the word that would call a master mark from the Charter. It came out, slowly turning like a brilliant wheel, with the other marks following in a long spiral. Lirael moved the master mark with her golden hand and the direction of her mind, setting it against Nickâs chest. The spiral tightened to become something like a golden, shining tornado and very slowly began to spin its way into the young manâs body, the golden light of its passage spreading down through his torso and out along his limbs.
Lirael wiped her forehead and rather shakily got to her feet, still watching the miniature spiral of gold and silver Charter marks patiently wind its way into Nickâs chest. She was weary now, the effort of casting such a spell taxing her strength. But there was still the Hrule to deal with, and for that she needed both a spear-shaft and a thistle. The spear-shaft she could get from the guards back at the gateway, and she had seen a patch of thistles by the Wall nearby.
It would take her only a few minutes to get both. Lirael hurried back toward the gate, not noticing that behind her the Hruleâs black, violet-pupiled eyes had flickered open, and the muscles around its hideously wide mouth were beginning to twitch.
Chapter Five
THE VARIOUS USES OF SPIRIT-GLASS ARROWS
On the Greenwash River
T he current took Ferinâs raft quickly out from the shore, which was just as well, as a nomad appeared there only minutes later and fired several arrows after her. With the benefit of good moonlight to aim by, these came perilously close but did not hit. Ferin was pleased to see that the woman then tried to wade out to get a closer shot, but was tumbled over by the river and only just made it back ashore, without her bow.
In less happy news, the exertion of launching the raft made the wound on her leg bleed again, soaking through the bandage. As she carefully rewound it, trying not to tip the raft, Ferin noticed her makeshift transportation was already sinking lower in the water as the reeds grew sodden. It wasnât going to sink, but it certainly wasnât going to be buoyant enough to keep her entirely dry.
The water was very cold. Ferin shivered, grimaced, and locked her jaw tight to stop her teeth chattering. Slowly drawing herself up, she tried to move to a sitting position atop her pack. But the river was too rough, and the raft too unstable. She had to lie down over her pack, and try to use her makeshift paddle as a steering oar rather than as a means of propulsion. The current was too strong for her to make any headway paddling.
After twenty or thirty minutes of striving with the paddle, Ferin knew that she couldnât steer the raft either. Even a proper wooden oar, rather than her splayed reed paddle, would be useless. The river was flowing too swiftly, and it would take her where it willed.
There was only a slim chance this would be to the southern shore.
Still, she kept up her efforts with the paddle. Not because it did anything to change the direction of the raft, but simply as a physical activity to try to keep from freezing to death.
The night grew colder as the sky continued to clear, the stars and moon growing brighter, while giving no warmth. Ferin paused in her paddling to draw her fur cloak around her more tightly, and to eat some dried goat meat and lumps of crystallized honey. The food would help somewhat, she knew, but she also knew she was too wet and too cold. She would be dead before dawn unless something happened.
And as nothing would happen unless she made it happen, Ferin considered her last, not very attractive chance of survival.
The one spirit-glass arrow remaining in her arrow case.
The chief shaman of her tribe had given her three, all the Athask people possessed, and told her how to use them. Generally they were simple weapons, to be fired at certain points of a Free Magic creatureâs anatomy, like the head, if it had one, or, if being shot at a shaman or witch, aimed at
Lirael wiped her forehead and rather shakily got to her feet, still watching the miniature spiral of gold and silver Charter marks patiently wind its way into Nickâs chest. She was weary now, the effort of casting such a spell taxing her strength. But there was still the Hrule to deal with, and for that she needed both a spear-shaft and a thistle. The spear-shaft she could get from the guards back at the gateway, and she had seen a patch of thistles by the Wall nearby.
It would take her only a few minutes to get both. Lirael hurried back toward the gate, not noticing that behind her the Hruleâs black, violet-pupiled eyes had flickered open, and the muscles around its hideously wide mouth were beginning to twitch.
Chapter Five
THE VARIOUS USES OF SPIRIT-GLASS ARROWS
On the Greenwash River
T he current took Ferinâs raft quickly out from the shore, which was just as well, as a nomad appeared there only minutes later and fired several arrows after her. With the benefit of good moonlight to aim by, these came perilously close but did not hit. Ferin was pleased to see that the woman then tried to wade out to get a closer shot, but was tumbled over by the river and only just made it back ashore, without her bow.
In less happy news, the exertion of launching the raft made the wound on her leg bleed again, soaking through the bandage. As she carefully rewound it, trying not to tip the raft, Ferin noticed her makeshift transportation was already sinking lower in the water as the reeds grew sodden. It wasnât going to sink, but it certainly wasnât going to be buoyant enough to keep her entirely dry.
The water was very cold. Ferin shivered, grimaced, and locked her jaw tight to stop her teeth chattering. Slowly drawing herself up, she tried to move to a sitting position atop her pack. But the river was too rough, and the raft too unstable. She had to lie down over her pack, and try to use her makeshift paddle as a steering oar rather than as a means of propulsion. The current was too strong for her to make any headway paddling.
After twenty or thirty minutes of striving with the paddle, Ferin knew that she couldnât steer the raft either. Even a proper wooden oar, rather than her splayed reed paddle, would be useless. The river was flowing too swiftly, and it would take her where it willed.
There was only a slim chance this would be to the southern shore.
Still, she kept up her efforts with the paddle. Not because it did anything to change the direction of the raft, but simply as a physical activity to try to keep from freezing to death.
The night grew colder as the sky continued to clear, the stars and moon growing brighter, while giving no warmth. Ferin paused in her paddling to draw her fur cloak around her more tightly, and to eat some dried goat meat and lumps of crystallized honey. The food would help somewhat, she knew, but she also knew she was too wet and too cold. She would be dead before dawn unless something happened.
And as nothing would happen unless she made it happen, Ferin considered her last, not very attractive chance of survival.
The one spirit-glass arrow remaining in her arrow case.
The chief shaman of her tribe had given her three, all the Athask people possessed, and told her how to use them. Generally they were simple weapons, to be fired at certain points of a Free Magic creatureâs anatomy, like the head, if it had one, or, if being shot at a shaman or witch, aimed at
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