by Garth Nix
Nothing ever happens here. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Except hunting. Which is worse than nothing.
Mother says I should be proud the bells came to me because now I can sit at the top table. Because she would like to be there. I don’t want to. I’d run away again, but it’s pointless.
These two lines were followed by a squiggly drawing of someone’s face, made to look ridiculous with a very large nose and ears and then the same name repeated half a dozen times, in slightly different but obviously more careful versions of the same careless handwriting.
Maderael. Maderael. Maderael. Maderael. Maderael. Maderael.
Sabriel recognized that, at least, because she had done it herself, as had all her friends back in Second Form. Someone called Maderael had been practicing their signature.
She hesitated before touching the paper with the very tip of her finger. But even this slightest touch was enough. The paper dissolved before her eyes, leaving nothing behind.
It was a mystery, but not a threatening one. Sabriel moved on, carefully reading the relevant passages in The Book of the Dead. She had remembered everything but was not surprised to discover additional pages beyond anything she’d read before, techniques more advanced than the ones she’d practiced in the past.
The wind did not lessen or turn as the afternoon faded, and clouds began to stream south with it. After supper in the refectory, Magistrix Greenwood ordered everyone to the library. The younger girls were puzzled, having never experienced the precautions taken when the wind came from the north, even more so when the gardeners who had not gone home to the village or were on holiday came in with their shotguns, and the stablehands with axes. There were far fewer stablehands than there had once been, now that the school only kept a few horses for riding lessons and the headmistress had a car instead of a carriage.
Sabriel went up to her tower room, dressed in her practice armor, and finished the spell on her sword. The marks joined and the spell both sank into the steel and wreathed it with golden light, light hidden as she sheathed the weapon and fixed the scabbard to her belt.
Back in the library, the final shutters were being closed, and the dusty beams that had not been used for years were slid into place across all but one of the doors. Sabriel went upstairs and looked northward, but it was not what she saw that bothered her. The wind that was rattling the windows carried something else with it. She could feel something Dead coming, something very powerful, or once powerful. It had to be, to have kept moving under the sun, which even now as it turned red and sank into the west was inimical to such creatures.
“There’s a Dead creature coming,” she said to Greenwood, who had come up next to her. Like Sabriel, she wore her sword, doubtless bespelled in a similar fashion. “Something very powerful, to have lasted so far in daylight.”
She hesitated, then added, “I think I had better go and deal with it before it gets here.”
“No,” said Greenwood. “Absolutely not. You’re a student in our—”
“I am my father’s daughter,” said Sabriel. “This thing that comes will not be thwarted by doors and bars. Besides, I suspect it would not have come so far south, save for me. It knows its foe.”
Greenwood was silent for a moment. Sabriel watched her, saw her look at the girls who were pretending to read at the long tables behind them but were secretly watching the pair, trying to work out what was happening.
Finally, Greenwood nodded, very reluctantly.
“I see no alternative,” she said. “For the Charter’s sake, be wary.”
She spoke almost to empty air, for Sabriel was already striding away.
They barred the door behind her as she left. She heard the bar slide home, but it hardly registered. She was focused on the task ahead, on her sense of Death, on the spells she might need and the techniques she’d refreshed her memory on from The Book of the Dead.
The light was fading slowly, the long summer evening a definite advantage to her. It would help to be able to see whatever came, as well as sense its presence. As she did now, more directly than the hints carried by the wind. It was in the wood beyond the northern boundary of the school, doubtless seeking shade, as it would have done in all its passage from the Wall. But it was still moving, heading inexorably toward the school. Toward her.
That would actually help, Sabriel decided. She strode quickly past the row of teachers’ houses, turned right, and skirted the end of the ha ha, the sunken ditch that had once been a dry moat for the castle that had stood here before the school was built. The ruins of some part of this medieval fortification remained between the pond and the gymnasium, though it was only a patch of strewn stones and the remnants of a low, broad wall in three parts that rose like steps from a few feet above the ground to about nine feet high at the tallest end.
Sabriel went to this wall, but she did not immediately climb to the high end. Instead, she knelt on the lowest section and reached for the Charter. It was easy to find it now, for the north wind carried the beneficial magic with it as well as the inimical. Sabriel effortlessly drew out the marks she needed and wound them together into a spell she had practiced many times but had never used in earnest. She laid it in the stone, where it shone for several seconds before sinking away. But it was not gone; it was lying there, in wait.
She repeated the same spell on top of the next section of wall, setting it deep in the smooth limestone block that was still topped with a layer of ancient white mortar, like petrified icing on a cake.
The last section of the wall was several feet higher. Sabriel hauled herself up it but did not set a spell in the stone. Instead she looked to the north and drew her sword, holding it high above her head. Charter marks flared, the blade bright as a flaming torch.
“I am here!” shouted Sabriel. “Come, if you dare!”
The Dead creature answered with a howl so visceral and awful that it almost made Sabriel step back off the wall, and the sight of it was no better. It came toward her, fast as a galloping horse, eating up the distance in great leaps and rushes, fire burning where it trod.
“A Mordicant,” whispered Sabriel. It was human in shape, a head taller than her, but had never been a human corpse. A made creature, created by a very powerful necromancer from blood, grave mold, and bog clay, invested with a spirit culled from the far reaches of Death. Its flesh was a sickly grey-green, but it had eroded under the sun. Huge cracks ran across its chest and down its arms and legs, the fires within all too visible. The same fire dripped from its mouth and claws, and tendrils of black smoke trailed behind it.
Sabriel drew in a long, slow breath and readied herself. A Mordicant was a terrible enemy, but she told herself it was far from the Wall, its strength would be greatly sapped by the summer sun, and it was still daylight. It could, and would, be defeated.
The Mordicant leapt forward again, a huge leap of a dozen feet or more. Sabriel swallowed, suddenly trembling, her carefully thought out plan in tatters. The thing moved so fast, and it jumped! It could jump over the trap spells she had laid . . .
She bent her knees and readied herself to drop flat. If it jumped straight at her, she would do that and roll, strike up, but then it would be on top of her—
It did jump, but not to the top part of the Wall. It cleared the first section but landed on the second, and Sabriel shouted in relief and fear as her spell exploded into action, lines of golden light like vines erupting from the stone to wind about the Mordicant, bringing it to a sudden halt.
It screamed again, a vicious assault that almost deafened Sabriel. She could smell the creature now, the awful tainted hot-metal tang of Free Magic that filled her nose and throat and made vomit rise, her mouth suddenly acrid and foul. She ignored it, stepping forward to swing her sword two-handed down on the Mordicant’s thick, neckless head.
Silver sparks blew out everywhere, red fire splashed like blood, but the blade hardly bit into the creature’s flesh and was almost jarred out of Sabriel’s hands. The Mordicant emitted somethi
ng like a grunting laugh, and one taloned hand broke free of the restraining tendrils of Charter Magic and tore away at those that wrapped its legs.
In a minute, maybe less, it would be free.
Sabriel shoved her sword point-first into the Mordicant’s open, fire-filled mouth. A great gout of sparks flew out, and the weapon felt suddenly loose, less rigid. Sabriel dropped it as the hilt grew hot, and molten metal dripped down the Mordicant’s jaw and chest, the sword utterly destroyed, the Charter spell on it dissipated, and she knew the Mordicant could not be defeated in the living world.
Sabriel drew herself up and stood completely still, even as the creature on the wall below her continued to tear at the thin ropes of golden light that held it in place. Ice spread over her face and hands, a thin layer that sparkled in the last of the sunshine.
It was cold in Death, as ever, a sudden shock after the summer warmth. The current gripped Sabriel with that first, sudden shock, trying to take her straight away, to rush her through the First Gate and beyond. She resisted it, as much with her will as her physical strength.
The Mordicant was even larger here, the restraining spell less distinct. It bent into the river, clouds of steam boiling up as its fiery talons worked to free its feet.
Sabriel clapped her hands. The sound carried like a drumbeat, sending ripples across the moving water. The Mordicant stiffened and reared back as it tried to lift its legs and escape the spell.
Before it could do so, Sabriel pursed her lips and whistled, deep pure notes that joined together to make one voice, and it was as if others joined her, a choir of whistlers all on the same clear, unbearable note. On and on it went, beyond any human breath, the sound of Saraneth, the sixth bell.
Saraneth the Binder, who shackled the Dead to the wielder’s will.
Sabriel felt the Mordicant desperately trying to break free of the remnants of the golden vines; she felt its wild desire to charge forward and rend her apart. But even though the Charter spell was already fading, Saraneth now had the creature in its grip.
She stopped whistling and spoke, her words still carrying as much of the strength of the bell as she had managed to channel with only her own breath and mouth.
“Begone! Trouble the world of the living no more!”
Sabriel expected the creature to turn and shamble away, deeper into Death. A Mordicant could resist the relentless current to some degree, the spirit within strong enough to linger, even if it was carried through the first two or three gates. But it would take a long, long time before it could return to Life, if ever.
Instead, it crumbled. First, its internal fires went out with a whoosh, and then the flesh broke like a cake in a child’s too-eager hand, leaving only a writhing shadow, the spirit that had been brought to animate the manufactured body. It rose up and tried to step forward, the river splashing at its legs, but it could not go against the current. It wavered, and fell, and was taken away with a final, pathetic scream not at all like the creature’s former fearsome howling.
Sabriel turned, found the border with Life, and walked back to her body and the welcome light of a summer evening.
There were black marks where the Mordicant’s feet had scorched the white stone, but that was all. Sabriel climbed down from the wall and walked back to the library. She waved to Greenwood, who was watching from the window. She would have been able to see what happened to some degree, though Sabriel hoped not the icing-over that indicated she had gone into Death. With any luck, it would have seemed to the Magistrix that she had reached into herself for some spell of last resort.
The breeze at her back faltered and fell away, before starting up again, this time from the southeast. A few moments later, the electric lights in the library sprang back on, and Greenwood finally waved back.
Sabriel’s father came the following night. There was a sudden flurry of wind to send papers flying from her desk, a sparkling fall of Charter marks, and his luminous form appeared on Ellimere’s chair, which Sabriel had turned to face her own.
“Sabriel.”
“Father.”
He looked tired, and worn, and Sabriel wished she could hug him. But he was not present enough for this to be possible. She had learned early this would only disrupt the spell and end the visit, far too soon.
“I have defeated a Mordicant,” she said, and saw him start, first with surprise and then with fear. But he did not speak until she had finished telling him everything that had happened. This was always his way. To hear everything she wanted to say first.
“I had hoped you would be safe at Wyverley,” he said finally, with a deep sigh. “I suppose you have been, for the most part.”
“You’ve trained me well,” said Sabriel.
Terciel bent his head, whether in acknowledgment of that or regret at the necessity, she wasn’t sure.
“Oh, I found another paper in the book,” she said. “A drawing of a cat. Do you know what that might mean? Or where they come from?”
“Time and Death sleep side by side,” said Terciel slowly. “That book is as much or more in Death as it is in the living world. The things you found were put there by some playful Abhorsen of the past. There was a Maderael, I think. Centuries ago, in one of the long peaceful times. There were such, you know. I hope there will be again, one day.”
He looked at her and smiled, though his eyes were sad.
“The flower is a star-arrow. They grow in profusion along the banks of the Ratterlin in spring. Your mother loved them . . .”
“Star-arrows,” repeated Sabriel slowly. “I hope I will see them one day.”
“Perhaps you will,” replied the Abhorsen.
Excerpt from Lirael
THE WALK THAT Lirael and the Disreputable Dog took that day was the first of many, though Lirael never could remember exactly where they went, or what she said, or what the Dog answered. All she could recall was being in the same sort of daze she’d had when she’d hit her head—only this time she wasn’t hurt.
Not that it mattered, because the Disreputable Dog never really answered her questions. Later, Lirael would repeat the same questions and get different, still-evasive answers. The most important questions—“What are you? Where did you come from?”—had a whole range of answers, starting with “I’m the Disreputable Dog” and “from elsewhere” and occasionally becoming as eloquent as “I’m your Dog” and “You tell me—it was your spell.”
The Dog also refused, or was unable, to answer questions about her nature. She seemed in most respects to be exactly like a real dog, albeit a speaking one. At least at first.
For the first two weeks they were together, the Dog slept in Lirael’s study, under the replacement desk that Lirael had been forced to purloin from an empty study nearby. She had no idea what had happened to her own, as not a bit of it remained after the Dog’s sudden appearance.
The Dog ate the food Lirael stole for her from the Refectory or the kitchens. She went walking with Lirael four times a day in the most disused corridors and rooms Lirael could find, a nerve-wracking exercise, though somehow the Dog always managed to hide from approaching Clayr at the last second. She was discreet in other ways as well, always choosing dark and unused corners to use as a toilet—though she did like to alert Lirael to the fact that she had done so, even if her human friend declined to sniff at the result.
In fact, apart from her collar of Charter marks and the fact that she could talk, the Disreputable Dog really did seem to be just a rather large dog of uncertain parentage and curious origin.
But of course she wasn’t. Lirael sneaked back to her study one evening after dinner, to find the Dog reading on the floor. The Dog was turning the pages of a large grey book that Lirael didn’t recognize, with one paw—a paw that had grown longer and separated out into three extremely flexible fingers.
The Dog looked up from the book as her supposed mistress froze in the doorway. All Lirael could think of were the words in Nagy’s book, about the Stilken’s form being fluid—and the way th
e hook-handed creature had stretched and thinned to get through the gate guarded by the crescent moon.
“You are a Free Magic thing,” she blurted out, reaching into her waistcoat pocket for the clockwork mouse, as her lips felt for the whistle on her lapel. This time she wouldn’t make a mistake. She’d call for help right away.
“No, I’m not,” protested the Dog, her ears stiffening in outrage as her paw shrank back to its normal proportions. “I’m definitely not a thing! I’m as much a part of the Charter as you are, albeit with special properties. Look at my collar! And I am definitely not a Stilken or any other of the several hundred variations thereof.”
“What do you know about Stilken?” asked Lirael. She still didn’t enter the study, and the clockwork mouse was ready in her hand. “Why did you mention them in particular?”
“I read a lot,” replied the Dog, yawning. Then she sniffed, and her eyes lit up with expectation. “Is that a ham bone you have there?”
Lirael didn’t answer but moved the paper-wrapped object in her left hand behind her back. “How did you know I was thinking about a Stilken just then? And I still don’t know you aren’t one yourself, or something even worse.”
“Feel my collar!” protested the Dog as she edged forward, licking her chops. Clearly the current conversation wasn’t as interesting as the prospect of food.
“How did you know I was thinking about a Stilken?” repeated Lirael, giving each word a slow and considered emphasis. She held the ham bone over her head as she spoke, watching the Dog’s head tilt back to follow the movement. Surely a Free Magic creature wouldn’t be this interested in a ham bone.
“I guessed, because you seem to be thinking about Stilken quite a lot,” replied the Dog, gesturing with a paw at the books on the desk. “You are studying everything required to bind a Stilken. Besides, you also wrote ‘Stilken’ fourteen times yesterday on that paper you burnt. I read it backwards on the blotter. And I’ve smelled your spell on the door down below, and the Stilken that waits beyond it.”
