Goldenhand (27 page)

“We cannot go into Death here,” said Lirael. “Most of the Library is too well-warded. We can go down, deep into the Old Levels. Or up and out . . . which is probably better . . . to one of the lookouts, perhaps. Mirelle?”

“Northwest Two,” said Mirelle, without hesitation. “Sun will be on it longer.”

“I will go and fetch my bells, and join you there, then,” said Lirael to Sabriel.

“Wait a few minutes more,” said Touchstone easily. “I would like your views, Sabriel. We need to know more, but I think . . . I think we must act as if the threat is real. An army of nomads coming to attack the bridge . . . can we have a map of that part of the Greenwash, please, cartographer? With the Field Market?”

The cartographer, a Deputy Librarian, had already anticipated such a request. She held several ivory cubes by their ribbons in her left hand. Selecting one, she set it on the marble desktop. Charter Magic flared into life, many marks glowing and shifting about on the ivory faces. A second later, a line of intense black ink ran from the cube as if drawn by an unseen cartographer's careful hand. It continued on, moving faster and faster, far more swiftly than anyone could actually draw, and in half a minute had completed a quite detailed map of a large area around the Greenwash, centered on the bridge, showing Yellowsands to the east, Navis to the southeast, the Clayr's Glacier to the south, and the Field Market sixty leagues to the north, a square mile of the steppe where a great market was held by truce four times a year.

“Amazing!” breathed Nick. Ferin too was entranced. The map was far better and more detailed than anything she had ever seen before.

“The bridge is well-fortified, with the north bank castle, the mid-river bastion, and the south bank castle,” said Touchstone. He
touched the map as he spoke, and it changed, suddenly displaying the bridge and its fortifications in much closer detail. “However, it is not as strongly garrisoned as it might be; each of the seasonal Shifts is understrength . . . but it is the only possible place to cross. The river is in spate, and if there had been surreptitious building of rafts our normal patrols would have spotted that, even if the Clayr did not. So it must be the bridge. You agree?”

“Yes,” said Sabriel. “What do you think, Ferin? Could your cousins the horse nomads cross anywhere else?”

“No,” said Ferin. “When I tried, my raft was swept to the sea.”

“You crossed the Greenwash in flood?” asked Lirael.

“I tried the bridge first,” said Ferin. “They will too. The river is too wide, too cold, and too swift. Even for an Athask.”

“Only the Yrus have ships,” mused Touchstone. “And not many of those. Yes, it must be the bridge. Hawkmistress?”

A rather falcon-faced Clayr wearing the leathers of the Mews stepped forward, two Assistant Falconers at her side with their notebooks and pencils at the ready.

“I have two messages to dispatch immediately.” Touchstone spoke quickly, with great decision. “And doubtless more to follow. First, to Princess Ellimere in Belisaere. Northern invasion suspected at Greenwash Bridge stop. Order two-thirds of all Guard garrisons north of and including Chasel to march for rendezvous Greenwash Bridge immediately stop. All Trained Bands to mobilize stop. Belisaere Trained Bands to march as soon as able for Greenwash Bridge stop . . . Ah . . . is that about maximum length?”

“Yes, Highness,” said the Hawkmistress. “But I will break down any message for multiple birds, as required.”

“Good. New message, for the Greenwash Bridge Company, Navis. Northern invasion imminent at bridge stop. By royal order ready all defenses stop. Dispatch all Shifts immediately to bridge stop. Going there myself stop. Signed Touchstone End.

“That's it for the moment,” continued Touchstone. “Get those away. Sabriel and Lirael, if you could find out whatever Arielle has to tell us from the past, that would be useful. Nicholas, you might care to wait for Sam; he'll come straight here. Mirelle, we'll need as many of your rangers as you can spare, and your librarians, Vancelle, on the road north by morning. And your paperwing flight, Ryelle. Can they fly to the bridge this afternoon, and to the Field Market tomorrow morning? If we can scout out that area we'll know for sure what's happening.”

“The paperwings do not like to fly so far across the Greenwash,” said Ryelle. “The Charter is more remote without stones below; they feel weakened, even as if they are dying.”

“Can it be done?”

“It is
possible
,” said Ryelle. She hesitated, then said, “But I do not wish to risk all our craft, or flyers. I will go myself, alone. You are sure there is a real threat?”

Her voice carried all the doubt of a Clayr used to the future being at least partially mapped out, rather than entirely unknown.

“No,” said Touchstone. “But I do know we must act as if there is.”

Clayr's Glacier, Old Kingdom

N
ick and Lirael could exchange only a heartfelt glance as Sabriel took the latter's arm and marched toward the doors, with one of Mirelle's rangers leading the way. It was Qilla, Lirael noticed, though she no longer wore the leaping snow leopard badge of a lieutenant on the breast of her hauberk.

“So Nicholas Sayre is the reason none of the young gentlemen Ellimere put forward ever came up to scratch?” asked Sabriel with a smile as they followed Qilla into the Apple Peelings, a tight spiral ramp that led to the Third Back Stair. Lirael didn't know where the Rangers' Northwest Two lookout was located, save it must be high on Starmount.

“No,” she replied, and then blushing, added, “I mean, yes. But I didn't know it. Not until last . . . not until yesterday.”

“He seems a fine young man,” said Sabriel. “Sameth thinks highly of him; they were very good friends at school. But this matter of him becoming some sort of avenue into the Charter is troubling—”

“He's getting that under control,” said Lirael quickly, blushing again as she thought about the flaming sword. “Or at least, I'm sure he will get it under control.”

“Good,” said Sabriel. She did not talk for a few more minutes as they strode up and around and around the ramp; then she suddenly asked, “Has your Disreputable Dog ever reappeared?”

“No,” said Lirael. The pain was still there, but she found it somehow more bearable now. “Why . . . why do you ask?”

“Because of Nicholas. In a way, he is akin to the Dog. Something of Free Magic deeply entwined with the Charter. I thought she might have been back to check up on what happened to him, after she returned him from Death.”

“But she's dead,” whispered Lirael.

“The physical
shape
she wore those years with you died,” said Sabriel. “But she is Kibeth, one of the Seven, and always will be.”

“She said my time with her had passed,” said Lirael. There were tears in her eyes now. She wiped them away and blinked hard, determined not to show her grief.

Sabriel put her arm around her shoulders and gave her a hug.

“I am sorry,” she said. “I did not want to bring you pain. I thought it possible the Dog might . . . look in . . . as it were. As Mogget still does, from time to time, though his motivations are, as ever, far more obscure.”

“Mogget?” asked Lirael. “Why?”

“Who knows?” asked Sabriel. She touched a silver ring on her left hand, turning it nervously twice around her finger. “He comes to see Sameth every now and then, usually when there is the prospect of fish about, though Charter knows he could easily catch them himself. Where he goes and what he does elsewhere is a mystery . . . I just hope he doesn't cause trouble. I have no desire to see if it is possible to bind him anew.”

It took an hour to climb to the lookout, with a slight detour to collect Lirael's bells. Sabriel did not mention the burned carpet in the Abhorsen's Rooms, but only said how much nicer the royal apartments were, uncluttered with the heavy old furniture from Hillfair, and Lirael and Nick were welcome to move. Lirael declined the offer. She was already thinking about the night ahead.

They also had to pause again just before going outside, to put on heavy fur cloaks, hats, snow goggles, and scarves to wind around their faces, for the lookout was very high on Starmount indeed. A
walled ledge that projected from the ice-encased rock only a thousand paces short of the summit, it was high enough that both Lirael and Sabriel felt the thinness of the air, their lungs laboring to get enough breath.

“Do we cast a diamond of protection?” asked Lirael.

Sabriel hesitated, for this was the normal procedure, to protect their bodies left behind when they went into Death. But Qilla was here, and the four rangers who took turns to watch through the great bronze telescope at the Ratterlin and the paths along the river that led to the Glacier.

“How deep must we go into Death, for you to see back?” she asked. “Nine years, isn't it?”

“Almost ten,” said Lirael. “My birthday is in six weeks. I'll be twenty.”

“Twenty,” said Sabriel. She smiled, thinking back to her own twentieth birthday. She had been pregnant with Ellimere then, and alternately very happy and very cross at having to remain in the Abhorsen's House while Touchstone was constantly away, in the very beginnings of the Restoration, with a new crisis to face every week, and a battle of some kind to be fought once a fortnight.

“I'll look in the book,” said Lirael. She took out
The Book of Remembrance and Forgetting
, not noticing Qilla back away as a small fume of white smoke gushed out of the opening pages. As Lirael expected, the book fell open exactly where she needed to look, and she had only to follow a line in a table with her finger to double-check what she thought she remembered.

“Easy,” she said, putting the book away again. “First Precinct. We won't even have to go past the First Gate.”

Sabriel held up her hand, her expression very serious.

“Never think of entering Death as easy,” she said. “The river can take you as
easily
in the First Precinct as anywhere else. Enemies may lurk there. You must never forget what it is to go into Death and
remain alive. You want Nicholas to see you again, I trust?”

“Yes,” said Lirael, chastened. She suddenly remembered being attacked by Hedge the necromancer on the very edge of Life, and how narrowly she had escaped. “I . . . I was thoughtless. I won't be again.”

“Qilla,” said Sabriel, addressing the ranger. “The Abhorsen-in-Waiting and I will enter Death. As time is of the essence, we will not cast a diamond of protection, but instead rely on you and your companions to protect our bodies. Should there be any attack or anything untoward, you must clap me—my body—on the shoulder. But do not touch us unless it really is an attack or something as serious. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Abhorsen,” said Qilla very seriously. “Good luck.”

Sabriel nodded. She drew her sword and Saraneth, assuming the guard position, sword in her right hand, bell in her left. Lirael moved next to her, but not too close. She took out Ranna, the Sleeper, and the sword Raminah.

“Ready?”

Lirael nodded, and together, they entered Death.

The chill of the river was of an entirely different nature from the cold of the high mountain. It seemed to blossom
inside
, rather than penetrate from the outside, and as always, it was accompanied by the grasping tug of the current. The first few steps in Death were often the most important, the test to see who was stronger, Abhorsen or river.

Sabriel was planted as firmly as a tree, the strange monochrome water rushing around her thighs. Lirael was made to take one step before she could fully exert her will and resist the current. It grabbed at her heels, twisting and pulling, but it could not move her beyond that first step.

Apart from the rush of the river and the distant roar of the waterfall that was the First Gate, there was no sound. It was impossible to
see very far, for the strange grey light stretched to an entirely flat horizon that seemed close, but always retreated.

Both Abhorsens stood for a few minutes, letting their sense of Death expand. Sabriel sniffed; though it was not precisely a smell she sought, it seemed to help. Lirael quirked her mouth, for it seemed to help open her ears, though again it was not sound she listened for with that extra sense.

“Nothing,” said Sabriel. “For now. How far do you want to go on?”

“A dozen paces,” replied Lirael. She began to trudge forward, careful to make sure she had good footing before taking each step. The river could do tricky things, even reversing the current for a moment, or coming sideways at a wader.

Sabriel went with her, keeping a careful lookout, bell and sword ready.

“Here will do,” said Lirael. She took a deep breath, sheathed her sword and replaced the bell, then reached into the pocket of her waistcoat for the Dark Mirror. It was partly underneath the strap of her bandolier, which she hadn't thought about, so it took several seconds to get it out. But Lirael didn't let herself be distracted. She moved with slow certainty, her feet firmly planted, legs apart and balanced.

“It may be very hard for you when you see your mother,” said Sabriel. She paused, then added, “I never knew mine at all, you know. But I think it can be worse to see someone you loved as a child so much later on, if she is not at all what you remembered.”

Lirael nodded. She knew Sabriel was warning her that the Arielle she was going to see in the past might be entirely mad. It was rare, but sometimes Clayr did become insane from the pressure of their Sight, Seeing too many possible visions, too quickly, so they became lost in many futures and could not relate to the present at all.

Lirael opened the Dark Mirror and quickly raised it to her right eye, though she still looked out upon the river with her left eye. It
was hard to focus like that, one eye seeing the interminable grey light and the rushing waters, the other staring into pure, unrelieved darkness. But she knew it was possible, she had done it twice before, so she persevered.

Slowly, the Mirror began to clear, the darkness receding. There was a spark of light there, which became the sun. It started to go backward, traveling from west to east. The process had begun.

Lirael imagined her mother in a cave with snow about, basing her face upon a charcoal drawing she had but making her clothes like Ferin's. Red stitches in soft leather. At the same time, she tried to think of her tenth birthday, another one of cruel disappointment since she had not gained the Sight, though not so fiercely sad as her birthdays would later become.

Charter marks began to fill her mind; she felt the great swim of the Charter, linking her, the bells, Sabriel by her side. Lirael selected the marks she needed, learned from the book, and let them fall into her voice.

“My mother I knew, but never enough,” she said. “As she Saw me in her future, show me her Past, in the third moon of winter, ten years gone by.”

The passage of many swift suns through the mirror quickened as she spoke, flashing by, days gone in seconds. Then it slowed again, and the sun grew larger and closer. Lirael felt herself drawn toward the Mirror, falling into it, and still the sun drew closer and brighter and brighter still, till she had to shut her right eye or be blinded.

When she opened it again, a moment later, Lirael saw a tent of red-stitched leather, pitched before a frozen waterfall that fell in front of a deep cave. There was a firepit outside the tent, burning high, sparks flying up toward the moon, which was ringed with ice.

A woman in the white fur coat of an Athask walked around the fire and looked directly at Lirael. She was younger than Sabriel, which was the first shock, though of course she had to be, having
died somewhere around the age of thirty-five. The second shock was how much she looked like Kirrith, though on a smaller scale, for Arielle did not have the same height or massive shoulders. But her face was so similar, albeit more finely drawn. Lirael could see almost nothing of herself in her mother. Arielle was very typically a Clayr, her skin brown as an acorn, eyes bright blue, hair almost white-blond.

“Lirael,” said Arielle. For a moment Lirael almost answered her, as if she were truly there. Her lips moved, but no words came as she remembered that Arielle spoke to the future, to the Lirael she felt she knew would come to look upon this moment in the past.

“Lirael. I hope I am indeed talking to you, that you see me through the Dark Mirror.”

Arielle raised one hand and reached out, almost as if she might be able to touch her daughter after all, before she let it fall. The movement spoke much about her health, for she did not move easily, and coughed when her arm came back to rest.

“I have always Seen too much in the ice, been driven to make the future just so . . . to steer matters, as if I alone might make a difference. Arrogance, I suppose, and stupidity. To look too much to the future, and not enough to the present.”

She paused to cough, and when her hand came away from her mouth, it was speckled with fine drops of blood.

“I thought you would be happy in the Glacier, as I was, growing up. I did not See you for so long; I thought you would be no different from all the others. I thought you would be crowned with the silver and moonstones as I was, when I was nine; the Sight has always come early in our family. But not with you . . . I am sorry, so sorry . . .”

The scene before Lirael grew misty, but she knew it was not some fault in the mirror. It was a tear in her eye, another one of the many tears cried over the years for a mother lost long ago.

Arielle visibly pulled herself together, drawing in a racking
breath, only to cough again. But when that bout was over, she did not talk of Lirael's childhood. Her demeanor changed to that of a Clayr delivering an important message from the Observatory, one that must be acted on immediately.