Sabriel

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  SABRIEL. Copyright © 1995 by Garth Nix. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  HOW I WRITE: THE PROCESS OF CREATING A BOOK © 2001 by Garth Nix

  Garth Nix asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  MS Reader edition v 1. May 2001 ISBN 0-06-000548-3

  Print edition first published in 1995 HarperCollins Publishers

  Set from rack size edition: 0-06-447183-7

  to my family and friends

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter i

  Chapter ii

  Chapter iii

  Chapter iv

  Chapter v

  Chapter vi

  Chapter vii

  Chapter viii

  Chapter ix

  Chapter x

  Chapter xi

  Chapter xii

  Chapter xiii

  Chapter xiv

  Chapter xv

  Chapter xvi

  Chapter xvii

  Chapter xviii

  Chapter xix

  Chapter xx

  Chapter xxi

  Chapter xxii

  Chapter xxiii

  Chapter xxiv

  Chapter xxv

  Chapter xxvi

  Chapter xxvii

  Chapter xxviii

  Chapter xxix

  Epilogue

  Appendix: How I Write: The Process of Creating a Book

  About the Author

  Credits

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  It was little more than three miles from the Wall into the Old Kingdom, but that was enough. Noonday sunshine could be seen on the other side of the Wall in Ancelstierre, and not a cloud in sight. Here, there was a clouded sunset, and a steady rain had just begun to fall, coming faster than the tents could be raised.

  The midwife shrugged her cloak higher up against her neck and bent over the woman again, raindrops spilling from her nose onto the upturned face below. The midwife’s breath blew out in a cloud of white, but there was no answering billow of air from her patient.

  The midwife sighed and slowly straightened up, that single movement telling the watchers everything they needed to know. The woman who had staggered into their forest camp was dead, only holding on to life long enough to pass it on to the baby at her side. But even as the midwife picked up the pathetically small form beside the dead woman, it shuddered within its wrappings, and was still.

  “The child, too?” asked one of the watchers, a man who wore the mark of the Charter fresh-drawn in wood ash upon his brow. “Then there shall be no need for baptism.”

  His hand went up to brush the mark from his forehead, then suddenly stopped, as a pale white hand gripped his and forced it down in a single, swift motion.

  “Peace!” said a calm voice. “I wish you no harm.”

  The white hand released its grip and the speaker stepped into the ring of firelight. The others watched him without welcome, and the hands that had half sketched Charter marks, or gone to bowstrings and hilts, did not relax.

  The man strode towards the bodies and looked upon them. Then he turned to face the watchers, pushing his hood back to reveal the face of someone who had taken paths far from sunlight, for his skin was a deathly white.

  “I am called Abhorsen,” he said, and his words sent ripples through the people about him, as if he had cast a large and weighty stone into a pool of stagnant water. “And there will be a baptism tonight.”

  The Charter Mage looked down on the bundle in the midwife’s hands, and said: “The child is dead, Abhorsen. We are travelers, our life lived under the sky, and it is often harsh. We know death, lord.”

  “Not as I do,” replied Abhorsen, smiling so his paper-white face crinkled at the corners and drew back from his equally white teeth. “And I say the child is not yet dead.”

  The man tried to meet Abhorsen’s gaze, but faltered and looked away at his fellows. None moved, or made any sign, till a woman said, “So. It is easily done. Sign the child, Arrenil. We will make a new camp at Leovi’s Ford. Join us when you are finished here.”

  The Charter Mage inclined his head in assent, and the others drifted away to pack up their half-made camp, slow with the reluctance of having to move, but filled with a greater reluctance to remain near Abhorsen, for his name was one of secrets, and unspoken fears.

  When the midwife went to lay the child down and leave, Abhorsen spoke: “Wait. You will be needed.”

  The midwife looked down on the baby, and saw that it was a girl child and, save for its stillness, could be merely sleeping. She had heard of Abhorsen, and if the girl could live . . . warily she picked up the child again and held her out to the Charter Mage.

  “If the Charter does not—” began the man, but Abhorsen held up a pallid hand and interrupted.

  “Let us see what the Charter wills.”

  The man looked at the child again and sighed. Then he took a small bottle from his pouch and held it aloft, crying out a chant that was the beginning of a Charter; one that listed all things that lived or grew, or once lived, or would live again, and the bonds that held them all together. As he spoke, a light came to the bottle, pulsing with the rhythm of the chant. Then the chanter was silent. He touched the bottle to the earth, then to the sign of wood ash on his forehead, and then upended it over the child.

  A great flash lit the surrounding woods as the glowing liquid splashed over the child’s head, and the priest cried: “By the Charter that binds all things, we name thee—”

  Normally, the parents of the child would then speak the name. Here, only Abhorsen spoke, and he said:

  “Sabriel.”

  As he uttered the word, the wood ash disappeared from the priest’s forehead, and slowly formed on the child’s. The Charter had accepted the baptism.

  “But . . . but she is dead!” exclaimed the Charter Mage, gingerly touching his forehead to make sure the ash was truly gone.

  He got no answer, for the midwife was staring across the fire at Abhorsen, and Abhorsen was staring at—nothing. His eyes reflected the dancing flames, but did not see them.

  Slowly, a chill mist began to rise from his body, spreading towards the man and midwife, who scuttled to the other side of the fire—wanting to get away, but now too afraid to run.

  He could hear the child crying, which was good. If she had gone beyond the first gateway he could not bring her back without more stringent preparations, and a subsequent dilution of her spirit.

  The current was strong, but he knew this branch of the river and waded past pools and eddies that hoped to drag him under. Already, he could feel the waters leaching his spirit, but his will was strong, so they took only the color, not the substance.

  He paused to listen, and hearing the crying diminish, hastened forward. Perhaps she was already at the gateway, and about to pass.

  The First Gate was a veil of mist, with a single dark opening, where the river poured into the silence beyond. Abhorsen hurried towards it, and then stopped. The baby had not yet passed through, but only because something had caught her and picked her up. Standing there, looming up out of the black waters, was a shadow darker than the gate.

  It was several feet higher than Abhorsen, and there were pale marsh-lights burning where you would expect to see eyes, and the fetid stench of carrion rolled off it—a wa
rm stench that relieved the chill of the river.

  Abhorsen advanced on the thing slowly, watching the child it held loosely in the crook of a shadowed arm. The baby was asleep, but restless, and it squirmed towards the creature, seeking a mother’s breast, but it only held her away from itself, as if the child were hot, or caustic.

  Slowly, Abhorsen drew a small, silver handbell from the bandolier of bells across his chest, and cocked his wrist to ring it. But the shadow-thing held the baby up and spoke in a dry, slithery voice, like a snake on gravel.

  “Spirit of your spirit, Abhorsen. You can’t spell me while I hold her. And perhaps I shall take her beyond the gate, as her mother has already gone.”

  Abhorsen frowned, in recognition, and replaced the bell. “You have a new shape, Kerrigor. And you are now this side of the First Gate. Who was foolish enough to assist you so far?”

  Kerrigor smiled widely, and Abhorsen caught a glimpse of fires burning deep inside his mouth.

  “One of the usual calling,” he croaked. “But unskilled. He didn’t realize it would be in the nature of an exchange. Alas, his life was not sufficient for me to pass the last portal. But now, you have come to help me.”

  “I, who chained you beyond the Seventh Gate?”

  “Yes,” whispered Kerrigor. “The irony does not, I think, escape you. But if you want the child . . .”

  He made as if to throw the baby into the stream and, with that jerk, woke her. Immediately, she began to cry and her little fists reached out to gather up the shadow-stuff of Kerrigor like the folds of a robe. He cried out, tried to detach her, but the tiny hands held tightly and he was forced to overuse his strength, and threw her from him. She landed, squalling, and was instantly caught up in the flow of the river, but Abhorsen lunged forward, snatching her from both the river and Kerrigor’s grasping hands.

  Stepping back, he drew the silver bell one-handed, and swung it so it sounded twice. The sound was curiously muffled, but true, and the clear chime hung in the air, fresh and cutting, alive. Kerrigor flinched at the sound, and fell backwards to the darkness that was the gate.

  “Some fool will soon bring me back, and then . . .” he cried out, as the river took him under. The waters swirled and gurgled and then resumed their steady flow.

  Abhorsen stared at the gate for a time, then sighed and, placing the bell back in his belt, looked at the baby held in his arm. She stared back at him, dark eyes matching his own. Already, the color had been drained from her skin. Nervously, Abhorsen laid a hand across the brand on her forehead and felt the glow of her spirit within. The Charter mark had kept her life contained when the river should have drained it. It was her life-spirit that had so burned Kerrigor.

  She smiled up at him and gurgled a little, and Abhorsen felt a smile tilting the corner of his own mouth. Still smiling, he turned, and began the long wade back up the river, to the gate that would return them both to their living flesh.

  The baby wailed a scant second before Abhorsen opened his eyes, so that the midwife was already halfway around the dying fire, ready to pick her up. Frost crackled on the ground and icicles hung from Abhorsen’s nose. He wiped them off with a sleeve and leaned over the child, much as any anxious father does after a birth.

  “How is the babe?” he asked, and the midwife stared at him wonderingly, for the dead child was now loudly alive and as deathly white as he.

  “As you hear, lord,” she answered. “She is very well. It is perhaps a little cold for her—”

  He gestured at the fire and spoke a word, and it roared into life, the frost melting at once, the raindrops sizzling into steam.

  “That will do till morning,” said Abhorsen. “Then I shall take her to my house. I shall have need of a nurse. Will you come?”

  The midwife hesitated, and looked to the Charter Mage, who still lingered on the far side of the fire. He refused to meet her glance and she looked down once more at the little girl bawling in her arms.

  “You are . . . you are . . .” whispered the midwife.

  “A necromancer?” said Abhorsen. “Only of a sort. I loved the woman who lies here. She would have lived if she had loved another, but she did not. Sabriel is our child. Can you not see the kinship?”

  The midwife looked at him as he leant forward and took Sabriel from her, rocking her on his chest. The baby quietened and, in a few seconds, was asleep.

  “Yes,” said the midwife. “I shall come with you, and look after Sabriel. But you must find a wet-nurse . . .”

  “And I daresay much else besides,” mused Abhorsen. “But my house is not a place for—”

  The Charter Mage cleared his throat, and moved around the fire.

  “If you seek a man who knows a little of the Charter,” he said hesitantly, “I should wish to serve, for I have seen its work in you, lord, though I am loath to leave my fellow wanderers.”

  “Perhaps you will not have to,” replied Abhorsen, smiling at a sudden thought. “I wonder if your leader will object to two new members joining her band. For my work means I must travel, and there is no part of the Kingdom that has not felt the imprint of my feet.”

  “Your work?” asked the man, shivering a little, though it was no longer cold.

  “Yes,” said Abhorsen. “I am a necromancer, but not of the common kind. Where others of the art raise the dead, I lay them back to rest. And those that will not rest, I bind—or try to. I am Abhorsen . . .”

  He looked at the baby again, and added, almost with a note of surprise, “Father of Sabriel.”

  chapter i

  The rabbit had been run over minutes before. Its pink eyes were glazed and blood stained its clean white fur. Unnaturally clean fur, for it had just escaped from a bath. It still smelt faintly of lavender water.

  A tall, curiously pale young woman stood over the rabbit. Her night-black hair, fashionably bobbed, was hanging slightly over her face. She wore no makeup or jewelry, save for an enamelled school badge pinned to her regulation navy blazer. That, coupled with her long skirt, stockings and sensible shoes, identified her as a schoolgirl. A nameplate under the badge read “Sabriel” and the Roman “VI” and gilt crown proclaimed her to be both a member of the Sixth Form and a prefect.

  The rabbit was, unquestionably, dead. Sabriel looked up from it and back along the bricked drive that left the road and curved up to an imposing pair of wrought-iron gates. A sign above the gate, in gilt letters of mock Gothic, announced that they were the gates to Wyverley College. Smaller letters added that the school was “Established in 1652 for Young Ladies of Quality.”

  A small figure was busy climbing over the gate, nimbly avoiding the spikes that were supposed to stop such activities. She dropped the last few feet and started running, her pigtails flying, shoes clacking on the bricks. Her head was down to gain momentum, but as cruising speed was established, she looked up, saw Sabriel and the dead rabbit, and screamed.

  “Bunny!”

  Sabriel flinched as the girl screamed, hesitated for a moment, then bent down by the rabbit’s side and reached out with one pale hand to touch it between its long ears. Her eyes closed and her face set as if she had suddenly turned to stone. A faint whistling sound came from her slightly parted lips, like the wind heard from far away. Frost formed on her fingertips and rimed the asphalt beneath her feet and knees.

  The other girl, running, saw her suddenly tip forward over the rabbit, and topple towards the road, but at the last minute her hand came out and she caught herself. A second later, she had regained her balance and was using both hands to restrain the rabbit—a rabbit now inexplicably lively again, its eyes bright and shiny, as eager to be off as when it escaped from its bath.

  “Bunny!” shrieked the younger girl again, as Sabriel stood up, holding the rabbit by the scruff of its neck. “Oh, thank you, Sabriel! When I heard the car skidding I thought . . .”

  She faltered as Sabriel handed the rabbit over and blood stained her expectant hands.

  “He’ll be fine, Jacinth,” Sabrie
l replied wearily. “A scratch. It’s already closed up.”

  Jacinth examined Bunny carefully, then looked up at Sabriel, the beginnings of a wriggling fear showing at the back of her eyes.

  “There isn’t anything under the blood,” stammered Jacinth. “What did you . . .”

  “I didn’t,” snapped Sabriel. “But perhaps you can tell me what you are doing out of bounds?”

  “Chasing Bunny,” replied Jacinth, her eyes clearing as life reverted to a more normal situation. “You see . . .”

  “No excuses,” recited Sabriel. “Remember what Mrs. Umbrade said at Assembly on Monday.”

  “It’s not an excuse,” insisted Jacinth. “It’s a reason.”

  “You can explain it to Mrs. Umbrade then.”

  “Oh, Sabriel! You wouldn’t! You know I was only chasing Bunny. I’d never have come out—”

  Sabriel held up her hands in mock defeat, and gestured back to the gates.

  “If you’re back inside within three minutes, I won’t have seen you. And open the gate this time. They won’t be locked till I go back inside.”

  Jacinth smiled, her whole face beaming, whirled around and sped back up the drive, Bunny clutched against her neck. Sabriel watched till she had gone through the gate, then let the tremors take her till she was bent over, shaking with cold. A moment of weakness and she had broken the promise she had made both to herself and her father. It was only a rabbit and Jacinth did love it so much—but what would that lead to? It was no great step from bringing back a rabbit to bringing back a person.

  Worse, it had been so easy. She had caught the spirit right at the wellspring of the river, and had returned it with barely a gesture of power, patching the body with simple Charter symbols as they stepped from death to life. She hadn’t even needed bells, or the other apparatus of a necromancer. Only a whistle and her will.

  Death and what came after death was no great mystery to Sabriel. She just wished it was.

  It was Sabriel’s last term at Wyverley—the last three weeks, in fact. She had graduated already, coming first in English, equal first in Music, third in Mathematics, seventh in Science, second in Fighting Arts and fourth in Etiquette. She had also been a runaway first in Magic, but that wasn’t printed on the certificate. Magic only worked in those regions of Ancelstierre close to the Wall which marked the border with the Old Kingdom. Farther away, it was considered to be quite beyond the pale, if it existed at all, and persons of repute did not mention it. Wyverley College was only forty miles from the Wall, had a good all-round reputation, and taught Magic to those students who could obtain special permission from their parents.