Disclaimer: if I owned these characters, I'd be off writing Drowned Wednesday. But I'm here, so I don't. 'Kay?
A/N: Sorry, it kind of turned into a few days instead of just a little while... –innocent look- It was the play I'm in! We swears, by the preciousssss!
Thanks to my reviewers.... apache tears, I might bring Mogget in... he /is/ spiffy. LaughingAstarael: -gasp- Okies, I'll update quickly. –wants more Sundered Blood-
Once Lirael had turned the corner, she slumped against the wall. Finder... Swift on the heels of that thought came another: The Disreputable—no, Kibeth. Lirael still had to force herself to remember that sometimes, that her friend the Dog was Kibeth. Kibeth, then. Kibeth climbing out of her pocket, somehow—Lirael shook her head firmly, but didn't continue.
"Are you okay?" Nick asked. Lirael started and whirled. She hadn't even heard his approach, so intent was she on the Dog.
"Okay?" Lirael asked, unfamiliar with the Ancelstierran expression.
"All right, I mean."
Lirael tried to smile. "Um... yes," she said. A little white lie never hurt anyone, she told herself.
A small part of her mind was shouting at her, You're staring! Lirael blinked and pushed herself off the wall. "Sorry," she said with a trace of a smile, and wandered on down the corridor. I wonder what the Dog—Kibeth—would have to say about that, Lirael thought. With a smile, she recalled what Kibeth had said on Finder when told of Lirael's mission: "Good! Time you were bred." Lirael almost laughed, thinking of that. The Dog was so, so... exuberant.
Lirael glanced up and found that she was standing in front of her door. Probably had been for some time, she thought without humor, and pushed the door to go in. Lirael lay down on her bed; sleep didn't come easily, but finally it did, and she slept soundly until dawn.
It didn't take long to pack; mostly it consisted of putting on the gethre coat, slinging her bandolier of bells over her head, and buckling the scabbard of her new sword, replacement for Nehima, onto her belt. Lirael then slid her surcoat over her head, giving one last glance to the red waistcoat. It was probable that she wouldn't return to the Glacier, at least for a while, she knew.
Lirael glanced around her room. All was in order; bed there, wardrobe there, table over there—she stopped and quickly strode over to the table. Resting on it was a small soapstone statuette of a dog, sitting and looking up hopefully; the dog's expression was exactly like that of Kibeth's when she wanted a bone.
Before she could convince herself otherwise, Lirael slipped the statuette into her pocket. False hope, she knew, but she couldn't help keeping it safe. Just for memories, if nothing more. Memories—that lead to another thought. Lirael opened the small hidden drawer in the table and removed the Dark Mirror from it. The Book of Remembrance and Forgetting she put in a pack with the Book of the Dead. After a quick stop at the kitchens to get some of the Clayr's infamous plate-sized cinnamon cakes, she was packed and ready.
She strode down the corridors towards the room, her confidence increased by the sword at her side, the statue in her pocket, and the gethre coat on her back.
Nick met her in the receiving room. He too was armed, with a sword that he bore awkwardly. Lirael wondered briefly if he'd been trained with the thing, but dropped the thought and concentrated on the polite conversation that somehow they had begun.
"All right, then," Lirael said, forcing a smile. "Shall we be off?"
Nick nodded, and held the door for Lirael as they walked out of the room. Lirael smiled a little at that, tentatively. Perhaps it was standard custom in Ancelstierre. Or perhaps it wasn't; either way, she had no way of knowing.
Lirael came-to with a start as she realized Nick was saying something.
"...bodyguard or friend?" He was smiling. Lirael concentrated on divining his meaning.
"Oh. Um..." She shrugged. "No idea, actually. It was Sanar and Ryelle's suggestion."
Nick grinned at that. "Drat those witches in their caves of ice with their presumptions."
"I quite like them, really," Lirael said without thinking.
There was a bit of a silence. "So are you really going to Belisaere?" was all Lirael could think of to say.
"Yes. Why not? Sam's probably desperate for company other than his sister by now," Nick said, grinning again.
"That's all you're going back for?" Lirael said, once more without thinking. "What an odd reason."
"Well, we did go to the same school for what, twelve, thirteen years," Nick said reasonably.
"True."
There was another period of silence.
"So... you're Sam's aunt?" It was clear that Nick still didn't quite understand, even after a year of Sabriel and Sam's company.
Lirael almost sighed, but caught herself in time. "Yes. It's a long story."
"We have time," Nick said reasonably.
"I guess so." Lirael didn't really like explaining, but it would be rude not to, she told herself. "My mother was a Clayr, and my father was the Abhorsen before Sabriel. My mother... went to him, just a little while before he died. I suppose you could say I was... illegitimate." There was a sheen of tears in her eyes.
There was a pause; Lirael swiped angrily at the tears, and Nick said, "So was Torrigan." He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and offered it to her.
Lirael looked at him, surprised, and took the handkerchief. "He was?" Apparently he had gotten something out of his year-long visit.
Nick nodded. "I haven't quite gotten the whole story yet, but he was in the Royal Guard, and I suppose that's why Kerrigor didn't kill him."
The tears retreated, and Lirael held the handkerchief out to Nick. He took it and stowed it away again; Lirael looked around for the first time. They were on the path from the Clayr's Glacier, on the fourth bridge of seven that crossed the Ratterlin. Charter marks shone from the pavingstones of the path and the posts and railings of the bridge, reassuring and warming her with their strength.
"Thanks," Lirael said, not sure if she meant the handkerchief or the story. She studied Nick as they walked along, giving him the scrutiny she had just put the pavingstones through. He was wearing armor in an old style, gethre like hers, but more simply made. He was wearing a surcoat over it; the device was of a falcon, or some sort of bird. (A/N: this is a made-up symbol. It represents an Ancelstierran.) His Charter Mark pulsed with inner light, but still a very small scent of Free Magic hung about him. He was in better health than when she had last seen him, Lirael noted. But he seemed less sure of himself; most of his bravado was gone.
Nick shifted uncomfortably under the intensity of her gaze, and Lirael dropped her eyes to the pavingstones again, embarrassed to have been caught staring.
"Sorry," she mumbled.
Nick half-smiled and shrugged. "'S okay," he said, and winced at the Ancelstierren expression. "It's all right."
"O..kay?" Lirael said, puzzled. "That's Ancelstierran, right?"
"Yeah. It means... everything's all right," Nick said lamely. "I keep forgetting I'm not there anymore."
"Must've been hard for you, coming here from Ancelstierre," Lirael remarked.
"It... yes," he admitted. "The Dead, and Charter Magic, and..." He shook his head. "I think the hardest part was convincing old Uncle Edward (A/N: I couldn't find his name in the books... the CM of Ansceltierre anyway. If you know what his name is, PLEASE tell me in a review!) that I wasn't abducted," Nick continued, with a touch of his usual humor. Lirael smiled, but weakly. There was yet another piece of silence, both of them just walking along the narrow, Charter-spelled path, arms barely brushing inside the armor they both wore.
A/N: Sorry, it kind of turned into a few days instead of just a little while... –innocent look- It was the play I'm in! We swears, by the preciousssss!
Thanks to my reviewers.... apache tears, I might bring Mogget in... he /is/ spiffy. LaughingAstarael: -gasp- Okies, I'll update quickly. –wants more Sundered Blood-
Once Lirael had turned the corner, she slumped against the wall. Finder... Swift on the heels of that thought came another: The Disreputable—no, Kibeth. Lirael still had to force herself to remember that sometimes, that her friend the Dog was Kibeth. Kibeth, then. Kibeth climbing out of her pocket, somehow—Lirael shook her head firmly, but didn't continue.
"Are you okay?" Nick asked. Lirael started and whirled. She hadn't even heard his approach, so intent was she on the Dog.
"Okay?" Lirael asked, unfamiliar with the Ancelstierran expression.
"All right, I mean."
Lirael tried to smile. "Um... yes," she said. A little white lie never hurt anyone, she told herself.
A small part of her mind was shouting at her, You're staring! Lirael blinked and pushed herself off the wall. "Sorry," she said with a trace of a smile, and wandered on down the corridor. I wonder what the Dog—Kibeth—would have to say about that, Lirael thought. With a smile, she recalled what Kibeth had said on Finder when told of Lirael's mission: "Good! Time you were bred." Lirael almost laughed, thinking of that. The Dog was so, so... exuberant.
Lirael glanced up and found that she was standing in front of her door. Probably had been for some time, she thought without humor, and pushed the door to go in. Lirael lay down on her bed; sleep didn't come easily, but finally it did, and she slept soundly until dawn.
It didn't take long to pack; mostly it consisted of putting on the gethre coat, slinging her bandolier of bells over her head, and buckling the scabbard of her new sword, replacement for Nehima, onto her belt. Lirael then slid her surcoat over her head, giving one last glance to the red waistcoat. It was probable that she wouldn't return to the Glacier, at least for a while, she knew.
Lirael glanced around her room. All was in order; bed there, wardrobe there, table over there—she stopped and quickly strode over to the table. Resting on it was a small soapstone statuette of a dog, sitting and looking up hopefully; the dog's expression was exactly like that of Kibeth's when she wanted a bone.
Before she could convince herself otherwise, Lirael slipped the statuette into her pocket. False hope, she knew, but she couldn't help keeping it safe. Just for memories, if nothing more. Memories—that lead to another thought. Lirael opened the small hidden drawer in the table and removed the Dark Mirror from it. The Book of Remembrance and Forgetting she put in a pack with the Book of the Dead. After a quick stop at the kitchens to get some of the Clayr's infamous plate-sized cinnamon cakes, she was packed and ready.
She strode down the corridors towards the room, her confidence increased by the sword at her side, the statue in her pocket, and the gethre coat on her back.
Nick met her in the receiving room. He too was armed, with a sword that he bore awkwardly. Lirael wondered briefly if he'd been trained with the thing, but dropped the thought and concentrated on the polite conversation that somehow they had begun.
"All right, then," Lirael said, forcing a smile. "Shall we be off?"
Nick nodded, and held the door for Lirael as they walked out of the room. Lirael smiled a little at that, tentatively. Perhaps it was standard custom in Ancelstierre. Or perhaps it wasn't; either way, she had no way of knowing.
Lirael came-to with a start as she realized Nick was saying something.
"...bodyguard or friend?" He was smiling. Lirael concentrated on divining his meaning.
"Oh. Um..." She shrugged. "No idea, actually. It was Sanar and Ryelle's suggestion."
Nick grinned at that. "Drat those witches in their caves of ice with their presumptions."
"I quite like them, really," Lirael said without thinking.
There was a bit of a silence. "So are you really going to Belisaere?" was all Lirael could think of to say.
"Yes. Why not? Sam's probably desperate for company other than his sister by now," Nick said, grinning again.
"That's all you're going back for?" Lirael said, once more without thinking. "What an odd reason."
"Well, we did go to the same school for what, twelve, thirteen years," Nick said reasonably.
"True."
There was another period of silence.
"So... you're Sam's aunt?" It was clear that Nick still didn't quite understand, even after a year of Sabriel and Sam's company.
Lirael almost sighed, but caught herself in time. "Yes. It's a long story."
"We have time," Nick said reasonably.
"I guess so." Lirael didn't really like explaining, but it would be rude not to, she told herself. "My mother was a Clayr, and my father was the Abhorsen before Sabriel. My mother... went to him, just a little while before he died. I suppose you could say I was... illegitimate." There was a sheen of tears in her eyes.
There was a pause; Lirael swiped angrily at the tears, and Nick said, "So was Torrigan." He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and offered it to her.
Lirael looked at him, surprised, and took the handkerchief. "He was?" Apparently he had gotten something out of his year-long visit.
Nick nodded. "I haven't quite gotten the whole story yet, but he was in the Royal Guard, and I suppose that's why Kerrigor didn't kill him."
The tears retreated, and Lirael held the handkerchief out to Nick. He took it and stowed it away again; Lirael looked around for the first time. They were on the path from the Clayr's Glacier, on the fourth bridge of seven that crossed the Ratterlin. Charter marks shone from the pavingstones of the path and the posts and railings of the bridge, reassuring and warming her with their strength.
"Thanks," Lirael said, not sure if she meant the handkerchief or the story. She studied Nick as they walked along, giving him the scrutiny she had just put the pavingstones through. He was wearing armor in an old style, gethre like hers, but more simply made. He was wearing a surcoat over it; the device was of a falcon, or some sort of bird. (A/N: this is a made-up symbol. It represents an Ancelstierran.) His Charter Mark pulsed with inner light, but still a very small scent of Free Magic hung about him. He was in better health than when she had last seen him, Lirael noted. But he seemed less sure of himself; most of his bravado was gone.
Nick shifted uncomfortably under the intensity of her gaze, and Lirael dropped her eyes to the pavingstones again, embarrassed to have been caught staring.
"Sorry," she mumbled.
Nick half-smiled and shrugged. "'S okay," he said, and winced at the Ancelstierren expression. "It's all right."
"O..kay?" Lirael said, puzzled. "That's Ancelstierran, right?"
"Yeah. It means... everything's all right," Nick said lamely. "I keep forgetting I'm not there anymore."
"Must've been hard for you, coming here from Ancelstierre," Lirael remarked.
"It... yes," he admitted. "The Dead, and Charter Magic, and..." He shook his head. "I think the hardest part was convincing old Uncle Edward (A/N: I couldn't find his name in the books... the CM of Ansceltierre anyway. If you know what his name is, PLEASE tell me in a review!) that I wasn't abducted," Nick continued, with a touch of his usual humor. Lirael smiled, but weakly. There was yet another piece of silence, both of them just walking along the narrow, Charter-spelled path, arms barely brushing inside the armor they both wore.