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Explanations would obviously have to wait.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The Book of the Dead
The explanations had to wait almost the whole day, because Sam didn’t wake up until Finder gently beached herself on a sandy spit, and Lirael began to set up camp on the adjoining island. Over a dinner of grilled fish, dried tomatoes, and biscuit, they told each other their stories. Lirael was surprised by how easy it was to talk to him. It was almost like talking to the Dog. Perhaps it was because he wasn’t a Clayr, she thought.
“So you’ve Seen Nicholas,” said Sam heavily. “And he’s definitely with this necromancer, Hedge. Digging up some terrible Free Magic thing. I guess that must be the Lightning Trap he wrote to me about. I was hoping—stupidly, I suppose—that it was all a coincidence. That Nick wouldn’t have anything to do with the Enemy, that he was really going to the Red Lake because he’d heard about something interesting.”
“I didn’t See it myself,” Lirael said reluctantly, to forestall any requests that she use her supposed Sight to find out more. “I mean they showed it to me. It took a Watch of more than fifteen hundred Clayr to See near the pit. But they didn’t know when it was . . . or will be. It might not have happened yet.”
“I guess he hasn’t been in the Kingdom for that long,” said Sam doubtingly. “But I would think he would have made it to the Red Lake by now. And the digging you Saw might have started without him. The Dead in the blue caps and scarves must be Southerling refugees, the ones who came across the Wall more than a month ago.”
“Well, according to the Clayr’s other vision, I will find Nicholas at the Red Lake sometime soon,” said Lirael. “But I don’t want to go there unprepared. Not if Hedge is with him.”
“This is getting worse by the day,” said Sam, groaning and cradling his head in his hands. “We’ll have to send a message to Ellimere. And, I don’t know . . . get my parents back from Ancelstierre. Only then there’re the Southerlings to worry about. Maybe Mother could come back and Dad could stay there—”
“I think the Clayr have already sent messages,” said Lirael. “But they don’t know as much as we do, so we should send some, too. Only we’ll have to do something ourselves, won’t we? It’ll take too long for the King and the Abhorsen to even hear about this, let alone come back.”
“I suppose so,” said Sam, without enthusiasm. “I just wish Nick had waited for me at the Wall.”
“He probably didn’t have a choice,” said the Dog, who was curled up at Lirael’s feet, listening. Mogget lay nearby, his paws extended towards the dying remnants of the cooking fire, clean fishbones near his face. As soon as he’d eaten dinner, he’d fallen asleep, ignoring Sam and Lirael’s conversation.
“I suppose so,” agreed Sam as he absently looked at the scars on his wrists. “That necromancer, Hedge, must have . . . must have got hold of him when we were at the Perimeter. I never actually saw Nick after that. We just exchanged letters. I guess I’ll just have to keep trying to find the dumb bastard.”
“He looked sick,” said Lirael, surprised by the feeling of concern that rose in her from the memory. He’d reached out his hand to her and said hello. . . . “Sick and confused. I think the Free Magic was affecting him, but he didn’t realize what it was.”
“Nick never really understood what it was like here, or accepted the idea that magic works,” said Sam, staring into the embers. Nick had only got worse as he got older, always asking why. He’d never accepted anything that seemed to contradict his understanding of the forces of nature and the mechanics of how the world worked.
“I don’t understand Ancelstierre,” said Lirael. “I mean I’ve heard about it, but it might as well be another world.”
“It is,” said the Dog. “Or it’s best to think of it that way.”
“It always seemed somehow less real than here,” said Sam, still staring at the fire, not really listening. He was watching the sparks fly up now, trying to count the number of them in each little flurry. “A really detailed dream, but sort of washed out, like a thin watercolor. Softer, somehow, even with their electric light and engines and everything. I guess it was because there was hardly any magic at school, because we were too far from the Wall. I could weave shadows and do tricks with light sometimes, but only when the wind blew from the north. Sometimes I felt like part of me was asleep, not being able to reach the Charter.”
He fell silent, still staring at the embers. After a few minutes, Lirael spoke again. “Getting back to what we’re going to do,” she said hesitantly. “I was going to Qyrre, to get the constables or the Royal Guard there to escort me to Edge. But it seems that Hedge already knows about me—about us—so that can’t be a very sensible thing to do. I mean I still have to get to the Red Lake, but not so openly. It would be stupid to just tie up at the Qyrre jetty and get out, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes,” agreed the Dog, looking up at her, proud that she had worked this out for herself. “There was a smell about Hedge, a smell of power strong enough for me to catch when Lirael escaped him. I think he is more than a necromancer. But whatever he is, he is clever, and has long prepared to move against the Kingdom. He will have servants among the living as well as the Dead.”
Sameth didn’t answer for a moment. He tore his gaze away from the fire, frowning as he saw Mogget’s sleeping form. Now that Nicholas was definitely known to be in the clutches of the Enemy, Sam didn’t know what to do. Rescuing Nicholas had seemed like a good idea back in the safety of his tower room—simpler, uncomplicated.
“We can’t go to Qyrre,” he said. “I was thinking we should go to the House—Abhorsen’s House, I mean. I can send message-hawks from there, and we can . . . uh . . . get stuff for the journey. Mail hauberks. A better sword for me.”
“And it would be safe,” said the Dog, with a penetrating look at Sam.
Sam looked away, unable to meet the Dog’s eyes. Somehow she knew his secret thoughts. Half of him said he would have to go on. Half of him said that he couldn’t. He felt sick with the tension of it. Wherever he went, he could not escape being the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, and all too soon he would be shown to be an imposter.
“I think that’s a good idea,” said Lirael. “It’s on the Long Cliffs, isn’t it? We can strike west from there, staying off the roads. Are there any horses at the House? I can’t ride, but I could wear a Charter-skin while you—”
“My horse is dead,” interrupted Sam, suddenly white-faced. “I don’t want another one!”
He got up abruptly and limped out into the darkness, staring at the Ratterlin, watching the silver ripples in its dark expanse. He could hear Lirael and that Dog creature—which was too much like Mogget for comfort—talking behind him, too low to make out the words. But he knew they were talking about him, and he felt ashamed.
“He’s a spoilt brat!” whispered Lirael crossly. She wasn’t used to this sort of behavior. On her explorations she had done what she wanted, and in the Library there was strict discipline and a chain of command. Sam had provided useful information, but otherwise he seemed to be a nuisance. “I was just trying to make some sort of plan. Maybe we should leave him behind.”
“He is troubled,” acknowledged the Dog. “But he has also been through much that tested him beyond all expectation—and he is hurt and afraid. He will be better tomorrow, and in the days to come.”
“I hope so,” said Lirael. Now that she knew more about Nicholas, the Lightning Trap, and the attacks of the Dead upon Sam, she realized she would probably need all the help she could get. The entire Kingdom would need all the help it could get.
“It is his job, after all,” she added. “Being the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. I should be safely back at the Glacier while he deals with Hedge and whatever else is out there!”
“If the Abhorsen and the King are correct about Hedge’s plans, nowhere will be safe,” said the Dog. “And all who bear the Blood must defend the Charter.”
“Oh, Dog!” Lirael said plaintively, giving t
he hound a hug. “Why is everything so difficult?”
“It just is,” said the Dog, woofling in her ear. “But sleep will make it seem easier. A new day will bring new sights and smells.”
“How will that help?” grumbled Lirael. But she lay down on the ground, dragging her pack over to use as a pillow. It was too hot for a blanket, even with the slight breeze off the river. Hot and awfully humid, with mosquitoes and sandflies into the bargain. Summer had not yet begun as far as the Kingdom’s calendar was concerned, but the weather had paid no attention to human reckoning. And there was no sign of a cooling rainstorm.
Lirael swatted a mosquito, then turned her head as Sam came back and rummaged in his saddlebag. He was getting something out—a bright, sparkling object. Lirael sat up as she saw it was a jeweled frog. A frog with wings.
“I’m sorry I behaved badly before,” Sam mumbled, setting down the flying frog. “This will help with the mosquitoes.”
Lirael didn’t need to ask how. It became clear immediately as the frog executed a backwards somersault and used its tongue to collect two particularly large and blood-laden mosquitoes.
“Ingenious,” said the Dog sleepily, lifting her head for a moment from the comfortable hole she’d scratched out to sleep in.
“I made it for my mother,” said Sam, self-pity evident in his voice. “That’s about the only thing I’m really good at. Making things.”
Lirael nodded, watching the frog wreak havoc on the local insect population. It moved effortlessly, bronze wings beating as fast as a hummingbird’s, making a soft sound like tightly closed shutters moving slightly in the wind.
