“Oh, across the Wall!” said Kirrith easily, flicking her fingers and somehow giving her words the same intonation as if she were talking about a neighboring and rather noisome dunghill. “But let me look at you, Lirael! You have grown taller, I swear.”
“I stopped growing years ago, Aunt,” said Lirael.
“The blue suits you, and the silver details,” said Kirrith. She sat down at the head of the table and gestured to one of the Sendings. “Wine. Not that bubbling rubbish. Something red and full-bodied.”
The Sending did not move. Kirrith frowned.
“Some of our Sendings, they are so old and stupid—”
“It isn’t that,” interrupted Lirael. “These are the Abhorsen’s Rooms, Aunt. It will not answer to any of the Clayr.”
“I am not just any of the Clayr!” boomed Kirrith. “I am the Voice of the Nine Day Watch. And not before time, too. You would not believe how badly organized it is in the Observatory, so many excuses about people being sick with this influenza, which I’m sure can be fought off if you have the force of will to do so . . . order it to get me some wine, Lirael. I have only a few moments and then must return; we’re finally Seeing something useful again, and I cannot be spared.”
“Please fetch some wine for my aunt,” said Lirael quietly to the majordomo Sending, who bowed in response. She glanced at Nick, who raised one eyebrow just a fraction. She didn’t know he could do that, and the corner of her mouth twitched just a little in return, though she wanted to beam all over her face and gather him in and start kissing again and perhaps . . . Lirael blinked hard and brought her mind back to whatever nonsense Kirrith was spouting.
“Free Magic beasts! Attacking one of our villages! Can you believe it?”
Suddenly all of Lirael’s attention was on Kirrith.
“What?” she asked. “Free Magic creatures? Where? And when?”
“Yellowsands,” said Kirrith, waving with her wand in a direction she supposed to be northeast, but was actually due south. “North of Navis. A dozen of them, with keepers and all that rigmarole the nomads carry on with. And a necromancer. Can you imagine the hide of it?”
“When?” asked Lirael grimly. “How soon?”
“How soon?” repeated Kirrith. “Today, or so Oreana calculated, you know, by sun and moon. In fact, right now—”
“Now!”
Lirael stood aghast, all thoughts of kissing entirely banished. She looked at the tall water-driven clock in the corner. It was already almost midnight. Around seven hours till dawn, when she could fly the paperwing, and she hadn’t replenished the food and water in her pack, or cleaned her armor . . . but Kirrith was still talking.
“Don’t worry. We sent message-hawks this morning as soon as we Saw what was going on . . . to the guard post at Navis, and to Belisaere. I’m sure Sabriel will be there soon enough to sort them out, though we haven’t actually Seen that yet; when I go back I’m sure I will focus the Sight, whatever that Traienna says—”
“The Abhorsen is on holiday,” spat Lirael. “I have the responsibility of dealing with such things now! Why wasn’t I told of this as soon as I arrived?”
“Don’t be silly, dear,” said Kirrith. “It is a matter for the King and the Abhorsen, as always. You’re too young. I know you’re the Abhorsen-in-Training, but surely—”
“I am the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, and I have fought and won against all manner of Dead and Free Magic creatures, including one of the most powerful, the Ninth Bright Shiner itself,” said Lirael forcefully. “Now, I need to know exactly what has been Seen.”
“You’re just like your mother,” complained Kirrith. “Always so sure of yourself, and look what happened to her!”
“Tell me what has been Seen or I will send for someone who can tell me!” retorted Lirael. “We’re wasting time!”
“Oh, very well,” said Kirrith mulishly. She snatched at the wine the majordomo Sending had just poured for her, took a large swallow, and then told Lirael and Nick what the Clayr had Seen that morning, a rambling exposition that included how difficult it had been to focus on the particular vision in question, since Free Magic distorted the Sight, and the great doubt that many had that it was a true Seeing and lots of other unnecessary detail.
At the end of this rambling discourse, Lirael possessed the information that perhaps a dozen wood-weirds, with attendant shamans, witches, and keepers from several clans, were raiding Yellowsands, a fishing village to the northeast some eighty leagues away. The inhabitants had retreated to an old tower on a tidal creek, but a necromancer was pursuing some of them along a ridge nearby, and there were already Dead summoned. And all this was taking place right now, or had taken place earlier in the night.
Nick watched Lirael as she listened to Kirrith. She was furious, he could tell, but also deeply intent on the details. It soon became clear to him she planned to go to Yellowsands as soon as she could, and he became very worried. He did not know what wood-weirds were, but a dozen of them sounded like a great many, and a necromancer and the Dead as well . . . his memory was fragmented, but he still had the nightmarish recollection of Hedge and what he had called his Night Crew, who were in fact Dead Hands, as Sam had told him.
“Very well,” said Lirael, when Kirrith could tell her no more. “You may go.”
“I am the Voice!” protested Kirrith. “No one tells me if I may go or stay.”
Nevertheless, she pushed her chair back and stood up, raising her wand. During the course of her recitation, and Lirael’s occasional but important questions, it seemed to have penetrated her self-obsession that she had made a major mistake, and though she might be the Voice for another five days, she most likely never would be again.
“I choose to leave!” she said. “You should be grateful I didn’t send you word, Lirael. I was just looking after you, keeping you out of danger!”
Lirael didn’t answer, the anger clear in her set expression and fierce eyes. Kirrith stalked away, and Nick came around the table and held out his arms. But Lirael did not go to him, or reach out.
“I have to prepare a Charter skin,” she said, almost as if thinking aloud rather than talking to Nick. “A barking owl. If I start now I can probably leave by three or four, well before dawn, when the paperwing would fly.”
“But you’re already very tired,” said Nick anxiously, letting his arms fall. “Must you go?”
“This is what . . . this is what it is to be an Abhorsen,” said Lirael. Her gaze was distant; she was already thinking through the first marks she would need to make the Charter skin. “You should go to bed; the Sendings will show you where. The Librarian . . . someone will come see you in the morning.”
She hesitated, lunged close, and quickly kissed Nick hard upon the mouth, their noses almost clashing. Before he could fully respond, she broke away and ran from the room.
Chapter Twenty-Five
AN UNWELCOME SLEEP
Near Yellowsands, Old Kingdom
It was strange to run on grass after so long upon the treacherous shale. Ferin kept expecting to hear that awful cracking sound and feel the ground shift beneath her. Then her exhausted mind caught up once again that they were in the valley now, and the arm helping her stay upright belonged to Astilaran, the old healer, who was scrawny but surprisingly strong.
Young Laska had come back to her senses and now she ran alongside, with Megril bringing up the rear. The constable often paused to look back, sword and spell-casting hand ready. But there had been no further pursuit, at least not yet. The necromancer and keeper presumably still followed, but even though the night was now bright from the moon and stars, it would be easy for them to stay hidden provided they kept off the road.
Five minutes later, Astilaran called a halt. Ferin sank to her knees, panting, but still kept one hand on her knife. She regretted having to leave her bow and pack, but it had been the right thing to do. She could not have come this far still burdened.
“Three minutes’ rest,” said Astilaran. He bent ove
r and put his hands on his knees, sucking in great breaths.
“Did you . . . did you see what the other sorcerers with the wood-weirds were doing?” gasped Ferin.
“Sacked the village, gone back to their ship,” panted Astilaran. “Suppose . . . confident the necromancer . . . would get you. You see or hear anything, Megril?”
“No,” grunted the constable. She had gone off the path and was half-hidden by a low bush, ready to spring out if someone came up on them.
“He won’t have given up,” panted Ferin. “Did everyone . . . everyone make it to the tower?”
“We’ll talk later,” said Astilaran, with a sideways glance at Young Laska, who still looked rather stunned. She couldn’t speak, the failed spell having damaged her throat. “Save your breath.”
“If . . . he does catch up,” said Ferin. “Kill the keeper. Necromancer . . . freed, might go elsewhere. Could work.”
“Aye,” said Megril, tilting her sword so the moonlight didn’t reflect upon the blade.
Astilaran snorted, a very demonstrative sound of disbelief.
“Rest over; let’s go.”
They ran more slowly now. Ferin’s ankle was so weak she had to lean heavily on Astilaran. Young Laska was unable to keep to a straight line along the road, whether from simple exhaustion or because she was still somewhat stunned. Only Megril, always at the rear, moved easily.
But the dark bulk of the southern hill could be seen against the sky, and the road was curving to the east. They were within half a league of the tower, perhaps even closer, and there was still no sign of pursuit.
Until a bell sounded behind them.
Not close, but close enough. It was a sweet, gentle sound that entered Ferin’s muscles. She felt suddenly warm and cozy, and also pleasantly weak. Before she knew it, she was slowly subsiding to the ground, Astilaran with her. He yawned mightily, and Ferin followed suit, her mouth wide, eyes closing. They lay themselves down on the grass by the roadside. Young Laska already lay sprawled on the stones of the road, her head cradled in her hands.
Only Megril staggered on. Charter marks shone bright on her hauberk, rolling off her armor onto her skin, and other marks dripped from her sword to her hand. Protective spells coming to life, laid there by the best mages of the Guard and Rural Constabulary as protection against just such a force that acted against her now. She had two fingers pressed against the Charter mark on her forehead and her face was contorted with the effort of resisting sleep.
“Bell!” she croaked. “The Sleeper . . . wake up! Wake up!”
Megril staggered to Astilaran and knelt to touch his Charter mark. The old healer stirred and mumbled something in his sleep, but he did not wake.
Megril groaned and straightened up, shaking her head like a horse, sideways and up and down. She faced back along the road, sword held at guard, the sweet, beguiling sound of Ranna echoing all around. But underneath that lullaby, there was also the sound of footsteps on the road. Soft, scuffling footsteps, the sound of nomad moccasins, not southern boots.
The constable took a deep breath, and then another, more quickly. She bit her bottom lip hard and then tilted her head back and roared up at the sky, a wordless battle cry that still could not cut through the comforting chime of Ranna.
Megril charged up the road, hoping for the faint chance of surprise. She saw the necromancer, the small bell in his hand. The keeper behind him dropped the silver chain to take her bow from her back, not bothering to grab an arrow because she already had a spirit-glass shaft in her left hand.
Megril was only a dozen paces away when the spirit-glass arrow hit her in the chest. Free Magic exploded through the protection of even Charter-spelled steel, and the bloodied arrow came clear out her back. Somehow Megril continued on another two or three steps, even lifting her sword as if to strike. Then she stumbled, the blade twisted out of her suddenly open hand, and she fell dead upon the road.
“Garner her spirit,” instructed the keeper, bending to pick up the chain again. She yawned as she did so, and cast a sudden look at the necromancer. “Spare me the bell’s attention!”
The necromancer smiled and rang Ranna again, away from his body, whereas before he had held it close to his chest, the bell’s open end pointing ahead.
The keeper snarled and half-straightened, reaching for another spirit-glass arrow that was tucked through her belt, though this one was safely hooded. But the bell was now almost in her face and she did not complete the movement, suddenly slumping against the necromancer’s legs. He kicked her aside, stilled the bell, and replaced it in his bandolier, stifling a yawn himself. Even the most practiced necromancer had to be careful with the bells, for they were greedy to bring all within the grasp of their power.
The necromancer reached down to draw out the keeper’s own knife. Slitting her throat, he reveled at the sensation of her death, smiling as if he had just taken the first bite of a most delicious and long-awaited meal.
“Now to bring you back, my keeper,” he whispered to himself. He looked across at the dead constable. He would harvest her spirit too, before she went too far into Death. If he was swift, he could catch both spirits before the First Gate, use Mosrael to return them to Life, and though he would be seesawed it would not be beyond the Second Gate. He could come back from there quickly enough. It would take no more than thirty minutes, out in the living world, and he now had plenty of time.
For a moment he considered walking ahead to slay the trio he had put to sleep with Ranna, but he decided against it. They would not wake for hours; he could kill them at his leisure. The river of Death was swift, and while he did not care about the constable, he most earnestly wanted to capture his former keeper’s spirit before it went too far, or worse, someone else bound her to their service.
Even the Dead could be tortured, if you knew how. The necromancer knew, and he had much to repay.
Even so, he waited a few moments, letting his sense of life and death expand to make sure he was alone. He could feel the sleeping three, and some small animals, hares perhaps, out in the meadow. Nothing else, no one close. This was the only time he regretted the absence of a keeper, or rather, some faithful servant. They would keep his body safe here while he was absent in Death.
But he had no such servant. Entering Death was a calculated risk, as always. But in any case, he could return very quickly to his body if need be, as he had no intention of going deeper into Death than the Third Precinct.
The necromancer drew the bell Saraneth, red flames flickering around its ebony handle. Those flames were echoed in his eyes, but they were not a reflection, rather a hint of the creature that lay bound beneath his skin, the source of his power.
He would use Belgaer later; he chose Saraneth now because it was safer to go into Death ready to bind and command, in case anything powerful lurked close, or had been prowling about in search of some easy doorway into Life. Sudden, violent death made such passage easier, as did freshly spilled blood. There was plenty of that around now, a great puddle of it under the necromancer’s boots.
He exerted his will and stepped into Death, his physical body suddenly rimed with ice, the blood of the keeper growing colder under his feet.
Several minutes later, the first six Royal Guardsmen from the post at Navis advanced carefully along the road. Alerted sixteen hours earlier by message-hawk from the Clayr, this vanguard had ridden out with two spare horses each. They had reached the tower on the estuary an hour before, found out what there was to know there from Karrilke, and had come ahead warily on foot, looking for Astilaran and Megril, wood-weirds, keepers, a necromancer, and the Dead.
Finding Astilaran, Ferin, and Young Laska asleep upon and by the road, they did not speak, but quietly moved into a line abreast and edged forward with great care.
They halted when they saw the blood pooled upon the road, the two corpses, and the necromancer crouched with bell in hand, encased in ice, stark white under the moon like some strange culinary sculpture displaced from an
unpleasant celebration.
They paused for only a few seconds, but in that time the necromancer sensed their presence, even though he was about to pass through the waterfall of the First Gate. He spun about at once, fighting the current, and strode as fast as he could back toward Life, cursing himself for being so stupid as to seek revenge over safety.
He was almost at the border, reaching out to his body, when half a dozen Charter-spelled swords struck as one, piercing his throat, his stomach, and his arms and legs. Golden fire burned and silver sparks fountained out, but even so he managed to get back into his flesh, only to find himself pinned by the swords. He tried to speak a spell, but the sword in his throat choked him, and he could not move his arms to gesture, to summon up the Free Magic spirit that was bound to him, lived within him, and was the source of his power.
He died, gargling and cursing. His spirit was drawn back weak and powerless into Death and the Free Magic spirit he had once bound separated from him to go its own way, perhaps one day to return into the living world.
“Jarek, Linramm, Kasad, scout ahead, two hundred paces, then come back,” said the lieutenant quietly. “Watch for burning eyes. Wood-weirds. Stop and listen too; those keeper’s chains rattle.”
Three of the guards nodded and moved ahead, keeping off the road, being careful so that their moonshadows did not fall upon the bare paving.
“Temerry, go back and see if you can wake those three up,” whispered the lieutenant again. “Should be possible now the necromancer’s gone.”
Temerry had a healer’s pouch as well as a sword on her belt. When she had gone, the lieutenant turned to the sergeant.
“What do we do about the bells? I’ve never dealt with a necromancer before.”
“I dunno,” said the sergeant. He let out a deep, slightly shuddering breath. “I never dealt with one neither.”
“We were lucky,” said the lieutenant. “A few more minutes, he’d have been ready, with these two as Dead Hands, maybe more we haven’t spotted. And whatever else he could do. Hmm . . . we’d better send these two to rest.”