~*~Author's Note~*~
Hey all, Narn here. Thanks for taking the time to read this story, and this
chapter. As you all know, school's in session yet again, and I,
unfortunetly, am a slave to the system. Please don't hate me, but the
chapters will be coming a little more slowly now. I'm starting on chapter
four, so please keep your eyes open and don't abandon me and my story. Take
care, and Charter Keep.
Lirael awoke with the first light of morning that poured through the Reading Room window. Groaning to herself as she stirred, she stretched upwards in an attempt to banish the kink that had developed in her neck as she slept. Sighing to herself as she realized that the kink would be around for a while, she stood up. As she did so, the volume that she had fallen asleep with fell to the floor. Cursing under her breath, she crouched down to pick it up. She had read the entire volume the previous night, and had come no closer to understanding the phenomenon that Sabriel and her had encountered. Still, she now possessed an intimate understanding of how to properly form her own band of gore crows, and could now consider herself well versed in the art of Hand construction. Retrieving the volume, she placed it upon the chair on which she'd spent the night. Standing up to her full height, she stretched again, instantly regretting it. A sending in a crimson cowl entered the room, bowing low before directing Lirael towards the staircase, and in turn towards the Hall. Mogget was already waiting at the long dining table when Lirael arrived as the red garbed sending took its leave.
"Good morning." Mogget grinned, licking his chops for no apparent reason.
"And what's got you so pleased?" Lirael inquired as she took her seat.
"A message hawk arrived at dawn with a message from Qyrre. The thing was half-mad by the time it got to the House. Screaming something about a band of hands attacking."
Lirael sighed as the sendings came out bearing covered trays. "The Abhorsen will take her breakfast to go." Mogget snickered.
It took less than ten minutes for Lirael to be seated in the Paperwing, and ready to go. She had been garbed in a coat of gethre, and armed with her trusty blade Once-Nehima as well as her bandolier. The sendings had prepared a journey sack for her, stuffed with rope, knives, bread, cheese, and a whole plethora of other items that might be of use. Mogget sent along his best wishes, whatever that was worth, and three Charter Sendings had just finished readying the Paperwing for flight. Closing her eyes, Lirael felt for that constant, steady flow of existence that she knew so well. With the purpose of flying the Paperwing in mind, the necessary marks came quickly to her call. Opening her eyes, she released them as she whistled. The marks seemed to set gleefully to their task, settling into the very marrow of the craft Lirael sat in. It was almost as if the Paperwing took a deep breath as the marks took root, and exhaled as it rose gently from the ground.
"To Qyrre." She whispered to the craft, placing a hand upon the Paperwing. She felt a tingle surge through her-the Paperwing was acknowledging her request. The Paperwing rose even higher, then took off in a northeasterly direction across the crisp morning sky. As the Paperwing flew straight and true, seeking out it's destination like a dog might track a sent, Lirael reveled in the cool morning air. She'd never gotten tired of flying, and doubted she ever would. As a matter of habit, her left hand went to the pouch at her side. Soothed by the familiar shape of the soapstone sculpture and the Dark Mirror under her fingers, she relaxed a little. Calling upon the Charter once more with a whistle, she raised a wind to carry her to Qyrre. Judging from the strength of the Charter Wind she'd conjured, she calculated her arrival at Qyrre to be in a little over two hours.
"Too long." She muttered, reaching into her journeysack for something to eat. Pulling out a hunk of what looked to be a rye bread, she broke a piece of a softer cheese from the wheel provided, and slapped it atop the bread. Chewing contentedly at her makeshift breakfast, she regarded the landscape below her. Her course lay along the mighty Ratterlin, and it glinted like precious gems in the pale morning light as she flew above it. As she flew onwards, a mountain range appeared to her left. Lirael adjusted her course to fly closer to the Ratterlin, flying alongside the mountains as opposed to over. The air grew warmer and warmer the further she went, as the morning blossomed in all its glory. Two hours later, as she had predicted, Lirael saw the village of Qyrre below. Her Paperwing started to descend in a gentle slope that made the most of the thermals it was riding, as well as keeping Lirael comfortable. As she and her craft drew closer to the ground, Lirael's suspicion was aroused. There were no Hands that she could see. A small crowd was gathering near the center of the town, waving frantically at the Paperwing. With a nudge at the craft, it comes in for a final landing right near the small group of citizens. Their eyes were wide with fear-they had seen things they would rather forget.
"Oh, Abhorsen! Forgive us! Please!" One of the villagers cried, throwing herself at the ground before the Paperwing. Confused, Lirael strapped on her bells and Once-Nehima before exiting the Paperwing. A quick pat at the pouch at her side went unnoticed by the townspeople. Lirael tried to ignore the fact that her title now was missing the "In-Waiting" that she had borne for so long.
"Where are the Hands?" Lirael asked, pulling the woman to her feet. The villagers gathered exchanged apprehensive glances before facing the new Abhorsen. A man looked down towards the ground before speaking.
"There are none."
"What do you mean?" Lirael inquired, startled. "The woman-she was a Necromancer. She forced us to send you a message-hawk . . . she said she wanted you here as soon as possible. She told us what to say." The woman on Lirael's arm sobbed. Those gathered nodded their agreement, offering their own details.
"She said she would kill us all if we didn't!"
"She threatened to destroy our city!"
"She was going to call up all sorts of horrid dead things unless we got you here!" Lirael took the distraught woman into the crowd, pressing her into what she presumed was her husbands outstretched arms. Thinking quickly, the Abhorsen pressed the villagers for more information.
"Is she still here?" Nods, and affirmative exclamations.
"Where is she?" Incomprehensible chatter, and fingers pointed towards what looked to be a fisherman's hut. Leaving the crowd behind her, she walked towards the hut while drawing out Saraneth. Creeping silently up to the door, she pushed it open, cringing as it creaked. She had now lost any advantage she may have had. The Necromancer would already be aware of the fact someone was coming, and probably would have already drawn a bell. Opening the door further, heedless of the creaking, Lirael stepped into the house. Her nose twitched as a familiar scent assaulted her nostrils-the scent of Free Magic. There was a combined sitting room and kitchen before her, and a hall beyond that appeared to lead to a bedroom. Stepping cautiously through the sitting room, she approached the closed bedroom door. Turning the knob with as much care as she could manage, she took a deep breath before pushing it open.
"I wondered when you'd arrive." A pert female voice commented, its source a dark-robed woman sitting on the bed. The hood of her cloak was down, revealing pale skin and softened features, as well as dark hair and eyes. Her hair cascaded in limp ringlets about her shoulders. She appeared to be about Lirael's height, and bore a twisted, Free Magic version of Ranna. As Lirael moved to ring Saraneth, the Necromancer before her sounded Ranna with a snide smirk.
"Aren't you feeling a little tired, Lirael?" She inquired as the Abhorsen stifled a yawn and dropped her Binder. The gentle pealing of Ranna coaxed Lirael to sleep, it's lullaby soothing to the ear. Lirael forced herself to keep her eyes open, yet the more she struggled the stronger Ranna's pull became.
"They call me Terren." The Necromancer smirked, her bell still exerting its pull over Lirael. "I'm a part of a very, very important group. One that will see you dead." Lirael remained silent, still struggling against the sweet temptation of Ranna's call. "I intend to finish you off right at the start." Terren said casually, as if she were discussing something of no more consequence than the price of lemons in Belisaere. With a final peal of the Sleeper, Lirael found herself closing her eyes. Her mind protested this with all its might, fought it with everything it had, yet Lirael's body wanted nothing more than to submit to Ranna's will. As soon as her eyelids fluttered shut, Lirael found herself asleep, yet aware. She was dreaming, and she could see everything about her in perfect detail. It was a large green meadow, filled with wildflowers painted with every color imaginable. Crimson, gold, blue, and orange flowers flitted in the gentle breeze about her. Two figures stood in the distance-two tall, blonde, blue-eyed figures garbed in the robes of the Clayr.
"Sanar? Ryelle?" Lirael called out, unsure of what to make of it. She approached the twins, who looked at her in disgust.
"Filthy, Sightless Clayr." Sanar sniffed.
"Disgrace to the Sisters." Ryelle nodded in agreement. Lirael stood dumbstruck, her mouth hanging open. The words just spoken had been like slaps across her face, as well as numerous jabs at her stomach with freshly sharpened knives. The twins turned away from Lirael, walking away across the meadow, disappearing with a ripple of the air. As the twins left, Sameth rippled into existence. Looking towards Lirael with an apathetic look on his face, he shook his head.
"I'd probably make a better Abhorsen."
"Lirael?" Came a voice from behind her. It was somehow familiar, but Lirael couldn't quite place it. Whipping about, she gasped. Right before her stood her mother, a hopeful look upon her face. As Lirael turned fully about to face the mother she never really knew, Arielle's face fell.
"How could I love you?" She cried aloud, disappointment molding her features..
"Mother?" Lirael choked out in a small voice. This.this wasn't right! Sanar and Ryelle told her that she would always be a Sister, sightless and all. Sameth respected her! They were friends! And her mother. . . her mother loved her! She did! She had said so! As these thoughts streamed through her head, she forced herself to disbelieve what was being presented before her. This wasn't right. This couldn't be real! Suddenly, the meadow flickered out of existence, and Lirael found herself back in the small bedroom, facing the Necromancer who called herself Terren. A look of shock spread across the woman's face as she watched Lirael awaken from her nightmare. Before Lirael had recovered her wits enough to draw a bell, her opponent had already rung Sleeper once more. The familiar call of Ranna's lullaby echoed through Lirael's mind. Her eyelids began to flicker shut again despite her mind's protest, and Ranna crowed her victory-or was it Terren laughing? It was hard to tell. She was so tired. She just had to sleep for a little while. Just a quick nap, that was all.
"NO!" Lirael screamed, forcing all of her will and being to keep her eyes open. It was much like focusing her will into a bell, only this was much more difficult. With the bells, Lirael was always in control. Right now, she was clearly not in command. The gentle lullaby of Ranna faltered for a moment, almost as if the Sleeper was taken aback by this struggle against her call. In that moment, it was just Lirael alone in the blessed silence. As abruptly as it had stopped, the Sleeper's call came again. It was too late however-that moment was enough for Lirael to garner some strength. It wasn't much, but it was enough for Lirael to open her eyes fully. Perhaps it was simply Lirael's imagination, but she could have sworn that Ranna's song became more frantic as her eyelids opened wide, revealing Terren, and the bedroom. Terren's look of shock had set into one of determination as the Necromancer rose to face the Abhorsen. With another peal of her bell, Terren grinned smugly. Lirael extended a quivering arm, wincing with the effort it took to do so. Fighting off Ranna, she reached for Once-Nehima, her eyes threatening to close once more. Just a little longer, she told herself. Just hold on a little longer. As her hand settled upon the hilt of the Charter Marked sword, her eyes shot open. The sensation of the Charter Marked sword beneath her hand sent a course of strange, invigorating energy through her. She was awake . . . alive. With this newfound energy, Lirael threw herself into the unending oblivion of the Charter. Bathed in its warm glow, she drew Once-Nehima and took one wild slash at the Necromancer. In that moment, everything seemed to slow down. Every sensation became heightened, and Lirael found herself aware of every single movement she made. It wasn't only a single movement, but thousands of tiny movements all encompassed in one. The beating of her heart, ever muscle shifting to her will, the cool Charter Marked steel coming into contact with Terren's neck, each tendon in the Necromancer's neck beings severed. As the blade completely detached Terren's head from her body, time righted itself. Lirael gasped as she sucked back more air than she ever had in her entire life, falling to her knees with Once-Nehima still in her hand. Terren's body lay broken on the floor, the blood pouring forth from her disjoined neck. Her head lay lifeless a few feet away, eyes glazed and unseeing. With a final gasp, Lirael forced herself to rise. Slowly tilting her head to the side, she looked down at the slain Necromancer. She took in a long deep breath, and turned away in disgust to go face the villagers who had called her here.
Lirael awoke with the first light of morning that poured through the Reading Room window. Groaning to herself as she stirred, she stretched upwards in an attempt to banish the kink that had developed in her neck as she slept. Sighing to herself as she realized that the kink would be around for a while, she stood up. As she did so, the volume that she had fallen asleep with fell to the floor. Cursing under her breath, she crouched down to pick it up. She had read the entire volume the previous night, and had come no closer to understanding the phenomenon that Sabriel and her had encountered. Still, she now possessed an intimate understanding of how to properly form her own band of gore crows, and could now consider herself well versed in the art of Hand construction. Retrieving the volume, she placed it upon the chair on which she'd spent the night. Standing up to her full height, she stretched again, instantly regretting it. A sending in a crimson cowl entered the room, bowing low before directing Lirael towards the staircase, and in turn towards the Hall. Mogget was already waiting at the long dining table when Lirael arrived as the red garbed sending took its leave.
"Good morning." Mogget grinned, licking his chops for no apparent reason.
"And what's got you so pleased?" Lirael inquired as she took her seat.
"A message hawk arrived at dawn with a message from Qyrre. The thing was half-mad by the time it got to the House. Screaming something about a band of hands attacking."
Lirael sighed as the sendings came out bearing covered trays. "The Abhorsen will take her breakfast to go." Mogget snickered.
It took less than ten minutes for Lirael to be seated in the Paperwing, and ready to go. She had been garbed in a coat of gethre, and armed with her trusty blade Once-Nehima as well as her bandolier. The sendings had prepared a journey sack for her, stuffed with rope, knives, bread, cheese, and a whole plethora of other items that might be of use. Mogget sent along his best wishes, whatever that was worth, and three Charter Sendings had just finished readying the Paperwing for flight. Closing her eyes, Lirael felt for that constant, steady flow of existence that she knew so well. With the purpose of flying the Paperwing in mind, the necessary marks came quickly to her call. Opening her eyes, she released them as she whistled. The marks seemed to set gleefully to their task, settling into the very marrow of the craft Lirael sat in. It was almost as if the Paperwing took a deep breath as the marks took root, and exhaled as it rose gently from the ground.
"To Qyrre." She whispered to the craft, placing a hand upon the Paperwing. She felt a tingle surge through her-the Paperwing was acknowledging her request. The Paperwing rose even higher, then took off in a northeasterly direction across the crisp morning sky. As the Paperwing flew straight and true, seeking out it's destination like a dog might track a sent, Lirael reveled in the cool morning air. She'd never gotten tired of flying, and doubted she ever would. As a matter of habit, her left hand went to the pouch at her side. Soothed by the familiar shape of the soapstone sculpture and the Dark Mirror under her fingers, she relaxed a little. Calling upon the Charter once more with a whistle, she raised a wind to carry her to Qyrre. Judging from the strength of the Charter Wind she'd conjured, she calculated her arrival at Qyrre to be in a little over two hours.
"Too long." She muttered, reaching into her journeysack for something to eat. Pulling out a hunk of what looked to be a rye bread, she broke a piece of a softer cheese from the wheel provided, and slapped it atop the bread. Chewing contentedly at her makeshift breakfast, she regarded the landscape below her. Her course lay along the mighty Ratterlin, and it glinted like precious gems in the pale morning light as she flew above it. As she flew onwards, a mountain range appeared to her left. Lirael adjusted her course to fly closer to the Ratterlin, flying alongside the mountains as opposed to over. The air grew warmer and warmer the further she went, as the morning blossomed in all its glory. Two hours later, as she had predicted, Lirael saw the village of Qyrre below. Her Paperwing started to descend in a gentle slope that made the most of the thermals it was riding, as well as keeping Lirael comfortable. As she and her craft drew closer to the ground, Lirael's suspicion was aroused. There were no Hands that she could see. A small crowd was gathering near the center of the town, waving frantically at the Paperwing. With a nudge at the craft, it comes in for a final landing right near the small group of citizens. Their eyes were wide with fear-they had seen things they would rather forget.
"Oh, Abhorsen! Forgive us! Please!" One of the villagers cried, throwing herself at the ground before the Paperwing. Confused, Lirael strapped on her bells and Once-Nehima before exiting the Paperwing. A quick pat at the pouch at her side went unnoticed by the townspeople. Lirael tried to ignore the fact that her title now was missing the "In-Waiting" that she had borne for so long.
"Where are the Hands?" Lirael asked, pulling the woman to her feet. The villagers gathered exchanged apprehensive glances before facing the new Abhorsen. A man looked down towards the ground before speaking.
"There are none."
"What do you mean?" Lirael inquired, startled. "The woman-she was a Necromancer. She forced us to send you a message-hawk . . . she said she wanted you here as soon as possible. She told us what to say." The woman on Lirael's arm sobbed. Those gathered nodded their agreement, offering their own details.
"She said she would kill us all if we didn't!"
"She threatened to destroy our city!"
"She was going to call up all sorts of horrid dead things unless we got you here!" Lirael took the distraught woman into the crowd, pressing her into what she presumed was her husbands outstretched arms. Thinking quickly, the Abhorsen pressed the villagers for more information.
"Is she still here?" Nods, and affirmative exclamations.
"Where is she?" Incomprehensible chatter, and fingers pointed towards what looked to be a fisherman's hut. Leaving the crowd behind her, she walked towards the hut while drawing out Saraneth. Creeping silently up to the door, she pushed it open, cringing as it creaked. She had now lost any advantage she may have had. The Necromancer would already be aware of the fact someone was coming, and probably would have already drawn a bell. Opening the door further, heedless of the creaking, Lirael stepped into the house. Her nose twitched as a familiar scent assaulted her nostrils-the scent of Free Magic. There was a combined sitting room and kitchen before her, and a hall beyond that appeared to lead to a bedroom. Stepping cautiously through the sitting room, she approached the closed bedroom door. Turning the knob with as much care as she could manage, she took a deep breath before pushing it open.
"I wondered when you'd arrive." A pert female voice commented, its source a dark-robed woman sitting on the bed. The hood of her cloak was down, revealing pale skin and softened features, as well as dark hair and eyes. Her hair cascaded in limp ringlets about her shoulders. She appeared to be about Lirael's height, and bore a twisted, Free Magic version of Ranna. As Lirael moved to ring Saraneth, the Necromancer before her sounded Ranna with a snide smirk.
"Aren't you feeling a little tired, Lirael?" She inquired as the Abhorsen stifled a yawn and dropped her Binder. The gentle pealing of Ranna coaxed Lirael to sleep, it's lullaby soothing to the ear. Lirael forced herself to keep her eyes open, yet the more she struggled the stronger Ranna's pull became.
"They call me Terren." The Necromancer smirked, her bell still exerting its pull over Lirael. "I'm a part of a very, very important group. One that will see you dead." Lirael remained silent, still struggling against the sweet temptation of Ranna's call. "I intend to finish you off right at the start." Terren said casually, as if she were discussing something of no more consequence than the price of lemons in Belisaere. With a final peal of the Sleeper, Lirael found herself closing her eyes. Her mind protested this with all its might, fought it with everything it had, yet Lirael's body wanted nothing more than to submit to Ranna's will. As soon as her eyelids fluttered shut, Lirael found herself asleep, yet aware. She was dreaming, and she could see everything about her in perfect detail. It was a large green meadow, filled with wildflowers painted with every color imaginable. Crimson, gold, blue, and orange flowers flitted in the gentle breeze about her. Two figures stood in the distance-two tall, blonde, blue-eyed figures garbed in the robes of the Clayr.
"Sanar? Ryelle?" Lirael called out, unsure of what to make of it. She approached the twins, who looked at her in disgust.
"Filthy, Sightless Clayr." Sanar sniffed.
"Disgrace to the Sisters." Ryelle nodded in agreement. Lirael stood dumbstruck, her mouth hanging open. The words just spoken had been like slaps across her face, as well as numerous jabs at her stomach with freshly sharpened knives. The twins turned away from Lirael, walking away across the meadow, disappearing with a ripple of the air. As the twins left, Sameth rippled into existence. Looking towards Lirael with an apathetic look on his face, he shook his head.
"I'd probably make a better Abhorsen."
"Lirael?" Came a voice from behind her. It was somehow familiar, but Lirael couldn't quite place it. Whipping about, she gasped. Right before her stood her mother, a hopeful look upon her face. As Lirael turned fully about to face the mother she never really knew, Arielle's face fell.
"How could I love you?" She cried aloud, disappointment molding her features..
"Mother?" Lirael choked out in a small voice. This.this wasn't right! Sanar and Ryelle told her that she would always be a Sister, sightless and all. Sameth respected her! They were friends! And her mother. . . her mother loved her! She did! She had said so! As these thoughts streamed through her head, she forced herself to disbelieve what was being presented before her. This wasn't right. This couldn't be real! Suddenly, the meadow flickered out of existence, and Lirael found herself back in the small bedroom, facing the Necromancer who called herself Terren. A look of shock spread across the woman's face as she watched Lirael awaken from her nightmare. Before Lirael had recovered her wits enough to draw a bell, her opponent had already rung Sleeper once more. The familiar call of Ranna's lullaby echoed through Lirael's mind. Her eyelids began to flicker shut again despite her mind's protest, and Ranna crowed her victory-or was it Terren laughing? It was hard to tell. She was so tired. She just had to sleep for a little while. Just a quick nap, that was all.
"NO!" Lirael screamed, forcing all of her will and being to keep her eyes open. It was much like focusing her will into a bell, only this was much more difficult. With the bells, Lirael was always in control. Right now, she was clearly not in command. The gentle lullaby of Ranna faltered for a moment, almost as if the Sleeper was taken aback by this struggle against her call. In that moment, it was just Lirael alone in the blessed silence. As abruptly as it had stopped, the Sleeper's call came again. It was too late however-that moment was enough for Lirael to garner some strength. It wasn't much, but it was enough for Lirael to open her eyes fully. Perhaps it was simply Lirael's imagination, but she could have sworn that Ranna's song became more frantic as her eyelids opened wide, revealing Terren, and the bedroom. Terren's look of shock had set into one of determination as the Necromancer rose to face the Abhorsen. With another peal of her bell, Terren grinned smugly. Lirael extended a quivering arm, wincing with the effort it took to do so. Fighting off Ranna, she reached for Once-Nehima, her eyes threatening to close once more. Just a little longer, she told herself. Just hold on a little longer. As her hand settled upon the hilt of the Charter Marked sword, her eyes shot open. The sensation of the Charter Marked sword beneath her hand sent a course of strange, invigorating energy through her. She was awake . . . alive. With this newfound energy, Lirael threw herself into the unending oblivion of the Charter. Bathed in its warm glow, she drew Once-Nehima and took one wild slash at the Necromancer. In that moment, everything seemed to slow down. Every sensation became heightened, and Lirael found herself aware of every single movement she made. It wasn't only a single movement, but thousands of tiny movements all encompassed in one. The beating of her heart, ever muscle shifting to her will, the cool Charter Marked steel coming into contact with Terren's neck, each tendon in the Necromancer's neck beings severed. As the blade completely detached Terren's head from her body, time righted itself. Lirael gasped as she sucked back more air than she ever had in her entire life, falling to her knees with Once-Nehima still in her hand. Terren's body lay broken on the floor, the blood pouring forth from her disjoined neck. Her head lay lifeless a few feet away, eyes glazed and unseeing. With a final gasp, Lirael forced herself to rise. Slowly tilting her head to the side, she looked down at the slain Necromancer. She took in a long deep breath, and turned away in disgust to go face the villagers who had called her here.