A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed! I'm so happy to hear from people who haven't reviewed before to see what they think, and I also love hearing from you fabulous faithful reviewers. And I'm sure Andromis appreciated your sympathy for his situation, poor guy.

I'm terribly sorry about the relative lateness of this chapter. It was giving me a few problems, and my laptop wasn't cooperating either. Also, I thought I'd have a lot of time since exams were over, but I was so busy preparing for my trip to New Zealand – land of the hobbits. Anyway, here's the next chapter, at long last.

Vichael's Various Lessons

Cassiel Abhorsen was having a terrible day. It was raining, which was downright depressing. He had spent the entire morning wallowing knee-deep in a swamp as he fought a couple of Stilkens who had decided to set up a home in the mire. His afternoon had not been much better, as he had gotten lost – twice – on his way back to the House. Mogget had 'accidentally' tripped up the sending who was bringing hot water up to his rooms to bathe in, and so he'd had to wait twice as long as usual before he was properly clean and warm. In the evening the sendings had burnt the supper. And now it was night, and he was sitting in his Study reading hate mail. If any day had been so perfectly designed to tempt him to throw himself into the river, it was this day.

The hate mail in itself was nothing unusual. It was all the same – people were criticizing him, demanding that he give up his Charter blood and allow the Bright Shiners to return. Some of the more nasty ones brought up his father's past. As the son of a necromancer, Cassiel was not generally regarded as the most reliable person on the King's Council. The Abhorsen scanned one of the letters, which questioned his true loyalties, and insinuated that he was gathering his own army of Dead to strike when all of the Bright Shiners were gone. A month ago Cassiel would have been inclined to laugh at the ludicrousness of it all, but that was before he had found a blue-clad doll with a knife through its stomach in a package sent to his younger son.

Cassiel crumpled up the letter and threw it into the fireplace, before cradling his head on his desk and letting out a loud groan; some people were stupid. He had forbidden his sons from opening letters, especially the ones addressed to them. It was bad enough having people coming after him, but when they blamed his children…

It all came down to Tralusan. The Chief Minister had kept his word and not voiced a single opinion about the Wall. As if to make up for it, though, he had recently given a speech about progressiveness, which had been attended by the King. Cassiel's heritage had been brought up, with Tralusan citing him as a controversial member of the King's Council, and questioning his actual role within the Kingdom in rather colourful language. Those claims had been shut down by Dantalion, but the hate mail had increased since that speech. Most Ancelstierrans didn't believe in the stories of the Dead, anyway. They would rather believe that the King's advisor was a lunatic.

Cassiel picked at the tomato sandwich he had made in lieu of the braised lamb that the sendings had accidentally charred beyond recognition. He could hear Lessandra's voice in the Reading Room below. He needed to get out of the Study and away from the letters. He needed to spend more time with his family. Cassiel pushed himself to his feet, and descended the curving stair.

Lessandra and their two sons were seated side-by-side on a squashy couch under a Charter-light lantern. "Do you need to hear it again?" his wife was saying. The boys nodded, and Lessandra recited:

"When the Dead do walk, seek water's run,

For this the Dead will always shun.

Swift river's best or broadest lake

To ward the Dead and haven make.

If water fails thee, fire's thy friend;

If neither guards, it will be thy end.

"Now it's your turn!" she said, with the air of giving them a real treat.

Vichael and Turiel exchanged dubious glances behind their mother's back. "When the Dead do walk, seek water's run," said Vichael hesitantly. "Um… for the Dead… uh…"

Cassiel laughed, striding forward. "Well done, Vichael," he congratulated. "One line out of six. Excellent start. And you," he said, turning to Turiel. "I liked the part where you said nothing at all. Very clever, indeed."

"Cassiel…" Lessandra had that warning tone in her voice.

"Lessandra," Cassiel mimicked back at her. "What in the world were you teaching them, my good wife? 'If neither guards, it will be thy end'? Quite gloomy for a nursery rhyme, don't you think?"

"I made it up," said his wife, sending him a withering glare. "I thought it would be useful, my good husband. The Dead have started to increase in numbers, after all."

She was right, of course. The necromancers plaguing the Kingdom had all but disappeared following the destruction of the Freemen, with the odd incident resurfacing over the years. Recently, however, attacks by the Dead had been growing more common. With the Kingdom in disarray, the necromancers, sorcerers, and witches were taking advantage of the King's attention being focussed on Ancelstierre, and were summoning new armies of Dead and Free Magic creatures. Cassiel had been working with the King's Charter Mages to deal with the uprisings.

The Abhorsen could not argue with his wife's good sense, so he shoved his hands into his pockets and looked about the room, noticing something for the first time. "Lessandra – what are in those boxes?"

"Oh, those!" said his wife brightly. "I've been packing away many of our books to send to the Glacier. Princess Sitri sent me a letter asking for any books we might have to donate to the Great Library of the Clayr. I've been going through the bookshelves all morning while you were busy demolishing the honeymoon home of those two Stilkens. And then after I had done that I decided to rearrange all of the books in the House, alphabetically by subject."

"Okay…" Cassiel frowned. He was used to his wife's bouts of obsessive behaviour, which were usually linked to books in some way. Only last month she had turned the study into a workroom as she set about repairing every single book with ripped bindings. Cassiel hadn't been able to enter the room because of the dust. "So, when exactly were you planning on telling me this?" he asked, bringing the conversation back on track In answer his wife merely grinned and shrugged, and the Abhorsen gave what he thought was a severe frown. "Boys," he said, endeavouring to sound stern, "will you leave the room for a moment? Your parents need some time for a grown-up talk."

"Why, is mother going to start hitting you again?" asked Vichael cheekily, making no move to get up. He was all of thirteen, and had developed a decidedly roguish streak that Cassiel did not fully appreciate.

The Abhorsen scowled. "What do I keep telling you two? Your mother never hits me. Okay, there's the odd punch on the arm which causes me to lose all mobility in that limb for days on end, but that's just a joke between your mother and me. Who's the man of the house anyway?" The two boys exchanged sceptical glances, and Turiel went so far as to stifle a giggle with his hand. Lessandra leaned back on the couch and put her arms around her sons, looking very smug. "All right, all right," Lord Abhorsen grumbled. "Gang up on me. Fine. But Lessandra, you should have at least consulted me. These books are mine as much as they are yours."

"That is decidedly not true," said his wife, "because you never read any of them. Show me one book in those boxes that you can't part with. Go on."

Cassiel rummaged through the boxes, and seized a volume bound in boards with closely-knitted covers. "In the Skin of a Lyon!" he sputtered. "The Wallmaker Ghidreth gave it to us as an elopement present! How could you be donating something like this?"

Lessandra rose from the couch. "It's valuable, isn't it?"

"Very – just look at it." The Abhorsen flipped through the pages which were saturated with Charter Magic, from the paper to the ink to the very stitches that held it together. "It's thanks to this that I can make my fisher hawk Charterskin in the first place!"

"Well," said the woman slowly as she walked over, "shouldn't it be sent to the Great Library, where it will be protected? The Glacier is the safest place by far to store knowledge. The fire in Belisaere proved that."

Cassiel mouthed soundlessly, book dangling from his hand. "But – but –"

"But nothing!" With an overly-cheerful grin, Lessandra snatched In the Skin of a Lyon from his faltering grasp and tossed it back into the box. She raised her chin, as if daring him to disagree with her. "Stop moping around and actually do something useful. Teach Vichael."

"I'm not moping," Cassiel mumbled angrily under his breath, but he turned and beckoned his eldest son up to the study. Vichael whispered something to Turiel that sounded a little like, "Mother wins again," before getting up to follow him. "Mother always wins," stated Turiel, not even bothering to keep his voice down. Cassiel ignored them both.

It was dark and raining heavily outside, so they couldn't leave the wards of the House to go into Death. Instead, Cassiel decided that he and his son would stay inside to study the Book of the Dead. The Book always had an unsettling effect on the Abhorsen. Whenever he added notes to the pages, they somehow integrated themselves into the text. Some of the things he read he would promptly forget, only to remember them at the right time. And the contents of the book were constantly shifting and changing. It was all very disconcerting, but he tried not to think about it.

Vichael seated himself at the desk, scuffing the carpet with stocking-clad feet. Cassiel took the book from its place on the shelf, relieved that his wife hadn't seen fit to send that particular volume to the Glacier. He and Vichael had already made their way through half of it, and the heavy book opened to the exact page they left off with every time.

Vichael was in the middle of studying the Nine Gates of Death, when he spotted a few of the letters which had not been burned yet. He took one up before Cassiel could stop him. "This one says you should stick your head up a horse's–"

"Hey!" Cassiel snatched the paper from his son's hand and pitched it into the fire with expert aim. "You know better than to read that stuff, Vichael. You do that and your faith in the intelligence of people is going to be severely tried."

The boy frowned and stared into the fire, where the letter was curling into ash. "Father," he said, "why don't the Ancelstierrans like us?"

"The Kingdom and Ancelstierre have a bad history," said Cassiel. He gathered up the rest of the letters and crumpled them into a large ball which he lobbed into the fire. It lit up with a satisfying crackle.

"Why? What happened?"

The Abhorsen sighed – he would have to explain to his son one day. It might as well be today. The past twenty-four hours had gone so terribly that he did not feel up to arguing with his son. "Back when King Dantalion's grandfather was ruling, the Kingdom included what we now call Ancelstierre." Cassiel leaned against the wall, staring into the fire. "The Moot was a meeting of Mages, nobility, and the Royal Family to discuss the running of the Kingdom. Taxation, enforcing laws, boring stuff like that. The Moot convened only at the King's command in Belisaere."

He walked over and sat behind his desk, and Vichael leaned forward to listen, pushing the Book of the Dead aside.

"However," the Abhorsen continued, "a group of southern Lords started to meet in secret in Corvere. They felt that the King was ignoring the needs of the south. Their leaders were thirteen Lords who called themselves the Ministers, and Lord Ancel of Corvere was elected their Chief. They started to enforce different laws on their subjects than the northern nobility."

"Weren't they detected?" asked Vichael, dark brows drawing together in consternation.

"Yes, they were. But when Ancel and his twelve Ministers were convicted of treason, the King's brother Prince Jorranen bought their pardons. He was sympathetic to their cause, you see. And that was the start of the Civil War, with the southern Lords and their knights against the King, the Army, and the rest of the Moot. Many were killed, and for years neither side showed any sign of winning." Cassiel picked up a quill pen and spun it between his fingers, recalling the history lesson that his father had given him, long ago. "When an armistice was finally called, it was decided that the Kingdom would be split into two countries. The King and a chosen group of loyal advisors, now called the King's Council, would rule the north and maintain sovereignty. The remainder of the Moot would rule the south under the leadership of the thirteen Ministers, with the Prince as their Chief."

"But what about Lord Ancel?"

The Abhorsen tossed aside his quill. "He was killed in the war and declared a national hero. Ancelstierre was named after him, and the remains of his palace in Corvere became Moot Hall."

"How illuminating, Abhorsen. And I wonder why your family is so poorly-educated."

Father and son spun around to see Mogget leaning against a bookshelf. They had not heard him come in. The dwarf had a scornful expression on his pale face.

"What do you mean?" asked Cassiel with forced politeness.

Mogget sniffed. "I have been listening to your insufferable family this evening, and it seems that you and your wife only teach your heir poetry and history – neither of which will be helpful when facing a Hrule."

"Oh really?" said the Abhorsen, crossing his arms and raising a dark eyebrow. "And I suppose you could do better?"

"Yes," said the dwarf with a conceited smile. "I can."

Cassiel motioned towards the desk with exaggerated courteousness. "Well, why don't you, then?"

He had not really expected Mogget to take him up on his offer, but in the blink of an eye the dwarf had transformed into a cat and jumped up onto the desk. The white cat strolled over to sit across from Vichael, looking at the pages of the Book of the Dead upside-down.

"All right, Vichael," said Mogget briskly. "First things first. How do you kill a Hrule?"

"Wait, I know this one." Vichael scrunched his eyes shut, biting his lip as he strained to remember. "You don't – you don't stab them with a thistle, do you?"

Mogget reached out with his paw, and pricked Vichael on the back of the hand. "Wrong."

"Ow!" The boy's eyes flew open.

Cassiel was surprised by Mogget's strange form of discipline, but decided to say nothing for the time being. He leaned against the wall by the fireplace, ready to step in should things get out of control.

Vichael was rubbing the back of his hand and glaring at the cat, who smiled serenely at him. This only served to further annoy the teenager, which was no doubt Mogget's intention. "Wrong, wrong, wrong," the cat purred. "A Hrule cannot be killed."

"What!" Vichael yelped. "That was a trick question!"

"But," Mogget said loudly, overriding the boy's complaints, "a thistle can cut through its flesh, and if driven into the heart will return it to the earth."

"I knew that," Cassiel's son said grumpily, examining the back of his hand. A bead of dark red blood quivered there, and the boy blotted it away with his sleeve.

"Next question, then," said the cat, lashing his tail on the top of the desk. Cassiel wondered briefly whether or not he should allow the 'lesson' to continue, but his curiosity quickly overrode his anxiety. Besides, his son could take care of himself. "Name the seven bells," said Mogget, "in order from smallest to largest, with their titles."

Vichael rolled his eyes. "Ranna the Sleepbringer, Mosrael the Waker, Kibeth the Walker, Dyrim the Speaker, Belgaer the Thinker, Saraneth the Binder, and Astarael the Sorrowful," he rattled off without a second's thought. Cassiel felt quite proud of his son.

But Mogget's claw whipped out again and pricked the boy's hand a second time. "Ranna is also known as the Sleeper," the cat smirked. "And Astarael is also called the Weeper."

"All right, that is just not fair," Vichael said, giving the cat a fierce look. "Father–"

Cassiel felt he had to defend his son. "Mogget, Vichael did get that question right."

"Not completely," the cat sniffed. "Spare the claw, spoil the child."

The Abhorsen gave his son an apologetic shrug, and Vichael started to splutter in anger at the cruel injustice of it all. "Guh – buh – but I–"

"Third question," announced the cat, successfully ignoring his pupil. "What lies beyond the Eighth Gate?"

Silence greeted these words, and both father and son were staring at the little white cat as though he were out of his mind. "Nobody knows," Vichael said very slowly and clearly, as if talking to a small child or an idiot. "I doubt that even you know, Mogget."

The cat's paw flashed out again, but this time the teenager was ready; he just managed to withdraw his hand in time, and Mogget's claw scratched the surface of the redwood table. Before the cat could do anything, Vichael raised a hand and zapped him with a swiftly-cast spell. Mogget shot high into the air and yowled, his fur standing all on end. He landed looking like a fluffy ball with legs, and the green eyes shining out of that white shock of fur were filled with rage.

"Lesson's over," Cassiel said hastily, and instinctively moved between his son and the cat, who was now hissing like a kettle about to explode.

Before an already tense situation could escalate into a fully-fledged catastrophe, a sending entered the study and approached Cassiel. It held a letter in its hands, and the Abhorsen took it with a brief word of thanks. The scroll bore the royal seal, and he tore it open, praying that it conveyed some good news, for a change.

"What is it, father?" asked Vichael. The animosity between the boy and Mogget had temporarily been forgotten as they waited to hear the news.

"It is a summons across the Wall," Cassiel explained finally. "It says here that an estate in northern Ancelstierre will host a match of single combat, between champions chosen to represent King Dantalion and Chief Minister Tralusan. The King cordially requests the presence of the Abhorsen." He scanned the bottom of the letter. "It's in four days." He allowed his hand to fall to his side, still clutching the letter. Had it been three years already since Tralusan's challenge had been issued? He had lost track of the time and completely forgotten that such a match was to take place.

Mogget changed back into a dwarf, smoothing his dishevelled beard as best he could while perching on the edge of the desk. "I suppose you will be leaving soon, then?" he asked.

Cassiel nodded. "Yes, first thing tomorrow. Have the sendings prepare my things."

After Mogget had left, the Abhorsen turned to his son. "Go to bed, Vichael," he said. "You've had enough lessons for today, and I need some time to think about this." The boy nodded and left the room, and Cassiel sat down heavily at his desk, staring at the letter. It was just the thing to top off what had to be one of the worst days of his life.

The lamps in his study burned long into the night.

A/N: I'll be leaving for New Zealand on Thursday, and will be away for four weeks. This means that I won't be able to update until I come home, but I'll take my notebook with me and work on the story while I'm over there, so hopefully all I'll have to do once I come back is type up the chapters and post them. And I've definitely decided to stop at 50 chapters this time. Really! I have more ideas, of course, and I won't be able to spend as much time with some of the characters as I would like. So that means that a tentative sequel should be in order. I'm not promising anything, though!

Reviews, as always, are lovely. I will try to reply to them as quickly as I can.