“Oh, across the Wall!” said Kirrith easily, flicking her fingers and somehow giving her words the same intonation as if she were talking about a neighboring and rather noisome dunghill. “But let me look at you, Lirael! You have grown taller, I swear.”
“I stopped growing years ago, Aunt,” said Lirael.
“The blue suits you, and the silver details,” said Kirrith. She sat down at the head of the table and gestured to one of the Sendings. “Wine. Not that bubbling rubbish. Something red and full-bodied.”
The Sending did not move. Kirrith frowned.
“Some of our Sendings, they are so old and stupid—”
“It isn’t that,” interrupted Lirael. “These are the Abhorsen’s Rooms, Aunt. It will not answer to any of the Clayr.”
“I am not just any of the Clayr!” boomed Kirrith. “I am the Voice of the Nine Day Watch. And not before time, too. You would not believe how badly organized it is in the Observatory, so many excuses about people being sick with this influenza, which I’m sure can be fought off if you have the force of will to do so . . . order it to get me some wine, Lirael. I have only a few moments and then must return; we’re finally Seeing something useful again, and I cannot be spared.”
“Please fetch some wine for my aunt,” said Lirael quietly to the majordomo Sending, who bowed in response. She glanced at Nick, who raised one eyebrow just a fraction. She didn’t know he could do that, and the corner of her mouth twitched just a little in return, though she wanted to beam all over her face and gather him in and start kissing again and perhaps . . . Lirael blinked hard and brought her mind back to whatever nonsense Kirrith was spouting.
“Free Magic beasts! Attacking one of our villages! Can you believe it?”
Suddenly all of Lirael’s attention was on Kirrith.
“What?” she asked. “Free Magic creatures? Where? And when?”
“Yellowsands,” said Kirrith, waving with her wand in a direction she supposed to be northeast, but was actually due south. “North of Navis. A dozen of them, with keepers and all that rigmarole the nomads carry on with. And a necromancer. Can you imagine the hide of it?”
“When?” asked Lirael grimly. “How soon?”
“How soon?” repeated Kirrith. “Today, or so Oreana calculated, you know, by sun and moon. In fact, right now—”
“Now!”
Lirael stood aghast, all thoughts of kissing entirely banished. She looked at the tall water-driven clock in the corner. It was already almost midnight. Around seven hours till dawn, when she could fly the paperwing, and she hadn’t replenished the food and water in her pack, or cleaned her armor . . . but Kirrith was still talking.
“Don’t worry. We sent message-hawks this morning as soon as we Saw what was going on . . . to the guard post at Navis, and to Belisaere. I’m sure Sabriel will be there soon enough to sort them out, though we haven’t actually Seen that yet; when I go back I’m sure I will focus the Sight, whatever that Traienna says—”
“The Abhorsen is on holiday,” spat Lirael. “I have the responsibility of dealing with such things now! Why wasn’t I told of this as soon as I arrived?”
“Don’t be silly, dear,” said Kirrith. “It is a matter for the King and the Abhorsen, as always. You’re too young. I know you’re the Abhorsen-in-Training, but surely—”
“I am the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, and I have fought and won against all manner of Dead and Free Magic creatures, including one of the most powerful, the Ninth Bright Shiner itself,” said Lirael forcefully. “Now, I need to know exactly what has been Seen.”
“You’re just like your mother,” complained Kirrith. “Always so sure of yourself, and look what happened to her!”
“Tell me what has been Seen or I will send for someone who can tell me!” retorted Lirael. “We’re wasting time!”
“Oh, very well,” said Kirrith mulishly. She snatched at the wine the majordomo Sending had just poured for her, took a large swallow, and then told Lirael and Nick what the Clayr had Seen that morning, a rambling exposition that included how difficult it had been to focus on the particular vision in question, since Free Magic distorted the Sight, and the great doubt that many had that it was a true Seeing and lots of other unnecessary detail.
At the end of this rambling discourse, Lirael possessed the information that perhaps a dozen wood-weirds, with attendant shamans, witches, and keepers from several clans, were raiding Yellowsands, a fishing village to the northeast some eighty leagues away. The inhabitants had retreated to an old tower on a tidal creek, but a necromancer was pursuing some of them along a ridge nearby, and there were already Dead summoned. And all this was taking place right now, or had taken place earlier in the night.
Nick watched Lirael as she listened to Kirrith. She was furious, he could tell, but also deeply intent on the details. It soon became clear to him she planned to go to Yellowsands as soon as she could, and he became very worried. He did not know what wood-weirds were, but a dozen of them sounded like a great many, and a necromancer and the Dead as well . . . his memory was fragmented, but he still had the nightmarish recollection of Hedge and what he had called his Night Crew, who were in fact Dead Hands, as Sam had told him.
“Very well,” said Lirael, when Kirrith could tell her no more. “You may go.”
“I am the Voice!” protested Kirrith. “No one tells me if I may go or stay.”
Nevertheless, she pushed her chair back and stood up, raising her wand. During the course of her recitation, and Lirael’s occasional but important questions, it seemed to have penetrated her self-obsession that she had made a major mistake, and though she might be the Voice for another five days, she most likely never would be again.
“I choose to leave!” she said. “You should be grateful I didn’t send you word, Lirael. I was just looking after you, keeping you out of danger!”
Lirael didn’t answer, the anger clear in her set expression and fierce eyes. Kirrith stalked away, and Nick came around the table and held out his arms. But Lirael did not go to him, or reach out.
“I have to prepare a Charter skin,” she said, almost as if thinking aloud rather than talking to Nick. “A barking owl. If I start now I can probably leave by three or four, well before dawn, when the paperwing would fly.”
“But you’re already very tired,” said Nick anxiously, letting his arms fall. “Must you go?”
“This is what . . . this is what it is to be an Abhorsen,” said Lirael. Her gaze was distant; she was already thinking through the first marks she would need to make the Charter skin. “You should go to bed; the Sendings will show you where. The Librarian . . . someone will come see you in the morning.”
She hesitated, lunged close, and quickly kissed Nick hard upon the mouth, their noses almost clashing. Before he could fully respond, she broke away and ran from the room.
Chapter Twenty-Five
AN UNWELCOME SLEEP
Near Yellowsands, Old Kingdom
It was strange to run on grass after so long upon the treacherous shale. Ferin kept expecting to hear that awful cracking sound and feel the ground shift beneath her. Then her exhausted mind caught up once again that they were in the valley now, and the arm helping her stay upright belonged to Astilaran, the old healer, who was scrawny but surprisingly strong.
Young Laska had come back to her senses and now she ran alongside, with Megril bringing up the rear. The constable often paused to look back, sword and spell-casting hand ready. But there had been no further pursuit, at least not yet. The necromancer and keeper presumably still followed, but even though the night was now bright from the moon and stars, it would be easy for them to stay hidden provided they kept off the road.
Five minutes later, Astilaran called a halt. Ferin sank to her knees, panting, but still kept one hand on her knife. She regretted having to leave her bow and pack, but it had been the right thing to do. She could not have come this far still burdened.
“Three minutes’ rest,” said Astilaran. He bent ove
r and put his hands on his knees, sucking in great breaths.
“Did you . . . did you see what the other sorcerers with the wood-weirds were doing?” gasped Ferin.
“Sacked the village, gone back to their ship,” panted Astilaran. “Suppose . . . confident the necromancer . . . would get you. You see or hear anything, Megril?”
“No,” grunted the constable. She had gone off the path and was half-hidden by a low bush, ready to spring out if someone came up on them.