Faced with a foe she cannot beat
The small Abhorsen quails
The Seven bells she carries, and
The world lost if she fails.
Her hand falls first on Ranna, least
The smallest of the lot
The bell, when rung, brings welcome sleep
But sleep she needs now not.
She moves along to Mosrael
Necromancer's friend
That wakes the dead from deathly sleep
Not drives them to the end.
Next comes Kibeth, Walker called
That drives the Dead to where
The wielder wishes, yes, perhaps
The small bell she could bear.
But needing greater power yet
She comes to Dyrim sweet
Who stills and loosens tongues at whim
But this foe can't defeat.
Next comes Belgaer, who thinks
and helps to think for more
Or can erase a memory—
Is needed not, for sure.
Saraneth, the Binder's pouch
Feels rough, like canvas sail
Perhaps this bell, so big and bright?
No, Astarael.
Her fingers find the biggest bell
Cold fingers wrap around
The handle of a colder bell;
They pause—then let it sound.