“Yes,” said Lirael. It was a relief to tell Vancelle about Nick; it seemed to lessen the responsibility she felt herself. “He bears an unsullied Charter mark, but he is also deeply contaminated with Free Magic, almost as much as if he were a creature himself. But he isn’t! And I am sure will not become one, though I have no real . . . I have no real facts to support that. It is a mystery I would like to unravel, and so I thought to bring him here. To the Infirmary first; he was wounded again, only last night—”
“The Infirmary is full of those struck down with this current influenza,” said Vancelle. “But we will take him onward now, so Mirelle’s people can return outside. Perhaps he would be best put in your rooms?”
“My room!” exclaimed Lirael. “My old room? There’s no space, I mean, there’s only one bed—”
“No, no, you have the Abhorsen’s Rooms,” said Vancelle, smiling. “On the Southscape. A dozen bedrooms at least, several sitting rooms, a very extensive bathhouse . . . all from the days when the Abhorsens were more populous, and a score or more might visit at the same time.”
“Oh,” said Lirael. She hadn’t thought beyond getting Nick settled in the Infirmary, and it had never occurred to her she would have such important guest rooms. The adjustment of being the Abhorsen-in-Waiting she had begun to make elsewhere was slower to take place here. “Yes. That would be good. But perhaps if someone from the Infirmary could come and take a look at him? He proved very resistant to my healing spells, but I would like to try another . . . I mean, I would like someone else, more skillful in the healing arts, to try another spell to speed his recovery from loss of blood.”
“I’m sure the Infirmarian herself will come as soon as possible,” said Vancelle. “But in the meantime if you do not object, I will see what I may do. You may not know it, but I worked in the Infirmary for more than three decades, before I went to the Library.”
“Oh, thank you,” stammered Lirael. She was often surprised by the older Clayr, who had all done so much. They generally looked much younger than their true ages so it was easy to forget they might have had several different long-term careers within (or without) the Glacier. Vancelle had ash-grey hair and some powerful lines upon her face, but even so Lirael did not think she looked any more than sixty-five. However, she had to be in her nineties at least. Even this was not a great age among the Clayr. Most did not take to their dreaming rooms until they were well past their century, and the majority didn’t die for a few decades after that. This extended life span was generally accepted to be somehow related to the Sight and exposure to the use of Charter Magic in the Observatory.
“I will leave you to these most capable librarians,” said Mirelle. She bowed to Lirael, and then to Vancelle. Though she spoke with no apparent lack of sincerity, Lirael knew there was a long history of rivalry between the librarians and the Rangers, one protecting the Clayr mainly from without, the other mainly from within. Both provided most of the soldiers on the rare occasions the Clayr sent an expeditionary force away.
“Thank you,” said Lirael. “I am glad you didn’t leave us out in the cold, despite rule thirty-four.”
“Rule thirty-six,” corrected Mirelle, straight-faced as ever. “Rule thirty-four is concerned with the ways and means of traversing the glacier, and when not to do it. Which is most of the time.”
She bowed to them all again, and seeing that several Third Assistant Librarians had given their spears to others to hold in order to take over Nick’s hammock-stretcher from Calleset and her companions, Mirelle indicated for the rangers to follow. She set off back up the Long Stretches at a fast jog, lesser rangers loping behind. Lirael watched them for a moment, feeling a strong sense of relief she had never been silly enough to ask to join the Rangers rather than the librarians.
Lirael talked quietly with Vancelle as they walked, telling her how she had found Nick and what she had done; what he had told her about the Hrule in the south; and the strange behavior of the bells when Nick was being brought through the Wall. The Librarian asked few questions but kept Lirael talking, and the young Abhorsen-in-Waiting found herself opening up about far more than just the recent events, at least until she realized she was doing so and immediately clammed up.
The Long Stretches eventually joined the Westway for a brief distance, and from there they took the little-used Second Back Curve to the Southscape, that most important corridor where many of the senior Clayr lived, which included the Chief Librarian’s official residence. Walking past it, seeing the symbol carved by the door, Lirael was reminded of stealing the sword Binder there one midnight, aided by the Dog. She’d needed it to confront the Stilken, and the Dog had returned it before Vancelle woke up. At least that’s what Lirael had always supposed had happened, but as they went by she cast a nervous sideways glance at the imposing straight-backed old lady who was marching along next to her, and wondered how much the Librarian knew about that, and perhaps much else.
The Abhorsen’s Rooms were not much farther along. Word had obviously been sent ahead, or someone had finally Seen something, because a gang of young Clayr from the current roster on general duties were there in their probably-clean-that-morning aprons, busy mopping the stone floor in the corridor outside and dusting the front door, which was an imposing slab of black granite without any visible doorknob, handle, or lock.
“You’ll need to open it,” said Vancelle. “These rooms haven’t been used in a long time. Sabriel prefers the royal chambers. A touch should do it.”
Lirael nodded and wearily laid her hand upon the cool stone slab. It shivered under her palm, and then slowly swung inward. It was dark inside at first, but Charter marks for light slowly began to blossom, many of them set in patterns in the ceiling to mimic the stars at night, arranged in familiar constellations.
“After you,” said Vancelle to Lirael. The Librarian turned to her deputies and spoke to them quietly as Lirael went through the door. Most of the staff departed, going back to their duties, leaving only Vancelle, Imshi and the other present-carrier, and the four rangers carrying Nick in his stretcher.
Lirael halted as what appeared to be a forgotten piece of sacking near the door rose up in front of her, Charter marks swirling, trailing lines of light as they stitched together a human-shaped servant to inhabit the decayed tunic. When sufficiently materialized, this Sending bowed before Lirael. As it bore no weapons, it was not a guard Sending, but some sort of door warden, she guessed. It bowed to the others as they came in, hesitating at Nick, bending forward like a suspicious dog sniffing something it was unsure about. But it did not try to bar his passage, and finally bowed to him as well.
The reception room was not at all like Lirael’s old, rather bare room in the Hall of Youth. There was a rich woolen carpet on the floor, in deep blue with silver keys embroidered around the edges and an abstract but recognizable bell motif in the center. Several comfortable but low armchairs of supple dark brown leather lined one wall, with small tables between them for books and drinks. There was a hat-stand of wrought black iron near the door, adjacent to a sword-rest of carved mahogany with ivory inserts with space for a dozen swords; and a strange narrow bookshelf that shimmered with Charter marks. It took Lirael a few moments to work out this was another kind of rest, for bell bandoliers to be laid upon one of the felt-lined shelves.
“The furniture here all came from Hillfair, the Abhorsen’s rambling palace they built in the times of peace, and then had to destroy some four hundred years ago,” said Vancelle. “It was a surprising folly, being completely indefensible against the Dead. But they took the furnishings away first, some to their ancient House on the Ratterlin, some to Belisaere—where it was lost in the later interregnum—and some here. There is a catalog of the pieces and what is known of their history in the Library, of course, should you wish to read it. The door to the left leads to the bedrooms, and to the right, a complete bathhouse. It has been several years since Sabriel last stayed in these rooms, but there are quite a number of domestic Sen
dings who should have kept the place in order.”
“Thank you,” said Lirael. She felt very, very tired and very hungry now. She glanced over at Nick, concerned that he was sleeping so deeply, worried that he might have slipped into a coma. But even as she looked at him, his eyes flickered open and he gave her a somewhat disoriented smile.
“We’ve arrived,” said Lirael. “The Abhorsen’s Rooms in the Clayr’s Glacier. Allow me to introduce you to Vancelle, the Librarian. The chief of all librarians here. Nicholas Sayre.”
“I am very happy to be here,” said Nick. He nodded his head respectfully, not needing to be told that this was a very different kind of librarian from Mrs. Knipwich at his old school. “And to meet you, Chief Librarian.”
“Call me Vancelle; I do not stand on my title. Do you think you can get up, with assistance?”
Nick nodded and, with help, managed to stand. Though he was still very weary, and his wrist ached, he felt considerably better than he had.
“I apologize for appearing before you in such a state,” he said, with a sideways glance at Lirael. He looked down at himself, indicating the badly fitting paperwing flyer’s furs, which were now much too hot. “If I could clean myself up somewhere . . .”
Vancelle looked him up and down, assessing his general state, before she nodded in approval.
“There are a number of baths to the right,” said Vancelle. She gestured to one of the young Clayr who was on domestic service duty. “Zarla will assist you—”
“Oh, I don’t need assistance,” said Nick, looking around at all the women about him. Several of the other young Clayr had stepped forward with Zarla, as if they wanted to help bathe him as well. “I’d prefer to . . . ah . . . take my bath privately . . .”
“Of course,” said Vancelle quickly, noting his apprehension. “In any case there are Sendings in the bathhouse. They came from Hillfair too, by the way, Lirael. So they’re very old, but still functional. They will attend you.”
“Sam mentioned Sendings; they’re like . . . um . . . magic servants . . .”
“After a fashion,” said Lirael. “They are made with Charter Magic, in various shapes and with various powers, and have limited self-will. They generally want to help, regardless of their nature.”
“All right, then,” said Nick. “I guess if I need assistance . . . bath through there?”
He began to walk over to the door, but faltered and leaned against the wall. There was a surge of movement from all the Clayr present, but Lirael was first to his side, taking his arm. But he waved her off, smiling crookedly.
“No, no, I can do this,” he croaked. “I don’t want to be a burden all the time.”
“You’re not a burden,” said Lirael, not without some exasperation. “It will take a while to recover from your blood loss, not to mention being stuck out in the cold.”
She was still quite cross about the delay in getting inside, and would be crosser still if Nick ended up getting a cold. Or this influenza that was going around the Clayr, as happened every few years. Many of the Clayr believed the steam pipes spread colds and influenza; certainly once some of them caught something, it was usually only a matter of time before they all did.
“I can do it,” repeated Nick. Leaning on the wall, he walked slowly to the bathhouse door, which was opened by a tall and very old Sending, judging by the pale Charter marks in its body and the threadbare robe it wore. It put one arm around Nick, which Lirael saw with some annoyance he did not resist. As it did so she noted that the old Sending glowed more brightly and the Charter marks that had been moving so slowly across its magical skin sped up and became more active.
“Interesting,” commented Vancelle, who had also noticed this effect. “I do not think he is in immediate danger, unless he should somehow reopen that wound on his wrist. I will leave you for an hour, so you may also bathe, Lirael. On my return, with or without the Infirmarian, we can take a look at Master Sayre’s wound and general state. Imshi, if you would stay with Lirael and help her with whatever she may need? Do try and remember she is the Abhorsen-in-Waiting now and must be treated with great respect, not as someone to go and fetch your spare waistcoat because you’ve spilled tea on yourself.”
“Yes, Librarian,” said Imshi, her eyes downcast. “It was only the once. Or maybe twice. And Lirael offered, didn’t you—”
Imshi stopped talking because Lirael was chuckling, and Vancelle was already gone.
Chapter Twenty-One
RED GLINTS MEAN GORE CROWS
Shale Ridge near Yellowsands, Old Kingdom
It grew brighter briefly as the last red light of evening sneaked in under the clouds, but when the sun finally dipped away it became very dark indeed upon the ridge of shale. Ferin and her companions had used the light well, climbing faster toward the peak called High Kemmy. But they were still several hundred paces short of the top, where they hoped to find the downward path that would take them to the valley floor, and then across to the estuary and swift water to protect them from the Dead.
But the necromancer did not plan to let them even reach the peak.
Ferin saw the attack first, a cloud of fiery sparks descending from above as she and her companions inched along the ridge. They were feeling the way forward, aided only by the very faint light of a single Charter mark that Young Laska had just cast upon the handle of Swinther’s axe, which he held reversed to probe the shale ahead and test their path.
The sparks were in fact Free Magic fires burning in skeletal eye sockets. The many eye sockets of creatures flying through the air.
“Gore Crows!” shouted Young Laska.
Ferin swung her makeshift cookpot-lid shield in front of her face; Swinther wove a defensive pattern with his axe, and Young Laska whipped her bow about to be a makeshift staff only a few seconds before they were charged by dead birds, an assault of animated lumps of decaying flesh, broken feathers, and shattered bones. Half-rotten beaks and skeletal claws gouged at every inch of exposed skin, most particularly at their eyes.
Gore Crows, prepared by the necromancer long ago and kept in the closed darkness of the tarred basket he carried on his back. Birds ritually killed and then infused with a Dead spirit, a single slain man or woman animating a flock of dozens, so they moved together with one fell purpose.
Ferin crouched and swung her shield blindly, covering her eyes with her right arm. She heard Swinther cry out, a bellow of pain, and then Young Laska shouted something inaudible. Her words were followed a moment later by a blinding light. Ferin peeked and saw the Borderer’s bow outlined with golden light, bright Charter marks falling from it like liquid fire. Where the bow hit, a Gore Crow fell and did not rise.
With the light, Swinther and Ferin were able to strike more accurately, smashing the remaining Gore Crows down. But even broken into something resembling porridge, the horrid lumps of feather and bone tried to move. All three companions were kept busy for several minutes, kicking the Gore Crows off the ridge and down the slope, once again precipitating an avalanche of shale.
“Nineteen of them, by my count,” said Young Laska. She was bleeding from her hands and on both cheeks, but not badly. She held her bow high, the light falling on the others. “I doubt he could have more crows prepared in that basket . . . at least I hope he hasn’t. Swinther! You are wounded?”
The woodcutter held one hand to his right eye, and there were rivulets of blood leaking out between his fingers and running down the back of his hand.
“Cursed things!” he swore. “Bind it up. We must get to High Kemmy and on the path down before worse comes.”
“Hold my bow away from your body so you stay at least a little in darkness, and keep watch,” said Young Laska, handing the still-brilliant bow to Ferin. “Sit down, Swinther.”
Swinther sat. Young Laska took a square of cloth and a rolled bandage from her belt pouch, folded the cloth four times to make a pad, and gave it to Swinther, telling him to press it against his eye as she unrolled the bandage around h
is head.
“You are well prepared,” said Ferin.
“My old kit from the Borderers,” said Young Laska, tying off the bandage so it held the pad in place. “If we had time and I the strength, I’d try a healing spell, but we do not. In truth, I am weary from bringing light to my bow, though I hate to admit it. My old mates would laugh at me now, to be so out of practice.”
“We should use the light to hurry,” said Swinther. “That necromancer seems to know where we are anyway, in darkness or in light.”
“Indeed I do!” called a voice from shockingly close back along the ridge. “As will my servants, when they come. Give me the Athask woman, and you others will go free.”
In answer Young Laska snatched the bow back from Ferin, nocked an arrow, and sent it speeding toward the unseen voice, all blindingly fast. But there was no sound of an impact, just a faint clatter of shale.
Laughter sounded, farther back and to the right, and then a moment later arrows lofted high came down from above, nomad arrows at the full extent of their range, the necromancer’s keeper aiming at the light from Young Laska’s bow. Ferin heard them and was quick to raise her shield, deflecting one shaft. Young Laska dropped to the path, and several spent arrows bounced harmlessly from her armored back.
Swinther was not so fast. An arrow struck his shoulder. It had no force either, simply falling from on high, all the power of its launching spent. But it upset his balance. He put one foot back. Shale cracked under the woodcutter’s heel and slid away. He lunged forward, arms flailing, but even as Ferin and Young Laska reached for him, more and more shale slid away beneath his feet.
“The second path—”