“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.
Chapter Thirty-Four
INTO THE SHADOWED DEPTHS
The Great Rift/Greenwash Bridge, Old Kingdom
Lirael and Nick reached the edge of the Great Rift several hours before dawn on the fourth day of their flight from the Glacier, with nothing more anxious over that time than the distant sight of a band of nomads heading southeast. The steppe was deserted, a consequence of Chlorr calling all the clanspeople to her service.
The moon was waxing gibbous, more than three-quarters full, so from the air they saw the Great Rift many hours before they arrived. A vast slash in the earth, it was at least two or three leagues wide, and its depths were too deep to be seen. It ran from east to west ahead of them but slowly angled south, and far off toward the h
orizon this turn could be seen to increase, marking the western extension of the mighty canyon.
Despite the moon, it was very hard to make out the northern side of the Rift. Even with her owl eyes, Lirael couldn’t seem to focus beyond the great canyon. Everything was clear enough immediately ahead. It was all red rocks and little streams cutting through to become narrow waterfalls, but halfway across, something happened. It was as if the air was full of dust, or there was a heat haze. But Lirael knew it was a border of sorts, like the Wall to the south.
Up until now, she had not needed to try and access the Charter via Nick. Lirael had been too tired to make the attempt, particularly in owl form. She could still feel the Charter, and find it, and draw marks from it, though it was much more difficult than it was across the Greenwash, back in the Old Kingdom. However, the Charter was still there, a constant, comforting presence, even one grown remote and more difficult to access.
Somewhere below, crossing the Rift, that presence would vanish. Then Lirael would need to draw upon Nick, and neither he nor anyone else knew how long the Free Magic he had inside him would sustain the Charter Magic that somehow drew upon that power.
By this stage of their journey, Lirael had mastered landing. She set Nick down very gently, releasing the net at the same time, then flew up and around to come back and land next to him, without falling over and flailing about with her wings.
The edge of the Great Rift was two or three hundred paces away, and most important, so was one of the tattered flags that marked the beginning of the path the sorcerers took to descend, and cross, and go up to the Empty Lands to seek their spirit-glass.
Nick packed away the net, and prowled about the bare, rocky patch of ground where they had landed, his hand on his sword hilt. There was no cover, but Lirael did not intend staying there. Slowly, she began the process of shedding the Charter skin.
Faint lines of golden light began to trace out the lines of her feathers, limning every bar and curve. They grew brighter and began to run together, and then the whole giant owl was golden and bright for a moment and then it was dark again, and there was no owl. Just Lirael lying on her side on the ground, with her pack on her back, her bell bandolier in front, and Raminah at her side.
“Ouch,” said Lirael. “As always, I hurt. And I feel disgusting. And I probably smell.”
Nick came over and helped her up. His nose wrinkled as he gently embraced her, Lirael moving stiffly to return the hug.
“We both smell,” he said. “Fortunately.”
Lirael raised both eyebrows, because she couldn’t raise one by itself.
“Well, it would be bad if just one of us smelled,” said Nick. “Do we rest here?”
“No,” said Lirael. She sighed and pointed toward the flag. “We have to start down. Apparently there are caves where the sorcerers usually rest.”
“What do we do if we meet any?” asked Nick.
“Fight,” said Lirael succinctly. “But Chlorr should have called them all away. Ferin certainly thought so.”
They walked on in silence for a while, occasionally touching hands, but not holding on. Lirael in particular had to be ready to wield both bell and sword.
“Do you feel different here?” asked Lirael quietly as they reached the head of the path and looked down. It was quite a well-made track, easily ten feet wide, carved into the stone of the canyon wall. If you kept to the side, you might not even notice the massive, apparently bottomless drop on the edge, Lirael thought. She started down, Nick withdrawing to follow a few paces behind her.
“A little,” said Nick thoughtfully. “When I touch the mark on my forehead, it feels . . . slower. . . . The Charter is there, but it takes longer to well up. Or something.”
“And the Free Magic inside?” Lirael asked. “You said you could feel it, like heat, deep within.”
“Yes,” said Nick. “Still there. Not spreading. Not breaking out. Not turning into a monster.”
“Good,” said Lirael. She turned and smiled at him. “Keep it that way, please!”
They walked on in silence for some time, but as the first red light of dawn shone overhead, still hours off from shedding any serious light into the Rift, Nick spoke again.
“Lirael,” he said. “If I do . . . if I do become a monster, a Free Magic creature . . . you will kill me, won’t you?”
Lirael didn’t answer.
“I mean it,” Nick said. “Don’t give me the chance to hurt you. Strike first.”
Lirael stopped and turned to face him.
“Just don’t do it,” she said. “That’s all. Come on. I think there’s a cave ahead.”
Dawn at the bridge was neither as quiet nor as lonely as at the Great Rift, so many leagues to the north. Here, there were soldiers everywhere hard at work; most had been roused an hour before. On the northern side, the moat around the castle was being cleaned of debris, the sluice gates that allowed it to be filled from the river temporarily shut, the water pumped back to the river the day before.
“That’s him!” said Ferin, pointing down at the muddy ditch where a mixed group from the Bridge Company, the Navis Trained Band, and the Royal Guard were raking together broken logs and flotsam and tying them into bundles to be lifted clear. “That’s the one who shot me!”
Aron, crossbowman of the Bridge Company, didn’t notice. He was exhausted from all the extra work of preparing the castle for siege, and intent on getting the current awful, muddy job done. Haral, who was working next to him, did look up. She saw the mountain girl in the white fur, hopping up and down and waving one crutch in the air. Next to her was a young, important-looking man; he wore a gethre plate hauberk so he had to be. Haral groaned as she heard what the nomad was saying, and recognized the golden tower symbol on the man’s red surcoat.
“That’s the girl you shot,” hissed Haral. “And she’s with Prince Sameth!”
Aron stopped trying to drag a particularly recalcitrant piece of dead tree out of the mud and looked up, wiping his brow.
“Ho!” called out Ferin. “Lucky you didn’t kill me. Tell the woman next to you thanks for spoiling the shot!”
“I’m sorry!” bawled out Aron. He was sorry. He’d been thinking about the young mountain woman ever since their unfortunate meeting, reliving the moment when he’d panicked at the smell of Free Magic. Wishing it had never happened. “I’m glad you’re alive!”
“Me too!” shouted Ferin. She waved her leg out over the edge of the moat. “They cut my foot off! But I am Athask! I still shoot straight. Straighter than you!”
“Crazy,” muttered Haral, but she was grinning.
“What’s your name again?” called out Aron. He was grinning too.
“Ferin! We have come to make magic arrows for your castle. Me and Sameth. Maybe you’ll get some, help you hit what you aim for!”
She waved, and swung away on her crutches. Sameth followed, vaguely disturbed by the way the young Bridge Company soldier down below had looked at Ferin.
“What do you mean we’ve come to make magic arrows?” he asked as they crossed the drawbridge over the moat.
“I do one Charter mark,” said Ferin proudly. “On every arrow.”
“For light,” said Sam. “They don’t even need it.”
“It helps you see the fall of shot at night,” said Ferin. “But you are right. You need to teach me more marks. If we live.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
NO AIR TO BREATHE
Beyond the Great Rift
I have never slept with a man before,” said Lirael, as she swung on her pack and readied herself for the day’s climb. It had taken them a day to descend the southern side, a day to cross the dry, rubble-strewn floor of the Great Rift, and now on the third day they were a good way up the northern side. Lirael could see touches of the red dawn light high above, tantalizing her with the potential to escape from the eternal twilight of the deep canyon.
“You still haven’t, in the sense I think you’re getting at,” said Nick wi
th a very weary smile. “But one day, I hope we will both be clean and not so tired it is almost impossible to stay awake even when on watch—”
“I haven’t fallen asleep on watch,” protested Lirael.
“Neither have I,” said Nick. “I said ‘almost impossible to stay awake.’ How is your hand?”
Lirael held up her golden hand and flexed her fingers. They moved slowly, and the usual glow was absent from the metal.
“It works,” she said. “But slowly. I think we might reach the top of the northern side today.”
“Don’t change the subject,” said Nick. “Hold it out. I’ll see if I can help.”
He took her hand in both of his and concentrated. He could feel both the Charter, distant and far away, and the raging, hot energy of Free Magic deep inside himself. It had grown stronger as the Charter faded, but he had not told Lirael that yet, nor was he going to, unless he felt he was losing control.
Nick drew on this energy, mentally connecting it with the Charter, drawing it closer. Marks began to drift into his mind, growing brighter and stronger. He didn’t know what they were, but he welcomed them, and let them pass through him into Lirael’s hand.
They stood together for several minutes with Nick clasping Lirael’s golden hand. The glow soon returned to it, and she slowly flexed her fingers, but not enough to break his grip. Eventually, Nick let go.
“Done anything?” he asked.
Lirael moved her hand about. It was still somewhat sluggish, but considerably better than it had been.
“Yes,” she said, kissing him on the forehead. Her lips were slightly sunburned, and his forehead was dirty, but it was still nice. “Let’s go. Remember, if you start feeling short of breath, say so immediately. I don’t want to suddenly find we are too deep into the airless place for me to do anything about it.”
Three hours of hard climbing later, they came out on the northern side of the Great Rift. There were no waterfalls here, no shrubs, no birds, no flying insects, no ants, no beetles, nothing alive. As far as they could see, there was a flat plain, the ground blackened in streaks as if by fire. But there were also flags, shredded rags that hung from nomad spears thrust with inhuman force into the rocky ground.