PROLOGUE: Death's Door
The dog prowled along the boundary of Life and Death, her nose alert for the scent of Free Magic, and ears cocked for sounds of movement in the deadly river behind her. Many seasons had passed since the dog had last set foot in Life, and yet her tan and brown fur was as dark as ever, and she still bounced with the energy of a young puppy.
Only the tarnished and pitted collar worn about the dog's neck betrayed how long she had truly been in Death. As the dog plunged about in the dark water a few droplets fell on the collar, further corroding the once-bright metal and leaving a sickening, burnt-metal smell behind. A few dim Charter marks swam sluggishly to the surface of the collar, as if to counter the erosion, but another dunking in the frigid river put out their light permanently.
The dog growled confusedly as a low tone rung out across the river. The sound of the bell fell flat in the grey, misty atmosphere of Death, though the dog could still tell where it came from – far beyond the First Precinct.
The discordant sound of the bell tickled something in the back of the dog's memory, something she ought to remember. The bell reminded her of . . . someone. Someone she had known long ago . . . but the memory was gone, shunted aside by another, closer memory.
Two people had crossed the boundary into Death recently. That in itself wasn't what made them stick out in the dog's mind. People were constantly crossing the border, being killed, or dying of natural causes. But these two people were different. They had come stumbling into Death one day not too long ago. It had been a man and a woman – the man had had his arms around the woman, supporting her as she sobbed into his shoulder. Both showed signs of battle – indeed, the man was limping, and the woman's left arm hung bloody and useless at her side.
The dog remembered that the woman had had long dark hair, and wore a strange bandolier around her torso. It was that that made the dog think of her – somehow the dog's mind had found a connection between it and the mysterious peal of the bell.
The man had been rubbing the woman's back and whispering comforting things to her. They had seemed to love each other very much. Enough to enter Death together for the last time . . .
The dog could almost still hear the woman's voice as they headed through the icy current to the First Gate. The voice also caused echoes of recognition, though the dog wasn't sure why.
"But Touchstone!" The woman had sobbed, obediently following the man as he led her deeper into Death. "We can't just give up and die now! That thing will kill more people if we let it! And Sam; Lirael; Ellimere – the children! We can't leave them behind without us!"
The man had given her a sad smile, his eyes bright with tears. "They'll be alright Sabriel. This is our time to go."
Their voices had then been drowned out by the rush of the First Gate. Neither of the people had looked back to see the dog watching them from the edge of Life and Death.
The dog was broken out of her musings by the harsh sound of the bell again. It sounded closer this time, but sharper than it should have been. The dog knew that the only reason she had not yet ensnared by the ringing was because the hand weilding the bell was young and inexperienced.
All of a sudden the rushing noise of the First Gate stopped, signalling that something was coming through.
The dog cocked her head to the side. Some internal instinct was telling her to run, hide, or jump back into Life before those horrible bells could capture her. But such instincts were a part of that unknown, barely- remembered self of the past, and so they were easily ignored and forgotten as the ringer of the bells came into view.
She was young; Younger than any would-be necromancer had the right to be. For that was indeed what she was, a necromancer, enslaver of souls, and Free Magic sorcerer of Death.
Her soft, shoulder-length hair flowed around her round, pale face. She looked small and lost among the dissonant noise of the bell in her hand. But then the dog saw her eyes, black-red as dried blood on a battlefield, and the slow, sardonic smile that spread across her face.
Saraneth rang, true and commanding, right next to the dog's ear. The dog barked happily, and wagged her tail in the river, perfectly willing to heed the bell's call.
The dog had spent far too much time in Death to heed nagging suspicions. Her new Mistress was calling.