You must act soon in case Tyriel does recall his duty and put Aziminil under the waterfall. Tonight is best, at midnight. I will distract sendings first and meet you in kitchen store. We go down from there.
Clariel read over his shoulder as the cat wrote. He hesitated at the end, and she felt him wriggle, as if struggling with something. The marks on his collar grew brighter, some spell there coming to the fore. Mogget hissed, and then wrote again, the marks growing brighter still as he did so.
Garments not whole protection. You must remember to order Aziminil not to touch you and –
With that last word, Mogget yowled and sprang out of Clariel’s lap as if he had been singed on the tail. Rampaging across the table, he overset the ink. A great tide of it spread across the paper, blacking out his words. Trailing inky paw-prints, he leaped from the table and shot down the stairs.
Clariel watched the cat go, over the back of the sending who had bent to mop up the spilled ink. She almost got up, but stayed where she was and thought for a moment. It was always advisable when going into the wilds to let someone know your intentions, the path you planned to take …
She took up a piece of paper that was only marbled at the edges with ink, cut a new quill and used the last of the ink in the well to write a short note to Bel. If things went wrong, then he would know what she had done, and why, and perhaps might be able to do something about it.
Bel,
I am going to release the Free Magic creature we fought on the Islet and with its help escape from here and go to Belisaere. There I hope to rescue my aunt Lemmin. If the creature proves powerful enough, I will use it to slay Kilp and Aronzo and end their rebellion. They are guilty of murder and treason, and deserve no better.
I almost bound the creature before on the Islet, and I am sure I can do so again. Its name is Aziminil. Mogget says there are special robes I can wear to avoid the corruption of flesh or whatever it is such creatures do. I don’t suppose my actions will spur my grandfather into doing anything, but if I should fail, I call on you to do what you can for my aunt Lemmin and also to ensure justice is done.
I am sorry I was cross with you today, you don’t deserve it.
Your friend
She signed it simply with her name, absently almost added an ‘X’ for a kiss but didn’t, folded it twice, wrote ‘Bel’ on the outside and put it in the middle of the desk.
‘Leave this here, but tell Belatiel about it tomorrow,’ she said. The sending paused in its ink-cleaning duties to bow, indicating it understood.
‘Not when he arrives; when he is about to leave,’ Clariel added cautiously. Even a few hours might make a difference, and doubtless it would be better not to leave a note at all.
But she felt two conflicting emotions battling inside her. One was all excitement, bursting to get going. To finally do something, to act of her own volition, rather than being forced into doing what her parents wanted, and then being a prisoner of Kilp, and now effectively a prisoner of Tyriel. But against that excited, pent-up feeling there was a much quieter, more sober voice that warned that she might be doing something stupid. That it was not always better to do something than nothing. Hunting sometimes required stillness and waiting.
But this small voice was no match for the excitement Clariel felt rising inside her. She had read The Fury Within. She knew how to raise the berserk anger that would fuel her domination of Aziminil. She knew where the free Magic creature was, and that it could not only help her escape, but speed her to Belisaere.
Finally she would be a hunter again, rather than the hunted.
chapter twenty-seven
into the waterfall
After dinner, which she ate in the hall alone, save for numerous sendings, Clariel went to the armoury. The sending there once again offered her armour and weapons; this time she accepted them, taking the shirt of gethre plates, which fitted quite well over the jerkin she had been given at Hillfair, though it was shorter, hanging only an inch below her hips, and also a short, broad-bladed sword similar to her old falchion.
The sword had Charter marks on the blade, but fewer than some of the other weapons, and she was eventually able to puzzle out that they were relatively straightforward marks for durability and resistance to rust. She did not want a weapon that bore marks she did not understand. For some reason the marks were harder to identify than usual; it seemed to her that they would not stay still. Charter marks always moved and shimmered, but usually they would slow or even freeze for a few seconds when someone was looking at them.
Apart from armour and sword, she discovered a good woollen cloak and a large belt pouch in her room. She filled the pouch with several not-quite-ripe apricots taken from the dinner table, and rolled the cloak up so she could wear it by its cord over her shoulder.
Her attendant sending watched these preparations, but as far as Clariel could tell was not alarmed by them, which was heartening. It seemed likely to Clariel that with an absent Abhorsen all they could really do was watch and report later, though she supposed the superior ones might be able to send messages to Hillfair. But then, if what Mogget and Bel thought about Tyriel was accurate, he would be very slow to do anything that required him to come to the House.
Waiting until midnight was difficult. There was a clock in her room, which had surprised her at first, because she expected one of the Charter Magic time crystals rather than something mechanical like you would find in Belisaere. But on closer inspection she saw that the case contained no clockwork, but instead a kind of Charter Magic imitation of cogs and wheels and chains, driving hands of gold and silver on a face of ivory, the chapters detailed in tiny pieces of jet.
Clariel had been interested in clocks at one time. There were several clockmakers in Estwael and Jaciel had worked with one of them on and off over the years. This timepiece was silent; for all its magical mimicking of clockwork it did not reproduce that comforting, regular sound, so reminiscent of a heartbeat.
Clariel shut the case and went to sit on her bed. She felt nervous and excited, but she forced herself to be calm. Once again she opened The Fury Within and read over the chapter on raising the rage, trying not to look at the clock at the end of every page.
The moon climbed higher as she waited, its cool light through her window competing with the warm glow of the Charter mark lanterns. Clariel left her bed to look out, the world outside stark and moon-blue, the river silver. Soon she would be out in that world again, Clariel thought, looking at the clock. She wondered what Mogget would do to divert the sendings, and forced herself to sit back on the bed and read her book.
At five minutes to twelve, she started to suspect Mogget had forgotten, or worse, had betrayed her. At one minute to twelve, she was sure of it, and cursed herself for even thinking for a moment the cat-creature would help her escape.
Then the clock’s minute hand moved to the twelve. There was a sudden deep roar outside, akin to the sound of a tea ceremony spirit burner lighting up, but many times louder. The cool moonlight through the window became charged with red, a lurid red that flickered, the light of some sudden, enormous fire.
Clariel ran to the window and looked out. There was a growing cloud of smoke billowing up towards her from the orchard, where three peach trees were alight from root to crown. Sendings were already rushing in, one with an axe chopping at a fiercely burning tree, the others raking back leaves and other litter that might burn.
‘Go help them!’ ordered Clariel to her sending servant. Without waiting to see what it did, she took up her sword, ran down the main staircase three steps at a time and dashed to the storeroom next to the kitchen.
Mogget was already there, his white hair slightly blackened and his whiskers perhaps shorter than they used to be. He stood on a trapdoor at the rear of the storeroom, between shelves stacked high with hundreds of jars of preserved apricots and peaches.
‘Quick, ope
n this!’
The cat leaped aside as Clariel bent down and pulled on the ring. The trapdoor opened easily, revealing stone steps descending into darkness, a darkness only slightly relieved by the Charter marks slowly coming to life on the rough-hewn walls.
‘Go!’ yowled Mogget, himself streaking down the steps. ‘Shut the door behind you!’
Clariel obeyed, almost hurling herself into the narrow stairwell. As she turned back to shut the trapdoor, she saw sendings coming out of the shelves, sendings in armour with swords and axes, their faces grim.
‘Come on!’
Clariel ran down the steps after the cat. The stair curved around as they descended, not a tight circular stairway but a gentle slice of a circle. Almost before she knew it they passed the first small landing and a door reinforced with iron bolts and considerable Charter Magic, marks briefly flaring as they passed.
‘How far down?’ gasped Clariel. ‘Will the sendings chase us?’
‘Sixth landing,’ said Mogget. ‘The ones above won’t follow, but there are more sendings below. They should be slow without the Abhorsen to direct them. Sleepy. Speed is of the essence.’
Steps and landings flashed by. As they passed the fifth landing, Clariel shivered, for it was frosted with ice and a cold wind blew around it, apparently from nowhere. Then it was behind her, more steps taken at a run. Suddenly Mogget slowed in front of her and stopped before another iron-reinforced door that was also swimming in Charter marks. This one, at least, was not covered in ice.
‘Here’s the test,’ he said. ‘I hope the spell knows you as family, and that is enough. It may need more, but we shall see. Put your hand against it.’
Clariel looked at the swirling marks on the door nervously. She didn’t know any of them, and all the stories of people burned from the inside out, or turned to sand, or rendered senseless forever from mishandling Charter Magic came back to her.
‘Put your hand against it,’ repeated Mogget. ‘Quickly! There is little time.’