Lirael bowed in return, feeling the tears she had held back flow freely down her cheeks.
“Mogget is correct,” woofled the Dog, her chin securely resting on Lirael’s thigh. “Your Blood has made you what you are, but you should remember that it is not just the high office of Abhorsen-in-Waiting you have gained. It is a family you have found, and all will welcome you.”
“Absolutely!” exclaimed Sam, jumping up with sudden excitement. “I can’t wait to see Ellimere’s face when she hears I’ve found our aunt! Mother will love it, too. I think she’s always been a bit disappointed with me as Abhorsen-in-Waiting.
And Dad doesn’t have any living relatives, because he was imprisoned for so long as a figurehead down in Hole Hallow. It’ll be great! We can have a welcoming party for you—”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” interrupted Mogget, with a very sarcastic meow. He continued, “There is the little matter of your friend Nicholas, and the Southerling refugees, and the necromancer Hedge, and whatever they’re digging up near the Red Lake.”
Sam stopped speaking as if he had been physically gagged, and sat back down, all his enthusiasm erased by a few short words.
“Yes,” said Lirael heavily. “That is what we should be concerning ourselves with. We have to work out what to do. That’s more important than anything else.”
“Except lunch, because no one can plan on an empty stomach,” interrupted Mogget, loudly seconded by a hungry bark from the Dog.
“I suppose we do have to eat,” agreed Sam, signaling to the sendings to begin serving the luncheon.
“Shouldn’t we send the messages first, to your parents and Ellimere?” asked Lirael, though now that she could smell the tasty aromas coming from the kitchen, food did seem to be of prime importance.
“Yes, we should,” agreed Sam. “Only I’m not sure exactly what to say.”
“Everything we have to, I suppose,” said Lirael. It was an effort to get her thoughts together. She kept looking down at the silver keys on her surcoat and feeling dizzy and sort of sick. “We need to make sure that Princess Ellimere and your parents know what we know, particularly that Hedge is digging up something best left buried, something of Free Magic, and that Nick is his captive, and Chlorr has been brought back as a Greater Dead spirit. And we should tell them that we’re going to find and rescue Nick and stop whatever the Enemy plans to do.”
“I suppose so,” agreed Sam half-heartedly. He looked down at the plate the sending had just put in front of him, but
his attention was clearly not on the poached salmon. “It’s only . . . if I’m not the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, I’m not really going to be able to do much. I was thinking of staying here.” Silence greeted his words. Lirael stared at him, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze. Mogget kept eating calmly, while the Dog let out a soft growl that vibrated through Lirael’s leg. Lirael looked at Sam, wondering what she could say. Even now she wished she could write a note, push it across the table, and go away to her room. But she was no longer a Second Assistant Librarian of the Great Library of the Clayr. Those days were gone, vanished with everything else that had defined her previous existence and identity. Even her librarian’s waistcoat had been spirited away by the sendings.
She was the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. That was her job now, Lirael thought, and she must do it properly. She would not fail in the future, as she had failed the Southerlings on the banks of the Ratterlin.
“You can’t, Sameth. It isn’t just rescuing your friend Nicholas. Think about what Hedge is trying to do. He’s planning to kill two hundred thousand people and unleash every spirit in Death upon the Kingdom! Whatever he’s digging up must be part of that. I can’t even begin to face it all alone, Sam. I need your help. The Kingdom needs your help. You may not be the Abhorsen-in-Waiting anymore, but you are still a Prince of the Kingdom. You cannot just sit here and do nothing.”
“I’m . . . I’m afraid of Death,” sobbed Sam, holding up his burnt wrists so Lirael could see the scars there, scarlet burns against the lighter skin. “I’m afraid of Hedge. I . . . I can’t face him again.”
“I’m afraid too,” Lirael said quietly. “Of Death and Hedge and probably a thousand other things. But I’d rather be afraid
and do something than just sit and wait for terrible things to happen.”
“Hear, hear,” said the Dog, raising her head. “It’s always better to be doing, Prince. Besides, you don’t smell like a coward—so you can’t be one.”
“You didn’t hide from the crossbowman at High Bridge,”
added Lirael. “Or the construct when it came across the water. That was brave. And I’m sure that whatever we face won’t be as bad as you think.”
“It will probably be worse,” said Mogget cheerfully. He seemed to be enjoying Sam’s humiliation. “But think of how much worse it would be to sit here, not knowing. Until the Dead choke the Ratterlin and Hedge walks across the dry bed of the river to batter down the door.”
Sam shook his head and muttered something about his parents. Obviously he didn’t want to believe Mogget’s predictions of doom and was still clutching at straws.
“The Enemy has set many pieces in motion,” Mogget said.
“The King and the Abhorsen seek to counter whatever brews in Ancelstierre. They must succeed in stopping the Southerlings from crossing the Wall, but surely that is only part of the Enemy’s plans—and because it is the most obvious, perhaps the least of them.”
Sam stared down at the table. All his hunger was gone.
Finally he looked up. “Lirael,” he said, “do you think I’m a coward?”
“No.”
“Then I guess I’m not,” said Sam, his voice growing stronger. “Though I am still afraid.”
“So you’ll come with me? To find Nicholas, and Hedge?”
Sam nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak.
Silence fell in the hall, as they all thought of what lay ahead. Everything had changed, transformed by history and fate and truth. Neither Sam nor Lirael were who they had been, only a little while before. Now they both wondered what all this meant, and where their new lives would lead them.
And where—and how soon—those new lives might end.
Epilogue
Dear Sam,
I am writing to you local-style, with a quill pen and some wretchedly thick paper that soaks up the ink like a sponge. My fountain pen has clogged irreparably, and the paper I brought with me has succumbed to some sort of rot. A fungus, I think.
Your Old Kingdom is certainly inimicable to the products of Ancelstierre. Clearly the level of moisture in the air and the proliferation of local fungi is as abrasive as conditions in the tropics, though I would not have expected it from the latitude.
I have had to cancel most of my planned experiments, due to problems with equipment and some quite alarming experimental errors on my part, invalidating the results. I put this down to the illness I have suffered from ever since I crossed the Wall.
Some sort of fever that greatly weakens me and has encouraged hallucinatory episodes.
Hedge, the man I hired in Bain, has proved to be a great asset. Not only did he help me pinpoint the location of the Lightning Trap from all the local rumors and superstitious ramblings, but he has overseen the excavation with commendable zeal.
We had quite a lot of trouble hiring local workers at first, till Hedge hit upon the idea of recruiting from what I understand to be a lazaret or leper colony of sorts. The workers from there are quite able-bodied but shockingly disfigured, and they smell atrocious.
In daylight, they go about completely muffled in cloaks and swaddling rags, and they seem much more comfortable after dark. Hedge calls them the Night Crew, and I must agree this is an appropriate name.
He assures me the disease is not readily contagious, but I avoid all physical contact, to be on the safe side. It is interesting that they share the same preference for blue hats and scarves as the Southerlings.
The Lightning Trap is as fascinating as I expected.
When we first found it, I observed lightning striking a small hillock or mound more than twice every hour for several hours, with thunderstorms overhead on an almost daily basis. Now, as we get closer to the true object that is buried underneath, the lightning comes even more frequently, and there is a constant storm overhead.
From what I have read and—you will laugh at me for this, because it is most uncharacteristic—from what I have dreamt, I believe that the Lightning Trap itself is composed of two hemispheres of a previously unknown metal, buried some twenty or thirty fathoms below the mound, which we found to be completely artificial and very difficult to break into, with all sorts of odd building materials. Including bone, if you can believe it. Now the excavation goes much faster, and I expect we shall make our discovery within a few days.
I had planned to go on to Belisaere at that point, to meet you, leaving the experiment in abeyance for a few weeks. But the state of my health is such that a return to Ancelstierre seems prudent, away from this inclement air.
I will take the hemispheres with me, having procured suitable import licenses from Uncle Edward. I believe they are unusually dense and heavy, but I expect to be able to ship them from the Red Lake downriver to the sea, and from there to a little place north of Nolhaven on the west coast. There is a deserted timber mill there, which I have procured for use as an experimental station. Timothy Wallach—
one of my fellow students at Sunbere, though he is in Fourth Year—should already be there, setting up the Lightning Farm I have designed to feed power into the hemispheres.
It is indeed pleasant to have private means and powerful relatives, isn’t it? It would be very hard to get things done without them. Mind you, I expect my father will be quite cross when he discovers I have spent a whole quarter’s allowance on hundreds of lightning rods and miles of extra-heavy copper wire!
But it will all be worth it when I get the Lightning Trap to my experimental station. I am sure that I will be quickly able to prove that the hemispheres can store incalculable amounts of electrical energy, all drawn from storms. Once I have solved the riddle of extracting that power again, I
shall need only to replicate them on a smaller scale, and we shall have a new source of limitless, inexpensive power! Sayre’s Super Batteries will power the cities and industries of the future!
As you can see, my dreams are as large as my seriously enlarged head. I need you to come and shrink it, Sam, with some criticism of my person or abilities!
In fact, I hope you will be able to come and see my Lightning Farm in all its glory. Do try, if it is at all possible, though I know you dislike crossing the Wall. I understand from my last conversation with Uncle Edward that your parents are already in Ancelstierre, discussing Corolini’s plans to settle the Southerling refugees in your deserted lands near the Wall. Perhaps you could tie in a visit to them with a side trip to see my work?
In any case, I look forward to seeing you before too long, and I remain your loyal friend,
Nicholas Sayre
Nick put the pen down and blew on the paper. Not that it needed it, he thought, looking at the blurred lines where the ink had spread, making a mockery of his penmanship.
“Hedge!” he called, sitting back to quell a wave of dizziness and nausea. These fits often came over him now, especially after concentrating on something. His hair was falling out too, and his gums were sore. But it couldn’t be scurvy, for his diet was varied and he drank a glass of fresh lime juice every day. He was about to call for Hedge again when the man appeared at the tent door. Barbarously clad, as usual, but the man was very efficient. As you would expect from a former sergeant in the Crossing Point Scouts.
“I have a letter to go to my friend Prince Sameth,” said Nick, folding the paper several times and sealing it with a blob
of wax straight from the candle and a thumbprint. “Can you see it gets sent by messenger or whatever they have here? Send someone to Edge, if necessary.”
“Don’t worry, Master,” replied Hedge, smiling his enigmatic smile. “I’ll see it’s taken care of.”
“Good,” mumbled Nick. It was too hot again, and the lotion he’d brought to repel insects was not working. He’d have to ask Hedge again to do whatever it was he did to keep them at bay . . . but first there was the ever-present question—the status of the pit.
“How goes the digging?” Nick asked. “How deep?”
“Twenty-two fathoms by my measure,” replied Hedge, with great enthusiasm. “We will soon be there.”
“And the barge is ready?” asked Nick, forcing himself to keep upright. He really wanted to lie down, as the room started to spin and the light began to gain a strange redness that he knew was only in his own eyes.
“I need to recruit some sailors,” said Hedge. “The Night Crew fear water, because of their . . . affliction. But I expect my new recruits to arrive any day. Everything is taken care of, Master,” he added, as Nick didn’t reply. But he was looking at the young man’s chest, not at his eyes. Nick stared back at him, unseeing, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Somewhere deep inside, he knew that he was fainting, as he so often did in front of Hedge. A damnable weakness he could not control.
Hedge waited, licking his lips nervously. Nick’s head swayed forward and back. He groaned, his eyelids flickering. Then he sat up, bolt straight in his chair.
Nick had indeed fainted, and there was something else behind his eyes, some other intelligence that had lain dormant. It suddenly sang now, accompanied by fumes of acrid white smoke that coiled out of Nick’s nose and throat.