‘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 spilled 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 dived 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 backwards, 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 towards 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 towards 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 towards the ceiling, eyes that had 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, as she shared 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 agonising 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.
&nb
sp; ‘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 …’