Clariel slowly extended her hand and set her palm against the timber. Sparks flashed as she did so, and Charter marks thronged from the wood and moved up her arm. She gasped, but there was no real pain, just a strange sensation, as if something was moving over her skin.
The door did not move.
‘Lean your forehead against it!’ urged Mogget, who was now dancing around Clariel’s feet. ‘Tell it to open, in your grandfather’s name!’
Clariel did so, pressing the Charter mark on her forehead against one of the iron bolts that reinforced the door. Again, she felt the weird, crawly sensation, this time extending all over her face.
‘Open in the name of Tyriel, my mother’s father! Open!’ she said, her voice not as steady as she wished.
There was a resonant click inside the door, and it moved under Clariel’s hand and head. She put her other hand against it, and pushed. It moved slowly, like a person who has reluctantly agreed to something but wishes they had done otherwise.
As the door opened, Clariel was assaulted by an incredibly loud noise, so loud it felt almost like a physical blow. The sound of the great waterfall. Kept from the house by magic up above, it was even louder here than it had been going across the bridge in the river. The reason was clear, for a broad cavern in the cliff face lay beyond the door and the far end of it was a gaping hole, with a wall of white water plummeting down outside. Spray was blowing in, making rainbows as it passed across the Charter marks for light that shone in the ceiling and walls of the cavern.
The rough-hewn chamber was apparently empty, save for a massive table in the very centre, itself carved out of the rock. One end of this hulking piece of furniture was crowded with several dozen green glass bottles, of differing shapes and sizes, and next to these bottles was a pyramid made of an equivalent number of silver stoppers, a coil of thick gold wire on a decaying wooden drum, a rusted pair of pliers and several other lumps of rust that had once been tools.
At the other end of the table, standing alone, there was the familiar silver bottle wreathed in gold wire that held Aziminil.
Clariel walked towards the table, the door shutting behind her. She reached out for the silver bottle, almost in a trance, but stopped short of it as a cloud of spray hit her in the face. She blinked, and stepped back. Mogget sneezed and stayed behind her heels in an effort to avoid any drop of moisture.
Beyond the table, she saw a jagged, narrow peninsula of stone that thrust out into the waterfall. Barely three paces wide, it was at least twenty paces long, the far end invisible under the onrush of water from above. From a few paces out and then as far as she could see into the waterfall, this strange promontory was wrapped in dozens and dozens of tarnished silver chains, big chains with links the thickness of Clariel’s finger, chains that were doubled over this stone outcrop and then stretched down into the maelstrom below.
‘What are the chains for?’ bellowed Clariel. She had to bend down to hear Mogget’s repeated answer, the noise of the waterfall drowning the cat’s first reply.
‘Prisoners,’ shouted Mogget. ‘Free Magic creatures suspended in the waterfall, in bottles of green glass.’
‘Why green glass?’ shouted Clariel.
‘Can’t question them through silver. They can be heard through glass; silver is only for transport. But there’s no time for questions now! Hurry up! There’s the bottle! You can do it!’
‘Not so fast!’ Clariel shouted back. ‘Where are the garments to protect me from Free Magic?’
‘I don’t know,’ spat Mogget. ‘You don’t need them. Hurry!’
Clariel ignored him, and quickly walked around the table, taking stock. The whole cavern had an air of decay and disuse. There was moss growing up almost to the tabletop, and there were more faded or dead Charter marks in the ceiling above than live ones. There was a chest under the table, with a pile of silver chains next to it, and a long stick with a hook on the end, like a fisherman’s gaff.
Not without some trepidation, Clariel opened the chest. Judging from the tarnish on the chains, the moss everywhere and the general feel of the place, she expected whatever had been in the chest was probably a disgusting pile of mould.
But it wasn’t. A spell broke as Clariel lifted the lid, Charter marks spilling out everywhere to fade as the complex web of the spell fell apart, leaving the scent of roses. Once again, she didn’t recognise any of the individual marks, but it had to be some kind of preservative or protective spell, because the inside of the chest looked fresh, clean and, most importantly, dry.
There were numerous articles of clothing inside, in different sizes. All were made of some kind of woven stone, or stonelike material, that was light as linen but enormously strong, and there were thousands and thousands of Charter marks swirling within the fabric. Clariel sorted through the clothes quickly, holding them up against her body. She chose a long hooded robe, gauntlets that came almost to her elbows, and curious tall overshoes that puzzled her for a few seconds till she realised they were footwear.
Underneath the clothes, there was a line of bronze masks. Full face masks, which would fit under the chin and extend back to the ears, with narrow slits for the eyes covered in some clear crystal, and a hinged flap over the larger mouth hole. The masks had leather straps with bronze buckles.
‘Hurry!’ hissed Mogget. ‘If I thought you’d be this slow I never would have bothered!’
Clariel continued to ignore him. She slipped on the robe, which wrapped around her almost twice and had several ties to make it fast. The overshoes were next, tying off just under her knees, the robe flowing over them down to her ankles. Then the gauntlets, which were also tied to the robe, a difficult operation.
She reached for the mask she thought would fit her best. It was heavier than she had expected, the bronze a finger-width thick. Like the clothes, it too was heavily laden with Charter marks. Clariel slipped it on, grimacing as the cold metal touched her face. She drew the straps tight, then pulled the hood up and fastened it to the sides and throat of the mask using the strings provided for that purpose.
The mask felt even heavier on her face, heavy and repressive. But then Charter Magic tingled, the baptismal mark on her forehead burned for a moment, and for a brief instant Clariel felt herself dip into a great swathe of the Charter, as if a storm composed of millions of marks had swept over her, there and gone in a second. The mask felt lighter and warmer thereafter. She hoped it meant that the protective magic was working, for she knew no way to wake it if it required some spell.
‘Hurry!’
Mogget was yowling now, his voice made more distant by hood and mask, even harder to distinguish above the roar of the waterfall.
Clariel bent over the silver bottle and directed her thoughts to the spark that lurked deep inside her, the ember of the rage that she must blow into fire and feed till it became the fury, making her strong enough not only to survive the Charter Magic that kept the bottle sealed, but also to overpower the creature within.
Aziminil.
‘Hurry up!’
The words sounded distant, from some other place of no account. Clariel once again ignored Mogget, her mind bent inwards. She had found the place where the rage dwelt, and now she fed it, supplying it with memories.
The terrible night when her parents died; Aronzo smiling his self-satisfied smile; the feel of the knife in her hand when she tried to stab him and Roban had parried it away …
Then she bit her lip, right through, the taste of her own blood hot and salty, and she wanted to spill more blood, not her own, the rage rising and rising, spreading through every muscle, every vein …
Clariel roared and grabbed the bottle, gauntleted hands gripping the stopper, ripping it off in one swift movement, gold wires and all, Charter Magic spells to chill her bones and stop her heart broken in that instant, marks spinning off uselessly into the air.
With the stopper gone, Aziminil was suddenly there on the table, taloned hands reaching for her rescuer, a spiked foot stabbin
g out. But Clariel batted the hands away, gripped the spiked foot, lifted the creature above her head, and threw her to the ground almost to the lip of the waterfall.
Aziminil tried to get up but Clariel was upon her, her gauntlets smashing down upon the creature’s bony shoulders, the strength of Clariel’s hands and the strength of her mind forcing the thing to kneel. Charter marks blazed bright as stars in her gauntlets and white sparks fountained from the creature, the stench of hot metal a sharp reek that filled the cavern.
Aziminil struggled to rise, but could do nothing against the force of Clariel.
‘Obey me!’ bellowed the young woman, her voice near as loud as the waterfall itself, infused with all her berserk fury. She felt triumphant, for she could sense Aziminil’s mind already bending beneath her will, giving in, surrendering to her as was her right.
‘Swear you will serve me! Serve me forever!’
chapter twenty-eight
binding the free
‘Swear to serve me forever, or be destroyed!’
The creature suddenly slumped. Clariel felt something shift inside Aziminil’s mind, some last shred of resistance snap.
‘I will serve you, Mistress,’ said Aziminil. She bent forward till her head struck the ground at Clariel’s feet.
‘Forever, until I release you,’ boomed Clariel.
‘Forever, until you release me,’ agreed the Free Magic creature.
As Aziminil spoke, Clariel felt a sharp pain in the middle of her forehead, where her baptismal Charter mark was, but the pain was lost as she also felt a sudden surge of power. It was Aziminil’s power that she felt, power that she knew she could draw upon, shape and direct as she willed.
Power that would be far greater still if she took off the gauntlets and the robe, the mask and the overshoes, and took Aziminil into her body, there to dwell and be ever ready to serve her mistress.
It was a great temptation, made greater because the fury wanted that power, wanted that fuel to become greater still, to become such a warrior that nothing could stand against her and she would wade through her enemies, rending them limb from limb, laughing as they sought to flee …
But unlike all previous occasions when she had gone berserk, this time Clariel retained some sense of her own self. She had summoned the fury, but as the book had taught her, had kept back some part of her being. From this redoubt of her true self, she sallied forth, banking down the angry fires that threatened to burn up all the fuel within her, the fires that wanted all Aziminil’s power, not just the fraction available to her without being touched, skin to skin.
‘No,’ whispered Clariel. She let go of Aziminil and stepped back. The creature was bound. Nothing more was needed, at least for now. She must resist the temptation for more.
‘Clariel! The door!’ shrieked Mogget.
Clariel whirled around. The door was slowly creaking open. Beyond it she saw a great crowd of armoured warriors, sendings all. Instantly she drew upon Aziminil’s power and, gesturing with one hand, directed a great blast of raw sorcery that struck the ceiling above the door and shattered the rock. Huge boulders came tumbling down to block the doorway, a cloud of dust bursting over Clariel and out beyond, only to be washed away by the waterfall.
Clariel smiled and looked at Aziminil, who remained kneeling near her feet.
‘It is good,’ she said. ‘The power … Now none shall gainsay me …’
She faltered, words trailing away. The fury was rising again, as was a strange joy in what she had just done, a feeling of near ecstasy. She had merely willed something to be so, and it was. The stone destroyed, the way blocked, the enemy foiled …
Concentrate, thought Clariel. I must not enjoy this, I must use it only as I need to, I must do only what must be done and no more.
Slowly she forced the fury back, damped down the savage excitement that wanted to unleash more sorcery. She slowed her breathing, and brought up the memory of the quiet calm of the willow-arched glade on the river, and let that gentle flow take the rage away.
She told herself once more: I must use it only as I need to, only to do what must be done. No more.
‘Aziminil. I want you to carry me beyond the waterfall, to the eastern bank of the Ratterlin, and then beyond to Belisaere, as safely and swiftly as you may. And should my garments fray, or my skin somehow be shown, you will not touch any part of me. Do you understand and obey?’
‘I understand and obey, Mistress,’ replied Aziminil, lifting her head, the strange void that served as her face directed towards Clariel. A small cloud of mist wafted across her blood-red skin, tiny gouts of steam blowing up as it touched. ‘But I do not have the strength alone to carry you through the waterfall. It is too great a cascade, the water too swift.’
‘You must release and bind another creature,’ said Mogget from near Clariel’s feet, his emerald eyes intent on Aziminil. ‘Draw up one of the chains; open a bottle.’
‘But which one?’ asked Clariel. ‘There could be anything out there. Is there some record, some register?’
‘Once there was,’ said Mogget. ‘Long neglected, lost these many years. But you are strong, Clariel. Take any bottle, none within the waterfall can stand against your will.’
‘The Mogget’s advice is sound, Mistress,’ said Aziminil.
‘I just draw up a chain?’ asked Clariel. She looked back at the table, and the hooked stick. ‘With that gaff thing?’
‘Yes,’ said Mogget. ‘Best be quick. Rock alone will not stay the sendings long, and a message must already have gone to the Abhorsen.’
‘Again, the Mogget offers good counsel,’ said Aziminil.
Clariel looked at the gaff, then back at the waterfall, and the narrow chain-wrapped outcrop. Even lying down, it would be very slippery, and she would have to edge some way into the waterfall itself, go into that massive down rush of water. It would be so easy to get washed away. But if Aziminil spoke the truth, then she had to bring up another bottle to make her escape …
She could still feel the rage, close at hand. It would not need any great effort to bring it back. She could bind another Free Magic creature, she knew. More than one, if it proved necessary. She could gather all the bottles, bind a score, no a hundred creatures to serve her, and then none could stand …
Clariel lifted her hand to slap herself in the face, but the movement alone was enough to break these runaway thoughts. Which was just as well given she wore a bronze mask. She would have bruised her hand. This made her laugh, and that helped too. She felt more secure, more normal.
But there was still only one way out and that meant getting another bottle, binding another servant …
‘Aziminil. Go to the rocks by the door and do what you can to slow the sendings coming through. Mogget, you go with her.’
‘I can help you with the bottles,’ said Mogget. ‘Tell you who’s inside perhaps.’
Clariel shook her head.
‘You should stay away from the water,’ she said, though they both knew this was not the reason. She did not trust the cat-thing, despite his Charter mark collar or perhaps even because of it, for she did not understand where his loyalties truly lay, or what he was. It would be too easy even for a small cat to help her fall from that slippery tongue of stone.
‘As you wish,’ said Mogget haughtily, and stalked away. Aziminil bowed, and followed him, spiked feet striking sparks that leaped and spat and made sharp cracking noises as they fell into the puddled water on the floor.
Clariel picked up the gaff and felt along its length. The wooden shaft had moss growing on it, and a few soft patches, but it felt solid enough. The hook was rusted, but she banged it on the stone table and it rang true.
She took off her sword and laid it on the table. After a moment’s hesitation, she also took off the robe, gauntlets and overshoes and then even her simple leather slippers. The stone was very cold under her feet, but she knew that bare soles would serve her better. She left the bronze mask on, thinking it would offer some prot
ection for her eyes from the force of the falling water.
Taking up the gaff in both hands, Clariel walked to the spit of stone and knelt down. Dragging the gaff, she crawled out of the shelter of the cavern and into the waterfall. It hit her like a bruising blow, all along her back, water gushing around her head so forcefully that it threatened to drown her even as she hunched over, trying to maintain some small pocket of air. It was like being in the heaviest rainstorm ever, one so dense there were no individual drops, just a constant wave of water.
If she had entered it standing up, she would have been knocked over in an instant. Even crawling it was very difficult to keep steady, at least till she reached the first of the chains, which at least offered something to hold onto. For a moment, Clariel thought she would hook that one up, but then she reconsidered. Closer to the edge probably meant more newly placed, she reasoned. It might be a weak thing, insufficiently strong to help Aziminil take Clariel out through the falls. Then she would have to come out this way again to find a third.
No, better to go out further now. Find something older and more powerful, something that would serve her better.
Clariel crawled over the first chain, holding on to others ahead, and continued on, going further out and deeper into the waterfall. The crashing waters were really hurting her now, as savage as any blow she’d ever felt, as hard-hitting as the training weapons she’d used long ago with her school-fellows in the practice yard of the Estwael Trained Band. Still she kept on, till reaching ahead her fingers encountered no more chains, but a jagged edge of rock, so unlike the smoothly worked edges to either side that she thought it must once have extended further, but had been broken off by the tireless assault of falling water.
The third-last chain would do, Clariel thought, some vestige of caution exerting itself at last. Whatever dangled from the furthermost chain might offer a challenge too great even for her new and much puffed-up confidence. Holding tight, she reached out and down with the gaff, and, after a few attempts, got the hook securely through a link. Then she cautiously drew up a green glass bottle from below, the Charter marks on it glowing so brightly they cut through even the dense wall of water.