Goldenhand (11 page)

“Yes,” replied Lirael, quickly drawing her hand into her lap so he couldn't see it anymore. “Yes. It's a marvel, really. I often forget it isn't my . . . isn't really part of me.”

Nick resisted a strong impulse to slap himself in the head. Sam had told him all about the events at Forwin Mill, and how Lirael had lost her hand in the final binding of Orannis. Of course the loss of her hand, and in fact all the events of that time, were incredibly traumatic, and no matter how good the replacement hand was, she wouldn't want to be reminded of it.

It would be better to just keep his mouth shut before he stuck his foot in it yet again, Nick thought. Particularly since Lirael had lost her friend the Disreputable Dog at the same time as her hand. The Dog he had seen himself; she had brought him back from Death. Nick thought about that, his forehead crinkling with the effort. The dog with wings. He'd seen her with the owl who had Lirael's voice. It was the same dog . . . maybe it
was
a memory, not some fragment of delusion . . .

They flew in silence for some time, until Nick became aware of the alarming reality that he had to go to the toilet. The sun was high above them, so it must be well after noon. They had flown closer to the river too, Lirael obviously following it north. Nick looked down at it, but was not helped by the view of all that water, rushing along . . .

Finally, he couldn't stand it anymore. It would be extraordinarily embarrassing if he wet himself, rather than just mildly embarrassing to ask for a toilet stop.

“Excuse me,” he said, blushing himself now. He felt like he was
six years old again, back at prep school, and almost raised his hand. “I'm afraid I need to . . . um . . . stop somewhere. Nature calls, don't you know.”

“Nature calls?” replied Lirael, looking over her shoulder with a very puzzled expression on her face. Nick looked away, not wanting to meet her eyes. She evidently had never heard that particular turn of phrase.

“Uh, I mean I need to . . . ah . . . pass water.”

“Oh!” replied Lirael. She quickly peered over the side, and a moment later, Nick heard her whistle and once again saw Charter marks in the air around her head, forming and moving and spinning around to enter the paperwing. The craft immediately began to descend in a long, shallow dive toward one of the many sandy islands that dotted the river.

The paperwing landing was almost as much a surprise to Nick as its flight, for as they drew close, it simply turned into the wind and touched the ground as gently as a petal falling from a flower, quietly and easily sliding to a stop across the sand in less than ten yards. It was very different to the bucking, bouncing, and generally alarming landings Nick was used to in an Ancelstierran flying machine.

Lirael got out first, stretching before she turned to take out a sword from within the cockpit to buckle on her belt. Nick tried to look at her without being too obvious he was looking, which just made him appear very shifty. But in those few moments he saw both the Lirael who stood in front of him, but also, superimposed on the present, he saw her up to her waist in marsh water, wreathed by reeds. Both Liraels wore the same strange armored coat of small overlapping plates; the same surcoat of silver keys on blue quartered with golden stars on green; the leather bandolier holding the seven bells of different sizes, their mahogany handles hanging down.

But the swords were different. The Lirael in the reedy swamp bore a different, somehow more impressive blade, though it was no
longer or heavier, and in fact it had only one small green stone in its pommel and quite a dull silver-wired hilt, compared with the newer sword Lirael now carried, which had a gold-chased hilt and a pommel cast in bronze to resemble a snarling lion.

Nick blinked, and the two Liraels became one. She bent behind him, and undid the buckle of the strap that kept him secured to the hammock-like seat.

“We had to strap you in,” she said. “I wasn't sure when you would wake, and I didn't want you falling out, of course.”

“Thank you,” said Nick gravely. He rested his hands on either side of the cockpit and slowly stood up, fighting off the dizziness that came over him. Lirael was quick to hold his elbow. He didn't really need it, but he didn't shrug her off. Instead he turned to look at her, really look at her, his eyes meeting hers.

“Did you . . . when I first met you, were you an owl?” asked Nick slowly. “I know it sounds as if I might be insane, but perhaps here—”

“Yes,” said Lirael. “I was wearing the Charter skin of an owl. A barking owl, to be exact.”

Nick nodded. He could almost grasp the memory. It was like a shimmering oasis close by, where all else around was a bleak, featureless desert. Nearly all his time with Hedge, once he'd crossed the Wall to go to the great pit near Edge, was like that. A desolate emptiness in his mind.

“And the dog, the dog with wings,” Nick continued. “That was the same dog who . . . who brought me back from Death?”

Lirael's eyes brimmed with quick tears. She blinked them away and said, “Yes. The Disreputable Dog. My greatest friend.”

“Thank you,” said Nick. “I thank you both.”

He looked down, gently moved his arm away from Lirael's grasp, and stepped out of the paperwing. The island was mostly sand, but there was a higher part to the north, where low bushes grew. Nick
mumbled something and began to walk over to it.

He hadn't gotten very far when he realized his trousers were coming apart along the seams, and his shirt and the khaki officer's coat he'd “borrowed” were tearing with every swing of his arms. He stopped and looked down. His shoes were fine, but every other part of his clothing was in danger of falling off, leaving him standing naked on the pebble-dotted sand.

“My clothes!” he exclaimed, turning back to Lirael. “They're falling apart!”

Yellowsands, in the North of the Old Kingdom

F
erin regained consciousness as she was being lifted out of the fishing boat to the jetty, one of a dozen rickety constructions that lined the waterfront of Yellowsands. The harbor was sheltered from the sea by a high breakwater, an ancient and much more imposing edifice than the jetty, made of huge blocks of black stone expertly placed together so there were no gaps for the sea to exploit.

“Welcome to Yellowsands!” said Tolther. “Huire's going to put you on my back, so I can carry you more easily. Is that all right?”

“Yes,” said Ferin. “Where do you carry me?”

She was pleased to have come closer to delivering her message and to see another day, a day that felt more promising. It was warmer already, the sun was coming up over the ocean, the sky was a soft blue, and her foot didn't hurt as much as it had. Though she wasn't sure whether this was a good thing or not, and when she looked her leg was very swollen above the ankle.

“To the Charter Stone,” said Tolther. “We'll meet Astilaran there, the healer, get your foot looked at while everyone's getting ready to go.”

“Go?” asked Ferin. She screwed her eyes shut for a moment as Huire hoisted her onto Tolther's broad back, the pain in her foot returning like a surprise charge on an unsuspecting enemy. She told herself shutting her eyes was not a sign of weakness if no one could see.

“That raider's still following, or it was,” said Tolther. “Put your arms around, a bit lower, not on my neck. We haven't the strength to fight them here, the village can't be defended, so everyone's heading out to the old tower a ways off.”

“Ah,” said Ferin carefully, trying to keep the pain out of her voice. “I have brought this on you, and I am sorry.”

“Oh well,” said Tolther, carefully picking his way along the jetty, with Huire walking behind, carrying Ferin's bow and arrow case, and her pack. “With the Sky Horses coming so far south and everything, your message
must
be as important as you said to Ma. So best we help you.”

“Yes.” It took considerable effort to talk without showing that she was in pain, but she managed it. She was glad Tolther hadn't said anything requiring a longer answer.

Ferin looked about as Tolther carried her from the jetty onto the paved waterfront, with its big open-sided timber building for sorting and packing fish, where right now a cluster of fisher-folk were talking excitedly with Karrilke rather than working. They hurried past this fish-packing shed and Ferin saw a line of well-made houses stretching up both sides of a road that speared directly up a low hill. The houses were all whitewashed stone with red tiled roofs, very different from the goatskin tent camps of the Athask. From the dockside they followed the cobbled road, Tolther puffing as they began to climb, though the slope was gentle.

Fisher-folk came out of the houses as they passed, and asked what was happening. Huire told them, quickly. The result reminded Ferin of shooting ducks on the high lakes: one bird would drop to the first arrow and most of the others would take flight, quacking in alarm. But there were always some ducks who didn't fly with the rest. They were the ones that would fall to the next shot. Most of the people here started to run back into their houses, shouting as soon as they understood what Tolther had told them, but a few stood where they
were, their mouths agape. They were like the sitting ducks on the lakes.

Tolther and Ferin were near the top of the hill, where the houses stopped, when a loud, low-voiced horn sounded from somewhere about the harbor below, immediately followed by another two sharp, loud blasts.

“Alarm,” puffed Tolther. “Guess Ma got Megril to act fast for once.”

“But it's the same as the one for fire,” said Huire doubtfully.

“It'll get everyone out, and word travels fast,” said Tolther.

Ferin turned her head to look below. Even more people were running about, and there was also more shouting. It didn't look very organized, but she thought it might just be the different way these southerners did things. Among the Athask, there were many different horn blasts for various situations; if one were sounded, the response would be ordered and disciplined, and above all, quiet. There would be none of this excessive shouting, and particularly there would not be any of the screams Ferin could hear.

Huire had paused to look too. She pointed out to sea and said, “The raider
is
coming! See, two fingers left of the sun?”

Tolther turned around. Ferin grimaced as her leg was swung about and her neck jolted. She looked over Tolther's shoulder, squinting against the rising sun.

Sure enough, there was the raiding ship, making its way along a broad channel, a black smudge amid the blue-green sea and golden sands. From the hill Ferin could see many other channels: forking, joining, splitting, rejoining, a complicated tracery of darker arteries and capillaries cutting through the great drifts of yellow sand that formed the banks and bars.

Some of the channels looked wide to begin with, but soon narrowed or led nowhere, and at sea level Ferin thought it would be very easy to take the wrong one. But the raiders hadn't done so, or at least
hadn't taken one that would greatly slow them down. They were not in the widest and most direct channel, but one parallel to it that would rejoin soon enough. From the wake of the ship, the wood-weirds were continuing to row at an unnatural pace.

“Pity the tide's in,” said Tolther. “They might've gone aground otherwise.”

“Might have been and could have done, neither worth thinking on,” said Huire, repeating one of their mother's favorite sayings.

“They'll be inside the breakwater, lie alongside a jetty inside of an hour, I reckon,” said Tolther. “Not much of a start for us . . .”

He increased his pace, puffing harder. He was very strong, Ferin thought, but did not have the endurance of her people. At least not for walking and running, no doubt due to spending most of his life on a boat.

“Stone's up ahead,” said Tolther. “I'll lay you down there to wait for Astilaran and run back to help Da get our gear together. Huire, you stay with Ferin.”

“Why don't
you
stay!” protested Huire. “I've got things I'd like to get too!”

“It isn't about that,” said Tolther. “I'm older, so do as I say.”

“I will stay but not because you're older,” said Huire. “Someone sensible has to be with Ferin.”

“I am grateful for all your help,” said Ferin. She felt very old all of a sudden, an adult among small children. They clearly had no idea of what wood-weirds could do, or the powers of the shamans and witches on board the approaching raider, or they would not spare energy for childish squabbles. Or be helping a wounded stranger, because if they knew what was coming after them they would run away right now. “From both of you.”

The top of the hill was a pleasant, flat area that when spring became fully established would doubtless be under grass. The first shoots were coming through now, patches of green dotting the bare
earth, legacy of the past winter. In the middle of this flat soon-to-be pasture, there was a tall grey stone, reminiscent of a fir cone in shape, round at the bottom and tapering to a point at the top. It was about twice as tall as Ferin, and as they drew closer she saw many strange symbols were carved everywhere, all over the stone, from foot to crown.

As she watched, the symbols moved, and suddenly shone bright as if they were made of beaten gold that had caught the sun. Ferin blinked several times, wondering if she was becoming feverish again. But she didn't feel feverish, and the symbols were very definitely moving, crawling about and shifting position. Some were also changing, flowing out of one shape into another, and they shone brighter and brighter, as bright as molten gold poured from a crucible, so bright Ferin had to hood her eyes and look away.

“What . . . what is that?” croaked Ferin.

“The Charter Stone,” said Tolther. “Good magic. The marks aren't always so bright, though. Something must have stirred them up. Help me put Ferin down, Huire.”

The brother and sister laid Ferin down on the grass about ten paces from the stone, arranged her bad leg straight out, and put her pack behind her so she could sit up against it. She stared at the stone in fascination, continuing to watch the symbols move and change. Some even drifted off into the air, moving like leaves caught by the wind, slowly fading until they were mere wisps of light and then no more.

After a minute or two, most of the radiant marks dimmed, and the moving ones became slower, and soon the rock simply looked like a much-carved-upon standing stone again.

“The little carvings, what do they mean?” asked Ferin. “Are they letters? There are so many . . .”

“Need to be a Charter Mage to know,” said Huire. “Ma is one, a little bit. We've all got the mark, Ma insisted, but I never had time
to study. I know how to make a light, that's about it. You don't want to mess with marks you don't understand.”

Huire pushed her fringe back and showed Ferin the Charter mark on her forehead.

“I thought that was just a brand, marking your clan,” said Ferin. “I have one such, here.”

She tapped her stomach, just above her navel.

“It does look just like a painted sign or a brand,” said Huire. “Until someone else with a Charter mark touches it, or if you touch a Charter Stone. Then it will shine and move, like the ones over there, and if you have one, you feel . . . joined to the Charter. It's kind of difficult to describe—”

“I'm going back down to help,” interrupted Tolther. “You stay with Ferin, Huire.”

“I am staying, aren't I?” snapped his sister. “Get my blue cloak and the woolen hat with the long bit at the back if you're going home, and make sure Da remembers to bring all the good knives.”

“All right,” said Tolther, and he was away, running back down the road.

“Boys,” said Huire. “Thinks he'll miss out on some fighting. Should be hoping it doesn't come to that.”

Ferin nodded, saving her strength. Huire had laid the bow and arrow case close by, which was good. Ferin wished she had some spirit-glass arrows left, or rather that she had many more than she had started out with. But even without them, if she could shoot the keepers, then there was a chance the shamans or witches would run off, or turn on their masters. If even two or three of the sorcerers and their wood-weirds attacked the others, that would be a great help.

A hawk swooped down above them. For a moment Ferin thought it was going to attack and reached for her bow, but it flew over Huire's head and landed atop the Charter Stone. It was brown but had streaks of pale yellow in its wings, and fierce amber eyes. As it
perched on the stone, Charter marks shimmered up and wrapped themselves around the bird's feet and talons, wreathing it in light. The hawk launched itself into the sky again, the marks falling back into the stone, becoming dull carvings once more.

“Message-hawk,” said Huire. “Astilaran, that's the healer who's coming to sort you out, he says that in the old days, I mean the real old days, Charter Mages could make messenger birds just with magic, they didn't need an egg to start with, or to train up a real bird. Imagine that!”

Ferin nodded again, watching the quick beat of the hawk's wings as it rose up into the sky. Magic birds that flew messages would be extremely useful, particularly in raids on other clans. She had never been allowed to go on a raid herself, being too valuable to the clan, but she had joined many practices. Things often went wrong because the five or six parties in a typical big raid had no way to quickly send messages to one another.

A stab of pain from her leg brought Ferin back to the present. She leaned forward and saw that the swelling above the ankle was so great that her breeches leg was tight against the skin, adding to the discomfort. She took her knife and carefully unpicked the red thread along a seam, opening the goatskin from the knee down.

She was thinking about cutting off the dirty, blood-encrusted bandage as well but was prevented from doing so by the sudden arrival of a short, very thin man of indeterminate age with bulbous eyes and something of a permanent frown. He wore a strange sort of pale blue robe which was liberally equipped with at least a dozen buttoned pockets, many of them bulging, and carried a leather satchel over his shoulder.

“Now, now!” he called. “Let me see if there is cutting to be done, for if there is, I'll do it. I am Astilaran, doctor and Charter Mage, neither of these things in any extraordinary manner, but perhaps sufficient unto your needs. What a very impressive fur cloak.”

He crouched down low by Ferin's side and sniffed around the bandage like a small dog unsure of whether it might find a snack or something that would bite its nose.