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Sprout, proving less neurotic than expected, grazed quietly nearby. Occasionally her ears twitched and her head went up, but all through the long day nothing disturbed her contented munching.
In the late afternoon, when the shadows began their slow crawl out from the trees to stretch and join together, the breeze picked up and relieved the heat of the late-spring day. It blew over Sam, partly covering him with leaves, twigs, wind-caught spiderwebs, beetle carcasses, and feathery grasses.
One thin blade of grass caught up against his nose and was trapped there, tickling his nostril. It rustled this way, then that, but didn’t shift. Sameth’s nose twitched in response, twitched again, then finally burst out in a sneeze.
Sam woke up. At first he thought he was drunk, hungover, and suffering. His mouth was dry, and he could taste the stench of his own breath. His head ached with a fierce pain, and his legs hurt even more. He must have passed out in someone’s garden, which was incredibly embarrassing. He had been this drunk only once before, and hadn’t wished to repeat the experience.
He started to call out, but even as the dry, pathetic croak left his lips, he remembered what had happened.
He’d killed two constables. Men who were trying to do their duty. Men who had wives, family. Parents, brothers, sisters, children. They would have left their homes in the morning with no expectation of sudden death. Perhaps their wives were even now waiting for them to come home for the evening meal.
No, thought Sameth, levering himself up to look bleakly at the red light of the setting sun filtering through the trees. They had fought early in the morning. The wives would know by now that their husbands were never coming home.
Slowly, he pushed himself further upright, brushing the forest debris from his clothes. He had to push the guilt down, too, at least for the moment. Survival required it.
First of all, he had best cut away his trouser leg and look at the wound. He dimly remembered casting the spell that had undoubtedly saved his life, but the wound would still be fragile, liable to reopen. He had to bind it up, for he was far too weak to cast another healing spell.
After that, he would somehow stand up. Stand up, catch the faithful Sprout, and ride deeper into the forest. He was somewhat surprised that he hadn’t already been discovered by the local constabulary. Unless he had laid a more confusing trail than he’d thought, or they were waiting for reinforcements to arrive before they started looking for what they assumed to be a murderous necromancer.
If the constables—or even worse, the Guard—found him now, he’d have to tell them who he was, Sam decided. And that would mean a shameful return to Belisaere, there to be tried by Ellimere and Jall Oren. Public disgrace and infamy would be sure to follow. The only other alternative would be a dishonorable covering up of his awful deed.
Either situation would be intolerable. The disappointment he could already imagine on his parents’ faces would be too much to bear. No doubt his inability to be the Abhorsen-in-Waiting would also come out, and they would despair of him completely.
Better that he disappear. Go into the forest and hide out while he recovered, then continue to Edge with a newly conjured visage, for he was sure Nick still needed help. At least he would be able to do that. Not even Nick could get into more trouble than Sam had managed to get into himself.
Making the decisions proved easier than putting them into practice. Sprout backed away from him, her nostrils flaring, as he tried to grab her reins. She didn’t like the smell of blood, or the occasional grunts of pain Sam let out as he accidentally put weight on his wounded leg.
Finally, he managed to push her into a sort of natural cul de sac, where three trees prevented any further retreat. Mounting proved to be another challenge. Pain flared as he swung his leg over, gasping at the hurt.
Now Sam was faced with another problem. It was rapidly getting dark, and he had no idea where to go. Civilization and all it offered lay east, north, and south, but he dared not go until he was strong enough to cast another spell to change his and Sprout’s looks. Westward, there were many forest paths of doubtful use and direction. There might be some settlements or lone houses somewhere within the forest, but he couldn’t visit them with any safety, either.
Worse, he had only a single canteen of yesterday’s water, a hunk of very stale bread, and a lump of salted beef, his emergency provision in case he needed a snack between inns. The ginger cakes were long gone, eaten on the road.
It began to rain, the wind having brought clouds over from the sea—only a light spring shower, but it was enough to make Sam curse and wrestle with his saddlebags, trying to pull out his cloak. If he caught a cold on top of his existing hurts, there was no knowing how he’d end up. In a forest grave, most likely, he thought bitterly, not dug by human hands. Just a mound of wind-borne bits and pieces, linked by the grass growing up around his pathetic remains.
He was just thinking about this dismal future when his fingers, pulling at the cloak, felt leather and cold metal instead of wool. Instantly, he snatched his hand away, the tips of his fingers cold and already turning blue. The knowledge of what he’d just touched made him bend over his saddle horn and let out a great sob of despair and fright.
The Book of the Dead. He’d left it behind in his workroom, but it had refused to be left. Just like the bells. He would never be rid of them, even wounded and alone in this dark forest. They would follow him forever, even into Death itself.
He was just about to let himself break down when a voice came from the darkness between the trees.
“A little lost princeling, weeping in the forest? I would have thought you had more steel in your spine, Prince Sameth. Still, I am often wrong.”
The voice had an electric effect on Sameth and Sprout. The Prince shot bolt upright in the saddle, gasped at the pain, and tried to draw his sword. Sprout, equally surprised, leapt forward into an instant canter, weaving amid the trees without a thought for her rider and low-slung branches.
Horse and rider raced along in a cacophony of breaking branches, shouts, and whinnies. They continued in this fashion for at least fifty yards before Sameth got Sprout under control and managed to turn her back in the direction the voice had come from.
He also managed to draw his sword. It was half-dark now, the tree-trunks pale ashen streaks in the gathering gloom, supporting branches where leaves hung like heavy clots of darkness. Whoever . . . whatever . . . had spoken could easily creep up on him now, but it was better to face it than be knocked off by a branch in panicked flight.
The voice had been unnatural. He’d tasted Free Magic in it, and something else. It wasn’t a Dead creature—no, not that. But it could be a Stilken or Margrue, Free Magic elementals that occasionally hungered for the taste of Life. He wished now that he had read the book that he’d been given for his birthday, the one on bi
nding, by Merchane.
Something rustled in the leaves of the closest tree, and Sam started again, lifting his sword to the guard position. Sprout fidgeted, kept in check only by the pressure of Sam’s knees. The effort sent bolts of pain up Sam’s side, but he did not ease off.
There was something moving all right, moving up the trunk—there—no, there. It was jumping from branch to branch, moving behind him. Maybe more than one. . . .
Desperately, Sam tried to reach the Charter to draw out the marks needed for a magical attack. But he was too weak, the pain in his leg too strong, too fresh. He couldn’t keep the marks in his mind. He couldn’t remember the spell he wanted to form.
Perhaps the bells, he thought in desperation, as whatever it was moved again. But he didn’t know how to use the bells against the Dead, let alone Free Magic beings. His hand shook at the thought of using the bells, and he was reminded of Death. At the same time a fierce determination rose in him. Whatever ill luck had dogged him, he would not just lie down and die. He might be afraid, but he was a royal Prince, the son of Touchstone and Sabriel, and he would sell his life as dear as his strength could make it.
“Who calls Prince Sameth?” he shouted, words harsh in the darkling forest. “Show yourself, before I wreak a spell on you of great destruction!”
“Save the theatrics for those who respond to them,” replied the voice, this time accompanied by the flash of two piercing green eyes, reflecting the last of the sun on a branch high above Sam’s head. “And count yourself lucky that it’s only me. You’ve left blood enough around to call a brace of hormagants.”
With that speech, a small white cat leapt from the tree, catapulted off a lower branch, and landed a cautious distance from Sprout’s forefeet.
“Mogget!” exclaimed Sam, peering down at him with dizzy incredulity. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you,” said the cat. “As should be startlingly obvious to even the most dull-witted Prince. Loyal servant of the Abhorsen, that’s me. Ready to baby-sit at a moment’s notice. Anywhere. No trouble at all. Now get off that horse and make a fire, just in case there actually are some hormagants about. I don’t suppose you’ve been sensible enough to bring anything to eat?”
