chapter xxi

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    “The diamond ..is plete,” said Touchstone. “We won’t be able to move him.”

    “Yes. I know,” replied Sabriel. The relief that had soared<var>.９９lib?</var> inside her at the sight of her father was ebbing, giving way to the siess caused by the broken stones. “I think . . . I think I’ll have to go into Death from here, ach his spirit back.”

    “What!” exclaimed Touchstohen, quieter, as the ech, “Here?”

    “If we cast our own diamond of prote . . .”

    Sabriel tihinking aloud. “A large one, around both of us and Father’s diamond—that will keep most da bay.”

    “Most danger,” Touchstone said grimly, looking around, trying to peer past the tight fines of their dle’s little globe of light.

    “It will also trap us here—even if we  cast it, so close to the broken stones. I know that I couldn’t do it alo this point.”

    “We should be able to bine our strengths.

    Then, if you and Mogget keep watch while I am ih, we should manage.”

    “What do you think, Mogget?” asked Touchstourning his head, so his cheek brushed against the little animal on his shoulder.

    “I have my own troubles,” grumbled Mogget.

    “And I think this is probably a trap. But since we’re here, and the—Abhorseus, shall we say, does seem to be alive, I suppose there’s nothing else to be done.”

    “I don’t like it,” whispered Touchstone.

    Just standing this close to the broken stoook most of his strength. For Sabriel to enter Death seemed madness, tempting fate. Who knew what might be lurking ih, close by the easy portal made by the broken stones? For that matter, who knew what was lurking in or around the reservoir? Sabriel didn’t answer. She moved closer to her father’s diamond of prote, studying the cardinal marks uhe water. Touchstone  followed relutly, f his legs to move in short steps, minimizing the splash and ripple of his wake.

    Sabriel snuffed out her dle, thrust it through her belt, then held out her open palm.

    “Put your sword away and give me your hand,” she said, in a tohat did not invite versatiument. Touchstoated— his left hand held only a dle, and he didn’t want both his swords scabbarded—then he plied. Her hand was cold, colder thaer. Instinctively, he gripped a little tighter, to give her some of his warmth.

    “Mogget—keep watch,” Sabriel instructed.

    She closed her eyes, and began to visualize the East mark, the first of the four cardinal wards.

    Touchstoook a quick look around, then closed his eyes too, drawn in by the force of Sabriel’s juration.

    Pain shot through his hand and arm, as he added his will to Sabriel’s. The mark seemed blurry in his head, and impossible to focus. The pins and needles that had already plagued his feet spread up above his knees, shooting them through with rheumatic pains. But he blocked off the pain, narrowing his sciouso just ohing: the creation of a diamond of prote.

    Finally, the East mark flowed down Sabriel’s blade and took root in the reservoir floor.

    Without opening their eyes, the duo shuffled around to face the south, and the  mark.

    This was harder still, and both of them were sweating and shaking when it finally began its glowience. Sabriel’s hand was hot and feverish now, and Touchstone’s flesh ricocheted violently betweei and shivering cold. A terrible wave of nausea hit him, and he would have been sick, but Sabriel gripped his hand, like a fal its prey, a him strength. He gagged, dry-retched ohen recovered.

    The West mark was simply a trial of endurance.

    Sabriel lost tration for a moment, so Touchstone had to hold the mark alone for a few seds, the effort making him feel drunk in the most unpleasant way, the world spinning inside his head, totally out of trol. Then Sabriel forced herself bad the West mark flowered uhe water.

    Desperation gave them the North mark. They struggled with it for what seemed like hours, but was only seds, till it almost squ<var>..</var>irmed  from them uncast. But at that moment, Sabriel spent all the force of her desire to free her father, and Touchstone pushed with the weight of two hundred years of guilt and sorrow.

    The North mark rolled brightly down the sword and grew to brilliance, brilliance dulled by the water. Lines of Charter-fire ran from it to the East mark, from East mark to South mark to West mark and back again. The diamond was plete.

    Immediately, they felt a lessening of the terrible presence of the broken stohe high-pitched pain in Sabriel’s head dimmed; normal feeliuro Touchstone’s legs a. Mogget stirred and stretched, the first signifit movement he’d made siaking up position around Touchstone’s neck.

    “A good casting,” Sabriel said quietly, looking at the marks through eyes half-lidded in weariness.

    “Better than the last one I cast.”

    “I don’t knoe did it,” muttered Touchstoaring down at the lines of Charterfire.

    He suddenly became aware that he was still holding Sabriel’s hand, and slumping like an aged wood collector under a heavy burderaightened up suddenly, dropping her hand as  if it were the fanged end of a snake.

    She looked at him, rather startled, and he found himself staring at the refle of his dle-flame in her dark eyes. Almost for the first time, he really looked at her. He saw the wearihere, and the incipient lines of care, and the way her mouth looked a little sad around the edges. Her nose was still swollen, and there were yellowing bruises on her cheekbones.

    She was also beautiful and Touchstone realized that he had thought of her only in terms of her office, as Abhorsen. Not as a woman at all . . .

    “I’d better be going,” said Sabriel, suddenly embarrassed by Touchstone’s stare. Her left hao the bell-bandolier, fingers feeling for the straps that held Sarah.

    “Let me help,” said Touchstone. He stood close, fumbling with the stiff leather, hands weakened by the effort spent on the diamond of prote, his head bowed over the bells.

    Sabriel looked down on his hair, and was straempted to kiss the exact ter, a tiny part marking the epiter where his tight brown curls radiated outwards. But she didn’t.

    The strap came undone, and Touchstoepped back. Sabriel drew Sarah, carefully stilling the bell.

    “It probably won’t be a long wait for you,” she said. “Time moves strangely ih. If . . . if I’m not ba two hours, then I probably . . . I’ll probably be trapped too, so you and Mogget should leave . . .”

    “I’ll be waiting,” replied Touchstone firmly.

    “Who knows what time it is down here anyway?”

    “And I’ll wait, it seems,” added Mogget.

    “Unless I want to swim out of here. Which I don’t. May the Charter be with you, Sabriel.”

    “And with you,” said Sabriel. She looked around the dark expanse of the reservoir. She still couldn’t sense any of the Dead out there— a . . .

    “We’ll  to be with us,” Mogget replied sourly. “One way or another.”

    “I hope not,” whispered Sabriel. She checked the pouch at her belt for the small things she’d p<mark>藏书网</mark>repared back at the Sign of Three Lemons, then turo face the North mark and started to raise her sword, beginning her preparations to enter Death.

    Suddenly, Touchstone sloshed forward and quickly kissed her on the cheek—a clumsy,  dry-lipped peck that almost hit the rim of her helmet rather than her cheek.

    “For luck,” Touchstone said nervously.

    “Sabriel.”

    She smiled, and wice, then looked back to the north. Her eyes focused on something not there and waves of cold air billowed from her motionless form. A sed later, ice crystals began to crack out of her hair, and frost ran in lines down the sword and bell.

    Touchstoched, close by, till it grew too cold, thereated to the far southerice of the diamond. Drawing one sword, he turned outwards, holding his dle high, and started to wade around ihe lines of Charter-fire as if he were patrolling the battlements of a castle.

    Mogget watched too, from his shoulder, his green eyes lit with their own internal luminesce.

    Both of them often turo gaze at Sabriel.

    The crossing into Death was made easy—far too easy—by the presence of the broken stones.

    Sabriel felt them near her, like two yawning gates, proclaiming easy entry to Life for any   Dead nearby. Fortunately, the other effect of the stohe siing illness—disappeared ih. There was only the chill and tug of the river.

    Sabriel started forward immediately, carefully sing the grey expanse before her. Things moved at the edge of her vision; she heard movement in the cold waters. But nothing came towards her, nothing attacked, save the stant twining and gripping of the current.

    She came to the First Gate, halting just beyond the wall of mist that stretched out as far as she could see to either side. The river roared beyond that mist, turbulent rapids going through to the Sed Prect, and on to the Sed Gate.

    Remembering pages from The Book of the Dead, Sabriel spoke words of power. Free Magic, that shook her mouth as she spoke, jarrieeth, burnioh raw power.

    The veil of mist parted, revealing a series of waterfalls that appeared to drop into an unending blaess. Sabriel spoke some more words, aured to the right a with her sword.

    A path appeared, parting the waterfall like a finger drawn through butter. Sabriel stepped out onto it, and walked down, the waters crashing harmlessly oher side. Behihe mist closed up and, as her rearmost heel lifted to make her  step, the path disappeared.

    The Sed Prect was more dangerous than the First. There were deep holes, as well as the ever-present current. The light was worse too.

    Not the total darkness promised at the end of the waterfalls, but there was a different quality in its greyness. A blurring effect, that made it difficult to see further than you could touch.

    Sabriel tinued carefully, using her sword to probe the ground ahead. There was an easy way through, she knew, a course mapped and plotted by many neancers and not a few Abhorsens, but she didn’t trust her memory to tread fidently ahead at speed.

    Always, her senses quested for her father’s spirit. He was somewhere ih, she ositive of that. There was always the fairace of him, a lingering memory. But it was not this close to Life. She would have to go on.

    The Sed Gate was essentially an enormous hole, at least two hundred yards across, into which the river sank like sinkwater down a drain. Unlike a normal drain, it was eerily silent, and with the difficult light, easy for the unwary  to walk up to its rim. Sabriel was alarticularly careful with this Gate—she had learo sehe feel of its tug against her shins at an early age. She stopped well back wheug came, and tried to focus on the silently raging whirlpool.

    A faint squelg sound behind her made her turn, sword scything around at full arm-stretch, a great circle of Charter-spelled steel. It struck Dead spirit-flesh, sparks flying, a scream e and pain filling the silence. Sabriel almost jumped back, at that scream, but she held her ground. The Sed Gate was too close.

    The thing she’d hit stepped back, its head hanging from a mostly severed neck. It was humanoid in shape, at least to begin with, but had arms that trailed down below its knees, into the river. Its head, now flopping on one shoulder, was lohan it was wide or tall, possessed a mouth with several rows of teeth. It had flaming coals in its eyepits, a characteristic of the deep Dead, from beyond the Fifth Gate.

    It snarled and brought its long, skewer-thin fingers up out of the water to try and straighten its head, attempting to rest it back atop the ly hewn neck.

    Sabriel struck again, and the head and one hand flew off, splashing into the river. They bobbed on the surface for a moment, the head howling, eyes flaming with hate across the water. Then it was sucked down, down into the hurly-burly of the Sed Gate.

    The headless body stood where it was for a sed, then started to cautiously step sideways, its remaining hand groping around in front of it.

    Sabriel watched it cautiously, debating whether to use Sarao bind it to her will, and then Kibeth to send it on its way to final death. But using the bells would alert everything Dead between here and the First and Third Gates at least—and she didn’t want that.

    The headless thing took aep, and fell sideways into a deep hole. It scrabbled there, long arms thrashing the water, but couldn’t pull itself up and out. It only succeeded iing across into the full force of the current, whiatched it up and threw it into the whirlpool of the Gate.

    Once again, Sabriel recited words of Free Magic power, words impressed into her mind long ago from The Book of the Dead. The words flowed out of her, blistering her lips, strange heat in this place of leeg cold.

    With the words, the waters of the Sed Gate slowed and stilled. The whirling vortex separated out into a long spiral path, winding downwards.

    Sabriel, cheg for a few last holes he edge, gingerly strode out to this path and started down. Behind and above her, the waters began to swirl again.

    The spiral path looked long, but to Sabriel it seemed only a matter of minutes before she assing through the very base of the whirlpool, and out into the Third Prect.

    This was a trie place. The water was shallow here, only ankle-deep, and somewhat warmer. The light was better too—still grey, but you could see farther out. Even the ubiquitous current was no more than a bit of a tickle around the feet.

    But the Third Prect had waves. For the first time, Sabriel broke into a run, sprinting as fast as she could towards the Third Gate, just visible in the dista was like the First Gate—a waterfall cealed in a wall of mist.

    Behind her, Sabriel heard the thunderous crashing that annouhe wave, which had been held back by the same spell that gave her passage through the whirlpool. With the wave  came shrill cries, shrieks and screams. There were clearly many Dead around, but Sabriel didn’tbbr>?</abbr> spare them a thought. Nothing and no one could withstand the waves of the Third Prect. You simply ran as fast as possible, hoping to reach the  gate—whichever way you were going.

    The thunder and crashing grew louder, and one by ohe various screams and shouts were submerged in the greater sound. Sabriel didn’t look, but only ran faster. Looking over her shoulder would lose a fra of a sed, and that might be enough for the wave to reach her, pick her up and hurl her through the Third Gate, stunned flotsam for the current beyond . . .

    Touchstoared out past the southerice, listening. He had heard something, he was sure, something besides the stant dripping.

    Something louder, something slow, attempting to be surreptitious. He knew Mogget had heard it too, from the sudden tensing of cat paws on his shoulder.

    “ you see anything?” he whispered, peering out into the darkness. The clouds were still  blog the light from the sun-shafts, though he thought the intervals of sunlight were growing longer. But, in any case, they were too far away from the edge to be from a suddeurn of sun.

    “Yes,” whispered Mogget. “The Dead. Many of them, filing out of the main southern stair.

    They’re lining up each side of the door, along the reservoir walls.”

    Touchstone looked at Sabriel, now covered in frost, like a wintering statue. He felt like shaking her shoulder, screaming for help . . .

    “What kind of Dead are they?” he asked. He didn’t know much about the Dead, except that Shadow Hands were the worst of the normal variety, and Mordits, like the ohat had followed Sabriel, were the worst of them all.

    Except for what Rogir had bee. Kerrigor, the Dead Adept . . .

    “Hands,” muttered Mogget. “All Hands, and pretty putrest ooo. They’re falling apart just walking.”

    Touchstoared again, trying by sheer force of will to see—but there was nothing, save darkness. He could hear them, though, wading, squelg through the still water. Too still for  his liking—suddenly he wondered if the reservoir had a drainhole and a plug. Then he dismissed it as a foolish notion. Any such plug or drain cover would have long since rusted shut.

    “What are they doing?” he whispered anxiously, fingering his sword, tilting the blade this way and that. His left hand seemed to hold the dle steady, but the little flame flickered, clear evidence of the tiny shakes that ran down his arm.

    “Just lining up along the walls, in ranks,”

    Mogget whispered back. “Strange—almost like an huard . . .”

    “Charter preserve us,” Touchstone croaked, with a weight in his throat of absolute dread and terrible foreboding. “Rogir . . . Kerrigor.

    He must be here . . . and he’s ing . . .”

百度搜索 Sabriel (The Abhorsen Trilogy) 天涯 或 Sabriel (The Abhorsen Trilogy) 天涯在线书库 即可找到本书最新章节.