Clariel: The Lost Abhorsen (The Abhorsen Trilogy Book 4) (25 page)

“I have had a lot of messages about you,” said Tyriel. “Messages from Kargrin, and Captain Gullaine, and Governor Kilp.”

“Kilp!” spat Clariel. “He killed my parents!”

“So Kargrin says,” said Tyriel. “But Kilp claims otherwise. Indeed, he sends to ask for my help, or at least to stay my hand—in the name of my daughter, who is now Queen.”

“What!” said Clariel. She clenched her fists, blood rising in her face. “She’s dead. I was there! I saw my father killed. Mother made me run with a Charter spell, and then . . . then she charged Kilp’s guards . . .”

“Go back,” said Tyriel. He made no move to comfort Clariel, or wipe her tears, or anything a real grandfather might do. “Tell me everything, as you saw it.”

“Why do you care?” asked Clariel bitterly. “You thought Mother was a kinslayer.
Aunt
Yannael said she’s been dead to you for years.”

“Yannael feels deeply, and holds on to pain,” said Tyriel. “I do not, and as the years have gone by, I have wondered . . . even now, I hold a small hope that Jaciel lives, that we might talk again, neither of us in anger.”

“I do not think there is any hope,” said Clariel. The anger was flowing away, like water from a holed vessel, she had nothing to contain it now.

“Tell me,” said Tyriel.

Clariel told him. How they had visited the King, and the kin-gift, and then to the Governor’s mansion. Jaciel touching the goblet, the sudden fight, her flight and capture, the prison hole, the paperwing flight to Hillfair.

“So,” said Tyriel heavily, when at last she had finished. “I believe you are right, and now only one of my three children lives.”

“Can’t you . . . go into Death to see?” asked Clariel. She was remembering what Bel had said about Tyriel never wearing the bells, perhaps not even having read
The Book of the Dead
.

“No,” replied Tyriel, very shortly. “Death is not to be entered save when . . . needs must.”

“What are you going to do about Kilp then?” asked Clariel. She felt two conflicting urges inside her. One was as it had always been, to get back to the Great Forest. The other was the desire to destroy Kilp and Aronzo, to take revenge for her parents’ deaths, to join the force of Abhorsens that was surely going to help the King.

“We must consult with the Clayr, and Gullaine and Kargrin in the palace,” said Tyriel. “There is also the matter of the Summer’s End Hunt, one of the most important in our year . . .”

Clariel felt some of that anger that had leaked away return. How could the Abhorsen be concerned with a ceremonial hunt, when there was urgent business at hand? The Borderers didn’t go hunting stags for pleasure when there was a wolf pack in the Forest.

“There is also the question of what to do with you,” continued Tyriel. His voice held no menace, but even so, Clariel found his gaze upon her very disquieting.

“I would like to go to Estwael,” she said quickly. “To my aunt Lemmin, my father’s sister.”

“That, at least, is out of the question,” rumbled Tyriel. “You would not be safe. Kargrin says that Kilp needs to establish you as Queen under his control. A puppet, if you will, for he cannot continue to claim Jaciel will take the throne. No one will believe him if he cannot show she lives. Kargrin also told me . . . about your encounter with the Free Magic creature.”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” asked Clariel. “She . . . it’s captured. You’ve got it stuck in a bottle.”

Tyriel didn’t answer for a moment, but kept looking at Clariel, his eyes unblinking. She tried to meet his gaze, but eventually found herself casting her eyes down.

“Kilp may have other such allies,” Tyriel said finally. “I think we must keep you somewhere safe, in case of abduction. Or if things change and Kilp needs all of the closest royal heirs dead, safe from assassination.”

“I’d be safe in the Great Forest,” said Clariel desperately, seeing yet another prison looming in her future. The city had been one, albeit a relatively open prison, and then the pit . . . and now . . .

“You most assuredly would not be,” said Tyriel. “Have you considered that the Borderers get their orders from the Governor, or as he now styles himself, the Lord Protector?”

“No . . . but I know the Borderers near Estwael,” protested Clariel. “They wouldn’t . . .”

“There is already a warrant out of the city calling for you to be found and ‘helped’ to return to Belisaere,” said Tyriel. “Apparently you took flight when the King was killed by rebels and did not know your mother has become Queen. Kilp is a glib hand with such stories.”

“But if I told Sergeant Penreth the truth, she wouldn’t—”

“Would she be able to ignore a properly sealed warrant from Belisaere, backed up by the gold that Kilp has spent widely to buy people in every city watch, among the Borderers, and in the Wall Garrison? No, you must be kept safe until we are ready to move against the traitors. You will go to our old house, and the sooner the better. I will take you there myself.”

“But . . . how long will I be there?” asked Clariel.

“As long as is necessary,” said Tyriel. “As I said, there are many matters to be considered. The King is secure in the Palace, there is no need for precipitate action. A few months, perhaps more—”

“A few months!” exclaimed Clariel. “No! I can’t be shut up again!”

She turned to run and found herself caught by the wrist. It hurt. The pain shot through to her elbow, and then to her chest, and it was as if a friction light had been applied to a line of resin and pitch, flames flaring all along the way, heading for that secret, internal place where her berserk fury was contained, but the bonds were weakening . . .

“No!” said Clariel. “No! Not now!”

She was talking not to Tyriel, but to herself. Frantically she tried to slow her breathing, to keep that breath inside, and not take another one too soon. Where was her calm place, the willow arches, the stream in the forest? She couldn’t see it, she could only feel the pain, and the fire inside and then—

The rage came, roaring up unstoppably inside her. It filled every muscle with sudden, furious energy that could not be gainsayed. Clariel jerked her arm and Tyriel’s grip came free. She howled and drew her small knife as everything turned red and she saw a shadow ahead of her, knowing it only as an enemy, not as a person.

An enemy who must be killed.

Clariel struck, but somehow her target twisted away, making her angrier still. She charged forward, hitting strange objects whose tops erupted into flurries of movement and piercing cries, confusing her as they flapped about, and behind them her foe kept backing away. There were strange flashes of light, and trails of glowing sparks that lashed her, but still she went forward, her knife slashing. Then the trails of light wrapped around her, trussing her up like a spider securing its prey. She was suddenly down on the floor, shaking and gibbering, her hand jerking as even then she still tried to stab the enemy, the enemy who must be killed . . .

Chapter Twenty-Three

ACROSS THE BRIDGE, INTO THE HOUSE

S
o 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, realizing 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 realized 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 armored 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 toward the Long Cliffs, where it turned westward, but there was a narrow bridlepath that diverted down toward 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 broomhandles 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.

Though it only took them a few minutes to cross the bridge, it felt longer to Clariel, and she was relieved to step off onto a much more strongly built and permanent-looking landing stage of dressed stone. Curiously, the river here was completely still, though the current raged only a foot away. There was a boat tied up there, a small sailing craft, its mast shipped with no sign of sail bags, oars, or any other equipment.

Clariel looked at it, and then at the narrow channel of slack water that followed the side of the island northward. Again, magic must be employed to allow boats to come and go without being taken by the river and then, very swiftly thereafter, the waterfall. So it was possible to leave the island by boat . . .

Tyriel saw her looking and shook his head. Crooking one finger, he pointed to the gate in the white wall ahead. Clariel shrugged and continued on, the gate opening without visible intervention by anyone as they approached.

As she stepped over the threshold, the roar of the waterfall stopped as abruptly as if it had been simply turned off. Clariel rubbed her ear, thinking she’d gone deaf, till she heard the birds calling in the orchard to her left, and Tyriel clearing his throat. She turned to him, but he was facing the wall, his hand raised, a silver ring on his finger catching an errant ray from the setting sun.

Puzzled, Clariel looked around. The place was more pleasant than she’d feared. There was the orchard to her left, heavy with late summer peaches and apricots. A long lawn was divided by a bricked path, with the great fig tree she had glimpsed in the northern section, and a fountain in the south. Beyond that was a small grove of oaks, with a strangely thin and stunted tower set into the perimeter wall beyond.

“This is my granddaughter Clariel,” said Tyriel. “She is to be accorded the respect due one of the family and guarded as such. But she is not to cross the bridge, take a boat or a paperwing without my direct permission, or that of the Abhorsen-in-Waiting. Is that understood?”

Clariel had turned to see who the Abhorsen was talking to, since he was still facing the wall. She stepped back instinctively as she saw a shape in the stone, moving under the whitewash, a long blade in its hand. But the sword moved in salute and she saw that it was a sending coming out of the wall, the thousands of Charter marks that outlined it growing brighter as it emerged. Standing before them, the marks dimmed, and the sending took on a more normal appearance, that of a tall man in helmet and long hauberk, a great two-handed sword now resting on his shoulder. He bowed low to the Abhorsen, turned slightly, and bowed again to Clariel, only not so low.

“You will tell the other sendings?” asked Tyriel. “The House lacks for nothing to provide for her comfort?”

The sending nodded in answer to the first question, and shook its head to the second.

“Right,” said Tyriel, turning around to clap his hand on Clariel’s shoulder. It had more the feel of a man grabbing a dog he was about to instruct than anything familial. “That’s settled. You’ll be comfortable here, and more important, completely safe. I will visit you as soon as matters allow.”

“You’re just leaving me here?” asked Clariel. “Are there . . . does anyone else live here?”

“Only the sendings,” said Tyriel. “Kargrin’s letter said you found the city too busy, you liked solitude—”

“In the Great Forest,” protested Clariel. “Of my own choice!”

“I’ll send Bel to visit when he’s well,” said Tyriel. “I will visit myself when the opportunity presents . . . as I said, it will only be for a few months, three maybe . . .”

“Months with you doing nothing to avenge my parents,” said Clariel. She could feel the rage rising in her again. It was unbearable to be treated in such a way, to be put somewhere safe without any thought for her own desires and feelings. She took a deep breath and managed to hold it, Tyriel watching her carefully, his sun-wrinkled eyes narrowed.

“Caution is a virtue,” he said, as she finally let the breath out, very slowly. “Kilp will pay for his misdeeds in due course, but you must be patient. Read the book on controlling your rage. Rest. Enjoy the gardens, and the fishing. Grieve for your parents.”