“Good,” said Lirael. She shook her head, felt the strange impression on her cheek, and grimaced. “Did you See what’s happening at Yellowsands? I’ve made a Charter skin, an owl. I’ll fly there as soon as I can fold it and go up on the—”
“That’s why I woke you up,” said Sanar. “You don’t need to go anywhere. Most of the sorcerers went back in their ship with their wood-weirds, they’re gone. The necromancer has been dealt with by the guards from Navis. And Sabriel and the King are flying to Yellowsands at dawn. We didn’t See that, by the way. A message-hawk came in just before sundown last night stating their intention, but Kirrith didn’t file the message, she just put it up her sleeve.”
“But . . . but their holiday!” protested Lirael. She felt a sudden hollow feeling inside, that she had let down her half-sister, had failed in her duty.
Sanar laughed.
“Can you imagine those two staying on holiday for any length of time?” she asked. “I expect they were very pleased to be called back, even if Kirrith was wrong to do so. Which she was, by the way. It is my fault too, and I apologize. Well, mine and Ryelle’s. We fell into the very traditional error of the Clayr, the one our mother always warned us about.”
“What’s that?”
“Thinking we will always See everything important,” said Sanar. “We all know better, but we forget. We Saw nothing significant ahead, save this bout of influenza, and thought a few sops to those who don’t normally get the chance to be the Voice wouldn’t go astray. Very worthy folk like Pegrun in the steamworks, and old Allabet, who makes those lovely confections in the Upper Refectory. And some not-so-worthy folk, like Kirrith. We just got tired of her complaining that no one recognized her value.”
“So I can go back to sleep,” said Lirael.
“For now,” replied Sanar. “We know from the message-hawk that Sabriel and Touchstone are going to Yellowsands. But not for long, because we have Seen them coming here.”
“Coming here?” asked Lirael. “What for?”
“They’re bringing a messenger,” said Sanar. “A young woman from the far mountains beyond the steppe, who has had a very hard road indeed.”
Lirael nodded and yawned. Sleep called to her very strongly, and she started to subside back onto the bed, noting for the first time how very comfortable the feather mattress was. It was so much firmer and well-packed than her old bed, and wider too, with ample room for two people on it. Her and Nick, for example . . .
Sanar was still talking. Words drifted past Lirael’s ear, only some of them connecting with her very weary mind, which was wandering off on some pleasant imaginings. But two words did penetrate, and with them came a sudden jolt of wakefulness that brought her right back to the present.
“Your mother.”
Lirael sat up as if a large pin had suddenly been discovered the hard way amid the feathers of the mattress.
“My mother?” she asked sharply. “What did you say?”
“The messenger from the far mountains,” said Sanar gently. “She is bringing a message from your mother. And word of some wider trouble ahead. The King has called a council. They will arrive around noon, I should think. Both Sabriel and Touchstone are flying paperwings, and they will bring this messenger.”
“But my mother is dead,” said Lirael in a very small voice. “Isn’t she?”
“She is,” said Sanar, sitting down next to her on the bed to give her a hug. “But she was a Clayr, and a very strong one. We think she Saw something years ago, something that is now coming to pass, and she arranged for a messenger to warn you. To warn us.”
“I see,” said Lirael. She gave a small, slightly bitter laugh. “Or rather I don’t See. As always.”
“You have other gifts,” said Sanar. “Very important ones, as we all know. You are the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, and a Remembrancer. I think Arielle was immensely, immensely proud of you.”
“Of a five-year-old she left behind?”
“No,” said Sanar quietly. “Of the woman you have become. I think she Saw you. She knew. Perhaps this messenger will tell us more. You should sleep now.”
She got up and went to the door.
“Your friend is handsome, by the way,” said Sanar.
“Oh,” said Lirael. “Nick? You . . . you have Seen him? Seen us?”
“Not in time to come. Not in the ice,” said Sanar, much to Lirael’s relief. “But the door to his bedroom is open, and like you were, he is asleep fully clothed on the bed.”
“He’s getting more handsome as he recovers,” said Lirael. “But that’s not what . . . that’s only part of . . . there’s something else about him, that’s not obvious . . .”
“It is always important to look beyond a pleasant visage,” said Sanar. “Sleep well.”
She went out, the Sending shutting the door quietly behind her. But Lirael did not immediately lie back. She was still very, very tired, but she got up and took off her dress, laying it carefully over the chair. The Sending came forward immediately, took a nightgown from the ugly but impressive wardrobe that had gargoyles on its top corners, and offered it to her. Lirael dutifully put it on but didn’t go straight back to bed. Instead she undid the strap on the smallest pocket of her bell bandolier and took out the small soapstone statuette of the little dog. Holding it tight in her left hand, she went to the bed; this time she crawled between the sheets, made the pleasant discovery they were fine silk, and dropped immediately off to sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
ARRIVALS AND DEPARTURES
Near Yellowsands and the Clayr’s Glacier, Old Kingdom
Ferin dreamed terrible dreams. She was back in the Offering’s Chair again, and there was not one but many small children chewing on her ankle with their impossibly sharp teeth, shredding flesh and bone, grunting like hogs. Then they were gone and there was another even worse pain in her stomach, and the Witch With No Face, who Ferin had never actually seen but had heard described, was stabbing her in the navel, striking again and again, and her bronze mask was sweating, great beads of molten bronze sweat falling onto Ferin and burning her . . .
Then she woke up, to find herself on some sort of low bed, under a blanket and her own Athask fur coat. Ferin touched the fur gingerly to see if it was real or if she was still dreaming, for she knew it had been in her pack, dropped on the road as they fled . . . she let go and lifted her head, anxiously looking around. Had she been captured by the necromancer? Surely he would simply slay her?
She was in a stone-walled room, the wall curved behind her. She could see the sky of early morning through the narrow window opposite, but not the dusky orange of dawn. It was midmorning, perhaps two or three hours after daybreak. There was an open door to her left, which was promising. Not a prison. She could see stone steps going down, and up.
A tower. Probably the old tower where the villagers had fled. Ferin grimaced, thinking
of what she had to tell Karrilke. But first she had to get up. She put her elbows back and tried, but there really was a pain in her navel. Pushing back coat and blanket, she found she was dressed only in a kind of long white shirt. There was a bandage around her middle. Ferin pressed against it, discovering a wound. She ran her fingers along the small, neat incision, reminiscent of a stab wound. But she didn’t remember being struck there, certainly not with a weapon. It wasn’t like the many small cuts on her face and hands, from the Gore Crows and the shale, which had been smeared with some kind of healing grease, but not bandaged.
Her ankle hurt too, but not as much as it had. It was hard to sit up, but she managed it, and looked at her right foot.
It wasn’t there.
Her leg ended in a carefully bandaged stump.
Ferin could swear she still felt her toes, and could even wriggle them. But they were not there. For a moment the shock was too great; she could only stare along her leg. But slowly the realization came. She had damaged it too much, the healing spell had failed, and it had been cut off so it could not poison the rest of her.
Ferin let her head fall back and stared at the ceiling, willing herself to stay calm. She was Athask, and the loss of a foot was nothing important. She would get a wooden foot. There were several people in the tribe who had lost limbs in fighting, or from accidents, or frostbite. Ears and noses too. It did not matter.
Though it would make things a little difficult in the immediate future. Ferin also wondered why it wasn’t hurting more. Surely it should be like the blinding pain she’d felt on the fishing boat, so great she had not been able to stay conscious? She sat up once more, grunting with the effort, and looked again. After a few seconds, she saw those strange glowing, moving symbols again, both on her foot and on her stomach. Charter marks. There was magic at work.
“Ah, you’re awake,” said Astilaran, climbing up the last few steps into the room.