Sam reached for the package, but as his fingers touched the wrapping, he felt a terrible chill and the sudden presence of Death, despite the spells and charms that were supposed to prevent any traffic with that cold realm, woven into the very stone around them.

Sam snatched his hand back and retreated to the other end of the bed, his heart suddenly thumping wildly, sweat beading his face and hands.

He knew what was inside that seemingly innocuous package. It was The Book of the Dead. A small volume, bound in green leather, with tarnished silver clasps. Leather and silver laden with protective magic. Marks to bind and blind, to close and imprison. Only someone with an innate talent for Free Magic and necromancy could open the book, and only an uncorrupted Charter Mage could close it. It contained all the lore of necromancy and counter-necromancy that fifty-three Abhorsens had gathered over a thousand years—and more besides, for its contents never stayed the same, seemingly altering at the book’s own whim. Sam had read a little of it, at his mother’s side.

“What’s wrong with you?” asked Ellimere curiously, as Sam went paler and paler and his teeth began to chatter. She

put the package on the end of his bed and came over, touching the back of her hand to Sam’s forehead.

“You’re cold,” she said, surprised. “Really cold!”

“Sick,” muttered Sam. He could barely speak. Fear gripped his throat. Fear of somehow being thrown into Death by the book, of being plunged once again under the surface of the cold river, to go crashing through the First Gate . . .

“Get back into bed,” ordered Ellimere, suddenly solicitous. “I’ll get Dr. Shemblis.”

“No!” cried Sam, thinking of the court doctor and his curious, inquiring ways. “It’ll pass. Just leave me alone for a while.”

“All right,” replied Ellimere, as she closed the window and helped re-arrange what was left of the blankets. “But don’t think this is going to get you off playing the Bird of Dawning. Not unless Dr. Shemblis says you’re really, really sick.”

“I’m not,” said Sam. “I’ll be all right in a few hours.”

“What happened to you, anyway?” asked Ellimere. “Dad was a bit vague, and we didn’t have time to talk. Something about you going into Death and getting into trouble.”

“Something like that,” whispered Sam.

“Sooner you than me.”

Ellimere picked up the package and hefted it curiously, then threw it down next to Sam. “I’m glad I had no aptitude for it. Imagine if you were going to be the King, and me the Abhorsen! Still, I’m glad you’ve already started popping into Death, because Mother certainly needs the help at the moment, and you’ll be a lot more use doing that than mucking about making toys. Mind you, I was going to ask if you could make me two tennis racquets, so I suppose I shouldn’t

complain. I can’t get anyone else to understand what I want, and I haven’t played a game since I left Wyverley. You could make some, couldn’t you?”

“Yes,” replied Sam. But he wasn’t thinking about tennis.

He was thinking about the book next to him, and the fact that he was the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. Everyone expected him to succeed Sabriel. He was going to have to study The Book of the Dead. He would have to walk in Death again, and confront the necromancer—or even worse things, if that were possible.

“Are you sure I shouldn’t get Shemblis?” Ellimere asked.

“You do look very pale. I’ll have someone come up with some chamomile tea, and I suppose you don’t have to start your proper schedule till tomorrow. You will be better tomorrow, won’t you?”

“I think so,” said Sam. He was frozen immobile by the proximity of the book.

Ellimere looked at him again, with a look that contained equal parts of concern, annoyance, and irritation. Then she swung around and swept out, banging the door behind her.

Sam lay in bed, trying to take regular, slow breaths. He could feel the book next to him, almost as if it were a living thing. A coiled snake that was waiting to strike when he moved.

He lay there for a long time, listening to the sounds of the Palace that came wafting up to his tower room, even with the window closed. The regular watch-cry of the guards on the wall; the sudden conversation of people in the courtyard below, as they met on their business; the clash of sword on sword from the practice field that lay beyond the inner wall. Behind it all there was the constant crash of the sea. Belisaere was almost an island, and the Palace was built upon one of its four hills,

in the northeast quarter. Sam’s bedchamber was in the Sea Cliff tower, about halfway up. During the wildest winter storms, it was not unusual for sea spray to splash upon his window, despite the tower’s distance from the shore.

A servant brought chamomile tea, and they spoke briefly, though Sam had no idea what he had said. The tea cooled, and the sun rose higher, till it had passed beyond his window and the air grew colder again.

Finally, Sam moved. With shaking hands, he forced himself to pick up the package. He cut the string with the knife that lay sheathed upon his bedhead and quickly unwrapped the oilskin, knowing that if he stopped, he’d be unable to go on. Sure enough, it was The Book of the Dead, the green leather shining as if it were coated with sweat. The silver clasps that held it closed were clouded, their brightness dimmed. They cleared as Sam watched, and then frosted again, though he had not breathed upon them.

There was a note too, a single sheet of rough-edged paper that bore only a Charter mark and Sam’s own name, written in Sabriel’s firm, distinctive hand.

Sam picked up the note, then used the oilskin wrapper like a glove to slip the Book under his bed. He couldn’t bear to look at it. Not yet.

Then he touched the Charter mark on the paper, and Sabriel’s voice sounded inside his head. She spoke quickly, and from the other noises in the background, Sam guessed she had made this message immediately before flying out in her Paperwing. Flying out to combat the Dead.

Sam—

I hope you are well and can forgive me for not being there for you now. I know from your father’s last message-hawk that you are fit enough to be riding home, but that your encounter in Death has left you sorely tried. I know what that can be like—

and I am proud that you risked entering Death to save your friends. I don’t know that I would be brave enough myself to go into Death without my bells. Be assured that any hurt to your spirit will pass in time.

It is the nature of Death to take, but the nature of Life to give.

Your brave action has also shown me that you are ready to formally begin training as the Abhorsenin—

Waiting. This makes me both proud and a little sad, because it means that you have grown up. The burdens of an Abhorsen are many, and one of the worst is that we are doomed to miss so much of our children’s lives—of your life, Sam.

I have delayed teaching you to some degree because I wanted you to stay the dear little boy I can so easily remember. But of course you have not been a little boy for many years, and now you are a young man and must be treated as such. Part of that is acknowledging your heritage, and the essential role you have in the future of our Kingdom.

A great part of that heritage is contained within The Book of the Dead, which you now have. You have studied a little of it with me, but now it is time for you to master its contents, as much as this is possible for anyone to do. Certainly, in these present days, I have need of your assistance, for there is a strange resurgence of trouble from both the Dead and those who follow Free Magic, and I cannot find the source of either.

We will speak more of this on my return, but for now I want you to know that I am proud of you, Sameth. Your father is, too.Welcome home, my son.

With all my love,

Mother

Sam let the paper fall from his grasp and fell back on the pillow. The future, so bright when that cricket ball had arced over the stands for a six, now seemed very dark indeed.
Chapter Twenty. A Door of Three Signs

To celebrate her nineteenth birthday, Lirael and the Dog decided to explore somewhere special, to venture through the jagged hole in the pale green rock where the main spiral of the Great Library came to a sudden end.

The hole was too small for Lirael to enter, so she had made a Charter-skin for the expedition. In the years since finding In the Skin of a Lyon, she had learned to make three different Charter-skins. Each had been very carefully selected for its natural advantages. The ice otter was small and lithe, and enabled Lirael to move in narrow ways and across ice and snow with ease. The russet bear was larger, and much stronger, than her natural form, and its thick fur was protection against both cold and harm. The barking owl gave her flight and made darkness no burden, though she had yet to fly outside some of the great chambers of the Library, which were never truly dark.

But the Charter-skins had their disadvantages as well. The ice otter’s vision was in shades of grey, its perspective was low to the ground, and it induced a fondness for fish that lasted for days after Lirael shucked the skin. The russet bear’s sight was weak, and wearing it made Lirael bad-tempered and gluttonous, also for some time after it was taken off. The barking owl was of little use in full daylight, and after wearing it Lirael would find her eyes watering under the bright lights of the Reading Room. But all in all she was pleased with the Charterskins and the choices she had made, and proud that she had learned three Charter-skins in less time than In the Skin of a Lyon suggested would be possible.

Their major drawback was the time they took to prepare and put on. Typically, it would take Lirael five hours or more to prepare a Charter-skin, another hour to fold it properly so that it would last a day or two in a pouch or bag, and then at least half an hour to put on. Sometimes it took longer, particularly the ice-otter skin, because it was so much smaller than Lirael’s normal form. It was like forcing a foot into a sock that was only big enough for a toe, with the sock stretching while the foot shrank. Balancing the process was quite difficult, and it always made Lirael dizzy and a bit nauseated, to feel herself both changing and shrinking.

But on her birthday, since the hole in the rock was less than two feet wide, only the ice-otter shape would do. Lirael began to put it on, as the Disreputable Dog scrabbled at the hole. Somehow the Dog made herself longer and thinner in the process, till she looked like one of the sausage dogs that the Rasseli shepherd-queens carried around their necks, as illustrated in Lirael’s favorite travelogue.

After a few minutes of furious work with her back legs, the Dog disappeared. Lirael sighed, and kept forcing herself into the Charter-skin. The Dog had a well-known problem with waiting, but Lirael felt a bit aggrieved that the hound couldn’t even wait on her birthday, or let her go first.

Not that she really expected it. Her birthday was Lirael’s most hated time of the year, the day she was forced to remember all the bad things in her life.

This year, as on every past birthday, she had woken without the Sight. It was an old hurt now, scarred over and locked deep within her heart. Lirael had learnt not to show the pain it caused her, not even to the Disreputable Dog, who otherwise shared all her thoughts and dreams.

Nor did Lirael contemplate suicide, as she had done on her fourteenth birthday, and briefly on her seventeenth. She had managed to forge a life for herself that, if not ideal, was satisfying in many ways. She still lived in the Hall of Youth, and would till she was twenty-one and assigned her own chambers, but since she spent every waking hour in the Library, she was largely free of Kirrith’s interference. Lirael had also long since stopped going to Awakenings or any other ceremonial functions that would require her to wear the blue tunic, that hated, obvious sign that she was not a proper Clayr.

She wore her Librarian’s uniform instead, even at breakfast, and had taken to tying a white scarf around her head like some of the older Clayr. It hid her black hair, and in her uniform there was no doubting who she was, even amongst the visitors in the Lower Refectory.

The week before her birthday, these working clothes had been greatly enhanced by the transition from a yellow to a red waistcoat, proud symbol of Lirael’s promotion to Second Assistant Librarian. The promotion was very welcome but not without trouble, as the formal letter announcing it came unexpectedly, late one afternoon. In the letter, Vancelle, the Chief Librarian, congratulated Lirael and noted that there would be a brief ceremony the next morning—at which time an additional key spell would be woken in her bracelet and certain spells taught her as was “concomitant to the responsibilities and offices of a Second Assistant Librarian in the Great Library of the Clayr.”

Consequently, Lirael had stayed up all night in her study trying to put the extra key-spells she’d already awoken in her bracelet back to sleep, so as not to reveal her unauthorized wanderings. But the sleeping proved harder than the waking. Hours and hours later, without success, her groans of despair at four in the morning had woken the Dog, who breathed on the bracelet, which returned the extra spells to their dormant state and sent Lirael into a sleep so heavy she almost missed the ceremony anyway.

The red waistcoat was an early birthday present, followed by others on the actual day. Imshi and the other young librarians who worked most closely with Lirael gave her a new pen, a slender rod of silver that was engraved with the faces of owls and had two slender claws where a variety of steel nibs could be screwed in. It came in a velvet-lined box of sweet-smelling sandalwood, with an ancient inkwell of cloudy green glass that had a golden rim etched with runes that no one could read. Both pen and inkwell were an unspoken commentary on Lirael’s now long-established habit of speaking as little as possible. She wrote notes whenever she could get away with it. In the last few years, she had rarely said more than ten words in a row, and often she would not speak to other humans for days at a time.