“Mogget had to kill her,” Sam said suddenly, looking back into the fire. “My horse, Sprout. I pushed her too hard. She foundered. I couldn’t do the mercy stroke. Mogget had to cut her throat, to make sure the Dead didn’t kill her and grow stronger.”
“It doesn’t sound like there was much choice,” said Lirael uncomfortably. “I mean, there was nothing else you could have done.”
Sam was silent, staring at the few red coals that remained, seeing the shapes and patterns of orange, black, and red. He could hear the Ratterlin’s subdued roar all around, the wheezing breath of the sleeping Dog. He could practically feel Lirael sitting there, three or four steps away, waiting for him to say something.
“I should have done it,” he whispered. “But I was afraid. Afraid of Death. I always have been.”
Lirael didn’t say anything, feeling even more uncomfortable now. No one had ever shared something so personal with her before, least of all something like this! He was the Abhorsen’s son, the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. It simply wasn’t possible that he could be afraid of Death. That would be like a Clayr who was afraid of the Sight. That was beyond imagining.
“You’re tired and wounded,” she said finally. “You should rest. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
Sam turned to look at her but kept his head down, not meeting her gaze.
“You went into Death,” muttered Sam. “Were you afraid?”
“Yes,” acknowledged Lirael. “But I followed what it said in the book.”
“The book?” asked Sam, shivering despite the heat. “The Book of the Dead?”
“No,” replied Lirael. She’d never even heard of The Book of the Dead. “The Book of Remembrance and Forgetting. It deals with Death only because that’s where a Remembrancer has to go to look into the past.”
“Never heard of it,” muttered Sam. He looked at his saddlebags as if they were bulging poison sacs. “I’m supposed to be studying The Book of the Dead, but I can’t stand looking at it. I tried to leave it behind, but it followed me, with the bells. I . . . I can’t get away from it, but I can’t look at it, either. And now I’ll probably need them both to save Nick. It’s so bloody unfair. I never asked to be the Abhorsen-in-Waiting!”
I never asked for my mother to walk away from me when I was five, or to be a Clayr without the Sight, thought Lirael. He was young for his age, this Prince Sameth, and, as the Dog said, he was tired and wounded. Let him have his bout of self-pity. If he didn’t snap out of it tomorrow, the Dog could bite him. That had always worked on her.
So instead of saying what she thought, Lirael reached out to touch the bandolier lying at Sam’s side.
“Do you mind if I look at the bells?” she asked. She could feel their power, even as they lay there quiescent. “How do you use them?”
“The Book of the Dead explains their use,” he said reluctantly. “But you can’t really practice with them. They can only be used in earnest. No! Don’t . . . please don’t take them out.”
“I’ll be careful,” said Lirael, surprised at his reaction. He had gone pale, quite white in the darkness, and was shivering. “I do know a bit about them already, because they’re like my pipes.”
Sam shuffled back a few steps, the panic rising in him. If she dropped a bell or accidentally rang one, they might both be hurled into Death. He was afraid of that, desperately afraid. At the same time, he felt a sudden urge to let her take the bells, as if that might somehow break their connection with him.
“I suppose you can look at them,” he said hesitantly. “If you really want to.”
Lirael nodded thoughtfully, running her fingers over the smooth mahogany handles and the rich, beeswax-treated leather. She had a sudden urge to put on the bandolier and walk into Death to try the bells. Her little panpipes were a toy in comparison.
Sam watched her touch the bells and shivered, remembering how cold and heavy they had felt upon his chest. Lirael’s scarf had fallen back, letting her long black hair tumble out. There was something about her face in the firelight, something about the way her eyes reflected the light, that made Sam feel odd. He had the sense that he’d seen her before. But that was impossible, as he’d never been to the Glacier, and she’d never left it until now.
“Could I also have a look at The Book of the Dead?” asked Lirael, unable to disguise the eagerness in her voice.
Sam stared at her, his mind paralyzed for a moment. “The Book of the Dead could d-d-destroy you,” he said, his voice betraying him with a stutter. “It’s not to be trifled with.”
“I know,” said Lirael. “I can’t explain, but I feel that I must read it.”
Sam considered. The Clayr were cousins of the royal line and the Abhorsen, so he supposed Lirael had the Bloodright. Enough not to get destroyed straightaway. She had also studied The Book of Remembrance and Forgetting, whatever that was, which seemed to have made her something of a necromancer, at least as far as traveling in Death was concerned. And her Charter mark was true and clear.
“It’s there,” he said roughly, pointing at the appropriate saddlebag. He hesitated, then backed away, till he was a good ten paces from the fire, closer to the river, with both the Dog and Mogget between him and Lirael—and the book. He lay down, purposefully looking away from Lirael. He didn’t want to even see the book. His flying frog jumped after him and rapidly cleared the mosquitoes away from his makeshift bed.
Sam heard the straps of the saddlebags being opened behind his back. Then came the soft brilliance of a Charter light, the snap of silver clasps—and the ruffling of pages. There was no explosion, no sudden fire of destruction.
Sam let out his breath, closed his eyes, and willed himself to sleep. He would be at Abhorsen’s House within a few days. Safe. He could stay there. Lirael could go on alone.
Except, his conscience said as he drifted off, Nicholas is your friend. It’s your job to deal with necromancers. And it’s your parents who would expect you to face the Enemy.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
High Bridge
Sam felt much better the next morning, physically, at least. His leg was greatly improved by Lirael’s healing magic. But mentally he felt very nervous about the responsibilities that once again weighed upon him.
Lirael, on the other hand, was physically exhausted but mentally very invigorated. She’d stayed up all night reading The Book of the D
ead, finishing the last page just as the sun rose, its heat quickly banishing the last few cool hours of the night.
Much of the book was already lost to her. Lirael knew she’d read the whole thing, or had at least read every page she’d turned. But she had no sense of the totality of the text. The Book of the Dead would require many re-readings, she realized, as it could offer something new each time. In many ways, she felt it recognized her lack of knowledge, and had given her the bare minimum she was capable of understanding. The book had also raised more questions for her about Death, and the Dead, than it had answered. Or perhaps it had answered, but she would not remember until she needed to know.
Only the last page stayed fixed in her mind, the last page with its single line.
Does the walker choose the path, or the path choose the walker?
She thought about that question as she stuck her head in the river to try to wake herself up, and was still thinking about it as she retied her scarf and straightened her waistcoat. She was reluctant to part with the bells and The Book of the Dead, but she finally returned them to Sam’s saddlebags as he finished his own morning ablutions farther downstream, behind some of the island’s sparse foliage.
They didn’t talk as they loaded the boat, not so much as a word about the book or the bells, or Sam’s confession of the previous night. As Lirael raised Finder’s sail and they set off downriver again, the only sound was the flapping of the canvas as she slowly hauled in the mainsheet, accompanied by the rush of water under the keel. Everyone seemed to agree that it was too early for conversation. Especially Mogget. He hadn’t even bothered to wake up and had had to be carried aboard by Sam.
It wasn’t until they were well under way that Lirael passed around some of her plate-sized cinnamon cakes, breaking them into manageable hunks. The Dog ate hers in one and a half gulps, but Sam looked at his askance.
“Do I risk my teeth on it or just suck it to death?” he asked, with an attempt at a smile. Clearly he felt better, Lirael thought. It was better than the dismal self-pity of the night before.