“They might well do so,” said the Dog, lifting her nose and sniffing. “The wind is veering to the southwest and it’s getting colder. But look to the west!”
They looked. The western horizon was lit by bright flashes of lightning, and there was the dull rumble of distant thunder.
Mogget watched too, from his post back on top of Sam’s pack. His green eyes were calculating, and Lirael noticed he was counting quietly aloud. Then he sniffed with a disgruntled tone.
“How far did that boy say Forwin Mill was?” he asked, noting Lirael’s look.
“About thirty miles,” said Sam.
“About five leagues,” said Lirael at the same time.
“That lightning is due west, and six or seven leagues away. Hedge and his cargo must still be crossing the Wall!”
Second Interlude
THE BLUE POSTAL Service van crunched its gears as it slowed to take the turnoff from the road into the bricked drive. Then it had to slow even more and judder to a stop, because the gates that were normally open were closed. There were also people with guns and swords on the other side. Armed schoolgirls in white tennis dresses or hockey tunics, who looked as if they should be holding racquets or hockey sticks rather than weapons. Two of them kept their rifles trained on the driver while another two came through the little postern gate in the wall, the naked blades they held at the ready catching the light of the late-afternoon sun.
The driver of the van looked up at the gilt, mock-Gothic letters above the gate that read “Wyverley College” and the smaller inscription below, which said, “Established in 1652 for Young Ladies of Quality.”
“Peculiar bloody quality,” he muttered. He didn’t like to feel afraid of schoolgirls. He looked back into the interior of the van and said more loudly, “We’re here. Wyverley College.”
There was a faint rustle from the back, which grew into a series of thumps and muffled exclamations. The driver watched for a second, as the mailbags stood up and hands reached out from the inside to open the drawstrings at the top. Then he turned his attention back to the front. Two of the schoolgirls were coming to his window, which he immediately wound down.
“Special delivery,” he said, with a wink. “I’m supposed to say Ellie’s dad and mum and that’ll mean something to you, so you don’t go sticking me with a sword or shooting me neither.”
The closer girl, who could be no more than seventeen, turned to the other—who was even younger—and said, “Go and get Magistrix Coelle.
“You stay where you are and keep your hands on the wheel,” she added to the driver. “Tell your passengers to keep still, too.”
“We can hear you,” said a voice from the back. A woman’s voice, strong and vibrant. “Is that Felicity?”
The girl started back. Then, keeping her sword on guard in front of her, she peered through the window, past the driver.
“Yes, it’s me, ma’am,” said the girl cautiously. She stepped back and made a signal to the rifle girls, who relaxed slightly but did not lower their weapons, much to the driver’s discomfort. “Do you mind waiting till Magistrix Coelle comes down? We can’t be too careful today. There is a wind from the north, and reports of other trouble. How many of you are there?”
“We’ll wait,” said the voice. “Two. There’s myself, and . . . Ellimere’s father.”
“Um, hello,” said Felicity. “We had news . . . that you . . . though Magistrix Coelle did not believe it. . . .”
“Do not speak of that for now,” said Sabriel. She had climbed out of the mailbag and was now crouched behind the driver. Felicity peered in again, reassuring herself that the woman she saw was in fact Ellimere’s mother. Even though Sabriel was wearing blue Postal Service overalls and a watch cap pulled low over her night-black hair, she was recognizable. But Felicity was still wary. The true test would come when Magistrix Coelle tested these people’s Charter marks.
“Here is your payment, as agreed,” said Sabriel, passing a thick envelope to the driver. He took it and immediately looked inside, a slight smile touching his mouth and eyes.
“Much obliged,” he said. “And I’ll keep my mouth shut, too, as I promised.”
“You’d better,” muttered Touchstone.
The driver was clearly offended by this remark. He sniffed and said, “I live near Bain and always have, and I know what’s what. I didn’t help you for the money. That’s just a sweetener.”
“We appreciate your help,” said Sabriel, with a quelling glance at Touchstone. Being cooped up in a mailbag for several hours had not done anything for his temper, nor did waiting, now that they were so close to the Wall and home. Wyverley College was only forty miles south of the border.
“Here, I’ll bloody well give it back,” said the driver. He dragged out the envelope and thrust it towards Touchstone.
“No, no, consider it a just reward,” Sabriel said calmly, and pushed the envelope back. The driver resisted for a moment, then shrugged and replaced the money somewhere inside his jacket and settled sulkily down in his seat.
“Here is the magistrix,” said Felicity with relief, as she looked back at an older woman and several students who were coming down the drive. They appeared to have emerged out of nowhere, for the main school building was out of sight around the bend, cloaked by a line of closely hugging poplars.
Once Magistrix Coelle arrived, it was only a matter of minutes before Sabriel and Touchstone had the Charter marks on their foreheads assessed for purity and they were all on their way to the school, and the postal van on its way back to Bain.
“I knew the news was false,” said Magistrix Coelle as they walked quickly—almost at a trot—up to the huge, gate-like doors of the main building. “The Corvere Times ran a photo of two burnt-out cars and some bodies but had little else to say. It seemed very much a put-up job.”
“It was real enough,” said Sabriel grimly. “Damed and eleven others were killed in that attack, and two more of our people outside Hennen. Perhaps more have been killed. We split up after Hennen, to lay false trails. None of our people have beaten us here?”
Coelle shook her head.
“Damed won’t be forgotten,” said Touchstone. “Or Barlest, or any of them. We will not forget our enemies, either.”
“These are terrible times,” sighed Coelle. She shook her head several times again as they went inside, past more armed schoolgirls, who looked on in awe at the legendary Sabriel and her consort, even if he was only the King of the Old Kingdom and nowhere near as interesting. Sabriel had once been one of them. They kept looking long after Coelle had ushered the distinguished visitors through a door to the Visiting Parents’ parlor, possibly the most luxuriously appointed room in the whole school.
“I trust the things we left have not been disturbed?” asked Sabriel. “What is the situation? What news?”
“Everything is as you left it,” replied Coelle. “We have no real trouble yet. Felicity! Please have the Abhorsen’s trunk brought up from the cellar. Pippa and Zettie . . . and whoever is hall monitor today . . . can help you. As to news, I have messages and—”
“Messages! From Ellimere or Sameth?” asked Touchstone urgently.
Coelle took two folded pieces of paper from her sleeve and passed them across. Touchstone grabbed them eagerly and stood close to Sabriel to read them, as Felicity and her cohorts surged past and disappeared through one of the heavy, highly polished doors.
The first message was written in blue pencil on a torn piece of letterhead that had the same bugle-and-scroll symbol that had adorned the side of the postal van. Touchstone and Sabriel read it through carefully, deep frowns appearing on both their foreheads. Then they read it again and looked at each other, deep surprise clear on their faces.
“One of our old girls sent that,” contributed Coelle nervously, as no one said anything. “Lornella Acren-Janes, who is assistant to the Postmaster General. A copy of a telegram, obviously. I don’t know if it ever went to your embassy.”
“C
an it be trusted?” asked Touchstone. “Aunt Lirael? Abhorsen-in-Waiting? Is this some other ploy to cloud our minds?”
Sabriel shook her head.
“It sounds like Sam,” she said. “Even though I don’t understand it. Clearly much has been going on in the Old Kingdom. I do not think we will quickly come to the root of it all.”
She unfolded the second piece of paper. Unlike the first, this was thick, handmade paper, and there were only three symbols upon it. Quiescent Charter marks, dark on the white page. Sabriel ran her palm across them, and they sprang into bright, vivid life, almost leaping into her hand. With them came Ellimere’s voice, clear and strong as if she stood next to them.
“Mother! Father! I hope you get this very quickly. The Clayr have Seen much more, too much to tell in this message. There is great danger, beyond our imagining. I am at Barhedrin with the Guard, the Trained Bands, and a Seven Hundred and Eighty-Four of the Clayr. The Clayr are trying to See what we must do. They say Sam is alive and fighting, and that whatever we do, you must get to Barhedrin by Anstyr’s Day or it will be too late. We have to take the Paperwings somewhere. Oh—I have an aunt, apparently your half-sister . . . What? Don’t interrupt—”
Ellimere’s voice stopped mid word. The Charter marks faded back into the paper.