A/N: Yes, I am back! I am quite overrun with school right now, but hopefully you'll enjoy this rather lengthy one-shot. Currently I am working on another multi-chapter Nix story, so keep an eye out for that one in the coming months. This particular story is about the Abhorsen who put Touchstone's spirit in Death and made him into the figurehead of a funerary ship, "a very powerful Charter Mage, and a master of the bells, but a little too good-hearted to deal with treachery."

Disclaimer: Ancelstierre isn't mine, and the Old Kingdom isn't mine; Garth Nix gets to make those claims!

Royal Requiem

At the knock, an aged Clayr looked up from her steaming cup of tea. "Enter."

Immediately the door opened and a young woman bustled into the room. She shifted a leather bag on her shoulder and held out her hand. "Shera? I'm First Assistant Librarian Ydele."

They shook hands, and the younger Clayr took a seat at the table. She busily opened up the bag and extracted a thick roll of parchment, a bottle of green ink, and a nib pen. Shera watched calmly and poured another cup of tea.

"I'm glad you agreed to meet with me in your private quarters," said the young librarian briskly. "As I mentioned in my note, I've been trying to make sense of the –"

"Cream? Sugar?"

Ydele blinked. "Oh – no, thank you. As I was saying, I'm trying to make sense of the historical annals surrounding the fall of the Royal Line. My research is focussed on some central questions. How could it have happened? What events led to such an unforeseen outcome? Thank you," she added hastily as Shera handed her the cup of tea. She blew on it and took a quick sip. "The records of the time are surprisingly scarce, and there are many discrepancies between reports."

Shera proffered a small silver dish. "Biscuit?"

"Um, all right." Ydele took one and placed it on her saucer. "Well as you can imagine, it's almost impossible to pinpoint the events that led to the death of the Queen and her daughters. Unsurprisingly, that is the perhaps the most-discussed question among historians today. But I do have a theory, and a rather controversial one at that." She glanced swiftly from side to side before leaning forward. When she spoke, her voice was hushed. "I think it had something to do with the Abhorsen."

The old Clayr, who had been about to take another sip of her tea, stopped abruptly and put down her cup. The librarian watched her closely.

Shera took a deep breath, endeavouring to remain composed. "Have you told anyone else?"

"Only Chief Librarian Perinele. She told me to talk to you." Ydele licked her lips. "You are the only one of the Clayr who was alive during that time and knew all of the parties involved."

The aged woman nodded her head. "Yes. I did." She sat back and interlaced her brown creased fingers. "So what exactly is your thesis, Ydele?"

The young librarian pounced on the chance to explain her pet theory. "I think that the Abhorsen of the time, Erucael, was the wrong sort of person to deal with the events that occurred. There are some strange reports about how he came into his heritage. It seems to me that the previous Abhorsen, Humatiel, put off naming a successor for far too long. Erucael appears to have been chosen because time was of the essence to an aging Abhorsen, but perhaps it wasn't a very wise choice."

Shera smiled sadly. "You are probably right about that."

An enthusiastic Ydele gave a triumphant smile. "Really? There has been surprisingly little information available about the Abhorsen Erucael, and to speak with somebody who actually met him –"

Shera held up a wrinkled hand for silence, then reached into her sleeve. There was a flash of Charter magic and she withdrew some handwritten documents. "I have the answer to your question right here," she said softly. The librarian watched with bright-eyed interest. "I did not See everything, nor was I present for all of it. But some of the participants recorded their memories." She held up the wrinkled pages. "These are not for the casual eye, Ydele. But Perinele informed me that you have made this particular historical event your chief work."

The young librarian was leaning forward in her seat, tea and biscuit forgotten. "I just want to know the truth."

The old Clayr smiled, remembering the passion that young people had. "The truth? Your theory has brought you perilously close." She carefully sorted through the documents and selected one sheet of parchment written in dark blue ink. "This is a letter addressed to the Abhorsen Humatiel from her cousin, asking her to visit. It is one of many, but apparently this is the only one whose invitation Humatiel accepted."

Ydele reached for the paper with eager fingers, but handled it as delicately as if it were made of crystal.

The woman wrapped her cloak more tightly around her body and trudged up the road to the village. The wind blew her grey hair over her face as she peered from side to side at the houses. Finally, she came upon a small cottage with a neat little vegetable garden and turned her steps up the path. She knocked firmly at the door with a gloved hand.

The door opened. A man glanced at her face and quickly stood aside. "Come in, Humatiel."

The woman crossed the threshold, stomping dirt from her boots and shaking out her cloak. She looked around at the cozy furnishings, the crammed bookshelves, and the crackling fire.

"May I take your cloak? Would you like some refreshment?"

Humatiel waved a calloused hand. "I won't be staying long." She sat down in the best chair by the side of the fire, and propped up her boots in front of the crackling flames.

The man sank into the chair opposite from her. "Well, Humatiel, it has been a long time."

"So it has," said the woman. "You're still the only one to call me by that name."

"Forgive me – Abhorsen." The man's mouth twisted into a humourless smile. "I suppose that after forty years in the position, you've earned the title."

"Don't tease me Tibrael," the woman warned. "You may be my cousin, but that doesn't give you the right to familiarity. I am here only to see the boy you mentioned in your letter."

"I am surprised that you came," the man, Tibrael, admitted. "All these years I've been insisting that you take on an apprentice, advising you not to leave it too late. I suppose you've finally looked past the rift in the family."

Humatiel snorted. "I have no grandchildren, and my children are not cut out for this work. I admit, I was reluctant to look into your branch of the family due to the enmity between our fathers. But I have run out of options, cousin."

"So it seems," Tibrael murmured. He twisted in his chair and called, "Erucael!"

The man and woman faced each other across the fire, and waited. There was the sound of soft footsteps, then a back door creaked open and a young dark-haired boy emerged. He was about six years old.

Tibrael smiled and beckoned. "Come closer to the fire, Erucael."

The boy obeyed, gazing at the woman with large and wary eyes. The woman looked him over before turning back to Tibrael. "So this is him, then? Your grandson?"

"The child shows promise," said Tibrael. "He already senses Death, and he will be a powerful mage. Much like his mother."

"Rosael?" said Humatiel, showing a spark of interest for the first time during her visit. "I remember her. She was a good girl."

"I had hoped that you would select her as your apprentice, but..." Tibrael shook his head. "In any case, his parents are gone now. Plague. He has nowhere to go. I'd keep the boy, but I think better things are meant for him."

Humatiel looked at the young boy a moment longer. Then, making a decision, she got up from her chair and adjusted her cloak. "Very well, I suppose he'll be good enough. Get your things, boy. You're moving to your new home."

"So Erucael was the grandson of Humatiel's cousin," said Ydele, putting down the letter.

"Yes," said Shera. She was moving about her quarters, putting together a meal. "Humatiel's father Natael was the forty-first Abhorsen. Upon his death at the hands of a Hrule, his twin brother Nochiel became the forty-second Abhorsen. The brothers had been rivals their entire life, and so Humatiel and Tibrael had never been on friendly terms."

"And that is why Humatiel refused to consider Tibrael's children and grandchildren for her successors until she had no other choice." Ydele was excitedly scribbling away at her parchment, leaving line upon line of cramped green script.

Shera watched her as she dished up some soup. "At five years old Erucael was taken in by Humatiel and raised to become an Abhorsen," she said. "He became exceptionally skilled with magic and the bells. But he was born after the rift between brothers Natael and Nochiel. Humatiel knew through experience that even the Abhorsen bloodline was flawed, but Erucael merely thought she had lost her faith in people. He believed in the near-divinity of the Bloodlines, and given Humatiel's shining and legendary example, he had no reason to doubt this."

The two Clayr sat over the small supper that had been prepared by Shera over her fire. Ydele did not eat very much. She hurriedly jotted down her notes. "And how old was Erucael when he became Abhorsen?" she asked, still scribbling away. "There are all sorts of speculations, but nothing confirmed." Shera waited patiently until the young librarian had finished.

"For that, I have written evidence. A transcript by the scribe Rhede of a late-night conversation between the Queen, her Chancellor, and two messengers," said the old Clayr. She selected another, official-looking document, and slid it across the table.

It was the dead of night in the Queen's study when the door was opened. A figure in black and white robes swept in. "My Queen," said the Chancellor, motioning at the mud-spattered young men. "Here are the messengers you wished to speak to."

Rhede, the scribe seated in the corner, watched her Queen stand up from behind her desk. Both of them had been going over documents for two hours, and although the Queen looked surprisingly wakeful, Rhede was grateful for any interruption. The exhausted messengers removed their hats, and as Rhede pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment to record the exchange they glanced at her. She kept her expression neutral and her head down; she was a mere passive recorder.

"What are your names?" asked the Queen with a gentle smile.

"Gleris, Your Highness."

"Jeorn, Majesty."

"Speak your message."

Rhede watched Gleris bow his head, obviously trying to avoid eye contact. "Highness, we bring sorrowful tidings. The Abhorsen is dead."

The news, unexpected as it was, caused Rhede to pause in her transcription. She looked at the Queen, who did not speak for some time. "Humatiel..." the Queen said sadly, then gathered herself. "How did it happen?"

"Two necromancers, Highness. Working together." Rhede noticed that Jeorn's voice was clipped and formal, as if he was trying to hold back his emotions. She could sympathize; it was her job to record conversations without voicing her own opinion, no matter the content. "Young Erucael managed to finish them off," Jeorn was saying. "He is Abhorsen now. The forty-fourth."

"Erucael?" the Queen repeated wonderingly. "He is a mere child. He cannot be much older than my eldest."

"Sixteen, Your Highness," said the Chancellor helpfully as Rhede scribbled away, quill pen flying. "But many Abhorsens inherit the office early."

"It seems strange," said the Queen with a faraway look in her grey eyes. "She was Abhorsen for so long. The longest anyone has ever been, to my knowledge. Over fifty years. I wonder why she left choosing a successor so late. I understand there were some rifts within the family..." A small sound near the door caught Rhede's attention, and the Queen cocked her head to the side. "Torrigan?"

The door to the Queen's study was cautiously opened by a young boy. The messengers looked at him curiously. The Queen gave her youngest son a strained smile. "It is late. Go to bed, dear one."

The boy nodded and quietly closed the door. They listened as he padded off down the corridor.

"Only sixteen." The young Clayr shook her head wonderingly. "Coming into the office so young must have been difficult. I doubt his training was complete by then. Perhaps it was this deficit that contributed to what hap–"

"Erucael was a proper Abhorsen at sixteen, as indeed all of that line should be," Shera declared with sudden and unexpected severity. Ydele cringed and shrank back a bit in her chair. "He had been studying to be an Abhorsen for over ten years."

"Of course," said the librarian in a meek voice. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to suggest – I hadn't meant to – ah –" She glanced sideways and a shameful expression stole over her face. "But one still wonders why the Abhorsen was late in arriving at the palace. I do not mean to say it was his fault," she added hurriedly. "But couldn't the Clayr have done anything? To warn him, I mean."

Shera sighed and shook her white head sadly, anger gone. Young people could be disrespectful, but she doubted that Ydele had meant it. "There were far greater forces at work. We do not See everything, as you very well know. And Kerrigor was of Royal Blood. He was guarded by the Charter to some extent as well as you and I. All we knew was that the Royal Line was in some danger, but we did not know when the blow would be struck, or by whom. We were not looking for an attack from within."

"Nobody even suspected?" pressed Ydele.

"There were some within the Kingdom more attuned to what was happening," Shera admitted. "But even they were not successful, at least not in time." She reached for a small sheet of paper covered in small and graceful handwriting. "Abhorsen Erucael's wife kept a journal of sorts, and she noted a conversation he had just prior to his leaving for Belisaere."

The white-haired dwarf walked determinedly towards a young man who stood looking out over the battlements. "Well?"

The man looked down at the dwarf and gave a strained smile. "Well what?" he asked with some attempt at levity.

The dwarf was not to be put off. "Well, Abhorsen, why aren't you on your way yet?"

Erucael still looked down at him with that crooked little smile. "Do you really expect me to believe that the Queen is facing an attack from her own son?"

"I expect you to do your duty," said the dwarf through gritted teeth. "You heard that Prince Rogirek has returned to court. There are whispers that he dabbled in Free Magic during his time away. He was always ambitious."

"Be that as it may, he is a member of the First Bloodline," the Abhorsen insisted. "Therefore he is allied with the Charter. You're as grim as old Humatiel was." At the dwarf's disgusted look, the young man sighed. "If the Bloodlines cannot count on each other, who can they count on?" There was simple conviction in his voice, and it was all the dwarf could do to keep from losing his temper.

"Listen to me," he said with forced calm. "If you do not act now, the future of the Charter will be in danger. I know we do not often see eye-to-eye, Abhorsen, but I still serve you and your line. At least go to Belisaere to see the Queen. I will even go with you." There was a silence as the Abhorsen debated his words. The dwarf swallowed his pride and said, "Please, Erucael."

The sound of his name made the young man start. He looked down into the rose garden, where a woman was tending the fragrant blooms with the help of a sending. She waved up at him. "Ryla is pregnant," he muttered uncertainly. "She had such a difficult time when Ionel was born. I shouldn't leave her, not now..."

"Abhorsen," the dwarf insisted, unable to hide the desperation in his voice any longer, "Ionel and your unborn child are already facing a hard future. If we are too late... please... hurry..."

The young man looked down at him, alarmed by his distress. He gave a short nod. Together they jogged down the steps from the battlements, Erucael already calling for his sword and bells.

"The Abhorsen's servant," Ydele mused. "I have never met him."

"Count yourself lucky," said Shera wryly. She finished clearing away the supper dishes. "Now, Ydele, what else do you wish to know?"

The librarian carefully dipped her pen into the ink bottle and poised it over the parchment. "My last question? I want to know the fate of the Royal Line."

Shera kept her lined face expressionless. "The Queen and her daughters were killed, and the Prince turned necromancer."

"Yes, but –" Ydele was shaking her fair head. "That cannot be all, Shera. I won't believe that it just ended like that." She counted on her fingers, "Erucael chosen late, his inheriting the office so young, the Abhorsen's servant unable to get him to the palace on time... All this couldn't have happened for nothing." Her young face was marked with sorrow as she gazed imploringly at the old woman. "I want to know if there is hope."

Shera gave a sympathetic smile. Beneath her scholarly outer layer, it seemed that Ydele was an idealist searching for a happy ending, much like Shera herself had been once. The old Clayr understood completely. "You want to know if that was truly the end of the Royal Line."

The young librarian hurriedly wiped her eyes on her sleeve, angry at having shown so much emotion. "There is some speculation in the literature about a member of the Family hidden somewhere," she said, business-like once more. "Nothing conclusive."

Shera toyed with the sleeve of her white gown. When she spoke, her voice was studiously nonchalant: "Have you ever wondered about the Royal Guard who defended the Queen?"

"During the battle in the Reservoir?" asked Ydele. "Sources disagree on the identity of the one faithful guard who was killed before the Abhorsen arrived. Other records have been erased or destroyed. I haven't delved much into that area of research. It's just not very clear who he – or she – was, and there are all sorts of theories."

"Very well," said the old Clayr. "He was the boy who interrupted this meeting." She tapped the transcript of the messengers' report to the Queen. "Think carefully now. What year would this have taken place? How old were the Queen's Royal children at that time?"

The young librarian appeared to be thinking very hard, and suddenly a look of dawning spread over her features. "The Queen's illegitimate child?" Ydele gasped, looking dumbfounded.

"Born two years after the King's death," the old Clayr confirmed. "He was raised at court and became the Queen's most loyal Guardsman, and Prince Rogirek's childhood playmate and good friend. Before the Prince turned to Free Magic, that is." Shera waited patiently as the librarian scribbled away. "You asked me if there was hope. Well, I am not certain if I can give you hope. But I can give you an answer." She pushed the last grubby pieces of parchment, apparently torn from a diary, across the table.

In the midst of a massive sinkhole, a young Clayr clad in gold and green stood with the Abhorsen and a man wearing black and white robes. They were gathered around a stretcher by the prow of a ship with black sails. On the stretcher lay a man with a blanket drawn up to his chin, frozen in an attitude of startled realization.

"Quickly, while everyone is occupied with the Queen." The Clayr looked between the pale faces of her two companions. "This is what we have Seen," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. Out of earshot, a dozen Clayr Rangers stood in a protective ring with bows half-drawn. "We must put Torrigan into hibernation. Here. On the prow of a ship. Hidden in Death until the Abhorsen releases him."

"Torrigan is to be our last hope?" asked the man in black and white robes. He gestured helplessly with his hands. "He has the blood, yes, but he's mad! You saw them carry him out of the Reservoir in a fit."

"Yes, Chancellor," said the Clayr patiently, "but he is the only survivor, save one. You know who I mean. He will be safe here until the Abhorsen manages to locate Kerrigor's body, perform the final rites, and remove the threat to the Royal Line. Are we agreed, Abhorsen?"

The young man seemed to be in a state of shock. "I shouldn't have waited," he muttered to himself.

"Erucael?"

The Abhorsen flinched at the sound of his name. He looked at the young woman and spread his hands helplessly. "And if I cannot?"

"Then one of your descendents will find a way," said the Clayr, smiling with encouragement. "Until then, nobody will find him here. This sinkhole is no longer used. The Queen and Princesses will be buried in another, and Holehallow will not house the bodies of Regents. There will be no reason for anyone to come down here, and the safeguards will keep out the grave-robbers." She gazed seriously at the two men. "Nobody is to know of this, save the Bloodlines and the Regent. My Rangers have been sworn to secrecy, and only the highest of the Clayr will know. From now on, the Royal Guard Torrigan is dead."

The Chancellor sighed and lowered his head. "You are the Voice. You speak for the Clayr," he said softly. "I will follow you in this, as I have always done."

The Clayr put her hand on his shoulder. "Thank you, Regent."

They turned to the Abhorsen. The dark-haired man took a deep, shuddering breath before kneeling to fold back the blanket, baring Torrigan's chest. The Royal Guard's hands were held up to ward off some evil and his face was frozen in an expression of deep betrayal; he was obviously being held in a dormant state by some spell.

The Abhorsen placed a white hand on the other man's arm, and his other hand on the ship. Instantly frost rimed his skin and clothes and spread to cover the man on the stretcher, and the ship's prow. Soon he appeared to be no more than a large lump of ice.

After a few minutes the ice cracked, and the Abhorsen stood and shook icicles from his hair. But the stretcher was empty. And on the prow of the ship was Torrigan, the most lifelike figurehead that anyone had ever seen.

The Clayr looked up at the man frozen in his wooden prison, and raised her hand in salute. "Sleep well, Prince."

Ydele gasped and sat back, overcome by the tremendous secret that had been revealed to her within the tattered sheets of paper. Across the table, Shera watched her calmly.

The librarian gulped for breath, staring at the pages, and when she had regained some control she looked up at the old woman. "This is your diary," she said wonderingly. "You were the Voice – you told them to keep him safe. He wasn't slain after all."

Shera bowed her head in acquiescence. "Very few among the Bloodlines know the truth. I am sorry to say that you will not be able to publish your thesis, at least not in its entirety."

Ydele was silent for a moment. Then she asked, "What happened to Erucael?"

"He was consumed by guilt, and utterly unprepared for the horrors that awaited the Kingdom," the old woman said sadly. "He was killed fighting the evils that arose after the Royal Line was crippled and all but gone. His daughter became his successor, and her niece Rosael is the present Abhorsen. She is still searching for Kerrigor's body." After a pause, she added encouragingly, "So there is hope, after all."

Ydele looked at her with an incredulous smile. "Hope? On the chance that an Abhorsen finds Kerrigor's body, performs the final rites, raises Torrigan from his place in Death, and he turns out not to be mad? Not in our time, Shera."

The old woman gave a gentle smile. "No, not in our time. But someday."

A/N: Thank you for reading. This story went through several different variations before I settled on the format used here. I always wanted to explore the fall of the Royal Line, but I didn't want it to be a simple straightforward unambiguous narrative. And it was also interesting for me to write a story centred on the Clayr rather than an Abhorsen, for a change! Reviews, as always, are most welcome.