Lirael (Abhorsen 2)

“It’s none of your business!” exclaimed Sam, throwing his head back in disdain. As he did so, his tousled hair flew back, revealing the Charter mark on his forehead.

Instantly Kuke called out a warning, and the poniard was at Sam’s neck, and his right arm pinioned behind him. Of all things the constables might fear, the bearer of a false or corrupted Charter mark was one of the worst, for he could only be a Free Magic sorcerer, a necromancer, or some thing that had taken human shape.

Almost at the same time, Tep opened a saddlebag and lifted out a dark leather bandolier, a bandolier of seven tubular pouches that ranged in size from a pillbox to a large jar. Wooden handles of dark mahogany thrust out of the pouches, making it quite clear what the bandolier held. The bells that Sabriel had sent to Sameth. The bells that he had locked away in his workroom and definitely hadn’t packed.

“Bells!” exclaimed Tep, dropping them in fright and leaping back, almost as if he’d drawn out a nest of writhing serpents. He didn’t notice the Charter marks that thronged upon both bandolier and handles.

“A necromancer,” whispered Kuke, and Sam heard the sudden fear in his voice and felt the hold on him slackening, the poniard drifting away from his throat, the hand that held it beset by sudden shivering.

In that instant, Sameth pictured two Charter marks in his mind, drawing them from the endless flow like a skilled fisherman selecting his catch from a glittering shoal. He let the marks infuse into his held breath—then he blew them out, at the same time throwing himself to the ground.

One mark flew true, striking Tep with sudden blindness. But Kuke must have been some small Charter Mage himself, for he countered the spell with a general warding, the air sparking and flashing as the two Charter marks met.

Then, before Sam could even get up, Kuke’s poniard stabbed out, sinking deep into his leg, just above the knee.

Sam screamed, the noise adding to Tep’s shouts of blind despair as he groped around the room and Kuke’s even louder shouts of “Necromancer!” and “A rescue!” That would bring every constable for miles and any guards who might be on the road. Even concerned citizens might come, but it would be brave ones since the word “necromancer” had been heard.

After the first split-second shock of pain, when his whole mind seemed to crack open, Sam instinctively did what he’d been taught to save his life in the event of an assassination attempt. Drawing several Charter marks in his mind, he let them grow in his throat and roared out a Death-spell to strike everyone unprotected in the room.

The marks left him like an incandescent spark, leaping to the two constables with terrible force. In a second, it was quiet, as Kuke and Tep tumbled to the floor like broken-stringed puppets.

Sam pushed himself to his feet, the realization of what he’d done rising through the pain. He’d killed two of his father’s men . . . his own men. They’d simply been doing their job. The job that he was afraid to do. Protecting people from necromancers and Free Magic and whatever else . . .

He didn’t stop to think any further. The pain was coming back, and he knew he had to get away. In a panic, he picked up his bags, thrust the cursed bells back in, buckled the sword around his waist, and left.

He didn’t know how he managed the stairs, but a moment later he was in the common room, with people staring at him as they backed against the walls. He stared back, wide-eyed and wild, and limped through, leaving bloody footprints on the floor.

Then he was in the stables, saddling Sprout, the horse blowing wide-nostriled, eyes white with fear at the scent of human blood. Mechanically, he soothed her, hands moving without conscious thought.

A year later, or in no time at all, or somewhere in between, Sam was in the saddle, kicking Sprout into a trot and then a canter, all the while feeling his blood washing down his leg like warm water, filling up his boot till it overflowed the rolled-back top. Some part of his mind screamed at him to stop and tend to the wound, but the greater part shouted it down, wanting only to flee, flee the scene of his crime.

Instinctively, he headed west, putting the rising sun at his back. He zigzagged for a while, to lay a false trail, then took a straight track through the fields, towards a dark expanse of forest, not too far ahead. He had only to reach it and he could hide, hide and tend his hurt.

Finally, Sam reached the comforting shadow of the trees. He went in as far as he could and fell off his horse. Pain climbed up his leg, spiking all the way. The green world of the forest spun and lurched sickeningly, refusing to hold still. The morning light had gone from yellow to grey, like an overcooked egg. He couldn’t focus on the healing spell. The Charter marks eluded him, slipping from his mind. They simply wouldn’t line up as they should.

It was all too hard. Easier to let go. To fall asleep, to drift into Death.

Except that he knew Death, knew its chill. He was already falling into the cold current of the river. If he could have been sure of being taken under by that current, rushed through the cascade of the First Gate and then onwards, he might have given in. But he knew the necromancer who’d burnt him was waiting for him in Death, waiting for an Abhorsen-in-Waiting too incompetent to manage the manner of his own passing. The necromancer would catch him, take his spirit, and bind it to his will, use him against his family, his Kingdom. . . .

Fear grew in Sam, sharper than the pain. He reached for the Charter marks of healing once more—and found them. Golden warmth grew in his weakly gesturing hands and flowed into his leg, through the black and sodden trouser. He felt its heat rushing through, all the way to the bone, felt the skin and blood vessels knit together, the magic bringing everything back to the way it was supposed to be.

But he’d lost too much blood too quickly for the spell to render him completely whole. He tried to get up but couldn’t. His head fell back, the leaf litter making him a pillow. He tried to force his eyes wide open but couldn’t. The forest spun again, faster and faster, and then everything went black.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The Observatory of the Clayr

The Disreputable Dog woke with great reluctance, spending a number of minutes in stiff-legged stretching, yawning, and eye rolling. Finally, she shook herself and headed for the door. Lirael stood where she was, her arms crossed sternly across her chest.

“Dog! I need to talk to you!”

The Dog acted surprised, putting her ears back with a sudden jerk. “Shouldn’t we be hurrying home? It’s after midnight, you know. Third hour of the morning, in fact.”

“No!” exclaimed Lirael, all thoughts of talks forgotten. “It can’t be! We’d better hurry!”

“Still, if you want to have a talk,” said the Dog, sitting back on her haunches and cocking her head in a prime listening attitude, “there’s no time like the present, I always say.”

Lirael didn’t answer. She rushed to the door, pulling on the Dog’s collar as she passed, yanking her upright.

“Ow!” yelped the Dog. “I was only joking! I’ll hurry!”

“Come on, come on!” snapped Lirael, pushing her hands against the door and then trying to pull at it, which was difficult because it didn’t have a handle or a knob. “Oh, how does this open?”

“Ask it,” replied the Dog, calmly. “There’s no point pushing.”

Lirael let out a huff of frustration, took a deep breath, and then forced herself to say, “Please open, door.”

The door seemed to think about it for a moment, then slowly swung inwards, giving Lirael enough time to back away. The roar of the river rose through the doorway, and a cool breeze came with it, lifting Lirael’s sadly singed hair. The wind also brought something else, something that attracted the Dog’s attention, though Lirael couldn’t tell what it was.

“Hmmm,” said the Dog, turning one ear towards the door and the Charter-lit bridge beyond it. “People. Clayr. Possibly even an aunt.”

“Aunt Kirrith!” exclaimed Lirael, jumping nervously. She looked around wildly, seeking another way out. But there was nowhere

to go except back across the slippery, river-washed bridge. And now she could see bright Charter lights out in the Rift, lights made fuzzy by the mist and spray from the river.