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“We wish you luck, cousin,” they said, as they walked slowly to the red and gold Paperwing, balanced so close to the edge of the broken wall, the Saere glistening white and blue below.
“Cousin?” Sabriel murmured. “I suppose we are cousins—of a sort, aren’t we?”
“Blood relatives, all the children of the Great Charters,” the Clayr agreed. “Though the clan dwindles . . .”
“Do you always—know what is going to happen?” Sabriel asked, as they gently lowered Touchstone into the back of the cockpit, and strapped him in with the belts normally used for securing luggage.
Both the Clayr laughed. “No, thank the Charter! Our family is the most numerous of the bloodlines, and the gift is spread among many. Our visions come in snatches and splinters, glimpses and shadows. When we must, the whole family can spend its strength to narrow our sight—as it has done through us today. Tomorrow, we will be back to dreams and confusion, not knowing where, when or what we see. Now, we have only two minutes . . .”
Suddenly, they hugged Sabriel, surprising her with the obvious warmth of the gesture. She hugged them back, gladly, grateful for their care. With her father gone, she had no family left—but perhaps she would find sisters in the Clayr, and perhaps Touchstone would be . . .
“Two minutes,” repeated both the women, one in each ear. Sabriel let them go, and hurriedly took The Book of the Dead and the two Charter Magic books from her pack, wedging them down next to Touchstone’s slightly snoring form. After a second’s thought, she also stuffed in the fleece-lined oilskin and the boat cloak. Touchstone’s swords went into the special holders next, but the pack and the rest of its contents had to be abandoned.
“Next stop, the Wall,” Sabriel muttered as she climbed into the craft, trying not to think about what would happen if they had to land somewhere uncivilized in between.
The Clayr were already in their green and silver craft, and, as Sabriel did up her straps, she heard them begin to whistle, Charter Magic streaming out into the air. Sabriel licked her lips, summoned her breath and strength, and joined in. Wind rose behind both the craft, tossing black hair and blond, lifting the Paperwings’ tails and jostling their wings.
Sabriel took a breath after the wind-whistling, and stroked the smooth, laminated paper of the hull. A brief image of the first Paperwing came to mind, broken and burning in the depths of Holehallow.
“I hope we fare better together,” she whispered, before joining with the Clayr to whistle the last note, the pure clear sound that would wake the Charter Magic in their craft.
A second later, two bright-eyed Paperwings leapt out from the ruined palace of Belisaere, glided down almost to the swell in the Sea of Saere, then rose to circle higher and higher above the hill. One craft, of green and silver, turned to the north-west. The other, of red and gold, turned south.
Touchstone, waking to the rush of cold air on his face, and the unfamiliar sensation of flying, groggily muttered, “What happened?”
“We’re going to Ancelstierre,” Sabriel shouted. “Across the Wall, to find Kerrigor’s body—and destroy it!”
“Oh,” said Touchstone, who only heard “across the Wall.” “Good.”
chapter xxv
“Beg pardon, sir,” said the soldier, saluting at the doorway to the officer’s bathroom. “Duty officer’s compliments and can you come straight away?”
Colonel Horyse sighed, put down his razor, and used the flannel to wipe off the remains of the shaving soap. He had been interrupted shaving that morning, and had tried several times during the day to finish the job. Perhaps it was a sign he should grow a moustache.
“What’s happening?” he asked, resignedly. Whatever was happening, it was unlikely to be good.
“An aircraft, sir,” replied the private, stolidly.
“From Army HQ? Dropping a message cylinder?”
“I don’t know, sir. It’s on the other side of the Wall.”
“What!” exclaimed Horyse, dropping all his shaving gear, picking up his helmet and sword, and attempting to rush out, all at the same time. “Impossible!”
But, when he eventually sorted himself out and got down to the Forward Observation Post—an octagonal strongpoint that thrust out through the Perimeter to within fifty yards of the Wall—it quite clearly was possible. The light was fading as the afternoon waned—it was probably close to setting on the other side—but the visibility was good enough to make out the distant airborne shape that was descending in a series of long, gradual loops . . . on the other side of the Wall. In the Old Kingdom.
The Duty Officer was watching through big artillery spotter’s binoculars, his elbows perched on the sandbagged parapet of the position. Horyse paused for a moment to think of the fellow’s name—he was new to the Perimeter Garrison—then tapped him on the shoulder.
“Jorbert. Mind if I have a look?”
The young officer lowered the binoculars reluctantly, and handed them across like a boy deprived of a half-eaten lollipop.
“It’s definitely an aircraft, sir,” he said, brightening up as he spoke. “Totally silent, like a glider, but it’s clearly powered somehow. Very maneuverable, and beautifully painted, too. There’s two . . . people in it, sir.”
Horyse didn’t answer, but took up the binoculars and the same elbow-propping stance. For a moment, he couldn’t see the aircraft, and he hastily panned left and right, then zigzagged up and down—and there it was, lower than he expecte
d, almost in a landing approach.
“Sound stand-to,” he ordered harshly, as the realization struck him that the craft would land very close to the Crossing Point—perhaps only a hundred yards from the gate.
He heard his command being repeated by Jorbert to a sergeant, and then bellowed out, to be taken up by sentries, duty NCOs, and eventually to hand-cranked klaxons and the old bell that hung in the front of the Officer’s Mess.
It was hard to see exactly who or what was in the craft, till he twiddled with the focus, and Sabriel’s face leapt towards him, magnified up to a recognizable form, even at the current distance. Sabriel, the daughter of Abhorsen, accompanied by an unknown man—or something wearing the shape of a man. For a moment, Horyse considered ordering the men to stand-down, but he could already hear hobnailed boots clattering on the duckboards, sergeants and corporals shouting—and it might not really be Sabriel. The sun was weakening, and the coming night would be the first of the full moon . . .
“Jorbert!” he snapped, handing the binoculars back to the surprised and unready subaltern. “Go and give the Regimental Sergeant-Major my compliments, and ask him to personally organize a section of the Scouts—we’ll go out and take a closer look at that aircraft.”
“Oh, thank you, sir!” gushed Lieutenant Jorbert, obviously taking the “we” to include himself. His enthusiasm surprised Horyse, at least for a moment.
“Tell me, Mr. Jorbert,” he asked. “Have you by any chance sought a transfer to the Flying Corps?”
“Well, yes, sir,” replied Jorbert. “Eight times . . .”
“Just remember,” Horyse said, interrupting him. “That whatever is out there may be a flying creature, not a flying machine—and its pilots may be half-rotted things that should be properly dead, or Free Magic beings that have never really lived at all. Not fellow aviators, knights of the sky, or anything like that.”
Jorbert nodded, unmilitarily, saluted, and turned on his heel.
“And don’t forget your sword next time you’re on duty, officer,” Horyse called after him. “Hasn’t anyone told you your revolver might not work?”
