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The West mark was simply a trial of endurance. Sabriel lost concentration for a moment, so Touchstone had to hold the mark alone for a few seconds, the effort making him feel drunk in the most unpleasant way, the world spinning inside his head, totally out of control. Then Sabriel forced herself back and the West mark flowered under the water. Desperation gave them the North mark. They struggled with it for what seemed like hours, but was only seconds, till it almost squirmed from them uncast. But at that moment, Sabriel spent all the force of her desire to free her father, and Touchstone pushed with the weight of two hundred years of guilt and sorrow.
The North mark rolled brightly down the sword and grew to brilliance, brilliance dulled by the water. Lines of Charter-fire ran from it to the East mark, from East mark to South mark to West mark and back again. The diamond was complete.
Immediately, they felt a lessening of the terrible presence of the broken stones. The high-pitched pain in Sabriel’s head dimmed; normal feeling returned to Touchstone’s legs and feet. Mogget stirred and stretched, the first significant movement he’d made since taking up position around Touchstone’s neck.
“A good casting,” Sabriel said quietly, looking at the marks through eyes half-lidded in weariness. “Better than the last one I cast.”
“I don’t know how we did it,” muttered Touchstone, staring down at the lines of Charter-fire. He suddenly became aware that he was still holding Sabriel’s hand, and slumping like an aged wood collector under a heavy burden. He straightened up suddenly, dropping her hand as if it were the fanged end of a snake.
She looked at him, rather startled, and he found himself staring at the reflection of his candle-flame in her dark eyes. Almost for the first time, he really looked at her. He saw the weariness there, and the incipient lines of care, and the way her mouth looked a little sad around the edges. Her nose was still swollen, and there were yellowing bruises on her cheekbones. She was also beautiful and Touchstone realized that he had thought of her only in terms of her office, as Abhorsen. Not as a woman at all . . .
“I’d better be going,” said Sabriel, suddenly embarrassed by Touchstone’s stare. Her left hand went to the bell-bandolier, fingers feeling for the straps that held Saraneth.
“Let me help,” said Touchstone. He stood close, fumbling with the stiff leather, hands weakened by the effort spent on the diamond of protection, his head bowed over the bells. Sabriel looked down on his hair, and was strangely tempted to kiss the exact center, a tiny part marking the epicenter where his tight brown curls radiated outwards. But she didn’t.
The strap came undone, and Touchstone stepped back. Sabriel drew Saraneth, carefully stilling the bell.
“It probably won’t be a long wait for you,” she said. “Time moves strangely in Death. If . . . if I’m not back in two hours, then I probably . . . I’ll probably be trapped too, so you and Mogget should leave . . .”
“I’ll be waiting,” replied Touchstone firmly. “Who knows what time it is down here anyway?”
“And I’ll wait, it seems,” added Mogget. “Unless I want to swim out of here. Which I don’t. May the Charter be with you, Sabriel.”
“And with you,” said Sabriel. She looked around the dark expanse of the reservoir. She still couldn’t sense any of the Dead out there—and yet . . .
“We’ll need it to be with us,” Mogget replied sourly. “One way or another.”
“I hope not,” whispered Sabriel. She checked the pouch at her belt for the small things she’d prepared back at the Sign of Three Lemons, then turned to face the North mark and started to raise her sword, beginning her preparations to enter Death.
Suddenly, Touchstone sloshed forward and quickly kissed her on the cheek—a clumsy, dry-lipped peck that almost hit the rim of her helmet rather than her cheek.
“For luck,” Touchstone said nervously. “Sabriel.”
She smiled, and nodded twice, then looked back to the north. Her eyes focused on something not there and waves of cold air billowed from her motionless form. A second later, ice crystals began to crack out of her hair, and frost ran in lines down the sword and bell.
Touchstone watched, close by, till it grew too cold, then he retreated to the far southern vertice of the diamond. Drawing one sword, he turned outwards, holding his candle high, and started to wade around inside the lines of Charter-fire as if he were patrolling the battlements of a castle. Mogget watched too, from his shoulder, his green eyes lit with their own internal luminescence. Both of them often turned to gaze at Sabriel.
The crossing into Death was made easy—far too easy—by the presence of the broken stones. Sabriel felt them near her, like two yawning gates, proclaiming easy entry to Life for any Dead nearby. Fortunately, the other effect of the stones—the sickening illness—disappeared in Death. There was only the chill and tug of the river.
Sabriel started forward immediately, carefully scanning the grey expanse before her. Things moved at the edge of her vision; she heard movement in the cold waters. But nothing came towards her, nothing attacked, save the constant twining and gripping of the current.
She came to the First Gate, halting just beyond the wall of mist that stretched out as far as she could see to either side. The river roared beyond that mist, turbulent rapids going through to the Second Precinct, and on to the Second Gate.
Remembering pages from The Book of the Dead, Sabriel spoke words of power. Free Magic, that shook her mouth as she spoke, jarring her teeth, burning her tongue with raw power.
The veil of mist parted, revealing a series of waterfalls that appeared to drop into an unending blackness. Sabriel spoke some more words, and gestured to the right and left with her sword. A path appeared, parting the waterfall like a finger drawn through butter. Sabriel stepped out onto it, and walked down, the waters crashing harmlessly on either side. Behind her, the mist closed up and, as her rearmost heel lifted to make her next step, the path disappeared.
The Second Precinct was more dangerous than the First. There were deep holes, as well as the ever-present current. The light was worse too. Not the total darkness promised at the end of the waterfalls, but there was a different quality in its greyness. A blurring effect, that made it difficult to see further than you could touch.
Sabriel continued carefully, using her sword to probe the ground ahead. There was an easy way through, she knew, a course mapped and plotted by many necromancers and not a few Abhorsens, but she didn’t trust her memory to tread confidently ahead at speed.
Always, her senses quested for her father’s spirit. He was somewhere in Death, she was positive of that. There was always the faintest trace of him, a lingering memory. But it was not this close to Life. She would have to go on.
The Second Gate was essentially an enormous hole, at least two hundred yards across, into which the river sank like sinkwater down a drain. Unlike a normal drain, it was eerily silent, and with the difficult light, easy for the unwary to walk up to its rim. Sabriel was always particularly careful with this Gate—she had learned to sense the feel of its tug against her shins at an early age. She stopped well back when the tug came, and tried to focus on the silently raging whirlpool.
A faint squelching sound behind her made her turn, sword scything around at full arm-stretch, a great circle of Charter-spelled steel. It struck Dead spirit-flesh, sparks flying, a scream of rage and pain filling the silence. Sabriel almost jumped back, at that scream, but she held her ground. The Second Gate was too close.
The thing she’d hit stepped back, its head hanging from a mostly severed neck. It was humanoid in shape, at least to begin with, but had arms that trailed down below its knees, into the river. Its head, now flopping on one shoulder, was longer than it was wide or tall, possessed a mouth with several rows of teeth. It had flaming coals in its eyepits, a characteristic of the deep Dead, from beyond the Fifth Gate.
It snarled and brought its long, skewer-thin fingers up out of the water to try and straighten its head, attempting to rest it back
atop the cleanly hewn neck.
Sabriel struck again, and the head and one hand flew off, splashing into the river. They bobbed on the surface for a moment, the head howling, eyes flaming with hate across the water. Then it was sucked down, down into the hurly-burly of the Second Gate.
The headless body stood where it was for a second, then started to cautiously step sideways, its remaining hand groping around in front of it. Sabriel watched it cautiously, debating whether to use Saraneth to bind it to her will, and then Kibeth to send it on its way to final death. But using the bells would alert everything Dead between here and the First and Third Gates at least—and she didn’t want that.
The headless thing took another step, and fell sideways into a deep hole. It scrabbled there, long arms thrashing the water, but couldn’t pull itself up and out. It only succeeded in getting across into the full force of the current, which snatched it up and threw it into the whirlpool of the Gate.
Once again, Sabriel recited words of Free Magic power, words impressed into her mind long ago from The Book of the Dead. The words flowed out of her, blistering her lips, strange heat in this place of leeching cold.
With the words, the waters of the Second Gate slowed and stilled. The whirling vortex separated out into a long spiral path, winding downwards. Sabriel, checking for a few last holes near the edge, gingerly strode out to this path and started down. Behind and above her, the waters began to swirl again.
The spiral path looked long, but to Sabriel it seemed only a matter of minutes before she was passing through the very base of the whirlpool, and out into the Third Precinct.
