Goldenhand (18 page)

“The furniture here all came from Hillfair, the Abhorsen's rambling palace they built in the times of peace, and then had to destroy some four hundred years ago,” said Vancelle. “It was a surprising folly, being completely indefensible against the Dead. But they took the furnishings away first, some to their ancient House on the Ratterlin, some to Belisaere—where it was lost in the later interregnum—and some here. There is a catalog of the pieces and what is known of their history in the Library, of course, should you wish to read it. The door to the left leads to the bedrooms, and to the right, a complete bathhouse. It has been several years since Sabriel last stayed in these rooms, but there are quite a number of domestic Sendings who should have kept the place in order.”

“Thank you,” said Lirael. She felt very, very tired and very hungry now. She glanced over at Nick, concerned that he was sleeping so deeply, worried that he might have slipped into a coma. But even as she looked at him, his eyes flickered open and he gave her a somewhat disoriented smile.

“We've arrived,” said Lirael. “The Abhorsen's Rooms in the Clayr's Glacier. Allow me to introduce you to Vancelle, the Librarian. The chief of all librarians here. Nicholas Sayre.”

“I am very happy to be here,” said Nick. He nodded his head
respectfully, not needing to be told that this was a very different kind of librarian from Mrs. Knipwich at his old school. “And to meet you, Chief Librarian.”

“Call me Vancelle; I do not stand on my title. Do you think you can get up, with assistance?”

Nick nodded and, with help, managed to stand. Though he was still very weary, and his wrist ached, he felt considerably better than he had.

“I apologize for appearing before you in such a state,” he said, with a sideways glance at Lirael. He looked down at himself, indicating the badly fitting paperwing flyer's furs, which were now much too hot. “If I could clean myself up somewhere . . .”

Vancelle looked him up and down, assessing his general state, before she nodded in approval.

“There are a number of baths to the right,” said Vancelle. She gestured to one of the young Clayr who was on domestic service duty. “Zarla will assist you—”

“Oh, I don't need assistance,” said Nick, looking around at all the women about him. Several of the other young Clayr had stepped forward with Zarla, as if they wanted to help bathe him as well. “I'd prefer to . . . ah . . . take my bath privately . . .”

“Of course,” said Vancelle quickly, noting his apprehension. “In any case there are Sendings in the bathhouse. They came from Hillfair too, by the way, Lirael. So they're very old, but still functional. They will attend you.”

“Sam mentioned Sendings; they're like . . . um . . . magic servants . . .”

“After a fashion,” said Lirael. “They are made with Charter Magic, in various shapes and with various powers, and have limited self-will. They generally want to help, regardless of their nature.”

“All right, then,” said Nick. “I guess if I need assistance . . . bath through there?”

He began to walk over to the door, but faltered and leaned against the wall. There was a surge of movement from all the Clayr present, but Lirael was first to his side, taking his arm. But he waved her off, smiling crookedly.

“No, no, I can do this,” he croaked. “I don't want to be a burden all the time.”

“You're not a burden,” said Lirael, not without some exasperation. “It will take a while to recover from your blood loss, not to mention being stuck out in the cold.”

She was still quite cross about the delay in getting inside, and would be crosser still if Nick ended up getting a cold. Or this influenza that was going around the Clayr, as happened every few years. Many of the Clayr believed the steam pipes spread colds and influenza; certainly once some of them caught something, it was usually only a matter of time before they all did.

“I can do it,” repeated Nick. Leaning on the wall, he walked slowly to the bathhouse door, which was opened by a tall and very old Sending, judging by the pale Charter marks in its body and the threadbare robe it wore. It put one arm around Nick, which Lirael saw with some annoyance he did not resist. As it did so she noted that the old Sending glowed more brightly and the Charter marks that had been moving so slowly across its magical skin sped up and became more active.

“Interesting,” commented Vancelle, who had also noticed this effect. “I do not think he is in immediate danger, unless he should somehow reopen that wound on his wrist. I will leave you for an hour, so you may also bathe, Lirael. On my return, with or without the Infirmarian, we can take a look at Master Sayre's wound and general state. Imshi, if you would stay with Lirael and help her with whatever she may need? Do try and remember she is the Abhorsen-in-Waiting now and must be treated with great respect, not as someone to go and fetch your spare waistcoat because you've spilled tea on yourself.”

“Yes, Librarian,” said Imshi, her eyes downcast. “It was only the once. Or maybe twice. And Lirael offered, didn't you—”

Imshi stopped talking because Lirael was chuckling, and Vancelle was already gone.

Shale Ridge near Yellowsands, Old Kingdom

I
t grew brighter briefly as the last red light of evening sneaked in under the clouds, but when the sun finally dipped away it became very dark indeed upon the ridge of shale. Ferin and her companions had used the light well, climbing faster toward the peak called High Kemmy. But they were still several hundred paces short of the top, where they hoped to find the downward path that would take them to the valley floor, and then across to the estuary and swift water to protect them from the Dead.

But the necromancer did not plan to let them even reach the peak.

Ferin saw the attack first, a cloud of fiery sparks descending from above as she and her companions inched along the ridge. They were feeling the way forward, aided only by the very faint light of a single Charter mark that Young Laska had just cast upon the handle of Swinther's axe, which he held reversed to probe the shale ahead and test their path.

The sparks were in fact Free Magic fires burning in skeletal eye sockets. The many eye sockets of creatures flying through the air.

“Gore Crows!” shouted Young Laska.

Ferin swung her makeshift cookpot-lid shield in front of her face; Swinther wove a defensive pattern with his axe, and Young Laska whipped her bow about to be a makeshift staff only a few seconds before they were charged by dead birds, an assault of animated lumps of decaying flesh, broken feathers, and shattered bones. Half-rotten
beaks and skeletal claws gouged at every inch of exposed skin, most particularly at their eyes.

Gore Crows, prepared by the necromancer long ago and kept in the closed darkness of the tarred basket he carried on his back. Birds ritually killed and then infused with a Dead spirit, a single slain man or woman animating a flock of dozens, so they moved together with one fell purpose.

Ferin crouched and swung her shield blindly, covering her eyes with her right arm. She heard Swinther cry out, a bellow of pain, and then Young Laska shouted something inaudible. Her words were followed a moment later by a blinding light. Ferin peeked and saw the Borderer's bow outlined with golden light, bright Charter marks falling from it like liquid fire. Where the bow hit, a Gore Crow fell and did not rise.

With the light, Swinther and Ferin were able to strike more accurately, smashing the remaining Gore Crows down. But even broken into something resembling porridge, the horrid lumps of feather and bone tried to move. All three companions were kept busy for several minutes, kicking the Gore Crows off the ridge and down the slope, once again precipitating an avalanche of shale.

“Nineteen of them, by my count,” said Young Laska. She was bleeding from her hands and on both cheeks, but not badly. She held her bow high, the light falling on the others. “I doubt he could have more crows prepared in that basket . . . at least I hope he hasn't. Swinther! You are wounded?”

The woodcutter held one hand to his right eye, and there were rivulets of blood leaking out between his fingers and running down the back of his hand.

“Cursed things!” he swore. “Bind it up. We must get to High Kemmy and on the path down before worse comes.”

“Hold my bow away from your body so you stay at least a little in darkness, and keep watch,” said Young Laska, handing the
still-brilliant bow to Ferin. “Sit down, Swinther.”

Swinther sat. Young Laska took a square of cloth and a rolled bandage from her belt pouch, folded the cloth four times to make a pad, and gave it to Swinther, telling him to press it against his eye as she unrolled the bandage around his head.

“You are well prepared,” said Ferin.

“My old kit from the Borderers,” said Young Laska, tying off the bandage so it held the pad in place. “If we had time and I the strength, I'd try a healing spell, but we do not. In truth, I am weary from bringing light to my bow, though I hate to admit it. My old mates would laugh at me now, to be so out of practice.”

“We should use the light to hurry,” said Swinther. “That necromancer seems to know where we are anyway, in darkness or in light.”

“Indeed I do!” called a voice from shockingly close back along the ridge. “As will my servants, when they come. Give me the Athask woman, and you others will go free.”

In answer Young Laska snatched the bow back from Ferin, nocked an arrow, and sent it speeding toward the unseen voice, all blindingly fast. But there was no sound of an impact, just a faint clatter of shale.

Laughter sounded, farther back and to the right, and then a moment later arrows lofted high came down from above, nomad arrows at the full extent of their range, the necromancer's keeper aiming at the light from Young Laska's bow. Ferin heard them and was quick to raise her shield, deflecting one shaft. Young Laska dropped to the path, and several spent arrows bounced harmlessly from her armored back.

Swinther was not so fast. An arrow struck his shoulder. It had no force either, simply falling from on high, all the power of its launching spent. But it upset his balance. He put one foot back. Shale cracked under the woodcutter's heel and slid away. He lunged
forward, arms flailing, but even as Ferin and Young Laska reached for him, more and more shale slid away beneath his feet.

“The second path—”

Swinther's words were lost in the rumble of shale. A few seconds later, they heard the impact and the now-familiar roar of an avalanche of loose rock.

Young Laska touched her bow and it went dark, so they could not see the column of stone-dust rise where Swinther fell. But they could taste its grim finality on their tongues and feel the grit of it in their eyes.

“And so another joins my happy band,” sang the voice in the darkness, now sounding as if he were far to the left, where there was nothing but empty air. The necromancer was throwing his voice, or utilizing some magic. “You will see him again, but I doubt he will be welcome.”

Ferin felt Young Laska touch her arm.

“We must move,” whispered the Borderer. “Crawl and feel the way ahead. Hurry!”

Ferin needed little encouragement. She crawled a dozen paces forward, as quickly as she could, pausing to drop the cookpot lid on one side before continuing. The makeshift shield was too heavy and awkward; and she was already tired and her foot was getting worse. Ferin hoped the necromancer's keeper would not get close enough to be able to shoot with greater effect.

She felt Young Laska touch her heels, and could hear the crunch of shale. It was not too difficult to feel the path ahead, but she was already cut by the broken shale on her hands and knees, and now her fingers were also bleeding. The cuts were not serious in themselves, but fresh blood was a lure for the Dead. With the scratches from the Gore Crows, Ferin and Young Laska were like bait being dragged for hunting dogs.

Her ankle sent out more stabbing pains, a sure sign Astilaran's
spell was weakening. Ferin ignored this, as she ignored all the lesser pains from scratches, cuts, and bruises, and the pang she felt from Swinther's death. Karrilke's husband, father to six children, who had been so keen to help her.

Ferin was no stranger to death; the Athask people looked upon it with considerable fatalism, considering that death could come at any moment, unlooked for or otherwise. It was to be faced bravely, and if circumstances allowed, the dead were to be mourned and their lives celebrated.

If circumstances allowed. In battle, or on the hunt, any death was locked away in its moment, not to be considered until some later time permitted.

This Ferin tried to do, but she felt a great responsibility, knowing that she had brought this death to Swinther and to his family. For the first time, she wondered if her message really
was
so important. But it was only a fleeting thought, instantly banished as she refocused her mind on the path ahead.

The ridge began to slope up, suggesting they were nearing the peak. Before the light had completely gone, Ferin had gotten a look at High Kemmy ahead. It was also shale, of course, but it seemed to her the ridge rose and widened to make a large flat area, and then there were several ridgelines running down again from that. One of these would be the path that led to the valley and from there to the river tower. But without Swinther they did not know which one and in the dark they could not see . . .

The second path . . .

Ferin wondered what Swinther had tried to call out as he fell. Did he mean the second path they would meet upon the peak? Counting from where? Second on the left, second on the right? Or was he calling out something entirely different?

They could not choose the right path from his dying shout. They would have to do something else.

Ferin kept thinking about this as they crawled forward, her questing hands checking the path ahead. Several times she had to force herself to slow down, as she almost missed a slight turn or deviation that would have had her move off the ridge and begin a slide to certain death. Always she was aware of Young Laska at her heels, and somewhere behind her, there was the necromancer and his keeper, and who knew what Dead things the necromancer had dragged back into Life.

Ferin stopped and reached back behind her to pull on Young Laska's hand, drawing the Borderer up close enough to hear a whisper.

“We have to try and kill the necromancer's keeper,” said Ferin, very quietly. “Without the keeper, he will be free to make his own choices and may turn aside, go elsewhere, or even choose to let us go.”

“I doubt it,” said Young Laska. She hesitated. “But . . . I can think of nothing else. Have you an idea how we might do this?”

“Shoot lots of arrows at her,” said Ferin.

“That has the virtue of simplicity,” said Young Laska. “But in the dark—”

“I was hoping you could put one of your marks on the shale, so that when the necromancer or the keeper steps upon it, there will be light,” interrupted Ferin quickly. “We wait on the peak, and we shoot.”

“They will be very close behind, if we fail,” said Young Laska. “I think we should keep moving. There is always a chance we can stay far enough ahead, get down and to the tower—”

“Do you know which ridge to follow down?”

“No,” said Young Laska. But she too had noticed Swinther's final words. “The second path, Swinther tried to tell us, didn't he?”

“Perhaps,” said Ferin. “But can we be sure what he meant? And we'll have to feel for it, in the dark. It will be very hard to find
any
path down.”

Young Laska did not answer for a full minute. Finally she spoke.
“All right. We are fairly close to the peak. I will set the mark here.”

It took the Borderer a few minutes to place the Charter mark, tense minutes with Ferin staring back along the ridge behind her, trying to make out any slight changes in the darkness that might indicate movement, intently listening to every sound. She could hear the occasional crack of shale, the shuffle of displaced stone. From that she knew the necromancer and his keeper were still following, but it was very difficult to tell how far away they were. They were definitely getting closer.

Young Laska cupped her hands to hide the momentary spark of the mark's appearance, before it sank into a lump of shale in the middle of the path. It would burst into bright light for several minutes when anyone trod on it, or passed nearby.

“Go on,” whispered Young Laska urgently. “It's done.”

Ferin resumed her crawl. The ridge and the path upon it were climbing more steeply now, making the way more difficult. Ferin probed ahead with her fingers, feeling where the shale was in bigger pieces, piled higher on either side of the slight depression of the path.

She was reaching forward as usual when she noticed the sky was growing lighter. Ferin paused for a moment, and stared up. The dark clouds summoned by the necromancer's wind-raising were beginning to split apart. There were stars shining through. In their faint light, Ferin could now see the ridgeline ahead and the dark silhouette of the peak, High Kemmy.

Looking behind, Ferin could also now just about see Young Laska's face, or rather the reflection of starlight from her eyes, and the faintest suggestion of an outline for her head.

“The clouds are moving,” whispered Ferin. “The necromancer's hold on the wind has weakened.”

“Or he uses his powers otherwise,” said Young Laska. “Hurry!”

Ferin resumed crawling. It was easier, now that she could see a little, and her heart was lifted by the presence of the stars above.
But she had hardly gone on a dozen paces when that slight relief was entirely lost, as the necromancer behind them rang one of his sorcerous bells.

It was Mosrael's voice they heard, though neither Ferin nor Young Laska knew this, or even knew it was a necromantic bell. To them it was simply a terrible, harsh sound that entirely filled their bodies with a sickening vibration, a sound that plucked at their bones as if it might draw them out of their flesh, force the teeth from their jaws, and explode their joints.