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For a moment of pure panic, she scrabbled in the darkness, heading for what she thought were the steps. Then her fingers met the soft, wet nose of the Dog, and she saw a faint, spectral glow outlining the shape of her canine companion.
“That was smart,” said the Dog in the darkness, moving closer to woofle wetly in Lirael’s ear. “I take it you didn’t suddenly remember a pie in the oven?”
“The door,” whispered Lirael, making no effort to get up. “It’s a grave door. To a crypt.”
“Is it?”
“It’s got my name on it,” muttered Lirael.
There was a long pause. Then the Dog said, “So you think someone went to all the trouble to make you a crypt a thousand years ago on the off chance you might turn up one day, walk in, and have a convenient heart attack?”
“No . . .”
There was another long pause, and then the Dog said, “Presuming that this actually is the door to a crypt, may I ask how rare the name Lirael is?”
“Well, I think there was a great-aunt I’m named after, and there was another one before her—”
“So if it is a crypt, it’s probably that of some long-ago Lirael,” the Dog suggested kindly. “But what makes you think it is a crypt door, anyway? I seem to recall there were two words on the door. And the second one didn’t look like ‘grave’ or ‘crypt.’ ”
“What did it say, then?” asked Lirael, wearily standing up, already mentally reaching for the Charter marks that would give her light, hands ready to sketch them in the air. She couldn’t even remember reading the second word, but didn’t want to admit to the Dog that she’d just had the overwhelming feeling that it was a crypt. That feeling, combined with seeing her own name, had created a moment of total panic, when her only thought was to get out, to get back to the safety of the Library.
“Something quite different,” said the Dog with satisfaction, as light bloomed from Lirael’s fingertips, falling cleanly on the door.
This time, Lirael looked long at the carved letters, her hands touching the deep-etched stone. Her forehead wrinkled as she read the words again and again, as if she couldn’t quite put the letters together into a sensible word.
“I don’t understand,” she said finally. “The second word is ‘path.’ It says ‘Lirael’s Path’!”
“Guess you should go through, then,” said the Dog, unperturbed by the sign. “Even if you’re not the Lirael whose path it is, you are a Lirael, which in my book is a pretty good excuse—”
“Dog. Shut up,” said Lirael, thinking. If this gate was the beginning of a path named for her, it had been made at least a thousand years ago. Which was not impossible, for the Clayr sometimes had visions of such far-distant futures. Or possible futures, as they called them, for the future was apparently like a many-branching stream, splitting, converging, and splitting again. Much of the Clayr’s training, at least as far as Lirael knew, was in working out which possible future was the most likely—or the most desirable.
But there was a catch to the notion that the long-ago Clayr had Seen Lirael, because the Clayr of the present time couldn’t See Lirael’s future at all and had never been able to do so. Sanar and Ryelle had told her that even when the Nine Day Watch tried to See her, there was nothing. Lirael’s future was impenetrable, as was her present. No Clayr had ever Seen her, not even in a chance-found minute showing her in the Library, or asleep in bed a month hence. Once again she was different, not able to See and also Unseen.
If even the Nine Day Watch couldn’t See her, Lirael thought, how could the Clayr of a thousand years past know she would come this way? And why would they build not only this door but also the stairs? It was far more likely that this path was named for one of her ancestors, some other Lirael of long ago.
That made her feel better about opening the door. She leaned forward, pushing with both hands against the cold stone. Charter Magic flowed in this door, too, but it did not leap into her, instead just pulsing gently against her skin. It was like an old dog by the fire, content to be stroked, knowing it need not obviously show delight.
The door moved slowly inwards, resisting her push, with a long-drawn-out screech of stone on stone. Colder air flowed from the other side, ruffling Lirael’s hair, making the Charter lights dance. There was a damp smell, too, and the strange, oppressive feeling Lirael had encountered on the stairs grew stronger, like the beginning buzz of a toothache that heralds future pain.
A vast chamber lay beyond the door, space stretching up and out, seemingly endless, beyond the pool of light around her. A cavern, measureless in the dark, perhaps going on forever.
Lirael stepped in and looked up, up into darkness, till her neck ached, and her eyes slowly grew accustomed to the gloom. Strange luminescence, not from Charter Magic lights, shone in patches here and there, rising up so high that the farthest glow was like a distant swathe of stars in the night. Still looking up, Lirael realized that she stood at the bottom of a deep rift that stretched up almost to the very pinnacle of Starmount itself. She looked across and saw that she stood on a broad ledge, and the rift continued past it, down into still deeper darkness, perhaps even to the root of the world itself. With that sight came recognition, for she knew only one chasm so narrow and so deep. Much higher up, it was spanned by closed bridges. Lirael had crossed it almost unknowingly many times, but had never seen its terrifying depth.
“I know this place,” said Lirael, her voice small and echoing. “We’re in the bottom of the Rift, aren’t we?”
She hesitated, then added, “The burial place of the Clayr.”
The Disreputable Dog nodded but didn’t say anything.
“You knew, didn’t you?” continued Lirael, still looking up. She couldn’t see them, but she knew the higher reaches of the Rift were pockmarked with small caves, each one holding the mortal remains of a past Clayr. Generations of dead, carefully tucked away in this vertical cemetery. In a weird way, she could feel the presence of the graves, or the dead inside them . . . or something.
Her mother was not there, for she had died alone in some foreign land, far from the Clayr, too far for the body to be returned. But Filris rested here, as did others whom Lirael had known.
“It is a crypt,” she said, looking sternly at the Dog. “I knew it.”
“Actually it’s more of an ossuary,” the Dog began. “I understand that when a Clayr Sees her death, she is lowered down by rope to a suitable ledge, where she digs her own—”
“They do not!” interrupted Lirael,
shocked. “They only know when, to some degree. And Pallimor and the gardeners usually prepare the caves. Aunt Kirrith says it’s very ill-bred to want to dig your own cave—”
She stopped suddenly and whispered, “Dog? Am I here because they’ve Seen me die and I have to dig my own cave because I’m ill-bred?”
“I’m going to have to bite you properly if you keep up that nonsense,” growled the Dog. “Why this sudden preoccupation with dying, anyway?”
“Because I can feel it, feel it all around me,” muttered Lirael. “Particularly here.”
“That’s because the doorways to Death are ajar where many people have died, or where many lie buried,” said the Dog absently. “The Blood mixes a little, so there are always Clayr who are sensitive to Death. That’s what you feel. You shouldn’t be afraid of it.”
“I’m not, really,” replied Lirael, puzzled. “It’s like an ache or an itch. It makes me want to do something. Scratch it. Make it go away.”
“You don’t know any necromancy, do you?”
“Of course not! That’s Free Magic. It’s forbidden.”
“Not necessarily. Clayr have dabbled in Free Magic before, and some still do,” said the Dog in a distracted manner. She’d caught the scent of something and was snuffling vigorously around Lirael’s feet.
“Who dabbles in Free Magic?” asked Lirael. The Dog didn’t answer but continued to sniff around Lirael’s feet. “What can you smell?”
“Magic,” said the Dog, looking up for a second before resuming her snuffle, roaming out in an ever-increasing circle. “Old, old magic. Hidden here, in the depths of the world. How very, very . . . yow!”
Her last words ended in a yelp as a sudden sheet of flame sprang up across the rift, heat and light exploding everywhere. Lirael, totally unprepared, staggered back, falling across the open doorway. An instant later, the Dog collided with her, smelling distinctly singed.
