Goldenhand (19 page)

Mosrael was the Waker, the bell which brought Dead spirits back into the living world, back into whatever flesh might be found to house them.

The sound of the bell went on for what seemed a very long time, though it was less than a minute. Ferin lay flat on the path, her teeth clenched, her eyes screwed shut, her hands pressed hard against her ears. None of this in any way lessened the sound or reduced the effect of the bell's awful call.

Finally, the harsh, bone-jangling peal faded. Ferin slowly took her hands away from her head and numbly began to crawl forward again, not knowing what else to do. Some primal instinct made her just want to get farther away in case the sound came again.

But the bell did not speak. Ferin's wits slowly returned. She kept mechanically crawling forward, but she also began to notice the world around her again. The sky was becoming brighter still, one point of the crescent moon poking through the parting clouds. Under its light, Ferin reached the peak, a flat area some twenty paces wide where five ridges met, and all the loose shale was gone, providing a welcome platform of solid rock.

Ferin immediately dropped her pack to one side, took up her bow, shifted her arrow case for quick use, and turned back to look down the ridgeline where they'd come. Young Laska stood next to her, longbow in hand. The light was now strong enough to cast the
faintest moonshadow, and the ridge was a faint pale line running through the deep darkness of the depths to either side.

But they could not see any movement on the ridge, and the cloud came and went across the moon. Ferin's ankle throbbed with pain; it was getting even worse. She had to put her weight mostly on her left foot. It was not ideal for shooting well.

“See anything?” whispered Young Laska.

“No, I—”

Light flared on the path, the Charter mark blossoming into golden fire. But it was not the necromancer and his keeper who were suddenly illuminated.

It was a Dead Hand. A shambling, broken, and twisted corpse given the semblance of life by the spirit that now inhabited its cold flesh, a spirit summoned out of Death by the necromancer, a spirit totally subservient to the necromancer's wishes.

There were three more Dead Hands close behind, though these bodies were almost skeletons, only small strips of flesh remaining on their bones. Unlike the first Dead Hand, for this had once been Swinther. The horribly crushed and flattened body that stalked toward them was only recognizable by the remains of the woodcutter's leather jerkin that hung from the creature's torso. Apart from the damage, the spirit within was already corroding the remaining flesh, and red flames flickered where once were eyes.

Far behind the creatures, safely out of bowshot, the necromancer crouched upon the path, his body covered in a thin layer of ice. His spirit was in Death, sent there by the seesaw effect of Mosrael, to balance the four Dead spirits he had returned to Life as his servants.

There was nothing Ferin or Young Laska could do against the Dead. They had no Charter-spelled arrows, no spirit-glass shafts, not even a fire. As one they snatched up their dropped packs, replaced their bows, and hurried to the second ridgeline path to their left and started down.

Both hoped desperately this path would lead them off the shale hill, and both greatly doubted it was the right one.

The Dead Hands followed, as ordered by their master, but goaded even more by their hunger to feast upon the living.

Clayr's Glacier, Old Kingdom

L
irael had her bath in a room next to Nick's, one of several in the surprisingly luxurious bathhouse that she thought must also have been outfitted from the Abhorsen's former Hillfair palace. The Clayr's normal baths certainly were not carved out of single giant blocks of black marble veined with silver, and did not have gold-plated taps and pipes, as hers did, even if the gold had mostly worn off. Lirael idly wondered about those long-ago Abhorsens, who were clearly keenly more interested in luxury than the later generations. Or perhaps just had more opportunity to indulge themselves.

It was a great treat to have a very deep, hot bath. Lirael soaked in it, letting her cares wash away, topping up the hot water every five minutes. Like all the hot water in the Clayr's Glacier it came with a waft of sulfur, since it came from hot springs far below. But Lirael was long used to that and very swiftly adapted to it once again, so she soon didn't smell it at all.

She tried not to think as she floated, wanting to simply relax. But it was very difficult to clear her mind. It was full of thoughts about Nicholas and what was going to happen to him, and furthermore, what she wanted to happen. To him, or with him, or between them . . . it was all quite mixed up. Then there were other thoughts, about the Clayr, and her childhood, and Aunt Kirrith, and being the Abhorsen-in-Waiting and what the future held; was she going to always be looking for tasks and danger, always flying off in a
paperwing to confront Free Magic creatures or the Dead, in no small part because when she was in such circumstances she didn't have to think about how to live her ordinary life?

Eventually, the hot water and the scented oil she poured in helped to banish these thoughts some little distance, at least for a time. Lirael floated and turned the tap with her big toe, and almost fell asleep. She would have stayed in for hours, only she knew Vancelle was coming back, and there was dinner to think of, and as soon as food came to mind she realized she was very hungry indeed so she jumped out of the bath.

A Sending brought her a very large and fluffy towel that was also not at all like the ones Lirael had grown up with, and fresh clothes. The underwear was the Clayr's normal linen garments from the common stock, but she was surprised to be brought a dress rather than her usual more utilitarian clothing. The dress had long sleeves, swallowtailed at the wrists, a shaped bodice, and went almost to her ankles, where it flared out. Made of a dark blue material akin to silk, but not something Lirael recognized, it was dotted with tiny keys wrought in silver thread. It was clearly old, but not often worn, though it had been freshly laundered. It also fit very well, suggesting one of the Sendings had altered it. They were like that, always keen to serve their creators or their heirs. Sometimes the Sendings were so eager to help they became annoying.

Lirael felt odd wearing something she knew had been worn by other Abhorsens long before, and was slightly uncomfortable because it was not a uniform. She was used to hiding herself behind either a librarian's waistcoat or an Abhorsen's hauberk of gethre plates.

The Sending also brought a red belt of very soft leather, one in the old style without a buckle, to be tied at the waist to show the points which were adorned with matching cats' heads in silver with ruby chips for eyes.

The belt points reminded Lirael of Mogget. Not for the first time, she wondered where that cat who was not a cat had taken himself since the binding of Orannis. Sam had seen him several times, Lirael knew; the two of them seemed to have some kind of friendship or at least an understanding of some sort. But Lirael had been too busy to ask Sam what the newly freed Eighth Bright Shiner was up to. Part of her hoped she wouldn't ever meet him again, for though Mogget had proved an essential ally at the very last moment in the battle against the Destroyer, she was not sure he would ever be such an ally again.

When Lirael came out, there was no one in the reception room save the doorkeeper Sending, who pointed at the hallway. So Lirael went along it, and looked in the next two rooms, which proved to be quite sumptuous bedchambers. Each had an imposing four-poster bed, the posts gilded and carved, with dragons' feet at the base and heavy curtains of dark blue velvet and gold brocade. It was not to Lirael's taste, and it was not at all like the simpler furnishings of the Abhorsen's House on the river, or the palace in Belisaere for that matter.

The next room made Lirael pause, for there was a long window here, which she knew must look straight out and down into the Ratterlin river valley below the Glacier. It was night outside, and with the cloud and light snow falling, it was impossible to see anything but soft darkness beyond the spill of light from the Charter marks in the room. But she knew in daylight, on a clear day, there would be a wonderful view here. She had once looked through a similar window, sneaking into the Librarian's own rooms, which were nearby.

This reminded her of the Disreputable Dog again, and Lirael instinctively reached for the little soapstone sculpture, before remembering her bell bandolier with its extra pouch for the little dog was
back on the shelf by the front door, just as her sword was on the sword-rest there.

Lirael returned to the hallway and tried another door. It opened onto a large dining room, dominated by a long table of very pale timber, its legs and edges carved in ornate patterns. There were seventeen rather spindly chairs with gilded legs around the table, and an eighteenth chair at the far end which was basically a throne, covered in gold and gems and looking decidedly uncomfortable.

Imshi was sitting next to this throne on an ordinary chair, with the two boxes that were Lirael's welcome-home presents on the table in front of her. She was watching what was going on at the closer end of the table with great interest, while also maintaining a familiar pose that Lirael recognized stemmed from having been told to stay out of the way by someone in authority.

What drew Imshi's attention, and Lirael's, was Nick. Now dressed in a plain linen shirt, woolen breeches, and stockings, he was lying stretched out on the table, with a padded seat taken from one of the chairs under his head as a pillow.

Both Vancelle and the Infirmarian—a short but supremely confident and decisive woman in her sixties called Lealla, who had assumed the post some five years before when Lirael's great-great-grandmother Filris had died—were leaning close around Nick, in the middle of casting a complicated healing spell which Lirael didn't recognize. They were both working on it, Vancelle drawing Charter marks with her fingers in the air, which flashed into existence and fell like large and extremely brilliant raindrops, the Infirmarian snatching them to swiftly join together a thick ribbon of golden light which she was looping around Nick's wrist. One end of this ribbon was moving into his skin, the marks growing brighter as they did so.

“Concentrate,” Vancelle was saying to Nick. “Will the marks to be stronger, and invite them into you, to help you heal. It may be
easier for you to focus on one at a time.”

“I'm trying to,” said Nick slowly. “They move about so much, and they're so
bright
—”

“It is working,” said Vancelle. “The marks
are
responding to you. Aren't they, Lealla?”

“Yes. I am only preparing the spell, not sending it in,” said Lealla, who had just the tip of her right forefinger resting on Nick's forehead Charter mark. It took great skill to be able to touch a baptismal mark and not be drawn into the Charter yourself, but it was part of a healer's technique. “This is very interesting. He seems to be able to strengthen the marks, to make the overall spell much more powerful. But it does not seem to lessen the Free Magic I feel within him, behind or perhaps
underneath
the Charter Magic that contains it.”

“It's lessening me all right, though,” said Nick anxiously. “I feel like I've run a mile . . . I can't keep looking at the marks, they're too . . . it's too difficult—”

“Then you should rest now,” said Lealla. “We will finish directing the spell. Close your eyes, relax. Fall asleep if you like.”

Nick's eyes closed with relief. He had not seen her, Lirael thought, where she watched from the door. Both Vancelle and Lealla had glanced her way, but neither indicated she should come in, until they finished with the spell a few minutes later.

“Well met, Lirael,” said Lealla. She stepped back from the table and bowed. As she did so, Nick sat up and looked across. He seemed surprised to see Lirael, and stared at her with his mouth open. She did not realize he had never seen her out of an armored coat.

“Thank you,” said Lirael. She avoided looking at Nick, who was
still
staring at her. “How is the patient?”

“He does very well,” said Lealla breezily. “There is still debilitation from some time ago, but it is not serious. The wrist injury is not significant in itself, though the blood loss could have been. You did
well with your healing, Lirael, as I would expect. Also . . .”

She paused, and looked at Vancelle, who nodded for her to continue.

“Furthermore, though it is still very early and much more work needs to be done, with the Librarian's invaluable assistance I think we have begun to establish that he has become or is becoming something very interesting indeed; in fact, in some fashion he is a—”

“I'm right here,” interrupted Nick plaintively. “You don't have to talk about me as if I'm not here.”

“I beg your pardon, young man,” said Lealla, though she continued to ignore him and address Lirael. “Now, when you came in we were in the process of having Nicholas attempt to prove our early postulation.”

“Which is what?” asked Lirael, who was having some difficulty arriving wherever Lealla was heading.

“We
think
Nicholas has become something akin to a Charter Stone,” said Vancelle gravely. “That is to say, a source of Charter Magic, somehow fueled by the Free Magic within him. And in our rather limited experiment just now he has shown that he can direct this power, to strengthen Charter marks and spells, and presumably to lessen them as well, should he so desire.”

“Oh,” said Lirael. She looked at Nick, who smiled at her. She smiled back, but quickly smoothed her mouth flat as she noticed Vancelle and Lealla were watching her rather than him. She couldn't tell from their expressions what they were thinking.

“It is potentially a very dangerous power,” said Lealla, “if Nicholas cannot control it. Certain spells, augmented beyond control, or made to fail, could be fatal both for himself and those nearby . . . and it may be only one expression of his particular condition. We will need to investigate more thoroughly.”

The Infirmarian now looked directly at Nick and tapped him on the head.

“You must learn how to master your gift, as I believe it to be,” she continued. “Though others might consider it something of a curse. Now, I have many very reluctant, sneezing, and watery-eyed patients back in my Infirmary, who will try and sneak out if I'm not present, so I must be away. Abhorsen, Librarian, Mr. Nicholas Sayre, Imshi. Good evening.”

With that, she whisked past Lirael at her customary speedy pace, swinging the leather bag that was both the mark of her calling and a repository of all the nonmagical adjuncts needed for healing.

“I must return to the Library myself,” said Vancelle. “I will call upon you in the morning, Lirael. With your permission we will continue to investigate Master Sayre's interesting powers.”

“What about my permission?” asked Nick.

“That too, of course,” said Vancelle. She hesitated, then added, “But it is perhaps best you know that as someone brought here for investigation in the Library, you are not precisely our guest but, shall we say, a ward of the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. I do not think the powers that lie within you will present a problem, yet it is ever best to take care. There will be two Second Assistant Librarians on guard on the Southscape outside your front door, Lirael, and Nicholas must not leave the Abhorsen's Rooms unless it is with me, the Infirmarian, or yourself.”

“So I am a prisoner,” said Nick quietly.

“No,” answered Vancelle. “Should you wish to leave, we would arrange your return to Ancelstierre. You are more a puzzle, one that is potentially dangerous. Dangerous to yourself as well. We would like to help you work out how you can master your unexpected power, but there
is
an argument that you might be best going back to where neither the Charter nor Free Magic exist. After all, I doubt there is another creature like the Hrule in the south, and you could go even farther away from the Wall, from us. Is that your desire?”

“No,” said Nick quickly, flashing a look at Lirael. “No. I want to
stay here. And learn. Learn what I am, and what I can and can't do.”