Clariel: The Lost Abhorsen (The Abhorsen Trilogy Book 4) (29 page)

“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
think
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

A
fter dinner, which she ate in the hall alone, save for numerous sendings, Clariel went to the armory. The sending there once again offered her armor and weapons; this time she accepted them, taking the shirt of gethre plates, which fit 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 armor and sword, she discovered a good woolen 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 toward 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, open 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 armor 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.”

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 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 empty, save for a massive table in the very center, 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 toward 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 mold.

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 recognize 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 important, 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 realized 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.