Clariel (Abhorsen 4)

across the bridge, into the house

‘So you do have your mother’s fury,’ said Tyriel.

Clariel opened one eye, and saw the Abhorsen looming above her, a red-streaked sky and a hawk on a perch behind him. She opened the other eye, and saw more perches. She was still on the balcony of the mews, but it was some considerable time after her last conscious memory, for the sun was beginning to set.

There was something soft under her head. She reached back for it and felt a pillow, realising with the motion she was not bound, as well as she might have been after trying to kill her grandfather. They could bind her easily enough now, thought Clariel, for she felt as if she could hardly move. There was no strength in her at all.

‘The rage crops up every now and then among us,’ said Tyriel. ‘I have had some practice in dealing with berserks. I saw you try to hold it back. I suppose I should have expected something of the sort, for it often gets out of control after … things that stir the emotions … deaths and trouble … and Kargrin had told me you had the rage.’

He was sitting on a wooden stool, the kind milkmaids used, Clariel saw. It looked rather incongruous. He saw her staring at the little three-legged affair, and added, ‘My knees aren’t what they were, and I didn’t want to leave you. It’s best to let a berserk stay where they fall. They come back to their senses faster that way. How do you feel?’

‘Weak,’ whispered Clariel. ‘And foolish.’

‘You should not feel foolish,’ said Tyriel. ‘The rage is both curse and blessing. Learn to rule it, and it can aid you to incredible feats of strength and daring. Let it rule you … I’m sure you can imagine how that would end.’

‘I can,’ whispered Clariel. ‘I won’t let it.’

‘There is an excellent book that has proved to be very helpful for our various berserks,’ said Tyriel. ‘I believe there is a copy at the house. I will send word to have the sending librarian find it for you.’

‘I will not stay there,’ muttered Clariel.

‘You will,’ said Tyriel. ‘It won’t be as bad as you seem to imagine. The Abhorsen’s House is very pleasant. It has gardens, there is fishing, and a multitude of sendings to tend to you. Some of them are even remarkably fine cooks.’

‘And jailers?’ asked Clariel.

‘For your own safety, they will make sure you do not leave the House,’ said Tyriel. There was a tone in his voice that brooked no further questions. Clariel sighed and let her head slump back.

‘Can you walk? I expect you would feel more dignified than if you have to be carried to a horse – I presume you can ride, for that matter? Your mother loved to ride.’

‘Did she?’ asked Clariel woozily. She rolled over and managed to push herself up to a sitting position. ‘She never got on a horse unless we had to travel. But I can ride well enough. And walk … Just give me a minute or two.’

‘Take your time,’ he said. ‘It’s a short ride along the riverbank.’

When Clariel was ready to walk, they didn’t go back down the secret or semi-secret stair, but instead down a broad and open staircase at the far end of the mews balcony. This went all the way down to ground level, ending in a kind of alley between buildings. There were grooms waiting there holding horses, and a dozen or so people already mounted. Half of them wore gethre plate hauberks, with shields, helmets, spears and swords; and the other half in lighter mail without shields, but they had short bows in saddle-cases above their left knees and quivers on their right. They were the first inhabitants of Hillfair that Clariel had seen not wearing hunting clothes.

‘I doubt that there are any assassins lurking so close,’ said Tyriel. ‘But I am a great believer in caution, it cannot be overrated. You are sure you can ride?’

‘Yes,’ said Clariel. She felt less shaky now, and was determined that she would not be treated any more like a prisoner – or a parcel – than was absolutely necessary. And if there was even the slightest chance she could get away … she would take it.

‘The bay mare there is yours,’ said Tyriel. ‘She’s called Digger, after an incident long ago, but she has a sweet nature now.’

‘Sweet nature’ meant sluggish and docile, Clariel realised as she mounted. Digger didn’t want to do more than a walk, and had to be strongly encouraged when Tyriel and the entourage broke into a trot as they cleared the stables on the northern end of Hillfair. Clariel noted that the heavily armoured guards stayed close around her and the Abhorsen. Shielding them from arrow-shot, no doubt, but also making sure Clariel couldn’t gallop off. Something Digger couldn’t or wouldn’t do anyway, the choice of such a mount surely intentional.

The road wasn’t much more than a track, but it had been raised and roughly guttered, and was broad enough for six to ride abreast. Past the buildings, the ridge was covered in a low heather, which looked rather too perfect for an assassin to hide in, though only a suicidal one would attempt a shot. They would be ridden down or shot themselves all too soon.

The river below and to their left was running fast, with a great deal of white water. The cloud of mist from the waterfall loomed up ahead, far larger and more imposing than it had seemed from the Paperwing, particularly as the western edge of the white expanse was now stained with red from the setting sun.

Set against the middle of this vast white backdrop, cradled between two arms of the river on the very lip of the massive waterfall, Clariel saw the Abhorsen’s House.

It was built upon a rocky island, enclosed on all sides by a high white wall. A tower loomed above the red-tiled roof of a large house, the top of a very tall fig tree visible behind it, hinting at the garden Tyriel had mentioned. There was a narrow wooden bridge from the riverbank across the now fast-rushing Ratterlin, a bridge built upon a line of low stones, each about four paces apart, that could only just be seen above the surface of the water.

In other circumstances, she might have been excited and amazed to see and visit such a place. But with the prospect of being trapped there for months, Clariel felt only dread that she would soon be confined behind high walls again.

The road continued along the ridge towards the Long Cliffs, where it turned westwards, but there was a narrow bridle path that diverted down towards the river and the bridge. The company sorted itself out into a single file, with Tyriel and Clariel in the middle, and they slowly descended. With every step, the roar of the waterfall grew louder. It was so loud by the time they reached the riverbank that Tyriel had to shout.

‘We leave the horses and everyone else here. Go ahead of me, and hold the handrail on the bridge. If you go in, there’ll be no saving you.’

Clariel could well believe that. The river was a mass of white here, streaming around the stones under the bridge and splashing the timbers in a great spate of furious energy.

The bridge itself didn’t look very secure or easy. It was only three planks wide, not much wider than Clariel’s two feet side by side. There was no handrail on one side, and the one on the waterfall side looked like it had been made with broom handles lashed together. The whole

bridge looked very makeshift.

‘Are you sure it won’t fall apart?’ she shouted.

‘Yes!’ boomed Tyriel. ‘Count yourself lucky. When I was a boy there was no bridge, just the stepping-stones.’

He had dismounted already and handed the reins of his horse to one of his followers. Reaching into one of the saddlebags he took out a familiar silver bottle and tucked it under his arm.

Aziminil’s prison drew Clariel’s attention like a dog catching sight of a morsel about to fall from the dinner table. She had to force herself to look away.

‘Walk the horses,’ Tyriel shouted to his company. ‘I won’t be long.’

Clariel dismounted clumsily, but pushed away the helping hand of one of the guards and Tyriel’s too, when he tried to steady her as she staggered over to him. She found it impossible to think of him as her grandfather, or even a relative. He was just another old, powerful man who was determined to control her life.

Just like Kilp.

‘Remember to hold on!’

Clariel nodded, and preceded the Abhorsen onto the bridge. She gripped the rail immediately and was relieved to find it felt more secure than she’d expected. Similarly, with the river roaring past underneath and the spray flying up she’d expected the planks to be wet, slippery and slimy. But they were perfectly dry. As she stepped forward, still looking down, Clariel saw small Charter marks glisten in the wood under her shoe, and understood why the bridge was dry and hadn’t been carried away. Its strength lay not in carpentry, but Charter Magic.

Halfway across the bridge, a hundred yards from the riverbank, the roar of the waterfall was so loud that even a shout would be lost. The mist hung above them like a great, grasping hand of white, forever reaching in. But it was held back, assuredly by more magic, and there was no spray on Clariel’s face or shoulders, not even a single drop.