“But don’t use any Charter Magic unless you have to,” added the Dog. “Someone like Hedge can smell it from miles away. Even with this rain.”
“I know that,” replied Sam. He betrayed his nervousness by drawing his sword, as his eyes kept moving, checking out every tree and shrub. He even looked up, just in time to receive a trickle of rain that had made it through the thick branches overhead. It ran down his neck and under the oilskin, to make him even less comfortable. But nothing lurked in the branches of the tree, and from what little he could see of the sky, it seemed empty of anything but rain and clouds.
Lirael drew her sword too. She hesitated over which bell to choose for a moment, her hand flat against the bandolier. She had entered Death only once before, when she had been so nearly defeated and enslaved by Hedge. This time, she told herself, she would be stronger and better prepared. Part of that meant choosing the right bell. Her fingers lightly touched each pouch till the sixth one, which she carefully opened. She took out the bell, holding it inside its mouth so the clapper couldn’t sound. She had chosen Saraneth, the Binder. Strongest of all the bells save Astarael.
“I am coming too, aren’t I?” asked the Dog eagerly, jumping around Lirael’s feet, her tail wagging at high speed.
Lirael nodded her acquiescence and began to reach out for Death. It was easy here, for the Guard’s passing had created a door that would link Life and Death at this spot for many days. A door that could work both ways.
The cold came quickly, banishing the humidity of the warm rain. Lirael shivered but kept forcing herself forward into Death, till the rain and the wind and the scent of wet leaves and Sam’s watching face were all gone, replaced by the chill, grey light of Death.
The river tugged at Lirael’s knees, willing her onwards. For a moment she resisted, reluctant to give up the feel of Life at her back. All she had to do was take one step backwards, reach out to Life, and be back in the forest. But she would have learned nothing. . . .
“I am the Abhorsen-in-Waiting,” she whispered, and she felt the river’s tug lessen. Or perhaps she just imagined it. Either way, she felt better. She had a right to be here.
She took her first slow step forward, and then another and another, until she was walking steadily forward, the Disreputable Dog plunging along at her side.
If she was lucky, Lirael thought, the Guard would still be on this side of the First Gate. But nothing was moving anywhere she could see, not even drifting on the surface, caught by the current. In the far distance was the roar of the Gate.
She listened carefully to that—for the roar would stop if the woman went through—and kept walking, careful to feel for potholes or sudden dips. It was much easier going with the current, and she relaxed a little, but not so much that she lowered sword or bell.
“She is just ahead, Mistress,” whispered the Dog, her nose twitching only an inch above the surface of the river. “To the left.”
Lirael followed the Dog’s pointing paw and saw that there was a dim shape under the water, drifting with the current towards the First Gate. Instinctively, she stepped forward, thinking to physically grab the Guard. Then she realized her mistake and stopped.
Even the newly Dead could be dangerous, and a friend in Life would not necessarily be so here. It was safer not to touch. Instead she sheathed her sword and, keeping Saraneth stilled with her left hand, transferred her right to grasp the bell’s mahogany handle. Lirael knew she should have flipped it one-handed and begun to ring it at the same time, and she knew she could if she had to, but it seemed sensible to be more cautious. After all, she had never used the bells before. Only the panpipes, and they were a lesser instrument of power.
“Saraneth will be heard by many, and afar,” whispered the Dog. “Why don’t I run up and grab her by the ankle?”
“No.” Lirael frowned. “She’s a Royal Guard, Dead or not, and we have to treat her with respect. I’ll just get her attention. We won’t be waiting around anyway.”
She rang the bell with a simple arcing motion, one of the easiest peals described in The Book of the Dead for Saraneth. At the same time, she exerted her will into the sound of the bell, directing it at the submerged body floating away ahead.
The bell was very loud, eclipsing the faint roar of the First Gate. It echoed everywhere, seeming to grow louder rather than fainter, the deep tone creating ripples on the water in a great ring around Lirael and the Dog, ripples that moved even against the current.
Then the sound wrapped around the spirit of the Guard, and Lirael felt her twist and wriggle against her will like a fresh-hooked fish. Through the echo of the bell, she heard a name, and she knew that Saraneth had found it out and was giving it to her. Sometimes it was necessary to use a Charter-spell to discover a name, but this Guard had no defenses against any of the bells.
“Mareyn,” said the echo of Saraneth, an echo that sounded only inside Lirael’s head. The Guard’s name was Mareyn.
“Stay, Mareyn,” she said in a commanding tone. “Stand, for I would speak with you.”
Lirael felt resistance from the Guard then, but it was weak. A moment later the cold river frothed and bubbled, and the spirit of Mareyn stood up and turned to face the bell wielder who had bound her.
The Guard was too newly dead for Death to have changed her, so her spirit looked the same as her body out in Life. A tall, strongly built woman, the rents in her armor and the wounds in her body as clear here in the strange light of Death as they had been under the sun.
“Speak, if you are able,” ordered Lirael. Again, being newly Dead, Mareyn could probably talk if she chose. Many who dwelled long in Death lost the power of speech, which could only then be restored by Dyrim, the speaking bell.
“I . . . am . . . able,” croaked Mareyn. “What do you want of me, Mistress?”
“I am the Abhorsen-in-Waiting,” declared Lirael, and those words seemed to echo out into Death, drowning the small still voice inside her that wanted to say, “I am a Daughter of the Clayr.”
“I would ask the manner of your death and what you know of a man called Nicholas and the pit he has dug,” she continued.
“You have bound me with your bell and I must answer,” said Mareyn, her voice devoid of all emotion. “But I would ask a boon, if I may.”
“Ask,” said Lirael, flicking her glance to the Disreputable Dog, who was circling behind Mareyn like a wolf after a sheep. The Dog saw her looking, wagged her tail, and started to circle back. She was obviously just playing, though Lirael didn’t understand how she could be so lighthearted here in Death.
“The necromancer of the pit, whose name I dare not speak,” said Mareyn. “He killed my companions, but he laughed and let me crawl away, wounded as I was, with the promise that his servants would find me in Death and bind me to his service. I feel that this is so, and my body also lies unburnt behind me. I do not wish to return, Mistress, or to serve such a one as he. I ask you to send me on, where no power can turn me back.”
“Of course I will,” said Lirael, but Mareyn’s words sent a stab of fear through her. If Hedge had let Mareyn go, he had probably had her followed and knew where her body was. It might be under observation at this moment, and it would be easy enough to set a watch in Death for Mareyn’s spirit when it came. Hedge—or his servants—might be approaching in both Life and Death, right now.
Even as she thought that, the Dog’s ears pricked up and she growled. A second later Lirael heard the roar of the First Gate falter and become still.
“Something comes,” warned the Dog, nose snuffling at the river. “Something bad.”
“Quickly then,” Lirael said. She replaced Saraneth and drew Kibeth, transferring the bell to her left hand so she could also unsheath Nehima. “Mareyn, tell me where the pit is, in relation to your body.”
“The pit lies in the next valley, over the ridge,” replied Mareyn calmly. “There are many Dead there, under constant cloud and lightning. They have made a road, too, along the valley floor to th
e lake. The young man Nicholas lives in a patchwork tent to the east of the pit. . . . Something comes for me, Mistress. Please, I beg you to send me on.”
Lirael felt the fear within Mareyn’s spirit, even though her voice had the steady, uninflected tone of the Dead. She heard it and responded instantly, ringing Kibeth above her head in a figure-eight pattern.
“Go, Mareyn,” she said sternly, her words weaving into the toll of the bell. “Walk deep into Death and do not tarry, or let any bar your path. I command thee to walk to the Ninth Gate and go beyond, for you have earned your final rest. Go!”
Mareyn jerked completely around at that last word and began to march, her head high and arms swinging, as she must once have marched in Life on the parade ground at the barracks at Belisaere. Straight as an arrow she marched, off towards the First Gate. Lirael saw her falter for a moment in the distance, as if something had tried to waylay her, but then she marched on, till the roar of the First Gate stilled to mark her passage.
“She’s gone,” remarked the Dog. “But whatever came through is here somewhere. I can smell it.”
“I can feel it too,” whispered Lirael. She swapped bells again, taking up Saraneth. She liked the security of the big bell, and the deep authority of its voice.
“We should go back,” said the Dog, her head slowly moving from side to side as she tried to locate the creature. “I don’t like it when they’re clever.”
“Do you know what it is?” whispered Lirael as they began to trudge back to Life, zigzagging so her back was never truly turned. As on her first trip, it was much harder going against the current, and it seemed colder than ever, too, leaching away at her spirit.
“Some sneaker from beyond the Fifth Gate, I think,” said the Dog. “Small, and long since whittled down from its original— There!”
She barked and dashed through the water. Lirael saw something like a long, spindle-thin rat—with burning coals for eyes—leap aside as the Dog struck. Then it was coming straight at her, and she felt its cold and powerful spirit rise against her, out of all proportion to its rat-like form.
She screamed and struck at it with her sword, blue-white sparks streaming everywhere. But it was too quick. The blow glanced off, and it snapped at her left wrist, at the hand that held the bell. Its jaws met her armored sleeve, and black-red flames burst out between its needle-like teeth.
Then the Dog fastened her own jaws on the creature’s middle and twisted it off Lirael’s arm, the hound’s bloodcurdling growl adding to the sound of the thing squealing and Lirael’s scream. A moment later all were drowned in the deep sound of Saraneth as Lirael stepped back, flipped the bell, caught the handle, and rang it, all in one smooth motion.
Chapter Eight
The Testing of Sameth
SAM WALKED AROUND his small perimeter again, checking to make sure nothing was approaching. Not that he could see much through the rain and the foliage. Or hear anything, for that matter, till it would be too close for him to do anything but fight.
He checked Lirael again for any sign of change, but she remained in Death, her body still as a statue, rimed with ice, cold billowing out to freeze the puddles at her feet. Sam thought about breaking off a piece of ice to cool himself down but decided against it. There were several large Dog footprints in the middle of the frozen puddle, for the Disreputable Dog—unlike her mistress—was able to bodily cross into Death, confirming Sam’s guess that her physical form was entirely magical.
The Guard’s body was still propped up against the tree as well. Sam had considered laying her out properly, but that seemed stupid when it meant putting her body down into the mud. He wanted to give her body a proper ending, too, but didn’t dare use the Charter Magic required. Not until Lirael came back, at least.
Sam sighed at that thought and wished he could shelter out of the rain against the tree until Lirael did return. But he was acutely aware that he was reponsible for Lirael’s safety. He was alone again, in effect, now without even the dubious companionship of Mogget. It made him nervous, but the fear that had been with him all through his flight from Belisaere was gone. This time he simply didn’t want to let Aunt Lirael down. So he hefted his sword and began once again to walk around the tight ring of trees he’d selected as his patrol route.
He was halfway around when he heard something above the steady sound of the rain. The soggy snap of wet twigs breaking underfoot, or something like it. A sound out of keeping for the forest.
Immediately, Sam knelt down behind the checkered trunk of a large fern and froze, so he could hear better.
At first, all he heard was the rain and his own beating heart. Then he caught the sound again. A soft footfall, leaves crushed underfoot. Someone—or something—was trying to sneak up on him. The sounds were about twenty feet away, lower down the slope, hidden by all the green undergrowth. Coming closer very slowly, just a single pace every minute or so.
Sam glanced back at Lirael. There was no sign of her returning from Death. For a moment, he thought he should run and tap her on the shoulder, to alert her to come back. It was very tempting, because then she could take charge.
He dismissed the thought. Lirael had a task to do, and so did he. There would be time enough to call her back if he had to. Perhaps it was only a big lizard crawling up between the ferns, or a wild dog, or one of those large black flightless birds that he knew lived in these mountains. He couldn’t remember what they were called.
It wasn’t anything Dead. He would have sensed it for sure, he thought. A Free Magic creature would be sizzling from the rain, and he’d smell it. Probably . . .
It moved again, but not uphill. It was circling around, Sam realized. Perhaps trying to work its way past them to attack down the slope. That would be a human trick.
It could be a necromancer, said a fearful part of Sam’s mind.
Not Dead, so you couldn’t sense it. Wielding Free Magic, but not of it, so you couldn’t smell anything. It could even be him. It could be Hedge.
Sam’s sword hand began to tremble. He gripped the hilt tighter, made the trembling stop. The burn scars on his wrists grew livid, bright with the effort.
This it it, he told himself. This was the test. If he didn’t face whatever was out there now, he would know he was a coward forever. Lirael didn’t think he was, nor the Dog. He had run from Astarael, but not out of fear. He had been made to by magic, and Lirael had run too. There was no shame in that.
It moved again, slinking closer. Sam still couldn’t see it, but he was sure he knew where it was.
He reached into the Charter and felt his heart slow from a frantic pace as he was embraced by the familiar calm of the magic that linked all living things. Drawing in the air with his free hand, Sam called forth four bright Charter marks. The fifth he spoke under his breath, into his cupped hand. When the marks joined, Sam held a dagger that was like a sunbeam caught in his hand. Too bright to look at directly, but golden at a glance.
“For the Charter!”
Sun dagger in one hand, sword in the other, Sam roared a battle cry and leapt forward, crashing through the ferns, slipping in the mud, half-falling down the slope. He saw a flash of movement behind a tree and changed direction, still roaring, his father’s berserker blood beating in his temples. There was the enemy, a strange pallid little man—
Who disappeared.
Sam tried to stop. He dug his heels in, but his feet skidded in the mud and he ran straight into a tree trunk, rebounded into a fern, and fell flat on his back. Down in the mud, he remembered his arms master telling him, “Most who go down in a battle never get up again. So don’t bloody well fall down!”
Sam dropped the sun dagger, which was extinguished immediately, the individual marks melting into the ground, and pushed himself up. He had been down for only a second or two, he thought, as he stared wildly around. But there was no sign of the . . . whatever it was. . . .
Lirael.
The thought struck him like a blow, and instantly he was running
up the slope he’d just careered down, grabbing at ferns and branches and anything that could make him go faster. He had to get back! What if Lirael was attacked while she was still in Death? Struck from behind with a dagger, or a knife? She wouldn’t have a chance.
He made it back to the small clearing. Lirael still stood there. Icicles made from raindrops hung from her outstretched arms. The frozen pool around her feet had spread, so strange in this warm forest. She was unharmed.
“Lucky I was here,” said a voice behind Sam. A familiar voice.
Mogget’s voice.
Sam whirled around.
“Mogget? Is that you? Where are you?”
“Here, and regretting it as per usual,” replied Mogget, and a small white cat sauntered out from behind a fern tree.
Sam did not relax his guard. He could see that Mogget still wore his collar, and there was a bell on it. But it could be a trick. And where . . . or who . . . was that strange pale man?
“I saw a man,” said Sam. “His hair and skin were white, white as snow. White as your fur . . .”
“Yes,” yawned Mogget. “That was me. But that shape was forbidden to me by Jerizael, who was . . . let me see . . . she was the forty-eighth Abhorsen. I cannot use it in the presence of an Abhorsen, even an apprentice, without prior permission. Your mother does not generally give me permission, though her father was more flexible. Lirael cannot currently say yea or nay, so once again you see me as I am.”
“The Dog said that she . . . Astarael . . . wasn’t going to let you go,” said Sam. He had not lowered his sword.
Mogget yawned again, and the bell rang on his neck. It was Ranna—Sam recognized both the voice and his own reaction: he couldn’t help yawning himself.
“Is that what that hound said?” remarked the cat as he padded over to Sam’s pack and delicately sliced open half the stitches on the patch with one sharp claw so he could climb in. “Astarael? Is that who it was? It’s been so long, I can’t really remember who was who. In any case, she said what she wanted to say, and then I left. Wake me up when we’re somewhere dry and comfortable, Prince Sameth. With civilized food.”