and shortened and shallowed his breath. But if worst came to worst, he would try to use the lesser bells, drawing on the lessons he’d had from his mother. They were supposed to be merely a prelude for the study he’d abandoned. Ranna, at least, he could probably wield without fear of being forced unwillingly into Death.

A nagging voice at the back of his mind said that even now it was not too late to pick up The Book of the Dead, to learn more of the birthright that could save him. But even his fear of an attack by the Dead was not enough to conquer Sam’s fear of the book. Reading it, he might find himself taken into Death. Better to fight the Dead in Life, with what little knowledge he had, than to confront them in Death itself.

Behind him, Sam thought he heard a chuckle, a muffled laugh that didn’t sound like Mogget. He turned, hand instinctively going to his sword, but there was nothing and no one there. Just the sleeping cat in one saddlebag, and The Book of the Dead in the other. Sam let go of the hilt, already sweaty from his trembling fingers, and looked down at the stream again. If the bed was smooth, he would ride along it as far as he could. If he was lucky, it might even take him as far west as the Ratterlin, a mighty river even one of the Greater Dead couldn’t cross.

And from there, a secret and cowardly voice said in his mind, he could take a boat to Abhorsen’s House. He would be safe there. Safe from the Dead, safe from everything. But what, another voice asked, would happen to Nick, to his parents, to the Kingdom? Then both voices were lost as Sam concentrated on guiding Sprout down the hillside, towards the promised safety of the stream.

Sam lost sight of the Gore Crow when the last of the daylight was eaten up by the shadows of the trees and the falling darkness. But he could still feel the Dead spirit above him. It was lower now, braver with the cloaking night about it.

But not brave enough to descend too close to the running water that burbled on either side of Sam’s temporary camp. The stream had proved to be a bit of a disappointment, and a clear indication that the spring floods were already receding. It was only thirty feet wide, and shallow enough to wade in. But it would help, and Sam had found an islet, no more than a narrow strip of sand, where the water ran swiftly on either side.

He had a fire going already, since there was no point trying to hide with the Gore Crow circling above. All he had to do to make his camp as secure as possible was to cast a diamond of protection large enough for himself, the horse, and the fire. If he had the strength to do it, Sam thought, as he made Sprout stand still. As an afterthought, he also took off the bandolier of bells, which had grown no easier to bear. Then he limped to take up a spell-casting stance in front of Sprout, unsheathed his sword, and held it outstretched. Keeping this pose, he took four slow, deliberate breaths, drawing as much oxygen into his tired body as he could.

He reached out for the four cardinal Charter marks that would create the points of the diamond of protection. Symbols formed in his mind, plucked out of the flow of the never-ending Charter.

He held them in his mind, breath ragged at the effort, and drew the outline of the first mark—the Eastmark—in the sand in front of him. As he finished, the Eastmark in his head ran down into the blade like golden fire. It filled the outline he’d made in the sand with light.

Sam limped behind Sprout, past the fire, and drew the Southmark. As this one flared into life, a line of yellow fire ran to it from the Eastmark, forming a barrier impenetrable to both the Dead and physical danger. Intent on moving on, Sam didn’t look. If he faltered now, the diamond would be incomplete. Sam had cast many diamonds of protection before, but never when he was wounded and so weary. When the last mark, the Northmark, finally flared up, he dropped his sword and collapsed, wheezing onto the damp sand.

Sprout, curious, turned her head back to look at him, but she didn’t move. Sam had thought he would have to spell her into immobility to keep her from accidentally moving out of the diamond, but she didn’t stir. Perhaps she could smell the Gore Crow.

“I take it we’re in danger,” said a yawning voice close to Sam’s ear. He sat up and saw Mogget extricating himself from the saddlebag, which lay next to the fire and a probably insufficient pile of rather damp wood.

Sam nodded, temporarily unable to speak. He pointed up at the sky, which was now beginning to show single stars and the great white swathe of the Mare’s Tail. There were black clouds too, high to the south, crackling with distant lightning, but no sign of rain.

The Gore Crow was invisible, but Mogget seemed to know what Sam was pointing at. The cat rose up on his hind legs and sniffed, one paw absently batting down an oversized mosquito that had probably just dined on Sam.

“A Gore Crow,” he said. “Only one. Strange.”

“It’s been following us,” said Sam, slapping several mosquitoes that were coming in to land on his forehead. “There were two, but the other one flew away. South. Probably to get orders. Curse these bugs!”

“There is a necromancer at work here,” agreed Mogget, sniffing the air again. “I wonder if he . . . or she . . . has been searching for you specifically. Or is it just bad luck for a wayward traveler?”

“It could be the one who caught me before, couldn’t it?”

asked Sam. “I mean, he knew where I was with the cricket team. . . .”

“Perhaps,” replied Mogget, still staring up at the night sky. “It is unlikely that there would be Gore Crows here, or that any lesser necromancer would dare to move against you, unless there is a guiding force behind them. Certainly these Crows are more daring than they have any right to be. Have you caught me a fish?”

“No,” replied Sam, surprised by the sudden change of subject.

“How inconsiderate of you,” said Mogget, sniffing. “I suppose I’ll have to catch one myself.”

“No!” exclaimed Sam, levering himself up. “You’ll break the diamond! I haven’t got the strength to cast it again. Ow! Charter curse these mosquitoes!”

“I won’t break it,” said Mogget, walking over to the Westmark and carefully poking out his tongue. The mark flashed white, dazzling Sam. When his vision cleared, Mogget was standing upright on the other side, intent on the water, one paw raised, like a fishing bear.

“Show-off,” muttered Sam. He wondered how the cat had done it. The diamond was unbroken, the lines of magical fire streaming without pause between the brightness of the cardinal marks.

If only the diamond kept the mosquitoes out as well, he thought, slapping several more into bloody oblivion against his neck. Clearly their bites did not come into the spell’s definition

of physical harm. Suddenly he smiled, remembering something he’d packed.

He was getting this object out of the saddlebag when the Westmark flashed again, reacting to Mogget’s return. The cat had two small trout in his mouth, their scales reflecting rainbows in the mix of firelight and Charter glow.

“You can have this one to cook,” said Mogget, dropping the smaller one next to the fire. “What is that?”

“It’s a present for my mother,” replied Sam proudly, setting down a bejeweled clockwork frog that had the interesting anatomical addition of wings made of feathery bronze. “A flying frog.”

Mogget watched with interest as Sam lightly touched the frog’s back and it began to glow with Charter Magic as the sending inside the mechanical body waked from sleep. It opened one turquoise eye, then the other, lids of paper-thin gold sliding back. Then it flapped its wings, brazen feathers clashing. “Very pretty,” said Mogget. “Does it do anything?”

The flying frog answered the question itself, suddenly leaping into the air, a long and vibrantly red tongue flashing out to grab several startled mosquitoes. Wings beating furiously, it spiraled after several more, ate them, and then dived back down to land contentedly near Sam’s feet.

“It catches bugs,” stated Sam with considerable satisfaction. “I thought it would be handy for Mother, since she spends so much time in swamps hunting the Dead.”

“You made it,” said Mogget, watching the flying frog leap again to twirl and twist after its quarry. “Completely your invention?”

“Yes,” replied Sam shortly, expecting some criticism of his handiwork. But Mogget was silent, just watching the frog’s aerobatics, his green eyes following its every move. Then the

cat shifted his gaze to Sam, making him nervous. He tried to meet that green stare, but he had to look away—and he suddenly realized that there were Dead nearby. Lots of Dead, drawing closer with every second.

Mogget obviously felt them too, for he leapt up and hissed, the hair on his back rising to a ridge. Sprout smelt them, and shivered. The Flying Frog flew to the saddlebags and climbed in.

Sam looked out into the darkness, shielding his eyes from the firelight. The moon was occluded by cloud, but starlight reflected from the water. He could feel the Dead, out there in the forest, but the darkness lay too heavy under the branches of the old tangled trees. He couldn’t see anything.

But he could hear twigs cracking, and branches snapping back, and even the occasional heavy footfall, all against the constant burble of the stream. Whatever was coming, some of them at least had physical forms. There could be Shadow Hands out there as well. Or Ghlims or Mordaut or any of the many kinds of Lesser Dead. He could feel nothing more powerful, at least for now.

Whatever they were, there were at least a dozen of them, on both sides of the stream. Forgetting his tiredness and his limp, Sam moved around the diamond, checking the marks.

The running water was neither deep nor fast enough to do more than discourage the Dead. The diamond would be their true protection.

“You may have to renew the marks before dawn,” said Mogget, watching Sam’s inspection. “It hasn’t been cast very well. You should get some sleep before you try again.”

“How can I sleep?” whispered Sam, instinctively keeping his voice down, as if it mattered whether the Dead could hear him. They already knew where he was. He could even smell them now—the disgusting odor of decaying flesh and gravemold.

“They’re only Hands,” said Mogget, looking out. “They probably won’t attack as long as the diamond lasts.”

“How do you know that?” asked Sam, wiping the sweat from his forehead, along with several crushed mosquitoes. He thought he could see the Dead now—tall shapes between the darker trunks of the trees. Horrible, broken corpses forced back into Life to do a necromancer’s bidding. Their intelligence and humanity ripped from them, leaving only inhuman strength and an insatiable desire for the life they could no longer have.

His life.

“You could walk out there and send them all back to Death,” suggested Mogget. He was starting to eat the second fish, beginning with the tail. Sam hadn’t seen him eat the first one.

“Your mother would,” Mogget added slyly, when Sam didn’t speak.

“I’m not my mother,” replied Sam, dry-mouthed. He made no move to pick up the bells, though he could feel them there on the sand, calling out to him. They wanted to be used against the Dead. But they could be dangerous to the wielder, most of them, or tricksome at least. He would have to use Kibeth to make the Dead walk back into Death, and Kibeth could easily send him walking instead.

“Does the walker choose the path, or the path the walker?” Mogget asked suddenly, his eyes once again intent on Sam’s sweating face.

“What?” asked the Prince, distracted. He’d heard his mother say that before, but it didn’t mean anything to him then or now. “What does that mean?”

“It means that you’ve never finished The Book of the Dead,” said Mogget in a strange tone.

“Well, no, not yet,” said Sam wretchedly. “I’m going to, it’s just that I—”

“It also means that we really are in trouble,” interrupted Mogget, switching his gaze to the outer darkness. “I thought you would at least know enough to protect yourself by now!”

“What do you see?” asked Sam. He could hear movement upstream, the sudden splintering of trees and the crash of rocks into the water.

“Shadow Hands have come,” replied Mogget bleakly.

“Two of them, well back in the trees. They are directing the Hands to dam the stream. I expect they will attack when the water no longer flows.”

“I wish . . . I wish I were a proper Abhorsen,” whispered Sam. “Well you should be, at your age!” said Mogget. “But I

suppose we will have to make do with whatever you do know. By the way, where is your own sword? An unspelled blade will not cut the stuff of Shadow Hands.”

“I left it in Belisaere,” Sam said, after a moment. “I didn’t think . . . I didn’t understand what I was doing. I thought Nick was probably in trouble, but not this much.”

“That’s the problem with growing up as a Prince,” growled Mogget. “You always think that everything will get worked out for you. Or you turn out like your sister and think nothing gets done unless you do it. It’s a wonder any of you are ever any use at all.”

“What can I do now?” asked Sam humbly.

“We will have a little time before the water slows,” replied Mogget. “You should try to place some magic in your blade. If you can make that Frog, I’m sure that will not be beyond you.”

“Yes,” said Sam dully. “I do know how to do that.”

Concentrating on the blade, he delved once more into the Charter, reaching for marks of sharpness and unraveling, magic that would wreak havoc upon Dead flesh or spirit-stuff.

With an effort, he forced the marks into the blade, watching them slowly move like oil upon the metal, soaking into the steel.