Lirael had never seen the Dog so humbled, and it scared her more than anything that had happened. She scratched her around the ears and along the jaw, seeking to give as much comfort as she took. But her hands shook, and she felt that at any moment she would shudder into tears. To try to stop them, she took slow breaths, counting them in, and counting them out.
“But . . . what will happen to Mogget?” asked Sam, his voice unsteady. “He was unbound! He’ll try to kill the Abhorsen . . . Mother . . . or Lirael! We haven’t got the ring to bind him again!”
“Mogget has long avoided her,” mumbled the Dog. She hesitated, then quietly said, “I don’t think we need to worry about Mogget anymore.”
Lirael let out her breath and didn’t take another. How could Mogget not be coming back?
“What?” asked Sam. “But he’s . . . well, I don’t know, but powerful . . . a Free Magic spirit. . . .”
“Who is she?” asked Lirael. She spoke very sternly as she took the Disreputable Dog by the jaw and stared into her deep, dark eyes. The Dog tried to turn away, but Lirael held her fast. The hound shut her eyes hopefully, only to be foiled as Lirael blew on her nose and they snapped open again.
“It won’t help you to know, because you can’t understand,” said the Dog, her voice filled with great weariness. “She doesn’t really exist anymore, except every now and then and here and there, in small ways and small things. If we had not come this way, she would not have been, and now that we have passed, she will not be.”
“Tell me!”
“You know who she is, at least in some degree,” said the Dog. She tapped her nose against Lirael’s bell-bandolier, leaving a wet mark on the leather of the seventh bell, and a single slow tear rolled down her snout to dampen Lirael’s hand.
“Astarael?” whispered Sam in disbelief. The most frightening bell of them all, the one he had never even touched in his brief time as custodian of that set of bells. “The Weeper?”
Lirael let the Dog go, and the hound promptly pushed her head farther into Lirael’s lap and let out a long sigh.
Lirael scratched the Dog’s ears again, but even with the feel of warm dog skin under her hand, she could not help asking a question she had asked before.
“What are you, then? Why did Astarael let you go?”
The Dog looked up at her and said simply, “I am the Disreputable Dog. A true servant of the Charter, and your friend. Always your friend.”
Lirael did weep then, but she wiped the tears away as she lifted the Dog by her collar and moved her away so she could stand up. Sam picked up Nehima and silently handed the sword to her. The Charter marks on the blade rippled as Lirael touched the hilt, but no inscription became visible.
“If you are sure Mogget will not be coming, bound or unbound, then we must go on,” said Lirael.
“I suppose so,” said Sam doubtfully. “Though I feel . . . feel sort of strange. I got kind of used to Mogget, and now he’s just . . . just gone? I mean, has she . . . has she killed him?”
“No!” answered the Dog. She seemed surprised at the suggestion. “No.”
“What then?” asked Sam.
“It is not for us to know,” said the Disreputable Dog. “Our task lies ahead, and Mogget lies behind us now.”
“You’re absolutely sure he won’t come after Mother or Lirael?” asked Sam. He knew Mogget’s recent history well and had been warned since he was a toddler of the danger of removing Mogget’s collar.
“I am sure that your mother is safe from Mogget across the Wall,” replied the Dog, only half-answering Sam’s question.
Sam did not look entirely convinced, but he slowly nodded in reluctant acceptance of the Dog’s assurance.
“We haven’t got off to a good start,” muttered Sam. “I hope it gets better.”
“There is sunlight ahead, and a way out,” said the Dog. “You will be happier under the sun.”
“It should be dark by now,” said Sam. “How long have we been underground?”
“Four or five hours, at least,” replied Lirael with a frown. “Maybe more, so that can’t be sunshine.”
She led the way across the cavern, but as they drew closer to the entrance, it was clear that it was sunshine. Soon they could see a narrow cleft ahead, and through it a clear blue sky, misted with spray from the great waterfall.
Once through the cleft, they found themselves several hundred yards to the west of the waterfall, at the base of the Long Cliffs. The sun was halfway up the sky to the west, the sunshine making rainbows in the huge cloud of spray that hung above the falls.
“It’s afternoon,” said Sam, shielding his eyes to look near the sun. He looked along the line of the cliffs, then held up his hand to gauge how many fingers the sun was above the horizon. “Not past four o’clock.”
“We’ve lost practically a whole day!” exclaimed Lirael. Every delay meant a greater chance of failure, and her heart sank at this further setback. How could they have spent almost twenty-four hours underground?
“No,” said the Disreputable Dog, who was watching the sun and sniffing the air. “We have not lost a day.”
“Not more?” whispered Lirael. Surely not. If they had somehow spent weeks or more underground, it would be too late to do anything. . . .
“No,” continued the Dog. “It is the same day we left the House. Perhaps an hour since we climbed down the well. Maybe less.”
“But—” Sam started to say something, then stopped. He shook his head and looked back at the cleft in the cliff.
“Time and Death sleep side by side,” said the Dog. “Both are in Astarael’s domain. She has helped us, in her own way.”
Lirael nodded, though she didn’t feel as if she’d been helped. She felt shocked and tired, and her legs hurt. She wanted to curl up in the sun and wake up in the Great Library of the Clayr with a sore neck from sleeping at her desk and a vague memory of disturbing nightmares.
“I can’t sense any Dead down here,” she said, after dismissing her daydream. “Since we’ve been given the gift of an afternoon, I guess we’d better use it. How do we get back up the cliffs?”
“There is a path about a league and a half to the west,” said Sam. “It’s narrow and mostly steps, so it’s not often used. The top of that should be well clear of the fog and Chlorr’s minions. Beyond that, the Western Cut is at least twelve or so leagues farther on. That’s where the road goes through.”
“What is the stepped path called?” asked the Dog.
“I don’t know. Mother just called it the Steps, I think. It’s quite strange really. The path is only wide enough for one, and the steps are low and deep.”
“I know it,” said the Dog. “Three thousand steps, and all for the sweet water at the foot.”
Sam nodded. “There is a spring there, and the water is good. You mean someone built the whole path just to get a drink of good water?”
“Water, yes, but not to drink,” said the Dog. “I am glad the path is still there. Let us go to it.”
With that, the hound sprang forward, jumping over the sprawl of boulders that helped conceal the cleft and the caves beyond.
Lirael and Sam followed more sedately, clambering between the stones. Both were still sore, and they had many things to think about. Lirael in particular was thinking of the Dog’s words: “When ancient forces stir, many things are woken.” She knew that whatever Nicholas was digging up was both powerful and evil, and it was clear that its emergence had set many things in motion, including a rising of the Dead across the whole Kingdom. But she had not considered that other powers might also be woken, and how that might affect their plans.
Not that they really had a plan, Lirael thought. They were simply rushing headlong to try to stop Hedge and save Nicholas and keep whatever it was safely buried in the ground.
“We should have a proper plan,” she whispered to herself. But no brilliant thoughts or strategies came to mind, and she had to concentrate on climbing between and over stones as she foll