“It is working,” said Vancelle. “The marks are responding to you. Aren’t they, Lealla?”
“Yes. I am only preparing the spell, not sending it in,” said Lealla, who had just the tip of her right forefinger resting on Nick’s forehead Charter mark. It took great skill to be able to touch a baptismal mark and not be drawn into the Charter yourself, but it was part of a healer’s technique. “This is very interesting. He seems to be able to strengthen the marks, to make the overall spell much more powerful. But it does not seem to lessen the Free Magic I feel within him, behind or perhaps underneath the Charter Magic that contains it.”
“It’s lessening me all right, though,” said Nick anxiously. “I feel like I’ve run a mile . . . I can’t keep looking at the marks, they’re too . . . it’s too difficult—”
“Then you should rest now,” said Lealla. “We will finish directing the spell. Close your eyes, relax. Fall asleep if you like.”
Nick’s eyes closed with relief. He had not seen her, Lirael thought, where she watched from the door. Both Vancelle and Lealla had glanced her way, but neither indicated she should come in, until they finished with the spell a few minutes later.
“Well met, Lirael,” said Lealla. She stepped back from the table and bowed. As she did so, Nick sat up and looked across. He seemed surprised to see Lirael, and stared at her with his mouth open. She did not realize he had never seen her out of an armored coat.
“Thank you,” said Lirael. She avoided looking at Nick, who was still staring at her. “How is the patient?”
“He does very well,” said Lealla breezily. “There is still debilitation from some time ago, but it is not serious. The wrist injury is not significant in itself, though the blood loss could have been. You did well with your healing, Lirael, as I would expect. Also . . .”
She paused, and looked at Vancelle, who nodded for her to continue.
“Furthermore, though it is still very early and much more work needs to be done, with the Librarian’s invaluable assistance I think we have begun to establish that he has become or is becoming something very interesting indeed; in fact, in some fashion he is a—”
“I’m right here,” interrupted Nick plaintively. “You don’t have to talk about me as if I’m not here.”
“I beg your pardon, young man,” said Lealla, though she continued to ignore him and address Lirael. “Now, when you came in we were in the process of having Nicholas attempt to prove our early postulation.”
“Which is what?” asked Lirael, who was having some difficulty arriving wherever Lealla was heading.
“We think Nicholas has become something akin to a Charter Stone,” said Vancelle gravely. “That is to say, a source of Charter Magic, somehow fueled by the Free Magic within him. And in our rather limited experiment just now he has shown that he can direct this power, to strengthen Charter marks and spells, and presumably to lessen them as well, should he so desire.”
“Oh,” said Lirael. She looked at Nick, who smiled at her. She smiled back, but quickly smoothed her mouth flat as she noticed Vancelle and Lealla were watching her rather than him. She couldn’t tell from their expressions what they were thinking.
“It is potentially a very dangerous power,” said Lealla, “if Nicholas cannot control it. Certain spells, augmented beyond control, or made to fail, could be fatal both for himself and those nearby . . . and it may be only one expression of his particular condition. We will need to investigate more thoroughly.”
The Infirmarian now looked directly at Nick and tapped him on the head.
“You must learn how to master your gift, as I believe it to be,” she continued. “Though others might consider it something of a curse. Now, I have many very reluctant, sneezing, and watery-eyed patients back in my Infirmary, who will try and sneak out if I’m not present, so I must be away. Abhorsen, Librarian, Mr. Nicholas Sayre, Imshi. Good evening.”
With that, she whisked past Lirael at her customary speedy pace, swinging the leather bag that was both the mark of her calling and a repository of all the nonmagical adjuncts needed for healing.
“I must return to the Library myself,” said Vancelle. “I will call upon you in the morning, Lirael. With your permission we will continue to investigate Master Sayre’s interesting powers.”
“What about my permission?” asked Nick.
“That too, of course,” said Vancelle. She hesitated, then added, “But it is perhaps best you know that as someone brought here for investigation in the Library, you are not precisely our guest but, shall we say, a ward of the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. I do not think the powers that lie within you will present a problem, yet it is ever best to take care. There will be two Second Assistant Librarians on guard on the Southscape outside your front door, Lirael, and Nicholas must not leave the Abhorsen’s Rooms unless it is with me, the Infirmarian, or yourself.”
“So I am a prisoner,” said Nick quietly.
“No,” answered Vancelle. “Should you wish to leave, we would arrange your return to Ancelstierre. You are more a puzzle, one that is potentially dangerous. Dangerous to yourself as well. We would like to help you work out how you can master your unexpected power, but there is an argument that you might be best going back to where neither the Charter nor Free Magic exist. After all, I doubt there is another creature like the Hrule in the south, and you could go even farther away from the Wall, from us. Is that your desire?”
“No,” said Nick quickly, flashing a look at Lirael. “No. I want to stay here. And learn. Learn what I am, and what I can and can’t do.”
“Good,” said Vancelle. “And good-bye, for now.”
She bowed, turned on her heel, and left.
“Finally!” exclaimed Imshi. She bounded down the table and took Lirael by the hand. “You have to see your presents, Lirael!”
“Presents!” exclaimed Nick, swinging himself up and then off the table. He seemed very much recovered, though Lirael noticed he did not use his right hand. “Um, I missed what they’re for . . . is it your birthday?”
“No,” said Lirael.
“They’re welcome-home gifts,” burbled Imshi. “Gifts from the librarians and from the Great Library of the Clayr. For a librarian who has become one of the great, a hero of the Kingdom and beyond!”
“Not very far beyond,” said Lirael, embarrassed by Imshi’s exuberance, but determined she would not show it in front of Nick. She felt a strong urge to dip her head and hide behind her hair, but she fought it off.
“A joke!” said Imshi, laughing. “I’ve hardly ever heard you make a joke.”
“I was very shy growing up,” said Lirael to Nick, though she did not directly look at him. She hoped he would understand that she was still very shy. “Now, which box do I open first?”
“This one,” said Imshi, patting the larger box and visibly restraining her enthusiasm in a vain attempt to appear more dignified. “This one is from all the librarians together, something we had made.”
Lirael turned the key in the golden lockplate and lifted the lid. First she saw several layers of very fine, very thin pale yellow paper, which she lifted up and put aside. Underneath there was a librarian’s waistcoat. A unique waistcoat. Lirael stared at it for several seconds before she picked it up, as always noting the surprising heaviness. The waistcoats were only covered in silk; they were stiff canvas underneath, to provide better protection.
This waistcoat was blue like a Deputy Librarian’s, but the deeper shade of the Abhorsens’ surcoats, and it was embroidered with hundreds of tiny silver keys and golden stars. As Lirael held it up, she noticed there was quite a wide variation in the quality of the sewing.
“We all did a star or a key,” said Imshi proudly. She pointed at a star near the front pocket, not one of the expertly embroidered examples. “There’s mine.”
The waistcoat had a new clockwork emergency mouse in the pocket, and a bright new silver whistle already looped in place near the collar. Lirael had a distinct feeling of déjà vu as
she touched it, remembering when Imshi had told her the whistle was positioned up there so a librarian could always blow it, even if someone or something was holding her arms.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, unbuttoning the front of the waistcoat and slipping it on over her dress.
“There’s more,” said Imshi, reaching into the box herself in excitement, to take out a librarian’s dagger and a bracelet. The dagger had the usual silver-washed steel imbued with Charter marks, but the hilt was of finer work than Lirael’s old one. The bracelet was of beaten silver three fingers wide, and it was set with seven emeralds. The stones held spells to open doors in the Library, and as Lirael slipped it on, all seven began to glow, indicating they were active. This was a far cry from the single key spell she had started with as a Third Assistant Librarian, though she had surreptitiously activated several more. But with this bracelet, Lirael could open any door, hatch, grill, and lock within the whole Library, a level of access only comparable with the Librarian herself.
“Thank you,” said Lirael. She hugged Imshi, who enthusiastically hugged her back, and then Imshi turned away and hugged Nick as well.
“Hold on!” laughed Nick. He didn’t put his arms around Imshi, Lirael was pleased to note. “Why are you hugging me? I’m not the returning hero.”
“I just get carried away,” said Imshi. She jumped back from him and flung her hands in the air. “This is so exciting! Oh! The other box has the official present! Open it!”
The second box was long and narrow, so Lirael already suspected it held a sword, and she was not surprised to find one inside. But she was shocked to see one so similar to her lost Nehima. The hilt had a sapphire set in the pommel rather than an emerald, but the silvered blade was the same length and width, and Charter marks flowed like oil on water with a rainbow effect, rippling around the inscription etched into the blade.
“Raminah,” Lirael quietly read aloud the single word. As she spoke, both Charter marks and the ordinary letters shimmered and changed, a new inscription appearing, surrounded by different marks.
“‘Wallmakers made me to wield with Wisdom, and to wield well.’”
“Some tongue twister,” muttered Nick, and he almost laughed, but gulped it down when he saw Lirael was very serious, her focus entirely on the sword. She took it up and held it high. Charter marks flowed down the silver blade, over the sapphire pommel, and joined those moving on her golden hand, and Nick saw something of what it might be like to face Lirael as an enemy, and quail before her.
“I wonder how many sister-swords of Nehima are still in this world,” said Lirael quietly. “For Raminah must be one, like Binder, the Librarian’s blade.”
“There’s a scabbard too, in the box,” said Imshi. She had grown serious again. “Deputy Wenross found the sword a week after Forwin Mill, while cataloging one of the Sorting Rooms that hasn’t been touched in centuries. It was tagged as ‘Wisdom,’ which perhaps is its use-name. A few days later, you were Seen holding it, here in the Glacier. Even if we didn’t See you arriving, we knew you would come for it.”
“Sooner or later,” said Lirael. She took out the scabbard, which was lacquered black leather with silvered steel reinforcements, and sheathed the blade.
Chapter Twenty-Three
WELL-MET BY MOONLIGHT
Near Yellowsands, Old Kingdom
The Dead were slow and clumsy at first, the spirits within unused to inhabiting bodies again, and they also had to make damaged and broken limbs work by sheer force of Free Magic. But soon they became faster as they relished having physical form and began to stretch and change the bodies to suit their needs. Joints moved through many more degrees than normal, muscles re-stitched themselves in curious ways, toes and fingers grew longer, bones protruded and spread to armor the remnants of flesh beneath, nails and teeth lengthened and became sharper and tougher. . . .
Ferin and Young Laska were going downhill as fast as they could safely manage along the descending ridgeline. Whatever the necromancer was now doing, he had not tried to call back the clouds, which continued to disperse as the wind reversed back to its previous nor’easter. Soon the whole crescent moon hung in the sky amid a swath of stars, so there was plenty of light for experienced night travelers like an Athask clanswoman and a former Borderer.
“They’re getting faster,” said Young Laska.
“Yes,” said Ferin. She could hear the crunch of shale and the clicking of dry joints getting louder and closer. “At least the light is better. I think we have to do what Swinther told us we must not do.”
“What?”
“Run,” said Ferin. “Better to fall than to be caught by those things, I think.”
She immediately put her words into action, lengthening her stride, focusing all her attention on getting her feet on the path. The flat top of the ridge was fairly wide at this point, without too much small, loose shale on top. Even so, in the first ten steps Ferin almost slipped, a slip that would have taken her over the side of the ridge. She recovered without a word, and kept up the pace. Young Laska was close behind, holding her bow horizontally across her chest like a balancing pole.
The Dead Hands behind them also sped up their pace, the leading one—being a little smarter than the others—going down on all fours to scurry like an ape. As this idea percolated through the slow minds of the other three, they followed suit, but the rearmost one somehow managed to put its hands down off the path. Long fingers slid on shale, hands flipped backward, the wrists completely mobile, and the Dead Hand did a somersault over the edge.
Ferin heard the crash and tumble of shale, and smiled a grim smile. One less Dead Hand meant a slightly greater chance of survival. She was fairly sure now they had interpreted Swinther’s final words correctly; the ridge they were on was descending quickly on a diagonal course toward the valley. If they could keep ahead of the Dead, and there were no wood-weirds on the flat, there was a chance they could make it to the tower on the estuary—
Just as she thought this, her wounded ankle gave way. Ferin toppled forward, only a desperate twist keeping her on the path. She slid on loose shale for a moment, taking skin off her hands, but did not go over. A moment later she felt a glancing blow as Young Laska, unable to stop, jumped over her. There was a sudden rattle of shale, but not with an accompanying scream or the greater roar of an avalanche.
“You hurt?”
“No, no,” gasped Ferin, getting up as quickly as she could with the weight of her pack and her weakened ankle. She hopped for a moment, testing it. The pain was intense, but her ankle would take her weight.
“Go on!” she exclaimed. The Dead Hands were closer still, a glance over her shoulder showed them clear in the moonlight, dark shapes against the grey shale. “Go on!”
Now with Young Laska leading, they ran on, a little slower but still too fast for any kind of safety. Both of them slipped every dozen steps or so, but managed to catch themselves before falling. Each time, Ferin’s ankle sent a jolt of pain through her, and she feared that if it kept happening, she would be blasted unconscious and fall.
And still the Dead Hands closed the gap.
Ferin made a momentous decision. She had been told she must tell her message only to the Clayr, and most particularly to the one called Lirael. No one else.
But that was foolish, she thought. The elders had been too mistrustful of others; they did not know there were true people like Karrilke and Swinther and Young Laska, people who could be trusted as much as any of the Athask. Ferin knew she would fall soon, or be taken by the Dead, but there was a chance the Borderer ahead would get away. She wasn’t wounded, and could certainly run much faster once they got off the hill of shale.
Young Laska could take the message. The Athask people would be saved by another, but what did that matter? The message was far more important than the messenger.
“Young Laska!” gasped Ferin, not slowing her pace. “I need to tell you my message for the Clayr. It is for one of them called Lirael. Lirael!
Now listen!”
She spoke the message as she had memorized it, line by line, words spilling out between the sharp cracking of shale, the terrible sound of stone slipping under feet, the racking gasps of her breath, and always the sound of the Dead Hands getting closer and closer, the repulsive ratchet of bone on bone, the wet plop of pieces of rotten flesh falling, jarred loose by the creatures’ passage.
Ferin finished the message just as they reached the bottom of the hill, their feet suddenly pounding on dirt, not shale. Young Laska fell back a step and took Ferin’s arm, hustling her forward, taking some weight from her bad ankle.
“Do you . . . have the message in mind?” gasped Ferin.
“I do,” said Young Laska, pulling harder on Ferin’s arm as the young mountain woman started to slow. “But better two deliver such a message than one.”
“I . . . I only slow you down.”
“Save your breath,” said Young Laska. “Run!”
Behind them, the Dead Hands also left the hill, the three forming a line abreast, already breaking into a loping stride that was as fast or perhaps a little faster than their quarry.
Two or three hundred paces later, Young Laska and Ferin reached the road. But they could hear the Dead Hands so close behind now Ferin pushed Young Laska away, slowed to a stop, and turned to make a final, and doubtless very short, last stand.
“Athask!” roared Ferin, holding her knife high, the blade bright. “Athask!”
Young Laska stopped too, and reached deep into the Charter. She had the strength for only one spell, she knew, but it was a trusted one, drilled into all the Borderers. They learned to cast it even when wounded, or utterly exhausted, or both. A spell of last resort.
She found the marks almost instantly, gathered them into hand and mouth, the use-names of the marks that would make them active rising up in her mind like fish to a lure.
The closest Dead Hand sprang at Ferin as Young Laska unleashed her spell.