Lirael

by Garth Nix

  Chin up!

  Nick, the mysterious patient X

  Sam folded the letter, smiling. At least Nick had come out of that awful night without any real harm, and with his sense of humor intact. It was typical of him that the Dead had only triggered his scientific interest, rather than a much more sensible fear.

  “All well?” asked Touchstone, who had been waiting patiently. At least half the onlookers had lost interest, Sam saw, withdrawing farther down the corridor and out of sight, where they felt they could talk.

  “Father,” said Sam, “did you bring me some clothes? My school stuff must have been ruined.”

  “Damed, the bag, please,” said Touchstone. “Everybody else, outside if you don’t mind.”

  Like two flocks of sheep that have difficulty mixing, the people left in the ward tried to get out while the people in the corridor tried to help and actually made it more difficult. Eventually, they did all get out, except for Damed—Touchstone’s principal bodyguard, a small thin man who moved alarmingly fast. Damed handed over a compact suitcase before he left, shutting the door.

  There were Ancelstierran clothes in the bag, procured—like Touchstone’s and the guards’—from the Bain consulate of the Old Kingdom.

  “Wear these for now,” said Touchstone. “We’ll get changed at the Perimeter. Back into sensible clothes.”

  “Armored coat and helmet, boots and sword,” said Sameth, pulling his hospital gown off over his head.

  “Yes,” said Touchstone. He hesitated, then said, “Does that bother you? I suppose you could go south instead. I must return to the Kingdom. But you might be safe in Corvere—”

  “No!” Sam said. He wanted to stay with his father. He wanted the heavy weight of his armored coat and the pommel of a sword under his palm. But most of all, he wanted to be with his mother in Belisaere. Because only then would he really be safe from Death . . . and the necromancer who he was sure even now waited in that cold river, waiting for Sam to return.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Ellimere’s Thoughts on the Education of Princes

  After two weeks of hard riding, bad weather, indifferent food, and sore muscles that were slow to re-adapt to horseback, Sam arrived in the great city of Belisaere to find that his mother was not there. Sabriel had already been and gone, called away again to deal with a reported Free Magic sorcerer cum bandit chief, who was attacking travelers along the northern extremes of the Nailway.

  Within a day, Touchstone was gone, too, riding to sit at a High Court in Estwael, where an ancient, simmering feud between two noble families had broken out into murders and kidnappings.

  In Touchstone’s absence, Sam’s fourteen-month-older sister Ellimere was named co-regent, along with Jall Oren, the Chancellor. It was a formality really, since Touchstone would rarely be more than a few days away by message-hawk, but a formality that would greatly affect Sam. Ellimere took her responsibility seriously. And she thought that one of her duties as co-regent was to address the shortcomings of her younger brother.

  Touchstone had been gone only an hour when Ellimere came looking for Sam. Since Touchstone had left at dawn, Sam was still asleep. He had recovered from his physical wounds, but he still did not feel quite himself. He grew tired more easily than before, and wanted to be alone more. Fourteen days of rising before dawn and riding till after dusk, accompanied by the hearty humor of the guards, had not helped him feel less tired or more gregarious.

  Consequently, he was not amused when Ellimere chose to wake him on his first morning in his own bed by ripping back the curtains, flinging his window open, and ripping the blankets off. It was already several days into winter in the Old Kingdom, and decidedly cool. The sea breeze that came roaring in could even be accurately described as cold, and all the feeble sunshine did was hurt Sam’s eyes.

  “Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!” caroled Ellimere, who had a surprisingly deep singing voice for a woman.

  “Go away!” growled Sam, as he attempted to snatch the blankets back. A brief tug-of-war ensued, which Sam gave up when one of the blankets got ripped in half.

  “Now look what you’ve done,” Sam said bitterly. Ellimere shrugged. She was supposed to be pretty—some even considered her beautiful—but Sam couldn’t see it. As far as he was concerned, Ellimere was a dangerous pest. By making her co-regent, his parents had elevated her to the status of a monster.

  “I’ve come to discuss your schedule,” said Ellimere. She sat down on the end of the bed, her back very straight and her hands clasped regally in her lap. Sam noted that she wore a fine, bell-sleeved tabard of red and spun gold over her everyday linen dress, and a sort of demi-regal circlet kept her long and immaculately brushed black hair in place. Since her normal attire was old hunting leathers with her hair care-lessly tied back out of the way, her dress did not bode well for Sam’s own desire for informality.

  “My what?” Sam asked.

  “Your schedule,” continued Ellimere. “I’m sure that you were planning to spend most of your time tinkering in that smelly workshop of yours, but I’m afraid your duty to the Kingdom comes first.”

  “What?” asked Sam. He felt very tired, and certainly not up to this conversation. Particularly since he had indeed planned to spend most of his time in his tower workroom. For the last few days, as they’d got closer and closer to Belisaere, he’d been looking forward to the solitude and peace of sitting at his workbench, with all his tools carefully arranged on the wall, above the chest of tiny drawers, each filled with some useful material, like silver wire or moonstones. He had managed to survive the last part of the trip by dreaming up new toys and gadgets he would make in his little haven of calm and recuperation.

  “The Kingdom must come first,” reiterated Ellimere. “The people’s morale is very important, and each member of the family must play a part in maintaining it. As the only Prince we’ve got, you’ll have to—”

  “No!” exclaimed Sam, who suddenly realized where she was heading. He jumped out of bed, his nightshirt billowing around his legs, and scowled down at his sister, until she stood up and looked down her nose at him. She not only was slightly taller than he was, but also had the advantage of wearing shoes.

  “Yes,” said Ellimere sternly. “The Midsummer Festival. You’re needed to play the part of the Bird of Dawning. Rehearsals start tomorrow.”

  “But it’s five months away!” protested Sam. “Besides, I don’t want to be the blasted Bird of Dawning. That suit must weigh a ton, and I’d have to wear it for a week! Didn’t Dad tell you I’m sick?”

  “He said you needed to be busy,” said Ellimere. “And since you’ve never danced the Bird, you’ll need five months’ practice. Besides, there’s the appearance at the end of the Midwinter Festival, too—and that’s only six weeks away.”

  “I haven’t got the legs for it,” muttered Sameth, thinking of the cross-gartered yellow stockings worn under the gold-feathered plumage of the Bird of Dawning. “Get someone with tree-trunk legs.”

  “Sameth! You are going to dance the Bird, like it or not,” declared Ellimere. “It’s about time you did something useful around here. I’ve also scheduled you to sit with Jall at the Petty Court every morning between ten and one, and you’ll have sword practice twice a day with the Guard, of course, and you must come to dinner—no ordering meals to your grubby workshop. And for Perspective, I’ve assigned you to work with the scullions every second Wednesday.”

  Sam groaned and sank back on the bed. Perspective was Sabriel’s idea. For one day every two weeks, Ellimere and Sam would work somewhere in the palace, supposedly like the ordinary people there. Of course, even when they were washing dishes or mopping floors, the servants could rarely forget that Sam and Ellimere would be Prince and Princess again tomorrow. Most of the servants dealt with the situ-ation by pretending Sam and Ellimere weren’t there, with a few notable exceptions like Mistress Finney, the falconer, who shouted at them like everyone else. So Perspective was usually a day of drudgery performed in s
trange silence and isolation.

  “What are you doing for Perspective?” Sam asked, suspicious that Ellimere would skip it now she was co-regent.

  “Stables.”

  Sam grunted. The stables were hard work, particularly since it would probably be a day of mucking out. But Ellimere loved horses and all the work around them, so she probably didn’t mind.

  “Mother also said you were to study this.” Ellimere drew a package out of her voluminous sleeve. It wasn’t immediately recognizable, being wrapped in oilskin and tied with thick, hairy twine.

  Sam reached for the package, but as his fingers touched the wrapping, he felt a terrible chill and the sudden presence of Death, despite the spells and charms that were supposed to prevent any traffic with that cold realm, woven into the very stone around them.

  Sam snatched his hand back and retreated to the other end of the bed, his heart suddenly thumping wildly, sweat beading his face and hands.

  He knew what was inside that seemingly innocuous package. It was The Book of the Dead. A small volume, bound in green leather, with tarnished silver clasps. Leather and silver laden with protective magic. Marks to bind and blind, to close and imprison. Only someone with an innate talent for Free Magic and necromancy could open the book, and only an uncorrupted Charter Mage could close it. It contained all the lore of necromancy and counter-necromancy that fifty-three Abhorsens had gathered over a thousand years—and more besides, for its contents never stayed the same, seemingly altering at the book’s own whim. Sam had read a little of it, at his mother’s side.

  “What’s wrong with you?” asked Ellimere curiously, as Sam went paler and paler and his teeth began to chatter. She put the package on the end of his bed and came over, touch-ing the back of her hand to Sam’s forehead.

  “You’re cold,” she said, surprised. “Really cold!”

  “Sick,” muttered Sam. He could barely speak. Fear gripped his throat. Fear of somehow being thrown into Death by the book, of being plunged once again under the surface of the cold river, to go crashing through the First Gate . . .

  “Get back into bed,” ordered Ellimere, suddenly solicitous. “I’ll get Dr. Shemblis.”

  “No!” cried Sam, thinking of the court doctor and his curious, inquiring ways. “It’ll pass. Just leave me alone for a while.”

  “All right,” replied Ellimere, as she closed the window and helped re-arrange what was left of the blankets. “But don’t think this is going to get you off playing the Bird of Dawning. Not unless Dr. Shemblis says you’re really, really sick.”

  “I’m not,” said Sam. “I’ll be all right in a few hours.”

  “What happened to you, anyway?” asked Ellimere. “Dad was a bit vague, and we didn’t have time to talk. Something about you going into Death and getting into trouble.”

  “Something like that,” whispered Sam.

  “Sooner you than me.”

  Ellimere picked up the package and hefted it curiously, then threw it down next to Sam. “I’m glad I had no aptitude for it. Imagine if you were going to be the King, and me the Abhorsen! Still, I’m glad you’ve already started popping into Death, because Mother certainly needs the help at the moment, and you’ll be a lot more use doing that than mucking about making toys. Mind you, I was going to ask if you could make me two tennis racquets, so I suppose I shouldn’t complain. I can’t get anyone else to understand what I want, and I haven’t played a game since I left Wyverley. You could make some, couldn’t you?”

  “Yes,” replied Sam. But he wasn’t thinking about tennis. He was thinking about the book next to him, and the fact that he was the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. Everyone expected him to succeed Sabriel. He was going to have to study The Book of the Dead. He would have to walk in Death again, and confront the necromancer—or even worse things, if that were possible.

  “Are you sure I shouldn’t get Shemblis?” Ellimere asked. “You do look very pale. I’ll have someone come up with some chamomile tea, and I suppose you don’t have to start your proper schedule till tomorrow. You will be better tomorrow, won’t you?”

  “I think so,” said Sam. He was frozen immobile by the proximity of the book.

  Ellimere looked at him again, with a look that contained equal parts of concern, annoyance, and irritation. Then she swung around and swept out, banging the door behind her.

  Sam lay in bed, trying to take regular, slow breaths. He could feel the book next to him, almost as if it were a living thing. A coiled snake that was waiting to strike when he moved.

  He lay there for a long time, listening to the sounds of the Palace that came wafting up to his tower room, even with the window closed. The regular watch-cry of the guards on the wall; the sudden conversation of people in the courtyard below, as they met on their business; the clash of sword on sword from the practice field that lay beyond the inner wall. Behind it all there was the constant crash of the sea. Belisaere was almost an island, and the Palace was built upon one of its four hills, in the northeast quarter. Sam’s bedchamber was in the Sea Cliff tower, about halfway up. During the wildest winter storms, it was not unusual for sea spray to splash upon his window, despite the tower’s distance from the shore.

  A servant brought chamomile tea, and they spoke briefly, though Sam had no idea what he had said. The tea cooled, and the sun rose higher, till it had passed beyond his window and the air grew colder again.

  Finally, Sam moved. With shaking hands, he forced himself to pick up the package. He cut the string with the knife that lay sheathed upon his bedhead and quickly unwrapped the oilskin, knowing that if he stopped, he’d be unable to go on.

  Sure enough, it was The Book of the Dead, the green leather shining as if it were coated with sweat. The silver clasps that held it closed were clouded, their brightness dimmed. They cleared as Sam watched, and then frosted again, though he had not breathed upon them.

  There was a note too, a single sheet of rough-edged paper that bore only a Charter mark and Sam’s own name, written in Sabriel’s firm, distinctive hand.

  Sam picked up the note, then used the oilskin wrapper like a glove to slip the Book under his bed. He couldn’t bear to look at it. Not yet.

  Then he touched the Charter mark on the paper, and Sabriel’s voice sounded inside his head. She spoke quickly, and from the other noises in the background, Sam guessed she had made this message immediately before flying out in her Paperwing. Flying out to combat the Dead.

  Sam—

  I hope you are well and can forgive me for not being there for you now. I know from your father’s last message-hawk that you are fit enough to be riding home, but that your encounter in Death has left you sorely tried. I know what that can be like—and I am proud that you risked entering Death to save your friends. I don’t know that I would be brave enough myself to go into Death without my bells. Be assured that any hurt to your spirit will pass in time. It is the nature of Death to take, but the nature of Life to give.

  Your brave action has also shown me that you are ready to formally begin training as the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. This makes me both proud and a little sad, because it means that you have grown up. The burdens of an Abhorsen are many, and one of the worst is that we are doomed to miss so much of our children’s lives—of your life, Sam.

  I have delayed teaching you to some degree because I wanted you to stay the dear little boy I can so easily remember. But of course you have not been a little boy for many years, and now you are a young man and must be treated as such. Part of that is acknowledging your heritage, and the essential role you have in the future of our Kingdom.

  A great part of that heritage is contained within The Book of the Dead, which you now have. You have studied a little of it with me, but now it is time for you to master its contents, as much as this is possible for anyone to do. Certainly, in these present days, I have need of your assistance, for there is a strange resurgence of trouble from both the Dead and those who follow Free Magic, and I cannot find the source of either.


  We will speak more of this on my return, but for now I want you to know that I am proud of you, Sameth. Your father is, too. Welcome home, my son.

  With all my love,

  Mother

  Sam let the paper fall from his grasp and fell back on the pillow. The future, so bright when that cricket ball had arced over the stands for a six, now seemed very dark indeed.

  Chapter Twenty

  A Door of Three Signs

  To celebrate her nineteenth birthday, Lirael and the Dog decided to explore somewhere special, to venture through the jagged hole in the pale green rock where the main spiral of the Great Library came to a sudden end.

  The hole was too small for Lirael to enter, so she had made a Charter-skin for the expedition. In the years since finding In the Skin of a Lyon, she had learned to make three different Charter-skins. Each had been very carefully selected for its natural advantages. The ice otter was small and lithe, and enabled Lirael to move in narrow ways and across ice and snow with ease. The russet bear was larger, and much stronger, than her natural form, and its thick fur was protection against both cold and harm. The barking owl gave her flight and made darkness no burden, though she had yet to fly outside some of the great chambers of the Library, which were never truly dark.

  But the Charter-skins had their disadvantages as well. The ice otter’s vision was in shades of grey, its perspective was low to the ground, and it induced a fondness for fish that lasted for days after Lirael shucked the skin. The russet bear’s sight was weak, and wearing it made Lirael bad-tempered and gluttonous, also for some time after it was taken off. The barking owl was of little use in full daylight, and after wearing it Lirael would find her eyes watering under the bright lights of the Reading Room. But all in all she was pleased with the Charter-skins and the choices she had made, and proud that she had learned three Charter-skins in less time than In the Skin of a Lyon suggested would be possible.