by Nix,Garth
“Take me gently through the waterfall and safely to the western shore of the Ratterlin,” she ordered. “Do not touch my skin. Be quick!”
The two Free Magic creatures bowed. Sparks of white light began to form upon their strange bodies, small flames flickered from bloodred and inky-blue flesh and then larger flames till with a whoosh both entities were columns of white fire, bright as the sun but completely without heat. The columns moved toward Clariel and began to change again, shaping themselves into two halves of a globe. Clariel staggered to her feet as they began to close around her and looked across to where she had left her sword on the floor. It was too late to fetch it now.
Too late to change her mind.
A white cat erupted out of the open chest that had held the robes and zoomed toward her, jumping at the last second through the gap between the closing hemispheres and into her arms. Clariel caught him by reflex, too weary even to be very much surprised.
“You’re coming then?”
“I believe I am,” said Mogget. He sounded surprised himself. “Don’t touch my collar!”
“Why not?”
“It will break the globe, we will be left here.”
Clariel nodded. She barely had the strength to do that, and certainly couldn’t keep talking. There was no fury left in her, and her legs felt like they might buckle at any moment. She shut her eyes as the white globe closed around her, and held Mogget close. He surprised her again by beginning to purr, though he stopped almost immediately, perhaps because he’d noticed he was purring.
She could sense the surface thoughts at least of Aziminil and Baazalanan. They were servile, wanting to obey her every command, intent on carrying her safely through the waterfall.
Her servants had done as she bid, and would continue to do so.
The globe rolled to the edge of the cavern, though inside Clariel felt no motion. On the edge it stopped for a second, then rolled again, entering the cascade with a great boom and an explosion of sparks that lit up the whole waterfall and the lowlands beneath for several leagues, as if a small sun had fallen with the river.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Chapter Twenty-Nine
ONCE WERE DRAGONS
A league downstream from the waterfall the globe of white fire rolled ashore and split in half. Clariel staggered shakily out onto a pebbly beach that offered uncertain footing, so she had to stoop and put one hand down to regain her balance. Mogget jumped out of her arms and sniffed the air. Whatever he smelt seemed to satisfy him, for he wandered over to the shallows and stared into the water, one paw raised.
Nearby, the fiery hemispheres dulled and shifted, Aziminil and Baazalanan resuming their more familiar shapes. As Clariel stood up, they bowed their heads, the picture of model servants.
Clariel looked at them, up at the moon high above, then back toward the waterfall, a streak of white against the darkness of the Long Cliffs. It was hard to believe she had escaped, that she had two Free Magic servants, not to mention the dubious assistance of Mogget. The way was now clear to go back to Belisaere and do what must be done, and then finally be released to start her proper life in the Forest.
Insects buzzed around her head, midges of some kind, reminding Clariel that her face was bloodied, and her hand. She walked back down to the water’s edge, knelt there, took off her gauntlets, and undid the hood of her robe and the straps of her mask. But when she tried to take the mask off, it was stuck fast and wouldn’t move. Clariel shrugged and splashed water over it and through the mouth hole, thinking it must be dried blood that held it to her skin. But even then it still wouldn’t move, and she began to grow afraid. She plunged her head into the river, into the fast-running water. Holding her breath she worked at the mask, till at last it came free with a sickening pang in her forehead.
Trembling, Clariel touched her fingers to her baptismal Charter mark. It glowed softly as she touched it, but the light that reflected on the river was wrong, not the warm golden glow she was used to. This was whiter, brighter, though still tinged with gold.
Clariel hesitated, then tried to reach for the Charter, to conjure a simple light. It was the first spell she’d learned, something she knew well and she could nearly always make it work. But the Charter wasn’t there, or she could no longer feel its presence. Yet she knew it was everywhere, the Charter made up all things, it described the world and everything in it . . .
Except Free Magic. That was outside the Charter.
“But I wore the robe, the mask . . .” whispered Clariel. She touched her forehead Charter mark again, and once more reached for the Charter. This time, she felt it, but far away. No great drift of marks fell upon her; they stayed as distant as the stars above, and just as out of reach. But even that far, momentary glimpse relieved Clariel. She had never really valued the Charter, neither understood it nor wanted to know more, but she felt its absence keenly.
It felt wrong, unnatural.
“Mogget!” she called.
The cat came back from the edge of the river, his paws and face wet and a look of satisfaction on his face.
“Mogget,” said Clariel. “My Charter mark . . . something’s happened to it, and I can’t . . . I can’t reach the Charter. You told me the robes would protect me from the Free Magic.”
“The Charter and Free Magic are antithetical,” said Mogget. “When you use one, you cannot use the other. Binding Free Magic creatures, drawing on their power . . . it weakens the Charter within you.”
“You didn’t tell me that,” said Clariel.
“I thought you knew,” said Mogget. He examined his left paw, and licked off a tiny shred of fish. “Common knowledge among real Abhorsens.”
“What will happen to me?” asked Clariel, touching her forehead again.
“The Clayr may see your future. I cannot make predictions.”
“Mogget! Answer me properly, or I’ll . . . leave you behind.”
“I really don’t know,” yawned Mogget.
“I can still feel the Charter, though it is distant,” said Clariel. “Does that mean I might be able to . . . to find it again?”
Mogget didn’t answer, but continued to lick his paws.
“Mogget! Please! I am an Abhorsen, even if I’m not the Abhorsen. Surely that counts for something.”
Mogget stopped licking his paws. The Charter marks on his collar grew brighter, and there was the faintest sound of some distant, disturbing bell. The cat squirmed and blinked his green eyes twice.
“Free Magic and the Charter will struggle inside your body,” he said slowly and reluctantly. “One or the other will win out. The more you draw the creature’s power within you, the stronger the Free Magic will be. There are healing spells, marks to cleanse the flesh of the Free Magic taint. Touching a Charter Stone would help, one of the Great Charter Stones most of all, of course.”
“The Great Charter Stones?” asked Clariel. “Kargrin spoke of them, beneath the Palace. So if I went there, I would be cleansed of this . . . this taint?”
Mogget looked away, his head lunging up as if he was snapping at a tasty moth. He spoke urgently, clearly compelled to speak. The marks on his collar shone brighter still, and once again the faint echo of a bell came to Clariel’s ears, making her shiver, and not with cold.
“It is . . . would be . . . very dangerous. You must . . . you must seek the help of a Charter Mage, a magister of the first rank.”
Clariel felt a wave of relief pass through her. If there was a means to regain her connection to the Charter then using Free Magic was an acceptable risk. Kargrin—or the surprising Mistress Ader, who had been an Abhorsen—they would know what to do, they would help her.
It would all be worth it, when Kilp and Aronzo were dead, and Aunt Lemmin free, and the path to the Great Forest made clear at last.
“How may we serve you, Mistress?” whispered Baazal
anan. It had crept closer to her, Aziminil at its heels. They must have heard everything. “Shall we carry you to Belisaere?”
Clariel let her hand fall from her forehead. She hesitated for a moment, then put the bronze mask back on and buckled the strap, before lifting the hood and making it fast. Her gauntlets went on next. She noted that the Charter marks in the strange, stony fabric were neither as bright nor as numerous as before. Touching the creatures had taken its toll. But she needed whatever remaining protection the garments offered.
“How will you carry me?” she asked. Thinking quickly, she added, “In a globe of white fire again? Remember that you must not touch my skin, nor convey me in such a way that I might accidentally touch you.”
“We shall make a chair for you, Mistress,” said Baazalanan in its soft but penetrating voice, which sounded neither male nor female. It was simply otherworldly and strange. Clariel knew from her mental contact that Baazalanan was the more powerful of the two, something she saw confirmed when Aziminil took up a subservient position a step behind the taller Free Magic creature. “We will summon metal from the ground. Then we shall join to make a flying mount and set the chair upon it.”
“A flying mount?” asked Clariel.
“I think they intend something you might call a dragon,” said Mogget thoughtfully. “At least a creature that inspired some of the tales of dragons.”
He was lying on his stomach in the grass, watching the two Free Magic creatures. They turned their heads toward the cat and though they did not speak, Clariel sensed some silent communication before they turned back together to look at Clariel. If “look” is what Aziminil did, with her strange oval void in place of a face.
“I do not know what name you would use,” whispered Baazalanan. “It is the shape favored by some of our kindred, long ago. Winged Perazinik, Jagdezkal, Tazkehanar . . .”
“Lost long ago, when the Seven made the Charter,” added Aziminil. “But we remember.”
“As do I,” said Mogget. He grimaced and turned his head, licking at his collar.
“A dragon,” said Clariel. She smiled under her mask. When she had been six years old her mother had made her a little golden dragon with ruby chips for eyes. Jaciel had taken it back a year later, and melted it down as a punishment for some infringement Clariel could no longer remember. “Can it be a golden dragon?”
“Whatever you wish, Mistress,” said Baazalanan in its strange, soft voice.
But Mogget said, “It would be better grey, unless you wish for everyone to know we’re coming, Clariel. Grey hides well against any sky.”
“Grey, then. Also I will need a sword,” said Clariel, suddenly remembering the one she had left behind. The Free Magic creatures had spoken of drawing metal from the ground and Aziminil had made a fine goblet for Aronzo. “Can you make me a sword?”
“Yes, Mistress,” said Aziminil. “But not quickly. It will take some little time.”
“Better yet, I know of a sword that would serve you well,” whispered Baazalanan. “And other weapons. A cache from long ago . . . it lies toward Belisaere, and we could break our journey there. Even for such as we, it is not possible to retain the dragon-shape without rest.”
“A hidden sword and a dragon?” asked Clariel. She smiled again, thinking of her eight-year-old self and the stories she used to love, told by her aunt Lemmin, for her mother told no stories. But the smile faded, for that younger Clariel would not have been able to imagine her present companions, nor would she like them. The eight-year-old would not understand the necessity of using such creatures. “Let us find it then. Make me a chair, and become your dragon. I will rest upon the bank. Keep watch while you work. Wake me as soon as you are ready, but remember you must not touch me.”
The two creatures nodded and bent down, their hands plunging deep through the pebbly beach into the earth, already summoning metal from the depths below. Clariel walked up the grassy bank beyond the beach of stones, and laid herself down. Mogget watched her for a moment, then padded back to the creatures. Both stopped their digging and bent their heads down toward the little cat.
If Clariel had been watching she might have wondered whether they were bowing down to offer homage, or simply to hear him better. He whispered something to them, unheard by Clariel, and they answered as quietly. Then Mogget went back to his fishing in the shallows and the creatures began to summon iron from far beneath their unnatural feet.
Clariel lay on her back on the grass and looked up. Her last conscious thought before sleep fell on her like a starving bear was that the moon looked bigger than she thought it should, and that this was important for a reason she couldn’t quite recall . . .
The moon was beginning to descend when Clariel awoke, but its light was still clear and bright. It was roughly the third hour of the morning, she thought, still well before the dawn. She lay there, not moving, just staring at the moon for a while, before she remembered the importance of the current phase of the moon. It would be full tonight, and if Mogget had told her the truth, her protective garments would completely fail. She had to get to Belisaere and do what was needed before the next moonrise, which would be shortly before midnight.
Groaning a little, she levered herself up on one elbow and saw the dragon. Its head did look like the corners of the Abhorsen’s table, but its body didn’t resemble any picture Clariel had ever seen in a book of children’s tales. It was not sinuous and reptilean, but more like an enormous bat. It was covered in light grey bristly hair rather than scales; its taloned forelimbs were part of its membranous wings, its hindquarters were muscular and rather feline. It didn’t have a tail as such, but a stumpy stern like the docked tails of the Olmond hunting dogs. Its head was hairless, more skull than flesh, a thing of bony ridges and deep-set eyes. Eyes that were larger versions of Baazalanan’s. Pools of utter darkness, reflecting no moonlight.
It was also smaller than Clariel had expected, only some twenty paces from head to its stunted rear, and its outstretched, leathery wings were only half as long again. The chair the creatures had made was already set on its back, directly behind its head, the legs seemingly fused into the bone beneath. Though they’d called it a chair, it looked more like a throne to Clariel. Made of raw, black iron, its back was high and adorned at the top with flanges and spikes, the armrests were flat plates of the metal, and there was a curving footrest that extended out over the dragon’s head like a half helmet. It did not look comfortable at all, but it was imposing.
“We are ready,” rasped the dragon, its breath carrying the hot metallic reek of Free Magic, white sparks falling from its long and dextrous tongue. It extended its neck and laid its head on the ground, so Clariel could step over onto the curving footrest without touching its body.
The chair was cold and uncomfortable, and did not feel anywhere near as secure as being in a paperwing. Clariel gripped the arms and wedged herself into the seat as best as she could. A moment later, Mogget landed in her lap and began to tread around in a circle, claws extended.
“Don’t tear my robe!” said Clariel sharply. She put her hands around Mogget’s middle to put him at her feet, but he immediately retracted his claws and sat down, looking up at her with an innocent expression.
“I still don’t know why you’re really coming with me,” she said. “What happens if the Abhorsen finds you gone?”
“Tyriel?” snorted Mogget. “He could summon me back, and I would go. I cannot disobey his direct commands. But I doubt he will think of me. He never has before.”
“He might now,” said Clariel. “I left a note for Bel, just in case.”
Mogget stood up suddenly, his head butting Clariel under her chin.
“You did what!”
“He won’t see it till late today, if he visits like he said he would,” said Clariel. “Even in a paperwing he couldn’t catch up with us. Besides, Bel would want to help me anyway.”
“Would he?” asked Mogget darkly. “Perhaps he might see things differently now. But
done is done. We had best make speed. Order your minions to carry us aloft.”
Clariel nodded. Whatever Mogget said, she was sure Bel would not try to stop her, particularly not when she was going against Kilp and Aronzo, to save the King.
“Fly carefully,” she instructed the composite beast. “Do not allow me to fall, but go swiftly.”
“First to find the sword?” asked the dragon. Interestingly, its voice now was not a combination of the two Free Magic creatures, but Baazalanan’s alone.
“Where is it?” asked Clariel. “And how fast can you fly? It is near two hundred leagues to Belisaere.”
“The sword lies on the foothills of Mount Aunden; we can be there soon after the dawn. We must rest then, under the height of the sun, but can then reach Belisaere by an hour after dusk.”
“But what is your intention, Mistress?”
The voice now changed to Aziminil’s.
“We are strong and may pass the water channels, but there are many Charter Stones and many Charter Mages in the city . . . we cannot travel as we are, and should we be seen, they could imprison us once again.”
“I am not sure,” said Clariel slowly. She frowned, the movement making her mask move as well, it was sticking to her forehead again. “I need to see what is happening. Perhaps we will drop down outside Belisaere, find travelers or farmers, ask what is going on . . . I will decide later. Fly now!”
“Yes, Mistress,” caroled the dragon, in its composite voice. It extended its wings, the tips unfolding to a far greater length than Clariel had suspected, beat down with them, and began a lurching run along the pebbled beach, the powerful hindquarters driving it forward at considerable speed. Just before the beach ended in a tall, overgrown bank, the dragon pumped its wings again and lurched into the sky, with Clariel and Mogget holding on for dear life in the iron chair.
Back in the Abhorsen’s House, there came a great pounding on the gate. The guard sending hastened to open it, to admit Bel, fully armed and armored in helmet and gethre plate hauberk. He was even paler than ever and clutched his left shoulder. A message-hawk was asleep on his right shoulder, its head tucked under a wing, talons firmly emplaced under the edges of the shoulder plates of the hauberk.
