“Mogget would not wake,” continued Sabriel. “But as I
have my own, these are clearly meant for the Abhorsenin—
Waiting. Congratulations, Sam.”
Sam nodded dumbly, the remaining package unopened in his lap. He didn’t need to look to know that wrapped inside the crinkled oilskin were the seven Charter-spelled bells of an Abhorsen.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” asked Ellimere.
“Later,” croaked Sam. He tried to smile but only made his mouth twitch. He knew Sabriel was looking at him, but he couldn’t meet her eyes.
“I’m glad the bells have come,” said Sabriel. “Most Abhorsens before me worked with their successors, sometimes for many years, as I hope we will work together. According to Mogget, my father trained with his aunt for nearly a decade. I have often wished I had had the same opportunity.”
She hesitated again and then said quickly, “To tell the truth, I will need your help, Sam.”
Sam nodded, unable to speak, as the words of his confession dried up in his mouth. He had the birthright, he had the book, he had the bells. Obviously, he just had to try harder to read the book, he told himself, trying to overcome the panic that twisted knots in his stomach. He would become the proper Abhorsen-in-Waiting everyone expected and needed.
He had to.
“I’ll do my best,” he said, finally looking Sabriel in the eyes. She smiled, with a smile that made her whole face bright, and hugged him.
“I have to go to Ancelstierre, for I still know their ways much better than your father does,” she said. “And quite a few of my old school friends have become influential, or have married so. But I didn’t want to leave without knowing there was an Abhorsen here to protect the people from the Dead. Thank you, Sam.”
“But I’m not . . .” Sam cried out before he could stop himself. “I’m not ready. I haven’t finished the book, I mean, and—”
“I’m sure you know more than you think,” Sabriel said.
“In any case, there should be little trouble now that spring is in full bloom. Every stream and river is flowing with snow-melt and spring rain. The days are getting longer. There never are any major threats from the Dead this late in spring, or through the summer. The most you’ll have to deal with is a rogue Hand or perhaps a Mordaut. I have every confidence you can manage that.”
“What about the missing Southerlings?” asked Ellimere, with a look that spoke volumes about her confidence in Sam. “Nine hundred Dead are a major threat.”
“They must have disappeared into the area around the Red Lake, or the Clayr would have Seen them,” said Sabriel. “So they should be confined there by the spring floods. I would go and deal with them first, but the greater danger lies with the many more Southerlings in Ancelstierre. We will have to trust in the flooded rivers, and in you, Sam.”
“But—” Sam began.
“Mind you, the necromancer or necromancers who oppose us are not to be trifled with,” continued Sabriel. “If they dare to confront you, you must fight them in Life. Do not fight one of them in Death again, Sam. You were brave to do so before, but also lucky. You must also be very careful with the bells. As you know, they can force you into Death, or trick you into it. Use them only when you are confident you have learned the lessons in the book. Do you promise?”
“Yes,” said Sam. Somehow or other he barely had breath for that single word. But there was relief in it, for he’d been given a reprieve of sorts. He could probably sort out most of the Lesser Dead with Charter Magic alone. His resolution to
be a proper Abhorsen had not banished the fear that still lurked in his heart, and his fingers were cold where they touched the wrapped-up bells.
“Now,” said Touchstone, “I wonder if you have any insights into dealing with the Ancelstierrans, you two, from your schooling there. This Corolini, for instance, the leader of the Our Country Party. Could he be from the Old Kingdom himself, do you think?”
“After my time,” said Ellimere, who had been a whole year out of school and seemed to consider her Ancelstierran days as ancient history.
“I don’t know,” replied Sam. “He was in the newspapers a lot before I left, but they never mentioned where he came from. My friend Nicholas might know, and he would be able to help, I think. His uncle is the Chief Minister, Edward Sayre, you know. Nick is coming to visit me next month, but you should be able to catch him before he leaves.”
“He’s coming here?” asked Touchstone. “I’m surprised they’ll let him. I don’t think the Army has issued a permit in years, apart from that lot of refugees—and that was a political show. The Army didn’t have a choice.”
“Nick can be very persuasive,” said Sam, thinking of various scrapes Nick had talked him into at school—and less often, out of the blame afterwards. “I asked Ellimere to seal a visa for him, for our side.”
“I sent it ages ago,” said Ellimere, with a snide glance at Sam. “Some of us are efficient, you know.”
“Good,” said Touchstone. “It will be a useful connection, and important for one of Ancelstierre’s ruling families to see that we do not invent the stories they hear about the Kingdom. I’ll also make sure the Barhedrin Guard Post provides an escort from the Wall. It wouldn’t help negotiations if we
lose the Chief Minister’s nephew.”
“What are we negotiating with?” asked Ellimere. “I mean, down in Corvere they like to pretend we don’t even exist. I was always having to convince stuck-up city girls that I wasn’t making the Kingdom up.”
“Two things,” replied Sabriel. “Gold and fear. We have only a modest amount of gold, but it might be enough to tip the balance if it goes into the right pockets. And there are many Northerners who remember when Kerrigor crossed the Wall.
We shall try to convince them that this will happen again if they send the Southerling refugees north.”
“It couldn’t be Kerrigor, could it?” asked Sam. “I mean, whoever is behind all the trouble.”
“No,” said Sabriel and Touchstone together. They exchanged a look, obviously remembering the terrible past and what Kerrigor had tried to do, both here in the Old Kingdom and in Ancelstierre.
“No,” repeated Sabriel. “I looked in on Kerrigor when I
visited the House. He sleeps still and forever under Ranna’s spell, locked in the deepest cellar, bound with every Mark of ward and guard your father and I have ever known. It is not Kerrigor.”
“Whoever, or whatever, it is, they shall be dealt with,” said Touchstone, his voice powerful and regal. “We four shall see to that. But for now, I suggest we all drink some mulled wine and talk of better things. How was the Midwinter Festival? Did I tell you that I danced the Bird of Dawning when I was your age, Sam? How did you do?”
“I forgot the cups,” said Sam, handing over the stillwarm jug.
“We can drink from the jug,” said Sabriel, after a moment when no one chose to answer Touchstone’s question. She took
the jug and expertly poured a stream of wine into her mouth. “Ah, that’s good. Now tell me, how was your birthday, Sam? A good day?”
Sam answered mechanically, hardly noticing Ellimere’s rather more pointed interjections. Clearly, his parents hadn’t spoken to Jall yet, or they would be asking different questions. He was relieved when they started questioning Ellimere, gently teasing her about her tennis and all the young men who were trying to learn this new sport. Obviously, gossip about his sister had traveled faster than news of Sam’s shortcomings. He was brought briefly back into the conversation when Ellimere accused him of refusing to make any more racquets, which was a shame because no one else could make them quite so well, but a quick promise to produce a dozen dropped him out again.
The others continued to talk for a while, but the dark future weighed heavily on them all. Sameth, for his part, couldn’t stop thinking about the book and the bells. What would he would do if he were actually called upon to repel an incursion by the Dead? What would he do if it turned out to be the necromancer who’d tortured him in Death? Or even worse, what if there were some still more powerful enemy, as Sabriel feared?
Suddenly he blurted out, “What if it . . . this Enemy . . . isn’t behind Corolini? What if he’s going to do something else while you’re both gone?”
The others, who were in the middle of a conversation about Heria, who’d tripped over her own dress and catapulted into Jall Oren at an afternoon party in honor of the Mayor of Sindle, looked up, startled.
“If that is so, we will be just a week away, ten days at the most,” said Sabriel. “A message-hawk to Barhedrin, a rider to
the Perimeter, a telegraph from there or Bain to Corvere, train back to Bain—maybe even less than a week. But we think that whatever this Enemy—as you have dubbed it so well—plans, it must involve a great number of the Dead. The Clayr have Seen many possible futures in which our entire Kingdom is nothing more than a desert, inhabited only by the Dead. What else could bring this about but the sort of massing of the Dead that we suspect? And that could be brought about only by killing all those poor, unprotected refugees. Our people are too well guarded. In any case, apart from Belisaere, there are not two hundred thousand people in one place in all the Kingdom. And certainly not two hundred thousand without a single Charter mark amongst them.”
“I don’t know what else it could be,” said Sam heavily. “I just wish you weren’t going.”
“Being the Abhorsen is a weighty responsibility,” Sabriel said quietly. “One that I understand you are wary of shouldering, even when it is shared with me. But it is your destiny, Sam. Does the walker choose the path, or the path the walker? I am sure you will do very well, and we will soon all be together again, speaking of happier things.”
“When do you go?” asked Sam, unable to hide the hope of delay from his voice. Maybe he would be able to talk to Sabriel tomorrow, to get her help with The Book of the Dead, to overcome his paralyzing fear.
“Tomorrow, at dawn,” replied Sabriel reluctantly. “Provided my leg is healed enough. Your father will ride with the real embassy to the Northern Barbarians, and I will fly west. But I will double back to pick him up tomorrow night, and we will then fly south to the House, to try to consult again with Mogget, then on to Barhedrin and the Wall. Hopefully this
will confuse any spies who may be watching.”
“We would stay longer,” said Touchstone sadly, looking at his small family, so rarely all together in one place. “But as always, duty calls—and we must answer.”
Chapter Twenty-Six. A Letter from Nicholas
Sam left the reservoir that night with an empty wine jug, a bandolier of bells, a heavy heart, and much to think upon. Ellimere went with him, but Sabriel stayed behind, needing to spend the night within the circle of Great Charter Stones to speed her healing. Touchstone stayed with her, and it was obvious to the two children that their parents wished to be alone. Probably to discuss the shortcomings of their son, Sam thought as he wearily climbed the stairs, the package of bells in his hand. Ellimere wished him an almost friendly good night at the door to her chambers, but Sam didn’t go to bed. Instead he climbed another twisting stair to his tower workroom and spoke the word that brought the Charter lights to life. Then he put the bells in a different cupboard from the book, locking them out of sight if not out of mind. After that, he halfheartedly tried to resume work on a clockwork and Charter Magic cricketer, a batsman six inches high. He had some ideas of making two teams and setting them to play, but neither the clockwork nor the magic yet worked to his satisfaction.
Someone knocked on the door. Sam ignored it. If it was a servant, he’d call or go away. If it was Ellimere, she’d just barge in.
The knock was repeated, there was some sort of muffled call, and Sam heard something slide under the door, followed by footsteps going back down the stairs. A silver tray was on the floor, with a very ragged-looking letter upon it. Judging from the state it was in, it had to be from Ancelstierre, and that meant it was from Nicholas.
Sam sighed, put on his white cotton gloves, and picked up a pair of tweezers. Receiving one of Nick’s letters was always more of a forensic exercise than a matter of reading. He picked up the tray and carried it over to his bench, where the Charter marks were brightest, and began to peel the paper apart and piece the rotten bits together.
Half an hour later, as the clock in the Grey Tower clanged out a dozen strokes for midnight, the letter was laid out clearly enough to read. Sam bent over it, his frown deepening the further he read.
Dear Sam,
Thanks for organizing the Old Kingdom visa for me. I don’t know why your Consul at Bain was so reluctant to give me one. Lucky you’re a Prince, I
guess, and can get things done. I didn’t have any trouble at this end. Father called Uncle Edward, who pulled the appropriate strings. Practically no one in Corvere even knew you could get a permit to cross the Perimeter. Anyway, I suppose it shows that Ancelstierre and the Old Kingdom aren’t that different. It all comes down to who you know.
In any case, I intend to leave Awengate tomorrow, and if all the train connections go smoothly, I will be in Bain by Saturday and across the Wall by the 15th.
I know this is earlier than we agreed, so you won’t be able to meet me, but I’m not just rushing in on my own. I’ve hired a guide—a former Crossing Point Scout I ran into in Bain. Quite literally, in fact. He was crossing the road to avoid a demonstration by these One Country fellows, stumbled and nearly knocked me over. But it was a fortuitous meeting, as he knows the Old Kingdom well. He also confirmed something I’ve read about a curious phenomenon called the Lightning Trap. He has seen it, and it certainly sounds worth studying.