by Garth Nix
“It wouldn’t help,” said Mogget. “If she speaks, you will hear her through your very bones. If she sings . . . We had best hope she will not sing.”
“We will avoid her,” said the Dog. “Trust to my nose. We will find our path.”
“Can you tell us who Kalliel was?” asked Sam.
“Kalliel was the twelfth Abhorsen,” replied Mogget. “A most untrusting individual. He kept me locked up for years. The well must have been dug then. His grandson released me when Kalliel disappeared, and he inherited his grandsire’s bells and title. I do not wish to share Kalliel’s doom. Particularly down a well.”
Lirael twitched as she suddenly felt some shift out in the fog. The brooding presence that had been lurking farther back was moving. She could sense it, a being far more powerful than the Shadow Hands who were beginning to flicker in and out of the edge of the fog.
Chlorr was coming closer, almost down to the riverbank. Or if not Chlorr, someone of equal or greater power. Perhaps it was even the necromancer she had encountered in Death.
Hedge. The same necromancer who had burned Sam. Lirael could still see the scars on Sam’s wrists, through the slits in the sleeves of his surcoat.
That surcoat was another mystery—for another day, Lirael thought wearily. A surcoat that quartered the royal towers with a device that had not been seen for millennia. The trowel of the Wallmakers.
Sam caught her glance and picked at the heavy golden thread where the Wallmakers’ symbol was woven through the linen. It was only slowly entering his head that the sendings hadn’t made a mistake with the surcoat. For a start, it was new made, not some old thing they’d dragged out of a musty cupboard or centuries-old laundry basket. So he probably was entitled to wear it for some reason. He was a Wallmaker as well as a royal Prince. But what did that mean? The Wallmakers had disappeared millennia ago, putting themselves into the creation of the Wall and the Great Charter Stones. Quite literally, as far as Sam knew.
For a moment, he wondered if that would be his destiny too. Would he have to make something that would end his life, at least as a living, breathing man? For the Wallmakers weren’t exactly dead, Sam thought, remembering the Great Charter Stones and the Wall. They were more transformed or transfigured.
Not that he fancied that, either. In any case, he was far more likely to simply get killed, he thought, as he looked out to the fog and felt the cold presence of the Dead within it.
Sam touched the gold thread on his chest again and took comfort from it, his fear of the Dead receding. He had never wanted to be an Abhorsen. A Wallmaker was much more interesting, even if he didn’t know what it meant to be one. It would have the added benefit of driving his sister, Ellimere, crazy, since she would never believe he didn’t know and couldn’t, rather than wouldn’t, explain what it was to be a Wallmaker.
Presuming he ever saw Ellimere again . . .
“We’d best be moving,” said the Dog, startling both Lirael and Sam. Lirael had been staring out into the fog again too, lost in her own thoughts.
“Yes,” said Lirael, tearing her gaze away. Not for the first time, she wished she were back in the Great Library of the Clayr. But that, like her lifelong wish to wear the white robes and the silver-and-moonstone crown of a fully fledged Daughter of the Clayr, had to be pushed away and buried deep. She was an Abhorsen now, and there was a great and momentous task ahead of her.
“Yes,” she repeated. “We’d best be moving. We will go by way of the well.”
Chapter Two
Into the Deep
IT TOOK LITTLE more than an hour to prepare for their departure, once the decision had been made. Lirael found herself wearing armor for the first time since her Fighting Arts lessons many years before—but the coat the sendings brought her was much lighter than the mail hauberks the Clayr kept in their schoolroom armory. It was made of tiny overlapping scales or plates of some material Lirael didn’t recognize, and despite its length to her knees and its long, swallow-tailed sleeves, it was quite light and comfortable. It also didn’t have the characteristic odor of well-oiled steel, for which Lirael was grateful.
The Disreputable Dog told her the scales were a ceramic called “gethre,” made with Charter Magic but not magic in itself, though it was stronger and lighter than any metal. The secret of its making was long lost, and no new coat had been made in a thousand years. Lirael felt one of the scales and was surprised to find herself thinking, “Sam could make this,” though she had no real reason to suppose that he could.
Over the armored coat, Lirael wore the surcoat of golden stars and silver keys. The bell-bandolier would lie across that, but Lirael had yet to put it on. Sam had reluctantly taken the panpipes, but Lirael kept the Dark Mirror in her pouch. She knew it was very likely that she would need to look into the past again.
Her sword, Nehima, her bow and quiver from the Clayr, and a light pack cleverly filled by the sendings with all manner of things that she hadn’t had a chance to look at completed her equipment.
Before she went to join Sam and Mogget downstairs, Lirael paused for a moment to look at herself in the tall silver mirror that hung on the wall of her room. The image that faced her bore little resemblance to the Second Assistant Librarian of the Clayr. She saw a warlike and grim young woman, dark hair bound back with a silver cord rather than hanging free to disguise her face. She no longer wore her librarian’s waistcoat, and instead of a library-issue dagger, she had long Nehima at her side. But she couldn’t completely let go her former identity. Taking the end of a loose thread from her waistcoat, she drew out a single strand of red silk, wound it around her little finger several times to make a ring, tied it off, and tucked it into the small pouch at her belt with the Dark Mirror. She might not wear the waistcoat any longer, but part of it would always travel with her.
She had become an Abhorsen, Lirael thought. At least on the outside.
The most visible sign of both her new identity and her power as the Abhorsen-in-Waiting was the bell-bandolier. The one Sabriel had given to Sam after it had mysteriously appeared in the House the previous winter. Lirael loosened the leather pouches one by one, slipping her fingers in to feel the cool silver and the mahogany, and the delicate balance between Free Magic and Charter marks in both metal and wood. Lirael was careful not to let the bells sound, but even the touch of her finger on a bell rim was enough to summon something of the voice and nature of each bell.
The smallest bell was Ranna. Sleeper, some called it, its voice a sweet lullaby calling those who heard it into slumber.
The second bell was Mosrael, the Waker. Lirael touched it ever so lightly, for Mosrael balanced Life with Death. Wielded properly, it would bring the Dead back into Life and send the wielder from Life into Death.
Kibeth was the third bell, the Walker. It granted freedom of movement to the Dead, or it could be used to make them walk where the wielder chose. Yet it could also turn on a bell-ringer and make her march, usually somewhere she would not wish to go.
The fourth bell was called Dyrim, the Speaker. This was the most musical bell, according to The Book of the Dead, and one of the most difficult to use as well. Dyrim could return the power of speech to long-silent Dead. It could also reveal secrets, or even allow the reading of minds. It had darker powers, too, favored by necromancers, for Dyrim could still a speaking tongue forever.
Belgaer was the name of the fifth bell. The Thinker. Belgaer could mend the erosion of mind that often occurred in Death, restoring the thoughts and memory of the Dead. It could also erase those thoughts, in Life as well as in Death, and in necromancers’ hands had been used to splinter the minds of enemies. Sometimes it splintered the mind of the necromancer, for Belgaer liked the sound of its own voice and would try to steal the chance to sing of its own accord.
The sixth bell was Saraneth, also known as Binder. Saraneth was the favorite bell of all Abhorsens. Large and trustworthy, it was powerful and true. Saraneth was used to dominate and bind the Dead, to make them obey the
wishes and directions of the wielder.
Lirael was reluctant to touch the seventh bell, but she felt it would not be diplomatic to ignore the most powerful of all the bells, though it was cold and frightening to her touch.
Astarael, the Sorrowful. The bell that sent all who heard it into Death.
Lirael withdrew her finger and methodically checked every pouch, making sure the leather tongues were in place and the straps tight but also able to be undone with one hand. Then she put the bandolier on. The bells were hers, and she had accepted the armament of the Abhorsens.
Sam was waiting for her outside the front door, sitting on the steps. He was similarly armored and equipped, though he did not have a bow or a bell-bandolier.
“I found this in the armory,” he said, holding up a sword and tilting the blade so that Lirael could see the Charter marks etched into the steel. “It isn’t one of the named swords, but it is spelled for the destruction of the Dead.”
“Better late than never,” remarked Mogget, who was sitting on the front step looking sour.
Sam ignored the cat, pulled out a sheet of paper from inside his sleeve, and handed it to Lirael.
“This is the message I’ve sent by message-hawk to Barhedrin. The Guard post there will send it on to the Wall, and it will be passed through to the Ancelstierrans, who will . . . um . . . send it by a device called a telegraph to my parents in Corvere. That’s why it’s written in telegraphese, which is pretty strange if you’re not used to it. There were four hawks in the mews—not counting the one from Ellimere, which won’t fly again for a week or two—so I’ve sent two to Belisaere for Ellimere and two to Barhedrin.”
Lirael looked down at the paper and the words printed in Sam’s neat hand.
TO KING TOUCHSTONE AND ABHORSEN SABRIEL
OLD KINGDOM EMBASSY CORVERE ANCELSTIERRE
COPY ELLIMERE VIA MESSAGEHAWK
HOUSE SURROUNDED DEAD PLUS CHLORR NOW GREATER DEAD STOP HEDGE IS NECROMANCER STOP NICK WITH HEDGE STOP THEY EVIL UPDUG NEAR EDGE STOP GOING EDGE SELF PLUS AUNT LIRAEL FORMER CLAYR NOW ABHORSENINWAITING STOP PLUS MOGGET PLUS LIRAEL APOSTROPHE ESS CHARTER DOG STOP WILL DO WHAT CAN STOP SEND HELP COME SELVES EXPRESS URGENT STOP SENT TWO WEEKS PRIOR MIDSUMMER DAY SAMETH END
The message was indeed written strangely, but it made sense, thought Lirael. Given the limitations of the message-hawks’ small minds, “telegraphese” was probably a good form of communication even when a telegraph was not involved.
“I hope the hawks make it,” she said as Sam took the paper back. Somewhere out in the fog lurked Gore Crows, a swarm of corpse birds animated by a single Dead spirit. The message-hawks would have to get past them, and perhaps other dangers as well, before they could speed on to Barhedrin and Belisaere.
“We cannot count on it,” said the Dog. “Are you ready to go down the well?”
Lirael walked down the steps and took a few paces along the redbrick path. She shrugged her pack higher up her back and tightened the straps. Then she looked up at the sunny sky, now only a very small patch of blue, the walls of fog hemming it in on three sides and the mist from the waterfall on the fourth.
“I guess I’m ready,” she said.
Sam picked up his pack, but before he could put it on, Mogget leaped onto it and slid under the top flap. All that could be seen of him were his green eyes and one white-furred ear.
“Remember I advised against this way,” he instructed. “Wake me when whatever terrible thing is about to happen happens, or if it appears I might get wet.”
Before anyone could answer, Mogget wriggled deeper into the pack, and even his eyes and that one ear disappeared.
“How come I get to carry him?” asked Sam aggrievedly. “He’s supposed to be the Abhorsen’s servant.”
A paw came back out of the pack, and a claw pricked into the back of Sam’s neck, though it didn’t break the skin. Sam flinched and swore.
The Dog jumped up at the pack and braced her forepaws on it. Sam staggered forward and swore again as the Dog said, “No one will carry you if you don’t behave, Mogget.”
“And you won’t get any fish, either,” muttered Sam as he rubbed his neck.
Either one or both of these threats worked, or else Mogget had subsided into sleep. In any case, there was no reappearance of the claw or the cat’s sarcastic voice. The Dog dropped down, Sam finished adjusting the straps on his pack, and they set off along the brick path.
As the front door shut behind them, Lirael turned back and saw that every window was crowded with sendings. Hundreds of them, pressed close together against the glass, so their hooded robes looked like the skin of some giant creature, their faintly glowing hands like many eyes. They did not wave or move at all, but Lirael had the uncomfortable feeling that they were saying goodbye. As if they did not expect to see this particular Abhorsen-in-Waiting return.
The well was only thirty yards from the front door, hidden beneath a tangled network of wild roses that Lirael and Sam had to tear away, pausing every few minutes to suck their thorn-pierced fingers. The thorns were unusually long and sharp, Lirael thought, but she had limited experience with flowers. The Clayr had underground gardens and vast greenhouses lit by Charter marks, but most were dedicated to vegetables and fruit, and there was only one rose garden.
Once the rose vines were cleared away, Lirael saw a circular wooden cover of thick oak planks, about eight feet in diameter, set securely inside a low ring of pale white stones. The cover was chained in four places with bronze chains, the links set directly into the stones and bolted to the wood, so there was no need for padlocks.
Charter marks of locking and closing drifted across both wood and bronze, gleaming marks only just visible in the sunlight, till Sam touched the cover and they flared into sudden brightness.
Sam laid his hand on one of the bronze chains, feeling the marks within it and studying the spell. Lirael looked over his shoulder. She didn’t know even half of the marks, but she could hear Sam muttering names to himself as if they were familiar to him.
“Can you open it?” asked Lirael. She knew scores of spells for opening doors and gates, and had practical experience of opening ways into many places she wasn’t supposed to have entered in the Great Library of the Clayr. But she instinctively knew none of them would work here.
“I think so,” Sam replied hesitantly. “It’s an unusual spell, and there are a lot of marks I don’t know. As far as I can work out, there are two ways it can be opened. One I don’t understand at all. But the other . . .”
His voice trailed off as he touched the chain again and Charter Marks left the bronze to drift across his skin and then flow into the wood.
“I think we’re supposed to breathe on the chains . . . or kiss them . . . only it has to be the right person. The spell says ‘my children’s breath.’ But I can’t work out whose children or what that means. Any Abhorsen’s children, I guess.”
“Try it,” suggested Lirael. “A breath first, just in case.”
Sam looked doubtful but bent his head, took a deep breath, and blew on the chain.
The bronze fogged from the breath and lost its shine. Charter marks glittered and moved. Lirael held her breath. Sam stood up and edged away, while the Disreputable Dog came closer and sniffed.
Suddenly the chain groaned aloud, and everyone jumped back. Then a new link came out of the seemingly solid stone, followed by another and another, the chain rattling as it coiled to the ground. In a few seconds there was an extra six or seven feet of chain piled up, enough to allow that corner of the well cover to be lifted free.
“Good,” said the Disreputable Dog. “You do the next one, Mistress.”
Lirael bent over the next chain and breathed lightly upon it. Nothing happened for a moment, and she felt a stab of uncertainty. Her identity as an Abhorsen was so new, and so precarious, that it could be easily doubted.
Then the chain frosted, the marks shone, and the links came pouring out of the stone with the sharp rattle of metal. The
sound was echoed almost immediately from the other side, as Sam breathed on the third chain.
Lirael breathed on the last chain, touching it for a moment as she took in a breath. She felt the marks shiver under her fingers, the lively reaction of a Charter-spell that knew its time had come. Like a person tensing muscles in that frozen instant before the beginning of a race.
With the loosening of the chains, Lirael and Sam were able to lift one end of the cover and slide it away. It was very heavy, so they didn’t drag it completely off, just making an opening large enough for them to climb down with their packs on.
Lirael had expected a wet, dank smell to come up from the open well, even though the Dog had said it wasn’t full of water. There was a smell, strong enough to overcome the scent of the roses, but it wasn’t of old standing water. It was a pleasant herbal odor that Lirael couldn’t identify.
“What can I smell?” she asked the Dog, whose nose had often picked up scents and odors that Lirael could neither smell, spell, or imagine.
“Very little,” replied the Dog. “Unless you’ve improved recently.”
“No,” said Lirael patiently. “There’s a particular smell coming out of the well. A plant, or an herb. But I can’t place it.”
Sam sniffed the air and his forehead furrowed in thought.
“It’s something used in cooking,” he said. “Not that I’m much of a cook. But I’ve smelled this in the Palace kitchens, when they were roasting lamb, I think.”
“It’s rosemary,” said the Dog shortly. “And there is amaranth, too, though you probably cannot smell it.”
“Fidelity in love,” said a small voice from Sam’s backpack. “With the flower that never fades. And you still say she is not there?”
The Dog didn’t answer Mogget but stuck her snout down the well. She sniffed around for at least a minute, pushing her snout farther and farther down the well. When she pulled back, she sneezed twice and shook her head.
