"Come on, then," she said, pushing herself up with a groan. Burnt hair and bruises-that was all she'd found so far. "What are you waiting for?"

"You go first," retorted the Dog. "My nose still hurts from your stupid relatives' blazing doormen."

The path of lights led farther along the ledge, and the Rift narrowed, the rock walls closing in, till Lirael could reach out and run her fingers along the cold, wet stone on either side of her. She stopped doing that when she discovered that the luminescence came from a damp fungus that made her fingertips glow and smell like rotten cabbage.

As the way grew narrower, it also descended farther into the mountain, and a chill dankness banished the last remnants of heat from Lirael's scorched face. There was also a sound, a deep rumbling that vibrated up through her feet, getting louder as they walked on. At first, Lirael thought she was imagining it, that perhaps it was part of what the Dog called her sense of Death. Then she realized what it was: the full-throated roar of rushing water.

"We must be near an underground river or something," she said, nervously raising her voice to counter the rising roar of the water. Like most of the Clayr, she could barely swim, and her experience of rivers was confined to the awesome ice-melt torrents that raged from the glacier every Spring.

"We are almost upon it," replied the Dog, who could see farther in the glow of the star-lined path. "As the poet had it:

"Swift river born in deepest night,Rushing forth to catch the light.Deep ice and dark its swaddling cloth,The Kingdom's foes will feel its wroth.Till mighty Ratterlin spends its strength,In the Delta at full length.

"Hmmm ... I may have forgotten a line there. Let's see, 'Swift river-'"

"The Ratterlin's source is here?" interrupted Lirael, pointing ahead. "I thought it was just melt.w.a.ter. I didn't know it had a source."

"There is a spring," replied the Dog, after a pause. "A very old spring. In the heart of the mountain, in the deepest dark. Stop!"

Lirael obeyed, one hand instinctively clutching at the loose fold of skin on the Dog's neck, just behind her collar.

At first she didn't understand why the Dog had stopped her, till the hound led her on, a few more cautious steps. With those steps, the sound of the river suddenly became a thundering roar, and cold spray slapped her in the face.

They had come to the river. The path ahead was a slender, slippery bridge of wet stone that stretched out twenty paces or more, to end in yet another door. The bridge had no rails, and was less than two feet wide. Its narrowness, and the rushing water below, were a clear indication that it was designed to be a barrier to the Dead. Nothing of that kind could cross here.

Lirael looked at the bridge, the door, then down at the dark, rushing water, feeling both fear and a terrible fascination. The constant motion of the water and the incessant roar were mesmerizing, but finally she managed to tear her gaze away. She looked at the Dog, and though her words were half-drowned by the crash of the river, exclaimed, "I am not going to cross that!"

The Dog ignored her, and Lirael started to repeat herself. But the words stayed on her tongue as Lirael saw that the Dog's paws had grown twice as large as usual, and flattened out. She also looked quite smug.

"I bet you've even grown suckers," shouted Lirael, shuddering with distaste at the thought. "Like an octopus."

"Of course I have," the Dog shouted back, lifting one paw with a squelching pop that Lirael could hear even over the river's roar. "This looks like a very treacherous bridge."

"Yes, it does," bawled Lirael, looking at the bridge again. Clearly the Dog intended to cross, and with her sucker-footed help, Lirael guessed, crossing would go from impossible to merely dangerous. Sighing, she bent down and took off her shoes, eyes blinking against the constant spray. After tying the laces of her soft leather ankle-boots through her belt, she wriggled her toes on the stone. It was very cold, but Lirael was relieved to feel faint cross-hatching that she hadn't seen in the dim light. That would give her some grip.

"I wonder what this bridge was designed to keep out," she said, carefully slipping her fingers under the Dog's collar, feeling the comforting buzz of the Charter Magic there and the even more comforting bulk of a well-balanced dog.

They had only taken the first step when Lirael voiced her second thought, her words inaudible with the river's bellow all around them.

"Or what it was designed to keep in."

Chapter Twenty-Two.

Power of Three The door at the far end of the bridge opened as soon as Lirael touched it. Once again, she felt Charter Magic flow into her, but it was not the friendly touch of the upper door, or the quiet recognition of the stone portal at the entrance to the Rift. This one was more like a wary examination, followed by immediate, but not necessarily friendly, recognition. the far end of the bridge opened as soon as Lirael touched it. Once again, she felt Charter Magic flow into her, but it was not the friendly touch of the upper door, or the quiet recognition of the stone portal at the entrance to the Rift. This one was more like a wary examination, followed by immediate, but not necessarily friendly, recognition.

Under her hand, the Dog shivered as the door swung open. Lirael felt the tremor and wondered why, till she caught the distinctive, corrosive scent of Free Magic. It was coming from somewhere ahead, strangely overlaid with Charter Magic that bound and contained it.

"Free Magic," whispered Lirael, hesitating. But the Dog continued to move forward, dragging her along. Reluctantly, Lirael followed her through the doorway.

As soon as Lirael pa.s.sed the threshold, the door slammed shut behind her. In an instant, the roar of the river was cut off. So was the light from the Charter-marked trail. It was dark, darker than any darkness Lirael had ever known, a true dark in which it was suddenly difficult to even imagine light. The darkness pressed upon Lirael, making her doubt her own senses. Only the Dog's warm skin under her hand told her that she was still standing, that the room had not changed, and the floor had not tilted.

"Don't move," whispered the Dog, and Lirael felt a canine snout briefly press against her leg, as if the spoken warning weren't enough.

The smell of Free Magic grew stronger. Lirael pinched her nose with one hand, trying not to breathe anything in, while her other hand went to the clockwork emergency mouse in her waistcoat pocket. Not that it was likely that even this clever device could find its way from here to the Library.

She could feel Charter Magic building, too, strong marks floating in the air like pollen, their usual internal light dampened. She could sense Charter and Free Magic working together, winding and twisting about her, weaving some spell she couldn't even begin to identify.

Fear began to knot in Lirael's stomach, slowly spreading to paralyze her lungs. She wanted to breathe, to force air slowly in and out, to calm herself with the steadiness of her own breath. But the air was heavy with strange magic, magic she could not-would not-breathe in.

Then lights began to sparkle in the air; tiny, fragile b.a.l.l.s of light made up of hundreds of hair-thin spines, like luminous dandelion clocks, wafting about on some breeze Lirael couldn't feel. With the lights, the taint of Free Magic abated, the Charter Magic began to strengthen, and Lirael took a slight, cautious breath.

In the strangely mottled, constantly changing light, Lirael saw that she was in an octagonal chamber. A large room, but not of cold, carved stone as she'd expected, here in the heart of the mountain. The walls were tiled in a delicate pattern of golden stars, towers, and silver keys. The ceiling was plastered and painted with a night sky, full of black, rain-fat clouds advancing upon seven bright and shining stars. And there was carpet under her bare feet, Lirael realized. A deep blue carpet, soft and warm under her toes after the cold, wet stone of the bridge.

In the middle of the room, a redwood table stood in solitary splendor, its slender legs ending in silver, three-toed feet. On its rich, polished surface there were three items, arranged in a line: a small metal case about the size of Lirael's palm; a set of what looked like metal panpipes; and a book, bound in deep blue leather with silver clasps. The table, or the items on it, were clearly the focal point for the magic, for the dandelion lights swarmed thickest there, creating an effect like luminous fog.

"Off you go, then," said the Dog, sitting back on her haunches. "That looks like what we've come for."

"What do you mean?" asked Lirael suspiciously, drawing a series of deep and calming breaths. She felt reasonably safe now, but there was a lot of magic in the room that she didn't know, and she couldn't even begin to guess what it was for or where it came from. And she could still taste Free Magic at the back of her mouth and on her tongue, a cold iron tang that just wouldn't go away.

"The doors opened for you; the path lit up for you; the guardians here didn't destroy you," said the Dog, nuzzling Lirael's open hand with her cold, damp nose. She looked up at Lirael knowingly and added, "Whatever's on that table must be meant for you. Which equally means it's not meant for me. So I'm going to sit down here. Or lie down, actually. Wake me up when it's time to go."

With that, the Dog stretched luxuriously, yawned, and lowered herself to the carpet. Comfortably settled on her side, she swished her tail a few times and then, to all appearances, fell deeply asleep.

"Oh, Dog!" exclaimed Lirael. "You can't sleep now! What'll I do if something bad happens?"

The Dog opened one eye and said, with the least possible jaw movement, "Wake me up, of course."

Lirael looked down at the sleeping Dog, then over at the table. The Stilken was the worst thing she'd encountered in the Library. But she'd found other dangerous things over the past few years-fell creatures, old Charter-spells that had unraveled or become unpredictable, mechanical traps, even poisoned book bindings. All these were the regular hazards of a librarian's life, but nothing like what she faced now. Whatever these items were, they were guarded more heavily, and with stranger and more powerful magic, than anything Lirael had ever seen.

Whatever magic was concentrated here was very old, too, Lirael realized. The walls, the floor, the ceiling, the carpet, the table-even the air in the room-were saturated with layer upon layer of Charter marks, some of them at least a thousand years old. She could feel them moving everywhere, mixing and changing. When she closed her eyes for a moment, the room felt almost like a Charter Stone, a source of Charter Magic rather than just a place upon which many spells had been cast.

But that was impossible, at least as far as she knew....

Suddenly made dizzy by the thought, Lirael opened her eyes again. Charter marks flowed against her skin, into her breath, swam in her blood. Free Magic floated between the marks. The dandelion lights spread out towards her like tendrils, wrapped gently around her waist, and slowly reeled her in towards the table.

The magic and the lights made her feel light-headed and dazed, as if she'd woken from the final moments of a dream. Lirael fought the feeling for a moment, but it was a pleasant feeling, not at all threatening. She let the sleeping Dog lie and walked forward slowly, swathed in light.

Then she was suddenly at the table, with no memory of crossing the intervening s.p.a.ce. Her hands were resting on the cool, polished surface of the table. As could be expected of a Second a.s.sistant Librarian, she reached for the book first, her fingers touching the silver clasp that held it shut as she read the t.i.tle embossed in silver type upon the spine: The Book of Remembrance and Forgetting The Book of Remembrance and Forgetting.

Lirael undid the clasp, feeling Charter Magic there, too, noting the marks that chased each other across the silver surface and deep in the metal itself. Marks of binding and closing, burning and destruction.

But the clasp was open by the time she realized what the marks were, and she stood unharmed. Carefully, she turned back the cover and the t.i.tle page, the crisp, leaf-thin paper turning easily. There were Charter marks inside the pages, put there at the time of the paper's making. And Free Magic, constrained and channeled into place. Magic of both kinds lay in the boards and leather of the cover, and even in the glue and st.i.tching of the spine.

Most of all, there was magic and power in the type. In the past, Lirael had seen similar, if less powerful, books, like In the Skin of a Lyon In the Skin of a Lyon. You could never truly finish reading such a book, for the contents changed at need, at the original maker's whim, or to suit the phases of the moon or the patterns of the weather. Some of the books had contents you couldn't even remember till certain events might come to pa.s.s. Invariably, this was an act of kindness from the creator of the book, for such contents invariably dealt with things that would be a burden to recall with every waking day.

The lights danced around Lirael's head as she began to read, making shadow patterns from her hair flicker across the page. She read the first page, then the next, then the one after. Soon Lirael had finished the first chapter, as her hand reached out every few minutes to turn the page. Behind her, the Dog's heavy, sleepy breath seemed to match the slow rhythm of the turning pages.

Hours later, or even days-for Lirael had lost all knowledge of time-she turned what seemed to be the last page and closed the book. It latched itself shut, the silver clasp snapping.

Lirael drew back at the snap but didn't leave the table. Instead, she picked up the panpipes, seven small tubes of silver, ranging in size from the length of her little finger to a little shorter than her hand. She held the pipes up to her lips, but didn't blow. They were much more than they appeared. The book had told her how the pipes were made, and how they should be used, and Lirael now knew that the Charter marks that moved in the silver were only a veneer on the Free Magic that lurked within.

She touched each of the pipes in turn, smallest to largest, and whispered their names to herself before putting the instrument back on the table. Then she picked up the last item, the small metal case. This was silver, too, etched with pleasing decorations as well as Charter marks. The latter were similar to those on the book, all threatening retribution if the box were opened by someone not of the True Blood. It didn't say which particular blood, but Lirael thought that if the book opened for her, the case would, too.

She lightly touched the catch, recoiling a little as she felt the heat of Free Magic blazing within. The case remained shut. Briefly, she thought that the book might be wrong, or she might have misread the marks, or not have the right blood. She shut her eyes and firmly pressed the catch.

Nothing terrible happened, but the case shivered in her hand. Lirael opened her eyes. The case had sprung open into two halves, hinged in the middle. Like a small mirror, to be balanced on a shelf or table.

Lirael opened it completely and placed it, vee-shaped, on the table. One side of it was silver, but the other was something she couldn't describe. Where the bright reflective surface of a mirror would be, there was a nonreflective rectangle of ... nothing. A piece of absolute darkness, a shape of something made from the total absence of light.

The Book of Remembrance and Forgetting called it a Dark Mirror, and Lirael had read, at least in part, how it might be used. But the Dark Mirror would not work in this room, or in any part of the world of Life. It could be used only in Death, and Lirael had no intention of going there, even if the book professed to show her how to come back. Death was the province of the Abhorsen, not the Clayr, even though the peculiar use of the Dark Mirror could possibly be related to the Clayr's gift of Sight. called it a Dark Mirror, and Lirael had read, at least in part, how it might be used. But the Dark Mirror would not work in this room, or in any part of the world of Life. It could be used only in Death, and Lirael had no intention of going there, even if the book professed to show her how to come back. Death was the province of the Abhorsen, not the Clayr, even though the peculiar use of the Dark Mirror could possibly be related to the Clayr's gift of Sight.

Lirael snapped shut the Dark Mirror and laid it on the table. But her fingers still rested upon it. She stood there like that for a full minute, thinking. Then she picked it up and slipped it into her left waistcoat pocket, to join the company of a pen nib, a length of waxed string, and a seriously foreshortened pencil. After another moment of hesitation, she picked up the panpipes and put them in her right pocket with the clockwork mouse. Finally, she picked up The Book of Remembrance and Forgetting The Book of Remembrance and Forgetting and tucked it into the front of her waistcoat. and tucked it into the front of her waistcoat.

She walked back to the Disreputable Dog. It was time for the two of them to have a very serious talk about what was going on. The Book, the Dark Mirror, and the panpipes had lain here for a thousand years or more, waiting in the dark for someone the Clayr of long ago had known would come.

Waiting in the dark for a woman named Lirael.

Waiting for her her.

Chapter Twenty-Three.

A Troublesome Season Prince Sameth stood shivering on the narrow sentry walk of the Palace's second tallest tower. He was wearing his heaviest fur cloak, but the wind still cut through it, and he couldn't be bothered to cast a Charter-spell for warmth. He half wanted to catch a cold, because it would mean escaping from the training schedule Ellimere had forced upon him. shivering on the narrow sentry walk of the Palace's second tallest tower. He was wearing his heaviest fur cloak, but the wind still cut through it, and he couldn't be bothered to cast a Charter-spell for warmth. He half wanted to catch a cold, because it would mean escaping from the training schedule Ellimere had forced upon him.

He was standing on the sentry walk for two reasons. The first reason was that he wanted to look out in the hope that he would see either his father or his mother returning. The second was that he wanted to avoid Ellimere and everyone else who wanted to organize his life.

Sam missed his parents, not just because they might free him from Ellimere's tyranny. But Sabriel was constantly in demand away from Belisaere, flying her red and gold Paperwing from one trouble spot to the next. It was a bad winter, people repeatedly said in Sam's hearing, with so much activity from the Dead and from Free Magic creatures. Sam always shivered inside as they said it, knowing their eyes were on him and that he should be studying The Book of the Dead The Book of the Dead, preparing himself to help his mother.

He should be studying now, he thought glumly, but he continued to stare out over the frosted roofs of the city and through the rising smoke of thousands of cozy fires.

He hadn't opened the book at all since Ellimere had given it to him. The green and silver volume remained safely locked in a cupboard in his workroom. He thought about it every day, and looked at it, but couldn't bring himself to actually read it. In fact, he spent the hours he was supposed to be studying it trying to work out how he could tell his mother that he couldn't. He couldn't read the book, and he couldn't face going into Death again.

Ellimere allowed him two hours a day for study of the book, or "Abhorsen prep" as she called it, but Sam did no reading. He wrote instead. Speech after speech in which he tried to explain his feelings and his fears. Letters to Sabriel. Letters to Touchstone. Letters to both parents. All of them ended up in the fire.

"I'll just tell her," announced Sam to the wind. He didn't speak too loudly in case the sentry on the far side of the tower heard him. The guards already thought he was a miserable excuse for a Prince. He didn't want them thinking he was a mad Prince as well.

"No, I'll tell Dad, and then he can tell her," he added after a moment's thought. But Touchstone had barely returned from Estwael when he had had to ride south to the Guard Fort at Barhedrin Hill, just north of the Wall. There had been reports that the Ancelstierrans were allowing groups of Southerling refugees to cross the Wall and settle in the Old Kingdom-or in actuality, to be killed by the creatures or wild folk who roamed the Borderlands. Touchstone had gone to investigate these reports, to see what the Ancelstierrans were up to, and to save any of the Southerlings who might have survived.

"Stupid Ancelstierrans," muttered Sam, kicking the wall. Unfortunately, his other foot slipped on the icy stone, and he skidded into the wall, smacking his funny bone.

"Ow!" he exclaimed, clutching his elbow. "Blast it!"

"You all right, sir?" asked the guard, who came at a run, his hob-nailed boots providing much better purchase than Sam's rabbit-fur slippers. "You don't want to break a leg."

Sam scowled. He knew that the prospect of his dancing the Bird of Dawning provided no end of amus.e.m.e.nt for the guards. His sense of self-worth wasn't helped by their badly disguised snickering or the ease with which Ellimere practiced her own future role, acting as co-regent with grace and authority-at least to everyone except Sam.

Sam's stumbling rehearsals for the Bird of Dawning part in the Midwinter and Midsummer Festivals was only one of the many areas in which he displayed himself as poorer royal material than his sister. He couldn't pretend enthusiasm for the dances, he often fell asleep in Petty Court, and while he knew he was a very competent swordsman, he somehow didn't feel like stretching his ability at practice with the guards.

Nor did he show up well at Perspective. Ellimere always threw herself into the task at hand, working like fury. Sam did quite the reverse, staring into s.p.a.ce and worrying about his clouded future, often becoming so engrossed that he stopped doing whatever he was supposed to be doing.

"Sir, are you all right?" the guard repeated.

Sam blinked. There, he was doing it again. Staring into s.p.a.ce while he thought about staring into s.p.a.ce.

"Yes, thank you," he said, flexing his gloved fingers. "Slipped. Hit my funny bone."

"See anything interesting out there?" asked the guard. His name was Brel, Sam remembered. Quite a friendly guard, not one who stifled a smile every time Sam walked past in his Bird of Dawning costume.

"No," replied Sam, shaking his head. He looked out again, down into the interior of the city. The Midwinter Festival was to start in a few days. Construction of the Frost Fair was in full swing. A great, bustling tent town on the frozen surface of Lake Loesare, the Frost Fair had pageant wagons and players, jesters and jugglers, musicians and magicians, exhibitions and expositions, and all sorts of games, not to mention food from every corner of the Old Kingdom and beyond. Lake Loesare covered ninety acres of Belisaere's central valley, but the Frost Fair overflowed it, extending into the public gardens that lined the lakesh.o.r.e.

Sam had always liked the Frost Fair, but he looked down on it now without interest. All he could feel was a cold and black depression.

"All the fun of the fair," said Brel, clapping his hands together. "It looks like it'll be a good festival this year."

"Does it?" asked Sam bleakly. He would have to dance on the final day of the Festival, as the Bird of Dawning. It was his job to carry the green sprig of Spring at the tail end of the Winter procession, behind Snow, Hail, Sleet, Fog, Storm, and Frost. They were all professional dancers on stilts, so they not only loomed threateningly over the Bird but also showed up Sam's lack of expertise.

The Winter Dance was long and complicated, weaving through two miles of the Fair's winding ways. But it was much longer than that, because there was lots of doubling back as the Six Spirits of Winter ducked around the Bird and tried to prolong their season by stealing the sprig of Spring from under Sam's golden wing, or by tripping him up with their stilts.

There had been two full rehearsals so far. The Spirits of Winter were supposed to fail at tripping the Bird, but so far even the skill of the other dancers couldn't prevent the Bird from tripping himself. By the end of the first rehearsal, the Bird had fallen three times and bent its beak twice, and certainly had extremely ruffled feathers. The second rehearsal had been even worse, when the Bird crashed into Sleet and knocked her off her stilts. The new Sleet still wouldn't talk to him.

"They say a hard practice means an easy dance," said Brel.

Sam nodded and looked away from the guard. There was no sign of a Paperwing gliding in against the wind, or a troop of hors.e.m.e.n bearing the royal banner on the southern road. It was a waste of time looking for his parents.

Brel coughed into his glove. Sam glanced back as the guard inclined his head and resumed his slow march around the sentry walk, his trumpet b.u.mping gently on its strap against his back.

Sam went downstairs. He was already late for the next rehearsal.

Brel was wrong about the bad rehearsals meaning a successful dance. Sam b.u.mbled and stumbled all his way through it, and only the professionalism and energy of the Six Spirits saved the dance from disaster.

Traditionally, all the dancers from the Festival ate with the royal family at the Palace after the dance, but Sam chose to stay away. They'd done enough to him, and he'd done enough, with the bruises to show for it. He was sure Sleet had deliberately smacked him with her stilt near the end. She was the sister of the one he'd knocked off her stilts in rehearsal.

Instead of attending the dinner, Sam retired to his workshop, trying to forget his troubles in the construction of a particularly intricate and interesting magical-mechanical toy. Ellimere sent a page to get him but could do no more without embarra.s.sing everyone, so he was left in peace-for that night at least.