New Divisions

The Old Kingdom:

Nineteenth Year of the Restoration of King Touchstone I, now Torrigan.

Ancelstierre: 1930 A.W.

Chapter One: Little Lost Ancelstierrean
Nicholas John Andrew Sayre had died as a vassal for destructive evil and was brought back a battered mixture of Free Magic and bruising; baptized and bewildered.And almost seven months worth of time had done very little to change the situation.

He was, simply, an Ancelstierrean in Belisaere. One with a shining mark on his head that obeyed none of the world's most basic physical rules, and he had a lingering and inconvenient tendency to faint every time he tried to stand up for too long.

Nick stood up then, andtoo quickly; the walls of his Blue Guestroom spinning as he gripped a chair until his head cleared. Seven months in Belisaere. His family knew he was still alive, but very little else. He just didn't know what to tell them. Somehow, he thought a brisk Mother, Pater, Uncle Edward, you see, here's the thing: there's a perfectly logical reason as to why not all's been right lately, though when I say logical…I was compelled by a little sliver of metal that ended up in me because a necromancer fellow mistook me for Prince Sameth—old Sam, you remember, mother?—and it was imbued with his, that is to say, essence, and so I became something of an avatar….

No. That was not going to work, and his internal monologue hadn't even dared trespass near the matter of…winged disreputable dogs, albino-dwarf-cat things or owls that turned into blasted pretty women.

Hand pressed to his temples to stay off another headache, the tip of one of his fingers brushed against the…thing, on his forehead. The Charter mark. Nick could feel, suddenly, that he was connected to a myriad of different lives, all through an impossible, illegible hieroglyph that had been irrevocably welded onto him. He could feel the warmth of it; the vastness, and it frightened him. A Sayre. Blushing hotly, eyes tight shut behind his glasses, his hand balled into a fist and was jammed into his trouser pocket, which at least hadn't decided to rot away like his old clothes in the…the… incomprehensible atmosphere that lingered this side of the Wall.

"Be careful, Sam."

Nick shuddered, hearing the level, but slightly raised voice coming from just a length down the Palace—palace!—corridor. Nick rarely heard any noise from that room. He knew that its currant occupant left its confines even less frequently than he did. Nick also knew why he was hearing any sign of life now.

Lirael was having her hand fitted.

From what he could grasp, he knew that this was no simple procedure for her. Earlier that month, when he'd questioned Sam about the matter, he'd said something about how his magic refused to fuse with his aunt's—aunt's—severed wrist, because some there were still some traces of a Free Magic, 'Destroyer-attuned' presence around the young woman in general and her wound in particular. All his previous efforts had inelegantly gone to pieces before Lirael had worn the things five minutes—a painful, debilitating process for her.

The only time he'd heard her say anything other than a blank how'd you do was when Sam was prodding at her. He'd seen her speak to Sabriel—called away now—before, slowly, looking drawn and exhausted. Ellimere—who, once he could look her in the eye, very definitely did not match her younger brother's descriptions of '6'9 and equine'—spoke to her often, rarely expecting a reply, but besides that there was practically nothing. Not a peep. Except for murmurings that Nick could swear were directed forwards the small soapstone dog statue that never left her arms.

Another blush. Memories of winged Dogs and cheerful life-preserving Dogs left him confused, and he had no idea why he really took such an interest in the—what was the term?—in the Abhorsen In Waiting's wellbeing when he couldn't look after his own.

At least, he thought, sitting at his Desk again and trying to avoid making direct eye-contact with a book of Charter marks Ellimere had gifted him with a week ago, I still have both hands. And my voice.

"Sorry, Aunt Lirael."

Prince Sameth stood hunched over his workspace: a woman's pale arm, cut off clean where a hand should be. His fingers gently gripped the wrist as he tacked gold and wire into place with half-whispered marks.

Lirael winced, but didn't complain again, dipping her head and letting her face hide behind the dark fall of her hair.

"Head up, please." Sam filled in his young aunt's silences for her, eyes squinting up still more. "Your hair's in my way. You know, I really had no idea about ghost limbs. The idea that you can feel your old hand, even after…well, I didn't think it was, you know, possible. Though I do remember hearing something like during one of my old science classes, but Nick's your manfor that—"

"—He's looking better."

"—I never really could pay attention in—what was that, Lirael?"

"He's looking better. Your friend Nick."

Sam looked up briefly, surprised. "Yes he is, rather. Now, this is a difficult bit…"

Lirael shuddered as wire connected to a shimmering gold joint, part of the hand that looked just as if it was hovering in mid air by her stump. Sam didn't seem to notice.

"There." Sounding immensely satisfied, Sam let himself draw away from his work, smiling. "That'll hold fast."

A muffled, inelegant snort from Lirael. "Till the end of the week, perhaps?"

"Did you just laugh?"

She tensed up, head dipping lower, only half knowing why. Silence. Lirael had been wishing deep and hard for silence and a bare second on her own. Time to think, and remember. What else was there? Fingers that were nothing more than memory curled up into a fist, causing Sam's delicate workings to shift treacherously. Swallowing, she tried to calm herself.

"Aunt…Aunt Lirael?"

"Sam?"

"You're…we…er…worry."

With her whole hand, Lirael pushed back her hair, revealing her face. I have a family, she thought, even the silent voice of her wits sounding dull. People who care about me. And Iwish they'd go away. Aloud—and sounding relatively normal, she hoped—all she said was: "I only talk when there's something to talk about."

"Oh, don't say that too loudly," Sam muttered. "Ellimere might take it into her head to give you lessons on the Art of Conversation. Which is," he added, grinning broadly, "rather appropriate, when you think about it."

Wrist and metal jerked as Lirael tried to bring up both hands to smother the laugh.

Well…I hope they don't go just yet.

On the Upper Ratterlin, there was no one, living or dead, to notice the ice-statue by the banks.

If someone had been in sight, they would see that it was a figure of a woman in early middle age, her pale, still face beginning to show the lines and shadows of long-usage, her bobbed hair just on the point of thinning and fading. They would have noticed the determinedset of her mouth, and then, undoubtedly, the unsheathed sword in her hand.

By the time they had taken in the bandolier of bells she wore, they would know that this figure wasn't a statue at all.

Besides, stonework didn't usually open its eyes and stand up—jerky, shaking; shedding ice—forced back into Life from a horror of the First Precinct. Come to that, neither did most seasoned Abhorsens.

Sabriel had found Sanar in Death.