by Garth Nix
‘What do these creatures want of me, Claw?’ asked the King, mishearing what she had said. He sounded as if he might be asking for his tea. There was some remnant of what he had once been, some vestige of power in his voice. It was enough to make Mogget answer, however reluctant he might be.
‘We … want … your … blood,’ said Mogget, each word dragged unwillingly from his mouth. He clawed at his collar, tearing hair and skin. A multitude of marks shone and roiled there now, evidence of some great spell in action. ‘We want your blood upon the Great Charter Stones in the reservoir below, to break the Charter. To free all of us so enslaved!’
A sharp stab of pain hit Clariel in the forehead as Mogget spoke, blinding her for a moment. Her sword felt slippery and uncertain in her hand, as if it might fly out of her grasp. She gripped it tighter, her fingers breaking through gauntlets that were now like ancient lace, the very threads disintegrating. Stepping up on the dais, she drew even closer to the King. Aziminil and Baazalanan stalked nearer too, watchful and silent.
Clariel could still feel their thoughts, their intent, even if they would not obey her. The connection between them remained. They would not kill the King here. They had to take him somewhere below, for his blood needed to be spilled fresh upon the Great Charter Stones.
‘Where is my granddaughter?’ asked the King again, as if he had not heard Mogget. The old man looked at the creatures, then at Clariel, his old rheumy eyes weeping, his mouth hanging open. ‘Tathiel was to come. The Clayr Saw her. Why is she not here, Claw?’
‘She sent me,’ said Clariel. ‘She awaits you. But you must run now. The Clayr are coming, you will be safe.’
‘I can’t run,’ protested the King. ‘I haven’t run for years.’
‘Get behind the throne!’ ordered Clariel urgently. She could sense the Free Magic creatures were about to spring. ‘Crawl if you must.’
‘I do not crawl!’ said Orrikan indignantly.
Baazalanan sprang at the King as he spoke and Aziminil jumped high at Clariel. She tried a stop-thrust but the sword betrayed her, turning in her hand, so she threw herself into a dodge, ducking and rolling away as Aziminil came screaming down, her spiked feet smashing into the wooden dais.
Before Aziminil could strike again, Clariel dived forward, scrabbling across the floor on all fours, the gauntlets falling off her fingers like shredded skin. Mogget was right in front of her, twisting and yowling, and his collar shone brighter than the sun with Charter marks. The spells within it held him fast, held him for Clariel.
She grabbed the cat’s collar with both hands.
The Charter exploded into her body, rocketing through muscle, skin and bone. Thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions of marks burned their way through every part of her body, and into her mind. There the marks found the bridge from her to the creatures, and exploded across to Baazalanan, who held the King; and to Aziminil, just as she was about to stomp down on Clariel once again.
The creatures froze like statues. Twin waterfalls of golden sparks exploded from Baazalanan’s eyes. The void that was Aziminil’s face suddenly lit with a glow brighter than one of Jaciel’s crucibles. Charter marks danced amid the sparks, weaving a river of light between collar, woman and creatures.
But it was not enough.
All three creatures fought the Charter, and Clariel could not keep her grip. Mogget edged slowly backwards, snarling as he exerted his will against the compulsion of his collar.
Clariel could not hold on. As her fingers weakened, so did the stream of marks.
The sparks streaming from Baazalanan’s eyes faltered. The creature started to move again, taking a step, the King dead or unconscious in his arms. Aziminil’s face returned to darkness, and she jerkily lifted her foot above Clariel’s back, a fraction at a time, slow steps towards a killing blow.
Clariel only gripped the collar with two fingers now. All strength had fled from her body. She felt used up, the fury gone, all her hopes and dreams fled. Aronzo and Kilp were dead, but now the King was to be killed, and the Charter broken. Creatures like Aziminil and Baazalanan would roam freely, slaying and wreaking havoc …
It was all her fault.
‘Stop,’ she croaked at Mogget, who was ever so slowly continuing to edge away from her, ever so slowly breaking her grip. ‘Stop, Mogget. In the name of the Abhorsen whom you serve.’
Mogget did not answer. Clariel’s fingers slipped again. She held the collar by only one finger now and it was giving way. She could feel the spike of Aziminil’s foot against her back, just touching below her shoulder blade. But the pain from that was nothing compared to the other pain in her side, and even that was less than the pain in her forehead. This pain came from the contact with the Charter. It would go if she released her grip, she knew. But still she tried to slide forward, to keep her hold, to keep the marks flowing through her into the Free Magic creatures …
This was how Bel saw her, when he came running into the Great Hall, with the sword Cleave in his right hand, the bell Saraneth in his left.
He saw a tumbled, masked figure on the ground, desperately trying to struggle forward as Mogget retreated back, her one finger hooked around his collar. Bel saw the marks flowing from collar to Clariel to the creatures: the dagger-footed one from the Islet, her spiked foot about to deliver a terrible blow; and another, tall and impossibly thin, who cradled the King in its arms, sidling towards the door that led to the reservoir below.
Bel saw it all, and in that instant knew what was happening, saw that Clariel was the dupe of Aziminil and Mogget, and not the deceiver he had feared.
Bel rang Saraneth even as Clariel’s finger slipped.
In the moment of its sounding, all became still. Saraneth’s deep voice commanded all who heard it to obey. In the echo of the bell’s call, Belatiel spoke, the voice of an Abhorsen come fully to his power.
‘Stop!’
Aziminil’s spiked foot stopped, just piercing the skin of Clariel’s back. Baazalanan froze in place. Mogget gave a disgruntled yowl, but he too became still.
Yet even Saraneth could not command a wound to stop bleeding, and the blood flowed without stint from the dagger wound in Clariel’s side.
Bel held up his sword hand. The silver ring that Tyriel had worn was on his index finger. The ring that sealed Mogget’s allegiance.
‘Mogget, I am the Abhorsen, and I renew all instructions, orders and commands that have been given to thee these many years, and reiterate them anew.’
Mogget rolled his eyes and muttered something that Clariel couldn’t catch. She couldn’t hear properly. It was the hood, she thought, though in fact the hood was in tatters around her head. Like the rest of her robe, all its virtue lost, all Charter Magic long since fled.
Only the bronze mask remained, though she no longer felt the metal on her face.
‘Mistress Ader, if you could help me with the creatures?’
Clariel heard that. So Mistress Ader had survived. That was good, she thought dimly. She knew Gullaine had not lived, for the Captain of the Guard was lying only a few paces away in front of the throne, her sightless eyes turned towards the ceiling, eyes that had once been so alive.
Gullaine had a dozen wounds or more upon her front. They would all be at the front, Clariel thought.
Charter marks suddenly flew above her, like a flock of bright starlings come home to roost. She screamed as they struck Aziminil, as she shared the pain of the creature’s binding. Then there was a sudden vacancy in her mind and Aziminil was gone, gone as if she had never been. Another agonising stab of pain followed and Baazalanan too disappeared.
Clariel sobbed from the pain of their absence, and for the loss of the great power she had never dared fully use. And perhaps most of all for the power she had used so unwisely.
Finally, Bel knelt by her side. Clariel tried to sit up, or even roll upon her back, but she couldn’t move. She craned her neck and tried to speak, the words slow, her mouth strangely dry and twisted.
&nb
sp; ‘Sorry,’ she croaked. ‘Thought no one was doing anything. Didn’t understand. Free Magic.’
‘I know,’ said Bel. He saw the blood pooling under her, suppressed a gasp, and reached for the Charter to choose the marks of a healing spell.
‘My aunt Lemmin,’ whispered Clariel. ‘Rescue her?’
‘We will,’ said Bel. ‘There will be no more fighting. Not with Kilp dead, and the Clayr and the others coming through the Erchan Gate.’
‘The King?’ whispered Clariel.
‘He’s dying,’ said Bel. He had the marks, the spell was all ready, but it would not leave his hand. The marks refused to enter Clariel’s flesh. He looked quickly at the King. ‘It has all been too much. He’s smiling, though. Ader is telling him the news.’
‘Telling him …’
‘Princess Tathiel came with the Clayr,’ said Bel. He grimaced as the spell rebounded again and he lost the marks. ‘She has been with them all this time. She will be Queen. Much against her wishes.’
‘We can’t all get what we want,’ whispered Clariel. ‘I thought it was so simple … the Great Forest … not so much to ask …’
‘No, not so much,’ said Bel.
Clariel didn’t answer.
Bel wiped his eyes and reached for the Charter again. Mistress Ader came to his side, and he felt her hand upon his shoulder, lending him strength. But again the marks were repelled and Bel, already weary from his frantic flight in pursuit of Clariel, almost fainted from the effort himself.
‘There is too much Free Magic in her,’ said Ader, her voice kind but sure. ‘The wound is too deep. You have to let her go, Bel – and we must make sure she cannot come back.’
Bel nodded slowly and stood up as if carrying a great weight upon his back. As he did so, Mogget curled around his legs.
‘There is a way to save her, you know,’ said the cat. ‘Or you should know, if either of you had been properly educated. I suppose I could tell you, now you have recalled me to myself and to make some … ahem … amends.’
‘What?’ asked Bel urgently.
‘The Great Charter Stones,’ said Mogget. ‘Your healing spells will work if you draw upon them. Take her down to the reservoir.
‘Though it might be too late,’ he added, pulling one paw back daintily from the spreading pool of blood.
epilogue
Clariel came to consciousness slowly. For a moment she was disoriented, feeling the crisp linen under her, the sheet and fine wool blanket across her body. Was she home in Estwael, or was she still trapped in the new house in Belisaere?
Her eyes opened to see a circular room she’d never been in before. She was somewhere high up, the narrow window opposite showing only a night sky with a scattering of stars, dim in the light of the Charter marks that glowed softly above her bedhead.
Her side ached, and her face …
Clariel remembered. Her hands flew up, to touch nose and mouth, fearing to find bronze but instead feeling familiar skin. She let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief. Slowly she traced her cheekbones, and then, more hesitantly than ever, touched the middle of her forehead.
This didn’t feel the same. She felt no Charter mark, no connection with the Charter. Instead there were two painful welts of new scar tissue, crossing each other to make something like a misshapen, twisted X.
Clariel let her hands fall. She lay there, staring out at the sky for a long time. She had tried to do what was right, but in retrospect so much of it had been wrong. The Clayr would have defeated Kilp without her. All she’d done was help Aziminil get close to carrying out some long-laid plan to destroy the Great Charter Stones.
Even worse than that, she had to admit to herself, was the fact that Free Magic was wonderful. If she had let herself not worry about anyone else, then she could have just used the power of Aziminil and Baazalanan. They would never have dared turn against her without Mogget’s help, and her own weakness. She could have flown to Estwael, gone to live in the Great Forest, ruled the Forest …
‘No …’ whispered Clariel. She sat up in the bed and slapped herself in the head. What was she thinking? She’d been stupid, and would no doubt pay the price. But it was better this way, far better than if she had become a fully fledged Free Magic sorcerer.
Or a necromancer, whispered a voice in the back of her mind, remembering the bells in the cavern on the slopes of Mount Aunden. The bells were still there, even if the sword was gone. It was probably destroyed already, melted down by the Abhorsen and his lackeys. But if she could get to the mountain, or find bells elsewhere …
‘No,’ groaned Clariel. She put her face in her hands and tried to think of her place of willow arches by the two streams, her calm and pleasant refuge. But though she could picture it, she could no longer imagine herself there. She was a traitor, even if she hadn’t meant to be, and there was only one punishment for that.
A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. It opened, and through the gap she saw a winding stair beyond. She was in a tower room, Clariel realised, probably in the Palace. She had no real memory beyond fading out in the Great Hall, though she had some faint recollection of a place of rippling water, and great stones that thronged with Charter marks …
Bel came through the door, his finger to his lips. He was wearing a simple blue tunic dusted with silver keys, hunting breeches and soft slippers, and he looked much better than he had when last she’d seen him. He moved well, as if his shoulder no longer troubled him. That made her wonder how long she had been unconscious. Such healing as she must have needed did not take place in a few days, no matter how much magic was involved.
‘We must be quiet,’ whispered Bel.
‘Why?’ asked Clariel. Her voice still sounded raspy, strange to her ears.
‘Because I’m helping you escape,’ said Bel. ‘I’ve bespelled the guards below with a misdirection, like the one Kargrin used on us when we went to the Islet.’
‘Why?’ asked Clariel again. She let herself fall back on her pillow. ‘I know what I’ve done. I should pay the price.’
‘I owe you my life,’ said Bel simply. ‘Twice. Perhaps I’ve repaid part of that, and now I would repay all. Also … I feel responsible. I should have realised Mogget was wriggling free of his bonds, that three generations of Abhorsens had ignored him to everyone’s cost. I should have warned you that he was not to be trusted. And I should have made sure the lower depths of the House were forbidden to you.’
‘You weren’t to know,’ said Clariel wearily. ‘Not your responsibility.’
‘But it was,’ said Bel anxiously. ‘I’ve been the Abhorsen-in-Waiting for years, only I didn’t know it. I had only to claim my bells … and …’
He hesitated, then pressed on. ‘Tyriel was thrown from his horse the evening you escaped. He was very badly injured – he died later that night – and everyone was milling around in a great panic, with Yannael not doing anything useful. In the midst of it, a message-hawk came to me, to me personally. The most curious message-hawk ever because it didn’t say anything, it just drew a picture of the Abhorsen’s House in the dirt and a bell with legs on a horse riding to the house. So I went, and … it turned out I was the new Abhorsen.’
‘As you always wanted,’ said Clariel. She tried to smile, but there seemed to be a problem with the corner of her mouth. ‘Speaking of aunts, is my aunt Lemmin … is she still … Did they –’
‘She’s fine, she was treated well,’ said Bel. He frowned and hesitated again. ‘They told her you were dead. They’ve told everyone. Killed with the King, trying to save him.’
‘I did try to save the King,’ said Clariel. ‘I suppose the rest will soon be true.’
‘No,’ said Bel, shaking his head. He went to the chest at the foot of the bed and took out a plain woollen cloak. ‘It is true Queen Tathiel thinks you should be executed, but that’s not going to happen. I told you I’d help you escape. Get up and get this cloak over your nightgown. Not the best for travelling, but I couldn’t risk b
ringing anything up. There’s some other clothing, and money and food and suchlike in the boat –’
‘Bel … I thank you for what you’re trying to do,’ said Clariel. ‘But I … I was a Free Magic sorcerer, and I will be again. If I find another creature, I am sure I will try to bind it. I want that power again. Charter help me, I even want to walk in Death! I don’t think I can stop it, not by myself. Best to end it here. I always said Belisaere would kill me, one way or another.’
‘You won’t become a Free Magic sorcerer again,’ argued Bel. ‘When Mistress Ader and I healed you, we bound that part of you, wrapped it in Charter spells drawing on the Great Charter itself. You would not be able to bind a creature, even if you found one. It would simply kill you, like any other ordinary mortal.’
‘Spells fade,’ said Clariel. ‘Bindings fail.’
Bel smiled, a melancholy smile.
‘Not in your lifetime,’ he said. ‘Nor in mine. Come, the guards will be out of the spell soon.’
‘Where can I go?’ asked Clariel softly. She could feel tears forming in her eyes, tears for the life offered her, tears for the life she could never have, her life in the Forest. ‘A boat, you said. But where can I go?’
‘I’ve spelled it to take you north,’ said Bel. ‘Far to the north. It will follow the coast, then go up the river Greenwash to where they’re building the bridge. There is a pass allowing you to cross the bridge, plenty of money to buy a horse or mule, anything you need. The steppe lies beyond, but further still, across the Great Rift there are stories of a forest … wilder and more immense than anything in the Kingdom … It will be risky, of course, but …’
‘Thank you,’ said Clariel.
Not her Forest, but a forest somewhere. That was something to live for. She sat up and swung her legs over the bed. There was something under her feet, something cold and metallic. She picked it up and stared down at the bronze mask. The straps were blackened as if they’d been burned, and the bronze was pitted and scarred.
