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 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.
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.”
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 Abhorsen-in-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.”
“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 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 Abhorsen-in-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. 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 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 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 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 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.
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.
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.