The sergeant shook his head.
“Enemy’ll see the fire,” he said, referring to the white blaze of total cremation that came from using Charter Magic to ensure no body remained for further use, and which also assisted the spirit connected to it to go beyond the Ninth Gate. “Wait till dawn, come back when we can see what’s going on.”
“Just leave those bells here?”
“You want to pick them up?”
The lieutenant shook her head. She could smell the Free Magic, a sickening, acrid stench of hot metal, and there was the suggestion of red fire on the black handles of the bells. She couldn’t see it when she looked directly, but every time she turned her head it was there in the corner of her eye.
“The keeper’s got one of them spirit-glass arrows too,” said the sergeant. “Ought to smash that. From a distance.”
“Abhorsen’s business, this,” said the lieutenant, coming to a decision. “Sabriel or Lirael should be here tomorrow; word was sent. We’ll leave everything as it is for now, withdraw to the tower. I don’t want to be out here in the dark any longer if there are still wood-weirds around, and we’ve got the nomad girl Captain Karrilke says this is all about.”
“Karrilke said her husband was with them,” said the sergeant slowly. “Woodcutter with a big axe. But he isn’t one of the three.”
“Yes,” said the lieutenant. “Well. Let’s take back who we can.”
There was a faint barking crackle in the darkness, the soft cry of a corncrake, repeated twice.
“Nothing sighted,” said the sergeant automatically. “They’re on their way back.”
The lieutenant looked behind to the sleepers. Temerry had the old healer up on his feet, but the other two were still on the road, obviously unable to be roused even with a Charter spell.
“I’ll take the tail with Jarek,” said the lieutenant. “You take Linramm and Kasad. They’ll have to carry the nomad and the Borderer.”
“Least she’s a small nomad,” said the sergeant. “Wonder what she did with her horse?”
Chapter Twenty-Six
BARKING OWLS AND NIGHTTIME VISITORS
The Clayr’s Glacier, Old Kingdom
The two bedrooms Lirael had already seen turned out to be guest bedrooms. The Sendings led her to the actual Abhorsen’s bedroom, which was not only twice the size, but also had a ridiculously large and ornate bed that had eight posts, each corner featuring a double column of ornately carved and gilded timber. The ludicrously fat mattress must have needed the feathers of several hundred geese, and the bedspread was fringed with silver tassels and had an enormous Abhorsen key some six feet by three paces embroidered in silvery seed pearls.
Lirael’s pack was on the dressing table, her new sword, Raminah, on the sword-rest next to it, her freshly cleaned armor on a stand, and her bells upon another strangely shallow bookcase like the one by the front door.
Lirael checked her pack, to discover the Sendings had refilled her water bottle and there were new emergency rations of hard biscuit and even harder cheese wrapped in paper and oilskin. Her cloak was rolled tighter than she ever managed, the clockwork firestarter had a new flint, her knife was sharpened and her spoon polished.
“Thank you,” said Lirael to the Sending by the door. It rose and gestured at another pile of gear, laid ready next to her own.
“What’s this?”
There were several folded items of clothing on top of a leather satchel. Lirael lifted the top piece and shook it out, puzzled to see a long, hooded robe. A few fading Charter marks hung in the close weave of the unfamiliar cloth, and she thought it once would have been completely saturated with marks. There were also two elbow-length gloves of the same material in the pile, and under them . . .
A bronze mask.
Lirael felt her heart race as she lifted the gloves and saw it, and she sprang back, suddenly wary, for it was Chlorr’s mask!
But after a moment of rising panic, which she fought down, Lirael realized it was not Chlorr’s mask, though it could have been made by the same hand. This one had fading Charter marks drifting through the metal; once it too would have been deeply imbued with Charter Magic.
Lirael set the mask aside and examined the satchel. It held three metal bottles, with stoppers of solid silver and armatures of gold wire ready to twist around to seal the bottles shut. Bottles to imprison Free Magic creatures, as she had read about in Creatures by Nagy and other tomes.
The robe, the gloves, the mask, the bottles . . . they were all part of some long-ago Abhorsen’s equipment for dealing with Free Magic creatures. But dealing with them in a much closer and more involved way than Sabriel ever did, or had spoken of to Lirael. They had not talked much about Free Magic creatures, but Lirael knew Sabriel advocated destroying the lesser ones, if they could be destroyed. The more powerful were very rare, and often had to be forced beyond the boundaries of the Kingdom, or bound in a dry well or some such prison.
These old bottles and the protective clothing suggested past Abhorsens might have kept their Free Magic prisoners closer, to use them in some way, perhaps even in a similar fashion to the sorcerers who were their eternal foes. . . .
Lirael put the satchel aside and wondered about all this, and about Chlorr, who wore a mask devoid of Charter marks but otherwise of a pattern with this one, surely property of a long-ago Abhorsen. She would ask Vancelle if there was anything in the Library about Chlorr, she decided.
But there were more important things she had to do first.
Lirael sat in the big thronelike armchair, another sign of some past Abhorsen’s grandiloquent taste, and at once began to make a Charter skin. It took all her concentration and willpower, which was good, because she needed to let go of a great many feelings. Anger and frustration at Kirrith, and the far more complex feelings that had erupted inside her to do with Nick, of longing and excitement and joy, but also fear. Fear of losing what she had only just begun to know.
Slowly, as she sank deeper into the Charter, finding each mark and knitting it into the complex network of her barking owl shape, she left all these emotions and most of her conscious thought behind. There was only the Charter, the marks, the feel of being an owl, of feathers rather than skin, sensing the shift and lift of different parts of the air, a whole new experience of the night . . .
Three hours later, she had the Charter skin made. It wasn’t folded for storage or transport—that would take longer—but Lirael needed at least a little rest before she could do that. She stood up and swayed in place, needing to put her hands down on the arms of the chair to balance herself.
She was very tired. But she knew she had to fly to Yellowsands and do whatever she could. If Kirrith had told her accurately there were probably guards from Navis there already, but they would need help.
Lirael took a step away from the chair and nearly fell over her Charter skin, which, since it wasn’t folded, would have destroyed it. She steadied herself and blinked, trying to clear her somewhat blurry vision.
It was no good. She had to sleep for at least a little while. Falling asleep as an owl and crashing into the ground would not help anyone.
“Sending,” she said quietly, to the silent servant who was almost invisible in the corner of the room. “Wake me in one hour.”
With that, she staggered to the bed and fell facedown on the heavily embroidered coverlet. She was too tired to notice the tiny seed pearls sticking her in the cheek, and when she woke she would have an abstract part of the larger pattern of the big key imprinted on her face.
But it was not the Sending that woke her, and it wasn’t in an hour. First there came urgent knocking, which came through to her as a dream of carpentry and people hammering on inexplicable constructions of wood. Then someone was shaking her, and it wasn’t the Charter Magic hand of a Sending doing the shaking, but one of real flesh.
“Wake up! Lirael!”
Groaning, Lirael opened her eyes. A familiar face loomed above her, though the brown skin was flush
ed with red on the cheeks, the blue eyes were not so bright as normal, and the usual cloud of blond hair lay flat and dull.
“Sanar!”
The normally extremely beautiful and completely self-possessed Clayr was not her usual self and indeed looked quite ill. It took Lirael a few more moments to process that though she didn’t look well, she was wearing the silver circlet of the Voice—the standard one, not Kirrith’s antique crown—and had the ivory-and-steel wand stuck through the twisted rope belt of her white robe.
“You’re the Voice again? What happened to Kirrith?”
“Reported sick with influenza,” said Sanar. “I’m sorry to wake you, Lirael. I have been ill too; in fact, Lealla only just agreed I am well enough to be released from the Infirmary. I’ve been trying to sort out what is going on. Kirrith . . . well, it was hard to make sense of some of what she told me, so I had to go back through all of the last week’s messages and talk to Traienna about what has been done in the Observatory, and then I had to assemble some sort of Watch from at least half-well people to try for some meaningful visions. Which we have just done.”
“Good,” said Lirael. She shook her head, felt the strange impression on her cheek, and grimaced. “Did you See what’s happening at Yellowsands? I’ve made a Charter skin, an owl. I’ll fly there as soon as I can fold it and go up on the—”
“That’s why I woke you up,” said Sanar. “You don’t need to go anywhere. Most of the sorcerers went back in their ship with their wood-weirds, they’re gone. The necromancer has been dealt with by the guards from Navis. And Sabriel and the King are flying to Yellowsands at dawn. We didn’t See that, by the way. A message-hawk came in just before sundown last night stating their intention, but Kirrith didn’t file the message, she just put it up her sleeve.”
“But . . . but their holiday!” protested Lirael. She felt a sudden hollow feeling inside, that she had let down her half-sister, had failed in her duty.
Sanar laughed.
“Can you imagine those two staying on holiday for any length of time?” she asked. “I expect they were very pleased to be called back, even if Kirrith was wrong to do so. Which she was, by the way. It is my fault too, and I apologize. Well, mine and Ryelle’s. We fell into the very traditional error of the Clayr, the one our mother always warned us about.”
“What’s that?”
“Thinking we will always See everything important,” said Sanar. “We all know better, but we forget. We Saw nothing significant ahead, save this bout of influenza, and thought a few sops to those who don’t normally get the chance to be the Voice wouldn’t go astray. Very worthy folk like Pegrun in the steamworks, and old Allabet, who makes those lovely confections in the Upper Refectory. And some not-so-worthy folk, like Kirrith. We just got tired of her complaining that no one recognized her value.”
“So I can go back to sleep,” said Lirael.
“For now,” replied Sanar. “We know from the message-hawk that Sabriel and Touchstone are going to Yellowsands. But not for long, because we have Seen them coming here.”
“Coming here?” asked Lirael. “What for?”
“They’re bringing a messenger,” said Sanar. “A young woman from the far mountains beyond the steppe, who has had a very hard road indeed.”
Lirael nodded and yawned. Sleep called to her very strongly, and she started to subside back onto the bed, noting for the first time how very comfortable the feather mattress was. It was so much firmer and well-packed than her old bed, and wider too, with ample room for two people on it. Her and Nick, for example . . .
Sanar was still talking. Words drifted past Lirael’s ear, only some of them connecting with her very weary mind, which was wandering off on some pleasant imaginings. But two words did penetrate, and with them came a sudden jolt of wakefulness that brought her right back to the present.
“Your mother.”
Lirael sat up as if a large pin had suddenly been discovered the hard way amid the feathers of the mattress.
“My mother?” she asked sharply. “What did you say?”
“The messenger from the far mountains,” said Sanar gently. “She is bringing a message from your mother. And word of some wider trouble ahead. The King has called a council. They will arrive around noon, I should think. Both Sabriel and Touchstone are flying paperwings, and they will bring this messenger.”
“But my mother is dead,” said Lirael in a very small voice. “Isn’t she?”
“She is,” said Sanar, sitting down next to her on the bed to give her a hug. “But she was a Clayr, and a very strong one. We think she Saw something years ago, something that is now coming to pass, and she arranged for a messenger to warn you. To warn us.”
“I see,” said Lirael. She gave a small, slightly bitter laugh. “Or rather I don’t See. As always.”
“You have other gifts,” said Sanar. “Very important ones, as we all know. You are the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, and a Remembrancer. I think Arielle was immensely, immensely proud of you.”
“Of a five-year-old she left behind?”
“No,” said Sanar quietly. “Of the woman you have become. I think she Saw you. She knew. Perhaps this messenger will tell us more. You should sleep now.”
She got up and went to the door.
“Your friend is handsome, by the way,” said Sanar.
“Oh,” said Lirael. “Nick? You . . . you have Seen him? Seen us?”
“Not in time to come. Not in the ice,” said Sanar, much to Lirael’s relief. “But the door to his bedroom is open, and like you were, he is asleep fully clothed on the bed.”
“He’s getting more handsome as he recovers,” said Lirael. “But that’s not what . . . that’s only part of . . . there’s something else about him, that’s not obvious . . .”
“It is always important to look beyond a pleasant visage,” said Sanar. “Sleep well.”
She went out, the Sending shutting the door quietly behind her. But Lirael did not immediately lie back. She was still very, very tired, but she got up and took off her dress, laying it carefully over the chair. The Sending came forward immediately, took a nightgown from the ugly but impressive wardrobe that had gargoyles on its top corners, and offered it to her. Lirael dutifully put it on but didn’t go straight back to bed. Instead she undid the strap on the smallest pocket of her bell bandolier and took out the small soapstone statuette of the little dog. Holding it tight in her left hand, she went to the bed; this time she crawled between the sheets, made the pleasant discovery they were fine silk, and dropped immediately off to sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
ARRIVALS AND DEPARTURES
Near Yellowsands and the Clayr’s Glacier, Old Kingdom
Ferin dreamed terrible dreams. She was back in the Offering’s Chair again, and there was not one but many small children chewing on her ankle with their impossibly sharp teeth, shredding flesh and bone, grunting like hogs. Then they were gone and there was another even worse pain in her stomach, and the Witch With No Face, who Ferin had never actually seen but had heard described, was stabbing her in the navel, striking again and again, and her bronze mask was sweating, great beads of molten bronze sweat falling onto Ferin and burning her . . .
Then she woke up, to find herself on some sort of low bed, under a blanket and her own Athask fur coat. Ferin touched the fur gingerly to see if it was real or if she was still dreaming, for she knew it had been in her pack, dropped on the road as they fled . . . she let go and lifted her head, anxiously looking around. Had she been captured by the necromancer? Surely he would simply slay her?
She was in a stone-walled room, the wall curved behind her. She could see the sky of early morning through the narrow window opposite, but not the dusky orange of dawn. It was midmorning, perhaps two or three hours after daybreak. There was an open door to her left, which was promising. Not a prison. She could see stone steps going down, and up.
A tower. Probably the old tower where the villagers had fled. Ferin grimaced, thinking
of what she had to tell Karrilke. But first she had to get up. She put her elbows back and tried, but there really was a pain in her navel. Pushing back coat and blanket, she found she was dressed only in a kind of long white shirt. There was a bandage around her middle. Ferin pressed against it, discovering a wound. She ran her fingers along the small, neat incision, reminiscent of a stab wound. But she didn’t remember being struck there, certainly not with a weapon. It wasn’t like the many small cuts on her face and hands, from the Gore Crows and the shale, which had been smeared with some kind of healing grease, but not bandaged.
Her ankle hurt too, but not as much as it had. It was hard to sit up, but she managed it, and looked at her right foot.
It wasn’t there.
Her leg ended in a carefully bandaged stump.
Ferin could swear she still felt her toes, and could even wriggle them. But they were not there. For a moment the shock was too great; she could only stare along her leg. But slowly the realization came. She had damaged it too much, the healing spell had failed, and it had been cut off so it could not poison the rest of her.
Ferin let her head fall back and stared at the ceiling, willing herself to stay calm. She was Athask, and the loss of a foot was nothing important. She would get a wooden foot. There were several people in the tribe who had lost limbs in fighting, or from accidents, or frostbite. Ears and noses too. It did not matter.
Though it would make things a little difficult in the immediate future. Ferin also wondered why it wasn’t hurting more. Surely it should be like the blinding pain she’d felt on the fishing boat, so great she had not been able to stay conscious? She sat up once more, grunting with the effort, and looked again. After a few seconds, she saw those strange glowing, moving symbols again, both on her foot and on her stomach. Charter marks. There was magic at work.
“Ah, you’re awake,” said Astilaran, climbing up the last few steps into the room.