Clariel: The Lost Abhorsen (The Abhorsen Trilogy Book 4) (22 page)

They were flying over farmland now, a patchwork of well-ordered fields bounded by low stone walls beneath, with occasional stands of woodland and every now and then a village or a large farmstead. A shepherd waved to them from atop a low hill, her flock of sheep on the slope below being gathered by a dog darting hither and thither to drive them to some new pasturage.

They flew in silence for some hours after sighting the shepherd, Clariel lost in her own thoughts and sadness, Bel intent on flying the paperwing. The sun rose in the sky to its zenith, and then began to fall again.

Around the middle of the afternoon, the land some way off on their left-hand side began to change, fields giving way to a long fringe of trees that soon gathered together to become a forest that marched for miles to the south, the paperwing taking a path almost parallel to its northern border, though several leagues distant.

Clariel stared at the green expanse of woods hungrily.

“That must be the Sindlewood!” she exclaimed, sitting up straighter and leaning out the left-hand side so suddenly that the paperwing rocked.

“Careful!” exclaimed Bel. “Slow movements, please. You really don’t want to fall out, you know.”

“Sorry,” mumbled Clariel. She gazed out at the vast green mass of the forest. The Sindlewood was the closest major forest to Belisaere and though she had never been there, she had read about it, and heard about it from the Borderers who had been stationed there before their time in the Great Forest.

“The way station shouldn’t be too far ahead,” said Bel about five minutes later. He sounded slightly anxious, and was moving his head from side to side, peering at the ground below. “Can you see anything?”

“What am I looking for?” asked Clariel.

“A low hill, like where the sheep were, but flatter on top and longer,” said Bel. “There’s a tower, not very tall, it should have a big flag on top so I can see where the wind’s blowing from down there . . . surely I couldn’t have missed it . . .”

Clariel looked away from the Sindlewood off in the distance and focused on the ground closer ahead and to the sides. It was still settled farmland beneath them, the patchwork of fields continuing up and down and over the slight rolling hills, dotted occasionally by copse or small wood, house or steading, with bare earth roads between. The only major paved road in the area was farther north, joining Belisaere to Sindle and parts east, the road that ultimately led to Estwael.

“We could follow the road,” Clariel said suddenly.

“What?”

“We could fly along the main west road,” said Clariel. “To Estwael. You wouldn’t get lost, we wouldn’t have to follow the Yanyl.”

“We’re not going to Estwael, and roads are harder to follow than big rivers unless you go low, which is dangerous,” said Bel wearily. “We really need to find that way station. I’m getting tired and the paperwing will get very difficult if we’re not down before dark.”

“Right,” said Clariel. “I’m looking.”

They flew in silence again, but it was less companionable than before. Clariel’s eyes kept following the road that headed to the west, to Estwael and home. Bel looked down, anxiously searching for the way station.

“I’m just going back the way I flew in last year,” said Bel a little later. “But everything looks the same, there’s no decent landmarks. If we don’t find the way station soon we’ll just have to set down wherever we can. We do have some food but it’s nothing fancy . . .”

“I don’t need fancy food,” said Clariel. “Could you . . . could you land near one of these small woods? I would like to be among trees again. The night will be warm, we won’t need to be under a roof.”

“I suppose so,” said Bel. “But it’s always easier to take off down a hill. And the way station has actual beds.”

“A scrape in the ground filled with fern and grass is quite comfortable,” said Clariel. “And we have our cloaks.”

“We are definitely going to have to land anyway,” said Bel, with an anxious glance ahead at the westering sun, which would soon be setting. “How about by that farmhouse over there?”

“Surely it would be better no one knows we have passed by,” said Clariel.

Bel nodded reluctantly.

“Look for a large, flat field,” he said. “Without big stones. We’ll swoop over low to look closer and then turn back and land.”

“There,” said Clariel, pointing over Bel’s shoulder. Up ahead there was a larger field than usual left fallow, so it currently sported short pale green and yellow grasses in tufts between patches of dirt. At its northwestern end, it abutted a low, forested hill of old, lichen-covered oaks, accompanied by chestnuts and birches of lesser ancestry. It was clearly tended by foresters, for it was more open and sparse than any ancient forest, but even so it called to Clariel.

“Looks all right,” confirmed Bel. He pursed his lips and blew. At first nothing came out and he looked disturbed, even frightened, then he managed a whistle. It was soft, but true, and infused with Charter marks. The paperwing heard it and angled down, till they were swooping along only twenty or thirty paces above the ground, their speed much more apparent to Clariel now, as were the various stone walls, stumps, trees, and other obstacles they could run into and be smashed to pieces.

But their chosen field looked safe enough, the plow marks still present, indicating it had been turned over in the spring, if not replanted. Bel whistled again, the paperwing rose and veered to the left, away from the forest, rising a little to circle back the way they had come.

“Can you see from the treetops which way the wind is blowing?” asked Bel.

“From the south,” said Clariel. “Not very strong.”

“Hold on tight for the landing,” said Bel as the paperwing completed its turn into the wind and began to descend. “Could be bumpy.”

But it wasn’t bumpy at all. The paperwing skimmed over the grass, occasionally touching to lose speed, before coming down to skid some twenty paces through loose soil, sending a spray of dirt to either side but barely rocking its two passengers.

Bel’s head dropped onto his chest and he let out a long sigh. Clariel waited a moment to make sure the paperwing wasn’t going to move again, then climbed out, stretched her arms up, and unkinked her back.

“I am
very
tired,” announced Bel. He struggled to stand up and would have fallen over if Clariel hadn’t lunged forward to steady his elbow. “I hope your forest beds are as comfortable as you say.”

“If you’re that tired it won’t matter,” said Clariel. “How’s your shoulder?”

Bel moved his arm slightly and winced.

“It’s just stiff,” he said. “I was supposed to stay in bed for another week. But I can do that once we get to Hillfair. I’m sure I’ll be fine to fly in the morning.”

He stepped out of the paperwing and started to turn and bend down to get something from inside the hollow nose, but stopped suddenly, his face showing intense pain.

“Ah, if you wouldn’t mind . . . could you fetch my sword? And the food and water by your seat? I’m just going to sit down over against that tree . . .”

He walked very slowly toward one of the lone, outlying trees of the wood, a younger oak, its trunk merely spotted with lichen. Clariel picked up his sword, an ordinary-looking weapon in a plain scabbard on a simple leather belt, albeit with a gold-chased buckle. She strapped it on herself, then bent down again to take the water bottle and the muslin-wrapped bread.

There was something else there too, wedged almost in the nose of the paperwing. A silver bottle wreathed in gold wires. Clariel reached down to pick it up but as her fingers closed there was a flare of Charter Magic. Pain shot through the bones of her hand to her elbow, and she flinched back.

With the pain, she heard a distant, despairing voice.

The voice of the Free Magic creature.

Aziminil.

“Help me! Help me . . .”

Clariel’s hand stayed frozen near the bottle. She stayed completely still for a few seconds, the sound of Aziminil’s voice receding till she heard it no more. Once again she felt the desire to help the creature, to free it from its prison, a desire made stronger by her own experiences as a prisoner.

But there was a stronger emotion. She remembered the thrill of incipient power, when she had almost dominated Aziminil, when her will had closed like a fist upon the creature’s mind and she had been on the brink of seizing it, of using its sorcerous gifts. If she released it from the bottle, Clariel could force it to obey, and then it could help her. Who knew what she might be able to do with the creature’s powers at her disposal?

But the thing had tried to kill Bel before. Everyone said Free Magic creatures were evil. Yet against that, Kargrin himself said they were not evil as
such
, and surely that meant it was all about what you did with them—

Clariel withdrew her hand and shook her head violently, as if she could clear it of unsuitable thoughts. Grabbing the water and the bread, she went after the staggering Bel, catching up just in time to help manage his controlled collapse, getting his back against the trunk and slowly bending his knees till he was sitting down.

“I’ll be fine after a rest,” he whispered. “I did say that wind-working took it out of me, didn’t I?”

“You did,” replied Clariel. She set the food and water by his side.

“Thanks,” asked Bel, his eyes half-shut. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

Clariel did not answer. She looked back at the paperwing and then over to the shadowed edge of the wood proper, with the dusky light coming through the trees. She felt the trees beckon to her, inviting her in.

Here she had a real choice, for the first time ever. Her parents were gone, the ties of love, affection, and duty broken by their violent deaths. She had not wanted that, and she felt guilty at the thought that they could no longer hold her back from living the life she wanted to lead.

Against that, even in death they had set a very strong obligation upon her. They had to be revenged, and she was their daughter; surely this was her task.

But even as Clariel thought this, some small part of her was whispering away, suggesting that they would be avenged
anyway
, no matter what she did herself. The Abhorsens and the Clayr and Captain Gullaine and Kargrin would deal with Kilp and Aronzo. Besides, what did the living ever really owe the dead?

That same sly internal voice suggested Clariel could and should simply go into the forest here. This was a small wood, perhaps only a league from side to side, but it would be a stepping stone. She could head west on foot, there would be other small forests to hide within, she would cross the Ratterlin somehow . . .

Clariel paused, forcing herself to make a realistic assessment of her chances. She had neither the gold nor the disguise promised by Kargrin, and without either she would be taken easily at the ferry by the guards there, who would answer to Kilp as Governor or Lord Protector or whatever he called himself now. Besides that, she would have to survive forest and road, weather and ill-chance, barefoot, dressed in just a smock and cloak, with only the small knife around her neck and, if she could sink so low to steal it, Bel’s sword.

Furthermore, this little wood was nothing like the Great Forest. It would have few animals to hunt, or woodland foods to gather. She would have to beg or steal from the surrounding farms, and with every contact the chance of running into guards searching for her would increase, or word of her passage would get back to them.

But it was possible . . .

Bel groaned in his sleep, and his mouth twisted as if he were about to whistle, before relaxing again.

Clariel looked down at him. He was unconscious and even paler than usual, so white that if she hadn’t met him before she would think him sorely wounded and losing blood.

She frowned and quickly knelt down. Rolling Bel to one side, she unlaced his hauberk enough to get her hand inside the neck, so she could gently probe his wounded shoulder. The bandage there was damp but not wet, and when she withdrew her hand she saw her fingers only tinged with pink, a mixture of sweat and a little blood. His wound had not reopened, as she had feared for a moment. But he was still so pale. She put two fingers on his neck to feel his pulse. It was steady, if not strong. She felt his forehead too, which was cool but not clammy, confirming that he was simply exhausted, and not struck down by fever. He would be better for a sleep, and she felt confident he would be able to continue in the morning.

If she left, he would fly on to Hillfair, thought Clariel. No doubt sadder but none the worse.

Bel would tell the Abhorsen what had happened. He would avenge her mother and father. Kilp and Aronzo
would
have to pay, and pay with their lives. But as everyone said, revenge was a dish best made with care. Better to go to Estwael and take the time to plan and prepare, rather than rushing back to Belisaere. Besides, Clariel told herself, she didn’t care how Kilp and Aronzo died, provided someone killed them.

The forest and freedom was so close, and she could make it to Estwael . . .

“I will go,” whispered Clariel, almost as if Bel could hear her and that made it more honest. “I’ll have to borrow your sword and your money, if you have any . . .”

Since she was stealing his sword anyway, it made sense to search him for a purse. He didn’t have one, but there were three gold bezants and five silver deniers in a pocket at the top of his left boot, and a knife in the top of his right boot. Clariel left him the knife and one of the bezants.

Though the night was warm, she put on the cloak. It was dark, unlike her smock. Pursuit was unlikely, but you never knew what might be lurking in the woods. It would be better to at least try to remain unseen.

She also left the food and the water bottle for Bel. Though it had been a hot summer she had seen many small streams from the paperwing, so finding water would not be a problem. Food might be more of an issue, given the ordered nature of the woods about, but there were farms. Now she could buy food as well as steal it.

The biggest problem was simply the distance to Estwael. More than two hundred leagues and that barefoot—though she could perhaps buy some shoes, or make rough sandals from bark, or slippers from animal skin. All the while having to avoid contact with other people as much as possible.