Goldenhand by Garth Nix - Longer Excerpt
Goldenhand by Garth Nix - Longer Excerpt
Goldenhand by Garth Nix - Longer Excerpt
GARTH NIX
prologue
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never quite the same and how, reading it, she often felt the same
bone-deep chill she felt in the river now.
Lirael spoke slowly, half her mind still focused on her sense
of Death, and the Dead. There were things going on, small movements, like flotsam on the tide... it took her afew seconds to
work out that the dozens and dozens of lesser Dead were gathering together, massing to form ahost.
We shall have to find out, in due course, but Chlorr by herself
is not of primary importance, said Sabriel. Not now Orannis is
bound again, and provided she stays in the North. There are
other, more immediate problems. Some at hand, Iwould say.
Sabriel unfastened the strap that held her favourite bell quiet
on her bandolier, her fingers closing on the clapper, bright Charter
marks swarming from the silver bell to her hand. She smiled aslight,
quirking smile. I think Chlorr has left us something of asurprise,
even an ambush. It is interesting that these lesser things are more
afraid of her than they are of us. We must correct that view.
Lirael barely had time to draw her sword and abell of her own
before the Dead attacked, particularly as her right hand moved slowly.
It was still being perfected, the new hand that had been made for her
by Sameth of clever metalwork and considerable Charter Magic.
There were more than seventy Dead creatures reluctantly moving
to attack. Most were warped and misshapen from too long in Death,
their original shapes long lost, spirit flesh unable to maintain
even avaguely human shape. Some were squat, as if compressed to
fit some awful container; some were stretched long. They had too
many teeth, and shifted jaws, and talons or teeth in place of fingernails. Red fire burned in sockets where their eyes once were, and
came dripping from their gaping, overstretched mouths.
Lurching and hopping, darting and zigzagging, they came,
building courage as they approached, taking hope from the sheer
numbers of their companions. They began to growl and slobber
and shriek, thinking perhaps this time, they would feast on Life!
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chapter one
an unlikely messenger
atthe gate
Greenwash River Bridge, North Castle
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It was unusual to see any of these folk outside their mountains at all, let alone hundreds of leagues to the south and east, so
the guards on the gate tower of the Greenwash Bridge Companys
north bank castle were understandably both curious and cautious
when one such fur-wrapped, red-thread goatskin-patched nomad
appeared as if from nowhere out of aswirling wet snowfall on
aspring afternoon and shouted up at them, asking permission to
cross the bridge into the Old Kingdom.
Youre no merchant, called down the younger guard, whod
set his crossbow on the merlon, ready to snatch up and fire. So
you have no business to cross the bridge.
Im amessenger! bawled the nomad. She was even younger
than the young guard, perhaps having seen only sixteen or
seventeen of the harsh winters of her homeland. Her lustrous
skin was acorn brown, her hair black, worn in aplaited queue
that was wound several times around her head like acrown, and
her dark eyes appealing. I claim the message right!
Whats that, Haral? the younger guard asked his elder quietly.
Hed only been with the Bridge Company eleven months, but Haral
was an old-timer. Shed served twenty-six years, back into the bad
old times before King Touchstone and the Abhorsen Sabriel restored
order to the Old Kingdom. Before that restoration, the bridge and
its castles on the northern and southern banks and thefort in the
middle of the river had essentially been afortress constantly under
siege. It had been much more peaceful since, though there had
been great trouble in the south in the last summer.
The tribes give messengers immunity from challenges and
feuds and the like, said Haral. She looked down at this unusual
and unusually attractive messenger, and thought it was just
as well the younger guard wasnt here by himself. People who
wanted to cross the bridge were not always what they seemed. Or
were not actually people at all, apart from their outward form.
But Ididnt know the mountain-folk followed that custom.
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Ive only ever seen them acouple of times before, and they were
traders, going northward to home.
Whos the message for? called out the young guard. His name
was Aronsin, but everyone just called him Aron.
Must Itell you? asked the young nomad. It was an odd
question, said as if she was uncertain of the etiquette involved,
or unfamiliar with dealing with other people in general.
It would be astart, said Aron. He glanced at Haral, sensing
her suddenly straighten up. She was peering out into the falling
snow, looking into the distance, not at the nomad below.
Thought Isaw movement, said Haral. She took aperspective
glass from her belt, extended it, and held it to her eye. Having one
nomad pop up almost at the gate could be blamed on the snow
and the fading light, but to have any more get so close would be
adereliction of duty.
So whos the message for? asked Aron. He smiled down at the
mountain girl, because he liked the look of her and he couldnt
help himself. And whats your name?
The message is for the witches who live in the ice and see what
is to be, replied the mountain nomad reluctantly. My name...
Idont really have aname.
People must call you something, said Aron. He glanced over
at Haral again, who had lowered the perspective glass but was
still looking out, her eyes narrowed. With the snow beginning
to fall more heavily, and the light fading with it, visibility was
ebbing.
Some call me Ferin, said the nomad, the faintest hint of
asmile quirking in the corner of her mouth, sign of afond
memory. Now, can you let me in?
I guess Aron started to say, but he stopped as Haral laid
ahand on his shoulder, and pointed with the perspective glass.
Three figures were coming into sight out of the swirling snow
and the lowering darkness. Two of them were on horseback,
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The shaman sat absolutely still on his horse, deep in concentration. It took great effort of will to keep aFree Magic spirit of
any kind from turning on its master amaster who was himself
kept in check by the cunningly hinged asphyxiating ring of
bright silver, which his keeper could pull tight should he try to
turn his creatures upon his own people, or seek to carry out his
own plans.
Though this particular keeper seemed to have little fear her
sorcerer would turn, for she fixed the chain to the horn of her
saddle and readied her bow, even though she was still well out of
bowshot, particularly with the snow falling wet and steady. Once
she got within range, she would get only two or three good shots
before her string grew sodden. Perhaps only asingle shot at that.
We cant let you in now! called down Aron. He had picked up
his crossbow. Enemies in sight!
But theyre after me!
We dont know that, shouted Haral. This could be atrick to
get us to open the gate. You said you were amessenger; theyll
leave you alone.
No, they wont! cried Ferin. She took her own bow from
the case on her back, and drew astrange arrow from the case at
her waist. The arrows point was hooded with leather, tied fast.
Holding bow and arrow with her left hand, she undid the cords
of the hood and pulled it free, revealing an arrowhead of dark
glass that sparkled with hidden fire, afaint tendril of white smoke
rising from thepoint.
With it came an unpleasant, acrid taint, so strong it came
almost instantly to the noses of the guards atop the wall.
Free Magic! shouted Aron. Raising his crossbow in one swift
motion, he fired it straight down. Only Harals sudden downward
slap on the crossbow made the quarrel miss the nomad womans
gut, but even so it went clear through her leg just above the ankle,
and there was suddenly blood spattered on the snow.
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Ferin looked over her shoulder quickly, saw Haral restraining Aron so he couldnt ready another quarrel. Setting her teeth
hard together against the pain in her leg, she turned back to face
the wood-weird. It had risen up on its rough-hewn legs and was
bounding forward, agood hundred paces ahead of the shaman,
and it was still accelerating. Its eyes were bright as pitch-soaked
torches newly lit, and great long flames roared from the widening
gash in its head that served as amouth.
Ferin drew her bow and released in one fluid motion. The
shining glass arrow flew like aspark from asummer bonfire,
striking the wood-weird square in the trunk. At first it seemed
it had done no scathe, but then the creature faltered, took three
staggering steps, and froze in place, suddenly more astrangely
carved tree and less aterrifying creature. The flames in its eyes
ebbed back, there was aflash of white inside the red, then its
entire body burst into flame. Avast roil of dark smoke rose from
the fire, gobbling up the falling snow.
In the distance the shaman screamed, ascream filled with
equal parts anger and fear.
Free Magic! gasped Aron. He struggled with Haral. She had
difficulty in restraining him, before she got him in an armlock
and wrestled him down behind the battlements. Shes asorcerer!
No, no, lad, said Haral easily. That was aspirit-glass arrow.
Its Free Magic, sure enough, but contained, and can be used only
once. Theyre very rare, and the nomads treasure them, because
they are the only weapons they have which can kill ashaman or
one of their creatures.
But she could still be
I dont think so, said Haral. The full watch was pounding
up the stairs now; in aminute there would be two dozen guards
spread out on the wall. But one of the Bridgemasters Seconds can
test her with Charter Magic. If she really is from the mountains,
and has amessage for the Clayr, we need to know.
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The Clayr? asked Aron. Oh, the witches in the ice, who see
More than you do, interrupted Haral. Can Ilet you go?
Aron nodded and relaxed. Haral released her hold and quickly
stood up, looking out over the wall.
Ferin was not in sight. The wood-weird was burning fiercely,
sending up agreat billowing column of choking black smoke.
The shaman and his keeper lay sprawled on the snowy ground,
both dead with quite ordinary arrows in their eyes, evidence of
peerless shooting at that range in the dying light. Their horses
were running free, spooked by blood and sudden death.
Where did she go? asked Aron.
Probably not very far, said Haral grimly, gazing intently
atthe ground. There was apatch of blood on the snow there
as big as the guards hand, and blotches like dropped coins of
brightscarlet continued for some distance, in the direction
ofthe river shore.
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chapter two
he hawk came down through the clouds, dodging raindrops for the sheer fun of it, despite having already flown
more than two hundred leagues. Born from aCharter-
spelled egg and trained for its work since it was afledgling,
thehawk carried amessage imprinted in its mind, and with it the
burning desire to fly as swiftly as possible to the tower mews in
the royal city of Belisaere.
The rain-
dodging hawk from the south beat another bird
flying in from the north by half aminute, so it was first to get to
Mistress Finney, the chief falconer, while the later hawk had
tobe content going to the fist of an apprentice.
As amatter of procedure, Mistress Finney checked the anklet on
thebird, to see where it had come from, though she already recognised him. She knew all the message-hawks of the Old Kingdom,
having raised them herself, even if they were later assigned elsewhere, and became only occasional visitors to the capital.
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stepped off onto it, watching the woman as she took up her quill,
dipped it in the inkwell, and made ready to write.
Now, my dear, give me the message, said Mistress Finney to
the hawk, who once again spoke, clear and loud in the voice of
Magistrix Coelle. Wyverley College, though it lay across the Wall,
was close enough that Charter Magic could be wielded there.
Though its location meant Ancelstierran technology could not
always be relied upon, atelegraph boys bicycle would not fail. So
it had become the de facto place for Ancelstierran telegrams to be
transferred to Old Kingdom message-hawks for onward delivery
to authorities in the north.
Abhorsen, Ive just received atelegram. It reads TO MAGISTRIX WYVERLEY COLLEGE NICK FOUND BAD KINGDOM
CREATURE DORRANCE HALL TELL ABHORSEN HELP STOP
THIS FROM NICHOLAS SAYRE STOP VIA DANJERS VALET
APPLETHWICK END. Now, Dorrance Hall is several hundred
miles south, so this seems very unlikely. But Ihave heard it is
some sort of secret government place, so perhaps should be investigated. Ihave sent telegrams to the Bain Consulate and the
Embassy in Corvere, but have not yet had an answer
The message ended suddenly. The message-hawks were invaluable, but their minds were small and could not hold very long
communications, and their capacity also varied from bird to
bird. Unless you knew the particular hawk in question and
counted out your words beforehand, it was easy to be cut off in
mid-flow. Senders often forgot this in their eagerness to pass on
important information. Nor, once amessage was impressed, was
it an easy matter to start again.
Well done, my dear, said Mistress Finney softly to the
hawk, carefully drawing aline below the message she had just
transcribed and initialling it MF. She gestured to one of her
apprentices, who came and took the hawk over to its own perch,
to be fed some fresh rabbit and to have adrink.
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The apprentice who had heard the message from the northern
hawk approached her, passing over the paper where hed written
down that birds missive.
This ones for the King, he said. From the Greenwash Bridge
Company, at the bridge. Not marked urgent. Follow-up to their
earlier report.
Spike it for Princess Ellimere, said Mistress Finney, gesturing
at atable adorned with numerous spikes, most of them already
impaling message sheets. Shes coming up this morning, Isaw
her at breakfast.
Not taken to the King immediately?
Does no one here pay attention to what is happening in
the court we serve? asked Mistress Finney. It was arhetorical
question, and no one in the mews dared to treat it any other way,
remaining silent while hoping they looked suitably attentive.
The King and the Abhorsen left for their holiday this morning.
Awell-deserved one. Their first holiday! Ever! You could all
learn from their example. Hard work
She broke off as another hawk flew in, briefly settling on the
landing perch before spying Mistress Finney. Upon seeing her, it
immediately flew to her fist.
Hello, my beauty, said the falconer, forgetting her rant.
Come in from High Bridge, have you?
Lirael hurried up the steps to the mews. She flexed her replacement hand as she did so, marvelling at how well it worked. When
her own hand had been bitten off by the Disreputable Dog almost
seven months before in order to save her life from the ravening
power of Orannis, Sameth had promised to make her areplacement. He had lived up to that promise, and shown he was indeed
atrue inheritor of the Wallmakers engineering ingenuity and
magical craft, though it had taken him along time to get it right,
with much tinkering and adjustment. It was only in the last few
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days that it felt entirely normal to Lirael, really just like her own
flesh-a nd-blood hand.
It was mostly made from meteoric steel, but Sam had gilded
the metal and, unasked, had added an extra layer of Charter
spells atop the ones that made the hand work and even feel like
flesh, so it also glowed faintly with agolden light.
Already, many people were calling her Lirael Goldenhand.
Lirael didnt like the name very much, or the soft glow from
her golden fingers. She had worked out how to unravel the part of
the spell which provided the light, and planned to do so as soon
as she could without hurting Sams feelings. Having an artificial
magic hand attracted enough attention as it was, without the soft
golden light as well.
Though she had to admit to herself it was probably too late
to avoid attention. It seemed everyone in Belisaere knew who
she was. Shed gone out incognito numerous times, wearing
abroad-brimmed hat and gloves and simple, unadorned clothes
rather than her distinctive surcoat that bore the silver keys of
the Abhorsen on ablue field, quartered with the golden stars
of the Clayr on green. But this disguise, if it could be called
that, never worked for long. People always discovered her true
identity.
Just the day before shed tried to wander through the market
near Lake Loesere but shed had to give up, because so many
people were following her around, and the store traders kept
giving her whatever she inquired about for nothing, in gratitude
for saving the kingdom from Orannis the Destroyer. Within
fifteen minutes she was so overloaded with asack of blood plums,
three bottles of wine, several different cheeses, awheellike loaf
of fine white bread, and agiant bunch of asparagus that she had
to retreat to the palace, trailing acrowd behind her.
She hoped the message from Ancelstierre was going to offer
her the possibility of escape from all the attention. In Sabriels
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absence, it was her duty to deal with any Dead or Free Magic creatures, though admittedly the Abhorsen and the King had only
consented to go on holiday to the island of Ilgard because
everything had been largely quiet for the last six months.
Lirael was very eager to take up her duty. Any duty. She still
keenly felt the loss of the Disreputable Dog, and being busy was
an excellent way to not dwell on that. Or on the difficulties of
adapting to awhole new life as the Abhorsen-i n-Waiting, with
amuch older half-sister who was also now her mentor. Though
she greatly respected Sabriel, Lirael was also very much in awe of
her, and could not easily talk to her about anything other than
the work they shared.
Then there was her nephew Sameth and niece Ellimere, though
she could never think of them that way, since she was only alittle
older in years and felt considerably younger in terms of experience
with the world. Just being suddenly apart of the ruling family of
the Old Kingdom was an almost overwhelming challenge, particularly for someone like Lirael, who was used to spending agreat
deal of time alone, or in companionable silence with her dear dog.
Now it was nearly impossible for her to be alone, even for
afew minutes. The previous six months had been occupied with
recovering from her wounding; beginning to learn how to wield
the seven bells of the Abhorsen and all the associated magics
that went with that art (something she now realised would go
on for her entire life; it was not the sort of thing you could ever
entirely know); having her replacement hand fitted and fine-
tuned, which took absolutely hours; going along with the bare
minimum of social activity organised for her by Ellimere, who
did not at all behave like adutiful niece but much more like
abossy, matchmaking sister; and just trying to fit in with abusy
family who knew one another very well.
The messenger girl who was leading the way turned at the top
of the stairs and held her finger to her lips.
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ofthiswould be, and Nick had quickly been taken away to the
south of Ancelstierre, where everyone had presumably hoped it
wouldnt matter.
I had better go and talk to Ellimere and Sam, said Lirael
thoughtfully, though she had already decided she would go, and go
straightaway. Part of her last six months training with Sabriel had
been spent learning to fly aPaperwing. She was already thinking
of how she could fly west to the Ratterlin and follow its silver path
south, swooping down at Barhedrin Hill to get ahorse from the
garrison there, and someone to help her with it, because though
shed had lessons from Ellimere, riding horses was still anew
thing and she didnt want to fall off and break her leg before she
even left the Old Kingdom. But she would have to ride, because the
Paperwing would not cross the Wall, and walking would be too
slow. Once across the Wall, she could ride in one of the Ancelstierrans noisy, stinking vehicles, like the truck that had taken them
west to Forwin Mill to confront Orannis...
And areply? asked Mistress Finney, breaking in on Liraels
thoughts. To Magistrix Coelle?
Oh... please send word that Ishall come as soon as Imay,
said Lirael. She thought for afew moments. I should be there
within aday, Ithink. Illgo to Wyverley first, to consult the
magistrix for directions and so forth.
I will send ahawk at once, replied the falconer, but she spoke
to empty air. Lirael was already clattering down the stairs in her
eagerness to be on her way, to once again be so busy she had no
time to dwell upon the past.
She almost ran into Ellimere halfway down, coming up rather
more slowly than Lirael was descending, the princess almost
dropping the sheaf of messages she was bringing for the message-
hawks to send.
Youre in ahurry, said the princess cheerfully. Whats
happening?
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that the Disreputable Dog would not have brought Nicholas Sayre
back if he was going to be athreat. I dont think that will happen.
And Sabriel did know about Nick, she wanted him to come back
with us, but Nick didnt... he didnt want to come along, and
what with his uncle being the Chief Minister and all, Sabriel said
we couldnt just take him with us. She thought he would be far
enough south both the Free Magic and the Charter Magic would
sleep withinhim
Maybe he is the Free Magic creature, interrupted Ellimere, her
frown deepening further. Telegram could have been mixed up.
Whatever is happening, Ithink Ishould go and investigate,
said Lirael.
Yes, said Ellimere. Perhaps Sam should go with you
Lirael shook her head. Shed just been in Sams workshop for
the final adjustments to her hand, and he had been in ahurry
himself. He was leaving to go and meet the leaders of the Southerling refugees, and take them to see the lands they were to be given
by the crown. Sam had promised the Southerlings aplace to settle,
guaranteeing it with his word as aprince shortly before the final
battle with Orannis, in order to make them get clear of the incipient destruction. Sorting out where they were to go, and attempting
to overcome their cultural disbelief in magic, had become abig
responsibility for Sam.
Sams got the Southerling leaders here, trying to get them
used to Charter Magic and everything before he takes them off
to their new lands north of Robles Town. Im sure Illbe fine
bymyself.
Lirael wasnt entirely sure she would be fine. But she did know
she needed to get away for awhile, to be kept busy, to escape the
long nights in her chambers in the palace, grieving for the Dog.
Agrief made worse by the fact that she knew the Dog would be
cross with her for this and would probably have bitten her to stop
her feeling sorry for herself.
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