Disclaimer: All things found in this story belong to Garth Nix.

The Nature of an Exchange

The boy gasped as the lightning raced up his arms, into his body, consuming his spirit. The raw power was altering him, changing him in ways he was not meant to be changed. He could feel the Charter mark on his head burn hotter and brighter, and he was sure the skin was bubbling off. To think, so much power, and so few using it…

When he came to, he was lying on the ground. Nausea washed over him, leaving him feeling weak and feverish. Gingerly, he reached up and touched the place where his Charter mark was supposed to be. It was there no more. Where once a symbol of life and order had been displayed, there was now a scar that moved as though it had a life of its own.

He'd done it. He'd successfully tapped into the Free Magic, the Power that was before the Charter, the Power of the ancient past. And he had it. He had the knowledge, he had the bells, and now he had purged himself of all Charter Magic. He was ready to conquer Death and the Dead.

There was one being in particular whose call he had felt many, many times while he walked in Death. Unlike the calls of other spirits, this one had followed him out into Life, and haunted his dreams. It promised him power and abilities far beyond that of any man, ordinary, Charter Mage, or Abhorsen alike. But before he heeded the call, he must break open an entrance into Death. And in order to do that, he'd need a Charter Mage.

***

The healer struggled and fought the magic, but in the end she was bound, and her throat slashed as she clung desperately to life on a desolate windy hilltop. When at last her spirit had passed fully into Death, he followed. He drew Saraneth, and ringing the bell in the pattern that the book had shown, bound her to his will. He then drew Belgaer, and Mosrael, and subjugated her identity and spirit to his own purposes. She had no memory, no thoughts, and no will. She was a Hand.

He then drew Dyrim and Saraneth, and told the Hand to seek out this spirit, and speak to it. Draw the spirit out. And with the ringing of the bell forever in its ears, it went.

He waited. Perhaps time passed, perhaps it did not. The cold grey light and the cold grey river never changed. No spirits sought him out. And so he waited.

Perhaps a day had passed, perhaps a second, but the Hand returned. It waited until it was restored the power to speak, and then told him that the spirit waited beyond the Seventh Gate. He would have to seek it out in order to talk with it, in order for it to come. An Abhorsen had chained it there.

Charter magic, then. Well, that was quite in his range. He could break any binding with this newfound power. Moving forward in the water, he tried not to think of the nausea that accompanied him every time he got near a Charter Stone or a Charter mage, or even something Charter spelled. The site of all those marks, swimming and moving in a current that did not exist… it made him so sick that he could scarcely stand it at first. He had gradually built up a tolerance, but always he felt the nausea. But he was quite willing to put up with it, if in exchange he received power.

***

On and on through the Precincts and Gates he traveled, till at last he reached the Eighth Precinct. He nearly was caught when one of the many fires there flared up suddenly right next to him, but a quick spell saved him. He stood, slightly nervous, but mostly exhilarated. He was going to bind one of the Greater Dead. He would learn the mysteries of the universe. He would have power, and slaves, and the recognition he deserved…

He sensed a presence. One so immense, so full of power and age and knowledge he nearly went out of his mind with fear. But, he had the Power, which the spirit did not. And so, he had the upper hand. He drew Saraneth, and rang it. The chime went on and on, permeating everything and drawing everything to him and binding them to his will.

Except for the presence. With a sound that was like laughter distorted, the presence struck out at him, hammering away at his defenses until he broke. It came closer, faster and faster, and suddenly he was looking up into eyes made of marsh lights and a mouth too big to be human.

It gripped him, stripping him of all magic and all rational thought. The spirit bore down upon the boy, and he struggled to remember his own name, only to realize at the last second that it was beyond his recall. It had been a thing of the Charter, and the Charter had now forsaken him. Then it was pain and light and chaos and darkness and silence…

***

As Kerrigor finished digesting the last of the boy's power, he could feel his own expand a hundredfold. Now, at last, he had enough to break the bindings and smash through the Gates. He drew up the power from deep within him, and lashed out on his bonds. They broke instantly under the force of the spell. He then raced forward, barreling through the Seventh Gate, calling out the spells of passage all the while.

For the first time in many years, Kerrigor was on the move. And this time, there would be no setbacks.