Clariel

by Nix,Garth

  The sword had Charter marks on the blade, but fewer than some of the other weapons, and she was eventually able to puzzle out that they were relatively straightforward marks for durability and resistance to rust. She did not want a weapon that bore marks she did not understand. For some reason the marks were harder to identify than usual; it seemed to her that they would not stay still. Charter marks always moved and shimmered, but usually they would slow or even freeze for a few seconds when someone was looking at them.

  Apart from armor and sword, she discovered a good woolen cloak and a large belt pouch in her room. She filled the pouch with several not-quite-ripe apricots taken from the dinner table, and rolled the cloak up so she could wear it by its cord over her shoulder.

  Her attendant sending watched these preparations, but as far as Clariel could tell was not alarmed by them, which was heartening. It seemed likely to Clariel that with an absent Abhorsen all they could really do was watch and report later, though she supposed the superior ones might be able to send messages to Hillfair. But then, if what Mogget and Bel thought about Tyriel was accurate, he would be very slow to do anything that required him to come to the House.

  Waiting until midnight was difficult. There was a clock in her room, which had surprised her at first, because she expected one of the Charter Magic time crystals rather than something mechanical like you would find in Belisaere. But on closer inspection she saw that the case contained no clockwork, but instead a kind of Charter Magic imitation of cogs and wheels and chains, driving hands of gold and silver on a face of ivory, the chapters detailed in tiny pieces of jet.

  Clariel had been interested in clocks at one time. There were several clockmakers in Estwael and Jaciel had worked with one of them on and off over the years. This timepiece was silent; for all its magical mimicking of clockwork it did not reproduce that comforting, regular sound, so reminiscent of a heartbeat.

  Clariel shut the case and went to sit on her bed. She felt nervous and excited, but she forced herself to be calm. Once again she opened The Fury Within and read over the chapter on raising the rage, trying not to look at the clock at the end of every page.

  The moon climbed higher as she waited, its cool light through her window competing with the warm glow of the Charter mark lanterns. Clariel left her bed to look out, the world outside stark and moon-blue, the river silver. Soon she would be out in that world again, Clariel thought, looking at the clock. She wondered what Mogget would do to divert the sendings, and forced herself to sit back on the bed and read her book.

  At five minutes to twelve, she started to wonder if Mogget had forgotten, or worse, had betrayed her. At one minute to twelve, she was sure of it, and cursed herself for even thinking for a moment the cat-creature would help her escape.

  Then the clock’s minute hand moved to the twelve. There was a sudden deep roar outside, akin to the sound of a tea ceremony spirit burner lighting up, but many times louder. The cool moonlight through the window became charged with red, a lurid red that flickered, the light of some sudden, enormous fire.

  Clariel ran to the window and looked out. There was a growing cloud of smoke billowing up toward her from the orchard, where three peach trees were alight from root to crown. Sendings were already rushing in, one with an axe chopping at a fiercely burning tree, the others raking back leaves and other litter that might burn.

  “Go help them!” ordered Clariel to her sending servant. Without waiting to see what it did, she took up her sword, ran down the main staircase three steps at a time, and dashed to the storeroom next to the kitchen.

  Mogget was already there, his white hair slightly blackened and his whiskers perhaps shorter than they used to be. He stood on a trapdoor at the rear of the storeroom, between shelves stacked high with hundreds of jars of preserved apricots and peaches.

  “Quick, open this!”

  The cat leaped aside as Clariel bent down and pulled on the ring. The trapdoor opened easily, revealing stone steps descending into darkness, a darkness only slightly relieved by the Charter marks slowly coming to life on the rough-hewn walls.

  “Go!” yowled Mogget, himself streaking down the steps. “Shut the door behind you!”

  Clariel obeyed, almost hurling herself into the narrow stairwell. As she turned back to shut the trapdoor, she saw sendings coming out of the shelves, sendings in armor with swords and axes, their faces grim.

  “Come on!”

  Clariel ran down the steps after the cat. The stair curved around as they descended, not a tight circular stairway but a gentle slice of a circle. Almost before she knew it they passed the first small landing and a door reinforced with iron bolts and considerable Charter Magic, marks briefly flaring as they passed.

  “How far down?” gasped Clariel. “Will the sendings chase us?”

  “Sixth landing,” said Mogget. “The ones above won’t follow, but there are more sendings below. They should be slow without the Abhorsen to direct them. Sleepy. Speed is of the essence.”

  Steps and landings flashed by. As they passed the fifth landing, Clariel shivered, for it was frosted with ice and a cold wind blew around it, apparently from nowhere. Then it was behind her, more steps taken at a run. Suddenly Mogget slowed in front of her and stopped before another iron-reinforced door that was also swimming in Charter marks. This one, at least, was not covered in ice.

  “Here’s the test,” he said. “I hope the spell knows you as family, and that is enough. It may need more, but we shall see. Put your hand against it.”

  Clariel looked at the swirling marks on the door nervously. She didn’t know any of them, and all the stories of people burned from the inside out, or turned to sand, or rendered senseless forever from mishandling Charter Magic came back to her.

  “Put your hand against it,” repeated Mogget. “Quickly! There is little time.”

  Clariel slowly extended her hand and set her palm against the timber. Sparks flashed as she did so, and Charter marks thronged from the wood and moved up her arm. She gasped, but there was no real pain, just a strange sensation, as if something was moving over her skin.

  The door did not move.

  “Lean your forehead against it!” urged Mogget, who was now dancing around Clariel’s feet. “Tell it open, in your grandfather’s name!”

  Clariel did so, pressing the Charter mark on her forehead against one of the iron bolts that reinforced the door. Again, she felt the weird, crawly sensation, this time extending all over her face.

  “Open in the name of Tyriel, my mother’s father! Open!” she said, her voice not as steady as she wished.

  There was a resonant click inside the door, and it moved under Clariel’s hand and head. She put her other hand against it, and pushed. It moved slowly, like a person who has reluctantly agreed to something and wishes they had done otherwise.

  As the door opened, Clariel was assaulted by an incredibly loud noise, so loud it felt almost like a physical blow. The sound of the great waterfall. Kept from the house by magic up above, it was even louder here than it had been going across the bridge in the river. The reason was clear, for a broad cavern in the cliff face lay beyond the door and the far end of it was a gaping hole in the cliff-face, with a wall of white water plummeting down outside. Spray was blowing in, making rainbows as it passed across the Charter marks for light that shone in the ceiling and walls of the cavern.

  The cavern was rough-hewn and apparently empty, save for a massive table in the very center, itself carved out of the rock. One end of this hulking piece of furniture was crowded with several dozen green glass bottles, of differing shapes and sizes, and next to these bottles was a pyramid made of an equivalent number of silver stoppers, a coil of thick gold wire on a decaying wooden drum, a rusted pair of pliers and several other lumps of rust that had once been tools.

  At the other end of the table, standing alone, there was the familiar silver bottle wreathed in gold wire that held Aziminil.

  Clariel walked toward the table, the door sh
utting behind her. She reached out for the silver bottle, almost in a trance, but stopped short of it as a cloud of spray hit her in the face. She blinked, and stepped back. Mogget sneezed and stayed behind her heels in an effort to avoid any drop of moisture.

  Beyond the table, she saw a jagged, narrow peninsula of stone that thrust out into the waterfall. Barely three paces wide, it was at least twenty paces long, the far end invisible under the onrush of water from above. From a few paces out and then as far as she could see into the waterfall, this strange promontory was wrapped in dozens and dozens of tarnished silver chains, big chains with links the thickness of Clariel’s finger, chains that were doubled over this stone outcrop and then stretched down into the maelstrom below.

  “What are the chains for?” bellowed Clariel. She had to bend down to hear Mogget’s repeated answer, the noise of the waterfall drowning the cat’s first reply.

  “Prisoners,” shouted Mogget. “Free Magic creatures suspended in the waterfall, in bottles of green glass.”

  “Why green glass?” shouted Clariel.

  “Can’t question them through silver. They can be heard through glass, silver is only for transport. But there’s no time for questions now! Hurry up! There’s the bottle! You can do it!”

  “Not so fast!” Clariel shouted back. “Where are the garments to protect me from Free Magic?”

  “I don’t know,” spat Mogget. “You don’t need them. Hurry!”

  Clariel ignored him, and quickly walked around the table, taking stock. The whole cavern had an air of decay and disuse. There was moss growing up almost to the tabletop, and there were more faded or dead Charter marks in the ceiling above than live ones. There was a chest under the table, with a pile of silver chains next to it, and a long stick with a hook on the end, like a fisherman’s gaff.

  Not without some trepidation, Clariel opened the chest. Judging from the tarnish on the chains, the moss everywhere, and the general feel of the place, she expected whatever had been in the chest was probably a disgusting pile of mold.

  But it wasn’t. A spell broke as Clariel lifted the lid, Charter marks spilling out everywhere to fade as the complex web of the spell fell apart, leaving the scent of roses. Once again, she didn’t recognize any of the individual marks, but it had to be some kind of preservative or protective spell, because the inside of the chest looked fresh, clean, and most importantly, dry.

  There were numerous articles of clothing inside, in different sizes. All were made of some kind of woven stone, or stonelike material, that was light as linen but enormously strong, and there were thousands and thousands of Charter marks swirling within the fabric. Clariel sorted through the clothes quickly, holding them up against her body. She chose a long hooded robe, gauntlets that came almost to her elbows, and a curious sort of tall overshoes that had puzzled her for a few seconds till she realized they were footwear.

  Underneath the clothes, there was a line of bronze masks. Full face masks, which would fit under the chin and extend back to the ears, with narrow slits for the eyes covered in some clear cystal, and a hinged flap over the larger mouth opening. The masks had leather straps with bronze buckles.

  “Hurry!” hissed Mogget. “If I thought you’d be this slow I never would have bothered!”

  Clariel continued to ignore him. She slipped on the robe, which wrapped around her almost twice and had several ties to make it fast. The overshoes were next, tying off just under her knees, the robe flowing over them down to her ankles. Then the gauntlets, which were also tied to the robe, a difficult operation.

  She reached for the mask she thought would fit her best. It was heavier than she had expected, the bronze a finger-width thick. Like the clothes, it too was heavily laden with Charter marks. Clariel slipped it on, grimacing as the cold metal touched her face. She drew the straps tight, then pulled the hood up and fastened it to the sides and throat of the mask using the strings provided for that purpose.

  The mask felt even heavier on her face, heavy and repressive. But then Charter Magic tingled, the baptismal mark on her forehead burned for a moment, and for a brief instant Clariel felt herself dip into a great swathe of the Charter, as if a storm composed of millions of marks had swept over her, there and gone in a second. The mask felt lighter and warmer thereafter. She hoped it meant that the protective magic was working, for she knew no way to wake it if it required some spell.

  “Hurry!”

  Mogget was yowling now, his voice made more distant by hood and mask, even harder to distinguish above the roar of the waterfall.

  Clariel bent over the silver bottle and directed her thoughts to the spark that lurked deep inside her, the ember of the rage that she must blow into fire and feed till it became the fury, making her strong enough not only to survive the Charter Magic that kept the bottle sealed, but also to overpower the creature within. Aziminil.

  “Hurry up!”

  The words sounded distant, from some other place of no account. Clariel once again ignored Mogget, her mind bent inward. She had found the place where the rage dwelt, and now she fed it, supplying it with memories.

  The terrible night when her parents died; the memory of Aronzo smiling his self-satisfied smile; the feel of the knife in her hand when she tried to stab him and Roban had parried it away . . .

  Then she bit her lip, right through, the taste of her own blood hot and salty, and she wanted to spill more blood, not her own, the rage rising and rising, spreading through every muscle, every vein . . .

  Clariel roared and grabbed the bottle, gauntleted hands gripping the stopper, ripping it off in one swift movement, gold wires and all, Charter Magic spells to chill her bones and stop her heart broken in that instant, marks spinning off uselessly into the air.

  With the stopper gone, Aziminil was suddenly there on the table, taloned hands reaching for her rescuer, a spiked foot stabbing out. But Clariel batted the hands away, gripped the spiked foot, lifted the creature above her head, and threw her to the ground, almost to the lip of the waterfall.

  Aziminil tried to get up but Clariel was upon her, her gauntlets smashing down upon the creature’s bony shoulders, the strength of Clariel’s hands and the strength of her mind forcing the thing to kneel. Charter marks blazed bright as stars in her gauntlets and white sparks fountained from the creature, the stench of hot metal a sharp reek that filled the cavern.

  Aziminil struggled to rise, but could do nothing against the force of Clariel.

  “Obey me!” bellowed the young woman, her voice near as loud as the waterfall itself, infused with all her berserk fury. She felt triumphant, for she could sense Aziminil’s mind bending beneath her will, giving in, surrendering to her as was her right.

  “Swear you will serve me! Serve me forever!”

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  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  BINDING THE FREE

  Swear to serve me forever, or be destroyed!”

  The creature suddenly slumped. Clariel felt something shift inside Aziminil’s mind, some last shred of resistance snap.

  “I will serve you, Mistress,” said Aziminil. She bent forward till her head struck the ground at Clariel’s feet.

  “Forever, until I release you,” boomed Clariel.

  “Forever, until you release me,” agreed the Free Magic creature.

  As Aziminil spoke, Clariel felt a sharp pain in the middle of her forehead, where her baptismal Charter mark was, but the pain was lost as she also felt a sudden surge of power. It was Aziminil’s power that she felt, power that she knew she could draw upon, shape and direct as she willed.

  Power that would be far greater still if she took off the gauntlets and the robe, the mask and the overshoes, and took Aziminil into her body, there to dwell and be ever ready to serve her mistress.

  It was a great temptation, made greater because the fury wanted that power, want
ed that fuel to become greater still, to become such a warrior that nothing could stand against her and she would wade through her enemies, rending them limb from limb, laughing as they sought to flee . . .

  But unlike all previous occasions when she had gone berserk, this time Clariel retained some sense of her own self. She had summoned the fury, but as the book had taught her, had kept back some part of her being. From this redoubt of her true self, she sallied forth, banking down the angry fires that threatened to burn up all the fuel within her, the fires that wanted all Aziminil’s power, not just the fraction available to her without being touched, skin to skin.

  “No,” whispered Clariel. She let go of Aziminil and stepped back. The creature was bound. Nothing more was needed, at least for now. She must resist the temptation for more.

  “Clariel! The door!” shrieked Mogget.

  Clariel whirled around. The door was slowly creaking open. Beyond it she saw a great crowd of armored warriors, sendings all. Instantly she drew upon Aziminil’s power and, gesturing with one hand, directed a great blast of raw sorcery that struck the ceiling above the door and shattered the rock. Huge boulders came tumbling down to block the doorway, a cloud of dust bursting over Clariel and out beyond, only to be washed away by the waterfall.

  Clariel smiled and looked at Aziminil, who remained kneeling near her feet.

  “It is good,” she said. “The power . . . now none shall gainsay me—”

  She faltered, words trailing away. The fury was rising again, as was a strange joy in what she had just done, a feeling of near ecstacy. She had merely willed something to be so, and it was. The stone destroyed, the way blocked, the enemy foiled . . .

  Concentrate, thought Clariel. I must not enjoy this, I must use it only as I need to, I must do only do what must be done.

  Slowly she forced the fury back, damped down the savage excitement that wanted to unleash more sorcery. She slowed her breathing, and brought up the memory of the quiet calm of the willow-arched glade on the river, and let that gentle flow take the rage away.