Goldenhand by Garth Nix
It was enough to attract the attention of all the wood-weirds in the valley below, and indeed, the sorcerers who were loping along with their keepers behind them holding their silver chains close, like huntsmen keeping dogs of uncertain temper on short leashes.
“The spider-thing turns,” said Ferin. She waved her arms and called out, “Here! Here!” and then made several rude gestures common to all the tribes, though these would mean nothing to the Free Magic creatures, and the sorcerers and their keepers were probably too far away to see her clearly.
Young Laska chuckled at her side. Ferin looked at her.
“You know what that meant?”
The Borderer nodded.
“I was assigned for several years to the Northwest Desert, one of the most distant parts of the Kingdom that borders the lower western steppe. There are several oases there where the Moon Horse clan and the Blood Horses come to trade, and sometimes to raid. So I know a little of the tribes, and even of sand-swimmers, wood-weirds, and Spirit-Walkers, though I confess to having seen a wood-weird only once before. They were very uncommon in the desert.”
“But you survived,” said Ferin. “That is good.”
“I hid from it, and ran when I could, and I was lucky,” said Young Laska. She pointed downward, where the fast wood-weird had already turned and was running toward their hillside. “I think it is time we also quickened our pace, if not to run.”
“No running,” said Swinther. “The path narrows even before the ridge, and it will be broken shale underfoot soon; you will need to set each footfall very carefully, and crouch low. Watch where I go, do what I do. Follow!”
The path grew steeper and more difficult almost immediately. Either frequent passage, or active work, had cleared away the deeper piles of loose shale so that there was bedrock or earth beneath to actually step upon, and here and there in the trickier parts iron staples had been driven deeply into the rock to use as foot- or handholds, though some were so rusted Swinther tested them very carefully before use.
Ferin was pleased the path was difficult, for it would slow the wood-weirds a great deal. But then again, she did not want them to turn back too soon, and go on to catch the fisher-folk before they reached the haven of the old tower.
But after a very steep section, liberally seeded with deeply seated iron spikes, they reached the ridge and the going became much easier, at least at first. The path was six or seven paces wide, and almost level, rising or falling only a few feet for quite some distance. The shale underfoot on the path was loose, but in very crushed, small pieces, so it was reasonably easy to keep one’s footing, unlike the much more treacherous many-layered sheets of stone to either side. The shale there would undoubtedly break at once and slide away if trodden on, taking the unfortunate walker with it.
They had only gone on another hundred paces when Young Laska stopped and held her hand up to test the breeze. There had been little enough below, and not much more on the ridge, but now the wind was freshening and swinging around. It was colder, and brought with it the tang of rain.
“Wind’s changed,” said Young Laska. She looked to the west. “A westerly now, from the mountains. Not natural.”
“They had a wind-eater aboard,” said Ferin. “I shot her. Or him. But they were not killed.”
“Bringing clouds,” said Young Laska. “I wonder—”
She was interrupted by the sound of falling shale. They looked back and saw the speedy wood-weird get its two leading tree-root legs over the top of the steep climb, scrabble for a moment, then haul itself up onto the ridge. It paused there for a few moments, burning eyes looking straight at Ferin and her companions, then immediately started along the path, its movement now reminiscent of a hunting spider.
Young Laska had her bow off her back and an arrow nocked in seconds, with Ferin only a moment behind. Two arrows flew, Ferin’s striking the body of the creature only to shatter without effect. But Young Laska’s Charter-spelled arrow stuck fast in the hollow of the thing’s eye, a great gout of white sparks spraying out where it lodged.
“Save your shafts!” snapped Young Laska to Ferin, sending another arrow speeding into the creature’s other eyehole. Again, there was a shower of sparks. The wood-weird stopped, and for a moment Ferin thought it was mortally wounded. But it was only blinded, and it started forward again, carefully feeling the path ahead with its forelegs.
Young Laska shot again, at one of these forelegs, her arrow sticking in a joint, which became wreathed in golden fire, Charter Magic competing with the sickly red burn of Free Magic within. But her next arrow missed the other leg, striking shale, and the creature rushed forward, opening its rough-cut mouth wide, the fire within roiling, white smoke jetting forth, accompanied by the nauseating, hot-metal reek of Free Magic.
Young Laska dropped her bow to wield a Charter-spelled arrow in her hand, but Swinther nimbly slid past her, his double-bladed axe lifted high.
“For Yellowsands!”
Chapter Eighteen
THE AVOIDANCE OF RESPONSIBILITY
Clayr’s Glacier, Old Kingdom
Qilla, newly made acting lieutenant of the Rangers, did not feel she was of a sufficiently elevated standing to ignore rule thirty-six and send the guardian drill-grub Sending back into its quiescent state under the stones of the landing ground and admit the visitor, despite Lirael’s entreaties.
“Oh, for Charter’s sake!” exclaimed Lirael. “Can someone send for Mirelle? Or the Voice of the Nine Day Watch?”
“The Voice?” asked Qilla. She pursed her lips and shook her head. “I don’t think this calls—”
“Qilla,” said Lirael. “I know it’s hard for you all to come to terms with the fact, but I am not just some junior cousin anymore, I am the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. If it was Sabriel here asking you to let her guest in, would we all be standing around in the cold?”
“Uh, no,” said Qilla. “But . . .”
“Get Mirelle,” said Lirael. “Or the Voice.”
Qilla looked as if she was about to say something, but shut her mouth as Lirael looked at her, her golden hand resting on the handle of Saraneth, the sixth bell, the one used to bind the Dead to the wielder’s will. There was no trace of the meek, withdrawn girl Qilla had known vaguely by sight, as all the Clayr knew one another, if not better because of closer kinship or the propinquity of either work or shared participation in the Nine Day Watch.
“I’ll send word for Mirelle,” said Qilla, and walked away to confer with one of the other rangers. There were four of them on the landing ground now, standing about and gazing outward, down and up, as if they were guarding Lirael and Nick from a surprise attack from without, rather than surreptitiously keeping an eye on these unexpected and complicated arrivals.
Lirael looked down at Nick, who she had made sit back in the relative warmth of the paperwing’s cockpit. He was dressed in a leather-and-fur flying coat and woolen breeches now, and he felt much warmer and more secure, now sufficiently well-clothed not to be embarrassed by a sudden movement or a gust of wind. But, although he did not know it, he still looked awful, very pale and weak, and he shivered from time to time, no longer from cold but simply from lack of blood and weariness.
He smiled at Lirael and said, “I go a thousand miles, to another kingdom, somewhere that feels like another world entirely, and it is just like being back home! Trying to get into the Moot when it is in session, to see my father or uncle, with some flun . . . that is . . . with a guard or an official wanting a particular pass or someone else to take responsibility for letting me through the door.”
“Thank you for not being . . . for not being angry,” said Lirael. She was angry, quite furious that they had not been admitted at once. It made her look stupid and ineffectual in front of Nick, and though she did not want to admit it, even to herself, she had hoped that when she did eventually return to the Glacier that she would finally be treated as someone of note, a handsome frog rather than an ugly tadpole, as in the children’s story.
Mirelle arrived some thirty minutes later, slightly out of breath from running up the Starmount Stair, something that would have left most Clayr half her age, or anyone else for that matter, puking and half-dead. It was a very long way and the steps had much higher risers than was normal, as if they were built for a race of eight-foot-tall people. Yet for the leather-skinned, grey-haired commander of the Rangers it was apparently no more than a mild stretch on a spring afternoon.
“Greetings, Abhorsen-in-Waiting,” said Mirelle, bowing. She raised her hand, two fingers extended, and said, “May I test your mark?”
Lirael nodded. This was correct etiquette, but she doubted Mirelle meant it that way; it was probably her being wary of a potential enemy, some sort of substitution or deceit. Particularly as she noted the older Clayr kept one hand on the hilt of the small but doubtless extremely sharp knife she wore on her left side, next to her sword. Lirael had always found Mirelle rather frightening on the few occasions they’d crossed paths, but this time she was not intimidated. She thought about that for a moment, remembering her earlier self. But that younger Lirael had not fought Free Magic constructs, many Dead creatures, Chlorr of the Mask, and ultimately Orannis itself.
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
“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.