by Nix, Garth
If he hadn’t been injured, he’d probably be out in that snowstorm now, Terciel thought with a shudder, hunting down Kerrigor. Though even that would be preferable to this slow paralysis that crept up his foot . . .
He was about to turn away when movement caught his eye. He looked up and saw the snow suddenly swirl and separate, and the white, low-hanging cloud parted to admit a shaft of weak sunlight. Down through this beam of unexpected light a dark shape swooped. Too big to be a bird. Terciel thought it was some sort of monster for a second, till it turned and stood up on its tail, and he saw it in full profile.
“A paperwing!” he cried. It had to be piloted by someone extraordinarily skilled, both at weather magic and directing the craft, for the sun was already vanishing, the corridor down through the storm closed up, and the aircraft was now in a tight spiral, turning back almost on itself, tail still down and head up, airspeed dropping.
For a moment he thought it was going to try to land on the wall platform, miss, and tumble into the river, those on board to surely drown. But the paperwing shot over the wall, missing it by inches, and in an incredible display of bravura flying did an impossibly tight turn and came down almost vertically to rest on the snow-covered north lawn.
Sendings swarmed out of the House to hold the paperwing down and then carry it into the hangar below the eastern courtyard. It was already folding its wings but the wind kept trying to pick it up. Terciel couldn’t see the colors of the craft. The snow was swirling down again and the paperwing was so dusted with snow it looked a kind of dirty white-grey anyway. Nor could he make out the pilot and passenger, they were too rugged up, but he figured it had to be Filris and another Clayr. They had come so quickly they must have already Seen his need for a healer before they even received the message-hawk sent by Tizanael!
He limped in a stop-start fashion back to bed and climbed in, suddenly feeling very much better.
“That was astonishing!” exclaimed Elinor to Mirelle, undoing her straps and leaning close over the pilot’s shoulder. “I have never been so frightened and exhilarated at the same time. But where are we?”
“The Abhorsen’s House,” said Mirelle. She spat a snowflake out of her mouth and continued, “Closest safe place once the snow really hit. I’d hoped to follow the Ratterlin north longer, but this storm is only going to get worse. No choice but to land.”
She shrugged and climbed out of the aircraft, waving away the Sendings who rushed to help her. Elinor was not so quick, because she was staring at the magical beings in amazement.
“What . . . what . . . are they?” she stammered as they held her up under the arms, the myriad Charter marks that made up their hands glowing bright where they touched her. All were deeply hooded or veiled, so she could not see their faces.
“Sendings,” said Mirelle. “Charter constructs. Servants. Past Abhorsens must have made a lot of them—there are scores of them about the place. Come on, let’s get inside.”
Elinor hurried to catch up with her, almost slipping on the icy ground. Again, a Sending steadied her. She looked at it, saw that it was all Charter marks, even the simple smock it wore, and what she could see of its face under a deep hood moved between several visages.
“Are they alive?” she asked. “I mean, do they have emotions and think, like we do?”
“No,” said Mirelle. She was walking fast to the big front door, which looked very blue with all the white snow in front of it. “They have a limited range of actions depending on what they were made to do. Some are more complex than others, of course, so it seems like they actually think. It depends on who made them, and how much care they took.”
A Sending opened the door. Elinor saw a brightly lit hallway with wood-paneled walls that were somewhat reminiscent of Wyverley College, and she felt the warm air streaming out.
“The Clayr seek shelter from the storm from the Abhorsens,” intoned Mirelle before she stepped across the threshold. It had the feel of a ceremonial statement, not exactly a question.
The Sending who had opened the door, who was dressed in a kind of blue-and-silver tabard, considerably more stately than the smocks most of them wore, bowed low and stepped aside.
“Are they at home?” asked Mirelle as she went in, with Elinor close at her heels. The door swung shut behind them, cutting off the cold air, and the errant snowflakes that had chased them in were swallowed up by the luxuriant carpet, a long blue runner that was dotted with silver keys of many different sizes.
The Sending nodded and pointed to the right corner and slightly up, and then directly behind her where the tower was, and up.
“Terciel’s in bed at this hour?” asked Mirelle. “And the Abhorsen is in her study?”
The Sending nodded, and mimed cradling a wounded arm and hopped on one foot, the other hanging.
“I see. Terciel’s injured.”
The Sending nodded.
“Terciel’s injured?” asked Elinor, alarmed.
“It can’t be too serious,” said Mirelle dismissively. She had several visible scars, on her throat and the backs of her hands, and from the little Elinor had gathered, being one of the Rangers of the Clayr was like being a soldier, and Mirelle was clearly a veteran of many battles.
“We need hot water and clothes, please,” continued Mirelle to the majordomo Sending. “Particularly Elinor; she’ll need everything. I expect Tizanael will let us know when she wants to see us?”
The Sending nodded again and gestured. Several indoor Sendings in rather less ornate versions of the same tabard came forward, as far as Elinor could tell emerging from the walls.
“They’ll give me new clothes?” asked Elinor. Mirelle had made her leave almost everything behind, because it was machine-made and would fall apart in the Old Kingdom, or so she said. Only Ham’s knives and the scabbard would be all right, she’d decided, after investigation. The weapons had been forged by a master smith, and the scabbard cut and stitched by Mrs. Watkins.
Elinor had trouble believing what Mirelle had told her, but it was already borne out by what was she was wearing. The sleeves of her coat had come almost completely undone at the shoulder, and she was uncomfortably aware that her underwear was fraying.
“They will,” said Mirelle. “There’s an awful lot of stuff stored here. And a bunch of Sendings whose job it is to look after guests. They don’t get much practice, so they’re always very eager to help. See?”
A Sending in a less fancy long blue-and-silver tunic—but still finer than the outdoor Sendings in their smocks—was tugging at Elinor’s sleeve to lead her away. Unfortunately this resulted in the entire sleeve coming off. But the Sending was not dismayed. It rolled up the material and disappeared it into its tunic before taking Elinor’s hand. She felt the warmth of Charter Magic with its distant echo of the Charter itself, a comforting welcome.
“Go with it,” Mirelle called out as she strode down the hall to the main staircase, as if she was in her own home, a Sending scurrying close behind. “Have a bath—the water stinks at first, because it’s from hot springs, but you’ll soon not notice it—get warm, get dressed. Some other Sending will bring you down when Tizanael wants us. If you need anything, just ask. They understand, even if most of them can’t speak.”
“Some of them can?” asked Elinor, following at a somewhat slower pace. She could feel her skirt falling down and had to hold on to the waistband.
“Apparently,” replied Mirelle, disappearing around the top of the stairs. “Never met one myself.”
“Oh,” cried Elinor, but this wasn’t in answer. It was because her stockings had failed entirely and collapsed around her ankles, and the heel had started to come off her right boot and had twisted around and was hanging there. As she bent down to pull it off, her skirt fell down as well.
“Curse it!” swore Elinor. She yanked her skirt back up and almost fell over backward, only to be caught by a trio of Sendings who had silently come up behind. Led by the first one, who clearly was her own superior serv
ant, they gently picked her up and carried her onward. Elinor struggled for a second or two, then relaxed, and started to laugh.
This was not how she had imagined her arrival in the Old Kingdom.
“You wanted to talk to me alone?” asked Mirelle, bowing before Tizanael, who was seated at the head of the redwood table with the dragon-carving legs. The Abhorsen wore a simple robe of dark blue, without the silver key motif. A cup with an herbal tisane was on the table before her, steam rising from it. Several books were next to it, open, and the casket Mirelle had brought from the Library of the Clayr on her previous visit.
Tizanael gestured for Mirelle to take one of the lesser chairs that surrounded the table. The Clayr did so, with a slight grimace. The chairs were old and the black upholstery with the silver key motif had lost its padding so the internal ribs beneath poked through, making them extremely uncomfortable to sit on.
“Why are you here?” asked Tizanael.
“The storm, we had to land—”
Tizanael interrupted her with a snort of disbelief.
“A spring storm, not at its height, and you the most experienced paperwing flyer in centuries? You could have flown on to High Bridge before nightfall,” she said. “You’re meddling.”
“The Voice of the Nine Day Watch commands me,” said Mirelle stiffly. She pulled down the cuffs of her robe, which had ridden up as she sat. The Sendings had given her a Clayr’s white garment with a golden star stitched upon the breast, but it was slightly too short in the arms, possibly because the magical servants were channeling their mistress’s irritation. “I do as I am told.”
“I meant all you Clayr,” said Tizanael crossly. “Why have you brought the young woman here?”
“She has been Seen here,” said Mirelle. “She is important.”
“Bah!” protested Tizanael. “How can some long-lost cousin of yours from south of the Wall be significant? She has only been woken to the Charter a matter of months!”
“It is not clear,” said Mirelle. “I was not part of the Watch, I did not See anything myself. But I have been instructed to leave her here for a time, and to tell you two things.”
“Tell me, then,” said Tizanael. She took a sip of her tisane, and grimaced.
“First, this Elinor is not only a Clayr. She is also something of an Abhorsen. Myrien’s grandfather was Jeremiel, the Abhorsen who preceded Herranael, of your own line.”
Tizanael’s eyes narrowed and she glanced directly at Mirelle for the first time. “That is of interest, given the situation. Though there are at least a dozen others with as close a connection, in Belisaere and elsewhere, having her at hand could be . . . useful.”
“It is important,” said Mirelle carefully. “Most likely, as far as we can See.”
“As far as you can See,” grumbled Tizanael. “Why is it none of you ever Saw my daughter’s fall? All your useless visions, all your meddling, what does it amount to?”
Mirelle did not answer. This was a long-held hurt of the Abhorsen, sixty years or more ago, that the Clayr had not warned her of her daughter’s accident, so she might have forestalled it. Yet Tizanael knew as well as the Clayr that they Saw only some of the myriad possible futures, and sometimes the very acts taken to prevent a particular future were the ones that ensured it. Everything they did had to be weighed carefully.
“And the second matter?” asked Tizanael, glowering over her cup. She took another sip and coughed, a stuttering cough that she seemed unable to stop. It went on for some time, Tizanael holding the back of her hand against her mouth.
“Your servant, the Free Magic entity, variously called Moregrim, Mogget, Erril, and other things,” said Mirelle. “He has been Seen far more than in the past, and in a number of futures he has escaped his servitude and wreaks vengeance upon the Abhorsens and destruction in general. There is concern the binding laid upon him is fading, and should be renewed in its totality.”
“I wish it were so simple,” said Tizanael. She looked at the silver ring on her finger, the small ruby clasped in its center. “So much of our learning has been lost. All I know is that Moregrim is at his most helpful and obedient when a new Abhorsen comes to power. The binding is somehow renewed in this transition. Then, over time, it fades and he grows more fractious and disobedient. As he is now, for I have been the Abhorsen a long time. A long, long time. I may use the ring to command him specifically, but I do not know any way to fully renew the binding save my own death. Or is there something else you have Seen you are not telling me?”
“I am a ranger,” said Mirelle. “I rarely serve in the Nine Day Watch, nor do I have many visions outside of it. I believe it was hoped you did know a way to reinforce the binding on Moregrim.”
“I don’t,” said Tizanael.
“Hmm. What has happened to Terciel?”
“He has been wounded,” said Tizanael. “By a Free Magic entity. There is some contamination in his foot that I cannot force from the bone. I have sent a message-hawk to the Glacier, asking Filris to come.”
Mirelle’s eyebrows rose. She bent her head to hide her surprise, knowing Tizanael still noted it.
“I may hold a grudge,” admitted Tizanael. “But not so tightly I would risk Terciel’s life over it.”
“How bad is it?” asked Mirelle. “When I left, Sazene had not returned from Estwael in our second paperwing, though she may have by now, I suppose. Our third, as you may know, is old and will now not fly save in high summer. Filris might have to come by boat. A few days at least, and if the spring floods have started, problematical.”
“You haven’t Seen this?” asked Tizanael sarcastically. “Terciel is affected by a sly and subtle expression of Free Magic, but fortunately it is slow. I missed it at first. It could not have come at a worse time. We need to move against Kerrigor, and I need Terciel to bear the chain. Do you bring any word of futures Seen with regards to that? I have word from the Regent of three villages lost now, all in the Upp river valley. Kerrigor will not waste the deaths of so many villagers. He gathers an army to strike at Uppside or Edge. From there . . . he could strike here. With enough Dead to bridge the stepping-stones with boxes of grave dirt, even this House could be at risk.”
“Nothing of use has been Seen,” said Mirelle. “You know the lands about the Red Lake are often clouded to our Sight, from long before this Kerrigor was first heard of. That may be why he chooses to attack the villages there.”
“Perhaps,” agreed Tizanael. “It may simply be that those mountain valleys are so isolated, news of any attack takes days to reach Ganel or Uppside, and help even longer to get back. If there is any to give. The Regent’s mind wanders. She has not paid proper attention to the town garrisons, and I have heard of villages that lack even a single healer or some other Charter Mage.”
She shook her head and took another sip of her tisane.
Mirelle watched her, wondering how old the Abhorsen actually was, and how ill. The ranger was not an infirmarian, but she had learned from them, for wounds and sickness and injuries were very much part of the ranger’s lot. Some of the longer patrol routes around the Glacier took them away for weeks at a time. In addition to learning a great deal of healing magic, Mirelle had also been taught the use of various healing herbs and plants.
She knew from the smell alone that Tizanael was drinking a tisane made from star-arrow flowers and the sticky sap of the bentwhorl plant, a recipe used for the relief of lingering pain.
“Yes,” said Tizanael. She lifted her cup. “It is what you think. I am old. My eyesight fades, I grow deaf, and my joints stiffen and ache, particularly in this weather. But I am still capable of wielding sword and bells.”
“I did not think otherwise,” said Mirelle.
“Tell me about the girl,” said Tizanael abruptly. “This Elinor.”
Mirelle told her what she knew, from Elinor’s encounter with Hedge immediately after the Abhorsen had left Coldhallow House up to their landing an hour or so ago, here at the House. Tizanael listened,
sipping her tisane. Occasionally she wiped her left eye, which was watering, and not from the steam of the drink.
When she had finished, Tizanael sighed and stared down at her empty cup.
“I would spare her, if I could,” she muttered. “She reminds me of my Gweniliel. But I cannot.”
She fell silent, resting her chin on one gnarled, ancient hand.
As the silence stretched on, Mirelle pushed her uncomfortable chair back and stood up.
“May I go and see Terciel?”
Tizanael nodded and waved her away. A Sending came from a corner and refilled the Abhorsen’s cup, and another drifted out after Mirelle.
Chapter Nineteen
Elinor’s bedroom was exactly what she had always wanted and never had. It was warm and light, both provided by Charter Magic. An unnecessary but very pleasing blaze crackled away in the redbrick fireplace, some aromatic wood that gave off a faint, subdued scent. There was a writing desk and chair of simple but elegant design in a pale, slightly reddish wood; a rather more massive wardrobe of greater antiquity in dark mahogany; and the walls and ceiling were a pale blue, dotted with faded silver keys. The curtains were a dark blue but not closed even with the snowstorm outside, because the window glass was infused with magic and did not admit the cold. Though there were shutters, Elinor noted, so perhaps in the deeps of winter it was necessary to close up against hail or the like. Despite the snowstorm, Mirelle had told her it was already spring in the Old Kingdom, and the weather should soon improve.
As soon as she’d arrived, the Sendings had brought up a full-sized tin bath and filled it from the taps in the corner, which did emit a waft of rotten egg stench at first, so Elinor was glad she’d been warned. She had trouble with them wanting to soap her all over and brush her hair, but eventually she’d managed to fend them off and enjoy a soak and they had dedicated themselves to bringing in all kinds of clothes and equipment, as if they were determined to outfit her for life, or a long expedition.
