“Mogget had to kill her,” Sam said suddenly, looking back into the fire. “My horse, Sprout. I pushed her too hard. She foundered. I couldn’t do the mercy stroke. Mogget had to cut her throat, to make sure the Dead didn’t kill her and grow stronger.”
“It doesn’t sound like there was much choice,” said Lirael uncomfortably. “I mean, there was nothing else you could have done.”
Sam was silent, staring at the few red coals that remained, seeing the shapes and patterns of orange, black, and red. He could hear the Ratterlin’s subdued roar all around, the wheezing breath of the sleeping Dog. He could practically feel Lirael sitting there, three or four steps away, waiting for him to say something.
“I should have done it,” he whispered. “But I was afraid. Afraid of Death. I always have been.”
Lirael didn’t say anything, feeling even more uncomfortable now. No one had ever shared something so personal with her before, least of all something like this! He was the Abhorsen’s son, the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. It simply wasn’t possible that he could be afraid of Death. That would be like a Clayr who was afraid of the Sight. That was beyond imagining.
“You’re tired and wounded,” she said finally. “You should rest. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
Sam turned to look at her but kept his head down, not meeting her gaze.
“You went into Death,” muttered Sam. “Were you afraid?”
“Yes,” acknowledged Lirael. “But I followed what it said in the book.”
“The book?” asked Sam, shivering despite the heat. “The Book of the Dead?”
“No,” replied Lirael. She’d never even heard of The Book of the Dead. “The Book of Remembrance and Forgetting. It deals with Death only because that’s where a Remembrancer has to go to look into the past.”
“Never heard of it,” muttered Sam. He looked at his saddlebags as if they were bulging poison sacs. “I’m supposed to be studying The Book of the Dead, but I can’t stand looking at it.
I tried to leave it behind, but it followed me, with the bells. I . . . I can’t get away from it, but I can’t look at it, either. And now I’ll probably need them both to save Nick. It’s so bloody unfair. I never asked to be the Abhorsen-in-Waiting!”
I never asked for my mother to walk away from me when I was five, or to be a Clayr without the Sight, thought Lirael. He was young for his age, this Prince Sameth, and, as the Dog said, he was tired and wounded. Let him have his bout of selfpity. If he didn’t snap out of it tomorrow, the Dog could bite him. That had always worked on her.
So instead of saying what she thought, Lirael reached out to touch the bandolier lying at Sam’s side.
“Do you mind if I look at the bells?” she asked. She could feel their power, even as they lay there quiescent. “How do you use them?”
“The Book of the Dead explains their use,” he said reluctantly. “But you can’t really practice with them. They can only be used in earnest. No! Don’t . . . please don’t take them out.”
“I’ll be careful,” said Lirael, surprised at his reaction. He had gone pale, quite white in the darkness, and was shivering. “I do know a bit about them already, because they’re like my pipes.”
Sam shuffled back a few steps, the panic rising in him. If she dropped a bell or accidentally rang one, they might both be hurled into Death. He was afraid of that, desperately afraid. At the same time, he felt a sudden urge to let her take the bells, as if that might somehow break their connection with him.
“I suppose you can look at them,” he said hesitantly. “If you really want to.”
Lirael nodded thoughtfully, running her fingers over the smooth mahogany handles and the rich, beeswax-treated leather. She had a sudden urge to put on the bandolier and walk into
Death to try the bells. Her little panpipes were a toy in comparison. Sam watched her touch the bells and shivered, remembering how cold and heavy they had felt upon his chest. Lirael’s scarf had fallen back, letting her long black hair tumble out. There was something about her face in the firelight, something about the way her eyes reflected the light, that made Sam feel odd. He had the sense that he’d seen her before. But that was impossible, as he’d never been to the Glacier, and she’d never left it until now.
“Could I also have a look at The Book of the Dead?” asked Lirael, unable to disguise the eagerness in her voice.
Sam stared at her, his mind paralyzed for a moment. “The Book of the Dead could d-d-destroy you,” he said, his voice betraying him with a stutter. “It’s not to be trifled with.”
“I know,” said Lirael. “I can’t explain, but I feel that I must read it.”
Sam considered. The Clayr were cousins of the royal line and the Abhorsen, so he supposed Lirael had the Bloodright. Enough not to get destroyed straightaway. She had also studied The Book of Remembrance and Forgetting, whatever that was, which seemed to have made her something of a necromancer, at least as far as traveling in Death was concerned.
And her Charter mark was true and clear.
“It’s there,” he said roughly, pointing at the appropriate saddlebag. He hesitated, then backed away, till he was a good ten paces from the fire, closer to the river, with both the Dog and Mogget between him and Lirael—and the book. He lay down, purposefully looking away from Lirael. He didn’t want to even see the book. His flying frog jumped after him and rapidly cleared the mosquitoes away from his makeshift bed. Sam heard the straps of the saddlebags being opened behind his back. Then came the soft brilliance of a Charter light, the snap of silver clasps—and the ruffling of pages. There was no explosion, no sudden fire of destruction.
Sam let out his breath, closed his eyes, and willed himself to sleep. He would be at Abhorsen’s House within a few days. Safe. He could stay there. Lirael could go on alone.
Except, his conscience said as he drifted off, Nicholas is your friend. It’s your job to deal with necromancers. And it’s your parents who would expect you to face the Enemy.
Chapter Thirty-Nine. High Bridge
Sam felt much better the next morning, physically, at least. His leg was greatly improved by Lirael’s healing magic. But mentally he felt very nervous about the responsibilities that once again weighed upon him.
Lirael, on the other hand, was physically exhausted but mentally very invigorated. She’d stayed up all night reading The Book of the Dead, finishing the last page just as the sun rose, its heat quickly banishing the last few cool hours of the night.
Much of the book was already lost to her. Lirael knew she’d read the whole thing, or had at least read every page she’d turned. But she had no sense of the totality of the text. The Book of the Dead would require many re-readings, she realized, as it could offer something new each time. In many ways, she felt it recognized her lack of knowledge, and had given her the bare minimum she was capable of understanding. The book had also raised more questions for her about Death, and the Dead, than it had answered. Or perhaps it had answered, but she would not remember until she needed to know.
Only the last page stayed fixed in her mind, the last page with its single line.
Does the walker choose the path, or the path choose the walker?
She thought about that question as she stuck her head in the river to try to wake herself up, and was still thinking about it as she retied her scarf and straightened her waistcoat. She was reluctant to part with the bells and The Book of the Dead, but she finally returned them to Sam’s saddlebags as he finished his own morning ablutions farther downstream, behind some of the island’s sparse foliage.
They didn’t talk as they loaded the boat, not so much as a word about the book or the bells, or Sam’s confession of the previous night. As Lirael raised Finder’s sail and they set off downriver again, the only sound was the flapping of the canvas as she slowly hauled in the mainsheet, accompanied by the rush of water under the keel. Everyone seemed to agree that it was too early for conversation. Especially Mogget. He hadn’t even bothered to wake up and had had to be carried aboard by Sam.
It wasn’t until they were well under way that Lirael passed around some of her plate-sized cinnamon cakes, breaking them into manageable hunks. The Dog ate hers in one and a half gulps, but Sam looked at his askance.
“Do I risk my teeth on it or just suck it to death?” he asked, with an attempt at a smile. Clearly he felt better, Lirael thought. It was better than the dismal self-pity of the night before.
“You could give it to me,” suggested the Dog, without moving her gaze from the hand that held the cake.
“I don’t think so,” said Sam, taking a bite and making an effort to chew. Then he held out the uneaten half and said, with
his mouth full, “But I’ll trade you this half for a close look at your collar.”
Before he finished speaking, the Dog lunged forward, gulped the cake, and put her chin on Sam’s thigh, her neck in easy reach.
“Why do you want to look at the Dog’s collar?” asked Lirael.
“It has Charter marks I’ve never seen,” replied Sam, reaching down to touch it. It looked like leather with Charter marks set upon it. But as his fingers met the surface, Sam realized it wasn’t leather at all. It was nothing but Charter marks, a great sea of marks, stretching into forever. He felt as if he could push his whole hand into the collar, or dive in himself. And within that great pool of magic, there were very few Charter marks that he actually knew.
Reluctantly, he pulled his hand away, and then, on a whim, scratched the Dog’s head between the ears. She felt exactly as a normal dog should, just as Mogget felt like a cat. But both were intensely magical beings. Only Mogget’s collar was a binding-spell of great force, and the Dog’s collar was something very different, almost like a part of the Charter itself. It had something of the same feel as a Charter Stone.
“Excellent,” sighed the Dog, responding to the scratching. “But do my back as well, please.”
Sam complied, and the Dog stretched out under his fingers, luxuriating in the treatment. Lirael watched, suddenly struck by the realization that she’d never before seen the Dog with another person. The hound had always disappeared when any other people were around.
“Some of the Charter marks in your collar are familiar,”
said Sam idly, as he scratched and watched the morning sun
play across the water. It was going to be another very hot day, and he’d lost his hat. It must have come off when he fell down the steps of the mill’s landing stage.
The Dog didn’t answer, merely wriggling to direct Sam’s scratching hand farther down her back.
“Only I can’t think where I’ve seen them,” continued Sam, pausing to concentrate. He didn’t know what the Charter marks were for, but he had seen them somewhere else. Not in a grimoire or a Charter Stone, but on some object or something solid. “Not in Mogget’s collar—those are quite different.”
“You think too much,” growled the Dog, though not angrily. “Just keep scratching. You can do under my chin as well.”
“You’re a very demanding Dog for a supposed servant of the Clayr,” said Sam. He looked at Lirael and added, “Is she always like this?”
“Pardon?” asked Lirael, who had started thinking about The Book of the Dead again. It took an effort for her to pay attention to Sam, and for a moment she wished she were back in the Great Library, where no one spoke to her unless they had to.
Sam repeated his question, and Lirael looked at the Dog.
“She’s usually worse,” she replied. “If it’s not food she’s after, it’s scratching. She’s incorrigible.”
“That’s why I’m the Disreputable Dog,” said the Dog smugly, wagging her tail. “Not just the Dog. But you’d better stop scratching now, Prince Sameth.”
“Why?”
“Because I can smell people,” replied the Dog, forcing herself up. “Beyond the next bend.”
Sam and Lirael looked, but couldn’t see any sign of habitation or another vessel on the river. The Ratterlin had turned into a wide bend, and the riverbanks were rising into high bluffs of pinkish stone, obscuring the view ahead.
“I can hear roaring, too,” added the Dog, who was now perched on the bow, her ears erect and quivering.
“Like rapids?” asked Lirael nervously. She trusted Finder, but didn’t fancy shooting any waterfalls in her—or in any boat, for that matter.
Sam stood up next to her, keeping one hand on the boom for balance, and tried to see ahead. But whatever was there lay beyond the bend. He took another look at the riverbanks, noting that they’d risen up to become real cliffs, and that the river was getting narrower, and was perhaps only a few hundred yards wide ahead.
“It’s okay,” he said, and then, seeing her puzzlement at the Ancelstierran expression, he added, “I mean it’s all right. We’re coming to the High Bridge Gorge. The river gets a lot narrower, and faster, but not so bad that boats can’t get through. And the river is lower than it should be at this time of year, so I bet it won’t be too fast.”
“Oh, High Bridge,” said Lirael, with considerable relief. She’d read about High Bridge, and had even seen a handcolored etching of it. “We actually sail under the town, don’t we?”
Sam nodded, thinking. He’d been to the town of High Bridge only once, over a decade ago, with his parents. They’d reached it overland, not on the Ratterlin, but he did remember Touchstone pointing out the guardboats that patrolled upstream of the town, and in the pool beyond High Bridge, where the river widened again. They not only kept at least that part of the Ratterlin free of river pirates but also exacted tolls from traders. Ellimere had probably already given the river-guards orders to “escort” him ashore and return him to Belisaere.