The paperwings weren’t simply magical aircraft, but had a level of self-awareness that was difficult to gauge. They were more like a free-willed Charter Magic sending than anything, a created entity that could, to some degree at least, think for itself.
Nick would have to sit behind her, an unsettling thought even though she was fairly sure he wasn’t going to be consumed by Free Magic and become some sort of sorcerer or sorcerous monster. But even without such considerations, he’d need to be propped up or maybe lashed in place somehow, if he hadn’t regained consciousness by the time they got to Barhedrin.
Lirael looked down at Nick again. He was very pale, almost as pale as she was herself, but in her case, though she had been pale to begin with, she had become much more so from traveling in Death, the cold river which leached all color from even the darkest skin. In Nick, the pallor was from dangerous loss of blood. She felt a sudden urge to just rest her hand on his forehead, and almost reached out before she stopped herself and turned away.
“Yes, by paperwing,” she repeated herself gruffly. “And I’ll need to send a message-hawk to Belisaere, to Princess Ellimere. And one to Magistrix Coelle, for a telegram to General Tindall, explaining why we took Nick with us . . .”
“We have a score or more of hawks in the mews,” said Anlow. “Always need them, where we are.”
“I’m sure,” said Lirael absently. She was wondering what exactly she should say to Ellimere in the limited space provided by a message-hawk’s little brain. Sabriel and Touchstone also needed to be informed, of course, though perhaps not until they returned . . . Ellimere had been very insistent they were not to be bothered save in a real emergency. But Sam should also be told. In fact, Sam might well be able to help work out exactly what was going on with Nick. He had already explored different paths of Charter Magic from most mages, and though it was mostly to do with making things, he might have a particular insight. Besides, Nick was one of Sam’s closest friends . . .
Lirael blinked and brought her attention back to whatever Anlow was saying.
“What was that?”
“I was thinking it would be best to keep him away from the Charter Stone,” said Anlow. “The one atop Barhedrin Hill.”
“Yes,” said Lirael. Anlow was thinking more clearly than she was, she recognized. The Wall and the Charter Stones were both taproots into the greater power of the Charter. Though whatever had happened to Nick crossing the Wall did not appear to be dangerous, they had no way of knowing what potential spell might have been placed within him, and though the Charter was generally benevolent, that benevolence might be a weighted thing, where some greater good would be gained at the cost of trouble to those locally involved. Even death, blindness, or permanent stilling of a tongue, as happened when people tried to command Charter Magic beyond their ability or experience, thus preventing larger trouble by stopping an individual doing something irrevocably stupid.
“Your paperwing is quite close to the Stone,” continued Anlow.
Lirael stared at the guard captain.
“I’ll move it,” she said.
“But why take him . . . Nicholas Sayre . . . to Barhedrin anyway?” suggested Anlow. “If you go ahead, you can fly back, easily land on the flat here, and take him away.”
“Oh, right,” said Lirael. She blushed, something made worse by the pallor of her skin. “I’m sorry, Captain. I’ve not been thinking.”
“You dealt with the Free Magic creature,” said Anlow. “The Hrule.”
“That might have been the easy part,” said Lirael. She glanced at Nick again, and brushed the hair back from her eyes in the nervous gesture she did not realize was familiar to anyone who had known her for more than a few days. “I’d best go, then . . .”
She hesitated, thinking it through. It was only a few hours’ ride to the guard post at Barhedrin; she would be there well before midnight. But flying back would not be so easy . . . and Nick would be left with only the guards for the night. If something happened . . .
“Paperwings don’t like to fly at night. I might not be able to make it back before morning.”
“We’ll make camp over by that copse,” said Anlow, pointing to a stand of trees another few hundred paces farther away, on the flat, grassy plain that accompanied the Wall’s northern side from sea to sea. Nothing more significant than ankle-high grass ever grew there, some further magic from the Wallmakers, making it easier to watch for people or things who sought to cross.
“Keep a careful watch, Captain,” said Lirael. “Free Magic, even contained as it is in . . . in Nicholas . . . may draw the Dead or other things.”
Still, she hesitated. Anlow saw that.
“You are feared for us? Or for him?”
“A little of both,” said Lirael, honestly. She frowned. “Still, I agree it is best he doesn’t come near the Charter Stone. If . . . if something does show up in the night, it might make sense to take him back to the gate, go into the Wall.”
“Even not knowing what happened back there?”
Lirael nodded slowly. “The marks were not attacking him, or us. It was only their waking the bells. In any case, I hope nothing does eventuate . . . and my healing spell should hold for at least another day.”
“I can cast that spell myself,” said Anlow. “The spiral cure-all. I saw that was what you did.”
“It was much more difficult than it should have been,” said Lirael. She looked at Nick again. Whatever had happened crossing the Wall, there was no evidence of it now. She couldn’t sense any Free Magic “leaking” out of him, and though he had lost a lot of blood, he was stable and in a healing sleep.
Lirael shook her head, but it wasn’t in negation; it was to tell herself to stop dithering and get on with things.
“I’ll be back as quick as I can, come the morning.”
Chapter Eleven
THE SKY HORSE CLAN NEVER PURSUE PAST THE GREENWASH!
At Sea, Approaching Yellowsands
A high-pitched, long drawn-out scream echoed across the sea. The figure on the bow of the raider fell backward, and the scream became a series of shouts and oaths, likely from the same person. The rhythm of the rowers and the chanting did not change in the slightest.
“Only wounded,” said Ferin with disappointment and some embarrassment, despite the difficulty of the shot. She drew her arm in clumsily, feeling her weakness, almost dropping her precious bow over the side. It had been made for her only a dozen moons past, by the finest bowyer of the clan, using the best of her stock of horn, sinew, and mulberry wood, the latter particularly precious because it did not grow in the Athask people’s high preserves and had to be traded for, or stolen in raids.
“Good shooting, nevertheless,” said Karrilke. The captain had her head up, nose sniffing the wind. “If that was their wind-eater . . .”
Ferin nodded. She hoped it was the wind-eater and they were wounded enough to be put out of action, for she had no strength for another shot. She tried to settle down to an easier position, keeping her leg still. She had never felt so weak, and never felt such pain.
“Nothing,” said Karrilke, with regret. The air remained completely still, the raider drawing closer, close enough to hear the groan of the oars, the slap of the blades on the sea, and that chanting, now very clear. It didn’t come from human rowers at all, the cadence, Ferin suddenly realized. It was the sorcerers keeping time for their Free Magic constructs.
“Push me over the side,” croaked Ferin. All was lost now. Her message, the Athask people . . . but there was no reason for these kind fisher-folk to die as well. “It’s me they want. They’ll not pursue.”
Karrilke didn’t reply for a moment. When she spoke, her words came at the same time as a fresh, spray-laden gust of wind. The nor’easter was back, and the captain was not answering Ferin.
“Haul! Haul fast!” roared Karrilke to her crew, leaning on the tiller to send the boat slanting on her best possible course. Ferin choked back a scream as the bow plunged through t
he crest of a wave and the hull shuddered, sending yet another stab of still greater pain through her leg.
But even with the wind in their sails, the fishing boat was not yet sure of escape. The Free Magic sorcerers aboard the raider sped up the rhythm of their chant, urging their inhuman constructs to row faster.
A moment later an arrow narrowly missed Karrilke at the tiller. She ducked down, but it was hard to stay low and manage the heavy oar. Ferin twisted around to look. A dim bent-over shape at the bow of the raider was about to straighten up, probably after nocking a new arrow. Almost certainly it was the keeper of the sorcerer Ferin had wounded. Keepers were rarely good archers, but that first arrow had passed very close to Karrilke.
Or so Ferin thought, until the next shot flew a handsbreadth over her head, and she realized the archer was not only very good, he or she wasn’t aiming at the captain. Ferin was the target, and only the vagaries of breeze and darkness had caused the last shot to miss.
She let herself fall back, only a moment before another arrow hit the hull with a loud thock. A few inches higher and it would have hit her in the head.
The next arrow went wide, as Karrilke steered the boat a little off the wind and then on again, their wake showing a sudden kink. The arrow after that went into the sea, a dozen paces short. Even rowing at ramming speed, the raider was now falling back, unable to keep up with the nor’easter lifting the fishing boat south.
“Lown! Take hold here!”
Lown came back to the tiller. Karrilke bent down over Ferin.
“You’re a brave lass, and your shot saved us, I reckon,” said the captain. “Nothing’s ever sure at sea, but there’s a good chance now we’ll have you ashore soon after dawn, and to the healer.”
“How far is it from your Yellowsands to the place where the . . . the Clayr are?” asked Ferin. “In the ice.”
“The Clayr’s Glacier?”
Karrilke scratched her head. Ferin noticed that all the while they were talking, the captain kept a sharp eye over the stern. The chanting and the splash of oars from the raider could still be heard, though more faintly.
“I don’t rightly know,” continued Karrilke. “I suppose you’d take the south road to Navis, and keep going southwest to Sindle and from there north again, following the Ratterlin. On the royal roads, that is. There’d be lesser ways, I suppose, going west from Navis. Maybe five or six days, mounted. Someone’ll have a map in Yellowsands.”
“Good,” said Ferin. She tried to say more, to fend off what she thought of as shamefully passing out, but was unable to resist the tide of weakness and pain that was rising in her body.
Karrilke caught Ferin’s head as the young woman’s eyes rolled back and she slumped sideways. Laying her carefully on the deck, the captain looked over the stern again. The raider was still lit by the red fires that were not fires; the oars were pulling at the same swift pace, as called by the sorcerers. But it was falling behind with every minute.
Despite this, the raider was still following them.
For the first time, Karrilke wondered what would happen if it followed them all the way into Yellowsands. The Sky Horse raiders had never done so before, not in her memory, but then Karrilke had also never been pursued before by a raider full of Free Magic things that rowed all night and did not rest . . .
Yellowsands was a fishing village, not a walled and garrisoned town. The fisher-folk would fight to defend it, of course, but even if most of the boats were in, there would only be sixty or seventy people of fighting age, with perhaps half a dozen Charter Mages. And these latter were not expert in fighting spells; they knew only simple magic, mostly to do with the sea and fishing, like Karrilke herself.
Presuming the wind kept up, as it promised to do, Karrilke reckoned they would get to Yellowsands soon after dawn, perhaps an hour or even two ahead of the raider. But that was very little time to prepare a defense against a dozen wood-weirds and as many shamans and witches, in addition to their keepers.
The closest Guard post was in Navis, sixty leagues south. There was a rural constable in Yellowsands, but only one. Megril, a young annoyance if ever there was one, always poking her nose into honest fisher-folks’ business. Karrilke tried to remember if Megril had the keeping of a message-hawk for emergencies. Long ago, Yellowsands had maintained its own militia and message-hawks, but there had been peace for years, ever since King Touchstone and the Abhorsen Sabriel had set everything back to rights.
Karrilke cleared her throat, and tried to speak conversationally. She was never really afraid at sea, or had long ago trained herself not to show it, but the thought of Free Magic constructs rampaging through her village scared her. She had three more children at home, and her husband, a woodcutter . . . he would be first into the fighting with that long double-bladed axe of his . . .
“Lown,” she said. “Do you recall if that Megril has a message-hawk? Or anyone in the village?”
Lown made a face, the usual reaction to the mention of the rural constable.
“Don’t know about Megril,” he said. “Doesn’t Aulther have a pair, for the markets?”
“Aye, I’d forgot,” said Karrilke, brightening. Aulther was the fisher-folks’ factor and banker, who sold most of their catches to the Fishmonger’s Guild in Belisaere and arranged the cargo vessels that took the salted batith south. His birds probably only flew to and from the fish market in the city, but it would be a way to send a warning and to ask for help.
Not that any help could possibly arrive before the raider.
“As soon as we berth, you run to Aulther,” said Karrilke. “Ask him to send a bird to the closest Guard post if he can, or to the fishmonger’s if he can’t, asking for help along as the village is about to be attacked by a dozen Free Magic constructs, their sorcerers and keepers, from the Sky Horses and maybe other tribes with them.”
“We are? I mean, we will be?” asked Lown. He was young and had never seriously fought against anyone, so he was more excited than afraid. For the moment.
“I reckon,” said Karrilke. “Soon as you done that, you run home and have Da gather up everything for traveling he can get together real quick and meet us by the Charter Stone. Tell him about the raiders, and to pack food and water for all of us, three days, for traveling.”
“Food and water? Traveling?”
“We can’t fight off a dozen wood-weirds,” said Karrilke. “Have to get everyone in the village out, take the road and try and stay ahead of ’em, get to the old tower on the south road. Tolther and Huire will bring the girl to the stone, I’ll go to Megril and get her to sound the alarm, and I’ll fetch up Astilaran. Oh, get my harpoon from the house, and the old leather cuirass. It’s hanging up with the garden tools.”
“What . . . what about the catch?” asked Lown.
“We leave it.”
“We . . . leave it?” asked Lown, his voice squeaking high in surprise.
“Better to stay alive,” said Karrilke. She slapped the deck affectionately with her bare foot. “No point dying over salted fish. Besides, it’ll keep, provided she stays afloat.”
“What do we do if they sink her?” asked Lown. He was the least imaginative of Karrilke’s children, which was helpful sometimes, sometimes not.
“Raise her,” said Karrilke. “Build another. Worry about that if and when it happens. How long till Yellowsands, you think?”
Lown looked up at the sky, roughly fixing their position in relation to the six stars that made up The Beggar; cross-checked that with the Buckle of the North Giant’s Belt, sometimes called Mariner’s Cheat; and finally imagined an invisible line drawn through Uallus, the fixed red star a little east of north. After that he sniffed the air a few times, and gazed out upon the sea, taking note of the swell and other indications. A land-dweller would have sworn all the sea looked the same: dark and mysterious, barely illuminated by stars and moon. But to Lown it was familiar, and he knew where they were.
“Reckon we should hear the Mouth Buoy soon,” he sai
d. “Even over that racket those raiders are making.”
The “racket” was the continuing chanting of the sorcerers, now only a far-off conjoined sound, that could have been some great seabird calling in the night.
“Aye,” said Karrilke. “Listen for it and make the turn. I’m going for’rard to talk to Tolther and Huire.”
“Will do, Captain,” said Lown. He bent his attention ahead, listening for the harsh ring of the cracked bell that swung atop the ancient barrel buoy, once a tun of western wine, triple-caulked with tar to keep it afloat. The buoy marked the mouth of the Yellowsands channel, the only sure entrance to the winding way through the treacherous drifts and bars of sand that gave the village its name.
Karrilke had considered silencing the bell on the buoy, so the channel entrance would be harder to find, but she dismissed the notion as it would take precious time. The raider was a shallow draft vessel and so could pass many of the sandbars anyways, and she suspected the Sky Horse raiders were following them by some sorcerous means in any case.
The captain forgot the buoy and went forward, one eye on the sails, ready to call for them to be trimmed if she saw them shiver or heard them flapping.
Ferin lay on the deck near Lown’s feet. She was quiet, no longer writhing with fever. Simply a lump under her fur cloak, the only sign she was still alive the occasional quiver of her lower lip as she breathed in and out.
Chapter Twelve
A QUIET CONVERSATION, EVERYTHING IMPORTANT LEFT UNSAID
Flying to the Clayr’s Glacier
Nicholas Sayre woke slowly, his teeth aching and his eyes blurred from a cold wind that was blowing hard across his face. For several seconds he couldn’t work out where he was, because there was only blue sky above and when he tried to move he found himself restrained, tied around the waist and secured behind his back. He was sitting, too, which was strange, particularly as he was also slumped at an angle, his head hanging down over the edge of something . . .