re.”

    “ you read ed Mogget, in a momentary break from cleaning himself.

    “?” asked Sabriel, excited. A diary remendously helpful.

    “ook it . “I  seen it.”

    “I t you o ion.”

    “t mumbled, moutomacongue alternating between words and cleansing.

    “A messenger came from Belisaere, begging for  could pass them.

    Abed t to it t, Belisaere being Belisaere. But .”

    “Belisaere. t’s a town?”

    “A city. tal. At least it was, will a kingdom.”

    “as?”

    Mogget stopped s. “ did teac sc been a King or Queen for t for ty. t’s wo a darkness from which no one will rise . . .”

    “ter—” Sabriel began, but Mogget interrupted h a yowl of derision.

    “ter crumbles too,” he mewed.

    “it a ruler, Cer Stones broken one by one  Cers ted—”

    “ do you mean, one of t  Cers?” Sabriel interrupted in turn. S for t time, s saug so quiet about tate of the Old Kingdom.

    But Mogget , as if topped , o be trying to form  noth.

    Finally,  tell you. It’s part of my binding, curse it! Suffice to say t to evil, and many are he slide.”

    “And ot it,” said Sabriel. “Like my father. Like me.”

    “It depends  said, as if ed t someone as patently useless as Sabriel  I care—”

    trapdoor opening above topped t in mid-speech.

    Sabriel tensed, looking up to see arted breat it er sending, its black  flopping over t came do unlike ts—s c and back. It boo Sabriel, and pointed up.

    it it ed o look at sometory. Rel