Clariel: The Lost Abhorsen (The Abhorsen Trilogy Book 4) (28 page)

Clariel had never seen a cat laugh before, and wouldn’t have known that’s what it was if Bel hadn’t spoken. She thought Mogget was preparing to throw up a fur ball, since his shoulders were shaking, his eyes were closed, and he was making a kind of rasping noise in his throat. He continued for a few seconds after Bel spoke, then said with dignity, “I find many things amusing. Abhorsens who are afraid of Death, Princesses who shirk their inheritance . . . it’s all quite funny.”

“I don’t think so,” said Clariel. She balled her right hand into a fist and slapped it against the open palm of her left, making a very satisfactory thudding noise. “If I was . . . if I was either the Abhorsen or the Princess, I’d just get on with doing my job.”

“Would you?” asked Mogget. “What is your ‘job’ then?”

Clariel didn’t know how to answer that, at least not immediately. When her parents had been killed she had lost her clear and obvious place in the world, but it had been a place she had intended to leave behind anyway.

“I am a hunter,” she said slowly. “I belong in the Great Forest. It’s the only place where things make sense to me . . . where I make sense. But perhaps that’s only what I want to be, and I must become something else instead.”

“You’ll get to the forest,” said Bel encouragingly. “I mean, it may be a while, but I’m sure Kilp will be defeated, and then everything will go back to normal. Like I said, I’ll fly you to Estwael—”

“How can you be so sure Kilp will be defeated?” demanded Clariel. She stepped close to Bel, her eyes angry. “No one’s doing anything! What about Aunt Lemmin? If they . . . she’s just an herbalist, she’s kind and wise and she always looked out for me . . . they’ll put her in a hole like they did to me, or worse!
Someone
has to do something!”

“Don’t get angry,” pleaded Bel. He took a step backward, making calming gestures with his hands.

“I’m not going berserk,” said Clariel, through gritted teeth. “I can control the rage.”

“She’s got a book about it,” said Mogget helpfully. “Mind you, you should have seen the berserk that wrote it. Huge she was, and if the sendings didn’t bring her wine fast enough, she’d pick them up and snap them in half and throw the pieces on the floor.”

“How do you snap a sending in half?” asked Bel, easily distracted by some knowledge even more arcane than usual.

“When fully manifested, they are solid, as are their accoutrements,” said Mogget. “They may be attacked, torn apart, broken up. If properly made they can be put back together, some can even reform themselves. It’s all covered in
Simple Sendings
, I think—”

“How interesting,” said Clariel. “I’m going to leave you two to your lesson. Mogget, I want to talk to you later.”

“Clariel! No, wait, I came to see you,” said Bel hastily. “I can’t stay, Tyriel told me I mustn’t—”

“Go then,” said Clariel. She had spoken truly about not going berserk, but she was angry. Not with Bel, but with her grandfather, and the King, with all the useless people that had let things get so out of control that her parents could be
killed
, and an innocent like her aunt Lemmin could be swept up, taken away from her home . . .

Clariel stopped in mid-stride, so quickly that Bel, starting after her, almost ran into her back.

“Kilp must want Aunt Lemmin as a hostage,” she said. “To make me go back to the city.”

“Very likely,” said Mogget. “I am interested in this Kilp fellow. Few Governors of Belisaere have had much intelligence, by any measure. Um, perhaps if you could just leave me those fish?”

“Do you know when she was arrested?” asked Clariel. She was thinking about where her aunt might be. If Kilp had sent the order for her arrest the night Jaciel and Harven had been killed, then Lemmin might already be in Belisaere, already in a prison hole.

“No. I suppose I could find out,” said Bel. “But there’s nothing you can do for her anyway, Clariel. I’m sorry you’re stuck here, but there are worse places . . .”

His voice trailed off as he saw Clariel give him a look similar to the one the chief cook at Hillfair used when confronted by a joint of meat that had become seriously maggot-struck.

“Please do find out,” she said coldly. She looked at Mogget and threw down the fish. “And tell my grandfather that even if he isn’t going to do anything, I
am
.”

“But you
can’t
do anything,” called out Bel, to her rapidly retreating back. “Look, I’ll ask him, I really will. I’ll be back tomorrow, maybe we can work out something . . .”

Clariel did not reply. She stalked into the house, went to her room to get
The Fury Within
, and stomped up the stairs to the west roof garden. Unlike the one in her parents’ house in Belisaere, this garden had green plants. Mostly white rowans in large terra-cotta pots but also some smaller shrubs she didn’t know, with broad green leaves and tiny yellow flowers.

The garden offered a great vista over the river to the hills beyond, only slightly marred in Clariel’s opinion by the roofs and towers of Hillfair when she looked to the north. Ignoring that side, she resolutely dragged the comfortable bench with its blue and silver cushions around to face the south, toward the mist-cloud of the waterfall, opened her book, and began to read.

She paid careful attention to the instructions in the tome. It had already helped her a little, and she was determined to learn more. The rage frightened her, and Clariel knew she must bring it under control. The book said it was possible to raise it when she willed, and dismiss it in such a way that she was not left so exhausted. But it was not as simple as just reading how to do it. The book offered techniques, things to practice, ways of thinking. But it would take time, and work, and strength of will.

The sendings brought lunch to Clariel when she did not answer to the repeated gongs or the increasingly broad gestures of her attendant sending. It was composed of one of the fish she had caught, evidently rescued from Mogget. This had been grilled with ginger, pepper, and some spice she didn’t know, set atop a salad of grains and greenleaf, accompanied by a lightly sparkling clear wine she had to admit was delicious and refreshing.

Reading in the roof garden was also relaxing, but she refused to let either lunch or the pleasant surroundings lessen her fixed decision that she had to get out of the Abhorsen’s House.

It was clear that no useful help would be forthcoming for the King. No one would be going to rescue Aunt Lemmin. Kilp would just get away with what he was doing.

Someone had to do something.

I
have to do something, thought Clariel.

She put the book down and walked over to look down at the river roaring past; and then switched her gaze over to the northwest, in the rough direction of the far-off Estwael. As always, the call to the Great Forest was strong in her heart. She yearned to be there, but it was farther away from her than ever.

The Abhorsen wasn’t go to do anything. Aunt Lemmin was in danger. Aronzo would certainly treat her badly and she couldn’t bear that thought. Kilp might also be able to capture the palace and the King.

But even presuming Clariel could get out of the Abhorsen’s House, what could she do on her own? She wasn’t a powerful Charter Mage, not a Charter Mage at all really. The fury, presuming she could govern it better, did offer something if it came to fighting a few foes—but she would not be fighting a few foes.

Bel’s words rankled, though she had to acknowledge there was some truth in them.

But there’s nothing you can do.

Truth, but not entire.

There
was
a power she could wield. It had been on her mind ever since the Islet, a slight, gnawing thing that wouldn’t go away. It had been reinforced by the sight of that silver bottle in the paperwing, the bottle under Tyriel’s arm, the bottle that was somewhere in the House even now.

There was power there to rescue Aunt Lemmin; power to wreak her revenge upon Kilp and Aronzo; power to set the Kingdom to rights.

Only then could she go to the Great Forest, free of all cares . . .

Chapter Twenty-Six

THE PATH IS CHOSEN

C
lariel had almost given up on Mogget by the late afternoon, but he popped up around her feet just as she was closing
The Fury Within
, having read it to the final page. She was thinking deeply about all the things it had told her, of the nature of being a berserk, so she started in surprise when the cat wound himself around her legs.

“You wanted to see me?” he said, with a flick of his ears at the ever-present sending who stood silently behind Clariel’s shoulder.

“I did,” said Clariel. “You took your time.”

“You were so busy reading I didn’t want to disturb you. Educational, I trust?”

“I hope so,” said Clariel. “But the more I learn the more I find I need to learn.”

“Then there is hope for you yet,” said the cat. “I believe you wanted to see the Abhorsen’s study?”

Clariel saw the glint in Mogget’s eye and correctly deduced this was part of his plan to get rid of the eavesdropping sending.

“I would,” she said. “If I am allowed.”

“I am a great believer that anything not expressly forbidden is explicitly allowed,” said Mogget. “What did your grandfather tell the sendings when you first arrived?”

Clariel thought for a moment.

“I think he said I should be treated as his granddaughter and guarded, but not to be allowed to cross the bridge, step into a boat or a paperwing,” she said.

“The sendings are very literal,” said Mogget. “Hmm . . . ‘Not allowed to cross the
bridge
, use a
boat
or
paperwing
.’ That was rather lax of Tyriel. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised at his ignorance. Follow me.”

Clariel followed the cat into the tower reading room and then up the narrow staircase. The study above was also lined with shelves and many books, but Clariel’s attention was immediately drawn to the one glassed-in cabinet set among them, home to a single book bound in pale green leather with silver clasps. It was as if the book were watching her, as much as she was watching it.

Mogget saw her staring.

“
The Book of the Dead
,” he said. “Best left alone.”

“I am an Abhorsen,” said Clariel. She remembered Bel talking about this book, how it contained the knowledge the Abhorsens needed to enter Death and return, how to wield their seven bells to bind and command the Dead. She found the book weirdly fascinating, though she had no particular interest in the Abhorsen’s peculiar kind of necromancy.

The book itself was fascinating. She felt like she was watching an animal, waiting to see where it would spring, being on guard in case it attacked but also tensed to pursue if it fled. “Doesn’t that give me the right to read it?”

“No,” said Mogget. “You’re one of the family, sure enough, but only the Abhorsen or the Abhorsen-in-Waiting can read that particular book.”

“Bel told me he read it,” said Clariel. “And he thought Yannael hadn’t, maybe even Tyriel had never read it.”

“Like I said,” replied Mogget.

“What?” asked Clariel.

“People seem to have got confused about who’s who and what’s what since I last got let out of this house,” said Mogget, which didn’t help Clariel at all. “Now, you wanted writing materials, I believe?”

“Um, yes,” said Clariel. She was still thinking about what the cat had said. “But everyone calls Yannael the Abhorsen-in-Waiting . . . you mean she isn’t?”

“Everything you need is on the desk,” said Mogget. “Be
very
careful you don’t spill the ink.”

Clariel looked at the massive redwood desk. Each corner of the tabletop was adorned with intricately carved dragon heads. The dragons all had individual expressions; she could see the character of each of them: melancholy, angry, happy, and a fourth had its eyes closed, apparently asleep.

For the first time she wondered if dragons had once really existed. These seemed modeled from life. In the middle of the dragon table there was a silver inkwell, very finely made and old, accompanied by several quill pens, a knife to cut them, a sheaf of paper, and a blotter made from the dried sponge she had last seen in quantity, wet, in the fish market of Belisaere.

She pushed one of the high-backed chairs aside and bent down to cut a pen. Inking it, she held it above the paper, while Mogget watched from a safe distance on the other side of the table.

“Oh no, you’ve got ink on your hand,” he said, though she didn’t, or at least didn’t yet. “Best ask your sending for a wet cloth. Actually a wet cloth and a dry one, and perhaps a small bottle of spirits of hartshorn; that ink is very difficult to shift.”

Clariel spilled some ink on her hand, turned to the sending, and repeated Mogget’s request. The sending bowed, and drifted out of the room. As soon as it was gone, Mogget leaped over to Clariel and began to whisper, his whiskers quivering because he was talking so fast.

“That’ll only get us a few minutes. The ordinary ones aren’t very smart, but if it runs into one of the superior sendings it’ll be here in an instant. Do you still want to escape from the house?”

“Yes,” said Clariel. “But that’s not all.”

“What else?” asked Mogget.

“I want to know where the silver bottle Tyriel brought has been taken.”

“Ah-ha!” cried Mogget. “I knew it. I smelt it on you, the lovely tang of Free Magic, and not just because you’re a berserk. Things come together, paths converge—”

“What do you mean?”

“When you held the creature, as Bel says you did, did it tell you its name?” asked Mogget.

“Yes,” said Clariel. “Aziminil.”

Mogget’s eyes widened and his mouth curled up in a smile. He got up and circled around three times, tail almost whisking across Clariel’s face.

“Aziminil, Ziminil, Zimminy-Az,” he said. “Caught in Belisaere, you say. And now Az is here, and not
completely
put away, and so are you, and you’re a berserk and you want to get out when bridge, boat, and paperwing are barred against you.”

“What are you talking about?” demanded Clariel. “Quickly!”

Mogget stopped his circling.

“What I mean is that while there are more ways to leave this house than you might think, there is only one way for
you
to leave this house that offers a reasonable chance of success, not to mention survival,” he said. “It requires the . . . assistance . . . of a Free Magic creature. But how to do this? Charter Mages can only bind such creatures, they cannot make use of them. But you are a berserk, the Free Magic is strong inside you. Tell me, did Aziminil submit to you when you first met?”

“Something like that,” said Clariel. “She—”

“She?” asked Mogget. “Clever Aziminil. Go on.”

“She tried to enter my mind . . . to bend me to her will. But I went into
her
mind, and forced her to obey
me
. Then Kargrin speared her and she would have been trapped, so I . . . I let her go.”

“You let her go,” chuckled Mogget. “Let her go. Ah, there
is
more than mischief to be gained here. Were you in the rage when she surrendered herself to you?”

“Yes,” said Clariel. “How can Aziminil help me escape? Where is she?”

“
She is down below, where the Abhorsens take their captives and hold them close. She ought to be sunk deeper still, but the sendings only take the prisoners so far. Tyriel should have finished the job, put the bottle out with the rest, but he’s shirked it, as so much else.”

“How do I use Aziminil to escape?” asked Clariel. “And how can I make sure she doesn’t kill me, or . . . do whatever Free Magic creatures do to people?”

“Summon the rage, bend her to your will,” said Mogget. “As for your escape, if Aziminil is strong enough she can become a vessel to take you out through the waterfall.”

“Out through the
waterfall
?” asked Clariel.

“Yes, indeed,” said Mogget. “Az will know how, but it will be a question of strength, for the waterfall is mighty indeed. Aziminil alone may not suffice, you could need more than one of the prisoners to take you through. But one or two or three,
you
can command them. You have the power within you, fueled by your rage.”

“Only for a short time,” said Clariel. “What happens afterward, when I am weak?”

“Have them swear when you first hold them in your sway,” said Mogget, his eyes alight, his claws out. “You can fix them then, make them serve you no matter whether you are weak or not, awake or not, unconscious . . .”

“There is no way they can turn against me?” asked Clariel.

“Any bond will weaken over time,” said Mogget. “But it can be made anew.”

“I have always heard it said that Free Magic creatures are inimical to life,” said Clariel. She was excited by the prospect of freedom, but cautious too. “What exactly does that mean?”

Mogget did not answer immediately, choosing instead to lick one of his paws with intense interest.

“Mogget! What does it mean, that Free Magic creatures are inimical to life?”

“Bah! An exaggeration,” said Mogget. He hesitated for a moment, twisting his neck as if his collar had caught on something, before adding more quietly, “I suppose it is true that their substance, the manifestation of their flesh, is corrosive to living things. But it can be contained, avoided, taken care of in numerous ways. Why, the Abhorsens use a kind of Free Magic all the time, in their bells and spells in Death. They used to use it more freely still. You would be no different.”

Clariel nodded. She’d been wondering how Kilp and Aronzo had survived if Aziminil really was so dangerous. They hadn’t even bound her to their service, she had just agreed to serve them. That didn’t sound like a creature “inimical” to all life.

Against that, though, she had to balance the fact that her mother had died fighting against the very idea of working with a Free Magic creature. Jaciel had even slain one before who had assumed the shape of her brother. But then, Clariel thought, Jaciel was not like other people. She never compromised, she would not depart from her chosen path, no matter what. Perhaps if she had talked to Kilp, taken the more sensible approach, then she would still be alive, and Harven too, and Clariel would be on her way to Estwael . . .

Clariel shook her head. There was no point in thinking over might-have-beens. She had to work out what to do now, deal with the situation as it was.

“If a Free Magic creature’s touch is corrosive, how can Aziminil take me through the waterfall?”

“The swift water will lessen the effect,” said Mogget.

“Lessen?” asked Clariel. “That doesn’t sound very good. Is there anything else I can do? I remember Kargrin said something about the Abhorsens having special robes . . .”

Again, Mogget was slow to answer. It looked to Clariel as if he was struggling with a desire not to answer at all, or perhaps to lie. Even though he was a cat, she’d seen merchants behave similarly, shifting where they looked, hunching their shoulders, even nervously clawing at their collars, as Mogget was doing . . .

“There are garments, robes, masks, and suchlike that provide protection for a time,” said Mogget. “For when the Abhorsens used to deal more closely with their prisoners. There should be some such stuff below.”

“Should be?” asked Clariel. “I’m not risking a ‘should be.’ And what does ‘for a time’ mean?”

“They are there,” said Mogget grumpily. “Old, but serviceable. I presume you would not be able to renew the marks within them?”

“No,” said Clariel shortly.

“Then once put in use, they will fail at the next full moon.”

“Which is in about five days, I think,” said Clariel, counting on her fingers. There had been a half moon when she slept in the forest, the night before last. “Not long. If Aziminil can take me through a waterfall, can she also move me swiftly? To fly like a paperwing or become some sort of mount? I need to be in Belisaere as soon as I can. I have to rescue my aunt. And kill Kilp and Aronzo.”

“Free Magic can shape itself to almost any need,” said Mogget. “Swift travel, unseen passage, impenetrable armor, unbreakable weapons . . . it will all be at your command. You simply will whatever is needful.”

Clariel thought of that, for a moment. Sorcery that did not need laboriously memorized Charter marks, learned over years, or the disorienting plunge into the Charter . . . simply to will something, to use raw power. It was a heady temptation. But she must be careful . . .

“What if I need to imprison Aziminil again,” said Clariel. “I can’t do it with Charter Magic, I do not have the skill or knowledge. Could I force her into a bottle and secure it just by the force of my will?”

“You could,” said Mogget. “As I said, I can tell you have the strength. You remind me of some of the earlier Abhorsens, who had much to do with Free Magic entities.”

“You remind me of one of mother’s apprentices,” said Clariel. “All flattery and guile. You said you would help me for love of mischief, and maybe more . . . and I see you think it is more. What do you hope to gain?”

“Freedom,” whispered Mogget. “Freedom from my enslavement.”

“You mean you want me to take your collar off?”