by Garth Nix
Though it only took them a few minutes to cross the bridge, it felt longer to Clariel, and she was relieved to step off onto a much more strongly built and permanent-looking landing stage of dressed stone. Curiously, the river here was completely still, though the current raged only a foot away. There was a boat tied up there, a small sailing craft, its mast shipped with no sign of sail bags, oars or any other equipment.
Clariel looked at it, and then at the narrow channel of slack water that followed the side of the island northwards. Again, magic must be employed to allow boats to come and go without being taken by the river and then, very swiftly thereafter, the waterfall. So it was possible to leave the island by boat …
Tyriel saw her looking and shook his head. Crooking one finger, he pointed to the gate in the white wall ahead. Clariel shrugged and continued on, the gate opening without visible intervention by anyone as they approached.
As she stepped over the threshold, the roar of the waterfall stopped as abruptly as if it been simply turned off. Clariel rubbed her ear, thinking she’d gone deaf, till she heard the birds calling in the orchard to her left, and Tyriel clearing his throat. She turned to him, but he was facing the wall, his hand raised, a silver ring on his finger catching an errant ray from the setting sun.
Puzzled, Clariel looked around. The place was more pleasant than she’d feared. There was the orchard to her left, heavy with late summer peaches and apricots. A long lawn was divided by a bricked path, with the great fig tree she had glimpsed in the northern section, and a fountain in the south. Beyond that was a small grove of oaks, with a strangely thin and stunted tower set into the perimeter wall beyond.
‘This is my granddaughter Clariel,’ said Tyriel. ‘She is to be accorded the respect due one of the family and guarded as such. But she is not to cross the bridge, take a boat or a Paperwing without my direct permission, or that of the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. Is that understood?’
Clariel had turned to see who the Abhorsen was talking to, since he was still facing the wall. She stepped back instinctively as she saw a shape in the stone, moving under the whitewash, a long blade in its hand. But the sword moved in salute and she saw that it was a sending coming out of the wall, the thousands of Charter marks that outlined it growing brighter as it emerged. Standing before them, the marks dimmed, and the sending took on a more normal appearance, that of a tall man in helmet and long hauberk, a great two-handed sword now resting on his shoulder. He bowed low to the Abhorsen, turned slightly, and bowed again to Clariel, only not so low.
‘You will tell the other sendings?’ asked Tyriel. ‘The House lacks for nothing to provide for her comfort?’
The sending nodded in answer to the first question, and shook its head to the second.
‘Right,’ said Tyriel, turning around to clap his hand on Clariel’s shoulder. It had more the feel of a man grabbing a dog he was about to instruct than anything familial. ‘That’s settled. You’ll be comfortable here, and more importantly, completely safe. I will visit you as soon as matters allow.’
‘You’re just leaving me here?’ asked Clariel. ‘Are there … does anyone else live here?’
‘Only the sendings,’ said Tyriel. ‘Kargrin’s letter said you found the city too busy, you liked solitude –’
‘In the Great Forest,’ protested Clariel. ‘Of my own choice!’
‘I’ll send Bel to visit when he’s well,’ said Tyriel. ‘I will visit myself when the opportunity presents … As I said, it will only be for a few months, three maybe …’
‘Months with you doing nothing to avenge my parents,’ said Clariel. She could feel the rage rising in her again. It was unbearable to be treated in such a way, to be put somewhere safe without any thought for her own desires and feelings. She took a deep breath and managed to hold it, Tyriel watching her carefully, his sun-wrinkled eyes narrowed.
‘Caution is a virtue,’ he said, as she finally let the breath out, very slowly. ‘Kilp will pay for his misdeeds in due course, but you must be patient. Read the book on controlling your rage. Rest. Enjoy the gardens, and the fishing. Grieve for your parents.’
‘I will,’ said Clariel. ‘That I will certainly do. But I will not stay here. No matter what you think.’
The Abhorsen sighed.
‘You will. You might even thank me in time.’
He took a step towards the gate then paused, looked at the silver bottle under his arm, and handed it to the sending.
‘Take this to the usual place.’
The sending took it, with a curious meshing of the Charter marks that limned and defined its fingers with those wreathing the bottle. Tyriel looked at Clariel again, gave her a glance she couldn’t decipher, and went out. The sending closed the gate after Tyriel, before striding off quickly towards the house, carrying the bottle at arm’s length.
‘Where do I go?’ called out Clariel. She tried to lift the bar on the gate, as a test. It was stuck fast, so immobile it might as well all be one piece that never moved, even though Clariel had seen it open easily enough a few moments before.
Another sending appeared at her elbow, coalescing out of the path of rosy, faded bricks. This one had the appearance of a cowled figure, only its hands and a shadowed face visible under a dark robe. It appeared human save to close inspection, when the Charter marks that made up its strange skin and even its clothes could be seen.
The sending beckoned, and started towards the blue-painted door of the main house. Clariel looked at the gate and the sky above, then followed wearily.
The house did look comfortable, Clariel thought as she went in. Charter marks for light sparkled in the ceilings, brightening as the day grew dim outside. The sending took her through a hall and up a central stair, and then to a large bedroom that had windows that looked out over the curtain wall to the river. The walls were of painted plaster, in light blue with silver details. There was a fireplace, with no fire set, but it would not be needed for some weeks yet. The large bed had four posts, each beautifully carved with the key motif of the Abhorsens, with a fat feather mattress, as evidenced by a half-escaped goose feather at the foot. There was a silver washstand in the corner, with a large porcelain basin under two bronze tubes with screw-wheels, which Clariel recognised as one of the relatively new-fangled arrangements for supplying hot water. She was surprised to see this because the Abhorsen’s House was otherwise clearly very old.
The sending indicated the basin. Clariel shook her head. She’d just had a bath and had not become very dirty or sweaty on the short ride over. The sending gestured again.
‘No, thank you,’ said Clariel. ‘I’m going to have a look around.’
She turned about and went out the door. The sending scurried after her, carefully shutting the door.
The sending stayed at her heels for the next two hours. Clariel found the main hall first, with its floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows showing shifting scenes of the Wall being built. She watched this for some time, trying to catch the movement in the scenes, but it never happened in the actual pane she was focused on. Needless to say, on close inspection the windows weren’t really glass, stained or otherwise, but very complex Charter Magic spells. It was also hard to remember exactly what she’d seen, save the Wall itself.
The hall had a table almost as long as the room, groaning under the weight of silver and gold salt cellars, dishes, jugs, plates, platters, decanters and other objects. Some of it looked like Dropstone work as far as Clariel could tell, which reminded her of Jaciel and made tears come to her eyes, as well as wonder why her mother had never spoken of the Abhorsen’s House. If she had known this was all here she would have set up a forge out on the lawn and never left. But even growing up at Hillfair, she must not have come to the older house. It was as Bel had said. The Abhorsens had abandoned their responsibilities, and with them, this house.
After the hall, Clariel prowled through the kitchen, where a great many sendings all came to attention, stopping in the middle of cooking a dinner for
at least a dozen people, which made Clariel worried there would be company after all. Feeling very much in the way, she quickly glanced in the buttery and larder and hurried out again.
She went to the tower next. The ground floor was a library, with floor-to-ceiling shelves all the way around, a table and what looked to be a very comfortable padded armchair for settling down to serious reading. A cowled sending came out of one of the bookshelves as Clariel entered, bowed low and gestured at the books all around.
‘Um, do you have a copy of The Fury Within?’ asked Clariel. She wondered what had happened to the copy Gullaine had given her, left somewhere in the Belisaere house. Doubtless it would have been seized by Kilp’s people, with all her other things, her mother’s gold and silver works, the strongbox with the family gold, the paper records …
All gone now. Gone forever.
‘I forget the subtitle …’
The librarian sending bowed, whisked across the room and shinnied up the bookshelves almost to the ceiling, more like an insect than a person. It didn’t seem to have any feet under its robe. As with the other sendings only its hands were fully visible, and its shadowed face when seen from directly in front. It took a book from the shelf and came back down again.
It was a slightly different edition of The Fury Within: A Study of the Berserk Rage and Related Matters. This book was larger and printed on thicker paper with slightly bigger type. Clariel took the volume and she and the sending bowed to each other as she backed out. As she did so, something made a hissing noise behind and below her, the unexpected sound startling Clariel so much she dropped the book, whirled around and reached for her knife.
A small white cat was sitting in the doorway, twitching his tail, his bright green eyes fixed on Clariel with an unnerving directness. There was a red collar around his neck that gleamed with Charter marks, and a tiny bell that Clariel knew instinctively she never wanted to hear ring.
‘And who might you be?’ asked the cat.
chapter twenty-four
a most knowledgeable cat
‘I think you should be answering that question,’ said Clariel, edging back into the library. She glanced at the librarian, but it did not appear perturbed by this cat-thing, which was clearly not a cat at all. It had to be a Free Magic creature, though the Charter Magic collar was curious …
‘Let’s see,’ said the cat. ‘You’re neither the Abhorsen nor the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, not least because they never set foot inside this house if they can help it, but also because you’re too young. You remind me a little of … Teriel … but you can’t be his sister, also because you’re too young. Did Teriel have a child before –’
‘I meant who are you!’ interrupted Clariel.
The cat drew himself up and puffed out his chest.
‘What do you mean? I am Mogget, of course. The one and only Mogget. Though I have had other names.’
‘What are you?’ asked Clariel. ‘Why don’t the sendings … do something about you?’
‘Why would they?’ asked the cat, with a yawn. ‘I am as much a slave as they are; we are old companions. Only I wasn’t made by an Abhorsen, just forced into slavery by one, with a bit of help. It’s an ancient tale and new ones are so much more interesting. Like your story. Tell me who you are.’
‘I am Clariel. Jaciel’s daughter. The Abhorsen’s granddaughter.’
‘A pleasure to meet you,’ said Mogget. ‘It is awfully dull here, and my collar itches me so. Perhaps you would be kind enough to take it off for a few minutes?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Clariel slowly. The Charter marks on the collar were fading now, sinking back into the red leather, but she thought she had recognised at least one master mark of binding. The mere fact she couldn’t recognise any of the others indicated their power. What’s more, the bell was obviously a small version of one of the Abhorsen’s necromantic bells. ‘Why do you say you are a slave?’
‘Bound by magic to serve the Abhorsen till the sun grows cold and dies,’ said Mogget sourly. ‘What else would you call it? If you won’t loosen my collar, can you at least fish?’
‘What do you do for the Abhorsen?’ asked Clariel.
‘I asked you first,’ said Mogget. ‘Can you fish?’
‘Yes,’ replied Clariel. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘I like fish, fresh-caught,’ said Mogget. ‘The sendings rarely give me any. I thought you might –’
‘What do you do for the Abhorsen?’ repeated Clariel.
‘Nothing for the last sixty years or more,’ said Mogget. ‘Tyriel, like his predecessor, hardly ever comes here. Spends all his time riding around that ridiculous Hillfair like an idiot, wreaking havoc on the deer. I haven’t even been taken outside since Feriniel was the Abhorsen, and she was … let’s see … Tyriel’s great-great-uncle’s daughter …’
‘What did you do back then?’
‘Oh, the usual,’ said Mogget slyly, his emerald eyes narrowing. ‘Sage advice, the wisdom of the ages, that sort of thing. Not that many of them listened. What are you doing here?’
‘Being imprisoned,’ said Clariel shortly. ‘Temporarily, if I have anything to do with it.’
‘Tell me more,’ said Mogget encouragingly. He tilted his head in interest, and Clariel had to stop herself from instinctively reaching down to scratch under his chin. As she half extended and then pulled back her hand, Mogget stood up on his hind paws, pink nose sniffing.
‘Interesting …’ he said.
‘What?’ asked Clariel.
‘Oh, the scent of the outside world,’ said Mogget. ‘So you’re a prisoner?’
‘For my own protection, or so I am told,’ said Clariel. She bent down to pick up the dropped book, keeping a careful eye on Mogget. She was trying to remember where she’d heard the name before, or some part of it … and then it came to her. Bel, talking about books in the Abhorsen’s House, and someone called ‘Mog’, his voice trailing off with the name incomplete …
‘Do you know Belatiel?’
‘Ah, the delightfully enthusiastic Bel,’ said Mogget. He was looking at the book, whiskers twitching. ‘So keen, so unencumbered by experience. Yes. He is one of the few members of the extended family who come here, and even then I think he has to sneak away to do it. You are … familiar with Bel?’
‘He’s a friend of mine, if that’s what you mean,’ said Clariel. ‘From Belisaere.’
‘So Belatiel has been in Belisaere,’ said the cat. ‘How appropriate. It has been long since I visited the city. Long indeed. So you come from Belisaere.’
‘Only most immediately, before that I was …’ said Clariel. Her voice trailed off and she shook her head. ‘Why am I telling you anything? I can see you’re a Free Magic creature.’
‘But not the first you’ve met,’ said Mogget slyly. ‘Or held, by the faint trace I discern upon your hands. But have no fear! You’ve seen my collar, proving my … utter faithfulness to the Charter that binds me. I am but a slave of the Abhorsen, currently your grandfather, and thus by extension of you. You have but to command me and I will obey.’
‘You will?’
‘Possibly,’ answered Mogget, yawning to show his very sharp white teeth. ‘It all depends. I do have to obey the Abhorsen and the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, but as neither has given me any orders for such a long time I fear I am out of practice. You could ask me nicely. Promise me a fish.’
‘You can show me the rest of the house to begin with,’ said Clariel. ‘Please.’
‘If we converse along the way,’ said Mogget, ‘that would be acceptable.’
He sidled out of the library, tail high.
‘I suppose we could,’ said Clariel cautiously.
As they wandered upstairs she found herself telling Mogget about her life in Estwael, the move to Belisaere and the events of the last week. But she gave a highly abridged version of her encounter with Aziminil, very light on details, specifically not mentioning her mental conversation with it or how she had let
it go.
‘I know of Kargrin,’ said Mogget, as Clariel looked in the armoury on the second floor. It was very well-stocked, and perfectly clean, but it had an air of disuse. Everything was just too perfectly put away. As with elsewhere in the House, a sending appeared as soon as Clariel entered, this one gesturing at the racks of swords and the stands of bows and spears with what might almost be construed as a beseeching gesture. Clariel shook her head, though she took note of several weapons of interest. If there was any chance of getting away, she would need to be better equipped. There were complete arrays of armour there too, on stands, including a short shirt of gethre plates that looked like it would fit her.
‘What was that about Kargrin?’ she asked Mogget as they left. She hadn’t been paying attention and he’d said something else about the magister.
‘His teacher’s the one to watch for,’ repeated Mogget. ‘The old witch.’
Clariel stopped. ‘Who?’
‘Ader, she calls herself, or did,’ said Mogget. ‘But she was Maderael when she was the Abhorsen.’
‘What!’
‘When she was the Abhorsen,’ said Mogget innocently.
‘But … she’s still alive,’ said Clariel. ‘I thought you only got a new Abhorsen when the old one died …’
‘Ah, the lack of education among you young ones,’ sighed Mogget. ‘Abhorsens can abdicate their authority. The trick is fooling … convincing someone else to take over.’
‘You mean she was the Abhorsen before Tyriel?’
Mogget shook his head and gave out a rather alarming caterwaul-like chuckle.
‘Oh, no, she was one back again, the Abhorsen before Kariniel, almost a hundred years ago.’
Clariel shook her head. ‘She can’t be that old.’
‘Can’t she?’ asked Mogget. ‘Charter Magic can do many things. She was very young when she took the bells, and very young when she gave them back again.’
‘Why?’
Mogget looked away from her and batted at the air with his paw, as if an errant fly was passing.
