It was little more than three miles from the Wall, into the Old Empire of Warhorse, but that was enough. Noon day sunshine could be seen from coming over the Wall, from Equestria, as its light spilled into the murky, rain-washed lands of the Empire. In the Empire itself however, there was a clouded sunset and the light drizzle that had started some hour before, was building to a steady downpour. A group of travellers was attempting to set up camp quickly in a forest clearing, close enough to see the light from Equestria, but far away enough that they could not be spared the rain water upon their skin, as the rain came down faster than the tents could be raised.
One one side of the clearing, the midwife shrugged up cloak higher up, attempting to shield her neck from the icy chill a well placed droplet of water could bring. As she did so, she bent over the woman once more, closer to the pale face beneath her, a small drop of water sliding from the end of the midwife's muzzle, striking the other woman perfectly between the eyes, yet she did not stir. The midwife's warm breath spilled out in front of her in a white cloud of mist, but there was no answering breath of fog from she who had become her patient.
The midwife sighed and slowly straightened up. This single motion told the watchers everything that they needed to know. The young woman that had staggered into their forest camp-site a scant few minutes after they had began to raise their tents, was dead. This was not surprising, considering the injuries she had sustained; deep open wounds that almost gushed with blood over the woman's back. She had not been long for life even as she had beseeched the travellers for help, only clinging on to pass what little life she had, onto the baby that lay by her side. But even as the midwife knelt down to pick up the pathetically small bundle beside the dead pony, the tiny child shuddered within its wrappings, and was still, the final breath of life fading into the cold air.
“The child too?” asked one of the watcher's, a man who bore the mark of the Charter upon his forehead, freshly drawn in wood-ash, collected from the fire at the heart of their camp. “Then there shall be no need for a baptism.”
His face was mixed with casual mourning, mixed with a sense of fear as he said this. He hand no idea who the woman had been, only that she too had been some form of charter mage, given the mark upon her brow, but he knew that no mortal creature or weapon could deliver the wounds that had ultimately led to the woman's death. Only the dead or some free magic construct could rend flesh like that, or perhaps a combination of both.
His hand nervously went up to his forehead, to brush the mark and ash from his brow. He let out a small yelp as he was stopped by a pale, white hand, that came from the shadows of the trees. The hand gripped his and forced it back down to his side in a single swift motion; testimony to the strength its owner must have.
“Peace,” came a calm, scratchy voice. “I mean you no harm.”
The white hand released its grip, and its previous captive took a hurried step back, turning around as the speaker stepped into the ring of firelight. The travellers watched him as he appeared without greeting and the hands that formed half-sketched Charter marks, or had gone to bowstrings of sword hilts, did not relax.
The man was dressed in a dark travelling cloak, much heavier than the ones worn by the campers around the fire, its hood casting the face of its owner into deeper shadow. Even the dancing light of the fire failed to penetrate the shadows that were there. He carefully picked his way through the camp and knelt by the body of the mother, the midwife standing over her deceased patient's with mild curiosity, rather than fear or hostility. The man bowed his head in what could only be described as mourning, before he stood to his feet and turned to the traveller's pushing back his hood to reveal the face of someone who had taken many a path that strayed from the light of day for his face was deathly white. His hair was a strange electric blue, and came down past his shoulders.
“I am called Abhorsen,” he announced, and his words sent ripples about the travellers. It was as if someone had cast a large stone into a pool of stagnant water. He looked at the baby in the midwife's arms. “And there shall be a baptism tonight.”
The Charter Mage looked at the bundle in the midwife's arms too and spoke: “The child is dead Abhorsen. We are travellers, our life lived under sun and moon, and it is often harsh. We know death lord.”
“Not as I know it,” Abhorsen replied, “And I say the child is not yet dead.” Abhorsen smiled, the corners of his paper white skin crinkling away from his equally white teeth, his words ringing of truth and of power, sending another ripple around the camp-site.
The Charter Mage tried to meet Abhorsen's gaze, but he found himself lost in those pools of bright blue eyes that seemed to radiate power. He shivered, and he dropped the gaze of the other mage, instead turning to look to his fellows. None of them said anything. None moved, or made any side, 'til a woman said: “So... It is easily done. Sign the child Arrenil. We will set out to make a new camp at Leovi's ford. Join us when you have finished here.”
The Charter Mage inclined his head in assent and the other travellers drifted away once more. They were slow with the reluctance of having to move once more. Leovi's ford was just about another two miles walk from their current location, and the rain would no doubt only grow stronger in that time. However they were speeded forward by the greater reluctance of having to remain near to Abhorsen, for his name was one of secrets and unspoken fears.
When the midwife moved to lay the still child down and leave with the rest of her band however, Abhorsen raised his hand in protest and spoke: "Wait. You shall be needed, I feel."
The midwife looked down at the babe in her arms and saw that it was a girl child and, save for its stillness, it could have been mistaken for being merely asleep. The midwife had heard of Abhorsen, heard far much more than the other members of her little band of travellers, and if Abhorsen was right... 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-" he began, but Abhorsen raised a pallid hand in interruption.
"Let us see what the Charter wills."
The man looked to the child again and sighed. Then he reached into the pouch at his side and pulled a small bottle from within. He held it aloft, crying out a chant that was the beginning of a Charter; one that told of all things. Of that which had grown or lived, withered or died and of things that had once lived and things that, perhaps, might live again. And the chant spoke too of the many bonds that held these many things together, in the great expanse that was the Charter. As he spoke, a strange light came to the bottle, the liquids inside sloshing more nosily at the insides, and the light pulsed in rhythm with the chant. Then the chanter fell silent. He knelt down to touch the bottle to the ground, straightened up, touched the bottle to the Charter Mark on his forehead, and upended it over the baby.
A great flash followed, a burst of light that illuminated the surrounding woods like a bolt of golden lightning. The liquid from the bottle glowed brightly, Charter Marks flowing through it, pulsing with power. The glowing liquid splashed over the child's head and the priest cried: "In the name of the Charter that binds us all, we name thee-!"
At this point in the baptism the parents would usually speak the name of the child. Here, only Abhorsen spoke. And Abhorsen said: "Twilight."
As he said the word, the wood ash disappeared from the priest's forehead. Gradudally, the mark of the Charter began to return, but it was upon the brow of the dead child it did form. The Charter, had accepted the baptism.
"But, but she is dead!" the priest protested, spluttering, reaching a hand up to his forehead to make sure the mark was truly gone.
He received no answer from the midwife, nor did he receive one from Abhorsen, for the midwife was staring across the fire at he, and Abhorsen was staring at... nothing. His eyes reflected the dancing flames, but they did not see them. The flames made his gaze look even more terrible than before.
Slowly, a chill mist began to rise and coil from Abhorsen's still form. It spread out, wafting over to the priest and midwife, who scuttled over to the other side of the fire, wanting to get away, but now too afraid to run, as Ice began to form around Abhorsen's feet.
He could hear the child crying, which was good, for it meant she had not crossed to the other side first gateway. If she had gone beyond, he would not have been able to bring her back without more stringent preparations, and a subsequent dilution of her spirit.
As he took his first step, the river of Death sloshed around him, as he waded through its cool depths. It was unusually cold this time and the current was also strangely stronger than he was familiar with, but he did not let it bother him. The river was an unpredictable and unusual place and he knew this particular branch of the river well, as he waded past the shallow pools and tiny eddies that threatened to pull him under. Already he could feel the waters leeching his spirit, but his will was strong and so the river took the colour and not the substance.
He paused to listen and he heard the crying diminish. He hastened forwards, worry etched into his face. Perhaps she was already at the gateway and about to cross over to the Second Precinct.
The First Gate took the form of a veil of mist that clung to the river's surface with a single dark opening, where the water poured into the silence beyond. Abhorsen rushed towards it, the water sloshing around him as his waist as he neared. Suddenly he came to a halt, his eyes narrowing. The baby had not yet passed through the portal, but only because something had scooped her from the water and was holding her. Standing there, a shape that loomed from the water, darker than the shadows of the gateway.
It was taller than Abhorsen by several feet, and was slender. Pale marsh-lights burned where one would expect to see eyes, and the rotted stench of carrion rolled of it - a warm stench that relieved the chill of the water. Its shadowy body was made of a strange, rotted and horrific substance. One long arm trailed in the water behind it, but the other was holding the child.
Abhorsen advanced on the thing slowly, his eyes fixed on the baby that creature held loosely in the crook of its shadowed arm. The baby was asleep, but restless, and it squirmed in the grasp of the creature, trying to wriggle closer to the thing, seeking the comfort of a mother's breast. There was an air of amusement about the creature as it held the baby away from itself, as if the child were hot or caustic.
Slowly, Abhorsen shrugged off his cloak, allowing it to fall into the water and downstream. Across his, there could now be seen a leather bandoleer about the breadth of Abhorsen's hand. Seven leather pouches of increasing sizes were on the bandoleer; the smallest about the size of a pillbox, the largest the size of a jar. From each of the bottom of the pouches came mahogany handles, Charter Marks carved into the wood. Abhorsen slowly drew one of these handles from its pouch, revealing a small silver hand bell. He cocked his wrist to ring it, but the shadow-thing held the baby aloft and spoke in a dry, slithery voice, like snake-skin on gravel.
"Spirit of your spirit Abhorsen. You cannot spell me while I hold her, and perhaps I shall take her beyond the First Gate, as her mother has already gone?"
Abhorsen frowned in recognition, and slowly replaced the bell, careful to ensure it would not sound out of time. "You have a new shape Kerigora. And you are not this side of the First Gate. Who was foolish enough to free you, and assist you so far towards Life?"
Kerigora smiled wildly, her mouth splitting obscenely, stretching from one side of her face to the other. Abhorsen saw the bronze fires that glowed at the back of her throat, the tongue made of charcoal and bog-clay and the pointed fangs that glinted in the light.
"One of the usual calling," she croaked. "But unskilled. Unfortunately for him, he did not realise it would be in the nature of an exchange." Kerigora gave a harsh laugh here at the misfortune of the one who had aided her. "Alas, his life was not sufficient for me to pass through the final portal. But now, you have come to take me through the rest of the way."
"Me, help you? Me, who chained you beyond the Seventh Gate?"
"Yes," Kerigora whispered. "The irony I feel, does not escape you. But, if you want the child..."
He made as if to throw the baby into the stream and, with that sudden jerk, woke her. Immediately she began to cry and her tiny fists reached out to grab and gather up the shadow-stuff of Kerigora, like the folds of a robe. She cried out and tried to detach her, but the tiny hands held tightly and she was forced to overuse her strength, throwing the baby from her. She landed in the water at the feet of Abhorsen squalling, and was caught up in the flow but Abhorsen lunged forwards, catching the child from the river and Kerigora's grasp. Kerigora cried out and lashed one long arm out to catch Ahorsen by the throat.
Abhorsen however stepped quickly backwards, holding the child to his chest and drawing the hand bell once again and ringing it once in a single, practised motion so that it rang out twice. The sound was curiously muffled but rung true and the clear chime hung in the air, sharp and cutting. Kerigora flinched at the sound as if she had been struck and fell backwards towards the gate. She moved stiffly, her legs jerking as the bell's chime forced her feet to shuffle towards the darkness of the portal.
"Some fool, will bring me back!" she shrieked, the river taking her under it's surface, one long arm reaching out as if to strangle Abhorsen. "And when I reach Life Abhorsen, I shall..." She didn't finish as her head was submerged under the water, the chilled water steaming as it seeped into her hollow eyes. The waters surged and gurgled, before the resumed their usual flow.
Abhorsen stared at the gate for a while, waiting patiently but tense, the bell held ready should Kerigora return. When she did not he sighed and replaced the bell, careful to make sure it did not ring again. He looked at the baby in his arms. The baby stared back at him, her dark eyes matching his own. Already the colour had been drained from her skin. Nervously Abhorsen laid a hand on the brand on her forehead and felt the glow of her spirit from within. The Charter Mark had kept her life contained where the river should have drained it. It was her life spirit that had so burned Kerigora.
The baby girl smiled at him and gurgled slightly and Abhorsen felt a smile tilting the corners of his own mouth upwards in a small grin. Still smiling, he turned around and began wading back upstream, taking the long journey to the gate that would take them both back to their living flesh.
The baby wailed a scant second before Abhorsen opened his eyes, so that the midwife was already hakfway around the dying fire, ready to pick her up. Frost crackled on the ground and small icicles hung from Abhorsen's nose. He wiped them off with his sleeve and hung over the child, like any anxious father does after a birth.
"How is the babe?" he asked and the midwife stared at him wonderingly. The dead child before them 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 few words. The dying flames leapt up once again as the roared into life. The frost that had formed where Abhorsen had been standing melted almost instantly and the rain sizzled as it evaporated upon contact.
"That will do until morning I think," said Abhorsen. "Then I shall take her to my house. I shall have need of a nurse. Will you join me?"
The midwife hesitated and looked to the Charter Mage, who still lingered on the far side of the fire, looking with a mix of fear and curiosity at Abhorsen. She looked down at once more at the little girl bawling in her arms. Then she looked back at Abhorsen. At some point in his trance his cloak had turned to shards of ice and fallen to the ground, revealing the bandoleer of bells across his chest.
"You are... you are..." she whispered.
"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. Twilight is our child. Can you not see the kinship?"
He reached forwards and took Twilight from her. He cradled the baby against his chest and made soothing noises, rocking her gently. In a few moments the crying child was silent, and was still as she fell asleep.
"Yes," the midwife said, in response to both of Abhorsen's questions. "I shall come with you and shall look after Twilight. But you shall need a wet nurse..."
"And I dare-say much else besides," mused Abhorsen. "But my house is not a place for-"
The Charter Mage cleared his throat and moved around the fire towards Abhorsen.
"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 loathe to leave my fellow travellers."
"Perhaps you shall not have to," replied Abhorsen, smiling as a sudden thought came to him. "I wonder if your leader will object to two new members joining your bad? For my work requires me to travel, and there is no part of the Empire that has not felt the imprint of my feet."
"Your work?" the Charter Mage gasped, shivering a little though it was no longer cold.
"Yes," Abhorsen confirmed. "I am a necromancer, but not of the common kind. Where others of the art raise the dead, I put them to rest. And those who will not rest, I bind. Or at least try to." He face was filled with a dark scowl as he remembered the creature he had just encountered in death. "I am Abhorsen..." He looked down at the child in his arm and added, almost in surprise, "Father, of Sabriel."