t remember,” said Ryelle, who had moved

around behind her. She gently released the spell she’d held

ready, cupped in her hand. Before Lirael could even think

about countering it, a chain of bright Charter marks fell over

her head, gripping her at the temples.

“At least not until you need to remember,” continued

Ryelle. “You will recall everything you have done today, save

the visit of Sabriel and Touchstone. That memory will be gone,

replaced by a walk on the terrace, and a chance meeting with

us here. You seemed troubled, so we talked of work and the

gaining of the Sight. That is how you gained your new post,

Lirael. You will remember that, and no more.”

“Yes,” replied Lirael, words rolling off her lips so slowly

that she seemed to be drunk or incredibly tired. “The Library.

Tomorrow I report to Vancelle.”

Chapter Six

Third Assistant Librarian

The Chief Librarian had a large oak-paneled

office, with a very long desk that was covered in books, papers,

and a large brass tray with that morning’s breakfast still halfeaten

upon it. There was also a long, silver-bladed sword on

the desk, unsheathed, with its hilt close to the Librarian’s hand.

Lirael stood in front of the desk, her head bowed, as

Vancelle read the note the girl had brought from Sanar and

Ryelle.

“So,” said the Librarian, her deep, commanding voice

making Lirael jump. “You want to be a librarian?”

“Y-yes,” stammered Lirael.

“But are you suitable?” asked the Librarian. She touched

the hilt of her sword, and for a moment Lirael thought Vancelle

was going to pick it up and wave it around, to see if it frightened

her.

Lirael was already frightened. The Librarian scared her,

even without the sword. Her face gave away no feelings, and

she moved with an economy of force, as if she might at any

moment explode into violent action.

“Are you suitable?” asked the Librarian.

“Um, I don’t . . . I don’t know,” whispered Lirael.

The Librarian came out from behind her desk, so swiftly

that Lirael wasn’t sure if she’d blinked and missed the motion.

Vancelle was only slightly taller than Lirael, but she seemed

to loom over the young girl. Her eyes were bright blue, and her

hair was a soft, shining grey, like the finest ash left from a cooling

fire. She wore many rings on her fingers, and on her left

wrist there was a silver bracelet set with seven sparkling emeralds

and nine rubies. It was impossible to guess her age.

Lirael trembled as the Librarian reached out and touched

the Charter mark on her forehead. She felt it flare, warm on

her skin, and saw the light reflected in the Librarian’s bejeweled

rings and bracelet.

Whatever the Librarian felt in Lirael’s Charter mark, no

sign of it showed upon her face. She withdrew her hand and

walked back behind her desk. Once again, she touched the hilt

of her sword.

“We have never taken on a librarian whom we haven’t

already Seen as being a librarian,” she said, tilting her head,

like someone puzzling over how to hang a painting. “But no

one has ever Seen you at all, have they?”

Lirael felt her mouth dry up. Unable to speak, she nodded.

She felt the sudden opportunity that had been granted her slipping

away. The reprieve, the chance of work, of being someone—

“So you are a mystery,” continued the Librarian. “But

there is no better place for mystery than the Great Library of

the Clayr—and it is better to be a librarian than part of the

collection.”

For a moment, Lirael didn’t understand. Then hope blossomed

in her again, and she found her voice. “You mean . . .

you mean I am suitable?”

“Yes,” said Vancelle, Chief Librarian of the Great Library

of the Clayr. “You are suitable, and you may begin at once.

Deputy Librarian Ness will tell you what to do.”

Lirael left in a daze of happiness. She had survived the

ordeal. She had been accepted. She was going to be a librarian!

Deputy Librarian Ness merely sniffed at Lirael and sent her to

First Assistant Librarian Roslin, who kissed her absently on the

cheek and sent her to Second Assistant Librarian Imshi, who

was only twenty and not long promoted from the yellow silk

waistcoat of a Third Assistant to the red of a Second.

Imshi took Lirael to the Robing Room, a huge room full

of all the equipment, weapons, and miscellaneous items the

librarians needed, from climbing ropes to boathooks. And

dozens and dozens of the special Library waistcoats, all in different

sizes and colors.

“Third Assistant’s yellow, Second Assistant’s red, First

Assistant’s blue, Deputy is white, and the Chief wears black,”

explained Imshi, as she helped Lirael put on a brand-new

yellow waistcoat over her working clothes. “Heavier than it

looks, isn’t it? That’s because it’s actually canvas, covered in

silk. Much tougher that way. Now, this whistle clips on the

lapel loops here, so you can bend your head and blow into it,

even if something’s holding your arms. But you should whistle

only if you really need help. If you hear a whistle, run towards

the sound and do whatever you can to help.”

Lirael took the whistle, which was a simple brass pipe, and

put it through the special lapel loops as instructed. As Imshi had

said, she could easily blow into it just by lowering her head. But

what did Imshi mean? What might be holding her arms?

“Of course, the whistle’s good only when someone can

hear it,” continued Imshi, handing Lirael something that at

first glance looked like a silver ball. She indicated that it should

be placed in the front left pocket of her new waistcoat. “That’s

why you have the mouse. It’s part clockwork, so you have to

remember to wind it once a month, and the spell has to be

renewed every year at Midsummer.”

Lirael looked at the small silver object. It was a mouse with

little mechanical legs, two bright chips of ruby for eyes, and a

small key in its back. She could feel the warmth of a Charterspell

lying dormant inside it. She supposed that this would activate

the clockwork mechanism at the right time and send it

wherever it was supposed to go.

“What’s it do?” Lirael asked, surprising Imshi a little. The

younger girl hadn’t spoken since they’d been introduced, and

had stood there with her hair hanging over her face the whole

time. Imshi had already written her off as one of the Chief’s

eccentric recruitment decisions, but perhaps there was still

hope. She sounded interested, anyway.

“It gets help,” replied Imshi. “If you’re in the Old Levels

or somewhere you don’t think anyone will hear the whistle, put

the mouse on the ground and speak or draw the activating

mark, which I’ll show you in a moment. Once it’s activated,

it’ll run to the Reading Room and sound the alarm.”

Lirael nodded and flicked back her hair to study the mouse

more closely, running her finger over its silver back. When

Imshi started to thumb through an index of Charter marks,

Lirael shook her head and put the mouse in its special pocket.

“I know the mark, thanks,” she said quietly. “I felt it in the

spell.”

“Really?” asked Imshi, surprised again. “You must be

good. I can hardly manage to light a candle, or warm my toes

out on the glacier.”

But you have the Sight, thought Lirael. You are a real Clayr.

“Anyway, you have the whistle and the mouse,” said Imshi,

getting back to her task. “Here’s your belt and scabbard, and

I’ll just see which dagger is sharpest. Ow! That’ll do, I think.

Now we have to put the number in the book, and you have to

sign for everything.”

Lirael buckled on the broad leather belt and settled the

scabbard against her hip and thigh. The dagger that went into

it was as long as her forearm, with a thin, sharp blade. It was

steel but had been washed in silver, and there were Charter

marks on the blade. Lirael touched them lightly with her finger,

to see what they were supposed to do. They warmed under her

touch, and she recognized them as marks of breaking and unraveling,

especially useful against Free Magic creatures. They

had been put there some twenty years ago, replacing older

marks that had worn out. These too would last only another

ten years or so, as they had not been placed with any great

power or skill. Lirael thought she could possibly do better herself,

though she wasn’t particularly adept at working magic on

inanimate objects.

Lirael looked up from the dagger and saw Imshi waiting

expectantly, a quill in her hand, hovering above the huge

leather-bound ledger that was chained to the desk at the front

of the Robing Room.

“The number,” said Imshi. “On the blade.”

“Oh,” said Lirael. She angled the blade till the Charter

marks faded out and she could see the bare metal, and the letter

and number etched there by conventional means.

“L2713,” Lirael called out; then she slid the dagger home

into the scabbard. Imshi wrote the number down, re-inked the

quill, and passed it to Lirael to sign.

There in the ledger, in between ruled lines of red ink, was

Lirael’s name, the date, her position as Third Assistant Librarian,

and a list of all the things she’d been given, neatly written by

Imshi. Lirael scanned the list, but didn’t sign.

“It says a key, here,” she said cautiously, tipping up the

quill so an incipient blob of ink didn’t fall on the paper.

“Oh, a key!” exclaimed Imshi. “I wrote it down and then

I forgot!”

She went over to one of the cupboards on the wall, opened

it, and rummaged around inside. Finally, she pulled out a broad

silver bracelet set with emeralds, the match of the one on her own

wrist. Unlocking it, she clasped it around Lirael’s right wrist.

“You’ll have to go back to the Chief to have the spell inside

woken up,” explained Imshi, showing Lirael how two of

the seven emeralds on her own bracelet swarmed with bright

Charter marks. “Depending on your work and post, it will

then open all the appropriate doors.”

“Thanks,” said Lirael briefly. She could feel the spell in the

silver, Charter marks hiding deep within the metal, waiting to

flow into the emeralds. There were actually seven spells, she

could tell, one for each emerald. But she didn’t know how they

could be brought to the surface and made to work. This particular

magic was beyond her.

Nor was she much wiser ten minutes later, when Vancelle

took her wrist and quickly cast a spell that neither was spoken

nor had any other obvious marks, signed or drawn. Whatever

it was, the spell lit up only one emerald, leaving the other six

dark. That, said Vancelle, was enough to open the common

doors, which was more than enough for a new Third Assistant

Librarian.

It took Lirael three months to work out how to wake the next

four spells in her bracelet, though the secret of the sixth and

seventh remained beyond her. But she didn’t wake the extra

spells at once, taking another month to create an illusion of the

bracelet as it was supposed to be, that would sit over her own

and hide the glow of the additional emeralds.

It was mainly curiosity that set her to working out the key

spells. Originally she didn’t plan to wake them, and intended

to treat her discovery purely as an intellectual exercise. But

there were so many interesting doors, hatches, gates, grilles,

and locks that she couldn’t help but wonder what was behind

them. Once the spells in the bracelet were active, she found it

very difficult not to think of using them.

Her daily work also led her into temptation. While there

were Charter sendings to do much of the manual labor, ferrying

materials to and from the Main Reading Room and the

individual studies of scholars, all the checking, recording, and

indexing was done by people. Generally, the junior librarians.

There were also very special or dangerous items that had to be

fetched in person, or even by large parties of armed librarians.

Not that Lirael got to go on any of these exciting expeditions

to the Old Levels. Nor would she, till she attained the red

waistcoat of a Second Assistant, which usually took at least

three years.

But in the course of her regular duties, she often passed

interesting-looking corridors sealed off with red rope, or doors

that beckoned to her, almost saying, “How can you walk past

me every day and not want to go in?”

Without exception, any vaguely interesting portal was

locked, beyond the original key spell and the sole glowing

emerald of Lirael’s bracelet.

Aside from the inaccessibility of the interesting parts, the

Great Library met most of Lirael’s hopes. She was given a small

study of her own. Barely wider than her outstretched arms, it

contained nothing but a narrow desk, a chair, and several

shelves. But it was a refuge, somewhere she would be left alone,

secure from Aunt Kirrith’s intrusions. It was meant for quiet

study, in Lirael’s case, of the set texts of the beginning librarian:

The Librarian’s Rules, Basic Bibliography, and The Large

Yellow Book: Simple Spells for Third Assistant Librarians. It

had taken her only a month to learn everything she needed to

from those volumes.

So she quietly “borrowed” any book she could get her

hands on, like The Black Book of Bibliomancy, carelessly left

off a returning list by a Deputy Librarian. And she spent a great

deal of time analyzing the spells in her bracelet, slowly finding

her way through the complex chains of Charter marks to find

the activating symbols.

Lirael had been driven by curiosity at first, and by the sense

of satisfaction she gained from working out magic that was

supposed to be beyond her. But somewhere along the way,

Lirael realized that she enjoyed learning Charter Magic for its

own sake. And when she was learning marks and putting them

together into spells, she completely forgot about her troubles

and forgot about not having the Sight.

Learning to be a real Charter Mage also gave her something

to do, when all the other librarians or her fellows from

the Hall of Youth were engaged in more social activities.

The other librarians, particularly the dozen or so Third

Assistants, had tried to be friendly at first. But they were all older

than Lirael, and they all had the Sight. Lirael felt she had nothing

to talk about or share with them, so she stayed silent, hiding

behind her hair. After a while, they stopped inviting her to sit

with them at lunch, or to play a game of tabore in the afternoon,

or to gossip about their elders over sweet wine in the evening.

So Lirael was once again alone among company. She told

herself that she preferred it, but she couldn’t deny the pang in

her heart when she saw laughing groups of young Clayr, so

effortlessly talking and enjoying one another’s friendship.

It was even worse when whole groups were called to join

the Nine Day Watch, as happened more and more frequently

during Lirael’s first few months of work. Lirael would be stacking

books in the Reading Room, or writing in one of the registers,

when a Watch messenger would come in, bearing the

ivory tokens that summoned the recipient to the Observatory.

Sometimes dozens of the Clayr in the huge, domed Reading

Room would each receive a token. They would smile, curse,

grimace, or take it stoically; then there would be a flurry of

activity as they all stopped work, drawing back their chairs,

locking away books and papers in their desk drawers, or

returning them to shelves or sorting tables before trooping out

the doors en masse.

At first Lirael was surprised that so many were called, and

she was even more surprised when some of them returned only

hours or days later, instead of the usual nine days that gave the

Watch its name. She initially thought it must be some peculiarity

of the librarians, that so many were called at once and

not for the full term. But she didn’t feel like asking anyone

about it, so it was some time before she got some sort of

answer, when she overheard two Second Assistant Librarians

in the Binding Room.

“It’s all very well to have a Ninety-Eight. But to go on to

a Hundred and Ninety-Six and on up to yesterday’s Seven

Hundred and Eighty-Four is quite ridiculous,” said one of the

Second Assistants. “I mean we did all fit in the Observatory.

But now there’s talk of a Fifteen Sixty-Eight! That’ll be nearly

everybody, I should think—and making the Watch bigger

doesn’t seem to make it work any better than the usual Forty-

Nine. I couldn’t tell the difference.”

“I don’t mind, myself,” replied the other Second Assistant

as she carefully applied glue to the binding of a broken-backed

book. “It makes a change from here, and at least it’s over

quicker with a larger Watch. But it is tedious when we have to

try to focus where we can’t See anything. Why don’t the highups

just admit that no one can See anything around that stupid

lake and leave it at that?”

“Because it’s not so simple,” interrupted a stern-voiced

Deputy, bearing down on them like a huge white cat on two

plump mice. “All the possible futures are connected. Not being

able to See where futures begin is a significant problem. You

should know that, and you also should know not to talk about

the business of the Watch!”

The last sentence was said with a general glare about the

room. But Lirael, even half-hidden behind a huge press, felt it

was particularly aimed at her. After all, everybody else in the

room was a full Clayr and eligible to be a member of the Nine

Day Watch.

Her cheeks burnt with embarrassment and shame as she

threw all her strength into turning the great bronze handles of

the screw, tightening the press. Talk slowly resumed around

her, but she ignored it, concentrating only on her task.

But that was the moment when she resolved to wake the

dormant magic in her bracelet, and use the spell she’d made to

hide the glow of the additional emeralds.

She might not be able to join the Watch in the Observatory,

but she would explore the Library.

Chapter Seven

Beyond the Doors

Even after she woke the extra spells in her

bracelet, Lirael found it hard to explore the areas formerly

closed to her. There was always too much work, or there were

too many other librarians around. After the first two heartthumping

moments of near-discovery in front of forbidden

doors, Lirael decided to put off her exploration until there were

fewer people around or she could more easily escape from work.

Her first real chance came almost five months after she had

donned the yellow waistcoat of a Third Assistant. She was in

the Reading Room, sorting books to be returned by the sendings,

who gathered close around her, their ghostly, Charteretched

hands the only visible part of their shrouded forms.

They were quite simple sendings, without any higher functions,

but they loved their work. Lirael liked them too, because they

didn’t require her to speak or ask her questions. She simply

gave the appropriate books to the right sending, and it would

take them away to its area and the proper shelf or store.

Lirael was particularly good at recognizing which sending

was which, a valuable skill since the embroidered signs on their

cowled robes were often obscured with dust or had become

unpicked and indecipherable. They didn’t have official names,

of Sun and moon

only descriptions of their responsibilities. But most had nicknames,

like Tad, who was in charge of Traveler’s Tales, A–D,

or Stoney, who looked after the geology collection.

Lirael was just giving Tad a particularly large and unwieldy

volume bound in leather stamped with a three-humped camel

motif when the Watch messenger arrived. Lirael didn’t pay

much attention to her at first, because she knew no ivory token

would be given to her. Then she noticed that the messenger was

stopping at every desk and speaking to every person, and a

hum of whispered conversation was rising behind her. Lirael

surreptitiously tucked her hair behind her ears and tried to

listen. At first the murmur was indistinct, but as the messenger

grew closer, Lirael caught the words “Fifteen Sixty-Eight”

being repeated over and over again.

For a moment she was puzzled; then she realized that this

must be what the Second Assistants had been talking about.

The calling of one thousand five hundred sixty-eight Clayr to

the Watch—an unprecedented concentration of the Sight.

It would also take nearly every librarian out the Library,

Lirael calculated, giving her the perfect chance for a secret

excursion. For the first time ever, Lirael watched the messenger’s

distribution of tokens with excitement rather than with

her usual depression and self-pity. Now she was wishing everyone

else would get summoned to the Watch. Trying not to look

too obvious, Lirael even wandered around the other side of the

desk to see if anyone had been missed.

No one had. Lirael found it strangely hard to breathe as

she waited to see if anyone would remember to tell her to do

something—or not to. But none of the librarians with whom

she usually worked were here. Imshi was not to be seen. Lirael

guessed the messenger had met her on the way and had already

given her a token.

She willed them all to go and started to sort her books with

a concentrated ferocity, as if she didn’t care what happened

around her. The sendings approved, moving faster themselves

as each one took its stack of books and another moved into

place.

Finally, the last bright waistcoat gleamed in the doorway

and was gone. More than fifty librarians, disposed of in less

than five minutes. Lirael smiled and put the last book down

with a definite snap, disappointing the sending who was waiting

for a full load.

Ten minutes later, to allow for stragglers, she headed down

the main spiral. There was a door about a half mile down, well

into the Old Levels, a particular favorite that she wanted to

investigate first. It had a bright sunburst emblem upon its

otherwise unremarkable wooden surface, a golden disc with

rays that spread from top to bottom. Of course, there was also

a red rope across it, secured at either end with wax seals bearing

the book and sword symbol of the Chief Librarian.

Lirael had long since worked out how to deal with this

particular annoyance. She drew a short piece of wire with two

wooden handles from her waistcoat pocket and held it near her

mouth. Then she spoke three Charter marks, a simple charm

to heat metal. With the wire momentarily red-hot, she quickly

sliced the seals away and hid them and the rope in a nearby

hole in the passage wall, away from the light.

Then came the real test. Would the door open to her

bracelet, or would it need the last two spells she couldn’t figure

out?

Holding her wrist as she’d been taught, she waved her

bracelet in front of the door. Emeralds flashed, breaking

through the cloaking-spell she’d put upon them—and the door

swung open without a sound.

Lirael stepped through, and the door slowly shut behind

her. She found herself in a short corridor and was momentarily

disoriented by the bright light at the other end. Surely this

passage couldn’t lead outside? She was in the heart of the

mountain, thousands of feet underground. Blinking against the

light, she walked forward, one hand on the hilt of her dagger,

the other one on the clockwork emergency mouse.

The corridor didn’t lead outside, but Lirael saw how she

had been misled. It opened out into a vast chamber, bigger even

than the Great Hall. Charter marks as bright as the sun shone

in the distant ceiling, hundreds of feet above. A huge oak tree

filled the center of the room, in full summer leaf, its spreading

branches shading a serpentine pool. And everywhere, throughout

the cavern, there were flowers. Red flowers. Lirael bent

down and picked one, uncertain if it was some sort of illusion.

But it was real enough. She felt no magic, just the crisp stalk

under her fingers. A red daisy, in full bloom.

Lirael sniffed it, and sneezed as the pollen went up her

nose. Only then did she realize how quiet it was. This huge

cavern might mimic the outside world, but the air was too still.

There was no breeze, and no sound. No birds, no bees happily

at work amid the pollen. No small animals drinking at the

pool. There was nothing living, save the flowers and the tree.

And the lights above gave no warmth, unlike the sun. This

place was the same temperature as the rest of the Clayr’s inhabited

realm, and had the same mild humidity, from the moist

heat distributed via the huge network of pipes that brought

superheated water from the geysers and steam plumes far, far

below.

Lovely as it was, it was a bit disappointing. Lirael wondered

if this was all there was to find on her first expedition.

Then she saw that there was another door—a latticed gate,

rather—on the far side of the cavern.

It took her ten minutes to walk across, longer than she

would have thought. But she tried not to tread on too many

flowers, and she gave the tree and the pool a very wide berth.

Just in case.

The gate barred the way to another corridor, one that went

into darkness rather than light. The gate, a simple metal grille,

had the emblem of a silver moon upon it, rather than a sun. A

crescent moon, with much sharper and longer points than

could be considered usual or aesthetically pleasing.

Lirael looked through the gate to the passage beyond. For

some reason it made her think about the whistle on her waistcoat,

and things grabbing her arms. The whistle would be useless

here anyway—and the mouse, too, Lirael suddenly realized,

since there was no one currently in the Reading Room to hear

its squeaked alarm.

But aside from unknown dangers, there was no obvious

reason not to try the gate, at least. Lirael waved her arm, and

once again the emeralds flashed, but the gate didn’t open. She

let her hand fall, tucked her hair back out of her eyes and

frowned. Clearly, this was a gate that answered only to the

higher spells.

Then she heard a click, and the right-hand leaf of the gate

slowly swung open—barely wide enough for Lirael to squeeze

through. To make it harder, the crescent moon protruded into

the open space, the sharp points level with where Lirael’s neck

and groin would be.

She looked at the narrow way and thought about it. What

if there were something horrible beyond? But then again, what

did she have to lose? Fear and curiosity fought inside her for a

moment. Curiosity won.

Acting on the latter impulse, Lirael took the mouse from

her pocket and put it down amongst the flowers. If something

did go wrong beyond the gate, she could scream out the activating

Charter mark and off it would go, taking its own devious

mouseways to the Reading Room. Even if it was too late

to save Lirael, it might be a useful warning to the others.

According to her superiors and co-workers, it was not uncommon

for librarians to lay down their lives for the benefit of the

Clayr as a whole, either in dangerous research, simple overwork,

or action against previously unknown dangers discovered

in the Library’s collection. Lirael believed this principle of

self-sacrifice was particularly appropriate to herself, since the

rest of the Clayr had the Sight and so needed to be alive much

more than she did.

After placing the mouse, Lirael drew her dagger and

slipped through the partly open gate. It was a very tight fit, and

the moon’s points were razor sharp, but she got through without

damage to herself or her clothes. It did not occur to her

that a grown man or woman would not be able to pass.

The corridor was very dark, so Lirael spoke a simple

Charter-spell for light, letting it flow into her dagger. Then she

held the blade up in front of her like a lantern, only not as

bright. Either she’d muffed the spell a little or something was

damping it.

Besides being dark, the corridor, evidently not connected to

the Clayr’s geothermal pipes, was also cold. Dust rose as Lirael

walked, swirling around in strange patterns that Lirael thought

might almost be Charter marks, ones she didn’t know.

Beyond the corridor, there was a small rectangular room.

Holding her dagger high, Lirael could see its shadowed corners,

crawling with faint Charter marks that were so old,

they’d almost lost their luminescence.

The whole room was afloat in magic—strange, ancient

Charter Magic that she didn’t understand and was almost

afraid of. The marks were remnants of some incredibly old

spell, now senile and broken. Whatever the spell had once

been, now it was no more than hundreds of disconnected

marks, fading into the dust.

Enough remained of the spell to make Lirael even more

uneasy. There were marks of binding and imprisonment floating

there, of warding and warning. Even in its broken form,

the spell was trying to fulfill its purpose.

Worse than that, Lirael realized that though the marks

were very old, the spell had not simply faded, as she first

thought. It had been broken only recently, within weeks, or

perhaps months.

In the middle of the room, there was a low table of black,

glassy stone, a single slab, reminiscent of an altar. It, too, was

covered in the remnants of some mighty charm or spell. Charter

marks washed across its smooth surface, forever seeking connection

to some master Charter mark that would draw them

all together. But that mark was no longer there.

There were seven small plinths on the table, lined up in a

row. They were carved of some sort of luminous white bone,

and all were empty save one. The third from the left had a small

model or statuette upon it.

Lirael hesitated. She couldn’t quite make out what it was,

but she didn’t want to get any closer. Not without knowing

more about the spells that had been broken here.

She stood there for some time, watching the marks and listening.

But nothing changed, and the room was totally silent.

One more step forward, Lirael reasoned, wouldn’t make a

difference. She would see what was on the third plinth and then

withdraw.

She stepped closer and raised her light.

As soon as her foot landed, she knew she’d made a mistake.

The floor felt strange, unsteady under her. Then there was

a terrible crack, and both feet suddenly went right through the

panel of dark glass she had mistaken for more of the floor.

Lirael fell forward, only just keeping hold of her dagger.

Her left hand fell on the table, instinctively grabbing the statuette.

Her knees hit the lip where glass met stone, sending a jarring

pain through to her head. Her feet were stinging, cut by

the glass.

She looked down and saw something worse than broken

glass and cut feet, something that had her moving again instantly,

regardless of any further damage the shards might do.

For the glass had been the cover of a long, coffin-like

trench, and there was something lying in it. Something that at

first looked like a sleeping, naked woman. In the next horrified

instant, Lirael saw that its forearms were as long as its legs,

and bent backwards, with great claws on the ends, like those

of a praying mantis. It opened its eyes, and they were silver

fires, brighter and more terrible than anything Lirael had ever

seen.

Even worse, there was the smell. The telltale metallic odor

of Free Magic that left a sour taste in Lirael’s mouth and throat

and made her stomach roil and heave.

Both creature and Lirael moved at the same time. Lirael threw

herself back towards the corridor as the thing struck out with

its awful, elongated claws. They missed, and the monster let

out a shriek of annoyance that was completely inhuman, making

Lirael run faster than she had ever run before, cut feet or not.

Before the shriek had subsided, Lirael was squeezing through

the gate, breathing in with such a panic that there were inches

to spare. Beyond it, she turned and waved her bracelet, screaming

out, “Shut! Shut!”

But the gate didn’t close, and the creature was suddenly

there, one leg and hideous arm thrust through. For a moment

Lirael thought it wouldn’t be able to pass the sharp points of

the moon, but it suddenly thinned and grew taller, its body as

malleable as soft clay. Its silver eyes sparkled, and it opened a

mouth full of silver-spined teeth to lick its lips with a grey

tongue that was striped yellow, like a leech.

Lirael didn’t stay to watch it. She forgot the emergency

mouse. She forgot about staying away from the pool and the

tree. She just ran in an absolutely straight line, crashing through

the flowers, daisy petals exploding in a cloud around her.

On and on she ran, thinking that at any moment a hooked

claw would bring her down. She didn’t slow at the outer corridor,

and slid to a stop only just in time to avoid smashing into

the door. There, she waved her bracelet and slipped through

before it opened more than a crack, stripping all the buttons

from her waistcoat.

On the other side, she waved her bracelet again, watching

the open doorway with the wide-eyed, sick anticipation of a

calf watching an approaching wolf.

The door stopped opening and slowly began to close again.

Lirael sighed and fell to her knees, feeling as if she were going

to vomit. She shut her eyes for a moment—and heard a snick

that was not the shutting of the door.

Her eyes flashed open, and she saw a curving, insectile

hook, as long as her hand, thrust through a finger-width gap.

Then another followed it—and the door began to open.

Lirael’s mouth went to her whistle, and its shrill cry echoed

up and down the spiral. But there was no one to hear it, and

when her hand went to the mouse pocket, it found a strange

statuette of soft stone, not the familiar silver body of the

mouse.

The door shuddered, and the gap increased, the creature

clearly winning against the spell that tried to keep it shut.

Lirael stared at it, unable to think of what to do next. She frantically

glanced up and down the corridor, as if some unlookedfor

help might come.

But none did come, and she could only think that whatever

this thing was, it must not be let out into the main spiral. The

words of the librarians telling her of self-sacrifice came back

to her, as did her depressed climb up the Starmount Stairs only

a few months before. Now that death seemed likely, she realized

how much she wanted to stay alive.

Even so, Lirael knew what must be done. She drew herself

up and reached into the Charter. There, in the endless flow, she

drew out all the marks she knew for breaking and blasting, for

fire and destruction, for blocking, barring, and locking. They

came into her mind in a flood, brighter and more blinding than

any light, so strong that she could barely weave them into a

spell. But somehow she ordered them as she wished, and linked

them together with a single master mark, one of great power,

that she had never before dared to use.

With the spell ready, pent up inside her by will alone, Lirael

did the bravest thing she had ever done. She touched the door

with one hand, the creature’s hook with the other, and spoke

the master Charter mark to cast the spell.

Chapter Eight

Down the Fifth Back Stair

As she spoke, heat coursed through Lirael’s throat.

White fire exploded through her right hand into the creature,

and a titanic force was unleashed from her left, slamming the

door shut. She was hurled backwards, tumbling over and over

till her head struck the stone floor with a terrible crack that

sent her instantly into darkness.

When she came to, Lirael had no idea where she was. Her

head felt as if a hot wire had pierced her skull. It was somehow

wet as well, and her throat ached as if she were in the

throes of a really bad flu. For a moment she thought she was

sick in bed and would soon see Aunt Kirrith or one of the other

girls bending over her with a spoonful of herbal restorative.

Then she realized that there was cold stone under her, not a

mattress, and she was fully clothed.

Hesitantly, she touched her head, and her fingers showed

her what the wetness was. She looked at the bright blood, and

a wave of cold and dizziness overcame her, shooting up from

her toes and through her head. She tried to call for help, but

her throat was too sore. Nothing came out, only a sort of

breathy buzz.

Now she remembered what she’d been trying to do, and a

bolt of pure panic banished the dizziness. She tried to raise her

head, but that hurt too much, so she rolled on her side instead,

to see the door.

It was shut, and there was no sign of the creature. Lirael

stared at the door till the grain of the wood grew blurry, uncertain

that it really was closed, the creature gone. When she

was absolutely sure it was shut, she turned her head away and

threw up, sour bile burning her already painful throat.

She lay still after that, trying to steady her breathing and

her stammering heart. A further cautious examination of her

head revealed the blood to be clotting already, so it probably

wasn’t too serious. Her throat seemed to be worse, damaged

by speaking a master Charter mark that she didn’t have the

strength or the experience to use correctly. She tried to say a

few words, but only a hoarse whisper came out.

Next, she investigated her feet, but they turned out to be

more scratched than cut, though her shoes had so many holes

that they had become like sandals. Compared to her head, her

feet were fine, so she decided to try standing up.

That took her several minutes, even using the wall for support.

Then it took another five minutes to bend down again,

pick up her dagger, and ease it into the scabbard.

After that exercise, she stood for a while, till she felt steady

enough to examine the door. It was shut properly, without

a gap, and she could feel her own spell, as well as the door’s

magical lock, holding it closed. No one could get in or out

now without breaking Lirael’s spell. Even the Chief Librarian

would have to get her to lift it, or break it.

Thinking of the Chief made Lirael pick up as many of her

torn-off buttons as she could find, and replace the red rope and

the seals across the door—though calling up a spell to warm

the wax was almost beyond her. When she’d finished, she

walked a few steps up the main spiral, but had to sit down, too

weak to go on.

Slumping down, she lapsed into a semi-conscious daze,

unable to think about anything or to assess her situation. She

sat for a long time, maybe even an hour. Then some natural

resilience rose up in her, and Lirael realized where she was and

the state she was in. Bloodied, bruised, her waistcoat buttonless

and torn, her emergency mouse lost. All of which would

need explanation.

The loss of the mouse reminded her of the statuette. Her

hands were much clumsier than usual, frustratingly so, but she

managed to get the small stone figure out of her pocket and set

it on her lap.

It was a dog, she saw, carved from a soft grey-blue soapstone

that was pleasant to touch. It looked like a fairly hardbitten

sort of dog, with pointy ears and a sharp snout. But it

also had a friendly grin, and the suggestion of a tongue in the

corner of its mouth.

“Hello, dog,” whispered Lirael, her voice so weak and

scratchy, she could hardly hear it herself. She liked dogs,

though there were none in the higher reaches of the Glacier.

The Rangers had a kennel for their working dogs near the

Great Gate, and visitors sometimes brought their dogs into

the guest quarters and the Lower Refectory. Lirael always said

hello to the visiting dogs, even when they were huge brindled

wolfhounds with studded collars. The dogs were always friendly

to her, often more so than their owners, who would get upset

when Lirael spoke only to their dogs and not to them.

Lirael held the dog statuette and wondered what she was

going to do. Should she tell Imshi or someone higher up about

the thing that was loose in the flower-field chamber? And

admit she had woken the extra key spells in her bracelet?

She sat there for ages, turning over ideas, scratching the

stone head of the dog as if it were a miniature real animal.

Telling the truth was probably the right thing to do, she concluded,

but then she would almost certainly lose her job—and

going back to the children’s classes and the hated blue tunic

would be unbearable. Once again, she toyed with the idea that

death might provide an escape, but the reality of nearly being

slain by the hooks of the creature made killing herself even less

attractive than it had been before.

No, Lirael decided. She had got herself into trouble and she

would get herself out of it. She’d find out what the creature

was, learn how to defeat it, and then go and do it. It couldn’t

get out till then, or so she hoped. And no one else could get in,

so it wouldn’t be a danger to other librarians.

That left explaining her cut head, scratched feet, bruises,

mislaid mouse, lost voice, and general disarray. All of which

could probably be done with a single brilliant plan. Which

Lirael didn’t have.

“I might as well walk and think,” she whispered to the dog

statuette. It was oddly comforting to speak to the dog and hold

it in her hand. She looked down at the way it sat, with its tail

curled around its back legs, head up and forelegs straight, as if

waiting for its mistress.

“I wish I had a real dog,” Lirael added, groaning as she stood

up and started slowly walking up the spiral corridor. Then she

stopped and looked down at the statuette, a sudden wild thought

blossoming in her mind. She could create a Charter sending of

a dog, a complex one that could bark and everything. All she’d

need was On the Making of Sendings, and perhaps The Making

and Mastery of Magical Beings. Both were locked up, of

course, but Lirael knew where they were. She could even make

the sending look like the lovely dog statuette.

Lirael smiled at the thought of having a dog of her own.

A true friend, someone she could talk to who wouldn’t ask

her questions or talk back. A loving and lovable companion.

She tucked the statuette back in her waistcoat pocket and

limped on.

A hundred yards later she abruptly stopped thinking about

how to create a sending and started to worry about how she

would find out what the creature in the flower room was.

There were bestiaries in the Library, she knew, but finding and

getting access to them could be a problem.

She kept thinking about that for another hundred yards

until she realized she had a far more pressing problem. She

needed to work out an explanation for her injuries and the lost

mouse, with a minimum of actual lying. Lirael felt that she

owed the Library a lot, and didn’t want to tell an outright lie.

Besides, she didn’t think she could lie, if it came to heavy-duty

questioning from the Chief Librarian or someone like that.

The mouse was the tricky part. She stopped moving to try

to think more clearly, and she was surprised by how much her

body needed the rest. Normally she ran around the Library all

day, up and down the spiral, up and down ladders, in and out

of rooms. Now she could barely move without a major effort

of will.

A fall would explain her head injury, Lirael thought, once

again feeling the cut. It had stopped bleeding, but her hair was

matted with blood, and she could feel a lump coming up.

A long fall, with a terrified scream, could also explain her

sore throat. Buttons could be scraped off in that sort of fall,

and a mouse easily lost from a pocket.

Steps, Lirael decided. A fall down a flight of steps would

best explain everything. Particularly if someone found her at the

bottom of the steps, so she wouldn’t have to say anything much.

It took her only a little while to work out that the Fifth

Back Stair between the main spiral and the Hall of Youth

would be the most likely spot for her to have an accident. She

could even pick up a glass of water from the Zally Memorial

Fountain on the way. You weren’t allowed to take the glasses

away, of course, but that was probably a bonus. It would give

everybody—particularly Aunt Kirrith—something to scold her

for, and they wouldn’t look for more serious crimes. And a

broken glass would explain her scratched feet.

Now all she had to do was get there and not meet anyone

on the way. If the past extra-large Watch gatherings were any

indication, the Fifteen Sixty-Eight wouldn’t last much longer.

There was a definite correlation between the size of a particular

Watch and how long it lasted. The normal Forty-Nine

lasted nine days, giving the Watch its name. But when there

were more people involved, the Clayr returned much sooner.

The most recent Watch had taken the participating Clayr away

for less than a day.

The closer she got to the Hall of Youth, the greater the

danger of meeting youngsters or others not part of the Watch.

Lirael decided that if she did meet anyone, she’d just fall down

and pass out, hoping that whoever it was didn’t get too inquisitive.

But she didn’t meet anyone before she turned off the spiral,

picked up her glass of water at the Zally Fountain, went

through the permanently open stone doors of the Fifth Library

Landing, and reached the Fifth Back Stair. It was a narrow, circular

stair, not much used since it merely connected the Library

with the western side of the Hall of Youth.

Wearily, Lirael climbed the first half dozen steps, to the

point where it started to turn inwards. Then she threw the glass

down, wincing as it broke. After that she had to work out

where to lie so it looked as if she really had fallen down the

steps. This made her dizzy, so she had to sit down. And once

she was sitting, it seemed quite natural to lay her head on an

upper step, cushioned by an outthrust arm.

She knew she should be artistically arranging herself on the

landing below, an obvious victim of a fall, but it all seemed too

hard. The strength that had sustained her to this point was

gone. She couldn’t get up. It was so much easier to go to sleep.

Beautiful sleep, where no troubles could torment her . . .

Lirael awoke to a voice urgently calling her name, and two

fingers checking the pulse in her neck. This time, she came to

her senses fairly quickly, grimacing as the pain returned.

“Lirael! Can you talk?”

“Yes,” whispered Lirael, her voice still very weak and

strangely husky. She was disoriented. Her last memory was of

lying on the steps, and now she was flat on the ground. She

realized that she was on the landing, looking much more like

the victim of a fall than anything she could have arranged herself.

She must have slipped down the steps after passing out.

A blue-waistcoated First Assistant Librarian was bending

over her, peering closely at her face. Lirael blinked and wondered

why this strange person was moving her hand backwards

and forwards in front of Lirael’s eyes. But it wasn’t a strange

person after all. It was Amerane, whom she had worked with

for a few days last month.

“What happened?” asked Amerane, concern in her voice.

“Does anything feel broken?”

“I hit my head,” whispered Lirael, and she felt tears springing

up in her eyes. She hadn’t cried before, but now she couldn’t

stop, and her whole body started to shake as well, no matter

how hard she tried to stay still.

“Does anything feel broken?” Amerane repeated. “Does it

hurt anywhere else aside from your head?”

“N-no,” sobbed Lirael. “Nothing’s broken.”

Amerane didn’t seem to trust Lirael’s opinion, because she

lightly felt all the way up and down the girl’s arms and legs,

and gently pressed against her fingers and feet. Since Lirael

didn’t scream and there seemed to be no grating of bones or

abnormal lumps or swellings, Amerane helped her get up.

“Come on,” she said kindly. “I’ll help you get to the

Infirmary.”

“Thanks,” whispered Lirael, putting her arm around

Amerane’s shoulders and letting her take most of her weight.

Her other hand went to her pocket, fingers wrapping around

the little stone dog, its smooth surface a source of comfort, as

Amerane carried her away.

Chapter Nine

Creatures by Nagy

At first, Lirael thought she would be out of the

Infirmary within a day. But even three days after her “fall,” she

could barely speak, and she had lost all her energy, not even

wanting to get up. While the pain in her head and throat lessened,

fear grew everywhere else, sapping her strength. Fear of

the silver-eyed, hook-handed monster that she could almost see

waiting for her amidst the red daisies. Fear of her trespasses

being found out, forcing the loss of her job. Fear of the fear

itself, a vicious circle that exhausted her and filled what little

sleep she got with nightmares.

On the morning of the fourth day, the Chief Healer clicked

her teeth together and frowned at the patient’s lack of progress.

She called in another healer to look at Lirael, who bore this

patiently. They both decided, in Lirael’s hearing, that they

would need to call Filris down from her dreaming room.

Lirael started nervously at this announcement. Among other

things, Filris was the Infirmarian, and the oldest of the Clayr still

living. For all of Lirael’s life, Filris had spent most of her time in

her dreaming room, and presumably working in the Infirmary

as well, though Lirael had never seen her on either of the two

occasions she had been hospitalized with childhood illnesses.

She had never seen any of the really old Clayr, the ones old

enough to retire to dreaming rooms of their own. They needed

such rooms because the Sight tended to grow progressively

more difficult with age, sending more and more frequent

visions, but in smaller splinters, which could not be controlled,

even with the focusing powers of ice and the Nine Day Watch.

It was not uncommon for some of the more ancient Clayr to

perceive only these fragmented futures and not be able to interact

with the present at all.

However, when Filris arrived an hour later, she came alone

and clearly needed no help with the ordinary world. Lirael eyed

her suspiciously, seeing a short, slight woman with hair as

white as the snow atop Starmount and skin like aged parchment,

the underlying veins a delicate tracery upon her face,

counterpoint to the wrinkles of extreme age.

She inspected Lirael from head to foot, without speaking,

her paper-dry hands gently prodding her to move in the directions

she required. Finally, she looked down Lirael’s throat,

staring at it for some time, a small bauble of Charter-Magicked

light floating an inch from Lirael’s stiffening jaw. When Filris

finally stopped looking, she sent the Healer from the ward and

sat beside Lirael’s bed. Silence crept over them, for the ward

was empty now. The other seven beds were vacant.

Eventually, Lirael made a noise that was halfway between

clearing her throat and a sob. She moved her hair away from

her face and nervously looked at Filris—and was caught in the

gaze of her pale blue eyes.

“So you are Lirael,” said Filris. “And the healer tells me

you fell down the stairs. But I do not think your throat was

damaged by a scream. To be frank, I am surprised you are still

alive. I know of no other Clayr your age—and few of any age—

who could speak such a mark without being consumed by it.”

“How?” croaked Lirael. “How can you tell?”

“Experience,” replied Filris dryly. “I have worked in this

Infirmary for over a hundred years. You are not the first Clayr

I have seen suffer from the effects of attempting overambitious

magic. Also, I am curious as to how you came by these other

injuries at the same time, particularly since the glass dug out

of your feet is pure crystal, and certainly not the same as that

of the glasses from the Zally Fountain.”

Lirael swallowed, but didn’t speak. The silence returned.

Filris waited patiently.

“I’ll lose my job,” whispered Lirael at last. “I’ll be sent

back to the Hall.”

“No,” said Filris, taking her hand. “What passes between

us here shall go no further.”

“I’ve been stupid,” said Lirael huskily. “I’ve let something

out. Something dangerous—dangerous to everyone. All the

Clayr.”

“Hmph!” snorted Filris. “It can’t be that bad if it hasn’t

done anything in the last four days. Besides, ‘all the Clayr’ can

look after its collective self very well. It’s you I’m concerned

about. You are letting your fear come between you and getting

better. Now start from the beginning, and tell me everything.”

“You won’t tell Kirrith? Or the Chief?” asked Lirael desperately.

If Filris told anybody, they’d take her away from the

Library, and then she’d have nothing. Nothing at all.

“If you mean Vancelle, no I won’t,” replied Filris. She

patted Lirael’s hand and said, “I won’t tell anybody. Particularly

since I am coming to the conclusion that I should have

looked in on you long ago, Lirael. I had no notion you were

more than a child . . . but tell me. What happened?”

Slowly, her voice so soft that Filris had to lean close, Lirael

told her. About her birthday, about going up to the terrace,

meeting Sanar and Ryelle, getting her job and how much it had

helped her. She told Filris about waking the spells in the

bracelet, about the sunburst and crescent-moon doors. Her

voice grew softer still as she spoke of the horror in the glassroofed

coffin. The statuette of the dog. The struggle up the

spiral and the plans she had made as her mind wandered. Her

faked fall.

They spoke for more than an hour, Filris questioning,

bringing out all Lirael’s fears, hopes, and dreams. At the end

of it, Lirael felt peaceful and no longer afraid, emptied of all

the knotted pain and anguish that had filled her.

When Lirael finished talking, Filris asked to see the dog

statuette. Lirael took the little stone dog from under her pillow

and reluctantly handed it over. She had grown very attached to

it, for it was the one thing that bought her some comfort, and

she was afraid that Filris would take it away or tell her it must

go back to the Library.

The old woman took the statuette in both hands, cupping

it so only the snout was visible, thrusting out between her

withered fingers. She looked at it for a long time, then gave a

deep sigh and handed it back. Lirael took it, surprised by the

warmth the stone had gained from the old woman’s hands.

Still, Filris didn’t move or speak, till Lirael sat up straighter in

bed, attracting her attention.

“I’m sorry, Lirael. I thank you for telling me the truth. And

for showing me the dog statuette. It has been a long time

coming, so long that I had thought I would be lost in the future,

too mad to see it true.”

“What do you mean?” asked Lirael uneasily.

“I saw your little dog long ago,” explained Filris. “When

the Sight still came clearly to me. It was the last vision that

came to me whole and unbroken. I Saw an old, old woman,

peering closely at a small stone dog clasped in her hands. It

took me many years to realize that the old woman was myself.”

“Did you See me, too?” asked Lirael.

“I Saw only myself,” said Filris calmly. “What it means,

I’m afraid, is that we shall not meet again. I would have liked

to help you defeat the creature you have released, by counsel

if not by deed, for I fear that it must be dealt with as soon as

you can. Things of that ilk do not wake without reason, or

without help of some kind. I would also like to see your dogsending.

I regret that I will not. Most of all I regret that I have

not lived enough in the present these last fifteen years. I should

have met you sooner, Lirael. It is a failing of the Clayr that

we tend to forget individuals sometimes, and we ignore their

troubles, knowing that all such things will pass.”

“What do you mean?” asked Lirael. For the first time in

her life, she’d felt comfortable talking to someone about herself,

about her life. Now it seemed that this was only a tantalizing

taste of the intimacy other people enjoyed, as if she were

fated to never have what other Clayr took for granted.

“Every Clayr is given the gift to See some portent of her

death, though not the death itself, for no human could bear

that weight. Almost twenty years ago I Saw myself and your

little dog, and in time I realized that this was the vision that

foretold my final days.”

“But I need you,” said Lirael, weeping, throwing her arms

around the slight figure. “I need someone! I can’t keep going

on my own!”

“You can and you will,” said Filris fiercely. “Make your

dog your companion, to be the friend you need. You must learn

about the creature you released and defeat it! Explore the

Library. Remember that while the Clayr can See the future,

others make it. I feel that you will be a maker, not a seer. You

must promise me that it will be so. Promise me that you will

not give in. Promise me that you will never give up hope. Make

your future, Lirael!”

“I’ll try,” whispered Lirael, feeling the fierce energy of Filris

flowing into her. “I’ll try.”

Filris gripped her hand, harder than Lirael would have

thought possible with those thin, ancient fingers. Then she kissed

Lirael on the forehead, sending a tingle of energy through her

Charter mark, right though her body and out the soles of her

feet.

“I was never close to Arielle, or her mother,” Filris said

quietly. “Too much a Clayr, I suppose, too much in the future.

I am glad I was not too late to speak to you. Goodbye, my

great-great-granddaughter. Remember your promise!”

With that, she walked out of the ward, straight-backed and

proud, so that someone who didn’t know her age would never

guess that she had worked in these wards for more than a hundred

years, and lived half as long again.

Lirael never saw Filris again. She wept with many others at the

Farewell in the Hall, forgetting her distaste for the new blue

tunic, hardly noticing that she stood a full head higher than all

the other children and many of the white-clad Clayr who had

newly Awoken to their gift.

She was unsure how much she cried for Filris and how

much she cried for herself, left alone again. It seemed to be her

fate that she would have no close friends. Only countless

cousins, and one aunt.

But Lirael didn’t forget Filris’s words and was back at work

the next day, though her voice was still weak, and she had a

slight limp. Within a week, she managed to secretly obtain

copies of On the Making of Sendings and Superior Sendings in

Seventy Days, as The Making and Mastery of Magical Beings

proved too difficult to spirit out of its locked case. The bestiaries

proved troublesome too, as all the ones she could find were

chained to their shelves. She dipped into them when no one was

around, but without immediate success. Clearly, it would take

some time to find out exactly what the creature was.

Whenever she could, she passed the sunburst door and felt

for her spell, checking that her magic still remained, binding

door, hinges, and lock into the surrounding stone. The fear

always rose in her then, and sometimes she thought she smelled

the corrosive tang of Free Magic, as if the monster stood on

the other side of the door, separated from her only by the thin

barrier of wood and spells.

Then she would remember Filris’s words, and hurry back

to her study to work on her dog-sending; or to the latest bestiary

she’d found, to see if it might describe a woman-like creature

with eyes of silver fire and the claws of a praying mantis,

a creature of Free Magic, malice, and awful hunger.

Sometimes she would wake in the night, a nightmare of the

door opening fading as she struggled out of sleep. She would

have checked the door more often, but following the day of the

Watch of Fifteen Sixty-Eight, the Chief Librarian had ordered

that all librarians must go into the Old Levels only in pairs, so

it was harder to sneak there and back. The Watch had not Seen

anything conclusive, Lirael heard, but the Clayr were obviously

worried about something close to home. The Library was not

the only department to take precautionary measures: extra

Rangers patrolled the glacier and the bridges, the steampipe

crews also now worked in pairs, and many internal doors and

corridors were closed and locked for the first time since the

Restoration.

Lirael checked the door to the flower-field room forty-two

times over seventy-three days before she found a bestiary that

told her what the creature was. In those ten weeks of worry,

study, and preparation, she had searched through eleven bestiaries

and done most of the preliminary work needed to create

her dog-sending.

In fact, it was the dog-sending that was mostly on her mind

when she finally did find a mention of the monster. She was

thinking about when she could cast the next lot of spells even

as her hands opened the small, red-bound book that was

simply titled Creatures by Nagy. Flicking through the pages

without expectation, her eye was caught by an engraving that

showed exactly what she was looking for. The accompanying

text made it clear that whoever Nagy was, or had been, he

or she had encountered the same sort of monster Lirael had

released from the glass-covered coffin.

It stands higher than a tall man, generally taking

the shape of a comely woman, though its form is fluid.

Often the Stilken will have great hooks or pincers in

the place of forearms, which it uses with facility to seize

its prey. Its mouth generally appears human till it

opens, revealing double rows of teeth, as narrow and

sharp as needles. These teeth may be of a bright silver,

or black as night. The Stilken’s eyes are also of silver,

and burn with a strange fire.

Lirael shivered as she read this description, making the

chain that held the book to the shelf rattle and clank. Quickly

she looked around to see if anyone had heard and would come

looking between the shelves. But there was no sound save her

own breathing. This room was rarely used, housing a collection

of obscure personal memoirs. Lirael had come here merely

because Creatures by Nagy was cross-indexed in the Reading

Room as a bestiary of sorts.

Stilling her hands, she read on, the words filling only part

of her mind. The rest was struggling with the fact that, now

that she had the knowledge she sought, she must face the

Stilken and defeat it.

The Stilken is an elemental of Free Magic, and so

it cannot be harmed by earthly materials, such as

common steel. Nor can human flesh touch it, for its

substance is inimical to life. A Stilken cannot be

destroyed, except by Free Magic, at the hands of a sorcerer

more powerful than itself.

Lirael stopped reading, nervously swallowed and read the

last line again. “Cannot be destroyed, except by Free Magic,”

she read, over and over again. But she couldn’t do any Free

Magic. It wasn’t allowed. Free Magic was too dangerous.

Unable to think of what she could do, Lirael read on—and

breathed a long sigh of relief as the book continued.

However, while destruction is the province solely of

Free Magic, a Stilken may be bound by Charter Magic

and imprison’d within a vessel or structure, such as a

bottle of metal or wrought crystal (simple glass being

too fragile for surety) or down a dry well, covered by

stone.

I have essayed this task myself, using the spells I list

below. But I warn that these bindings are of terrible

force, drawing as they do on no fewer than three of the

master Charter marks. Only a great adept—which I am

not—would dare use them without the assistance of an

ensorceled sword or a rowan wand, charged with the

first circle of seven marks for binding the elements, and

in the case of fire and air, the second circle too, and all

of them linked with the master mark—

Lirael swallowed again, her throat suddenly sore. The

notation Nagy used was for the same master mark that had

burnt her. Worse than that, she didn’t know the second circle

of marks for binding fire and air, and she had no idea how they

could all be put into a sword or a rowan wand. She didn’t even

know where she could find a rowan tree, for that matter.

Slowly, she shut the book and placed it back on the shelf,

careful not to rattle the chain. Part of her was frustrated.

Having finally found out what the creature was, she still had

to find out more. Another part of her was relieved that she

would not have to confront the Stilken. Not yet.

She would have time to create her dog-sending first. At

least then she would have something . . . someone to talk to

about all this. Even if it couldn’t talk back, or help her.

Chapter Ten

Dog Day

The final spell to create the dog-sending required

four hours to cast, so Lirael had to wait for another opportunity

when most of the librarians would be away. If she were

interrupted during the casting, all her work of the previous

months would be wasted, the delicately connected network of

Charter-spells broken into their component marks, rather than

brought together by the final spell.

The opportunity came sooner than Lirael had expected, for

whatever the Clayr were trying to See obviously still eluded

them. Lirael heard other librarians muttering about the demands

of the Observatory, and it was clear that the Nine Day

Watch was growing in size again, starting with a ninety-eight.

This time, as each new, larger Watch was called, Lirael carefully

observed the time of the summons and noted when the Clayr

returned. When the full Fifteen Sixty-Eight was called—amidst

considerable grumbling in the Reading Room—she estimated

she had at least six hours. Time enough to finish her sending.

In her study, the dog statuette sat benignly, surveying

Lirael’s preparations from the top of her desk. Lirael spoke to

it as she locked the door, with a spell since she wasn’t senior

enough to rate a key or bar.

“This is it, little dog,” she said cheerfully, reaching over to

stroke the dog’s stone snout with one finger. The sound of her

own voice surprised her, not because of the huskiness that still

remained from her damaged throat, but because it sounded

strange and unfamiliar. She realized then that she hadn’t

spoken for two days. The other librarians had long accepted

her silence, and she had not recently been taxed with any conversation

that required more than a nod, a shake of the head,

or simply instant application to an ordered task.

The beginning of the dog-sending was under her desk,

hidden by a draped cloth. Lirael reached in, removed the cloth,

and gently slid out the framework she had built to start the

spell. She ran her hands over it, feeling the warmth of the

Charter marks that swam lazily up and down the twisted silver

wires that formed the shape of a dog. It was a small dog, about

a foot high, the size constrained by the amount of silver wire

Lirael could easily obtain. Besides, she thought a small dogsending

would be more sensible than a big one. She wanted

a comfortable friend, not a dog large enough to be a guardsending.

Aside from the framework of silver wire, the dog shape had

two eyes made from jet buttons and a nose of black felt, all of

them already imbued with Charter marks. It also had a tail

made from braided dog hair, clipped surreptitiously from several

visiting dogs down in the Lower Refectory. That tail was

already prepared with Charter marks, marks that defined

something of what it was to be a dog.

The final part of the spell required Lirael to reach into the

Charter and pluck forth several thousand Charter marks, letting

them flow through her and into the silver-wire armature.

Marks that fully described a dog, and marks that would give

the semblance of life, though not the actuality.

When the spell was finished, the silver wire, jet buttons,

and braided dog hair would be gone, replaced by a puppy-sized

dog of spell-flesh. It would look like a dog till you got close

enough to see the Charter marks that made it up, but she

wouldn’t be able to touch it. Touching most sendings was like

touching water: the skin would yield and then re-form around

whatever touched it. All the toucher would feel was the buzz

and warmth of the Charter marks.

Lirael sat down cross-legged next to the silver-wire model

and started to empty her mind, taking slow breaths, forcing

them down so far that her stomach pushed outwards as the air

reached the very bottoms of her lungs.

She was just about to reach into the Charter and begin

when her eye caught sight of the small stone dog, up on the

desk. It somehow looked lonely up there, as if it felt left out.

Impulsively, Lirael got up and set it in her lap when she sat

back down. The small carving tilted slightly but stayed upright,

looking at the silver-wire copy of itself.

Lirael took a few more breaths and began again. She had

written out the marks she required, in the safe shorthand all

Mages used to record Charter marks. But those papers stayed

by her side, still in a neat pile. She found that the first marks

came easily, and those after them seemed to almost choose

themselves. Mark after mark leapt out of the flow of the

Charter and into her mind, then as quickly out, crossing to the

silver-wire dog in an arc of golden lightning.

As more and more marks rushed through her, Lirael

slipped further into a trance state, barely aware of anything

except the Charter and the marks that filled her. The golden

lightning became a solid bridge of light from her outstretched

hands to the silver wires, growing brighter by the second.

Lirael closed her eyes against the glare, and she felt herself slip

towards the edge of dream, her conscious mind barely awake.

Images moved restlessly between the marks in her mind.

Images of dogs, many dogs, of all shapes, colors, and sizes.

Dogs barking. Dogs running after thrown sticks. Dogs refusing

to run. Puppies waddling on uncertain paws. Old dogs

shivering themselves upright. Happy dogs. Sad dogs. Hungry

dogs. Fat, sleepy dogs.

More and more images flashed through, till Lirael felt she

had seen glimpses of every dog that had ever lived. But still the

Charter marks roared through her mind. She had long lost

track of where she was up to, or which marks were next—and

the golden light was too bright for her to see how much of the

sending was done.

Yet the marks flowed on. Lirael realized that not only did

she not know which mark she was up to—she didn’t even know

the marks that were passing through her head! Strange, unknown

marks were pouring out of her into the sending. Powerful

marks that rocked her body as they left, forcing everything

else out of her mind with the urgency of their passage.

Desperately, Lirael tried to open her eyes, to see what the

marks were doing—but the glow was blinding now, and hot.

She tried to stand up, to direct the flow of marks into the wall

or ceiling. But her body seemed disconnected from her brain.

She could feel everything, but her legs and arms wouldn’t

move, just as if she were trying to wake herself from the end

of a dream.

Still the marks came, and then Lirael’s nostrils caught the

terrible, unmistakable reek of Free Magic, and she knew something

had gone terribly, horribly wrong.

She tried to scream, but no sound came out, only Charter

marks that leapt from her mouth towards the golden radiance.

Charter marks continued to fly from her fingers, too, and

swam in her eyes, spilling down inside her tears, which turned

to steam as they fell.

More and more marks flew through Lirael, through her

tears and her silent screaming. They swarmed through like an

endless flight of bright butterflies forced through a garden gate.

But even as the thousands and thousands of marks flung themselves

into the brightness, the smell of Free Magic rose, and a

crackling white light formed in the center of the golden glow,

so bright it shone through Lirael’s shut eyelids, piercing her

brimming eyes.

Held motionless by the torrent of Charter Magic, Lirael

could do nothing as the white light grew stronger, subduing the

rich golden glow of the swirling marks. It was the end, she

knew. Whatever she’d done now, it was much, much worse

than freeing a Stilken; so much worse that she couldn’t really

comprehend it. All she knew was that the marks that passed

through her now were more ancient and more powerful than

anything she had ever seen. Even if the Free Magic that grew

in front of her spared her life, the Charter marks would burn

her to a husk.

Except, she realized, they didn’t hurt. Either she was in

shock and already dying, or the marks weren’t harming her.

Any one of them would have killed her if she’d tried to use

them normally. But several hundred had already stormed

through, and she was still breathing. Wasn’t she?

Frightened by the thought that she might not be breathing,

Lirael focused all her remaining energy on inhaling—just as the

tremendous flow of marks suddenly stopped. She felt her connection

to the Charter sever as the last mark jumped across to

the boiling mass of gold and white light that had been her

silver-wire dog. Her breath came with sudden force, and she

overbalanced, falling backwards. At the last moment, she

caught the edge of the bookshelf, almost pulling that on top of

her. But the shelf didn’t quite go over, and she pulled herself

back up to a sitting position, ready to use her newly filled lungs

to scream.

The scream stayed unborn. Where the Free Magic and

Charter marks had fought in their sparking, swirling brilliance,

there was now a globe of utter darkness that occupied the

space where the wire dog and the desk had been. The awful

tang of Free Magic was gone, too, replaced by a sort of damp

animal odor that Lirael couldn’t quite identify.

A tiny pinprick star appeared on the black surface of the

globe, and then another, and another, till it was no longer dark

but as star-filled as a clear night sky. Lirael stared at it, mesmerized

by the multitude of stars. They grew brighter and

brighter, till she was forced to blink.

In the instant of that blink, the globe disappeared, leaving

behind a dog. Not a cute, cuddly Charter sending of a puppy,

but a waist-high black and tan mongrel that seemed to be

entirely real, including its impressive teeth. It had none of the

characteristics of a sending. The only hint of its magical origin

was a thick collar around its neck that swam with more

Charter marks that Lirael had never seen before.

The dog looked exactly like a life-size, breathing version of

the stone statuette. Lirael stared at the real thing, then down

at her lap.

The statuette was gone.

She looked back up. The dog was still there, scratching its

ear with a back foot, eyes half-closed with concentration. It

was soaking wet, as if it had just been for a swim.

Suddenly, the dog stopped scratching, stood up, and shook

itself, spraying droplets of dirty water all over Lirael and all

over the study. Then it ambled across and licked the petrified

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girl on the face with a tongue that most definitely was all real

dog and not some Charter-made imitation.

When that got no response, it grinned and announced, “I

am the Disreputable Dog. Or Disreputable Bitch, if you want

to get technical. When are we going for a walk?”

101

Chapter Eleven

Search for a Suitable Sword

The walk that Lirael and the Disreputable Dog took

that day was the first of many, though Lirael never could

remember exactly where they went, or what she said, or what

the Dog answered. All she could recall was being in the same

sort of daze she’d had when she’d hit her head—only this time

she wasn’t hurt.

Not that it mattered, because the Disreputable Dog never

really answered her questions. Later, Lirael would repeat the

same questions and get different, still-evasive answers. The

most important questions—“What are you? Where did you

come from?”—had a whole range of answers, starting with

“I’m the Disreputable Dog” and “from elsewhere” and occasionally

becoming as eloquent as “I’m your Dog” and “You

tell me—it was your spell.”

The Dog also refused, or was unable, to answer questions

about her nature. She seemed in most respects to be exactly like

a real dog, albeit a speaking one. At least at first.

For the first two weeks they were together, the Dog slept

in Lirael’s study, under the replacement desk that Lirael had

been forced to purloin from an empty study nearby. She had

no idea what had happened to her own, as not a bit of it

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remained after the Dog’s sudden appearance.

The Dog ate the food Lirael stole for her from the Refectory

or the kitchens. She went walking with Lirael four times

a day in the most disused corridors and rooms Lirael could

find, a nerve-wracking exercise, though somehow the Dog

always managed to hide from approaching Clayr at the last

second. She was discreet in other ways as well, always choosing

dark and unused corners to use as a toilet—though she did

like to alert Lirael to the fact that she had done so, even if her

human friend declined to sniff at the result.

In fact, apart from her collar of Charter marks and the fact

that she could talk, the Disreputable Dog really did seem to be

just a rather large dog of uncertain parentage and curious

origin.

But of course she wasn’t. Lirael sneaked back to her study

one evening after dinner, to find the Dog reading on the floor.

The Dog was turning the pages of a large grey book that Lirael

didn’t recognize, with one paw—a paw that had grown longer

and separated out into three extremely flexible fingers.

The Dog looked up from the book as her supposed mistress

froze in the doorway. All Lirael could think of were the

words in Nagy’s book, about the Stilken’s form being fluid—

and the way the hook-handed creature had stretched and

thinned to get through the gate guarded by the crescent moon.

“You are a Free Magic thing,” she blurted out, reaching

into her waistcoat pocket for the clockwork mouse, as her lips

felt for the whistle on her lapel. This time she wouldn’t make

a mistake. She’d call for help right away.

“No, I’m not,” protested the Dog, her ears stiffening in

outrage as her paw shrank back to its normal proportions.

“I’m definitely not a thing! I’m as much a part of the Charter

as you are, albeit with special properties. Look at my collar!

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And I am definitely not a Stilken or any other of the several

hundred variations thereof.”

“What do you know about Stilken?” asked Lirael. She still

didn’t enter the study, and the clockwork mouse was ready in

her hand. “Why did you mention them in particular?”

“I read a lot,” replied the Dog, yawning. Then she sniffed,

and her eyes lit up with expectation. “Is that a ham bone you

have there?”

Lirael didn’t answer but moved the paper-wrapped object

in her left hand behind her back. “How did you know I was

thinking about a Stilken just then? And I still don’t know you

aren’t one yourself, or something even worse.”

“Feel my collar!” protested the Dog as she edged forward,

licking her chops. Clearly the current conversation wasn’t as

interesting as the prospect of food.

“How did you know I was thinking about a Stilken?”

repeated Lirael, giving each word a slow and considered

emphasis. She held the ham bone over her head as she spoke,

watching the Dog’s head tilt back to follow the movement.

Surely a Free Magic creature wouldn’t be this interested in a

ham bone.

“I guessed, because you seem to be thinking about Stilken

quite a lot,” replied the Dog, gesturing with a paw at the books

on the desk. “You are studying everything required to bind

a Stilken. Besides, you also wrote ‘Stilken’ fourteen times

yesterday on that paper you burnt. I read it backwards on the

blotter. And I’ve smelled your spell on the door down below,

and the Stilken that waits beyond it.”

“You’ve been out by yourself!” exclaimed Lirael. Forgetting

that she had been afraid of whatever the Dog might be,

she stormed in, slamming the door behind her. In the process,

she dropped the clockwork mouse, but not the ham bone.

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The mouse bounced twice and landed at the Dog’s feet.

Lirael held her breath, all too aware that the door was now

shut at her back, which would greatly delay the mouse if she

needed help. But the Dog didn’t seem dangerous, and she was

so much easier to talk to than people were . . . except for Filris,

who was gone.

The Disreputable Dog sniffed at the mouse eagerly for an

instant, then pushed it aside with her nose and transferred her

attention back to the ham bone.

Lirael sighed, picked up the mouse, and put it back in her

pocket. She unwrapped the bone and gave it to the Dog, who

immediately snatched it up and deposited it in a far corner

under the desk.

“That’s your dinner,” said Lirael, wrinkling her nose.

“You’d better eat it before it starts to smell.”

“I’ll take it out and bury it later, in the ice,” replied the

Dog. She hesitated and hung her head a little before adding,

“Besides, I don’t actually need to eat. I just like to.”

“What!” exclaimed Lirael, cross again. “You mean I’ve

been stealing food for nothing! If I were caught I’d—”

“Not for nothing!” interrupted the Dog, sidling over to

butt her head against Lirael’s hip and look up at her with wide,

beseeching eyes. “For me. And much appreciated, too. Now,

you really should feel my collar. It will show you that I am not

a Stilken, Margrue, or Hish. You can scratch my neck at the

same time.”

Lirael hesitated, but the Dog felt so like the friendly dogs

she scratched when they visited the Refectory that her hand

almost automatically went to the Dog’s back. She felt warm

dog skin and the silky, short hair, and she began to scratch

along the Dog’s spine, up towards the neck. The Dog shivered

and muttered, “Up a bit. Across to the left. No, back. Aahhh!”

105

Then Lirael touched the collar, just with two fingers—and

was momentarily thrown out of the world altogether. All she

could see, hear, and feel were Charter marks, all around, as if

she had somehow fallen into the Charter. There was no leather

collar under her hand, no Dog, no study. Nothing but the

Charter.

Then she was suddenly back in herself again, swaying and

dizzy. Both her hands were scratching the Dog under the chin,

without her knowing how they had got there.

“Your collar,” Lirael said, when she got her balance back.

“Your collar is like a Charter Stone—a way into the Charter.

Yet I saw Free Magic in your making. It has to be there somewhere

. . . doesn’t it?”

She fell silent, but the Dog didn’t answer, till Lirael stopped

scratching. Then she turned her head and jumped up, licking

Lirael across her open mouth.

“You needed a friend,” said the Dog, as Lirael spluttered

and wiped her mouth with both sleeves, one after the other. “I

came. Isn’t that enough to be going on with? You know my

collar is of the Charter, and whatever else I may be, it would

constrain my actions, even if I did mean you any harm. And

we do have a Stilken to deal with, do we not?”

“Yes,” said Lirael. On an impulse, she bent down and

hugged the Dog around the neck, feeling both warm dog and

the soft buzz of the Charter marks in the Dog’s collar through

the thin material of her shirt.

The Disreputable Dog bore this patiently for a minute,

then made a sort of wheezing sound and shuffled her paws.

Lirael understood this from her time with the visiting dogs,

and let go.

“Now,” pronounced the Dog. “The Stilken must be dealt

with as soon as possible, before it gets free and finds even

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worse things to release, or let in from outside. I presume you

have obtained the necessary items to bind it?”

“No,” said Lirael. “Not if you mean the stuff Nagy mentions:

a rowan wand or a sword, infused with the Charter

marks—”

“Yes, yes,” said the Dog hastily, before Lirael could recite

the whole list. “I know. Why haven’t you got one?”

“They don’t just lie around,” replied Lirael defensively.

“I thought I could get an ordinary sword and put the—”

“Take too long. Months!” interrupted the Dog, who had

started pacing to and fro in a serious manner. “That Stilken

will be through your door spell in a few days, I would think.”

“What!” screamed Lirael. Then she said more quietly,

“What? You mean it’s escaping?”

“It will soon,” confirmed the Dog. “I thought you knew.

Free Magic can corrode Charter marks as well as flesh. I suppose

you could renew the spell.”

Lirael shook her head. Her throat still hadn’t recovered

from the master mark she’d used last time. It would be too

risky to chance speaking it again before she was completely

better. Not without the added strength of a Charter-spelled

sword—which brought her back to the original problem.

“You’ll have to borrow a sword, then,” declared the Dog,

fixing Lirael with a serious eye. “I don’t suppose anyone will

have the right sort of wand. Not really a Clayr thing, rowan.”

“I don’t think swords redolent with binding spells are,

either,” protested Lirael, slumping into her chair. “Why couldn’t

I just be an ordinary Clayr? If I’d got the Sight, I wouldn’t be

wandering around the Library getting into trouble! If I ever do

get the Sight, I swear by the Charter I am never going to go

exploring, ever again!”

“Mmmm,” said the Dog, with an expression Lirael

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couldn’t fathom, though it seemed to be loaded with hidden

meaning. “That’s as may be. On the matter of swords, you are

in error. There are a number of swords of power within these

halls. The Captain of the Rangers has one, the Observatory

Guard have three—well, one is an axe, but it holds the same

spells within its steel. Closer to home, the Chief Librarian has

one, too. A very old and famous sword, in fact, most appropriately

named Binder. It will do nicely.”

Lirael looked at the Dog with such a blank stare that the

hound stopped pacing, cleared her throat, and said, “Pay attention,

Lirael. I said that you were in error about—”

“I heard what you said,” snapped Lirael. “You must be

absolutely mad! I can’t steal the Chief’s sword! She always has

it with her! She probably sleeps with it!”

“She does,” replied the Dog smugly. “I checked.”

“Dog!” wailed Lirael, trying to keep her breathing down

to less than one breath a second. “Please, please do not go

looking in the Chief Librarian’s rooms! Or anywhere else!

What would happen if someone saw you?”

“They didn’t,” replied the Dog happily. “Anyway, the

Chief keeps the sword in her bedroom, but not actually in bed

with her. She puts it on a stand next to her bed. So you can

borrow it while she’s asleep.”

“No,” replied Lirael, shaking her head. “I’m not creeping

into the Chief’s bedroom. I’d rather fight the Stilken without a

sword.”

“Then you’ll die,” said the Disreputable Dog, suddenly

very serious. “The Stilken will drink your blood and grow

stronger from it. Then it will creep out into the lower reaches

of the Library, emerging every now and then to capture librarians,

to take them one by one, feasting on their flesh in some

dark corner where the bones will never be found. It will find

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allies, creatures bound even deeper in the Library, and will

open doors for the evil that lurks outside. You must bind it,

but you cannot succeed without the sword.”

“What if you help me?” asked Lirael. There had to be some

way of avoiding the Chief, some way that didn’t involve

swords at all. Trying to get Mirelle’s sword, or the ones from

the Observatory, would not be any easier than the Chief’s. She

didn’t even know exactly where the Observatory was.

“I’d like to,” replied the Dog. “But it is your Stilken. You

let it out. You must deal with the consequences.”

“So you won’t help,” said Lirael sadly. She had hoped, just

for a moment, that the Disreputable Dog would step in and fix

everything for her. She was a magical creature, after all, possibly

of some power. But not enough to take on a Stilken, it

seemed.

“I will advise,” said the Dog. “As is only proper. But you

will have to borrow the sword yourself, and perform the binding.

Tonight is probably as good a time as any.”

“Tonight?” asked Lirael, in a very small voice.

“Tonight,” confirmed the Dog. “At the stroke of midnight,

when all such adventures should begin, you will enter the Chief

Librarian’s room. The sword is on the left, past the wardrobe,

which is strangely full of black waistcoats. If all goes well, you

will be able to return it before the dawn.”

“If all goes well,” repeated Lirael somberly, remembering

the silver fire in the Stilken’s eyes, and those terrible hooks.

“Do you . . . do you think I should leave a note, in case . . . in

case all does not go well?”

“Yes,” said the Dog, removing the last small shred of

Lirael’s self-confidence. “Yes. That would be a very good

idea.”

109

Chapter Twelve

Into the Lair of

When the great water-powered clock in the Middle

Refectory showed fifteen minutes to midnight, Lirael left her

hiding spot in the breakfast servery and climbed up through an

air shaft to the Narrow Way, which would in turn take her to

the Southscape and Chief Librarian Vancelle’s rooms.

Lirael had dressed in her librarian’s uniform in case she met

anyone, and carried an envelope addressed to the Chief. A

skeleton staff of librarians did work through the night, though

they didn’t usually employ Third Assistants like Lirael. If she

was stopped, Lirael would claim she was taking an urgent message.

In fact, the envelope contained her “just in case” note,

alerting the Chief to the presence of the Stilken.

But she didn’t meet anyone. No one came down the

Narrow Way, which lived up to its name by being too narrow

for two people to pass abreast. It was rarely used, because if

you did meet someone going the other way, the more junior

Clayr would have to backtrack—sometimes for its entire

length, which was more than half a mile.

The Southscape was wider, and much more risky for Lirael

because so many senior Clayr had rooms off its broad expanse.

Fortunately, the marks that lit it so brightly during the day had

110

the Chief Librarian

faded to a glimmer at night, producing heavy shadows for her

to hide in.

The door to the Chief’s rooms, however, was brightly lit by

a ring of Charter marks around the book-and-sword emblem

that was carved into the stone next to the doorway.

Lirael looked at the lights balefully. Not for the first time,

she wondered what she was doing. It probably would have

been better to confess months ago when she initially got into

trouble. Then someone else could deal with the Stilken—

A touch at her leg made her jump and almost scream. She

stifled the scream as she recognized the Disreputable Dog.

“I thought you weren’t going to help,” she whispered, as

the Dog jumped up and attempted to lick her face. “Get down,

you idiot!”

“I’m not helping,” said the Dog happily. “I’ve come to

watch.”

“Great,” replied Lirael, trying to sound sarcastic. Secretly,

she was pleased. Somehow, the lair of the Chief Librarian

seemed less threatening with the Dog along.

“When is something going to happen?” the Dog asked a

minute later, as Lirael still stood in the shadows, watching the

door.

“Now,” said Lirael, hoping that saying the word would

give her the courage to begin. “Now!”

She crossed the corridor in ten long strides, gripped the

bronze doorknob, and pushed. No Clayr needed to lock her

door, so Lirael wasn’t expecting any resistance. The door

opened, and Lirael stepped in, the Dog whisking past her on

the way.

She shut the door quietly behind her and turned to survey

the room. It was mainly a living space, dominated by bookshelves

on three walls, several comfortable chairs, and a tall,

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thin sculpture of a sort of squashed-in horse, carved out of

translucent stone.

But it was the fourth wall that attracted Lirael’s attention.

It was a single, vast window from floor to ceiling, made of the

clearest, cleanest glass Lirael had ever seen.

Through the window, Lirael could see the entire Ratterlin

valley stretching southward, the river a wide streak of silver far

below, shining in the moonlight. It was snowing lightly outside,

and snowflakes whirled about in wild dances as they fell

down the mountainside. None stuck to the window, or left any

mark upon it.

Lirael flinched and stepped back as a dark shape swooped

past, straight through the falling snow. Then she realized it was

only an owl, heading down the valley for a midnight snack.

“There’s lots to do before dawn,” whispered the Dog conversationally,

as Lirael kept staring out the window, transfixed

by that ribbon of silver winding off to the far horizon and by

the strange moonlit vista that stretched as far as she could see.

Beyond the horizon lay the Kingdom proper: the great city of

Belisaere, with all its marvels, open to the sky and surrounded

by the sea. All the world—the world that the other Clayr Saw

in the ice of the Observatory—was out there, but all she knew

of it was from books or from travelers’ tales overheard in the

Lower Refectory.

For the first time, Lirael wondered what the Clayr were

trying to See out there with the greatly expanded Watches.

Where was the place that resisted the Sight? What was the future

that was beginning there, perhaps even as she looked out?

Something tickled at the back of her mind, a sense of déjà

vu or a fleeting memory. But nothing came, and she remained

entranced, staring at the outside world.

“A lot to do!” repeated the Dog, a little louder.

112

Reluctantly, Lirael tore herself away and concentrated on

the task at hand. The Chief’s bedroom had to be beyond this

room. But where was the door? There were only the window,

the door leading outside, and the bookshelves. . . .

Lirael smiled as she saw that the end of one shelf was occupied

by a door-handle rather than tightly packed books. Trust

the Chief to have a door that doubled as a bookshelf.

“The sword is on a stand just to the left,” whispered the

Dog, who suddenly seemed a bit anxious. “Don’t open the

door too much.”

“Thanks,” replied Lirael as she gingerly tested the door

handle, to see if it had to be pulled, pushed, or turned. “But I

thought you weren’t helping.”

The Dog didn’t answer, because as soon as Lirael touched

it, the whole bookcase swung open. Lirael only just managed

to get a firm enough grasp on the handle to stop it from opening

completely, and had to haul it back to leave a gap wide

enough for herself to slide through.

The bedroom was dark, lit only by the moonlight in the

outer chamber. Lirael poked her head in very slowly and let

her eyes adjust, her ears trying to catch any sound of movement

or sudden waking.

After a minute or so, she could see the faint dark mass of

a bed, and the regular breathing of someone asleep—though

she wasn’t sure if she could really hear that or was just imagining

it.

As the Dog had said, there was a stand near the door. A

sort of cylindrical metal cage that was open only at the top.

Even in the dim light, Lirael could see that Binder was there,

in its scabbard. The pommel was only a few inches below the

top of the stand, in easy reach. But she would have to be right

next to the stand to lift the sword high enough to clear the cage.

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She ducked back out and took a deep breath. The air

seemed closer in the bedroom somehow. Darker, and cloying,

as if it conspired against thieves like Lirael.

The Dog looked at her and winked encouragingly. Still,

Lirael’s heart started to beat faster and faster as she edged back

through the door, and she suddenly felt strangely cold.

A few, small, careful steps took her next to the stand. She

touched it with both hands, then gingerly moved to grab the

sword by the grip, and the scabbard just below the hilt.

Lirael’s fingers had barely touched the metal when the sword

suddenly let out a low whistle, and Charter marks flared into

brilliance across the hilt. Instantly, Lirael let go and hunched forward,

trying to muffle both light and sound with her body. She

didn’t dare turn around. She didn’t want to see the Chief awake

and furious.

But there was no sudden shout of outrage, no stern voice

demanding to know what she was doing. The red blur in front

of her eyes faded as her night vision returned, and she cocked

an ear to try and hear anything above the steady drum-beat of

her own heart.

Both whistle and the light had lasted no more than a

second, she realized. Even so, it was clear that Binder chose

who would—or would not—wield it.

Lirael thought about this for a moment, then bent down

and whispered, so low that she could hardly hear it herself.

“Binder, I would borrow you for this night, for I need your

help to bind a Stilken, a creature of Free Magic. I promise that

you will be returned before the dawn. I swear this by the

Charter, whose mark I bear.”

She touched the Charter mark on her forehead, wincing as

its sudden flare of light lit up the stand. Then she touched the

pommel of Binder with the same two fingers.

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It didn’t whistle, and the marks in its hilt merely glowed.

Lirael almost sighed, but swallowed the sigh at the last moment,

before it could give her away.

The sword came free of the stand without a sound, though

Lirael had to lift it high over her own head for the point to

clear, and it was heavy. She hadn’t realized how heavy it would

be, or how long. It felt as if it weighed double her little practice

sword, and it was easily a third as long again. Too long to

clip the scabbard to her belt, unless she wore the belt under her

armpits, or let the point drag along the ground.

This sword was never made for a fourteen-year-old girl,

Lirael concluded, as she edged back out and carefully shut the

door. She resisted thinking any further than that.

There was no sign of the Disreputable Dog. Lirael looked

around, but there was nothing big enough for the Dog to hide

behind—unless she’d somehow shrunk herself and gone under

one of the chairs.

“Dog! I’ve got it! Let’s go!” hissed Lirael.

There was no answer. Lirael waited for at least a minute,

though it seemed much longer. Then she went to the outer door

and put her head against it, listening for footsteps in the

corridor outside. Getting back to the Library with the sword

would be the trickiest part of the venture. It would be impossible

to explain to any Clayr she met.

She couldn’t hear anything, so she slipped outside. As the

door clicked shut behind her, Lirael saw a shadow suddenly

stretch out of the dark edge on the other side, and a jolt of

fear went through her. But once again, it was only the Disreputable

Dog.

“You scared me!” whispered Lirael, as she hurried into the

shadows herself, and along to the Second Back Stair that would

take her directly down to the Library. “Why didn’t you wait?”

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“I don’t like waiting,” said the Dog, trotting along at her

heels. “Besides, I wanted to take a look in Mirelle’s rooms.”

“No!” exclaimed Lirael, louder than she intended. She

dropped to one knee, put the sword into the crook of one arm,

and gripped the Dog’s lower jaw. “I told you not to go into

people’s rooms! What will we do if someone decides you’re a

menace?”

“I am a menace,” mumbled the Dog. “When I want to be.

Besides, I knew she wasn’t there. I could smell she wasn’t.”

“Please, please, don’t go looking anywhere people might

see you,” begged Lirael. “Promise me you won’t.”

The Dog tried to look away, but Lirael held her jaw. Eventually

she muttered something that possibly contained the word

“promise.” Lirael decided that, given the circumstances, that

would have to do.

A few minutes later, slinking down the Second Back Stair,

Lirael remembered her own promise to Binder. She’d sworn

she’d return it to Vancelle’s bedroom before dawn. But what if

she couldn’t?

They left the Stair and headed down the main spiral until

they were almost at the door to the flower-field room. When

it came in sight, Lirael suddenly stopped. The Dog, who was

several yards behind, loped up and looked at her enquiringly.

“Dog,” Lirael said slowly. “I know you won’t help me fight

the Stilken. But if I can’t bind it, I want you to get Binder and

take it back to Vancelle’s. Before the dawn.”

“You will take it back yourself, Mistress,” said the Dog

confidently, her voice almost a growl. Then she hesitated, and

said in a softer tone, “But I will do as you ask, if it proves necessary.

You have my promise.”

Lirael nodded her thanks, unable to speak. She walked

the final thirty feet to the door. There, she checked that the

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clockwork mouse was in her right waistcoat pocket and the

small silver bottle in her left. Then she unsheathed Binder and,

for the first time, held it as a weapon, on guard. The Charter

marks on the blade burst into brilliant fire as they sensed the

foe, and Lirael felt the latent strength of the sword’s magic.

Binder had defeated many strange creatures, she knew, and this

filled her with hope—until she remembered that this was probably

the first time it was being wielded by a girl who didn’t

really know what she was doing.

Before that thought could paralyze her, Lirael reached out

and broke the locking-spell on the door. As the Dog had said,

the spell had been corroded by Free Magic, a corrosion so

fierce that the spell broke apart merely at her touch and a whispered

command.

Then she waved her wrist. The emeralds of her bracelet

flashed, and the door groaned open. Lirael braced herself for

the sudden rush of the Stilken’s attack—but there was nothing

there.

Hesitantly, she stepped through the doorway, her nose

twitching, seeking any scent of Free Magic, her eyes wide for

the slightest hint of the creature’s presence.

Unlike on her earlier visit, there was no bright light beyond

the corridor—just an eerie glow, a Charter Magic imitation of

moonlight that reduced all colors to shades of grey. Somewhere,

in that half-darkness, the Stilken lurked. Lirael raised

the sword higher and stepped out into the chamber, the flowers

rustling under her feet.

The Disreputable Dog followed ten paces behind, every

hair on her back stuck up in a ridge, a low growl rumbling

in her chest. There were traces of the Stilken here, but no

active scent. It was hiding somehow, waiting in ambush. For

a moment the Dog almost spoke. Then she remembered:

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Lirael must defeat the Stilken alone. She hunkered down on

her belly, watching as her mistress walked on through the

flowers, towards the tree and the pool—where the Stilken’s

ambush must surely lie.

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Chapter Thirteen

Of Stilken and Strange Magic

Once again, Lirael was struck by the silence in

the vast chamber of flowers. Apart from the soft rustle of her

passage through the daisies, there was no sound at all.

Slowly, circling every few steps to make sure nothing was

creeping up on her, Lirael crossed the cavern, right up to the

door with the crescent moon. It was still partly open, but she

didn’t venture inside, thinking that the Stilken might be able to

lock her in somehow, if it was still hiding out in the field.

The tree was the most likely spot for the creature to be,

Lirael thought, imagining it twined around a branch like a

snake. Hidden by the thick green leaves, its silver eyes following

her every movement . . .

In the strange light, the oak was only a blot of shadow. The

Stilken could even be behind the trunk, slowly circling to keep

the tree between it and Lirael. Lirael kept her eyes on the tree,

opening them as wide as she could, as if they might capture

extra light. Still nothing stirred, so she started to walk towards

the tree, her steps getting shorter and shorter and her stomach

tighter, twisting with dread.

She was so intent on the tree that her feet splashed into the

edge of the pool before she realized it was there. Bright ripples,

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reflecting in the ersatz moonlight, spread for an instant, then

once again the water was still and dark.

Lirael stepped back, shook her feet, and began to skirt

around the pool. She could see some definition in the oak now,

see separate clumps of leaves and individual branches. But

there were also clots of shadow that could be anything. Every

time her eyes shifted, she thought she saw movement in the

darkness.

It was time for a light, she decided, even if that meant

giving her own position away. She reached into the Charter,

and the requisite marks began to swim into her mind—and

were lost, as the Stilken erupted out of the pool beside her and

attacked with its ferocious hooks.

Somehow, Binder met them in a spray of white sparks and

steam, and a shock that nearly dislocated Lirael’s shoulder. She

stumbled back, screaming with sudden battle rage as much as

panic, instinctively dropping into the guard position. Sparks

flew again and water hissed as the Stilken attacked again, its

hooks barely parried in time by Lirael and Binder.

Without conscious thought, Lirael gave ground, backing

towards the oak. All her knowledge of the binding-spells had

left her head, as had her sense of the Charter. Survival was all

that mattered now, getting her sword in place to block the murderous

assault of the monster.

It swung again, low, towards her legs. Lirael parried, and

surprised herself as her incompletely trained muscles took over.

She riposted directly at the thing’s torso. Binder’s point hit and

skittered across its gut, sending up a blaze of sparks that peppered

Lirael’s waistcoat with tiny holes.

But the Stilken didn’t seem hurt, only annoyed. It attacked

again, every sweep of its hooks forcing Lirael back several

paces. Desperately, she swung Binder, feeling the shock of every

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parry through to her bones. The weight of the sword was

already wearing her out. She had never been much of a swordswoman

and had never regretted it—till now.

She stepped back again, and her foot met slight resistance

and then went back a lot more than it should have, into an

unexpected hole. Lirael lost her balance, tumbling over backwards

as a sharp hook sliced the air in front of her throat.

Time seemed frozen as she fell. She saw her parry going

wide as her arms windmilled in her attempt to regain her balance.

She saw the hooks of the Stilken scything forward,

towards her, almost certain to meet around her waist.

Lirael hit the ground hard, but she didn’t notice the pain.

She was already rolling aside, dimly registering that it was a

hollow between two roots that had tripped her, and tree roots

were pummeling her body as she rolled over them.

Earth—flowers—the distant ceiling and its Charter lights

like far-off stars—earth—flowers—the artificial sky—with

every roll, Lirael expected to see the Stilken’s silver gaze and

feel the searing pain of its hooks. But she didn’t see it, and no

death blow came. On the sixth roll, she stopped and threw

herself forward, stomach muscles stabbing in agony as she

flipped back onto her feet.

Binder was still in her hand, and the Stilken was trying to

extricate its left hook from where it was stuck, deep in one of

the great taproots of the oak. Instantly, Lirael realized it must

have missed her as she fell—and struck the root instead.

The Stilken looked at her, silver eyes blazing, and made

an awful gobbling noise, deep in its throat. Its body started

to shift, weight moving from the trapped left arm to the right

side of its body. It grew squatter, and muscles moved under

the seemingly human skin like slugs under a leaf, gathering in

the caught arm. Before the process was finished, it heaved,

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straining to free itself and come after Lirael.

This was her chance, Lirael knew—these scant few seconds.

Charter marks flared on Binder’s blade as she reached

out to them, joining them to others drawn out of the Charter.

Four master marks she needed, but to use them she had first

to protect herself with lesser marks.

Binder helped her, and the marks slowly formed a chain in

her mind, all too slowly, as the Stilken gobbled and strained,

pulling its hook out inch by inch. The oak itself seemed to be

trying to keep the creature trapped, Lirael realized, with that

small part of her mind not totally focused on the Charter-spell.

She could hear the tree rustling and creaking, as if it fought to

keep the cut in its taproot closed, the hook with it.

The last mark came, flowing into Lirael with easy grace.

She let the spell go, feeling its power rush through her blood

and every bone, fortifying her against the four master marks

she needed to call.

The first of these master marks blossomed in her mind as

the Stilken finally pulled its hook free, with a great groan from

the oak and a spray of white-green sap. Even with the protective

spell upon her, Lirael didn’t let the master mark linger

in her mind. She cast it forth, sending it down Binder’s blade,

where it spread like shining oil, till it suddenly burst into fire,

surrounding the blade with golden flames.

The Stilken, already leaping to attack, tried to twist away.

But it was too late. Lirael stepped forward, and Binder leapt

out in a perfect stop thrust, straight through the Stilken’s neck.

Golden fire raged, white sparks plumed up like a skyrocket’s

trail, and the creature froze a mere two paces from Lirael, its

hooks almost touching her on either side.

Lirael called forth the second master mark, and it, too,

ran down the blade. But when it reached the Stilken’s neck, it

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disappeared. A moment later, the creature’s skin began to crack

and shrivel, blazing white light shining through when the shriveled

skin sloughed off onto the ground. Within a minute, the

Stilken had lost its semi-human appearance. Now it was just a

featureless column of fierce white light, transfixed by a sword.

The third master mark left Binder and went into the

column. Instantly, what was left of the Stilken began to shrink,

dwindling away until it was a blob of light an inch in diameter,

with Binder now resting point first upon it.

Lirael took the metal bottle out of her waistcoat pocket,

put it on the ground, and used the sword to roll the shining

remnant of the Stilken inside. Only then did she withdraw the

blade, drop it, and thrust in the cork. A moment later, she

sealed it with the fourth master mark, which wrapped itself

around both cork and bottle in a flash of light.

For a moment the bottle jumped and wriggled in her hand,

then it was still. Lirael put it back in her pocket, and sat down

next to Binder, gasping. It was really over. She had bound the

Stilken. All by herself.

She leaned back, wincing at the aches and pains that sprang

up along her back and arms. A brief flash of light caught her

eye, from somewhere over near the tree. Instantly, she was back

on the alert again, her hand going to Binder, all her pains forgotten.

Picking up the sword, she went to investigate. Surely

there couldn’t be another Stilken? Or could it have got out at

the last instant? She checked the bottle, which was definitely

sealed. Might there have been the briefest instant when she

blinked, just as the fourth mark came?

The light flashed again, soft and golden as Lirael approached,

and she sighed with relief. That had to be Charter

Magic, so she was safe after all. The glow came from the hole

she had tripped over.

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Warily, Lirael poked at the hole with Binder, clearing the

soil away. She saw that the glow came from a book, bound in

what looked like fur or some sort of hairy hide. Using the

sword as a lever, she flipped the book out. She’d seen the tree

trying to hang on to the Stilken—she didn’t want it getting a

grip on her.

Once it was clear of the roots, she picked the book up. The

Charter marks on its cover were familiar ones, a spell to keep

the book clean and free of silverfish and moths. Lirael tucked

the thick volume under her arm, suddenly conscious that she

was drenched in sweat, caked in dirt and flower petals, and

completely exhausted, not to mention bruised. But only her

waistcoat had suffered permanent damage, drilled through by

sparks in a hundred places, as if it had been attacked by incendiary

moths.

The Dog rose up out of the flowers to meet her as she

headed back to the exit. She had Binder’s scabbard in her

mouth and didn’t let it go as Lirael slid the sword home.

“I did it,” said Lirael. “I bound the Stilken.”

“Mmmpph, mmpph, mmph,” said the Dog, prancing on

her back feet. Then she carefully laid the sword down and said,

“Yes, Mistress. I knew you would. Reasonably certainly.”

“Did you?” Lirael looked at her hands, which were starting

to shake. Then her whole body was shaking, and she had

to sit down till it stopped. She hardly noticed the Dog’s warm

bulk against her back, or the encouraging licks against her ear.

“I’ll take the sword back,” offered the Dog, when Lirael

finally stopped shaking. “You rest here till I return. I won’t be

long. You will be safe.”

Lirael nodded, unable to speak. She patted the Dog on the

head and lay back on the flowers, letting their scent waft over

her, the petals soft against her cheek. Her breathing slowed and

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became more regular, her eyes blinked slowly once, twice—and

then they closed.

The Dog waited until she was sure Lirael was asleep. Then

she let out a single short bark. A Charter mark came with it,

expelled out of the Dog’s mouth to hover in the air over the

sleeping girl. The Dog cocked her head and looked at it with

an experienced eye. Satisfied, she picked up the sword in her

powerful jaws and trotted off, out into the main spiral.

When Lirael awoke, it was morning, or at least the light

was bright again in the cavern. For a second she had the

impression that there was a Charter mark above her head, but

clearly that was only a dream, for there was nothing there

when she came fully awake and sat up.

She felt very stiff and sore, but no worse than she usually

did after one of the annual sword-and-bow exams. The waistcoat

was beyond repair, but she had spares, and there didn’t

seem to be any other physical signs of her combat with the

Stilken. Nothing that would require a trip to the Infirmary. The

Infirmary . . . Filris. For a moment Lirael was sad she couldn’t

tell her great-great-grandmother that she had defeated the

Stilken after all.

Filris would have liked the Disreputable Dog, too, Lirael

thought, glancing over to where the hound slept nearby. She

was curled into a ball, her tail wrapped completely around her

back legs, almost up to her snout. She was snoring slightly and

twitching every now and then, as if she dreamed of chasing

rabbits.

Lirael was about to wake up the Dog when she felt the

book poking into her. In the light, she realized it wasn’t bound

in fur or hide, but had some sort of closely knitted cover over

heavy boards, which was very peculiar indeed.

She picked it up and flicked it open to the title page, but

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even before she read the first word, she knew it was a book of

power. Every part of it was saturated with Charter Magic.

There were marks in the paper, marks in the ink, marks in the

stitching of the spine.

The title page said merely In the Skin of a Lyon. Lirael

turned it over, hoping to see a list of contents, but it went

straight into the first chapter. She started to read beyond the

words “Chapter One,” but the type suddenly blurred and

shimmered. She blinked, rubbed her eyes, but when she looked

again the page had the heading “Preface,” though she was sure

it could not have turned. She turned back, and there was the

title page again.

Lirael frowned and flipped forward. It still said “Preface.”

Before it could change, she started to read.

“The making of Charter-skins,” she read,

allows the Mage to take on more than the mere semblance

or seeming of a beast or plant. A correctly

woven Charter-skin, worn in the prescribed fashion,

gives the Mage the actual desired shape, with all the

peculiarities, perceptions, limitations, and advantages

of that shape.

This book is a theoretical examination of the art of

making Charter-skins; a practical primer for the beginning

shapewearer; and a compendium of complete

Charter-skins, including those for the lyon, the horse,

the hopping toade, the grey dove, the silver ash, and

divers other useful shapes.

The course of study contained herein, if followed

with fortitude and discipline, will equip the conscientious

Mage with the knowledge needed to make a first

Charter-skin within three or four years.

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“A useful book, that one,” said the newly awake Dog,

interrupting Lirael’s reading by thrusting her snout across

the pages, clearly demanding a morning scratch between the

ears.

“Very,” agreed Lirael, trying to keep reading around the

Dog, without success. “Apparently if I follow the course of

study in it, I’ll be able to take on another shape in three or four

years.”

“Eighteen months,” yawned the Dog sleepily. “Two years

if you’re lazy. Though you wear a Charter-skin—you don’t

change your own shape, as such. Make sure you start on a

Charter-skin that’ll be useful for exploring. You know, good at

getting through small holes and so on.”

“Why?” asked Lirael.

“Why?” repeated the Dog incredulously, pulling her head

out from under Lirael’s hand. “There’s so much to see and

smell here! Whole levels of the Library that no one has been

into for a hundred, a thousand years! Locked rooms full of

ancient secrets. Treasure! Knowledge! Fun! Do you want to be

just a Third Assistant Librarian all your life?”

“Not exactly,” replied Lirael stiffly. “I want to be a proper

Clayr. I want to have the Sight.”

“Well, maybe we’ll find something that can wake it in

you,” declared the Dog. “I know you have to work, but there’s

so much other time that shouldn’t go to waste. What could

be better than walking where no others have walked for a

thousand years?”

“I suppose I might as well,” Lirael agreed, her imagination

taking fire from the Dog’s words. There were plenty of

doors she wanted to open. There was that strange hole in the

rock, for instance, down where the main spiral came to an

abrupt end—

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“Besides,” the Dog added, interrupting her thoughts,

“there are forces at work here that want you to use the book.

Something freed the Stilken, and the creature’s presence has

woken other magics, too. That tree would not have given up

the book if you weren’t meant to have it.”

“I suppose,” said Lirael. She didn’t like the idea that the

Stilken had had help to break free from its prison. That implied

that there was some greater force of evil down here in the Old

Levels, or that some power could reach into the Clayr’s Glacier

from afar, despite all their wards and defenses.

If there was something like the Stilken—some Free Magic

entity of great power—in the Library, Lirael felt it was her

duty to find it. She felt that by defeating the Stilken, she had

unconsciously taken the first step towards assuming the

responsibility for destroying anything else like the creature

that might be a threat to the Clayr.

Exploring would also fill up the time and distract her.

Lirael realized she hadn’t thought much at all about Awakenings,

or the Sight, over these last few months. Creating the Dog

and discovering how to defeat the Stilken had filled nearly all

her waking thoughts.

“I will learn a useful Charter-skin,” she declared. “And we

will explore, Dog!”

“Good!” said the Dog, and she gave a celebratory bark that

echoed around the cavern. “Now you’d better run and get

washed and changed, before Imshi wonders where you are.”

“What time is it?” asked Lirael, startled. Away from the

peremptory whistle-blasts of Kirrith in the Hall of Youth, or

the chiming clock in the Reading Room, she had no idea what

time of day it was. She had thought it roughly dawn, for she

felt she hadn’t had much sleep.

“One half past the . . . sixth hour of the morning,” replied

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the Dog, after cocking her ear, as if to some distant chime.

“Give or take . . .”

Her voice trailed off, because Lirael had already left, breaking

into a somewhat limping run. The Dog sighed and launched

herself into a body-extending lope, easily catching up with

Lirael before she shut the door.

129

Part

two Ancelstierre

1928 a.w.

The Old Kingdom

Eighteenth Year of the

Restoration of King Touchstone I

Chapter Fourteen

Prince Sameth Hits a Six

Seven hundred miles south of the Clayr’s

Glacier, twenty-two boys were playing cricket. In the Old

Kingdom, beyond the Wall that lay thirty miles to the north, it

was late autumn. Here in Ancelstierre, the last days of summer

were proving warm and clear, perfect for the concluding match

in the fiercely contested Senior Schoolboys’ Shield series, the

primary focus for the sporting sixth formers of eighteen schools.

It was the last over of the match, with only one ball left to

bowl, and three runs needed to win the innings, the match, and

the series.

The batsman who faced that last ball was a month short

of his seventeenth birthday and half an inch over six feet tall.

He had tightly curling dark brown hair and distinctive black

eyebrows. He was not exactly handsome, but pleasing to the

eye, a striking figure in his white cricket flannels. Not that

they were as crisp and starched as they had been earlier, since

they were now drenched with the sweat of making seventyfour

runs in partnership, sixty of them his own.

A large crowd was watching in the stands of the Bain

Cricket Ground—a much larger crowd than normal for a

schoolboy match, even with one of the teams coming from the

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nearby Dormalan School. Most of the onlookers had come

to see the tall young batsman, not because he was any more

talented than others on the team, but because he was a Prince.

More to the point, he was a Prince of the Old Kingdom. Bain

was not only the closest town to the Wall that separated

Ancelstierre from that land of magic and mystery, it had also

suffered nineteen years before from an incursion of Dead creatures

that had been defeated only with the aid of the batsman’s

parents, particularly his mother.

Prince Sameth was not unaware of the curiosity the townsfolk

of Bain felt towards him, but he didn’t let it distract him.

All his attention was on the bowler at the other end of the

pitch, a fierce, redheaded boy whose ferociously quick bowling

had taken three wickets already. But he seemed to be

tiring, and his last over had been quite erratic, letting Sam and

his batting partner, Ted Hopkiss, slog the ball all over the field

in the effort to get those vital last runs. If the bowler didn’t

recover his strength and former precision, Sameth thought, he

had a chance. Mind you, the bowler was taking his time,

slowly flexing his bowling arm and looking at the clouds that

were rolling in.

The weather was a bit distracting, though only to Sameth.

A wind had sprung up a few minutes before. Blowing in

directly from the North, it carried magic with it, picked up

from the Old Kingdom and the Wall. It made the Charter mark

on Sameth’s forehead tingle and heightened his awareness of

Death. Not that this cold presence was very strong where he

was. Few people had died on the cricket pitch, at least in recent

times.

At last the bowler went into his run-up, and the bright red

ball came howling down the pitch, bouncing up as Sameth

stepped forward to meet it. Willow met leather with a mighty

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crack, and the ball soared off over Sameth’s left shoulder.

Higher and higher, it arced over the running fielders to the

stands, where it was caught by a middle-aged man, leaping out

of his seat to display some long-disused cricketing form.

A six! Sameth felt the smile spread across his face as

applause erupted in the stands. Ted ran down to shake his

hand, babbling something, and then he was shaking hands

with the opposing team and then all sorts of people as he made

his way back to the changing rooms in the pavilion. In between

handshakes, he looked up to where the telegraph board was

clicking over. He had made sixty-six not out, a personal best,

and a fitting end to his school cricket career. Probably his entire

cricket career, he thought, thinking of his return to the Old

Kingdom, only two months away. Cricket was not played

north of the Wall.

His friend Nicholas was the first to congratulate him in the

changing rooms. Nick was a superb spin bowler, but a poor

batsman and an even worse fielder. He often seemed to go off

in a dream, studying an insect on the ground or some strange

weather pattern in the sky.

“Well done, Sam!” declared Nick, vigorously shaking his

hand. “Another trophy for good old Somersby.”

“It will be good old Somersby soon,” replied Sam, easing

himself onto a bench and unstrapping his pads. “Odd, isn’t it?

Ten years of moaning about the place, but when it’s time to

leave . . .”

“I know, I know,” said Nick. “That’s why you should come

up to Corvere with me, Sam. Pretty much more of the same,

university. Put off that fear of the future—”

Whatever else he was going to say was lost as the rest of

the team pushed through to shake Sameth’s hand. Even Mr.

Cochrane, the coach and Somersby’s famously irascible Games

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Master, deigned to clap him on the shoulder and declare,

“Excellent show, Sameth.”

An hour later, they were all in the school’s omnibus, all

damp from the sudden shower that had come with the northern

wind. Patches of sun and patches of rain were alternating,

sometimes only for minutes. Unfortunately, the last rainy one

had come when they crossed the road to the bus.

It was a three-hour drive, almost due south to Somersby,

along the Bain High Road. So the passengers on the bus were

surprised when the driver turned off the High Road just outside

Bain, into a narrow, single-lane country road.

“Hold on, driver!” exclaimed Mr. Cochrane. “Where on

earth are you going?”

“Detour,” said the man succinctly, hardly moving his

mouth. He was a replacement for Fred, the school’s regular

driver, who had broken his arm the day before in a fight over

a disputed darts contest. “High Road’s flooded at Beardsley.

Heard it from a postman, back at the Cricketer’s Arms.”

“Very well,” said Cochrane, his frown indicating the reluctance

of his approval. “It is most odd. I wouldn’t have thought

there’s been enough rain. Are you sure you know a way around,

driver?”

“Yes, guv’nor,” the man affirmed, something that was possibly

meant to be a smile crossing his rather weasely face.

“Beckton Bridge.”

“Never heard of it,” said Cochrane dismissively. “Still, I

suppose you know best.”

The boys paid little attention to this discussion, or to the

road. They’d been up since four o’clock in order to get to Bain

on time, and had played cricket all day. Most of them, including

Nick, fell asleep. Sameth stayed awake, still buoyed up by

the excitement of his winning six. He watched the rain on the

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windows and the countryside. They passed settled farms, the

warm glow of electric light in their windows. The telegraph

poles flashed by the side of the road, as did a red telephone

booth as they whisked through a village.

He would be leaving all that behind soon. Modern technology

like telephones and electricity simply didn’t work on

the other side of the Wall.

Ten minutes later, they passed another sight Sameth

wouldn’t see beyond the Wall. A large field full of hundreds of

tents, with dripping laundry hung on every available guy rope,

and a general air of disorder. The bus slowed as it passed, and

Sameth saw that most of the tents had women and children

clustered in their doorways, looking out mournfully into the

rain. Nearly all of them had blue headscarves or hats, identifying

them as Southerling refugees. More than ten thousand

of them were being given temporary refuge in what the Corvere

Times described as “the remote northern regions of the nation,”

which clearly meant close to the Wall.

This must be one of the refugee settlements that had sprung

up in the last three years, Sameth realized, noting that the field

was surrounded by a triple fence of concertina wire and that

there were several policemen near the gate, the rain sluicing off

their helmets and dark-blue slickers.

The Southerlings were fleeing a war among four states

in the far South, across the Sunder Sea from Ancelstierre. The

war had started three years previously, with a seemingly small

rebellion in the Autarchy of Iskeria proving an unlikely success.

That rebellion had grown to be a civil war that drew in

the neighboring countries of Kalarime, Iznenia, and Korrovia,

on different sides. There were at least six warring factions that

Sameth knew about, ranging from the Iskerian Autarch’s forces

and the original Anarchist rebels to the Kalarime-backed

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Traditionalists and the Korrovian Imperialists.

Traditionally, Ancelstierre did not interfere with wars on

the Southern Continent, trusting to its Navy and the Flying

Corps to keep such trouble on the other side of the Sunder Sea.

But with the war now spread across most of the continent, the

only safe place for noncombatants was in Ancelstierre.

So Ancelstierre was the refugees’ chosen destination. Many

were turned back on the sea or at the major ports, but for every

large ship returned, a smaller vessel would make landfall somewhere

on the Ancelstierran coast and disgorge the two or three

hundred refugees who had been packed aboard like sardines.

Many more drowned, or starved, but this did not discourage

the others.

Eventually, they would be rounded up and put in temporary

camps. Theoretically, they would then be eligible to become

proper immigrants to the Commonwealth of Ancelstierre, but

in practice, only those with money, connections, or useful skills

ever gained citizenship. The others stayed in the refugee camps

while the Ancelstierran government tried to work out how

to send them back to their own countries. But with the war

growing worse and getting more confused by the day, no one

who had escaped it would willingly go back. Every time mass

deportment had been attempted, it had ended in hunger strikes,

riots, and every form of possible protest.

“Uncle Edward says that Corolini chap wants to send

the Southerlings into your neck of the woods,” said Nicholas

sleepily, wakened by the bus’s decrease in speed. “Across the

Wall. No room for them here, he says, and lots of room in

the Old Kingdom.”

“Corolini is a populist rabble-rouser,” replied Sameth, quoting

an editorial from the Times. His mother—who conducted

most of the Old Kingdom’s diplomacy with Ancelstierre—had

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an even harsher opinion of this politician, who had risen to

prominence since the beginning of the Southern War. She

thought he was a dangerous egotist who would do anything to

gain power. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. They

would all die in the Borderlands. It’s not safe.”

“What’s the problem with it?” asked Nick. He knew his

friend didn’t like talking about the Old Kingdom. Sam always

said that it was not at all like Ancelstierre and that Nick

wouldn’t understand. No one else knew anything much about

it, and there was little information of consequence in any

library Nick had seen. The Army kept the border closed, and

that was it.

“There are dangerous . . . dangerous animals and . . .

um . . . things,” replied Sameth. “It’s like I’ve told you before.

Guns and electricity and so on don’t work. It’s not like—”

“Ancelstierre,” interrupted Nicholas, smiling. “You know,

I’ve a good mind to come and visit you during the vac and see

for myself.”

“I wish you would,” Sameth said. “I’ll need to see a

friendly face after six months of Ellimere’s company.”

“How do you know it’s not your sister I want to visit?”

asked Nick, with an exaggerated leer. Sam never had a good

word to say about his older sister. He was about to say more,

but his words were cut short as he looked out the window. Sam

looked, too.

The refugee camp was long past and had given way to a

fairly dense forest. The distant, rain-blurred orb of the sun

hung just above the trees. Only they were both looking out the

left-hand side of the bus, and the sun should have been on the

right. They were going north, and must have been for some

time. North, towards the Wall.

“I’d better tell Cockers,” said Sameth, who was in the aisle

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seat. He’d just got up, and started to make his way to the front

of the bus, when the engine suddenly spluttered and the bus

jerked, nearly throwing Sam to the floor. The driver cursed and

crashed down several gears, but the engine kept spluttering.

The driver cursed again, revving the engine so hard its whine

woke up anyone left asleep. Then it suddenly stopped. Both the

interior light and the headlights went out, and the bus rolled

to a silent stop.

“Sir!” Sam called out to Mr. Cochrane, above the sudden

hubbub of waking boys. “We’ve been going north! I think

we’re near the Wall.”

Cochrane, who was peering through his own window,

turned back as Sam spoke and stood in the aisle, his commanding

bulk enough to silence the closer boys.

“Settle down!” he said. “Thank you, Sameth. Now everyone

stay in your seats, and I’ll soon sort—”

Whatever he was going to say was interrupted by the sound

of the driver’s door, as he slammed it shut it behind him. All

the boys rushed to the windows, despite Cochrane’s roar, and

saw the driver leap the roadside wall and run off through the

trees as if pursued by some mortal enemy.

“What on earth?” exclaimed Cochrane, as he turned to

look out the windscreen. Whatever had scared the driver

clearly didn’t seem so terrible to him, since he merely opened

the passenger door and stepped out into the rain, unfurling his

umbrella as he did so.

As soon as he left the bus, everyone rushed to the front.

Sam, from his position in the aisle, was the first to get there.

Looking out, he first saw a barrier across the road, and a large

red sign next to it. He couldn’t quite read it, because of the

rain, but he knew what it said anyway. He’d seen identical

signs every holiday, when he went home to the Old Kingdom.

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The red signs marked the beginning of the Perimeter, the military

zone that the Ancelstierran Army had established to face

the Wall. Beyond that sign, the woods on either side of the road

would vanish, replaced by a half-mile-wide expanse of strong

points, trenches, and the coils and coils of barbed wire that

stretched from the east coast to the west.

Sam remembered exactly what the sign said. Pretending he

had an amazing ability to see through fogged-up windscreens,

he recited the familiar warning to the others. It was important

for them to know.

PERIMETER COMMAND

NORTHERN ARMY GROUP

Unauthorized egress from the Perimeter Zone is strictly

forbidden.

Anyone attempting to cross the Perimeter Zone

will be shot without warning.

Authorized travelers must report to the Perimeter

Command H.Q.

REMEMBER—

NO WARNING WILL BE MADE

A moment of silence met this recitation, as the seriousness

of it sank in. Then a babble of questions broke out, but Sam

didn’t answer. He had thought the driver had run away because

he was afraid of being so close to the Wall. But what if he had

brought them there on purpose? And why had he run away

from the two red-capped military policemen who were walking

up from their sentry box?

Sameth’s family had many enemies in the Old Kingdom.

Some were human, and might be able to pass as harmless in

Ancelstierre. Some were not, but they might be powerful

enough to cross the Wall and get this little distance south.

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Especially on a day when the wind blew from the north.

Not bothering to get his raincoat, Sam jumped down from

the bus and hurried over to where the two military policemen

had just met Mr. Cochrane. Or rather, to where the MP

sergeant had started to shout at Cochrane.

“Get everyone off that bus and get them moving back as

quick as you can,” the sergeant shouted. “Run as far as you

can, then walk. Got it?”

“Why?” asked Mr. Cochrane, bristling. Like most of the

teachers and staff at Somersby, he wasn’t from the North,

and he had no idea about the Wall, the Perimeter, or the

Old Kingdom. He had always treated Sameth as he treated

the school’s other Prince, who was an albino from far-off

Karshmel—like an adopted child who wasn’t quite a member

of the family.

“Just do it!” ordered the sergeant. He seemed nervous,

Sameth noted. His revolver holster was open, and he kept looking

around at the trees. Like most soldiers on the Perimeter—

but totally unlike any other units of the Ancelstierran Army—he

also wore a long sword-bayonet on his left hip, and a mail coat

over his khaki battledress, though he’d kept his MP’s red cap,

rather than wearing the usual neck- and nasal-barred helmet

of the Perimeter garrison. Sam noted that neither of the two

men had a Charter mark on his forehead.

“That’s not good enough,” Cochrane protested. “I insist

on speaking to an officer. I can’t have my boys running about

in the rain!”

“We’d better do as the sergeant says,” said Sam, coming

up behind him. “There is something in the wood—and it’s getting

closer.”

“Who are you?” demanded the sergeant, drawing his

sword. The lance-corporal with him instantly followed suit,

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and started to sidle around behind. Both of them were looking

at Sam’s forehead, and the Charter mark that was just visible

under his Cricket XI cap.

“Prince Sameth of the Old Kingdom,” said Sam. “I suggest

you call Major Dwyer of the Scouts, or General Tindall’s headquarters,

and tell them I’m here—and that there are at least

three Dead Hands in the woods over there.”

“That’s torn it!” swore the sergeant. “We knew something

was up with this wind. How did they get— Well, it doesn’t

matter. Harris, double back to the post and alert HQ. Tell them

we’ve got Prince Sameth, a bunch of schoolkids, and at least

three category-A intruders. Use a pigeon and the rocket. The

phone’ll be out for sure. Move!”

The lance-corporal was gone before the sergeant’s mouth

shut, and just as Cochrane began.

“Sameth! What are you going on about?”

“There’s no time to explain,” replied Sam urgently. He

could sense Dead Hands—bodies infused with spirits called

from Death—moving through the forest, parallel to the road.

They didn’t seem to have sensed the living yet, but once they

did, they would be there within minutes. “We have to get everyone

out of here—we have to get as far away from the Wall as

we can.”

“But . . . But . . .” blustered Cochrane, red-faced and

astounded at the impertinence of one of his own boys ordering

him around. He would have said more, if the sergeant

hadn’t drawn his revolver and calmly said, “Get them going

now, sir, or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

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Chapter Fifteen

The Dead Are Many

Five minutes later, the entire team was out in

the rain, on the road, jogging south. At Sameth’s suggestion,

they had armed themselves with cricket bats, metal-tipped

cricket stumps, and cricket balls. The MP sergeant ran with

them, his revolver continuing to silence Cochrane’s protests.

The boys took it all as a bit of a joke at first, with much

bravado and carrying-on. But as it got darker and the rain got

heavier, they grew quieter. The jokes stopped altogether when

four quick shots were heard behind them, and then a distant,

anguished scream.

Sameth and the sergeant exchanged a look that combined

fear and a dreadful knowledge. The shots and the scream must

have come from Lance-Corporal Harris, who had gone back

to the post.

“Is there a stream or other running water near here?” panted

Sameth, mindful of the warning rhyme he’d known since childhood

about the Dead. The sergeant shook his head but didn’t

answer. He kept glancing back over his shoulder, almost losing

his balance as they ran. A little while after they heard the scream,

he saw what he was looking for and pointed it out to Sameth:

three red parachute flares drifting down from a few miles north.

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“Harris must have got the pigeon off, at least,” he puffed.

“Or maybe the telephone worked, since his pistol did. They’ll

have the reserve company and a platoon of Scouts out here

soon, sir.”

“I hope so,” replied Sameth. He could sense the Dead on

the road behind them now, coming up quickly. There seemed

to be no hope of safety anywhere ahead. No stout farmhouse

or barn, or a stream, whose running water the Dead couldn’t

cross. In fact, the road went down to become a sunken lane,

even darker and more closed in, a perfect site for an ambush.

As Sam thought of that, he felt his sense of Death suddenly

alter. It disoriented him at first, till he realized what it was. A

Dead spirit had just risen in front of them, somewhere in the

darkness around the high-banked road. Worse than that, it was

new, brought out of Death at that very moment. These were

no self-willed Dead spirits that had infiltrated through the

Perimeter. They were Dead Hands, raised by a necromancer on

the Ancelstierran side of the Wall. Controlled by the necromancer’s

mind, they were much more dangerous than rogue

spirits.

“Stop!” screamed Sam, his voice cutting through the beat

of rain and footsteps on the asphalt. “They’re ahead of us. We

have to leave the road!”

“Who are ahead, boy?” shouted Cochrane, furious again.

“This has gone quite far enough. . . .”

His voice faltered as a figure stumbled out of the shadows

ahead, out into the middle of the road. It was human, or

had once been human, but now its arms were hanging threads

of flesh, and its head was mostly bare skull, all deep eye hollows

and shining teeth. It was unquestionably dead, and the

reek of decomposition rolled off it, over the soft smell of the

rain. Clods of earth fell from it as it moved, showing that it

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had just dug itself out of the ground.

“Left!” shouted Sam, pointing. “Everyone go left!”

His shout broke the silent tableau into action, boys leaping

over the stone wall that bordered the road. Cochrane was

one of the first over, throwing his umbrella aside.

The Dead thing moved, too, breaking into a shambling run

as it sensed the Life it craved. The sergeant propped himself

against the wall and waited till it was ten feet away. Then he

emptied his heavy .455 revolver into the creature’s torso, five

shots in quick succession, accompanied by a gasp of relief that

the weapon actually worked.

The creature was knocked back and finally down, but the

sergeant didn’t wait. He’d been on the Perimeter long enough

to know that it would get back up again. Bullets could stop

Dead Hands, but only if the creatures were shredded to pieces.

White phosphorus grenades worked better, burning them to

ash—when they worked. Guns and grenades and all such standards

of Ancelstierran military technology tended to fail the

closer they got to the Wall and the Old Kingdom.

“Up the hill!” shouted Sam, pointing to a rise in the ground

ahead, where the forest thinned out. If they could make it

there, at least they could see what was coming and have the

slight advantage of high ground.

A harsh, inhuman cry rose behind them as they ran, a

sound like a broken bellows accidentally trodden on, more

squeal than scream. Sam knew it came from the desiccated

lungs of a Dead Hand. This one was farther to the right than

the one the sergeant had shot. At the same time, he sensed

others, moving around to the right and left, beginning to encircle

the hill.

“There’s a necromancer back there,” he said as they ran.

“And there must be a lot of dead bodies, not too far gone.”

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“A truck full of those Southerlings . . . ran off the road near

here, six weeks ago,” said the sergeant, speaking rapidly

between breaths. “Nineteen killed. Bit of a . . . mystery where

they was going . . . anyway . . . churchwarden at Archell

wouldn’t . . . have ’em . . . the Army crematorium neither . . .

so they was buried next to the road.”

“Stupid!” cried Sameth. “It’s too close to the Wall! They

should have been burnt!”

“Bloody paper-pushers,” puffed the sergeant, nimbly

ducking under a branch. “Regulations say no burying within

the . . . Perimeter. But this is . . . outside, see?”

Sameth didn’t answer. They were climbing the hill itself

now, and he needed all his breath. He sensed there were at least

twelve Dead Hands behind them now, and three or four on

each side, going wide. And there was something, some presence

that was probably the necromancer, back where the

bodies were—or had been—buried.

The top of the hill was clear of trees, save for a few windblown

saplings. Before they reached it, the sergeant called a

halt, just short of the crest.

“Right! Get in close. Are we missing anyone? How

many—”

“Sixteen, including Mr. Cochrane,” said Nick, who was a

lightning calculator. Cochrane glared at him but was silent,

ducking his head back down as he tried to get his breath back.

“Everyone’s here.”

“How long have we got, sir?” the sergeant asked Sam, as

they both looked back down into the trees. It was hard to see

anything. Visibility was reduced by both the increasingly heavy

rain and the onset of night.

“The first two or three will be on us in a few minutes,” said

Sameth grimly. “The rain will slow them a little. We’ll have to

147

knock them down and run stumps through them, to try to keep

them pinned. Nick, organize everyone into groups of three.

Two batsmen and someone to hold the stumps ready. No,

Hood—go with Asmer. When they come, I’ll distract them with

a . . . I’ll distract them. Then the batsman must hit as hard as

they can straight off, in the legs, and then hammer a stump

through each arm and leg.”

Sameth paused as he saw one of the boys eyeing the twoand-

a-half-foot-long wooden stump with its metal spike on the

end. From the expression on the boy’s face, it was clear he

couldn’t imagine hammering it through anything.

“These are not people!” Sam shouted. “They’re already

Dead. If you don’t fight them, they will kill us. Think of them

as wild animals, and remember, we’re fighting for our lives!”

One of the boys started crying, without making a noise, the

tears falling silently down his face. At first Sam thought it was

the rain, till he noticed the despairing stare that signified complete

and utter terror.

He was about to try some more encouraging words when

Nick pointed downhill and shouted, “Here they come!”

Three Dead Hands were coming out from the treeline,

shambling like drunks, their arms and legs clearly not fully

under control. The bodies had been too broken up in the crash,

Sam thought, gauging their strength. That was good. It would

make them slower and more uncoordinated.

“Nick, your team can take the one on the left,” he commanded,

speaking quickly. “Ted, yours the middle, and Jack’s

the right. Go for their knees and hammer the stumps home as

soon as you get them down. Don’t let them get a grip on you—

they’re much stronger than they look. Everyone else—including

you, please, Sergeant, and Mr. Cochrane—hold back and

help any team that gets in trouble.”

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“Yes, sir!” replied the sergeant. Cochrane merely nodded

dumbly, staring at the approaching Dead Hands. For the first

time in Sam’s memory, the man’s face was not flushed red. It

was white, almost as white as the sickeningly pallid flesh of the

approaching Dead.

“Wait for my order,” shouted Sam. At the same time, he

reached into the Charter. It was impossible to reach in most of

Ancelstierre, but this close to the Wall, it was merely difficult,

rather like trying to swim down to the bottom of a deep river.

Sameth found the Charter and took a moment’s comfort

from the familiar touch of it, its permanence and its totality

linking him to everything in existence. Then he summoned the

marks he wanted, holding them in his mind while he formed

their names in his throat. When he had everything ready, he

punched out his right hand, three fingers splayed, each finger

indicating one of the approaching Dead creatures.

“Anet! Calew! Ferhan!” he spat, and the marks flew from

his fingers as shining silver blades, whistling through the air

quicker than any eye could follow. Each one struck a Dead

Hand, blowing a fist-sized hole straight through decaying flesh.

All three staggered back, and one fell down, waving its arms

and legs like a beetle thrown on its back.

“Bloody hell!” exclaimed one of the boys next to Sam.

“Now!” shouted Sam, and the schoolboys rushed forward

with a roar, waving their makeshift weapons. Sam and the

sergeant went with them, but Cochrane struck out on his own,

running down the hill at a right angle to everyone else.

Then there was a blur of screaming, bats rising and falling,

the dull thud of stumps being driven through Dead flesh and

into the sodden ground.

Sam experienced it all in a strange frenzy, such a tangled mess

of sound, images, and emotion that he was never really sure what

149

happened. He seemed to come out of this concentrated fury to

find himself helping Druitt Minor hammer a stump through the

forearm of a writhing creature. Even with a stump through each

limb, it still struggled, breaking one stump and almost getting

free, before some of the boys in reserve cleverly rolled a boulder

over the loose arm.

Everyone was cheering, Sam realized, as he stepped back

and wiped the rain off his face. Everyone except him, because

he could sense more Dead, coming up from the road and on

the other side of the hill. A quick survey showed that there were

only three stumps left, and two of the five bats were broken.

“Get back,” he ordered, quelling the cheering. “There’s

more in the past four and a half years.

Despite her magical origins, the Dog’s smell was all too like

a real dog’s, Lirael thought, particularly when she was wet.

Like now, when Lirael’s wrinkling otter-nose was pressed up

against the Dog’s hind legs and tail as she followed her through

the bore. Fortunately, the tunnel wasn’t long, and Lirael forgot

the Dog’s odor as she saw that there wasn’t just more boring

tunnel on the other side. She could see the glow of a Charter-

Magicked ceiling, and some sort of tiled wall.

“It’s old, this room,” announced the Dog, as they slid out of

the bore and onto the pale blue and yellow tiles of the chamber

198

floor. Both shook off the ice with a wriggle, Lirael copying the

Dog’s expressive shiver from shoulder to tail.

“Yes,” agreed Lirael, suppressing an urge to scratch herself

vigorously around the neck. The Charter-skin was fraying

already, and she would need it to go back through the bore and

the tunnel. Forcing her clawed forepaws to be still, she tried to

concentrate on the room, hampered by her otterish vision, with

its different field of view and lack of color.

The room was lit by common Charter marks for light,

glowing in the ceiling, though Lirael immediately saw that they

were faded, and much older than most such marks would last.

A desk of some deep red wood took up one corner, but without

a chair. Empty bookcases lined one wall, glass doors shut.

Charter marks for repelling dust moved endlessly across them

like the sheen of oil on water.

There was a door on the far wall, of that same reddish

wood, studded with tiny golden stars, golden towers, and silver

keys. The golden stars were the seven-pointed variety that were

the emblem of the Clayr, and the golden tower was the blazon

of the Kingdom itself. The silver key Lirael did not know,

though it was not an uncommon sigil. Many cities and towns

used silver keys in their blazons.

She could feel considerable magic in the door. Charter

marks of locking and warding ran with the grain of the wood,

and there were other marks, too, describing something Lirael

couldn’t quite grasp.

She started towards it to see what they were, all her itchiness

forgotten, but the Dog put herself in the way, as if curbing

an exuberant puppy.

“Don’t!” she yelped. “It has a guard-sending on it, who

would only see—and slay—an ice otter. You must approach in

normal form and let it sense your blood untainted.”

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“Oh,” said Lirael, slumping down, slim head resting on her

forepaws, glittering dark eyes focused on the door. “But if I

change back, it’ll take me at least half the night to make a new

Charter-skin. We’ll miss dinner—and the midnight rounds.”

“Some things,” the Dog said portentously, “are worth

missing dinner for.”

“And the rounds?” asked Lirael. “It’ll be the second time

this week. Even if it is my birthday, it will be extra kitchen duty

for me—”

“I like you having extra kitchen duty,” replied the Dog,

licking her lips, and then licking Lirael’s face for good measure.

“Eeerrggh!” exclaimed Lirael. She still hesitated, thinking

not only of the extra kitchen duty but also the lecture that

would accompany it from Aunt Kirrith.

But just over there, the door of stars and towers and keys

beckoned. . . .

Lirael shut her eyes and began to think of the sequence

of Charter marks that would unravel the otter-skin, her mind

dipping into the never-ending flow of the Charter, picking out

a mark here, a symbol there, weaving them into a spell. In just

a few minutes she would be plain Lirael again, with her long,

unruly black hair so unlike that of her blond- and brownhaired

cousins; her pointy chin so much sharper than their

round faces; her pale skin that would never tan, not even in the

harsh sunlight reflecting off the glacial ice; and her brown eyes,

when all the Clayr had blue or green. . . .

The Disreputable Dog watched her change, the ice-otter

skin glowing with crawling Charter marks that spun and wove

till they became a tornado of light, shining brighter and

brighter and spinning faster and faster till it vanished. A slight

young woman stood there, frowning, eyes tightly shut. Before

her eyes opened, her hands ran over her body, checking that

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the red waistcoat was there, with dagger, whistle, and clockwork

emergency mouse. In some of Lirael’s early Charterskins,

all her clothes had fallen off in pieces when she’d

shucked the skin, every seam unpicked in an instant.

“Good,” said the Disreputable Dog. “Now we can try the

door.”

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Chapter Twenty-One

Beyond the Doors

Lirael took two steps towards the red wood door,

then stopped, as Charter Magic flared and swirled before her

and a fierce yellow light shone from the door-frame, forcing

her to duck her head and blink.

When she looked up, a Charter-sending stood in front of

the door—a creature of spell-flesh and magic-bone, conjured

for a specific purpose. Not one of the passive Library helpers,

but a guard of human shape, though much taller and broader

than any living man, clad in silver mail, a closed steel helm

hiding whatever face the spell had wrought. Its sword was in

its hand, outthrust, held steady as a statue, the point a few

inches from Lirael’s bare throat. Unlike their spell-flesh, the

weapons or tools of sendings were always made to be completely

tangible. Sometimes, as Lirael suspected was the case

with this sword, they were even harder, sharper, and more

dangerous than they would be if wrought of steel rather than

magic.

The sending held the sword extended for a few seconds without

a waver. Then, so quickly she didn’t see it move, the point

flicked against Lirael’s throat—just enough to break the skin,

capturing a single bead of blood on the very tip of the blade.

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of Wood and Stone

Lirael gulped down a startled cry but remained frozen,

fearful that it would strike again if she flinched. She knew

much of the lore of sendings, having continued her studies even

after “creating” the Dog. But she could not gauge the true purpose

of this one. For the first time since she had gone to confront

the Stilken, she felt afraid, and the chill dread of Charter

Magic gone wrong welled up inside her bones.

The sending lifted its sword again, and Lirael did flinch this

time, unable to control the twitch of fright. But the guard was

simply making that drop of blood run down the gutter of the

blade in a slow, stately roll, like a bead of oil, not leaving a

trace on the Charter-woven steel. After what seemed an age,

the bead reached the hilt and sank into the crossguard like

butter into toast.

Behind Lirael, the Dog let out a long, half-woofed sigh,

even as the sending saluted with the sword—and broke apart,

the Charter symbols that had made it momentarily real spinning

out into the air before fading away into nothingness. In a

few seconds, no sign of the sending remained.

Lirael realized she’d been holding her breath, and let it out

with a relieved whoosh. She touched her neck, expecting to feel

the unpleasant wetness of blood. But there was nothing, no cut,

not even a slight unevenness in the skin.

The Dog’s snout nudged her behind the knee. Then the

hound slipped past and grinned back at her.

“Well, you passed that test,” she said. “You can open the

door now.”

“I’m not sure I want to,” replied Lirael thoughtfully, still

fingering her neck. “Maybe we should go back.”

“What!” exclaimed the Dog, her ears sticking up in disbelief.

“Not look? Since when have you become Miss We

Shouldn’t Be Here?”

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“It could have cut my throat,” said Lirael, her voice trembling.

“It nearly did.”

The Disreputable Dog rolled her eyes and collapsed onto

her front paws in exasperation. “It was only testing you,

to make sure you have the Blood. You’re a Daughter of the

Clayr—no Charter-made creature would harm you. Though as

the greater world is full of danger, you’d better start getting

used to the idea that you can’t give up at the first thing that

scares you!”

“Am I a Daughter of the Clayr?” whispered Lirael, tears

starting in her eyes. She had held her sorrow in all year, but it

was always worst on her birthday. Now it could not be

repressed. She crouched down and hugged the Dog, ignoring

the damp reek of dog-smell. “I’m nineteen and I still haven’t

got the Sight. I don’t look like everyone else. When that sending

put out its sword, I suddenly realized that it knew. It knew

I’m not a Clayr, and it was going to kill me.”

“But it didn’t, because you are a Clayr, idiot,” said the Dog,

quite gently. “You’ve seen the hunting dogs, how every now

and then one will be born with floppy ears or have a brown

back instead of gold. They’re still part of the pack. You’re just

a floppy-ear.”

“But I can’t See the future!” cried Lirael. “Would the pack

accept a dog that couldn’t smell?”

“You can smell,” said the Dog, rather illogically. She licked

Lirael’s cheek. “Besides, you have other gifts. None of the

others are half the Charter Mage you are, are they?”

“No,” whispered Lirael. “But Charter Magic doesn’t

count. It’s the Sight that makes the Clayr. Without it, I am

nothing.”

“Well, perhaps there are other things you can learn,”

encouraged the Dog. “You might find something else—”

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“What? Like an interest in embroidery?” Lirael said in a

depressed monotone, cradling her head in her tear-dampened

forearms. “Or perhaps you think I should take up leatherwork?”

“That,” said the Dog, her voice losing all sympathy, “is

self-pity, and there’s only one way to deal with it.”

“What?” asked Lirael sullenly.

“This,” said the Dog, lunging forward and nipping her

quite sharply on the leg.

“Ow!” Lirael shrieked, leaping up and stumbling against

the door. “What did you do that for?”

“You were being pathetic,” said the Dog, as Lirael rubbed

the spot on her calf where visible tooth-marks indented her soft

wool leggings. “Now you’re just cross, which is an improvement.”

Lirael eyed the Dog balefully but didn’t answer, because she

couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t—quite accurately—

be seen as sulky or bad-tempered. Besides, she remembered

a particular dog bite from her seventeenth birthday and

had no desire to add a nineteenth-birthday scar.

The Dog stared back, her head tilted to one side, ears

cocked, waiting for some sort of reply. Lirael knew from experience

that the Dog could sit like that for hours if necessary,

and gave up the struggle to maintain her self-pity. Clearly, the

Dog just didn’t understand how important it was to have the

Sight.

“So—how do I open this?” asked Lirael.

Without realizing it, she’d been leaning against the door,

catching her balance there after the nip-assisted leap. She could

feel the Charter Magic in it, warm and rhythmic under the

palm of her hand, moving in slow counterpoint to the pulse in

her wrist and neck.

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“Give it a push,” suggested the Dog, moving closer, sniffing

at the crack where the door met the floor. “The sending

probably unlocked it for you.”

Lirael shrugged and placed both palms against the door.

Curiously, the metal studs seemed to have moved while she

wasn’t looking. They had been all mixed up but were now

sorted into three distinct patterns, though there was no obvious

meaning to them. Lirael wasn’t sure which particular symbols

were under her palms, though she could feel them leaving an

imprint on her skin.

Even the metal studs were impregnated with Charter symbols,

Lirael felt. She didn’t know precisely what they were, but

it was clear the door was a major work of magic, the result of

many months of superior spell-casting and equally masterful

metalwork and carpentry.

She pushed once, and the door groaned. She pushed more

forcefully, and it suddenly slid back like a concertina, separating

into seven distinct panels. Lirael didn’t notice that as this

happened, one of the three symbols completely disappeared,

leaving only two types of studs visible. She was overcome by a

sudden surge of Charter Magic that flowed out of the door and

somehow into Lirael herself. She felt it coursing through her,

infusing her with a heady happiness she had not felt since the

Disreputable Dog had first come to banish her loneliness. It

swam in her blood, sparked in her breath—then it was gone,

and she staggered against the door-frame. At the same time,

the impression of the studs on her hands faded before she could

see what they meant.

“Whew!” she said, shaking her head, one hand unconsciously

feeling for the comforting bulk of the Dog at her side.

“What was that?”

“The Door just said hello,” replied the Dog. Slipping from

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Lirael’s grasp, she was already questing ahead, paws clicking

as she essayed the first steps of a flight that spun downwards

into the mountain.

“What do you mean?” asked Lirael. The Dog’s upthrust,

wagging tail whisked down and around the curve of the spiral.

“How can a door say hello? Wait! Wait for me!”

The Disreputable Dog wasn’t known for listening to commands,

requests, or even entreaties, but she was waiting about

twenty steps lower down. There were fewer Charter marks

providing light here, and the steps were covered in dark moss.

Clearly no one had passed this way for a very long time.

She looked up as Lirael reached her, then immediately took

off down the steps again, easily re-establishing her twenty-step

lead, and was once again lost to sight, though Lirael could hear

her paws steadily clicking down the steps.

Lirael sighed and followed more slowly, not trusting the

moss-covered stair. There was something farther down that she

didn’t quite like, and she felt oppressed by some sense of unease,

below the level of consciousness. A sort of vaguely unpleasant

pressure that was increasing with every downwards step.

The Dog waited, at least momentarily, eight more times before

they reached the bottom of the deep stairs. Lirael guessed

they were now more than four hundred yards deeper under

the mountain than she had ever been before. There were no ice

intrusions here, either, adding to her feeling of strangeness. It

wasn’t like any other part of the Clayr’s domain.

It kept getting darker, too, the lower they went, the old

Charter marks for light fading till there were only a few

flickering here and there. Whoever had built this stair had

started from the bottom, Lirael realized, looking at the marks.

The lower ones were much older and had not been replaced

for centuries.

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Normally, she didn’t mind the darkness, but it was different

here, deep in the mountain. Lirael called up a light herself,

two bright Charter marks of illumination that she wove into

her hair, to send a bobbing fall of light ahead of her as she

descended.

At the bottom of the stairs, the Dog was scratching the

back of her ear in front of another Charter-bound door. This

one was of stone, and there were some letters carved into it,

large, deep-cut letters using the Middle Alphabet, as well as the

Charter symbols only a Charter Mage could see.

Lirael bent closer to read them, then recoiled, turned to the

steps, and tried to run away. Somehow the Dog got between

her legs, tripping her. Lirael fell and lost control of her light

spell, and the bright marks went out, twisting back into the

endless flow of the Charter.

For a moment of pure panic, she scrabbled in the darkness,

heading for what she thought were the steps. Then her fingers

met the soft, wet nose of the Dog, and she saw a faint, spectral

glow outlining the shape of her canine companion.

“That was smart,” said the Dog in the darkness, moving

closer to woofle wetly in Lirael’s ear. “I take it you didn’t suddenly

remember a pie in the oven?”

“The door,” whispered Lirael, making no effort to get up.

“It’s a grave door. To a crypt.”

“Is it?”

“It’s got my name on it,” muttered Lirael.

There was a long pause. Then the Dog said, “So you think

someone went to all the trouble to make you a crypt a thousand

years ago on the off chance you might turn up one day,

walk in, and have a convenient heart attack?”

“No . . .”

There was another long pause, and then the Dog said,

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“Presuming that this actually is the door to a crypt, may I ask

how rare the name Lirael is?”

“Well, I think there was a great-aunt I’m named after, and

there was another one before her—”

“So if it is a crypt, it’s probably that of some long-ago

Lirael,” the Dog suggested kindly. “But what makes you think

it is a crypt door, anyway? I seem to recall there were two

words on the door. And the second one didn’t look like ‘grave’

or ‘crypt.’”

“What did it say, then?” asked Lirael, wearily standing up,

already mentally reaching for the Charter marks that would

give her light, hands ready to sketch them in the air. She

couldn’t even remember reading the second word, but didn’t

want to admit to the Dog that she’d just had the overwhelming

feeling that it was a crypt. That feeling, combined with

seeing her own name, had created a moment of total panic,

when her only thought was to get out, to get back to the safety

of the Library.

“Something quite different,” said the Dog with satisfaction,

as light bloomed from Lirael’s fingertips, falling cleanly

on the door.

This time, Lirael looked long at the carved letters, her

hands touching the deep-etched stone. Her forehead wrinkled

as she read the words again and again, as if she couldn’t quite

put the letters together into a sensible word.

“I don’t understand,” she said finally. “The second word

is ‘path.’ It says ‘Lirael’s Path’!”

“Guess you should go through, then,” said the Dog, unperturbed

by the sign. “Even if you’re not the Lirael whose

path it is, you are a Lirael, which in my book is a pretty good

excuse—”

“Dog. Shut up,” said Lirael, thinking. If this gate was the

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beginning of a path named for her, it had been made at least a

thousand years ago. Which was not impossible, for the Clayr

sometimes had visions of such far-distant futures. Or possible

futures, as they called them, for the future was apparently like

a many-branching stream, splitting, converging, and splitting

again. Much of the Clayr’s training, at least as far as Lirael

knew, was in working out which possible future was the most

likely—or the most desirable.

But there was a catch to the notion that the long-ago Clayr

had Seen Lirael, because the Clayr of the present time couldn’t

See Lirael’s future at all and had never been able to do so. Sanar

and Ryelle had told her that even when the Nine Day Watch

tried to See her, there was nothing. Lirael’s future was impenetrable,

as was her present. No Clayr had ever Seen her, not

even in a chance-found minute showing her in the Library, or

asleep in bed a month hence. Once again she was different, not

able to See and also Unseen.

If even the Nine Day Watch couldn’t See her, Lirael

thought, how could the Clayr of a thousand years past know

she would come this way? And why would they build not only

this door but also the stairs? It was far more likely that this

path was named for one of her ancestors, some other Lirael of

long ago.

That made her feel better about opening the door. She

leaned forward, pushing with both hands against the cold

stone. Charter Magic flowed in this door, too, but it did not

leap into her, instead just pulsing gently against her skin. It was

like an old dog by the fire, content to be stroked, knowing it

need not obviously show delight.

The door moved slowly inwards, resisting her push, with

a long-drawn-out screech of stone on stone. Colder air flowed

from the other side, ruffling Lirael’s hair, making the Charter

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lights dance. There was a damp smell, too, and the strange,

oppressive feeling Lirael had encountered on the stairs grew

stronger, like the beginning buzz of a toothache that heralds

future pain.

A vast chamber lay beyond the door, space stretching up

and out, seemingly endless, beyond the pool of light around her.

A cavern, measureless in the dark, perhaps going on forever.

Lirael stepped in and looked up, up into darkness, till her

neck ached, and her eyes slowly grew accustomed to the

gloom. Strange luminescence, not from Charter Magic lights,

shone in patches here and there, rising up so high that the farthest

glow was like a distant swathe of stars in the night. Still

looking up, Lirael realized that she stood at the bottom of a

deep rift that stretched up almost to the very pinnacle of

Starmount itself. She looked across and saw that she stood on

a broad ledge, and the rift continued past it, down into still

deeper darkness, perhaps even to the root of the world itself.

With that sight came recognition, for she knew only one chasm

so narrow and so deep. Much higher up, it was spanned by

closed bridges. Lirael had crossed it almost unknowingly many

times, but had never seen its terrifying depth.

“I know this place,” said Lirael, her voice small and echoing.

“We’re in the bottom of the Rift, aren’t we?”

She hesitated, then added, “The burial place of the Clayr.”

The Disreputable Dog nodded but didn’t say anything.

“You knew, didn’t you?” continued Lirael, still looking

up. She couldn’t see them, but she knew the higher reaches of

the Rift were pockmarked with small caves, each one holding

the mortal remains of a past Clayr. Generations of dead, carefully

tucked away in this vertical cemetery. In a weird way,

she could feel the presence of the graves, or the dead inside

them . . . or something.

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Her mother was not there, for she had died alone in some

foreign land, far from the Clayr, too far for the body to be

returned. But Filris rested here, as did others whom Lirael had

known.

“It is a crypt,” she said, looking sternly at the Dog. “I

knew it.”

“Actually it’s more of an ossuary,” the Dog began. “I

understand that when a Clayr Sees her death, she is lowered

down by rope to a suitable ledge, where she digs her own—”

“They do not!” interrupted Lirael, shocked. “They only

know when, to some degree. And Pallimor and the gardeners

usually prepare the caves. Aunt Kirrith says it’s very ill-bred to

want to dig your own cave—”

She stopped suddenly and whispered, “Dog? Am I here

because they’ve Seen me die and I have to dig my own cave

because I’m ill-bred?”

“I’m going to have to bite you properly if you keep up that

nonsense,” growled the Dog. “Why this sudden preoccupation

with dying, anyway?”

“Because I can feel it, feel it all around me,” muttered

Lirael. “Particularly here.”

“That’s because the doorways to Death are ajar where

many people have died, or where many lie buried,” said the

Dog absently. “The Blood mixes a little, so there are always

Clayr who are sensitive to Death. That’s what you feel. You

shouldn’t be afraid of it.”

“I’m not, really,” replied Lirael, puzzled. “It’s like an ache

or an itch. It makes me want to do something. Scratch it. Make

it go away.”

“You don’t know any necromancy, do you?”

“Of course not! That’s Free Magic. It’s forbidden.”

“Not necessarily. Clayr have dabbled in Free Magic before,

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and some still do,” said the Dog in a distracted manner. She’d

caught the scent of something and was snuffling vigorously

around Lirael’s feet.

“Who dabbles in Free Magic?” asked Lirael. The Dog didn’t

answer but continued to sniff around Lirael’s feet. “What can

you smell?”

“Magic,” said the Dog, looking up for a second before

resuming her snuffle, roaming out in an ever-increasing circle.

“Old, old magic. Hidden here, in the depths of the world. How

very, very . . . yow!”

Her last words ended in a yelp as a sudden sheet of flame

sprang up across the rift, heat and light exploding everywhere.

Lirael, totally unprepared, staggered back, falling across the

open doorway. An instant later, the Dog collided with her,

smelling distinctly singed.

Inside the fiery wall, forms began to take shape, humanoid

figures that flexed arms and legs within the flame. Charter

marks roared and swam in the yellow-blue-red inferno, flowing

too fast for Lirael to see what they were.

Then the figures stepped out of the flames, warriors composed

entirely of fire, their swords white-hot and brilliant.

“Do something!” barked the Dog.

But Lirael just kept staring at the advancing warriors, mesmerized

by the flames that flickered through their bodies. They

were all part of one great Charter-spell, she saw, one enormously

powerful sending made up of many parts. A guardiansending,

like the one on the red wood door . . .

Lirael stood up, patted the Dog once on the head, and

walked out, straight towards the ferocious heat and the

guardians with their swords of flame.

“I am Lirael,” she said, investing her speech with the

Charter marks of truth and clarity. “A Daughter of the Clayr.”

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Her words hung in the air for a moment, cutting through

the buzz and crackle of the fiery sendings. Then the guardians

raised their swords as if in salute—and a wave of even more

intense heat rolled forward, robbing Lirael’s lungs of air. She

choked, coughed, took one step back . . . and fainted.

When she came to, the Disreputable Dog’s tongue was just

about to lick her face. For about the tenth time, judging from

the thick film of dog saliva on her cheek.

“What happened?” she asked, quickly looking around.

There were no fires now, no burning guardians, but small

Charter marks for light twinkled all around her like tiny stars.

“They burnt up your air when they saluted. I think that

whoever created those sendings expected people to identify

themselves from the door,” said the Dog, attempting another

lick, only to be fended off. “Or else they were particularly

stupid sendings. Still, at least one of them had the good grace

to throw out a handful of these little lights. Some of your hair

has been burnt off, by the way.”

“Curse it!” exclaimed Lirael, examining the singed ends

of her hair, where they stuck out from under her scarf. “Aunt

Kirrith will notice that for sure! I’ll have to tell her I leant over

a candle or something. Speaking of Kirrith, we’d better start

back.”

“Not yet!” protested the Dog. “Not after all this effort.

Besides, the lights mark a path. Look! That must be it. Lirael’s

Path!”

Lirael sat up and looked where the Dog was pointing—

in the classic pose, one foreleg up and snout eagerly forward.

Sure enough, there was a path of tiny, twinkling Charter lights,

leading farther along the ledge, to where the Rift narrowed

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into an even more ominous darkness.

“We really should go back,” she said, half-heartedly. The

path of lights was there, beckoning. The sendings had let her

past. There must be something at the other end worth getting

to. Maybe even something that would help her gain the gift

of Sight, she thought, helpless against that longing, the tiny

hope that still lived inside her heart. All her years of searching

in the Library had not helped her. Perhaps it would be otherwise,

here in the ancient heart of the Clayr’s realm.

“Come on, then,” she said, pushing herself up with a groan.

Burnt hair and bruises—that was all she’d found so far. “What

are you waiting for?”

“You go first,” retorted the Dog. “My nose still hurts from

your stupid relatives’ blazing doormen.”

The path of lights led farther along the ledge, and the Rift

narrowed, the rock walls closing in, till Lirael could reach out

and run her fingers along the cold, wet stone on either side of

her. She stopped doing that when she discovered that the luminescence

came from a damp fungus that made her fingertips

glow and smell like rotten cabbage.

As the way grew narrower, it also descended farther into

the mountain, and a chill dankness banished the last remnants

of heat from Lirael’s scorched face. There was also a sound, a

deep rumbling that vibrated up through her feet, getting louder

as they walked on. At first, Lirael thought she was imagining

it, that perhaps it was part of what the Dog called her sense of

Death. Then she realized what it was: the full-throated roar

of rushing water.

“We must be near an underground river or something,” she

said, nervously raising her voice to counter the rising roar of

the water. Like most of the Clayr, she could barely swim, and

her experience of rivers was confined to the awesome ice-melt

215

torrents that raged from the glacier every Spring.

“We are almost upon it,” replied the Dog, who could see

farther in the glow of the star-lined path. “As the poet had it:

“Swift river born in deepest night,

Rushing forth to catch the light.

Deep ice and dark its swaddling cloth,

The Kingdom’s foes will feel its wroth.

Till mighty Ratterlin spends its strength,

In the Delta at full length.

“Hmmm . . . I may have forgotten a line there. Let’s see,

‘Swift river—’ ”

“The Ratterlin’s source is here?” interrupted Lirael, pointing

ahead. “I thought it was just meltwater. I didn’t know it

had a source.”

“There is a spring,” replied the Dog, after a pause. “A very

old spring. In the heart of the mountain, in the deepest dark.

Stop!”

Lirael obeyed, one hand instinctively clutching at the loose

fold of skin on the Dog’s neck, just behind her collar.

At first she didn’t understand why the Dog had stopped

her, till the hound led her on, a few more cautious steps. With

those steps, the sound of the river suddenly became a thundering

roar, and cold spray slapped her in the face.

They had come to the river. The path ahead was a slender,

slippery bridge of wet stone that stretched out twenty paces or

more, to end in yet another door. The bridge had no rails, and

was less than two feet wide. Its narrowness, and the rushing

water below, were a clear indication that it was designed to be

a barrier to the Dead. Nothing of that kind could cross here.

Lirael looked at the bridge, the door, then down at the

216

dark, rushing water, feeling both fear and a terrible fascination.

The constant motion of the water and the incessant roar

were mesmerizing, but finally she managed to tear her gaze

away. She looked at the Dog, and though her words were halfdrowned

by the crash of the river, exclaimed, “I am not going

to cross that!”

The Dog ignored her, and Lirael started to repeat herself.

But the words stayed on her tongue as Lirael saw that the Dog’s

paws had grown twice as large as usual, and flattened out. She

also looked quite smug.

“I bet you’ve even grown suckers,” shouted Lirael, shuddering

with distaste at the thought. “Like an octopus.”

“Of course I have,” the Dog shouted back, lifting one paw

with a squelching pop that Lirael could hear even over the

river’s roar. “This looks like a very treacherous bridge.”

“Yes, it does,” bawled Lirael, looking at the bridge again.

Clearly the Dog intended to cross, and with her sucker-footed

help, Lirael guessed, crossing would go from impossible to

merely dangerous. Sighing, she bent down and took off her

shoes, eyes blinking against the constant spray. After tying the

laces of her soft leather ankle-boots through her belt, she wriggled

her toes on the stone. It was very cold, but Lirael was

relieved to feel faint cross-hatching that she hadn’t seen in the

dim light. That would give her some grip.

“I wonder what this bridge was designed to keep out,” she

said, carefully slipping her fingers under the Dog’s collar, feeling

the comforting buzz of the Charter Magic there and the

even more comforting bulk of a well-balanced dog.

They had only taken the first step when Lirael voiced her

second thought, her words inaudible with the river’s bellow all

around them.

“Or what it was designed to keep in.”

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Chapter Twenty-Two

Power of Three

The door at the far end of the bridge opened as soon

as Lirael touched it. Once again, she felt Charter Magic flow

into her, but it was not the friendly touch of the upper door, or

the quiet recognition of the stone portal at the entrance to the

Rift. This one was more like a wary examination, followed by

immediate, but not necessarily friendly, recognition.

Under her hand, the Dog shivered as the door swung open.

Lirael felt the tremor and wondered why, till she caught the

distinctive, corrosive scent of Free Magic. It was coming from

somewhere ahead, strangely overlaid with Charter Magic that

bound and contained it.

“Free Magic,” whispered Lirael, hesitating. But the Dog

continued to move forward, dragging her along. Reluctantly,

Lirael followed her through the doorway.

As soon as Lirael passed the threshold, the door slammed

shut behind her. In an instant, the roar of the river was cut off.

So was the light from the Charter-marked trail. It was dark,

darker than any darkness Lirael had ever known, a true dark

in which it was suddenly difficult to even imagine light. The

darkness pressed upon Lirael, making her doubt her own

senses. Only the Dog’s warm skin under her hand told her that

218

she was still standing, that the room had not changed, and the

floor had not tilted.

“Don’t move,” whispered the Dog, and Lirael felt a canine

snout briefly press against her leg, as if the spoken warning

weren’t enough.

The smell of Free Magic grew stronger. Lirael pinched her

nose with one hand, trying not to breathe anything in, while

her other hand went to the clockwork emergency mouse in her

waistcoat pocket. Not that it was likely that even this clever

device could find its way from here to the Library.

She could feel Charter Magic building, too, strong marks

floating in the air like pollen, their usual internal light dampened.

She could sense Charter and Free Magic working together,

winding and twisting about her, weaving some spell she couldn’t

even begin to identify.

Fear began to knot in Lirael’s stomach, slowly spreading to

paralyze her lungs. She wanted to breathe, to force air slowly

in and out, to calm herself with the steadiness of her own

breath. But the air was heavy with strange magic, magic she

could not—would not—breathe in.

Then lights began to sparkle in the air; tiny, fragile balls of

light made up of hundreds of hair-thin spines, like luminous

dandelion clocks, wafting about on some breeze Lirael couldn’t

feel. With the lights, the taint of Free Magic abated, the Charter

Magic began to strengthen, and Lirael took a slight, cautious

breath.

In the strangely mottled, constantly changing light, Lirael

saw that she was in an octagonal chamber. A large room, but

not of cold, carved stone as she’d expected, here in the heart

of the mountain. The walls were tiled in a delicate pattern of

golden stars, towers, and silver keys. The ceiling was plastered

and painted with a night sky, full of black, rain-fat clouds

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advancing upon seven bright and shining stars. And there was

carpet under her bare feet, Lirael realized. A deep blue carpet,

soft and warm under her toes after the cold, wet stone of the

bridge.

In the middle of the room, a redwood table stood in solitary

splendor, its slender legs ending in silver, three-toed feet.

On its rich, polished surface there were three items, arranged in

a line: a small metal case about the size of Lirael’s palm; a set

of what looked like metal panpipes; and a book, bound in deep

blue leather with silver clasps. The table, or the items on it, were

clearly the focal point for the magic, for the dandelion lights

swarmed thickest there, creating an effect like luminous fog.

“Off you go, then,” said the Dog, sitting back on her

haunches. “That looks like what we’ve come for.”

“What do you mean?” asked Lirael suspiciously, drawing

a series of deep and calming breaths. She felt reasonably safe

now, but there was a lot of magic in the room that she didn’t

know, and she couldn’t even begin to guess what it was for or

where it came from. And she could still taste Free Magic at the

back of her mouth and on her tongue, a cold iron tang that just

wouldn’t go away.

“The doors opened for you; the path lit up for you; the

guardians here didn’t destroy you,” said the Dog, nuzzling

Lirael’s open hand with her cold, damp nose. She looked up at

Lirael knowingly and added, “Whatever’s on that table must

be meant for you. Which equally means it’s not meant for me.

So I’m going to sit down here. Or lie down, actually. Wake me

up when it’s time to go.”

With that, the Dog stretched luxuriously, yawned, and lowered

herself to the carpet. Comfortably settled on her side, she

swished her tail a few times and then, to all appearances, fell

deeply asleep.

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“Oh, Dog!” exclaimed Lirael. “You can’t sleep now!

What’ll I do if something bad happens?”

The Dog opened one eye and said, with the least possible

jaw movement, “Wake me up, of course.”

Lirael looked down at the sleeping Dog, then over at the

table. The Stilken was the worst thing she’d encountered in

the Library. But she’d found other dangerous things over the

past few years—fell creatures, old Charter-spells that had

unraveled or become unpredictable, mechanical traps, even

poisoned book bindings. All these were the regular hazards of

a librarian’s life, but nothing like what she faced now. Whatever

these items were, they were guarded more heavily, and

with stranger and more powerful magic, than anything Lirael

had ever seen.

Whatever magic was concentrated here was very old, too,

Lirael realized. The walls, the floor, the ceiling, the carpet, the

table—even the air in the room—were saturated with layer

upon layer of Charter marks, some of them at least a thousand

years old. She could feel them moving everywhere, mixing and

changing. When she closed her eyes for a moment, the room

felt almost like a Charter Stone, a source of Charter Magic

rather than just a place upon which many spells had been cast.

But that was impossible, at least as far as she knew. . . .

Suddenly made dizzy by the thought, Lirael opened her

eyes again. Charter marks flowed against her skin, into her

breath, swam in her blood. Free Magic floated between the

marks. The dandelion lights spread out towards her like tendrils,

wrapped gently around her waist, and slowly reeled her

in towards the table.

The magic and the lights made her feel light-headed and

dazed, as if she’d woken from the final moments of a dream.

Lirael fought the feeling for a moment, but it was a pleasant

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feeling, not at all threatening. She let the sleeping Dog lie and

walked forward slowly, swathed in light.

Then she was suddenly at the table, with no memory of

crossing the intervening space. Her hands were resting on the

cool, polished surface of the table. As could be expected of a

Second Assistant Librarian, she reached for the book first, her

fingers touching the silver clasp that held it shut as she read the

title embossed in silver type upon the spine: The Book of

Remembrance and Forgetting.

Lirael undid the clasp, feeling Charter Magic there, too,

noting the marks that chased each other across the silver surface

and deep in the metal itself. Marks of binding and closing,

burning and destruction.

But the clasp was open by the time she realized what the

marks were, and she stood unharmed. Carefully, she turned

back the cover and the title page, the crisp, leaf-thin paper

turning easily. There were Charter marks inside the pages, put

there at the time of the paper’s making. And Free Magic, constrained

and channeled into place. Magic of both kinds lay in

the boards and leather of the cover, and even in the glue and

stitching of the spine.

Most of all, there was magic and power in the type. In the

past, Lirael had seen similar, if less powerful, books, like In the

Skin of a Lyon. You could never truly finish reading such a

book, for the contents changed at need, at the original maker’s

whim, or to suit the phases of the moon or the patterns of the

weather. Some of the books had contents you couldn’t even

remember till certain events might come to pass. Invariably,

this was an act of kindness from the creator of the book, for

such contents invariably dealt with things that would be a

burden to recall with every waking day.

The lights danced around Lirael’s head as she began to

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read, making shadow patterns from her hair flicker across the

page. She read the first page, then the next, then the one after.

Soon Lirael had finished the first chapter, as her hand reached

out every few minutes to turn the page. Behind her, the Dog’s

heavy, sleepy breath seemed to match the slow rhythm of the

turning pages.

Hours later, or even days—for Lirael had lost all knowledge

of time—she turned what seemed to be the last page and

closed the book. It latched itself shut, the silver clasp snapping.

Lirael drew back at the snap but didn’t leave the table.

Instead, she picked up the panpipes, seven small tubes of

silver, ranging in size from the length of her little finger to a

little shorter than her hand. She held the pipes up to her lips,

but didn’t blow. They were much more than they appeared.

The book had told her how the pipes were made, and how

they should be used, and Lirael now knew that the Charter

marks that moved in the silver were only a veneer on the Free

Magic that lurked within.

She touched each of the pipes in turn, smallest to largest,

and whispered their names to herself before putting the instrument

back on the table. Then she picked up the last item,

the small metal case. This was silver, too, etched with pleasing

decorations as well as Charter marks. The latter were similar

to those on the book, all threatening retribution if the box were

opened by someone not of the True Blood. It didn’t say which

particular blood, but Lirael thought that if the book opened

for her, the case would, too.

She lightly touched the catch, recoiling a little as she felt

the heat of Free Magic blazing within. The case remained shut.

Briefly, she thought that the book might be wrong, or she might

have misread the marks, or not have the right blood. She shut

her eyes and firmly pressed the catch.

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Nothing terrible happened, but the case shivered in her

hand. Lirael opened her eyes. The case had sprung open into

two halves, hinged in the middle. Like a small mirror, to be balanced

on a shelf or table.

Lirael opened it completely and placed it, vee-shaped, on

the table. One side of it was silver, but the other was something

she couldn’t describe. Where the bright reflective surface of a

mirror would be, there was a nonreflective rectangle of . . .

nothing. A piece of absolute darkness, a shape of something

made from the total absence of light.

The Book of Remembrance and Forgetting called it a Dark

Mirror, and Lirael had read, at least in part, how it might be

used. But the Dark Mirror would not work in this room, or in

any part of the world of Life. It could be used only in Death,

and Lirael had no intention of going there, even if the book

professed to show her how to come back. Death was the

province of the Abhorsen, not the Clayr, even though the peculiar

use of the Dark Mirror could possibly be related to the

Clayr’s gift of Sight.

Lirael snapped shut the Dark Mirror and laid it on the

table. But her fingers still rested upon it. She stood there like

that for a full minute, thinking. Then she picked it up and

slipped it into her left waistcoat pocket, to join the company

of a pen nib, a length of waxed string, and a seriously foreshortened

pencil. After another moment of hesitation, she

picked up the panpipes and put them in her right pocket with

the clockwork mouse. Finally, she picked up the Book of

Remembrance and Forgetting and tucked it into the front of

her waistcoat.

She walked back to the Disreputable Dog. It was time for

the two of them to have a very serious talk about what was

going on. The Book, the Dark Mirror, and the panpipes had

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lain here for a thousand years or more, waiting in the dark for

someone the Clayr of long ago had known would come.

Waiting in the dark for a woman named Lirael.

Waiting for her.

225

Chapter Twenty-Three

A Troublesome Season

Prince Sameth stood shivering on the narrow

sentry walk of the Palace’s second tallest tower. He was wearing

his heaviest fur cloak, but the wind still cut through it, and

he couldn’t be bothered to cast a Charter-spell for warmth. He

half wanted to catch a cold, because it would mean escaping

from the training schedule Ellimere had forced upon him.

He was standing on the sentry walk for two reasons. The

first reason was that he wanted to look out in the hope that he

would see either his father or his mother returning. The second

was that he wanted to avoid Ellimere and everyone else who

wanted to organize his life.

Sam missed his parents, not just because they might free

him from Ellimere’s tyranny. But Sabriel was constantly in

demand away from Belisaere, flying her red and gold Paperwing

from one trouble spot to the next. It was a bad winter,

people repeatedly said in Sam’s hearing, with so much activity

from the Dead and from Free Magic creatures. Sam always

shivered inside as they said it, knowing their eyes were on him

and that he should be studying The Book of the Dead, preparing

himself to help his mother.

He should be studying now, he thought glumly, but he

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continued to stare out over the frosted roofs of the city and

through the rising smoke of thousands of cozy fires.

He hadn’t opened the book at all since Ellimere had given

it to him. The green and silver volume remained safely locked

in a cupboard in his workroom. He thought about it every day,

and looked at it, but couldn’t bring himself to actually read it.

In fact, he spent the hours he was supposed to be studying

it trying to work out how he could tell his mother that he

couldn’t. He couldn’t read the book, and he couldn’t face going

into Death again.

Ellimere allowed him two hours a day for study of the

book, or “Abhorsen prep” as she called it, but Sam did no

reading. He wrote instead. Speech after speech in which he

tried to explain his feelings and his fears. Letters to Sabriel.

Letters to Touchstone. Letters to both parents. All of them

ended up in the fire.

“I’ll just tell her,” announced Sam to the wind. He didn’t

speak too loudly in case the sentry on the far side of the tower

heard him. The guards already thought he was a miserable

excuse for a Prince. He didn’t want them thinking he was a

mad Prince as well.

“No, I’ll tell Dad, and then he can tell her,” he added after

a moment’s thought. But Touchstone had barely returned from

Estwael when he had had to ride south to the Guard Fort at

Barhedrin Hill, just north of the Wall. There had been reports

that the Ancelstierrans were allowing groups of Southerling

refugees to cross the Wall and settle in the Old Kingdom—or

in actuality, to be killed by the creatures or wild folk who

roamed the Borderlands. Touchstone had gone to investigate

these reports, to see what the Ancelstierrans were up to, and

to save any of the Southerlings who might have survived.

“Stupid Ancelstierrans,” muttered Sam, kicking the wall.

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Unfortunately, his other foot slipped on the icy stone, and he

skidded into the wall, smacking his funny bone.

“Ow!” he exclaimed, clutching his elbow. “Blast it!”

“You all right, sir?” asked the guard, who came at a run,

his hob-nailed boots providing much better purchase than

Sam’s rabbit-fur slippers. “You don’t want to break a leg.”

Sam scowled. He knew that the prospect of his dancing

the Bird of Dawning provided no end of amusement for the

guards. His sense of self-worth wasn’t helped by their badly

disguised snickering or the ease with which Ellimere practiced

her own future role, acting as co-regent with grace and authority—

at least to everyone except Sam.

Sam’s stumbling rehearsals for the Bird of Dawning part

in the Midwinter and Midsummer Festivals was only one of

the many areas in which he displayed himself as poorer royal

material than his sister. He couldn’t pretend enthusiasm

for the dances, he often fell asleep in Petty Court, and while

he knew he was a very competent swordsman, he somehow

didn’t feel like stretching his ability at practice with the

guards.

Nor did he show up well at Perspective. Ellimere always

threw herself into the task at hand, working like fury. Sam did

quite the reverse, staring into space and worrying about his

clouded future, often becoming so engrossed that he stopped

doing whatever he was supposed to be doing.

“Sir, are you all right?” the guard repeated.

Sam blinked. There, he was doing it again. Staring into

space while he thought about staring into space.

“Yes, thank you,” he said, flexing his gloved fingers.

“Slipped. Hit my funny bone.”

“See anything interesting out there?” asked the guard. His

name was Brel, Sam remembered. Quite a friendly guard, not

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one who stifled a smile every time Sam walked past in his Bird

of Dawning costume.

“No,” replied Sam, shaking his head. He looked out again,

down into the interior of the city. The Midwinter Festival was

to start in a few days. Construction of the Frost Fair was in

full swing. A great, bustling tent town on the frozen surface of

Lake Loesare, the Frost Fair had pageant wagons and players,

jesters and jugglers, musicians and magicians, exhibitions and

expositions, and all sorts of games, not to mention food from

every corner of the Old Kingdom and beyond. Lake Loesare

covered ninety acres of Belisaere’s central valley, but the Frost

Fair overflowed it, extending into the public gardens that lined

the lakeshore.

Sam had always liked the Frost Fair, but he looked down

on it now without interest. All he could feel was a cold and

black depression.

“All the fun of the fair,” said Brel, clapping his hands

together. “It looks like it’ll be a good festival this year.”

“Does it?” asked Sam bleakly. He would have to dance on

the final day of the Festival, as the Bird of Dawning. It was his

job to carry the green sprig of Spring at the tail end of the

Winter procession, behind Snow, Hail, Sleet, Fog, Storm, and

Frost. They were all professional dancers on stilts, so they not

only loomed threateningly over the Bird but also showed up

Sam’s lack of expertise.

The Winter Dance was long and complicated, weaving

through two miles of the Fair’s winding ways. But it was much

longer than that, because there was lots of doubling back as

the Six Spirits of Winter ducked around the Bird and tried to

prolong their season by stealing the sprig of Spring from under

Sam’s golden wing, or by tripping him up with their stilts.

There had been two full rehearsals so far. The Spirits of

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Winter were supposed to fail at tripping the Bird, but so far

even the skill of the other dancers couldn’t prevent the Bird

from tripping himself. By the end of the first rehearsal, the

Bird had fallen three times and bent its beak twice, and certainly

had extremely ruffled feathers. The second rehearsal had

been even worse, when the Bird crashed into Sleet and knocked

her off her stilts. The new Sleet still wouldn’t talk to him.

“They say a hard practice means an easy dance,” said Brel.

Sam nodded and looked away from the guard. There was

no sign of a Paperwing gliding in against the wind, or a troop

of horsemen bearing the royal banner on the southern road. It

was a waste of time looking for his parents.

Brel coughed into his glove. Sam glanced back as the guard

inclined his head and resumed his slow march around the

sentry walk, his trumpet bumping gently on its strap against

his back.

Sam went downstairs. He was already late for the next

rehearsal.

Brel was wrong about the bad rehearsals meaning a successful

dance. Sam bumbled and stumbled all his way through it, and

only the professionalism and energy of the Six Spirits saved the

dance from disaster.

Traditionally, all the dancers from the Festival ate with the

royal family at the Palace after the dance, but Sam chose to

stay away. They’d done enough to him, and he’d done enough,

with the bruises to show for it. He was sure Sleet had deliberately

smacked him with her stilt near the end. She was the sister

of the one he’d knocked off her stilts in rehearsal.

Instead of attending the dinner, Sam retired to his workshop,

trying to forget his troubles in the construction of a particularly

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intricate and interesting magical-mechanical toy. Ellimere sent

a page to get him but could do no more without embarrassing

everyone, so he was left in peace—for that night at least.

But not the next day or the days following. Ellimere

couldn’t—or wouldn’t—see that Sam’s sullenness came from

genuine trouble. So she simply made up more things for him

to do. Even worse, she started foisting the younger sisters of

her own friends on him, clearly thinking that a good woman

could sort out whatever was wrong with him. Naturally, Sam

took an instant dislike to anyone Ellimere so obviously seated

next to him at dinner, or who “just happened” to drop by his

workroom with a broken bracelet catch to be mended. His

constant worry about the book and his mother’s return left him

little energy to pursue friendships, let alone romantic attachments.

So he earned the reputation of being stiff and distant,

not only among the young women introduced to him by

Ellimere, but to everyone of his own age around the Palace.

Even people who had been his friends in previous years, when

he was home for the holidays, found that they no longer

enjoyed his company. Sam, caught up in his own troubles and

busy with his official duties, hardly noticed that people of his

own age avoided him.

He did talk to Brel a bit, since they both tended to be up

the second tallest tower around the same time. Fortunately, the

guard was not naturally talkative and also didn’t seem to mind

Sam’s silences or his tendency to stop and just stare out over

the city and the sea.

“Your birthday today,” said Brel, early one clear and very

cold morning. The moon was still visible, and there was a ring

around it, as only happened on the coldest nights of winter.

Sam nodded. Since it occurred two weeks after the Midwinter

Festival, his birthday was always somewhat eclipsed by

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the greater event. This year, it was made even less spectacular

by the continued absence of Sabriel and Touchstone, who

could only send messages and presents that, while obviously

carefully chosen, did not cheer Sam. Particularly since one was

a surcoat with the silver keys of the Abhorsen on a deep blue

field, quartered with the royal line’s golden castle on a red field,

and the other was a book entitled Merchane on the Binding of

Free Magic Elementals.

“Get any good presents?” asked Brel.

“Surcoat,” said Sam. “And a book.”

“Ah,” said Brel. He clapped his hands together, to regain

circulation. “Not a sword, then? Or a dog?”

Sam shook his head. He didn’t want a sword or a dog, but

either would have been more welcome than what he had been

given.

“Expect Princess Ellimere will get you something good,”

Brel said after a long, thoughtful pause.

“I doubt it,” said Sam. “She’ll probably organize some sort

of lesson.”

Brel clapped his hands together again, stood still, and

slowly scanned the horizon from south to north.

“Happy birthday,” he said when his head had finished its

slow movement. “What is it? Eighteen?”

“Seventeen,” replied Sam.

“Ah,” said Brel, and he walked around to the other side of

the tower to repeat his scan of the horizon.

Sam went back downstairs.

Ellimere did organize a birthday feast in the Great Hall, but

it was a lackluster affair, mainly due to Sam’s depressing influence.

He refused to dance, because it was the one day when he

could refuse, and since it was his birthday, that meant no one

else could dance, either. He refused to open his presents in front

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of everyone because he didn’t feel like it, and he merely toyed

with the grilled swordfish with lime and buttered smallwheat

that had once been his favorite dish. In fact, he acted like a

spoiled and sulky brat of seven, rather than like a young man

of seventeen. Sam knew it but felt unable to stop. It was the

first time in weeks that he’d been able to refuse Ellimere’s

orders or, as she called them, “strong suggestions.”

The feast ended early, with everyone cross and shorttempered.

Sam went straight to his workroom, ignoring the

whispers and sidelong looks as he left the Hall. He didn’t care

what everyone thought, though he was uncomfortably aware

of Jall Oren’s hooded eyes watching his exit. Jall would certainly

report on Sam’s shortcomings when his parents returned,

if he didn’t decide before then to deliver one of his justly feared

summations of exactly what was wrong with Sam’s behavior.

But even one of Jall’s lectures would pale to insignificance

when his mother found out the truth about her son. Beyond

that revelation, Sam daren’t think. He couldn’t imagine what

would happen, or what his own future would be. The Kingdom

had to have an Abhorsen-in-Waiting and a royal heir. Ellimere

was demonstrably the perfect royal heir, so Sam had to be the

Abhorsen-in-Waiting. Only he couldn’t do it. Not wouldn’t, as

everyone was bound to think. Couldn’t.

That night, as he had done scores of times before, Sam

unlocked the cupboard to the left of his workbench and steeled

himself to look at The Book of the Dead. It sat on a shelf, shining

with its own ominous green light that overshadowed the

soft glow of the Charter lights in the ceiling.

He reached out to it, like a hunter trying to pat a wolf in

the vain hope that it might be only a friendly dog. His fingers

touched the silver clasp and the Charter marks laid upon it, but

before he could do more, a violent shaking overtook him, and

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his skin turned as cold as ice. Sam tried to still the shakes and

ignore the cold, but he couldn’t. He snatched back his hand

and retreated to the front of the fireplace, where he crouched

down in misery, hugging his knees.

A week after his birthday, Sam received a letter from Nick. Or

rather, the remains of a letter, because it had been written on

machine-made paper. Like most products of Ancelstierran

technology, the paper had begun to fail upon crossing the Wall,

and it was now crumbling into its component fibers. Sam had

often told Nick in the past to use hand-made paper, but he

never did.

Still, there was enough of it left for Sam to deduce that

Nick was asking him for an Old Kingdom visa for himself and

a servant. He intended to cross the Wall at Midwinter, and he

would be grateful if Sam met him at the Crossing Point.

Sam brightened. Nick could always cheer him up. He

immediately consulted his almanac to see what Midwinter in

Ancelstierre would correspond with in the Old Kingdom.

Generally, the Old Kingdom was a full season ahead of

Ancelstierre, but there were some strange fluctuations that

required double-checking in an almanac, particularly around

the solstices and the turn of the seasons.

Old Kingdom/Ancelstierre almanacs like Sam’s had been

almost impossible to obtain once, but ten years ago Sabriel had

lent hers to the royal printer, who had reset it to incorporate

all the handwritten comments and marginalia of Sabriel and

previous Abhorsens. That had been a long and laborious

process. The end result was aesthetically very pleasing, with

clear, slightly indented type on crisp linen paper, but was very

expensive. Sabriel and Touchstone were careful about who was

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allowed to have these almanacs. Sameth had been very proud

when he was entrusted with one on his twelfth birthday.

Fortunately, the almanac had an exact correspondence for

Midwinter, rather than just an equation for Sam to work out,

requiring moon sights and other observations. On that day in

Ancelstierre, it would be the Day of Ships in the Old Kingdom,

in the third week of spring. It was still many weeks off, but at

least Sam had something positive to look forward to.

After the letter from Nick, Sam’s mood improved a little,

and he got on better with everyone in the Palace except

Ellimere. The rest of winter passed without either of his parents

coming home, and without any particularly terrible storms

or the intense, bone-numbing cold that sometimes rolled in

from the northeast, accompanied by pods of lost whales who

didn’t otherwise enter the Sea of Saere.

Weather-wise it was a particularly mild winter, but in court

and city the people still spoke of it as a bad one. There had

been more trouble all over the Kingdom that season than in

any of the last ten winters, trouble such as hadn’t been seen

since the early days of Touchstone’s reign. Message-hawks flew

constantly to and from the Mews Tower, and Mistress Finney

grew red-eyed and even more irritable than normal, as her

children, the hawks, were hard-pressed to meet the demand for

communication. Many of the messages the hawks carried were

reports of the Dead, and of Free Magic creatures. A large proportion

turned out to be false, but all too many were real, and

all required Sabriel’s attention.

There was other news that troubled Sam. One letter from

his father reminded him too much of the terrible day on the

Perimeter, when the Dead Southerlings had attacked his cricket

team and he had faced the necromancer in Death.

Sam took the letter up the second-tallest tower to read over

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and think, while Brel paced around him. One particular section

he read three times:

The Ancelstierran Army, presumably under

instructions from the government, has allowed a

group of Southerling “volunteers” to enter the Old

Kingdom at one of the old Crossing Points on the

Wall, in contravention of all past agreements and

common sense. Obviously, Corolini has gained

further support, and this is a test of his plan to send

all the Southerlings into the Kingdom.

I have put a stop to further crossings as best I

can, and reinforced the guards at Barhedrin. But

there is no guarantee that the Ancelstierrans will not

send more Southerlings across, though General

Tindall has said he will delay acting on any such

order and warn us if he can.

In any case, more than a thousand Southerlings

have already crossed, and they are at least four days

ahead of us. Apparently they were met by “local

guides,” but as no Perimeter Scouts were allowed to

escort the refugees, I do not know whether these were

even true men.

We will pursue, of course, but there is a smell

about this I do not like. I am certain at least one Free

Magic sorcerer is involved on our side of the Wall,

and the Crossing Point the Southerlings used is the

one closest to where you were ambushed, Sameth.

The necromancer, thought Sam as he folded the letter.

He was glad the sun was out and that he was in the Palace,

protected by wards and guards and running water.

236

“Bad news?” asked Brel.

“Just news,” said Sam, but he was unable to suppress a

shiver.

“Nothing the King and the Abhorsen can’t deal with,” said

Brel, with total confidence.

“Wherever they are,” whispered Sam. He put the letter

inside his coat and went back downstairs. To his workshop, to

lose himself in making things, in tiny details that required all

his attention and the total dexterity of his hands.

With every step, he knew he should be going to open The

Book of the Dead.

Typically, Sam’s parents returned on a beautiful spring evening,

long after Sam had climbed down from the tower and Brel’s

watch had ended. The wind had turned to the east, the Sea

of Saere was shifting color from winter black to summery

turquoise, the sun was still warm even as it sank into the west,

and the swallows that lived in the cliffs were stealing wool

from Sam’s torn blanket for their nests.

Sabriel arrived first, her Paperwing skimming low over the

practice yard where Sam was sweating through forty-eight

patterns of attack and defense with Cynel, one of the better

guards. The shadow of the Paperwing startled them both and

allowed Cynel to take the final point, since she recovered while

Sam was momentarily paralyzed.

His day of doom had finally come, and all his prepared

speeches and letters leaked out of his brain, as if his opponent

had actually pierced his head rather than triumphantly clanging

her wooden sword down on his heavily padded helmet.

He was hurrying inside to change out of his practice armor

when the trumpets sounded above the South Gate. At first he

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thought they were for his mother, till he heard other trumpets

farther away, up at the West Yard, where her Paperwing would

have landed. So the trumpets at the South Gate had to be

announcing the King. No one else got a fanfare.

It was indeed Touchstone. Sam met him twenty minutes

later in the family’s private solar—a large room, three stories

above the Great Hall, with a single long window that looked

down upon the city rather than the sea. Touchstone was looking

out at his capital as Sam came in, watching the lights come

on. Bright Charter lights and soft oil lights, flickering candles

and fires. It was one of the best times to be in Belisaere, at

lighting-up time on a warm spring evening.

As usual, Touchstone looked tired, though he’d managed

to wash and change out of armor and riding gear. He was wearing

an Ancelstierran-style bathrobe, his curly hair still wet from

a hasty bath. He smiled as he saw Sam, and they shook hands.

“You look better, Sam,” said Touchstone, noting the flush

in his son’s face from the sword practice. “Though I had hoped

you’d also develop as a letter writer this winter.”

“Um,” said Sam. He’d sent only two letters to his father all

winter, and a few notes at the bottom of some of Ellimere’s

much more regular correspondence. Neither the letters nor the

notes had contained anything very interesting and nothing at

all personal. Sam had actually drafted some that did, but like

the ones to his mother, they’d ended up in the fire.

“Dad, I . . .” Sam began hesitantly, and he felt a surge of

relief as he finally began to broach the subject he’d stewed on

all winter. “Dad, I can’t—”

Before he could go on, the door swung open, and Ellimere

breezed in. Sam’s mouth snapped shut, and he glared at her,

but she ignored him and rushed straight to Touchstone, hugging

him with evident relief.

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“Dad! I’m so glad you’re home,” she said. “And Mother

too!”

“One big happy family,” muttered Sam under his breath.

“What was that?” asked Touchstone, a touch of sternness

in his voice.

“Nothing,” said Sam. “Where’s Mother?”

“Down in the reservoir,” replied Touchstone slowly. He

kept one arm around Ellimere and drew Sam in with the other.

“Now, I don’t want you to get too worried, but she’s had to go

to the Great Stones, because she’s been wounded—”

“Wounded!” exclaimed Ellimere and Sam together, turning

in so that all three of them were in a tight circle.

“Not seriously,” Touchstone said hastily. “A bite to the leg

from some sort of Dead thing, but she couldn’t attend to it at

the time, and it went bad.”

“Is she . . . is she going to . . .” Ellimere asked anxiously,

staring down at her own leg in consternation. From the look

on her face, it was plain that she found it hard to imagine

Sabriel hurt and not completely in command of herself and

everything around her.

“No, she is not going to lose her leg,” Touchstone said firmly.

“She’s had to go down to the Great Charter Stones because

both of us were simply too tired to cast the necessary healing

spells. But we’ll be able to down there. It is also the best place

for all of us to have a private discussion. A family conference.”

The reservoir where the six Great Charter Stones stood was

in many ways the heart of the Old Kingdom. It was possible

to access the Charter, the very wellspring of magic, anywhere

in the Old Kingdom, but the presence of ordinary Charter

Stones made it much easier, as if they were conduits to the

Charter. However, the Great Charter Stones actually seemed to

be of the Charter, not just connected to it. While the Charter

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contained and described all living things and all possibilities,

and existed everywhere, it was particularly concentrated in the

Great Stones, the Wall, and the bloodlines of the royal family,

as well as the Abhorsens and the Clayr. Certainly, when two of

the Great Stones were broken by Kerrigor, and the royal family

apparently lost, the Charter itself had seemed to weaken,

allowing greater freedom to Free Magic and the Dead.

“Wouldn’t it be better to have the conference up here, after

Mother’s cast her spell?” asked Sam.

Despite its importance to the Kingdom, the reservoir had

never been his favorite place, even before he had become so

afraid of Death. The Stones themselves were comforting, even

keeping the water around them warm, but the rest of the reservoir

was cold and horrible. Touchstone’s mother and sisters

had been slain there by Kerrigor, and much later, Sabriel’s

father had died there, too. Sam didn’t want to think about

what it must have been like when there were two broken

Stones, and Kerrigor lurked there in the darkness with his

necromantic beasts and Dead servants.

“No,” replied Touchstone, who had much more reason

than his son to fear the place. But he had lost that fear years

ago, in his long labor to repair the broken Stones with his own

blood and fragments of barely remembered magic. “It’s the

only place where we will definitely not be overheard, and there

are too many things you both must know, and no others

should. Bring the wine, Sameth. We’ll need it.”

“Are you going like that?” asked Ellimere, as Touchstone

strode over to the fireplace and into the left-hand side of the

inglenook. He turned as she spoke, looked down on his robe

and the twin swords belted across it, shrugged, and went on.

Ellimere sighed and followed him, and both disappeared into

the darkness behind the fire.

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Sam scowled and picked up the earthenware jug of spiced

wine that had been mulled and placed near the fire to keep hot.

Then he followed, pressing his hand up against the rear of the

inglenook, Charter marks flaring as the guard-spell let him

push open the secret door. Beyond that, he could already hear

his father and sister clattering down the one hundred fifty-six

steps that led to the reservoir, the Great Charter Stones, and

Sabriel.

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Chapter Twenty-Four

Cold Water, Old Stone

The reservoir was a vast hall of silence, cold

stone, and even colder water. The Great Stones stood in the

darkness at its center, invisible from the landing where the

Palace stairs met the water. Around the rim of the reservoir,

shafts of sunlight came down from the grilled openings high

above, casting cross-hatched ripples of light across the mirrorsmooth

surface of the water. Tall columns of white marble rose

up like mute sentinels between the patches of light, supporting

the ceiling sixty feet above.

The water was, as always, extremely clear. Sam dipped his

hand in it as he helped his father untie the barge that was

moored at the end of the Palace steps. As the water trickled

between his fingers, he saw Charter marks sparkle briefly. All

the water in the reservoir absorbed magic from the Great

Charter Stones. Closer to the center, the water was almost

more magic than anything else, and was no longer cold—or

even wet.

The barge was not much more than a raft with gilded

knobs on each corner. There were two of them in the reservoir,

but Sabriel had obviously taken the other one. She would be

on it, out there in the center, where no sunlight fell. The Great

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Stones glowed with all the millions of Charter marks that

moved in and on them, but most of the time it was only a faint

luminescence, no rival even to the filtered sunlight. They

wouldn’t see the glow until they were close, away from the

light-dappled rim, past the third line of columns.

Touchstone undid the rope on his side, then placed his

hand upon the planking and whispered a single word. Ripples

moved across the still water as he spoke, and the barge began

to edge away from the landing. There was no current in the

reservoir, but the barge moved as if there were, or as if unseen

hands pushed it through the water. Touchstone, Sam, and

Ellimere stood close together in the middle, occasionally shifting

balance as the barge swayed and rocked.

This was how Sam’s long-dead aunts and his grandmother

had traveled to their deaths, he thought. Standing on a barge—

maybe even this same one, he thought, dredged up, repaired

and re-gilded—all unsuspecting, till they were ambushed by

Kerrigor. He had cut their throats, catching their blood in his

golden cup. Royal blood. Blood for the breaking of the Great

Charter Stones.

Blood for the breaking, blood for the making. The Stones

had been broken by royal blood, and re-made with royal

blood—his father’s blood. Sam looked at Touchstone and

wondered how he had done it. The weeks of laboring here

alone, each morning taking a silver, Charter-spelled knife and

deliberately re-opening the cuts in his palms from the day

before. Cuts that had left white lines of scar tissue from his

little finger to the ball of the thumb. Cutting his hands, and

casting spells that he had not been sure of, spells that were terribly

dangerous to the caster, even without the added risk and

burden of the broken Stones.

But even more, Sam wondered about the use of blood, the

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same blood that ran in his veins. It felt strange to him that his

pounding heart was in its way akin to the Great Stones ahead.

How ignorant he was, particularly of the Charter’s greater

secrets. Why was royal, Abhorsen, and Clayr blood different

from normal people’s—even that of other Charter Mages,

whose blood was sufficient to mend or mar only the lesser

Stones? The three bloodlines were known as Great Charters,

like the Great Stones ahead, and the Wall. But why? Why did

their blood contain Charter Magic, magic that could not be

duplicated by marks drawn from the generally accessible

Charter?

Sam had always been fascinated by Charter Magic, particularly

making things with it, but the more he used it, the more

he realized how little he knew. So much knowledge had been

lost in the two hundred years of the Interregnum. Touchstone

had passed on as much as he knew to his son, but his own specialty

was in battle magic, not in making, or any deeper mysteries.

He had been a Royal Guard, a bastard Prince, not a

mage, at the time of the Queen’s death. After that, he had been

imprisoned in the shape of a ship’s figurehead for two hundred

years, while the Kingdom sank slowly into disorder.

Touchstone had been able to mend the Great Stones, he

had said, because the broken Stones wanted to be re-made. He

had made many mistakes at first, and only survived by grace

of the Stones’ support and strength, nothing else. Even so, it

had taken many months, and as many years off his life. There

had been no silver in Touchstone’s hair before the mending.

The barge passed between two columns, and Sam’s eyes

slowly adjusted to the strange twilight. He could see the six

Great Stones ahead now, tall monoliths of dark grey, their

irregular shapes quite different from the smooth masonry of

the columns and only a third of their height. And there was the

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other barge, floating in the center of the ring of Stones. But

where was Sabriel?

Fear suddenly gripped hard at his chest. He couldn’t see his

mother, and all he could think of was how the Dead Kerrigor

had taken on his former human shape and lured Sam’s grandmother

the Queen down to a dark and bloody death. Maybe

Touchstone wasn’t really Touchstone, but something else that

had assumed his form. . . .

Something moved on the barge ahead. Sam, who had

unconsciously held his breath, gasped and choked, thinking

that all his fears were realized. Whatever it was had no human

shape, rising only as high as his waist, without arms or head

or discernible form. A lump of writhing darkness, where his

mother should be—

Then Touchstone slapped him on the back. He took a

sudden breath, and the thing on the barge cast a small Charter

light that sparkled in the air above like a tiny star—revealing

that it was Sabriel after all. She had been lying down, wrapped

in her dark blue cloak, and had just sat up. The light shone on

her face now, and her familiar smile met them. But it was not

the full, uncaring smile of complete happiness, and she looked

more tired and worn than Sam had ever seen her. Always pale,

her skin looked almost translucent in the Charter light, and it

was sheened with the sweat of pain and suffering. For the first

time, Sam saw white streaks in her hair, and he was struck with

the realization that she was not ageless but would one day

grow old. She was not wearing her bells, but the bandolier lay

beside her, the mahogany handles in easy reach, as did her

sword and pack.

Sam’s barge drifted between two of the Stones and into

the ring. All three passengers started as it crossed, feeling a sudden

surge of energy and power from the Great Stones. Some

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weariness was stripped away from them, though not all. In

Sam’s case, the fear and guilt that he had carried all winter were

lessened. He felt more confident, more like his old self. It was

a feeling he hadn’t had since he’d walked out onto the pitch

for that final cricket match in the Schoolboys’ Shield.

The two barges met. Sabriel didn’t get up, but she held out

her arms. A second later, she was hugging Ellimere and Sam,

the barges rocking dangerously from their sudden rush and

enthusiastic greetings.

“Ellimere! Sameth! I am so glad to see you, and so sorry

I have been too long away,” said Sabriel, after the initial very

tight hug had given way to a looser one.

“That’s all right, Mother,” replied Ellimere, who sounded

more as if she were the mother and Sabriel her daughter. “It’s

you we’re worried about. Let’s have a look at your leg.”

She started to lift the cloak, but Sabriel stopped her just as

Sam caught the faint, horrible smell of decaying flesh.

“It’s still not pleasant,” Sabriel said quickly. “A wound

from the Dead rots quickly, I’m afraid. But I have cast healingspells

upon it, with the aid of the Great Stones, and fixed a

poultice of feliac there too. All will soon be well.”

“This time,” said Touchstone. He was standing outside

the close group of Sabriel, Ellimere, and Sam, looking down at

his wife.

“Your father is angry with me because he thinks I almost

got myself killed,” said Sabriel, with a slight grin. “I don’t

understand it myself, since I think he should be glad that I

didn’t.”

Silence greeted this remark, till Sam hesitantly asked,

“How badly were you hurt?”

“Badly,” replied Sabriel, wincing as she moved her leg.

Charter marks flared under the cloak, briefly visible even

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through the tightly woven wool. She hesitated, then quietly

added, “If I hadn’t met your father on the way back, I might

not have made it here.”

Sam and Ellimere exchanged horrified glances. All their

lives they had heard stories of Sabriel’s battles and hard-won

victories. She had been wounded before, but they had never

heard her admit that she might have been killed, and had

never really considered the possibility themselves. She was the

Abhorsen, who entered Death only of her own accord!

“But I did make it, and I am going to be absolutely fine,”

Sabriel said firmly. “So there is no need for anyone to fuss.”

“Meaning me, I suppose,” said Touchstone. He sat down

with a sigh, then stood up irritably to re-arrange his swords

and bathrobe before sitting again.

“The reason I am fussing,” he said, “is that I am concerned

that all this winter someone, or something, has been deliberately

and cleverly arranging situations to put you most at risk.

Look at the places you’ve been called to, and how there are

always more Dead than were reported, and more dangerous

creatures—”

“Touchstone,” interrupted Sabriel, reaching out to take his

hand. “Calm down. I agree. You know I agree.”

“Mmph,” grumbled Touchstone, but he did not say any

more.

“It’s true,” replied Sabriel, looking squarely at Sam and

Ellimere. “There is a clear pattern, and not just in the Dead

that have been raised solely to ambush me. I think that the

increasing number of Free Magic elementals is also connected,

as is the trouble that your father has been having with the

Southerling refugees.”

“It almost certainly is,” said Touchstone, sighing. “General

Tindall believes that Corolini and his Our Country Party are

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being funded with Old Kingdom gold, though he cannot

definitely prove it. Since Corolini and his party now hold

the balance of power in the Ancelstierre Moot, they’ve been

able to get the Southerlings moved farther and farther north.

They have also made it clear that their ultimate aim is to get

all the Southerling refugees moved across the Wall, into our

Kingdom.”

“Why?” asked Sam. “I mean, what for? It’s not as if northern

Ancelstierre is over-populated.”

“I’m not sure,” replied Touchstone. “The reasons they

make public in Ancelstierre are populist rubbish, pandering to

the fears of the countryfolk. But there has to be a reason why

someone here is supplying them with gold—enough gold to

buy the twelve seats they’ve picked up in the Moot. I fear that

reason may have something to do with the fact that we have

not been able to find more than a score of the thousand people

who were sent across a month ago, and none of that score

alive. The rest have simply vanished—”

“How could that many people disappear? Surely they

would leave some trace,” interrupted Ellimere. “Perhaps I

should go—”

“No.” Touchstone smiled, amused by his daughter’s obvious

belief that she could do a better job than he could when

it came to looking for something. The smile faded as he went

on. “This is not as simple as it appears, Ellimere. Sorcery is involved.

Your mother thinks that we will find them when we

least want to, and that they will not be living when we do.”

“This is the heart of the matter,” said Sabriel gravely.

“Before we discuss it further, I think we should take further

precautions against being overheard. Touchstone?”

Touchstone nodded and stood up. Drawing one of his

swords, he concentrated for a moment. The Charter marks on

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his sword began to glow and move, till the whole blade was

wreathed in golden light. Touchstone flicked the sword up, and

the Charter marks leapt across to the nearest Great Stone,

splashing on it like liquid fire.

For a moment nothing happened. Then other marks caught

the light, and the golden flames spread to cover the whole

Stone, roaring up like a crown-caught wildfire. More marks

leapt to the next Stone till it kindled, too, and then to the next,

until all six Great Stones were ablaze, and streams of bright

Charter marks flew up and across to weave a tracery of light

like a dome above the two barges.

Looking over the side, Sam saw that the golden fire had

spread underwater, too, forming a crazy maze of marks that

covered the reservoir floor. The four were now completely

enclosed by a magical barrier, one that relied upon the power

of the Great Stones. He wanted to ask how it was cast, and

enquire about the nature of the spell, but his mother was

already speaking.

“We can talk now without fear of being overheard, by natural

ears or other means,” said Sabriel. She took Sam’s hand,

and Ellimere’s, holding them tight, so they felt the calluses on

her fingers and palms, the result of so many years of wielding

sword and bells.

“Your father and I are certain that the Southerlings were

brought across the Wall to be killed—slain by a necromancer

who has used the bodies to house Dead spirits who owe him

allegiance. Only Free Magic sorcery can explain how the

bodies and all other traces have disappeared, unseen by our

patrols or the Clayr’s Sight.”

“But I thought the Clayr could See everything,” said

Ellimere. “I mean, they often get the time wrong, but they still

See. Don’t they?”

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“Over the past four or five years the Clayr have become

aware that their Sight is clouded, and possibly has always been

clouded, in the region around the eastern shores of the Red

Lake and Mount Abed,” said Touchstone grimly. “A large

area, which not coincidentally is also where our royal writ does

not hold true. There is some power there that opposes both the

Clayr and our authority, blocking their Sight and breaking the

Charter Stones I have set there.”

“Well, shouldn’t we call out the Trained Bands and take

them and the Guard and go down there and sort it out once

and for all?” protested Ellimere, in the same tone that Sam

imagined she had used when she led the Wyverley College

hockey team back in Ancelstierre.

“We don’t know where—or what—it is,” said Sabriel.

“Every time we undertake to really search the area for the

source of the trouble, something happens somewhere else. We

did think we might have found the root of it five years ago, at

the Battle of Roble’s Town—”

“The necromancer woman,” interrupted Sam, who

remembered the story well. He had thought a lot about necromancers

over the past months. “The one with the bronze

mask.”

“Yes. Chlorr of the Mask,” replied Sabriel, staring out at

the golden barrier, obviously recalling unpleasant memories.

“She was very old, and powerful, so I had presumed she was

the architect of our difficulties there. But now I am not sure.

It is clear someone else is still working to befuddle the Clayr

and incite trouble across the Kingdom. There is also someone

behind Corolini in Ancelstierre and perhaps even the Southerling

wars as well. One possibility is the man you encountered

in Death, Sam.”

“The . . . the necromancer?” asked Sam. His voice came

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out as a pathetic squeak, and he unconsciously rubbed his

wrists, his sleeves briefly riding up to show the skin still scarred

from the burns.

“He must have great power to raise so many Dead Hands

on the other side of the Wall,” replied Sabriel. “And with that

power, I should have heard of him, but I have not. How has

he kept himself hidden all these years? How did Chlorr hide

when we scoured the Kingdom after Kerrigor’s fall, and why

did she reveal herself to attack Roble’s Town? Now I am wondering

if perhaps I underestimated Chlorr. She may even have

evaded me at the last. I made her walk beyond the Sixth Gate,

but I was sorely tired, and I did not follow her all the way to

the Ninth. I should have. There was something strange about

her, something more than the usual taint of Free Magic or

necromancy. . . .”

She paused, and her eyes stared out at nothing, unfocused.

Then she blinked and continued. “Chlorr was old, old enough

for other Abhorsens to have encountered her in the past, and

I suspect that this other necromancer is also ancient. But I have

found no record of either at the House. Too much knowledge

was destroyed when the Palace burnt, and more has been lost

besides, simply by the march of time. And the Clayr, while they

keep everything in that Great Library of theirs, rarely find anything

useful in it. Their minds are too much bent upon the

future. I should like to look there myself, but that is a task that

would take months, if not years. I think Chlorr and this other

necromancer were in league, and may be still, if Chlorr has survived.

But who leads and who follows is unclear. I also fear

that we will find they are not alone. But whoever or whatever

moves against us, we must make sure their plans come to

naught.”

The light seemed to darken as Sabriel spoke, and the water

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rippled as if an unwanted breeze had somehow passed the

protection of the golden light around the Stones.

“What plans?” asked Ellimere. “What are they . . . it . . .

whatever . . . going to do?”

Sabriel looked at Touchstone, and a brief flash of uncertainty

passed between them before she continued.

“We think that they plan to bring all two hundred thousand

Southerling refugees into the Old Kingdom—and kill

them,” whispered Sabriel, as if they might be overheard after

all. “Two hundred thousand deaths in a single poisoned minute,

to make an avenue out of Death for every spirit that has

lingered there from the First Precinct to the very precipice of

the Ninth Gate. To summon a host of the Dead greater than

any that has ever walked in Life. A host that we could not possibly

defeat, even if all the Abhorsens who have ever lived were

somehow to stand against them.”

252

Chapter Twenty-Five

A Family Conference

Silence greeted Sabriel’s words, a silence

that went on and on, as they all imagined a host of the Dead

two hundred thousand strong, and Sam struggled not to. A

horde of the Dead, a great sea of stumbling, Life-starved

corpses that stretched from horizon to horizon, inexorably

marching towards him—

“That will not happen, of course,” said Touchstone, breaking

into Sam’s terrible imaginings. “We will make sure that it

doesn’t, that the refugees never even cross the Wall. However,

we can’t stop them on our side. The Wall is too long, with too

many broken gates and too many old Crossing Points on the

other side. So we must ensure that the Ancelstierrans don’t

send them across in the first place. Consequently your mother

and I have decided to go to Ancelstierre ourselves—secretly, so

not to arouse alarm or suspicion. We will go to Corvere and

negotiate with their government, which will undoubtedly take

several months. That means we will be relying on you two to

look after the Kingdom.”

More silence greeted this revelation. Ellimere looked

deeply thoughtful but otherwise calm. Sam swallowed several

times, then said, “What, ah, what exactly do you mean?”

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“As far as both our friends and enemies need know, I will

be on a diplomatic mission to the barbarian chiefs at their

Southern Stop, and Sabriel will be going about her business as

mysteriously as she always does,” replied Touchstone. “In our

absence, Ellimere will continue as co-regent with Jall Oren—

everyone seems to have become accustomed to that. Sameth,

you will assist her. But most important, you will continue in

your studies of The Book of the Dead.”

“Speaking of such things, I have something for you,”

added Sabriel, before Sam could interject. She pushed her pack

across with obvious effort. “Look in the top.”

Slowly, Sam undid the straps. He suddenly felt very sick,

knowing that he must tell them now or he would not be able

to. Ever.

There was an oilskin-wrapped package in the pack. Sameth

slid it out slowly, his fingers gone cold and clumsy. His eyes

seemed to be strangely blurry, too, and Sabriel sounded as if

she were talking from another room.

“I found these at the House—or rather, the sendings had

set them out. I don’t know where they found them, or why

they’ve got them out now. They are very, very old. So old that

I have no record of who bore them first. I would have asked

Mogget, but he still sleeps—”

“Except for when I caught that salmon last year,” interjected

Touchstone crossly. Mogget, the Abhorsen’s cat-shaped

familiar, was bound by Ranna, the Sleepbringer, first of the

seven bells. He had woken only five or six times in nearly

twenty years, on three of those occasions to steal and eat fish

caught by Touchstone.

“Mogget would not wake,” continued Sabriel. “But as I

have my own, these are clearly meant for the Abhorsenin-

Waiting. Congratulations, Sam.”

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Sam nodded dumbly, the remaining package unopened in

his lap. He didn’t need to look to know that wrapped inside

the crinkled oilskin were the seven Charter-spelled bells of an

Abhorsen.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” asked Ellimere.

“Later,” croaked Sam. He tried to smile but only made his

mouth twitch. He knew Sabriel was looking at him, but he

couldn’t meet her eyes.

“I’m glad the bells have come,” said Sabriel. “Most

Abhorsens before me worked with their successors, sometimes

for many years, as I hope we will work together. According

to Mogget, my father trained with his aunt for nearly a decade.

I have often wished I had had the same opportunity.”

She hesitated again and then said quickly, “To tell the truth,

I will need your help, Sam.”

Sam nodded, unable to speak, as the words of his confession

dried up in his mouth. He had the birthright, he had

the book, he had the bells. Obviously, he just had to try harder

to read the book, he told himself, trying to overcome the panic

that twisted knots in his stomach. He would become the

proper Abhorsen-in-Waiting everyone expected and needed.

He had to.

“I’ll do my best,” he said, finally looking Sabriel in the

eyes. She smiled, with a smile that made her whole face bright,

and hugged him.

“I have to go to Ancelstierre, for I still know their ways

much better than your father does,” she said. “And quite a few

of my old school friends have become influential, or have married

so. But I didn’t want to leave without knowing there was

an Abhorsen here to protect the people from the Dead. Thank

you, Sam.”

“But I’m not . . .” Sam cried out before he could stop

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himself. “I’m not ready. I haven’t finished the book, I mean,

and—”

“I’m sure you know more than you think,” Sabriel said.

“In any case, there should be little trouble now that spring is

in full bloom. Every stream and river is flowing with snow-melt

and spring rain. The days are getting longer. There never are

any major threats from the Dead this late in spring, or through

the summer. The most you’ll have to deal with is a rogue Hand

or perhaps a Mordaut. I have every confidence you can manage

that.”

“What about the missing Southerlings?” asked Ellimere,

with a look that spoke volumes about her confidence in Sam.

“Nine hundred Dead are a major threat.”

“They must have disappeared into the area around the

Red Lake, or the Clayr would have Seen them,” said Sabriel.

“So they should be confined there by the spring floods. I would

go and deal with them first, but the greater danger lies with the

many more Southerlings in Ancelstierre. We will have to trust

in the flooded rivers, and in you, Sam.”

“But—” Sam began.

“Mind you, the necromancer or necromancers who oppose

us are not to be trifled with,” continued Sabriel. “If they dare

to confront you, you must fight them in Life. Do not fight one

of them in Death again, Sam. You were brave to do so before,

but also lucky. You must also be very careful with the bells. As

you know, they can force you into Death, or trick you into it.

Use them only when you are confident you have learned the

lessons in the book. Do you promise?”

“Yes,” said Sam. Somehow or other he barely had breath

for that single word. But there was relief in it, for he’d been

given a reprieve of sorts. He could probably sort out most of

the Lesser Dead with Charter Magic alone. His resolution to

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be a proper Abhorsen had not banished the fear that still

lurked in his heart, and his fingers were cold where they

touched the wrapped-up bells.

“Now,” said Touchstone, “I wonder if you have any insights

into dealing with the Ancelstierrans, you two, from your

schooling there. This Corolini, for instance, the leader of the

Our Country Party. Could he be from the Old Kingdom himself,

do you think?”

“After my time,” said Ellimere, who had been a whole year

out of school and seemed to consider her Ancelstierran days as

ancient history.

“I don’t know,” replied Sam. “He was in the newspapers

a lot before I left, but they never mentioned where he came

from. My friend Nicholas might know, and he would be able

to help, I think. His uncle is the Chief Minister, Edward Sayre,

you know. Nick is coming to visit me next month, but you

should be able to catch him before he leaves.”

“He’s coming here?” asked Touchstone. “I’m surprised

they’ll let him. I don’t think the Army has issued a permit in

years, apart from that lot of refugees—and that was a political

show. The Army didn’t have a choice.”

“Nick can be very persuasive,” said Sam, thinking of various

scrapes Nick had talked him into at school—and less

often, out of the blame afterwards. “I asked Ellimere to seal a

visa for him, for our side.”

“I sent it ages ago,” said Ellimere, with a snide glance at

Sam. “Some of us are efficient, you know.”

“Good,” said Touchstone. “It will be a useful connection,

and important for one of Ancelstierre’s ruling families to see

that we do not invent the stories they hear about the Kingdom.

I’ll also make sure the Barhedrin Guard Post provides

an escort from the Wall. It wouldn’t help negotiations if we

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lose the Chief Minister’s nephew.”

“What are we negotiating with?” asked Ellimere. “I mean,

down in Corvere they like to pretend we don’t even exist. I was

always having to convince stuck-up city girls that I wasn’t

making the Kingdom up.”

“Two things,” replied Sabriel. “Gold and fear. We have

only a modest amount of gold, but it might be enough to tip

the balance if it goes into the right pockets. And there are many

Northerners who remember when Kerrigor crossed the Wall.

We shall try to convince them that this will happen again if

they send the Southerling refugees north.”

“It couldn’t be Kerrigor, could it?” asked Sam. “I mean,

whoever is behind all the trouble.”

“No,” said Sabriel and Touchstone together. They exchanged

a look, obviously remembering the terrible past and

what Kerrigor had tried to do, both here in the Old Kingdom

and in Ancelstierre.

“No,” repeated Sabriel. “I looked in on Kerrigor when I

visited the House. He sleeps still and forever under Ranna’s

spell, locked in the deepest cellar, bound with every Mark of

ward and guard your father and I have ever known. It is not

Kerrigor.”

“Whoever, or whatever, it is, they shall be dealt with,” said

Touchstone, his voice powerful and regal. “We four shall see

to that. But for now, I suggest we all drink some mulled wine

and talk of better things. How was the Midwinter Festival? Did

I tell you that I danced the Bird of Dawning when I was your

age, Sam? How did you do?”

“I forgot the cups,” said Sam, handing over the stillwarm

jug.

“We can drink from the jug,” said Sabriel, after a moment

when no one chose to answer Touchstone’s question. She took

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the jug and expertly poured a stream of wine into her mouth.

“Ah, that’s good. Now tell me, how was your birthday, Sam?

A good day?”

Sam answered mechanically, hardly noticing Ellimere’s

rather more pointed interjections. Clearly, his parents hadn’t

spoken to Jall yet, or they would be asking different questions.

He was relieved when they started questioning Ellimere, gently

teasing her about her tennis and all the young men who were

trying to learn this new sport. Obviously, gossip about his

sister had traveled faster than news of Sam’s shortcomings. He

was brought briefly back into the conversation when Ellimere

accused him of refusing to make any more racquets, which

was a shame because no one else could make them quite so

well, but a quick promise to produce a dozen dropped him out

again.

The others continued to talk for a while, but the dark

future weighed heavily on them all. Sameth, for his part,

couldn’t stop thinking about the book and the bells. What

would he would do if he were actually called upon to repel an

incursion by the Dead? What would he do if it turned out to

be the necromancer who’d tortured him in Death? Or even

worse, what if there were some still more powerful enemy, as

Sabriel feared?

Suddenly he blurted out, “What if it . . . this Enemy . . .

isn’t behind Corolini? What if he’s going to do something else

while you’re both gone?”

The others, who were in the middle of a conversation about

Heria, who’d tripped over her own dress and catapulted into

Jall Oren at an afternoon party in honor of the Mayor of

Sindle, looked up, startled.

“If that is so, we will be just a week away, ten days at the

most,” said Sabriel. “A message-hawk to Barhedrin, a rider to

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the Perimeter, a telegraph from there or Bain to Corvere, train

back to Bain—maybe even less than a week. But we think that

whatever this Enemy—as you have dubbed it so well—plans,

it must involve a great number of the Dead. The Clayr have

Seen many possible futures in which our entire Kingdom is

nothing more than a desert, inhabited only by the Dead. What

else could bring this about but the sort of massing of the Dead

that we suspect? And that could be brought about only by

killing all those poor, unprotected refugees. Our people are too

well guarded. In any case, apart from Belisaere, there are not

two hundred thousand people in one place in all the Kingdom.

And certainly not two hundred thousand without a single

Charter mark amongst them.”

“I don’t know what else it could be,” said Sam heavily. “I

just wish you weren’t going.”

“Being the Abhorsen is a weighty responsibility,” Sabriel

said quietly. “One that I understand you are wary of shouldering,

even when it is shared with me. But it is your destiny,

Sam. Does the walker choose the path, or the path the walker?

I am sure you will do very well, and we will soon all be together

again, speaking of happier things.”

“When do you go?” asked Sam, unable to hide the hope of

delay from his voice. Maybe he would be able to talk to Sabriel

tomorrow, to get her help with The Book of the Dead, to overcome

his paralyzing fear.

“Tomorrow, at dawn,” replied Sabriel reluctantly. “Provided

my leg is healed enough. Your father will ride with the real

embassy to the Northern Barbarians, and I will fly west. But I

will double back to pick him up tomorrow night, and we will

then fly south to the House, to try to consult again with

Mogget, then on to Barhedrin and the Wall. Hopefully this

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will confuse any spies who may be watching.”

“We would stay longer,” said Touchstone sadly, looking at

his small family, so rarely all together in one place. “But as

always, duty calls—and we must answer.”

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Chapter Twenty-Six

A Letter from Nicholas

Sam left the reservoir that night with an empty wine

jug, a bandolier of bells, a heavy heart, and much to think upon.

Ellimere went with him, but Sabriel stayed behind, needing to

spend the night within the circle of Great Charter Stones to

speed her healing. Touchstone stayed with her, and it was obvious

to the two children that their parents wished to be alone.

Probably to discuss the shortcomings of their son, Sam thought

as he wearily climbed the stairs, the package of bells in his hand.

Ellimere wished him an almost friendly good night at

the door to her chambers, but Sam didn’t go to bed. Instead he

climbed another twisting stair to his tower workroom and

spoke the word that brought the Charter lights to life. Then

he put the bells in a different cupboard from the book, locking

them out of sight if not out of mind. After that, he halfheartedly

tried to resume work on a clockwork and Charter

Magic cricketer, a batsman six inches high. He had some ideas

of making two teams and setting them to play, but neither the

clockwork nor the magic yet worked to his satisfaction.

Someone knocked on the door. Sam ignored it. If it was

a servant, he’d call or go away. If it was Ellimere, she’d just

barge in.

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The knock was repeated, there was some sort of muffled

call, and Sam heard something slide under the door, followed

by footsteps going back down the stairs. A silver tray was on

the floor, with a very ragged-looking letter upon it. Judging

from the state it was in, it had to be from Ancelstierre, and that

meant it was from Nicholas.

Sam sighed, put on his white cotton gloves, and picked up

a pair of tweezers. Receiving one of Nick’s letters was always

more of a forensic exercise than a matter of reading. He picked

up the tray and carried it over to his bench, where the Charter

marks were brightest, and began to peel the paper apart and

piece the rotten bits together.

Half an hour later, as the clock in the Grey Tower clanged

out a dozen strokes for midnight, the letter was laid out clearly

enough to read. Sam bent over it, his frown deepening the

further he read.

Dear Sam,

Thanks for organizing the Old Kingdom visa for

me. I don’t know why your Consul at Bain was so

reluctant to give me one. Lucky you’re a Prince, I

guess, and can get things done. I didn’t have any

trouble at this end. Father called Uncle Edward, who

pulled the appropriate strings. Practically no one in

Corvere even knew you could get a permit to cross

the Perimeter. Anyway, I suppose it shows that

Ancelstierre and the Old Kingdom aren’t that

different. It all comes down to who you know.

In any case, I intend to leave Awengate tomorrow,

and if all the train connections go smoothly, I will be

in Bain by Saturday and across the Wall by the 15th.

I know this is earlier than we agreed, so you won’t be

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able to meet me, but I’m not just rushing in on my

own. I’ve hired a guide—a former Crossing Point

Scout I ran into in Bain. Quite literally, in fact. He

was crossing the road to avoid a demonstration by

these One Country fellows, stumbled and nearly

knocked me over. But it was a fortuitous meeting, as

he knows the Old Kingdom well. He also confirmed

something I’ve read about a curious phenomenon

called the Lightning Trap. He has seen it, and it

certainly sounds worth studying.

So I think we will go and take a look at this

Lightning Trap en route to your undoubtedly

charming capital of Belisaere. My guide didn’t seem

at all surprised that I knew you, by the way. Perhaps

he is as unimpressed by royalty as some of our former

schoolfellows!

In any case, the Lightning Trap is apparently

near a town called Edge, which I understand is not

too far out of the direct route north to you. If only

you people believed in normal maps and not quasimystical

memorization aided by blank pieces of

paper!

I look forward to seeing you in your native

habitat—almost as much as I look forward to

investigating the curious anomalies of your Old

Kingdom. There is surprisingly little written about it.

The College library has only a few old and highly

superstitious texts and the Radford little more. It

never gets mentioned in the papers, either, except

obliquely when Corolini is raving on in the Moot

about sending “undesirables and Southerlings” to

what he calls “the extreme North.” I expect that I

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will be an advance guard of one “undesirable” in his

terms!

Everything about the Old Kingdom seems to fall

under a conspiracy of silence, so I am sure there will

be many things for an ambitious young scientist to

discover and reveal to the world.

I hope you are quite recovered, by the way. I have

been ill myself, on and off, with chest pains that seem

to be some sort of bronchitis. Strangely enough, they

get worse the farther south I go, and were terrible in

Corvere, probably because the air is absolutely filthy.

I’ve spent the last month in Bain, and have barely

been troubled. I expect I will be even better in your

Old Kingdom, where the air should be positively

pristine.

In any case, I look forward to seeing you soon,

and remain your loyal friend,

Nicholas Sayre

P.S. I don’t believe Ellimere is really six foot six and

weighs twenty stone. You would have mentioned it

before.

Sameth put the letter down, careful not to break what

was left of it.

After he’d finished, he read the letter again, hoping that the

words had somehow changed. Surely Nick wouldn’t cross into

the Old Kingdom with only a single—and possibly untrustworthy—

guide? Didn’t he realize how dangerous the Borderlands

near the Wall were? Particularly to an Ancelstierran,

lacking a Charter mark and any sense of magic. Nick wouldn’t

even be able to test whether his guide was a real man, a tainted

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Charter bearer, or even a Free Magic construct, powerful

enough to cross the Perimeter without detection.

Sam bit his lip at the thought, teeth tapping at the skin

in unconscious concern, and consulted his almanac. According

to that, the fifteenth was three days ago, so Nick must

have already crossed the Wall. So it was too late to get there,

even by Paperwing, or to find one of the Palace messagehawks

and send it with orders to the guards. Nick had a visa

for himself and a servant, so the Barhedrin Post wouldn’t

detain him. He would be in the Borderlands now, heading

towards Edge.

Edge! Sam bit his lip harder. That was far too close to the

Red Lake, and the region where the necromancer Chlorr had

destroyed the Stones and even now the Enemy hid and hatched

its plans against the Kingdom. It was the worst possible place

for Nick to go!

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts and made him

bite his lip even harder, so he tasted blood. Irritated, he called

out, “Yes! Who is it!”

“Me!” said Ellimere, breezing in. “I hope I’m not disturbing

the act of creation or anything?”

“No,” Sameth replied warily. He indicated his workbench

with a half wave and a shrug, implying that his work wasn’t

going well.

Ellimere looked around with interest, since Sam usually

pushed her out whenever she tried to come in. The small

tower room had been given to Sameth on his sixteenth birthday

and had had much use since then. Currently, the two

workbenches were covered in the paraphernalia of a jeweler

and many tools and devices that were obscure to her. There

were also some small figurines of cricketers, thin bars of gold

and silver, reels of bronze wire, a scattering of sapphires, and

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a small but still-smoking forge built into the room’s former

fireplace.

And there was Charter Magic everywhere. The faded afterimages

of Charter marks shone in the air, crawled lazily across

the walls and ceiling, and clustered by the chimney. Clearly

Sameth was not just creating costume jewelry or the promised

extra tennis racquets.

“What are you making?” Ellimere asked curiously. Some

of the Charter symbols, or rather the fading reflections of

them, were extremely powerful. They were marks she would

be reluctant to use herself.

“Things,” said Sameth. “Nothing you’d be interested in.”

“How do you know?” asked Ellimere. The familiar tide of

resentment was rising between them.

“Toys,” snapped Sam, holding up his little batsman, which

suddenly swung its tiny bat before freezing back into immobility.

“I’m making toys. I know it’s not a fit occupation for a

Prince, and I should be asleep getting ready for a fun new day

of dance classes and Petty Court, but I . . . can’t sleep,” he concluded

wearily.

“Neither can I,” said Ellimere in a conciliatory tone. She

sat down in the one other chair, and added, “I’m worried.

About Mother.”

“She said she’d be fine. The Great Stones will heal her.”

“This time. She needs help with her work, Sam, and you’re

the only person who can do it.”

“I know,” said Sam. He looked away, down at Nick’s letter.

“I know.”

“Well,” Ellimere continued uncomfortably, “I just wanted

to say that studying to be the Abhorsen is the most important

thing, Sam. If you need more time, you just have to say, and

I’ll reorganize your schedule.”

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Sam looked at her, surprised. “You mean take time away

from the Bird of Dawning, or those afternoon parties with your

friends’ stupid sisters?”

“They’re not—” Ellimere started to say; then she took a

deep breath and said, “Yes. Things are different now. Now we

know what’s going on. I shall be spending more time with the

Guard myself. Getting ready.”

“Ready?” asked Sam nervously. “So soon?”

“Yes,” said Ellimere. “Even if Mother and Dad are successful

in Ancelstierre, there’s going to be trouble. Whatever is

behind it all isn’t going to lie still while we stop its plans.

Something will happen, and we need to be ready. You need to

be ready, Sam. That’s all I wanted to say.”

She got up and left. Sam stared into space. There was

nowhere to turn. He had to become a proper Abhorsenin-

Waiting. He had to help fight whatever the Enemy was. The

people expected it. Everyone depended on him.

And so, he suddenly realized, did Nicholas. He had to go

and find Nicholas, to save his friend before he got in trouble,

because no one else would.

Suddenly Sam was filled with purpose, a feeling of decision

that he didn’t examine too closely. His friend was in danger,

and he must go to save him. He would be away from the Book

of the Dead and his Princely chores for only a few weeks. He

would probably be able to find Nick quite quickly and bring

him to safety, particularly if he could take half a dozen of the

Royal Guard. As Sabriel had said, there was little chance of

the Dead doing anything, what with the spring floods.

Somewhere deep down a small voice was telling him that

what he was really doing was running away. But he smothered

the voice with other more important thoughts, and didn’t even

look at the cupboards that held the book and the bells.

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Once the decision was made, Sam thought about how it

could be done. Ellimere would never let him go, he knew. So

he must ask his father, and that meant rising before dawn in

order to catch Touchstone in his wardrobe.

269

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Sam Makes Up His Mind

Despite his good intentions, Sam overslept and

missed Touchstone’s departure from the Palace. Thinking that

he might catch him at the South Gate, he ran down Palace Hill

and then along the broad, tree-lined Avenue of Stars, named

after the tiny metal suns embedded in its paving stones. Two

guards ran with him, easily keeping pace despite the weight of

their mail hauberks, helmets, and boots.

Sam had just sighted the rear ranks of his father’s escort

when he heard the cheers of the crowd and the sudden blare

of trumpets. He jumped up on a cart that was stopped in

the traffic and looked over the heads of the crowd. He was

just in time to see his father ride out through the high gate

of Belisaere, red and gold cloak streaming behind him over

the horse’s hindquarters, the early sun just catching his

crown-circled helmet before he passed into the shadow of the

gate.

Royal guards rode in front of and behind the King, twoscore

tall men and women, bright mail flashing from the

vertical cuts in their red and gold surcoats. The guards would

continue north tomorrow, Sam knew, with someone dressed

as Touchstone. The King would actually be flying south to

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Ancelstierre with Sabriel, to try to forestall the death of two

hundred thousand innocents.

Sameth kept watching even after the last guard passed the

gate and the normal traffic resumed; people, horses, wagons,

donkeys, pushcarts, pullcarts, beggars . . . all flowed past him,

but he didn’t notice.

He had missed Touchstone, and now he would have to

make up his mind all on his own.

Even when he crossed to the center of the road and turned

against the tide flowing out of the city, his gaze was absent.

Only the vacuum created around him by two burly guards prevented

several pedestrian accidents.

Since Sam had started to think about going to find Nicholas,

he found that he couldn’t stop. He was sure that the letter was

real. Sam was the only one who knew Nick well enough to

track him down, the only one with a friendship bond that finding

magic could flow through.

The only one who could save him from whatever trouble

was brewing for everyone around the Red Lake.

But that meant Sam would have to leave Belisaere, abandoning

his duties. He knew that Ellimere would never give him

permission.

These thoughts, and multiple variations of them, swirled

through his mind as he and his guards passed under one of the

huge aqueducts that fed the city with pure, snow-melt water.

The aqueducts had proved their worth in other ways too. Their

fast-flowing waters were a defense against the Dead, particularly

during the two centuries of the Interregnum.

Sameth thought of that, too, as he heard the deep bellow

of the aqueduct above his head. For a moment his conscience

twinged. He was supposed to be a defense against the Dead

himself.

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He left the cool shadow of the aqueduct and began heading

along the Avenue of Stars before the wearying climb up the

switchbacked King’s Road that led to Palace Hill. Ellimere was

probably already waiting for him back at the Palace, since both

of them were to sit in Petty Court this morning. She would be

cool and composed in her judicial robes of black and white,

holding the wand of ivory and the wand of jet that were used

in the truth-testing spell. She would be cross that he was

sweaty, dirty, inappropriately dressed, and unequipped—his

wands had disappeared, though he had the vague notion that

they might have rolled under his bed.

Petty Court. Belisaere Festival duties. Tennis racquets. The

Book of the Dead. All of it surged up like a great dark wave

that threatened to engulf him.

“No,” he whispered, stopping so suddenly that both his

guards nearly ran into him. “I’ll go. I’ll go tonight.”

“What was that, sir?” asked Tonin, the younger of the two

guards. She was the same age as Ellimere, and they had been

friends since they had played together as children. She was

nearly always one of his guards on his rare excursions into the

city, and Sameth felt sure she reported his every movement to

the Princess.

“Um, nothing, Tonin,” replied Sameth, shaking his head.

“I was just thinking aloud. Guess I’m not used to getting up

before dawn.”

Tonin and the other guard exchanged semi-tolerant glances

behind his back as they moved on. They got up every day

before dawn.

Sameth didn’t know what his guards were thinking, as they

finished the climb up the hill and entered the cool, fountaincentered

court that led to the west wing of the Palace. But he’d

seen the looks they’d exchanged, and he had a general idea that

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they did not consider him the perfect pattern of a Prince. He

suspected most of the city folk shared their opinion. It was

galling to someone who had been one of the leading lights of

his school in Ancelstierre. There he had excelled at everything

that was important. Cricket in the summer and Rugby in the

winter. And he’d been first in chemistry class and in the top

classes for everything else. Here, he couldn’t seem to do anything

right.

The guards left him outside his room, but Sam didn’t immediately

change into his judge’s robes or make any motion

to use the basin and ewer of water that stood in the tiled

alcove that served him as a bathroom. The Palace, rebuilt with

economy following its destruction by fire, did not have the

steampipes and hot-water systems of Abhorsen’s House or the

Clayr’s Glacier. Sam had plans for such a system, and indeed

some of the original works remained deep below Palace Hill,

but he had not had time to investigate the magic and engineering

required to make it happen.

“I will go,” he declared again, to the painting on the wall

that showed a pleasant harvest scene. The reapers did not

react, nor did the pitchfork crew, as he added, “The only question

is—how?”

He paced around the room. It was not large, so he had

made twenty circuits before he made a decision, at the same

time he arrived in front of the silver mirror that hung on the

wall to the right of his simple iron-framed bed.

“I’ll be someone else,” he said. “Prince Sameth can stay

behind. I’ll be Sam, a Traveler going to rejoin his band after

seeking treatment for a sickness in Belisaere.”

He smiled at that, looking at himself in the mirror. Prince

Sameth looked back at him, resplendent in red and gold jerkin,

somewhat sweaty white linen shirt, tan doeskin breeches, and

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gilt-heeled knee boots. And above the court finery a pleasant

face, with the potential to be striking one day, although Sam

didn’t see that. Too youthful and open, he decided. His face

lacked the definition of experience. He needed a scar or a broken

nose or something like that.

As he looked, he was also reaching into the endless swim

of the Charter, picking out a mark here, a symbol there, linking

them into a chain in his mind. Holding them there, he drew

the final Charter mark in front of his eyes with his forefinger,

and all the marks rushed out, to hang in the air, a glowing constellation

of magic symbols.

Sameth looked at them carefully, checking the spell before

he stepped right into the glowing pattern. The marks brightened

as they touched his skin, sparking against the Charter

mark on his forehead, flowing in streaks of golden fire across

his face.

He shut his eyes as the fire reached them, ignoring the tingle

under his eyelids and a sudden urge to sneeze. He stood that

way for several minutes, till the tingle vanished. He sneezed

explosively, inhaled with equal force—and opened his eyes.

In the mirror, there were still the same clothes, with the

same build of man inside them. But the face had changed. Sam

the Traveler stared back, a man reminiscent of Prince Sameth

but clearly several years older, with a carefully shaven mustache

and goatee. His hair was a different color too, lighter and

straighter, and much longer at the back.

Better. Much better. Sameth—no, Sam—winked at the

reflection and started to undress. His old hunting leathers

would be best, and some plain shirts and underdrawers. He

could buy a cloak in the city. And a horse. And a sword, since

he couldn’t take the Charter-Magicked blade his mother had

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given him on his sixteenth birthday. It wouldn’t take a glamour

and was too recognizable.

But he could take some of the things he’d made himself,

he realized as he kicked off his boots and dug out some wellworn

but durable thigh boots of black calfskin.

Thinking of his tower workshop inevitably led him to

The Book of the Dead. Well, he certainly wouldn’t take that.

Just a quick run up the stairs, pick up a few things, including

his little store of gold nobles and silver deniers, and then he’d

be off!

Except that he couldn’t go up to his workshop looking as

he did now. And he also had to do something that would allay

Ellimere’s suspicions—otherwise he’d be chased down and

brought back. Forcibly, he imagined, since the guards would

have no problem taking Ellimere’s orders over his own.

He sighed and sat down on the bed, boots in hand. Obviously

this escape—or rather rescue expedition—was going to

take more preparation than he thought. He’d have to make a

temporary Charter sending that was a reasonable duplicate of

himself and set up some situation so Ellimere couldn’t get too

close a look.

He could probably say that he had to do something from

The Book of the Dead that required staying in his workroom

for three days or so, to give himself a head start on any search.

It wasn’t as if he were completely giving up studying to be the

Abhorsen. He just needed a break, he told himself, and three

weeks of rescuing Nicholas had to be more important than

three weeks of study that he could easily make up on his return.

Even if Ellimere asked the Clayr to find out where he was,

a three-day start should be enough. Presuming she worked out

what had happened after the third day and sent a message-

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hawk to the Clayr, it would be at least two days before they

replied. Five days, in all.

He’d be halfway to Edge by then. Or a quarter of the way,

he thought, trying to remember exactly how far away the little

town on the Red Lake actually was. He’d have to get a map

and look up the latest Very Useful Guide to see where to stop

on the way.

Really, there were more than a dozen things to do before

he could escape, Sam thought, dropping the boots to stand in

front of the mirror again. The glamour would have to go for

a start, if he didn’t want to be arrested by his own guards.

Who would have thought that starting an adventure was

so difficult?

Glumly, he began the process of dissolving the Charterspell

that disguised him, letting the component marks twist

away and fall back into the Charter. As soon as that was done,

he would go up to the tower room and begin to get organized.

Provided, of course, that Ellimere didn’t intercept him and take

him off to Petty Court.

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Chapter Twenty-Eight

Sam the Traveler

Ellimere did intercept Sam, so the rest of

his day was lost to Petty Court: the sentencing of a thief who

tried to lie despite the truth-spell turning his face bright yellow

with every falsehood; the arbitration of a property dispute that

defied any hard and fast truths as all the original parties were

dead; the rapid processing of a series of petty criminals who

confessed immediately, hoping that not having to bespell them

would improve the court’s outlook; and a long and boring

speech from an advocate, which turned out to be irrelevant, as

it relied on a point of law overturned by Touchstone’s reforms

more than a decade ago.

The night, however, was not taken up by official duties,

though Ellimere once again produced a younger sister of one

of her thousands of friends to sit next to Sam at dinner. To her

surprise, Sam was quite talkative and friendly, and for days

afterwards she defended him when other girls told tales of his

distance.

After dinner, Sam told Ellimere that he would be studying

for the next three days, and had to immerse himself in a spell

that required total concentration. He would get food and water

from the kitchens and then would be in his bedchamber and

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must not be disturbed. Ellimere took the news surprisingly

well, which made Sam feel bad. But even that could not curb

his growing excitement, and the long hours creating a very

basic sending of himself did not diminish his sense of expectation.

When he finished it at a little past midnight, the sending

looked quite like him from the door, though it had no depth

from other angles. And if it was spoken to, it could shout “Go

away!” and “I’m very busy” in a fair imitation of his voice.

With the sending done, Sam went to his workroom and

picked up his ready money and some of the things he had

made, which might prove useful for the journey. He did not

look at the cupboards, which stood like disapproving

guardians in the corners of the room.

But he dreamed of them when he finally got to bed. He

dreamed that he climbed the stairs again, and opened the cupboards,

and put on the bandolier of bells and opened the book,

and read words that burst into fire, and the words picked him

up and swept him into Death, plunging him into the cold river,

and he couldn’t breathe—

He woke, thrashing in his bed, the sheets tangled around

his neck, cutting off his air. He fought them in a panic, till he

realized where he was and his heart began to slow from its frenzied

pumping. Off in the distance, a clock struck the hour, followed

by the shouts of the Watch, announcing all was well. It

was four o’clock. He’d had only three hours’ sleep, but he

knew he could sleep no more. It was time to cast the glamour

upon himself. Time for Sam the Traveler to take his leave.

It was still dark when Sam slipped out of the Palace, in the

cool morning just before the dawn. Cloaked in Charter-spells

of quiet and unseeing, he slipped down the stairs, past the

guard post in the Southwest Courtyard, and along the steeply

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sloping corridor down to the gardens. He avoided the guards

who tramped between the roses in the lowest terrace, and went

out through a sally port that was locked by steel and spell.

Fortunately, he had stolen the key for the lock, and the door

knew him by his Charter mark.

Out in the lane that ran into the King’s Road, he slung his

surprisingly heavy saddlebags over his shoulder and wondered

whether he should have gone through them again and taken

things out, because they were bursting at the seams. But he

couldn’t think of anything to leave behind, and he was taking

just the bare essentials: a cloak; spare shirts, trousers, and

underclothes; a sewing kit; a bag of soaps and toiletries with

a razor he hardly needed to use; a copy of The Very Useful

Guide; some friction matches; slippers; two gold bars; an oilskin

square that could be used as a makeshift tent; a bottle of

brandy, a piece of salted beef, a loaf of bread, three ginger

cakes; and a few devices of his own making. Besides what was

in the saddlebags, he had only a broad-brimmed hat, a belt

purse, and a fairly nondescript dagger. His first stop would be

the central market to buy a sword, and then he would go to

the Horse Fair at Anstyr’s Field for a mount.

As he left the lane and stepped out into the King’s Road to

join the already rapidly building bustle of men, women, children,

dogs, horses, mules, carts, beggars, and who-knew-what

on the street, Sam felt a tremendous lift to his spirits, a feeling

he hadn’t had for years. It was the same sense of joy and expectation

he’d felt as a child being given an unexpected holiday.

Freed of responsibility, suddenly given license to have fun, to

run, to scream, to laugh.

Sam did laugh, trying a deeper chuckle to fit his new personality.

It came out rather strained, almost a gurgle, but he

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didn’t mind. Twirling his new, Charter-Magicked mustache, he

quickened his pace. Off to adventure—and, of course, to rescue

Nicholas.

Three hours later, most of his pre-dawn exuberance was

gone. His guise as a Traveler was very good for not being recognized,

but it didn’t help him get attention from merchants and

horse-traders. Travelers were not known as great customers, for

they rarely had any coins, preferring to barter services or goods.

It was also unseasonably warm, even for so late in spring,

making the sword buying in the crowded market sweaty and

unpleasant, with every second seeming to last an hour.

The horse-trading was even worse, with great swarms of

flies settling on the eyes and mouths of man and beast alike.

It was no wonder, Sameth thought, King Anstyr had ordered

the Horse Fair set up three miles from the city all those centuries

ago. The Fair had ceased during the years of the

Interregnum, but had begun to grow again in Touchstone’s

reign. Now the permanent stables, corrals, and bidding rings

covered a good square mile, and there were always more

strings of horses in the pastures that surrounded the Horse Fair

proper. Of course, finding a horse that you wanted to buy

among the multitude took considerable time, and there was

always competition for the better horses. People from all over

the Kingdom, and even barbarians from the North, came to

buy at the Fair, particularly at this time of year.

Despite the crowds, the flies, and the competition, Sameth

came out of his two purchasing ordeals quite happily. A plain

but serviceable longsword hung at his hip, its sharkskin hilt

rough under his tapping finger. A somewhat nervous bay mare

followed behind, constrained by a leading rein from giving

in to her neuroses. Still, she seemed sound enough and was

neither too noticeable nor expensive. Sam was toying with

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calling her Tonin after his least favorite guard, but he decided

that this was both childish and vindictive. Her previous owner

had—somewhat enigmatically—called her Sprout, and that

would do.

Once out of the stink and crowding of the Horse Fair, Sam

mounted up, weaving Sprout through the steady stream of

traffic, finding his way past carts and peddlers, donkeys with

empty panniers going away from the city and those with full

ones going in, gangs of workmen relaying the stone pavers of

the road, and all the nondescript journeyers in between. Not

far out of the city he was overtaken by a King’s Messenger on

a black thoroughbred that would have set the buyers bidding

furiously at the Fair, and then later by a quartet of guards, setting

a pace that could be maintained only in the knowledge

that fresh horses awaited them at every posting house on the

road. Both times Sam slouched in the saddle and pulled his hat

down to shadow his face, even though the glamour still held.

With the help of The Very Useful Guide, Sam had already

decided on his first stop. He would take the Narrow Way along

the isthmus that joined Belisaere to the mainland because there

was no other way to go. Then he would take the high road

south to Orchyre. He had considered going west to Sindle and

then to the Ratterlin, where he could take a boat as far as

Qyrre. But The Very Useful Guide mentioned a particularly

good inn at Orchyre that served a famous jellied eel. Sam was

partial to jellied eel and saw no reason why he shouldn’t take

the most comfortable way to Edge.

Not that he was entirely sure what the most comfortable

way would be after Orchyre. The Great South Road followed

the east coast most of the way down, but Edge was all the way

across on the west coast. So he would have to cut west sooner

or later. Perhaps he could even leave the royal roads, as they

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were called, and cut cross-country from Orchyre, trusting that

he would be able to find country roads that would take him in

the right direction. The danger in that lay in the spring floods.

The royal roads mostly had decent bridges, but the country

roads did not, and their usual fords might be impassable now.

In any case, that was all in the future and not to be worried

about till after Orchyre. The town was two days’ steady

riding away, and he could think about his next stage en route,

or that evening when he planned to put up at some inn.

But planning the next stage of his journey was the last thing

on Sameth’s mind when he finally reached a village and a

staging inn that could be considered far enough away from

Belisaere to stop. He’d ridden only seven leagues, but the sun

was already setting, and he was exhausted. He’d had too little

sleep the night before, and his backside and thighs were

reminding him that he’d hardly ridden all winter.

By the time he saw the swinging sign that declared the inn’s

name to be The Laughing Dog, he could do little more than tip

the ostler to look after Sprout and collapse on a bed in the best

room in the house.

He woke several times in the night, the first to kick off his

boots and the second to relieve himself in the bedpan (with a

broken lid) thoughtfully provided by the inn. The third time he

woke, it was to insistent knocking on the door and the first

rays of sunlight slipping through the shuttered windows.

“Who is it?” groaned Sameth, sliding out of the bed and

into his boots. His joints were stiff, and he felt awful, particularly

in his slept-in clothes, which smelled dreadfully of horse.

“Is it breakfast?”

There was no answer save more knocking. Grumbling,

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Sameth went to the door, expecting some zany or village fool

to grin up at him from behind a breakfast tray. Instead, he was

greeted by two wide-shouldered men wearing the red and gold

sashes of the Rural Constabulary over their leather cuirasses.

One, clearly the senior, carried some authority in his stern

face and silver, short-buzzed hair. He also had a Charter mark

on his forehead, which his younger assistant did not.

“Sergeant Kuke and Constable Tep,” announced the silverhaired

man, thrusting past Sameth quite roughly. His companion

also pushed in, quickly closing the door after him and

letting the bar fall back in place.

“What do you want?” asked Sam, yawning. He didn’t

intend to be rude, but he had no idea that they had an interest

in him and had knocked on his door by choice rather than

chance. His only previous experience with the Rural Constabulary

was seeing them on parade, or inspecting some post of

theirs with his father.

“We want a word,” said Sergeant Kuke, standing close

enough that Sam could smell the garlic on his breath and see

the marks where he’d scraped the stubble off his chin not long

before. “Let’s be beginning with your name and station.”

“I am called Sam. I’m a Traveler,” replied Sameth, his eye

following the constable, who had moved to the corner of

the room and was examining his sword, propped against the

saddlebags. For the first time, he felt a twinge of apprehension.

These constables might not be the clodpolls he thought. They

might even discover who he was.

“Unusual for a Traveler to stay at a posting inn, let alone

the best room in the house,” said the constable, turning back

from Sam’s sword and saddlebags. “Unusual to tip the ostler a

silver denier, too.”

“Unusual for a Traveler’s horse not to have a brand, or clan

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tokens in its mane,” replied the sergeant, talking as if Sam

wasn’t there. “It’d be pretty strange to see a Traveler without

a clan tattoo. I wonder if we’d see one on this laddie, if we

looked. But maybe we should start looking in those bags, Tep.

See if we can find something to tell us who we’ve got here.”

“You can’t do that!” exclaimed Sam, outraged. He took a

step towards the constable, but stopped abruptly as sharp steel

pricked through his linen shirt, just above his belly. Looking

down, he saw a poniard held steadily in Sergeant Kuke’s hand.

“You could tell us who you really are and what you’re up

to,” said the sergeant.

“It’s none of your business!” exclaimed Sam, throwing his

head back in disdain. As he did so, his tousled hair flew back,

revealing the Charter mark on his forehead.

Instantly Kuke called out a warning, and the poniard was

at Sam’s neck, and his right arm pinioned behind him. Of all

things the constables might fear, the bearer of a false or corrupted

Charter mark was one of the worst, for he could only

be a Free Magic sorcerer, a necromancer, or some thing that

had taken human shape.

Almost at the same time, Tep opened a saddlebag and

lifted out a dark leather bandolier, a bandolier of seven tubular

pouches that ranged in size from a pillbox to a large jar.

Wooden handles of dark mahogany thrust out of the pouches,

making it quite clear what the bandolier held. The bells that

Sabriel had sent to Sameth. The bells that he had locked away

in his workroom and definitely hadn’t packed.

“Bells!” exclaimed Tep, dropping them in fright and leaping

back, almost as if he’d drawn out a nest of writhing

serpents. He didn’t notice the Charter marks that thronged

upon both bandolier and handles.

“A necromancer,” whispered Kuke, and Sam heard the

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sudden fear in his voice and felt the hold on him slackening,

the poniard drifting away from his throat, the hand that held

it beset by sudden shivering.

In that instant, Sameth pictured two Charter marks in his

mind, drawing them from the endless flow like a skilled fisherman

selecting his catch from a glittering shoal. He let the marks

infuse into his held breath—then he blew them out, at the same

time throwing himself to the ground.

One mark flew true, striking Tep with sudden blindness.

But Kuke must have been some small Charter Mage himself,

for he countered the spell with a general warding, the air sparking

and flashing as the two Charter marks met.

Then, before Sam could even get up, Kuke’s poniard

stabbed out, sinking deep into his leg, just above the knee.

Sam screamed, the noise adding to Tep’s shouts of blind

despair as he groped around the room and Kuke’s even louder

shouts of “Necromancer!” and “A rescue!” That would bring

every constable for miles and any guards who might be on the

road. Even concerned citizens might come, but it would be

brave ones since the word “necromancer” had been heard.

After the first split-second shock of pain, when his whole

mind seemed to crack open, Sam instinctively did what he’d

been taught to save his life in the event of an assassination

attempt. Drawing several Charter marks in his mind, he let

them grow in his throat and roared out a Death-spell to strike

everyone unprotected in the room.

The marks left him like an incandescent spark, leaping

to the two constables with terrible force. In a second, it was

quiet, as Kuke and Tep tumbled to the floor like brokenstringed

puppets.

Sam pushed himself to his feet, the realization of what

he’d done rising through the pain. He’d killed two of his

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father’s men . . . his own men. They’d simply been doing

their job. The job that he was afraid to do. Protecting people

from necromancers and Free Magic and whatever else . . .

He didn’t stop to think any further. The pain was coming

back, and he knew he had to get away. In a panic, he picked

up his bags, thrust the cursed bells back in, buckled the sword

around his waist, and left.

He didn’t know how he managed the stairs, but a moment

later he was in the common room, with people staring at him

as they backed against the walls. He stared back, wide-eyed

and wild, and limped through, leaving bloody footprints on the

floor.

Then he was in the stables, saddling Sprout, the horse

blowing wide-nostriled, eyes white with fear at the scent of

human blood. Mechanically, he soothed her, hands moving

without conscious thought.

A year later, or in no time at all, or somewhere in between,

Sam was in the saddle, kicking Sprout into a trot and then a

canter, all the while feeling his blood washing down his leg like

warm water, filling up his boot till it overflowed the rolledback

top. Some part of his mind screamed at him to stop and

tend to the wound, but the greater part shouted it down, wanting

only to flee, flee the scene of his crime.

Instinctively, he headed west, putting the rising sun at his

back. He zigzagged for a while, to lay a false trail, then took a

straight track through the fields, towards a dark expanse of

forest, not too far ahead. He had only to reach it and he could

hide, hide and tend his hurt.

Finally, Sam reached the comforting shadow of the trees.

He went in as far as he could and fell off his horse. Pain

climbed up his leg, spiking all the way. The green world of

the forest spun and lurched sickeningly, refusing to hold still.

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The morning light had gone from yellow to grey, like an

overcooked egg. He couldn’t focus on the healing spell. The

Charter marks eluded him, slipping from his mind. They

simply wouldn’t line up as they should.

It was all too hard. Easier to let go. To fall asleep, to drift

into Death.

Except that he knew Death, knew its chill. He was already

falling into the cold current of the river. If he could have been

sure of being taken under by that current, rushed through the

cascade of the First Gate and then onwards, he might have

given in. But he knew the necromancer who’d burnt him was

waiting for him in Death, waiting for an Abhorsen-in-Waiting

too incompetent to manage the manner of his own passing.

The necromancer would catch him, take his spirit, and bind it

to his will, use him against his family, his Kingdom. . . .

Fear grew in Sam, sharper than the pain. He reached for

the Charter marks of healing once more—and found them.

Golden warmth grew in his weakly gesturing hands and flowed

into his leg, through the black and sodden trouser. He felt its

heat rushing through, all the way to the bone, felt the skin and

blood vessels knit together, the magic bringing everything back

to the way it was supposed to be.

But he’d lost too much blood too quickly for the spell to

render him completely whole. He tried to get up but couldn’t.

His head fell back, the leaf litter making him a pillow. He tried

to force his eyes wide open but couldn’t. The forest spun again,

faster and faster, and then everything went black.

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Chapter Twenty-Nine

The Observatory of the Clayr

The Disreputable Dog woke with great reluctance,

spending a number of minutes in stiff-legged stretching,

yawning, and eye rolling. Finally, she shook herself and headed

for the door. Lirael stood where she was, her arms crossed

sternly across her chest.

“Dog! I need to talk to you!”

The Dog acted surprised, putting her ears back with a

sudden jerk. “Shouldn’t we be hurrying home? It’s after midnight,

you know. Third hour of the morning, in fact.”

“No!” exclaimed Lirael, all thoughts of talks forgotten. “It

can’t be! We’d better hurry!”

“Still, if you want to have a talk,” said the Dog, sitting

back on her haunches and cocking her head in a prime listening

attitude, “there’s no time like the present, I always say.”

Lirael didn’t answer. She rushed to the door, pulling on the

Dog’s collar as she passed, yanking her upright.

“Ow!” yelped the Dog. “I was only joking! I’ll hurry!”

“Come on, come on!” snapped Lirael, pushing her hands

against the door and then trying to pull at it, which was difficult

because it didn’t have a handle or a knob. “Oh, how does

this open?”

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“Ask it,” replied the Dog, calmly. “There’s no point pushing.”

Lirael let out a huff of frustration, took a deep breath, and

then forced herself to say, “Please open, door.”

The door seemed to think about it for a moment, then

slowly swung inwards, giving Lirael enough time to back away.

The roar of the river rose through the doorway, and a cool

breeze came with it, lifting Lirael’s sadly singed hair. The wind

also brought something else, something that attracted the

Dog’s attention, though Lirael couldn’t tell what it was.

“Hmmm,” said the Dog, turning one ear towards the door

and the Charter-lit bridge beyond it. “People. Clayr. Possibly

even an aunt.”

“Aunt Kirrith!” exclaimed Lirael, jumping nervously. She

looked around wildly, seeking another way out. But there was

nowhere to go except back across the slippery, river-washed

bridge. And now she could see bright Charter lights out in the

Rift, lights made fuzzy by the mist and spray from the river.

“What’ll we do?” she asked, but her question echoed in

the room, taking up the space where there should have been

an answer. Quickly, Lirael looked back, but there was no sign

of the Disreputable Dog. She had simply disappeared.

“Dog?” whispered Lirael, eyes scanning the room as tears

started to blur her vision. “Dog? Don’t leave me now.”

The Dog had left before when people might have seen her,

and every time she did, Lirael harbored the secret fear that her

one and only friend would never come back. She felt that familiar

fear uncoil in her stomach, adding to the fear she felt from

what she’d learned. Fear of the secret knowledge she felt seething

and broiling in the book she held under her arm. It was knowledge

that she didn’t want to have, for it was not of the Clayr.

A single tear ran down her cheek, but she quickly wiped it

away. Aunt Kirrith wouldn’t have the satisfaction of seeing her

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cry, she decided, tilting her head back to keep further tears at

bay. Aunt Kirrith always seemed to expect the worst of Lirael,

seemed to think that she would commit terrible crimes and

never amount to anything. Lirael felt that it was all because she

wasn’t a proper Clayr, though some part of her mind had to

acknowledge that this was the way Aunt Kirrith treated anybody

who departed from her stupid standards.

Lirael kept her head proudly tilted back until she took her

first step on the bridge, when she had to look down, down into

the roiling mist and the fast-rushing water. Without the Dog’s

solid, sucker-footed body at her side, she found the bridge

much, much scarier. Lirael took one step, faltered, then started

to sway. For a moment, she felt she would fall, and in a panic

she crouched down on all fours. The Book of Remembrance

and Forgetting shifted as she moved, and it almost fell out of

her shirt as well. But Lirael shoved it back in and started to

crawl across the narrow bridge.

Even crawling took all her concentration, so she didn’t

look up until she was almost across. She was now also acutely

aware that her hair was burnt and her clothes totally soaked

by the spray that kept washing over the bridge. And she was

barefoot.

When she finally did look up, she let out a stifled scream

and made a reflexive hop like a frightened rabbit. Only the

quick hands of the two closest Clayr saved her from a potentially

fatal fall into the swift, cold waters of the Ratterlin.

They were also the people who had given her the shock,

the last two people Lirael would expect to see looking for her:

Sanar and Ryelle. As always, they looked calm, beautiful, and

sophisticated. They were in the uniform of the Nine Day

Watch, their long blond hair elegantly contained in jeweled

nets and their long white dresses sprinkled with tiny golden

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stars. They also held wands of steel and ivory, proclaiming that

they were the joint Voice of the Watch. Neither of them looked

a day older than when Lirael had first met them properly, out

on the Terrace on her fourteenth birthday. They were still

everything Lirael thought the Clayr should be.

Everything she wasn’t.

There were a whole lot of the Clayr behind them, as well.

More of the highest, including Vancelle, the Chief Librarian,

and what looked like more of the Nine Day Watch. Quickly

counting, Lirael realized that it probably was all of the current

Nine Day Watch. Forty-seven of them, lined up behind Sanar

and Ryelle, white shapes in the darkness of the Rift.

But the total absence of Aunt Kirrith was the worst sign.

That meant that whatever she’d done was punishable by something

far worse than extra kitchen duties. Lirael couldn’t even

imagine what sort of punishment required the presence of the

entire Watch. She’d never even heard of them leaving the

Observatory, not all together.

“Stand up, Lirael,” said one of the twins. Lirael realized

that she was crouching, still supported by the two Clayr.

Gingerly, she stood up, trying to avoid meeting their gaze, not

to mention all the other blue and green eyes that she was sure

were noting just how brown and muddy her own eyes were.

Words rose up in her mind, but her throat closed when they

tried to pass. She coughed, and stuttered, then finally managed

to whisper, “I . . . I didn’t mean to come here. It just . . . happened.

And I know I missed dinner . . . and the midnight

rounds. I’ll make it up somehow. . . .”

She stopped as Sanar and Ryelle glanced at each other and

laughed. But it was kind, surprised laughter, not the scorn she

feared.

“We seem to have established a tradition of meeting you in

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strange places on your birthday,” said Ryelle—or perhaps it

was Sanar—looking down at the book poking out of Lirael’s

shirt and the silver panpipes glinting from her waistcoat

pocket. “You need not worry about the rounds or a missed

dinner. You seem to have claimed a birthright of sorts tonight,

one that has waited long for your coming. Everything else is of

little consequence.”

“What do you mean by a birthright?” asked Lirael. The

Sight was the Clayr’s birthright, not a trio of strange magical

devices.

“You know that alone amongst the Clayr you have never

been Seen in the visions,” the other twin began. “Never a

glimpse, at least till now. But an hour ago, we—that is, the

Nine Day Watch—Saw that you would be here, and in another

place also. None of us even suspected that this bridge existed,

nor the room beyond. But it is clear that while the Clayr of

today have not Seen you in their visions, the Clayr of long ago

Saw enough to prepare this place and the things you hold. To

prepare you, in fact.”

“Prepare me for what?” asked Lirael, panicked by the sudden

attention. “I don’t want anything! All I want is to be . . .

to be normal. To have the Sight.”

Sanar—for it was Sanar who had spoken last—looked

down at the young woman, seeing the pain in her. Since their

first meeting five years before, she and her sister had kept a

cautious eye on Lirael, and they knew more about her life than

their young cousin suspected.

She chose her words carefully.

“Lirael, the Sight may yet come to you in time, and be the

stronger for the waiting. But for now you have been given

other gifts, gifts that I am sure will be sorely needed by the

Kingdom. And as all of us of the Blood are given gifts, we are

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also laden with the responsibility to use them wisely and well.

You have the potential for great power, Lirael, but I fear that

you will also face great tests.”

She paused, staring into the billowing cloud of mist behind

Lirael, and her eyes seemed to cloud, too, as her voice grew

deeper and became less friendly, more impersonal and strange.

“You will meet many trials on a path that lies unseen, but

you will never forget that you are a Daughter of the Clayr. You

may not See, but you will Remember. And in the Remembering,

you will see the hidden past that holds the secrets of

the future.”

Lirael shivered at the words, for Sanar had spoken with the

truth of prophecy, and her eyes were sparkling with a strange,

icy light.

“What do you mean by great tests?” Lirael asked, when

the last faint echo of Sanar’s words were lost, drowned in the

roar of the river.

Sanar shook her head and smiled, the moment of the vision

lost. Unable to speak, she looked at her sister, who continued.

“When we Saw you here this evening, we also Saw you

somewhere else, somewhere we have labored for many years

to See, without success,” said Ryelle. “On the Red Lake, in a

boat of woven reeds. The sun was high and bright, so we know

it will be in summer. You looked much as you do now, so we

know it is in the summer coming that you will be there.”

“There will be a young man with you,” continued Sanar.

“A sick or wounded man, one we were asked to seek for the

King. We do not know exactly where he is now, or how or when

he will come to the Red Lake. He is surrounded by powers that

cloak our vision, and his future is dark. But we do know that

he lies at the center of some great and terrible danger. A danger

not just to him but to all of us, to the Kingdom. And he will

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be there with you, in the reed boat, at the height of summer.”

“I don’t understand,” whispered Lirael. “What’s that to

do with me? I mean, the Red Lake, this man, and everything?

I’m just a Second Assistant Librarian! What have I got to do

with it?”

“We don’t know,” answered Sanar. “The visions are fragmented,

and a dark cloud spreads like spilt ink across the pages

of possible futures. All we know is that this man is important,

for both good and ill, and we have Seen you with him. We

think that you must leave the Glacier. You must go south and

find the reed boat on the Red Lake, and find him.”

Lirael looked at Sanar’s lips, still moving, but she could

hear no sound save the cry of the river. The sound of the water

rushing to be free of the mountain, flowing away, away to

some distant and unknown land.

I’m being thrown out, she thought. I don’t have the Sight,

I’ve grown too old, and they’re throwing me out—

“We have also had another vision of the man,” Sanar was

saying as Lirael’s hearing came back. “Come, we will show

you, so you will know him at the proper time, and know something

of the danger he is in. But not here—we must go up to

the Observatory.”

“The Observatory!” exclaimed Lirael. “But I’m not . . .

I haven’t Awoken—”

“I know,” said Ryelle, taking her hand to lead her. “It is

difficult for you to gaze upon your heart’s desire when you may

not possess it. If the danger were any less, or someone else

could shoulder the burden, we would not press you so. If the

vision were not of this place that resists us, we could probably

show you elsewhere, too. But now we need the power of the

Observatory, and the full strength of the Watch.”

They walked back along the Rift, with Sanar and Ryelle on

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either side of an unprotesting Lirael. Lirael briefly felt what the

Dog had called her sense of the Dead, a sort of pressure from

all the dead Clayr buried throughout the Rift, but she paid it

no heed. It was like someone far away calling someone else’s

name. All she could think of was that they were making her

leave. She would be alone again, because the Disreputable Dog

might not come. The Dog might not even be able to exist outside

the Clayr’s Glacier, like a sending that couldn’t leave its

bounds.

Halfway back along the Rift towards the door where she’d

come in, Lirael was surprised to see that a long bridge of ice

had spanned the depths. The Clayr were walking back across

it and then into a deep cave-mouth on the other side of the Rift.

Ryelle saw her look and explained, “There are many ways to

and from the Observatory, when we have need. This bridge will

melt when we have all crossed.”

Lirael nodded dumbly. She’d always wondered where the

Observatory actually was, and had tried to find it on more than

one occasion. She’d had many daydreams of finding her way

there, and finding her Sight within. But all those daydreams

were destroyed now.

Across the bridge, the cave-mouth led into a rudely dug

tunnel that sloped up quite steeply. It was hard going, and

Lirael was hot and out of breath when the tunnel finally flattened

out. Ryelle and Sanar stopped then, and Lirael wiped the

sweat from her eyes before she looked around. They had left

stone behind. Now there was nothing but ice all around, blue

ice that reflected the Charter lights the Clayr carried. They had

come to the heart of the Glacier.

A gate was carved in the ice, flanked by two guards in full

mail, holding shields that bore the golden star of the Clayr.

Their faces were stern under their open helms. One carried an

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axe that gleamed with Charter marks, the other a sword that

shone brighter than the lights, casting a thousand tiny reflections

in the ice. Lirael stared at the guards, for they were clearly

Clayr, but no one she knew, which she had thought impossible.

There were less than three thousand Clayr in the Glacier, and

she had lived here all her life.

“I See you, Voice of the Nine Day Watch,” said the woman

with the axe, speaking in a strange, formal tone. “You may

pass. But the other with you has not Awoken. By the ancient

laws, she must not be allowed to See the secret ways.”

“Don’t be silly, Erimael,” said Sanar. “What ancient laws?

It’s Lirael, Arielle’s daughter.”

“Erimael?” whispered Lirael, peering at the severe face,

sharply defined by the edges of her helm. Erimael had joined

the Rangers six years ago and hadn’t been seen since. Lirael

had thought Erimael must have been killed in an accident and

that she’d missed her Farewell, as she had missed so many

other events that required her to don the blue tunic.

“The laws are clear,” said Erimael, still in the same stern

voice, though Lirael saw her gulp nervously. “I am the Axe-

Guard. She must be blindfolded if you wish her to pass.”

Sanar snorted and turned to the other woman. “And what

says the Sword-Guard? Don’t tell me you agree?”

“Yes, unfortunately,” said the other woman, who Lirael

realized was much older. “The letter of the law is strict. Guests

must be blindfolded. Anyone who is not an Awoken Clayr is a

guest.”

Sanar sighed and turned to Lirael. But Lirael had already

hung her head, to hide her humiliation. Slowly, she undid her

head scarf, folded it into a narrow band, and bound it around

her head, covering her eyes. Behind the soft darkness of the

cloth, she wept silently, the blindfold soaking up her tears.

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Sanar and Ryelle took her hands again, and Lirael felt the

sympathy in their touch. But it did not matter. This was even

worse than when she was fourteen, standing alone in her blue

tunic, suffering the public shame of not being a Clayr. Now she

was irrevocably marked as an outsider. Not a Clayr at all, of

any kind. Only a guest.

She asked only two questions as Ryelle and Sanar led her

through what felt like a complicated, maze-like passage.

“When will I have to go?”

“Today,” replied Ryelle, as she stopped Lirael and prepared

her for another sharp turn by gently pushing her elbow

till she was facing the right way. “That is to say, as soon as

possible. A boat is being prepared for you. It will be spelled to

take you down the Ratterlin to Qyrre. From there you should

be able to get some constables or even some of the Guard to

escort you to Edge, on the Red Lake itself. It should be a fast

and uneventful journey, though we wish we could See some of

it beforehand.”

“Am I to go alone?”

Lirael couldn’t see, but she sensed Sanar and Ryelle exchanging

glances, silently working out who would speak. At

last Sanar said, “That is how you have been Seen, so I’m afraid

that is how you will have to go. I wish it were otherwise. We

would fly you down by Paperwing, but all the Paperwings have

been Seen elsewhere, so the river it must be.”

Alone. Without even her one friend, the Disreputable Dog.

It didn’t really matter what happened to her now.

“There are some steps down here,” said Ryelle, stopping

Lirael again. “About thirty, I think. Then we will be in the

Observatory, and you can take the blindfold off.”

Lirael mechanically went with the twins down the steps.

It was unsettling, not being able to see where her feet were

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going, and some of the steps seemed lower than the others.

To make it worse, there was a weird rustling noise all around,

and occasionally the hint of whispers or smothered conversations.

Finally, they arrived on level ground and took a half dozen

steps forward. Sanar helped untie her blindfold.

Light was the first thing Lirael noticed, and space, and then

the massed ranks of the Clayr, silently standing in their white,

rustling robes. She stood in the center of a huge chamber carved

entirely out of ice, a vast cave easily as large as the Great Hall

she knew and hated so much. Charter Magic lights shone everywhere,

reflecting from the many facets of the ice, so that there

was not a hint of darkness anywhere.

Lirael instinctively looked down when she saw all the other

Clayr, so she couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. But as she cautiously

peered out from behind her protective fall of singed hair, she

saw that they were not looking at her. They were all looking

up. She followed their gaze and saw that the angled ceiling was

perfectly smooth and flat, one single enormous sheet of clear

ice, almost like an enormous, opaque window.

“Yes,” said Sanar, noting Lirael’s stare. “That is where we

focus our Sight, so all the fragments of the vision can become

one, and everyone can See.”

“I think we may begin,” announced Ryelle, looking around

at the massed, silent ranks of the Clayr. Nearly every Awoken

Clayr was there, to join a Watch of Fifteen Sixty-Eight. They

stood in a series of ever-wider circles around the small central

area where Lirael, Sanar, and Ryelle stood, like some strange

concentric orchard of white trees that bore silver and moonstone

fruit.

“Let us begin!” cried Sanar and Ryelle, and they lifted their

wands and clashed them together like swords. Lirael jumped

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as all the gathered Clayr shouted back, a great bellow that she

felt through her bones.

“Let us begin!”

As one, the Clayr in the closest circle joined hands, snapping

together as in a military drill. Then the next circle joined

hands, and the next, a wave of movement rippling from the

center to the farthest circle in the Observatory, till all was still

again.

“Let us See!” cried Sanar and Ryelle, clashing their wands

again. This time, Lirael was prepared for the shout that came

back, but not for the magic that followed. Charter marks

seemed to well up out of the icy floor, flowing up through the

Clayr of the first circle, till there were so many, they brimmed

over and flowed into the next circle, and then the one after

that. Charter marks that flowed like thick golden fog up the

Clayr’s bodies and along their arms.

Lirael watched the magic grow as it passed each circle, saw

it wrap itself around the bodies of her cousins. She could see

the Charter marks, feel the magic in her pounding heart,

hunger for it. But it remained alien, somehow beyond her, as

no other Charter Magic had ever been.

Then the outermost circle of the Clayr broke their handclasps

and held their arms up towards the distant, icy ceiling.

Marks flowed from them into the air, falling upwards like

golden dust caught in shafts of sunlight. When it hit the ice, it

splashed there, as if it were glorious paint and the ice a blank

canvas waiting to come alive.

Each circle followed in turn, till all the magic they’d summoned

had risen to fill the whole huge ice ceiling with swirling

Charter marks. They stared at it, entranced, and Lirael saw

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their eyes move as if they all watched something there. But she

saw nothing, nothing save the swirl of magic that she couldn’t

understand.

“Look,” said Ryelle softly, and the wand she held suddenly

became a bottle of bright green glass.

“Learn,” said Sanar, and she waved her wand in a pattern

directly above Lirael’s head.

Then Ryelle threw the contents of the bottle, seemingly at

Lirael. But as the liquid flew over her head, Sanar’s wand transformed

it into ice. A pane of pure, translucent ice that hung

horizontally in the air directly above Lirael’s head.

Sanar tapped this pane with her wand, and it began to glow

a deep, comfortable blue. She tapped it again, and the blue fled

to the edges. Lirael stared at it, and then through it, and as she

stared, she realized that this strange, suspended pane was helping

her See what the Clayr Saw. The meaningless patterns on

the ice ceiling above were starting to become clear. Hundreds,

maybe even thousands of tiny pictures were joining together to

make up a larger picture, like the puzzle pictures she’d played

with as a child.

It was a picture of a man standing with his foot on a rock,

Lirael saw now. He was looking at something below him.

Curious, Lirael craned her head back for a better view.

That made her dizzy for an instant, and then it seemed as if she

were falling upwards, through the blue pane and all the way

up into the ceiling, falling into the vision. There was a flash of

blue and a touch of something that made her shiver—and she

was there!

She was standing next to the man. She could hear his rasping,

unhealthy-sounding breath, smell the faintest hint of sweat,

feel the heat and humidity of a summer day.

And she could taste the awful taint of Free Magic, stronger

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and more vile than she could ever have imagined, stronger

even than her memory of the Stilken. So strong that the bile

rose in her throat and she had to force it back, and dots danced

before her eyes.

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Chapter Thirty

Nicholas and the Pit

He was young, Lirael saw, about her own age.

Nineteen or twenty. And obviously ill. He was tall, but stooped

over, as if a nagging pain bit his middle. His blond, unkempt

hair was clean, but hung together like damp string. His skin

was too pink in the cheeks and grey around his lips and eyes.

Those eyes were blue, but dulled. He held a pair of dark spectacles

loosely in one hand, the arms repaired with twine and

one green lens cracked and starred.

He was standing on some sort of artificial hill of rough,

loose earth, peering shortsightedly down towards a deep pit, a

gaping hole in the ground. The pit—or whatever was in it—

was the source of the Free Magic that was making Lirael nauseated,

even through the vision. She could feel waves of it

pulsating out of the scarred earth, cold and terrible, eating into

her bones, biting away deep inside her teeth.

The pit had obviously been freshly dug. It was at least as

wide across as the Lower Refectory, which could hold four

hundred people. A spiral path wound around its edges, disappearing

down into the dark depths. Lirael couldn’t see how

deep it was, but there were people carrying baskets of dirt and

rock up and empty baskets back down. Slow, tired people, who

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seemed quite strange to Lirael. Their clothes were dirty and

torn, but even so, Lirael could see that their cut and color was

quite unlike anything she’d ever seen. And nearly all of them

wore blue hats or the knotted remnants of blue headscarves.

Lirael wondered how on earth they could work with the

corrosive taint of Free Magic all around, and looked at them

more closely. Then she gasped and tried to move back, but the

vision held her.

They weren’t people. They were Dead. She could feel them

now, feel the chill of Death close by. These workers were Dead

Hands, enslaved by some necromancer’s will. The blue hats

shaded sightless eye sockets, the blue scarves held together rotting

heads.

Lirael suppressed her instinctive desire to vomit and quickly

looked at the young man next to her, fearful that he might be

the necromancer and could somehow see her. But he had no

Charter mark on his brow, either whole or perverted to Free

Magic. His forehead was clear, save for dirty beads of sweat

that had caught the dust from the air, and there was no sign

of any bells.

He was looking up now, looking at the sky, and shaking

some metal object on his wrist. Perhaps in ritual, Lirael

thought. She suddenly felt sorry for him, and had a strange

urge to touch the curve of his neck where it joined his ear, just

with the very tip of her fingers. She even started to reach out,

and was only reminded of where—and what—she was when

he spoke.

“Damn it!” he muttered. “Why does nothing work?”

He lowered his arm but kept looking up. Lirael looked too,

seeing the dark thunderclouds that roiled there, low and close.

Lightning flickered, but there was no cool breeze, no scent of

rain. Just the heat and the lightning.

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Then, without warning, a blinding bolt of lightning struck

down into the pit, lighting the black depths in a bright flash of

incandescence. In that moment, Lirael saw hundreds of Dead

Hands digging, digging with tools if they had them and with

their own rotting hands if not. They paid no attention to the

lightning, which burnt and blackened several of their number,

nor the deafening crash of thunder that came at almost the

same time.

Within a few seconds, another bolt followed the first, seemingly

hitting exactly the same place. Then another and another,

thunder booming on and on, shaking the ground at Lirael’s

feet.

“Four in approximately fifty seconds,” remarked the man

to himself. “It’s getting more frequent. Hedge!”

Lirael didn’t understand this last call till a man strode out

of the pit below and waved. A thin, balding man, clad in leather

armor with gold-etched red enamel steel plates at his throat,

elbows, and knees. He had a sword at his side—and a bandolier

of bells across his chest, black ebony handles poking out of red

leather pouches. Perversions of Charter marks moved across

both wood and leather, leaving after-images of fire.

Even from so far away, he smelt of blood and hot metal.

He must be the necromancer the Dead Hands served—or one

of the necromancers, for there were many Dead. But this one

was not the source of the Free Magic that burnt at Lirael’s lips

and tongue. Something far worse than he lay hidden in the

depths of the pit.

“Yes, Master Nicholas?” called the man. Lirael noted that

he waved the two Dead Hands that followed him back down

into the shadows, as if he didn’t want them too clearly seen.

“The lightning comes more quickly,” said the young man,

so identifying himself to Lirael as Nicholas. But what manner

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of man—a man without a Charter mark—would a necromancer

call Master?

“We must be close,” he added, his voice going hoarse. “Ask

the men if they will work an extra shift tonight.”

“Oh, they’ll work!” shouted the necromancer, laughing at

some private jest. “Do you want to come down?”

Nicholas shook his head. He had to clear his throat several

times before he could shout back, “I feel . . . I feel unwell again,

Hedge. I’m going to lie down in my tent. I will look later. But

you must call me if you find anything. It will be metal, I think.

Yes, shining metal,” he continued, eyes staring as if he saw it

in front of him. “Two shining metal hemispheres, each taller

than a man. We must find them quickly. Quickly!”

Hedge half bowed, but he didn’t answer. He climbed out

of the pit, leaving it to walk up to the hill of tailings where

Nicholas stood.

“Who is that with you?” shouted Hedge, pointing.

Nicholas looked to where he pointed but saw nothing save

the afterglow of the lightning and the image of the shining

hemispheres—the image he saw in all his waking moments, as

if it were imprinted on his brain.

“Nothing,” he muttered, looking straight at Lirael. “No

one. I am so tired. But it will be a great discovery—”

“Spy! You’ll burn at the feet of my Master!”

Flames leapt from the necromancer’s hands and spilled on

the ground, red flames cloaked in black, choking smoke. They

raced up the hill like wildfire, straight towards Lirael.

At the same time, she saw Nicholas’s eyes suddenly focus

on her. He reached out one hand in greeting, saying, “Hello!

But I expect you’re only another hallucination.”

Then hands gripped her shoulders and she was pulled back

into the Observatory as the red fire struck where she’d been

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and boiled up into a narrow column of fiery destruction and

blackest smoke.

Ice shattered, and Lirael blinked. When she opened her

eyes, she was standing between Ryelle and Sanar again, in a

pool of broken shards, with pieces of blue ice sprinkled across

her head and shoulders.

“You Saw,” said Ryelle. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” replied Lirael, sorely troubled, as much by the experience

of the vision as by what she’d Seen. “Is that what it

is like to have the Sight?”

“Not exactly,” replied Sanar. “We mostly See in short

flashes, brief fragments from many different parts of the future,

all mixed up. Only together, in the Watch, here in the Observatory,

can we unify the vision. Even then, only the person

who stands where you have stood will See it all.”

Lirael thought about that and craned her head back again,

ice dribbling down her neck under her shirt. The distant ceiling

was only a patch of ice again. She looked back down and

saw that all the Clayr were leaving without a word or a backwards

glance. The outer ring had gone before she even noticed,

and now the next was uncurling into a single file, leaving by a

different door. There seemed to be many exits from the

Observatory, Lirael thought. Soon she would take one herself,

never to return again.

“What,” Lirael began, forcing herself to think about the

vision,“what am I supposed to do?”

“We don’t know,” said Ryelle. “We have been trying to See

around the Red Lake for several years, without success. Then

all of a sudden we Saw you in the room below, the vision we

have shown you, and then a glimpse of you and the man in a

boat upon the lake. All are obviously linked in some way, but

we have not been able to See more.”

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“The man Nicholas is the key,” said Sanar. “Once you find

him, we think, you will know what to do.”

“But he’s with a necromancer!” exclaimed Lirael. “They’re

digging up something terrible! Shouldn’t we tell the

Abhorsen?”

“We have sent messages, but the Abhorsen and the King

are in Ancelstierre, where they hope to avert a trouble that is

also probably connected with whatever is in the pit that you

Saw. We have also alerted Ellimere and her co-regent, and it is

possible they will also act, perhaps with Prince Sameth, the

Abhorsen-in-Waiting. But whatever they do, we know that it

is you who must find Nicholas. It seems a little thing, I know,

a meeting between two people on a lake. But it is the only

future we can See now, with all else hidden from us, and it

offers our only hope to avert disaster.”

Lirael nodded, white-faced. Too many things were happening,

and she was too tired and emotionally exhausted to

cope. But it did seem that she was not just being thrown out.

She really did have something important to do, not just for the

Clayr, but for the whole Kingdom.

“Now, we must prepare you for the journey,” added Sanar,

obviously noting Lirael’s weariness. “Is there anything personal

you wish to take, or something special we can provide?”

Lirael shook her head. She wanted the Disreputable Dog,

but that didn’t seem possible, if the Clayr hadn’t Seen her.

Perhaps her friend was gone forever now, the spell that had

brought her meeting some condition that triggered its end.

“My outdoor things, I suppose,” she whispered finally.

“And a few books. I suppose I should take the things I found,

too.”

“You should,” said Sanar, obviously curious as to what

exactly they were. But she didn’t ask, and Lirael didn’t feel like

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talking about them. They were just more complications. Why

had they been left for her? What use would they be out in the

wide world?

“We must also outfit you with a bow and sword,” said

Ryelle. “As befits a Daughter of the Clayr gone a-voyaging.”

“I’m not very good with a sword,” Lirael said in a small

voice, choking a little at being called a Daughter of the Clayr.

Those words, so long sought, sounded empty to her now. “I’m

all right with a bow.”

She didn’t explain that she was competent with the laminated

short bow used by the Clayr only because she shot rats

in the Library, using blunted arrows so as not to puncture

books. The Dog liked to retrieve the arrows but wasn’t interested

in eating the rats, unless Lirael cooked them with herbs

and sauce, which she naturally refused to do.

“I hope you will need neither weapon,” said Sanar. Her

words seemed loud, echoing out into the huge cavern of ice.

Lirael shivered. That hope seemed likely to be false. Suddenly

it was cold. Nearly all the Clayr had gone, all fifteen hundred

of them, in a matter of minutes, as if they had never been there.

Only two armored guards remained, watching from the end of

the Observatory. One had a spear and the other a bow. Lirael

didn’t need to get closer to know that these were also weapons

of power, imbued with Charter Magic.

They had stayed, she knew, to make sure she was blindfolded.

She looked away and took her scarf off, folding it with

slow, deliberate movements. Then she tied it across her eyes

and stood stiffly, waiting for Sanar and Ryelle to take her arms.

“I am sorry,” said Sanar and Ryelle, at the same time, their

voices blending into one. They sounded to her as if they were

apologizing not just for the blindfold, but for Lirael’s whole

life.

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By the time they reached her small chamber off the Hall of

Youth, Lirael had not slept or eaten for more than eighteen

hours. She was staggering with fatigue, so Sanar and Ryelle

continued to support her. She was so tired that she didn’t even

realize Aunt Kirrith was present until she was taken into a

sudden, unwelcome, extremely tight embrace.

“Lirael! What have you done now!” Aunt Kirrith exclaimed,

her voice booming from somewhere above Lirael’s

head, which was kept firmly pressed into her aunt’s neck.

“You’re too young to go off into the world!”

“Aunt!” protested Lirael, trying to free herself, embarrassed

to be treated like a little girl in front of Ryelle and Sanar.

It was typical of Aunt Kirrith to try to hug her when she didn’t

want her to, and to not hug her when she did want to be

hugged.

“It’ll be just like your mother all over again,” Kirrith was

saying, seemingly as much to the twins as to Lirael. “Going off

who knows where and getting involved in who knows what

with who knows whom. Why, you might even come back—”

“Kirrith! Enough!” snapped Sanar, surprising Lirael. She

had never heard anyone speak to Kirrith like that. It was

clearly a shock to Kirrith too, because she let go of Lirael and

took a deep, dignified breath.

“You can’t talk to me like that, San . . . Ry . . . whichever

one you are,” Aunt Kirrith finally said after several deep

breaths. “I’m Guardian of the Young, and I am in authority

here!”

“And we, for the moment, are the Voice of the Clayr,”

replied Sanar and Ryelle in unison, lifting the wands they still

held. “We have been invested with the powers of the Nine Day

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Watch. Do you challenge our right, Kirrith?”

Kirrith looked at them, tried to take an even deeper breath,

and failed, her breath wheezing out of her like that of a toad

that has been stepped on. It was clearly a recognition of their

authority, if not a very dignified one.

“Fetch the things you want to take, Lirael,” said Sanar,

touching her on the shoulder. “We must soon go down to the

boat. Kirrith, perhaps if we could speak outside?”

Lirael nodded wearily and went to the chest that held her

clothes, while the others went out and shut the door. Without

looking, she reached in. Her hand hit something hard, and her

fingers were around it before she looked and gave a little gasp

of recognition. It was the old soapstone carving of the hardbitten

dog, the one she’d found in the Stilken’s chamber, the one

that had vanished when the Disreputable Dog had appeared.

Lirael hugged it close to her chest for a moment, a faint

hope breaking through her weariness. It was not the Dog, but

it was a hint that the Dog could be summoned again. Smiling,

she put the statuette in the pocket of a clean waistcoat, making

sure its soapstone snout could not be seen poking out. She put

the Dark Mirror in the same pocket and the panpipes in the

other one, and transferred The Book of Remembrance and Forgetting

to a small shoulder bag that seemed exactly made for

it. The clockwork emergency mouse she put in a corner of the

chest, followed by the whistle. Neither of them could help her

where she was going now.

As she undressed and quickly washed, thankful for the

larger room and simple bathroom she’d moved to on her eighteenth

birthday, Lirael considered changing her clothes completely,

to wear something that did not identify her as a Clayr.

But when it came time to dress, she once again donned the

working clothes of a Second Assistant Librarian. That was

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what she was, she told herself. She had earned the right to the

red waistcoat. No one could take that away, even if she wasn’t

a proper Clayr.

She had just rolled some spare clothes into her cloak, and

was thinking about her heavy wool coat and its likely usefulness

in late spring and summer, when there was a knock on the

door, followed immediately by Kirrith.

“I didn’t mean any nastiness about your mother,” Kirrith

said from the doorway, sounding subdued. “Arielle was my

little sister, and I loved her well. But she was outlandish, if you

know what I mean, and prone to trouble. Always getting into

scrapes and . . . well . . . it’s not been easy, what with being

Guardian and having to keep everyone in line. Perhaps I

haven’t shown you . . . well, it’s hard when you can’t See how

others feel or will feel about you. What I mean to say is that I

loved your mother—and I love you, too.”

“I know, Auntie,” replied Lirael, not looking back as she

threw her coat back in the chest. Even a year ago she would

have given anything to hear those words, to feel that she

belonged. Now it was too late. She was leaving the Glacier,

leaving it as her mother had done years before, when she had

abandoned her daughter seemingly without a care.

But that was all history, Lirael thought. I can leave it

behind, start my story afresh. I don’t need to know why my

mother left, or who my father was. I don’t need to know, she

repeated to herself.

I don’t need to know.

But while she mumbled those words under her breath, her

mind kept turning to The Book of Remembrance and Forgetting

in the bag at her side, and the pipes and Dark Mirror in her

waistcoat pockets.

She didn’t need to know what had happened in the past.

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But while she had always been alone among the Clayr for her

blindness to the future, now she was alone in another way as

well. In a perverse reversal of all her hopes and dreams, she

had been granted the exact opposite of her heart’s desire.

For with the Dark Mirror, and her new-found knowledge,

she could See into the past.

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Chapter Thirty-One

A Voice in the Trees

Hidden a merehundred yards into the fringe of the

forest, Prince Sameth lay like a dead man, sprawled where he’d

fallen from his horse. One leg was caked with drying blood,

and black-red blotches marked the green leaves of the bushes

that shivered around him in the breeze. Only a close inspection

would have shown that he was still breathing.

Sprout, proving less neurotic than expected, grazed quietly

nearby. Occasionally her ears twitched and her head went up,

but all through the long day nothing disturbed her contented

munching.

In the late afternoon, when the shadows began their slow

crawl out from the trees to stretch and join together, the breeze

picked up and relieved the heat of the late-spring day. It blew

over Sam, partly covering him with leaves, twigs, wind-caught

spiderwebs, beetle carcasses, and feathery grasses.

One thin blade of grass caught up against his nose and was

trapped there, tickling his nostril. It rustled this way, then that,

but didn’t shift. Sameth’s nose twitched in response, twitched

again, then finally burst out in a sneeze.

Sam woke up. At first he thought he was drunk, hungover,

and suffering. His mouth was dry, and he could taste the stench

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of his own breath. His head ached with a fierce pain, and his

legs hurt even more. He must have passed out in someone’s

garden, which was incredibly embarrassing. He had been this

drunk only once before, and hadn’t wished to repeat the experience.

He started to call out, but even as the dry, pathetic croak

left his lips, he remembered what had happened.

He’d killed two constables. Men who were trying to do

their duty. Men who had wives, family. Parents, brothers, sisters,

children. They would have left their homes in the morning

with no expectation of sudden death. Perhaps their wives were

even now waiting for them to come home for the evening meal.

No, thought Sameth, levering himself up to look bleakly at

the red light of the setting sun filtering through the trees. They

had fought early in the morning. The wives would know by

now that their husbands were never coming home.

Slowly, he pushed himself further upright, brushing the

forest debris from his clothes. He had to push the guilt down,

too, at least for the moment. Survival required it.

First of all, he had best cut away his trouser leg and look

at the wound. He dimly remembered casting the spell that had

undoubtedly saved his life, but the wound would still be fragile,

liable to reopen. He had to bind it up, for he was far too

weak to cast another healing spell.

After that, he would somehow stand up. Stand up, catch

the faithful Sprout, and ride deeper into the forest. He was

somewhat surprised that he hadn’t already been discovered by

the local constabulary. Unless he had laid a more confusing

trail than he’d thought, or they were waiting for reinforcements

to arrive before they started looking for what they

assumed to be a murderous necromancer.

If the constables—or even worse, the Guard—found him

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now, he’d have to tell them who he was, Sam decided. And that

would mean a shameful return to Belisaere, there to be tried

by Ellimere and Jall Oren. Public disgrace and infamy would

be sure to follow. The only other alternative would be a dishonorable

covering up of his awful deed.

Either situation would be intolerable. The disappointment

he could already imagine on his parents’ faces would be too

much to bear. No doubt his inability to be the Abhorsenin-

Waiting would also come out, and they would despair of

him completely.

Better that he disappear. Go into the forest and hide out

while he recovered, then continue to Edge with a newly conjured

visage, for he was sure Nick still needed help. At least he

would be able to do that. Not even Nick could get into more

trouble than Sam had managed to get into himself.

Making the decisions proved easier than putting them into

practice. Sprout backed away from him, her nostrils flaring,

as he tried to grab her reins. She didn’t like the smell of blood,

or the occasional grunts of pain Sam let out as he accidentally

put weight on his wounded leg.

Finally, he managed to push her into a sort of natural cul

de sac, where three trees prevented any further retreat. Mounting

proved to be another challenge. Pain flared as he swung his

leg over, gasping at the hurt.

Now Sam was faced with another problem. It was rapidly

getting dark, and he had no idea where to go. Civilization and

all it offered lay east, north, and south, but he dared not go

until he was strong enough to cast another spell to change his

and Sprout’s looks. Westward, there were many forest paths of

doubtful use and direction. There might be some settlements

or lone houses somewhere within the forest, but he couldn’t

visit them with any safety, either.

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Worse, he had only a single canteen of yesterday’s water, a

hunk of very stale bread, and a lump of salted beef, his emergency

provision in case he needed a snack between inns. The

ginger cakes were long gone, eaten on the road.

It began to rain, the wind having brought clouds over from

the sea—only a light spring shower, but it was enough to make

Sam curse and wrestle with his saddlebags, trying to pull out

his cloak. If he caught a cold on top of his existing hurts, there

was no knowing how he’d end up. In a forest grave, most

likely, he thought bitterly, not dug by human hands. Just a

mound of wind-borne bits and pieces, linked by the grass

growing up around his pathetic remains.

He was just thinking about this dismal future when his fingers,

pulling at the cloak, felt leather and cold metal instead of

wool. Instantly, he snatched his hand away, the tips of his fingers

cold and already turning blue. The knowledge of what

he’d just touched made him bend over his saddle horn and let

out a great sob of despair and fright.

The Book of the Dead. He’d left it behind in his workroom,

but it had refused to be left. Just like the bells. He would never

be rid of them, even wounded and alone in this dark forest.

They would follow him forever, even into Death itself.

He was just about to let himself break down when a voice

came from the darkness between the trees.

“A little lost princeling, weeping in the forest? I would have

thought you had more steel in your spine, Prince Sameth. Still,

I am often wrong.”

The voice had an electric effect on Sameth and Sprout. The

Prince shot bolt upright in the saddle, gasped at the pain, and

tried to draw his sword. Sprout, equally surprised, leapt forward

into an instant canter, weaving amid the trees without a

thought for her rider and low-slung branches.

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Horse and rider raced along in a cacophony of breaking

branches, shouts, and whinnies. They continued in this fashion

for at least fifty yards before Sameth got Sprout under control

and managed to turn her back in the direction the voice

had come from.

He also managed to draw his sword. It was half-dark now,

the tree-trunks pale ashen streaks in the gathering gloom, supporting

branches where leaves hung like heavy clots of darkness.

Whoever . . . whatever . . . had spoken could easily creep

up on him now, but it was better to face it than be knocked off

by a branch in panicked flight.

The voice had been unnatural. He’d tasted Free Magic in

it, and something else. It wasn’t a Dead creature—no, not that.

But it could be a Stilken or Margrue, Free Magic elementals

that occasionally hungered for the taste of Life. He wished now

that he had read the book that he’d been given for his birthday,

the one on binding, by Merchane.

Something rustled in the leaves of the closest tree, and Sam

started again, lifting his sword to the guard position. Sprout

fidgeted, kept in check only by the pressure of Sam’s knees. The

effort sent bolts of pain up Sam’s side, but he did not ease off.

There was something moving all right, moving up the

trunk—there—no, there. It was jumping from branch to

branch, moving behind him. Maybe more than one. . . .

Desperately, Sam tried to reach the Charter to draw out

the marks needed for a magical attack. But he was too weak,

the pain in his leg too strong, too fresh. He couldn’t keep the

marks in his mind. He couldn’t remember the spell he wanted

to form.

Perhaps the bells, he thought in desperation, as whatever

it was moved again. But he didn’t know how to use the bells

against the Dead, let alone Free Magic beings. His hand shook

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at the thought of using the bells, and he was reminded of

Death. At the same time a fierce determination rose in him.

Whatever ill luck had dogged him, he would not just lie down

and die. He might be afraid, but he was a royal Prince, the son

of Touchstone and Sabriel, and he would sell his life as dear as

his strength could make it.

“Who calls Prince Sameth?” he shouted, words harsh in

the darkling forest. “Show yourself, before I wreak a spell on

you of great destruction!”

“Save the theatrics for those who respond to them,”

replied the voice, this time accompanied by the flash of two

piercing green eyes, reflecting the last of the sun on a branch

high above Sam’s head. “And count yourself lucky that it’s

only me. You’ve left blood enough around to call a brace of

hormagants.”

With that speech, a small white cat leapt from the tree,

catapulted off a lower branch, and landed a cautious distance

from Sprout’s forefeet.

“Mogget!” exclaimed Sam, peering down at him with

dizzy incredulity. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you,” said the cat. “As should be startlingly

obvious to even the most dull-witted Prince. Loyal servant of

the Abhorsen, that’s me. Ready to baby-sit at a moment’s

notice. Anywhere. No trouble at all. Now get off that horse

and make a fire, just in case there actually are some hormagants

about. I don’t suppose you’ve been sensible enough to

bring anything to eat?”

Sameth shook his head, feeling something not exactly as

positive as relief pass through him. Mogget was a servant of

the Abhorsen, but he was also a Free Magic being of ancient

power. The red collar he wore, engrained with Charter marks,

and the miniature bell that hung from it, were the visible signs

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of the power that bound him. Once it had been Saraneth, the

Binder, that rang on that collar. Since the defeat of Kerrigor,

the bell that bound Mogget was a tiny Ranna. Ranna the

Sleepbringer, the first of the seven bells.

Sameth had hardly ever spoken to Mogget, for the strange

cat-being had been awake only once when Sam was at

Abhorsen’s House, and that had been ten years before. As on

the more recent occasion, he’d woken just long enough to steal

Touchstone’s fresh-caught salmon, and had addressed few

words to the boy of seven who had stared incredulously as the

“always sleeping” cat removed a fish as large as itself from a

silver platter.

“I really don’t understand,” mumbled Sameth as he gingerly

lowered himself off Sprout’s back. “Did Mother send

you to look for me? How did she wake you up?”

“The Abhorsen,” replied Mogget, between bouts of licking

his paw in a rather stately fashion, “had nothing directly to do

with it. Having been associated with the family for so long,

I am simply aware of when my services are required. For example,

when a new set of bells appears, suggesting that an

Abhorsen-in-Waiting is ready to come into his inheritance.

Having woken, I simply followed the bells.

“But the return of Cassiel’s bells did not waken me,” continued

Mogget, switching to his other paw. “I was already

awake. Something is happening in the Kingdom. Things long

dormant are stirring, or being woken, and the ripples of their

waking have spread to Abhorsen’s House, for whatever wakes

threatens the Abhorsen—”

“Do you know what it is exactly?” Sam interrupted anxiously.

“Mother said she feared some ancient evil was planning

terrible things. I had thought it might be Kerrigor.”

“Your uncle Rogir?” replied Mogget, as if answering a

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question about some slightly eccentric relative rather than the

fearful Greater Dead Adept that Kerrigor had ultimately

become. “Ranna holds him tighter than she does me. He sleeps

in the deepest cellar of Abhorsen’s House. And there he will

sleep till the end of time.”

“Ah,” sighed Sam, relieved.

“Unless whatever is stirring wakes him up as well,”

Mogget added thoughtfully. “Now tell me why my leisurely

journey to Belisaere and its justly famous fish markets has been

suddenly interrupted by a side trip to a forest. Where do you

think you’re going, and why are you going there?”

“I’m going to find my friend Nicholas,” explained Sam,

though he felt Mogget’s green eyes boring into him, seeking

out the deeper reasons that he continued to hide from himself.

Avoiding that gaze, he pushed together a small pyramid

of twigs and dried leaves, and lit it with a friction match struck

against his boot.

“And who is Nicholas?” asked Mogget.

“He’s an Ancelstierran, a friend of mine from school. I’m

worried because he has no idea what it’s really like over here.

He doesn’t even believe in Charter Magic—or any other magic,

for that matter,” said Sam, as he added some larger sticks to

the fire. “He thinks everything can be explained scientifically,

the same way Ancelstierran things work. Even after the Dead

attacked us near the Perimeter, he still wouldn’t accept that

there isn’t some explanation other than magic. He’s very stubborn.

Once he decides something is just so, he won’t change

his mind unless you can prove it with mathematics or something

he accepts. And he’s important in Ancelstierre, because

he’s the Chief Minister’s nephew. I mean, you probably know

that Mother and Dad are going to negotiate—”

“Where is this Nicholas?” interrupted Mogget, hooding his

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eyes. Sameth could see the flames reflected in them for a moment

before the lids closed, and he shivered. In the eyes of some

Dead creatures, those flames would not be a reflection.

“He was supposed to wait for me to meet him at the Wall,

but he’s already crossed. At least that’s what he said in his

letter. He hired a guide, and he’s going to look for some old

legend called the Lightning Trap on the way to Belisaere,” continued

Sameth, feeding a larger branch into the fire. “I don’t

know what that is, or how he heard about it, but apparently

it’s somewhere near Edge. And of course that’s where Mother

and Dad think the Enemy is.”

His voice trailed off as he realized that Mogget didn’t seem

to be listening.

“The Lightning Trap, near the Red Lake,” muttered Mogget,

his eyes closing to narrow slits of darkness. “The King and the

Abhorsen in Ancelstierre, trying to stop a great multitude going

to their deaths. A friend of the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, a Prince

of sorts himself on the other side of the Wall. The Clayr Sightless,

save for visions of total ruin . . . This does not bode well,

and the connections cannot be purely coincidence. The Lightning

Trap. I have not heard that name precisely, but something

stirs. . . . sleep grips and dulls my memory. . . .”

Mogget’s voice had grown softer as he spoke, drifting into

something like a growl. Sam waited for the cat to say something

more, then realized that the growl had become a snore.

Mogget was asleep.

Shivering—but not with cold—Sam put another branch in

the fire and was comforted by the flare of friendly light. It had

stopped raining, or never got properly started. Just a bit of spitting

and a slight drop in temperature. But this was not good

news to Sam, who would have preferred to be enduring heavy

rain. The last few days had been unseasonably warm for the

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time of year, with summer heat in late spring, and teasing rain

that had never quite developed into a real storm. That meant

the spring floods would be sinking early. And the Dead would

roam further afield, not confined by running water.

He looked at Mogget again and was startled to see one

bright eye watching him, sparkling in the firelight, while the

other eye was firmly closed.

“How were you wounded?” purred the cat, voice low,

words matching the crackle of the fire. He sounded as if he

already knew the answer, but wanted to confirm something.

Sam blushed and hung his head, hands unconsciously linking

in an attitude of prayer.

“I got in a fight with two constables. They thought I was

a necromancer. The bells . . .” His voice trailed off, and he

gulped. Mogget kept staring at him with that one sardonic eye,

obviously waiting to hear more.

“I killed them,” whispered Sam. “A Death-spell.”

There was a long silence. Mogget opened his other eye and

yawned, pink mouth revealing sharp, ever-so-white teeth.

“Idiot. Worse than your father. Guilt, guilt, guilt,” he said,

mid yawn. “You didn’t kill them.”

“What!” exclaimed Sam.

“You can’t have killed them,” replied Mogget, turning

around several times to knead the leaves into a more comfortable

bed. “They’re royal servants, sworn to the King. They

carry his protection, even from one of his wayward children.

Mind you, any other innocents about would have been slain.

Very clumsy of you, to use that spell.”

“I didn’t think,” replied Sam woodenly. He was enormously

relieved that he wasn’t a murderer. Now he could feel

angry at Mogget for making him feel like a foolish schoolboy.

“Obviously,” agreed Mogget. “And you haven’t started

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thinking, either. If they’d died, you would have felt it. You’re

the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, Charter help us.”

Sam bit back an angry reply as he realized that the cat was

correct. He hadn’t felt the constables die. Mogget kept watching

him, his eyes still slitted, apparently viewing Sam with deep

suspicion.

“Coils within coils,” murmured the cat. “Fleas upon fleas,

idiots begetting idiots—”

“What?”

“Mmm, just thinking,” whispered Mogget. “You should

try it sometimes. Wake me in the morning. It may be quite difficult.”

“Yes, Sire,” said Sam, mustering as much sarcasm as possible.

It had no effect upon Mogget, who now seemed to be

really asleep.

“I always wondered why Dad said you were too big for

your boots,” Sam added, straightening his leg out in front of

him and checking the bandage. He didn’t add that when he had

been seven years old and newly at school in Ancelstierre, he

had pointed to an illustration from “Puss in Boots” and loudly

repeated something his father had once said to Sabriel: “That

bloody cat of yours is too big for his boots.”

It had also been the first time he’d worn the dunce cap and

stood in the corner. “Bloody” was not in the accepted vocabulary

for the young gentlemen of Thorne Preparatory School.

Mogget didn’t reply. Sam poked his tongue out at him, then

dragged a half-rotted stump onto the fire, hopping on his good

leg. The stump would burn till dawn, but just in case, he broke

up some deadfall branches and laid them close by.

Then he lay down himself, with his sword under his hand

and Sprout’s saddle under his head. It was a warm night, so

he didn’t need his cloak or Sprout’s odorous saddle blanket.

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Sprout herself dozed nearby, hobbled to prevent her starting

off on her own nervous adventures. Mogget slept at Sam’s side,

more like a hunting dog than a cat.

For a few moments Sam thought about staying awake to

keep watch, but he didn’t have the strength to keep his eyes

open. Besides, they were in the heartland of the Kingdom, close

to Belisaere. It had been safe here for the last decade at least.

What could possibly trouble them?

Many things, Sam thought, as sleep battled with his awareness

of all the subtle sounds of the night forest. He was deeply

troubled by Mogget’s enigmatic words, and was still cataloguing

potential horrors and matching them to sounds when

exhaustion overcame him and he fell asleep.

He awoke to the touch of sunlight on his face, filtered

through the canopy of trees. The fire continued to smolder,

smoke meandering about till he sat up, when it changed direction

and blew across his face.

Mogget was still sleeping, now curled up into a tight white

ball, almost buried in the leaves.

Sam yawned and tried to stand up. He’d forgotten about

his leg, which had stiffened so much that he promptly fell over,

letting out a shriek of pain. That startled Sprout, who jumped

as far as her hobbles allowed her and rolled her eyes. Sam muttered

soothing words at her while he used a hefty sapling to

haul himself upright.

Mogget didn’t wake then or later, sleeping on while Sam

finished re-dressing his wound and cast a small Charter-spell

to dull the pain and keep infection at bay. The cat stayed asleep

even when Sam got out some bread and beef for a not very

satisfactory breakfast.

After he’d eaten, Sam brushed Sprout and then saddled up.

With nothing left to do but cover the remnants of the fire, he

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decided it was time to endure more of Mogget’s insults.

“Mogget! Wake up!”

The cat didn’t stir. Sam leaned down closer and shouted,

“Wake up!” again, but Mogget didn’t even twitch an ear.

Finally, he reached out and shook the little cat gently

behind the collar. Aside from his feeling the buzz and interplay

of Free and Charter Magic, nothing happened. Mogget

slept on.

“What am I supposed to do with you?” asked Sam, looking

down at him. This whole adventure/rescue business was

getting out of hand. It was only his third day out of Belisaere,

and he was already off the high road, wounded, and in the

company of a strange and potentially extremely dangerous Free

Magic construct. His question dredged up another one he’d

been trying to avoid: What was he going to do now himself?

He didn’t expect an answer to either question, but after a

moment, a muffled reply came from the apparently still sleeping

cat.

“Put me in a saddlebag. Wake me up when you find some

decent food. Preferably fish.”

“All right,” replied Sam with a shrug. Picking up the cat

without moving his wounded leg proved difficult, but eventually

he managed it. Cradling Mogget in one forearm, he delicately

transferred him to the left saddlebag, after checking that

it wasn’t the one with the bells and The Book of the Dead. He

didn’t like the idea of all three being put together, though he

knew no reason why they shouldn’t be.

Eventually Mogget was safely installed, with just his head

poking out of the bag.

“I’m going to ride west through this small forest, then

across the open country to the Sindlewood,” explained Sam

as he turned the stirrup and put his boot through, ready to

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mount. “We’ll go through the Sindlewood to the Ratterlin,

then follow it south till we can get a boat to take us to Qyrre.

From there it shouldn’t take long to get to Edge, and hopefully

we’ll find Nick straightaway. Does that sound like a good

plan?”

Mogget didn’t answer.

“So a day or so in this forest,” continued Sam as he mustered

his strength to swing up and over. He liked talking about

his plans out loud—it made them seem more real and sensible.

Particularly when Mogget was asleep and couldn’t criticize

them. “When we come out, we’re bound to find a village, or a

charcoal burner’s camp or something. They’ll sell us whatever

we need before we cross the Sindlewood. There’re probably

woodcutters or people like that there, too.”

He stopped talking as he mounted up, suppressing a cry of

pain. His injured leg was feeling better than the day before, but

not by much. And he felt a bit dizzy now, almost lightheaded.

He’d have to be careful.

“By the way,” he said, clicking Sprout into a walk, “last

night you seemed to know something about this Lightning

Trap Nick has gone to look for. You didn’t like the sound of

it, but you fell asleep before saying anything else. I was wondering

if it had anything to do with the necromancer—”

“Necromancer?” came the immediate, yowled reply.

Mogget erupted out of the saddlebag and crouched in front of

Sam, looking in every direction, his fur standing on end.

“Um, not here. I was just saying that you started to talk

about the Lightning Trap, and I wondered if it had to do with

Chlorr of the Mask, or the other necromancer, the one . . . the

one I fought.”

“Humph,” snorted Mogget darkly, subsiding back into the

saddlebag.

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“Well, tell me something!” demanded Sam. “You can’t just

sleep all day!”

“Can’t I?” asked Mogget. “I could sleep all year. Particularly

since I have no fish, which I note you have failed to

procure.”

“So what is the Lightning Trap?” prompted Sam, pulling

lightly on the reins to direct Sprout towards a more westerly

and well-traveled path.

“I don’t know,” Mogget said softly. “But I mislike the

sound of it. A Lightning Trap. A gatherer of lightning? Surely

it cannot be—”

“What?” asked Sam.

“It is probably only a coincidence,” replied Mogget heavily,

his eyes closing once more. “Perhaps your friend does only

go to see a place where lightning strikes more commonly than

it should. But there are powers working here, powers that hate

everything of the Charter, Blood, and Stone. I smell plots and

long-laid plans, Sameth. I do not like it at all.”

“So what should we do?” Sam asked anxiously.

“We must find your friend Nick,” whispered Mogget as he

drifted back into sleep. “Before he finds . . . whatever it is that

he seeks.”

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Chapter Thirty-Two

“When the Dead Do Walk,

Goaded on by Mogget’s alarming presentiment, Sam

pressed himself and Sprout hard—so they left the small,

unnamed forest earlier than expected, on the evening of the first

day, and began to cross the rolling green hills of the farmland

beyond. This was part of the Middle Lands of the Old Kingdom,

a wide belt of small villages, farm steadings, and sheep,

stretching west across the country almost as far as Estwael and

Olmond. Apart from Sindle to the north, there were no towns

until Yanyl, twenty leagues past the western shore of the

Ratterlin. Largely depopulated during the Interregnum, the

area had recovered quickly during Touchstone’s reign, but there

were still far fewer people than in the heyday of the Kingdom.

Since his former disguise was now a liability, Sam removed

the Charter-spell that disguised him as a Traveler and resumed

his normal appearance. Sprout was already disguised by the

mud on her legs and her very ordinary looks. In his sweaty,

dirt-stained clothes, it was hard to tell what Sam looked like,

anyway. He had a story ready, should he be asked. He would

say he was the younger son of a Belisaere merchant’s guard

captain, traveling from the north to a cousin near Chasel, who

would employ him as a retainer.

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Seek Water’s Run”

He also re-bound his wound and managed to slip on his

spare trousers, so as not to show an obviously wounded,

blood-stained leg. His limp he could not disguise, unlike his

hat, which suffered the indignity of having its brim cut in half,

rendering it both less shady and less distinctive.

Soon after leaving the forest, they entered a village, or a

hamlet, really, since it boasted only seven houses. There was

a Charter Stone nearby, though. Sam could feel it, somewhere

behind the houses. He was tempted to find it and use it to help

him cast another, stronger healing spell, but the villagers would

surely notice him then.

The place lacked an inn. Though a comfortable bed was

beyond hope, he did manage to buy some almost-fresh bread,

a freshly cooked rabbit, and several small, sweet apples from

a woman who was taking a cartload of fair-day purchases

home to her farm.

Mogget slept through this transaction, hidden under the

loosely tied flap of the saddlebag, which was just as well. Sam

didn’t know how he would even begin to explain why a white

cat rode with him. It was better not to tempt interest.

Sam kept on riding till it was too dark to see and Sprout

wandered into the mud on either side of what was supposed

to be a road. He conjured a small Charter light, and they found

an open-sided hayrick in which to take shelter. Mogget slept

on, oblivious to the removal of the saddlebags and the scraping

of at least some of the mud from man and horse.

Sam tried to wake him, to learn more about the Lightning

Trap. But the bell that bound Mogget worked too well, its

sleepy chime sounding whenever the cat moved as if to wake

up. The miniature Ranna made even Sam weary when he

leaned too close, so he fell asleep next to the cat in a most

uncomfortable position.

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The next day was much the same as the first. Not surprisingly,

considering his thin bed of leftover straw, Sam found it

easy to rise before dawn, and once again he pushed Sprout to

a pace beyond her liking.

He met few people on the road—which was not much more

than a track—and spoke little but pleasantries to them, for fear

of discovery. Just enough to seem normal, when he bought

some food, or asked about the best way through Sindlewood

to the Ratterlin.

He had a fright in one village, when he stopped to buy some

grain for Sprout and a bag of onions and parsnips for himself.

Two constables rode straight towards him, but they didn’t slow,

merely nodding as they passed, riding back eastwards. Apparently,

the word had not spread either about a dangerous necromancer-

at-large or a missing Prince, or else he didn’t look as if

he could be either one. Whatever the cause, Sam was grateful.

In the main, it was an uneventful if tiring journey. Sam

spent much of the time thinking about Nick, his parents, and

his own shortcomings. These thoughts always led back to the

Enemy. The more he thought about it, the more Sam was convinced

that the necromancer who had burnt him must be the

architect of all the current troubles. That necromancer had the

power, and he had shown his hand by trying to capture and

dominate Sam.

Mostly Sam agonized over what he should do and what

might happen. He constructed many quite horrifying scenarios

in his head, and he generally failed to work out what the best

course of action would be if they turned out to be true. Each

passing day made him envision more horrible possibilities.

Every day Sam was more acutely aware that Nicholas might

have already found something inimical in the Lightning Trap.

Perhaps his doom.

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Four days after his encounter with the constables, Sam

found himself looking down from a pastured hill into the

shadowy green borders of the ancient forest known as Sindlewood.

It looked much larger, darker, and more overgrown

than the small wood where he’d met Mogget. The trees were

taller, too, at least the ones he could see on the fringe, and

there was no obvious path.

Even as Sam looked at the forest, his thoughts were far

away. Nick’s situation weighed heavily on him, as did the

presence of The Book of the Dead and the bells. All these

things were closely entwined now, for it seemed that Sam’s

best hope of rescuing Nick—if he was in trouble—lay in

mastering the skills of an Abhorsen. If Nick was held by the

Enemy, he would probably be used to blackmail the Chief

Minister in Ancelstierre and stop Sabriel and Touchstone’s

plan to prevent the Southerlings’ being massacred, which in

turn would mean an invasion by the Dead and the end of the

Old Kingdom, and . . .

Sam sighed and looked back at the saddlebags. His imagination

was getting out of control. But whatever was really happening,

he would have to make a supreme effort to read the

book, in order to become a rescuer and not just an idiot riding

into disaster, getting himself killed or enslaved for nothing.

Of course, there was always the possibility that Mogget

was lying. Sam was somewhat suspicious of Mogget, having

the dim recollection that the cat never left Abhorsen’s House

without the Abhorsen. True, Sabriel couldn’t have taken him

into Ancelstierre on a diplomatic mission, and it was possible

that she had granted him freedom to leave the House. But

Sabriel also had the ring that could control the Free Magic

being that would result if Mogget were unbound. If the creature

within Mogget should be freed, it would kill any Abhorsen

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it could. Which, in this case, meant Sam. Surely Sabriel wouldn’t

have let the cat out without making sure it also brought Sam

the ring.

Maybe it was her very absence in Ancelstierre, on the other

side of the Wall, that had allowed Mogget to do what he liked.

Or perhaps Mogget had even been suborned by the Enemy

and was actually guiding Sameth to his doom. . . .

Busy thinking unpleasant thoughts and trying to direct

Sprout the best way down the hill, Sam was totally unprepared

for the cold shiver that suddenly touched his spine. In that

same instant, he realized he was being watched. Watched by

something Dead.

The old rhyme, drilled into him since childhood, leapt into

his head:

When the Dead do walk, seek water’s run,

For this the Dead will always shun.

Swift river’s best or broadest lake

To ward the Dead and haven make.

If water fails thee, fire’s thy friend;

If neither guards, it will be thy end.

Even as the words were running through his head, Sam

looked at the sun. There was little more than an hour of daylight

left. Simultaneously he looked for running water—a stream

or river—and saw a reflection, silver in the shadows, near the

edge of the forest. Farther away than he would have liked.

He directed Sprout towards it, feeling the fear rise in him,

coursing through his muscles. He couldn’t see the Dead creature,

but it was close. He felt its spirit like a clammy touch

upon his skin. It must be strong, too, or it would not risk even

the waning sun.

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Sam’s knees twitched, the reflex of an overwhelming urge

to kick Sprout into a gallop. But they were still going down

the hill, on broken ground. If Sprout fell on him, he would be

trapped, easy prey for the Dead. . . .

No. Best not to think of that. He looked around again,

squinting against the yellow-red sun, low in the sky. The creature

was somewhere behind him . . . and no . . . to the right.

His fear grew as Sam realized there were two creatures,

perhaps more. They must be Shadow Hands, slinking from the

shade of rock to rock, almost impossible to see till they reared

up to attack.

Fumbling, he reached back and opened the saddlebag. If he

couldn’t reach running water in time, the bells would be his

only defense against Shadow Hands. A fairly pathetic defense,

since he didn’t know how to use them properly and they might

easily work against him.

He felt one of the Dead move again, and his heart stammered

at the awful swiftness of the thing. It was right next to

him and he still couldn’t see it, even in bright sunlight!

Then he looked up. A black speck hovered above him,

just beyond arrow-shot. And another, behind the first and farther

up.

Not Shadow Hands at all. Gore Crows. And where there

were two, there would be many more. Gore Crows were always

created in flocks, made from ordinary crows killed with

ritual and ceremony, then infused with the splintered fragments

of just one Dead spirit. Guided by this shattered but single

intelligence, these decaying lumps of rotten flesh and feathers

flew by force of Free Magic—and killed by force of numbers.

But as Sam scanned the horizon, he could see no more than

two. Surely no necromancer would waste his power on just a

pair of Gore Crows. They were too easy to kill in anything less

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than a flock. A sword-stroke could smash a single crow, but

even a mighty warrior could be defeated by a hundred Gore

Crows attacking at once, sharp beaks striking at the eyes and

neck.

It was also unusual for them to be out under the sun. The

spell that drove them was quickly eroded by heat and light,

even as their physical forms were shredded by the wind.

Unless, Sam suddenly thought, there really were only two

Gore Crows, sharing the Dead vitality that would normally

be spent on hundreds of crow bodies. If this was the case,

they would last much longer and would be stronger under the

sun. They could also be used in other ways than to merely

attack.

Like watching, he thought grimly, as neither Dead bird

sought to come any closer. They were keeping station above

him, circling slowly, probably marking him for the assault of

other Dead come nightfall.

As if to confirm his thoughts, one of the Gore Crows—the

one farther away—let out a mocking, scratchy caw and turned

away to the south, dropping rotten feathers as it flew, propelled

more by magic than by the occasional beats of its wings.

It looked all too much like a messenger, with its partner the

shadower, staying high to follow wherever Sam might go.

For a moment he contemplated casting a spell of destruction

upon it, but it was too far away and obviously well

instructed in caution. Besides, he was still weak from his

wounded leg. He knew he must save his powers for the night.

Keeping a wary eye on the black speck above him, Sam

urged Sprout on. The stream didn’t look like much from here,

but it would offer some protection. After a moment’s hesitation,

he also drew out the bell-bandolier and put it on. The

weight of the bells and their power lay heavily upon his chest,

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and shortened and shallowed his breath. But if worst came to

worst, he would try to use the lesser bells, drawing on the

lessons he’d had from his mother. They were supposed to be

merely a prelude for the study he’d abandoned. Ranna, at least,

he could probably wield without fear of being forced unwillingly

into Death.

A nagging voice at the back of his mind said that even now

it was not too late to pick up The Book of the Dead, to learn

more of the birthright that could save him. But even his fear of

an attack by the Dead was not enough to conquer Sam’s fear

of the book. Reading it, he might find himself taken into

Death. Better to fight the Dead in Life, with what little knowledge

he had, than to confront them in Death itself.

Behind him, Sam thought he heard a chuckle, a muffled

laugh that didn’t sound like Mogget. He turned, hand instinctively

going to his sword, but there was nothing and no one

there. Just the sleeping cat in one saddlebag, and The Book of

the Dead in the other. Sam let go of the hilt, already sweaty

from his trembling fingers, and looked down at the stream

again. If the bed was smooth, he would ride along it as far as

he could. If he was lucky, it might even take him as far west

as the Ratterlin, a mighty river even one of the Greater Dead

couldn’t cross.

And from there, a secret and cowardly voice said in his

mind, he could take a boat to Abhorsen’s House. He would be

safe there. Safe from the Dead, safe from everything. But what,

another voice asked, would happen to Nick, to his parents, to

the Kingdom? Then both voices were lost as Sam concentrated

on guiding Sprout down the hillside, towards the promised

safety of the stream.

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Sam lost sight of the Gore Crow when the last of the daylight

was eaten up by the shadows of the trees and the falling darkness.

But he could still feel the Dead spirit above him. It was

lower now, braver with the cloaking night about it.

But not brave enough to descend too close to the running

water that burbled on either side of Sam’s temporary camp.

The stream had proved to be a bit of a disappointment, and a

clear indication that the spring floods were already receding.

It was only thirty feet wide, and shallow enough to wade in.

But it would help, and Sam had found an islet, no more than

a narrow strip of sand, where the water ran swiftly on either

side.

He had a fire going already, since there was no point trying

to hide with the Gore Crow circling above. All he had to do to

make his camp as secure as possible was to cast a diamond of

protection large enough for himself, the horse, and the fire.

If he had the strength to do it, Sam thought, as he made

Sprout stand still. As an afterthought, he also took off the bandolier

of bells, which had grown no easier to bear. Then he

limped to take up a spell-casting stance in front of Sprout,

unsheathed his sword, and held it outstretched. Keeping this

pose, he took four slow, deliberate breaths, drawing as much

oxygen into his tired body as he could.

He reached out for the four cardinal Charter marks that

would create the points of the diamond of protection. Symbols

formed in his mind, plucked out of the flow of the never-ending

Charter.

He held them in his mind, breath ragged at the effort, and

drew the outline of the first mark—the Eastmark—in the sand

in front of him. As he finished, the Eastmark in his head ran

down into the blade like golden fire. It filled the outline he’d

made in the sand with light.

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Sam limped behind Sprout, past the fire, and drew the

Southmark. As this one flared into life, a line of yellow fire ran

to it from the Eastmark, forming a barrier impenetrable to both

the Dead and physical danger. Intent on moving on, Sam didn’t

look. If he faltered now, the diamond would be incomplete.

Sam had cast many diamonds of protection before, but

never when he was wounded and so weary. When the last

mark, the Northmark, finally flared up, he dropped his sword

and collapsed, wheezing onto the damp sand.

Sprout, curious, turned her head back to look at him, but

she didn’t move. Sam had thought he would have to spell her

into immobility to keep her from accidentally moving out of

the diamond, but she didn’t stir. Perhaps she could smell the

Gore Crow.

“I take it we’re in danger,” said a yawning voice close to

Sam’s ear. He sat up and saw Mogget extricating himself from

the saddlebag, which lay next to the fire and a probably insufficient

pile of rather damp wood.

Sam nodded, temporarily unable to speak. He pointed up

at the sky, which was now beginning to show single stars and

the great white swathe of the Mare’s Tail. There were black

clouds too, high to the south, crackling with distant lightning,

but no sign of rain.

The Gore Crow was invisible, but Mogget seemed to know

what Sam was pointing at. The cat rose up on his hind legs and

sniffed, one paw absently batting down an oversized mosquito

that had probably just dined on Sam.

“A Gore Crow,” he said. “Only one. Strange.”

“It’s been following us,” said Sam, slapping several mosquitoes

that were coming in to land on his forehead. “There

were two, but the other one flew away. South. Probably to get

orders. Curse these bugs!”

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“There is a necromancer at work here,” agreed Mogget,

sniffing the air again. “I wonder if he . . . or she . . . has been

searching for you specifically. Or is it just bad luck for a wayward

traveler?”

“It could be the one who caught me before, couldn’t it?”

asked Sam. “I mean, he knew where I was with the cricket

team. . . .”

“Perhaps,” replied Mogget, still staring up at the night sky.

“It is unlikely that there would be Gore Crows here, or that

any lesser necromancer would dare to move against you, unless

there is a guiding force behind them. Certainly these Crows are

more daring than they have any right to be. Have you caught

me a fish?”

“No,” replied Sam, surprised by the sudden change of

subject.

“How inconsiderate of you,” said Mogget, sniffing. “I suppose

I’ll have to catch one myself.”

“No!” exclaimed Sam, levering himself up. “You’ll break

the diamond! I haven’t got the strength to cast it again. Ow!

Charter curse these mosquitoes!”

“I won’t break it,” said Mogget, walking over to the Westmark

and carefully poking out his tongue. The mark flashed

white, dazzling Sam. When his vision cleared, Mogget was

standing upright on the other side, intent on the water, one paw

raised, like a fishing bear.

“Show-off,” muttered Sam. He wondered how the cat had

done it. The diamond was unbroken, the lines of magical fire

streaming without pause between the brightness of the cardinal

marks.

If only the diamond kept the mosquitoes out as well, he

thought, slapping several more into bloody oblivion against his

neck. Clearly their bites did not come into the spell’s definition

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of physical harm. Suddenly he smiled, remembering something

he’d packed.

He was getting this object out of the saddlebag when the

Westmark flashed again, reacting to Mogget’s return. The cat

had two small trout in his mouth, their scales reflecting rainbows

in the mix of firelight and Charter glow.

“You can have this one to cook,” said Mogget, dropping

the smaller one next to the fire. “What is that?”

“It’s a present for my mother,” replied Sam proudly, setting

down a bejeweled clockwork frog that had the interesting

anatomical addition of wings made of feathery bronze. “A flying

frog.”

Mogget watched with interest as Sam lightly touched the

frog’s back and it began to glow with Charter Magic as the

sending inside the mechanical body waked from sleep. It opened

one turquoise eye, then the other, lids of paper-thin gold sliding

back. Then it flapped its wings, brazen feathers clashing.

“Very pretty,” said Mogget. “Does it do anything?”

The flying frog answered the question itself, suddenly leaping

into the air, a long and vibrantly red tongue flashing out to

grab several startled mosquitoes. Wings beating furiously, it

spiraled after several more, ate them, and then dived back

down to land contentedly near Sam’s feet.

“It catches bugs,” stated Sam with considerable satisfaction.

“I thought it would be handy for Mother, since she spends

so much time in swamps hunting the Dead.”

“You made it,” said Mogget, watching the flying frog leap

again to twirl and twist after its quarry. “Completely your

invention?”

“Yes,” replied Sam shortly, expecting some criticism of his

handiwork. But Mogget was silent, just watching the frog’s

aerobatics, his green eyes following its every move. Then the

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cat shifted his gaze to Sam, making him nervous. He tried to

meet that green stare, but he had to look away—and he suddenly

realized that there were Dead nearby. Lots of Dead,

drawing closer with every second.

Mogget obviously felt them too, for he leapt up and

hissed, the hair on his back rising to a ridge. Sprout smelt

them, and shivered. The Flying Frog flew to the saddlebags

and climbed in.

Sam looked out into the darkness, shielding his eyes from

the firelight. The moon was occluded by cloud, but starlight

reflected from the water. He could feel the Dead, out there in

the forest, but the darkness lay too heavy under the branches

of the old tangled trees. He couldn’t see anything.

But he could hear twigs cracking, and branches snapping

back, and even the occasional heavy footfall, all against the

constant burble of the stream. Whatever was coming, some of

them at least had physical forms. There could be Shadow

Hands out there as well. Or Ghlims or Mordaut or any of the

many kinds of Lesser Dead. He could feel nothing more powerful,

at least for now.

Whatever they were, there were at least a dozen of them,

on both sides of the stream. Forgetting his tiredness and his

limp, Sam moved around the diamond, checking the marks.

The running water was neither deep nor fast enough to do

more than discourage the Dead. The diamond would be their

true protection.

“You may have to renew the marks before dawn,” said

Mogget, watching Sam’s inspection. “It hasn’t been cast very

well. You should get some sleep before you try again.”

“How can I sleep?” whispered Sam, instinctively keeping his

voice down, as if it mattered whether the Dead could hear him.

They already knew where he was. He could even smell them

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now—the disgusting odor of decaying flesh and gravemold.

“They’re only Hands,” said Mogget, looking out. “They

probably won’t attack as long as the diamond lasts.”

“How do you know that?” asked Sam, wiping the sweat

from his forehead, along with several crushed mosquitoes.

He thought he could see the Dead now—tall shapes between

the darker trunks of the trees. Horrible, broken corpses forced

back into Life to do a necromancer’s bidding. Their intelligence

and humanity ripped from them, leaving only inhuman

strength and an insatiable desire for the life they could no

longer have.

His life.

“You could walk out there and send them all back to

Death,” suggested Mogget. He was starting to eat the second

fish, beginning with the tail. Sam hadn’t seen him eat the

first one.

“Your mother would,” Mogget added slyly, when Sam

didn’t speak.

“I’m not my mother,” replied Sam, dry-mouthed. He made

no move to pick up the bells, though he could feel them there

on the sand, calling out to him. They wanted to be used against

the Dead. But they could be dangerous to the wielder, most of

them, or tricksome at least. He would have to use Kibeth to

make the Dead walk back into Death, and Kibeth could easily

send him walking instead.

“Does the walker choose the path, or the path the walker?”

Mogget asked suddenly, his eyes once again intent on Sam’s

sweating face.

“What?” asked the Prince, distracted. He’d heard his

mother say that before, but it didn’t mean anything to him then

or now. “What does that mean?”

“It means that you’ve never finished The Book of the

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Dead,” said Mogget in a strange tone.

“Well, no, not yet,” said Sam wretchedly. “I’m going to,

it’s just that I—”

“It also means that we really are in trouble,” interrupted

Mogget, switching his gaze to the outer darkness. “I thought

you would at least know enough to protect yourself by now!”

“What do you see?” asked Sam. He could hear movement

upstream, the sudden splintering of trees and the crash of rocks

into the water.

“Shadow Hands have come,” replied Mogget bleakly.

“Two of them, well back in the trees. They are directing the

Hands to dam the stream. I expect they will attack when the

water no longer flows.”

“I wish . . . I wish I were a proper Abhorsen,” whispered Sam.

“Well you should be, at your age!” said Mogget. “But I

suppose we will have to make do with whatever you do know.

By the way, where is your own sword? An unspelled blade will

not cut the stuff of Shadow Hands.”

“I left it in Belisaere,” Sam said, after a moment. “I didn’t

think . . . I didn’t understand what I was doing. I thought Nick

was probably in trouble, but not this much.”

“That’s the problem with growing up as a Prince,” growled

Mogget. “You always think that everything will get worked

out for you. Or you turn out like your sister and think nothing

gets done unless you do it. It’s a wonder any of you are ever

any use at all.”

“What can I do now?” asked Sam humbly.

“We will have a little time before the water slows,” replied

Mogget. “You should try to place some magic in your blade.

If you can make that Frog, I’m sure that will not be beyond

you.”

“Yes,” said Sam dully. “I do know how to do that.”

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Concentrating on the blade, he delved once more into the

Charter, reaching for marks of sharpness and unraveling, magic

that would wreak havoc upon Dead flesh or spirit-stuff.

With an effort, he forced the marks into the blade, watching

them slowly move like oil upon the metal, soaking into the

steel.

“You are skilled,” remarked the cat. “Surprisingly so.

Almost you remind me of—”

Whatever he was about to say was lost as a terrible scream

split the night, accompanied by frenzied splashing.

“What was that?” exclaimed Sam, going to the Northmark,

his newly spelled sword held at guard.

“A Hand,” replied Mogget, chuckling. “It fell in. Whoever

controls these Dead is far away, my Prince. Even the Shadow

Hands are weak and stupid.”

“So we may have a chance,” whispered Sam. The stream

seemed little affected by the dam building upstream, and the

diamond still shone brightly. Perhaps nothing would happen

before the dawn.

“We have a good chance,” said Mogget. “For tonight. But

there will be another night tomorrow, and perhaps another

after that, before we can reach the Ratterlin. What of them?”

Sam was still trying to think of an answer when the first

of the Dead Hands came screaming across the water—and ran

full tilt into the diamond, silver sparks exploding everywhere

into the night.

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Chapter Thirty-Three

Flight to the River

Dawn came slowly to the outer fringes of the

Sindlewood, light trickling over the treetops long before it penetrated

the darker depths. When it did finally reach the lower

regions, it was no longer a burning heat, but a greenish, diluted

light that simply pushed the shadows back rather than extinguished

them.

The sunlight reached Sameth’s magic-girded islet much

later than he would have liked. The fire had long since burnt

itself out, and as Mogget had predicted, Sam had had to renew

the diamond of protection long before the first hint of dawn,

drawing on reserves of energy he hadn’t known he possessed.

With the light came the full evidence of the night’s work.

The streambed was almost dry, the Dead-made dam upstream

still holding. Six Charter-blasted corpses lay piled all around

the islet: husks vacated by the Dead when the protective magic

of the diamond burnt through too many nerves and sinews,

rendering the bodies useless.

Sam looked at them warily, through red-rimmed puffy

eyes, watching the sunlight crawl across the stinking remnants.

He’d felt the Dead spirits shucking the bodies as snakes shed

their skins, but in the confusion of their suicidal attacks, he

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wasn’t sure whether all of them had gone. One might be lurking

still, husbanding its strength, enduring the sun, hoping Sam

would be overconfident and step out of the diamond.

He could still feel Dead nearby, but that was probably the

Shadow Hands, taking up daytime refuges in rabbit holes or

otter holts, slipping down into the dark earth under the rocks,

where they belonged.

At last full sunshine lit the whole streambed, and Sam’s

sense of the Dead faded, save for the ever-present Gore Crow,

circling high overhead. He sighed with relief, and stretched,

trying to relieve the cramp in his sword-arm and the pain in

his wounded leg. He was exhausted, but he was alive. For

another day, at least.

“We’d better start moving,” said Mogget, who had slept

most of the night, ignoring the slam and sizzle of the Dead

Hands’ attempts to break through the diamond. He looked

ready to slip back into that sleep at a moment’s notice.

“If the Gore Crow’s stupid enough to get close, kill it,” he

added, yawning. “That will give us a chance to escape.”

“What will I kill it with?” asked Sam wearily. Even if the

Gore Crow came closer, he was too tired to cast a Charterspell,

and he didn’t have a bow.

There was no answer from Mogget. He was already asleep

again, curled up in the saddlebag, ready to be put on Sprout.

Sam sighed and forced himself to get on with the job of saddling

up. But his mind, tired as it was, still grappled with the

problem of the Gore Crow. As Mogget said, as long as it tracked

them, other Dead would be able to find them easily. Perhaps it

would be one of the Greater Dead next, or a Mordicant, or even

just larger numbers of Lesser Dead. Sam would have to spend

at least the next two nights in the forest, and he would be

weaker and more tired with every passing hour. He might not

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even be able to cast a diamond of protection. . . .

But, he thought, looking down at the dry streambed and

the hundreds of beautifully round pebbles there, I do have the

strength to put a mark of accuracy on a stone, and make a sling

from my spare shirt. He even knew how to use one. Jall Oren

had been keen on tutoring the royal children in all manner of

weapons.

For the first time in days, a smile crept upon Sam’s face,

banishing the weariness. He looked up. Sure enough, the Gore

Crow was circling lower than yesterday, overconfident from

Sam’s lack of a bow and obvious inability to do anything. It

would be a long shot, but a Charter-spelled stone should go

the distance.

Still grinning, Sam knelt down, surreptitiously picked up

several likely stones, and ripped the sleeves from his spare shirt.

He’d let the Gore Crow follow them for a while, he decided,

and grow even more confident. Then it would pay the price for

spying on a scion of the Old Kingdom.

Sam led Sprout westwards along the streambed, till it

joined another, larger watercourse, and he had a choice of

directions. Upstream to the northeast or downstream to the

southwest.

At the junction, he hesitated, using Sprout’s bulk to shield

himself from view as he cast a mark upon the stone and

settled it into the makeshift sling. The Gore Crow, seeing his

hesitation, circled lower to make sure it could see which way

he chose. It was obviously put off by the running water of the

larger stream and perhaps hoped he’d turn back.

Sam waited till its spiral turned it closest to him. Then

he stepped away from Sprout, the sling whirring above his

head. At just the right moment, he yelled “Hah!” and let the

stone fly.

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The Gore Crow had only an instant to react, and being

stupid, sunstruck, and Dead, it simply flew straight into the

rocketing stone, meeting it in an explosion of feathers, dry

bones, and putrid gobbets of meat.

With great satisfaction and then outright joy, Sam watched

the disgusting creature fall. The crushed ball of feathers landed

with a splash in the stream, and the fragment of Dead spirit

inside it was instantly banished back to whence it came. Better

still, it would drag all the other fragments of that same spirit

back into Death. So any Gore Crows that shared it would be

dropping inexplicably, wherever they might be.

With the fall of the Gore Crow, he could sense no Dead

nearby. The Shadow Hands would be long hidden now, as

would any Dead Hands that remained. The intelligence that

commanded them from afar might guess that Sam would take

the southwest stream towards the Ratterlin, but whoever or

whatever it was would not know for sure, and might split its

forces, increasing his chance of evasion and escape.

“We have a chance, faithful horse,” announced Sam cheerfully,

leading Sprout towards an animal track that ran parallel

to the stream. “We have a definite chance.”

But hope seemed to slip from Sam’s grasp as the day progressed

and the going became slower and more difficult, so

he couldn’t ride Sprout. The stream had grown considerably

deeper and faster, but also much narrower, barely three or four

strides across, so it was impossible to stand in it or make a

camp that would be protected on both sides.

The track had grown narrower, too, and overgrown. Sam

had to hack through low branches, high shrubs, and barbed

coils of blackberries. His hands became heavily scratched, attracting

hordes of flies to the lines of drying blood. That would

attract the Dead later, too. They could smell blood a long way

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away, though fresh would bring them faster.

By late afternoon, Sam had begun to despair. He was really

exhausted now. There would be no question of casting a diamond

of protection this coming night. He would pass out just

trying to visualize the marks—and the Dead would find his

defenseless body stretched out upon the ground.

His weariness was closing down his senses, too, narrowing

his sight to a blinkered view and his hearing to little more than

a muffled awareness of Sprout’s hooves, dull upon the soft, forgiving

forest floor.

In that state, it took him several seconds to realize that

Sprout’s hooves were suddenly making a sharper sound, and

the cool green light of the forest had given way to something

much sharper and more bright. He looked up, blinking, and

saw that they had come to a wide clearing. The clearing was

easily a hundred paces wide, cutting through the forest from

the southeast to the northwest, continuing in both directions

as far as he could see. Saplings had grown up on its borders,

but the middle was stark and bare—and there was a paved

road in the middle of it.

Sam stared at the road and then at the sun, which he’d

barely been able to see under the forest’s shady roof.

“About two, maybe three hours to dusk,” he mumbled to

Sprout, as he fiddled with the stirrup and mounted up. “You’ve

had a good meal of grain today, haven’t you, Sprout? Not to

mention an easy walk, without carrying me. Now you can pay

me back, because we are going to ride.”

He chuckled then, thinking of an expression from the

moving pictures he’d often seen in the Somersby Orpheum in

Ancelstierre.

“We’re going to ride, Sprout!” he repeated. “Ride like the

wind!”

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An hour and a half later, Sprout was no longer running like

the wind, but back at a walk, legs trembling, sweat drenching

her flanks, and froth forming at her mouth. Sam wasn’t in

much better shape, walking again himself, to give Sprout a

chance to recover. He wasn’t sure now what hurt more—his

leg or his backside.

Even so, they had covered six or seven leagues, thanks to

the road. It was no royal road now, but it had been built and

drained properly long ago, and so was more than serviceable.

They were currently climbing up a slight ridge, the road

attacking it directly rather than winding around. Sam lifted his

head as they approached the top, hoping for a glimpse of the

Ratterlin before the day came to an end. By his reckoning, the

ride—and the road—had saved more than a day of foot travel

through the forest, so they should be close to the river. They

must be close to the river. . . .

He stood on his toes for a moment but still couldn’t see.

It was an annoying ridge, this one, full of false heights and

annoying dips along the way. But surely in a moment he would

see the Ratterlin!

Clip! Clop! Sprout’s hooves sounded loud on the road,

as loud as Sam’s own beating heart, but much, much slower.

His heart was racing, racing with a combination of hope and

fear.

There was the real crest ahead. Sam pushed forward, trying

to see, but the sun was setting directly in front of him, a huge

red disc sinking into the west, blinding him.

He screwed his eyes almost shut and shielded them with

a hand, looking again—and there, under the sun, was a thick

ribbon of blue, reflecting orange-red streaks back into the sky.

“The Ratterlin! Ow!” exclaimed Sam, stubbing his toe as

he stumbled over the rise. But he ignored the momentary pain.

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There was the swift river whose waters would bar any Dead.

The river that would save him!

Except, he thought, with sudden dread, it was still half a

league away, and the night had almost come. And with it, he

realized, so had the Dead. There were Dead creatures not too

far away—perhaps even ahead of him. This road—and the

point where it joined the Ratterlin towpath—would be an

obvious point to be watched.

Worse than that, he thought, looking down at the river, he

hadn’t actually planned what he’d do once he reached it. What

if there was no boat or raft to be found?

“Hurry,” said Mogget from the saddlebag behind him,

making Sam jump in surprise and start leading Sprout on

again. “We must head for the mill and take shelter there.”

“I can’t see a mill,” said Sam doubtfully, shielding his eyes

once more. He couldn’t see any detail near the river at all. His

eyes were blurry from lack of sleep, and he felt as stupid as a

Dead Hand.

“Of course there’s a mill,” snapped Mogget, leaping down

from the saddlebag onto Sam’s shoulder, making him start again.

“The wheel does not turn—so we can hope it is abandoned.”

“Why?” asked Sam blearily. “Wouldn’t it better if there’s

people? We can get food, drink—”

“Would you bring the Dead upon a miller and his family?”

interrupted Mogget. “It will not be long before they find us—

if they haven’t already.”

Sam didn’t reply, merely encouraging Sprout with a gentle

slap to the neck. Perhaps he wouldn’t weary her too much

if he hung on the stirrup, he thought. He hoped she’d make

the distance, because he didn’t think he could walk that far

unaided.

As usual, Mogget was right. Sam could feel the Dead closer

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now and, looking up, saw two black specks spiraling down out

of the night that swept in from the east. Clearly the particular

necromancer who drove them had no shortage of Gore Crows.

And where the Crows flew, there would soon be others,

brought out of Death to seek their prey.

Mogget saw the Gore Crows, too, and whispered in

Sam’s ear.

“There can be little doubt, now. This is the work of a

necromancer who bears you particular ill will, Prince Sameth.

His servants will seek you wherever you flee, and he will use

all the creatures of Death to drive you to your doom.”

Sam swallowed. The dire pronouncement echoed in his

ears, imbued with the faint hint of the Free Magic power that

was contained within the cat form on his shoulder. He slapped

Sprout on the rump to get her going; then he said the first thing

that came into his head.

“Mogget. Shut up.”

Sprout fell a hundred yards from the mill, worn out by her earlier

gallop and the dead weight of Sam hanging on a stirrup.

He let go just in time to avoid being trapped under her. Mogget

leapt off his shoulder to get even farther out of the way.

“Foundered,” said Mogget briskly, without looking at her,

his green eyes peering sharply back into the night. “They’re

getting closer.”

“I know!” said Sam, urgently pulling the saddlebags free

and slinging them over his shoulder. He bent down to stroke

Sprout’s head, but she didn’t respond. Her eyes showed white

and rolled almost completely back. He took the reins and tried

to pull her up, but she made no move to help, and he was too

weak to force her.

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“Hurry!” urged Mogget, pacing around him. “You know

what to do.”

Sam nodded and glanced back at the Dead. There were a

score or more of them, dim, lumbering shapes in the gathering

darkness. Their masters had clearly driven them hard from

some distant cemetery or boneyard, walking them even under

the sun. Consequently, they were slow, but implacable. If he

lingered even for a minute longer, they would fall upon him

like rats on a worn-out dog.

He drew his dagger and felt Sprout’s neck. The pulse of her

main artery was weak and erratic under his fingers. He rested

the dagger there but didn’t push it in.

“I can’t,” he whispered. “She might recover.”

“The Dead will drink her blood and feast upon her flesh!”

exclaimed Mogget. “You owe her better than that. Strike!”

“I can’t take a life. Even that of a horse, in mercy,” said

Sam, standing up unsteadily. “I realized that after . . . after the

constables. We’ll wait together.”

Mogget hissed, then jumped across Sprout’s neck, one paw

tracing a line of white fire across the horse’s neck. For an

instant, nothing happened. Then blood burst out in a terrible

fountain, splashing Sam’s boots and throwing hot drops across

his face. Sprout gave a single, convulsive shudder—and died.

Sam felt her die and turned his head away, unable to look

at the dark pool that stained the ground beneath her.

Something nudged at his shins. Mogget, urging him into

motion. Blindly, he turned away and began to trudge towards

the mill. Sprout was dead, and he knew Mogget had done the

only possible thing. But it just didn’t seem right.

“Quickly!” urged the cat again, dancing around his feet, a

white blur in the darkness. Sam could hear the Dead behind

him now, hear the clicking of their bones, the screech of dry

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knees bent at angles impossible in Life. Fear fought the tiredness

in him, made him move, but the mill seemed so far away.

He stumbled and almost fell, but somehow recovered. The

pain in his leg jabbed at his head again, clearing it a little. His

horse might be dead, but there was no reason why he should

join her in Death. Only his weariness had made that seem

attractive—for a moment.

There was the mill ahead, built out into the mighty

Ratterlin, with the mill race, sluice gate, and wheel cut into the

shore. He need only reach the race and open the sluice gate,

and the mill would be defended by swift water, diverted from

the river.

He risked a look over his shoulder and stumbled again, surprised

by the dark and the nearness and number of the Dead.

There were far more than a score of them now, moving in lines

from all directions, the closest little more than forty yards

away. Their corpse-white faces looked like flocks of bobbing

moths, stark in the starlight.

Many of the Dead wore the remnants of blue scarves and

blue hats. Sam stared at them. They were dead Southerlings!

Probably some of the ones his father had tried to find.

“Run, you idiot!” shouted Mogget, streaking ahead himself,

as the Dead behind seemed to finally realize that their

quarry might escape them. Dead muscles squealed, suddenly

forced into speed, and Dead throats cried strange, dessicated

battle cries.

Sam didn’t look again. He could hear their heavy footfalls,

the squelch of rotten meat pushed beyond even its magically

supported limits. He pushed himself, breaking into a run, his

breath burning in his throat and lungs, muscles sending streaks

of pain through the length of his body.

He made the mill race—a deep, narrow channel—barely

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ahead of the Dead. Four steps and he was over the planks of

the simple bridge, kicking it down into the race. But the channel

was dry, so the first Dead Hands simply hurled themselves

down and began to claw up the other side. Behind them came

more Hands, line after line of them, a tide of Dead that could

not be turned back.

Desperately, Sam rushed to the sluice gate and the wheel

that would lift it, to send the roaring waters of the Ratterlin

into the race and across the climbing Dead.

But the wheel was rusted tight, the sluice gate stuck in

place. Sam put all his weight on the iron wheel, but it simply

broke, leaving him clutching a piece of the rusted rim.

Then the first Dead Hand pulled itself out of the mill race

and turned towards him. It was dark, true dark now, but Sam

could just make it out. It had been human once, but the magic

that had brought it back to Life had twisted the body as if

following a mad artist’s whim. Its arms trailed below its knees,

its head no longer sat upon a neck but sank into its shoulders,

and the mouth had split upwards, usurping the place that had

once held a nose. There were more behind it, other twisted

shapes, using the blades of the water-wheel like steps to climb

out of the mill race.

“Through here!” commanded Mogget, his tail flicking as

he leapt through a doorway into the mill itself. Sam tried to

follow, but the Dead Hand barred his way, skeletal mouth grinning

with too many teeth, its long hands outstretched with

grasping, bare-boned fingers.

Sam drew his sword and hacked at it, all in one swift

motion. The Charter marks on the blade blazed, silver sparks

spewing into the night as spelled metal ate into Dead flesh.

The Hand reeled back, broken but not beaten, one arm

hanging from a single strip of sinew. Sam punched it farther

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away with the pommel of his sword, back into two more that

sought to close in. Then he swung around to strike at one leaping

up behind him, and backed into the mill.

“The door!” spat Mogget from somewhere at his feet, and

Sam reached out and felt wood. Desperately he gripped the

door’s edge and slammed it in the grinning faces of the Dead.

Mogget jumped up, fur brushing Sam’s hand, and a heavy

thump told him the cat had just pushed down the bar. The

door, at least for the moment, was closed.

He couldn’t see a thing. It was completely, suffocatingly

dark. He couldn’t even see the bright white coat of Mogget.

“Mogget!” he yelped, panic in his voice. The single word

was suddenly drowned in a violent crash as the Dead Hands

threw themselves against the door. They were too stupid to find

some timber to use as a ram.

“Here,” said the cat, calm as ever. “Reach down.”

Sam reached, more urgently than he would have liked to

admit, fingers grasping Mogget by his Charter-spelled collar.

For an awful moment, he thought he’d inadvertently pulled the

collar off. Then the cat moved, the miniature Ranna tinkled,

and he knew the collar had stayed on. Ranna’s sound sent a

wave of drowsiness against him, but that was nothing compared

to the relief of feeling the collar still tight against that

feline neck. With the Dead so close and the door already splintering

under their attack, it would take more than a miniature

Ranna to send him into sleep.

“This way,” said Mogget, a disembodied voice in the darkness.

Sam felt him move again and quickly hurried after, every

sense alert to the door behind.

Then Mogget suddenly turned, but Sam kept going for

a step, his sword hitting something solid and rebounding, almost

hitting him in the face. Sam sheathed his sword, nearly

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stabbing himself, and reached out to touch whatever it was.

His hand traced another door—a door that must lead to

the river itself. He could hear the water rushing by, just audible

under the crash of the Dead Hands hurling themselves

against the other door. The noise reverberated up into the

higher reaches of the mill. Despite the noise, they hadn’t got

in, and Sam offered up silent thanks to the miller who had built

so well.

His trembling hands found the bar and lifted it, then the

ring that turned the lock. He twisted it, met resistance, then

twisted again, fear shooting through him. Surely this door

couldn’t be locked from the outside?

Behind him, he heard screaming hinges finally give way,

and the other door exploded inwards. Dead Hands came

bounding through, croaking cries that were inhuman echoes of

the triumphant yells of the Living.

Sam turned the ring the other way, and the door suddenly

swung open. He went with it, sprawling outside and down

some steps that led to a narrow landing stage. He landed there

with a thud that sent a blinding pain through his wounded leg,

but he didn’t care. At last he had reached the Ratterlin!

He could see again, at least somewhat, by the stars above

and their reflections in the water. There was the river, rushing

past, little more than an arm’s length away. There was a tin

bathtub, too, a big one, of the kind used to bathe several children

at once, big enough for a grown person to lounge in. Sam

saw it and, in the same instant, picked it up and pushed it into

the river, holding it against the current with one hand while he

dropped his sword and the saddlebags in.

“I take it back,” said Mogget, jumping in. “You’re not as

stupid as you look.”

Sam tried to answer, but his face and mouth seemed unable

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to move. He climbed into the bathtub, clutching at the last step

of the landing stage. The tub sank alarmingly, but even when

he was fully in, it still had several inches of freeboard.

He pushed off as the Dead poured out of the door. The first

one recoiled at the proximity of so much running water. But

the others pushed behind it, and the Hand fell—straight at

Sam’s makeshift boat.

The Dead creature screamed as it bounced on the steps,

sounding almost alive for a brief second. Its hands scrabbled

as it fell, trying to hold on to something, but it succeeded only

in changing the direction of its fall. A second later, it entered

the Ratterlin, and its scream was lost in a fountain of silver

sparks and golden fire.

It had missed the boat by only a few feet. The wave from

its impact almost swamped the bathtub. Sam watched the creature’s

last moments, as did the Dead halted in the doorway

above, and felt enormous relief well up inside him.

“Amazing,” said Mogget. “We actually got away. What are

you doing?”

Sam stopped squirming and silently held out the cake of

dried, sun-shriveled soap he’d just sat on. Then he put his head

back and draped his hands over the sides to rest in the sweet

river that had rescued them.

“In fact,” said Mogget, “I think I can even say ‘Well

done.’”

Sam didn’t answer, because he’d just passed out.

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Part

three

The Old Kingdom

Eighteenth Year of the

Restoration of King Touchstone I

Chapter Thirty-Four

Finder

The boat was tied up at a subterranean dock that

Lirael knew about but had visited only once, years before. It

was built all along one end of a vast cavern, with sunlight pouring

in at the other end where it opened out onto the world, the

Ratterlin welling up with frothing vigor below the dock. A line

of icicles across the cavern-mouth testified to the presence of

the glacier above, as did the occasional fall of ice and snow.

There were several boats tied up, but Lirael instinctively

knew that the slim, curving vessel with the single mast was

hers. She had a carved fantail at her stern and an arching figurehead

at the bow—a woman with wide-awake eyes. Those

eyes seemed to be looking straight at Lirael, as if the boat knew

who her next passenger would be. For a moment Lirael

thought the figurehead might even have winked at her.

Sanar pointed and said, “That is Finder. She will take you

safely down to Qyrre. It is a journey she has made a thousand

times or more, there and back, with or against the current. She

knows the river well.”

“I don’t know how to sail,” said Lirael nervously, noting

the Charter marks that moved quietly over the hull, mast, and

rigging of the boat. She felt very small and stupid. The sight of

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the outside world beyond the cavern-mouth combined with her

weariness and made her want to hide somewhere and go to

sleep. “What will I have to do?”

“There is little you need attend to,” replied Sanar. “Finder

will do most of it herself. But you will have to raise and lower

the sail, and steer a little. I will show you how.”

“Thank you,” said Lirael. She followed Sanar into the boat,

grabbing at the gunwale as Finder rocked beneath her. Ryelle

passed Lirael’s pack, bow, and sword across, and Sanar showed

her where to stow the pack in the oilskin-lined box at the

vessel’s forepeak. The sword and bow went into special waterproof

cases on either side of the mast, to be more accessible.

Then Sanar showed Lirael how to raise and lower Finder’s

single triangular mainsail, and how the boom would move.

Finder would trim the sail herself, Sanar explained, and would

guide Lirael’s hand on the tiller. Lirael could even let the boat

steer herself in an emergency, but the vessel preferred to feel a

human touch.

“We hope that there will be no danger on the way,” said

Ryelle, when they had finished showing Lirael over the boat.

“Normally the river-road is quite safe to Qyrre. But we cannot

now be sure of anything. We do not know the nature of whatever

lies in the pit you Saw, or its powers. Just in case, it would

be best to anchor in the river at night, rather than going

ashore—or to tie up at an island. There are many of those

downstream. At Qyrre and onwards, you should seek whatever

help you can get from the Royal Constables. Here is a

letter from us as the Voice of the Watch, for that purpose. If

we are lucky, there will also be guards present, and the

Abhorsen may have returned from Ancelstierre. Whatever you

do, you must make sure that you travel with a large and wellarmed

party from Qyrre to Edge. From there, I fear, we cannot

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advise you. The future is clouded, and we can See you only on

the Red Lake, with nothing before or beyond that.”

“All summed up, that means ‘Be very careful,’” said Sanar.

She smiled, but there was the hint of a frown in her forehead

and at the corners of her eyes. “Remember that this is only one

possible future we See.”

“I will be careful,” promised Lirael. Now that she was

actually in the boat and about to depart, she felt very nervous.

For the first time, she would be going out into a world that was

not bounded by stone or ice, and she would have to see and

speak to many strangers. More than that, she was going into

danger, against a foe she knew nothing about and was ill prepared

to face. Even her mission was vague. To find a young

man, somewhere on a lake, sometime this summer. What if she

did find this Nicholas and somehow survived all the looming

dangers? Would the Clayr let her back into the Glacier? What

if she was never allowed to return?

But at the same time Lirael also felt a blooming sense of

excitement, even of escape, from a life that she couldn’t admit

was stifling her. There was Finder, and the sunshine beyond,

and the Ratterlin streaming away to lands she knew only from

the pages of books. She had the dog statuette, and the hope

her canine companion would return. And she was going on

official business, doing something important. Almost like a real

Daughter of the Clayr.

“You may need this, too,” said Ryelle, handing over a

leather purse, bulging with coins. “The Bursar would have you

get receipts, but I think you will have enough to worry about

without that.”

“Now, let us see you raise the sail yourself, and we will bid

you farewell,” continued Sanar. Her blue eyes seemed to see

into Lirael, perceiving the fears that she had not voiced. “The

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Sight does not tell me so, but I am sure we will meet again. And

you must remember that, Sighted or not, you are a Daughter

of the Clayr. Remember! May fortune favor you, Lirael.”

Lirael nodded, unable to speak, and hauled on the halyard

to raise the sail. It hung slackly, the cavern dock being too sheltered

for any wind.

Ryelle and Sanar bowed to her, then cast off the ropes that

held Finder fast. The Ratterlin’s swift current gripped the boat,

and the tiller moved under Lirael’s hand, nudging her to direct

the eager vessel out towards the sunlit world of the open river.

Lirael looked back once as they passed from the shade of

the cavern to the sun, with the icicles tinkling far above her

head. Sanar and Ryelle were still standing on the dock. They

waved as the wind came to fill Finder’s sail and ruffle Lirael’s

hair.

I have left, thought Lirael. There could be no turning back

now, not against the current. The current of the river held the

boat, and the current of her destiny held her. Both were taking

her to places that she did not know.

The river was already wide where the underground source

came to join it, fed by the lakes of snow-melt higher up, and

the hundred small streams that wound their way like capillaries

through and around the Clayr’s Glacier. But here, only the central

channel—perhaps fifty yards across—was deep enough to

be navigable. To either side of the channel, the Ratterlin shallowed,

content to sheet thinly across millions of clean-washed

pebbles.

Lirael breathed in the warm, river-scented air and smiled

at the heat of the sun on her skin. As promised, Finder was

moving herself into the swiftest race of the river, while the

mainsheet imperceptibly slackened till they were running

before the wind from the north. Lirael’s nervousness about

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sailing lessened as she realized that Finder really did look after

herself. It was even fun, speeding along with the breeze behind

them, the bow sending up a fine spray as it sliced through the

small waves caused by wind and current. All Lirael needed to

make the moment perfect was the presence of her best friend,

the Disreputable Dog.

She reached into her waistcoat pocket for the soapstone

statuette. It would be a comfort just to hold it, even if it would

not be practicable to try the summoning spell until she got to

Qyrre and could get the silver wire and other materials.

But instead of cool, smooth stone, she felt warm dog skin—

and what she pulled out was a very recognizable pointy ear,

followed by an arc of round skull and then another ear. That

was immediately followed by the Disreputable Dog’s entire

head, which was much too big by itself to fit in the pocket—

let alone the rest of her.

“Ouch! Tight fit!” growled the Dog, pushing out a foreleg

and wiggling madly. Another foreleg impossibly followed, and

then the whole dog leapt out, shook hair all over Lirael’s leggings,

and turned to give her an enthusiastic lick.

“So we’re off at last!” she barked happily, mouth open to

catch the breeze, tongue lolling. “About time, too. Where are

we going?”

Lirael didn’t answer at first. She just hugged the Dog very

tightly and took several quick, jarring breaths to stop herself

crying. The Dog waited patiently, not even licking Lirael’s ear,

which was a handy target. When Lirael’s breathing seemed to

get back to normal, the Dog repeated her question.

“More like why are we going,” said Lirael, checking her

waistcoat pocket to make sure the Dog’s exit hadn’t taken the

Dark Mirror with it. Strangely enough, the pocket wasn’t even

stretched.

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“Does it matter?” asked the Dog. “New smells, new sounds,

new places to piss on . . . begging your pardon, Captain.”

“Dog! Stop being so excited,” ordered Lirael. The Dog

partly obeyed, sitting down at her feet, but her tail kept wagging,

and every few seconds she snapped at the air.

“We’re not just going on one of our normal expeditions, like

in the Glacier,” Lirael explained. “I have to find a man—”

“Good!” interrupted the Dog, leaping up to lick her exuberantly.

“Time you were bred.”

“Dog!” Lirael, protested, forcing her back down. “It’s

not about that! This man is from Ancelstierre and he’s trying

to . . . dig up, I think . . . some ancient thing. Near the Red

Lake. A Free Magic thing, so powerful it made me sick even

when Ryelle and Sanar only showed it to me through a vision.

And there was a necromancer who saw me, and lightning kept

hitting the hole in the ground—”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” said the Dog, suddenly

serious. Her tail stopped waving, and she looked straight at

Lirael, no longer snuffling the air. “You’d better tell me more.

Start at the beginning, from when the Clayr came to find you

down below.”

Lirael nodded and went over everything that the twins had

said, and described the vision that they’d shared with her.

By the time she’d finished, the Ratterlin had widened into

the mighty river that most of the Kingdom knew. It was over

half a mile wide, and very deep. Here in the middle, the water

was dark and clear and blue, and many fish could be seen,

silver in the depths.

The Dog lay with her head upon her forelegs and thought

deeply. Lirael watched her, looking at the brown eyes that

seemed to focus on far distant things.

“I don’t like it,” the Dog said finally. “You’re being sent

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into danger, and no one really knows what’s going on. The

Clayr unable to See clearly, the King and the Abhorsen not even

in the Kingdom. This hole in the ground that eats up lightning

reminds me of something very bad indeed . . . and then there’s

this necromancer, as well.”

“Well, I suppose we could go somewhere else,” Lirael said

doubtfully, upset by the strength of the Dog’s reaction.

The Dog looked at her in surprise. “No, we can’t! You have

a duty. I don’t like it, but we’ve got it. I never said anything

about giving up.”

“No,” agreed Lirael. She was about to say that she hadn’t

suggested it, either. She was just stating a possibility. But it

would clearly be better to let the point lie.

The Dog was silent for a while. Then she said, “Those

things that were left for you in the room. Do you know how

to use them?”

“They might not even be meant for me,” Lirael said. “I just

happened to find them. I don’t want them, anyway.”

“Choosers will be beggars if the begging’s not their choosing,”

said the Dog.

“What does that mean?”

“I have no idea,” said the Dog. “Now, do you know how

to use the things that were left for you?”

“Well, I have read The Book of Remembrance and Forgetting,”

Lirael replied half-heartedly. “So I guess I know the

theory—”

“You should practice,” declared the Dog. “You may need

actual expertise later on.”

“But I’ll have to go into Death,” Lirael protested. “I’ve

never done that before. I’m not even sure I should. I’m a Clayr.

I should be Seeing the future, not the past.”

“You should use the gifts you have been given,” said the

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Dog. “Imagine how you’d feel if you gave me a bone and I

didn’t eat it.”

“Surprised,” replied Lirael. “But you do bury bones sometimes.

In the ice.”

“I always eat them eventually,” said the Dog. “At the right

time.”

“How do you know this is the right time for me?” asked

Lirael suspiciously. “I mean, how do you even know what my

gifts are for? I haven’t told you, have I?”

“I read a lot. It comes from living in a library,” said the

Dog, answering the second question first. “And there’s lots

of islands ahead. An island would be a perfect place to stop.

You can use the Dark Mirror on one of them. If anything follows

you back from Death, we can get on the boat and just sail

away.”

“You mean if something Dead attacks me,” said Lirael.

That was the real danger. She actually did want to look into

the past. But she didn’t want to go into Death to do it. The Book

of Remembrance and Forgetting told her how, and assured her

she could come back. But what if it was wrong?

And the panpipes were all very well, in their way, as a

weapon and protection against the Dead. Seven pipes, named

after the seven bells used by a necromancer. Only they weren’t

as powerful as the bells, and one part of the book said that

“though generally the instrument of a Remembrancer, the

pipes are not infrequently used by Abhorsens-in-Waiting, till

they succeed to their bells.” Which didn’t make the pipes sound

all that fantastic.

But even if the pipes were not as strong as the bells, the

book seemed to think they were powerful enough to assure her

safety. Provided she could use them properly, of course, having

only book-learning to go on. Still, there was something she

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particularly wanted to see. . . . “We do need to get to Edge

as soon as possible,” she said with deliberation. “But I suppose

we could take a few hours off. Only I need to nap for a while

first. When I wake up, we’ll stop at an island, if there’s one near.

Then . . . then I will go into Death, and look into the past.”

“Good,” said the Dog. “I could do with a walk.”

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Chapter Thirty-Five

Remembrancer

Lirael stood with the Dog in the center of a small

island, surrounded by stunted trees and bushes that couldn’t

grow higher in the rocky ground. Finder’s mast towered behind

them, no more than thirty paces away, showing where safety

lay if they had to flee from something coming out of Death.

In preparation for entering that cold realm, Lirael buckled

on the sword the Clayr had given her. The weight felt strange

on her hip. The broad leather belt was tight against her lower

stomach, and the sword, while longer and heavier than her

practice sword, somehow felt familiar, though she had never

seen it before. She would have remembered its distinctive

silver-wired hilt and pommel with a single green stone set in

bronze.

Lirael held the panpipes in her left hand, watching the

Charter marks move across the silver tubes, weaving in with

the Free Magic that lurked there. She looked at each pipe,

remembering what the book had said about them. Her life

could well depend on knowing which pipe to use. She said the

names aloud, under her breath, to secure them in her mind and

to delay actually going into Death.

“First, and least, is Ranna,” recited Lirael, the relevant

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page from The Book of Remembrance and Forgetting clear in

her head. “Ranna, the Sleepbringer, will take all those who

hear it into slumber.

“Second is Mosrael, the Waker. One of the most dangerous

bells, and still so in any form. Its sound is a seesaw that

will throw the piper further into Death, even as it brings the

listener into Life.

“Third is Kibeth, the Walker. Kibeth gives freedom of

movement to the Dead, or forces the Dead to walk at the

piper’s will. But Kibeth is contrary and can make the piper

walk where she would not choose to go.

“Fourth is Dyrim, the Speaker, of melodious tone. Dyrim

may grant speech to the dumb, tongue-lost Dead, or give forgotten

words their meaning. Dyrim may also still a tongue that

moves too freely.

“Fifth is Belgaer, the Thinker, which can restore independent

thought, and memory, and all the patterns of what was

once in Life. Or, in a careless hand, erase them. Belgaer is

troublesome too, always seeking to sound of its own accord.

“Sixth comes Saraneth, also known as the Binder. Saraneth

speaks with the deep voice of power, shackling the Dead to the

wielder’s will.”

Lirael paused before she recited the name of the seventh

and last pipe, the longest, its silver surface forever cold and

frightening under her touch.

“Astarael, the Sorrowful,” whispered Lirael. “Properly

sounded, Astarael will cast all who hear it deep into Death.

Including the piper. Do not call upon Astarael unless all else is

lost.”

“Sleeper, Waker, Walker, Speaker, Thinker, Binder, and

Weeper,” said the Dog, taking a break from a heavy-duty

scratching of her ear. “Bells would be better, though. Those

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pipes are really only for children to practice with.”

“Ssshhh,” said Lirael. “I’m concentrating.”

She knew better than to ask the Dog how she knew the

names of the pipes. The impossible hound had probably read

The Book of Remembrance and Forgetting herself, while Lirael

slept.

Having mentally prepared herself to use the panpipes—or

to use only some of them—Lirael drew her sword, noting the

play of Charter marks along its silvered blade. There was an

inscription, too, she saw. She held the blade to the light and

read it aloud.

“The Clayr Saw me, the Wallmakers made me, my enemies

Remember me.”

“A sister sword to Binder,” remarked the Dog, nosing it

with interest. “I didn’t know they had that one. What’s it

called?”

Lirael twisted the blade to see if there was something written

on the other side, but as she did so, the first inscription

changed, the letters shimmering into a new arrangement.

“‘Nehima,’” read Lirael. “What does that mean?”

“It’s a name,” said the Dog blandly. Seeing Lirael’s expression,

she cocked her head to one side and continued, “I

suppose you could say it means ‘forget-me-not.’ Though the

irony is that Nehima herself is long forgotten. Still, better a

sword than a block of stone, I suppose. It’s certainly an heirloom

of the house, if ever I saw one,” the Dog added. “I’m surprised

they gave it to you.”

Lirael nodded, unable to speak, her thoughts once again

turning back to the Glacier and the Clayr. Ryelle and Sanar had

just casually handed the sword to her. Made by the Wallmakers

themselves, it must be one of the greatest treasures the Clayr

possessed.

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A nudge at her leg reminded her of the business at hand,

so she blinked away an incipient tear and focused all her

thought, as The Book of Remembrance and Forgetting had

told her to. Apparently she should feel Death and then sort of

reach out to it. It was easier in places where lots of people had

died, or were buried, but theoretically it was possible anywhere.

Lirael closed her eyes to concentrate harder, furrows

forming across her forehead. She could feel Death now, like

a cold pressure against her face. She pushed against it, feeling

its chill sink into her cheekbones and lips, soaking into

her outstretched hands. It was strange with the sun still hot

against her bare neck.

It grew colder still, and colder, as the chill moved up her

feet and legs. She felt a tug against her knees, a tug that wasn’t

one of the Dog’s gentle reminders. It was like being gripped by

a current, a strong current that wanted to take her away and

force her under.

She opened her eyes. A river flowed against her legs, but it

was not the Ratterlin. It was black and opaque, and there was

no sign of the island, the blue sky, or the sun. The light was

grey, grey and dull as far as she could see, out to a totally flat

horizon.

Lirael shuddered, not just from the cold, for she had successfully

entered Death. She could hear a waterfall somewhere

in the distance. The First Gate, she supposed, from the description

in the book.

The river tugged at her again, and without thinking, she

went with it for a few steps. It tugged again, even harder, the

cold spreading into her very bones. It would be easy to let that

chill spread through her entire body, to lie down and let the

current take her where it willed—

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“No!” she snapped, forcing herself back a step. This was

what the book had warned her about. The river’s strength

wasn’t just in the current. She had also to resist its compulsion

to walk farther into Death, or to lie down and let it carry her

away.

Fortunately, the book was also right about something more

favorable. She could feel the way back to Life, and instinctively

knew exactly where to go and how to get back there, which

was a relief.

Apart from the distant roar of the First Gate, Lirael could

hear nothing else moving in the river. Lirael listened carefully,

nerves drawn tight, muscles ready for immediate flight. Still

there was nothing, not even a ripple.

Then her Death sense twitched, and she quickly scanned

the river to either side of her again. For a moment, she thought

she saw something move on the surface, a thin line of darkness

under the water, moving farther back into Death. But then it

was gone, and she could neither see nor sense anything. After

a minute, she wasn’t even sure if there had been anything there

in the first place.

Sighing, she carefully sheathed her sword, put the panpipes

back in her waistcoat pocket, and drew out the Dark Mirror.

Here, in the First Precinct of Death, she could look just a little

way into the past. To look further back, she would have to

travel deeper in, past the First Gate or even far beyond it. But

today she only planned to look back a matter of twenty years

or so.

The click that accompanied the opening of the Mirror

seemed far too loud, echoing across the dark waters. Lirael

flinched at the sound—then screamed as it was followed by a

loud splash directly behind her!

Reflexively, she jumped—farther into Death—swapped the

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Mirror into her left hand, and drew her sword, all before she

even knew what was happening.

“It’s only me,” said the Dog, her tail slapping the water as

it wagged. “I got bored waiting.”

“How did you get here?” whispered Lirael, sheathing her

sword with a shaking hand. “You scared me to death!”

“I followed you,” said the Dog. “It’s just a different sort of

walk.”

Not for the first time, Lirael wondered what the Dog really

was, and the extent of her powers. But there was no time for

speculation now. The Book of Remembrance and Forgetting

had warned her not to stay too long in any one place in Death,

because things would come looking. Things she didn’t want to

meet.

“Who’s going to guard my body if you’re here?” she asked

reproachfully. If anything happened to her body back in Life,

she would have no choice but to follow the river onwards, or

to become some sort of Dead spirit herself, eternally trying to

get back into Life, by stealing someone else’s body. Or to

become a shadow, drinking blood and Life to keep itself out of

Death.

“I’ll know if anyone comes close,” said the Dog, sniffing

the river. “Can we go farther in?”

“No!” snapped Lirael. “I’m going to use the Dark Mirror

here. But you’re going back straight away! This is Death, Dog,

not the Glacier!”

“True,” mumbled the Dog. She looked up pleadingly at

Lirael and added, “But it’s only the very edge of Death—”

“Back! Now!” commanded Lirael, pointing. The Dog

stopped her pleading look, showed the whites of her eyes in

disapproval, and slunk away with her tail down. A second

later, she vanished—back into Life.

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Lirael ignored her and opened the Mirror, holding it close

to her right eye. “Focus on the Mirror with one eye,” the book

had said, “and look into Death with the other, lest harm befall

you there.”

Good advice, but hardly practical, Lirael thought, as she

struggled to focus on two different things at once. But after a

minute, the Mirror’s opaque surface began to clear, its darkness

lifting. Instead of looking at her reflection, Lirael found

that she was somehow looking through the mirror, and it was

not the cold river of Death she saw beyond. She saw swirling

lights, lights that she soon realized were actually the passage

of the sun across the sky, so fast it was a blur. The sun was

going backwards.

Excitement grew in her as she realized this was the beginning

of the magic. Now she had to think of what she wanted

to see. She began to form an image of her mother in her mind,

borrowing more from the charcoal drawing Aunt Kirrith had

given her years ago than from her own recollection, which was

the mixed-up memory of a child, all feelings and soft-edged

images.

Holding the picture of her mother in her head, she spoke

aloud, infusing her voice with the Charter marks she’d learned

from the book, symbols of power and command that would

make the Dark Mirror show her what she wanted to see.

“My mother I knew, a little,” Lirael said, her words loud

against the murmur of the river. “My father I knew not, and

would see through the veil of time. So let it be.”

The swift passage of backwards suns began to slow as she

spoke, and Lirael felt herself drawn closer to the image in the

Mirror, till a single sun filled all her vision, blinding her with

its light. Then it was gone, and there was darkness.

Slowly, the darkness ebbed, and Lirael saw a room,

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strangely superimposed upon the river of Death she saw

through her other eye. Both images were blurry, as if her eyes

were full of tears, but they were not. Lirael blinked several

times, but the vision grew no clearer.

She saw a large room—a hall, in fact—dominated at one

end by a large window, which was a blur of different colors

rather than clear glass. Lirael sensed there was some sort of

magic in the window, for the colors and patterns changed,

though she couldn’t see it clearly enough to make it out.

A long, brilliantly polished table of some light and lustrous

wood stretched the full length of the hall. It was loaded with

silver of many kinds: candelabra with beeswax candles burning

clean yellow flames, salt cellars and pepper grinders, sauce

boats and tureens, and many ornaments Lirael had never seen.

A roast goose, half-carved, sat on a platter, encircled by plates

of lesser foods.

There were only two people at the table, sitting at the other

end, so Lirael had to squint to try to see them more clearly.

One, a man, sat at the head of the table in a high-backed chair,

almost a throne. Despite his simple white shirt and lack of

jewelry, he had the bearing of a man of rank and power. Lirael

frowned and shifted the Dark Mirror a little, to see if she could

make the vision sharper. Rainbows briefly rippled through the

room, but nothing else seemed to change.

There were spells to use to refine the vision, but Lirael

didn’t want to try them just yet, in case they made the vision

go away completely. Instead she concentrated on the other

person. She could see her more clearly than the man.

It was her mother. Arielle, Kirrith’s little sister. She looked

beautiful in the soft candlelight, her long blond hair hanging

in a brilliant waterfall down the back of her dress, an elegant

creation of ice-blue adorned with golden stars. It was cut low

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across the neck and back, and she wore a necklace of sapphires

and diamonds.

As Lirael concentrated, the vision of the past grew sharper

around the two people, but even muddier everywhere else, as

if all the color and light were gathering around the point of her

focus. At the same time, her view of the river of Death clouded.

Sounds began to come to her, as if she were listening to two

people conversing as they walked towards her. They were

speaking in the courtly fashion, which was rarely used in the

Glacier. Obviously they didn’t know each other very well.

“I have heard many strange things under this roof, Mistress,”

the man was saying as he poured himself more wine,

waving back a sending servant that had begun to attend to him.

“But none so strange as this.”

“It is not something I sought,” replied the woman, her

voice strangely familiar to Lirael’s ears. Surely she didn’t remember

it? She had been only five when Arielle had abandoned

her. Then she realized that it was Kirrith’s voice it reminded her

of. Though it was sweeter than Kirrith’s had ever been.

“And none of your Vision-Sisters have Seen what you wish

of me?” asked the man. “None of the Nine Day Watch?”

“None,” said Arielle, bending her head, a blush spreading

across her neck. Lirael watched in amazement. Her own

mother embarrassed! But then the Arielle she saw here wasn’t

much older than herself. She seemed very young.

The man seemed to be thinking along similar lines, because

he said, “My wife has been dead these eighteen years, but I

have a daughter grown who would be near your age. I am not

unfamiliar with the . . . the . . .”

“Imaginings of young women? Or the infatuations of

youth?” interrupted Arielle, looking back up at him, her face

angry now. “I am five and twenty, sir, and no girlish virgin

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dreaming of her mate. I am a Daughter of the Clayr, and nothing

but my Sight would have brought me here to lie with a man

I have never met who is old enough to be my father!”

The man put his cup down and smiled ruefully, but his eyes

were tired and untouched by the smile.

“I beg your pardon, Mistress. In truth, I heard the sound

of prophecy when you first spoke to me today, but I put it from

my mind. I must leave here tomorrow, to face many perils. I

have no time for thoughts of love, and I have been proven a

less than perfect parent. Even if I were not away tomorrow,

and could linger here with you, any child you bear would likely

see little of its father.”

“This is not a matter of love,” said Arielle quietly, meeting

his gaze. “And a single night may beget a child as well as a year

of striving. As it will, for I have Seen her. As to the lack of a

father, I fear she will have neither parent for very long.”

“You speak of a certainty,” said the man. “Yet the Clayr

often See many threads, which the future may weave this way

or that.”

“I See only a single thread in this, sir,” said Arielle, reaching

across to take the man’s pale hand in her own brown

fingers. “I am here, called by the visions granted by my Blood,

as you are governed by yours. It is meant to be, cousin. But

perhaps we can at least enjoy our single night, forgetting higher

reasons. Let us to bed.”

The man hesitated, his fingers open. Then he laughed, and

raised Arielle’s hand to his lips for a gentle kiss.

“We shall have our night,” he said, rising from the chair.

“I know not what it means, or what future we will here secure.

But for once I am tired of responsibility and care! As you say,

my dear cousin, let us to bed!”

The two embraced, and Lirael shut her right eye, stricken

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with embarrassment and a slight, uneasy feeling of shame. If

she kept watching, she might even see the moment of her own

conception, and that was too embarrassing to even contemplate.

But even with her eye shut, the vision lingered, till Lirael

blinked it away, this time with an actual tear.

She had secretly expected more from the vision, some indication

of her parents’ having a forbidden love or some great

bond that would be revealed to their daughter. But it seemed

she was the result of a single evening’s coupling, which was

either predestined or the result of her mother’s mad imagination.

Lirael didn’t know which would be worse. And she still

had no clear idea who her father was, though some of the

things she had seen and heard were certainly suggestive and

would require further thought.

Snapping the mirror shut, she put it back into her belt

pouch. Only then did she realize that the sound of the First

Gate had stopped. Something was coming through the waterfall—

something from the deeper reaches of Death.

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Chapter Thirty-Six

A Denizen of Death

A few seconds after Lirael noticed the silence of the

First Gate, the sound of the crashing water resumed. Whatever

had stilled it had passed through, and was now in the First

Precinct of Death. With Lirael.

Lirael peered into the distance, unable to see anything

moving. The grey light and flatness of the river made it hard

to work out distances, and she had no idea whether the First

Gate was as close as it sounded. She knew it was marked by a

veil of mist, and she couldn’t see it.

To be on the safe side, Lirael drew both sword and pipes

and took several steps towards Life, till she was close enough

to feel its warmth at her back. She should cross now, she knew,

but a daredevil curiosity gripped her and kept her there—the

urge to see, albeit briefly, a denizen of Death.

When she did see the first signs of it, all her curiosity was

gone in an instant, replaced by fear. For something was approaching

under the river, not upon it, a vee of ripples heading

straight for her, moving swiftly against the current.

Something large and hidden, able to cloak itself against her

senses. She hadn’t felt its presence at all, and saw the ripples

purely by chance, as a result of her own caution.

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Instantly, she felt for Life again, but at the same time, the

vee exploded into a leaping figure, a shape of fire and darkness.

It held a bell, a bell that rang with power, fixing her on

the very border of Life and Death.

The bell was Saraneth, Lirael somehow knew, recognizing

it deep in her bones as the bell’s fierce power fought against

her straining muscles. But a raw Saraneth, one that was not

partnered with Charter Magic, as in her pipes or an Abhorsen’s

bells. There was more power here, and less art. It had to be the

bell of a Free Magic sorcerer. A necromancer!

She could feel the wielder’s will behind the bell, seeking

domination of her spirit, an implacable force of hatred beating

down her own pathetic resistance. Now Lirael saw the wielder

clearly, despite the steam that eddied around his body as if he

were a hot iron plunged into the river.

It was Hedge, the necromancer from the vision the twins

had shown her. She could feel the fires of Free Magic that burnt

in him, defeating even the chill of Death.

“Kneel before your master!” commanded Hedge, striding

towards her, the bell in one hand, a sword burning with dark,

liquid flames in the other. His voice was harsh and cruel, the

words infused with fire and smoke.

The necromancer’s command struck at Lirael like a blow,

and she felt her knees unlock, her legs beginning to crumple.

Hedge already had her in his power, the deep commanding

tone of Saraneth still ringing in her ears, echoing inside her

head, a sound she couldn’t dislodge from her mind.

He came still closer, the sword raised above his head, and

she knew that it would soon fall upon her unprotected neck.

Her own sword was in her hand, the Charter marks burning

like golden suns as Nehima reacted angrily to the Free Magic

menace that approached. But her sword arm was locked at the

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elbow by her enemy’s will, held in place by the terrible power

of the bell.

Desperately she tried to pour strength into her arm, to no

avail. Then she tried to reach into the Charter, to draw forth a

spell to blast the necromancer with silver darts or red-gold fire.

“Kneel!” the necromancer commanded again, and she knelt,

the cold river clutching at her stomach and breasts, welcoming

her in its soon-to-be-permanent embrace. The muscles in

her neck twitched and stood out in cords as she fought the

compulsion to bend her head.

Then she realized that by giving in, just a little, she could

bend her head down, enough so her lips could touch the panpipes

held in her frozen left hand. So she submitted, too

quickly, lips meeting silver with bloody force, not even knowing

which pipe would sound. At the worst, it would be

Astarael, and then she would take the necromancer with her

into the deeper realms of Death.

She blew as hard as she could, forcing all that remained of

her will into directing the clear note that cut through the echoing

remnants of the necromancer’s bell.

The pipe was Kibeth. The sound struck Hedge as he swung

for a beheading blow. It caught his feet with joyful trickery,

spinning him around completely. His sword-stroke swung wide,

high above Lirael, and then Kibeth was walking and dancing

him like a drunken fool, sending him cavorting towards the

First Gate.

But even surprised by Kibeth, his will and Saraneth fought

to hold Lirael as she tried to throw herself back into Life. Her

arms and legs felt like clumsy sacks of earth, the river like

quicksand, trying to suck her under. Desperately, she pushed

to free herself, reaching towards Life, reaching for the day, for

the Dog, for everything she loved.

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Finally, as if a rope that held her snapped, Lirael pitched

forward into sunlight and cool breezes, but not before the

necromancer had shouted out his farewell, in words as cold

and threatening as the river of Death itself.

“I know you! You cannot hide! I will—”

His last words were cut off as Lirael completely reoccupied

her body, senses re-arranging themselves for the

living world. As the Book had warned, there was ice and frost

all over her, lining every fold of her clothing. There was even

an icicle hanging from her nose. She broke it off, which hurt,

and sneezed.

“What! What was that!” barked the Dog, who was practically

under her feet. Clearly, she had sensed that Lirael had

been attacked.

“A n-necromancer,” said Lirael, shivering. “The one . . . the

vision . . . that the Clayr showed me. Hedge. He . . . he . . .

almost killed me!”

The Dog growled, low in her throat, and Lirael suddenly

noticed that she had grown as tall as her own shoulder and

now sported much larger and sharper teeth. “I knew I should

have stayed with you, Mistress!”

“Yes, yes,” mumbled Lirael. She still could hardly speak,

her breath coming in little panicked pants. She knew the necromancer

couldn’t follow her back here—he would have to

return to his own body in Life. Unfortunately, her little Kibeth

pipe wouldn’t have walked him far. He was easily powerful

enough to come back and send Dead spirits through to pursue

her. The bodiless ones.

“He’ll send something after me. We’ve got to get out of

here!”

The Dog growled again but didn’t object as Lirael stumbled

back across the stony island, intent on getting aboard Finder

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as quickly as possible. She circled behind Lirael, so every time

the girl looked back nervously, there was the Dog, standing

between her and danger.

A few minutes later, safe in the swift waters of the

Ratterlin, Lirael collapsed from the shock, lying down in the

boat with just one hand lightly touching the rudder. Finder

could be trusted to steer her own course.

“I would have bitten that necromancer’s throat out,” said

the Dog, after letting Lirael gasp and shake for several minutes.

“He’d have had cause to remember my teeth!”

“I don’t think he would notice if you did rip his throat

out,” said Lirael, shivering. “He felt more Dead than alive. He

said, ‘I know you,’” she continued slowly, looking up at the

sky, angling her face back to catch more of the sun, delighting

in its blessed heat upon her still frosted lips and nose. “How

could he know me?”

“Free Magic eats up necromancers,” said the Dog, shrinking

herself down to a less belligerent and more conversational

size. “The power they seek to wield—the Free Magic they profess

to master—ultimately devours them. That power recognizes

your Blood. That’s probably what he meant by ‘I know you.’”

“I don’t like the thought of anyone outside the Glacier

knowing me,” said Lirael, shuddering. “Knowing who I am.

And that necromancer’s probably with Nicholas now, in Life.

So when I find Nicholas, I’ll find the necromancer. Like a bug

going to a spider to find a fly.”

“Tomorrow’s trouble,” said the Dog, soothing her, not very

convincingly. “At least we’re done with today’s. We’re safe on

the river.”

Lirael nodded, thinking. Then she sat up and scratched the

Dog under the chin and all around her ears.

“Dog,” she said hesitantly, “there’s Free Magic in you,

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maybe even more than the Charter Magic in your collar. Why

don’t you . . . why aren’t you . . . why aren’t you like the necromancer?”

The Dog sighed, with a meaty “oof” that made Lirael

wrinkle her nose. The hound tilted her head to one side, thinking

before she answered.

“In the Beginning, all magic was Free Magic—unconstrained,

raw, unchanneled. Then the Charter was created, which took

most of the Free Magic and made it ordered, subject to structure,

constrained by symbols. The Free Magic that remained

separate from the Charter is the Free Magic of necromancy, of

Stilken, Margrue, and Hish, of Analem and Gorger, and all the

other fell creatures, constructs, and familiars. It is the random

magic that persists outside the Charter.

“There is also the Free Magic that helped make the Charter

but was not consumed by it,” continued the Dog. “That is

quite different from the Free Magic that would not join in the

creation of the Charter.”

“You speak of the Beginning,” said Lirael, who wasn’t at

all sure she understood. “But could that be before the Charter?

It doesn’t have a Beginning—or an End.”

“Everything has a Beginning,” replied the Dog. “Including

the Charter. I should know, since I was there at the birth of it,

when the Seven chose to make the Charter and the Five gave

themselves to the making. In a sense, you were there too, Mistress.

You are descended from the Five.”

“The Five Great Charters?” asked Lirael, fascinated by this

information. “I remember the rhyme about that. It must have

been one of the first things we memorized as children.”

She sat up even straighter, and clasped her hands behind

her back, unconsciously assuming the recital position she’d

learned as a child.

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“Five Great Charters knit the land,

Together linked, hand in hand.

One in the people who wear the crown,

Two in the folk who keep the Dead down,

Three and Five became stone and mortar,

Four sees all in frozen water.”

“Yes,” said the Dog. “A good rhyme for pups to learn. The

Great Charters are the keystones of the Charter. The bloodlines,

the Wall, and the Charter Stones all come from the original

sacrifice of the Five, who poured their power into the men

and women who were your ancestors. Some of those, in turn,

passed that power into stone and mortar, when blood alone

was judged to be too easily diluted or led astray.”

“So if the Five were sort of . . . dissolved into the Charter,

what happened to the other two?” asked Lirael, digesting this

information with a frown. Everything she had read said the

Charter had always existed and always would. “You said there

were Seven who chose to make the Charter.”

“It began with the Nine,” replied the Dog quietly. “Nine

who were most powerful, who possessed the conscious thought

and foresight that raised them above all the tens of thousands

of Free Magic beings that clamored and strove to exist upon

the earth. Yet of the Nine, only Seven agreed to make the

Charter. One chose to ignore the Seven’s work but was finally

bound to serve the Charter. The Ninth fought and was barely

defeated.”

“That’s number eight and nine,” said Lirael, counting on

her fingers. “This would be much easier to understand if they

had names instead of numbers. Anyway, you still haven’t explained

what happened to . . . um . . . six and seven. Why didn’t

they become part of the Great Charters?”

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“They put a great deal of their power into the bloodlines,

but not all their being,” replied the Dog. “But I suspect they

were perhaps less tired of conscious, individual existence. They

wished to go on, in some form or another. I think they wanted

to see what happened. And the Seven did have names. They are

remembered in the bells and in the pipes you have in your belt.

Each of those bells has something of the original power of the

Seven, the power that existed before the Charter.”

“You’re not . . . you’re not one of the Seven, are you?”

asked Lirael, after a moment of anxiety-laden silence. She

couldn’t imagine that one of the creators of the Charter, no

matter how much power it had given away, would condescend

to be her friend. Or would continue to do so once its true loftiness

had been established.

“I’m the Disreputable Dog,” replied the Dog, licking

Lirael’s face. “Just a leftover from the Beginning, freely given

to the Charter. And I’ll always be your friend, Lirael. You know

that.”

“I guess I do,” replied Lirael doubtfully. She hugged the

Dog tight, her face pressed into the hound’s warm neck. “I’ll

always be your friend, too.”

The Dog let Lirael keep on hugging, but her ears were

pricked, listening to the world around them. Her nose kept

sniffing the air, trying to get more of the scent that had come

back from Death with Lirael. A disturbing scent, one the Dog

hoped was purely from her own imagination and long memory,

because it was not the smell of just one human necromancer,

no matter how powerful. It was much, much older, and much

more frightening.

Lirael stopped hugging when the Dog’s wet smell began to

overcome her, and she moved back to take the tiller. Finder kept

steering herself, but Lirael felt a surge of welcome recognition

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as Charter marks blossomed under her hand, warm and comforting

after the chill of Death.

“We’ll probably see the Sindle Ferry later today,” remarked

Lirael, her brow furrowing as she recalled the maps she had

rolled, unrolled, catalogued, and repaired in the Library. “We’re

making good time—we must have come twenty leagues already!”

“Towards danger,” said the Dog, moving aft to flop down

at Lirael’s feet. “We mustn’t forget that, Mistress.”

Lirael nodded, thinking back to the necromancer and

Death. It seemed unreal now, out in the sunshine, with the boat

sailing so cheerfully down the river. But it had been all too real

then. And if the necromancer’s words were true, not only did

he know her, he might know where she was going. Once she

left the Ratterlin, she would be relatively easy prey for the

necromancer’s Dead servants.

“Perhaps I should make a Charter-skin soon,” she said.

“The barking owl. Just in case.”

“Good idea,” said the Dog, slurring. Her chin was propped

on Lirael’s foot, and she was drooling profusely. “By the way,

did you see anything in the Dark Mirror?”

Lirael hesitated. She’d momentarily forgotten. The vision

of the past had been put out of her mind by the necromancer’s

attack.

“Yes.” The Dog waited for her to go on, but Lirael was

silent. Finally, the hound raised her head and said, “So you are

a Remembrancer now. The first in these last five hundred years,

unless I am mistaken.”

“I suppose I am,” said Lirael, not meeting the Dog’s eyes.

She didn’t want to be a Remembrancer, as the book called

someone who Saw into the past. She wanted to See into the

future.

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“And what did you See?” prompted the Dog.

“My parents.” Lirael blushed as she thought again of how

close she had come to seeing her parents making love. “My

father.”

“Who was he?”

“I don’t know,” replied Lirael, frowning. “I would recognize

a portrait, I think. Or the room that I saw. It doesn’t really

matter, anyway.”

The Dog snorted, indicating that Lirael hadn’t fooled her

one bit. Obviously, it mattered a lot, but Lirael didn’t want to

talk about it.

“You’re my family,” said Lirael quickly, giving the Dog a

quick hug. Then she stared deliberately ahead at the shining

waters of the Ratterlin. The Dog really was her only family,

even more than the Clayr she had lived with all her life.

They had shown she would never be truly one of them, she

thought as she tightened her headscarf, remembering how the

silk had felt against her eyes. Families did not blindfold their

own children.

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Chapter Thirty-Seven

A Bath in the River

Following Sanar and Ryelle’s advice, Lirael

spent her first night away from the Clayr’s Glacier anchored in

the lee of a long, thin island in the very middle of the Ratterlin,

with more than four hundred yards of swift, deep water on

either side.

Soon after dawn, following a breakfast of oatmeal, an apple,

a rather tough cinnamon cake, and several mouthfuls of clear

river water, Lirael drew in the anchor, stowed it, and whistled

for the Dog. She came swimming across from the island, where

she’d performed her canine duty for the other dogs who might

one day visit it.

They had just raised the sail and were beginning to reach

before the wind when the Dog suddenly went stiff-legged and

pointed across the bow, letting out a warning yip.

Lirael ducked her head down so she could see under the

boom, her gaze following the line pointed by the Dog’s forelimb

at some object two or three hundred yards downstream.

At first, she couldn’t make out what it was—something metal

on the surface of the river, reflecting the morning sun. When

she did recognize it, she had to peer more carefully to re-affirm

her initial judgment.

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“That looks like a metal bathtub,” she said slowly. “With

a man in it.”

“It is a bathtub,” said the Dog. “And a man. There’s something

else too . . . you’d best nock an arrow, Mistress.”

“He looks unconscious. Or dead,” replied Lirael.

“Shouldn’t we just sail around?”

But she left the tiller to Finder, took out the bow, and

quickly strung it. Then she loosened Nehima in its sheath and

took an arrow from the quiver.

Finder seemed to share the Dog’s desire for caution, for she

turned away from a direct intercept. The bathtub was traveling

much more slowly than they were, propelled only by the

current. With the wind on her beam, Finder was considerably

faster and could curve around in an arc to pass the bathtub and

keep going.

Keeping going was what Lirael wanted to do. She didn’t

want to have anything to do with strangers before she absolutely

had to. But then, she would have to deal with people

sooner or later, and he did look as if he was in trouble. Surely

he wouldn’t have chosen to be out in the Ratterlin in a craft as

unreliable as a metal bathtub?

Lirael frowned and tugged her scarf down lower over her

forehead, so it shaded her face. When they were only fifty yards

away, and about to pass the tub, she also nocked an arrow, but

did not draw. The man was definitely unaware of Finder’s

approach, since he hadn’t so much as twitched. He was on his

back in the bath, with his arms hanging over the sides and his

knees drawn up. Lirael could see the hilt of a sword at his side,

and there was something across his chest—

“Bells! A necromancer!” exclaimed Lirael, drawing her bow.

He didn’t look like Hedge, but any necromancer was dangerous.

Putting an arrow in him would simply be insurance.

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Unlike their Dead servants, necromancers had no trouble with

running water. This one was probably pretending to be hurt,

to lure her into an ambush.

She was just about to loose the arrow when the Dog suddenly

barked, “Wait! he doesn’t smell like a necromancer!”

Surprised, Lirael jerked, let go—and the arrow sped

through the air, passing less than a foot above the man’s head.

If he’d sat up, it would have pierced his throat or eye, killing

him instantly.

As the arrow arced downward to plop into the water well

past the tub, a small white cat emerged from under the man’s

legs, climbed onto his chest, and yawned.

This provoked an immediate response from the Dog, who

barked furiously and lunged at the water. Lirael only just managed

to drop her bow and grab the hound’s tail before the Dog

went over the side.

The Dog’s tail was waving happily, at such a speed Lirael

had difficulty hanging on to it. Whether this was actual friendliness

or excitement at the prospect of chasing a cat, Lirael

didn’t know.

All the noise finally woke the man in the tub. He sat up

slowly, obviously dazed, the cat moving up to perch precariously

on his shoulder. At first, he looked the wrong way for

the source of the barking; then he turned, saw the boat—and

instantly went for his sword.

Swiftly, Lirael picked up her bow and nocked another

arrow. Finder turned into the wind so they slowed, giving

Lirael a reasonably stable platform from which to shoot.

The cat spoke, words coming out amidst another yawn.

“What are you doing here?”

Lirael jumped in surprise but managed not to drop her

arrow.

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She was about to answer when she realized the cat was

speaking to the Dog.

“Humph,” replied the Dog. “I thought someone as slippery

as you would know the answer to that. What are you called

now? And who is that sorry ragamuffin with you?”

“I am called Mogget,” said the cat. “Most of the time.

What name do you—”

“This sorry ragamuffin can speak for himself,” interrupted

the man angrily. “Who or what are you? And you too, mistress!

That’s one of the Clayr’s boats, isn’t it? Did you steal it?”

Finder yawed at this insult, and Lirael tightened her grip

on the bow, right hand creeping to the string. He was obviously

a very arrogant ragamuffin, and younger than she was,

to boot. And he was wearing a necromancer’s bells! Apart from

that, he was quite handsome, which was another black mark

as far as she was concerned. The good-looking men were

always the ones who came up to her in the Refectory, certain

that she would never refuse their attentions.

“I am the Disreputable Dog,” said the Dog, quite calmly.

“Companion to Lirael, Daughter of the Clayr.”

“So you got stolen as well,” said Sam grumpily, hardly

thinking about what he was saying. He hurt all over, and

Mogget’s presence on his shoulder was both extremely uncomfortable

and annoying.

“I am Lirael, Daughter of the Clayr,” pronounced Lirael,

her anger overriding her familiar feeling of being an imposter.

“Who or what are you? Besides insufferably rude?”

The man—boy, really—stared back at her, till the blush

spread further across her face and Lirael bent her head, hiding

under her hair and scarf. She knew well what he was thinking.

She couldn’t possibly be a Daughter of the Clayr. The Clayr

were all tall and blond and elegant. This girl . . . woman . . .

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was dark-haired and wore odd clothes. Her bright-red waistcoat

was not at all like the star-dusted white robes of the Clayr

he’d seen in Belisaere. And she lacked the aloof confidence of

the seeresses, who had always made him nervous when he had

met them by chance in the corridors of the Palace.

“You don’t look like a Daughter of the Clayr,” he said,

paddling the bathtub a bit closer. The current was already

taking him past Finder, and he had to battle just to keep in

place. “But I guess I can take your word for it.”

“Stop!” commanded Lirael, half drawing her bow. “Who

are you? And why are you wearing the bells of a necromancer?”

Sam looked down at his chest. He’d forgotten he was wearing

the bandolier. Now he was aware of how cold it was, how

it pressed against his chest and made breathing difficult.

He unbuckled the bandolier as he tried to work out something

inconclusive to say, but Mogget beat him to it.

“Well met, Mistress Lirael. This ragamuffin, as your servant

so aptly described him, is His Highness Prince Sameth, the

Abhorsen-in-Waiting. Hence the bells. But on to more serious

matters. Could you please rescue us? Prince Sameth’s personal

vessel is not quite what I am used to, and he is eager to catch

me a fish before my morning nap.”

Lirael looked at the Dog questioningly. She knew who

Prince Sameth was. But why on earth would the second child

of King Touchstone and the Abhorsen Sabriel be floating in

a bathtub in the middle of the Ratterlin, leagues from anywhere?

“He’s a royal Prince, all right,” said the Dog, quietly sniffing.

“I can smell his Blood. He’s wounded, too—it is making

him irritable. Not much more than a pup, really. You’d best be

careful of the other. The Mogget. I know him of old. He’s the

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Abhorsen’s servant all right, but he’s Free Magic, of the bound

variety. He doesn’t serve of his own free will, and you must

never loose his collar.”

“I suppose we have to pick them up,” said Lirael slowly,

hoping the Dog would contradict her. But the Dog simply

stared back, looking amused. Finder finally settled the matter

by moving her tiller a little, and the boat started to head slowly

towards the bathtub.

Lirael sighed and put away the bow, but took care to

draw her sword instead, in case the Dog was mistaken. What

if this Prince Sameth was actually a necromancer, and not the

Abhorsen-in-Waiting at all?

“Leave your sword by your side,” Lirael called. “And you,

Mogget, sit under the Prince’s legs. When you’re alongside,

don’t move until I tell you.”

Sam didn’t answer immediately. Lirael saw him whisper to

the cat and realized that he was having a conversation similar

to the one she’d had with the Dog.

“All right!” Sam shouted after listening to the cat, and he

pushed his sword cautiously down to the bottom of the tub,

with the bells. He looked feverish, Lirael thought as they drew

closer; he was very flushed on the cheeks and around the eyes.

Mogget climbed down gracefully, disappearing below the

rim of the bathtub. The makeshift vessel continued on its way,

spinning in the current. Finder moved, too, tacking across the

wind to come broadside.

Boat and bathtub met with a loud clang. Lirael was surprised

by how low in the water the tub was—it hadn’t seemed

so submerged from a distance. The Prince scowled up at her,

but true to his word, he didn’t move.

Quickly, Lirael reached across with her left hand and

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touched the Charter mark on his forehead, her sword held

ready to strike if the mark was false or corrupted. But her

finger felt the familiar warmth of the true Charter, bright and

strong. Despite what the Dog had told her, the Charter certainly

seemed to go on forever, without Beginning or End.

Hesitantly, Sam stretched out his hand, too, obviously

waiting for permission, with the sharp point of her sword so

near. She nodded, and he touched her forehead with two fingers,

the Charter mark there flashing brilliantly, brighter even

than the sun on the river.

“Well, I guess you can get out of the bathtub,” said Lirael,

breaking the silence. She felt suddenly nervous again, having

to share the boat with a stranger. What would she do if he

wanted to talk all the time, or tried to kiss her or something?

Not that he seemed to be in any shape to do much of anything.

She put her sword down and reached out to help him

up, wrinkling her nose. He smelt of blood and dirt and fear,

and obviously hadn’t washed for days.

“Thank you,” muttered Sam, slithering over the gunwale,

his legs cramped and useless. Lirael saw him bite his lip against

the pain, but he didn’t cry out. When his legs were swung over,

he took a breath and said shakily, “Could . . . could you get

my sword, and the bells and the saddlebags? I’m afraid I can

hardly move.”

Lirael quickly complied. She lifted the saddlebags out last.

As they came free, the balance of the bathtub shifted, and one

end went briefly underwater. For a second it righted itself,

riding still lower in the river. Then a slight wave filled one end

beyond recovery, and it flipped over, sinking like a strange

silver fish into the clear water below.

“Farewell, brave vessel,” whispered Sam, watching as it

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sank below the upper band of light into the darkness of the

deep. He sat back and let out a sigh that was half pain and half

relief.

Mogget had jumped as the tub filled and was now facing

the Dog, so close their noses almost touched. Both just sat

there, staring, but Lirael suspected they were communicating

in some way unknown to their human “masters.” It didn’t look

entirely friendly. Both of them had their backs up, and the Dog

was growling, low and soft, the sound rolling out from deep

in her chest.

Lirael busied herself turning Finder back downriver, ducking

under the boom as it swung across. The boat hardly needed

her help, but it was easier than talking. Once that was done,

the silence grew oppressive. The two animals still stood noseto-

nose. Eventually, Lirael felt she had to say something. She

wished she were back in the Library and could just write a

note.

“What . . . um . . . happened to you?” she asked Sam, who

had settled himself at full length in the bottom of the boat.

“Why were you in a bathtub?”

“It’s a long story,” said Sam weakly. He tried to sit up to

see her better, but his head dropped back and bumped on a

thwart. “Ow! In the simple version, I guess you could say I was

escaping from the attentions of the Dead, and the tub happened

to be the best boat available.”

“The Dead? Near here?” asked Lirael, shivering as she

thought of her own encounter with Death. With the necromancer

Hedge. She’d presumed that in Life he would be near

the Red Lake, as he was in the vision. But that might not have

actually happened yet. Perhaps Hedge was somewhere close,

right now—

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“Several leagues upstream, last night,” said Sam, prodding

the flesh around his wound with a finger. It was tender and felt

tight against the trouser leg, a sure sign that the spell to contain

infection had failed in the face of his weariness and overexertion.

“That looks bad,” said Lirael, who could see the dark stain

of old blood showing through the cloth. “Did the necromancer

do it?”

“Mmm?” asked Sam, who felt like he might pass out again.

Pressing on the wound had been a big mistake. “There was no

necromancer there, fortunately. The Dead were following set

orders, and not being too smart about it. I got stabbed earlier.”

Lirael thought for a moment, unsure what to tell him. But

he was a royal Prince and the Abhorsen-in-Waiting.

“It’s just that I fought a necromancer yesterday,” she said.

“What!” exclaimed Sam, sitting up, despite a sudden wave

of nausea. “A necromancer? Here?”

“Not exactly,” said Lirael. “We were in Death. I don’t

know where he was physically.”

Sam groaned and fell backwards again. This time Lirael

saw it coming and just managed to catch his head.

“Thanks,” muttered Sam. “Was . . . was he sort of thin and

bald, with red armor plates at his elbows?”

“Yes,” whispered Lirael. “His name is Hedge. He tried to

cut my head off.”

Sam made a sort of coughing noise and turned towards the

gunwale, the muscles in his neck straining. Lirael just managed

to get her hands free before he threw up over the side. He hung

there for a few minutes after that, then feebly splashed his face

with cold river water.

“Sorry,” he said. “Nervous reaction, I suppose. Did you

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say you fought this necromancer in Death? But you’re a Clayr.

Clayr don’t go into Death. I mean, nobody does, except necromancers

and my mother.”

“I do,” mumbled Lirael back. She blushed again. “I’m . . .

I’m a Remembrancer. I had to find out something there, something

in the past.”

“What’s a Remembrancer? What’s the past got to do with

Death?” asked Sam. He felt delirious. Either Lirael was raving

or he was somehow not able to understand what she was

saying.

“I think,” said the Dog, turning from her nose-to-nose

communication with the cat, “that my mistress should tend to

your wound, young Prince. Then we might all start at the

beginning.”

“That could take a while,” said Mogget gloomily, searching

for fish over the side. Whatever he’d been communicating

with the Dog, their body language indicated that he’d come out

second best.

“The necromancer,” whispered Sam. “Did he burn you,

too?”

“No,” replied Lirael, puzzled. “Who did he burn?”

Now she was confused. But Sam didn’t answer. His eyelids

fluttered once, then closed.

“You’d best tend to his wound, Mistress,” said the Dog.

Lirael sighed in exasperation, got out her knife, and began

to cut Sam’s trouser leg away. At the same time, she reached

out to the Charter, pulling out the marks for a spell that would

cleanse the wound and knit the tissue back together.

Explanations would obviously have to wait.

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Chapter Thirty-Eight

The Book of the Dead

The explanations had to wait almost the

whole day, because Sam didn’t wake up until Finder gently

beached herself on a sandy spit, and Lirael began to set up

camp on the adjoining island. Over a dinner of grilled fish,

dried tomatoes, and biscuit, they told each other their stories.

Lirael was surprised by how easy it was to talk to him. It was

almost like talking to the Dog. Perhaps it was because he

wasn’t a Clayr, she thought.

“So you’ve Seen Nicholas,” said Sam heavily. “And he’s

definitely with this necromancer, Hedge. Digging up some terrible

Free Magic thing. I guess that must be the Lightning Trap

he wrote to me about. I was hoping—stupidly, I suppose—that

it was all a coincidence. That Nick wouldn’t have anything to

do with the Enemy, that he was really going to the Red Lake

because he’d heard about something interesting.”

“I didn’t See it myself,” Lirael said reluctantly, to forestall

any requests that she use her supposed Sight to find out more.

“I mean they showed it to me. It took a Watch of more than

fifteen hundred Clayr to See near the pit. But they didn’t know

when it was . . . or will be. It might not have happened yet.”

“I guess he hasn’t been in the Kingdom for that long,” said

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Sam doubtingly. “But I would think he would have made it to

the Red Lake by now. And the digging you Saw might have

started without him. The Dead in the blue caps and scarves

must be Southerling refugees, the ones who came across the

Wall more than a month ago.”

“Well, according to the Clayr’s other vision, I will find

Nicholas at the Red Lake sometime soon,” said Lirael. “But I

don’t want to go there unprepared. Not if Hedge is with him.”

“This is getting worse by the day,” said Sam, groaning and

cradling his head in his hands. “We’ll have to send a message to

Ellimere. And, I don’t know . . . get my parents back from

Ancelstierre. Only then there’re the Southerlings to worry about.

Maybe Mother could come back and Dad could stay there—”

“I think the Clayr have already sent messages,” said Lirael.

“But they don’t know as much as we do, so we should send

some, too. Only we’ll have to do something ourselves, won’t

we? It’ll take too long for the King and the Abhorsen to even

hear about this, let alone come back.”

“I suppose so,” said Sam, without enthusiasm. “I just wish

Nick had waited for me at the Wall.”

“He probably didn’t have a choice,” said the Dog, who was

curled up at Lirael’s feet, listening. Mogget lay nearby, his paws

extended towards the dying remnants of the cooking fire, clean

fishbones near his face. As soon as he’d eaten dinner, he’d

fallen asleep, ignoring Sam and Lirael’s conversation.

“I suppose so,” agreed Sam as he absently looked at the

scars on his wrists. “That necromancer, Hedge, must have . . .

must have got hold of him when we were at the Perimeter. I

never actually saw Nick after that. We just exchanged letters.

I guess I’ll just have to keep trying to find the dumb bastard.”

“He looked sick,” said Lirael, surprised by the feeling of

concern that rose in her from the memory. He’d reached out

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his hand to her and said hello. . . . “Sick and confused. I think

the Free Magic was affecting him, but he didn’t realize what

it was.”

“Nick never really understood what it was like here, or

accepted the idea that magic works,” said Sam, staring into the

embers. Nick had only got worse as he got older, always asking

why. He’d never accepted anything that seemed to

contradict his understanding of the forces of nature and the

mechanics of how the world worked.

“I don’t understand Ancelstierre,” said Lirael. “I mean I’ve

heard about it, but it might as well be another world.”

“It is,” said the Dog. “Or it’s best to think of it that way.”

“It always seemed somehow less real than here,” said Sam,

still staring at the fire, not really listening. He was watching

the sparks fly up now, trying to count the number of them in

each little flurry. “A really detailed dream, but sort of washed

out, like a thin watercolor. Softer, somehow, even with their

electric light and engines and everything. I guess it was because

there was hardly any magic at school, because we were too far

from the Wall. I could weave shadows and do tricks with light

sometimes, but only when the wind blew from the north.

Sometimes I felt like part of me was asleep, not being able to

reach the Charter.”

He fell silent, still staring at the embers. After a few minutes,

Lirael spoke again. “Getting back to what we’re going to

do,” she said hesitantly. “I was going to Qyrre, to get the constables

or the Royal Guard there to escort me to Edge. But it

seems that Hedge already knows about me—about us—so that

can’t be a very sensible thing to do. I mean I still have to get

to the Red Lake, but not so openly. It would be stupid to just

tie up at the Qyrre jetty and get out, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes,” agreed the Dog, looking up at her, proud that she

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had worked this out for herself. “There was a smell about

Hedge, a smell of power strong enough for me to catch when

Lirael escaped him. I think he is more than a necromancer. But

whatever he is, he is clever, and has long prepared to move

against the Kingdom. He will have servants among the living

as well as the Dead.”

Sameth didn’t answer for a moment. He tore his gaze away

from the fire, frowning as he saw Mogget’s sleeping form. Now

that Nicholas was definitely known to be in the clutches of the

Enemy, Sam didn’t know what to do. Rescuing Nicholas had

seemed like a good idea back in the safety of his tower room—

simpler, uncomplicated.

“We can’t go to Qyrre,” he said. “I was thinking we should

go to the House—Abhorsen’s House, I mean. I can send messagehawks

from there, and we can . . . uh . . . get stuff for the

journey. Mail hauberks. A better sword for me.”

“And it would be safe,” said the Dog, with a penetrating

look at Sam.

Sam looked away, unable to meet the Dog’s eyes. Somehow

she knew his secret thoughts. Half of him said he would have

to go on. Half of him said that he couldn’t. He felt sick with

the tension of it. Wherever he went, he could not escape being

the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, and all too soon he would be shown

to be an imposter.

“I think that’s a good idea,” said Lirael. “It’s on the Long

Cliffs, isn’t it? We can strike west from there, staying off the

roads. Are there any horses at the House? I can’t ride, but I

could wear a Charter-skin while you—”

“My horse is dead,” interrupted Sam, suddenly whitefaced.

“I don’t want another one!”

He got up abruptly and limped out into the darkness, staring

at the Ratterlin, watching the silver ripples in its dark

404

expanse. He could hear Lirael and that Dog creature—which

was too much like Mogget for comfort—talking behind him,

too low to make out the words. But he knew they were talking

about him, and he felt ashamed.

“He’s a spoilt brat!” whispered Lirael crossly. She wasn’t

used to this sort of behavior. On her explorations she had done

what she wanted, and in the Library there was strict discipline

and a chain of command. Sam had provided useful information,

but otherwise he seemed to be a nuisance. “I was just

trying to make some sort of plan. Maybe we should leave him

behind.”

“He is troubled,” acknowledged the Dog. “But he has also

been through much that tested him beyond all expectation—

and he is hurt and afraid. He will be better tomorrow, and in

the days to come.”

“I hope so,” said Lirael. Now that she knew more about

Nicholas, the Lightning Trap, and the attacks of the Dead

upon Sam, she realized she would probably need all the help

she could get. The entire Kingdom would need all the help it

could get.

“It is his job, after all,” she added. “Being the Abhorsenin-

Waiting. I should be safely back at the Glacier while he deals

with Hedge and whatever else is out there!”

“If the Abhorsen and the King are correct about Hedge’s

plans, nowhere will be safe,” said the Dog. “And all who bear

the Blood must defend the Charter.”

“Oh, Dog!” Lirael said plaintively, giving the hound a hug.

“Why is everything so difficult?”

“It just is,” said the Dog, woofling in her ear. “But sleep

will make it seem easier. A new day will bring new sights and

smells.”

“How will that help?” grumbled Lirael. But she lay down

405

on the ground, dragging her pack over to use as a pillow. It

was too hot for a blanket, even with the slight breeze off the

river. Hot and awfully humid, with mosquitoes and sandflies

into the bargain. Summer had not yet begun as far as the

Kingdom’s calendar was concerned, but the weather had paid

no attention to human reckoning. And there was no sign of a

cooling rainstorm.

Lirael swatted a mosquito, then turned her head as Sam

came back and rummaged in his saddlebag. He was getting

something out—a bright, sparkling object. Lirael sat up as she

saw it was a jeweled frog. A frog with wings.

“I’m sorry I behaved badly before,” Sam mumbled, setting

down the flying frog. “This will help with the mosquitoes.”

Lirael didn’t need to ask how. It became clear immediately

as the frog executed a backwards somersault and used its

tongue to collect two particularly large and blood-laden mosquitoes.

“Ingenious,” said the Dog sleepily, lifting her head for a moment

from the comfortable hole she’d scratched out to sleep in.

“I made it for my mother,” said Sam, self-pity evident in

his voice. “That’s about the only thing I’m really good at.

Making things.”

Lirael nodded, watching the frog wreak havoc on the local

insect population. It moved effortlessly, bronze wings beating

as fast as a hummingbird’s, making a soft sound like tightly

closed shutters moving slightly in the wind.

“Mogget had to kill her,” Sam said suddenly, looking back

into the fire. “My horse, Sprout. I pushed her too hard. She

foundered. I couldn’t do the mercy stroke. Mogget had to cut

her throat, to make sure the Dead didn’t kill her and grow

stronger.”

“It doesn’t sound like there was much choice,” said Lirael

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uncomfortably. “I mean, there was nothing else you could have

done.”

Sam was silent, staring at the few red coals that remained,

seeing the shapes and patterns of orange, black, and red. He

could hear the Ratterlin’s subdued roar all around, the wheezing

breath of the sleeping Dog. He could practically feel Lirael

sitting there, three or four steps away, waiting for him to say

something.

“I should have done it,” he whispered. “But I was afraid.

Afraid of Death. I always have been.”

Lirael didn’t say anything, feeling even more uncomfortable

now. No one had ever shared something so personal with her

before, least of all something like this! He was the Abhorsen’s

son, the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. It simply wasn’t possible that he

could be afraid of Death. That would be like a Clayr who was

afraid of the Sight. That was beyond imagining.

“You’re tired and wounded,” she said finally. “You should

rest. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Sam turned to look at her but kept his head down, not

meeting her gaze.

“You went into Death,” muttered Sam. “Were you afraid?”

“Yes,” acknowledged Lirael. “But I followed what it said

in the book.”

“The book?” asked Sam, shivering despite the heat. “The

Book of the Dead?”

“No,” replied Lirael. She’d never even heard of The Book

of the Dead. “The Book of Remembrance and Forgetting. It

deals with Death only because that’s where a Remembrancer

has to go to look into the past.”

“Never heard of it,” muttered Sam. He looked at his saddlebags

as if they were bulging poison sacs. “I’m supposed to be

studying The Book of the Dead, but I can’t stand looking at it.

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I tried to leave it behind, but it followed me, with the bells.

I . . . I can’t get away from it, but I can’t look at it, either. And

now I’ll probably need them both to save Nick. It’s so bloody

unfair. I never asked to be the Abhorsen-in-Waiting!”

I never asked for my mother to walk away from me when

I was five, or to be a Clayr without the Sight, thought Lirael.

He was young for his age, this Prince Sameth, and, as the Dog

said, he was tired and wounded. Let him have his bout of selfpity.

If he didn’t snap out of it tomorrow, the Dog could bite

him. That had always worked on her.

So instead of saying what she thought, Lirael reached out

to touch the bandolier lying at Sam’s side.

“Do you mind if I look at the bells?” she asked. She could

feel their power, even as they lay there quiescent. “How do you

use them?”

“The Book of the Dead explains their use,” he said reluctantly.

“But you can’t really practice with them. They can only

be used in earnest. No! Don’t . . . please don’t take them out.”

“I’ll be careful,” said Lirael, surprised at his reaction. He

had gone pale, quite white in the darkness, and was shivering.

“I do know a bit about them already, because they’re like my

pipes.”

Sam shuffled back a few steps, the panic rising in him. If

she dropped a bell or accidentally rang one, they might both be

hurled into Death. He was afraid of that, desperately afraid. At

the same time, he felt a sudden urge to let her take the bells, as

if that might somehow break their connection with him.

“I suppose you can look at them,” he said hesitantly. “If

you really want to.”

Lirael nodded thoughtfully, running her fingers over the

smooth mahogany handles and the rich, beeswax-treated leather.

She had a sudden urge to put on the bandolier and walk into

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Death to try the bells. Her little panpipes were a toy in comparison.

Sam watched her touch the bells and shivered, remembering

how cold and heavy they had felt upon his chest. Lirael’s

scarf had fallen back, letting her long black hair tumble out.

There was something about her face in the firelight, something

about the way her eyes reflected the light, that made Sam feel

odd. He had the sense that he’d seen her before. But that was

impossible, as he’d never been to the Glacier, and she’d never

left it until now.

“Could I also have a look at The Book of the Dead?” asked

Lirael, unable to disguise the eagerness in her voice.

Sam stared at her, his mind paralyzed for a moment. “The

Book of the Dead could d-d-destroy you,” he said, his voice

betraying him with a stutter. “It’s not to be trifled with.”

“I know,” said Lirael. “I can’t explain, but I feel that I must

read it.”

Sam considered. The Clayr were cousins of the royal line

and the Abhorsen, so he supposed Lirael had the Bloodright.

Enough not to get destroyed straightaway. She had also studied

The Book of Remembrance and Forgetting, whatever that

was, which seemed to have made her something of a necromancer,

at least as far as traveling in Death was concerned.

And her Charter mark was true and clear.

“It’s there,” he said roughly, pointing at the appropriate

saddlebag. He hesitated, then backed away, till he was a good

ten paces from the fire, closer to the river, with both the Dog

and Mogget between him and Lirael—and the book. He lay

down, purposefully looking away from Lirael. He didn’t want

to even see the book. His flying frog jumped after him and

rapidly cleared the mosquitoes away from his makeshift bed.

Sam heard the straps of the saddlebags being opened

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behind his back. Then came the soft brilliance of a Charter

light, the snap of silver clasps—and the ruffling of pages. There

was no explosion, no sudden fire of destruction.

Sam let out his breath, closed his eyes, and willed himself

to sleep. He would be at Abhorsen’s House within a few days.

Safe. He could stay there. Lirael could go on alone.

Except, his conscience said as he drifted off, Nicholas is

your friend. It’s your job to deal with necromancers. And it’s

your parents who would expect you to face the Enemy.

410

Chapter Thirty-Nine

High Bridge

Sam felt much better the next morning, physically,

at least. His leg was greatly improved by Lirael’s healing magic.

But mentally he felt very nervous about the responsibilities that

once again weighed upon him.

Lirael, on the other hand, was physically exhausted but

mentally very invigorated. She’d stayed up all night reading

The Book of the Dead, finishing the last page just as the sun

rose, its heat quickly banishing the last few cool hours of the

night.

Much of the book was already lost to her. Lirael knew

she’d read the whole thing, or had at least read every page she’d

turned. But she had no sense of the totality of the text. The

Book of the Dead would require many re-readings, she realized,

as it could offer something new each time. In many ways,

she felt it recognized her lack of knowledge, and had given

her the bare minimum she was capable of understanding. The

book had also raised more questions for her about Death, and

the Dead, than it had answered. Or perhaps it had answered,

but she would not remember until she needed to know.

Only the last page stayed fixed in her mind, the last page

with its single line.

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Does the walker choose the path, or the path

choose the walker?

She thought about that question as she stuck her head in

the river to try to wake herself up, and was still thinking about

it as she retied her scarf and straightened her waistcoat. She

was reluctant to part with the bells and The Book of the Dead,

but she finally returned them to Sam’s saddlebags as he finished

his own morning ablutions farther downstream, behind some

of the island’s sparse foliage.

They didn’t talk as they loaded the boat, not so much as

a word about the book or the bells, or Sam’s confession of

the previous night. As Lirael raised Finder’s sail and they set

off downriver again, the only sound was the flapping of the

canvas as she slowly hauled in the mainsheet, accompanied by

the rush of water under the keel. Everyone seemed to agree

that it was too early for conversation. Especially Mogget. He

hadn’t even bothered to wake up and had had to be carried

aboard by Sam.

It wasn’t until they were well under way that Lirael passed

around some of her plate-sized cinnamon cakes, breaking them

into manageable hunks. The Dog ate hers in one and a half

gulps, but Sam looked at his askance.

“Do I risk my teeth on it or just suck it to death?” he

asked, with an attempt at a smile. Clearly he felt better, Lirael

thought. It was better than the dismal self-pity of the night

before.

“You could give it to me,” suggested the Dog, without

moving her gaze from the hand that held the cake.

“I don’t think so,” said Sam, taking a bite and making an

effort to chew. Then he held out the uneaten half and said, with

412

his mouth full, “But I’ll trade you this half for a close look at

your collar.”

Before he finished speaking, the Dog lunged forward,

gulped the cake, and put her chin on Sam’s thigh, her neck in

easy reach.

“Why do you want to look at the Dog’s collar?” asked

Lirael.

“It has Charter marks I’ve never seen,” replied Sam, reaching

down to touch it. It looked like leather with Charter marks

set upon it. But as his fingers met the surface, Sam realized it

wasn’t leather at all. It was nothing but Charter marks, a great

sea of marks, stretching into forever. He felt as if he could push

his whole hand into the collar, or dive in himself. And within

that great pool of magic, there were very few Charter marks

that he actually knew.

Reluctantly, he pulled his hand away, and then, on a whim,

scratched the Dog’s head between the ears. She felt exactly as

a normal dog should, just as Mogget felt like a cat. But both

were intensely magical beings. Only Mogget’s collar was a

binding-spell of great force, and the Dog’s collar was something

very different, almost like a part of the Charter itself. It

had something of the same feel as a Charter Stone.

“Excellent,” sighed the Dog, responding to the scratching.

“But do my back as well, please.”

Sam complied, and the Dog stretched out under his fingers,

luxuriating in the treatment. Lirael watched, suddenly struck

by the realization that she’d never before seen the Dog with

another person. The hound had always disappeared when any

other people were around.

“Some of the Charter marks in your collar are familiar,”

said Sam idly, as he scratched and watched the morning sun

413

play across the water. It was going to be another very hot day,

and he’d lost his hat. It must have come off when he fell down

the steps of the mill’s landing stage.

The Dog didn’t answer, merely wriggling to direct Sam’s

scratching hand farther down her back.

“Only I can’t think where I’ve seen them,” continued Sam,

pausing to concentrate. He didn’t know what the Charter marks

were for, but he had seen them somewhere else. Not in a grimoire

or a Charter Stone, but on some object or something

solid. “Not in Mogget’s collar—those are quite different.”

“You think too much,” growled the Dog, though not

angrily. “Just keep scratching. You can do under my chin as

well.”

“You’re a very demanding Dog for a supposed servant of

the Clayr,” said Sam. He looked at Lirael and added, “Is she

always like this?”

“Pardon?” asked Lirael, who had started thinking about

The Book of the Dead again. It took an effort for her to pay

attention to Sam, and for a moment she wished she were back

in the Great Library, where no one spoke to her unless they

had to.

Sam repeated his question, and Lirael looked at the Dog.

“She’s usually worse,” she replied. “If it’s not food she’s after,

it’s scratching. She’s incorrigible.”

“That’s why I’m the Disreputable Dog,” said the Dog

smugly, wagging her tail. “Not just the Dog. But you’d better

stop scratching now, Prince Sameth.”

“Why?”

“Because I can smell people,” replied the Dog, forcing herself

up. “Beyond the next bend.”

Sam and Lirael looked, but couldn’t see any sign of habitation

or another vessel on the river. The Ratterlin had turned

414

into a wide bend, and the riverbanks were rising into high

bluffs of pinkish stone, obscuring the view ahead.

“I can hear roaring, too,” added the Dog, who was now

perched on the bow, her ears erect and quivering.

“Like rapids?” asked Lirael nervously. She trusted Finder,

but didn’t fancy shooting any waterfalls in her—or in any boat,

for that matter.

Sam stood up next to her, keeping one hand on the boom

for balance, and tried to see ahead. But whatever was there lay

beyond the bend. He took another look at the riverbanks,

noting that they’d risen up to become real cliffs, and that the

river was getting narrower, and was perhaps only a few hundred

yards wide ahead.

“It’s okay,” he said, and then, seeing her puzzlement at the

Ancelstierran expression, he added, “I mean it’s all right. We’re

coming to the High Bridge Gorge. The river gets a lot narrower,

and faster, but not so bad that boats can’t get through. And the

river is lower than it should be at this time of year, so I bet it

won’t be too fast.”

“Oh, High Bridge,” said Lirael, with considerable relief.

She’d read about High Bridge, and had even seen a handcolored

etching of it. “We actually sail under the town, don’t

we?”

Sam nodded, thinking. He’d been to the town of High

Bridge only once, over a decade ago, with his parents. They’d

reached it overland, not on the Ratterlin, but he did remember

Touchstone pointing out the guardboats that patrolled upstream

of the town, and in the pool beyond High Bridge, where

the river widened again. They not only kept at least that part

of the Ratterlin free of river pirates but also exacted tolls from

traders. Ellimere had probably already given the river-guards

orders to “escort” him ashore and return him to Belisaere.

415

Which would be one way of reaching safety, he thought,

and it would make Ellimere responsible for whatever happened

next. But he would have to face up to his fight with the constables,

and it would mean a delay in any attempt to rescue

Nick. And he had no doubt Lirael would choose to go on without

him.

“We do, don’t we?” repeated Lirael. “Sail under it?”

“What?” asked Sam, who was still wondering what would

be the best thing for him to do. “Yes . . . yes, we do. Um, I’d

better lie down under a blanket or something before we’re in

sight of the town.”

“Why?” asked Lirael and the Dog at the same time.

“Because he’s a truant Prince,” yawned Mogget, walking

up and stretching on his back paws to look ahead. “He ran

away, and his sister wants him back for the Belisaere Festival,

to play the Summer Fool or some such.”

“The Bird of Dawning,” corrected Sam with embarrassment

as he got down into the scuppers, ready to hide.

“When you said you’d left Belisaere to look for Nicholas,

I thought you meant you’d been sent by your parents!” exclaimed

Lirael, unconsciously taking on the tone she used to

scold the Dog. “The way I’ve been sent by the Clayr. You mean

they don’t even know what you’re doing?”

“Er . . . no,” replied Sam sheepishly. “Though Dad might

have guessed that I’ve gone to meet Nick. If they know I’ve

gone, that is. It depends where they are in Ancelstierre. But I’ll

explain when we send messages. The only problem is that

Ellimere has probably ordered all the Guard and the

Constabulary to send me back to Belisaere if they can.”

“Great,” said Lirael. “I was counting on your being useful

if we did need to get help along the way. A royal Prince, I

thought—”

416

“Well, I could still be useful—” Sam began to say, but

at that moment they rounded the bend, and the Dog let out

a warning bark. Sure enough, a guardboat was moored to a

large buoy mid river—a long, slim galley of thirty-two oars in

addition to its square-rigged sail. As Finder appeared round the

bend, a sailor cast off from the buoy, and others raised the red

sail, the golden tower of the royal service gleaming upon it.

Sam hunkered down still lower, pulling the blanket across

his face. Something touched his cheek as he settled down, and

he started, thinking it was a rat. Then he realized Mogget was

slinking under the blanket, too.

“No sense in their wondering why an aristocratic cat would

share deck space with a mangy dog,” whispered Mogget, close

to Sam’s ear under the stifling blanket. “I wonder if they’ll do

that old trick city guards do with hay wagons, when they suspect

smuggling.”

“What’s that?” Sam whispered back, though he had the

feeling he didn’t want to know.

“They stick everything with spears to make sure there’s

nothing—or no one—hidden there,” said Mogget absently.

“Mind if I move under your arm?”

“They won’t do that,” said Sam, firmly. “They’ll see this is

one of the Clayr’s boats.”

“Will they? They might—but Lirael doesn’t look like a

Clayr, does she? You yourself suspected her of stealing this

boat.”

“Quiet down there,” woofed the Dog, close by Sam’s other

ear. Then he felt her bulk settle in at his side—on top of the

blanket. It moved again after that, as Lirael tugged on it so it

looked like covered baggage rather than a body.

Nothing happened for at least ten minutes. Mogget seemed

to go back to sleep, and the Dog rested more of her weight

417

against Sam’s side. Sam found that while all he could see was

the underside of the blanket, he could hear all sorts of sounds

he hadn’t noticed before: the creak of the clinker-built hull, the

splash of the bow wave, the faint hum of the rigging, and the

clatter of the boom as they turned into the wind and stopped.

Then he heard another sound—the heavy splash of many

oars moving in unison, and a voice calling the time. “With

a will, and a way, that’s a stroke and a lay, with a will, and

way . . . oars up and in!”

There came a shout, so loud and close it almost made Sam

flinch.

“What vessel, and where are you bound?”

“The Clayr’s boat Finder,” Lirael said, but her voice was

lost in the rush of the river. She forced herself to shout, surprised

by the strength of her own voice. “The Clayr’s boat

Finder. Bound for Qyrre.”

“Oh, aye, I know Finder,” replied the voice, less formal

now. “And she obviously knows your hand, Mistress—so you

may pass. Will you be stopping to climb up to town?”

“No,” said Lirael. “I travel on urgent business for the

Clayr.”

“No doubt, no doubt,” replied the guardboat commander,

nodding at Lirael across the forty feet of water that separated

the two vessels. “There’s trouble brewing, for sure. You’d best

beware of the riverbanks, for there have been reports of Dead

creatures. Just like the old days, before the return of the King.”

“I’ll be careful,” shouted Lirael. “Thank you for the warning,

Captain. May I go on now?”

“Pass, friend,” shouted the guard, waving his hand. At that

motion, the oars dropped in again, the men straining at their

benches. The steerswoman put the rudder over, and the guardboat

drove hard away, bow slicing through the current. Lirael

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saw something metallic glisten under the water as the galley

rose up, and she realized it was a long steel ram. The guardboat

clearly had the means to sink any craft that didn’t stop at

its hail.

As they passed, one of the guards looked at Lirael strangely,

and she saw his hand creeping to the string of his bow. But none

of the others so much as looked at her, and after a moment, the

strange guard turned away, leaving Lirael with a feeling of

unease. For a moment, she felt she had smelled the metallic tang

of Free Magic. She looked at the Dog, and saw that she was

staring back at the same guard, all the hair on her back on end.

Sam listened to the steady swish of the oars as the galley

drew away, and the receding voice of the cantor. “Are they

gone?”

“Yes,” said Lirael slowly. “But you’d better stay hidden.

They’re still in sight, and we’re coming up to High Bridge

now. And there was something not quite right about one of

them. I caught the hint of Free Magic, as if it might not have

been a man at all.”

“It can’t have been Free Magic,” said Sam. “The river is

flowing too strongly.”

“Unlike the Dead, not all things of Free Magic turn back

from running water,” said Mogget. “Only those with common

sense.”

“The cat speaks truly,” added the Disreputable Dog. “Running

water is no bar to those of the Third Kindred, or anything

infused with the essence of the Nine. I would not expect such

things here, but I did smell something of that ilk aboard the

guardboat, Prince Sameth. Something that had only the semblance

of a man. Fortunately, it did not dare reveal its presence

among so many. But we must be on our guard.”

Sam sighed and fought back the temptation to peel the

419

blanket aside just a little bit. It was very hard to lie in darkness

going into possible danger. And he’d never seen High Bridge

from the water, and it was supposed to be one of the most spectacular

sights in the Kingdom.

Lirael certainly thought so. Despite the increasing current,

she was content to let Finder steer, choosing to gape, instead.

High Bridge had originally been an enormous natural

bridge of stone, resting upon the cliffs of the gorge, with the

Ratterlin rushing under it four hundred forty feet below. Over

the centuries, the natural grandeur of the bridge had been augmented

by the human buildings upon it. The first of the buildings

constructed there was a castle, built to take advantage of

the protection offered by so much deep running water beneath

it. No Dead creatures could come against its walls, for they

must also pass above the river’s swift waters.

This had proved to be an enormous attraction during the

years of the Interregnum, when the great majority of Charter

Stones in the Kingdom were broken and the villages that

depended upon them for safety destroyed, leaving the Dead

and those in league with them free to do as they chose. Within

a few years, the original castle had been surrounded by houses,

inns, warehouses, windmills, forges, manufactories, stables,

taverns, and all manner of other buildings. Many were actually

dug down into the bridge itself, for the stone was several

hundred feet thick. The bridge was more than a mile broad,

too, though not very long, the distance between the eastern and

western cliffs once being famously covered in a single bowshot

by the archer Aylward Blackhair.

Lirael was staring up at this strange metropolis when she

heard a woman’s shout, seemingly from the figurehead at the

front of the boat. At the same time Finder’s tiller shot out of

her hand, pushing hard over to the left. Instantly, the boom

420

swung violently across and the boat heeled over to the right,

her starboard quarter almost in the river, spray and water

foaming in across the side.

Sam found himself piled up against the starboard rail.

Somehow both Mogget and the Dog had ended up on top of

him, along with what felt like everything else. And water was

pouring in on him in bucketloads.

Sam thrust his hands out of the blanket and clawed along

the side of the boat, reaching out for the rail. But his hands

went straight into rushing water, and Sam realized that Finder

was heeled over so far she must be about to capsize. Desperately

he struggled to free himself of Mogget, Dog, baggage,

and blanket, at the same time as he shouted, “Lirael! Lirael!

What’s happening?”

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Chapter Forty

Under the Bridge

Lirael was too busy pulling herself back into the boat

to answer. The boom had caught her on the shoulder, knocking

her overboard before she even knew what was happening. Fortunately,

she’d managed to grab the rail and hang on, looking up

fearfully as Finder’s hull towered above her, so far over it seemed

certain the boat would capsize—with Lirael underneath.

Then, as quickly as she’d heeled over, Finder righted herself,

the sudden lurch helping Lirael fling herself back in, to end

up in a terrible tangle of blanket, Sam, Dog, Mogget, lots of

odds and ends, and sloshing water.

At the same time, Finder passed under High Bridge, moving

out of sunlight into the strange, cool twilight, as the Ratterlin

streamed into the vast tunnel made by the bridge of stone high

overhead.

“What happened?” spluttered Sam when he finally got free

of the wet blanket. Lirael was already by the tiller, completely

drenched, her hand gripped around something projecting from

the stern.

“I thought Finder had gone mad,” said Lirael. “Till I saw

this.”

Sam shuffled back, cursing the blanket that was still tangled

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around his legs. It wasn’t exactly dark under High Bridge,

because light did come in from either end, but it was a strange

light, like sun slowly breaking through fog, soft and diffused

by the water. The Dog rushed over to look too, but Mogget

sniffed and padded to the bow, to begin the long process of

licking himself dry.

The Dog saw what Lirael held before Sam did, and growled.

There was a splintered hole through the port side of the stern,

under the gunwale, where Lirael had been sitting before Finder

had knocked her over with the boom. In her hand Lirael held

the crossbow bolt that had made the hole. Its shaft was painted

white, and it was fletched with raven feathers.

“It must have just missed you!” exclaimed Sam, as he put

three of his fingers through the hole.

“Only thanks to Finder,” said Lirael, stroking the tiller

gently. “Look at what it did to my poor boat.”

“It would have gone straight through you, even if you’d had

armor on,” said Sam grimly. “That’s a war bolt—not a hunting

quarrel. And a very good shot. Too good to be natural.”

“They’ll probably try again on the other side—or before,”

said Lirael, looking up with alarm at the stone high above

them. “Are there any openings above us, do you know?”

“No idea,” said Sam. He followed her gaze and could see

only unbroken yellow stone. But the bridge was several hundred

feet above them, and the light bad. There could be any

number of dark openings he just couldn’t see.

“I can’t see any, Mistress,” growled the Dog as she craned

her head back, too. “But we’ll be through in a few minutes,

with this current.”

“Do you know how to cast an arrow ward?” Sam asked

Lirael. The current was indeed taking them along at a rapid

rate, and the bright, sunlit arch that marked the other side of

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the bridge was getting closer all too quickly.

“No,” said Lirael nervously. “I was probably supposed to.

I skipped fighting arts quite a lot.”

“All right,” Sam said. “Why don’t we swap places? I’ll sit

here and steer, but with an arrow ward at my back. You get

ready with your bow, prepared to shoot back. Mogget—you’ve

got the best eyes—you spot for Lirael.”

“The Horrible Hound, or whatever she calls herself, can

do that,” declared Mogget, from the bow. “I’m going back to

sleep.”

“But what if the ward doesn’t work?” protested Lirael.

“You’re already wounded—”

“It’ll work,” said Sam, moving up, so Lirael had little choice

but to get out of the way. “I used to practice with the Guard

every day. Only a spelled arrow or bolt can get through.”

“But it might be spelled,” said Lirael, quickly re-stringing

her bow with a dry string from a waxed packet. The black and

white bolt had not carried any scent of magic, but that did not

mean the next would be unspelled.

“It still has to be stronger than the ward,” said Sam confidently—

much more confidently than he actually felt. He had

cast arrow wards many times, but never in an actual fight.

Touchstone had taught him the spell when Sam was only six

years old, and the arrows fired to test it were mere toys with

cushioned heads made from the rags of old pajamas. Later, he

had graduated to blunted arrows. He had never been tested

against a war bolt that could punch through an inch of plate

steel.

Sam sat by the tiller and turned to face the stern. Then he

began to reach for the Charter marks he needed. He usually used

his sword to trace the ward in the air, but he had been taught

to use only his hands if need be, and that worked just as well.

424

Lirael saw his hands and fingers move swiftly and surely,

Charter marks beginning to glow in the air. They hung there,

shining, just beyond the arc his fingertips were describing.

Whatever else he might be, she thought, Sam was a very powerful

Charter Mage. And he might be afraid of Death and the

Dead, but he wasn’t a coward. She wouldn’t want to be sitting

there with only a spell between her and the razored edges of

a crossbow bolt traveling with killing speed. She shivered. If

it were not for Finder, she would probably already be dead, or

bleeding to death in the scuppers.

Lirael’s stomach muscles tightened at that thought, and

she paid careful attention to nocking her arrow. Whoever the

hidden killer was, Lirael would try her best to make sure he

didn’t get more than one shot.

Sam finished describing the full circle of the arrow ward

but remained crouched at the stern. His hands continued to

move, drawing Charter marks that fled his fingers to join the

glowing circle above and behind him.

“Have to keep it going,” he said, panting. “Bit of a drawback.

Get ready! We’ll be out in a sec—”

They suddenly burst out into sunshine, and Sam instinctively

shrank to present a smaller target.

Lirael, kneeling by the mast and looking up, was momentarily

blinded. In that second, the assassin fired. The bolt flew

true. Lirael screamed a warning, but the sound was still in her

throat when the black-feathered quarrel hit the arrow ward—

and vanished.

“Quick!” gasped Sam, the strain of maintaining the spell

showing in his face and straining chest.

Lirael was already searching for the crossbowman. But

there were many windows and openings up there, either in the

stone of the Bridge itself or in the buildings that were built

425

upon it. And there were people all over the place, too, in windows,

on balconies, leaning over railings, swinging on platforms

roped to plaster walls. . . . She couldn’t even begin to

find the shooter.

Then the Dog moved up next to Lirael, raised her head—

and howled. It was an eerie, high tone that seemed to echo

across the water, up the sides of the river gorge, and everywhere

across the town itself. It sounded as if scores of wolves

had suddenly appeared on the river, in the town, and all

around.

Everywhere, people stopped moving and stared. Except in

one window, about halfway up. Lirael saw someone there suddenly

fling the shutters wide open, one hand still clutching a

crossbow.

She drew and shot as he stood there, but her arrow was

caught by an errant breeze and went wide, striking the wall

above his head. As Lirael nocked another arrow, the assassin

stood up in the window frame, precariously balanced on the sill.

The Dog drew breath and howled again. The assassin

dropped his crossbow so he could jam his fingers in his ears.

But even then he couldn’t block out the terrible sound, and

his legs moved of their own accord, stepping out into space.

Desperately, he tried to hurl his upper body backwards into the

room, but he seemed to have no control at all below the waist.

A moment later, he fell, following the crossbow down four

hundred feet into the water. He kept his fingers in his ears all

the way down, and his legs kept moving even though there was

nothing to tread but air.

The Dog stopped howling as the assassin’s body hit the

water, and both Sam and Lirael flinched as they felt him die.

They watched the ripples spread till they met Finder’s wash

and disappeared.

426

“What did you do?” asked Lirael, carefully replacing her

bow. She’d never seen or felt anyone actually die before. She

had only attended Farewells, with the death made distant, all

wrapped up with ceremony and tradition.

“I made him walk,” growled the Dog, sitting back on her

haunches, a ridge of hair along her back stiff and angry. “He

would have killed you if he could, Mistress.”

Lirael nodded and gave the Dog a quick hug. Sam watched

them warily. That howl was pure Free Magic, with no Charter

Magic in it at all. The Dog seemed friendly and appeared to be

devoted to Lirael, but he could not forget how dangerous she

was. There was also something about the howl that reminded

him of something, some magic he had experienced that he

couldn’t quite place.

At least Mogget’s case was straightforward. He was a Free

Magic creature, bound and safe while he wore the collar. The

Dog appeared to be a free-willed blend of the two magics,

which was completely beyond anything Sam had ever heard

about. Not for the first time, he wished that his mother were

here. Sabriel would know what the Dog was, he felt sure.

“We’d better swap places again,” said Lirael urgently.

“There’s another guardboat ahead.”

Sam quickly scrunched down, on the opposite side from the

Dog, who looked at him and grinned, showing a very sharp,

very white, and very large set of teeth. Sam forced himself to

smile back, remembering the advice he’d been given about dogs

when he was a boy. Never let them know you’re afraid. . . .

“Ugh! There’s a lot of water here,” he complained as he lay

down, squelching, and drew the sodden blanket towards him.

“I should have bailed it out in the tunnel.”

He was just about to draw the blanket over his face when

he saw Mogget, still sunning and grooming himself on the bow.

427

“Mogget!” he commanded. “You should hide, too.”

Mogget looked pointedly at the water swishing around

Sam’s legs and stuck out his small pink tongue.

“Too wet for me,” he said. “Besides, the guardboat will

stop us for sure. They will have been signaled from the town

after this canine show-off’s demonstration of vocal talents—

though hopefully no one will recognize what that actually was.

So you might as well sit up.”

Sam groaned and sloshed upright. “You might have told

me before I lay down,” he said bitterly, picking up a tin cup

and beginning to bail.

“It would be best if we can get past without being stopped,”

the Dog commented, sniffing the air. “There may be more enemies

concealed aboard this guardboat, too.”

“There’s more room to maneuver up ahead,” said Lirael.

“But I don’t know if it’s enough to evade the guardboat.”

The eastern side of the river was the main river-port for

High Bridge. Twelve jetties of various lengths thrust out into

the river, most of them cluttered with trading boats, whose

masts made a forest of bare poles. Behind the jetties, there was

a quay carved into the stone of the gorge, a long terrace cluttered

with cargoes being readied to go aboard the boats or

up to the town. Beyond the quay, there were several steep stairways

that ran up the cliff-face to the town, in between the derrick

cables that lifted up the multitude of boxes and chests,

barrels and bales.

But the western side of the river was open, save for a few

trading boats ahead of them downstream, and the one guardboat,

which was already slipping its mooring. If they could get

past the guardboat and keep ahead, there was nothing to stop

them.

“They’ve got at least twenty archers on that boat,” said

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Sam doubtfully. “Do you think we can just sail past?”

“I suppose it depends how many—if any—of them are

agents of the Enemy,” said Lirael as she hauled the mainsheet

tighter, trimming the sail for more speed. “If they’re real

guards, they won’t shoot at a royal Prince and a Daughter of

the Clayr. Will they?”

“I suppose it’s worth a try,” muttered Sam, who couldn’t

think of an alternative plan. If the guards were real guards, the

worst that would happen was that he would be returned to

Belisaere. If they weren’t, it would be best to stay as far away

as possible. “What if the wind drops?”

“We’ll whistle one up,” said Lirael. “Are you much of a

weather-worker?”

“Not by my mother’s standards,” replied Sam. Weather

magic was mostly performed with whistled Charter marks, and

he was no great whistler. “But I can probably raise a wind.”

“This is not a brilliant plan, even by your mother’s standards,”

commented Mogget, who was watching the guardboat

raise its sail, obviously intent on an intercept. “Lirael doesn’t

look like a Daughter of the Clayr. Sameth looks like a scarecrow,

not a royal Prince. And the commander of this guardboat

may not recognize Finder. So even if they are all real

guards, they probably will just feather us with arrows if we try

to sail past. Personally, I don’t want to be made into a pincushion.”

“I don’t think we have a choice,” said Sam slowly. “If even

two or three of them belong to the Enemy, they will attack. If

we can conjure up enough of a wind, we might be able to stay

out of bowshot anyway.”

“Fine!” muttered Mogget. “Wet, cold, and full of holes.

Another fun day on the river.”

Lirael and Sam looked at each other. Lirael took a deep

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breath. Charter marks flowered in her mind, and she let them

flow into her lungs and throat, circling there. Then she whistled,

and the pure notes leapt up into the sky.

Answering the whistle, the river behind them darkened.

Ripples and white peaks sprang up across the water and streaked

across towards Finder and her waiting sail.

A few seconds later, the wind hit. The boat heeled over and

picked up speed, the rigging adding its own whistle at the sudden

pressure. Mogget hissed his lack of appreciation and hastily

sprang back from the bow as spray flew over where he’d been

a moment before.

Still Lirael whistled, and Sam joined in, their combined

weather spell weaving the wind behind Finder’s quarter, at the

same time stripping it away from the guardboat, whose sail lay

limp and airless.

But the guardboat had oars, and expert rowers. The cantor

sped his call, and the oars dipped in faster rhythm as the galley

rushed forward to intercept Finder, water suddenly foaming

around its bow, the bright metal of the ram gleaming in

the sun.

430

Chapter Forty-One

Free Magic and

“They’ll be within bowshot in a few minutes,”

warned Mogget gloomily, gauging with a jaundiced eye the distance

to the galley, and then the proximity of the western shore.

“I suppose we’ll end up having to swim for our miserable lives.”

Lirael and Sam exchanged glances of concern, reluctant

to agree aloud with the cat. Despite their spell-woven wind and

their current scudding run across the water, the galley was still

too fast. They were as close as they dared to the shore, and

were rapidly running out of river to maneuver in.

“I guess we’d better heave to and risk the presence of

enemies among the guards,” said Sam, who was acutely aware

that he had already injured two constables. “I don’t want any

of us to get shot because they think we’re smugglers or something,

and I definitely don’t want to hurt any guards. Once they

find out I am who I am, I’ll order them to let you go. And who

knows? I might be lucky. Maybe Ellimere hasn’t ordered my

arrest after all.”

“I don’t know—” Lirael started to say, her voice anxious.

There was still a slight chance they might get past. But she’d

hardly said a word when the Dog barked in interruption.

“No! There are at least three or four Free Magic creatures

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the Flesh of Swine

aboard that boat! We mustn’t stop!”

“Smells all right to me,” said Mogget, shuddering as more

spray spumed in over the bow. “But then I don’t have your

famous nose. However, as I can see a half dozen archers getting

ready to shoot, perhaps you actually can smell something.”

Sam saw that Mogget was quite correct. The guardboat

was angling to cross their path, but six archers were already

formed up on the forward deck, arrows nocked. Obviously

they intended to shoot first and make polite enquiries later.

“Are the archers human?” asked Sam quickly.

The Dog sniffed the air again before replying. “I cannot

tell. I think most of them are. But the captain—the one with

the plumed hat—has only the semblance of a man. It is a construct,

made from Free Magic and the flesh of swine. That odor

I cannot mistake.”

“We have to show the human archers who they’re shooting

at!” Sam exclaimed. “I should have brought a shield with

the royal blazon or something. They’d never dare shoot at us

then, even if they’re ordered to.”

“Of course!” said Lirael, suddenly slapping herself on the

forehead. “Here, take this!”

“What!” shouted Sam, throwing himself back to clutch at the

tiller as Lirael let go. “What do I do? I don’t know how to sail!”

“Don’t worry, she steers herself,” Lirael shouted back as

she crawled forward to the storage box in the forepeak. It was

a matter of only twelve feet, but Lirael found it hard going,

since Finder was heeled over at a sharp angle and the boat kept

leaping up and then coming down with a bone-jarring smack

every few yards.

“Are you sure?” Sam shouted again. He could feel the pressure

on the tiller, and he felt that only his white-knuckled grip

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was keeping them from veering sharply into the riverbank.

Experimentally, he opened his fingers for a second, ready to

grab hold again immediately. But nothing happened. Finder

kept her course, the tiller barely moving. Sam sighed in relief,

but his sigh became a choking cough as he saw a flight of

arrows snap away from the guardboat—straight at him.

“Too far yet,” said the Dog, casting a professional eye on

the arrows’ flight, and sure enough, the arrows plunged into

the water a good fifty yards away.

“Not for long,” grumbled Mogget. He jumped yet again

to try to find a drier spot. He seemed to have found it near

the mast when a slight twitch of the tiller—without Sam’s cooperation—

caught a small wave and neatly sloshed it in and

over his back.

“I hate you!” hissed Mogget in the general direction of the

boat’s figurehead as the water drained away from his feet. “At

least that rowboat looks dry. Why don’t we just let ourselves

be captured? We’ve got only the Dog’s nose to say the captain

is a construct.”

“They’re shooting at us, Mogget!” said Sam, who wasn’t

entirely sure whether Mogget was joking.

“There are two other constructs on board besides the

captain,” growled the Dog, whose nose was still vigorously

sampling the air. She was getting bigger, Sam noticed, and

fiercer-looking. Clearly she expected a fight, discounting whatever

Lirael thought she was doing up at the bow.

“Got it!” exclaimed Lirael, as another flight of arrows sped

towards them. This time, they splashed into the river no more

than two arms’ lengths away. Sam could probably have

touched the closest one.

“What?” shouted Sam. He simultaneously reached into

the Charter to begin making an arrow ward. Not that it would

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be much use against six archers at once. Not when he wasn’t

up to his full strength.

Lirael held up a large square of black cloth and let it flap

into the breeze, revealing a brilliant silver star shining in the

middle of it. The wind almost tore it from her grasp, but she

clutched it to her chest and began to crawl back to the mast.

“Finder’s flag,” she shouted as she pulled out a halyard and

started to unscrew the pin in a shackle so it could be put

through an eyelet in the banner. “I’ll have it up in a minute.”

“We don’t have a minute!” screamed Sam, who could see

the archers about to loose again. “Just hold it out!”

Lirael ignored him. Quickly she fitted the shackles at each

end, screwing in the pins with what looked like deliberate

slowness to Sam. He was about to lunge forward and grab

the damned flag when Lirael suddenly let it go and pulled on

the halyard—as five more arrows leapt towards them from the

guardboat.

Finder reacted first, nudging the tiller over to turn the bow

into the wind. Instantly, she lost speed, the sail flapping and

clapping like maniacal applause. Sam ducked as she did it, and

the tiller smacked him in the jaw, hard enough to make him

think he’d been shot—at least for a moment. Then it swung

back again, just missing him, as the boat returned to her original

course.

But those few seconds of lost speed had been vital, Sam

realized, as the arrows that should have struck them plunged

into the water only a few feet ahead.

Then the great silver star of the Clayr billowed out from

the mast, shining in the sun. Now there could be no doubt

about whose boat this was, for the flag was not just a thing of

cloth but, like Finder herself, was imbued with Charter Magic.

Even in the darkest night, the starry banner of the Clayr would

434

shine. In the bright day, it was almost blinding in its brilliance.

“They’ve stopped rowing,” announced the Dog cheerily, as

the guardboat suddenly lost way in a confusing pick-up-sticks

jumble of oars. Sam relaxed and let the beginnings of the arrow

ward fade away, so he could start checking whether he’d lost

any teeth.

“But two archers are still going to shoot,” the Dog continued,

making Sam groan and hurriedly try to reach for the

Charter marks he’d just let go.

“Yes . . . no . . . the other four are overpowering them. The

captain is shouting . . . it has revealed itself!”

Sam and Lirael looked back at the guardboat. It was a mess

of struggling figures, accompanied by shouting, screaming, and

the clash of weapons. In the middle of it, a column of white

fire suddenly appeared, with a whoosh loud enough to make

the Dog’s ears crinkle back and to make the others flinch. The

column roared up twelve feet or more, then slid sideways and

arced over the side.

For a moment, Sam and Lirael thought it would sink and

disappear, but it actually bounced off the river as if the water

were springy grass. Then the column started to move towards

them, and it began to transform itself into something else. Soon

it was no longer a tall streak of white fire but a gigantic burning

boar, complete with tusks. It ran after Finder in great

splashing leaps, squealing as it ran, a sound that sent a wave

of nausea through everyone who heard it.

Sam was the first to react. He picked up Lirael’s bow and

sent four arrows in quick succession into the thing that was

fast catching up to them. All struck it head on, but they had

no effect save for a sudden flurry of sparks. The arrows turned

instantly into molten metal and ash.

Sam was reaching for another arrow when Lirael thrust her

435

hand past him, and she screamed a spell over the wind. A

golden net flew from her fingers, spreading wider and wider as

it crossed the intervening water. It met the boar-thing as it

jumped, wrapping it in ropes of yellow red fire that dampened

the thing’s white-hot brilliance. Boar and net came plunging

down, and both disappeared under the surface of the river, cutting

off the terrible squealing. As the waters of the Ratterlin

closed over the boar, an enormous plume of steam shot up for

at least a hundred feet. When it subsided, there was no sign of

either net or Free Magic creature, save for many small pieces

of what looked like long-decayed meat, morsels that even the

ravenous seagulls overhead chose to avoid.

“Thank you,” said Sam, after it became clear that nothing

more was going to come from the guardboat or out of

the depths. He knew the net-spell Lirael had used but hadn’t

thought it would work against something that looked so

powerful.

“Mogget suggested it,” said Lirael, who was clearly surprised

both by that and by the fact that the spell had worked

so well.

“While that kind of construct can move across running

water, it is destroyed by total immersion,” explained Mogget.

“Slowing it for even a moment was enough.”

He looked slyly at the Dog, and added, “So you see that

this hound is not the only one who knows of such things. Now

I really must have a little nap. I trust that some fish will be

forthcoming when I wake?”

Sam nodded wearily, though he had no idea how he was

going to catch any. He almost patted Mogget, as Lirael so often

did the Dog. But something in the cat’s green eyes made him

pull his hand back before the motion was really begun.

“Sorry I didn’t think of the flag earlier,” said Lirael as they

436

sped on. The spell-wind had lessened, but it still blew quite

strongly at their backs. “There’s a whole pile of stuff there I

looked at for only a second when we first left the Glacier.”

“I’m glad you remembered it when you did,” said Sam, his

words slightly muffled as he tested the operation of his jaw. It

seemed to be only bruised, and he still had all his teeth. “And

this wind will come in handy. We should get to the House by

tomorrow morning.”

“Abhorsen’s House,” Lirael said thoughtfully. “It’s built on

an island, isn’t it? Just before the waterfall where the Ratterlin

goes over the Long Cliffs?”

“Yes,” replied Sam, thinking of that raging cascade and

how grateful he was going to be to have its protection. Then

it occurred to him that far from thinking of the waterfall as

safety, Lirael was probably wondering how they would reach

the House without going over the mighty falls and down to

certain destruction.

“Don’t worry about the waterfall,” he explained. “There’s

a sort of channel behind the island, where the current isn’t as

strong. It goes back almost a league, so as long as you enter it

at the right point and stay in it, there’s no problem. The

Wallmakers made it. They built the House, too. It’s brilliant

work—the channel, I mean. I tried to make a model of it once,

using the waterfall and pools on the second terrace at home.

The Palace. But I couldn’t spell the current to split. . . .”

He stopped talking as he realized Lirael wasn’t listening.

She had an abstract expression on her face, and her eyes were

focused over his shoulder, into the distance.

“I didn’t realize I was that boring,” he said with an annoyed

smile. Sam wasn’t used to pretty girls ignoring him. And Lirael

was pretty, he suddenly realized, potentially even beautiful. He

hadn’t noticed before.

437

Lirael started, blinked, and said, “Sorry. I’m not used

to . . . People don’t talk to me much back home.”

“You know, you’d look a lot better without that scarf,”

said Sam. She really was attractive, though something about

her face unsettled him. Where had he seen her? Perhaps she

looked like one of the girls Ellimere had forced on him back

in Belisaere. “You know, you remind me of someone. I don’t

suppose I could have met one of your sisters or something,

could I? I don’t remember ever seeing any dark-haired Clayr,

though.”

“I don’t have any sisters,” replied Lirael absently. “Only

cousins. Lots and lots of cousins. And an aunt.”

“You could change into one of my sister’s dresses at the

House. It’d give you a chance to get out of that waistcoat,”

said Sam. “Do you mind if I ask how old you are, Lirael?”

Lirael looked at him, puzzled at the question, till she saw

the glint in his eye. She knew that look from the Lower

Refectory. She looked away and pulled up her scarf, trying to

think of something to say. If only Sam could have just stayed

like the Dog, she thought. A comforting friend, without the

complication of romantic interest. There had to be something

she could do to completely discourage him, short of throwing

up or otherwise making herself totally unattractive.

“I’m thirty-five,” she said at last.

“Thirty-five!” exclaimed Sam, “I mean, I beg your pardon.

You don’t look . . . you seem much younger—”

“Ointments,” said the Dog, sporting a wicked, one-sided

grin that only Lirael could see. “Unguents. Oils from the

North. Spells of seeming. My mistress works hard to keep her

youth, Prince.”

“Oh,” said Sam, leaning back against the stern rail. Surreptitiously

he looked at Lirael again, trying to see some lines

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he’d missed or something. But she really didn’t look a day older

than Ellimere. And she certainly didn’t act like a much older

woman. She wasn’t all that confident or outgoing, for a start.

Perhaps it was because she was a librarian, Sam thought, as he

tried to make out what he thought was probably a very shapely

form under the baggy waistcoat.

“Enough of that talk, Dog!” commanded Lirael, turning

her head to hide her own smile from Sam. “Make yourself

useful and keep an eye out for danger. I’m going to make myself

useful by weaving a Charter-skin.”

“Aye, aye, Mistress,” growled the Dog. “I will keep watch.”

The hound stretched and yawned, then jumped to the bow,

sitting down right in the path of the spray, her mouth wide

open and tongue lolling. How she stayed upright and steady

was a mystery, Lirael thought, though she had the unpleasant

notion that the Dog might have grown suckers on her bottom.

“Mad. Absolutely mad,” said Mogget, as he watched the

Dog get drenched. The cat had resumed his post near the mast

and was once again licking himself dry. “But then, she always

was.”

“I heard that!” barked the Dog, without looking back.

“Of course you did,” said Mogget, sighing, and he licked

away at his collar. He looked up at Lirael, his green eyes

twinkling with wickedness, and added, “I don’t suppose I could

trouble you to take off my collar so I can get properly dry?”

Lirael shook her head.

“Well, I suppose if the village idiot here wouldn’t do it,

there was no chance you would,” grumbled Mogget, inclining

his head at Sameth. “It’s enough to make me wish I’d volunteered

in the first place. Then I wouldn’t be forced out all the

time on these barbaric boat trips.”

“What didn’t you volunteer for?” asked Lirael curiously.

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But the little cat only smiled. A smile that had rather too much

of the carnivorous hunter in it, Lirael thought. Then he twitched

his head, Ranna tinkled, and he was asleep, sprawled out in the

noonday sun.

“Be careful with Mogget,” Sam warned, as Lirael succumbed

to the temptation to scratch the cat’s furry white belly. “He’s

nearly killed my mother in his unbound form. Three times, in

fact, during the time she’s been the Abhorsen.”

Lirael pulled her hand back just as Mogget opened one

eye and made an—apparently playful—swipe with one clawextended

paw.

“Go back to sleep,” said the Dog from the bow, without

looking around. She certainly seemed confident that Mogget

would obey.

Mogget winked at Lirael, holding her gaze for a moment.

Then that one sharp green eye closed, and he really did seem

to fall asleep, Ranna tinkling at his neck.

“Well,” Lirael said. “Time to make a Charter-skin.”

“Do you mind if I watch?” asked Sam eagerly. “I’ve read

about Charter-skins, but I thought the art was lost. Even

Mother doesn’t know how to make one. What shapes do you

know?”

“I can make an ice otter, a russet bear, or a barking owl,”

replied Lirael, relieved to see that the spasm of romantic interest

that had gripped Sam had passed. “You can watch if you

like, but I don’t know what you’ll see. They’re basically just

very long and complex chains of Charter marks and joiningspells—

and you have to hold them in your head all at the same

time. So I won’t be able to talk or explain or anything. And

it will probably take me until sunset. Then I have to fold it

exactly right so it can be used later.”

“Fascinating,” said Sam. “Have you tried putting the

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completed spell into an object? So that the whole chain of

Marks is there, ready to be pulled out when you need it, but

it hasn’t actually been cast?”

“No,” replied Lirael. “I didn’t know that it was possible.”

“Well, it’s difficult,” explained Sam eagerly. “It’s sort of

like repairing a Charter Stone. I mean, you have to use some

of your own blood to prepare whatever is going to hold the

spell. Royal blood, that is, though Clayr or Abhorsen blood

should work equally well. You need to be very careful, of

course, because if you get it wrong . . . Anyway, let’s see your

Charter-skin first. What is it going to be?”

“A barking owl,” replied Lirael, with a sense of foreboding.

She didn’t need the Sight to know that Sameth would like

to ask an awful lot of questions. “And it’ll take about four

hours. Without,” she added firmly, “any interruptions.”

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Chapter Forty-Two

Southerlings and a Necromancer

The sun was setting, sending a red light across the

broad river. Despite Sam and Lirael’s earlier weather spell, the

wind had turned and was blowing strongly from the south. Even

against the wind, Finder continued to make good time, tacking

in long diagonals between the eastern and western shores.

As Lirael had expected, Sam hadn’t been able to stop himself

asking questions. But even with the interruptions she had

managed to create the Charter-skin of a barking owl and fold

it up properly for later use.

“That was fascinating,” said Sam. “I’d like to learn how to

make one myself.”

“I’ve left In the Skin of a Lyon back at the Glacier,” replied

Lirael. “But you can have it if you ever go there. It belongs to

the Library, but I expect you’d be allowed to borrow it.”

Sam nodded. The prospect of him visiting the Clayr’s

Glacier seemed exceedingly remote. It was just another piece

of a future that he couldn’t imagine. All he could think of was

reaching the safe haven of the House.

“Can we sail through the night?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Lirael. “If the Dog is prepared to stay up as

lookout, to help Finder.”

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“I will,” barked the Disreputable Dog. She had not shifted

from her position at the bow. “The sooner we’re there, the

better. There is a foul scent on this wind, and the river is too

deserted to be normal.”

Sam and Lirael both looked around. They had been so

intent on the Charter-skin that they hadn’t noticed the complete

absence of any other boats, though there were a number

anchored close to the eastern shore.

“No one’s followed us down from High Bridge, and we

have passed only four craft coming from the south,” said the

Dog. “This cannot be normal for the Ratterlin.”

“No,” Sam agreed. “Whenever I’ve been on the river,

there’ve always been lots of boats. Even in winter. We should

have seen some of the wood barges at least, heading north.”

“I haven’t seen a single craft all day,” said the Dog. “Which

means that they have stopped somewhere, to take shelter. And

the boats I’ve seen tied up have all been out on the jetties or

moored to buoys. As far as they can get from the land. ”

“There must be more of the Dead, or those Free Magic constructs,

all along the river,” said Lirael.

“I knew Mother and Dad shouldn’t have gone,” said Sam.

“If they’d known—”

“They would still have gone,” interrupted Mogget with a

yawn. He stretched, and tasted the air with his delicate pink

tongue. “As per usual, trouble comes in several directions at

once. I think some is coming our way, for I am afraid to say

that the hound is correct. There is a reek on this breeze. Wake

me if something unpleasant seems likely to occur.”

With that, he settled back down again, curling into a tight

white ball.

“I wonder what Mogget would call ‘something unpleasant,’”

muttered Sam nervously. He picked up his sword and drew it

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partially out of the scabbard, checking that the Charter marks

he’d put there still flourished.

The Dog sniffed the air again as the boat came about, onto

a port tack. Her nose quivered, and she raised her snout higher

as the scent grew stronger.

“Free Magic,” she said finally. “On the western shore.”

“Where, exactly?” asked Lirael, shading her eyes with her

hand. It was hard to see anything to the west, against the setting

sun. All she could make out was tangled groves of willows

between empty fields, a few makeshift jetties, and the semisubmerged

stone walls of a large fish trap.

“I can’t see,” replied the Dog. “I can only smell. Somewhere

downstream.”

“I can’t see anything, either,” added Sam. “But if the Free

Magic isn’t on the river, we can just sail past.”

“I can smell people, too,” reported the Dog. “Frightened

people.”

Sam didn’t say anything. Lirael glanced at him and saw

that he was biting his lip.

“Could it be the necromancer?” Lirael asked. “Hedge?”

The Dog shrugged. “I cannot tell from here. The scent of

Free Magic is strong, so it could be a necromancer. Or perhaps

a Stilken or Hish.”

Lirael swallowed nervously. She could bind a Stilken, since

she had Nehima to help. And Sam, the Dog, and Mogget. But

she didn’t want to have to.

“I knew I should have read that book,” muttered Sam. He

didn’t say which book.

They sat in silence for a minute, as Finder continued on her

way towards the western shore. The sun was sinking fast now,

more than half of its ruddy disc below the horizon. The stars

were starting to become brighter as darkness fell.

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“I suppose we’d better . . . we’d better take a look,” Sam

said at last, with obvious effort. He buckled on his sword,

but made no move to pick up the bandolier of bells. Lirael

looked at them and wished she could take them up, but they

were not hers. It was up to Sam to decide what to do with

them.

“If we tie up at that next jetty, will we be close?” Lirael

asked the Dog. The hound nodded her head. Without needing

orders, Finder turned towards the jetty.

“Wake up, Mogget!” said Sam, but he spoke softly. It had

grown quiet on the river with the fall of night. He did not want

his voice to carry over the soft burble of the current.

Mogget did not stir. Sam spoke again and scratched the

cat’s head, but Mogget continued to sleep.

“He’ll wake when he needs to,” said the Dog. She also

spoke softly. “Prepare yourselves!”

Finder expertly slid up to the jetty as Lirael lowered the

sail. Sam jumped ashore, his sword drawn, closely followed by

the Dog.

Lirael joined them a moment later, Nehima bare, the Charter

marks on the blade glowing in the twilight.

The Dog sniffed the air again and cocked one ear. All three

stood still. Listening. Waiting.

Even the hungry gulls had stopped calling. There was no

sound, save their own breathing and the rush of the river under

the jetty.

Off in the distance, the silence was suddenly broken by a

long-drawn-out scream. Then, as if that were a signal for noise

to begin, it was followed by muffled shouts and more screams.

At the same time, Lirael and Sam both felt several people

die. Though it was far away, they flinched at the shock of the

deaths and then again as it was quickly repeated. There was

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something else there, too, that they could sense. Some power

over Death.

“A necromancer!” blurted Sam. He took a step back.

“The bells,” said Lirael, and she looked down at the boat.

Mogget was awake now, his green eyes gleaming in the dark.

He was perched upon the bell-bandolier.

“They’re coming this way,” announced the Dog calmly.

The shouts and screams grew closer. But Lirael and Sam

still couldn’t see anything beyond the line of willows. Then,

fifty yards downstream, a man burst out of the trees and fell

into the water. He went under at once but bobbed to the surface

some distance out. He swam for a few strokes, then turned

on his back to float, too weary or too hurt to keep swimming.

Behind him, a burnt and blackened corpse shambled to the

water’s edge and let out a horrible, gobbling cry as it saw its

prey escape. Repelled by the swift flow of the river, the Dead

Hand staggered back into the trees.

“Come on,” said Lirael, though she could barely get out

the words. She drew her panpipes and marched off. The Dog

followed her. Sam hesitated, staring out into the darkness.

More people screamed and shouted beyond the trees. No

words were clear, but Sam knew they were desperately afraid,

and the shouts were for help.

He looked back at the bells. Mogget met his gaze, unblinking.

“What are you waiting for?” asked the cat. “My permission?”

Sam shook his head. He felt paralyzed, unable to reach for

the bells or to follow Lirael. She and the Dog were almost at

the end of the jetty. He could sense the Dead nearby, less than

a hundred yards away, and the necromancer with them.

He had to do something. He had to act. He had to prove

to himself he wasn’t a coward.

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“I don’t need the bells!” he shouted, and he ran down the

jetty, his boots echoing on the wooden planks. He burst past

the surprised Lirael and the Dog, and sprinted through the gap

where the willows had been pruned back.

He was past the trees in an instant and out in a twilit paddock.

A Dead Hand rushed at him. He cut its legs away and

kicked it over, all in one fluid motion. Before it could rise, he

jumped over it and ran on.

The necromancer. He had to kill the necromancer, before

he could drag him into Death. He had to kill him as quickly

as he could.

A hot rage rose in him, banishing the fear. Sam growled

and ran on.

Lirael and the Dog emerged from the willows to see Sam

charge. The Dead Hand he’d cut down scrabbled towards

them, but Lirael had the panpipes ready at her lips. She chose

Saraneth and blew a strong, pure note, its commanding tones

stopping the Hand in its tracks. Without a pause, Lirael changed

to Kibeth, and a trill of dancing notes sent the corpse somersaulting

backwards even as the Spirit inhabiting it was forced

to walk back into Death.

“It’s gone,” said the Dog, loping forward. Lirael ran, too,

but not with Sam’s reckless abandon.

It was still light enough to see that thirty or forty Dead

Hands had surrounded a group of men, women, and children.

Obviously, they’d tried to reach the safety of the river, only to

fail at the very last. Now they had formed a ring with the children

at the center, a last desperate defense.

Lirael could sense the Dead Hands . . . and something else,

something strange and much more powerful. It was only when

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she saw Sam charge past the Hands and scream a challenge

that she realized that it had to be the necromancer.

The people were screaming, too, and shouting, and crying.

The Dead roared and screeched back, as they pulled their victims

down and ripped their throats out or rent them limb from

limb. Makeshift clubs and sharpened branches struck at the

Dead, but their wielders did not know how to use them to best

effect, and they were heavily outnumbered.

Lirael looked across and saw the necromancer turn to face

Sam. He raised his hands, and the hot metal smell of Free Magic

suddenly filled the air. A moment later, a blinding, blue white

spark exploded out, leaping across to strike the charging boy.

At the same time, the Dead Hands howled in triumph as

they burst through the ranks of struggling men and women and

into the inner circle of children.

Lirael turned her easy run into an all-out sprint. Whoever

she tried to help, it looked like she would be too late.

Sam saw the necromancer raise his hands and saw the bronze

of his face. Even as he threw himself to the side, his mind raced.

A bronze face! Then this wasn’t Hedge, but Chlorr of the

Mask, the creature his mother had fought years ago!

The bolt sizzled past him, missing him by a few inches.

Heat from its passage struck him, and the grass behind him

burst into flame.

Sam slowed down as he reached into the Charter and pulled

out four marks. He drew them with his free hand, fingers flashing

too quickly to follow. A triangular silver blade suddenly

materialized in his grip. Before it was even fully formed, Sam

threw it.

The blade spun as it shot through the air. Chlorr easily

448

ducked it, but the spinning blade turned a few paces beyond

her and came shooting back.

Sam rushed forward as the blade struck the necromancer

in the arm. He expected it to almost sever that limb, but there

were only a burst of golden flame, a gout of white sparks, and

a smoldering sleeve.

“Fool,” said Chlorr, raising her sword. Her voice crawled

across his skin like a thousand tiny insects. Her breath stank

of death and Free Magic. “You have no bells.”

In that instant, Sam realized that Chlorr didn’t have any

bells, either. Nor were there any human eyes behind the mask.

Pools of fire burnt there, and white smoke puffed from the

mouth-hole.

Chlorr was no longer a necromancer. She was one of the

Greater Dead. Sabriel had finished her as a living being.

But someone had brought her back.

“Run!” shouted Lirael. “Run!”

She stood between the last four survivors and those Dead

Hands who had resisted the panpipes. Lirael had blown on

Saraneth till her face was blue, but there had just been too

many of them for her to deal with, the power of the pipes too

slight. The Dead who were left didn’t seem affected at all.

Worse still, the children wouldn’t run. They were too

shocked, incapable of doing anything, let alone understand

what Lirael was shouting at them.

A Dead Hand lunged, and Lirael thrust at it. The Dog leapt

at another, knocking it down. But a third, a low, loping thing

with elongated jaws, got past them. It rushed at a small boy

who could not stop screaming. The jaws closed, and the scream

was instantly cut off.

449

Sobbing with fury and revulsion, Lirael spun around and

hewed off the thing’s head, Nehima showering silver sparks as

it cut through. But even then the Dead Hand functioned, the

spirit inside indifferent to any physical harm. She cut at it again

and again, but Dead fingers still clutched its victim, and the

head still gnashed its teeth.

Sam parried another blow from the thing that had once been

Chlorr. Her strength was incredible, and once again he nearly

lost his sword. His hand and wrist were numb, and the Charter

marks he’d spelled so laboriously into the blade were slowly

being destroyed by Chlorr’s power. When they were gone, the

blade would shatter—

He staggered back and glanced quickly around the field.

He could just make out Lirael and the Dog, fighting with at

least a half dozen Dead Hands. He’d heard the pipes before,

the voices of Saraneth and Kibeth, though strangely different

from the bells he knew. They had sent most of the spirits animating

the Hands back into Death, but had had no effect upon

Chlorr.

Chlorr struck again, hissing. Sam dodged. Desperately, he

tried to think of what he could do. There had to be some spell,

something that would at least hold her back long enough for

him to get away. . . .

Lirael and the Dog struck together, smashing the last Dead

Hand to the ground. Before it could get up, the Dog barked in

its face. Instantly, it went limp, no more than a ghastly, misshapen

corpse, the spirit banished.

“Thanks,” gasped Lirael. She looked around her, at the

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grotesque forms of Dead Hands and the pathetic bodies of

their victims. Desperately, she hoped to see even just one of the

children. But there was no one standing except her and the

Dog. There were bodies everywhere, sprawled on the bloodsoaked

ground. The cast-off remnants of the Dead Hands piled

up with the slaughtered people.

Lirael closed her eyes, her sense of Death almost overpowering

her. That sense confirmed what her eyes had already

told her.

No one had survived.

She felt sick, the gorge rising in her throat. But as she bent

forward to throw up, she suddenly heard Sam shouting. She

straightened up, opened her eyes, and looked around. She

couldn’t see Sam, but off in the distance there was a blaze of

golden fire, interspersed with huge showers of white sparks. It

might have been a fireworks display, but Lirael knew better.

Even so, it took her a few seconds to work out what Sam

was shouting.

When it finally percolated into her stunned, shocked mind,

all thought of throwing up disappeared. She jumped over the

bodies of the Dead Hands and their victims and started to run.

Sam was shouting, “Help! Lirael! Dog! Mogget! Anyone!

Help!”

Sam’s sword had broken on the last exchange of blows. It had

snapped off near the hilt, leaving him with a useless dead

weight, devoid of magic.

Chlorr laughed. A laugh strange and distant behind her

mask, as if it echoed from inside some far-off hall.

She had grown taller as she had stalked after Sam, visibly

a thing of darkness under the rotting, splitting furs. Now she

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stood head and shoulders above him, white smoke drifting

from her mouth as she raised her sword again. Red fire flowed

along the blade, and flaming drops fell to the grass.

Sam threw the hilt at her face and jumped back, shouting,

“Help! Lirael! Dog!”

The sword came down. Chlorr leapt forward as well, faster

and farther than Sam had expected. The blade whisked past

his nose. Shocked, he shouted again, “Mogget! Anyone!

Help!”

Lirael saw the necromancer’s sword of red fire come blazing

down. Sam fell under the blow, and the red fire obscured

Lirael’s vision.

“Sam!” she screamed.

As she screamed, the Disreputable Dog sprang ahead, leaping

in great bounds towards Sam and the necromancer.

For a panicked second, Lirael thought Sam had been killed.

Then she saw him roll aside, untouched. The necromancer

raised her sword again, and Lirael burst her lungs trying to get

there in time to do something. But she could not. She was still

forty or fifty yards away, and her mind was empty of all the

spells that might have crossed the distance and distracted the

enemy.

“Die!” whispered Chlorr, raising her sword two-handed above

her head, the blade pointing straight down. Sam looked up at

it and knew he could not get out of the way in time. She was

too fast, too strong. He half raised his hand and tried to speak

a Charter mark, but the only one that came to mind was something

useless, some mark used in making his toys.

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The blade came down.

Sam screamed.

The Disreputable Dog barked.

There was Charter Magic in the bark. It hit Chlorr as she

struck. Her arms flashed gold and sizzled, white smoke gouting

out of a thousand tiny holes. The blow that should have

impaled Sam went awry, the sword sinking deep into the earth,

so close that his hip was burnt by the flame.

All Chlorr’s unnatural strength had gone into the blow.

Now she struggled to free the weapon as the Dog advanced

upon her, growling. The hound had grown and was now the

size of a desert lion, with teeth and claws to match. Her collar

shone with golden fire, the Charter marks shifting and joining

in a wild dance.

The Dead creature let the sword go and backed away.

Sam struggled to his feet as Chlorr drew back. He clenched

his fists as he tried to calm himself, in preparation for casting

a spell.

Lirael arrived a second later, completely out of breath. Gasping,

she slowed to a walk and moved up behind the Dog.

Chlorr raised one shadowy fist, her fingernails elongating

into thin blades of darkness. White smoke still eddied around

her, but the holes in her arm had already closed.

She took one step forward, and the Dog barked again.

There was Free Magic power in this bark, reinforced with

Charter-spells. Her collar shone even brighter, and Sam and

Lirael had to half-close their eyes.

Chlorr flinched and raised her hands to shield her face.

More white smoke poured out from behind her mask, and her

body changed shape under the furs. She began to collapse in

on herself, her clothes crumpling as the shadowflesh within

leaked away.

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“Curse you!” she shrieked.

The furs fell to the ground, and the bronze mask bounced

on top of them. A shadow as dark and thick as ink flowed

away from the Dog and Lirael, moving faster than any liquid

ever spilled.

Lirael started to follow, but the Dog blocked her way.

“No,” said the Dog. “Let it go. I have only forced it out of

its shape. It is too powerful for me to send back into Death

alone, or destroy.”

“It was Chlorr,” said Sam, white-faced and shivering.

“Chlorr of the Mask. A necromancer my mother fought years

ago.”

“It is one of the Greater Dead now,” said Mogget. “Back

from beyond the Seventh or Eighth Gate.”

Sam jumped several feet into the air. When he looked

down, Mogget was sitting quite calmly near Chlorr’s sword, as

if he’d been there all the time.

“Where were you?” Sam asked.

“I’ve been looking around while you took care of things

here,” explained Mogget. “Chlorr has fled but will return.

There are more Dead Hands less than two leagues to the west.

A hundred of them at least, with Shadow Hands to lead them.”

“A hundred!” exclaimed Sam as Lirael said, “Shadow

Hands!”

“We’d better get back to the boat,” said Sam. He looked

at Chlorr’s sword, quivering in the earth. No flames ran down

it now, but the steel was as dark as ebony and etched with

strange runes that wriggled and convulsed and made him feel

nauseated.

“We should destroy this,” he said. His head felt strangely

fuzzy, and he found it difficult to think. “But . . . but I don’t

know how to do it quickly.”

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“What about all these people?” asked Lirael. She couldn’t

call them bodies. She still couldn’t believe they were all dead.

It had happened so quickly, in just a few frenzied minutes.

Sam looked across the field. There were more stars out

now, and a slim crescent of a moon had risen. In the cool light

he saw that many of the slain people wore blue hats or scarves.

A scrap of blue material was caught in the claws of one of the

Dead that Lirael had banished with her pipes.

“They’re Southerlings,” he said, surprised.

He walked over for a closer look at the nearest body, a fairhaired

boy who couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Sam’s

eyes showed more puzzlement than fear, as if he couldn’t believe

what was happening. “Southerling refugees. I guess they

were trying to escape.”

“Escape from what?” asked Lirael.

Before anyone could answer, a Dead creature howled in

the distance. A moment later the howl was taken up by many

dessicated, decaying throats.

“Chlorr has reached the Hands,” said Mogget urgently.

“We must leave now!”

The cat hurried away. Sam started to follow, but Lirael

grabbed him by the arm.

“We can’t just leave!” protested Lirael. “If we leave them,

their bodies will get used—”

“We can’t stay!” protested Sam. “You heard Mogget.

There are too many to fight, and Chlorr will come back too!”

“We have to do something!” Lirael said. She looked at the

Dog. Surely the Dog would help her! They had to perform

the cleansing rite on the bodies or bind them so they couldn’t

be used to house spirits brought from Death.

But the Dog shook her head. “There’s no time,” she said

sadly.

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“Sam can get the bells!” protested Lirael. “We have to—”

The hound nudged Lirael behind the knee, pushing her on.

The girl stumbled forward, tears welling up in her eyes. Sam

and Mogget were already well ahead, hurrying towards the

willows.

“Hurry!” said the Dog anxiously, after a glance over her

shoulder. She could hear the clicking of many bones and smell

decaying flesh. The Dead were closing fast.

Lirael wept as she broke into a shambling jog. If only she

could run faster, or knew how to use the panpipes better. She

might have been able to save even one of the refugees.

One of the refugees. One had got away from the Dead.

“The man!” she exclaimed, breaking into a run. “The man

in the river! We have to rescue him!”

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Chapter Forty-Three

Farewell to Finder

Even with the Dog’s highly developed sense of smell

and Mogget’s unrivaled night vision, it took almost an hour to

find the Southerling who’d managed to reach the river.

He was still floating on his back, but his face was barely

above the surface, and he didn’t seem to be breathing. But as

Sam and Lirael pulled him in closer to the boat, he opened his

eyes and groaned with pain.

“No, no,” he whispered. “No.”

“Hold him,” whispered Lirael to Sam. She quickly reached

into the Charter, drawing out several marks of healing. She

spoke their names and cupped them in her hand. They glowed

there, warm and comforting, as she sought any obvious wounds

to place them for best effect. Once the spell was active, they

could pull him out of the water.

There was a huge dark stain of dried blood on the man’s

neck. But when she moved her hand to it, he cried out and tried

to escape from Sam’s grasp.

“No! The evil!”

Lirael pulled her hand back, puzzled. It was obviously

Charter Magic she was about to cast. The golden light was

clear and bright, and there was no stench of Free Magic.

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“He’s a Southerling,” whispered Sam. “They don’t believe

in magic, even the superstitions the Ancelstierrans believe in,

let alone our magic. It must have been terrible for them when

they crossed the Wall.”

“Land across the Wall,” sobbed the man. “He promised us

land again. Farms to build, a place of our own . . .”

Lirael tried again to place the spell, but the man shrieked

and fought against Sam’s hold. The waves he made ducked his

head under several times, till Lirael had to take her hand away

and let the spell go, away into the night.

“He’s dying,” said Sam. He could feel the man’s life ebbing

away, feel the cold touch of Death reaching out to him.

“What can we do?” asked Lirael. “What—”

“All dead,” said the man, coughing. Blood came out with

the river-water, bright in the moonlight. “At the pit. They were

dead, but still they did his bidding. Then the poison . . . I told

Hral and Mortin not to drink . . . four families—”

“It’s all right,” said Sam soothingly, though his voice was

nearly breaking. “They . . . they got away.”

“We ran, and the Dead followed,” whispered the Southerling.

His eyes were bright, but they saw something other

than Sam and Lirael. “Night and day we ran. They dislike the

sun. Torbel hurt his ankle, and I couldn’t . . . couldn’t carry

him.”

Lirael reached across and stroked the man’s head. He

flinched at first, but relaxed as he saw no strange light in her

hands.

“The farmer said the river,” continued the dying man. “The

river.”

“You made it,” said Sam. “This is the river. The Dead

cannot cross running water.”

“Ahh,” sighed the man, and then he was gone, slipping

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away to that other river, the one that would carry him to the

Ninth Gate and beyond.

Sam slowly let go. Lirael raised her hand. The water closed

over the man’s face, and Finder steered away.

“We couldn’t save even one,” whispered Lirael. “Not even

one.”

Sam didn’t answer. He sat staring past her, out at the moonlit

river.

“Come here, Lirael,” said the Dog gently, from her post at

the bow. “Help me keep watch.”

Lirael nodded, her lower lip trembling as she tried to keep

herself from sobbing. She clambered over the thwarts and

threw herself down next to the Dog, and hugged her as hard

as she could. The Dog bore this without a word, and said nothing

about the tears that spilled off onto her coat.

Eventually, Lirael’s grip loosened, and she slid down. Sleep

had claimed her, the kind of sleep that comes only after all

strength is exhausted and battles won or lost.

The Dog shifted a little to make Lirael more comfortable

and twisted her head to look behind her in a way no normal

dog could twist. Sam was asleep, too, curled up in the stern,

the tiller moving slightly above his head.

Mogget seemed to be asleep, at his customary post near the

mast. But he opened one bright green eye as the Dog looked

back.

“I saw it, too,” said Mogget. “On the Greater Dead, that

Chlorr.”

“Yes,” said the Dog, her voice troubled. “I trust you will

have no trouble remembering where your loyalties lie?”

Mogget didn’t answer. He slowly closed his eye, and a

small and secret smile spread across his mouth.

All through the night, the Disreputable Dog sat at the bow,

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while Lirael tossed and turned beside her. They passed Qyrre

in the early, silent hours of the morning, merely a white sail in

the distance. Though it had been her original destination,

Finder did not try to put in to the dock.

Lirael experienced a mild attack of panic when she awoke

to the sound of a waterfall ahead. At this distance, it sounded

like the buzz of many insects, and it took her a moment to

figure out what it was. Once she did, she had a few anxious

moments till she realized that Finder was traveling quite slowly

compared to the tree branches, leaves, and other flotsam racing

past on either side of them.

“We’re in the channel, approaching Abhorsen’s House,”

explained the Dog, as Lirael rubbed the sleep out of her eyes

and stretched, in a futile effort to relieve her aches and kinks.

All the deaths of the night before seemed long ago. But not

at all like a dream. Lirael knew that the face of the last

Southerling, his look of relief as he finally knew he had escaped

the Dead, would stay with her forever.

As she stretched, she looked at the huge mass of spray

thrown up by the Ratterlin’s fall over the Long Cliffs ahead.

The river seemed to disappear into a great cloud that smothered

the cliffs and the land beyond in a giant, undulating quilt

of white. Then, just for a moment, the mist parted, and she saw

a bright tower, its red-tiled, conical roof catching the sun. It

looked like a mirage, shimmering in the cloud, but Lirael knew

that she had come to Abhorsen’s House at last.

As they drew closer, Lirael saw more red-tiled roofs emerge

from the cloud, hinting at other buildings grouped around the

tower. But she couldn’t see more, because the whole island the

House was built on was surrounded by a whitewashed stone

wall that was at least forty feet high. Only the red tiles and

some treetops were visible.

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She heard Sam come forward from the stern, and he was

soon next to her, looking ahead. By unspoken consent, they

didn’t talk about what had happened, though the silence was

heavy between them.

Finally, desperate to say something, Sam took on the role

of a tour guide.

“It doesn’t look it, but the island is larger than a football

field. Um, that’s a game I used to play at school, in Ancelstierre.

Anyway, the island is about three hundred yards long and a

hundred yards wide. There’s a garden and an orchard as well

as the House itself—you can just see the blossoms on the peach

trees, over on the right. Too early for fruit, though, unfortunately.

The peaches here are fantastic, Charter knows why. The

House isn’t much compared to the Palace in size, but it is bigger

than it looks, and there’s a lot packed into it. Quite a bit different

from your Glacier, I guess.”

“I like it already,” said Lirael, smiling, still looking ahead.

There was the faint hint of a rainbow in the cloud, arching over

the white walls, framing the House with a border of many

colors.

“Just as well,” muttered Mogget, as he appeared suddenly

at Lirael’s elbow. “Though you should be warned about the

cooking.”

“Cooking?” asked the Dog, licking her lips. “What’s

wrong with it?”

“Nothing,” said Sam sternly. “The sendings are very good

cooks.”

“Do you have sendings for servants?” asked Lirael, who

was curious about the difference between the Abhorsen’s life

and the Clayr’s. “We do most of the work ourselves at the

Glacier. Everyone has to take turns, especially with the cooking,

though there are some people who specialize.”

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“No one apart from the family ever comes here,” replied

Sam. “I mean the extended family—those of the Blood, like the

Clayr. And no one has to do anything, really, because there are

so many sendings, all eager to help. I think they get bored when

the place is empty. Every Abhorsen makes a few sendings, so

they kind of multiply. Some are hundreds of years old.”

“Thousands,” said Mogget. “And senile, most of them.”

“Where do we land?” asked Lirael, ignoring Mogget’s

mutterings. She couldn’t see any gate or landing spot in the

northern wall.

“On the western side,” said Sam, raising his voice to

counter the increasing roar of the falls. “We skirt around the

island, almost to the waterfall. There’s a landing stage there for

the House, and the stepping-stones across to the western

tunnel. Look, you can see where the tunnel entrance is, up on

the bank.”

He pointed at a narrow ledge halfway up the western riverbank,

a grey stone outcrop almost as high as the House. If there

was a tunnel entrance there, Lirael couldn’t see it through the

mist, and it seemed perilously close to the waterfall.

“You mean there are stepping-stones across that?”

exclaimed Lirael, pointing to the edges where the waters

rushed over in a torrent that was at least two hundred yards

wide, extremely deep and going at a speed Lirael couldn’t even

guess at. Worse than that, Sam had told her that the waterfall

was more than a thousand feet high. If they were somehow

drawn out of the channel, Finder would go over in seconds,

and it was a very long way to fall.

“On both sides,” shouted Sam. “They go to the riverbanks,

and then there are tunnels that lead down to the bottom of the

cliffs. Or you can keep going over the banks and stay on the

plateau, if you want.”

462

Lirael nodded and gulped, looking at the point where the

stepping-stones must cross from the House to the western

shore. She couldn’t even see them under all the spray and the

churning of the water. She hoped she wouldn’t need to, and

remembered the Charter-skin that was now safely rolled up in

the bag that held The Book of Remembrance and Forgetting,

ready to be put on. She could just fly across in the shape of a

barking owl, screeching all the way.

A few minutes later, Finder was next to the whitewashed

walls. Lirael looked up at them, drawing an imaginary line

from the boat’s mast to the top of the walls. Somehow, the

walls looked even higher close up, and they had curious marks

that even fresh whitewash couldn’t conceal. The sort of stains

left by a flood that had reached almost to the top.

Then they were at the wooden landing stage. Finder gently

bumped against the heavy canvas fenders that hung there, but

any sound from the bump was totally lost in the stomachvibrating

crash of the waterfall. Sam and Lirael quickly

unloaded everything, gesturing to make themselves understood.

The waterfall was too loud for them to hear even a

shout, unless—as Sam demonstrated to Lirael—he was right

against her ear, and then it hurt.

When everything was piled up on the landing stage, with

Mogget perched on Lirael’s pack and the Dog happily catching

spray in her mouth, Lirael kissed Finder’s figurehead on the

cheek and pushed the boat off the jetty. She thought she saw

the carved face of the woman wink, and her lips curve up in a

smile.

“Thank you,” she mouthed, while Sam bowed at her side,

showing his respect. Finder flapped her sail in answer, then

swung about and began to move upstream. Sam, watching

carefully, noted that the current in the channel had reversed

463

and was moving north, against the flow of the river. Once

again, he wondered how it was done and tried to think of how

he could get to look at the Charter Stones that were sunk deep

in the riverbed below. Perhaps Lirael would teach him how to

make an ice-otter Charter-skin—

A touch at his arm broke his reverie, and he turned to

pick up his saddlebags and sword. Then he led the way to the

gate and pushed it open. As soon as they passed through, the

noise of the waterfall practically ceased, so Lirael had to

listen carefully to hear even a distant roar. She could hear

birds in the trees instead, and many bees buzzing past on their

way to the peach blossoms. The mist also parted above and

around Abhorsen’s House, for Lirael stood in sunshine,

which quickly dried the spray that had fallen on her face and

clothes.

There was a red-brick path ahead, bordered by a lawn

and a line of shrubs with clumps of odd, stick-shaped yellow

flowers. The path led to the front door of the House, which

was painted a cheerful sky blue, bright against the whitewashed

stone on either side of it. The House itself seemed

normal enough. It was mainly one large building of three or

four stories, in addition to the tower. It also had some sort of

inner courtyard, too, because Lirael could see birds flying in

and out. There were many windows, all quite large, and it

exuded comfort and welcome. Clearly Abhorsen’s House was

not a fortification, relying on means other than architecture

for its defense.

Lirael raised her arms to the sun and drank in the clear air,

and the faint perfume from the gardens, of flowers and fertile

soil and green growing things. She suddenly felt peaceful, and

strangely at home, though it was so different from the enclosed

tunnels and chambers of the Glacier. Even the gardens in the

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vast chambers there, with their painted ceilings and Chartermark

suns, could not begin to duplicate the vastness of the blue

sky and the true sun.

She exhaled slowly and was about to drop her arms when

she saw a small speck high above her. A moment later it was

joined by a dark cloud of many somewhat larger things. It took

Lirael a few seconds to realize that the smaller speck was a bird

that seemed to be diving straight at her, and the larger specks

were also birds—or things that flew like birds. At the same time

her Death sense twinged, and Sam cried out next to her.

“Gore Crows! They’re after a message-hawk!”

“They’re actually below it,” said the Dog, her head craned

back. “It’s trying to dive through!”

They watched anxiously as the message-hawk fell, zigzagging

slightly to try to avoid the Gore Crows. But there were

hundreds of them, and they spread across a wide area, so the

hawk had no choice but to try to smash through where they

were fewest. It selected its point and closed its wings, dropping

even faster, as if it were a stone thrown straight down.

“If it makes it through, they won’t dare pursue,” said Sam.

“Too close to the river, and the House.”

“Go!” whispered Lirael, staring up at the hawk, willing it

to go even faster. It seemed to fall for ages, and she realized

it must have been very high indeed. Then all of a sudden it hit

the black cloud, and there was an explosion of feathers and

Gore Crows hurtling in all directions, while still more flew in.

Lirael held her breath. The hawk didn’t re-appear. Still the

Gore Crows flew in, till there were so many in a small area that

they began to collide, and black, broken bodies began to fall.

“They got it,” said Sam slowly. Then he shouted. A small

brown bird suddenly dropped out of the swirling mass of Gore

Crows. This time it fell seemingly out of control, lacking the

465

fierce direction and purpose they’d seen before. A few Gore

Crows broke off to pursue it, but they had gone only a little

way before they pulled up and sheered off, repelled by the force

of the river and the protective magics of the House.

The hawk fell further, as if it were dead or stunned. But

only forty or fifty feet above the garden, it suddenly spread its

wings, breaking its fall just enough to swoop in and land at

Lirael’s feet. It lay there, feathered breast panting, and the

marks of the Gore Crows’ attacks obvious in its tattered

plumage and bleeding head. But its yellow eyes were still lively,

and it hopped easily enough onto Sam’s wrist when he bent

down and offered it a place on the cuff of his shirt.

“Message for Prince Sameth,” it said, in a voice that was

not any bird’s. “Message.”

“Yes, yes,” said Sam soothingly, gently stroking its feathers

back into place. “I am Prince Sameth. Tell me.”

The bird cocked its head to one side and opened its beak.

Lirael saw the hint of Charter marks there, and she suddenly

understood that the bird carried a spell inside it, a spell that

was probably cast upon it while it was still in its egg, to grow

as it grew.

“Sameth, you idiot, I hope this finds you at the House,”

said the message-hawk, its voice changing again. Now it seemed

to be a woman. From the tone of voice and the expression on

Sam’s face, Lirael guessed that it was his sister, Ellimere.

“Father and Mother are still in Ancelstierre. There is

greater trouble there than they feared. Corolini is definitely

under the influence of someone from the Old Kingdom, and

his Our Country Party grows more influential in the Moot.

More and more refugees are being moved nearer the Wall.

There are also reports of Dead creatures all along the

Ratterlin’s western shores. I am calling up the Trained Bands

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and will be marching south to Barhedrin with them and the

Guard within two weeks, to try to prevent any crossings. I

don’t know where you are, but Father says it is essential that

you find Nicholas Sayre and return him to Ancelstierre at once,

as Corolini claims we have kidnapped him to use as a hostage

to influence the Chief Minister. Mother sends her love. I hope

you can do something really useful for a change—”

The voice suddenly stopped, having reached the limit of the

message-hawk’s rather tiny mind. The bird made a peeping

sound and started to preen itself.

“Well, let’s go in and get cleaned up,” said Sam slowly,

though he kept staring at the hawk as if it might speak again.

“The sendings will look after you, Lirael. I guess we should

talk about everything at dinner tonight?”

“Dinner!” exclaimed Lirael. “We’d better talk about it

before then. It sounds like we should be off again straightaway.”

“But we only just got here—”

“Yes,” agreed Lirael. “But there’re the Southerlings, and

your friend Nicholas is in danger. It may be that every hour

counts.”

“Particularly since whoever controls Chlorr and the other

Dead knows we’re here,” growled the Dog. “We must move

quickly before we are besieged.”

Sam didn’t answer for a moment. “Okay,” he said quickly.

“I’ll meet you for lunch in an hour, and we can . . . uh . . . work

out what to do next.”

He stalked off ahead, his limp suddenly becoming noticeably

worse, and pushed the front door open. Lirael followed

more slowly, her hand loosely draped over the Dog’s back.

Mogget walked next to them for a few paces, then used the

Dog’s back to springboard himself onto Lirael’s shoulder. She

467

jumped as he landed, but relaxed as she realized he had

sheathed his claws. The little cat carefully draped himself

around her neck and then seemed to go to sleep.

“I’m so tired,” Lirael said as they stepped over the threshold.

“But we really can’t wait, can we?”

“No,” growled the Dog as she looked around the entrance

hall, sniffing. There was no sign of Sam, but a sending was

retreating with the message-hawk on its gloved hand, and two

other sendings were waiting at the foot of the main staircase.

They wore long habits of light cream, with deep cowls covering

their heads, hiding their lack of faces. Only their hands

were visible, pale ghostly hands made of Charter marks, which

occasionally sparkled as they moved.

One came forward and bowed deeply to Lirael, then beckoned

to her to follow. The other went straight to the Disreputable

Dog and took her by the collar. No words were

spoken, but both the Dog and Mogget seemed to guess the

sending’s intentions. Mogget, despite appearing to be asleep,

was the first to react. He leapt from Lirael’s neck and ran

through a cat door under the stairs, displaying a speed and liveliness

Lirael hadn’t seen before. The Dog was either less quick

on the uptake or was less practiced in evading the attentions

of the sendings of Abhorsen’s House.

“A bath!” she yelped in indignation. “I’m not having a

bath! I swam in the river only yesterday. I don’t need a bath!”

“Yes you do,” said Lirael, wrinkling her nose. She looked

at the sending and added, “Please make sure she has one. With

soap. And scrubbing.”

“Can I at least have a bone afterwards?” asked the downcast

Dog, looking back with pleading eyes as the sending led

her away. Anyone would think she was going to prison, or

worse, Lirael thought. But she couldn’t help herself running

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over to kiss the hound on the nose.

“Of course you can have a bone, and a big lunch as well.

I’m going to have a bath, too.”

“It’s different for dogs,” said the Dog mournfully, as the

sending opened a door to the inside courtyard. “We just don’t

like baths!”

“I do, though,” whispered Lirael, looking down at her

sweat-stained clothing and running her fingers through her

dirty hair. For the first time she noticed that there was blood

on her as well. The blood of innocents. “A bath and clean

clothes. That’s what I need.”

The sending bowed again and led her to the stairs. Lirael

followed obediently, enjoying the different creaks in each step

as they climbed. For the next hour, she thought, I will forget

about everything.

But even as she followed the sending, she was thinking of

the Southerlings who had tried so hard to escape. Escape the

pit where their fellows had been killed and forced into servitude.

The pit she had seen, with Nicholas standing alone on a

hill of spoil, while a necromancer and his lightning-blackened

corpses labored to dig up something that Lirael was sure

should never again see the light of day.

469

Chapter Forty-Four

Abhorsen’s House

When Lirael came back downstairs, she was very

clean indeed. The sending had proved to be a true believer in

scrubbing and plenty of hot water—the latter supplied by hot

springs, Lirael guessed, for the first few basins had been accompanied

by a nasty sulphurous whiff, exactly as sometimes happened

back in the Glacier.

The sending had put out rather fancy clothes for her, but

Lirael had refused them. She put on her spare Librarian’s outfit

instead. She had worn the uniform for so long that she felt

strange without it. At least in her red waistcoat she could feel

something like a proper Clayr.

The sending was still trailing after her with a surcoat folded

over its arm. It had been quite insistent that she try it on, and

Lirael had been hard pressed to explain that waistcoats and

surcoats simply didn’t go together.

Another sending opened the double doors to the right of

the stairs as she came down. The bronze knobs were turned by

pale spell-hands, hands that stood out in stark relief against

the dark oak as the sending pushed the door open. Then the

sending moved aside and bowed its cowled head—and Lirael

caught her first glimpse of the main hall. It took up at least half

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the ground floor, but it was not the size that immediately struck

Lirael. She was seized with an intense feeling of déjà vu as she

looked down the length of the hall to the great stained-glass

window that showed the building of the Wall. And there was

the long, brilliantly polished table laden with silver, and the

high-backed chair.

Lirael had seen all of this before, in the Dark Mirror. Only

then the chair had been occupied by the man who was her father.

“There you are,” said Sam from behind her. “I’m sorry I’m

late. I couldn’t get the sendings to give me the right surcoat—

they’ve dug up something odd. Must be getting senile, like

Mogget said.”

Lirael turned around and looked at his surcoat. It had the

golden towers of the royal line, but they were quartered with

a strange device she had never seen—some sort of trowel or

spade, in silver.

“It’s the Wallmakers’ trowel,” explained Sam. “But they’ve

all been gone for centuries. A thousand years at least. . . . I say,

I like your hair,” he added as Lirael continued to stare at him.

She wasn’t wearing her headscarf. Her black hair was brushed

and shining, and the waistcoat didn’t really hide her slender

form. She really was very attractive, but something about her

now struck him as rather forbidding. Whom did she remind

him of?

Sam pushed past the sending that was holding the door

open, and was halfway to the table when he realized that Lirael

hadn’t moved. She was still standing in the doorway, staring at

the table.

“What?” he asked.

Lirael couldn’t speak. She beckoned to the sending that

carried her surcoat. Lirael took it and unfolded it so she could

see the blazon.

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Then she folded the surcoat again, shut her eyes for a silent

count of ten, unfolded it, and stared at it again.

“What is it?” asked Sam. “Are you all right?”

“I . . . I don’t know how to say this,” Lirael began, as she

undid her waistcoat and handed it to the sending that appeared

at her elbow. Sam started at her sudden undressing, but he was

even more shocked when she put on her surcoat and slowly

smoothed it out.

On the coat were the golden stars of the Clayr quartered

with the silver keys of the Abhorsen.

“I must be half Abhorsen,” said Lirael, in a tone that indicated

she hardly believed it herself. “In fact, I think I’m your

mother’s half-sister. Your grandfather was my father. I mean,

I’m your aunt. Half-aunt. Sorry.”

Sam shut his eyes for several seconds. Then he opened

them, trod like a sleepwalker over to a chair, and sat down.

After a moment, Lirael sat down opposite him. Finally he

spoke.

“My aunt? My mother’s half-sister?” He paused. “Does

she know?”

“I don’t think so,” muttered Lirael, suddenly anxious

again. She hadn’t really thought about the full ramifications of

her birth. How would the famous Sabriel feel about the sudden

appearance of a sister? “Surely not—or she would have found

me long ago. I only worked it out myself by using the Dark

Mirror. I wanted to see who my father was. I looked back and

saw my parents in this very room. My father was sitting in that

chair. They had only one night together, before he had to go

away. I suppose that was the year he died.”

“Can’t have been,” said Sam, shaking his head. “That was

twenty years ago.”

“Oh,” said Lirael, blushing. “I lied. I’m only nineteen.”

472

Sam looked at her as if any more revelations would turn

his brain. “How did the sendings know to give you that surcoat?”

he asked.

“I told them,” said Mogget, his head popping up from a

chair nearby. It was obvious that he’d been snoozing, because

his fur was sticking up all on one side.

“How did you know?” asked Sam.

“I have served the Abhorsens for many centuries,” said

Mogget, preening. “So I tend to know what’s what. Once I

realized that Sam was not the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, I kept my

eyes open for the real one to turn up, because the bells wouldn’t

have appeared unless her arrival was imminent. And I was here

when Lirael’s mother came to see Terciel—that is, the former

Abhorsen. So it was rather elementary. Lirael was clearly both

the former Abhorsen’s daughter and the Abhorsen-in-Waiting

the bells were meant for.”

“You mean I’m not the Abhorsen-in-Waiting? She is?”

asked Sam.

“But I can’t be!” exclaimed Lirael. “I mean, I don’t want

to be. I’m a Clayr. I suppose I am a Remembrancer as well, but

I am . . . I am a Daughter of the Clayr!”

She had shouted the last words, and they echoed through

the hall.

“Complain all you like, but the Blood will out,” said Mogget

when the echoes faded. “You are the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, and

you must take up the bells.”

“Thank the Charter!” sighed Sam, and Lirael saw that there

were tears in his eyes. “I mean, I was never going to be any

good with them, anyway. You’ll be a much better Abhorsenin-

Waiting, Lirael. Look at the way you went into Death with

only those little pipes. And you fought Hedge and got away.

All I managed to do was get burnt, and let him get to Nicholas.”

473

“I am a Daughter of the Clayr,” insisted Lirael, but her

voice sounded weak even to her. She had wanted to know who

her father was. But being the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, and one

day—hopefully long distant—the Abhorsen, was a much more

difficult thing to accept. Her life would be dedicated to hunting

down and destroying or banishing the Dead. She would

travel all over the Kingdom, instead of living the life of a Clayr

within the confines of the Glacier.

“‘Does the walker choose the path, or the path the

walker?’” she whispered, as the final page from The Book of

the Dead came shining into her mind. Then another thought

struck her, and she went white.

“I’ll never have the Sight, will I?” she said slowly. She was

half Clayr, but it was the Abhorsen’s blood that ran strongest

in her veins. The gift she had longed for her entire life was

finally and absolutely to be denied to her.

“No, you won’t, Mistress,” said the Dog calmly, as she

came in behind Lirael and put her snout on Lirael’s lap. “But

it is your Clayr heritage that gives you the gift of Remembrance,

for only a child of Abhorsen and Clayr can look into

the past. You must grow in your own powers—for yourself,

for the Kingdom, and for the Charter.”

“I will never have the Sight,” Lirael whispered again, very

slowly. “I will never have the Sight. . . .” She clasped her arms

around the neck of the strangely clean Dog, not even noticing

that the hound smelled sweetly of soap, for the first and probably

last time. But she did not cry. Her eyes were dry. She just

felt very cold, unable to warm herself with the Dog’s comforting

heat.

Sam watched her shiver but did not shift from his chair. He

felt as if he should go over and comfort her somehow, but

didn’t quite know how. It wasn’t as if she were a young woman

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or a girl. She was an aunt, and he didn’t know how to behave.

Would she be offended if he tried to hug her?

“Is it . . . is the Sight really that important to you?” he

asked hesitantly. “You see,” he continued, twisting his linen

napkin, “I feel . . . I feel amazingly relieved that I don’t have

to be the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. I never wanted the sense of

Death, or to go into Death or any of it. And when I did, that

time, when the necromancer . . . when he caught me . . . I

wanted to die, because then it would be over. But I somehow

got out, and I knew that I couldn’t ever go into Death again.

It was just everyone else expecting me to follow in Mother’s

footsteps, because Ellimere was so obviously going to be the

Queen. I thought maybe it was the same for you. You know,

all the other Clayr have the Sight, so that’s the only thing

that matters, even if you don’t want it. It would be the only

way to meet their expectations, like me being the Abhorsenin-

Waiting. Only I didn’t want to be what they wanted, and

you did. . . . I’m babbling, aren’t I? Sorry.”

“More than a hundred words in a row,” remarked Mogget.

“And most of them made sense. There is hope for you yet,

Prince Sameth. Particularly since you are quite right. Lirael is

so obviously an Abhorsen that wanting the Sight must be solely

a peculiarity of her upbringing in that ridiculously cold mountain

of theirs.”

“I wanted to belong,” said Lirael quietly, sitting up. It was

only the shock of losing a childhood dream, she told herself.

In a way, she’d known ever since she had been blindfolded

before being allowed into the Observatory, or perhaps since

Sanar and Ryelle had waved her farewell. She had known that

her life would change, that she would never have the Sight,

never be truly one of the Clayr. At least she had something else

now, she told herself, trying to still the terrible sense of loss.

475

Much better to be the Abhorsen-in-Waiting than a Sightless

Clayr, a freak. If only her head could make her heart believe

that was true.

“You belong here,” said Mogget simply, waving one white

and pink paw around the Hall. “I am the oldest servant of

the Abhorsens, and I feel it in my very marrow. The sendings

likewise. Look at the way they cluster there, just to see you.

Look at the Charter lights that burn brighter above you than

anywhere else. This whole House—and its servants—welcome

you, Lirael. So will the Abhorsen, and the King, and even your

niece, Ellimere.”

Lirael looked around, and sure enough, there was a great

throng of sendings clustered around the door to the kitchen,

filling the room beyond. At least a hundred of them, some so

old and faded that their hands were barely visible—just suggestions

of light and shadow. As she looked, they all bowed.

Lirael bowed in return, feeling the tears she had held back flow

freely down her cheeks.

“Mogget is correct,” woofled the Dog, her chin securely

resting on Lirael’s thigh. “Your Blood has made you what you

are, but you should remember that it is not just the high office

of Abhorsen-in-Waiting you have gained. It is a family you

have found, and all will welcome you.”

“Absolutely!” exclaimed Sam, jumping up with sudden

excitement. “I can’t wait to see Ellimere’s face when she hears

I’ve found our aunt! Mother will love it, too. I think she’s always

been a bit disappointed with me as Abhorsen-in-Waiting.

And Dad doesn’t have any living relatives, because he was

imprisoned for so long as a figurehead down in Hole Hallow.

It’ll be great! We can have a welcoming party for you—”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” interrupted Mogget,

with a very sarcastic meow. He continued, “There is the little

476

matter of your friend Nicholas, and the Southerling refugees,

and the necromancer Hedge, and whatever they’re digging up

near the Red Lake.”

Sam stopped speaking as if he had been physically gagged,

and sat back down, all his enthusiasm erased by a few short

words.

“Yes,” said Lirael heavily. “That is what we should be concerning

ourselves with. We have to work out what to do. That’s

more important than anything else.”

“Except lunch, because no one can plan on an empty stomach,”

interrupted Mogget, loudly seconded by a hungry bark

from the Dog.

“I suppose we do have to eat,” agreed Sam, signaling to

the sendings to begin serving the luncheon.

“Shouldn’t we send the messages first, to your parents and

Ellimere?” asked Lirael, though now that she could smell the

tasty aromas coming from the kitchen, food did seem to be of

prime importance.

“Yes, we should,” agreed Sam. “Only I’m not sure exactly

what to say.”

“Everything we have to, I suppose,” said Lirael. It was an

effort to get her thoughts together. She kept looking down at

the silver keys on her surcoat and feeling dizzy and sort of

sick. “We need to make sure that Princess Ellimere and your

parents know what we know, particularly that Hedge is digging

up something best left buried, something of Free Magic,

and that Nick is his captive, and Chlorr has been brought back

as a Greater Dead spirit. And we should tell them that we’re

going to find and rescue Nick and stop whatever the Enemy

plans to do.”

“I suppose so,” agreed Sam half-heartedly. He looked

down at the plate the sending had just put in front of him, but

477

his attention was clearly not on the poached salmon. “It’s

only . . . if I’m not the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, I’m not really

going to be able to do much. I was thinking of staying here.”

Silence greeted his words. Lirael stared at him, but he

wouldn’t meet her gaze. Mogget kept eating calmly, while the

Dog let out a soft growl that vibrated through Lirael’s leg.

Lirael looked at Sam, wondering what she could say. Even now

she wished she could write a note, push it across the table, and

go away to her room. But she was no longer a Second Assistant

Librarian of the Great Library of the Clayr. Those days were

gone, vanished with everything else that had defined her previous

existence and identity. Even her librarian’s waistcoat had

been spirited away by the sendings.

She was the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. That was her job now,

Lirael thought, and she must do it properly. She would not fail

in the future, as she had failed the Southerlings on the banks

of the Ratterlin.

“You can’t, Sameth. It isn’t just rescuing your friend

Nicholas. Think about what Hedge is trying to do. He’s planning

to kill two hundred thousand people and unleash every

spirit in Death upon the Kingdom! Whatever he’s digging up

must be part of that. I can’t even begin to face it all alone,

Sam. I need your help. The Kingdom needs your help. You

may not be the Abhorsen-in-Waiting anymore, but you are

still a Prince of the Kingdom. You cannot just sit here and do

nothing.”

“I’m . . . I’m afraid of Death,” sobbed Sam, holding up his

burnt wrists so Lirael could see the scars there, scarlet burns

against the lighter skin. “I’m afraid of Hedge. I . . . I can’t face

him again.”

“I’m afraid too,” Lirael said quietly. “Of Death and Hedge

and probably a thousand other things. But I’d rather be afraid

478

and do something than just sit and wait for terrible things to

happen.”

“Hear, hear,” said the Dog, raising her head. “It’s always

better to be doing, Prince. Besides, you don’t smell like a

coward—so you can’t be one.”

“You didn’t hide from the crossbowman at High Bridge,”

added Lirael. “Or the construct when it came across the water.

That was brave. And I’m sure that whatever we face won’t be

as bad as you think.”

“It will probably be worse,” said Mogget cheerfully. He

seemed to be enjoying Sam’s humiliation. “But think of how

much worse it would be to sit here, not knowing. Until the

Dead choke the Ratterlin and Hedge walks across the dry bed

of the river to batter down the door.”

Sam shook his head and muttered something about his

parents. Obviously he didn’t want to believe Mogget’s predictions

of doom and was still clutching at straws.

“The Enemy has set many pieces in motion,” Mogget said.

“The King and the Abhorsen seek to counter whatever brews

in Ancelstierre. They must succeed in stopping the Southerlings

from crossing the Wall, but surely that is only part of the

Enemy’s plans—and because it is the most obvious, perhaps

the least of them.”

Sam stared down at the table. All his hunger was gone.

Finally he looked up. “Lirael,” he said, “do you think I’m a

coward?”

“No.”

“Then I guess I’m not,” said Sam, his voice growing

stronger. “Though I am still afraid.”

“So you’ll come with me? To find Nicholas, and Hedge?”

Sam nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

Silence fell in the hall, as they all thought of what lay

479

ahead. Everything had changed, transformed by history and

fate and truth. Neither Sam nor Lirael were who they had been,

only a little while before. Now they both wondered what all

this meant, and where their new lives would lead them.

And where—and how soon—those new lives might end.

480

Epilogue

Dear Sam,

I am writing to you local-style, with a quill pen

and some wretchedly thick paper that soaks up the

ink like a sponge. My fountain pen has clogged

irreparably, and the paper I brought with me has

succumbed to some sort of rot. A fungus, I think.

Your Old Kingdom is certainly inimicable to the

products of Ancelstierre. Clearly the level of moisture

in the air and the proliferation of local fungi is as

abrasive as conditions in the tropics, though I would

not have expected it from the latitude.

I have had to cancel most of my planned

experiments, due to problems with equipment and

some quite alarming experimental errors on my part,

invalidating the results. I put this down to the illness

I have suffered from ever since I crossed the Wall.

Some sort of fever that greatly weakens me and has

encouraged hallucinatory episodes.

Hedge, the man I hired in Bain, has proved to be

a great asset. Not only did he help me pinpoint the

location of the Lightning Trap from all the local

rumors and superstitious ramblings, but he has

overseen the excavation with commendable zeal.

481

We had quite a lot of trouble hiring local workers

at first, till Hedge hit upon the idea of recruiting from

what I understand to be a lazaret or leper colony of

sorts. The workers from there are quite able-bodied

but shockingly disfigured, and they smell atrocious.

In daylight, they go about completely muffled in

cloaks and swaddling rags, and they seem much more

comfortable after dark. Hedge calls them the Night

Crew, and I must agree this is an appropriate name.

He assures me the disease is not readily contagious,

but I avoid all physical contact, to be on the safe side.

It is interesting that they share the same preference

for blue hats and scarves as the Southerlings.

The Lightning Trap is as fascinating as I expected.

When we first found it, I observed lightning striking a

small hillock or mound more than twice every hour

for several hours, with thunderstorms overhead on an

almost daily basis. Now, as we get closer to the true

object that is buried underneath, the lightning comes

even more frequently, and there is a constant storm

overhead.

From what I have read and—you will laugh at me

for this, because it is most uncharacteristic—from

what I have dreamt, I believe that the Lightning Trap

itself is composed of two hemispheres of a previously

unknown metal, buried some twenty or thirty

fathoms below the mound, which we found to be

completely artificial and very difficult to break into,

with all sorts of odd building materials. Including

bone, if you can believe it. Now the excavation goes

much faster, and I expect we shall make our discovery

within a few days.

482

I had planned to go on to Belisaere at that point,

to meet you, leaving the experiment in abeyance for a

few weeks. But the state of my health is such that a

return to Ancelstierre seems prudent, away from this

inclement air.

I will take the hemispheres with me, having

procured suitable import licenses from Uncle

Edward. I believe they are unusually dense and heavy,

but I expect to be able to ship them from the Red

Lake downriver to the sea, and from there to a little

place north of Nolhaven on the west coast. There is a

deserted timber mill there, which I have procured for

use as an experimental station. Timothy Wallach—

one of my fellow students at Sunbere, though he is in

Fourth Year—should already be there, setting up the

Lightning Farm I have designed to feed power into

the hemispheres.

It is indeed pleasant to have private means and

powerful relatives, isn’t it? It would be very hard to

get things done without them. Mind you, I expect my

father will be quite cross when he discovers I have

spent a whole quarter’s allowance on hundreds of

lightning rods and miles of extra-heavy copper wire!

But it will all be worth it when I get the

Lightning Trap to my experimental station. I am sure

that I will be quickly able to prove that the

hemispheres can store incalculable amounts of

electrical energy, all drawn from storms. Once I have

solved the riddle of extracting that power again, I

shall need only to replicate them on a smaller scale,

and we shall have a new source of limitless,

inexpensive power! Sayre’s Super Batteries will power

483

the cities and industries of the future!

As you can see, my dreams are as large as my

seriously enlarged head. I need you to come and

shrink it, Sam, with some criticism of my person or

abilities!

In fact, I hope you will be able to come and see

my Lightning Farm in all its glory. Do try, if it is at

all possible, though I know you dislike crossing the

Wall. I understand from my last conversation with

Uncle Edward that your parents are already in

Ancelstierre, discussing Corolini’s plans to settle the

Southerling refugees in your deserted lands near the

Wall. Perhaps you could tie in a visit to them with a

side trip to see my work?

In any case, I look forward to seeing you before

too long, and I remain your loyal friend,

Nicholas Sayre

Nick put the pen down and blew on the paper. Not that it

needed it, he thought, looking at the blurred lines where the

ink had spread, making a mockery of his penmanship.

“Hedge!” he called, sitting back to quell a wave of dizziness

and nausea. These fits often came over him now, especially

after concentrating on something. His hair was falling out too,

and his gums were sore. But it couldn’t be scurvy, for his diet

was varied and he drank a glass of fresh lime juice every day.

He was about to call for Hedge again when the man

appeared at the tent door. Barbarously clad, as usual, but the

man was very efficient. As you would expect from a former

sergeant in the Crossing Point Scouts.

“I have a letter to go to my friend Prince Sameth,” said

Nick, folding the paper several times and sealing it with a blob

484

of wax straight from the candle and a thumbprint. “Can you

see it gets sent by messenger or whatever they have here? Send

someone to Edge, if necessary.”

“Don’t worry, Master,” replied Hedge, smiling his enigmatic

smile. “I’ll see it’s taken care of.”

“Good,” mumbled Nick. It was too hot again, and the

lotion he’d brought to repel insects was not working. He’d

have to ask Hedge again to do whatever it was he did to keep

them at bay . . . but first there was the ever-present question—

the status of the pit.

“How goes the digging?” Nick asked. “How deep?”

“Twenty-two fathoms by my measure,” replied Hedge,

with great enthusiasm. “We will soon be there.”

“And the barge is ready?” asked Nick, forcing himself to

keep upright. He really wanted to lie down, as the room started

to spin and the light began to gain a strange redness that he

knew was only in his own eyes.

“I need to recruit some sailors,” said Hedge. “The Night

Crew fear water, because of their . . . affliction. But I expect

my new recruits to arrive any day. Everything is taken care of,

Master,” he added, as Nick didn’t reply. But he was looking at

the young man’s chest, not at his eyes. Nick stared back at him,

unseeing, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Somewhere deep

inside, he knew that he was fainting, as he so often did in front

of Hedge. A damnable weakness he could not control.

Hedge waited, licking his lips nervously. Nick’s head

swayed forward and back. He groaned, his eyelids flickering.

Then he sat up, bolt straight in his chair.

Nick had indeed fainted, and there was something else

behind his eyes, some other intelligence that had lain dormant.

It suddenly sang now, accompanied by fumes of acrid white

smoke that coiled out of Nick’s nose and throat.

485

“I’ll sing you a song of the long ago—

Seven shine the shiners, oh!

What did the Seven do way back when?

Why, they wove the Charter then!

Five for the warp, from beginning to end.

Two for the woof, to make and mend.

That’s the Seven, but what of the Nine—

What of the two who chose not to shine?

The Eighth did hide, hide all away,

But the Seven caught him and made him pay.

The Ninth was strong and fought with might,

But lone Orannis was put out of the light,

Broken in two and buried under hill,

Forever to lie there, wishing us ill.”

There was silence for a moment after the song, then the

voice whispered the last two lines again.

“‘Broken in two and buried under hill, Forever to lie there,

wishing us ill. . . . But it is not my song, Hedge. The world spins

on without my song. Life that knows not my lash crawls unbidden

wherever it will go. Creation runs amok, without the balance

of destruction—and my dreams of fire are only dreams.

But soon the world will fall asleep, and it will be my dream

that all will dream, my song that will fill every ear. Is it not so,

my faithful Hedge?”

Whatever spoke did not wait for Hedge to answer. It went

on immediately, in a different, harsher tone, no longer singing.

“Destroy the letter. Send more Dead to Chlorr and make sure

that they slay the Prince, for he must not come here. Walk in

Death yourself, and keep watch for the spying Daughter of

the Clayr, and kill her if she is seen again. Dig faster, for I . . .

must . . . be . . . whole . . . again!”

486

The last words were shouted with a force that threw Hedge

against the rotting canvas of the tent, to burst out into the

night. He looked back through the rent, fearful of worse, but

whatever had spoken through Nick was gone. Only an unconscious,

sick young man remained, blood slowly trickling

from both nostrils.

“I hear you, Lord,” whispered Hedge. “And as always, I

obey.”

487

To be continued in

Abhorsen

A special work-in-progress preview of the third book in

Garth Nix’s The Old Kingdom Trilogy, prepared especially

for readers of the PerfectBound e-book edition of

Lirael

Abhorsen

Prologue

Fog rose from the river, great billows of white weaving

into the soot and smoke of the city of Corvere, to

become the hybrid thing that the more popular newspapers

called “smog” and the Times “miasmic fog.” Cold,

dank, and foul-smelling, it was dangerous by any name.

At its thickest, it could smother, and it could transform

the faintest hint of a cough into raging pneumonia.

But the unhealthiness of the fog was not its

chief danger. That came from its other primary feature.

The Corvere fog was a concealer, a veil that shrouded

the city’s vaunted gaslights and confused both eyes and

ears. When the fog lay on the city, all streets were dark,

all echoes strange, and everywhere set for murder and

mayhem.

“The fog shows no signs of lifting,” reported

Damed, principal bodyguard to King Touchstone. His

voice betrayed his dislike of the fog. Back in their home,

the Old Kingdom, such fogs were often created by Free

Magic sorcerers. “Also, the . . . telephone . . . is not

working, and the escort is both under-strength and new.

489

There is not one of the officers we usually have among

them. I don’t think you should go, sire.”

Touchstone was standing by the window, peering

out through the shutters. They’d had to shutter all

the windows some days ago, when the demonstrators

had adopted slingshots. They hadn’t been able to throw

half bricks far enough before, as the mansion that

housed the Old Kingdom Embassy was set in a walled

park, and a good hundred yards back from the street.

Not for the first time Touchstone wished that

he could reach the Charter, draw upon it for strength

and magical assistance. But they were five hundred

miles south of the Wall, and the air was still and cold.

Only when the wind blew very strongly from the North

could he feel the slightest touch of his magical heritage.

Sabriel felt the lack of the Charter even more,

Touchstone knew. He glanced at his wife. She was at

her desk, as usual, writing one last letter to an old

schoolfriend, a prominent businessman or a member of

the Ancelstierran Moot. Promising gold, or support, or

introductions, or perhaps making thinly veiled threats

of what would happen if they were stupid enough to

back Corolini’s attempts to settle hundreds of thousands

of Southerling refugees over the Wall, in the Old

Kingdom.

Touchstone still found it odd to see Sabriel

dressed in Ancelstierran clothes, particularly their court

clothes, as she was wearing today. She should be in her

blue and silver tabard, with the bells of the Abhorsen

490

across her chest, her sword at her side. Not in a silver

dress with a hussar’s pelisse worn on one shoulder, and

a strange little pillbox hat pinned to her deep black hair.

And the small automatic pistol in her silver mesh purse

was still no substitute for a sword.

Not that Touchstone felt at ease in his clothes

either. Ancelstierran shirts with their stiff collar and tie

were so constricting, and their suits offered no protection

at all. A sharp blade would slide through his

double-breasted coat of superfine wool as easily as it

would through butter, and as for a bullet . . .

“Shall I convey your regrets, sire?” asked

Damed.

“No,” said Sabriel.

Touchstone frowned and looked at Sabriel. She

had been to school in Ancelstierre, she understood the

people and their ruling classes far better than he did.

She led their diplomatic efforts, as she had always done.

Sabriel stood up and sealed the last letter with

a sharp tap. “The Moot sits tonight and it is possible

Corolini will present his Forced Emigration Bill.

Dawforth’s bloc may just give us the votes to defeat the

motion. We must attend his garden party.”

“In this fog?” asked Touchstone. “How can he

have a garden party?”

“They will ignore the weather,” said Sabriel.

“We will all stand around drinking green absinthe and

eating carrots cut into elegant shapes and pretend we’re

having a marvellous time.”

491

“Carrots?”

“A fad of Dawforth’s, introduced by his

swami,” replied Sabriel. “According to Sulyn.”

“She would know,” said Touchstone, making a

face, but for the prospect of raw carrots and green

absinthe, not Sulyn. She was one of the old schoolfriends

who had been so much help to them. Sulyn, like

the others at Wyverley College twenty years ago, had

seen what happened when Free Magic was stirred up

and grew strong enough to cross the Wall and run

amok in Ancelstierre.

“We will go, Damed,” said Sabriel. “But it

would be sensible to put in place the plan we discussed.”

“I do beg your pardon, Milady Abhorsen,”

replied Damed. “But I’m not sure that it will increase

your safety. In fact, it may make matters worse.”

“But it will be more fun,” pronounced Sabriel.

“Are the cars ready? I shall just put on my coat and

some boots.”

Damed nodded reluctantly and left the room.

Touchstone picked out a dark overcoat from a number

that were draped across the back of a chaise longue and

shrugged it on. Sabriel put on another — a man’s coat

— and sat down to exchange her shoes for boots.

“Damed isn’t usually this concerned without

reason,” Touchstone said as he offered his hand to

Sabriel. “And the fog is very thick. If we were at home,

I wouldn’t doubt it was made with malice afore-

492

thought.”

“The fog is natural enough,” replied Sabriel.

They stood close together and knotted each others’

scarves, finishing with a soft, brushing kiss. “But I agree

it may well be used against us. Yet I am so close to

forming an alliance against Corolini. If Dawforth comes

in, and the Sayres stay out of the matter—“

“Little chance of that unless we can show them

we haven’t made off with their precious son and

nephew,” growled Touchstone, but his attention was on

his pistols. He checked that both were loaded and there

was a round in the chamber, hammer down and safety

on. “I wish we knew more about this guide Nicholas

hired. I am sure I have heard the name Hedge before,

and not in any positive light. I wish we’d met them on

the Great South Road.”

“I am sure we will hear from Ellimere soon,”

said Sabriel, as she checked her own pistol. “Or perhaps

even from Sam. We must leave that matter at least to

the good sense of our children, and deal with what is

before us.”

Touchstone grimaced at the notion of his children’s

good sense, and handed Sabriel a grey felt hat

with a black band, twin to his own, and helped her

remove the pillbox and pin up her hair underneath the

replacement.

“Ready?” he asked, as she belted her coat. With

their hats on, collars up, and scarves wound high, they

looked indistinguishable from Damed and their other

493

guards. Which was precisely the idea.

There were ten bodyguards waiting outside, not

including the drivers of the two heavily armoured

Hedden-Hare automobiles. Sabriel and Touchstone

joined them, and the twelve huddled together for a

moment. If anyone was watching beyond the walls, they

would be hard put to make out who was who through

the fog.

Two people went into the back of each car, with

the remaining eight standing on the running-boards.

The drivers had kept the engines idling for some time,

the exhausts sending a steady stream of warm, lighter

emissions into the fog.

At a signal from Damed, the cars started down

the drive, sounding their klaxons. This was the signal

for the guards at the gate to throw it open, and for the

Ancelstierran police outside to push the crowd apart.

There was always a crowd these days, mostly of

Corolini’s supporters, paid thugs and agitators wearing

the red armbands of the One Country party.

Despite Damed’s worries, the police did their

job well, separating the throng so that the two cars

could speed through. A few bricks and stones were

hurled after them, but they missed the riding guards or

bounced off the hardened glass and armour plate.

Within a minute the crowd was left behind, just a dark,

shouting mass in the fog.

“The escort is not following,” said Damed, who

was riding the running board next to the front car’s

494

driver. A detachment of mounted police had been

assigned to accompany King Touchstone and his

Abhorsen Queen wherever they went in the city, and up

till now they had performed their duty to the expected

standards of the Corvere Police Corps. This time the

troopers were still standing by their horses.

“Maybe they got their orders mixed up,” said

the driver through his open quarter window. But there

was no conviction in his voice.

“Take Harald Street,” ordered Damed. “Left up

ahead.”

The cars sped past two slower automobiles, a

heavily-loaded truck and a horse and wagon, braked

sharply and curved left into the broad stretch of Harald

Street. This was one of the more modern promenades,

and better lit, with gas lamps on both sides of the street,

at regular intervals. Even so, the fog made it unsafe to

drive faster than fifteen miles per hour.

“Something up ahead!” reported the driver.

Damed looked up and swore. As their headlights

pierced the fog, he saw a great mass of people drawn up

all across the street. He couldn’t make out what was on

the banners they held, but it was easy enough to recognise

it as a One Country demonstration. To make it

worse, there were no police to keep them in check. Not

one blue-helmeted officer in sight.

“Stop! Back up!” said Damed. He waved at the

car behind, a double signal that meant ‘Trouble!’ and

‘Retreat!”

495

Both cars started to back up. As they did, the

crowd ahead surged forward. They’d been silent till

then. Now they started shouting “Foreigners Out!” and

“Our Country!,” the shouts accompanied by bricks and

stones, which for the moment fell short.

“Back up!” shouted Damed again. He drew his

pistol, holding it down by his leg. “Faster!”

The rear car was almost back at the corner

when the truck and the wagon they’d passed pulled

across, blocking the way. Masked men dropped out of

the back of both, sending the fog shivering as they ran.

Men with guns.

Damed had known even before he saw the guns

that this was what he had feared all along.

An ambush.

“Out! Out!” he shouted, pointing at the armed

men. “Shoot!”

Around him the other guards were opening car

doors for cover. A second later they opened fire, the

deeper boom of their pistols accompanied by the sharp

tap-tap-tap of the new , compact machine rifles that

were so much handier than the Army’s old Lewins.

None of the guards liked guns, but they had practiced

with them constantly since coming south of the Wall.

“Not the crowd!” roared Touchstone’s voice.

“Only armed targets!”

Their attackers were not so careful. They had

gone under their vehicles and behind a post box and the

wall of a flower-bed, and were firing wildly.

496

Bullets ricocheted off the street and the

armoured cars in mad, zinging screeches. There was

noise everywhere, harsh, confused sound, a mixture of

screaming and shouting combined with the constant

crack and chatter of gunfire. The crowd, so eager to

rush forward only seconds before, had become a terrible,

tumbling crush of people trying to flee.

Damed rushed to a knot of guards who were

crouched between the two cars.

“The river,” he shouted. “Go through the

square and down the Warden Steps. We have two boats

there. You’ll lose any pursuit in the fog.”

“We can fight our way back to the Embassy!”

retorted Touchstone.

“This is too well planned! The police have

turned, or enough of them! You must get out of

Corvere. Out of Ancelstierre!”

“No!” shouted Sabriel. “We haven’t finished—”

She was cut off as Damed violently pushed her

and Touchstone over and dived on to the street. With

his legendary quickness, he intercepted a large black

cylinder that was tumbling through the air, trailing

smoke behind it.

A bomb.

Damed caught and threw it in one swift motion,

but even he was not fast enough.

The bomb exploded while it was still in the air.

Packed with high explosive and pieces of metal, it killed

Damed instantly. The blast broke every window for two

497

miles, and momentarily deafened and blinded everyone

within a hundred yards. But it was the thousands of

metal fragments that did the real damage, ripping and

screaming through the air, to bounce off stone or metal,

or all too often, to cut through flesh.

Silence followed the explosion, save for the roar

of the burning gas from the shattered lamps. Even the

fog had been thrown back by the force of the blast,

which had cleared a great circle open to the sky. Rays of

weak sunshine filtered through, to illuminate the scene

of destruction.

There were bodies strewn all around the cars,

not one overcoated guard still standing. Even the car’s

armoured windows were broken, and the occupants

were slumped in death.

The assassins waited for a few minutes before

they started forward, laughing and congratulating each

other, their weapons cradled casually under their arms,

or across a shoulder with what they imagined was

debonair style.

Their talk and laughter was too loud, but they

didn’t notice. Their senses were battered, their minds in

shock. Not only from the gunfire, the explosion, the terrible

sights that drew closer and more real with every

step, or even the relief at being alive.

It was three hundred years since a King and a

Queen had been slain on the streets of Corvere. Now it

had happened again — and they had done the deed.

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About the Author

Garth Nix was born in 1963 and grew up in Canberra,

Australia. After taking his degree in professional writing

from the University of Canberra, he slowly sank into

the morass of the publishing industry, steadily devolving

from sales rep through publicist, until in 1991 he

became a senior editor with a major multinational publisher.

After a period traveling in Eastern Europe, the

Middle East, and Asia in 1993, he left publishing to

work as a marketing communications consultant. In

1999, he was lured back to the publishing world to

become a part-time literary agent. He now lives in

Sydney, a five-minute walk from Coogee Beach, with his

wife, Anna, and lots of books.

Garth is the author of, among other books, Sabriel,

Lirael, and Shade’s Chldren.

499

Credits

Jacket art „ 2001 by Leo and Diane Dillon

Jacket design by Lizzy Bromley

Jacket „ 2001 by HarperCollins Publishers

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About the Publisher

Australia

HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty Limited

25 Ryde Road (PO Box 321)

Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia

http://www.harpercollins.com.au

Canada

HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

55 Avenue Road, Suite 2900,

Toronto, ON, M5R, 3L2, Canada

http://www.harpercanada.com

New Zealand

HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited

P.O. Box 1, Auckland, New Zealand

http://www.harpercollins.co.nz

United Kingdom

HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

77-85 Fulham Palace Road, London, W6 8JB, UK

http://www.fireandwater.co.uk

United States

HarperCollins Children’s Books

A Division of HarperCollins Publishers

1350 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10022

http://www.harpercollins.com

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