‘I hope you’re wrong,’ said Clariel. ‘It seems to me there’s enough trouble with Kilp, let alone anything worse.’

‘True,’ said Bel. ‘But Kilp is a purely ordinary, mortal problem. At least he is now that his allied creature is safely imprisoned. He shouldn’t be too difficult to defeat. If the Abhorsen takes even a hundred Charter Mages north, and the Clayr come south in force – there’s thousands of Clayr – no ordinary army will be able to stand against them. Kilp doesn’t realise what a big group of really powerful Mages can do. He should have been shown, then he wouldn’t have dared to do anything.’

‘Maybe,’ said Clariel. ‘I doubt it will be that easy.’

‘It will,’ said Bel confidently. ‘Oh, thank the Charter! There’s the landing lawn, finally! I could sleep for a week.’

The lawn he was referring to was a long swathe of well-cut grass between the river and the road that ran along the ridge and up to Hillfair itself. There was a tall pole at one end, the flag on it spread by the westerly wind to show the silver keys of the Abhorsens on a blue field.

‘We’re going to land around the same time the hunt goes by on the road,’ said Clariel cautiously. ‘The Paperwing won’t scare the horses?’

‘No … I think … They should be used to Paperwings,’ said Bel. ‘Besides, I really have to get us down. I’m feeling very … very tired …’

His head slipped forward as the words drawled out of his mouth. Clariel felt her heart leap into her throat as she gripped his good shoulder and shook him, only to let go as a dry chuckle emerged and he sat up again.

‘Don’t worry, only jesting,’ he said. ‘I am tired. But I can stay awake long enough to set us down.’

He pursed his lips and blew a series of rising and then falling notes, pure and strong. Charter marks flew out with the music, and mingled with marks that shone from the Paperwing’s nose and wings, wreathing the aircraft in light. It slanted down towards the lawn, side-slipping a little across the wind as it descended.

They landed smoothly enough, but Bel was just plain wrong about the horses and dogs. As the Paperwing’s shadow passed low over the rear of the line, the dogs that had been loping next to the road in a semi-organised pack all began to bark and jump up, before falling down and over one another, and racing around all over the place, including in front of the horses. Many mounts spooked and shied, several riders falling off or being suddenly bolted with along the road, causing more problems. The orderly procession of a minute before became a riot of horses, dogs, fallen riders, hunters and dog handlers, with whistles and shouts and bellowed orders and screams of pain and whinnying horses and barking dogs.

The Paperwing came to a stop about a hundred yards ahead of the front of the returning hunt. Clariel looked back at the shambles their arrival had caused, noting that half a dozen riders from the vanguard of the hunt were now galloping down the lawn towards them, and not in a way that suggested a sudden happy desire to welcome the newcomers.

Bel didn’t even try to look around. He hunched down in the Paperwing and put his head in his hands. Clariel thought she heard him say something that might have been ‘oops’, but she was already climbing out. She presumed from the quality of the horses and richness of their attire that the silver-haired man who was charging down towards her on a surprisingly small chestnut horse was her grandfather, the Abhorsen Tyriel; and the tough-looking woman with the black hair who closely resembled her mother was almost certainly her aunt Yannael.

Clariel didn’t want to meet them sitting down. She didn’t want to meet them at all, and she wished Bel had not made what was already a difficult situation for her even worse.

For a moment, it looked like it might not be a meeting so much as a trampling, but Clariel was pleasantly relieved to see the riders expertly bring their mounts to a fast, wheeling halt right in front of her, incidentally cutting up the lawn something terrible.

‘Bel, you’re an idiot!’ called out Tyriel, the finely worked collar of silver keys on his chest confirming Clariel’s guess. She knew he was a similar age to King Orrikan, but he didn’t look it. His hair was silver, but cropped short, and his close-shaven face, though lined and weather-beaten, was not fallen or shiny, as the King’s had been. His hands were stained to the wrists with the blood of a stag, and he wore no sword, only a hunting dagger at his waist. ‘And you, I suppose, are my granddaughter Clariel?’

‘Yes, I am Clariel.’

‘Come here,’ said Tyriel. He bent down from his horse as Clariel approached and reached out with his hand towards her forehead. She stood still as he gently placed two fingers against the Charter mark on her forehead. He did not lean down so far that Clariel could return the gesture, as was polite. Consequently she felt only a faint, distant connection with the Charter from the brief contact. Evidently whatever Tyriel felt, he was satisfied that she was indeed his granddaughter.

‘What’s wrong with Bel?’

Bel remained hunched forward, and had not spoken. He had either really fallen unconscious from weariness or was pretending in order to avoid getting into trouble over disrupting the hunting party.

‘He was badly wounded a few days ago,’ said Clariel forcefully. ‘Fighting a Free Magic creature. He’s still recovering and he’s worn himself out flying here. He needs help.’

‘I had a message about his wounding,’ said Tyriel. He didn’t sound like he was particularly concerned. ‘One of many messages in the last few days. He can’t be too sorely hurt if he managed to get here. Siranael, go get some of your people, have them carry Bel up to the infirmary.’

One of the riders behind wheeled his horse about and rocketed back towards the main body of the hunt.

‘There is also a silver bottle,’ said Clariel. ‘Charter-spelled. It holds a Free Magic creature.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Tyriel. ‘Cursedly inconvenient. I suppose I’ll have to take it. Pass it up.’

‘I can’t touch it,’ said Clariel. ‘Magister Kargrin –’

‘That’s right, I forgot,’ said Tyriel impatiently. He swung his leg over and slowly lowered himself down from his horse, the smell of stale sweat preceding him. He went to the Paperwing, lifted Bel’s head and looked at him with what seemed casual indifference, then bent down and rummaged around. Finding the bottle, he picked it up as if it might be a flagon of ale, tucked it under his arm and remounted. His movements were quite stiff, but very practised.

‘Yannael,’ he said, to the hard-faced woman. ‘Take your niece up behind you. See that she gets properly dressed and so forth. Bring her to me when you’re done.’

Yannael didn’t speak, but merely nodded slowly. In any case, Tyriel hadn’t waited for an answer. He chirruped to his horse, gave it a touch of his heels, and was away again.

‘Come on, girl,’ said Yannael. She took her foot out of her stirrup so Clariel could use it as a step. Like her father, she stank of stale sweat, blood and horse. ‘Get up.’

Clariel reluctantly got up behind her. She did not feel welcome, but it was worse than that. She felt like she was about to enter another prison. There might not be endless walls like Belisaere, but it would be a prison, sure enough.

chapter twenty-two

the abhorsen decides

Yannael did not speak to Clariel on the short ride up to Hillfair. The place was like a small town, except that all the outer buildings appeared to be stables, kennels and barns. It also didn’t have a perimeter wall or even a palisade, which Clariel presumed was because all the other towns she’d seen were much older, and so possessed defences that had been built long ago in more troubled times.

The road followed the ridge line, with the buildings spread out on either side, most of them on the flat, but some on the terraced hillside above the river. Clariel kept expecting to stop outside one or other of the stables, where grooms aplenty were waiting to take the horses from the returning hunters. But they kept going along the road, till it ended in a grassy courtyard surrounded by buildings. The chief of t

Tags: Garth Nix Abhorsen Fantasy
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