“A necromancer?” said Abhorsen. “Only of a sort. I loved the woman who lies here. She would have lived if she had loved another, but she did not. Sabriel is our child. Can you not see the kinship?”
The man looked at the child again and sighed.
“How is the babe?” he asked, and the midwife stared at him wonderingly, for the dead child was now loudly alive and as deathly white as he.
Stepping back, he drew the silver bell onehanded, and swung it so it sounded twice. The sound was curiously muffled, but true, and the clear chime hung in the air, fresh and cutting, alive. Kerrigor flinched at the sound, and fell backwards to the darkness that was the gate.
“Spirit of your spirit, Abhorsen. You can’t spell me while I hold her. And perhaps I shall take her beyond the gate, as her mother has already gone.”
As he uttered the word, the wood ash disappeared from the priest’s forehead, and slowly formed on the child’s. The Charter had accepted the baptism.
“As you hear, lord,” she answered. “She is very well. It is perhaps a little cold for her—”
She smiled up at him and gurgled a little, and Abhorsen felt a smile tilting the corner of his own mouth. Still smiling, he turned, and began the long wade back up the river, to the gate that would return them both to their living flesh.
The white hand released its grip and the speaker stepped into the ring of firelight. The others watched him without welcome, and the hands that had half sketched Charter marks, or gone to bowstrings and hilts, did not relax.
A great flash lit the surrounding woods as the glowing liquid splashed over the child’s head, and the priest cried: “By the Charter that binds all things, we name thee—”
He paused to listen, and hearing the crying diminish, hastened forward. Perhaps she was already at the gateway, and about to pass.
When the midwife went to lay the child down and leave, Abhorsen spoke: “Wait. You will be needed.”
Slowly, Abhorsen drew a small, silver handbell from the bandolier of bells across his chest, and cocked his wrist to ring it. But the shadow-thing held the baby up and spoke in a dry, slithery voice, like a snake on gravel.
He could hear the child crying, which was good.
The midwife looked at him as he leant forward and took Sabriel from her, rocking her on his chest. The baby quietened and, in a few seconds, was asleep.
The Charter Mage inclined his head in assent, and the others drifted away to pack up their halfmade camp, slow with the reluctance of having to move, but filled with a greater reluctance to remain near Abhorsen, for his name was one of secrets, and unspoken fears.
“That will do till morning,” said Abhorsen.
It was little more than three miles from the Wall into the Old Kingdom, but that was enough. Noonday sunshine could be seen on the other side of the Wall in Ancelstierre, and not a cloud in sight. Here, there was a clouded sunset, and a steady rain had just begun to fall, coming faster than the tents could be raised.
The First Gate was a veil of mist, with a single dark opening, where the river poured into the silence beyond. Abhorsen hurried towards it, and then stopped. The baby had not yet passed through, but only because something had caught her and picked her up. Standing there, looming up out of the black waters, was a shadow darker than the gate.
The current was strong, but he knew this branch of the river and waded past pools and eddies that hoped to drag him under. Already, he could feel the waters leaching his spirit, but his will was strong, so they took only the color, not the substance.
“Yes,” whispered Kerrigor. “The irony does not, I think, escape you. But if you want the child . . .”
“If you seek a man who knows a little of the Charter,” he said hesitantly, “I should wish to serve, for I have seen its work in you, lord, though I am loath to leave my fellow wanderers.”
It was several feet higher than Abhorsen, and there were pale marsh-lights burning where you would expect to see eyes, and the fetid stench of carrion rolled off it—a warm stench that relieved the chill of the river.
“Peace!” said a calm voice. “I wish you no harm.”
“Let us see what the Charter wills.”
Slowly, a chill mist began to rise from his body, spreading towards the man and midwife, who scuttled to the other side of the fire—wanting to get away, but now too afraid to run.
“One of the usual calling,” he croaked. “But unskilled. He didn’t realize it would be in the nature of an exchange. Alas, his life was not sufficient for me to pass the last portal. But now, you have come to help me.”
Abhorsen stared at the gate for a time, then sighed and, placing the bell back in his belt, looked at the baby held in his arm. She stared back at him, dark eyes matching his own.
Abhorsen advanced on the thing slowly,watching the child it held loosely in the crook of a shadowed arm. The baby was asleep, but restless, and it squirmed towards the creature, seeking a mother’s breast, but it only held her away from itself, as if the child were hot, or caustic.
The man strode towards the bodies and looked upon them. Then he turned to face the watchers, pushing his hood back to reveal the face of someone who had taken paths far from sunlight, for his skin was a deathly white.
“Not as I do,” replied Abhorsen, smiling so his paper-white face crinkled at the corners and drew back from his equally white teeth. “And I say the child is not yet dead.”
“Your work?” asked the man, shivering a little, though it was no longer cold.
He made as if to throw the baby into the stream and, with that jerk, woke her. Immediately, she began to cry and her little fists reached out to gather up the shadow-stuff of Kerrigor like the folds of a robe. He cried out, tried to detach her, but the tiny hands held tightly and he was forced to overuse his strength, and threw her from him. She landed, squalling, and was instantly caught up in the flow of the river, but Abhorsen lunged forward, snatching her from both the river and Kerrigor’s grasping hands.
“Yes,” said the midwife. “I shall come with you, and look after Sabriel. But you must find a wet-nurse . . .”
He gestured at the fire and spoke a word, and it roared into life, the frost melting at once, the raindrops sizzling into steam.
His hand went up to brush the mark from his forehead, then suddenly stopped, as a pale white hand gripped his and forced it down in a single, swift motion.
“I am called Abhorsen,” he said, and his words sent ripples through the people about him, as if he had cast a large and weighty stone into a pool of stagnant water. “And there will be a baptism tonight.”
The midwife hesitated, and looked to the Charter Mage, who still lingered on the far side of the fire. He refused to meet her glance and she looked down once more at the little girl bawling in her arms.
It is easily done. Sign the child, Arrenil. We will make a new camp at Leovi’s Ford. Join us when you are finished here.”
“I, who chained you beyond the Seventh Gate?”
“Yes,” said Abhorsen. “I am a necromancer, but not of the common kind. Where others of the art raise the dead, I lay them back to rest. And those that will not rest, I bind—or try to. I am Abhorsen . . .”
As he spoke, a light came to the bottle, pulsing with the rhythm of the chant. Then the chanter was silent. He touched the bottle to the earth, then to the sign of wood ash on his forehead, and then upended it over the child.
“And I daresay much else besides,” mused Abhorsen. “But my house is not a place for—”
He looked at the baby again, and added, almost with a note of surprise, “Father of Sabriel.”
The Charter Mage looked down on the bundle in the midwife’s hands, and said: “The child is dead, Abhorsen. We are travelers, our life lived under the sky, and it is often harsh. We know death, lord.”
“But . . . but she is dead!” exclaimed the Charter Mage, gingerly touching his forehead to make sure the ash was truly gone.
Already, the color had been drained from her skin. Nervously, Abhorsen laid a hand across the brand on her forehead and felt the glow of her spirit within. The Charter mark had kept her life contained when the river should have drained it. It was her life-spirit that had so burned Kerrigor.
Abhorsen frowned, in recognition, and replaced the bell. “You have a new shape, Kerrigor. And you are now this side of the First Gate. Who was foolish enough to assist you so far?”
He got no answer, for the midwife was staring across the fire at Abhorsen, and Abhorsen was staring at—nothing. His eyes reflected the dancing flames, but did not see them.
“Perhaps you will not have to,” replied Abhorsen, smiling at a sudden thought. “I wonder if your leader will object to two new members joining her band. For my work means I must travel, and there is no part of the Kingdom that has not felt the imprint of my feet.”
“Then I shall take her to my house. I shall have need of a nurse.Will you come?”
“If the Charter does not—” began the man, but Abhorsen held up a pallid hand and interrupted.
“Some fool will soon bring me back, and then . . .” he cried out, as the river took him under. The waters swirled and gurgled and then resumed their steady flow.
Normally, the parents of the child would then speak the name. Here, only Abhorsen spoke, and he said: “Sabriel.”
Then he took a small bottle from his pouch and held it aloft, crying out a chant that was the beginning of a Charter; one that listed all things that lived or grew, or once lived, or would live again, and the bonds that held them all together.
The man tried to meet Abhorsen’s gaze, but faltered and looked away at his fellows. None moved, or made any sign, till a woman said, “So.
The Charter Mage cleared his throat, and moved around the fire.
Kerrigor smiled widely, and Abhorsen caught a glimpse of fires burning deep inside his mouth.
The midwife looked down on the baby, and saw that it was a girl child and, save for its stillness, could be merely sleeping. She had heard of Abhorsen, and if the girl could live . . . warily she picked up the child again and held her out to the Charter Mage.
“The child, too?” asked one of the watchers, a man who wore the mark of the Charter freshdrawn in wood ash upon his brow. “Then there shall be no need for baptism.”
The baby wailed a scant second before Abhorsen opened his eyes, so that the midwife was already halfway around the dying fire, ready to pick her up. Frost crackled on the ground and icicles hung from Abhorsen’s nose. He wiped them off with a sleeve and leaned over the child, much as any anxious father does after a birth.
If she had gone beyond the first gateway he could not bring her back without more stringent preparations, and a subsequent dilution of her spirit.
The midwife shrugged her cloak higher up against her neck and bent over the woman again, raindrops spilling from her nose onto the upturned face below. The midwife’s breath blew out in a cloud of white, but there was no answering billow of air from her patient.
The midwife sighed and slowly straightened up, that single movement telling the watchers everything they needed to know. The woman who had staggered into their forest camp was dead, only holding on to life long enough to pass it on to the baby at her side. But even as the midwife picked up the pathetically small form beside the dead woman, it shuddered within its wrappings, and was still.
“You are . . . you are . . .” whispered the midwife.
