A/N: I am a liar. I claimed that we'd be done in five chapters, but that number has somehow escalated. The flow of the story became a factor; I need to get through a lot of years, and I want to cover all the important stuff without making it too episodic. So this story will be 43 chapters now instead of 37 – scream or cheer, pick the reaction of your choice. And I'm not promising that it will stay at 43, because look what happened last time! I was so sure that I'd stop at 37!
On a different note, this story has passed the 4000 hit mark! Thank you, everyone!
The Book of the Dead
Cassiel sheathed his sword and stepped towards the frightened-looking group of people huddled around their wagons in the chilly spring air. The Dead had taken to attacking travellers along this particular stretch of road at night, a misfortune because it was a common trading route. He smiled as he approached the people, and thus was completely surprised when they recoiled in fear.
The young man raised his arms in a calming gesture of goodwill, but the people reacted badly.
"He's casting a spell!" one of the women shrieked. "Necromancer! He's a necromancer!"
Before Cassiel knew it he had been grabbed by at least four pairs of hands, and a knife was tickling his throat. These harmless-looking merchants sure moved fast.
The rather ugly man holding the knife snarled into his face. "Say goodbye, you filthy necromancer," he spat.
"Wait!" Cassiel cried out, not wanting to cast any real magic and further frighten these people. "Check my Charter mark! I mean you no harm."
The merchants peered at him suspiciously in the light of their lanterns. Finally, a wrinkle-faced woman extended a claw-like finger, and touched his forehead. After a moment, she frowned and stepped back. "He bears an untainted Charter mark," she confirmed, looking sour as though disappointed that it was so.
The young man was released, and he tugged his surcoat back into place.
"I suppose we must thank you, then," the leader of the merchants said grudgingly. "What is your name, lad?"
"Cassiel," the young man said, expecting instant recognition and contrition. But the merchants merely stared at him with blank expressions. "Do you not know me?" he tried again. Still more blank looks. "You know – Cassiel Abhorsen?"
Expressions of dawning spread over the merchants' faces.
"Ah, Abhorsen!"
"He is the Abhorsen now?"
"I recognize the sword and the bells!"
"Yes, Abhorsen's bells."
Cassiel noted that his family name seemed to be fast becoming a title – his title. He couldn't believe it; five years of doing his father's job and he still wasn't recognized by half the Kingdom. Incredible. It just meant that he would need to use his full name when introducing himself. Or maybe only his last name. He was still Lord Abhorsen, after all.
Since taking over the family business, Cassiel's chief duty was now to keep down the Dead. Necromantic activity was increasing even as the number of Free Magic creatures waned. Most of them had been banished to the precincts of Death, and only resurfaced if summoned by a Free Magic sorcerer. No, the necromancers and their Dead servants were Cassiel's chief worry now.
And it wasn't all work. Cassiel was preoccupied with his small family, specifically Lessandra his lovely wife, and their two fine boys. Five-year-old Vichael had already gone into Death, and Cassiel had once found him playing with his bell-bandolier. Dangerous as it was, it was a good sign that the bloodline would continue, just as his father had wanted it to.
After a mostly-friendly farewell to the merchants, Cassiel set off through the forest. As he walked towards the shore of the river, the young man dug through his belt-pouch. He finally pulled out a square of beaten silver the size of his palm, and breathed on it. The fog swirled idly for about a minute before clearing, and it wasn't his own face that he saw reflected on the surface.
"Lord Cassiel," said the woman. "I was hoping you'd get in touch."
"Sorry I couldn't speak to you sooner. What is it you wanted to tell me, Lady Neryl?" asked Cassiel.
The Voice of the Clayr had one of these squares of frosted silver, as did he, Ghidreth the Wallmaker, and Prince Dantalion. It was an easy way to keep in touch, and had been ingeniously designed by the Wallmaker herself. That woman was clever, even in her old age.
"I have two pieces of important news," said Neryl, her echoing voice making it sound as if she was speaking from the bottom of a well. "The first is that the Wallmakers have completed the Lesser Stones."
"Excellent," Cassiel grinned. "So I won't need to donate any more blood?"
The Clayr gave a small smile. "No, thank goodness. Ghidreth told me that the Wallmakers much preferred working with members of the Bloodlines rather than the Bright Shiners."
"How so?" asked the young man.
Neryl gave a small shrug. "Whenever Wallmakers connected with Ranna to make a Lesser Stone, they fell into a deep sleep."
"And the others?" prompted Cassiel.
"Belgaer caused the Wallmakers to have vivid dreams, Astarael made people weak to the point of death, and Kibeth made them inordinately energetic. These symptoms would last for days."
"Must have been interesting," Cassiel grunted. He was picturing a whole roomful of rowdy Wallmakers, unable to keep their feet still after having connected with Kibeth. "That Astarael, though, she's a funny one. I think she has taken up residence under my House, but I cannot be sure."
The woman's forehead crinkled in concern. "I do not See any cause for you to worry," she replied slowly. "Best just not to disturb her." She bit her lip, then carried on. "My second bit of news is grave, I fear. The King… he will die this summer."
Cassiel was rocked by the news. Berillan had always been a strong, quiet presence, as constant as the sea. Always there when you needed him, always with steady words of encouragement. "How – how will he die?" Cassiel asked when he had regained his composure.
"Peacefully," answered Neryl. "Right now he is enjoying his retirement in a villa on Mount Aunden. He indulges in bird watching and the study of ancient texts. He will die in his bed."
Cassiel let out a breath, and leaned against a tree. The rough bark against his back kept him from completely losing his concentration. "At least Dantalion has been doing the duties of a King for a decade," he remarked. "That Bloodline will continue, thank the Charter. Does he know?"
"The Clayr all know," admitted Neryl. "We Saw it together, but we decided not to tell the Royal Family. I just wanted to warn you in advance."
Cassiel nodded, but said nothing. He actually longed to tell the Seer about some disturbing feelings he'd been having, but could not quite bring himself to do it. After an awkward silence he cast about for another subject. "Vichael is doing quite well in his training," he said. "At least he finds it interesting. I hope it always remains so for him..."
His voice trailed off and he hesitated once again. The Clayr seemed to understand that he wished to say something, and waited patiently, until at last the thoughts that had been haunting him for months burst out in a torrent: "You know, Neryl, sometimes I feel like I'm on some sort of predetermined track. It's a feeling of fate, of inevitability. I did not choose this way of life, you see. It was chosen for me, because of my blood!"
The Seer gave him a look of sympathy. "Fate is a funny word to use," she said. "My sisters and I normally See possible futures, as many possible outcomes hinge on various decisions through time. But there is something I have noticed, Cassiel. I have found that your future, just as your father's was before you, is curiously inflexible. You both were chosen to walk this path, and so will your descendents."
Cassiel was not sure if that bit of information comforted him or not, but nevertheless he thanked Neryl, and watched her image fade before pocketing the square of silver. He headed back to his House in pensive silence. It was good to know that he was not just being paranoid, but it was also strange to have it acknowledged that he had less control over his own life than the average person.
It was late, so Cassiel was surprised to see a glow of magic emanating from the Great Hall. With only a brief word of greeting to the sending that took his cloak, he entered to see his wife, who was amusing their one-year-old by conjuring balls of multicoloured light. Little Turiel giggled and reached out with a chubby hand to grab a glowing blue sphere, but his fingers passed right through it. He scrunched his brow and tried again.
Lessandra, sensing Cassiel's presence, glanced up. Her brown hair was tangled and there were dark circles under her eyes, but on her better days Cassiel thought her the most beautiful woman in the world. "You shouldn't have waited up for me," said the young Lord after he had given her a kiss.
"I didn't," the woman smiled. She shifted Turiel in her arms. "Someone decided to wake up crying." Vichael had been an amazingly even-tempered baby, but Turiel had made it a sort of habit to wake up and bawl at least once during the night. After nearly a year of this, Cassiel and Lessandra had realized that the best way to calm down the baby was to distract him with magic. As an Apprentice Wallmaker, Lessandra had picked up all sorts of useless illusory spells. Of course, before she could become a fully-qualified Wallmaker she had run off with him; she had been nineteen, and he had been twenty. Now she used her vast knowledge of Charter Marks in her work as a scholar.
"I spoke with Neryl," said Cassiel as he idly played with a strand of his wife's hair. "I told her about… about what I'd been feeling recently."
The ex-Wallmaker glanced up at him before Turiel demanded more of her attention. "What did she say?"
"She said that when it comes to me, my future is inflexible. Apparently it was the same for my father. She said – what were the words? She said that we had been chosen to walk our path, and our descendents will be, too." They both glanced down at Turiel, whose eyelids were starting to get heavy.
Lessandra gave an uneasy smile. "So she basically said that you did not choose your path, but the path chose you?"
"Something like that."
"Well," said the woman as she got to her feet, cradling the softly-snoring infant, "that sounds like the type of thing you should put in that book of yours. Our children have a right to know, and so will their children."
Ah, yes. The book that Cassiel had promised his father to finish. He was hardly the academic type, but he had struck gold in marrying Lessandra who, amongst her many talents, used much of her time writing up volumes of Charter Marks. Like most Wallmakers she was almost obsessive in her work. One of Cassiel's favourite memories of Lessandra was watching her sit in her workshop while heavily pregnant with Vichael, her quill flying over the parchment, and her intense look of concentration spoilt by the ink smudged on her cheek.
As Lessandra went to put Turiel to bed Cassiel hastened up to his study, taking the steps two at a time.
The young man closed the door and sat down at the massive desk. It had been gifted to his father by King Berillan, and was a glorious thing carved with twining dragons. Lying on the polished surface was a book bound in pale green leather, with silver clasps holding spells for opening and closing. Those spells had been performed by Master Wallmaker Iva, the very Wallmaker who had bespelled Penemue's special copy of Kile and Aurina.
Cassiel opened the book with great care, flipping through the sheets lined with spidery text. His father had written most of it, and Cassiel had completed the final few chapters with Lessandra's help. It was a curious book, and had a knack for opening to the correct pages whenever something needed to be added. Those pages were wreathed in spells, some of Charter Marks and others of Free Magic runes. Even the son of Gabriel Abhorsen could not suppress a shiver as his fingers brushed over the parchment.
Cassiel reached the last page in the book, and stared down at the blank white sheet before him. The words of Neryl and Lessandra were ringing in his ears. He dipped a quill pen carefully into the inkwell, thought for a moment, and began to write.
Finished, he put the quill down and surveyed his handiwork. He was quite proud of it. There, all alone on the final page of The Book of the Dead, was the line: "Does the walker choose the path, or the path the walker?"
A/N: A comment Drop Your Oboe made quite some time ago reminded me of the caves and tunnels under Abhorsen's House, so thanks for that! Yes, Astarael has moved in. Be very afraid…
I compare being a Wallmaker to being a musical genius – it is rare and can surface in anybody, but can also run in families. I decided to make Lessandra an ex-Apprentice Wallmaker to explain how Sameth was born with the abilities of a Wallmaker. Lessandra would have become a Wallmaker if she hadn't married Cassiel, so perhaps Lessandra's talents remained dormant in the line of Abhorsens and decided to resurface in Sameth some 2000 years later. I also liked the idea of her being a working mother – working at home, of course. Imagine having to cross those stepping stones every day!
Right, so now I've just got to go write ten more chapters...