“Time plays tricks between here and home,” said Mogget sepulchrally, frightening the life out of the telephone operator. The little cat jumped out of Sam’s pack, ignored the soldier, and added, “Though I expect it will be slow going, dragging the hemispheres to this Forwin Mill. We may have time to get there first.”
“I’d better get in touch with my parents,” said Sam. “Can you patch into the civilian telephone system?”
“Ah,” said the Major. He rubbed his nose and seemed unsure of what he was going to say. “I thought you would have known. It happened almost a week ago. . . .”
“What?”
“I’m sorry, son,” said the Major. He braced himself to attention and said, “Your parents are dead. They were murdered in Corvere by Corolini’s radicals. A bomb. Their car was totally destroyed.”
Sam listened blank faced to the Major’s words. Then he slid down the wall and put his head in his hands.
Lirael touched Sam’s left shoulder, and the Dog rested her nose on his right. Only Mogget seemed unaffected by the news. He sat next to the switchboard operator, his green eyes sparkling.
Lirael spent the next few seconds walling off the news, pushing it down to where she had always pushed her distress, somewhere that allowed her to keep on going. If she lived, she would weep for the sister she had never known, as she would weep for Touchstone, and her mother, and so many other things that had gone wrong in the world. But now there was no time for weeping, since many other sisters, brothers, mothers, fathers, and others depended on them doing what must be done.
“Don’t think about it,” said Lirael, squeezing Sam’s shoulder. “It’s up to us now. We have to get to Forwin Mill before Hedge does!”
“We can’t,” said Sam. “We might as well give up—”
He stopped himself in mid sentence, let his hands fall from his face, and stood up, but hunched over as if there were a pain in his gut. He stood there silently for almost a minute. Then he took the feather-coin out of his sleeve and flipped it. It spun up to the ceiling of the blockhouse and hung there. Sam leaned against the wall to watch it, his body still crooked but his head craned back.
Eventually he stopped looking at the spinning coin and straightened up, until he was standing at attention opposite Lirael. He didn’t snap his fingers to recall the coin.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. There were tears in his eyes, but he blinked them back. “I’m . . . I’m all right now.”
He bent his head to Lirael and added, “Abhorsen.”
Lirael shut her eyes for a moment. That single word brought it all home. She was the Abhorsen. No longer in waiting.
“Yes,” she said, accepting the title and everything that went with it. “I am the Abhorsen, and as such, I need all the help I can get.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Major Greene. “But I can’t legally order the company to follow. Though most of ’em would probably volunteer.”
“I don’t understand!” protested Lirael. “Who cares what’s legal? Your whole country could be destroyed! Everybody killed everywhere! Don’t you understand?”
“I understand. It’s just not that simple . . .” the Major began. Then he paused, and his red face went blotchy and pale at the temples. Lirael watched his brow furrow up as if a strange thought were trying to break free. Then it cleared. Carefully he put his hand into his pocket, then suddenly withdrew it and punched his newly brass-knuckled fist into the Bakelite exchange board, its delicate internal mechanisms exploding with a rush of sparks and smoke.
“Damn it! It is that simple! I’ll order the company to go. After all, the politicos can only shoot me for it later if we win. As for you, Private, if you mention a word of this to anyone, I’ll feed you to the cat thing here. Understand?”
“Yum,” said Mogget.
“Yes, sir!” mumbled the telephone operator, his hands shaking as he tried to smother the burning wreckage of his switchboard with a fire blanket.
But the Major hadn’t paused for his answer. He was already out the door, shouting at some poor subordinate outside to “Hurry up and get the trucks going!”
“Trucks?” asked Lirael as they rushed out after him.
“Um . . . horseless wagons,” said Sam mechanically. The words came out of his mouth slowly, as if he had to remember what they were. “They’ll . . . they’ll get us to Forwin Mill much faster. If they work.”
“They might well do so,” said the Dog, lifting her nose and sniffing. “The wind is veering to the southwest and it’s getting colder. But look to the west!”
They looked. The western horizon was lit by bright flashes of lightning, and there was the dull rumble of distant thunder.
Mogget watched too, from his post back on top of Sam’s pack. His green eyes were calculating, and Lirael noticed he was counting quietly aloud. Then he sniffed with a disgruntled tone.
“How far did that boy say Forwin Mill was?” he asked, noting Lirael’s look.
“About thirty miles,” said Sam.
“About five leagues,” said Lirael at the same time.
“That lightning is due west, and six or seven leagues away. Hedge and his cargo must still be crossing the Wall!”
Second Interlude
THE BLUE POSTAL Service van crunched its gears as it slowed to take the turnoff from the road into the bricked drive. Then it had to slow even more and judder to a stop, because the gates that were normally open were closed. There were also people with guns and swords on the other side. Armed schoolgirls in white tennis dresses or hockey tunics, who looked as if they should be holding racquets or hockey sticks rather than weapons. Two of them kept their rifles trained on the driver while another two came through the little postern gate in the wall, the na**d blades they held at the ready catching the light of the late-afternoon sun.
The driver of the van looked up at the gilt, mock-Gothic letters above the gate that read “Wyverley College” and the smaller inscription below, which said, “Established in 1652 for Young Ladies of Quality.”
“Peculiar bloody quality,” he muttered. He didn’t like to feel afraid of schoolgirls. He looked back into the interior of the van and said more loudly, “We’re here. Wyverley College.”
There was a faint rustle from the back, which grew into a series of thumps and muffled exclamations. The driver watched for a second, as the mailbags stood up and hands reached out from the inside to open the drawstrings at the top. Then he turned his attention back to the front. Two of the schoolgirls were coming to his window, which he immediately wound down.
“Special delivery,” he said, with a wink. “I’m supposed to say Ellie’s dad and mum and that’ll mean something to you, so you don’t go sticking me with a sword or shooting me neither.”
The closer girl, who could be no more than seventeen, turned to the other—who was even younger—and said, “Go and get Magistrix Coelle.
“You stay where you are and keep your hands on the wheel,” she added to the driver. “Tell your passengers to keep still, too.”
“We can hear you,” said a voice from the back. A woman’s voice, strong and vibrant. “Is that Felicity?”
The girl started back. Then, keeping her sword on guard in front of her, she peered through the window, past the driver.
“Yes, it’s me, ma’am,” said the girl cautiously. She stepped back and made a signal to the rifle girls, who relaxed slightly but did not lower their weapons, much to the driver’s discomfort. “Do you mind waiting till Magistrix Coelle comes down? We can’t be too careful today. There is a wind from the north, and reports of other trouble. How many of you are there?”
“We’ll wait,” said the voice. “Two. There’s myself, and . . . Ellimere’s father.”
“Um, hello,” said Felicity. “We had news . . . that you . . . though Magistrix Coelle did not believe it. . . .”
“Do not speak of that for now,” said Sabriel. She had climbed out of the mailbag and was now crouched behind the driver. Felicity peered in again, reassuring herself that the woman she saw was in fact Ellimere’s mother. Even though Sabriel was wearing blue Postal Service overalls and a watch cap pulled low over her night-black hair, she was recognizable. But Felicity was still wary. The true test would come when Magistrix Coelle tested these people’s Charter marks.
“Here is your payment, as agreed,” said Sabriel, passing a thick envelope to the driver. He took it and immediately looked inside, a slight smile touching his mouth and eyes.
“Much obliged,” he said. “And I’ll keep my mouth shut, too, as I promised.”
“You’d better,” muttered Touchstone.
The driver was clearly offended by this remark. He sniffed and said, “I live near Bain and always have, and I know what’s what. I didn’t help you for the money. That’s just a sweetener.”
“We appreciate your help,” said Sabriel, with a quelling glance at Touchstone. Being cooped up in a mailbag for several hours had not done anything for his temper, nor did waiting, now that they were so close to the Wall and home. Wyverley College was only forty miles south of the border.
“Here, I’ll bloody well give it back,” said the driver. He dragged out the envelope and thrust it towards Touchstone.
“No, no, consider it a just reward,” Sabriel said calmly, and pushed the envelope back. The driver resisted for a moment, then shrugged and replaced the money somewhere inside his jacket and settled sulkily down in his seat.
“Here is the magistrix,” said Felicity with relief, as she looked back at an older woman and several students who were coming down the drive. They appeared to have emerged out of nowhere, for the main school building was out of sight around the bend, cloaked by a line of closely hugging poplars.
Once Magistrix Coelle arrived, it was only a matter of minutes before Sabriel and Touchstone had the Charter marks on their foreheads assessed for purity and they were all on their way to the school, and the postal van on its way back to Bain.
“I knew the news was false,” said Magistrix Coelle as they walked quickly—almost at a trot—up to the huge, gate-like doors of the main building. “The Corvere Times ran a photo of two burnt-out cars and some bodies but had little else to say. It seemed very much a put-up job.”
“It was real enough,” said Sabriel grimly. “Damed and eleven others were killed in that attack, and two more of our people outside Hennen. Perhaps more have been killed. We split up after Hennen, to lay false trails. None of our people have beaten us here?”
Coelle shook her head.
“Damed won’t be forgotten,” said Touchstone. “Or Barlest, or any of them. We will not forget our enemies, either.”
“These are terrible times,” sighed Coelle. She shook her head several times again as they went inside, past more armed schoolgirls, who looked on in awe at the legendary Sabriel and her consort, even if he was only the King of the Old Kingdom and nowhere near as interesting. Sabriel had once been one of them. They kept looking long after Coelle had ushered the distinguished visitors through a door to the Visiting Parents’ parlor, possibly the most luxuriously appointed room in the whole school.
“I trust the things we left have not been disturbed?” asked Sabriel. “What is the situation? What news?”
“Everything is as you left it,” replied Coelle. “We have no real trouble yet. Felicity! Please have the Abhorsen’s trunk brought up from the cellar. Pippa and Zettie . . . and whoever is hall monitor today . . . can help you. As to news, I have messages and—”
“Messages! From Ellimere or Sameth?” asked Touchstone urgently.
Coelle took two folded pieces of paper from her sleeve and passed them across. Touchstone grabbed them eagerly and stood close to Sabriel to read them, as Felicity and her cohorts surged past and disappeared through one of the heavy, highly polished doors.
The first message was written in blue pencil on a torn piece of letterhead that had the same bugle-and-scroll symbol that had adorned the side of the postal van. Touchstone and Sabriel read it through carefully, deep frowns appearing on both their foreheads. Then they read it again and looked at each other, deep surprise clear on their faces.
“One of our old girls sent that,” contributed Coelle nervously, as no one said anything. “Lornella Acren-Janes, who is assistant to the Postmaster General. A copy of a telegram, obviously. I don’t know if it ever went to your embassy.”
“Can it be trusted?” asked Touchstone. “Aunt Lirael? Abhorsen-in-Waiting? Is this some other ploy to cloud our minds?”
Sabriel shook her head.
“It sounds like Sam,” she said. “Even though I don’t understand it. Clearly much has been going on in the Old Kingdom. I do not think we will quickly come to the root of it all.”
She unfolded the second piece of paper. Unlike the first, this was thick, handmade paper, and there were only three symbols upon it. Quiescent Charter marks, dark on the white page. Sabriel ran her palm across them, and they sprang into bright, vivid life, almost leaping into her hand. With them came Ellimere’s voice, clear and strong as if she stood next to them.
“Mother! Father! I hope you get this very quickly. The Clayr have Seen much more, too much to tell in this message. There is great danger, beyond our imagining. I am at Barhedrin with the Guard, the Trained Bands, and a Seven Hundred and Eighty-Four of the Clayr. The Clayr are trying to See what we must do. They say Sam is alive and fighting, and that whatever we do, you must get to Barhedrin by Anstyr’s Day or it will be too late. We have to take the Paperwings somewhere. Oh—I have an aunt, apparently your half-sister . . . What? Don’t interrupt—”