Lirael

by Garth Nix

  The others continued to talk for a while, but the dark future weighed heavily on them all. Sameth, for his part, couldn’t stop thinking about the book and the bells. What would he would do if he were actually called upon to repel an incursion by the Dead? What would he do if it turned out to be the necromancer who’d tortured him in Death? Or even worse, what if there were some still more powerful enemy, as Sabriel feared?

  Suddenly he blurted out, “What if it . . . this Enemy . . . isn’t behind Corolini? What if he’s going to do something else while you’re both gone?”

  The others, who were in the middle of a conversation about Heria, who’d tripped over her own dress and catapulted into Jall Oren at an afternoon party in honor of the Mayor of Sindle, looked up, startled.

  “If that is so, we will be just a week away, ten days at the most,” said Sabriel. “A message-hawk to Barhedrin, a rider to the Perimeter, a telegraph from there or Bain to Corvere, train back to Bain—maybe even less than a week. But we think that whatever this Enemy—as you have dubbed it so well—plans, it must involve a great number of the Dead. The Clayr have Seen many possible futures in which our entire Kingdom is nothing more than a desert, inhabited only by the Dead. What else could bring this about but the sort of massing of the Dead that we suspect? And that could be brought about only by killing all those poor, unprotected refugees. Our people are too well guarded. In any case, apart from Belisaere, there are not two hundred thousand people in one place in all the Kingdom. And certainly not two hundred thousand without a single Charter mark amongst them.”

  “I don’t know what else it could be,” said Sam heavily. “I just wish you weren’t going.”

  “Being the Abhorsen is a weighty responsibility,” Sabriel said quietly. “One that I understand you are wary of shouldering, even when it is shared with me. But it is your destiny, Sam. Does the walker choose the path, or the path the walker? I am sure you will do very well, and we will soon all be together again, speaking of happier things.”

  “When do you go?” asked Sam, unable to hide the hope of delay from his voice. Maybe he would be able to talk to Sabriel tomorrow, to get her help with The Book of the Dead, to overcome his paralyzing fear.

  “Tomorrow, at dawn,” replied Sabriel reluctantly. “Provided my leg is healed enough. Your father will ride with the real embassy to the Northern Barbarians, and I will fly west. But I will double back to pick him up tomorrow night, and we will then fly south to the House, to try to consult again with Mogget, then on to Barhedrin and the Wall. Hopefully this will confuse any spies who may be watching.”

  “We would stay longer,” said Touchstone sadly, looking at his small family, so rarely all together in one place. “But as always, duty calls—and we must answer.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  A Letter from Nicholas

  Sam left the reservoir that night with an empty wine jug, a bandolier of bells, a heavy heart, and much to think upon. Ellimere went with him, but Sabriel stayed behind, needing to spend the night within the circle of Great Charter Stones to speed her healing. Touchstone stayed with her, and it was obvious to the two children that their parents wished to be alone. Probably to discuss the shortcomings of their son, Sam thought as he wearily climbed the stairs, the package of bells in his hand.

  Ellimere wished him an almost friendly good night at the door to her chambers, but Sam didn’t go to bed. Instead he climbed another twisting stair to his tower workroom and spoke the word that brought the Charter lights to life. Then he put the bells in a different cupboard from the book, locking them out of sight if not out of mind. After that, he half-heartedly tried to resume work on a clockwork and Charter Magic cricketer, a batsman six inches high. He had some ideas of making two teams and setting them to play, but neither the clockwork nor the magic yet worked to his satisfaction.

  Someone knocked on the door. Sam ignored it. If it was a servant, he’d call or go away. If it was Ellimere, she’d just barge in.

  The knock was repeated, there was some sort of muffled call, and Sam heard something slide under the door, followed by footsteps going back down the stairs. A silver tray was on the floor, with a very ragged-looking letter upon it. Judging from the state it was in, it had to be from Ancelstierre, and that meant it was from Nicholas.

  Sam sighed, put on his white cotton gloves, and picked up a pair of tweezers. Receiving one of Nick’s letters was always more of a forensic exercise than a matter of reading. He picked up the tray and carried it over to his bench, where the Charter marks were brightest, and began to peel the paper apart and piece the rotten bits together.

  Half an hour later, as the clock in the Grey Tower clanged out a dozen strokes for midnight, the letter was laid out clearly enough to read. Sam bent over it, his frown deepening the further he read.

  Dear Sam,

  Thanks for organizing the Old Kingdom visa for me. I don’t know why your Consul at Bain was so reluctant to give me one. Lucky you’re a Prince, I guess, and can get things done. I didn’t have any trouble at this end. Father called Uncle Edward, who pulled the appropriate strings. Practically no one in Corvere even knew you could get a permit to cross the Perimeter. Anyway, I suppose it shows that Ancelstierre and the Old Kingdom aren’t that different. It all comes down to who you know.

  In any case, I intend to leave Awengate tomorrow, and if all the train connections go smoothly, I will be in Bain by Saturday and across the Wall by the 15th. I know this is earlier than we agreed, so you won’t be able to meet me, but I’m not just rushing in on my own. I’ve hired a guide—a former Crossing Point Scout I ran into in Bain. Quite literally, in fact. He was crossing the road to avoid a demonstration by these One Country fellows, stumbled and nearly knocked me over. But it was a fortuitous meeting, as he knows the Old Kingdom well. He also confirmed something I’ve read about a curious phenomenon called the Lightning Trap. He has seen it, and it certainly sounds worth studying.

  So I think we will go and take a look at this Lightning Trap en route to your undoubtedly charming capital of Belisaere. My guide didn’t seem at all surprised that I knew you, by the way. Perhaps he is as unimpressed by royalty as some of our former schoolfellows!

  In any case, the Lightning Trap is apparently near a town called Edge, which I understand is not too far out of the direct route north to you. If only you people believed in normal maps and not quasi-mystical memorization aided by blank pieces of paper!

  I look forward to seeing you in your native habitat—almost as much as I look forward to investigating the curious anomalies of your Old Kingdom. There is surprisingly little written about it. The College library has only a few old and highly superstitious texts and the Radford little more. It never gets mentioned in the papers, either, except obliquely when Corolini is raving on in the Moot about sending “undesirables and Southerlings” to what he calls “the extreme North.” I expect that I will be an advance guard of one “undesirable” in his terms!

  Everything about the Old Kingdom seems to fall under a conspiracy of silence, so I am sure there will be many things for an ambitious young scientist to discover and reveal to the world.

  I hope you are quite recovered, by the way. I have been ill myself, on and off, with chest pains that seem to be some sort of bronchitis. Strangely enough, they get worse the farther south I go, and were terrible in Corvere, probably because the air is absolutely filthy. I’ve spent the last month in Bain, and have barely been troubled. I expect I will be even better in your Old Kingdom, where the air should be positively pristine.

  In any case, I look forward to seeing you soon, and remain your loyal friend,

  Nicholas Sayre

  P.S. I don’t believe Ellimere is really six foot six and weighs twenty stone. You would have mentioned it before.

  Sameth put the letter down, careful not to break what was left of it.

  After he’d finished, he read the letter again, hoping that the words had somehow changed. Surely Nick wouldn’t cross into the Old Kingdom
with only a single—and possibly untrustworthy—guide? Didn’t he realize how dangerous the Borderlands near the Wall were? Particularly to an Ancelstierran, lacking a Charter mark and any sense of magic. Nick wouldn’t even be able to test whether his guide was a real man, a tainted Charter bearer, or even a Free Magic construct, powerful enough to cross the Perimeter without detection.

  Sam bit his lip at the thought, teeth tapping at the skin in unconscious concern, and consulted his almanac. According to that, the fifteenth was three days ago, so Nick must have already crossed the Wall. So it was too late to get there, even by Paperwing, or to find one of the Palace message-hawks and send it with orders to the guards. Nick had a visa for himself and a servant, so the Barhedrin Post wouldn’t detain him. He would be in the Borderlands now, heading towards Edge.

  Edge! Sam bit his lip harder. That was far too close to the Red Lake, and the region where the necromancer Chlorr had destroyed the Stones and even now the Enemy hid and hatched its plans against the Kingdom. It was the worst possible place for Nick to go!

  A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts and made him bite his lip even harder, so he tasted blood. Irritated, he called out, “Yes! Who is it!”

  “Me!” said Ellimere, breezing in. “I hope I’m not disturbing the act of creation or anything?”

  “No,” Sameth replied warily. He indicated his workbench with a half wave and a shrug, implying that his work wasn’t going well.

  Ellimere looked around with interest, since Sam usually pushed her out whenever she tried to come in. The small tower room had been given to Sameth on his sixteenth birthday and had had much use since then. Currently, the two workbenches were covered in the paraphernalia of a jeweler and many tools and devices that were obscure to her. There were also some small figurines of cricketers, thin bars of gold and silver, reels of bronze wire, a scattering of sapphires, and a small but still-smoking forge built into the room’s former fireplace.

  And there was Charter Magic everywhere. The faded afterimages of Charter marks shone in the air, crawled lazily across the walls and ceiling, and clustered by the chimney. Clearly Sameth was not just creating costume jewelry or the promised extra tennis racquets.

  “What are you making?” Ellimere asked curiously. Some of the Charter symbols, or rather the fading reflections of them, were extremely powerful. They were marks she would be reluctant to use herself.

  “Things,” said Sameth. “Nothing you’d be interested in.”

  “How do you know?” asked Ellimere. The familiar tide of resentment was rising between them.

  “Toys,” snapped Sam, holding up his little batsman, which suddenly swung its tiny bat before freezing back into immobility. “I’m making toys. I know it’s not a fit occupation for a Prince, and I should be asleep getting ready for a fun new day of dance classes and Petty Court, but I . . . can’t sleep,” he concluded wearily.

  “Neither can I,” said Ellimere in a conciliatory tone. She sat down in the one other chair, and added, “I’m worried. About Mother.”

  “She said she’d be fine. The Great Stones will heal her.”

  “This time. She needs help with her work, Sam, and you’re the only person who can do it.”

  “I know,” said Sam. He looked away, down at Nick’s letter. “I know.”

  “Well,” Ellimere continued uncomfortably, “I just wanted to say that studying to be the Abhorsen is the most important thing, Sam. If you need more time, you just have to say, and I’ll reorganize your schedule.”

  Sam looked at her, surprised. “You mean take time away from the Bird of Dawning, or those afternoon parties with your friends’ stupid sisters?”

  “They’re not—” Ellimere started to say; then she took a deep breath and said, “Yes. Things are different now. Now we know what’s going on. I shall be spending more time with the Guard myself. Getting ready.”

  “Ready?” asked Sam nervously. “So soon?”

  “Yes,” said Ellimere. “Even if Mother and Dad are successful in Ancelstierre, there’s going to be trouble. Whatever is behind it all isn’t going to lie still while we stop its plans. Something will happen, and we need to be ready. You need to be ready, Sam. That’s all I wanted to say.”

  She got up and left. Sam stared into space. There was nowhere to turn. He had to become a proper Abhorsen-in-Waiting. He had to help fight whatever the Enemy was. The people expected it. Everyone depended on him.

  And so, he suddenly realized, did Nicholas. He had to go and find Nicholas, to save his friend before he got in trouble, because no one else would.

  Suddenly Sam was filled with purpose, a feeling of decision that he didn’t examine too closely. His friend was in danger, and he must go to save him. He would be away from The Book of the Dead and his Princely chores for only a few weeks. He would probably be able to find Nick quite quickly and bring him to safety, particularly if he could take half a dozen of the Royal Guard. As Sabriel had said, there was little chance of the Dead doing anything, what with the spring floods.

  Somewhere deep down a small voice was telling him that what he was really doing was running away. But he smothered the voice with other more important thoughts, and didn’t even look at the cupboards that held the book and the bells.

  Once the decision was made, Sam thought about how it could be done. Ellimere would never let him go, he knew. So he must ask his father, and that meant rising before dawn in order to catch Touchstone in his wardrobe.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Sam Makes Up His Mind

  Despite his good intentions, Sam overslept and missed Touchstone’s departure from the Palace. Thinking that he might catch him at the South Gate, he ran down Palace Hill and then along the broad, tree-lined Avenue of Stars, named after the tiny metal suns embedded in its paving stones. Two guards ran with him, easily keeping pace despite the weight of their mail hauberks, helmets, and boots.

  Sam had just sighted the rear ranks of his father’s escort when he heard the cheers of the crowd and the sudden blare of trumpets. He jumped up on a cart that was stopped in the traffic and looked over the heads of the crowd. He was just in time to see his father ride out through the high gate of Belisaere, red and gold cloak streaming behind him over the horse’s hindquarters, the early sun just catching his crown-circled helmet before he passed into the shadow of the gate.

  Royal guards rode in front of and behind the King, twoscore tall men and women, bright mail flashing from the vertical cuts in their red and gold surcoats. The guards would continue north tomorrow, Sam knew, with someone dressed as Touchstone. The King would actually be flying south to Ancelstierre with Sabriel, to try to forestall the death of two hundred thousand innocents.

  Sameth kept watching even after the last guard passed the gate and the normal traffic resumed; people, horses, wagons, donkeys, pushcarts, pullcarts, beggars . . . all flowed past him, but he didn’t notice.

  He had missed Touchstone, and now he would have to make up his mind all on his own.

  Even when he crossed to the center of the road and turned against the tide flowing out of the city, his gaze was absent. Only the vacuum created around him by two burly guards prevented several pedestrian accidents.

  Since Sam had started to think about going to find Nicholas, he found that he couldn’t stop. He was sure that the letter was real. Sam was the only one who knew Nick well enough to track him down, the only one with a friendship bond that finding magic could flow through.

  The only one who could save him from whatever trouble was brewing for everyone around the Red Lake.

  But that meant Sam would have to leave Belisaere, abandoning his duties. He knew that Ellimere would never give him permission.

  These thoughts, and multiple variations of them, swirled through his mind as he and his guards passed under one of the huge aqueducts that fed the city with pure, snow-melt water. The aqueducts had proved their worth in other ways too. Their fast-flowing waters were a defense against the Dead, particularly during
the two centuries of the Interregnum.

  Sameth thought of that, too, as he heard the deep bellow of the aqueduct above his head. For a moment his conscience twinged. He was supposed to be a defense against the Dead himself.

  He left the cool shadow of the aqueduct and began heading along the Avenue of Stars before the wearying climb up the switchbacked King’s Road that led to Palace Hill. Ellimere was probably already waiting for him back at the Palace, since both of them were to sit in Petty Court this morning. She would be cool and composed in her judicial robes of black and white, holding the wand of ivory and the wand of jet that were used in the truth-testing spell. She would be cross that he was sweaty, dirty, inappropriately dressed, and unequipped—his wands had disappeared, though he had the vague notion that they might have rolled under his bed.

  Petty Court. Belisaere Festival duties. Tennis racquets. The Book of the Dead. All of it surged up like a great dark wave that threatened to engulf him.

  “No,” he whispered, stopping so suddenly that both his guards nearly ran into him. “I’ll go. I’ll go tonight.”

  “What was that, sir?” asked Tonin, the younger of the two guards. She was the same age as Ellimere, and they had been friends since they had played together as children. She was nearly always one of his guards on his rare excursions into the city, and Sameth felt sure she reported his every movement to the Princess.

  “Um, nothing, Tonin,” replied Sameth, shaking his head. “I was just thinking aloud. Guess I’m not used to getting up before dawn.”

  Tonin and the other guard exchanged semi-tolerant glances behind his back as they moved on. They got up every day before dawn.

  Sameth didn’t know what his guards were thinking, as they finished the climb up the hill and entered the cool, fountain-centered court that led to the west wing of the Palace. But he’d seen the looks they’d exchanged, and he had a general idea that they did not consider him the perfect pattern of a Prince. He suspected most of the city folk shared their opinion. It was galling to someone who had been one of the leading lights of his school in Ancelstierre. There he had excelled at everything that was important. Cricket in the summer and Rugby in the winter. And he’d been first in chemistry class and in the top classes for everything else. Here, he couldn’t seem to do anything right.