Abhorsen (Abhorsen 3)

“But don’t use any Charter Magic unless you have to,” added the Dog. “Someone like Hedge can smell it from miles away. Even with this rain.”

“I know that,” replied Sam. He betrayed his nervousness by drawing his sword, as his eyes kept moving, checking out every tree and shrub. He even looked up, just in time to receive a trickle of rain that had made it through the thick branches overhead. It ran down his neck and under the oilskin, to make him even less comfortable. But nothing lurked in the branches of the tree, and from what little he could see of the sky, it seemed empty of anything but rain and clouds.

Lirael drew her sword too. She hesitated over which bell to choose for a moment, her hand flat against the bandolier. She had entered Death only once before, when she had been so nearly defeated and enslaved by Hedge. This time, she told herself, she would be stronger and better prepared. Part of that meant choosing the right bell. Her fingers lightly touched each pouch till the sixth one, which she carefully opened. She took out the bell, holding it inside its mouth so the clapper couldn’t sound. She had chosen Saraneth, the Binder. Strongest of all the bells save Astarael.

“I am coming too, aren’t I?” asked the Dog eagerly, jumping around Lirael’s feet, her tail wagging at high speed.

Lirael nodded her acquiescence and began to reach out for Death. It was easy here, for the Guard’s passing had created a door that would link Life and Death at this spot for many days. A door that could work both ways.

The cold came quickly, banishing the humidity of the warm rain. Lirael shivered but kept forcing herself forward into Death, till the rain and the wind and the scent of wet leaves and Sam’s watching face were all gone, replaced by the chill, grey light of Death.

The river tugged at Lirael’s knees, willing her onwards. For a moment she resisted, reluctant to give up the feel of Life at her back. All she had to do was take one step backwards, reach out to Life, and be back in the forest. But she would have learned nothing. . . .

“I am the Abhorsen-in-Waiting,” she whispered, and she felt the river’s tug lessen. Or perhaps she just imagined it. Either way, she felt better. She had a right to be here.

She took her first slow step forward, and then another and another, until she was walking steadily forward, the Disreputable Dog plunging along at her side.

If she was lucky, Lirael thought, the Guard would still be on this side of the First Gate. But nothing was moving anywhere she could see, not even drifting on the surface, caught by the current. In the far distance was the roar of the Gate.

She listened carefully to that—for the roar would stop if the woman went through—and kept walking, careful to feel for potholes or sudden dips. It was much easier going with the current, and she relaxed a little, but not so much that she lowered sword or bell.

“She is just ahead, Mistress,” whispered the Dog, her nose twitching only an inch above the surface of the river. “To the left.”

Lirael followed the Dog’s pointing paw and saw that there was a dim shape under the water, drifting with the current towards the First Gate. Instinctively, she stepped forward, thinking to physically grab the Guard. Then she realized her mistake and stopped.

Even the newly Dead could be dangerous, and a friend in Life would not necessarily be so here. It was safer not to touch. Instead she sheathed her sword and, keeping Saraneth stilled with her left hand, transferred her right to grasp the bell’s mahogany handle. Lirael knew she should have flipped it one-handed and begun to ring it at the same time, and she knew she could if she had to, but it seemed sensible to be more cautious. After all, she had never used the bells before. Only the panpipes, and they were a lesser instrument of power.

“Saraneth will be heard by many, and afar,” whispered the Dog. “Why don’t I run up and grab her by the ankle?”

“No.” Lirael frowned. “She’s a Royal Guard, Dead or not, and we have to treat her with respect. I’ll just get her attention. We won’t be waiting around anyway.”

She rang the bell with a simple arcing motion, one of the easiest peals described in The Book of the Dead for Saraneth. At the same time, she exerted her will into the sound of the bell, directing it at the submerged body floating away ahead.

The bell was very loud, eclipsing the faint roar of the First Gate. It echoed everywhere, seeming to grow louder rather than fainter, the deep tone creating ripples on the water in a great ring around Lirael and the Dog, ripples that moved even against the current.

Then the sound wrapped around the spirit of the Guard, and Lirael felt her twist and wriggle against her will like a fresh-hooked fish. Through the echo of the bell, she heard a name, and she knew that Saraneth had found it out and was giving it to her. Sometimes it was necessary to use a Charter-spell to discover a name, but this Guard had no defenses against any of the bells.

“Mareyn,” said the echo of Saraneth, an echo that sounded only inside Lirael’s head. The Guard’s name was Mareyn.

“Stay, Mareyn,” she said in a commanding tone. “Stand, for I would speak with you.”

Lirael felt resistance from the Guard then, but it was weak. A moment later the cold river frothed and bubbled, and the spirit of Mareyn stood up and turned to face the bell wielder who had bound her.

The Guard was too newly dead for Death to have changed her, so her spirit looked the same as her body out in Life. A tall, strongly built woman, the rents in her armor and the wounds in her body as clear here in the strange light of Death as they had been under the sun.

“Speak, if you are able,” ordered Lirael. Again, being newly Dead, Mareyn could probably talk if she chose. Many who dwelled long in Death lost the power of speech, which could only then be restored by Dyrim, the speaking bell.

“I . . . am . . . able,” croaked Mareyn. “What do you want of me, Mistress?”

“I am the Abhorsen-in-Waiting,” declared Lirael, and those words seemed to echo out into Death, drowning the small still voice inside her that wanted to say, “I am a Daughter of the Clayr.”

“I would ask the manner of your death and what you know of a man called Nicholas and the pit he has dug,” she continued.

“You have bound me with your bell and I must answer,” said Mareyn, her voice devoid of all emotion. “But I would ask a boon, if I may.”

“Ask,” said Lirael, flicking her glance to the Disreputable Dog, who was circling behind Mareyn like a wolf after a sheep. The Dog saw her looking, wagged her tail, and started to circle back. She was obviously just playing, though Lirael didn’t understand how she could be so lighthearted here in Death.

“The necromancer of the pit, whose name I dare not speak,” said Mareyn. “He killed my companions, but he laughed and let me crawl away, wounded as I was, with the promise that his servants would find me in Death and bind me to his service. I feel that this is so, and my body also lies unburnt behind me. I do not wish to return, Mistress, or to serve such a one as he. I ask you to send me on, where no power can turn me back.”

“Of course I will,” said Lirael, but Mareyn’s words sent a stab of fear through her. If Hedge had let Mareyn go, he had probably had her followed and knew where her body was. It might be under observation at this moment, and it would be easy enough to set a watch in Death for Mareyn’s spirit when it came. Hedge—or his servants—might be approaching in both Life and Death, right now.

Even as she thought that, the Dog’s ears pricked up and she growled. A second later Lirael heard the roar of the First Gate falter and become still.

“Something comes,” warned the Dog, nose snuffling at the river. “Something bad.”

“Quickly then,” Lirael said. She replaced Saraneth and drew Kibeth, transferring the bell to her left hand so she could also unsheath Nehima. “Mareyn, tell me where the pit is, in relation to your body.”

“The pit lies in the next valley, over the ridge,” replied Mareyn calmly. “There are many Dead there, under constant cloud and lightning. They have made a road, too, along the valley floor to th

e lake. The young man Nicholas lives in a patchwork tent to the east of the pit. . . . Something comes for me, Mistress. Please, I beg you to send me on.”

Lirael felt the fear within Mareyn’s spirit, even though her voice had the steady, uninflected tone of the Dead. She heard it and responded instantly, ringing Kibeth above her head in a figure-eight pattern.

“Go, Mareyn,” she said sternly, her words weaving into the toll of the bell. “Walk deep into Death and do not tarry, or let any bar your path. I command thee to walk to the Ninth Gate and go beyond, for you have earned your final rest. Go!”

Mareyn jerked completely around at that last word and began to march, her head high and arms swinging, as she must once have marched in Life on the parade ground at the barracks at Belisaere. Straight as an arrow she marched, off towards the First Gate. Lirael saw her falter for a moment in the distance, as if something had tried to waylay her, but then she marched on, till the roar of the First Gate stilled to mark her passage.

“She’s gone,” remarked the Dog. “But whatever came through is here somewhere. I can smell it.”

“I can feel it too,” whispered Lirael. She swapped bells again, taking up Saraneth. She liked the security of the big bell, and the deep authority of its voice.

“We should go back,” said the Dog, her head slowly moving from side to side as she tried to locate the creature. “I don’t like it when they’re clever.”

“Do you know what it is?” whispered Lirael as they began to trudge back to Life, zigzagging so her back was never truly turned. As on her first trip, it was much harder going against the current, and it seemed colder than ever, too, leaching away at her spirit.

“Some sneaker from beyond the Fifth Gate, I think,” said the Dog. “Small, and long since whittled down from its original— There!”