by Garth Nix
“It’s none of your business!” exclaimed Sam, throwing his head back in disdain. As he did so, his tousled hair flew back, revealing the Charter mark on his forehead.
Instantly Kuke called out a warning, and the poniard was at Sam’s neck, and his right arm pinioned behind him. Of all things the constables might fear, the bearer of a false or corrupted Charter mark was one of the worst, for he could only be a Free Magic sorcerer, a necromancer, or some thing that had taken human shape.
Almost at the same time, Tep opened a saddlebag and lifted out a dark leather bandolier, a bandolier of seven tubular pouches that ranged in size from a pillbox to a large jar. Wooden handles of dark mahogany thrust out of the pouches, making it quite clear what the bandolier held. The bells that Sabriel had sent to Sameth. The bells that he had locked away in his workroom and definitely hadn’t packed.
“Bells!” exclaimed Tep, dropping them in fright and leaping back, almost as if he’d drawn out a nest of writhing serpents. He didn’t notice the Charter marks that thronged upon both bandolier and handles.
“A necromancer,” whispered Kuke, and Sam heard the sudden fear in his voice and felt the hold on him slackening, the poniard drifting away from his throat, the hand that held it beset by sudden shivering.
In that instant, Sameth pictured two Charter marks in his mind, drawing them from the endless flow like a skilled fisherman selecting his catch from a glittering shoal. He let the marks infuse into his held breath—then he blew them out, at the same time throwing himself to the ground.
One mark flew true, striking Tep with sudden blindness. But Kuke must have been some small Charter Mage himself, for he countered the spell with a general warding, the air sparking and flashing as the two Charter marks met.
Then, before Sam could even get up, Kuke’s poniard stabbed out, sinking deep into his leg, just above the knee.
Sam screamed, the noise adding to Tep’s shouts of blind despair as he groped around the room and Kuke’s even louder shouts of “Necromancer!” and “A rescue!” That would bring every constable for miles and any guards who might be on the road. Even concerned citizens might come, but it would be brave ones since the word “necromancer” had been heard.
After the first split-second shock of pain, when his whole mind seemed to crack open, Sam instinctively did what he’d been taught to save his life in the event of an assassination attempt. Drawing several Charter marks in his mind, he let them grow in his throat and roared out a Death-spell to strike everyone unprotected in the room.
The marks left him like an incandescent spark, leaping to the two constables with terrible force. In a second, it was quiet, as Kuke and Tep tumbled to the floor like broken-stringed puppets.
Sam pushed himself to his feet, the realization of what he’d done rising through the pain. He’d killed two of his father’s men . . . his own men. They’d simply been doing their job. The job that he was afraid to do. Protecting people from necromancers and Free Magic and whatever else . . .
He didn’t stop to think any further. The pain was coming back, and he knew he had to get away. In a panic, he picked up his bags, thrust the cursed bells back in, buckled the sword around his waist, and left.
He didn’t know how he managed the stairs, but a moment later he was in the common room, with people staring at him as they backed against the walls. He stared back, wide-eyed and wild, and limped through, leaving bloody footprints on the floor.
Then he was in the stables, saddling Sprout, the horse blowing wide-nostriled, eyes white with fear at the scent of human blood. Mechanically, he soothed her, hands moving without conscious thought.
A year later, or in no time at all, or somewhere in between, Sam was in the saddle, kicking Sprout into a trot and then a canter, all the while feeling his blood washing down his leg like warm water, filling up his boot till it overflowed the rolled-back top. Some part of his mind screamed at him to stop and tend to the wound, but the greater part shouted it down, wanting only to flee, flee the scene of his crime.
Instinctively, he headed west, putting the rising sun at his back. He zigzagged for a while, to lay a false trail, then took a straight track through the fields, towards a dark expanse of forest, not too far ahead. He had only to reach it and he could hide, hide and tend his hurt.
Finally, Sam reached the comforting shadow of the trees. He went in as far as he could and fell off his horse. Pain climbed up his leg, spiking all the way. The green world of the forest spun and lurched sickeningly, refusing to hold still. The morning light had gone from yellow to grey, like an overcooked egg. He couldn’t focus on the healing spell. The Charter marks eluded him, slipping from his mind. They simply wouldn’t line up as they should.
It was all too hard. Easier to let go. To fall asleep, to drift into Death.
Except that he knew Death, knew its chill. He was already falling into the cold current of the river. If he could have been sure of being taken under by that current, rushed through the cascade of the First Gate and then onwards, he might have given in. But he knew the necromancer who’d burnt him was waiting for him in Death, waiting for an Abhorsen-in-Waiting too incompetent to manage the manner of his own passing. The necromancer would catch him, take his spirit, and bind it to his will, use him against his family, his Kingdom. . . .
Fear grew in Sam, sharper than the pain. He reached for the Charter marks of healing once more—and found them. Golden warmth grew in his weakly gesturing hands and flowed into his leg, through the black and sodden trouser. He felt its heat rushing through, all the way to the bone, felt the skin and blood vessels knit together, the magic bringing everything back to the way it was supposed to be.
But he’d lost too much blood too quickly for the spell to render him completely whole. He tried to get up but couldn’t. His head fell back, the leaf litter making him a pillow. He tried to force his eyes wide open but couldn’t. The forest spun again, faster and faster, and then everything went black.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Observatory of the Clayr
The Disreputable Dog woke with great reluctance, spending a number of minutes in stiff-legged stretching, yawning, and eye rolling. Finally, she shook herself and headed for the door. Lirael stood where she was, her arms crossed sternly across her chest.
“Dog! I need to talk to you!”
The Dog acted surprised, putting her ears back with a sudden jerk. “Shouldn’t we be hurrying home? It’s after midnight, you know. Third hour of the morning, in fact.”
“No!” exclaimed Lirael, all thoughts of talks forgotten. “It can’t be! We’d better hurry!”
“Still, if you want to have a talk,” said the Dog, sitting back on her haunches and cocking her head in a prime listening attitude, “there’s no time like the present, I always say.”
Lirael didn’t answer. She rushed to the door, pulling on the Dog’s collar as she passed, yanking her upright.
“Ow!” yelped the Dog. “I was only joking! I’ll hurry!”
“Come on, come on!” snapped Lirael, pushing her hands against the door and then trying to pull at it, which was difficult because it didn’t have a handle or a knob. “Oh, how does this open?”
“Ask it,” replied the Dog, calmly. “There’s no point pushing.”
Lirael let out a huff of frustration, took a deep breath, and then forced herself to say, “Please open, door.”
The door seemed to think about it for a moment, then slowly swung inwards, giving Lirael enough time to back away. The roar of the river rose through the doorway, and a cool breeze came with it, lifting Lirael’s sadly singed hair. The wind also brought something else, something that attracted the Dog’s attention, though Lirael couldn’t tell what it was.
“Hmmm,” said the Dog, turning one ear towards the door and the Charter-lit bridge beyond it. “People. Clayr. Possibly even an aunt.”
“Aunt Kirrith!” exclaimed Lirael, jumping nervously. She looked around wildly, seeking another way out. But there was nowhere
to go except back across the slippery, river-washed bridge. And now she could see bright Charter lights out in the Rift, lights made fuzzy by the mist and spray from the river.
“What’ll we do?” she asked, but her question echoed in the room, taking up the space where there should have been an answer. Quickly, Lirael looked back, but there was no sign of the Disreputable Dog. She had simply disappeared.
“Dog?” whispered Lirael, eyes scanning the room as tears started to blur her vision. “Dog? Don’t leave me now.”
The Dog had left before when people might have seen her, and every time she did, Lirael harbored the secret fear that her one and only friend would never come back. She felt that familiar fear uncoil in her stomach, adding to the fear she felt from what she’d learned. Fear of the secret knowledge she felt seething and broiling in the book she held under her arm. It was knowledge that she didn’t want to have, for it was not of the Clayr.
A single tear ran down her cheek, but she quickly wiped it away. Aunt Kirrith wouldn’t have the satisfaction of seeing her cry, she decided, tilting her head back to keep further tears at bay. Aunt Kirrith always seemed to expect the worst of Lirael, seemed to think that she would commit terrible crimes and never amount to anything. Lirael felt that it was all because she wasn’t a proper Clayr, though some part of her mind had to acknowledge that this was the way Aunt Kirrith treated anybody who departed from her stupid standards.
Lirael kept her head proudly tilted back until she took her first step on the bridge, when she had to look down, down into the roiling mist and the fast-rushing water. Without the Dog’s solid, sucker-footed body at her side, she found the bridge much, much scarier. Lirael took one step, faltered, then started to sway. For a moment, she felt she would fall, and in a panic she crouched down on all fours. The Book of Remembrance and Forgetting shifted as she moved, and it almost fell out of her shirt as well. But Lirael shoved it back in and started to crawl across the narrow bridge.
Even crawling took all her concentration, so she didn’t look up until she was almost across. She was now also acutely aware that her hair was burnt and her clothes totally soaked by the spray that kept washing over the bridge. And she was barefoot.
When she finally did look up, she let out a stifled scream and made a reflexive hop like a frightened rabbit. Only the quick hands of the two closest Clayr saved her from a potentially fatal fall into the swift, cold waters of the Ratterlin.
They were also the people who had given her the shock, the last two people Lirael would expect to see looking for her: Sanar and Ryelle. As always, they looked calm, beautiful, and sophisticated. They were in the uniform of the Nine Day Watch, their long blond hair elegantly contained in jeweled nets and their long white dresses sprinkled with tiny golden stars. They also held wands of steel and ivory, proclaiming that they were the joint Voice of the Watch. Neither of them looked a day older than when Lirael had first met them properly, out on the Terrace on her fourteenth birthday. They were still everything Lirael thought the Clayr should be.
Everything she wasn’t.
There were a whole lot of the Clayr behind them, as well. More of the highest, including Vancelle, the Chief Librarian, and what looked like more of the Nine Day Watch. Quickly counting, Lirael realized that it probably was all of the current Nine Day Watch. Forty-seven of them, lined up behind Sanar and Ryelle, white shapes in the darkness of the Rift.
But the total absence of Aunt Kirrith was the worst sign. That meant that whatever she’d done was punishable by something far worse than extra kitchen duties. Lirael couldn’t even imagine what sort of punishment required the presence of the entire Watch. She’d never even heard of them leaving the Observatory, not all together.
“Stand up, Lirael,” said one of the twins. Lirael realized that she was crouching, still supported by the two Clayr. Gingerly, she stood up, trying to avoid meeting their gaze, not to mention all the other blue and green eyes that she was sure were noting just how brown and muddy her own eyes were.
Words rose up in her mind, but her throat closed when they tried to pass. She coughed, and stuttered, then finally managed to whisper, “I . . . I didn’t mean to come here. It just . . . happened. And I know I missed dinner . . . and the midnight rounds. I’ll make it up somehow. . . .”
She stopped as Sanar and Ryelle glanced at each other and laughed. But it was kind, surprised laughter, not the scorn she feared.
“We seem to have established a tradition of meeting you in strange places on your birthday,” said Ryelle—or perhaps it was Sanar—looking down at the book poking out of Lirael’s shirt and the silver panpipes glinting from her waistcoat pocket. “You need not worry about the rounds or a missed dinner. You seem to have claimed a birthright of sorts tonight, one that has waited long for your coming. Everything else is of little consequence.”
“What do you mean by a birthright?” asked Lirael. The Sight was the Clayr’s birthright, not a trio of strange magical devices.
“You know that alone amongst the Clayr you have never been Seen in the visions,” the other twin began. “Never a glimpse, at least till now. But an hour ago, we—that is, the Nine Day Watch—Saw that you would be here, and in another place also. None of us even suspected that this bridge existed, nor the room beyond. But it is clear that while the Clayr of today have not Seen you in their visions, the Clayr of long ago Saw enough to prepare this place and the things you hold. To prepare you, in fact.”
“Prepare me for what?” asked Lirael, panicked by the sudden attention. “I don’t want anything! All I want is to be . . . to be normal. To have the Sight.”
Sanar—for it was Sanar who had spoken last—looked down at the young woman, seeing the pain in her. Since their first meeting five years before, she and her sister had kept a cautious eye on Lirael, and they knew more about her life than their young cousin suspected.
She chose her words carefully.
“Lirael, the Sight may yet come to you in time, and be the stronger for the waiting. But for now you have been given other gifts, gifts that I am sure will be sorely needed by the Kingdom. And as all of us of the Blood are given gifts, we are also laden with the responsibility to use them wisely and well. You have the potential for great power, Lirael, but I fear that you will also face great tests.”
She paused, staring into the billowing cloud of mist behind Lirael, and her eyes seemed to cloud, too, as her voice grew deeper and became less friendly, more impersonal and strange.
“You will meet many trials on a path that lies unseen, but you will never forget that you are a Daughter of the Clayr. You may not See, but you will Remember. And in the Remembering, you will see the hidden past that holds the secrets of the future.”
Lirael shivered at the words, for Sanar had spoken with the truth of prophecy, and her eyes were sparkling with a strange, icy light.
“What do you mean by great tests?” Lirael asked, when the last faint echo of Sanar’s words were lost, drowned in the roar of the river.
Sanar shook her head and smiled, the moment of the vision lost. Unable to speak, she looked at her sister, who continued.
“When we Saw you here this evening, we also Saw you somewhere else, somewhere we have labored for many years to See, without success,” said Ryelle. “On the Red Lake, in a boat of woven reeds. The sun was high and bright, so we know it will be in summer. You looked much as you do now, so we know it is in the summer coming that you will be there.”
“There will be a young man with you,” continued Sanar. “A sick or wounded man, one we were asked to seek for the King. We do not know exactly where he is now, or how or when he will come to the Red Lake. He is surrounded by powers that cloak our vision, and his future is dark. But we do know that he lies at the center of some great and terrible danger. A danger not just to him but to all of us, to the Kingdom. And he will be there with you, in the reed boat, at the height of summer.”
“I don’t understand,” whispered Lirael. “What’s that to do with me? I
mean, the Red Lake, this man, and everything? I’m just a Second Assistant Librarian! What have I got to do with it?”
“We don’t know,” answered Sanar. “The visions are fragmented, and a dark cloud spreads like spilt ink across the pages of possible futures. All we know is that this man is important, for both good and ill, and we have Seen you with him. We think that you must leave the Glacier. You must go south and find the reed boat on the Red Lake, and find him.”
Lirael looked at Sanar’s lips, still moving, but she could hear no sound save the cry of the river. The sound of the water rushing to be free of the mountain, flowing away, away to some distant and unknown land.
I’m being thrown out, she thought. I don’t have the Sight, I’ve grown too old, and they’re throwing me out—
“We have also had another vision of the man,” Sanar was saying as Lirael’s hearing came back. “Come, we will show you, so you will know him at the proper time, and know something of the danger he is in. But not here—we must go up to the Observatory.”
“The Observatory!” exclaimed Lirael. “But I’m not . . . I haven’t Awoken—”
“I know,” said Ryelle, taking her hand to lead her. “It is difficult for you to gaze upon your heart’s desire when you may not possess it. If the danger were any less, or someone else could shoulder the burden, we would not press you so. If the vision were not of this place that resists us, we could probably show you elsewhere, too. But now we need the power of the Observatory, and the full strength of the Watch.”
They walked back along the Rift, with Sanar and Ryelle on either side of an unprotesting Lirael. Lirael briefly felt what the Dog had called her sense of the Dead, a sort of pressure from all the dead Clayr buried throughout the Rift, but she paid it no heed. It was like someone far away calling someone else’s name. All she could think of was that they were making her leave. She would be alone again, because the Disreputable Dog might not come. The Dog might not even be able to exist outside the Clayr’s Glacier, like a sending that couldn’t leave its bounds.
