Goldenhand (34 page)

Sam forgot his arm, and looked out over her head at the line of Athask warriors. They were not charging forward, but were instead in the process of reversing their coats once again, and those who had already done so were slipping away, in the opposite direction from the castle.

“So that was
the athask
, then?” asked Ferin in the smallest voice Sam had ever heard come from her, one filled with wonderment. “He has given us his protection, and the clan have seen.”

“Maybe he is . . .” said Sam. He eyed the retreating mountaineers with relief, tempered by the knowledge they were only a small part of Chlorr's great host. “I'll tell you about Mogget later. He's tricky. I wish he would have done more. . . . It's all up to Lirael and Nick now. There's . . . there's no way Dad and Mother can hold the southern bank. Not against so many.”

“Then let us shoot some more, and make them fewer,” said Ferin. “And hope Lirael can do what must be done. What else can
we
do?”

“Nothing,” said Sam grimly, and picked up his bow.

Beyond the Great Rift/In Death

N
ick looked worriedly at Lirael's ice-encased form once again, and continued counting. As soon as she had gone into Death he had done a rough calculation of the amount of air within the globe, and though he wasn't sure of the exact amount two humans would use, he figured what Lirael had said about the spell was probably right. One hour for two people, and they had used fifteen minutes even before Lirael went into Death. That's how long it would take to get back to where they could breathe.

“Nine hundred and eleven hippopotami,” said Nick. His arms hurt, but he kept them up, kept holding the globe. “Nine hundred and twelve hippopotami.”

When he got to a thousand, he thought, he could drop the “hippopotami.” The numbers would be long enough said to be a full second. But when he got to a thousand seconds, they would have been stationary out here just over half an hour. There would be only fifteen minutes left for them to get back.

“Come on, come on,” he whispered. “Come back to me, Lirael. Come back. Damn. That must be four seconds . . . nine hundred and twenty hippopotami . . . nine hundred and twenty-one hoppopittami . . . damn again, I should have used potato . . . okay . . . nine hundred and twenty-three hippopotato, I mean nine hundred and twenty-four
potatoes
. . .”

Something moved on Lirael, on her ribs, low on the left. Ice
cracked over the smallest pocket of her bandolier. Nick stopped counting and stared at it, wondering what it meant and what he should do. He counted the pockets while he tried to remember the names of the bells. Lirael had talked about them a little. So had Sam, but Nick couldn't remember, and the pocket seemed to be the eighth from the top . . . he counted them again, got eight again . . . but that couldn't be right. There were only seven bells.

A long, pointy, tan-colored ear suddenly stuck out of the pocket, followed by the curve of a head, and another pointy ear.

Nick drew his sword while keeping his left hand firmly on the globe.

The complete long-snouted head of a dog burst out of the pocket, and about two-thirds of a leg ending in a large paw.

“Put that sword away and help me out!” barked the Disreputable Dog. “Hurry! No, don't let go of the globe.”

Nick dropped his sword, gaped for only a second, which was far less time than he felt like gaping, and reached across to pull on the Dog's foreleg. As he touched it, he felt the sudden surge of both Charter Magic and Free Magic flow into his body.

The Dog came out all in a rush. She was smaller than Nick remembered from when she had sent him back into Life, but she was still the same pointy-eared, lolling-tongued, black-backed mostly tan-colored mongrel. She shook herself violently for several seconds, drops of icy water spraying all over Nick.

“Listen,” said the Dog quickly. “You will need to put more of yourself into the globe and breathe less.”

“Breathe less! And what do you mean put more of myself?” asked Nick. “What's happening?”

He could feel himself trembling from fear, fear for Lirael.

“Lirael has had to ring Astarael,” snapped the Dog. “Lie down with your hands out to keep contact with the globe. You must feel
the Charter within you, let it flow through your hands, give it to the globe. Shut your eyes and breathe shallowly. And stop that stupid counting.”

“Can you help her?” asked Nick, fighting the panic he suddenly felt, the urge to not breathe shallowly but to gulp air as fast as he could.

“No,” said the Dog sadly. “But you can, if she makes it back.”

She went on point, nose forward, leg up—and then was gone, an intensely cold breeze rushing over Nick from where she had been. In her place, the little soapstone statuette balanced on two legs for a moment, and then fell over.

Nick took one last deep breath and edged forward, bringing his arms down, making sure he was still keeping hold of the side of the globe of air. Then he knelt, and lay down on his side so he could still see Lirael, though she was now entirely encased in ice. His arms felt like lumps of dead meat he had been holding them up so long, and he laughed dully at how stupid he'd been. It was much easier to touch the globe while lying down.

He felt the marks under his fingers, shut his eyes, and concentrated on the Charter that moved within him, swirling and shifting around the inner fire of Free Magic, willing both to rise, to move through him and into the magic that sustained his and Lirael's life.

Through the Fourth Gate, tumbling madly, rushed through the Fifth Precinct by a current so swift Lirael barely glimpsed the Dark Path above, and then she and Clariel were flung upside down and lifted up, swept high by the reverse waterfall of the Fifth Gate, spat out again in the shallow waters of the Sixth Precinct, where Lirael and Sabriel had talked of Chlorr so few scant weeks ago, but still Astarael sounded and Lirael's throat was raw from screaming and so she did nothing but croak and whimper as the Sixth Gate opened beneath their feet and they fell from the river upon dry ground, or something
that supported them and was not the river, a circle some ten paces in diameter, and it sank with them, the water rising all around, and again Lirael did not try to still the bell, but kept it ringing.

Deeper and deeper the small circle fell, the river around them but not crashing in, until they came to a stop and the water fell away on all sides, frothing and roaring, though Lirael hardly heard it, for she could hear almost nothing but Astarael's single note, the sound of a dying scream.

The river took them up again, the current lifting them, sending them like two tiny, bobbing corks to the endless line of fire that burned ahead, flames dancing on the water. This fire arched up as they approached, in answer to Astarael's call, as all the gates so answered, opening the way.

The Eighth Precinct was normally a place of great danger, where patches of fire burned upon the water, without apparent pattern or cause. But none would burn where Astarael rang, and the river took them on, rushing them, twisting and turning, Clariel holding tight to Lirael's golden hand.

The Eighth Gate was darkness, darkness complete and the absence of all the senses. No sight, no sound, no sense of touch or smell. Lirael wept as Astarael fell silent for those few seconds as they passed, or she thought she wept, for she could feel no tears.

The Ninth Precinct. Astarael was silent now, at last. Lirael slowly and clumsily returned the bell to the bandolier with her left hand. She kept her head down as she did so, knowing not to look up. The river was shallow here, only up to her ankles, and there was no current. The water was even warm, and it did not feed feelings of inadequacy and hopelessness.

Even looking down, with her eyes scrunched as close as she dared, Lirael could see starlight reflected in the water.

“It is so beautiful,” whispered Clariel. “Like night in the Great Forest, only more so . . . the sky . . . the stars. I should have come
here so long ago. I thank you, Lirael.”

“But I do not,” snarled a voice from behind, a voice that crackled with Free Magic.

Lirael flung herself sideways as a flaming blade came down, smashing through the water, exploding the reflected stars. She drew Raminah, the blade bright with Charter marks, and just managed to parry a savage cut, gouts of white sparks flying as the two magics met and fought.

Her attacker was Chlorr of the Mask. Alone, for her Shadow Hands were left far behind, unable to move so swiftly in Death. She was a hulking shape of darkness and fire, wielding a blade of flame twice the length of Raminah. But Chlorr was strangely hunched over, as if already wounded, and she kept her head firmly down, the fires that burned there in the suggestion of the mask she had once worn dripping molten bronze-colored drops which sizzled in the water and sent up small fountains of steam and choking smoke.

Lirael backed up, parrying another strike. She had to hold out for only a few minutes, she knew, before Chlorr would be unable to resist the compulsion to look up, to look up to the stars of the Ninth Gate. Lirael could feel the unbearable attraction too, almost as if someone was holding her, gently but so very firmly, tilting her head back . . . Lirael grimaced as she found she was doing exactly that, and jerked her eyes back down.

But in that instant, she caught a glimpse of a night sky above, a sky of perfect black velvet, so thick with stars they were one unimaginably vast and luminous cloud, sending down a light softer but as bright as a summer morning's sun out in the living world.

Many Dead rose toward that sea of stars above. Dead everywhere, but they were no threat. They came through the Eighth Gate and waded for a little way, or hardly at all, but soon enough all were caught by the stars above, and were lifted up, to go beyond to the final death from which there was no return.

Chlorr attacked again and Lirael parried, gasping at the strength of the blow. Raminah would have been torn from her grasp, but she brought her right hand up, her golden hand. The Charter marks on it shone brighter than ever, making it look as if it were molten gold. Chlorr winced back from that light too, as she did from the stars above.

Lirael wielded her sword two-handed. She parried Chlorr's blows, and stepped back again and again, always hoping that in the next moment Chlorr would look up. But the creature didn't, and with each blow Lirael felt herself weaken. She almost stumbled and narrowly avoided the next savage cut.

Then she did stumble, falling backward into the river. She looked up and saw not stars, but the great dark bulk of Chlorr, the terrible sword rising for the final blow. Lirael tried to lift Raminah to parry, though she knew it was hopeless.

It was all for nothing. Lirael had brought Clariel to the brink of the Ninth Gate, but she had failed. Chlorr was too strong.

But the fiery blade did not come down. A small, scarred woman, her arms outstretched, stepped in front of her greater self, standing between the huge creature of shadow and Lirael.

“Come,” said Clariel.

Chlorr slowly lowered her sword, and the red flames that licked along the blade went out. It was a reluctant movement, as if the Greater Dead answered to some unseen force, like a hunting dog called by a whistle, taken from its kill.

But the sword did not stay down. Chlorr made a noise, a dry clattering chuckle. She lifted the sword again and swung it back, clearly intending to sweep away the annoying remnant of her past, the tiny fragment of lost humanity who had so long served to keep her from the final death.

But in swinging back, Chlorr looked up, and was caught by the stars.

In that same moment Clariel stepped forward, and closed her arms around the shadow-stuff of Chlorr, resting her head against the fires that burned and flickered over the creature's chest. Clariel's eyes were open, clear-sighted, knowing what she did.

“This path, I choose,” whispered Clariel. She spoke very low, but Lirael heard her clearly. Her voice was strangely like a bell.

Chlorr's sword fell, and was lost in the river. She seemed suddenly smaller, diminished and lost.

Greater Dead and remnant spirit rose to the sky together. Starlight wreathed them both, quenching the fires, stripping back the shadows, smoothing the scars away. Shadow and fire joined with shining spirit to become one again. A young woman who until the very end chose neither wisely nor well, and who had
existed
for centuries, but had died long ago.

Lirael found herself looking up, watching Clariel ascend, though she had not meant to do so. She wondered who she had been, this daughter of goldsmiths, and how she had become a sorcerer, a necromancer, and then one of the Greater Dead. Perhaps there would be something about her in the Library, Lirael thought. She would look it up.

Or not, for the Ninth Gate called.

It was time to rest. Lirael had done what was needed, for the second time. She felt the waters stir around her feet as the river let go and she began to rise.

“For everyone and everything, there is a time to die,” whispered Lirael. She knew too much time must have passed out in Life; there could be no way back for her and Nick. But, she suddenly thought, there might be enough air remaining for last farewells, and then they could die together, though she so much would have liked for them both to live.

“The third time, you will have me, but not before!” called Lirael, and forced her gaze down. A moment later she splashed back in the
river, spray flying everywhere, though she sprang immediately from the water. She was suddenly consumed by the idea of seeing Nick again, to kiss him one last time, to go together into Death, to not go alone.

She had lived so long alone, and found new love too late. Now she was determined to wring even just a few more seconds from what she had so unexpectedly been given.

Lirael strode toward the Eighth Gate, the words of opening rising in her mind, and
hurry, hurry, hurry
beating a rhythm in her head. No dangers of Death, no Dead must be allowed to delay her, she would be swifter than she had ever been, the river's current helpless—