Goldenhand (29 page)

The Clayr's Glacier, Old Kingdom

T
here were even more people in the Map Room when Sabriel and Lirael burst back in. Several desks were in use with maps displayed; messengers were hurrying to and from the King or waiting to be heard; a group of librarians had brought in a trolley-load of books and were sorting them at another desk; Clayr on domestic-service duty were arranging wine bottles and glasses on the round table.

And Nick and Sam were sitting on a desk, talking rapidly to each other, with hand gestures and shrugging and smiles. Both leaped to their feet as Lirael came running in behind Sabriel, but she could do no more than smile and wave as she followed the Abhorsen in a beeline to the King.

“It's all true,” snapped Sabriel from a dozen feet away. “A huge host on the steppe, lots of Dead and Free Magic creatures of all kinds, several tens of thousands of nomads. Almost certainly going to attack a week from tomorrow, on the full moon, or the day after.”

“I see,” said Touchstone calmly. “We might just be ready for them, in that case.”

“There's more to it,” said Sabriel. She went to Touchstone's side and briefly embraced him before continuing. “Some skulduggery, because the bridge is not their main target.”

“Not?” asked Touchstone. “But they cannot cross any other way.”

“That we know of,” said Sabriel. “The assault will come at the
bridge, but with some other ploy. Sorcery, no doubt. Chlorr will have a great many Free Magic practitioners in her service. A hundred and fifty, or more. I am not sure what they could do together.”

“We will have as many strong Charter Mages,” said Touchstone, watching his wife carefully. “And many more, not so strong.”

“It is not just numbers, as you know,” said Sabriel. “It is knowledge. If they have some prepared spell to cast together, it would be almost impossible to counter in time. In any case, we are fortunate there is a way we might lop off the head that directs this host, and without it, the clans will split and go home. Or fight each other, as they usually do.”

“Chlorr, you mean?” asked Touchstone. “She is vulnerable in some way? I thought you said she cannot be permanently killed.”

“Not unless her original body is slain,” said Sabriel. “But now we know where it is, thanks to Lirael and her Dark Mirror.”

“Where is it?” asked Ferin, levering herself between two Clayr by judicious use of elbows and crutches. “I will kill her!”

“It is in the Empty Lands, beyond the Great Rift,” said Sabriel. “You are brave, Ferin, but you cannot go there. However, it is the charm I cut from you that will lead us to her. So you have done more than your part in bringing that to us, and in delivering your message.”

“It is not as satisfying as driving a knife home,” muttered Ferin, but no one was listening. Touchstone had gotten to his feet, his forehead furrowed as he clenched and unclenched his fingers.

“Uh-oh,” said Sameth, and hurried to his father's side, with Nick close behind.

“Lead
us
to her?” asked Touchstone, dangerously quiet. “You cannot mean to go beyond the Great Rift, Sabriel. The Charter does not exist there. Would you use Free Magic? You know the dangers of that, even for an Abhorsen.
Especially
for an Abhorsen.”

“I do mean to go,” said Sabriel, equally quietly, her voice
determined. “But not to use Free Magic. I will take a source of Charter Magic with me. If he agrees to come.”

Touchstone's head swiveled to look at Nick and he groaned.

“How do you always find some way to undertake the most dangerous, crazy, ill-thought-out—”

“I beg your pardon,” interrupted Lirael, “but this is not for Sabriel to do. My mother, Arielle . . . she Saw it in the ice of the frozen waterfall. I am the one who must go beyond the Great Rift to slay the first Chlorr.”

Sabriel turned to her, eyes flashing in anger, but Lirael met her gaze. After a moment, the Abhorsen sighed and her face relaxed.

“I wondered if you'd remember that,” she said grudgingly. “And I suppose there will be plenty to do at the bridge anyway.”

Lirael looked at Nick. He knew what she was asking. She didn't need to say anything, or he to answer. He moved to her side and took her hand. Her left hand.

“Like that, is it?” asked Sam. He smiled and nodded at them both. “I approve, Auntie. But if you're going to go to parts unknown with my rather magically mixed-up friend, I'd better come with you. You will need someone who knows
advanced
Charter Magic, after all.”

“No one is going anywhere until we sit down and I hear everything I need to know,” said Touchstone firmly. “Why does this family forever run straight at the first enemy that sticks up its head? We need planning! Forethought and planning, which is based on actually sharing all the knowledge you lot have gained in Death or the past or wherever you have found it!”

“I think you should have a glass of wine,” said Sabriel gently. “The Charter knows I could do with one.”

It took several glasses of wine, and barley water, and cups of tea before the matter was settled, if not entirely to everyone's satisfaction.

“Time,” said Touchstone. “Never enough time. As it is, we won't even have half the Trained Bands to the bridge by the full moon. The Bridge Company has managed to let almost the whole Winter Shift go on leave, to Belisaere and parts farther south, and may not be able to collect them on time, or at all.”

He frowned, and changed tack suddenly.

“Are you sure you can fly as far as the Rift in owl shape, Lirael? Carrying Nicholas?”

“I flew before, carrying Sam,” said Lirael. “This will take longer; it is much farther. Several days, or nights, rather. I'll need to rest in the day.”

“I will show you on the map the places where you might find safe havens,” said Ferin. “Anywhere it is hard for a horse to go is good. But there are not many on the steppe. Rocks, areas of nice sharp rocks, these are plentiful. A few hills, lonely hills, but they are very rare. Marshes. Full of biting insects, but no horse nomads.”

“You'll need my jumping frog to eat bugs,” said Sam. “Lucky I brought it with me; always handy on a boat. Though I still think I should be going too.”

“I can't carry you both,” said Lirael. “And the paperwings can't or won't fly that far beyond the Greenwash. Besides, I'm sure you'll be needed at the bridge.”

“You can put spells on my arrows,” said Ferin, her scratched-all-over face beaming with enthusiasm. “Like Young Laska did to hers. Good for wood-weirds and Spirit-Walkers.”

“Y-e-es,” agreed Sam. He put his head to one side and looked at Ferin, perhaps seeing past the bloodied and bloodthirsty exterior for the first time to the young woman behind. “In fact, I'll get everyone to spelling arrows, build up as many stocks as we can. Good idea.”

“And you'll make me a foot later? Sabriel said you would. Better than carving my own.”

“Well, if Mother said I would, then of course I'll be happy to
oblige,” said Sam, slightly taken aback by the matter-of-fact way Ferin seemed to be dealing with the loss of an important limb. “It will take several months at least. You'll need to come to Belisaere, to my workshop.”

“If we live, I will go there,” said Ferin. She eyed Sam up and down, either to gauge his use as a maker of a new foot or to size him up for some other purpose. He straightened his back and sucked in his stomach, before looking away to speak hurriedly to Lirael.

“Speaking of magical prosthetics! As we are. I hope Nick can keep your hand working. It'll just be a lump of metal otherwise.”

“I'll do my best,” said Nick very seriously.

“We would not put you to such a test, not so soon, if it were not necessary,” said Sabriel.

“I know,” muttered Nick. He did know, just as he knew that Sabriel and Touchstone and Sameth and Lirael would not spare themselves either, not from anything. If something needed to be done, they would do it, no matter the personal cost.

He cast a nervous look at Lirael, hoping he wasn't showing his anxiety. On one level he was excited to be going to do something important with her, but he was also very apprehensive about something happening to Lirael. They had only just found each other, and now, to go into unknown dangers where he didn't really know what he could do to help, and might even end up as a hindrance . . .

Lirael was thinking very similar thoughts. She had tried and tried again to think of some way she could go into the Empty Lands without Nick. But there was no one else who could be a source of Charter Magic. Which reminded her that they needed to practice together to make sure it would work, though this was also greatly influenced by her desire to be alone with him again. Alone somewhere safe, not in the wilds where they would always need to be on guard . . .

“Nick and I need to practice with me using him to access the Charter,” she said.

“And I need to help you remake your owl Charter skin,” said Sam. Lirael had told the group she had one prepared, which they could partially unstitch and just make larger. At least she could with Sam's help. “I wonder who did fold it, by the way.”

“One of the old Abhorsen's Sendings, I suppose,” said Lirael.

“Hmm,” replied Sam. “I don't know the ones here. I guess it would be possible to make a Sending who could do that. It would be very difficult. . . .”

“Go practice,” said Sabriel. “And make the Charter skin. Ferin, do you wish to fly with me to the bridge?”

“Yes!” said Ferin, clashing her crutches on the floor.

“We will fly at dawn tomorrow,” said Touchstone. “Sam with me, Ferin with Sabriel. You should go tonight, Lirael. If your Charter skin can be ready.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Lirael. The comfortable, safe night she'd thought lay ahead popped like a soap bubble in the bath floating under the hot water.

“Time,” said Touchstone. “Two or three days to fly to the Great Rift, at least another three crossing it, another day searching for the sarcophagus—”

“I have Ferin's charm,” said Lirael. “I will follow the thread in Death once we are there, find the place quickly.”

“Maybe,” said Touchstone. “But many things could happen. If you can finish off Chlorr once and for all, it would be best done before we come to battle. It might save many lives. On both sides.”

“This is what my elders feared,” said Ferin, suddenly very serious. “The Athask are the bravest; we will be the first sent in to battle. And if all our grown men and women are slain, what will become of the clan?”

“Yes,” said Lirael. “We will go tonight. Midnight, probably, from the paperwing terrace.”

She thought for a moment, then added, “Sam, can you see what
you can get for Nick in the way of armor, and a traveler's pack? Hard rations and a water bottle too, that sort of thing? Ask Mirelle; the Rangers have good equipment. I'll meet you both in the Abhorsen's Rooms later to work on the Charter skin, and practice with you, Nick. Ferin, I'd welcome your advice on where to stop. Come and look at the map with me.”

“We will all see you off,” said Sabriel. “Oh, I wish I could go myself!”

The North/The Greenwash Bridge

L
irael was very out of practice flying as a barking owl, particularly as a giant owl carrying a man weighed down with a pack and weapons. Launching from the paperwing terrace was a nightmare, and she seriously frightened both herself and Nick by dropping at least four hundred feet toward the glacier below before managing to get her wings beating hard enough to lift them up and begin to climb over the massive monolith of ice and head north.

Her right wing was golden, which was part of the reason for Lirael's panic. For a few seconds she thought it wouldn't work, so it didn't. But then it did, and apart from the color, it seemed to be just as good as the other one.

Once out of the mountains, when she could fly lower, with a warm wind carrying them in the right direction, it grew easier. She could glide a great deal of the time, and even talk to Nick, though he found it difficult to understand the words screeched from her beak, a noise that caused several curious night birds to immediately reverse direction and go elsewhere.

Toward dawn, Lirael sighted the Greenwash and the bridge, both easily visible from on high with the moon and a clear sky. The bridge was far off to the east, so though she had thought about resting there, she decided against it. She could also see a few hills ahead, eight or nine leagues north of the Greenwash, where the ground began to rise up toward the beginnings of the steppe. She could be there well before the sun was high enough to trouble her huge golden eyes.

Landing, as always, was a problem. Lirael had to make three attempts, almost smashing Nick into the ground on the first two. He was lying in a hammock she carried in her claws, and though he got his legs out and held himself ready, she still approached too fast.

But on the third try she managed to slow to a complete stop, beating her vast wings in a flurry that raised a huge column of dust, hopefully not too visible in the predawn light. Dropping Nick down, she let go of the net, flew up again, and came around to land a dozen paces away.

Nick came over and scratched the feathers on top of her head. They'd landed in a hollow between two bare hills, quite shielded from view, but Lirael hadn't noticed there was a small spring bubbling away on the side of the northern hill. While water would be welcome, it might also be a known supply where nomads came with their horses.

“When do you change back?” asked Nick. “So I can kiss you again?”

“Arrghhhkkkk!” said Lirael. She'd forgotten to tell Nick she had to stay in the Charter skin until they got to the Rift. It could be worn only once, though it should last for several days.

“What does that mean?”

“Got to stay like this!”

“You have to stay like that?”

“Until Rift!”

“Oh,” said Nick blankly.

“Tired,” said Lirael, trying to keep her bird shriek as quiet as possible. “Drink. Then sleep. You watch till sunset. Wake me. You sleep tonight while we fly. All right?”

“Okay,” said Nick. He touched the sword hilt at his side nervously. “Yes. I'll keep watch.”

Lirael waddled over to the spring and drank. She wasn't hungry,
which was just as well, because in this shape she felt she'd need to eat a horse. And she didn't want to see any horses, because that meant nomads.

“Love you!” she shrieked at Nick when she came back.

“What?” asked Nick.

Lirael shrugged, very expressively, her head disappearing well past her shoulders, or rather the top of her wings. Nick looked mystified.

“Never mind! Sleeping.”

The giant owl scratched out a shallow pit and settled down in it, putting her head under one wing, and instantly fell asleep.

When Lirael awoke, Nick was scratching her head again, using both hands and all his fingers, digging deep. The sun was setting in the west, and all seemed as it had been that morning, the spring burbling away, the hills shielding them from view.

“Good,” said Lirael. “Ready to go?”

“Ready to go?” Nick repeated back.

Lirael nodded.

“Yes, I'm ready,” said Nick.

“Get in net.”

Nick hesitated, clearly slow to understand what Lirael said. Then he climbed into the hammock, keeping one leg out either side while holding the netting up above his head. Lirael very carefully grabbed it with one claw, while balancing on the other and getting her wings started. Again, she began to raise a huge cloud of dust.

The takeoff was better than her last one, but she still bounced Nick very lightly once on the ground. He didn't yell, which she took for a good sign. Once fully airborne, she bent her head down to look underneath, and hooked her other foot onto the hammock. Nick smiled and waved at her.

Wings beating rhythmically, Lirael flew to the north under the waxing moon.

At the Greenwash Bridge, King Touchstone was making his discontent felt. The Bridgemaster had already been verbally lashed for not sending out more scouts, and farther, and had retreated to pass on this unhappiness to his subordinates, while also urging them to better and faster preparations for a siege.

Ryelle had arrived from her reconnaissance at much the same time Touchstone and Sabriel flew in, so there were three paperwings in the outer bailey of the South Bank Castle, by far the bigger of the two Bridge Company fortifications. Ryelle confirmed the presence of a vast host at the Field Market, even bigger than Sabriel's estimate, with long lines of reinforcements heading in from all directions, save south.

Gore Crows had pursued her, but forewarned by Sabriel's message, Ryelle had been ready for them, flying faster and higher while pushing the clouds away with Charter-spelled winds to allow the sun to beat directly down on the Gore Crows, hastening their second demise.

Very few of the Old Kingdom troops had arrived—only the small troop of Guards who patrolled the Nailway, and the Summer Shift of the Bridge Company, which was a third understrength.

Sam, true to his word, had immediately gone to work on spelling arrows, setting marks on shafts and flights so they flew true, and on arrowheads so they would cleave Free Magic spells and rend Free Magic flesh. He conscripted the best of the available Charter Mages to help him, but the majority could manage to do only a dozen at most before they were exhausted. Sam did nearly a hundred before he had to stop and rest. When he moved back from the bench in the armory wall and slumped against the wall he realized Ferin was watching him, sitting on the next bench, her crutches leaning against a spear-stand.

“You're better at making magic arrows than those others,” she said. “I want some of yours.”

Sam yawned, covered it with his hand, and tried to straighten up. Failing, he slid down the wall a bit.

“You need the Charter mark yourself, to use them,” he said, touching the baptismal mark on his forehead. “Won't work otherwise. Sorry.”

“What!” exclaimed Ferin. “But I told you to make them, back in the Clayr's place.”

“Yes,” said Sam patiently. “But I didn't think you wanted them for yourself.”

“You think I can't shoot with a foot missing?” protested Ferin. “I have my bow. I will go up the tower and lean on the wall. It will be easy.”

“No, no, not at all,” said Sam hurriedly.

“But I need magic arrows to kill wood-weirds,” said Ferin. “How do I get the mark? A hot knife? Can you do it?”

“Yes . . . I mean, no,” said Sam. He was very tired. “No knives involved, and no I can't do it. It's done when you're a child.”

“Always?” asked Ferin. “Athask adopt others, sometimes grown.”

“Well, I suppose it can be granted to adults,” said Sam. “But it's a very serious thing, a commitment to the Charter . . .”

“I will go and ask your mother,” said Ferin. “She is wise. She will give me the mark. I will come back for arrows.”

“Good luck with that,” muttered Sam, and closed his eyes.

An hour later, a dig in his ribs from the end of a crutch woke Sam up. He blinked, eyes adapting to the dim light. It was almost dark outside and there were no lanterns or Charter Magic lights in the armory, or none lit.

“Look!” exclaimed Ferin. She leaned on one crutch, reached up, and touched her forehead. A Charter mark glowed there, under her finger. “See! You touch it, and then I touch yours.”

“Ah, yes,” said Sam gingerly. He pushed himself up using his back against the wall. “That is . . . that is the custom.”

He reached out and touched the mark, half-expecting it to be faked in some way. But he fell instantly, deeply into a golden sea of marks, and had some difficulty retrieving his consciousness. Weariness, he thought, standing up straight as Ferin touched his mark. She held her finger there for several seconds, then slowly withdrew her hand.

“It is like swimming in the high lake,” she said, grinning, her teeth white in the darkness. “The shock at first, the sudden cold, then it comes all around and you know what it is to be alive and you go under and it is so smooth and clear and it seems to be forever and it is not cold, but warm . . .”

“Yes,” said Sam.

“Now you can give me magic arrows,” said Ferin, swinging away on her crutches. “When we are in Belisaere, you making my foot, you can teach me how to do spells, make magic arrows. All right?”

“Yes,” said Sam.

“If we live,” added Ferin casually. She looked over the finished shafts on the bench, which Sam, fresh from his immersion in the Charter, could see all glowed with a light he wasn't really seeing with his eyes.