The necromancer, thought Sam as he folded the letter.

He was glad the sun was out and that he was in the Palace, protected by wards and guards and running water.

“Bad news?” asked Brel.

“Just news,” said Sam, but he was unable to suppress a shiver.

“Nothing the King and the Abhorsen can’t deal with,” said Brel, with total confidence.

“Wherever they are,” whispered Sam. He put the letter inside his coat and went back downstairs. To his workshop, to lose himself in making things, in tiny details that required all his attention and the total dexterity of his hands.

With every step, he knew he should be going to open The Book of the Dead.

Typically, Sam’s parents returned on a beautiful spring evening, long after Sam had climbed down from the tower and Brel’s watch had ended. The wind had turned to the east, the Sea of Saere was shifting color from winter black to summery turquoise, the sun was still warm even as it sank into the west, and the swallows that lived in the cliffs were stealing wool from Sam’s torn blanket for their nests.

Sabriel arrived first, her Paperwing skimming low over the practice yard where Sam was sweating through forty-eight patterns of attack and defense with Cynel, one of the better guards. The shadow of the Paperwing startled them both and allowed Cynel to take the final point, since she recovered while Sam was momentarily paralyzed.

His day of doom had finally come, and all his prepared speeches and letters leaked out of his brain, as if his opponent had actually pierced his head rather than triumphantly clanging her wooden sword down on his heavily padded helmet.

He was hurrying inside to change out of his practice armor when the trumpets sounded above the South Gate. At first he

thought they were for his mother, till he heard other trumpets farther away, up at the West Yard, where her Paperwing would have landed. So the trumpets at the South Gate had to be announcing the King. No one else got a fanfare.

It was indeed Touchstone. Sam met him twenty minutes later in the family’s private solar—a large room, three stories above the Great Hall, with a single long window that looked down upon the city rather than the sea. Touchstone was looking out at his capital as Sam came in, watching the lights come on. Bright Charter lights and soft oil lights, flickering candles and fires. It was one of the best times to be in Belisaere, at lighting-up time on a warm spring evening.

As usual, Touchstone looked tired, though he’d managed to wash and change out of armor and riding gear. He was wearing an Ancelstierran-style bathrobe, his curly hair still wet from a hasty bath. He smiled as he saw Sam, and they shook hands. “You look better, Sam,” said Touchstone, noting the flush in his son’s face from the sword practice. “Though I had hoped you’d also develop as a letter writer this winter.”

“Um,” said Sam. He’d sent only two letters to his father all winter, and a few notes at the bottom of some of Ellimere’s much more regular correspondence. Neither the letters nor the notes had contained anything very interesting and nothing at all personal. Sam had actually drafted some that did, but like the ones to his mother, they’d ended up in the fire.

“Dad, I . . .” Sam began hesitantly, and he felt a surge of relief as he finally began to broach the subject he’d stewed on all winter. “Dad, I can’t—”

Before he could go on, the door swung open, and Ellimere breezed in. Sam’s mouth snapped shut, and he glared at her, but she ignored him and rushed straight to Touchstone, hugging him with evident relief.

“Dad! I’m so glad you’re home,” she said. “And Mother too!”

“One big happy family,” muttered Sam under his breath.

“What was that?” asked Touchstone, a touch of sternness in his voice.

“Nothing,” said Sam. “Where’s Mother?”

“Down in the reservoir,” replied Touchstone slowly. He kept one arm around Ellimere and drew Sam in with the other. “Now, I don’t want you to get too worried, but she’s had to go to the Great Stones, because she’s been wounded—”

“Wounded!” exclaimed Ellimere and Sam together, turning in so that all three of them were in a tight circle.

“Not seriously,” Touchstone said hastily. “A bite to the leg from some sort of Dead thing, but she couldn’t attend to it at the time, and it went bad.”

“Is she . . . is she going to . . .” Ellimere asked anxiously, staring down at her own leg in consternation. From the look on her face, it was plain that she found it hard to imagine Sabriel hurt and not completely in command of herself and everything around her.

“No, she is not going to lose her leg,” Touchstone said firmly. “She’s had to go down to the Great Charter Stones because both of us were simply too tired to cast the necessary healing spells. But we’ll be able to down there. It is also the best place for all of us to have a private discussion. A family conference.” The reservoir where the six Great Charter Stones stood was in many ways the heart of the Old Kingdom. It was possible to access the Charter, the very wellspring of magic, anywhere in the Old Kingdom, but the presence of ordinary Charter Stones made it much easier, as if they were conduits to the Charter. However, the Great Charter Stones actually seemed to be of the Charter, not just connected to it. While the Charter

contained and described all living things and all possibilities, and existed everywhere, it was particularly concentrated in the Great Stones, the Wall, and the bloodlines of the royal family, as well as the Abhorsens and the Clayr. Certainly, when two of the Great Stones were broken by Kerrigor, and the royal family apparently lost, the Charter itself had seemed to weaken, allowing greater freedom to Free Magic and the Dead.

“Wouldn’t it be better to have the conference up here, after Mother’s cast her spell?” asked Sam.

Despite its importance to the Kingdom, the reservoir had never been his favorite place, even before he had become so afraid of Death. The Stones themselves were comforting, even keeping the water around them warm, but the rest of the reservoir was cold and horrible. Touchstone’s mother and sisters had been slain there by Kerrigor, and much later, Sabriel’s father had died there, too. Sam didn’t want to think about what it must have been like when there were two broken Stones, and Kerrigor lurked there in the darkness with his necromantic beasts and Dead servants.

“No,” replied Touchstone, who had much more reason than his son to fear the place. But he had lost that fear years ago, in his long labor to repair the broken Stones with his own blood and fragments of barely remembered magic. “It’s the only place where we will definitely not be overheard, and there are too many things you both must know, and no others should. Bring the wine, Sameth. We’ll need it.”

“Are you going like that?” asked Ellimere, as Touchstone strode over to the fireplace and into the left-hand side of the inglenook. He turned as she spoke, looked down on his robe and the twin swords belted across it, shrugged, and went on. Ellimere sighed and followed him, and both disappeared into the darkness behind the fire.

Sam scowled and picked up the earthenware jug of spiced wine that had been mulled and placed near the fire to keep hot. Then he followed, pressing his hand up against the rear of the inglenook, Charter marks flaring as the guard-spell let him push open the secret door. Beyond that, he could already hear his father and sister clattering down the one hundred fifty-six steps that led to the reservoir, the Great Charter Stones, and Sabriel.
Chapter Twenty-Four. Cold Water, Old Stone

The reservoir was a vast hall of silence, cold stone, and even colder water. The Great Stones stood in the darkness at its center, invisible from the landing where the Palace stairs met the water. Around the rim of the reservoir, shafts of sunlight came down from the grilled openings high above, casting cross-hatched ripples of light across the mirrorsmooth surface of the water. Tall columns of white marble rose up like mute sentinels between the patches of light, supporting the ceiling sixty feet above.

The water was, as always, extremely clear. Sam dipped his hand in it as he helped his father untie the barge that was moored at the end of the Palace steps. As the water trickled between his fingers, he saw Charter marks sparkle briefly. All the water in the reservoir absorbed magic from the Great Charter Stones. Closer to the center, the water was almost more magic than anything else, and was no longer cold—or even wet.

The barge was not much more than a raft with gilded knobs on each corner. There were two of them in the reservoir, but Sabriel had obviously taken the other one. She would be on it, out there in the center, where no sunlight fell. The Great

Stones glowed with all the millions of Charter marks that moved in and on them, but most of the time it was only a faint luminescence, no rival even to the filtered sunlight. They wouldn’t see the glow until they were close, away from the light-dappled rim, past the third line of columns.

Touchstone undid the rope on his side, then placed his hand upon the planking and whispered a single word. Ripples moved across the still water as he spoke, and the barge began to edge away from the landing. There was no current in the reservoir, but the barge moved as if there were, or as if unseen hands pushed it through the water. Touchstone, Sam, and Ellimere stood close together in the middle, occasionally shifting balance as the barge swayed and rocked.

This was how Sam’s long-dead aunts and his grandmother had traveled to their deaths, he thought. Standing on a barge—maybe even this same one, he thought, dredged up, repaired and re-gilded—all unsuspecting, till they were ambushed by Kerrigor. He had cut their throats, catching their blood in his golden cup. Royal blood. Blood for the breaking of the Great Charter Stones.

Blood for the breaking, blood for the making. The Stones had been broken by royal blood, and re-made with royal blood—his father’s blood. Sam looked at Touchstone and wondered how he had done it. The weeks of laboring here alone, each morning taking a silver, Charter-spelled knife and deliberately re-opening the cuts in his palms from the day before. Cuts that had left white lines of scar tissue from his little finger to the ball of the thumb. Cutting his hands, and casting spells that he had not been sure of, spells that were terribly dangerous to the caster, even without the added risk and burden of the broken Stones.

But even more, Sam wondered about the use of blood, the same blood that ran in his veins. It felt strange to him that his pounding heart was in its way akin to the Great Stones ahead. How ignorant he was, particularly of the Charter’s greater secrets. Why was royal, Abhorsen, and Clayr blood different from normal people’s—even that of other Charter Mages, whose blood was sufficient to mend or mar only the lesser Stones? The three bloodlines were known as Great Charters, like the Great Stones ahead, and the Wall. But why? Why did their blood contain Charter Magic, magic that could not be duplicated by marks drawn from the generally accessible Charter?

Sam had always been fascinated by Charter Magic, particularly making things with it, but the more he used it, the more he realized how little he knew. So much knowledge had been lost in the two hundred years of the Interregnum. Touchstone had passed on as much as he knew to his son, but his own specialty was in battle magic, not in making, or any deeper mysteries. He had been a Royal Guard, a bastard Prince, not a mage, at the time of the Queen’s death. After that, he had been imprisoned in the shape of a ship’s figurehead for two hundred years, while the Kingdom sank slowly into disorder.

Touchstone had been able to mend the Great Stones, he had said, because the broken Stones wanted to be re-made. He had made many mistakes at first, and only survived by grace of the Stones’ support and strength, nothing else. Even so, it had taken many months, and as many years off his life. There had been no silver in Touchstone’s hair before the mending. The barge passed between two columns, and Sam’s eyes slowly adjusted to the strange twilight. He could see the six Great Stones ahead now, tall monoliths of dark grey, their irregular shapes quite different from the smooth masonry of the columns and only a third of their height. And there was the

other barge, floating in the center of the ring of Stones. But where was Sabriel?

Fear suddenly gripped hard at his chest. He couldn’t see his mother, and all he could think of was how the Dead Kerrigor had taken on his former human shape and lured Sam’s grandmother the Queen down to a dark and bloody death. Maybe Touchstone wasn’t really Touchstone, but something else that had assumed his form. . . .

Something moved on the barge ahead. Sam, who had unconsciously held his breath, gasped and choked, thinking that all his fears were realized. Whatever it was had no human shape, rising only as high as his waist, without arms or head or discernible form. A lump of writhing darkness, where his mother should be—

Then Touchstone slapped him on the back. He took a sudden breath, and the thing on the barge cast a small Charter light that sparkled in the air above like a tiny star—revealing that it was Sabriel after all. She had been lying down, wrapped in her dark blue cloak, and had just sat up. The light shone on her face now, and her familiar smile met them. But it was not the full, uncaring smile of complete happiness, and she looked more tired and worn than Sam had ever seen her. Always pale, her skin looked almost translucent in the Charter light, and it was sheened with the sweat of pain and suffering. For the first time, Sam saw white streaks in her hair, and he was struck with the realization that she was not ageless but would one day grow old. She was not wearing her bells, but the bandolier lay beside her, the mahogany handles in easy reach, as did her sword and pack.

Sam’s barge drifted between two of the Stones and into the ring. All three passengers started as it crossed, feeling a sudden surge of energy and power from the Great Stones. Some weariness was stripped away from them, though not all. In Sam’s case, the fear and guilt that he had carried all winter were lessened. He felt more confident, more like his old self. It was a feeling he hadn’t had since he’d walked out onto the pitch for that final cricket match in the Schoolboys’ Shield.