‘Summon the rage, bend her to your will,’ said Mogget. ‘As for your escape, if Aziminil is strong enough she can become a vessel to take you out through the waterfall.’
‘Out through the waterfall?’ asked Clariel.
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Mogget. ‘Az will know how, but it will be a question of strength, for the waterfall is mighty indeed. Aziminil alone may not suffice. You could need more than one of the prisoners to take you through. But one or two or three, you can command them. You have the power within you, fuelled by your rage.’
‘Only for a short time,’ said Clariel. ‘What happens afterwards, when I am weak?’
‘Have them swear when you first hold them in your sway,’ said Mogget, his eyes alight, his claws out. ‘You can fix them then, make them serve you no matter whether you are weak or not, awake or not, unconscious …’
‘There is no way they can turn against me?’ asked Clariel.
‘Any bond will weaken over time,’ said Mogget. ‘But it can be made anew.’
‘I have always heard it said that Free Magic creatures are inimical to life,’ said Clariel. She was excited by the prospect of freedom, but cautious too. ‘What exactly does that mean?’
Mogget did not answer immediately, choosing instead to lick one of his paws with intense interest.
‘Mogget! What does it mean, that Free Magic creatures are inimical to life?’
‘Bah! An exaggeration,’ said Mogget. He hesitated for a moment, twisting his neck as if his collar had caught on something, before adding more quietly, ‘I suppose it is true that their substance, the manifestation of their flesh, is corrosive to living things. But it can be contained, avoided, taken care of in numerous ways. Why, the Abhorsens use a kind of Free Magic all the time, in their bells and spells in Death. They used to use it more freely still. You would be no different.’
Clariel nodded. She’d been wondering how Kilp and Aronzo had survived if Aziminil really was so dangerous. They hadn’t even bound her to their service; she had just agreed to serve them. That didn’t sound like a creature ‘inimical’ to all life.
Against that, though, she had to balance the fact that her mother had died fighting against the very idea of working with a Free Magic creature. Jaciel had even slain one before who had assumed the shape of her brother. But then, Clariel thought, Jaciel was not like other people. She never compromised; she would not depart from her chosen path, no matter what. Perhaps if she had talked to Kilp, taken the more sensible approach, then she would still be alive, and Harven too, and Clariel would be on her way to Estwael …
Clariel shook her head. There was no point in thinking over might-have-beens. She had to work out what to do now, deal with the situation as it was.
‘If a Free Magic creature’s touch is corrosive, how can Aziminil take me through the waterfall?’
‘The swift water will lessen the effect,’ said Mogget.
‘Lessen?’ asked Clariel. ‘That doesn’t sound very good. Is there anything else I can do? I remember Kargrin said something about the Abhorsens having special robes …’
Again, Mogget was slow to answer. It looked to Clariel as if he was struggling with a desire not to answer at all, or perhaps to lie. Even though he was a cat, she’d seen merchants behave similarly, shifting where they looked, hunching their shoulders, even nervously clawing at their collars, as Mogget was doing …
‘There are garments, robes, masks and suchlike that provide protection for a time,’ said Mogget. ‘For when the Abhorsens used to deal more closely with their prisoners. There should be some such stuff below.’
‘Should be?’ asked Clariel. ‘I’m not risking a “should be”. And what does “for a time” mean?’
‘They are there,’ said Mogget grumpily. ‘Old, but serviceable. I presume you would not be able to renew the marks within them?’
‘No,’ said Clariel shortly.
‘Then once put in use, they will fail at the next full moon.’
‘Which is in about five days, I think,’ said Clariel, counting on her fingers. There had been a half moon when she slept in the forest, the night before last. ‘Not long. If Aziminil can take me through a waterfall, can she also move me swiftly? To fly like a Paperwing or become some sort of mount? I need to be in Belisaere as soon as I can. I have to rescue my aunt. And kill Kilp and Aronzo.’
‘Free Magic can shape itself to almost any need,’ said Mogget. ‘Swift travel, unseen passage, impenetrable armour, unbreakable weapons … It will all be at your command. You simply will whatever is needful.’
Clariel thought of that, for a moment. Sorcery that did not need laboriously memorised Charter marks, learned over years, or the disorienting plunge into the Charter … simply to will something, to use raw power. It was a heady temptation. But she must be careful …
‘What if I need to imprison Aziminil again,’ said Clariel. ‘I can’t do it with Charter Magic, I do not have the skill or knowledge. Could I force her into a bottle and secure it just by the force of my will?’
‘You could,’ said Mogget. ‘As I said, I can tell you have the strength. You remind me of some of the earlier Abhorsens, who had much to do with Free Magic entities.’
‘You remind me of one of mother’s apprentices,’ said Clariel. ‘All flattery and guile. You said you would help me for love of mischief, and maybe more … and I see you think it is more. What do you hope to gain?’
‘Freedom,’ whispered Mogget. ‘Freedom from my enslavement.’
‘You mean you want me to take your collar off?’
‘Only the Abhorsen can remove my collar,’ said Mogget. ‘And the Abhorsen has the means to put it back on again. I need some greater manumission.’
‘So how will you helping me forward your ambition?’
‘A small stone cast from a hilltop may dislodge larger stones,’ said Mogget with a sly glance. ‘And the larger stones may move great … stones … and then the whole hillside might come tumbling down.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Clariel.
‘That things change, and an opportunity might present itself that otherwise would not,’ said Mogget, his tail twisting around almost as much as his words.
‘And what would you do with your freedom?’ asked Clariel.
‘Who can say?’ replied Mogget evasively. ‘But I would no longer be a prisoner, no longer a slave. I think you understand that, do you not?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Clariel. ‘But I am not sure I should think of you as I would a person enslaved.’
‘Why not?’ asked the affronted cat. ‘Am I a piece of furniture? A block of wood?’
‘I do need your help,’ said Clariel. ‘But I won’t do anything actively to release you. There must be a reason you are bound to serve the Abhorsens.’
‘Reasons can always be found to bind a slave,’ said Mogget sulkily. He turned away to plonk down in the middle of the table, addressing Clariel over his shoulder. ‘You have found some for yourself, after all.’
‘I suppose I have,’ whispered Clariel. She was thinking about that, and what she might do with Aziminil after she had freed Aunt Lemmin and set matters to rights. The creature had been in Belisaere for months without killing people and causing trouble, surely there would be some way to set her free, somewhere she could exist without being hunted by Charter Mages and, at the same time, offer no threat to ordinary people?
‘Where is –’ Clariel started to ask Mogget, but she stopped as the cowled sending stepped off the top of the stair and slid over to her side, offering several cloths, a dish of water and a small bottle of hartshorn.
Clariel scrubbed slowly at her hands and wondered how she could distract the sending again. But as she scrubbed, Mogget got up and came over to her, and jumped into her lap. She flinched, but he felt just like any normal cat, even to the extent of him shifting around to get comfortable, not bothering that his claws were doing the precise opposite to Clariel.
When he was settled, Mogget leaned forward and
dipped one extended claw in the inkwell. Then he wrote on the paper, in very small, perfectly formed letters.
You must act soon in case Tyriel does recall his duty and put Aziminil under the waterfall. Tonight is best, at midnight. I will distract sendings first and meet you in kitchen store. We go down from there.
Clariel read over his shoulder as the cat wrote. He hesitated at the end, and she felt him wriggle, as if struggling with something. The marks on his collar grew brighter, some spell there coming to the fore. Mogget hissed, and then wrote again, the marks growing brighter still as he did so.
Garments not whole protection. You must remember to order Aziminil not to touch you and –
With that last word, Mogget yowled and sprang out of Clariel’s lap as if he had been singed on the tail. Rampaging across the table, he overset the ink. A great tide of it spread across the paper, blacking out his words. Trailing inky paw-prints, he leaped from the table and shot down the stairs.
Clariel watched the cat go, over the back of the sending who had bent to mop up the spilled ink. She almost got up, but stayed where she was and thought for a moment. It was always advisable when going into the wilds to let someone know your intentions, the path you planned to take …
She took up a piece of paper that was only marbled at the edges with ink, cut a new quill and used the last of the ink in the well to write a short note to Bel. If things went wrong, then he would know what she had done, and why, and perhaps might be able to do something about it.
Bel,
I am going to release the Free Magic creature we fought on the Islet and with its help escape from here and go to Belisaere. There I hope to rescue my aunt Lemmin. If the creature proves powerful enough, I will use it to slay Kilp and Aronzo and end their rebellion. They are guilty of murder and treason, and deserve no better.
I almost bound the creature before on the Islet, and I am sure I can do so again. Its name is Aziminil. Mogget says there are special robes I can wear to avoid the corruption of flesh or whatever it is such creatures do. I don’t suppose my actions will spur my grandfather into doing anything, but if I should fail, I call on you to do what you can for my aunt Lemmin and also to ensure justice is done.
I am sorry I was cross with you today, you don’t deserve it.
Your friend
She signed it simply with her name, absently almost added an ‘X’ for a kiss but didn’t, folded it twice, wrote ‘Bel’ on the outside and put it in the middle of the desk.
‘Leave this here, but tell Belatiel about it tomorrow,’ she said. The sending paused in its ink-cleaning duties to bow, indicating it understood.
‘Not when he arrives; when he is about to leave,’ Clariel added cautiously. Even a few hours might make a difference, and doubtless it would be better not to leave a note at all.
But she felt two conflicting emotions battling inside her. One was all excitement, bursting to get going. To finally do something, to act of her own volition, rather than being forced into doing what her parents wanted, and then being a prisoner of Kilp, and now effectively a prisoner of Tyriel. But against that excited, pent-up feeling there was a much quieter, more sober voice that warned that she might be doing something stupid. That it was not always better to do something than nothing. Hunting sometimes required stillness and waiting.
But this small voice was no match for the excitement Clariel felt rising inside her. She had read The Fury Within. She knew how to raise the berserk anger that would fuel her domination of Aziminil. She knew where the free Magic creature was, and that it could not only help her escape, but speed her to Belisaere.
Finally she would be a hunter again, rather than the hunted.
chapter twenty-seven
into the waterfall
After dinner, which she ate in the hall alone, save for numerous sendings, Clariel went to the armoury. The sending there once again offered her armour and weapons; this time she accepted them, taking the shirt of gethre plates, which fitted quite well over the jerkin she had been given at Hillfair, though it was shorter, hanging only an inch below her hips, and also a short, broad-bladed sword similar to her old falchion.
The sword had Charter marks on the blade, but fewer than some of the other weapons, and she was eventually able to puzzle out that they were relatively straightforward marks for durability and resistance to rust. She did not want a weapon that bore marks she did not understand. For some reason the marks were harder to identify than usual; it seemed to her that they would not stay still. Charter marks always moved and shimmered, but usually they would slow or even freeze for a few seconds when someone was looking at them.
Apart from armour and sword, she discovered a good woollen cloak and a large belt pouch in her room. She filled the pouch with several not-quite-ripe apricots taken from the dinner table, and rolled the cloak up so she could wear it by its cord over her shoulder.
Her attendant sending watched these preparations, but as far as Clariel could tell was not alarmed by them, which was heartening. It seemed likely to Clariel that with an absent Abhorsen all they could really do was watch and report later, though she supposed the superior ones might be able to send messages to Hillfair. But then, if what Mogget and Bel thought about Tyriel was accurate, he would be very slow to do anything that required him to come to the House.
Waiting until midnight was difficult. There was a clock in her room, which had surprised her at first, because she expected one of the Charter Magic time crystals rather than something mechanical like you would find in Belisaere. But on closer inspection she saw that the case contained no clockwork, but instead a kind of Charter Magic imitation of cogs and wheels and chains, driving hands of gold and silver on a face of ivory, the chapters detailed in tiny pieces of jet.
Clariel had been interested in clocks at one time. There were several clockmakers in Estwael and Jaciel had worked with one of them on and off over the years. This timepiece was silent; for all its magical mimicking of clockwork it did not reproduce that comforting, regular sound, so reminiscent of a heartbeat.
Clariel shut the case and went to sit on her bed. She felt nervous and excited, but she forced herself to be calm. Once again she opened The Fury Within and read over the chapter on raising the rage, trying not to look at the clock at the end of every page.
The moon climbed higher as she waited, its cool light through her window competing with the warm glow of the Charter mark lanterns. Clariel left her bed to look out, the world outside stark and moon-blue, the river silver. Soon she would be out in that world again, Clariel thought, looking at the clock. She wondered what Mogget would do to divert the sendings, and forced herself to sit back on the bed and read her book.
At five minutes to twelve, she started to suspect Mogget had forgotten, or worse, had betrayed her. At one minute to twelve, she was sure of it, and cursed herself for even thinking for a moment the cat-creature would help her escape.
Then the clock’s minute hand moved to the twelve. There was a sudden deep roar outside, akin to the sound of a tea ceremony spirit burner lighting up, but many times louder. The cool moonlight through the window became charged with red, a lurid red that flickered, the light of some sudden, enormous fire.
Clariel ran to the window and looked out. There was a growing cloud of smoke billowing up towards her from the orchard, where three peach trees were alight from root to crown. Sendings were already rushing in, one with an axe chopping at a fiercely burning tree, the others raking back leaves and other litter that might burn.
‘Go help them!’ ordered Clariel to her sending servant. Without waiting to see what it did, she took up her sword, ran down the main staircase three steps at a time and dashed to the storeroom next to the kitchen.
Mogget was already there, his white hair slightly blackened and his whiskers perhaps shorter than they used to be. He stood on a trapdoor at the rear of the storeroom, between shelves stacked high with hundreds of jars of preserved apricots and peaches.
‘Quick, ope
n this!’
The cat leaped aside as Clariel bent down and pulled on the ring. The trapdoor opened easily, revealing stone steps descending into darkness, a darkness only slightly relieved by the Charter marks slowly coming to life on the rough-hewn walls.
‘Go!’ yowled Mogget, himself streaking down the steps. ‘Shut the door behind you!’
Clariel obeyed, almost hurling herself into the narrow stairwell. As she turned back to shut the trapdoor, she saw sendings coming out of the shelves, sendings in armour with swords and axes, their faces grim.
‘Come on!’
Clariel ran down the steps after the cat. The stair curved around as they descended, not a tight circular stairway but a gentle slice of a circle. Almost before she knew it they passed the first small landing and a door reinforced with iron bolts and considerable Charter Magic, marks briefly flaring as they passed.
‘How far down?’ gasped Clariel. ‘Will the sendings chase us?’
‘Sixth landing,’ said Mogget. ‘The ones above won’t follow, but there are more sendings below. They should be slow without the Abhorsen to direct them. Sleepy. Speed is of the essence.’
Steps and landings flashed by. As they passed the fifth landing, Clariel shivered, for it was frosted with ice and a cold wind blew around it, apparently from nowhere. Then it was behind her, more steps taken at a run. Suddenly Mogget slowed in front of her and stopped before another iron-reinforced door that was also swimming in Charter marks. This one, at least, was not covered in ice.
‘Here’s the test,’ he said. ‘I hope the spell knows you as family, and that is enough. It may need more, but we shall see. Put your hand against it.’
Clariel looked at the swirling marks on the door nervously. She didn’t know any of them, and all the stories of people burned from the inside out, or turned to sand, or rendered senseless forever from mishandling Charter Magic came back to her.
‘Put your hand against it,’ repeated Mogget. ‘Quickly! There is little time.’