Clariel

by Nix,Garth

  Harven was in his study, his elbows planted amid a pile of papers, his hands close to his face, turning something in his fingers so it caught the light from another ancient Charter light on his desk, this one a cube of translucent stone with the marks set within a central hole inside it, so it gave a softer illumination.

  He turned as Clariel entered, smiled, and then looked back to the tiny golden object he was studying. His daughter came close, and gazed over his shoulder at the teardrop of gold he held. It was no longer than the nail on his little finger, though a third its width.

  “It is a perfect tear,” said Harven reverentially. “Burnished so cunningly it reflects light from all angles, and appears liquid, for all that is solid metal. Even as I hold it, I fear it will run between my fingers, and splash away into nothing. And yet your mother made it quickly, and will make dozens more this night, and yet I . . . some other master goldsmith could never make such a thing, no matter how long they labored. She has the skill of the ancients in her hands and eyes, rival even to Dropstone or Kagello the Old—”

  “She is truly gifted,” interrupted Clariel. “Now, Father, I need to talk to you about something important.”

  “Perfect,” sighed Harven. “As the others will be, and all together in a necklace. It will be a wonder of the age.”

  “Father!” snapped Clariel. “I said I need to talk to you about something important! Very important!”

  Harven reluctantly put the teardrop down. But even as he half turned in his chair to face his daughter, his eyes were dragged back to the golden object.

  “Father, I was attacked today. In the street.”

  “Attacked?” asked Harven. “I heard there was some kind of horseplay, a . . . a jape or jest, on the part of Aronzo, the Governor’s boy.”

  “It wasn’t a jest,” protested Clariel. “There was a point to it. Tell me, is mother planning to wrest the Goldsmith’s Guild from Kilp? To become Guildmaster, and thus Governor of the City?”

  She had all Harven’s attention now. He sat back and blinked, then gave a brief chuckle.

  “What?” asked Clariel. “What’s so funny?”

  “I was imagining your mother dealing with all the dull business that comes before Kilp every day, as Guildmaster and Governor!”

  He laughed again, and wiped his right eye with the back of his hand.

  “Jaciel has barely looked beyond her workbench since we arrived! She cares naught for politics, or business, or any of these things, only her work . . .”

  He stopped laughing as he said this, perhaps realizing its powerful truth, that it applied not just to politics and business, but also to Clariel and to some degree, himself.

  “She wanted me to get clothes, and buy a present for the King,” said Clariel. “Why? I can’t believe she really cares whether I visit him or not, or about some old tradition about cousins handing over gifts.”

  Harven’s smile came creeping across his face, till Clariel stamped her foot suddenly and shouted.

  “Don’t lie, Father! Tell me the truth!”

  The smile vanished in an instant. Harven looked at the golden teardrop, and bit his lip fussily.

  “The truth, Father,” said Clariel, more calmly.

  Harven still couldn’t look her in the eye, but his smile did not come back.

  “There is a salt cellar in the Palace, in the shape of a great shell, made from gold, silver, and electrum, set with emeralds and malachite. Each fluted rib is a container for more than a stone weight of salt, pepper, saffron, ginger, and more, sufficient for the grandest table that could ever be set! It was made many centuries ago by one of the greatest goldsmiths who ever lived, though we do not know his . . . or her . . . name, only the spell they signed their work with, which when the visible mark is touched shows a stone dropping in a pool, and the ripples coming from it. We call the few things that survive Dropstone-work. Jaciel saw the salt cellar as a young girl, and wishes to see it again. She believes she is ready to re-create such an object, to equal or surpass the work of the ancients, of Dropstone. I believe so, too, and she will prove herself not merely the greatest goldsmith of the Kingdom, but of all time!”

  “What’s that got to do with me giving the King a present?”

  “It is not easy to enter the Palace now, even for a cousin, with the King holding himself aloof from the city and the people. Yet he does still observe some of the most important of the age-old customs, and Jaciel thought that the kin-gift would gain us admittance and so it has proved—”

  “So I am nothing but a ticket of entry,” interrupted Clariel bitterly. “Another useful tool for Mother.”

  “No!” blustered Harven. He seemed at a loss for a moment, once again glancing toward his feet. “It is simply combining two things. It will give you . . . um . . . honor and prestige to have been presented to the King, which will be helpful to you, in any . . . any—”

  “Marriage?” asked Clariel quietly. “Do you and Mother have someone in mind? Have you had someone in mind all along?”

  “Well, it is only natural we should think on it,” continued Harven. “We want you to be well-established, Clarrie. If you chose to be a goldsmith, then of course you would be apprenticed, or any of the other high crafts, but if you aren’t interested . . . and failing a craft of your own, a marriage seems the best course.”

  “I don’t want to be married. I’m like Aunt Lemmin. I am happiest by myself. I would like to live by myself.”

  “Lemmin is a very good woman, and has been a good sister to me, but she is not a usual person, Clariel. Even when we were children she was not at all—”

  “Father, I am not a usual person either! Can’t you see that?”

  “You are just young,” said Harven. His smile flickered across his face for a moment. “I daresay you haven’t met the right young man. There are far more eligible young men here—”

  “I don’t want a young man, eligible or otherwise!”

  “You don’t know what you want!” snapped Harven.

  “I want to be a Borderer,” said Clariel forcefully. “I want to live in the Great Forest. The best course for me would be if you supported this ambition!”

  “Clarrie, don’t be silly. You are our daughter, a familial member of the High Guild of Goldsmiths in Belisaere! You cannot just go and live in the woods!”

  “It is what I want,” said Clariel. She could feel anger rising inside her, a heat kindling that she knew she must not feed. She took a deep breath, held it for a second, then calmly said, “It is all I ever wanted.”

  “You are too young to know what you want,” repeated Harven, as if repetition might make it true. “In any case, you owe us, you owe your family, to do the right thing and forget about this child’s dream! You would not last more than three days in the Great Forest, and you know it!”

  “How little you know me, Father,” said Clariel. The anger was not rising, but rather ebbing, being replaced by a deep sadness. “I have spent many days and nights in the greenwood, since before I was even thirteen. All those times you thought me at Aunt Lemmin’s house, I was where I wanted to be. In the forest.”

  “What?” asked Harven. “Don’t be ridiculous and don’t try to present your aunt as some ally of your fancies, just because you slipped away from her for an afternoon or two. This is an ill-considered dream, too long prolonged. And we have spoken enough of it. You go to bed. Tomorrow you begin your lessons at the Academy, and I trust that you will soon learn to become a proper young lady who respects her parents as she should!”

  “As I should?” asked Clariel. “Perhaps I have respected you too highly!”

  This was too much, even for Harven, who usually shied away from any confrontation. Pushing his chair back violently, he stood up and raised his hand.

  “To bed!” he shouted.

  Clariel gave no ground, and met his gaze, discovering for the first time with some shock that she was now slightly taller than her father, and that neither shout nor raised hand made her quail
and want to flee to her room.

  “I will go, Father,” she said quietly. “But I tell you now, that one day I will go to the Great Forest, and make my home there, and then . . .”

  Only at this last did her nerve fail her, the sadness welling up so high that tears filled her eyes, and one, never so perfect as the golden teardrop on the desk, splashed upon the floor. She ran out the door, crying out words she hadn’t used for many years, because they never came true.

  “And then you and Mother will be sorry!”

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  Chapter Four

  GETTING READY FOR SCHOOL

  The next morning dawned bright and clear, and even more detestable to Clariel than ever. The sunlight seemed to penetrate everywhere, accompanied by the dull, ever-present noise of the city, and there was no quiet, cool place to hide, no forest glade to shelter in. After a simple breakfast, taken alone in her room, Valannie appeared, chivvying her to the bath chamber in the lower part of the house, where other servants had labored in the dark to light the fire that heated the hot water reservoir, and work the pump to fill the cold pool. Clariel offered no resistance to the routine of steam and oiling, and plunged into the cool pool as instructed, and stood to be toweled dry without complaint. But inside she was trying to work out how she might escape the city, and get back to Estwael . . . or not Estwael exactly, but some part of the Great Forest near it where she would not be so easily found. But finding a practical means of carrying out what was essentially a daydream was no easy task.

  “You seem tired, milady,” said Valannie, as she helped Clariel dress in linen underwear and the multiple layers dictated by her guild status and affiliation, alternating tunics of silk, white and gold. “Are you well? You were not too alarmed by yesterday’s—”

  “No,” said Clariel. “I am just thinking about . . . things.”

  “May I suggest, milady, that at the Academy, it would be well to smile, and to talk with the other young folk,” said Valannie.

  “Why?” asked Clariel. “I have no interest in them. I consider this Academy a mere duty, and a dull one.”

  Valannie tied a blue scarf over Clariel’s head.

  “It will be easier for you, milady, to . . . um . . . make a pretense of interest. A smile, a simple question, these ease the way with people.”

  “To what end?” asked Clariel.

  “To make friends,” said Valannie, with a smile that Clariel found very condescending. “Surely, you wish to find some new friends here, milady?”

  “I have friends in the forest, and in Estwael,” said Clariel. “I will rejoin them soon enough.”

  But as she said this, she thought that in fact she had very few friends, and the ones she had were unusual for a woman of her age and station. Her aunt Lemmin was the closest. But she was almost more like an old sister, an ally against her parents. Lemmin provided a useful alibi for her forest adventures, and was also an uncritical listener to retellings of her exploits, rarely offering a comment, let alone an opinion. She supported Clariel, and loved her, and that love was returned, but they didn’t really talk . . .

  Then there was Sergeant Penreth of the Borderers, a tough and silent woman who had let her trail along and learn by observation since she was thirteen . . . but again, she didn’t talk much, and Clariel had never felt the need to smile at her, or make conversation.

  There were childhood friends as well, of course, people she had played with when small, or had shared the experiences of the dame school. But she hadn’t really kept in touch with them, save to say hello, or perhaps share a glass of wine if they happened to run across each other in the town.

  Clariel had never felt much need for friends, but then she had also never felt alone, even when she was at her most solitary. The forest filled her up, she needed no more. Here, things were different. Perhaps she should seek to make some friends . . . at the least, they might be able to help her work out how to escape the city . . .

  “So I should talk to the others,” she said abruptly. “What about?”

  “Oh, that is easy!” exclaimed Valannie. “About clothes, of course, and at the moment, comical songs are very fashionable, the minstrels who excel at this are in great demand, as is Yarlow the balladeer, who writes such sly verses. Oh, and always, betrothals and weddings, and the alliances of the guilds, and in some quarters, among the more sober, the course of business, the price of grain and suchlike, though I expect that this is more for the older students—”

  “I cannot talk about clothes and comical songs,” said Clariel. “I suppose I could support a conversation about business, at least as it is done in Estwael.”

  “Oh, best not talk about Estwael!” cried Valannie, throwing up her hands in horror.

  “Why not?”

  “It is in the country,” whispered Valannie, bringing her painted face close to Clariel’s, so that for the first time she noticed her maid had no eyebrows of her own, just cleverly painted streaks of black. “No one speaks of the country in Belisaere!”

  “I will,” said Clariel. “Estwael is a fine town, and the Great Forest beyond an even finer place. Better than any part of this noisome city!”

  “Oh, milady, I beg you not to speak such! Not at the Academy! Not anywhere! It will serve you ill.”

  Clariel sniffed. Valannie’s pleading seemed very sincere, and though she burned to hear criticism of Estwael, perhaps it would be sensible to follow the maid’s advice. She had learned long ago not to rush ahead into who knew what, but to go silently and hidden, to spy out the lay of the land.

  “I will try not to speak of . . . of the country,” she said.

  “Good, good, milady!” said Valannie, with a heartfelt sigh. She bent down to do up Clariel’s sandals, ignoring Clariel’s own motion to bend and do them up herself. “No, no, milady. I will fix these on properly. You will see, it is not too difficult to make conversation. The young lords and ladies will be keen to meet you, being the daughter of so famous a goldsmith.”

  “Will they?” asked Clariel. It was interesting that Valannie did not say that her connection to the King, or the Abhorsens, would make her popular. Her father had been strange about this as well, with his talk of the “best people.”

  “Tell me, Valannie, should I mention that my grandfather is the Abhorsen? Or the King my mother’s cousin?”

  Valannie stopped doing up the left sandal for a second. Clariel looked down at the top of her head. The foremost part of hair, that part not covered by her scarf, was so shiny and stiff that she realized it must be coated with lacquer, or a varnish.

  “Perhaps not unless it is brought up first, milady,” Valannie said cautiously. “There, the buckle should rest just above the ankle, no higher, and turned out so.”

  “Why?” asked Clariel.

  “The buckle is very fine work, and gold, so should be shown. If it were pinchbeck or mere gilt, then you would hide it—”

  “No. Why should I not mention my connection with the King or the Abhorsen?”

  Valannie looked up and gave the tinkling laugh that had already annoyed Clariel on several occasions.

  “Oh, politics, milady! That is for your elders, I think—”

  “I wish to know,” said Clariel sternly. “If you will not tell me, I shall ask at the Academy. I shall ask everyone I meet.”

  Valannie snapped back like a bowstring free of its arrow, and took Clariel’s hands anxiously in her own.

  “No, no my dear. You mustn’t do that!”

  “Then explain to me. What are the politics? What is going on in the city?”

  Valannie scowled and dropped Clariel’s hands.

  “Oh, milady, you are a hard mistress. I will tell you, but you must not let on that it was I. Your parents do not want you worried, and there are . . . well it is not right for a young girl to be drawn into troubles that are of no concern—”<
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  “They are of concern!” snapped Clariel. “I wish to know.”

  Valannie pursed her lips, and looked to the door, before lowering her voice.

  “Some years ago, the King went mad, or so they say. He is very old . . .”

  “And?” asked Clariel, as Valannie faltered.

  “He stopped . . . he stopped ruling, I suppose. He lets no one enter the Palace for any serious matter, only if it be for one of the old rituals, and then only upon rare occasions. He will not hear his officers, he will not read letters or petitions, he will not sit in the Petty or the Greater Court, or sign or seal any document of state. He dismissed most of the Guard, keeping only two score, so that the city was left bereft of soldiery and order, till the Governor and the Guilds stepped in. There was trouble with lawless folk, and the commoners who have ever caused trouble against the Guilds, and the King to blame for it all! Now no one knows what is to come, for he does not abdicate, and Princess Tathiel is who knows where, and all must fall upon the shoulders of Governor Kilp and the High Guilds!”

  “I see,” said Clariel. “I suppose this is also why Charter Magic is frowned upon now? Because the King is part of the Charter itself?”

  “Oh no, magic has been ever so unfashionable for years!” exclaimed Valannie. “It is so tedious to learn, all that time memorizing marks to make spells, and then if you get one wrong, your eyes might bulge out of your head or your hair catch on fire, or something even worse. Best left to those who have the time to waste on learning it all, I say!”

  Clariel nodded. Valannie did not have the baptismal Charter mark, so she had no real idea of what she was talking about it, though it was true that Charter Magic could twist against the wielder. But it fitted with what she had seen so far of the city, that if some difficult service could be bought instead of learned, that would be preferred.

  “And the Abhorsens?” she asked. “They are seen as allies of the King who has caused such trouble to the city-folk?”