by Garth Nix
Some whistled notes, redolent with power, drifted down to Lirael, and for a nausea-inducing moment she felt as if she herself were flying and must turn into the wind. Then she saw the Paperwing come swooping down once more, turn into the wind, and come to a sliding, snow-spraying stop on the terrace—much too close to Lirael’s hiding place for comfort.
Two people climbed wearily out of the cockpit and stretched their arms and legs. Both were so heavily wrapped in furs that Lirael couldn’t see whether they were male or female. They weren’t Clayr, though, she was certain, not in those clothes. One wore a coat of black and silver marten fur, the other a coat of some russet-red fur Lirael didn’t recognize. And their goggles were blue lensed, not green.
The russet-furred one reached back into the cockpit and pulled out two swords. Lirael thought he—she was reasonably certain this one was a he—would hand one over, but he buckled both onto his broad leather belt, one on either side of his waist.
The other person—the one in black and silver—was a woman, Lirael decided. There was something about the way she took off her glove and rested her palm on the nose of the Paperwing, like a mother checking the temperature of a child’s forehead.
Then the woman also reached into the cockpit, and she pulled out a leather bandolier. Lirael craned forward to see better, ignoring the snow that fell down inside her collar. Then she almost gasped and gave herself away, as she recognized what was in the pouches on the bandolier. Seven pouches, the smallest the size of a pillbox, the largest as long as Lirael’s hand. Each pouch had a mahogany handle sticking out of it. The handles of bells, bells whose voices were stilled in the leather. Whoever this woman was, she carried the seven bells of a necromancer!
The woman put the bandolier on and reached for her own sword. Longer than the ones the Clayr used, and older, too. Lirael could feel some sort of power in it, even from where she was hidden. Charter Magic, in the sword, and in both the people.
And in the bells, Lirael realized, which finally told her who this person must be. Necromancy was Free Magic, and forbidden in the Kingdom, as were the bells that necromancers used. Except for the bells of one woman. The woman who was charged with undoing the evil that necromancers wrought. The woman who put the Dead to rest. The woman who alone combined Free Magic with the Charter.
Lirael shivered, but not from cold, as she realized that she was only about twenty yards away from the Abhorsen. Years ago, the legendary Sabriel had rescued the petrified prince Touchstone and with him defeated the Greater Dead creature called Kerrigor, who had almost destroyed the Kingdom. And she had married the Prince when he became King, and together they had—
Lirael looked at the man again, noting the two swords and the way he stood close to Sabriel. He must be the King, she realized, feeling almost sick. King Touchstone and the Abhorsen Sabriel here! Close enough to go and talk to—if she was brave enough.
She wasn’t. She settled further back into the snow, ignoring the damp and the cold, and waited to see what would happen. Lirael didn’t know how you were supposed to bow or curtsy or whatever it was, or what you were supposed to call the King and the Abhorsen. Most of all, she didn’t know how to explain what she was doing there.
Having equipped themselves, Sabriel and Touchstone drew close together and spoke quietly, their muffled faces almost touching. Lirael strained her ears but couldn’t hear anything. The wind was blowing their words the wrong way. However, it was clear that they were waiting for something—or someone.
They didn’t have to wait long. Lirael slowly turned her head towards the Starmount Gate, careful not to disturb the snow packed around her. A small gathering of the Clayr was issuing out of the Gate and hurrying across the terrace. They’d obviously come straight from the Awakening, because most of them had simply thrown cloaks or coats over their white robes, and nearly all of them still wore their circlets.
Lirael recognized the two in front—the twins Sanar and Ryelle—the flawless embodiment of the perfect Clayr. Their Sight was so strong they were nearly always in the Nine Day Watch, so Lirael hardly ever crossed paths with them. They were both tall and extremely beautiful, their long blond hair shining even more brightly than their silver circlets in the sun.
Behind them came five other Clayr. Lirael knew them all vaguely and, if pressed, could recall their names and their familial relationship to her. None was closer than a third cousin, but she recognized all of them as being particularly strong in the Sight. If they weren’t part of the Nine Day Watch right now, they would be tomorrow, and probably had been last week.
In short, they were seven of the most important Clayr in all the Glacier. They all held significant ordinary posts in addition to their Sighted work. Small Jasell, for example, bringing up the rear, was First Bursar, in charge of the Clayr’s internal finances and its trading bank.
They were also the very last people Lirael wanted to meet somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be.
Chapter Four
A Glint in the Snow
As Sanar and Ryelle led the others forward, Lirael thought she would see them do whatever it was you did when you met the King and his Queen, who had the added distinction of being the Abhorsen.
But Sabriel and Touchstone didn’t wait for whatever that was. They met Sanar and Ryelle with hugs and, after pushing up their goggles and removing their scarves, with kisses on both cheeks. Once again, Lirael leaned forward to hear what was being said. The wind was still blowing the wrong way, but it had lessened, so she could catch the conversation.
“Well met, cousins,” said Sabriel and the King together, both smiling. Now that she could see their faces, Lirael thought they both looked very tired.
“We Saw you last night,” said Sanar—or Ryelle—Lirael wasn’t sure. “But we had to guess the time from the sun. I trust you haven’t been waiting long?”
“A few minutes,” said Touchstone. “Just long enough to stretch.”
“He still doesn’t like flying much,” said Sabriel, with a smile at her husband. “No confidence in the pilot.”
Touchstone shrugged and laughed. “You get better all the time,” he said.
Lirael sensed that he wasn’t just talking about flying Paperwings. There seemed to be a semi-secret line of energy and feeling that ran between Touchstone and Sabriel. They shared something unseen, something that brought laughter and the smile in Sabriel’s eyes.
“We didn’t See you staying,” continued Sanar. “I take it we got that right?”
“You did,” replied Sabriel, and the smile was gone from her eyes. “There is trouble in the West, and we cannot linger. Only long enough to take counsel. If you have any to give.”
“The West again?” asked Sanar, and she shared a troubled look with Ryelle, as did the others of the Clayr behind her. “We See nothing for too great a part of the West. Some power exists there that blocks all but the briefest glimpses. Yet we know that it is from the West that trouble will come to pass. So many futures show snatches of it, but never enough to be useful.”
“Plenty of present trouble, too,” said the King, sighing. “I have raised six Charter Stones around Edge and the Red Lake in the last ten years. Only two remain from year to year, and I can no longer spare the time to keep repairing the others. We go there now to quell whatever the current trouble is, and to attempt to find the source, but I am not confident we will. Particularly if it is strong enough to hide from the Clayr’s Sight.”
“It is not always strength that can blind our Sight,” said one of the Clayr, the oldest there. “Nor even evil. There are subtle powers that divert our Sight for reasons we can only guess, and there is always simply the fact that we See too many futures, too briefly. Perhaps whatever blinds us near the Red Lake is no more than this.”
“If it is, then it also breaks Charter Stones with the blood of Charter Mages,” said Touchstone. “And it draws the Dead and Free Magic to it more than anywhere else. Of all the Kingdom, it is the region around the Red Lake and the foothills o
f Mount Abed that most resists our rule. Fourteen years ago, Sabriel and I promised that the broken Charter Stones would be made anew, the villages re-established, the people once again free to go about their lives and business, without fear of the Dead and Free Magic. We have made it so from the Wall to the Northern Desert. But we cannot defeat whatever it is that opposes us in the West. Apart from Edge itself, that part of the West is still the wilderness that Kerrigor made it over two hundred years ago.”
“You grow weary of your toils,” said the old Clayr suddenly, and both Touchstone and Sabriel nodded. But their shoulders were straight, and while they admitted the weariness, they gave no sign that they refused the burden.
“We get no rest,” said Touchstone. “There is always some new trouble, some danger that can be dealt with only by the King or the Abhorsen. Sabriel gets the worst of it, for there are still too many Dead abroad, and too many idiots who would open further doors to Death.”
“Like the one who is currently causing havoc near Edge,” said Sabriel. “Or so the messages say. A necromancer or Free Magic sorcerer, one who wears a bronze mask. She—for it is reported she is a woman—has a company of both the Dead and living men, and they have been raiding farms and steadings from Edge to the east, almost as far as Roble’s Town. Yet we have heard nothing from you. Surely you must have Seen some of this?”
“We rarely See anything near the Red Lake,” replied Ryelle with a troubled frown. “But we usually have no problem farther afield. In this case, I regret that we have given you no warning for what has happened, and can no give you no guide as to what will.”
“A company of the Guard is riding from Qyrre,” said Touchstone. “But they will not arrive for at least three days. We plan to be at Roble’s Town ourselves by the morning.”
“Hopefully a bright morning,” added Sabriel. “If the reports are true, this necromancer has many Dead Hands under her control. Maybe even enough to attack a town at night, or under heavy cloud.”
“I think we would definitely See an attack upon Roble’s Town,” said Ryelle. “And we have not.”
“That’s some relief,” said Touchstone, but Lirael saw that he didn’t entirely believe them. She was herself shocked, because she had never heard of the Sight being blocked, or of there being some place where the Clayr couldn’t See. Except beyond the Wall to Ancelstierre, of course, but that was different. No magic worked in Ancelstierre, at least not once you got well south of the Wall. Or so the stories said. Lirael didn’t know anyone who’d ever been to Ancelstierre, though the rumor was that Sabriel had grown up there.
The wind strengthened as Lirael mulled over what she’d heard, so she couldn’t quite catch the next bit of conversation. But she saw the Clayr bow, and Sabriel and Touchstone motion for them to rise.
“Don’t get formal on me!” exclaimed Touchstone. “You can’t See everything, just as we can’t do everything. Somehow we’ve managed so far, and we’ll keep on managing.”
“ ‘Keeping on’ being the watchword of this year and all the years behind it,” said Sabriel, sighing. “Speaking of such, we’d best turn the Paperwing around and take flight again. I want to visit the House on the way to Roble’s Town.”
“To take counsel with—?” asked Ryelle, but the rest of her words were lost to Lirael, carried away by a gust of wind. She leaned forward a bit more, still trying not to dislodge the snow from her cap.
Sabriel said something in return, but Lirael couldn’t make it out, save for the last part. “. . . still sleeps most of the year, under Ranna’s . . .”
Then there was more lost talk, as they all clustered around the Paperwing and slid it around. Lirael craned forward as far as she dared, snow slipping from her face. It was infuriating to see them and hear the occasional word but not be able to understand. For a moment she even wildly thought of casting a spell to improve her hearing. She’d seen references to such a spell, but she didn’t know all the marks. Besides, Sabriel and the others would almost certainly notice Charter Magic nearby.
Suddenly, the wind dropped, and Lirael could hear clearly again.
“They’re still at school in Ancelstierre,” Sabriel said, obviously in answer to a question asked by Sanar. “They’ll be here for the holidays in three, no . . . four weeks. If all works out with this current emergency, we might just get to the Wall in time to meet them, and we had planned a few weeks together in Belisaere. But I expect some new trouble will arise that will take at least one of us away until they have to go back.”
She sounded sad when she said that, Lirael thought. Touchstone must have thought so, too, because he took her hand, lending support.
“At least they’re safe there,” he said, and Sabriel nodded, her weariness showing through again.
“We have Seen them crossing the Wall, though it may be the next time, or the one after that,” affirmed Ryelle. “Ellimere looks . . . will look . . . very like you, Sabriel.”
“Fortunately,” said Touchstone, laughing. “Though she takes after me in some other respects.”
Lirael realized that they had been talking about their children. They had two, she knew. A Princess who was roughly her own age, and a Prince who was younger, she didn’t know by how much. Sabriel and Touchstone obviously cared about them a great deal, and missed them. That made her think of her own mother and father, who must not have cared about her at all. Once again she remembered the touch of that soft, cool hand. But her mother had still left her, and who knew whether her father ever even knew of her birth?
“She will be Queen,” said a strong voice, dragging Lirael’s attention back to the present. “She will not be Queen. She may be Queen.”
It was one of the other Clayr, an older woman, speaking in the voice of prophecy, her eyes Seeing something other than the lump of ice she was staring at. Then she gasped and stumbled forward, hands flung out to break her fall into the snow.
Touchstone lunged and caught her before she could hit the ground, setting her back on her feet. She swayed there, still unsteady, her eyes wild and dreaming.
“A far future,” she said, the strange timbre of foreseeing gone from her voice. “One in which your daughter, Ellimere, was older than you are now, reigning as Queen. But I also Saw many other possible futures, side by side, where there is nothing but smoke and ashes, the whole world burnt and broken.”
Lirael felt a shiver pass through her entire body as the old Clayr spoke. Her voice carried so much conviction, Lirael could almost see the desolate ruins herself. But how could the whole world be burnt and broken?
“Possible futures,” interjected Sanar, trying to sound calm. “We often catch glimpses of futures that will never be. It is part of the burden of the Sight.”
“Then I for one am glad I don’t have it,” replied Touchstone, as he let the still shaky Clayr go into the helping hands of Sanar and Ryelle. He looked up at the sun, and then across at Sabriel, who nodded. “I regret to say that we must be on our way.”
He and Sabriel shared a smile at this unintentional rhyme, turning their heads so that only they and the hidden Lirael saw it. Touchstone took off his swords and stowed them in the cockpit, then took Sabriel’s sword and put that away as well. Sabriel took off the bell bandolier and gently laid it down, careful to not jar the bells. Lirael wondered why they had bothered to get them out for such a short time. Then she realized that they lived so much in danger that it was second nature to keep weapons close at hand. Like the merchants’ guards in the Refectory that morning. The realization that the Abhorsen and the King didn’t trust the Clayr’s protection made Lirael suddenly think of her own weaponless state. What would she do if she were attacked out here after everyone had gone? She wasn’t sure if her key would open the sally port from the outside. She hadn’t even thought about it on the way up.
Lirael stopped watching the Paperwing in order to panic, imagining a night out here and a monstrous claw dragging her out of the snow. The prospect of an unchosen death didn’t appeal to her at all. Then
a sudden movement caught her eye. Sabriel, now in the Paperwing, was pointing. Pointing straight at Lirael’s hiding place in the snow!
“You might want to investigate that green glint,” said Sabriel, her words all too clear for once. “I think whatever lies beneath it is harmless, but you never know. Farewell, cousins of the Clayr. I hope we can meet again soon, and tarry longer.”
“As we hope that we can be of greater service,” said Sanar, looking where Sabriel pointed. “And See more clearly, both in the West and under our own noses.”
“Farewell,” added Touchstone, waving from the rear of the Paperwing. Sabriel whistled, a pure sound infused with magic. The whistle rose up into the wind, turned it, and brought it down to lift the Paperwing, sending it sliding along the terrace. Sabriel and Touchstone waved; then the red and gold craft shot off the end and dropped out of sight.
Lirael held her breath, then sucked air in with relief as the Paperwing suddenly soared back into sight. It circled higher, then turned to the south and shot away, faster and faster as Sabriel called the wind behind them.
Lirael watched it go for a second, then tried to burrow deeper into the snow. Perhaps they would think she was an ice otter. But even as she disappeared into the drift, she knew it was no use. All seven of the Clayr were advancing upon her hiding place, and they did not look pleased.
Chapter Five
An Unexpected Opportunity
Lirael wasn’t quite sure how they got back into the Paperwing hangar so quickly. She knew she was grabbed by more pairs of hands than seemed possible for seven people and hustled across the snow much more uncomfortably than she could have managed on her own. For a few seconds she thought they were very, very angry with her. Then she realized they were just cold, and wanted to get back inside.
Once all were inside, it was clear that while the Clayr were not exactly furious, they weren’t too happy, either. Hands snatched off her cap, goggles, and scarf without regard for the hair that was caught up in them, and seven somewhat wind-chilled faces looked down at her.
