Clariel: The Lost Abhorsen (The Abhorsen Trilogy Book 4) (30 page)

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 already bending beneath her will, giving in, surrendering to her as was her right.

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

Chapter Twenty-Eight

BINDING THE FREE

S
wear 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, wanted 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 what must be done and no more.

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.

She told herself once more: I must use it only as I need to, only to do what must be done. No more.

“Aziminil. I want you to carry me beyond the waterfall, to the eastern bank of the Ratterlin, and then beyond to Belisaere, as safely and swiftly as you may. And should my garments fray, or my skin somehow be shown, you will not touch any part of me. Do you understand and obey?”

“I understand and obey, Mistress,” replied Aziminil, lifting her head, the strange void that served as her face directed toward Clariel. A small cloud of mist wafted across her bloodred skin, tiny gouts of steam blowing up as it touched. “But I do not have the strength to carry you through the waterfall alone. It is too great a cascade, the water too swift.”

“You must release and bind another creature,” said Mogget from near Clariel’s feet, his emerald eyes intent on Aziminil. “Draw up one of the chains, open a bottle.”

“But which one?” asked Clariel. “There could be anything out there. Is there some record, some register?”

“Once there was,” said Mogget. “Long neglected, lost these many years. But you are strong, Clariel. Take any bottle, none within the waterfalls can stand against your will.”

“The Mogget’s advice is sound, Mistress,” said Aziminil.

“I just draw up a chain?” asked Clariel. She looked back at the table, and the hooked stick. “With that gaff thing?”

“Yes,” said Mogget. “Best be quick. Rock alone will not stay the sendings long, and a message must already have gone to the Abhorsen.”

“Again, the Mogget offers good counsel,” said Aziminil.

Clariel looked at the gaff, then back at the waterfall and the narrow chain-wrapped outcrop. Even lying down, it would be very slippery, and she would have to edge some way into the waterfall itself, go into that massive downrush of water. It would be so easy to get washed away. But if Aziminil spoke the truth, then she had to bring up another bottle to make her escape . . .

She could still feel the rage, close at hand. It would not need any great effort to bring it back. She could bind another Free Magic creature, she knew. More than one, if it proved necessary. She could gather all the bottles, bind a score, no, a hundred creatures to serve her, and then none could stand . . .

Clariel lifted her hand to slap herself in the face, but the movement alone was enough to break these runaway thoughts. Which was just as well given she wore a bronze mask. She would have bruised her hand. This made her laugh, and that helped too. She felt more secure, more normal.

But there was still only one way out and that meant getting another bottle, binding another servant . . .

“Aziminil. Go to the rocks by the door and do what you can to slow the sendings coming through. Mogget, you go with her.”

“I can help you with the bottles,” said Mogget. “Tell you who’s inside perhaps.”

Clariel shook her head.

“You should stay away from the water,” she said, though they both knew this was not the reason. She did not trust the cat-thing, despite his Charter mark collar or perhaps even because of it, for she did not understand where his loyalties truly lay, or what he was. It would be too easy even for a small cat to help her fall from that slippery tongue of stone.

“As you wish,” said Mogget haughtily, and stalked away. Aziminil bowed, and followed him, spiked feet striking sparks that leaped and spat and made sharp cracking noises as they fell into the puddled water on the floor.

Clariel picked up the gaff and felt along its length. The wooden shaft had moss growing on it, and a few soft patches, but it felt solid enough. The hook was rusted, but she banged it on the stone table and it rang true.

She took off her sword and laid it on the table. After a moment’s hesitation, she also took off the robe, gauntlets, and overshoes and then even her simple leather slippers. The stone was very cold under her feet, but she knew that bare soles would serve her better. She left the bronze mask on, thinking it would offer some protection for her eyes from the force of the falling water.

Taking up the gaff in both hands, Clariel walked to the spit of stone and knelt down. Dragging the gaff, she crawled out of the shelter of the cavern and into the waterfall. It hit her like a bruising blow, all along her back, water gushing around her head so forcefully that it threatened to drown her even as she hunched over, trying to maintain some small pocket of air. It was like being in the heaviest rainstorm ever, one so dense there were no individual drops, just a constant wave of water.

If she had entered it standing up, she would have been knocked over in an instant. Even crawling it was very difficult to keep steady, at least till she reached the first of the chains, which at least offered something to hold on to. For a moment, Clariel thought she would hook that one up, but then she reconsidered. Closer to the edge probably meant more newly placed, she reasoned. It might be a weak thing, insufficiently strong to help Aziminil take Clariel out through the falls. Then she would have to come out this way again to find a third.

No, better to go out farther now. Find something older and more powerful, something that would serve her better.

Clariel crawled over the first chain, holding on to others ahead, and continued on, going farther out and deeper into the waterfall. The crashing waters were really hurting her now, as savage as any blow she’d ever felt, as hard-hitting as the training weapons she’d used long ago with her schoolfellows in the practice yard of the Estwael Trained Band. Still she kept on, till reaching ahead her fingers encountered no more chains, but a jagged edge of rock, so unlike the smoothly worked edges to either side that she thought it must once have extended farther, but had been broken off by the tireless assault of falling water.

The third-last chain would do, Clariel thought, some vestige of caution exerting itself at last. Whatever dangled from the furthermost chain might offer a challenge too great even for her new and much puffed-up confidence. Holding tight, she reached out and down with the gaff, and, after a few attempts, got the hook securely through a link. Then she cautiously drew up a green glass bottle from below, the Charter marks on it glowing so brightly they cut through even the dense wall of water.

She hesitated to touch the bottle. The marks shone so brightly, for the first time ever she felt some fear of the Charter. She had never understood Charter Magic, never wanted to understand it, it was just something that was there in her life. But here, even half-drowned, pummeled by the waterfall, and in a precarious position on a narrow tongue of stone, she felt the awful majesty of the Charter.

I need this bottle, I need the creature within, Clariel thought. I cannot save Aunt Lemmin with Charter Magic. I cannot save myself . . .

There was a pain in her forehead, as if the mask was pressing there too tightly. Clariel really did not want to touch those Charter marks. To delay doing so, she started to shuffle backward, now holding the chain up above her head, so the bottle dangled safely a yard or so above the stone. She did not think it could be easily broken, but she didn’t want to put it to the test. If the creature within broke free before she was ready . . .

Halfway back to the cavern floor, Clariel realized the chain was long enough that she could bring the bottle all the way back, rest it near the lip, and then open it. Whatever challenge the spells on the bottle offered, she would not have to confront them out here, under the waterfall. She could do as she did before. Raise the fury and open the bottle as a berserk, protected by her rage.

If she
could
raise the fury.

Clariel felt tired already, not to mention bruised and battered by the waterfall. But she knew there was no choice. As with a wounded deer, even at the end of the day, if it was not finished then you had to go on.

She took a few minutes to rest once she got back to the cavern, just sitting cross-legged on the edge of the cliff. The spray still buffeted her, but it was not too strong. Mogget sat on the table, watching Aziminil, who was watching the falling stones. But the cat did not say anything as Clariel got up and came over to the table. His eyes narrowed, and his tail twitched, but he said no word.

“I forgot to ask,” said Clariel, as she wearily put her protective garments back on, fastening hood, gauntlets, and overboots. “Are you coming with me?”

“I cannot leave the House without the permission of the Abhorsen or the Abhorsen-in-Waiting . . .” said Mogget thoughtfully. “But then, no Abhorsen has forbidden me to leave for a very long time . . . I wonder if I can . . . do you want me to come?”

“I don’t know,” said Clariel. “Maybe. Yes. I just don’t know if I can trust you.”

“Our interests are aligned,” said Mogget very carefully.

“I wish I could ask Bel,” said Clariel. “But I know he’d try to stop me.”

“There you are then,” said Mogget. “The point, in any case, is moot. Neither of us may be leaving, unless you get on with it.”

“I suppose so,” said Clariel. She looked down at the green glass bottle with its tarnished silver stopper wound with gold wire. “Do you know what . . . who is in this one?”

“There are spells of enquiry,” said Mogget. “But I fear you do not know them. It doesn’t matter. I am sure . . . I am confident . . . you will prove stronger than the entity within.”

Clariel looked over at Aziminil, who was watching the fallen stones around the former door like a cat before a mousehole. Then she looked back at the bottle. Such a small thing to contain a creature of elemental power . . .

“Hesitation oft incurs a price,” said Mogget. “One you might not be willing to pay.”

“I make my own decisions,” said Clariel, and called up the fury.

Mogget backed away as she stood rigid above the bottle, her fists clenched within the gauntlets. Once again she relived the night of her parents’ deaths, the smirk of Aronzo, the crushing boot of the guard outside Kargrin’s door, the darkness of the prison hole . . .