Clariel

by Nix,Garth

  Mogget was perched on the railing of the gallery, looking down into the hall. Clariel looked too, trying to take in everything she saw. A dizzying sensation of recent death rolled across her, the result of many violent deaths in so short a time. There were dead guards everywhere, Guild and royal. The royal guards were fewer by far, but they had killed many more of their foes. Only strength of numbers had overborne them in the end. Most of their dead lay around the dais on the far end of the hall, where they had formed a shield ring around the throne.

  But that ring was broken, and the King they had sought to protect was slumped on his throne, with Kilp and Aronzo and a half dozen of their Goldsmith guards around him. A moment before they had been laughing, relieved to have survived a hard-won victory.

  Now they were all staring back toward the gallery, at the creatures battling there and the strange bronze-masked apparition that returned their stare.

  The rage came unasked as Clariel saw Kilp and Aronzo for the first time since they had killed her parents. It rose in her like a vast wave capsizing a ship, complete in an instant, with no possibility of turning it back. She howled, white smoke issuing from her mask like steam from a kettle. Her sword burst into hot, red flames that sent a sickening metallic stench across the hall.

  Ignoring the battle on the stair, Clariel jumped over the railing, down the fifteen paces to the hall below. Her ankles turned as she landed, but the pain was simply taken up by the fury as additional fuel, adding to the rage and hatred that already stoked it high. Striding forward, Clariel called out in a voice that could never be recognized as her own.

  “Stand away from the King or die!”

  Three of the guards stood away from the King and fled. Of the remaining three, one began to slot a bolt in his crossbow, his fingers trembling. When it fell on the floor, he also ran. But the other two were made of sterner stuff. They edged forward with Aronzo, very slowly, their swords held high.

  Kilp drew his dagger and stayed by the King. Orrikan swayed back on his throne and lifted his head, his old nose sniffing the stench of Free Magic in the air, his eyes wide.

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  Chapter Thirty-Two

  REVENGE, NOT SO SWEET

  Clariel stormed toward the closer trio, a hooded figure of flame and smoke, her bronze mask gleaming. The first guard tried to parry her sweeping cut but his sword broke and Clariel’s weapon cut him in two. Even as he fell she withdrew the blade and engaged the second guard, who jumped back and tried to flee. Clariel sprang forward farther than anyone could possibly jump and took his head from his shoulders. That left her open to Aronzo, who cut at her shoulder, but through fear or weariness the stroke was short. Clariel whirled and the very point of her sword nicked him on the neck, just above his mail hauberk.

  “Father!” screamed Aronzo, stumbling backward. He fell over a corpse and landed heavily. “Help!”

  Kilp threw his dagger. It struck Clariel in the side, easily parting the protective robes, long since threadbare and bereft of Charter marks. The hunting leathers beneath slowed the dagger a little, but not enough, the blade sinking deep. To Clariel, deep in the rage, it was no more than a pinprick. Ignoring it, she stood over Aronzo. He wasn’t smiling now, and she was pleased to see his cheeks were badly sliced, the wounds not healed.

  “For my mother,” she said, striking down. Her sword pierced Aronzo’s mail with a thunderclap, flames licking across the metal. Aronzo screamed again, a bubbling scream that turned to the choking, rattling cough of death.

  “For my father,” said Clariel, and she struck down again for the heart, killing him instantly. Clariel felt Aronzo die, felt his spirit cross all uncomprehending to the cold river that would bear him away beyond the Ninth Gate. For a moment she even had a vision of those implacable, rushing waters and once again her hand twitched as if it should be holding a bell.

  Withdrawing her sword from Aronzo’s chest, she turned toward Kilp. He stared down from the dais. His mouth worked and his eyes bulged, as if he could not comprehend the ruin of his grand plans and the death of his son.

  “Who are you?” he shouted, his voice high. He looked over Clariel’s head, toward the minstrel’s gallery. “Aziminil! We agreed, I said you could have the King! There is no need for this!”

  “Have you killed so many parents that you cannot remember their children?” asked Clariel. She wished she could take the mask off, so Kilp could see her face before she killed him. But that was not possible.

  Kilp turned to run, but he did not go far. Clariel cut him down at the King’s feet, stabbing him through the body. White surcoat and gilded mail offered no protection against her ensorcelled sword.

  Clariel looked at the blood spreading across the pure white cloth, at the tumbled bodies of a father and son. What had killing them achieved after all? It had not mended the pain in her heart. She knew it had been foolish to think it would.

  She felt the rage beginning to ebb away from her, like the wash of a wave retreating from the sand. But she must not let the fury go. Kilp and Aronzo were dead, but this had brought no ending. She could feel the fierce, strident thoughts of the two Free Magic creatures. They had dealt with the leopard sending and were once more intent on their greater purpose, whatever it was.

  Clariel had to regain control over them, and quickly.

  “Who are you?” asked Orrikan, his voice shaky. “Do you serve Tathiel? Where is my granddaughter?”

  Clariel ignored the King and looked toward the gallery.

  Baazalanan and Aziminil were stalking toward her, with Mogget a few paces behind. All that was left of the leopard sending was a smattering of Charter marks upon the gallery stair, already fading.

  “Stop!” ordered Clariel. She had hoped the fury would give her the power to reassert her domination, but she was already out of the full berserk rage. It had begun to fade the moment Kilp hit the floor.

  The creatures did not stop. They continued to advance, Baazalanan going to one side and Aziminil the other, as if they hoped to avoid Clariel entirely. Both were circling around to get to the King, Clariel realized. She raised her sword and backed toward the throne, darting glances toward Orrikan. He did not look dangerous, and he had not defended himself against Kilp. But he was a powerful Charter Mage, or he had been once.

  “Who are you!” repeated the King.

  “I am Clar—” Clariel began to say her name, then stopped. What use was that name now? She felt like her old self was gone, destroyed by her own hand, by her own mistakes. “I am no one. Run, Highness. I will try to stop them here.”

  “What do these creatures want of me, Claw?” asked the King, mishearing what she had said. He sounded as if he might be asking for his tea. There was some remnant of what he had once been, some vestige of power in his voice. It was enough to make Mogget answer, however reluctant he might be.

  “We . . . want . . . your . . . blood,” said Mogget, each word dragged unwillingly from his mouth. He clawed at his collar, tearing hair and skin. A multitude of marks shone and roiled there now, evidence of some great spell in action. “We want your blood upon the Great Charter Stones in the reservoir below, to break the Charter. To free all of us so enslaved!”

  A sharp stab of pain hit Clariel in the forehead as Mogget spoke, blinding her for a moment. Her sword felt slippery and uncertain in her hand, as if it might fly out of her grasp. She gripped it tighter, her fingers breaking through gauntlets that were now like ancient lace, the very threads disintegrating. Stepping up on the dais, she drew even closer to the King. Aziminil and Baazalanan stalked nearer too, watchful and silent.

  Clariel could still feel their thoughts, their intent, even if they would not obey her. The connection between them remained. They would not kill the King here. They had to take him somewhere below, for his blood needed to be spilt fresh upon the Great Charter stones.


  “Where is my granddaughter?” asked the King again, as if he had not heard Mogget. The old man looked at the creatures, then at Clariel, his old rheumy eyes weeping, his mouth hanging open. “Tathiel was to come. The Clayr Saw her. Why is she not here, Claw?”

  “She sent me,” said Clariel. “She awaits you. But you must run now. The Clayr are coming, you will be safe.”

  “I can’t run,” protested the King. “I haven’t run for years.”

  “Get behind the throne!” ordered Clariel urgently. She could sense the Free Magic creatures were about to spring. “Crawl if you must.”

  “I do not crawl!” said Orrikan indignantly.

  Baazalanan sprang at the king as he spoke and Aziminil jumped high at Clariel. She tried a stop-thrust but the sword betrayed her, turning in her hand, so she threw herself into a dodge, ducking and rolling away as Aziminil came screaming down, her spiked feet smashing into the wooden dais.

  Before Aziminil could strike again, Clariel dove forward, scrabbling across the floor on all fours, the gauntlets falling off her fingers like shredded skin. Mogget was right in front of her, twisting and yowling, and his collar shone brighter than the sun with Charter marks. The spells within it held him fast, held him for Clariel.

  She grabbed the cat’s collar with both hands.

  The Charter exploded into her body, rocketing through muscle, skin, and bone. Thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions of marks burned their way through every part of her body, and into her mind. There the marks found the bridge from her to the creatures, and exploded across to Baazalanan, who held the King; and to Aziminil, just as she was about to stomp down on Clariel once again.

  The creatures froze like statues. Twin waterfalls of golden sparks exploded from Baazalanan’s eyes. The void that was Aziminil’s face suddenly lit with a glow brighter than one of Jaciel’s crucibles. Charter marks danced amid the sparks, weaving a river of light between collar, woman, and creatures.

  But it was not enough.

  All three creatures fought the Charter, and Clariel could not keep her grip. Mogget edged slowly backward, snarling as he exerted his will against the compulsion of his collar.

  Clariel could not hold on. As her fingers weakened, so did the stream of marks.

  The sparks streaming from Baazalanan’s eyes faltered. The creature started to move again, taking a step, the King dead or unconscious in his arms. Aziminil’s face returned to darkness, and she jerkily lifted her foot above Clariel’s back, a fraction at a time, slow steps toward a killing blow.

  Clariel only gripped the collar with two fingers now. All strength had fled from her body. She felt used up, the fury gone, all her hopes and dreams fled. Aronzo and Kilp were dead, but now the King was to be killed, and the Charter broken. Creatures like Aziminil and Baazalanan would roam freely, slaying and wreaking havoc . . .

  It was all her fault.

  “Stop,” she croaked at Mogget, who was ever so slowly continuing to edge away from her, ever so slowly breaking her grip. “Stop, Mogget. In the name of the Abhorsen whom you serve.”

  Mogget did not answer. Clariel’s fingers slipped again. She held the collar by only one finger now and it was giving way. She could feel the spike of Aziminil’s foot against her back, just touching below her shoulder blade. But the pain from that was nothing compared to the other pain in her side, and even that was less than the pain in her forehead. This pain came from the contact with the Charter. It would go if she released her grip, she knew. But still she tried to slide forward, to keep her hold, to keep the marks flowing through her into the Free Magic creatures . . .

  This was how Bel saw her, when he came running into the Great Hall, with the sword Cleave in his right hand, the bell Saraneth in his left.

  He saw a tumbled, masked figure on the ground, desperately trying to struggle forward as Mogget retreated back, her one finger hooked around his collar. Bel saw the marks flowing from collar to Clariel to the creatures: the dagger-footed one from the Islet, her spiked foot about to deliver a terrible blow; and another, tall and impossibly thin, who cradled the King in its arms, sidling toward the door that led to the reservoir below.

  Bel saw it all, and in that instant knew what was happening, saw that Clariel was the dupe of Aziminil and Mogget, and not the deceiver he had feared.

  Bel rang Saraneth even as Clariel’s finger slipped.

  In the moment of its sounding, all became still. Saraneth’s deep voice commanded all who heard it to obey. In the echo of the bell’s call, Belatiel spoke, the voice of an Abhorsen come fully to his power.

  “Stop!”

  Aziminil’s spiked foot stopped, just piercing the skin of Clariel’s back. Baazalanan froze in place. Mogget gave a disgruntled yowl, but he too became still.

  Yet even Saraneth could not command a wound to stop bleeding, and the blood flowed without stint from the dagger wound in Clariel’s side.

  Bel held up his sword hand. The silver ring that Tyriel had worn was on his index finger. The ring that sealed Mogget’s allegiance.

  “Mogget, I am the Abhorsen, and I renew all instructions, orders, and commands that have been given to thee these many years, and reiterate them anew.”

  Mogget rolled his eyes and muttered something that Clariel couldn’t catch. She couldn’t hear properly. It was the hood, she thought, though in fact the hood was in tatters around her head. Like the rest of her robe, all its virtue lost, all Charter magic long since fled.

  Only the bronze mask remained, though she no longer felt the metal on her face.

  “Mistress Ader, if you could help me with the creatures?”

  Clariel heard that. So Mistress Ader had survived. That was good, she thought dimly. She knew Gullaine had not lived, for the Captain of the Guard was lying only a few paces away in front of the throne, her sightless eyes turned toward the ceiling, eyes that once been so alive.

  Gullaine had a dozen wounds or more upon her front. They would all be at the front, Clariel thought.

  Charter marks suddenly flew above her, like a flock of bright starlings come home to roost. She screamed as they struck Aziminil, feeling the pain of the creature’s binding. Then there was a sudden vacancy in her mind and Aziminil was gone, gone as if she had never been. Another agonizing stab of pain followed and Baazalanan too disappeared.

  Clariel sobbed from the pain of their absence, and for the loss of the great power she had never dared fully use. And perhaps most of all for the power she had used so unwisely.

  Finally, Bel knelt by her side. Clariel tried to sit up, or even roll upon her back, but she couldn’t move. She craned her neck and tried to speak, the words slow, her mouth strangely dry and twisted.

  “Sorry,” she croaked. “Thought no one was doing anything. Didn’t understand. Free Magic.”

  “I know,” said Bel. He saw the blood pooling under her, suppressed a gasp, and reached for the Charter to choose the marks of a healing spell.

  “My aunt Lemmin,” whispered Clariel. “Rescue her?”

  “We will,” said Bel. “There will be no more fighting. Not with Kilp dead, and the Clayr and the others coming through the Erchan Gate.”

  “The King?” whispered Clariel.

  “He’s dying,” said Bel. He had the marks, the spell was all ready, but it would not leave his hand. The marks refused to enter Clariel’s flesh. He looked quickly at the King. “It has all been too much. He’s smiling, though. Ader is telling him the news.”

  “Telling him . . .”

  “Princess Tathiel came with the Clayr,” said Bel. He grimaced as the spell rebounded again and he lost the marks. “She has been with them all this time. She will be Queen. Much against her wishes.”

  “We can’t all get what we want,” whispered Clariel. “I thought it was so simple . . . the Great Forest . . . not so much to ask . . .”

  “No, not so much,” said Bel.

  Clariel didn’t answer.

  Bel wiped his eyes and reached for the Charter again. Mistress A
der came to his side, and he felt her hand upon his shoulder, lending him strength. But again the marks were repelled and Bel, already weary from his frantic flight in pursuit of Clariel, almost fainted from the effort himself.

  “There is too much Free Magic in her,” said Ader, her voice kind but sure. “The wound is too deep. You have to let her go, Bel—and we must make sure she cannot come back.”

  Bel nodded slowly and stood up as if carrying a great weight upon his back. As he did so, Mogget curled around his legs.

  “There is a way to save her, you know,” said the cat. “Or you should know, if either of you had been properly educated. I suppose I could tell you, now you have recalled me to myself and to make some . . . ahem . . . amends.”

  “What?” asked Bel urgently.

  “The Great Charter Stones,” said Mogget. “Your healing spells will work if you draw upon them. Take her down to the reservoir.

  “Though it might be too late,” he added, pulling one paw back daintily from the spreading pool of blood.

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  Epilogue

  Clariel came to consciousness slowly. For a moment she was disoriented, feeling the crisp linen under her, the sheet and fine wool blanket across her body. Was she home in Estwael, or was she still trapped in the new house in Belisaere?

  Her eyes opened to see a circular room she’d never been in before. She was somewhere high up, the narrow window opposite showing only a night sky with a scattering of stars, dim in the light of the Charter marks that glowed softly above her bedhead.

  Her side ached, and her face . . .

  Clariel remembered. Her hands flew up, to touch nose and mouth, fearing to find bronze but instead feeling familiar skin. She let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief. Slowly she traced her cheekbones, and then, more hesitantly than ever, touched the middle of her forehead.