Clariel

  ‘I really don’t know,’ yawned Mogget.

  ‘I can still feel the Charter, though it is distant,’ said Clariel. ‘Does that mean I might be able to … to find it again?’

  Mogget didn’t answer, but continued to lick his paws.

  ‘Mogget! Please! I am an Abhorsen, even if I’m not the Abhorsen. Surely that counts for something.’

  Mogget stopped licking his paws. The Charter marks on his collar grew brighter, and there was the faintest sound of some distant, disturbing bell. The cat squirmed and blinked his green eyes twice.

  ‘Free Magic and the Charter will struggle inside your body,’ he said slowly and reluctantly. ‘One or the other will win out. The more you draw the creature’s power within you, the stronger the Free Magic will be. There are healing spells, marks to cleanse the flesh of the Free Magic taint. Touching a Charter Stone would help, one of the Great Charter Stones most of all, of course.’

  ‘The Great Charter Stones?’ asked Clariel. ‘Kargrin spoke of them, beneath the Palace. So if I went there, I would be cleansed of this … this taint?’

  Mogget looked away, his head lunging up as if he were snapping at a tasty moth. He spoke urgently, clearly compelled to speak. The marks on his collar shone brighter still, and once again the faint echo of a bell came to Clariel’s ears, making her shiver, and not with cold.

  ‘It is … would be … very dangerous. You must … you must seek the help of a Charter Mage, a magister of the first rank.’

  Clariel felt a wave of relief pass through her. If there was a means to regain her connection to the Charter then using Free Magic was an acceptable risk. Kargrin – or the surprising Mistress Ader, who had been an Abhorsen – they would know what to do. They would help her.

  It would all be worth it, when Kilp and Aronzo were dead, and Aunt Lemmin free, and the path to the Great Forest made clear at last.

  ‘How may we serve you, Mistress?’ whispered Baazalanan. It had crept closer to her, Aziminil at its heels. They must have heard everything. ‘Shall we carry you to Belisaere?’

  Clariel let her hand fall from her forehead. She hesitated for a moment, then put the bronze mask back on and buckled the strap, before lifting the hood and making it fast. Her gauntlets went on next. She noted that the Charter marks in the strange, stony fabric were neither as bright nor as numerous as before. Touching the creatures had taken its toll. But she needed whatever remaining protection the garments offered.

  ‘How will you carry me?’ she asked. Thinking quickly, she added, ‘In a globe of white fire again? Remember that you must not touch my skin, nor convey me in such a way that I might accidentally touch you.’

  ‘We shall make a chair for you, Mistress,’ said Baazalanan in its soft but penetrating voice, which sounded neither male nor female. It was simply otherworldly and strange. Clariel knew from her mental contact that Baazalanan was the more powerful of the two, something she saw confirmed when Aziminil took up a subservient position a step behind the taller Free Magic creature. ‘We will summon metal from the ground. Then we shall join to make a flying mount and set the chair upon it.’

  ‘A flying mount?’ asked Clariel.

  ‘I think they intend something you might call a dragon,’ said Mogget thoughtfully. ‘At least a creature that inspired some of the tales of dragons.’

  He was lying on his stomach in the grass, watching the two Free Magic creatures. They turned their heads towards the cat and, though they did not speak, Clariel sensed some silent communication before they turned back together to look at Clariel. If ‘look’ is what Aziminil did, with her strange oval void in place of a face.

  ‘I do not know what name you would use,’ whispered Baazalanan. ‘It is the shape favoured by some of our kindred, long ago. Winged Perazinik, Jagdezkal, Tazkehanar …’

  ‘Lost long ago, when the Seven made the Charter,’ added Aziminil. ‘But we remember.’

  ‘As do I,’ said Mogget. He grimaced and turned his head, licking at his collar.

  ‘A dragon,’ said Clariel. She smiled under her mask. When she had been six years old her mother had made her a little golden dragon with ruby chips for eyes. Jaciel had taken it back a year later, and melted it down as a punishment for some infringement Clariel could no longer remember. ‘Can it be a golden dragon?’

  ‘Whatever you wish, Mistress,’ said Baazalanan in its strange, soft voice.

  But Mogget said, ‘It would be better grey, unless you wish for everyone to know we’re coming, Clariel. Grey hides well against any sky.’

  ‘Grey, then. Also I will need a sword,’ said Clariel, suddenly remembering the one she had left behind. The Free Magic creatures had spoken of drawing metal from the ground and Aziminil had made a fine goblet for Aronzo. ‘Can you make me a sword?’

  ‘Yes, Mistress,’ said Aziminil. ‘But not quickly. It will take some little time.’

  ‘Better yet, I know of a sword that would serve you well,’ whispered Baazalanan. ‘And other weapons. A cache from long ago … It lies towards Belisaere, and we could break our journey there. Even for such as we, it is not possible to retain the dragon-shape without rest.’

  ‘A hidden sword and a dragon?’ asked Clariel. She smiled again, thinking of her eight-year-old self and the stories she used to love, told by her aunt Lemmin, for her mother told no stories. But the smile faded, for that younger Clariel would not have been able to imagine her present companions, nor would she like them. The eight-year-old would not understand the necessity of using such creatures. ‘Let us find it then. Make me a chair, and become your dragon. I will rest upon the bank. Keep watch while you work. Wake me as soon as you are ready, but remember you must not touch me.’

  The two creatures nodded and bent down, their hands plunging deep through the pebbly beach into the earth, already summoning metal from the depths below. Clariel walked up the grassy bank beyond the beach of stones, and laid herself down. Mogget watched her for a moment, then padded back to the creatures. Both stopped their digging and bent their heads down towards the little cat.

  If Clariel had been watching she might have wondered whether they were bowing down to offer homage, or simply to hear him better. He whispered something to them, unheard by Clariel, and they answered as quietly. Then Mogget went back to his fishing in the shallows and the creatures began to summon iron from far beneath their unnatural feet.

  Clariel lay on her back on the grass and looked up. Her last conscious thought before sleep fell on her like a starving bear was that the moon looked bigger than she thought it should, and that this was important for a reason she couldn’t quite recall …

  The moon was beginning to descend when Clariel awoke, but its light was still clear and bright. It was roughly the third hour of the morning, she thought, still well before the dawn. She lay there, not moving, just staring at the moon for a while, before she remembered the importance of the current phase of the moon. It would be full tonight, and if Mogget had told her the truth, her protective garments would completely fail. She had to get to Belisaere and do what was needed before the next moonrise, which would be shortly before midnight.

  Groaning a little, she levered herself up on one elbow and saw the dragon. Its head did look like the corners of the Abhorsen’s table, but its body didn’t resemble any picture Clariel had ever seen in a book of children’s tales. It was not sinuous and reptilian, but more like an enormous bat. It was covered in light grey bristly hair rather than scales; its taloned forelimbs were part of its membranous wings, its hindquarters were muscular and rather feline. It didn’t have a tail as such, but a stumpy stern like the docked tails of the Olmond hunting dogs. Its head was hairless, more skull than flesh, a thing of bony ridges and deep-set eyes. Eyes that were larger versions of Baazalanan’s. Pools of utter darkness, reflecting no moonlight.

  It was also smaller than Clariel had expected, only some twenty paces from head to its stunted rear, and its outstretched, leathery wings were only half as long again. The chair the crea
tures had made was already set on its back, directly behind its head, the legs seemingly fused into the bone beneath. Though they’d called it a chair, it looked more like a throne to Clariel. Made of raw, black iron, its back was high and adorned at the top with flanges and spikes, the armrests were flat plates of the metal, and there was a curving footrest that extended out over the dragon’s head like a half helmet. It did not look comfortable at all, but it was imposing.

  ‘We are ready,’ rasped the dragon, its breath carrying the hot metallic reek of Free Magic, white sparks falling from its long and dextrous tongue. It extended its neck and laid its head on the ground, so Clariel could step over onto the curving footrest without touching its body.

  The chair was cold and uncomfortable, and did not feel anywhere near as secure as being in a Paperwing. Clariel gripped the arms and wedged herself into the seat as best as she could. A moment later, Mogget landed in her lap and began to tread around in a circle, claws extended.

  ‘Don’t tear my robe!’ said Clariel sharply. She put her hands around Mogget’s middle to put him at her feet, but he immediately retracted his claws and sat down, looking up at her with an innocent expression.

  ‘I still don’t know why you’re really coming with me,’ she said. ‘What happens if the Abhorsen finds you gone?’

  ‘Tyriel?’ snorted Mogget. ‘He could summon me back, and I would go. I cannot disobey his direct commands. But I doubt he will think of me. He never has before.’

  ‘He might now,’ said Clariel. ‘I left a note for Bel, just in case.’

  Mogget stood up suddenly, his head butting Clariel under her chin.

  ‘You did what!’

  ‘He won’t see it till late today, if he visits like he said he would,’ said Clariel. ‘Even in a Paperwing he couldn’t catch up with us. Besides, Bel would want to help me anyway.’

  ‘Would he?’ asked Mogget darkly. ‘Perhaps he might see things differently now. But done is done. We had best make speed. Order your minions to carry us aloft.’

  Clariel nodded. Whatever Mogget said, she was sure Bel would not try to stop her, particularly not when she was going against Kilp and Aronzo, to save the King.

  ‘Fly carefully,’ she instructed the composite beast. ‘Do not allow me to fall, but go swiftly.’

  ‘First to find the sword?’ asked the dragon. Interestingly, its voice now was not a combination of the two Free Magic creatures, but Baazalanan’s alone.

  ‘Where is it?’ asked Clariel. ‘And how fast can you fly? It is near two hundred leagues to Belisaere.’

  ‘The sword lies on the foothills of Mount Aunden; we can be there soon after the dawn. We must rest then, under the height of the sun, but can then reach Belisaere by an hour after dusk.’

  ‘But what is your intention, Mistress?’

  The voice now changed to Aziminil’s.

  ‘We are strong and may pass the water channels, but there are many Charter Stones and many Charter Mages in the city … We cannot travel as we are, and should we be seen, they could imprison us once again.’

  ‘I am not sure,’ said Clariel slowly. She frowned, the movement making her mask move as well. It was sticking to her forehead again. ‘I need to see what is happening. Perhaps we will drop down outside Belisaere, find travellers or farmers, ask what is going on … I will decide later. Fly now!’

  ‘Yes, Mistress,’ carolled the dragon, in its composite voice. It extended its wings, the tips unfolding to a far greater length than Clariel had suspected, beat down with them and began a lurching run along the pebbled beach, the powerful hindquarters driving it forward at considerable speed. Just before the beach ended in a tall, overgrown bank, the dragon pumped its wings again and lurched into the sky, with Clariel and Mogget holding on for dear life in the iron chair.

  Back in the Abhorsen’s House, there came a great pounding on the gate. The guard sending hastened to open it, to admit Bel, fully armed and armoured in helmet and gethre plate hauberk. He was even paler than ever and clutched his left shoulder. A message-hawk was asleep on his right shoulder, its head tucked under a wing.

  ‘What in the Charter’s name is going on?’ asked Bel. There was still smoke billowing up from the now-extinguished fruit trees in the orchard, a drift of it gathered about the House, pale under the moonlight. A line of sendings holding buckets, bowls and even a firkin stretched from the orchard to the pump in the rose garden. ‘What’s this about Clariel and Mogget? Where are they?’

  The guard sending gestured downwards, and made several quick signs, Bel watching his flashing fingers.

  ‘They went down and out through the waterfall?’ asked Bel sharply. There was none of his amiable chatter now, no hint of any smile in his mouth or eyes. ‘Both of them?’

  The sending held up four fingers, then slowly made four signs, one of them a claw.

  ‘Two Free Magic creatures!’ exclaimed Bel. He bit his lip and groaned. He guessed at once that one must be the creature in the bottle he had brought from Belisaere. Kargrin had warned him not to let Clariel touch the bottle, that her previous contact with the creature could have made her crave more. But another one as well? It had to be one of the chained, and that was beyond bad news.

  ‘Clariel, what have you done?’ he said, tears starting in his eyes. But he wiped them away immediately, for there was no time for tears. He had to do something. But what was there he could do?

  A sending tugged at his elbow. Charter marks from its fingers flowed through those in his armoured coat, warming the skin beneath. Bel looked at the cowled figure, who inclined its head and offered him an ink-stained piece of paper. He took it, held it up to the moonlight and read it. For a moment he felt relieved that at least Clariel had written a note.

  But something had happened below, for the sending reported two Free Magic creatures gone … and there was Mogget. Out of the House without permission, and unrestrained …

  Bel took a deep breath, and stood as tall as he could.

  ‘Ready a Paperwing to launch as soon as possible from the platform,’ he said, desperately hoping the sendings would obey. He was not the Abhorsen, nor the Abhorsen’s heir, but surely they would recognise that he was the only one who had the spirit of an Abhorsen?

  ‘Bring me the sword Cleave and … and a set of bells.’

  The guard sending knelt and bent its head, and the cowled one followed, and then the whole bucket line of sendings knelt as well. Belatiel felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck, and from somewhere deep beneath his feet he thought he heard the distant echo of a sorrowful bell.

  Already some half-dozen leagues away on dragon-back, Mogget sat up in Clariel’s lap and turned his head to the south, ears pricking up.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Clariel. She could not sleep, for the wind sped past too briskly, it was cold, and the dragon did not fly as smoothly as a Paperwing and she was afraid of falling out.

  ‘A change,’ said Mogget thoughtfully. ‘Not unexpected, but sooner than I thought. It is as well we left when we did.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Clariel.

  But Mogget was silent, and did not answer.

  chapter thirty

  an ancient treasure

  Clariel came to the foothills of Mount Aunden in the early morning, well before noon. The mountain itself loomed up to their right, a great hulking mass of granite, its snow-capped peak gleaming in the sun. In winter, its upper slopes would all be under snow, but now bare rock shone there, above the conifer forests that thronged below the winter snowline.

  The dragon tilted its wings and began a long glide down, aiming for a long flat shelf of grey-green rock, a little way above the treeline. Just before it seemed to Clariel that they would simply fly straight into it and all be killed, it beat its wings furiously, so that they almost stopped in mid-air. Then, with its rear legs running fast before they even made contact with the ground, the dragon landed in a lurching gallop that ended not, as Clariel feared, over the edge of the rocky ledge, but some
twenty or thirty paces short. Whichever Free Magic creature was the guiding force behind the shape the two had assumed, it knew how to use it.

  Clariel climbed stiffly off the chair, stood on the footrest and leaped clear of the dragon, Mogget at her heels. Clapping her hands together, she jumped on the spot, for despite the hooded robe and mask over her hunting leathers, she was cold. They had flown high and fast and the chair definitely did not have the warming spells of a Paperwing.

  ‘We will divide,’ said the dragon, ‘if you permit, Mistress.’

  ‘Do so,’ said Clariel. She pushed her hood back and continued to stomp and clap her hands as she walked around the ledge. She could smell the pine sap of the trees below, a clean, welcome scent that she drew into her lungs. Once she’d got warm in the sun Clariel thought she might walk down under those trees, since they were going to stay for some hours anyway to allow the Free Magic creatures to rest.

  She looked up at the rocks above, more ledges interspersed between high crags, and wondered where the ancient cache of weapons Baazalanan had mentioned might be. There were no obvious caves, nor was this the kind of rock that lent itself to the formation of such things.

  ‘I should have stayed in the House,’ said Mogget sourly from behind her. ‘Not even a field mouse to eat up here.’

  ‘It’s wonderful,’ said Clariel, stretching out her arms. ‘No people, the forest just below, the sun on my face …’

  She faltered and stopped, and lifted her hand to touch the mask. She’d forgotten she was wearing it, and for a moment could have sworn she had felt the sun on her face, without the barrier of the mask at all.

  ‘Mistress, the cache is still here.’

  Baazalanan’s whisper, close behind her, made Clariel turn swiftly on the spot. The creature was back in its regular form, looming above her, its blue skin bright in the sunlight, though its eyes remained pools of darkness. Aziminil squatted nearby, legs folded twice.

  ‘Where?’ asked Clariel.

  Baazalanan stamped the ground with one of his clublike feet. An echo came back, indicating a hollow space beneath the apparently solid slab of stone.