The doctor hurried forward. He didn’t know who this strange but obviously important visitor was, or who the patient was either, since the Army had insisted on secrecy and the use of first names only. Now he wished that he hadn’t heard the other patient’s surname, since the name Sayre was not unknown to him. But the Chief Minister didn’t have a son of that age, so the fellow could only have been a cousin or something, which was some relief.

“The patient Nicholas X,” he said, emphasizing the “X,”

“was released to one of his parents’ confidential servants yesterday. He only had minor shock and some abrasions.”

“Did he leave me a message?” asked Sam, surprised that his friend wouldn’t have tried to communicate in some way. “I don’t believe so—” the doctor started to say, when he was interrupted by a nurse who pushed her way through the massed ranks of blue, khaki, and grey in the corridor. She was quite young and pretty, with striking red hair not very well

concealed under her starched cap.

“He left a letter, Your Highnesses,” she said, with the characteristic accent of the North. Obviously a native of Bain, she knew exactly who both Sam and Touchstone were, much to the doctor’s annoyance. The doctor took the letter in her outstretched hand with a sniff and handed it to Sam, who immediately tore it open.

He didn’t recognize the handwriting at first; then he realized that it was Nick’s, only the individual letters were much larger and the flourishes less regular. It took a moment for him to work out that this must be a consequence of Nick’s writing with heavily bandaged hands.

Dear Sam, I hope you are soon well enough to read this. I

seem to be quite recovered myself, though I admit that the events of our unusual evening are somewhat hazy. I guess you wouldn’t know that I took it in my head to chase down that necromancer fellow you went after first, wherever it was you went.

Unfortunately, what with the dark and the rain and perhaps a little too much zing in my step, all I

managed to do was fall into the sunken road and knock myself out. I was lucky not to break any bones, the doctors say, though I have some interesting bruises. I don’t expect that the debs back in Corvere will be as prepared to look at them as Nurse Moulin, though!

I understand that the Army got hold of your pater and he’s coming down to take you home, so you won’t be finishing the term. I daresay I won’t bother either, since I already have my place at Sunbere. It won’t be the same without you, or poor Harry Benlet. Or even Cochrane. They found him five miles away the next morning, apparently, gibbering and frothing, and I expect he’s locked up in Smithwen Special Hospital by now. Should have been done years ago, of course.

In fact, I was thinking that I might come and visit you in your mysterious Old Kingdom before I have to go up to college next spring. I admit that my scientific interest has been piqued by those apparently animated corpses and your own exhibition of whatever it was. I’m sure you think of it as magic, but I expect it can all be explained by the proper application of scientific method. I hope I can be the one to do so, of course. Sayre’s Theory of Surreality.

Or Sayre’s Law of Magical Explication.

It’s very boring in hospital, particularly if your wardmate can’t carry a conversation. So you’ll have to excuse me rambling on. Where was I? Oh yes, experiments in the Old Kingdom. I expect the reason no one has done the proper scientific work before is due to the Army.Would you believe that no less than a colonel and two captains were here yesterday, wanting me to sign the Official Secrets Act and a declaration that I wouldn’t ever speak or write of the recent odd events near the Perimeter? They forgot sign language, so I expect I shall inform a deaf journalist when I get back.

I won’t, of course. At least not until I have something better to tell the world—some truly great discovery.

The officers wanted you to sign as well, but since you weren’t in a signing mood, they just waited and got cross with each other. Then I told them that you weren’t even a citizen of Ancelstierre, and they got thoughtful and had a big discussion outside with the lieutenant in charge of the guards. Something tells me the right hand knoweth not what the left hand doeth, since they were from Corvere Legal Affairs and the guards outside are from the Perimeter Scouts. I was interested to note that the latter belong to your peculiar religion, with the caste mark or whatever it is on their foreheads. Not that sociology is really in my field of interest, I hasten to add.

I must go now. The aged parents have sent some sort of private undersecretary to the oversecretary chamberlain of the personal privy type of fellow to collect me and take me home to Amberne Court.

Apparently Father is too busy with the Southerling refugee problem, questions in the House and all that sort of thing, and Uncle Edward needs his support blah blah blah as per usual. Mother probably had a charity dinner or something equally all-engrossing. I’ll write soon so we can arrange my visit. I expect I’ll have everything prepared in a couple of months, three at the outside.

Chin up!

Nick, the mysterious patient X

Sam folded the letter, smiling. At least Nick had come out of that awful night without any real harm, and with his sense of humor intact. It was typical of him that the Dead had only triggered his scientific interest, rather than a much more sensible fear.

“All well?” asked Touchstone, who had been waiting patiently. At least half the onlookers had lost interest, Sam saw, withdrawing farther down the corridor and out of sight, where they felt they could talk.

“Father,” said Sam, “did you bring me some clothes? My school stuff must have been ruined.”

“Damed, the bag, please,” said Touchstone. “Everybody else, outside if you don’t mind.”

Like two flocks of sheep that have difficulty mixing, the people left in the ward tried to get out while the people in the corridor tried to help and actually made it more difficult. Eventually, they did all get out, except for Damed—Touchstone’s principal bodyguard, a small thin man who moved alarmingly fast. Damed handed over a compact suitcase before he left, shutting the door.

There were Ancelstierran clothes in the bag, procured—

like Touchstone’s and the guards’—from the Bain consulate of the Old Kingdom.

“Wear these for now,” said Touchstone. “We’ll get changed at the Perimeter. Back into sensible clothes.”

“Armored coat and helmet, boots and sword,” said Sameth, pulling his hospital gown off over his head.

“Yes,” said Touchstone. He hesitated, then said, “Does that bother you? I suppose you could go south instead. I must return to the Kingdom. But you might be safe in Corvere—”

“No!” Sam said. He wanted to stay with his father. He wanted the heavy weight of his armored coat and the pommel of a sword under his palm. But most of all, he wanted to be with his mother in Belisaere. Because only then would he really be safe from Death . . . and the necromancer who he was sure even now waited in that cold river, waiting for Sam to return.
Chapter Nineteen. Ellimere’s Thoughts on the Education of Princes

After two weeks of hard riding, bad weather, indifferent food, and sore muscles that were slow to re-adapt to horseback, Sam arrived in the great city of Belisaere to find that his mother was not there. Sabriel had already been and gone, called away again to deal with a reported Free Magic sorcerer cum bandit chief, who was attacking travelers along the northern extremes of the Nailway.

Within a day, Touchstone was gone, too, riding to sit at a High Court in Estwael, where an ancient, simmering feud between two noble families had broken out into murders and kidnappings.

In Touchstone’s absence, Sam’s fourteen-month-older sister Ellimere was named co-regent, along with Jall Oren, the Chancellor. It was a formality really, since Touchstone would rarely be more than a few days away by message-hawk, but a formality that would greatly affect Sam. Ellimere took her responsibility seriously. And she thought that one of her duties as co-regent was to address the shortcomings of her younger brother.

Touchstone had been gone only an hour when Ellimere came looking for Sam. Since Touchstone had left at dawn, Sam

was still asleep. He had recovered from his physical wounds, but he still did not feel quite himself. He grew tired more easily than before, and wanted to be alone more. Fourteen days of rising before dawn and riding till after dusk, accompanied by the hearty humor of the guards, had not helped him feel less tired or more gregarious.

Consequently, he was not amused when Ellimere chose to wake him on his first morning in his own bed by ripping back the curtains, flinging his window open, and ripping the blankets off. It was already several days into winter in the Old Kingdom, and decidedly cool. The sea breeze that came roaring in could even be accurately described as cold, and all the feeble sunshine did was hurt Sam’s eyes.

“Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!” caroled Ellimere, who had a surprisingly deep singing voice for a woman.

“Go away!” growled Sam, as he attempted to snatch the blankets back. A brief tug-of-war ensued, which Sam gave up when one of the blankets got ripped in half.

“Now look what you’ve done,” Sam said bitterly. Ellimere shrugged. She was supposed to be pretty—some even considered her beautiful—but Sam couldn’t see it. As far as he was concerned, Ellimere was a dangerous pest. By making her co-regent, his parents had elevated her to the status of a monster.

“I’ve come to discuss your schedule,” said Ellimere. She sat down on the end of the bed, her back very straight and her hands clasped regally in her lap. Sam noted that she wore a fine, bell-sleeved tabard of red and spun gold over her everyday linen dress, and a sort of demi-regal circlet kept her long and immaculately brushed black hair in place. Since her normal attire was old hunting leathers with her hair carelessly tied back out of the way, her dress did not bode well for Sam’s own desire for informality.

“My what?” Sam asked.

“Your schedule,” continued Ellimere. “I’m sure that you were planning to spend most of your time tinkering in that smelly workshop of yours, but I’m afraid your duty to the Kingdom comes first.”

“What?” asked Sam. He felt very tired, and certainly not up to this conversation. Particularly since he had indeed planned to spend most of his time in his tower workroom. For the last few days, as they’d got closer and closer to Belisaere, he’d been looking forward to the solitude and peace of sitting at his workbench, with all his tools carefully arranged on the wall, above the chest of tiny drawers, each filled with some useful material, like silver wire or moonstones. He had managed to survive the last part of the trip by dreaming up new toys and gadgets he would make in his little haven of calm and recuperation.

“The Kingdom must come first,” reiterated Ellimere. “The people’s morale is very important, and each member of the family must play a part in maintaining it. As the only Prince we’ve got, you’ll have to—”

“No!” exclaimed Sam, who suddenly realized where she was heading. He jumped out of bed, his nightshirt billowing around his legs, and scowled down at his sister, until she stood up and looked down her nose at him. She not only was slightly taller than he was, but also had the advantage of wearing shoes.

“Yes,” said Ellimere sternly. “The Midsummer Festival.

You’re needed to play the part of the Bird of Dawning. Rehearsals start tomorrow.”

“But it’s five months away!” protested Sam. “Besides, I

don’t want to be the blasted Bird of Dawning. That suit must

weigh a ton, and I’d have to wear it for a week! Didn’t Dad tell you I’m sick?”

“He said you needed to be busy,” said Ellimere. “And since you’ve never danced the Bird, you’ll need five months’ practice. Besides, there’s the appearance at the end of the Midwinter Festival, too—and that’s only six weeks away.”

“I haven’t got the legs for it,” muttered Sameth, thinking of the cross-gartered yellow stockings worn under the goldfeathered plumage of the Bird of Dawning. “Get someone with tree-trunk legs.”

“Sameth! You are going to dance the Bird, like it or not,” declared Ellimere. “It’s about time you did something useful around here. I’ve also scheduled you to sit with Jall at the Petty Court every morning between ten and one, and you’ll have sword practice twice a day with the Guard, of course, and you must come to dinner—no ordering meals to your grubby workshop. And for Perspective, I’ve assigned you to work with the scullions every second Wednesday.”

Sam groaned and sank back on the bed. Perspective was Sabriel’s idea. For one day every two weeks, Ellimere and Sam would work somewhere in the palace, supposedly like the ordinary people there. Of course, even when they were washing dishes or mopping floors, the servants could rarely forget that Sam and Ellimere would be Prince and Princess again tomorrow. Most of the servants dealt with the situation by pretending Sam and Ellimere weren’t there, with a few notable exceptions like Mistress Finney, the falconer, who shouted at them like everyone else. So Perspective was usually a day of drudgery performed in strange silence and isolation.

“What are you doing for Perspective?” Sam asked, suspicious that Ellimere would skip it now she was co-regent.

“Stables.”

Sam grunted. The stables were hard work, particularly since it would probably be a day of mucking out. But Ellimere loved horses and all the work around them, so she probably didn’t mind.

“Mother also said you were to study this.” Ellimere drew a package out of her voluminous sleeve. It wasn’t immediately recognizable, being wrapped in oilskin and tied with thick, hairy twine.