tive  of an Ancelstierran autumn. S toucone falter at umble, aring blindly upo the sun.

    “You botone  someto eat, or  some sleep first?”

    “Someto eat, certainly,” Sabriel replied, trying to give eful smile. “But not sleep. time for t. tell me—wwo days ago?”

    ser.

    S time . . .

    “It’s tonight,” he said.

    “But I’ve been in t least sixteen days . . .”

    “time is strange bethe kingdoms,”

    rols s for ter eiger . . .”

    “t voice, coming from the pole,”

    toucone interrupted, as t to a narroion trencer Magic in the voice . . .”

    “Ao ’s ricity runs t, Mr.

    toucone. Science, not magic.”

    “It  be onigly. “No technology will be.”

    “Yes, it is ratrong voice. More softly,  say anytill  to my dugout. t tonighe full moon . . .”

    “Of course,” replied Sabriel, wearily. “I’m sorry.”

    t of tion trencing trenc tand-to positions. tions stopped as t resumed as soon as turned t zig or zag and  of sight.

    At last, teps into Colonel . ts stood guard outside—time, Cer Mages from t Scouts, not try. Anoto to fetc-burner, and made tea.

    Sabriel drank it  feeling much relief.

    Ancelstierre, and ter of its society—tea—no longer seemed as solid and dependable as s.

    “Noo sleep.”

    “My faterday,” Sabriel said, stony-faced. “tes onight.

    At moonrise. the moon.”

    “I’m sorry to  your fatated, t as you are  you bind the Dead anew?”

    “If t inued.

    “But to come. he name