Clariel

by Nix,Garth

“Yes,” said Clariel. She felt less shaky now, and was determined that she would not be treated any more like a prisoner—or a parcel—than was absolutely necessary. And if there was even the slightest chance she could get away . . . she would take it.

  “The bay mare there is yours,” said Tyriel. “She’s called Digger, after an incident long ago, but she has a sweet nature now.”

  “Sweet nature” meant sluggish and docile, Clariel realized as she mounted. Digger didn’t want to do more than a walk, and had to be strongly encouraged when Tyriel and the entourage broke into a trot as they cleared the stables on the northern end of Hillfair. Clariel noted that the heavily armored guards stayed close around her and the Abhorsen. Shielding them from arrow-shot, no doubt, but also making sure Clariel couldn’t gallop off. Something Digger coudn’t do anyway, the choice of such a mount surely intentional.

  The road wasn’t much more than a track, but it had been raised and roughly guttered, and was broad enough for six to ride abreast. Past the buildings, the ridge was covered in a low heather, which looked rather too perfect for an assassin to hide in, though only a suicidal one would attempt a shot. They would be ridden down or shot themselves all too soon.

  The river below and to their left was running fast, with a great deal of white water. The cloud of mist from the waterfall loomed up ahead, far larger and more imposing than it had seemed from the paperwing, particularly as the western edge of the white expanse was now stained with red from the setting sun.

  Set against the middle of this vast white backdrop, cradled between two arms of the river on the very lip of the massive waterfall, Clariel saw the Abhorsen’s House.

  It was built upon a rocky island, enclosed on all sides by a high white wall. A tower loomed above the red-tiled roof of a large house, the top of a very tall fig tree visible behind it, hinting at the garden Tyriel had mentioned. There was a narrow wooden bridge from the riverbank across the now fast-rushing Ratterlin, a bridge built upon a line of low stones, each about four paces apart, that could only just be seen above the surface of the water.

  In other circumstances, she might have been excited and amazed to see and visit such a place. But with the prospect of being trapped there for months, Clariel felt only dread, that she would soon be confined behind high walls again.

  The road continued along the ridge toward the Long Cliffs, where it turned westward, but there was a narrow bridlepath that diverted down toward the river and the bridge. The company sorted itself out into a single file, with Tyriel and Clariel in the middle, and they slowly descended. With every step, the roar of the waterfall grew louder. It was so loud by the time they reached the riverbank that Tyriel had to shout.

  “We leave the horses and everyone else here. Go ahead of me, and hold the handrail on the bridge. If you go in, there’ll be no saving you.”

  Clariel could well believe that. The river was a mass of white here, streaming around the stones under the bridge and splashing the timbers in a great spate of furious energy.

  The bridge itself didn’t look very secure or easy. It was only three planks wide, not much wider than Clariel’s two feet side by side. There was no handrail on one side, and the one on the waterfall side looked like it had been made with broomhandles lashed together. The whole bridge looked very makeshift.

  “Are you sure it won’t fall apart?” she shouted.

  “Yes!” boomed Tyriel. “Count yourself lucky. When I was a boy there was no bridge, just the stepping-stones.”

  He had dismounted already and handed the reins of his horse to one of his followers. Reaching into one of the saddlebags he took out a familiar silver bottle and tucked it under his arm.

  Aziminil’s prison drew Clariel’s attention like a dog catching sight of a morsel about to fall from the dinner table. She had to force herself to look away.

  “Walk the horses,” Tyriel shouted to his company. “I won’t be long.”

  Clariel dismounted clumsily, but pushed away the helping hand of one of the guards and Tyriel’s too, when he tried to steady her as she staggered over to him. She found it impossible to think of him as her grandfather, or even a relative. He was just another old, powerful man who was determined to control her life.

  Just like Kilp.

  “Remember to hold on!”

  Clariel nodded, and preceded the Abhorsen onto the bridge. She gripped the rail immediately and was relieved to find it felt more secure than she’d expected. Similarly, with the river roaring past underneath and the spray flying up she’d expected the planks to be wet, slippery and slimy. But they were perfectly dry. As she stepped forward, still looking down, Clariel saw small Charter marks glisten in the wood under her shoe, and understood why the bridge was dry and hadn’t been carried away. Its strength lay not in carpentry, but Charter Magic.

  Halfway across the bridge, a hundred yards from the riverbank, the roar of the waterfall was so loud that even a shout would be lost. The mist hung above them like a great, grasping hand of white, forever reaching in. But it was held back, assuredly by more magic, and there was no spray on Clariel’s face or shoulders, not even a single drop.

  Though it only took them a few minutes to cross the bridge, it felt longer to Clariel, and she was relieved to step off the bridge 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 northward. 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 fe
el 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 toward 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 toward 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 toward 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 goosefeather 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 recognized as one of the relatively newfangled 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 gotten 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 for two generations 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.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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

  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 . . . Periel . . . but you can’t be his sister, also because you’re too young. Did Periel 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 recognized at least one Master mark of binding. The mere fact she couldn’t recognize any of the others indicated their power. What’s more, the bell was obviousy 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?” asked 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 . . .”