Lirael

by Garth Nix

  The Book of Remembrance and Forgetting called it a Dark Mirror, and Lirael had read, at least in part, how it might be used. But the Dark Mirror would not work in this room, or in any part of the world of Life. It could be used only in Death, and Lirael had no intention of going there, even if the book professed to show her how to come back. Death was the province of the Abhorsen, not the Clayr, even though the peculiar use of the Dark Mirror could possibly be related to the Clayr’s gift of Sight.

  Lirael snapped shut the Dark Mirror and laid it on the table. But her fingers still rested upon it. She stood there like that for a full minute, thinking. Then she picked it up and slipped it into her left waistcoat pocket, to join the company of a pen nib, a length of waxed string, and a seriously foreshortened pencil. After another moment of hesitation, she picked up the panpipes and put them in her right pocket with the clockwork mouse. Finally, she picked up The Book of Remembrance and Forgetting and tucked it into the front of her waistcoat.

  She walked back to the Disreputable Dog. It was time for the two of them to have a very serious talk about what was going on. The Book, the Dark Mirror, and the panpipes had lain here for a thousand years or more, waiting in the dark for someone the Clayr of long ago had known would come.

  Waiting in the dark for a woman named Lirael.

  Waiting for her.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  A Troublesome Season

  Prince Sameth stood shivering on the narrow sentry walk of the Palace’s second tallest tower. He was wearing his heaviest fur cloak, but the wind still cut through it, and he couldn’t be bothered to cast a Charter-spell for warmth. He half wanted to catch a cold, because it would mean escaping from the training schedule Ellimere had forced upon him.

  He was standing on the sentry walk for two reasons. The first reason was that he wanted to look out in the hope that he would see either his father or his mother returning. The second was that he wanted to avoid Ellimere and everyone else who wanted to organize his life.

  Sam missed his parents, not just because they might free him from Ellimere’s tyranny. But Sabriel was constantly in demand away from Belisaere, flying her red and gold Paperwing from one trouble spot to the next. It was a bad winter, people repeatedly said in Sam’s hearing, with so much activity from the Dead and from Free Magic creatures. Sam always shivered inside as they said it, knowing their eyes were on him and that he should be studying The Book of the Dead, preparing himself to help his mother.

  He should be studying now, he thought glumly, but he continued to stare out over the frosted roofs of the city and through the rising smoke of thousands of cozy fires.

  He hadn’t opened the book at all since Ellimere had given it to him. The green and silver volume remained safely locked in a cupboard in his workroom. He thought about it every day, and looked at it, but couldn’t bring himself to actually read it. In fact, he spent the hours he was supposed to be studying it trying to work out how he could tell his mother that he couldn’t. He couldn’t read the book, and he couldn’t face going into Death again.

  Ellimere allowed him two hours a day for study of the book, or “Abhorsen prep” as she called it, but Sam did no reading. He wrote instead. Speech after speech in which he tried to explain his feelings and his fears. Letters to Sabriel. Letters to Touchstone. Letters to both parents. All of them ended up in the fire.

  “I’ll just tell her,” announced Sam to the wind. He didn’t speak too loudly in case the sentry on the far side of the tower heard him. The guards already thought he was a miserable excuse for a Prince. He didn’t want them thinking he was a mad Prince as well.

  “No, I’ll tell Dad, and then he can tell her,” he added after a moment’s thought. But Touchstone had barely returned from Estwael when he had had to ride south to the Guard Fort at Barhedrin Hill, just north of the Wall. There had been reports that the Ancelstierrans were allowing groups of Southerling refugees to cross the Wall and settle in the Old Kingdom—or in actuality, to be killed by the creatures or wild folk who roamed the Borderlands. Touchstone had gone to investigate these reports, to see what the Ancelstierrans were up to, and to save any of the Southerlings who might have survived.

  “Stupid Ancelstierrans,” muttered Sam, kicking the wall. Unfortunately, his other foot slipped on the icy stone, and he skidded into the wall, smacking his funny bone.

  “Ow!” he exclaimed, clutching his elbow. “Blast it!”

  “You all right, sir?” asked the guard, who came at a run, his hob-nailed boots providing much better purchase than Sam’s rabbit-fur slippers. “You don’t want to break a leg.”

  Sam scowled. He knew that the prospect of his dancing the Bird of Dawning provided no end of amusement for the guards. His sense of self-worth wasn’t helped by their badly disguised snickering or the ease with which Ellimere practiced her own future role, acting as co-regent with grace and authority—at least to everyone except Sam.

  Sam’s stumbling rehearsals for the Bird of Dawning part in the Midwinter and Midsummer Festivals was only one of the many areas in which he displayed himself as poorer royal material than his sister. He couldn’t pretend enthusiasm for the dances, he often fell asleep in Petty Court, and while he knew he was a very competent swordsman, he somehow didn’t feel like stretching his ability at practice with the guards.

  Nor did he show up well at Perspective. Ellimere always threw herself into the task at hand, working like fury. Sam did quite the reverse, staring into space and worrying about his clouded future, often becoming so engrossed that he stopped doing whatever he was supposed to be doing.

  “Sir, are you all right?” the guard repeated.

  Sam blinked. There, he was doing it again. Staring into space while he thought about staring into space.

  “Yes, thank you,” he said, flexing his gloved fingers. “Slipped. Hit my funny bone.”

  “See anything interesting out there?” asked the guard. His name was Brel, Sam remembered. Quite a friendly guard, not one who stifled a smile every time Sam walked past in his Bird of Dawning costume.

  “No,” replied Sam, shaking his head. He looked out again, down into the interior of the city. The Midwinter Festival was to start in a few days. Construction of the Frost Fair was in full swing. A great, bustling tent town on the frozen surface of Lake Loesare, the Frost Fair had pageant wagons and players, jesters and jugglers, musicians and magicians, exhibitions and expositions, and all sorts of games, not to mention food from every corner of the Old Kingdom and beyond. Lake Loesare covered ninety acres of Belisaere’s central valley, but the Frost Fair overflowed it, extending into the public gardens that lined the lakeshore.

  Sam had always liked the Frost Fair, but he looked down on it now without interest. All he could feel was a cold and black depression.

  “All the fun of the fair,” said Brel, clapping his hands together. “It looks like it’ll be a good festival this year.”

  “Does it?” asked Sam bleakly. He would have to dance on the final day of the Festival, as the Bird of Dawning. It was his job to carry the green sprig of Spring at the tail end of the Winter procession, behind Snow, Hail, Sleet, Fog, Storm, and Frost. They were all professional dancers on stilts, so they not only loomed threateningly over the Bird but also showed up Sam’s lack of expertise.

  The Winter Dance was long and complicated, weaving through two miles of the Fair’s winding ways. But it was much longer than that, because there was lots of doubling back as the Six Spirits of Winter ducked around the Bird and tried to prolong their season by stealing the sprig of Spring from under Sam’s golden wing, or by tripping him up with their stilts.

  There had been two full rehearsals so far. The Spirits of Winter were supposed to fail at tripping the Bird, but so far even the skill of the other dancers couldn’t prevent the Bird from tripping himself. By the end of the first rehearsal, the Bird had fallen three times and bent its beak twice, and certainly had extremely ruffled feathers. The second rehearsal had been even worse, when the
Bird crashed into Sleet and knocked her off her stilts. The new Sleet still wouldn’t talk to him.

  “They say a hard practice means an easy dance,” said Brel.

  Sam nodded and looked away from the guard. There was no sign of a Paperwing gliding in against the wind, or a troop of horsemen bearing the royal banner on the southern road. It was a waste of time looking for his parents.

  Brel coughed into his glove. Sam glanced back as the guard inclined his head and resumed his slow march around the sentry walk, his trumpet bumping gently on its strap against his back.

  Sam went downstairs. He was already late for the next rehearsal.

  Brel was wrong about the bad rehearsals meaning a successful dance. Sam bumbled and stumbled all his way through it, and only the professionalism and energy of the Six Spirits saved the dance from disaster.

  Traditionally, all the dancers from the Festival ate with the royal family at the Palace after the dance, but Sam chose to stay away. They’d done enough to him, and he’d done enough, with the bruises to show for it. He was sure Sleet had deliberately smacked him with her stilt near the end. She was the sister of the one he’d knocked off her stilts in rehearsal.

  Instead of attending the dinner, Sam retired to his workshop, trying to forget his troubles in the construction of a particularly intricate and interesting magical-mechanical toy. Ellimere sent a page to get him but could do no more without embarrassing everyone, so he was left in peace—for that night at least.

  But not the next day or the days following. Ellimere couldn’t—or wouldn’t—see that Sam’s sullenness came from genuine trouble. So she simply made up more things for him to do. Even worse, she started foisting the younger sisters of her own friends on him, clearly thinking that a good woman could sort out whatever was wrong with him. Naturally, Sam took an instant dislike to anyone Ellimere so obviously seated next to him at dinner, or who “just happened” to drop by his workroom with a broken bracelet catch to be mended. His constant worry about the book and his mother’s return left him little energy to pursue friendships, let alone romantic attachments. So he earned the reputation of being stiff and distant, not only among the young women introduced to him by Ellimere, but to everyone of his own age around the Palace. Even people who had been his friends in previous years, when he was home for the holidays, found that they no longer enjoyed his company. Sam, caught up in his own troubles and busy with his official duties, hardly noticed that people of his own age avoided him.

  He did talk to Brel a bit, since they both tended to be up the second tallest tower around the same time. Fortunately, the guard was not naturally talkative and also didn’t seem to mind Sam’s silences or his tendency to stop and just stare out over the city and the sea.

  “Your birthday today,” said Brel, early one clear and very cold morning. The moon was still visible, and there was a ring around it, as only happened on the coldest nights of winter.

  Sam nodded. Since it occurred two weeks after the Midwinter Festival, his birthday was always somewhat eclipsed by the greater event. This year, it was made even less spectacular by the continued absence of Sabriel and Touchstone, who could only send messages and presents that, while obviously carefully chosen, did not cheer Sam. Particularly since one was a surcoat with the silver keys of the Abhorsen on a deep blue field, quartered with the royal line’s golden castle on a red field, and the other was a book entitled Merchane on the Binding of Free Magic Elementals.

  “Get any good presents?” asked Brel.

  “Surcoat,” said Sam. “And a book.”

  “Ah,” said Brel. He clapped his hands together, to regain circulation. “Not a sword, then? Or a dog?”

  Sam shook his head. He didn’t want a sword or a dog, but either would have been more welcome than what he had been given.

  “Expect Princess Ellimere will get you something good,” Brel said after a long, thoughtful pause.

  “I doubt it,” said Sam. “She’ll probably organize some sort of lesson.”

  Brel clapped his hands together again, stood still, and slowly scanned the horizon from south to north.

  “Happy birthday,” he said when his head had finished its slow movement. “What is it? Eighteen?”

  “Seventeen,” replied Sam.

  “Ah,” said Brel, and he walked around to the other side of the tower to repeat his scan of the horizon.

  Sam went back downstairs.

  Ellimere did organize a birthday feast in the Great Hall, but it was a lackluster affair, mainly due to Sam’s depressing influence. He refused to dance, because it was the one day when he could refuse, and since it was his birthday, that meant no one else could dance, either. He refused to open his presents in front of everyone because he didn’t feel like it, and he merely toyed with the grilled swordfish with lime and buttered smallwheat that had once been his favorite dish. In fact, he acted like a spoiled and sulky brat of seven, rather than like a young man of seventeen. Sam knew it but felt unable to stop. It was the first time in weeks that he’d been able to refuse Ellimere’s orders or, as she called them, “strong suggestions.”

  The feast ended early, with everyone cross and short-tempered. Sam went straight to his workroom, ignoring the whispers and sidelong looks as he left the Hall. He didn’t care what everyone thought, though he was uncomfortably aware of Jall Oren’s hooded eyes watching his exit. Jall would certainly report on Sam’s shortcomings when his parents returned, if he didn’t decide before then to deliver one of his justly feared summations of exactly what was wrong with Sam’s behavior.

  But even one of Jall’s lectures would pale to insignificance when his mother found out the truth about her son. Beyond that revelation, Sam daren’t think. He couldn’t imagine what would happen, or what his own future would be. The Kingdom had to have an Abhorsen-in-Waiting and a royal heir. Ellimere was demonstrably the perfect royal heir, so Sam had to be the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. Only he couldn’t do it. Not wouldn’t, as everyone was bound to think. Couldn’t.

  That night, as he had done scores of times before, Sam unlocked the cupboard to the left of his workbench and steeled himself to look at The Book of the Dead. It sat on a shelf, shining with its own ominous green light that overshadowed the soft glow of the Charter lights in the ceiling.

  He reached out to it, like a hunter trying to pat a wolf in the vain hope that it might be only a friendly dog. His fingers touched the silver clasp and the Charter marks laid upon it, but before he could do more, a violent shaking overtook him, and his skin turned as cold as ice. Sam tried to still the shakes and ignore the cold, but he couldn’t. He snatched back his hand and retreated to the front of the fireplace, where he crouched down in misery, hugging his knees.

  A week after his birthday, Sam received a letter from Nick. Or rather, the remains of a letter, because it had been written on machine-made paper. Like most products of Ancelstierran technology, the paper had begun to fail upon crossing the Wall, and it was now crumbling into its component fibers. Sam had often told Nick in the past to use hand-made paper, but he never did.

  Still, there was enough of it left for Sam to deduce that Nick was asking him for an Old Kingdom visa for himself and a servant. He intended to cross the Wall at Midwinter, and he would be grateful if Sam met him at the Crossing Point.

  Sam brightened. Nick could always cheer him up. He immediately consulted his almanac to see what Midwinter in Ancelstierre would correspond with in the Old Kingdom. Generally, the Old Kingdom was a full season ahead of Ancelstierre, but there were some strange fluctuations that required double-checking in an almanac, particularly around the solstices and the turn of the seasons.

  Old Kingdom/Ancelstierre almanacs like Sam’s had been almost impossible to obtain once, but ten years ago Sabriel had lent hers to the royal printer, who had reset it to incorporate all the handwritten comments and marginalia of Sabriel and previous Abhorsens. That had been a long and laborious process. The end result was aesthetically very pleasing, with clear, slightly in
dented type on crisp linen paper, but was very expensive. Sabriel and Touchstone were careful about who was allowed to have these almanacs. Sameth had been very proud when he was entrusted with one on his twelfth birthday.

  Fortunately, the almanac had an exact correspondence for Midwinter, rather than just an equation for Sam to work out, requiring moon sights and other observations. On that day in Ancelstierre, it would be the Day of Ships in the Old Kingdom, in the third week of spring. It was still many weeks off, but at least Sam had something positive to look forward to.

  After the letter from Nick, Sam’s mood improved a little, and he got on better with everyone in the Palace except Ellimere. The rest of winter passed without either of his parents coming home, and without any particularly terrible storms or the intense, bone-numbing cold that sometimes rolled in from the northeast, accompanied by pods of lost whales who didn’t otherwise enter the Sea of Saere.

  Weather-wise it was a particularly mild winter, but in court and city the people still spoke of it as a bad one. There had been more trouble all over the Kingdom that season than in any of the last ten winters, trouble such as hadn’t been seen since the early days of Touchstone’s reign. Message-hawks flew constantly to and from the Mews Tower, and Mistress Finney grew red-eyed and even more irritable than normal, as her children, the hawks, were hard-pressed to meet the demand for communication. Many of the messages the hawks carried were reports of the Dead, and of Free Magic creatures. A large proportion turned out to be false, but all too many were real, and all required Sabriel’s attention.

  There was other news that troubled Sam. One letter from his father reminded him too much of the terrible day on the Perimeter, when the Dead Southerlings had attacked his cricket team and he had faced the necromancer in Death.

  Sam took the letter up the second-tallest tower to read over and think, while Brel paced around him. One particular section he read three times: