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First, and least, is Ranna. Ranna, the Sleepbringer, will take all those who hear it into slumber.
They spent the night after the binding of Kerrigor in one of the private rooms in the San, Sabriel on the crisp-sheeted bed and Touchstone on a hastily assembled camp stretcher by the door. Sabriel vaguely remembered some strongly voiced objections to this arrangement from Matron, but in the end she'd shaken her head and gone to tend the wounded. Girls, teachers and soldiers were disposed variously among the dorms, most of them still asleep under Ranna's blanketing influence. They wouldn't see a doctor until morning - most of Kerrigor's Dead followers had slipped, unresisting, back into Death when he was bound, but some must still remain, and none of the villagers would venture out-of-doors on a night when the bells rang. But there was Matron, and Sulyn led a few unhurt members of the senior magic classes in casting healing spells where they were most needed.
There would be much to do tomorrow—Dead to seek out and lay to rest (though she'd have to be creative about it, with Kibeth and Saraneth broken), the bindings on the Crossing Point's wind flutes to renew, the school and village to be made safe, before she crossed the Wall to do the same across the Kingdom... The scale of the task almost overwhelmed her, and she pulled herself with an effort back into the present, cataloguing her surroundings. Outside, the clumping footsteps of sentries patrolling the corridor behind barred oak doors; a few feet away, Touchstone snored gently, his splinted leg propped up on pillows and one hand dangling off the camp bed to rest on his sword. The black cat was locked in a hastily warded crate; Mogget had somehow transferred himself from a towel-lined basket to the top of a pile of clean linens.
As if woken by her thoughts, Mogget yawned and stretched a paw in Touchstone's general direction. 'Sleeping like a baby. I suppose,' said Mogget, 'he hasn't realised yet.'
'Realised what?' asked Sabriel, yawning herself. Mogget's collar seemed to be contagious.
'That he's going to be the king. Has been since he woke up, if you look at things a certain way.'
'King?' Sabriel repeated, sleepily, stupidly.
'Touchstone the First. Odd sort of name, but I don't suppose he'll want to use the other. He is the last queen's closest living relative.' Mogget rearranged himself, rucking up the folded linens into a more comfortable nest. 'Haaaaugh. I suppose you'll want to get some sleep before you start rebuilding the kingdom. Wake me if you find some fish.'
Rebuilding the— Sabriel shook her head, wincing as the motion agitated her healing injuries. Tomorrow.
The last thing she heard as she drifted into the warm river of sleep was Mogget murmuring, 'And I don't suppose she's realised she's going to be queen.'
Second is Mosrael, the Waker. One of the most dangerous bells, and still so in any form. Its sound is a seesaw that will throw the piper further into Death, even as it brings the listener into Life.
For the second time in a month—had it truly only been a month?—Cloven Crest hove into view. As before, it was snowing; a few flakes swirled in the wind and the weak winter sun, and packed snow in the gully leading up to the hill made for hard skiing. But this time her sense of the Dead was quiescent; no Mordicant pursued her, and any creatures that might remain near the sundered Charter stone would be hiding in the woods or underground, unable to bear the sunlight. Perhaps, also, they felt the presence of two Charter Mages—for the greatest difference was that Sabriel didn't have to make this journey alone.
Touchstone, looking a bit green from the effects of the broken stone, as Sabriel suspected she was herself, took her hand, and they made the last few steps up to the summit together. 'Cast... diamond,' he panted. 'Should fix this. While we're here.'
The last time, Sabriel's diamond had nearly failed; with two casters, it was almost easy. East, South, West, North: the marks flowed through their joined hands and down her sword, blazing defiantly in the gathering dusk. The stone was inside with them, so there was no lessening of its presence, but the brightness of the wards nevertheless made Sabriel feel more cheerful. Now—
'Do you know how to do this? I don't think the Book of the Dead covers it, somehow.'
Touchstone eyed his sword, a hint of his old diffidence remaining. 'I've never done it, nor seen it done, but all royal Charter-bearers know the theory.' He knelt, laid the unsheathed sword on the ground and drew a small dagger from his belt. Charter marks flowed endlessly across the blade, contrasting with the still, dead carvings on the stone.
Or perhaps they were only sleeping. They could hope.
'Do you know the marks of cleansing and mending?'
Sabriel nodded. The Book of the Dead had rather a lot to say on the topic of cleansing, and one of her early lessons from Magistrix Greenwood had involved reattaching the sole of a boot.
'Put your hands on my shoulders, so. And...'
Touchstone sliced across his palm with the Charter-spelled dagger; Sabriel winced in sympathy. She reached for the Charter, plucking the marks she needed from the endless looping flow. Touchstone reached out to the stone, so that the blood from his hand flowed into the base of the crack. Sabriel could hear him chanting, marks she knew and marks she didn't, until he reached for the marks she held. The air hummed, and something ground inside the stone; the crack was healed, but still the stone's carvings did not wake. Finally, Touchstone leaned his forehead—with its own mark—against the stone, speaking a word Sabriel was surprised to recognise as the mark of baptism.
Touchstone stood, taking one stumbling step backwards to lean heavily on Sabriel. The stone now glowed faintly but steadily; strengthening as they watched, as if waking from a long sleep.
'How many broken stones are there again?'
Touchstone laughed, bringing his other arm up to catch her in a hug. 'Too many. But we've made a start.'
Third is Kibeth, the Walker. Kibeth gives freedom of movement to the Dead, or forces the Dead to walk at the piper's will. But Kibeth is contrary and can make the piper walk where she would not choose to go.
'Abhorsen!' Papers flew as the messenger skidded to a stop not quite short of the Council Chamber's table. Sabriel cast a glance at the new chancellor, Jall Oren, half-expecting him to be as annoyed as one of her schoolmistresses would have been at the interruption. Sometimes he reminded her strongly of Mrs Umbrade. This was not one of those times, however; Oren only looked relieved that the Abhorsen was there for the messenger to call on. He must have seen too many bearers of bad news during what people had taken to calling the Interregnum, when he had been one of the elders who tried, with occasional success, to keep order in Belisaere.
The messenger bent over, panting, hands on his knees. His surcoat was streaked with mud and sweat, but, Nine be praised, nothing worse. That Sabriel could see. Her hand went instinctively to the bells, which she never took off except to bathe or sleep; wearing her sword would make sitting down for meetings awkward, but it lay ready to hand in a specially constructed rack.
'Sire. My lords and ladies.' The man made belated courtesies to the rest of the council. 'Dead Hands, a dozen of them. Near Sindle. A Shadow Hand leading them, or maybe more than one—'
Sabriel had already risen and buckled on her sword-belt. She leaned down to give Touchstone a swift kiss, fighting off the urge to run her fingers through his curls. 'Sorry. Sorry! Tell Sam and Ellie I'll be back as soon as I can...'
Oren, in the background, shuffled papers pointedly. Touchstone's smile was crooked. 'I know. Does the walker choose the path, or the path the walker?'
Fourth is Dyrim, the Speaker, of melodious tone. Dyrim may grant speech to the dumb, tongue-lost Dead, or give forgotten words their meaning.
The Abhorsen's House still felt like home, although Sabriel spent more time in Belisaere and more time still on the road. Perhaps it was the memory of safety from her first arrival; perhaps it was the sendings, who still fed her, dressed her and generally behaved as if she were a not particularly competent four-year-old, which, Sabriel had gathered from her school-friends' conversation, was a characteristic of a certain type of grandmother.
Or perhaps it was Mogget. Mogget slept, as he had for the past fourteen years, in the House, tended by the sendings outside the family's occasional visits. They seldom saw him move, but folded laundry or a made bed could usually be found with a light coating of white hairs.
His current position, after some searching, turned out to be on the more comfortable wing chair in the library. Sabriel dangled a freshly caught trout (decidedly not an activity she felt either of her educations had prepared her for) in front of the chair, hoping it wasn't dripping too much on the carpet.
'Nothing? How about perch?'
Mogget somehow managed to snore derisively.
'Salmon?' That one had taken some catching—some Charter magic, if she were honest, though all the fishers she knew, including her husband, scorned the use of magic. What was more, she'd been hoping to save it for dinner. Well, trout was tasty enough, and she needed to talk to the cat.
Mogget yawned. 'You don't go fishing nearly enough, you know.'
'That's because everything we catch tends to disappear.'
'Please. I've hardly seen a salmon since your father was Abhorsen. Only—' He looked at one paw, seemingly counting. 'Well. What was it you wanted? Not a social visit, I take it?'
Sabriel shook her head. 'I need to know—when my father was Abhorsen-in-Waiting, was there anything special the Abhorsen did? My great-aunt?'
Between bites, Mogget considered. 'I recall she was fond of knitting. Or was it crochet?'
Sabriel scowled. 'As Abhorsen. I read the Book of the Dead, and Father took me into Death when I was ready, but... Well, it doesn't seem to be working out with Sam.'
'There used to be a second set of bells. And some pipes—or were they destroyed when the bells were made? It's been such a long time...' He scratched at his neck, not quite under the collar. 'You could at least scratch me, if you won't take it off?'
'Move over, then.' Sabriel sat on the edge of the chair and began scratching.
'Where was I? Oh, the lesser bells. I admit to being puzzled as to why they didn't appear for you—perhaps it was because you were in Ancelstierre. They didn't know they were needed.'
'They just...appear?'
'The sendings lay them out, but before you ask, they don't seem to know where they come from.'
'Hmm. So if they haven't appeared for Sam?'
Mogget stretched his chin, giving her a better angle. 'He may simply be too young.'
'Then what should I do in the meantime?'
'There's really nothing in the Book? It sounds as if you could stand to read it again.'
'Mogget.'
The cat yawned, rolled over and curled up with his back to her.
'Wait! I need to know—' Any number of things, none of which Mogget seemed inclined to tell her.
Sabriel stood, gently disentangling her surcoat from the cat's claws. Perhaps the bells would come in time, and with them some inspiration for how to deal with her recalcitrant son. In the meantime, there were fish to fry.
Fifth is Belgaer, the Thinker, which can restore independent thought, and memory, and all the patterns of what was once in Life.
People streamed through the gates of Belisaere—merchants, farmers, artisans, elders, dressed in their Midwinter finery. The travellers seemed to shrug a weight off their shoulders as they passed beneath the great aqueducts; the Dead were relatively quiet these days, but adults remembered the Interregnum all too well, and children were raised on the stories. Folk came to celebrate the festival in Belisaere not only for dancing and markets and fine holiday foods, but for the sense of being able to gather in safety, to meet strangers without fearing that they were less—or more—than human, protected by the King's Guard, the Abhorsen, and, not least, the city itself.
This year, there were more elders than usual among the crowds; the usual entertainments were to be followed by a gathering of town and village elders that Touchstone and Sabriel hoped would be the first meeting of an annual Great Council.
Princess Ellimere, aged fifteen, watching the crowds with her parents and brother (who was currently occupied in building an automatic spinning-top), was not sure this was a terribly good idea. 'This isn't Ancelstierre, after all,' she argued.
'People work harder when they believe they have a stake in something,' Ellimere's father replied, seriously. 'And they take almost as great a risk as your mother and I, just by living outside city walls.'
'Besides,' added her mother. 'Just because we bear the Great Charters doesn't mean we have to do all the thinking. I don't know about you,' she continued, twinkling at Touchstone, 'but I'm looking forward to delegating.'
Sixth comes Saraneth, also known as the Binder. Saraneth speaks with the deep voice of power, shackling the Dead to the wielder's will.
'I look ridiculous,' Touchstone complained, partly to take his mind off the unnerving rumble of automobiles outside the townhouse window. He'd been to Ancelstierre before, accompanying his mother the Queen on a visit to the Embassy in Bain, but they had ventured no further south. Not to mention, it had been more than two hundred years ago. It had been strange to step from autumn into high summer, and even stranger not to touch the Charter when the wind was from the south, but in the essentials, Bain of two hundred years before had borne many similarities to a market town north of the Wall. Now, though, Ancelstierre had spent two centuries busily developing more and more complicated machinery, not to mention some exceedingly peculiar fashions. And, of course, they were many leagues further south, not only further from the Charter but closer to the centres of power. Corvere of today was to Bain of two hundred years ago as the Clayr's Glacier was to the ice in his drink. Which he downed, before returning to wrestling with the abomination Sabriel called a 'necktie'.
'Nonsense,' his wife assured him. 'You look very handsome. And, more to the point, not at all like a wild northern barbarian. They take these things very seriously down here.'
'Neckties?'
'Among other things. And we need the Minister's support if we're to establish an embassy here. Bain just isn't close enough to Parliament—we need some say in decisions that affect us, or...'
Sabriel didn't need to elaborate. The Crossing Point had last been moved more than thirty years ago; the concentration of deaths had recently necessitated the construction of additional wind flutes. Bain had been growing, too, along with other formerly sleepy townships directly south of the Wall, and if an influx of new residents arrived who lacked knowledge of the local dangers, the consequences could be disastrous for both kingdoms.
'Can we convince them? We—' meaning the King and Abhorsen-Queen, who held the Great Charters in their blood—'don't officially exist, do we?'
Sabriel's mouth turned down at the corners, rather adorably. A thought he would have to hold until after the reception. 'Oh, we exist as heads of state, and we should be able to move the embassy easily enough—according to Sulyn, when Corvere bothers to think about it, they wonder why we have it in the back of beyond. As to the rest...' She shook her head. 'I'm not sure. But we have to try. We need closer ties with the South.'
Touchstone nodded. Closer ties, or everything they'd built might fall apart.
Astarael, the Sorrowful. Properly sounded, Astarael will cast all who hear it deep into Death.
Sam looked much younger than fourteen, boarding the bus at the Crossing Point in grey flannel shirt and shorts instead of his customary breeches and surcoat. There was a bruise on one knee, and Sabriel felt an impulse to catch him up in her arms and kiss it better as she would have done when he was four.
Was this how Dad felt? She hadn't had even holidays with him, and goodbyes had been at the school gate, or—on his less corporeal visits—in her study. His words came back to her, as they always did at such times, with more force every year: When we become the Abhorsen, we lose much else. At the time, she'd taken it for an apology to her, a final expression of love and regret, but it hadn't taken her long to learn that it was just as much an apology to himself. They grew so quickly, yet she could never stop to enjoy them. Ellie seemed to rush to take on responsibilities beyond her years, and Sam especially had never had the ordinary luxury of a normal childhood. Hiding at Wyverley had kept Sabriel safe, but her inexperience had almost killed her; she was determined that Sam's education would not be equally lacking.
But he was fourteen now, two years older than when she herself had first walked in Death, and this holiday was the first time he'd successfully entered Death with her. Nor had the bells appeared, or the elusive pipes.
The bus pulled away, and Sam waved from the rear window, his face already paler than the other boys' tans. Sabriel waved back, then turned back towards the Wall, fighting down a lump in her throat.
What happened to an Abhorsen when the path did not choose him?