“Anet! Calew! Ferhan!”
Silver blades flew from the Borderer’s outstretched fingers, striking the Hand at neck, groin, and knees. Golden fire exploded around the gaping wounds they caused, but still the Dead Hand came on, clawed hands reaching for Ferin, who dodged aside, hacking with her knife. The Hand continued past her, staggering away, the spirit within unable to control the body but unable to leave it either, until the Charter-spelled blades dissipated and the golden flames died.
The other two Dead Hands stepped out onto the road, cautious now, both moving toward Ferin, one from the left, one from the right.
“Run!” croaked Ferin. “Deliver my message!”
Young Laska did not run. She reached for the Charter again. She had never been able to cast the spell of the silver blades twice, but she had never needed to so badly. Yet even if she could manage it, there were two Dead Hands . . .
The creatures crept forward warily, suspicious of the magic that had ended their companion. Red fires grew brighter in their eyes as they felt the life they would soon devour. Their newly curved and lengthy toenails made horrible screeching sounds upon the stones of the road and their bony jaws hung low in their almost fleshless skulls, showing teeth that had grown long and serrated.
One had a tongue, a kind of whip of leathery flesh, that lolled and flicked as far as the holes in its skull where once were ears. Both Dead Hands hungered for the life they were about to consume; if they were able to, they would have drooled.
Young Laska tried for the third mark of her spell, but it was too much. She fainted, the first two Charter marks falling from her mouth to dissipate upon the wind.
Ferin snarled and ran at the closest Dead Hand, her knife raised for slashing. But her ankle gave way and she rolled under it, trying to hack upward from where she lay, knowing it would be as much use as stabbing dirt.
The Dead Hand, not expecting her sudden fall, leapt over her. It turned to come back and rend her apart, taloned hands raised—and then suddenly there was a brilliant flash of light and Ferin caught the gone-in-an-instant sight of a golden rope of Charter marks looping over the Hand’s head to jerk it sharply away from her. The rope tightened and pulled the Hand’s head completely off its neck. The rest of the creature whirled off into the darkness, arms flailing, as the Dead spirit within frantically tried to find some other flesh it could anchor itself in to remain in Life. But it could not, and with a despairing, silent scream it returned to Death.
There was another explosion of golden fire off to Ferin’s right. She shut her eyes against the terrible brightness. When she opened them again, Astilaran the healer was looking down at her and offering his hand, and Megril the constable was bending over Young Laska and peeling back her eyelids.
“How many Dead?” asked Astilaran urgently as Ferin wriggled out of her pack and hauled herself up with his help. She did not even try to pick up her bow or arrow case.
“Three followed close,” said Ferin. “But the necromancer is somewhere behind . . . you came back for us?”
“No,” said Astilaran. He was looking behind Ferin, his eyes narrowed. “We came to scout in general. Just as well we did. A necromancer, you say?”
“Yes,” said Ferin.
“Swinther?”
Ferin pointed to a figure limned in golden fire, capering and bounding in circles some distance away. Young Laska’s first spell was still burning away, tormenting the Dead spirit inside. The leaping corpse did not look at all human.
“He fell,” she said, her voice somber and regretful.
“His body was used by the necromancer?”
“What was left of it,” whispered Ferin. She hopped forward, testing her ankle again.
“And you have overdone it and broken my healing spell, just as I said. Lean on me. Megril!”
“Aye?”
“A necromancer, close behind, probably more Dead. We must hurry!”
“Oh, aye!” called Megril. She deftly stripped the pack from Young Laska and threw it aside, then bent and hoisted the Borderer onto her shoulders. “Quick as I can!”
Chapter Twenty-Four
DINNER FOR TWO PLUS ONE . . .
Clayr’s Glacier, Old Kingdom
Lirael had just returned Raminah to the scabbard when there was a knock on the door, and one of the young Clayr on domestic service duty shyly poked her head around.
“Dinner’s coming up,” she said. “Do you want it in here?”
“Yes!” said Lirael eagerly. She was starving and also curious: she’d never had a meal brought to her in the Glacier; she’d always eaten in one or another of the refectories or taken snacks to eat in her study in the Library or in her room. There were three refectories in the Glacier: the Lower, which served mainly visitors; the Middle, which was by far the biggest and most used; and the Upper, which catered to those whose places of work lay highest in the mountains.
Several young Clayr came in bearing trays which held numerous dishes covered in silver domes to keep the heat in; behind them came three Sendings carrying baskets of crockery and silverware; and behind them some sort of superior majordomo Sending who held a folded blue and silver-edged tablecloth of very heavy linen. This Sending bowed to Lirael, flung the cloth over the table and straightened it, then gestured to the other Sendings to lay out plates, numerous glasses, and bright silver cutlery. The Clayr domestics were sent to a long sideboard, where they set down the dishes and then retreated, all of them trying to get a good look at Lirael and Nick while pretending they were not doing so.
“From the Upper Refectory,” said Imshi, gesturing to the covered dishes. “Nothing but the best for our important guests. Did you know there’s even a wine cellar here? Lots of famous old wine; I’m surprised no one’s tried to requisition it, though I suppose it is the Abhorsen’s, not like normal property.”
The Clayr typically had very few personal possessions, but could requisition anything they needed from the common stock. Such requisitions were governed by a relatively informal code policed by one’s peers, unless the requisitioning got out of hand and higher authorities needed to become involved. This was rare, but it did happen from time to time. When Lirael was a child she remembered the shame-faced Jasefel having to carry back more than a thousand pieces of soap, one bar at a time, held above her head so all would know.
Lirael was thinking about Soapy Jasefel and wondering if she ever fell back into her over-requisitioning ways when she noticed the table was only set for two.
“Only two places for dinner?” she asked.
“Oh, I ate ages ago!” declared Imshi breezily. She turned her head to Lirael and winked, so Nick couldn’t see. “I’m sure you two must be famished, and have lots to talk about. Besides, I have an appointment with a visitor myself, in the Perfumed Garden.”
“A garden?” asked Nick. “Here? On the mountain?”
“Inside the mountain,” said Lirael quickly. She didn’t want Imshi to start talking about the main reason people went to the Perfumed Garden in the evening, as it was for assignations with lovers. “A very large open space, full of scented plants and flowers, with Charter marks set high to mimic the sun and the night sky, in turn. But what have we been brought for dinner?”
She went over to the sideboard and began to lift the covers. Nick came to look as well, and neither noticed when Imshi slid out the door, leaving only the Sendings behind.
“Rabbit,” said Lirael. “Roasted with garlic.”
“Some kind of fish,” said Nick. He bent low. “It smells good.”
“That is eel,” said Lirael. “From the eel ponds, we . . . the Clayr eat a lot of eel. But here is fish, fresh-caught from the Ratterlin. Pike fillets.”
“Pike?” asked Nick. “Always thought that was too bony to eat, but this looks very good. Expertly filleted.”
Lirael felt a slight touch at her elbow and found the majordomo Sending holding a plate for her, while a second Sending offered one to Nick.
“Potatoes came to us from Ancelstierre, three
hundred years ago,” said Lirael, pointing to another dish. “I read a beautiful book about potatoes once, in the Library, by the gardener who first grew them here. She was a wonderful artist too, though perhaps sixty or seventy hand-tinted color plates of potatoes would be too much for many readers.”
“Color plates?” asked Nick. “You have printing, then? Oh, I didn’t mean to be . . . it’s confusing. You have swords and armor and things seem sort of medieval, but then there are the magical lights, and the hot water, and the heating . . .”
“My limited experience of Ancelstierre was confusing to me, too,” said Lirael, helping herself to some roasted rabbit. “Have some of this, we call it a twisty green. It is a leaf vegetable, peppery and very refreshing. But yes, there are a number of printeries within the Glacier, and dozens in Belisaere and the towns. Most do simple broadsheets and the like, but you could have a proper book of almost any size printed and bound here, or at any one of three or four printers in Belisaere. There is also a considerable body of Charter Magic to do with books and printing. Some of our most distinguished printers and typographers are also very powerful Charter Mages.”
Lirael kept piling food on her plate as she talked, not really thinking about it until a potato almost rolled off and she had to quickly tilt the plate to stop it, and then tilt it back again before the piece of rabbit slid off. She looked at Nick, feeling clumsy, but he smiled with her, not at her.
“Caught it?” he asked. “I once catapulted a serving spoon full of mash across the table and hit a very important visitor in the face. An ambassador. He was very cross. Everybody else was too.”
“Mash?” asked Lirael.
“Mashed potato,” said Nick. “You don’t have mashed potato? Do you have sausages?”
“Oh yes, we have sausages,” said Lirael.
“Thank goodness for that,” replied Nick. He turned and set his plate down on the table. “I don’t know what I’d do if you didn’t have sausages. And the possibility of mash . . . here, give me a potato and I can make some. Is that butter? I take my fork and presto!”
The fork came down, but instead of pressing the small potato and the dab of butter into something resembling mash, it shot out from under the tines and zoomed across the table, striking a crystal wineglass, which fortunately rang with a clear, vibrant note rather than shattering.
“Oops,” said Nick.
Lirael put her plate down and started to laugh. She laughed so hard she almost choked, and after a moment where Nick seemed unsure whether to join in, he laughed as well.
After that, the dinner was a very relaxed and enjoyable affair. The majordomo Sending brought several different wines in beautiful decanters of silver-collared crystal, which they tasted before settling on one straight out of a dusty green bottle, an effervescent wine the color of pale straw, which was infused with hundreds or maybe thousands of tiny bubbles.
All through dinner, they talked. More than Lirael had ever talked with anyone save the Disreputable Dog. They talked about their childhoods, finding common ground in early loneliness, for though Nick had two living parents, they had never paid him much attention. He had been sent to boarding school at the age of six, and in his first holidays (and many thereafter) had not gone home, for his parents were away traveling, but had been sent to stay with his uncle Edward, which really meant staying with his uncle’s servants, for even then Edward Sayre was Chief Minister and had very little time for his small nephew.
Lirael’s mother, always fey and somewhat lost in the future—even for a Clayr—had left the Glacier when her daughter was five, following her visions. Word had come years later that Arielle was dead, somewhere in the North. Though child-rearing was very much a communal activity among the Clayr, particularly as the children got older, it was still more difficult for someone without her mother or close aunts or great-aunts who took an interest. Or as in Lirael’s case, it could be made more difficult by a relative who did take an interest.
Given the nature of the Clayr’s community, fathers were only ever seen as of passing interest. Though many were regular visitors and had good relationships with their daughters, they could not fully participate in the lives of those within the Glacier and were indeed only allowed into certain parts of it, around the Lower Refectory, the Guest Quarters, and recreational places like the Perfumed Garden or the Sun Steps.
Lirael’s only close relation was her aunt Kirrith, though of course almost everyone in the Glacier was some sort of cousin. Kirrith, for her part, was not known for empathy or understanding, and had always completely failed to understand Lirael’s feelings of loneliness and despair when she did not gain the Sight and so felt herself not truly one of the Clayr.
From families and childhood, their conversation turned to friends. They talked briefly about Lirael’s great and in some respects only friend, the Disreputable Dog. But Nick saw she found this difficult and painful, so he quickly changed the subject to Prince Sameth, who was one of his closest friends and also Lirael’s friend and, strangely, half-nephew, so they could laugh together about his idiosyncrasies and be justly proud together of his ability to make things, which also gave Nick an excuse to take Lirael’s golden hand across the table and bring it up to look at the Charter marks that flowed and swirled over the gilded metal.
As he lifted her hand, the marks grew brighter on her fingers, and some blossomed on Nick’s skin as well, seeming to emerge from deep within his flesh. Both of them felt the sudden presence of the Charter everywhere about them, as if instead of them falling into the Charter, as happened when touching a baptismal mark, it was about to fall on them like some great, irresistible wave.
Nick’s grip loosened and his eyes flickered anxiously, but Lirael closed her hand so he could not let go.
“No,” she said quietly. “Hold on. This is your power manifesting. Relax, let the Charter wash over us. I do not think it will be harmful.”
Nick gulped but tried to follow her instructions. He found himself looking into her eyes, and for once Lirael didn’t lower her head and let her hair fall across her face. He grew calmer, though he could still feel the pressure of the Charter, all those millions and millions of marks all around and through him. In the corner of his vision he could see them too, or almost see them, so many it was as if the room was misted with some golden gas.
A great weight of magic was building around them both, drawn to the other energies he could feel deep inside himself, the Free Magic. Nick wondered with sudden fear if this manifestation of the Charter was indeed like a flood, building up to rush in and snuff out the strange fire within his blood and bone, to quench forever that legacy of Orannis, which surely would also kill him—
“I wanted to see you again,” said Nick hurriedly, suddenly feeling that if he didn’t speak now, he might never have the opportunity. “I wanted to ever since Forwin Mill. Perhaps from before then, though that time is like a dream.”
“I wanted to see you too,” said Lirael. “I . . . I’m not very . . . I don’t find it easy to talk, let alone . . . but I hoped. I hoped you liked me.”
“I do,” said Nick. “When you came in tonight . . . you are very beautiful, Lirael.”
“I am?”
“Yes. But . . . you like me? Despite everything?”
“Everything?”
Nick shrugged unhappily. “Orannis. And . . . and Hedge. I helped them—”
“That wasn’t your fault! It was the shard of the Destroyer within you. It is amazing you survived at all.”
“But then there was the creature in the case,” continued Nick. “The Hrule. I actually made it stronger. If you hadn’t come when you did, it would have killed dozens, maybe hundreds of people . . .”
“You tried to do something,” said Lirael. “That is better than doing nothing. And the Hrule is imprisoned underearth, and you are here . . .”
“We are here,” said Nick. He smiled, his whole face lighting up. “We are here. Together.”
“Yes,” said Lirael. She w
as smiling too, a tide of happiness rising inside her like the bubbles in her wineglass, streaming to the surface. “But you should . . . you should know . . . I don’t really know what . . . I don’t know what to do, I mean, next . . .”
Nick smiled and leaned across the table, and they kissed, and at that moment the Charter marks that had saturated the room, building to some imminent conclusion, simply vanished. There were just two young people kissing across a table, one with his elbow on a piece of leftover eel and the other with her left hand in a pile of salt from the knocked-over saltcellar.
The kissing would probably have gone on for much longer, with even greater damage to the leftovers and table settings, if it were not for a sudden knock at the dining room door. Lirael and Nick just had time to wrench themselves apart and sit back when the door opened, and one of the Third Assistant Librarians who had been on guard in the Southscape outside the front door came in, rolled her eyes to the ceiling, and in a very formal voice made an announcement.
“The Voice of the Nine Day Watch!”
Lirael’s aunt Kirrith followed very closely on the heels of her announcement. Kirrith was a large and muscular woman, both broad and tall, and in her white robes rather resembled an immense block of marble. She was wearing a very ornate crown of silver set with moonstones, which Lirael recognized as an antique not used by the Voice for centuries. It was usually stored in an exhibition case in the Library’s Reading Room. Kirrith’s large-knuckled hand clutched the metal-tipped ivory wand that was the mark of her office, at least for another five days.
“Lirael!” she boomed. “Welcome back! And you must be the curio for the librarians to look at, the Ancelstierran? Welcome, welcome.”
Nick had stood up when she strode in. He bowed, though Lirael noticed his mouth quirked at being addressed as a “curio.”
“Allow me to present Nicholas Sayre, who is the nephew of the Chief Minister of Ancelstierre,” said Lirael coldly. She also stepped back to put her chair in the way as Kirrith came forward with the obvious intention of giving her a hug. She knew her aunt had no real affection for her, but Kirrith liked to go through the motions as if she did.