Clariel

  ‘The Abhorsen could, though. He can go into Death can’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Bel. ‘But it wouldn’t be that easy to find out. If she was killed at the dinner then she would have long since passed the Ninth Gate. So it would be a matter of questioning certain … things … that lurk in the Precincts between, maybe even go as far as the Sixth or Seventh Gate. Tyriel would never do that. Risky even for a practised Abhorsen.’

  ‘You mean he wouldn’t get off his horse long enough to do something useful!’

  ‘It isn’t just that,’ said Mogget. He had found a dandelion and was intent on delicately removing each petal with a single out-thrust claw. ‘He’s afraid of Death, afraid of being the Abhorsen. That’s why he never comes here, because everything reminds him of what he’s meant to be. Out hunting, he can forget.’

  ‘What?’ asked Clariel. ‘That can’t be true …’

  Her voice faltered, because she could see from Bel’s face that he shared Mogget’s opinion. The Abhorsen was afraid of Death, and was shirking his responsibilities.

  ‘He’s a coward?’ asked Clariel. That would explain why he was so slow even planning to take action against Kilp …

  Bel shook his head.

  ‘No … he’s as brave as anyone in the hunt, braver. He’ll ride anything, face down a boar or a bear … but he won’t do anything the Abhorsen is supposed to do. Nor will Yannael. I guess they’ve been able to avoid it, because nothing has threatened them or the Kingdom. Tyriel’s been the Abhorsen for nearly fifty years and I doubt he’s ever been called to deal with anything. So he has been able to forget it all and devote himself to hunting. That’s why I’ve been training myself, so there is a proper Abhorsen when one is needed.’

  ‘I thought it was just an overly developed case of curiosity,’ said Mogget. ‘The kind that kills cats. Myself excepted, of course.’

  ‘I wondered why he would just throw me in here and leave,’ said Clariel. ‘But do you think this means he won’t go and help the King at all?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Bel. He looked wretched, as if he was personally letting down the King. ‘I think he will eventually, because it’s not really Abhorsen business – I mean because it’s not to do with Death, or the Dead, or anything like that. But the hunt takes up all his mind, and until the Summer’s End Hunt is done … nothing will even be got ready.’

  ‘Is the King really safe in the Palace?’ asked Clariel. ‘Kilp has a lot more guards. A lot more.’

  Bel shrugged unhappily. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What about Princess Tathiel? Any signs of her showing up?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ said Bel. ‘What are you laughing at, Mogget?’

  Clariel had never seen a cat laugh before, and wouldn’t have known that’s what it was if Bel hadn’t spoken. She thought Mogget was preparing to throw up a fur ball, since his shoulders were shaking, his eyes were closed and he was making a kind of rasping noise in his throat. He continued for a few seconds after Bel spoke, then said with dignity, ‘I find many things amusing. Abhorsens who are afraid of Death, princesses who shirk their inheritance … It’s all quite funny.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Clariel. She balled her right hand into a fist and slapped it against the open palm of her left, making a very satisfactory thudding noise. ‘If I were … If I were either the Abhorsen or the Princess, I’d just get on with doing my job.’

  ‘Would you?’ asked Mogget. ‘What is your “job” then?’

  Clariel didn’t know how to answer that, at least not immediately. When her parents had been killed she had lost her clear and obvious place in the world, but it had been a place she had intended to leave behind anyway.

  ‘I am a hunter,’ she said slowly. ‘I belong in the Great Forest. It’s the only place where things make sense to me … where I make sense. But perhaps that’s only what I want to be, and I must become something else instead.’

  ‘You’ll get to the Forest,’ said Bel encouragingly. ‘I mean, it may be a while, but I’m sure Kilp will be defeated, and then everything will go back to normal. Like I said, I’ll fly you to Estwael –’

  ‘How can you be so sure Kilp will be defeated?’ demanded Clariel. She stepped close to Bel, her eyes angry. ‘No one’s doing anything! What about Aunt Lemmin? If they … She’s just a herbalist. She’s kind and wise and she always looked out for me … They’ll put her in a hole like they did to me, or worse! Someone has to do something!’

  ‘Don’t get angry,’ pleaded Bel. He took a step backwards, making calming gestures with his hands.

  ‘I’m not going berserk,’ said Clariel, through gritted teeth. ‘I can control the rage.’

  ‘She’s got a book about it,’ said Mogget helpfully. ‘Mind you, you should have seen the berserk that wrote it. Huge she was, and if the sendings didn’t bring her wine fast enough, she’d pick them up and snap them in half and throw the pieces on the floor.’

  ‘How do you snap a sending in half?’ asked Bel, easily distracted by some even more arcane knowledge than usual.

  ‘When fully manifested, they are solid, as are their accoutrements,’ said Mogget. ‘They may be attacked, torn apart, broken up. If properly made they can be put back together, some can even reform themselves. It’s all covered in Simple Sendings, I think –’

  ‘How interesting,’ said Clariel. ‘I’m going to leave you two to your lesson. Mogget, I want to talk to you later.’

  ‘Clariel! No, wait, I came to see you,’ said Bel hastily. ‘I can’t stay. Tyriel told me I mustn’t –’

  ‘Go then,’ said Clariel. She had spoken truly about not going berserk, but she was angry. Not with Bel, but with her grandfather, and the King, with all the useless people that had let things get so out of control that her parents could be killed, and an innocent like her aunt Lemmin could be swept up, taken away from her home …

  Clariel stopped in mid-stride, so quickly that Bel, starting after her, almost ran into her back.

  ‘Kilp must want Aunt Lemmin as a hostage,’ she said. ‘To make me go back to the city.’

  ‘Very likely,’ said Mogget. ‘I am interested in this Kilp fellow. Few Governors of Belisaere have had much intelligence, by any measure. Um, perhaps if you could just leave me those fish?’

  ‘Do you know when she was arrested?’ asked Clariel. She was thinking about where her aunt might be. If Kilp had sent the order for her arrest the night Jaciel and Harven had been killed, then Lemmin might already be in Belisaere, already in a prison hole.

  ‘No. I suppose I could find out,’ said Bel. ‘But there’s nothing you can do for her anyway, Clariel. I’m sorry you’re stuck here, but there are worse places …’

  His voice trailed off as he saw Clariel give him a look similar to the one the chief cook at Hillfair used when confronted by a joint of meat that had become seriously maggot-struck.

  ‘Please do find out,’ she said coldly. She looked at Mogget and threw down the fish. ‘And tell my grandfather that even if he isn’t going to do anything, I am.’

  ‘But you can’t do anything,’ called out Bel, to her rapidly retreating back. ‘Look, I’ll ask him, I really will. I’ll be back tomorrow, maybe we can work out something …’

  Clariel did not reply. She stalked into the house, went to her room to get The Fury Within and stomped up the stairs to the west roof garden. Unlike the one in her parents’ house in Belisaere, this garden had green plants. Mostly white rowans in large terracotta pots but also some smaller shrubs she didn’t know, with broad green leaves and tiny yellow flowers.

  The garden offered a great vista over the river to the hills beyond, only slightly marred in Clariel’s opinion by the roofs and towers of Hillfair when she looked to the north. Ignoring that side, she resolutely dragged the comfortable bench with its blue and silver cushions around to face the south, towards the mist-cloud of the waterfall, opened her book and began to read.

  She paid careful attention to the instructions in the tome
. It had already helped her a little, and she was determined to learn more. The rage frightened her, and Clariel knew she must bring it under control. The book said it was possible to raise it when she willed, and dismiss it in such a way that she was not left so exhausted. But it was not as simple as just reading how to do it. The book offered techniques, things to practise, ways of thinking. But it would take time, and work, and strength of will.

  The sendings brought lunch to Clariel when she did not answer to the repeated gongs or the increasingly broad gestures of her attendant sending. It was composed of one of the fish she had caught, evidently rescued from Mogget. This had been grilled with ginger, pepper and some spice she didn’t know, set atop a salad of grains and greenleaf, accompanied by a lightly sparkling clear wine she had to admit was delicious and refreshing.

  Reading in the roof garden was also relaxing, but she refused to let either lunch or the pleasant surroundings lessen her fixed decision that she had to get out of the Abhorsen’s House.

  It was clear that no useful help would be forthcoming for the King. No one would be going to rescue Aunt Lemmin. Kilp would just get away with what he was doing.

  Someone had to do something.

  I have to do something, thought Clariel.

  She put the book down and walked over to look down at the river roaring past; and then switched her gaze over to the northwest, in the rough direction of the far-off Estwael. As always, the call to the Great Forest was strong in her heart. She yearned to be there, but it was further away from her than ever.

  The Abhorsen wasn’t going to do anything. Aunt Lemmin was in danger. Aronzo would certainly treat her badly and she couldn’t bear that thought. Kilp might also be able to capture the Palace and the King.

  But even presuming Clariel could get out of the Abhorsen’s House, what could she do on her own? She wasn’t a powerful Charter Mage, not a Charter Mage at all really. The fury, presuming she could govern it better, did offer something if it came to fighting a few foes – but she would not be fighting a few foes.

  Bel’s words rankled, though she had to acknowledge there was some truth in them.

  But there’s nothing you can do.

  Truth, but not entire.

  There was a power she could wield. It had been on her mind ever since the Islet, a slight, gnawing thing that wouldn’t go away. It had been reinforced by the sight of that silver bottle in the Paperwing, the bottle under Tyriel’s arm, the bottle that was somewhere in the House even now.

  There was power there to rescue Aunt Lemmin; power to wreak her revenge upon Kilp and Aronzo; power to set the Kingdom to rights.

  Only then could she go to the Great Forest, free of all cares …

  chapter twenty-six

  the path is chosen

  Clariel had almost given up on Mogget by the late afternoon, but he popped up around her feet just as she was closing The Fury Within, having read it to the final page. She was thinking deeply about all the things it had told her, of the nature of being a berserk, so she started in surprise when the cat wound himself around her legs.

  ‘You wanted to see me?’ he said, with a flick of his ears at the ever-present sending who stood silently behind Clariel’s shoulder.

  ‘I did,’ said Clariel. ‘You took your time.’

  ‘You were so busy reading I didn’t want to disturb you. Educational, I trust?’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Clariel. ‘But the more I learn the more I find I need to learn.’

  ‘Then there is hope for you yet,’ said the cat. ‘I believe you wanted to see the Abhorsen’s study?’

  Clariel saw the glint in Mogget’s eye and correctly deduced this was part of his plan to get rid of the eavesdropping sending.

  ‘I would,’ she said. ‘If I am allowed.’

  ‘I am a great believer that anything not expressly forbidden is explicitly allowed,’ said Mogget. ‘What did your grandfather tell the sendings when you first arrived?’

  Clariel thought for a moment.

  ‘I think he said I should be treated as his granddaughter and guarded, but not to be allowed to cross the bridge, step into a boat or a Paperwing,’ she said.

  ‘The sendings are very literal,’ said Mogget. ‘Hmm … “Not allowed to cross the bridge, use a boat or Paperwing.” That was rather lax of Tyriel. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised at his ignorance. Follow me.’

  Clariel followed the cat into the tower reading room and then up the narrow staircase. The study above was also lined with shelves and many books, but Clariel’s attention was immediately drawn to the one glassed-in cabinet set among them, home to a single book bound in pale green leather with silver clasps. It was as if the book were watching her, as much as she watching it.

  Mogget saw her staring.

  ‘The Book of the Dead,’ he said. ‘Best left alone.’

  ‘I am an Abhorsen,’ said Clariel. She remembered Bel talking about this book, how it contained the knowledge the Abhorsens needed to enter Death and return, how to wield their seven bells to bind and command the Dead. The book itself was fascinating. It was like she was watching an animal, waiting to see where it would spring, being on guard in case it attacked but also tensed to pursue if it fled. ‘Doesn’t that give me the right to read it?’

  ‘No,’ said Mogget. ‘You’re one of the family, sure enough, but only the Abhorsen or the Abhorsen-in-Waiting can read that particular book.’

  ‘Bel told me he read it,’ said Clariel. ‘And he thought Yannael hadn’t, maybe even Tyriel had never read it.’

  ‘Like I said,’ replied Mogget.

  ‘What?’ asked Clariel.

  ‘People seem to have got confused about who’s who and what’s what since I last got let out of this house,’ said Mogget, which didn’t help Clariel at all. ‘Now, you wanted writing materials, I believe?’

  ‘Um, yes,’ said Clariel. She was still thinking about what the cat had said. ‘But everyone calls Yannael the Abhorsen-in-Waiting … you mean she isn’t?’

  ‘Everything you need is on the desk,’ said Mogget. ‘Be very careful you don’t spill the ink.’

  Clariel looked at the massive redwood desk. Each corner of the tabletop was adorned with intricately carved dragon heads. The dragons all had individual expressions; she could see the character of each of them: melancholy, angry, happy and a fourth had its eyes closed, apparently asleep.

  For the first time she wondered if dragons had once really existed. These seemed modelled from life. In the middle of the dragon table there was a silver inkwell, very finely made and old, accompanied by several quill pens, a knife to cut them, a sheaf of paper and a blotter made from the dried sponge she had last seen in quantity, wet, in the fish market of Belisaere.

  She pushed one of the high-backed chairs aside and bent down to cut a pen. Inking it, she held it above the paper, while Mogget watched from a safe distance on the other side of the table.

  ‘Oh no, you’ve got ink on your hand,’ he said, though she didn’t, or at least didn’t yet. ‘Best ask your sending for a wet cloth. Actually a wet cloth and a dry one, and perhaps a small bottle of spirits of hartshorn; that ink is very difficult to shift.’

  Clariel spilled some ink on her hand, turned to the sending and repeated Mogget’s request. The sending bowed, and drifted out of the room. As soon as it was gone, Mogget leaped over to Clariel and began to whisper, his whiskers quivering because he was talking so fast.

  ‘That’ll only get us a few minutes. The ordinary ones aren’t very smart, but if it runs into one of the superior sendings it’ll be here in an instant. Do you still want to escape from the house?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Clariel. ‘But that’s not all.’

  ‘What else?’ asked Mogget.

  ‘I want to know where the silver bottle Tyriel brought has been taken.’

  ‘Ah-ha!’ cried Mogget. ‘I knew it. I smelt it on you, the lovely tang of Free Magic, and not just because you’re a berserk. Things come together, paths converge –’
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  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When you held the creature, as Bel says you did, did it tell you its name?’ asked Mogget.

  ‘Yes,’ said Clariel. ‘Aziminil.’

  Mogget’s eyes widened and his mouth curled up in a smile. He got up and circled around three times, tail almost whisking across Clariel’s face.

  ‘Aziminil, Ziminil, Zimminy-Az,’ he said. ‘Caught in Belisaere, you say. And now Az is here, and not completely put away, and so are you, and you’re a berserk and you want to get out when bridge, boat and Paperwing are barred against you.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Clariel. ‘Quickly!’

  Mogget stopped his circling.

  ‘What I mean is that while there are more ways to leave this house than you might think, there is only one way for you to leave this house that offers a reasonable chance of success, not to mention survival,’ he said. ‘It requires the … assistance … of a Free Magic creature. But how to do this? Charter Mages can only bind such creatures, they cannot make use of them. But you are a berserk, the Free Magic is strong inside you. Tell me, did Aziminil submit to you when you first met?’

  ‘Something like that,’ said Clariel. ‘She –’

  ‘She?’ asked Mogget. ‘Clever Aziminil. Go on.’

  ‘She tried to enter my mind … to bend me to her will. But I went into her mind, and forced her to obey me. Then Kargrin speared her and she would have been trapped, so I … I let her go.’

  ‘You let her go,’ chuckled Mogget. ‘Let her go. Ah, there is more than mischief to be gained here. Were you in the rage when she surrendered herself to you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Clariel. ‘How can Aziminil help me escape? Where is she?’

  ‘She is down below, where the Abhorsens take their captives and hold them close. She ought to be sunk deeper still, but the sendings only take the prisoners so far. Tyriel should have finished the job, put the bottle out with the rest, but he’s shirked it, as so much else.’

  ‘How do I use Aziminil to escape?’ asked Clariel. ‘And how can I make sure she doesn’t kill me, or … do whatever Free Magic creatures do to people?’