Clariel: The Lost Abhorsen (The Abhorsen Trilogy Book 4) (23 page)

It was not going to be easy, but Clariel knew she could do it.

She looked up at the darkening sky. There was no moon yet, but the stars were becoming visible. There, low on the horizon above the wood was the bright red star Uallus, and three fingers left of that was north. From there she looked halfway across the sky to find the six stars that made up the great sickle, the tip of the handle a pointer to due west, or close enough. Halfway between was her best course, she thought. Northwest through the wood. If she reached the edge of the forest, or at midnight in any case, she would stop and sleep, and in the morning progress onward from copse to small forest, though she would also have to cross open fields. Getting over the Ratterlin was going to be difficult. She couldn’t take the ferry and would have to steal a boat . . . but this was a problem for another day.

Unless . . . Clariel thought again of Aziminil. She looked back to the paperwing, now just a dim silhouette, barely visible in the fading light. Though the bottle was hidden in the aircraft’s nose, she could almost feel the Free Magic creature’s presence, almost hear the plaintive cry to be released.

Clariel wondered if Aziminil knew that she was being sent to the Abhorsens. There could be no other reason the bottle was in the paperwing. She wondered what they would do with it. Possibly the Abhorsens could actually kill Free Magic creatures, and Aziminil was being carried by Bel to her execution. Or maybe just to be stored, kept prisoner somewhere safer than Kargin’s tower in the city.

Was Kilp right that Free Magic was just another kind of magic that could be used as required? It seemed that Aziminil had worked for the Governor and his son without compulsion, even making Aronzo the golden cup. That didn’t sound “inimical to all life” as Free Magic was often described. Aziminil had fought on the Islet, but they had been trying to capture her; surely anyone would fight in such circumstances?

With Aziminil’s aid, the journey home would be so much easier . . .

Clariel shook her head, even harder than she had after almost touching the silver bottle in the paperwing. This temptation had to be cast out of her mind.

“No,” she whispered. Better to stick to what she knew. She took one last look at Bel, and bit her lip. He looked so weak and defenseless lying there, and she was going to abandon him.

Bel made a whimpering sound in his sleep and his face twitched in pain. Clariel looked away and shut her eyes.

“I have to go,” she said. “Forgive me, Bel. This might be my last chance.”

She did not look back after that, but struck out for the wood.

It was cool and dark under the trees, but the forest was open enough to admit starlight. Clariel’s eyes adapted to the gloom, and there was a path that headed roughly in the right direction. She walked slowly, listening to the small, quiet sounds of tree, bird, and beast, a feeling of peace coming over her as she went deeper into the forest.

But she had only gone a few hundred yards when the quiet sounds suddenly stopped, a sure sign of some incipient trouble. A few moments later she heard different noises, louder sounds. Something was moving through the undergrowth behind her, something large enough to break twigs and crunch leaves underfoot. Clariel stopped, her hand on her sword hilt, and listened. It was large enough to be a boar, or a wolf. She heard more sounds of movement, spread over a larger area. There was more than one of whatever it was.

Clariel drew her sword. There were Charter marks on the blade. Simple marks for sharpness and durability, probably cast on the blade by Bel himself. They glowed softly, shedding a little more light than the stars above.

Wolves, she thought, or perhaps wild dogs. A small pack, only three or four animals. Nothing she need fear, not with the sword. In any case, the sounds were growing fainter. They were moving away from her . . .

Back toward the unconscious Bel.

Clariel wavered for a moment, but only for a moment. It was one thing to leave Bel in safe farmland. It was another to desert him when she knew there was a pack of wolves or wild dogs close by. Even though the animals would be cautious, his lack of movement would eventually lure them close. He was so exhausted, so deeply unconscious, he’d have no chance when they finally decided to attack. They’d rip his throat out before he could even wake.

She turned around and went back along the track. The moon had finally risen, so she could see her way more clearly, the clear silver light casting shadows from the trees, black lines crosshatching the ground.

In the fringe of the forest, she saw what she expected. A group of wild dogs, four of them, not even enough to be called a pack. They were brindled, shaggy, and clearly feral, and they were heading toward the unconscious Bel.

Clariel pushed her cloak back over her shoulders and tapped the flat of her blade hard against the nearest tree trunk, the whap of it loud in the still of the night. The four dogs stopped as one, ears pricked, heads turning in her direction. She stalked toward them, slapping the flat of the sword against every tree as she closed, tilting it so the steel caught the moonlight.

The dogs were wary of an armed human. They waited for a few moments to make sure she really was coming after them, then broke and ran, at first into the field and then back into the woods.

She chased them for a while, making a lot of noise, but there was no chance of catching them on foot. So there was a strong possibility that if she left then they would come back, and Bel would still be vulnerable.

Clariel sighed, the longest sigh of her life. She stared up at the sky for a long, long time before finally starting to gather ferns for bedmaking. Combining the fern fronds with large armfuls of grass, cut ignominiously with Bel’s sword, she made two beds next to each other in a slight hollow between some exposed roots of the lone oak, and when they were ready, dragged Bel over and laid him down.

She found herself quite tenderly tucking his cloak over him, and drew her hands back. Was this the beginning of caring for someone? Of falling in love? If she let herself go would she become like the girls in Estwael, fussing over their lovers?

Clariel scowled at the notion and told herself she cared no more for Bel than she would for any wounded animal.

“You could be a fawn and I’d treat you the same,” she said to the sleeping Bel, somewhat belying her words by straightening out his legs so he would be more comfortable.

Bel did not answer, only shifting slightly in his sleep. Clariel lay herself down on her own bed, the sword at her side. She watched the stars and moon above, framed by branches, and listened to the small sounds of the forest and meadow return now the dogs were gone. The light breeze ruffling tree branches; a barking owl flapping overhead; a single small animal, probably a fox, coming close but not too close; the yip of that same owl over in the field as it caught a field mouse . . .

Slowly the tension that had been held inside her for all her time in the city drained out into the good soil beneath her bed of fern and grass. As Clariel let it go, sadness welled up, and tears began to slide down her cheeks, tears for her slain parents and tears for herself.

But she cried silently, without moving, and eventually exhaustion overcame emotion, and she went to sleep.

Chapter Twenty-One

HILLFAIR, HORSES, AND DOGS

C
lariel woke first, just before the dawn, in that cool half-lit world where shapes begin to become clear again. Mist was already rising as the dew felt the warmth of the as-yet unseen sun. The sky was clear, with the promise of blue, and looked to be warm. Clariel got up, strapped Bel’s sword back on from where it had lain ready to hand, wrapped her cloak around herself, and went into the trees for her toilet.

When she came back, Bel’s eyes were open, but blearily, and he had his cloak pulled up to his nose. He pulled it down just enough to expose his mouth and said, “Good morning. I say that, though I have had better mornings.”

“We’re alive, and out of Belisaere,” said Clariel shortly. She sat down and investigated the muslin bundle, which proved to contain a loaf of bread, gone stale on one side and slightly mushy on the other, and a small wheel of hard cheese, protected in red wax. She broke the bread in half, and took out her knife to slice the cheese open. “Breakfast? I could go and find some berries and such, but it would take some time.”

“No, we’d better get aloft as soon as we can,” said Bel, taking a proffered piece of bread in his right hand and a triangle of cheese in his left, though he grimaced as the movement made his shoulder twitch. “We can have a proper meal at Hillfair. The Abhorsen doesn’t stint anyone at his table.”

“What about his prisoners?” asked Clariel. “As I am like to be.”

“What!” exclaimed Bel, almost choking on his bread. “You’re the Abhorsen’s granddaughter! You won’t be a prisoner!”

“I hope not,” said Clariel. “But if he thinks Mother is alive, and has agreed to be Queen with Kilp as temporary Regent or whatever . . . it won’t look good for me.”

“I’m . . . I’m sure he wouldn’t be so . . . stupid . . .” said Bel, but his words lacked conviction. Clearly he did think the Abhorsen could be that stupid.

“You know how I said I couldn’t tell you about why my mother fell out with Tyriel,” said Clariel.

“Yes?”

“He thinks my mother killed her brother.”

Bel choked again, this time quite seriously, so Clariel had to clap him on the back, dislodging the bread and jarring his wound.

“Ow! No! What?”

“I wondered if you were just pretending not to know the other day, and whether the . . . um . . . rank and file Abhorsens knew,” said Clariel. “I guess not. I only found out myself recently. She told me that he was already dead, inhabited by a Free Magic creature, or something Dead. So mother only killed the body. But her father . . . my grandfather . . . he didn’t believe her, and banished her as a kinslayer.”

“I’m sure most of the family have no idea,” exclaimed Bel. “I never even heard a whisper of it, and there are always enough rumors and gossip going round about everything else! Whenever Jaciel was mentioned, which wasn’t often, people just said she’d had a falling-out with the old bastard . . . I mean the Abhorsen. Which is easy to do. I fell out with him too. But I’m sure you’ll be all right . . .”

“Maybe,” said Clariel. “Let’s get it over with, anyway. You think we can reach Hillfair by early afternoon?”

“If I can put myself together,” said Bel, slowly tottering to his feet. He stretched tentatively, favoring his left side. “I’ve . . . got to find a tree, back in a minute.”

In fact it was late afternoon by the time Clariel had her first sight of Hillfair, the sprawling nest of houses and outbuildings that an Abhorsen of three generations gone by had begun by building a summer lodge on the western ridge that ran along and above the river Ratterlin. Hillfair was three leagues north of the much older and enormously more defensible Abhorsen’s House, but that was smaller and more inconvenient, occupying an island in the river on the very brink of the great waterfall where the Ratterlin fell twelve hundred feet to the lowlands below.

“There it is,” said Bel. “Hillfair.”

His voice was weak and strained, his lips dry and mouth parched from too much whistling. Though they had generally followed the Ratterlin south for more than two hundred leagues, requiring little change of direction, the vagaries of the wind meant Bel had needed to change altitude. And they had also flown much higher approaching High Bridge, to give the place a wide berth in case the town authorities reported their passage or had been ordered to shoot them with the large bolt-throwers that adorned the guard castle there, relics of the long-ago days of Kaelin Scaler and her river pirates.

Clariel leaned around Bel and looked ahead. They were still two or three leagues away, and at that distance Hillfair looked like a small town. There were at least twenty buildings, some of stone and some of wood, spread out on the flat top of the ridge and down to the river, the latter on terraces that had been carved out of the rocky hillside.

“How many people live here?” asked Clariel. “And how many belong to the family?”

“Five or six hundred, I guess,” replied Bel. His voice was scratchy. “And at least half that number are Abhorsens, one way or another, though most are distant from the main line. Just call everyone cousin and you’ll be right enough.”

“It’s a daunting prospect,” said Clariel. “I hope the Abhorsen will let me go soon.”

“I will fly you to Estwael, if I’m allowed,” promised Bel. He hesitated, then added, “Though I might need a few days’ rest first. I haven’t been this tired since . . . forever, really.”

“Thank you,” said Clariel. “I hope I do get to fly with you. You’ve been a good friend.”

Bel mumbled something and the tips of his ears turned red, the blush easy to see on his pale skin. Clariel noticed the blush and perceived she was meant to hear the mutter, no doubt a protestation about “mere friends” or something like that. Bel wanted more, obviously, but she did not. She liked his company, and he was a friend, as she judged things, proven by his actions. But she felt no passionate attraction, no giddy desire. She’d never felt that, though she’d heard enough about it from other young women in Estwael. She had always presumed it just came upon them, but she did wonder now if it might grow from a small spark of friendship. But it didn’t matter. Not now.

“A good friend,” she repeated.

“I know,” sighed Bel. “If I had a denier for every time I’ve heard ‘let’s be friends’ I’d be richer than Kilp.”

“Come on, Bel,” said Clariel, suddenly cross with him. “Denima was falling all over you. She’s prettier than me, and smarter too, I’d say.”

“I wouldn’t say so,” said Bel stiffly. “Either one.”

“I’m just not . . . not interested in men,” said Clariel.

“Oohh,” said Bel, blushing again.

“Or women either,” added Clariel. She felt a strong desire to slap him around the ears a bit and if he hadn’t been wounded might have done so. “Think about the situation I’m in, will you! How could I be thinking about . . . about kissing and bed games with everything that’s happened . . . that is happening?”

Bel was silent. Evidently he had no trouble thinking about such things at all, at any time.

“You’ll be safe here,” he said hesitantly. “Maybe after a—”

“Will I?” asked Clariel. “Let’s see. But in any case, let me say again to be perfectly clear, I am not interested in jumping into bed with you or anyone, or sighing and cooing and playing at romance, or planning a marriage or any of it. But I do value you as a good friend. All right?”

“Perfectly clear,” said Bel. “And understood. Sorry.”

“Good,” said Clariel. “I need my friends, few as they are.”

“I’m glad to be one,” said Bel, with forced cheerfulness.

Clariel wondered if she’d really made her point, or if Bel’s natural optimism would break out again in a few days. She really didn’t want to have to keep rebuffing him, because he was a friend. But she also didn’t want any further complications in her already troubled life.

“You didn’t tell me we had that Free Magic creature aboard,” she said, going for a change of subject. Clariel had tried not to think about Aziminil, trapped in the silver bottle, but she had found it difficult. Even now, she thought she could almost hear a despairing cry for help, on the very edge of audibility.

“Oh,” said Bel. “You saw the bottle . . . Kargrin told me not to tell anyone, including you. It’s spelled so only an Abhorsen can touch it.”

“Hmm,” said Clariel noncommitally. She wondered if Kargrin had worked out that she had let the creature escape on the island. But that seemed unlikely. Maybe he was just being secretive in general. “What will happen to her . . . that is . . . it?”

“It’ll go down to the Abhorsen’s House,” said Bel. “The original house, you can’t see it yet. It’s in the river, as running water defends against the Dead, and you don’t get much faster running water than in the middle of the biggest waterfall around. See that huge low cloud up ahead, past Hillfair?”

Clariel did see the cloud. She had wondered why it sat so low and alone, with the rest of the sky so blue.

“That’s from the waterfall? And the house is there? It must be damp.”

Bel shook his head, a litte too vigorously, and winced at the pain.

“Not at all,” he said. “The mist doesn’t fall back on the house. A spell, I suppose. The whole place is wreathed in spells. Even the river currents are ensorcelled, so you can get there by boat without being taken by the waterfall. Presuming you’ve been invited, of course.”

“Why doesn’t the Abhorsen live there anymore?” asked Clariel. “I’ve only ever heard people talk about Hillfair.”

“Take a look along the ridge road,” said Bel. “You’ll see.”

Clariel frowned in puzzlement, but looked. There was a long line of people on horseback moving toward the closer buildings, but they were still quite distant so she couldn’t make out more than that.

“Riders,” she said. “Might be a hundred of them, I suppose. What of that?”

“The Grand Hunt, returning to Hillfair,” said Bel. “I hope they had a good day, it always puts Himself in a better mood.”

“I still don’t understand,” said Clariel. She knew about Grand Hunts; there was one in Estwael three times a year, she’d even ridden in a few. But it was a ridiculously overdone show, in her opinion, with massed riders and packs of dogs all getting in one another’s way, and foolish rituals, and it depended on weeks of work beforehand from foresters and the Borderers, and beaters on the day. “I heard the Abhorsen likes to hunt . . .”

“
Loves
to hunt,” said Bel. “Twice a week, if not more. And everything is about the hunt. Half the buildings in Hillfair are horse stables or dog kennels. That’s how it got started, in the first place, with the Abhorsen Kariniel . . . let’s see, she was Tyriel’s great-aunt, so your great-great-great-aunt . . . she was hunt mad and you can’t keep horses in the old house, and the island is inconvenient. So she built a lodge and stable and called it Hillfair.”

“But, isn’t the Abhorsen meant to travel about the Kingdom making sure the Dead stay Dead, that Free Magic creatures like the one we faced don’t appear, and so on?” asked Clariel. “I know there hasn’t been trouble, but if he’s hunting all the time instead . . .”

“Exactly,” said Bel darkly. “That’s always been my point, that there might be all kinds of perils slowly brewing. But no one down there wants to know, they simply don’t believe that things could turn back to the bad old days. Like I said, I doubt if Yannael has even read
The Book of the Dead
. Maybe even Tyriel hasn’t himself. I can’t remember ever seeing him wear the bells. That’s why I’m getting ready, so at least
someone
is prepared.”

“Prepared for what?” asked Clariel. As she spoke, she felt a shiver pass through her, and the paperwing’s shadow cut like a knife across the silver waters of the Ratterlin below.

“Whatever happens,” said Bel. “Take that Free Magic creature in Belisaere, for example. The Abhorsen should have come to deal with it straight away, not left it to Kargrin and Mistress Ader. And why would something of that power be free now? I bet there’s more, or more coming. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Clayr have already warned Tyriel and he’s just ignored it, like the King ignores everything he doesn’t want to know about. Charter save us from old men!”

“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 at least 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 realize 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.