Terciel and Elinor (9780063049345)

by Nix, Garth

  Magistrix Tallowe,

  We have been told you are not teaching Charter Magic as per the long-standing agreement and consequently the annual stipend will not be paid until this matter is investigated, and we may undertake other measures.

  The application from Elinor Hallett for permission to enter the Old Kingdom is granted. A writ of admission will be delivered by a representative of the Clayr, who will guide and guard her, as the Voice of the Nine Day Watch has expressed a desire for this woman to come to the Glacier, the Watch having Seen her. Inform the said Elinor Hallett of this decision.

  The representative of the Clayr will also investigate your reported malfeasance. She will be with you near midwinter (yours, that is). Ensure you and Elinor Hallett are ready.

  Do not fail us.

  Faruille

  Regent

  In Belisaere

  “But I didn’t send a message!” called out Elinor, even though Mrs. Tallowe had already left the hall. “Really, I didn’t send . . .”

  This was true. But she had a good idea who had. Elinor started down the aisle and had taken several steps before she stopped herself. She couldn’t barge in on Corinna, Kierce, or Angharad in their exclusive Sixth Form studies, and even less so visit Hazra in her Fourth Form dormitory, shared with three other girls.

  No, she would have to wait until the rehearsal tomorrow, when she could ask Corinna.

  Elinor sat down on the end of the nearest pew and read the letter again. What or who was the Nine Day Watch? What did it mean that the Clayr had Seen her?

  The words “near midwinter” struck Elinor in the heart, though she didn’t understand the added “yours, that is.” The play was to open Midwinter Eve. The school hosted a Midwinter Gala, inviting all the notables of Bain and the North. Many parents and guests came, some from as far as Corvere. Elinor herself had invited Dr. Bannow. In addition to the play, there would be exhibitions of archery and dancing; a debate; the demonstration of the steam engine the Sixth Form advanced science class had been building all year . . .

  Elinor did want to go to the Old Kingdom. She even felt she needed to go. But now it seemed likely to happen sooner rather than later; she wished it might be later, because of The Court of the Sad Prince. There was still so much to be done. Corinna needed much more training; there was the stilt-walking pickpocket scene they hadn’t started at all; so many of the actors required prompting . . .

  But most important, Elinor wanted to see the production. She wanted to see it with the stage built, with the pews packed to bursting, the curtains drawing back to a glorious show with all the bright costumes, and the stage machinery and the actors fired up and the coracle scene and the duels and Charlotte Breakespear’s wonderful words . . .

  Were there plays in the Old Kingdom? There must be, she thought, and leaned back, ignoring the discomfort of the hard wooden pew. She shut her eyes and imagined a play in the Old Kingdom, thinking of all the things you could do onstage with real magic, allied with the ordinary stagecraft that was still somehow magical as well.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was cold under the House, quite unlike the building above, which was heated with hot water pipes from the deep springs and additionally warmed by layers of magic set in walls and floors by generations of Abhorsens who sought even greater comfort. But down below, the winter beyond the walls of the Abhorsen’s House had settled into the rough-hewn rock.

  Tizanael went down the steps first. The sloping corridor from the cellar was quite narrow at first, but it soon broadened out to become a circular stair that went down past several landings and, for all Terciel knew, might continue on for many, many more. It certainly went on past the sixth landing, where they stopped. Guard Sendings emerged from the iron-banded oak door there, heavily armed and armored Sendings with closed helmets of blackened steel, more forbidding than any others Terciel knew.

  “Stay still,” warned Tizanael. She stepped forward and announced them: “The Abhorsen Tizanael and the Abhorsen-in-Waiting Terciel.”

  Tiny Charter marks tumbled from her mouth, to be lifted by her breath like glowing dust motes, sparkling in the air. The guard Sendings leaned forward and took them in, the marks of Tizanael’s breath merging with the marks that made up the Sendings. For a moment longer they were still, before they bowed deeply and edged back, themselves fading into invisibility as they entered oak and iron and stone. The door groaned open, the hinges protesting, as if it had been a very long time since anyone had last passed this way.

  The passage beyond was dark, until Tizanael stepped through the door and Charter marks in the ceiling sprang to life. Not brilliantly, as a new-cast spell for light would do, but with a soft illumination, not much better than having a candle in a sconce every few feet. But it was enough to see that this passage continued for at least sixty feet, and there were three doors on the left side, and four on the right. Heavy, iron-bound doors.

  “The second on the left,” mused Tizanael. “Or so says Moregrim.”

  She strode to the door, but did not move to open it. Instead she passed her hand across the face of the door, without actually touching it. Charter marks flared in the timber and the iron bolts, many marks joined in patterns within patterns. Tizanael studied the marks carefully, and beckoned to Terciel without turning to him.

  “What do you make of the spells upon this door?”

  Terciel looked carefully, identifying the marks he knew. There was one spell he was sure of, and several others where he knew from the marks used the basic idea of the spell without being sure of its exact use. But there were half a dozen more where he simply didn’t know any of the marks.

  “There is one spell to make the door strong,” he said slowly. “As if it were all tempered iron, and much thicker than it actually is. I can also see marks for blinding and deafening, but I do not know the spells or how they might be unleashed. Most of the marks I do not know at all.”

  “You must study more,” said Tizanael. “Though I confess there are marks here I do not know either. But one of the spells I do know is to keep this door shut against any opening. It has been permanently closed, or as permanently as may be if the spells are not unraveled. Which to be done safely would take a great deal of time and careful study, and even then I am not sure I could do it. I would need help from one of the Clayr librarians or someone like that.”

  “So we can’t get the chain?” asked Terciel. He felt relieved, but it was coupled with disappointment. He did not want to carry the chain, or go on a hunt for an old and cunning enemy who had evaded numerous other Abhorsens. But he also knew it had to be done, and Tizanael would probably insist they pursue Kerrigor anyway, even without the chain. Which would be worse.

  “Perhaps,” said Tizanael thoughtfully. She turned around and looked at the door on the opposite side of the corridor. “Moregrim is a creature of mischief and ill intent. He is compelled by his collar to serve us, but he has had many years . . . many centuries . . . to learn how to subvert commands. You recall he prefaced his directions with ‘I can’t recall exactly’?”

  “But that was about it being a garnet or a ruby, wasn’t it?” said Terciel, and then, “Ah. Clever.”

  “Moregrim would enjoy us stumbling back up above, blind and deaf for weeks, perhaps even longer,” said Tizanael. “Time we cannot afford, in any case. The Regent’s missive concerned another village in the Upp river valley, the Charter Stone broken, the villagers gone. It has to be the work of Kerrigor. Come, let us examine the door opposite. I do not want to grow too suspicious, but there may be even more to the dwarf’s double-dealing.”

  The other door was not so ferociously spelled. Even so, Tizanael took her time studying the marks that swirled and rose in the surface, and typically pointed out one spell in particular for Terciel to research later, as it utilized a master mark he already knew, but in a different way.

  “The master mark here is not the central part of the spell, with the other marks arrayed around and upon it,” said Tizan
ael. “Instead, it has been used as a kind of capstone to hold down a group of very . . . excitable . . . marks that would not otherwise endure. This spell will last a very long time, years or even centuries, rather than mere weeks or months. Do you know what the spell does?”

  “Something to do with water,” said Terciel, peering close. “The water in living flesh? I don’t understand. I’ve seen something of the like in a much simpler spell to dry plums for storage, but that seems . . .”

  “It is not for drying, but quite the reverse. It is a spell to run water through the desiccated veins of a Dead creature,” said Tizanael. “At least one clothed in flesh, however decayed. It would destroy any Lesser Dead, and cause great agony to a Greater one. And it would discomfit a Free Magic entity, at least one of the minor varieties.”

  “Clever,” said Terciel admiringly. “But it must take a long time to cast.”

  “Several days,” said Tizanael. “So it is only of use to trap a door or something similar. The other aspect you may have missed is that it would work both ways. That is, on either side of the door. So it may have been cast to keep something in. Are you ready?”

  Terciel nodded and drew his sword. Tizanael did not ready sword or bell, but simply raised her hand.

  “The Abhorsen wishes to enter.”

  Charter marks glowed around the door. Dust puffed out from the seams as the door slowly creaked open, moving inward, not out. Warm, moist air rolled out, and bright light, like afternoon sunshine. Tizanael stepped back and to the side, and Terciel quickly followed suit. But the warm air and the light was not an attack. After a moment, they both carefully edged closer and looked through the doorway.

  There was no small room beyond. Instead Terciel found himself looking up into a vast, narrow cavern. It was easily a hundred feet wide and at least as high, and it stretched back several hundred feet. The light came from a truly massive Charter spell made up of thousands and thousands of marks arrayed in a tight spiral so they formed an enormous sun disc on the arched ceiling high above. The light that fell below was not sunlight, but it was a close approximation and Terciel had to shield his eyes with his hand to look up at the disc.

  The sides of the crevasse were terraced, a narrow terrace at the top only ten or twelve feet wide with four progressively wider terraces below. The two lowest terraces almost met in the middle of the cavern, but did not, for this was a deep drain full of fast-moving water, about six feet wide. Essential hydraulic engineering, because each terrace had a meandering stream that zigzagged along its length and then overflowed via outthrust gutters into a stream on the next terrace below, and then finally to the central drain.

  The reason for the meandering streams and the sun disc above was immediately obvious. Every terrace was a riot of green, interspersed with brighter colors. There were several varieties of tomatoes and yellow squash, cucumbers and beans, and at the far end of a middle terrace, a profusion of flowers. Sendings worked among the plants, weeding and pruning and harvesting. It seemed there was some sort of rotation system at work, for each of the terraces had patches of bare earth here and there, as well as the carefully tended crops.

  “The Garden of Ulamael,” said Tizanael. There was a faint wistfulness in her voice, something so extraordinary Terciel snatched a glance at her and then looked away again very quickly so she wouldn’t notice. “I had read of it, but I didn’t think it was still in existence. Imagine being an Abhorsen with so much time on your hands you could build such a garden! She was fortunate to live in an easier age.”

  “Look! There’s one of the Sendings who served us dinner. And there’s a stair beyond that gateway, high on the top terrace, at this end.”

  “Leading to the kitchens, I expect,” said Tizanael. “I admit I have occasionally wondered where the Sendings got fresh vegetables in winter. There is little alive in the kitchen garden above right now.”

  “I thought they got them from the villages up the river,” said Terciel. “Like with the other stuff.”

  “I do not think Qyrre or Chasel or anywhere on the Ratterlin or indeed in the Kingdom has such a garden as this, one for all seasons,” said Tizanael. “Except the Clayr, under their mountain. Maybe that was where Ulamael got the idea. And perhaps help. It must have taken dozens of Charter Mages years to create that sun disc, and for it to last so long—”

  “What in the Charter’s name is that?” interrupted Terciel, pointing at a massive stand of fungus growing at the far end of the middle terrace, where it was darker, by chance or the arrangement of the sun disc high above. There were a dozen human-high stalks made up of brown-and-yellow roundels, with brown gilled undersides, which looked rather like a badly piled-up stack of plates heavy with leftover gravy.

  “Siege fruit,” said Tizanael. “It is an edible mushroom. Edible in that it is possible to eat it and it will sustain life. It’s very chewy, and resists flavoring. You might find it is even worse than salt fish.”

  “I doubt it,” replied Terciel, with a shudder. He looked around again, up and down and along the peaceful, golden-lit terraces, with the Sendings working between rows of vigorous plants. “The chest with the chain can’t be here. Maybe Moregrim told the truth after all, and we’ll have to work out how to open the other door.”

  “No, I think it is here,” replied Tizanael. “Look there.”

  She pointed at the central drain. At the far end of the crevasse, the drain split in two and ran around a small rectangular island before rejoining on the other side to plummet down a sinkhole, one easily twelve feet in diameter. There were several objects sitting on this island. It was hard to tell exactly what they were from this distance, and the artificial sunlight was weaker at that end, but there were definitely several chests or boxes.

  “Follow the drain,” said Tizanael. “Don’t fall in. It looks very deep, and the water is swift.”

  Terciel nodded. Tizanael didn’t need to add that the level of the water was about three feet below the lowest terrace, so if you did fall in, it would be impossible to get out by yourself and there was no sign of any ladders or ropes or anything like that.

  They walked alongside the drain, past neat rows of plants Terciel didn’t recognize. They had lots of vibrant green feathery foliage, but didn’t grow much past knee-high. Tizanael brushed her hand through the top of one plant and said, “Carrot,” so he presumed that was what they were, though Tizanael had never given any other indication she was a gardener.

  In the next garden section of the lowest terrace there were taller, more substantial bushes, set more apart. They had small green berries forming on the branches, which again Terciel did not recognize until Tizanael muttered, “Cloudberry, not ripe.” He liked the small, often slightly tart berries, which turned pale blue as they began to ripen, and then as they became fully ripe, wisps and swirls of white would spread over the skin, perfectly mimicking clouds in the sky. The Sendings, or perhaps one particular Sending, made them into jam and used the jam as a filling in excellent small cakes.

  The section of the lowest terrace nearest to the island had no plantings on either side, not even weeds. The bare earth extended for about forty feet. There was the drain making a kind of moat around the island, which was perhaps ten feet square, the sinkhole behind it and the stone face of the crevasse rising up beyond.

  Tizanael did not jump across the narrow drain to the island. Instead, she slowed and looked carefully at what was on it. Terciel looked, too, unsure of what exactly he was looking for. There were three chests—two large ones and a smaller one between them—a glazed green urn, and a silver bottle. The bottle was lying on its side and its stopper and the wire that had held it in place were several feet away.

  Tizanael took a few more steps and looked across again, from a different angle.

  “I don’t like the unstoppered bottle,” she said. “Abhorsens of old used them to imprison Free Magic entities and store them.”

  “Why?” asked Terciel, suddenly more alert than he had been.

&nb
sp; “I don’t know,” replied Tizanael. “It hasn’t been done for hundreds of years. But there is at least one other place I know beneath the House where a number of such bottles are kept. All securely stoppered.”

  “Surely if it once held a Free Magic creature, it would have long since fled?” asked Terciel. “Or gone into the swift water and been destroyed?”

  “Some Free Magic entities can resist the effects of running water, to a degree,” said Tizanael. “Though that sinkhole undoubtedly leads into the waterfall, and few could resist the force of that. But they are ancient, and cunning, and I know far less of them than I do the Dead.”

  “I can’t see anything,” said Terciel. “Or sense anything.”

  “And smell?” asked Tizanael. “Like my ears and eyes, my nose is no longer what it was.”

  Terciel sniffed vigorously.

  “Nothing like hot iron,” he said, meaning the distinctive, metallic stench of Free Magic. “Only the garden smell everywhere. Earthy and . . . and green.”

  Tizanael jumped over the central drain and paced around to the other side of the island, kneeling so she could see between two chests. She stiffened, and Terciel’s hand leapt to his sword hilt.

  “The smaller chest is ironwood, has silver edges and a ruby inset in the lockplate,” she said. “It is the one we seek.”

  “Shall I fetch it, then?” asked Terciel. The chest was half the size of the others. Smaller than he expected, perhaps eighteen inches long, twelve deep and wide.

  Tizanael scratched the side of her nose, pondering.

  “I mislike the empty bottle,” she said. “And if that chest does contain the chain, it is also potentially dangerous.”

  “Even from inside the chest?”

  “No, but it may be designed to spring open or something like that,” replied Tizanael. She took a deep breath and walked back and forth along the drain again, looking over it to the island. “Take off your bells, leave them a dozen paces back. Then jump across, but do not immediately pick up the chest.”