by Nix, Garth
Over several cups of tea, Elinor told Dr. Bannow what had happened at Coldhallow House. She cried when she got to Mrs. Watkins’s death, and sobbed so hard describing Ham’s murder that she couldn’t breathe and had to stop talking for a while. Dr. Bannow sat next to her on the bed and held her shoulders until the sobs diminished.
“I should not have asked you so soon,” she said apologetically. “Your wounds have healed very quickly. I forgot it is not simply a matter of the physical hurts.”
Elinor nodded, still unable to speak.
“Rest now,” said Dr. Bannow. She helped Elinor lie back, arranging the pillow under her head. “You’re safe here. If you need anyone, ring the bell.”
Elinor nodded again, wearily. The talking and the crying had exhausted her, her limbs felt leaden, and the pain in her side had risen from a dull ache to a sharper one. She let out a gasp as it twinged again.
“I’ll give you a shot for the pain before I go,” said Dr. Bannow. Through half-closed eyes Elinor saw her pick up a hypodermic needle.
“No, I don’t need it,” she muttered, remembering the biography she’d read of the poet Adrasson and her morphine addiction. Mrs. Watkins had given her Adrasson’s collected poems for her sixteenth birthday, she suddenly remembered, and began to weep again.
“It will help you with the pain and calm you—”
“No!” sobbed Elinor. “Adrasson.”
“The poet? Oh, I see. But addiction doesn’t happen with one or two shots.”
Elinor managed to hold her breath for six seconds, and stopped sobbing. She took another, slower breath, centering herself as Ham had taught her to do, to enter the calm, focused zone required for intensive juggling.
“The pain isn’t so bad. And I am . . . I am . . . I will manage.”
Dr. Bannow hesitated for a long moment, then said, “Very well. I’ll be back to check on you soon. If the pain worsens, don’t hesitate to ring the bell.”
“I won’t,” whispered Elinor. She shut her eyes again, and focused on her breathing, drawing in slow breaths, holding them for the count of six, then exhaling as slowly. Darkness crept in with each breath, the pain of her wound ebbing, while the pain of her loss was put aside for later.
Eventually, Elinor slept, a troubled, waking sleep, but nevertheless welcome for what it was.
A week later, Dr. Bannow declared Elinor well enough to leave, in terms of her physical health at least. She had doubts about how Elinor was otherwise, despite the young woman outwardly having enormously improved. She didn’t cry anymore, but to the doctor, Elinor’s set face was not necessarily an improvement.
But she had weathered the last few days in particular without breaking down. This included two unwelcome visits: the first from several rather embarrassed senior police officers and an entirely unembarrassed and slimy functionary from the Chief Minister’s office in Corvere. The police officers asked her to tell them everything that happened that day, the least senior taking it all down carefully in his notebook.
Then the functionary told her to forget everything she had told the police officers and insisted she sign a document agreeing that the rushed inquest—which had already been held without Elinor’s evidence—into the deaths of Elinor’s mother, Cook, Maria, Mrs. Watkins, and Ham had been properly conducted, though it attributed all of the deaths to “a house fire of accidental ignition.” It also demanded she not discuss the events with anyone at all, but most particularly newspaper reporters. Elinor had resisted at first, only signing when she realized the oblique language in the document was actually a very definite threat she would be put in a mental institution if she didn’t sign.
The second visit had been from her family’s solicitors in Corvere, represented by the stately Mrs. Gwenyth Lord herself, senior partner of Lord, Lord & Lord. In between shallow expressions of sorrow at the deaths, remarks on how handsome Elinor’s father had been in his prime, how successful her grandfather, and how reputable her mother’s aunts, Mrs. Lord managed to convey the key facts that Morrison’s Bank had foreclosed on what was left of Coldhallow House and the estate; agents acting for other creditors had seized any portable properties of value; and there was nothing left. Or almost nothing, for it turned out Elinor’s grandmother, the mysterious Myrien Clayr, had left a small—a very small—annuity for her granddaughter. Amelia Hallett had tried to seize the principal, several times, but had failed.
Elinor was surprised that Mrs. Lord had apparently supported her mother in these attempts. It became clear through the conversation that the solicitor was one of those people who feared and distrusted anything from the Old Kingdom, and considered Amelia’s aunts to have done entirely the right thing in taking her from her mother, and that Myrien Clayr should never have gained even a brief release from the asylum she’d been put in, said release having resulted in her encounter with Elinor as a baby and her engaging other lawyers who had secured her money away from Amelia.
This did not endear her to Elinor, and the interview was concluded in a very cold and businesslike way, with Mrs. Lord announcing she could not wait to get on the train and “return to civilization.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Dr. Bannow when the visitors had left and Elinor was ready to depart herself. In a turnabout, the doctor was sitting on the bed in the otherwise empty ward, and Elinor was standing dressed in clothes given to her by Matron Parkness, who said they were her sister’s, who was much of the same size as Elinor. As the clothes were entirely new, from undergarments to a many-buttoned coat, Elinor doubted this, but she could not refuse the charity. Her grandmother’s annuity would ensure she didn’t quite starve, but little more than that, and apart from those quarterly payments, she had only the two gold coins that had been in the pocket of her father’s coat. The coat itself was in the cupboard by her bed, but despite the kind attentions of Matron Parkness and the hospital laundry, it was too stained and torn to be worn anywhere except perhaps while working in a garden, digging compost or the like.
“For the immediate future, I will have to seek employment,” said Elinor.
Dr. Bannow looked at her with knowing eyes.
“And beyond that?”
Elinor hesitated. But she knew no one else who bore the Charter mark, anyone who might have some inkling of understanding.
“I am going to prepare myself to go to the Old Kingdom,” she said defiantly. “I want to find my . . . my family there. Learn more about the Charter and Charter Magic.”
“I am glad you said ‘prepare’ yourself,” said Dr. Bannow. “I wasn’t joking when I said I wasn’t brave enough to cross the Wall when I was young. It is a very dangerous undertaking.”
“‘A foolish fool knows not the foolish things they undertake, but a wise fool knows the wisdom of the foolery they make,’” quoted Elinor.
“What is that from?”
“The Court of the Sad Prince,” replied Elinor. “Act Two, Scene Four.”
“Oh, Breakespear,” said Dr. Bannow. “Not one I’ve seen. Or read, for that matter.”
“It’s one of the Obscurities,” said Elinor slowly. Ham had always considered the group of three lesser-known and very rarely performed plays termed the Obscurities as the best of all Breakespear. They had the most clowning and ridiculous fights. Elinor didn’t share Ham’s opinion. Her favorites were unexceptional, the plays whose popularity had endured for centuries, like The Three Noble Kinswomen and A Stone Shall Speak.
“What exactly do you have in mind in terms of preparing yourself?” asked Dr. Bannow.
“I do need to seek employment first,” repeated Elinor. “But once that is sorted out, I hope to have some time to learn more about the Old Kingdom and, most particularly, more Charter Magic. I may be able to do both these things at Wyverley College.”
“Wyverley College! You mean from Magistrix Tallowe? I doubt she would help you in any way, the woman’s a—”
“We’re related,” interrupted Elinor. “Apparently. I’m hoping that will help. And t
he school must employ servants.”
“Servants? But surely you can’t be—”
“What else can I do?” asked Elinor. “I have no qualifications to be a teacher, which I’m sure a proper school like that would require.”
“Yes,” agreed Dr. Bannow. “But a school servant! Scrubbing floors and serving schoolgirls!”
“Only until I am ready to go to the Old Kingdom,” said Elinor. “Six months, or a year, perhaps. I’m sure I can cope with that.”
“Have you considered university?” asked Dr. Bannow. “My old college has scholarships, as do others. And if you don’t object to being a servant, some of them still have places for sizars, so there would be some point to being a servant, since you would end up with your degree. I could help you.”
“You’re very kind,” said Elinor. “But I know what I want to do.”
“You’re very young,” said Dr. Bannow. She sighed. “And like I said, far braver than I am, or ever was. If you’re set on it, I can help you with some of the formalities. You will need to get official permission from authorities on both sides of the Wall. I looked into it when I thought I might go myself, before the coming of wisdom or perhaps the caution that grows with age. If you do manage to get a place at Wyverley College, I hope you will write, and perhaps visit me from time to time. I do not often have the company of others who bear the mark.”
“I will,” said Elinor. Impulsively, she embraced the doctor, who hesitantly stood up and returned the gesture.
“I can’t say I’ve ever hugged a patient before,” she said. “But then you are unusual, Elinor. Good luck with everything. Do let me know how you get on. I must confess I am very curious how you will be received by Abigail Tallowe!”
Chapter Eight
The stoat fingers retreated up the steps as Terciel and Tizanael advanced. Soon it became apparent they were set to watch from as close as they dared, never coming near enough to be within the influence of the Abhorsen’s bells or a Charter Magic spell that might destroy their decayed flesh.
The steps became steeper and narrower as Terciel climbed, and the moonlight was bright enough to see the dark shadow of the Long Cliffs ahead. Before they reached the top of the steps and the foot of the cliffs, the Dead creatures streamed off to the north, leaping from ledge to ledge along the lower part of the cliffs. They would find some deep crevice to gather in, to hide from the day, and unless reinforced by the necromancer who’d brought them from Death, the spirit inside the small dead animals would erode the flesh away and in a matter of days retreat into Death once more, there to be carried away forever.
“Mere watchers, as I thought,” said Tizanael, pausing to regain her breath as they left the last step and stood on the carefully chiseled expanse of flat rock at the foot of the escarpment. It always reminded Terciel of a sort of overgrown step, as if it were parent to all the much smaller steps that wound their way below. “But who for? You remember how to open the door here?”
Terciel nodded, and carefully removed the bell Mosrael from his bandolier. Mosrael, the Waker, whose full-voiced call brought the listener into Life and cast the wielder into Death. But in well-trained hands, a mere whisper from Mosrael could also be used to reveal the hidden, to open locks and ways, and indeed, wake those whose sleep was not of the ordinary kind.
But always Mosrael wanted to serve its primary purpose, so it was a particularly dangerous bell. Terciel rang it once, very cautiously, with the merest flick of his wrist, and he stilled it immediately, grasping the clapper. Even so, he felt the sudden, icy presence of Death, and for a moment saw the river, felt the current clutching at him, trying to take him in its grasp. It gripped him for a second as the single, short note of the bell echoed along the rock face, only to loosen and fade as silence returned.
A moment later, a door bloomed into visibility, lines of bright Charter marks speeding up and across to draw the outline of the portal in the formerly featureless grey stone.
“Good,” grunted Tizanael, stepping forward. The door opened, drawn back by a tall figure clad in silver mail, a naked sword brandished in its right hand, head shrouded by a hood. At first glance a powerfully built human, it was not actually a mortal at all. Its hands gave it away, for they were not living flesh but made up of thousands of tiny Charter marks, moving and glowing faintly to create the illusion of golden-hued skin. It was a Charter Sending, a created servant of limited sentience and ability, this one made and set here centuries ago as the doorwarden of the steep, subterranean path that ran up to the western bank of the Ratterlin, high above.
The Sending closed the door behind Terciel. The Charter marks faded, the doorway once again becoming solid grey stone. The doorwarden saluted with its sword. Terciel tried not to look at its face, or faces. He always found it disturbing, particularly as some Sendings did not have human features at all. This one had several visages, flickering between male and female. Distinctive faces, full of character.
Not for the first time, he wondered about how Sendings were made. This one seemed based on several real people, but every part of it was Charter Magic: flesh, armor, sword. Tizanael said he was not yet ready to learn how the Sendings were made, or more particularly there were other things he needed to learn first, and he had not had time to try to find a book about it in the library of the House. He never had time for anything beyond what Tizanael immediately wanted him to learn. As far as he knew, Tizanael had made only one of the Sendings in the House or its close environs, like here. They were nearly all creations of past Abhorsens.
“Not long now,” said Tizanael as she strode up the steeply slanting passage. She trailed her fingers against the wall as she walked, Charter marks rising up from the stone like small fish rising to bait. There were ancient Charter spells in this passage, spells to light their way, and to lend strength and fleetness to those who might need it. Tizanael was drinking them in. Terciel put his hand against the wall, too, and felt his fatigued muscles become a little less weary as the glowing marks left the stone to enter skin.
Other marks sprang up overhead, simple ones to provide illumination, which faded behind them as they passed by. Under their light, Terciel saw that Tizanael was looking very weary, her back not so straight as usual, her feet scuffing the floor a little. He had never thought of how old she was much before, but in recent months he’d slowly become aware that she was very old indeed. She was still considerably more capable than he was in almost everything they did, but it seemed to Terciel that it was taking more of an effort from her, and it was taking her longer to recover from their excursions and alarums.
He almost said something as she stumbled and recovered, but he didn’t. Tizanael never welcomed inquiries about her health, or how she was feeling, or in fact anything that wasn’t directly related to whatever task they were currently engaged with. Instead he focused on keeping himself going. Despite the artificial bolstering provided by the Charter spells in the passage, his legs still ached and he felt very tired. Only the thought of his comfortable bed in the House kept him going. That and Tizanael’s scorn if he suggested they rest so close to their destination.
Finally they reached the upper end of the passage. Another doorwarden waited there, this Sending smaller and slighter than the one below. Its Charter-created clothing was a cowled robe that hid its face, if it had one. It opened the door and then raised a delicate portcullis of silver wire that lay beyond, a fragile-looking thing that seemed less like a proper barrier and more like a fishing net left too long on the shore, made stiff with salt and sunshine. Yet it, too, was a creation of Charter Magic, and much, much stronger than it looked.
“All well below?” Tizanael asked the Sending. It bowed to her, indicating nothing had disturbed its post.
Even so, Terciel advanced out cautiously onto the ledge that stood high above the riverbank. The rumble of the falls hit his ears, so he looked quickly around, the noise loud enough to cover any enemies who might be about to make their move. But he couldn’t see any danger. The
moon was almost directly overhead, the sky clear, the landscape laid out below in silver clarity. There was the enormous plume of spray where the Ratterlin, four hundred yards wide at this point, went over the cliffs in the truly massive falls. The House, their island home, stood on the edge of the waterfall, in the middle of the river.
There was no color to see under the moon, but his mind supplied the details. The red-tiled roof of the main house, the whitewashed perimeter walls surrounding the island, the green of the lawns, the yellow-green of the orchard. In daylight, the sun would glint from the windows of the tower, though they were not glass but some unbreakable crystal known to the artisan Charter Mages of long ago. The Wallmakers, whose bloodline had vanished, at least as a separate lineage, much as the royal line had done.
There were steps down from the ledge to the riverside, the descent testing muscles differently from the climb up from the plain below. Then the last exertion, jumping across the stepping-stones ironically known as the “Abhorsen’s Bridge.” They were spelled to help those who wore the mark to not fall off, but even so were always wet and somewhat slippery, the river incredibly swift and the lip of the waterfall almost unbearably close. If you did slip and fall, there would be no chance of survival.
It was like that other river, Terciel thought. The cold river of Death. He shivered, thinking of his spirit being tumbled through the Gates, spirit flailing, until the Ninth Gate and the final death beyond. If the current took you there, that was it.
Except, it seemed, for the thing called Kerrigor.
“There is a paperwing on the platform,” said Tizanael, pointing to the platform high on the eastern wall, a temporary structure that the Sendings put in place to launch one of the Abhorsen’s own paperwings, or in this case, to relaunch a visitor’s. It was easier to land on the lawn, but difficult to take off from there, so the platform was necessary. There was a paperwing on it now, a magical aircraft with a canoe-shaped body and long, swept-back wings. Terciel couldn’t see its color scheme, but it had to be the green and silver of the Clayr. No one else flew paperwings now, with the royal line gone.
