It was her mother. Arielle, Kirrith’s little sister. She looked beautiful in the soft candlelight, her long blond hair hanging in a brilliant waterfall down the back of her dress, an elegant creation of ice-blue adorned with golden stars. It was cut low across the neck and back, and she wore a necklace of sapphires and diamonds.
As Lirael concentrated, the vision of the past grew sharper around the two people, but even muddier everywhere else, as if all the color and light were gathering around the point of her focus. At the same time, her view of the river of Death clouded. Sounds began to come to her, as if she were listening to two people conversing as they walked towards her. They were speaking in the courtly fashion, which was rarely used in the Glacier. Obviously they didn’t know each other very well.
“I have heard many strange things under this roof, Mistress,” the man was saying as he poured himself more wine, waving back a sending servant that had begun to attend to him. “But none so strange as this.”
“It is not something I sought,” replied the woman, her voice strangely familiar to Lirael’s ears. Surely she didn’t remember it? She had been only five when Arielle had abandoned her. Then she realized that it was Kirrith’s voice it reminded her of. Though it was sweeter than Kirrith’s had ever been.
“And none of your Vision-Sisters have Seen what you wish of me?” asked the man. “None of the Nine Day Watch?”
“None,” said Arielle, bending her head, a blush spreading across her neck. Lirael watched in amazement. Her own mother embarrassed! But then the Arielle she saw here wasn’t much older than herself. She seemed very young.
The man seemed to be thinking along similar lines, because he said, “My wife has been dead these eighteen years, but I have a daughter grown who would be near your age. I am not unfamiliar with the . . . the . . .”
“Imaginings of young women? Or the infatuations of youth?” interrupted Arielle, looking back up at him, her face angry now. “I am five and twenty, sir, and no girlish virgin dreaming of her mate. I am a Daughter of the Clayr, and nothing but my Sight would have brought me here to lie with a man I have never met who is old enough to be my father!”
The man put his cup down and smiled ruefully, but his eyes were tired and untouched by the smile.
“I beg your pardon, Mistress. In truth, I heard the sound of prophecy when you first spoke to me today, but I put it from my mind. I must leave here tomorrow, to face many perils. I have no time for thoughts of love, and I have been proven a less than perfect parent. Even if I were not away tomorrow, and could linger here with you, any child you bear would likely see little of its father.”
“This is not a matter of love,” said Arielle quietly, meeting his gaze. “And a single night may beget a child as well as a year of striving. As it will, for I have Seen her. As to the lack of a father, I fear she will have neither parent for very long.”
“You speak of a certainty,” said the man. “Yet the Clayr often See many threads, which the future may weave this way or that.”
“I See only a single thread in this, sir,” said Arielle, reaching across to take the man’s pale hand in her own brown fingers. “I am here, called by the visions granted by my Blood, as you are governed by yours. It is meant to be, cousin. But perhaps we can at least enjoy our single night, forgetting higher reasons. Let us to bed.”
The man hesitated, his fingers open. Then he laughed, and raised Arielle’s hand to his lips for a gentle kiss.
“We shall have our night,” he said, rising from the chair. “I know not what it means, or what future we will here secure. But for once I am tired of responsibility and care! As you say, my dear cousin, let us to bed!”
The two embraced, and Lirael shut her right eye, stricken with embarrassment and a slight, uneasy feeling of shame. If she kept watching, she might even see the moment of her own conception, and that was too embarrassing to even contemplate. But even with her eye shut, the vision lingered, till Lirael blinked it away, this time with an actual tear.
She had secretly expected more from the vision, some indication of her parents’ having a forbidden love or some great bond that would be revealed to their daughter. But it seemed she was the result of a single evening’s coupling, which was either predestined or the result of her mother’s mad imagination. Lirael didn’t know which would be worse. And she still had no clear idea who her father was, though some of the things she had seen and heard were certainly suggestive and would require further thought.
Snapping the mirror shut, she put it back into her belt pouch. Only then did she realize that the sound of the First Gate had stopped. Something was coming through the waterfall—something from the deeper reaches of Death.
Chapter Thirty-Six
A Denizen of Death
A few seconds after Lirael noticed the silence of the First Gate, the sound of the crashing water resumed. Whatever had stilled it had passed through, and was now in the First Precinct of Death. With Lirael.
Lirael peered into the distance, unable to see anything moving. The grey light and flatness of the river made it hard to work out distances, and she had no idea whether the First Gate was as close as it sounded. She knew it was marked by a veil of mist, and she couldn’t see it.
To be on the safe side, Lirael drew both sword and pipes and took several steps towards Life, till she was close enough to feel its warmth at her back. She should cross now, she knew, but a daredevil curiosity gripped her and kept her there—the urge to see, albeit briefly, a denizen of Death.
When she did see the first signs of it, all her curiosity was gone in an instant, replaced by fear. For something was approaching under the river, not upon it, a vee of ripples heading straight for her, moving swiftly against the current. Something large and hidden, able to cloak itself against her senses. She hadn’t felt its presence at all, and saw the ripples purely by chance, as a result of her own caution.
Instantly, she felt for Life again, but at the same time, the vee exploded into a leaping figure, a shape of fire and darkness. It held a bell, a bell that rang with power, fixing her on the very border of Life and Death.
The bell was Saraneth, Lirael somehow knew, recognizing it deep in her bones as the bell’s fierce power fought against her straining muscles. But a raw Saraneth, one that was not partnered with Charter Magic, as in her pipes or an Abhorsen’s bells. There was more power here, and less art. It had to be the bell of a Free Magic sorcerer. A necromancer!
She could feel the wielder’s will behind the bell, seeking domination of her spirit, an implacable force of hatred beating down her own pathetic resistance. Now Lirael saw the wielder clearly, despite the steam that eddied around his body as if he were a hot iron plunged into the river.
It was Hedge, the necromancer from the vision the twins had shown her. She could feel the fires of Free Magic that burnt in him, defeating even the chill of Death.
“Kneel before your master!” commanded Hedge, striding towards her, the bell in one hand, a sword burning with dark, liquid flames in the other. His voice was harsh and cruel, the words infused with fire and smoke.
The necromancer’s command struck at Lirael like a blow, and she felt her knees unlock, her legs beginning to crumple. Hedge already had her in his power, the deep commanding tone of Saraneth still ringing in her ears, echoing inside her head, a sound she couldn’t dislodge from her mind.
He came still closer, the sword raised above his head, and she knew that it would soon fall upon her unprotected neck. Her own sword was in her hand, the Charter marks burning like golden suns as Nehima reacted angrily to the Free Magic menace that approached. But her sword arm was locked at the elbow by her enemy’s will, held in place by the terrible power of the bell.
Desperately she tried to pour strength into her arm, to no avail. Then she tried to reach into the Charter, to draw forth a spell to blast the necromancer with silver darts or red-gold fire.
“Kneel!” the necromancer commanded again, and she knelt, the cold river clutching at her stomach an
d breasts, welcoming her in its soon-to-be-permanent embrace. The muscles in her neck twitched and stood out in cords as she fought the compulsion to bend her head.
Then she realized that by giving in, just a little, she could bend her head down, enough so her lips could touch the panpipes held in her frozen left hand. So she submitted, too quickly, lips meeting silver with bloody force, not even knowing which pipe would sound. At the worst, it would be Astarael, and then she would take the necromancer with her into the deeper realms of Death.
She blew as hard as she could, forcing all that remained of her will into directing the clear note that cut through the echoing remnants of the necromancer’s bell.
The pipe was Kibeth. The sound struck Hedge as he swung for a beheading blow. It caught his feet with joyful trickery, spinning him around completely. His sword-stroke swung wide, high above Lirael, and then Kibeth was walking and dancing him like a drunken fool, sending him cavorting towards the First Gate.
But even surprised by Kibeth, his will and Saraneth fought to hold Lirael as she tried to throw herself back into Life. Her arms and legs felt like clumsy sacks of earth, the river like quicksand, trying to suck her under. Desperately, she pushed to free herself, reaching towards Life, reaching for the day, for the Dog, for everything she loved.
Finally, as if a rope that held her snapped, Lirael pitched forward into sunlight and cool breezes, but not before the necromancer had shouted out his farewell, in words as cold and threatening as the river of Death itself.
“I know you! You cannot hide! I will—”
His last words were cut off as Lirael completely re-occupied her body, senses re-arranging themselves for the living world. As the Book had warned, there was ice and frost all over her, lining every fold of her clothing. There was even an icicle hanging from her nose. She broke it off, which hurt, and sneezed.
“What! What was that!” barked the Dog, who was practically under her feet. Clearly, she had sensed that Lirael had been attacked.
“A n-necromancer,” said Lirael, shivering. “The one . . . the vision . . . that the Clayr showed me. Hedge. He . . . he . . . almost killed me!”
The Dog growled, low in her throat, and Lirael suddenly noticed that she had grown as tall as her own shoulder and now sported much larger and sharper teeth. “I knew I should have stayed with you, Mistress!”
“Yes, yes,” mumbled Lirael. She still could hardly speak, her breath coming in little panicked pants. She knew the necromancer couldn’t follow her back here—he would have to return to his own body in Life. Unfortunately, her little Kibeth pipe wouldn’t have walked him far. He was easily powerful enough to come back and send Dead spirits through to pursue her. The bodiless ones.
“He’ll send something after me. We’ve got to get out of here!”
The Dog growled again but didn’t object as Lirael stumbled back across the stony island, intent on getting aboard Finder as quickly as possible. She circled behind Lirael, so every time the girl looked back nervously, there was the Dog, standing between her and danger.
A few minutes later, safe in the swift waters of the Ratterlin, Lirael collapsed from the shock, lying down in the boat with just one hand lightly touching the rudder. Finder could be trusted to steer her own course.
“I would have bitten that necromancer’s throat out,” said the Dog, after letting Lirael gasp and shake for several minutes. “He’d have had cause to remember my teeth!”
“I don’t think he would notice if you did rip his throat out,” said Lirael, shivering. “He felt more Dead than alive. He said, ‘I know you,’ ” she continued slowly, looking up at the sky, angling her face back to catch more of the sun, delighting in its blessed heat upon her still frosted lips and nose. “How could he know me?”
“Free Magic eats up necromancers,” said the Dog, shrinking herself down to a less belligerent and more conversational size. “The power they seek to wield—the Free Magic they profess to master—ultimately devours them. That power recognizes your Blood. That’s probably what he meant by ‘I know you.’ ”
“I don’t like the thought of anyone outside the Glacier knowing me,” said Lirael, shuddering. “Knowing who I am. And that necromancer’s probably with Nicholas now, in Life. So when I find Nicholas, I’ll find the necromancer. Like a bug going to a spider to find a fly.”
“Tomorrow’s trouble,” said the Dog, soothing her, not very convincingly. “At least we’re done with today’s. We’re safe on the river.”
Lirael nodded, thinking. Then she sat up and scratched the Dog under the chin and all around her ears.
“Dog,” she said hesitantly, “there’s Free Magic in you, maybe even more than the Charter Magic in your collar. Why don’t you . . . why aren’t you . . . why aren’t you like the necromancer?”
The Dog sighed, with a meaty “oof” that made Lirael wrinkle her nose. The hound tilted her head to one side, thinking before she answered.
“In the Beginning, all magic was Free Magic—unconstrained, raw, unchanneled. Then the Charter was created, which took most of the Free Magic and made it ordered, subject to structure, constrained by symbols. The Free Magic that remained separate from the Charter is the Free Magic of necromancy, of Stilken, Margrue, and Hish, of Analem and Gorger, and all the other fell creatures, constructs, and familiars. It is the random magic that persists outside the Charter.
“There is also the Free Magic that helped make the Charter but was not consumed by it,” continued the Dog. “That is quite different from the Free Magic that would not join in the creation of the Charter.”
“You speak of the Beginning,” said Lirael, who wasn’t at all sure she understood. “But could that be before the Charter? It doesn’t have a Beginning—or an End.”
“Everything has a Beginning,” replied the Dog. “Including the Charter. I should know, since I was there at the birth of it, when the Seven chose to make the Charter and the Five gave themselves to the making. In a sense, you were there too, Mistress. You are descended from the Five.”
“The Five Great Charters?” asked Lirael, fascinated by this information. “I remember the rhyme about that. It must have been one of the first things we memorized as children.”
She sat up even straighter, and clasped her hands behind her back, unconsciously assuming the recital position she’d learned as a child.
“Five Great Charters knit the land,
Together linked, hand in hand.
One in the people who wear the crown,
Two in the folk who keep the Dead down,
Three and Five became stone and mortar,
Four sees all in frozen water.”
“Yes,” said the Dog. “A good rhyme for pups to learn. The Great Charters are the keystones of the Charter. The bloodlines, the Wall, and the Charter Stones all come from the original sacrifice of the Five, who poured their power into the men and women who were your ancestors. Some of those, in turn, passed that power into stone and mortar, when blood alone was judged to be too easily diluted or led astray.”
“So if the Five were sort of . . . dissolved into the Charter, what happened to the other two?” asked Lirael, digesting this information with a frown. Everything she had read said the Charter had always existed and always would. “You said there were Seven who chose to make the Charter.”
“It began with the Nine,” replied the Dog quietly. “Nine who were most powerful, who possessed the conscious thought and foresight that raised them above all the tens of thousands of Free Magic beings that clamored and strove to exist upon the earth. Yet of the Nine, only Seven agreed to make the Charter. One chose to ignore the Seven’s work but was finally bound to serve the Charter. The Ninth fought and was barely defeated.”
“That’s number eight and nine,” said Lirael, counting on her fingers. “This would be much easier to understand if they had names instead of numbers. Anyway, you still haven’t explained what happened to . . . um . . . six and seven. Why didn’t they become part of the Great Char
ters?”
“They put a great deal of their power into the bloodlines, but not all their being,” replied the Dog. “But I suspect they were perhaps less tired of conscious, individual existence. They wished to go on, in some form or another. I think they wanted to see what happened. And the Seven did have names. They are remembered in the bells and in the pipes you have in your belt. Each of those bells has something of the original power of the Seven, the power that existed before the Charter.”
“You’re not . . . you’re not one of the Seven, are you?” asked Lirael, after a moment of anxiety-laden silence. She couldn’t imagine that one of the creators of the Charter, no matter how much power it had given away, would condescend to be her friend. Or would continue to do so once its true loftiness had been established.
“I’m the Disreputable Dog,” replied the Dog, licking Lirael’s face. “Just a leftover from the Beginning, freely given to the Charter. And I’ll always be your friend, Lirael. You know that.”
“I guess I do,” replied Lirael doubtfully. She hugged the Dog tight, her face pressed into the hound’s warm neck. “I’ll always be your friend, too.”
The Dog let Lirael keep on hugging, but her ears were pricked, listening to the world around them. Her nose kept sniffing the air, trying to get more of the scent that had come back from Death with Lirael. A disturbing scent, one the Dog hoped was purely from her own imagination and long memory, because it was not the smell of just one human necromancer, no matter how powerful. It was much, much older, and much more frightening.
Lirael stopped hugging when the Dog’s wet smell began to overcome her, and she moved back to take the tiller. Finder kept steering herself, but Lirael felt a surge of welcome recognition as Charter marks blossomed under her hand, warm and comforting after the chill of Death.
“We’ll probably see the Sindle Ferry later today,” remarked Lirael, her brow furrowing as she recalled the maps she had rolled, unrolled, catalogued, and repaired in the Library. “We’re making good time—we must have come twenty leagues already!”