Lirael

by Garth Nix

  Explanations would obviously have to wait.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The Book of the Dead

  The explanations had to wait almost the whole day, because Sam didn’t wake up until Finder gently beached herself on a sandy spit, and Lirael began to set up camp on the adjoining island. Over a dinner of grilled fish, dried tomatoes, and biscuit, they told each other their stories. Lirael was surprised by how easy it was to talk to him. It was almost like talking to the Dog. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t a Clayr, she thought.

  “So you’ve Seen Nicholas,” said Sam heavily. “And he’s definitely with this necromancer, Hedge. Digging up some terrible Free Magic thing. I guess that must be the Lightning Trap he wrote to me about. I was hoping—stupidly, I suppose—that it was all a coincidence. That Nick wouldn’t have anything to do with the Enemy, that he was really going to the Red Lake because he’d heard about something interesting.”

  “I didn’t See it myself,” Lirael said reluctantly, to forestall any requests that she use her supposed Sight to find out more. “I mean they showed it to me. It took a Watch of more than fifteen hundred Clayr to See near the pit. But they didn’t know when it was . . . or will be. It might not have happened yet.”

  “I guess he hasn’t been in the Kingdom for that long,” said Sam doubtingly. “But I would think he would have made it to the Red Lake by now. And the digging you Saw might have started without him. The Dead in the blue caps and scarves must be Southerling refugees, the ones who came across the Wall more than a month ago.”

  “Well, according to the Clayr’s other vision, I will find Nicholas at the Red Lake sometime soon,” said Lirael. “But I don’t want to go there unprepared. Not if Hedge is with him.”

  “This is getting worse by the day,” said Sam, groaning and cradling his head in his hands. “We’ll have to send a message to Ellimere. And, I don’t know . . . get my parents back from Ancelstierre. Only then there’re the Southerlings to worry about. Maybe Mother could come back and Dad could stay there—”

  “I think the Clayr have already sent messages,” said Lirael. “But they don’t know as much as we do, so we should send some, too. Only we’ll have to do something ourselves, won’t we? It’ll take too long for the King and the Abhorsen to even hear about this, let alone come back.”

  “I suppose so,” said Sam, without enthusiasm. “I just wish Nick had waited for me at the Wall.”

  “He probably didn’t have a choice,” said the Dog, who was curled up at Lirael’s feet, listening. Mogget lay nearby, his paws extended towards the dying remnants of the cooking fire, clean fishbones near his face. As soon as he’d eaten dinner, he’d fallen asleep, ignoring Sam and Lirael’s conversation.

  “I suppose so,” agreed Sam as he absently looked at the scars on his wrists. “That necromancer, Hedge, must have . . . must have got hold of him when we were at the Perimeter. I never actually saw Nick after that. We just exchanged letters. I guess I’ll just have to keep trying to find the dumb bastard.”

  “He looked sick,” said Lirael, surprised by the feeling of concern that rose in her from the memory. He’d reached out his hand to her and said hello. . . . “Sick and confused. I think the Free Magic was affecting him, but he didn’t realize what it was.”

  “Nick never really understood what it was like here, or accepted the idea that magic works,” said Sam, staring into the embers. Nick had only got worse as he got older, always asking why. He’d never accepted anything that seemed to contradict his understanding of the forces of nature and the mechanics of how the world worked.

  “I don’t understand Ancelstierre,” said Lirael. “I mean I’ve heard about it, but it might as well be another world.”

  “It is,” said the Dog. “Or it’s best to think of it that way.”

  “It always seemed somehow less real than here,” said Sam, still staring at the fire, not really listening. He was watching the sparks fly up now, trying to count the number of them in each little flurry. “A really detailed dream, but sort of washed out, like a thin watercolor. Softer, somehow, even with their electric light and engines and everything. I guess it was because there was hardly any magic at school, because we were too far from the Wall. I could weave shadows and do tricks with light sometimes, but only when the wind blew from the north. Sometimes I felt like part of me was asleep, not being able to reach the Charter.”

  He fell silent, still staring at the embers. After a few minutes, Lirael spoke again. “Getting back to what we’re going to do,” she said hesitantly. “I was going to Qyrre, to get the constables or the Royal Guard there to escort me to Edge. But it seems that Hedge already knows about me—about us—so that can’t be a very sensible thing to do. I mean I still have to get to the Red Lake, but not so openly. It would be stupid to just tie up at the Qyrre jetty and get out, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes,” agreed the Dog, looking up at her, proud that she had worked this out for herself. “There was a smell about Hedge, a smell of power strong enough for me to catch when Lirael escaped him. I think he is more than a necromancer. But whatever he is, he is clever, and has long prepared to move against the Kingdom. He will have servants among the living as well as the Dead.”

  Sameth didn’t answer for a moment. He tore his gaze away from the fire, frowning as he saw Mogget’s sleeping form. Now that Nicholas was definitely known to be in the clutches of the Enemy, Sam didn’t know what to do. Rescuing Nicholas had seemed like a good idea back in the safety of his tower room—simpler, uncomplicated.

  “We can’t go to Qyrre,” he said. “I was thinking we should go to the House—Abhorsen’s House, I mean. I can send message-hawks from there, and we can . . . uh . . . get stuff for the journey. Mail hauberks. A better sword for me.”

  “And it would be safe,” said the Dog, with a penetrating look at Sam.

  Sam looked away, unable to meet the Dog’s eyes. Somehow she knew his secret thoughts. Half of him said he would have to go on. Half of him said that he couldn’t. He felt sick with the tension of it. Wherever he went, he could not escape being the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, and all too soon he would be shown to be an imposter.

  “I think that’s a good idea,” said Lirael. “It’s on the Long Cliffs, isn’t it? We can strike west from there, staying off the roads. Are there any horses at the House? I can’t ride, but I could wear a Charter-skin while you—”

  “My horse is dead,” interrupted Sam, suddenly white-faced. “I don’t want another one!”

  He got up abruptly and limped out into the darkness, staring at the Ratterlin, watching the silver ripples in its dark expanse. He could hear Lirael and that Dog creature—which was too much like Mogget for comfort—talking behind him, too low to make out the words. But he knew they were talking about him, and he felt ashamed.

  “He’s a spoilt brat!” whispered Lirael crossly. She wasn’t used to this sort of behavior. On her explorations she had done what she wanted, and in the Library there was strict discipline and a chain of command. Sam had provided useful information, but otherwise he seemed to be a nuisance. “I was just trying to make some sort of plan. Maybe we should leave him behind.”

  “He is troubled,” acknowledged the Dog. “But he has also been through much that tested him beyond all expectation—and he is hurt and afraid. He will be better tomorrow, and in the days to come.”

  “I hope so,” said Lirael. Now that she knew more about Nicholas, the Lightning Trap, and the attacks of the Dead upon Sam, she realized she would probably need all the help she could get. The entire Kingdom would need all the help it could get.

  “It is his job, after all,” she added. “Being the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. I should be safely back at the Glacier while he deals with Hedge and whatever else is out there!”

  “If the Abhorsen and the King are correct about Hedge’s plans, nowhere will be safe,” said the Dog. “And all who bear the Blood must defend the Charter.”

  “Oh, Dog!” Lirael said plaintively, giving t
he hound a hug. “Why is everything so difficult?”

  “It just is,” said the Dog, woofling in her ear. “But sleep will make it seem easier. A new day will bring new sights and smells.”

  “How will that help?” grumbled Lirael. But she lay down on the ground, dragging her pack over to use as a pillow. It was too hot for a blanket, even with the slight breeze off the river. Hot and awfully humid, with mosquitoes and sandflies into the bargain. Summer had not yet begun as far as the Kingdom’s calendar was concerned, but the weather had paid no attention to human reckoning. And there was no sign of a cooling rainstorm.

  Lirael swatted a mosquito, then turned her head as Sam came back and rummaged in his saddlebag. He was getting something out—a bright, sparkling object. Lirael sat up as she saw it was a jeweled frog. A frog with wings.

  “I’m sorry I behaved badly before,” Sam mumbled, setting down the flying frog. “This will help with the mosquitoes.”

  Lirael didn’t need to ask how. It became clear immediately as the frog executed a backwards somersault and used its tongue to collect two particularly large and blood-laden mosquitoes.

  “Ingenious,” said the Dog sleepily, lifting her head for a moment from the comfortable hole she’d scratched out to sleep in.

  “I made it for my mother,” said Sam, self-pity evident in his voice. “That’s about the only thing I’m really good at. Making things.”

  Lirael nodded, watching the frog wreak havoc on the local insect population. It moved effortlessly, bronze wings beating as fast as a hummingbird’s, making a soft sound like tightly closed shutters moving slightly in the wind.

  “Mogget had to kill her,” Sam said suddenly, looking back into the fire. “My horse, Sprout. I pushed her too hard. She foundered. I couldn’t do the mercy stroke. Mogget had to cut her throat, to make sure the Dead didn’t kill her and grow stronger.”

  “It doesn’t sound like there was much choice,” said Lirael uncomfortably. “I mean, there was nothing else you could have done.”

  Sam was silent, staring at the few red coals that remained, seeing the shapes and patterns of orange, black, and red. He could hear the Ratterlin’s subdued roar all around, the wheezing breath of the sleeping Dog. He could practically feel Lirael sitting there, three or four steps away, waiting for him to say something.

  “I should have done it,” he whispered. “But I was afraid. Afraid of Death. I always have been.”

  Lirael didn’t say anything, feeling even more uncomfortable now. No one had ever shared something so personal with her before, least of all something like this! He was the Abhorsen’s son, the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. It simply wasn’t possible that he could be afraid of Death. That would be like a Clayr who was afraid of the Sight. That was beyond imagining.

  “You’re tired and wounded,” she said finally. “You should rest. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

  Sam turned to look at her but kept his head down, not meeting her gaze.

  “You went into Death,” muttered Sam. “Were you afraid?”

  “Yes,” acknowledged Lirael. “But I followed what it said in the book.”

  “The book?” asked Sam, shivering despite the heat. “The Book of the Dead?”

  “No,” replied Lirael. She’d never even heard of The Book of the Dead. “The Book of Remembrance and Forgetting. It deals with Death only because that’s where a Remembrancer has to go to look into the past.”

  “Never heard of it,” muttered Sam. He looked at his saddlebags as if they were bulging poison sacs. “I’m supposed to be studying The Book of the Dead, but I can’t stand looking at it. I tried to leave it behind, but it followed me, with the bells. I . . . I can’t get away from it, but I can’t look at it, either. And now I’ll probably need them both to save Nick. It’s so bloody unfair. I never asked to be the Abhorsen-in-Waiting!”

  I never asked for my mother to walk away from me when I was five, or to be a Clayr without the Sight, thought Lirael. He was young for his age, this Prince Sameth, and, as the Dog said, he was tired and wounded. Let him have his bout of self-pity. If he didn’t snap out of it tomorrow, the Dog could bite him. That had always worked on her.

  So instead of saying what she thought, Lirael reached out to touch the bandolier lying at Sam’s side.

  “Do you mind if I look at the bells?” she asked. She could feel their power, even as they lay there quiescent. “How do you use them?”

  “The Book of the Dead explains their use,” he said reluctantly. “But you can’t really practice with them. They can only be used in earnest. No! Don’t . . . please don’t take them out.”

  “I’ll be careful,” said Lirael, surprised at his reaction. He had gone pale, quite white in the darkness, and was shivering. “I do know a bit about them already, because they’re like my pipes.”

  Sam shuffled back a few steps, the panic rising in him. If she dropped a bell or accidentally rang one, they might both be hurled into Death. He was afraid of that, desperately afraid. At the same time, he felt a sudden urge to let her take the bells, as if that might somehow break their connection with him.

  “I suppose you can look at them,” he said hesitantly. “If you really want to.”

  Lirael nodded thoughtfully, running her fingers over the smooth mahogany handles and the rich, beeswax-treated leather. She had a sudden urge to put on the bandolier and walk into Death to try the bells. Her little panpipes were a toy in comparison.

  Sam watched her touch the bells and shivered, remembering how cold and heavy they had felt upon his chest. Lirael’s scarf had fallen back, letting her long black hair tumble out. There was something about her face in the firelight, something about the way her eyes reflected the light, that made Sam feel odd. He had the sense that he’d seen her before. But that was impossible, as he’d never been to the Glacier, and she’d never left it until now.

  “Could I also have a look at The Book of the Dead?” asked Lirael, unable to disguise the eagerness in her voice.

  Sam stared at her, his mind paralyzed for a moment. “The Book of the Dead could d-d-destroy you,” he said, his voice betraying him with a stutter. “It’s not to be trifled with.”

  “I know,” said Lirael. “I can’t explain, but I feel that I must read it.”

  Sam considered. The Clayr were cousins of the royal line and the Abhorsen, so he supposed Lirael had the Bloodright. Enough not to get destroyed straightaway. She had also studied The Book of Remembrance and Forgetting, whatever that was, which seemed to have made her something of a necromancer, at least as far as traveling in Death was concerned. And her Charter mark was true and clear.

  “It’s there,” he said roughly, pointing at the appropriate saddlebag. He hesitated, then backed away, till he was a good ten paces from the fire, closer to the river, with both the Dog and Mogget between him and Lirael—and the book. He lay down, purposefully looking away from Lirael. He didn’t want to even see the book. His flying frog jumped after him and rapidly cleared the mosquitoes away from his makeshift bed.

  Sam heard the straps of the saddlebags being opened behind his back. Then came the soft brilliance of a Charter light, the snap of silver clasps—and the ruffling of pages. There was no explosion, no sudden fire of destruction.

  Sam let out his breath, closed his eyes, and willed himself to sleep. He would be at Abhorsen’s House within a few days. Safe. He could stay there. Lirael could go on alone.

  Except, his conscience said as he drifted off, Nicholas is your friend. It’s your job to deal with necromancers. And it’s your parents who would expect you to face the Enemy.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  High Bridge

  Sam felt much better the next morning, physically, at least. His leg was greatly improved by Lirael’s healing magic. But mentally he felt very nervous about the responsibilities that once again weighed upon him.

  Lirael, on the other hand, was physically exhausted but mentally very invigorated. She’d stayed up all night reading The Book of the D
ead, finishing the last page just as the sun rose, its heat quickly banishing the last few cool hours of the night.

  Much of the book was already lost to her. Lirael knew she’d read the whole thing, or had at least read every page she’d turned. But she had no sense of the totality of the text. The Book of the Dead would require many re-readings, she realized, as it could offer something new each time. In many ways, she felt it recognized her lack of knowledge, and had given her the bare minimum she was capable of understanding. The book had also raised more questions for her about Death, and the Dead, than it had answered. Or perhaps it had answered, but she would not remember until she needed to know.

  Only the last page stayed fixed in her mind, the last page with its single line.

  Does the walker choose the path, or the path choose the walker?

  She thought about that question as she stuck her head in the river to try to wake herself up, and was still thinking about it as she retied her scarf and straightened her waistcoat. She was reluctant to part with the bells and The Book of the Dead, but she finally returned them to Sam’s saddlebags as he finished his own morning ablutions farther downstream, behind some of the island’s sparse foliage.

  They didn’t talk as they loaded the boat, not so much as a word about the book or the bells, or Sam’s confession of the previous night. As Lirael raised Finder’s sail and they set off downriver again, the only sound was the flapping of the canvas as she slowly hauled in the mainsheet, accompanied by the rush of water under the keel. Everyone seemed to agree that it was too early for conversation. Especially Mogget. He hadn’t even bothered to wake up and had had to be carried aboard by Sam.

  It wasn’t until they were well under way that Lirael passed around some of her plate-sized cinnamon cakes, breaking them into manageable hunks. The Dog ate hers in one and a half gulps, but Sam looked at his askance.

  “Do I risk my teeth on it or just suck it to death?” he asked, with an attempt at a smile. Clearly he felt better, Lirael thought. It was better than the dismal self-pity of the night before.