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The commander reached out and touched the Charter mark on Lirael’s forehead, even as Lirael did the same to her. Both immediately felt the deep connection, the sudden immersion in the endless sea of marks, some very familiar, some known, so many unknown, flashing past in an instant.
Mirelle withdrew her hand and smiled.
“I apologize for my caution, Lirael,” she said. “We are so rarely blind to the future on our own doorstep, and you were not Seen at all. May I test your companion’s mark?”
“Sure,” said Nick, even though she hadn’t asked him. He smiled wearily. “Whatever it takes to get closer to a hot bath and a meal.”
“Before you do,” said Lirael, speaking quietly so only Mirelle and Nick could hear, “you should know this is Nicholas Sayre, who bore the fragment of Orannis within him, and unwittingly aided the necromancer Hedge. The . . . the Disreputable Dog, that is to say Kibeth, used her power to restore him to Life and baptized him with the mark. But there is a great deal of Free Magic within him as well. That is why I have brought him here, to see . . . to see what we may discover of the nature of this combination. And . . . and to deal with his wounds, both old and new.”
“I see,” said Mirelle. She bent over and touched the mark on Nick’s forehead and kept her fingers against his forehead for several seconds. Then she slowly withdrew her hand, but didn’t straighten up.
“Now you touch my mark,” she said. “That is the normal courtesy. We do it to assure ourselves the mark is not faked, or corrupted in some way, by Free Magic or artifice.”
Nick glanced at Lirael. She nodded encouragingly, so he reached out as Mirelle had done, and touched the mark on her forehead. It was just under the lip of her steel helmet, which was wrapped in white cloth and somewhat resembled a turban.
Nick gasped as he felt himself suddenly surrounded by glowing Charter marks, the normal world somehow dull and removed. He knew he still sat in the paperwing, he could feel the cool air, but at the same time he had the sensation of sinking—no, diving—deep into some other place, an endless sea of glowing Charter marks that had no beginning or end, and he became afraid that he would be lost in it as he began to feel separate from his own body, a detached intelligence caught up in this rushing current of magic, and he had to exert all his willpower to pull his fingers back, breaking the connection and restoring himself to himself.
“So that is what Sam talks about,” he croaked. He felt very small and insignificant all of a sudden, a mere speck, suddenly aware of so much more around and about him and how it was connected. “The Charter.”
“I am afraid you present a problem,” said Mirelle. “Your mark is true, but you also contain a great amount of Free Magic, as much or more than any of the creatures who are our mortal enemies. That is what the Starmount Guardian senses, no matter how it is overlaid with Charter Magic. We are expressly forbidden to allow you entry to the Glacier . . . as a guest or visitor.”
Lirael noted the phrasing of Mirelle’s reply. She seemed to be suggesting something, some way around the prohibition, without actually saying so. But Lirael wasn’t sure what the ranger meant.
“Can the Voice overrule this prohibition?” asked Lirael. “Who is the Voice at the moment, anyway?”
“She could,” said Mirelle, in a tone that suggested this was not going to happen. “But it is your aunt Kirrith. At least for the next five days.”
“What!” exclaimed Lirael. “Not Sanar and Ryelle?”
Kirrith was the Guardian of the Young; she had held that office for the entirety of Lirael’s life, and it was one that usually excluded the bearer from participating in the Nine Day Watch and thus the potential to become the Voice. Being the Voice was an honor and responsibility which usually went to the Clayr with the strongest vision, which meant it was the province of people like Sanar and Ryelle, whose Sight was very powerful. One or the other of these twins, or both of them concurrently, usually occupied the post for many consecutive terms of the Watch. But Lirael knew that sometimes, when everything was quiet and there wasn’t much being Seen anyway, the post was assigned to those worthy in other ways, as a mark of distinction and gratitude for their everyday work in the Glacier.
“They have the influenza,” said Mirelle, with the faintest of shrugs. “It is not very serious, but a great many people have needed to take to their beds these last few weeks. It was Seen coming, and with little else happening, it looked like an appropriate time to honor some who perhaps would not otherwise ever be the Voice.”
Lirael suppressed a groan. She did not hold a high opinion of her aunt Kirrith’s intelligence. Worse, Kirrith was deeply suspicious of anyone or anything from outside the Clayr’s closed world. She would never overrule any tradition, regulation, or even old habits of the Clayr.
“I take it your aunt is not likely to look fondly upon my visit?” asked Nick. “I have some aunts of my own who aren’t too keen on me, either.”
“Nick needs to be somewhere warm soon, where he can rest,” said Lirael to Mirelle. “I never thought to be turned away here! We should have gone to Belisaere.”
“The King, of course, could order us to take him in,” said Mirelle. “But I understand the King is taking a holiday?”
“Yes,” said Lirael. “Not to be disturbed by message-hawks, save for dire news of the first importance. Which I suppose this isn’t . . .”
She looked up at the sky. It was growing dark quickly, and the wind was increasing, a very cold wind. Soon it would be too cold even in the cockpit of the paperwing, which would not be comfortable overnight in any case. Nick was visibly shivering all the time now, and she thought his lips were looking bluish. It was ridiculous to be so close to warmth and shelter and not be allowed to take him in. Lirael was sure the Free Magic was contained; it would not simply break out. It wasn’t as if she was trying to smuggle a Stilken inside.
Her mind wandered to how the Stilken had gotten into the Library in the first place, though of course it had probably been there for centuries, if not longer. The Clayr could not possibly guard all entrances, every nook and cranny in two mountains and a glacier. It was possible it had even been brought in on purpose, inside that glass coffin, to be studied . . .
A smile slowly spread across Lirael’s face.
“Nick,” she said, looking down at him, her eyes suddenly bright. “There is a way we can get you inside.”
“Good,” said Nick faintly. He smiled back at her. “I really wouldn’t mind that hot bath you mentioned . . .”
Lirael turned to Mirelle. She was surprised to see a very faint look of amusement on the ranger’s generally stern and forbidding face.
“I believe the Library has a general dispensation for importing items of interest, including living things and even Free Magic?”
“I
ndeed,” said Mirelle.
“Then please send word ahead to the Librarian or her deputy that the Abhorsen-in-Waiting and once and perhaps still Second Assistant Librarian Lirael presents her compliments and is bringing a temporary addition to the collection, a person to be studied. And can you put that Sending back under the ground and open the gate so we can get the paperwing inside as well?”
“As you wish,” said Mirelle. The faint look of amusement became a definite flicker of a smile, which crossed her face for a moment and was gone. She bowed, waved the other rangers in, and walked across to the great worm. There she spoke several words heavily imbued with Charter marks. The worm immediately blurred, like a sketch being erased, and became once again an outline drawn in light. This hung in the air for a few moments before it sank into the ground, leaving behind thousands of tiny glowing marks like strange wildflowers on the snow, which slowly faded, leaving no trace of the worm’s former presence.
Lirael helped Nick out of the paperwing, and whistled, three short, sweet notes, Charter marks leaping with her breath to the paperwing’s nose. It shuddered and lightly flicked its wings. Lirael held Nick as they walked to the slowly opening gate, the paperwing drifting along behind them a few inches above the ground.
Chapter Nineteen
BATTLE ON THE RIDGE OF SHALE
Near Yellowsands, the Old Kingdom
Swinther’s axe bounced from the ensorcelled wood-weird’s leg, but the sheer force of the blow pushed the creature off balance. At the same time Young Laska took a great risk, lunging past the woodcutter with one foot on the loose shale off the path. Somehow she kept her balance, driving an arrow by hand into the top joint of the wood-weird’s left foreleg before turning on the spot to jump back.
