Lirael_ Daughter Of The Clayr Part 14

But not the next day or the days following. Ellimere couldn't-or wouldn't-see that Sam's sullenness came from genuine trouble. So she simply made up more things for him to do. Even worse, she started foisting the younger sisters of her own friends on him, clearly thinking that a good woman could sort out whatever was wrong with him. Naturally, Sam took an instant dislike to anyone Ellimere so obviously seated next to him at dinner, or who "just happened" to drop by his workroom with a broken bracelet catch to be mended. His constant worry about the book and his mother's return left him little energy to pursue friends.h.i.+ps, let alone romantic attachments. So he earned the reputation of being stiff and distant, not only among the young women introduced to him by Ellimere, but to everyone of his own age around the Palace. Even people who had been his friends in previous years, when he was home for the holidays, found that they no longer enjoyed his company. Sam, caught up in his own troubles and busy with his official duties, hardly noticed that people of his own age avoided him.

He did talk to Brel a bit, since they both tended to be up the second tallest tower around the same time. Fortunately, the guard was not naturally talkative and also didn't seem to mind Sam's silences or his tendency to stop and just stare out over the city and the sea.

"Your birthday today," said Brel, early one clear and very cold morning. The moon was still visible, and there was a ring around it, as only happened on the coldest nights of winter.

Sam nodded. Since it occurred two weeks after the Midwinter Festival, his birthday was always somewhat eclipsed by the greater event. This year, it was made even less spectacular by the continued absence of Sabriel and Touchstone, who could only send messages and presents that, while obviously carefully chosen, did not cheer Sam. Particularly since one was a surcoat with the silver keys of the Abhorsen on a deep blue field, quartered with the royal line's golden castle on a red field, and the other was a book ent.i.tled Merchane on the Binding of Free Magic Elementals. Merchane on the Binding of Free Magic Elementals.

"Get any good presents?" asked Brel.

"Surcoat," said Sam. "And a book."

"Ah," said Brel. He clapped his hands together, to regain circulation. "Not a sword, then? Or a dog?"

Sam shook his head. He didn't want a sword or a dog, but either would have been more welcome than what he had been given.

"Expect Princess Ellimere will get you something good," Brel said after a long, thoughtful pause.

"I doubt it," said Sam. "She'll probably organize some sort of lesson."

Brel clapped his hands together again, stood still, and slowly scanned the horizon from south to north.

"Happy birthday," he said when his head had finished its slow movement. "What is it? Eighteen?"

"Seventeen," replied Sam.

"Ah," said Brel, and he walked around to the other side of the tower to repeat his scan of the horizon.

Sam went back downstairs.

Ellimere did organize a birthday feast in the Great Hall, but it was a lackl.u.s.ter affair, mainly due to Sam's depressing influence. He refused to dance, because it was the one day when he could refuse, and since it was his birthday, that meant no one else could dance, either. He refused to open his presents in front of everyone because he didn't feel like it, and he merely toyed with the grilled swordfish with lime and b.u.t.tered smallwheat that had once been his favorite dish. In fact, he acted like a spoiled and sulky brat of seven, rather than like a young man of seventeen. Sam knew it but felt unable to stop. It was the first time in weeks that he'd been able to refuse Ellimere's orders or, as she called them, "strong suggestions."

The feast ended early, with everyone cross and short-tempered. Sam went straight to his workroom, ignoring the whispers and sidelong looks as he left the Hall. He didn't care what everyone thought, though he was uncomfortably aware of Jall Oren's hooded eyes watching his exit. Jall would certainly report on Sam's shortcomings when his parents returned, if he didn't decide before then to deliver one of his justly feared summations of exactly what was wrong with Sam's behavior.

But even one of Jall's lectures would pale to insignificance when his mother found out the truth about her son. Beyond that revelation, Sam daren't think. He couldn't imagine what would happen, or what his own future would be. The Kingdom had to have an Abhorsen-in-Waiting and a royal heir. Ellimere was demonstrably the perfect royal heir, so Sam had to be the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. Only he couldn't do it. Not wouldn't, as everyone was bound to think. Couldn't.

That night, as he had done scores of times before, Sam unlocked the cupboard to the left of his workbench and steeled himself to look at The Book of the Dead The Book of the Dead. It sat on a shelf, s.h.i.+ning with its own ominous green light that overshadowed the soft glow of the Charter lights in the ceiling.

He reached out to it, like a hunter trying to pat a wolf in the vain hope that it might be only a friendly dog. His fingers touched the silver clasp and the Charter marks laid upon it, but before he could do more, a violent shaking overtook him, and his skin turned as cold as ice. Sam tried to still the shakes and ignore the cold, but he couldn't. He s.n.a.t.c.hed back his hand and retreated to the front of the fireplace, where he crouched down in misery, hugging his knees.

A week after his birthday, Sam received a letter from Nick. Or rather, the remains of a letter, because it had been written on machine-made paper. Like most products of Ancelstierran technology, the paper had begun to fail upon crossing the Wall, and it was now crumbling into its component fibers. Sam had often told Nick in the past to use hand-made paper, but he never did.

Still, there was enough of it left for Sam to deduce that Nick was asking him for an Old Kingdom visa for himself and a servant. He intended to cross the Wall at Midwinter, and he would be grateful if Sam met him at the Crossing Point.

Sam brightened. Nick could always cheer him up. He immediately consulted his almanac to see what Midwinter in Ancelstierre would correspond with in the Old Kingdom. Generally, the Old Kingdom was a full season ahead of Ancelstierre, but there were some strange fluctuations that required double-checking in an almanac, particularly around the solstices and the turn of the seasons.

Old Kingdom/Ancelstierre almanacs like Sam's had been almost impossible to obtain once, but ten years ago Sabriel had lent hers to the royal printer, who had reset it to incorporate all the handwritten comments and marginalia of Sabriel and previous Abhorsens. That had been a long and laborious process. The end result was aesthetically very pleasing, with clear, slightly indented type on crisp linen paper, but was very expensive. Sabriel and Touchstone were careful about who was allowed to have these almanacs. Sameth had been very proud when he was entrusted with one on his twelfth birthday.

Fortunately, the almanac had an exact correspondence for Midwinter, rather than just an equation for Sam to work out, requiring moon sights and other observations. On that day in Ancelstierre, it would be the Day of s.h.i.+ps in the Old Kingdom, in the third week of spring. It was still many weeks off, but at least Sam had something positive to look forward to.

After the letter from Nick, Sam's mood improved a little, and he got on better with everyone in the Palace except Ellimere. The rest of winter pa.s.sed without either of his parents coming home, and without any particularly terrible storms or the intense, bone-numbing cold that sometimes rolled in from the northeast, accompanied by pods of lost whales who didn't otherwise enter the Sea of Saere.

Weather-wise it was a particularly mild winter, but in court and city the people still spoke of it as a bad one. There had been more trouble all over the Kingdom that season than in any of the last ten winters, trouble such as hadn't been seen since the early days of Touchstone's reign. Message-hawks flew constantly to and from the Mews Tower, and Mistress Finney grew red-eyed and even more irritable than normal, as her children, the hawks, were hard-pressed to meet the demand for communication. Many of the messages the hawks carried were reports of the Dead, and of Free Magic creatures. A large proportion turned out to be false, but all too many were real, and all required Sabriel's attention.

There was other news that troubled Sam. One letter from his father reminded him too much of the terrible day on the Perimeter, when the Dead Southerlings had attacked his cricket team and he had faced the necromancer in Death.

Sam took the letter up the second-tallest tower to read over and think, while Brel paced around him. One particular section he read three times: The Ancelstierran Army, presumably under instructions from the government, has allowed a group of Southerling "volunteers" to enter the Old Kingdom at one of the old Crossing Points on the Wall, in contravention of all past agreements and common sense. Obviously, Corolini has gained further support, and this is a test of his plan to send all the Southerlings into the Kingdom.

I have put a stop to further crossings as best I can, and reinforced the guards at Barhedrin. But there is no guarantee that the Ancelstierrans will not send more Southerlings across, though General Tindall has said he will delay acting on any such order and warn us if he can.

In any case, more than a thousand Southerlings have already crossed, and they are at least four days ahead of us. Apparently they were met by "local guides," but as no Perimeter Scouts were allowed to escort the refugees, I do not know whether these were even true men.

We will pursue, of course, but there is a smell about this I do not like. I am certain at least one Free Magic sorcerer is involved on our side of the Wall, and the Crossing Point the Southerlings used is the one closest to where you were ambushed, Sameth.

The necromancer, thought Sam as he folded the letter. He was glad the sun was out and that he was in the Palace, protected by wards and guards and running water.

"Bad news?" asked Brel.

"Just news," said Sam, but he was unable to suppress a s.h.i.+ver.

"Nothing the King and the Abhorsen can't deal with," said Brel, with total confidence.

"Wherever they are," whispered Sam. He put the letter inside his coat and went back downstairs. To his workshop, to lose himself in making things, in tiny details that required all his attention and the total dexterity of his hands.

With every step, he knew he should be going to open The Book of the Dead. The Book of the Dead.

Typically, Sam's parents returned on a beautiful spring evening, long after Sam had climbed down from the tower and Brel's watch had ended. The wind had turned to the east, the Sea of Saere was s.h.i.+fting color from winter black to summery turquoise, the sun was still warm even as it sank into the west, and the swallows that lived in the cliffs were stealing wool from Sam's torn blanket for their nests.

Sabriel arrived first, her Paperwing skimming low over the practice yard where Sam was sweating through forty-eight patterns of attack and defense with Cynel, one of the better guards. The shadow of the Paperwing startled them both and allowed Cynel to take the final point, since she recovered while Sam was momentarily paralyzed.

His day of doom had finally come, and all his prepared speeches and letters leaked out of his brain, as if his opponent had actually pierced his head rather than triumphantly clanging her wooden sword down on his heavily padded helmet.

He was hurrying inside to change out of his practice armor when the trumpets sounded above the South Gate. At first he thought they were for his mother, till he heard other trumpets farther away, up at the West Yard, where her Paperwing would have landed. So the trumpets at the South Gate had to be announcing the King. No one else got a fanfare.

It was indeed Touchstone. Sam met him twenty minutes later in the family's private solar-a large room, three stories above the Great Hall, with a single long window that looked down upon the city rather than the sea. Touchstone was looking out at his capital as Sam came in, watching the lights come on. Bright Charter lights and soft oil lights, flickering candles and fires. It was one of the best times to be in Belisaere, at lighting-up time on a warm spring evening.

As usual, Touchstone looked tired, though he'd managed to wash and change out of armor and riding gear. He was wearing an Ancelstierran-style bathrobe, his curly hair still wet from a hasty bath. He smiled as he saw Sam, and they shook hands.

"You look better, Sam," said Touchstone, noting the flush in his son's face from the sword practice. "Though I had hoped you'd also develop as a letter writer this winter."

"Um," said Sam. He'd sent only two letters to his father all winter, and a few notes at the bottom of some of Ellimere's much more regular correspondence. Neither the letters nor the notes had contained anything very interesting and nothing at all personal. Sam had actually drafted some that did, but like the ones to his mother, they'd ended up in the fire.

"Dad, I ..." Sam began hesitantly, and he felt a surge of relief as he finally began to broach the subject he'd stewed on all winter. "Dad, I can't-"

Before he could go on, the door swung open, and Ellimere breezed in. Sam's mouth snapped shut, and he glared at her, but she ignored him and rushed straight to Touchstone, hugging him with evident relief.

"Dad! I'm so glad you're home," she said. "And Mother too!"

"One big happy family," muttered Sam under his breath.

"What was that?" asked Touchstone, a touch of sternness in his voice.

"Nothing," said Sam. "Where's Mother?"

"Down in the reservoir," replied Touchstone slowly. He kept one arm around Ellimere and drew Sam in with the other. "Now, I don't want you to get too worried, but she's had to go to the Great Stones, because she's been wounded-"

"Wounded!" exclaimed Ellimere and Sam together, turning in so that all three of them were in a tight circle.

"Not seriously," Touchstone said hastily. "A bite to the leg from some sort of Dead thing, but she couldn't attend to it at the time, and it went bad."

"Is she ... is she going to ..." Ellimere asked anxiously, staring down at her own leg in consternation. From the look on her face, it was plain that she found it hard to imagine Sabriel hurt and not completely in command of herself and everything around her.

"No, she is not going to lose her leg," Touchstone said firmly. "She's had to go down to the Great Charter Stones because both of us were simply too tired to cast the necessary healing spells. But we'll be able to down there. It is also the best place for all of us to have a private discussion. A family conference."

The reservoir where the six Great Charter Stones stood was in many ways the heart of the Old Kingdom. It was possible to access the Charter, the very wellspring of magic, anywhere in the Old Kingdom, but the presence of ordinary Charter Stones made it much easier, as if they were conduits to the Charter. However, the Great Charter Stones actually seemed to be of the Charter, not just connected to it. While the Charter contained and described all living things and all possibilities, and existed everywhere, it was particularly concentrated in the Great Stones, the Wall, and the bloodlines of the royal family, as well as the Abhorsens and the Clayr. Certainly, when two of the Great Stones were broken by Kerrigor, and the royal family apparently lost, the Charter itself had seemed to weaken, allowing greater freedom to Free Magic and the Dead.

"Wouldn't it be better to have the conference up here, after Mother's cast her spell?" asked Sam.

Despite its importance to the Kingdom, the reservoir had never been his favorite place, even before he had become so afraid of Death. The Stones themselves were comforting, even keeping the water around them warm, but the rest of the reservoir was cold and horrible. Touchstone's mother and sisters had been slain there by Kerrigor, and much later, Sabriel's father had died there, too. Sam didn't want to think about what it must have been like when there were two broken Stones, and Kerrigor lurked there in the darkness with his necromantic beasts and Dead servants.

"No," replied Touchstone, who had much more reason than his son to fear the place. But he had lost that fear years ago, in his long labor to repair the broken Stones with his own blood and fragments of barely remembered magic. "It's the only place where we will definitely not be overheard, and there are too many things you both must know, and no others should. Bring the wine, Sameth. We'll need it."

"Are you going like that?" asked Ellimere, as Touchstone strode over to the fireplace and into the left-hand side of the inglenook. He turned as she spoke, looked down on his robe and the twin swords belted across it, shrugged, and went on. Ellimere sighed and followed him, and both disappeared into the darkness behind the fire.

Sam scowled and picked up the earthenware jug of spiced wine that had been mulled and placed near the fire to keep hot. Then he followed, pressing his hand up against the rear of the inglenook, Charter marks flaring as the guard-spell let him push open the secret door. Beyond that, he could already hear his father and sister clattering down the one hundred fifty-six steps that led to the reservoir, the Great Charter Stones, and Sabriel.

Chapter Twenty-Four.

Cold Water, Old Stone The reservoir was a vast hall of silence, cold stone, and even colder water. The Great Stones stood in the darkness at its center, invisible from the landing where the Palace stairs met the water. Around the rim of the reservoir, shafts of sunlight came down from the grilled openings high above, casting cross-hatched ripples of light across the mirror-smooth surface of the water. Tall columns of white marble rose up like mute sentinels between the patches of light, supporting the ceiling sixty feet above. a vast hall of silence, cold stone, and even colder water. The Great Stones stood in the darkness at its center, invisible from the landing where the Palace stairs met the water. Around the rim of the reservoir, shafts of sunlight came down from the grilled openings high above, casting cross-hatched ripples of light across the mirror-smooth surface of the water. Tall columns of white marble rose up like mute sentinels between the patches of light, supporting the ceiling sixty feet above.

The water was, as always, extremely clear. Sam dipped his hand in it as he helped his father untie the barge that was moored at the end of the Palace steps. As the water trickled between his fingers, he saw Charter marks sparkle briefly. All the water in the reservoir absorbed magic from the Great Charter Stones. Closer to the center, the water was almost more magic than anything else, and was no longer cold-or even wet.

The barge was not much more than a raft with gilded k.n.o.bs on each corner. There were two of them in the reservoir, but Sabriel had obviously taken the other one. She would be on it, out there in the center, where no sunlight fell. The Great Stones glowed with all the millions of Charter marks that moved in and on them, but most of the time it was only a faint luminescence, no rival even to the filtered sunlight. They wouldn't see the glow until they were close, away from the light-dappled rim, past the third line of columns.

Touchstone undid the rope on his side, then placed his hand upon the planking and whispered a single word. Ripples moved across the still water as he spoke, and the barge began to edge away from the landing. There was no current in the reservoir, but the barge moved as if there were, or as if unseen hands pushed it through the water. Touchstone, Sam, and Ellimere stood close together in the middle, occasionally s.h.i.+fting balance as the barge swayed and rocked.

This was how Sam's long-dead aunts and his grandmother had traveled to their deaths, he thought. Standing on a barge-maybe even this same one, he thought, dredged up, repaired and re-gilded-all unsuspecting, till they were ambushed by Kerrigor. He had cut their throats, catching their blood in his golden cup. Royal blood. Blood for the breaking of the Great Charter Stones.

Blood for the breaking, blood for the making. The Stones had been broken by royal blood, and re-made with royal blood-his father's blood. Sam looked at Touchstone and wondered how he had done it. The weeks of laboring here alone, each morning taking a silver, Charter-spelled knife and deliberately re-opening the cuts in his palms from the day before. Cuts that had left white lines of scar tissue from his little finger to the ball of the thumb. Cutting his hands, and casting spells that he had not been sure of, spells that were terribly dangerous to the caster, even without the added risk and burden of the broken Stones.

But even more, Sam wondered about the use of blood, the same blood that ran in his veins. It felt strange to him that his pounding heart was in its way akin to the Great Stones ahead. How ignorant he was, particularly of the Charter's greater secrets. Why was royal, Abhorsen, and Clayr blood different from normal people's-even that of other Charter Mages, whose blood was sufficient to mend or mar only the lesser Stones? The three bloodlines were known as Great Charters, like the Great Stones ahead, and the Wall. But why? Why did their blood contain Charter Magic, magic that could not be duplicated by marks drawn from the generally accessible Charter?

Sam had always been fascinated by Charter Magic, particularly making things with it, but the more he used it, the more he realized how little he knew. So much knowledge had been lost in the two hundred years of the Interregnum. Touchstone had pa.s.sed on as much as he knew to his son, but his own specialty was in battle magic, not in making, or any deeper mysteries. He had been a Royal Guard, a b.a.s.t.a.r.d Prince, not a mage, at the time of the Queen's death. After that, he had been imprisoned in the shape of a s.h.i.+p's figurehead for two hundred years, while the Kingdom sank slowly into disorder.

Touchstone had been able to mend the Great Stones, he had said, because the broken Stones wanted to be re-made. He had made many mistakes at first, and only survived by grace of the Stones' support and strength, nothing else. Even so, it had taken many months, and as many years off his life. There had been no silver in Touchstone's hair before the mending.

The barge pa.s.sed between two columns, and Sam's eyes slowly adjusted to the strange twilight. He could see the six Great Stones ahead now, tall monoliths of dark grey, their irregular shapes quite different from the smooth masonry of the columns and only a third of their height. And there was the other barge, floating in the center of the ring of Stones. But where was Sabriel?

Fear suddenly gripped hard at his chest. He couldn't see his mother, and all he could think of was how the Dead Kerrigor had taken on his former human shape and lured Sam's grandmother the Queen down to a dark and b.l.o.o.d.y death. Maybe Touchstone wasn't really Touchstone, but something else that had a.s.sumed his form....

Something moved on the barge ahead. Sam, who had unconsciously held his breath, gasped and choked, thinking that all his fears were realized. Whatever it was had no human shape, rising only as high as his waist, without arms or head or discernible form. A lump of writhing darkness, where his mother should be- Then Touchstone slapped him on the back. He took a sudden breath, and the thing on the barge cast a small Charter light that sparkled in the air above like a tiny star-revealing that it was Sabriel after all. She had been lying down, wrapped in her dark blue cloak, and had just sat up. The light shone on her face now, and her familiar smile met them. But it was not the full, uncaring smile of complete happiness, and she looked more tired and worn than Sam had ever seen her. Always pale, her skin looked almost translucent in the Charter light, and it was sheened with the sweat of pain and suffering. For the first time, Sam saw white streaks in her hair, and he was struck with the realization that she was not ageless but would one day grow old. She was not wearing her bells, but the bandolier lay beside her, the mahogany handles in easy reach, as did her sword and pack.

Sam's barge drifted between two of the Stones and into the ring. All three pa.s.sengers started as it crossed, feeling a sudden surge of energy and power from the Great Stones. Some weariness was stripped away from them, though not all. In Sam's case, the fear and guilt that he had carried all winter were lessened. He felt more confident, more like his old self. It was a feeling he hadn't had since he'd walked out onto the pitch for that final cricket match in the Schoolboys' s.h.i.+eld.

The two barges met. Sabriel didn't get up, but she held out her arms. A second later, she was hugging Ellimere and Sam, the barges rocking dangerously from their sudden rush and enthusiastic greetings.

"Ellimere! Sameth! I am so glad to see you, and so sorry I have been too long away," said Sabriel, after the initial very tight hug had given way to a looser one.

"That's all right, Mother," replied Ellimere, who sounded more as if she were the mother and Sabriel her daughter. "It's you we're worried about. Let's have a look at your leg."

She started to lift the cloak, but Sabriel stopped her just as Sam caught the faint, horrible smell of decaying flesh.

"It's still not pleasant," Sabriel said quickly. "A wound from the Dead rots quickly, I'm afraid. But I have cast healing-spells upon it, with the aid of the Great Stones, and fixed a poultice of feliac there too. All will soon be well."

"This time," said Touchstone. He was standing outside the close group of Sabriel, Ellimere, and Sam, looking down at his wife.

"Your father is angry with me because he thinks I almost got myself killed," said Sabriel, with a slight grin. "I don't understand it myself, since I think he should be glad that I didn't."

Silence greeted this remark, till Sam hesitantly asked, "How badly were you hurt?"

"Badly," replied Sabriel, wincing as she moved her leg. Charter marks flared under the cloak, briefly visible even through the tightly woven wool. She hesitated, then quietly added, "If I hadn't met your father on the way back, I might not have made it here."

Sam and Ellimere exchanged horrified glances. All their lives they had heard stories of Sabriel's battles and hard-won victories. She had been wounded before, but they had never heard her admit that she might have been killed, and had never really considered the possibility themselves. She was the Abhorsen, who entered Death only of her own accord!

"But I did make it, and I am going to be absolutely fine," Sabriel said firmly. "So there is no need for anyone to fuss."

"Meaning me, I suppose," said Touchstone. He sat down with a sigh, then stood up irritably to re-arrange his swords and bathrobe before sitting again.

"The reason I am fussing," he said, "is that I am concerned that all this winter someone, or something, has been deliberately and cleverly arranging situations to put you most at risk. Look at the places you've been called to, and how there are always more Dead than were reported, and more dangerous creatures-"

"Touchstone," interrupted Sabriel, reaching out to take his hand. "Calm down. I agree. You know I agree."

"Mmph," grumbled Touchstone, but he did not say any more.

"It's true," replied Sabriel, looking squarely at Sam and Ellimere. "There is a clear pattern, and not just in the Dead that have been raised solely to ambush me. I think that the increasing number of Free Magic elementals is also connected, as is the trouble that your father has been having with the Southerling refugees."

"It almost certainly is," said Touchstone, sighing. "General Tindall believes that Corolini and his Our Country Party are being funded with Old Kingdom gold, though he cannot definitely prove it. Since Corolini and his party now hold the balance of power in the Ancelstierre Moot, they've been able to get the Southerlings moved farther and farther north. They have also made it clear that their ultimate aim is to get all the Southerling refugees moved across the Wall, into our Kingdom."

"Why?" asked Sam. "I mean, what for? It's not as if northern Ancelstierre is over-populated."

"I'm not sure," replied Touchstone. "The reasons they make public in Ancelstierre are populist rubbish, pandering to the fears of the countryfolk. But there has to be a reason why someone here is supplying them with gold-enough gold to buy the twelve seats they've picked up in the Moot. I fear that reason may have something to do with the fact that we have not been able to find more than a score of the thousand people who were sent across a month ago, and none of that score alive. The rest have simply vanished-"

"How could that many people disappear? Surely they would leave some trace," interrupted Ellimere. "Perhaps I should go-"