Goldenhand by Garth Nix
The Eighth Precinct was normally a place of great danger, where patches of fire burned upon the water, without apparent pattern or cause. But none would burn where Astarael rang, and the river took them on, rushing them, twisting and turning, Clariel holding tight to Lirael’s golden hand.
The Eighth Gate was darkness, darkness complete and the absence of all the senses. No sight, no sound, no sense of touch or smell. Lirael wept as Astarael fell silent for those few seconds as they passed, or she thought she wept, for she could feel no tears.
The Ninth Precinct. Astarael was silent now, at last. Lirael slowly and clumsily returned the bell to the bandolier with her left hand. She kept her head down as she did so, knowing not to look up. The river was shallow here, only up to her ankles, and there was no current. The water was even warm, and it did not feed feelings of inadequacy and hopelessness.
Even looking down, with her eyes scrunched as close as she dared, Lirael could see starlight reflected in the water.
“It is so beautiful,” whispered Clariel. “Like night in the Great Forest, only more so . . . the sky . . . the stars. I should have come here so long ago. I thank you, Lirael.”
“But I do not,” snarled a voice from behind, a voice that crackled with Free Magic.
Lirael flung herself sideways as a flaming blade came down, smashing through the water, exploding the reflected stars. She drew Raminah, the blade bright with Charter marks, and just managed to parry a savage cut, gouts of white sparks flying as the two magics met and fought.
Her attacker was Chlorr of the Mask. Alone, for her Shadow Hands were left far behind, unable to move so swiftly in Death. She was a hulking shape of darkness and fire, wielding a blade of flame twice the length of Raminah. But Chlorr was strangely hunched over, as if already wounded, and she kept her head firmly down, the fires that burned there in the suggestion of the mask she had once worn dripping molten bronze-colored drops which sizzled in the water and sent up small fountains of steam and choking smoke.
Lirael backed up, parrying another strike. She had to hold out for only a few minutes, she knew, before Chlorr would be unable to resist the compulsion to look up, to look up to the stars of the Ninth Gate. Lirael could feel the unbearable attraction too, almost as if someone was holding her, gently but so very firmly, tilting her head back . . . Lirael grimaced as she found she was doing exactly that, and jerked her eyes back down.
But in that instant, she caught a glimpse of a night sky above, a sky of perfect black velvet, so thick with stars they were one unimaginably vast and luminous cloud, sending down a light softer but as bright as a summer morning’s sun out in the living world.
Many Dead rose toward that sea of stars above. Dead everywhere, but they were no threat. They came through the Eighth Gate and waded for a little way, or hardly at all, but soon enough all were caught by the stars above, and were lifted up, to go beyond to the final death from which there was no return.
Chlorr attacked again and Lirael parried, gasping at the strength of the blow. Raminah would have been torn from her grasp, but she brought her right hand up, her golden hand. The Charter marks on it shone brighter than ever, making it look as if it were molten gold. Chlorr winced back from that light too, as she did from the stars above.
Lirael wielded her sword two-handed. She parried Chlorr’s blows, and stepped back again and again, always hoping that in the next moment Chlorr would look up. But the creature didn’t, and with each blow Lirael felt herself weaken. She almost stumbled and narrowly avoided the next savage cut.
Then she did stumble, falling backward into the river. She looked up and saw not stars, but the great dark bulk of Chlorr, the terrible sword rising for the final blow. Lirael tried to lift Raminah to parry, though she knew it was hopeless.
It was all for nothing. Lirael had brought Clariel to the brink of the Ninth Gate, but she had failed. Chlorr was too strong.
But the fiery blade did not come down. A small, scarred woman, her arms outstretched, stepped in front of her greater self, standing between the huge creature of shadow and Lirael.
“Come,” said Clariel.
Chlorr slowly lowered her sword, and the red flames that licked along the blade went out. It was a reluctant movement, as if the Greater Dead answered to some unseen force, like a hunting dog called by a whistle, taken from its kill.
But the sword did not stay down. Chlorr made a noise, a dry clattering chuckle. She lifted the sword again and swung it back, clearly intending to sweep away the annoying remnant of her past, the tiny fragment of lost humanity who had so long served to keep her from the final death.
But in swinging back, Chlorr looked up, and was caught by the stars.
In that same moment Clariel stepped forward, and closed her arms around the shadow-stuff of Chlorr, resting her head against the fires that burned and flickered over the creature’s chest. Clariel’s eyes were open, clear-sighted, knowing what she did.
“This path, I choose,” whispered Clariel. She spoke very low, but Lirael heard her clearly. Her voice was strangely like a bell.
Chlorr’s sword fell, and was lost in the river. She seemed suddenly smaller, diminished and lost.
Greater Dead and remnant spirit rose to the sky together. Starlight wreathed them both, quenching the fires, stripping back the shadows, smoothing the scars away. Shadow and fire joined with shining spirit to become one again. A young woman who until the very end chose neither wisely nor well, and who had existed for centuries, but had died long ago.
Lirael found herself looking up, watching Clariel ascend, though she had not meant to do so. She wondered who she had been, this daughter of goldsmiths, and how she had become a sorcerer, a necromancer, and then one of the Greater Dead. Perhaps there would be something about her in the Library, Lirael thought. She would look it up.
Or not, for the Ninth Gate called.
It was time to rest. Lirael had done what was needed, for the second time. She felt the waters stir around her feet as the river let go and she began to rise.
“For everyone and everything, there is a time to die,” whispered Lirael. She knew too much time must have passed out in Life; there could be no way back for her and Nick. But, she suddenly thought, there might be enough air remaining for last farewells, and then they could die together, though she so much would have liked for them both to live.
“The third time, you will have me, but not before!” called Lirael, and forced her gaze down. A moment later she splashed back in the river, spray flying everywhere, though she sprang immediately from the water. She was suddenly consumed by the idea of seeing Nick again, to kiss him one last time, to go together into Death, to not go alone.
She had lived so long alone, and found new love too late. Now she was determined to wring even just a few more seconds from what she had so unexpectedly been given.
Lirael strode toward the Eighth Gate, the words of opening rising in her mind, and hurry, hurry, hurry beating a rhythm in her head. No dangers of Death, no Dead must be allowed to delay her, she would be swifter than she had ever been, the river’s current helpless—
But the first word of opening fell silent in her mouth as she saw a familiar figure by the wall of darkness. A tan shape with sticking-up ears clearly outlined against the Gate, patiently waiting for her mistress, as she had waited by doors and gates and passages so many, many times before.
“Dog! Oh Dog!” wept Lirael, running forward to hug the Dog around the neck, lifting her partly off the ground, so she had to rise on her haunches and balance her forepaws on Lirael’s shoulders.
“Now, now,” said the Dog, gently licking Lirael’s ear. “I have come to run with you back to Life. We must hurry. Your young man sustains the globe of air, but he really doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
Chapter Forty
THE RETURN OF LIRAEL
Beyond the Great Rift
Ice cracked. Nick’s eyes flashed open, but he managed to turn his gasp into a choke, so he did not draw in a br
More ice cracked, and Lirael came laughing to wrap her arms around him, though he could only respond by burying his face in her neck.
“Very nice,” croaked Nick. “But we have to hurry back.”
“Yes,” said Lirael. She bent and picked up his sword, quickly sliding it home in the scabbard at his side, and then bent again to take up the little dog statuette. That she kept tight in her hand as she grabbed Nick’s arm and they began to walk back toward the next flag. At first slowly, and then a little more swiftly, as Lirael sniffed at the air and found it more stagnant and far less refreshing than she’d hoped.
They did not speak until they staggered past the second flag and on a dozen paces to be sure. Before Lirael could dismiss the spell, or Nick let go, the globe fell apart around them, Charter marks dropping like dead moths to disappear into the stony ground.
Nick took a deep, shuddering breath, and filled his lungs. He whooped and grabbed Lirael and they went to kiss and banged their heads together and tried again, and then turned together to walk side by side toward the edge of the Rift. Nick held Lirael’s golden hand, and Charter marks drifted slowly out of his skin and across her own. More and more marks flowed across, and slowly the gold began to glow again, and Lirael flexed her fingers and smiled.
“It’s a long way back,” she said softly.
Nick shrugged and held her hand tighter.
“Not so far as we have come already,” he said.
“Yes,” said Lirael.
“Why were you laughing?” asked Nick. “When you returned from Death?”
“Something the Dog said, something funny, but also it just made me happy,” replied Lirael.
“What did she say?” asked Nick. “I mean, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I don’t mind,” said Lirael. “I thought I would never see her again, you know. She said my time with her had passed. But then, she came to me in Death . . .”
“And to me,” said Nick. “She told me what to do.”
“And coming back, we talked, and she said . . . she said . . .”
Lirael started laughing again, the laughter that comes after a great fear is gone, a terrible enemy vanquished, and there is hope once more.
“She said she would come to our wedding,” said Lirael, half choked with laughter. “She would dance at our wedding! Can you imagine, the Dog dancing! But it means I will see her again!”
“I like the sound of our wedding,” said Nick, straight-faced. “Where would we have it? Your aunt Kirrith’s place? That’d be very nice.”
Lirael laughed again, and they hugged as they walked, almost making themselves fall over. Nick started to laugh too, and giggling like small children, they began to run hand in hand toward the Great Rift and the start of the journey home.
Epilogue
If the appearance of their tribal fetish and Mogget’s expression of displeasure to the Athask was the first turning point in the Battle of the Greenwash Bridge, the absence of Chlorr was the second. She had gathered all the war leaders of the clans together on the riverbank, to keep them close and under her direction. Her sudden vanishing, and of many of the Dead she had with her, combined with the lack of any kind of second in command, caused the war leaders to immediately disagree on what everyone should be doing.
The disagreements quickly became arguments, and then the arguments duels, and the fighting of the leaders swiftly spread to the sorcerers and their keepers, and then to the lesser commanders, and from there to ordinary clan-folk. Within a short time, almost all the nomads not actively fighting the Old Kingdom forces were fighting one another, and very soon after that, most of them realized that with everyone gathered at the bridge, there was nobody defending their homelands.
Or their neighbors’ homelands. Whoever got back first would have the opportunity to settle every old feud with ease, and create the circumstances for dozens of new ones.
But though Chlorr was absent, she was not yet dead, and the chain-spell continued to hold back the river, and there were still many thousands of horse nomads fighting on the southern bank, even if the rear ranks were turning about to fight their former allies of five minutes before.
Sam and Ferin were among the first to see the change, and it was Ferin who pointed out where the Moon Horse warriors were trying to turn their horses back; and that the Ghost Horse clan were starting to ride away westward along the northern bank; and the Yrus were no longer pushing new lines of warriors into the melee on the southern bank, where the Old Kingdom forces still held on, though they had been forced back several hundred paces from the river, and were surrounded on three sides.
Charter Magic spells flashed and sparked in that fierce combat, but so also did long whips of Free Magic fire, and the Old Kingdom army was still greatly outnumbered. Sam’s heart was very heavy as he watched from the outer wall of the North Castle. Not through his telescope, because he did not want to see too well, did not want to see the end that must be coming, did not want to know if Sabriel and Touchstone had already fallen.
“I guess Lirael and Nick have failed,” he said heavily to Ferin. “It will be an outright slaughter soon.”
Ferin watched by his side, and she was using the telescope. She was quiet now that they were largely out of the battle, at least for now. Much of her bravado was an act, Sam realized, to raise both her own spirits and those of the people around her. It worked very well.
“The chain on the riverbed,” said Ferin quite conversationally. “The red fire on it . . .”
“What?” asked Sam. He tried to snatch the telescope back, but Ferin held it tight.
“It’s going out.”
As the Free Magic fires in the chain died, so the spell holding back the river ebbed. Water began to trickle down from on high, hundreds of rivulets sliding through the air as if slopping over the side of a vast glass bathtub. Half a minute later the rivulets joined to become a solid sheet of water, a waterfall suddenly smashing down from eighty paces above the dry riverbed.
Sam stopped trying to grab the telescope and grabbed Ferin’s crutches instead, slapping them under her arms.
“Get to the keep!” he shouted, waving at the others on the wall. “Get to the keep! The river’s coming back!”
A few seconds later, the invisible wall that had been slowly crumbling gave way entirely, and the vast mass of water that had been held back all came crashing down at once.
The wave was three times as high as the bridge, which disappeared under it with a titanic crack that was heard fifty leagues away. Water spurted even higher as the wave parted around the mid-river bastion, and spread sideways. These only slightly lesser side waves smashed against the outer walls of both North and South castles, overtopping them to flood the outer baileys. The temporary camp on the southern side was swept away in an instant.
So too were most of the nomads still fighting, and a great many Old Kingdom soldiers. There would be mourning in Navis, and Sindle, and most of all in Belisaere, for almost the entire Trained Band of the guild of vintners was closest to the river, and they were all drowned or swept away.
Sabriel and Touchstone survived, though both were wounded. They rested on their swords for a moment, and looked at each other. They had survived many battles, some even more dire than this. Both knew there would be more battles, and one day, perhaps one or the other would not survive.
“The bastion tower stands,” said Sabriel, with relief. “Sam should be all right. And the Athask girl, Ferin.”
They exchanged a private look, one of parental amusement at the trouble Sam might be finding himself in the near future.
“And Lirael?” asked Touchstone. “She had succeeded, but . . .”
“I would have felt her die
They had to stop talking then, as officers clamored for attention, and the work of dealing with the wounded from both sides and clearing away damage began. The few nomads who had survived the great wave tried to fight on, but they did not fight hard, and soon succumbed to Charter spells of sleep and restraint, for they would not surrender if they could still hold a weapon.
Halfway up the keep of the northern river fort, in a room knee-deep in river water, Sam was retrieving Ferin’s floating crutches. She sat up next to an archer’s window slit that was still dripping water, on a kind of mound made up of empty arrow crates and the thick mats that could be put out to protect the wall from the stones cast by siege engines. She was holding up her leg and looking at her stump.
“I don’t want a golden foot,” said Ferin. “No good for night work. Black is good.”
“You’ll be wearing a boot or a shoe on it, I presume,” said Sam, catching a crutch that was about to disappear with the rapidly receding water through one of the drain holes in the wall. “So what does it matter?”
“Why would I wear a boot?” asked Ferin. “If I have a magic foot I want everyone to see it!”
“I thought you wanted everyone not to see it,” said Sam in some exasperation. The crutch was stuck in the drain. He was very tired, and still somewhat in shock from the battle, though greatly relieved to have seen Sabriel and Touchstone through his telescope, directing the mopping up on the other side of the river. With the bridge gone, he would not be joining them soon. Perhaps in the morning, when the paperwings would fly again . . .
“Leave that. Come and sit by me,” said Ferin, letting her leg drop back down. “Rest a moment. I will tell you of some Athask customs.”
Sam sat down heavily next to her, and slumped, only to suddenly straighten into complete rigidity as she slid across next to him so their legs touched and, with great reserve and gravitas, she slowly put her tongue in his ear.