by Nix, Garth
Terciel, who had limited social experience anyway, was unsettled by both approaches. He found the ubiquitous keenness of the Clayr to talk about why he found it unsettling even worse, including from Clayr who he’d not had intimate relationships with and never would. Nearly all of them talked about everything with each other, as far as he could tell, and after his first few excited encounters as a sixteen-year-old man sowing his wild oats, he had quickly decided the safest thing was not to give them anything to talk about. When that did not really work, as they then wanted to talk about his newfound celibacy, staying away from the Clayr’s Glacier and the Clayr in general became attractive, and not difficult to achieve, as Tizanael—for her own, quite different reasons—was not keen on the Clayr.
Then there was the whole business of them being able to see the future. Or possible futures, as they always said. Any individual Clayr might get glimpses of times to come, usually visions in ice, glass, or water, but there was no certainty what they saw would come to pass. Over millennia the Clayr had refined the process, joining together in cooperative groups to refine these visions and work out which futures were most likely. They collectively called this grouping the Nine Day Watch, which ranged from a small group of 49 to a watch of 1,568, which included almost all adult Clayr who possessed the Sight. This largest group was only ever called to try to pin down a particular future event or danger of extreme importance, and even then, couldn’t always do so.
For Terciel, it was the small, everyday foretellings that made him nervous. A Clayr seeing where he would be in several hours and meeting him there. One getting him a drink in the refectory of the Clayr’s Glacier because she’d seen what he’d be drinking, and she was right, it was his favorite, a Belisaeran ale he would have chosen.
The Clayr who came into the Great Hall did not lessen Terciel’s nervousness.
Like nearly all of them, she was brown-skinned, with pale blue eyes and blond hair. She was not wearing the white robe and circlet of silver and moonstones that was the Clayr’s formal garb. Instead she was in leather armor reinforced at the shoulders, elbows, and knees with mail, without a surcoat, though the star of the Clayr was embroidered in gold thread directly on the breastplate. It was the uniform of the Clayr’s Rangers, Terciel knew, those who patrolled the Glacier and the close approaches. Most Clayr never left their vast underground fortress; the Rangers were among the few who did. But even they rarely went much farther than the foothills around the two great mountains that cradled the Glacier between them. It had been a long time since the Clayr were more actively involved in shaping the future of the Old Kingdom, rather than trying to discern what it was to be, amid many contradictory visions.
“Greetings, Abhorsen,” she said, inclining her head to Tizanael and then Terciel. “And Abhorsen-in-Waiting. I am Mirelle, lieutenant of the Rangers of the Clayr.”
Terciel bowed in return. He hadn’t met Mirelle before, and from her introduction, neither had Tizanael. She looked to be about ten years older than he was. Not one of the younger Clayr who had looked upon him as an enjoyable but transient sexual partner, but she was of an age with some of those he’d encountered who wanted a baby fathered. And she was bound to want to talk about how he felt about that, at length. So he was still nervous.
“You are welcome,” replied Tizanael. She didn’t move from in front of the huge stained-glass window. In the lighter portions of it, depicting the sky, it was possible to see through to the outside, blurred shadows indicating that it had started to snow. “Did you find it?”
“Yes. In fact, we Saw you needed it before your message-hawk was received. The librarians started the search days ago,” replied Mirelle. She held up a small iron box that so crawled with Charter marks it was hard to make out its exact dimensions, its edges blurred in gold light.
Tizanael did come forward then, eagerly.
“The box has been warded as strongly as the librarians could manage,” said Mirelle. “They told me the book inside is very dangerous, heavily laden with Free Magic, and warded against all but the Abhorsen. They didn’t even try to read it themselves, so I believe this is true.”
“Then it is the book I have sought,” said Tizanael, with grim satisfaction.
“What book?” asked Terciel.
“One that should never have left our own library,” replied Tizanael, taking the box from Mirelle. “I had thought it lost, till I found a letter confirming that a number of books salvaged from the ruins of Hillfair were not brought here, but taken to the Clayr instead.”
“What book?” repeated Terciel. He was used to Tizanael’s reticence. It was unhelpful, he thought, but it appeared to be an enduring habit she was unable to break.
“It is called On the Making of Necromantic Bells and Other Devices,” replied Tizanael. “By the Abhorsen Lerantiel. One of the earliest in the line, the fourteenth.”
“The Clayr are pleased to return it to the Abhorsens,” said Mirelle, bowing.
“Thank you,” said Tizanael. She hesitated, then started toward the door, holding the box. She called over her shoulder, “Continue your lessons tomorrow, Terciel. Entertain our guest today. I must study this book carefully, and I cannot do so without the proper precautions and preparation, and I hope it will also lead me to something else long lost, which is possibly within the House. You may not see me for some time.”
“Why do you have to read it?” called out Terciel.
“To deal with Kerrigor once and for all,” answered Tizanael without turning around.
A Sending opened the door, the Abhorsen whisked out, and Terciel was left with Mirelle, who looked at him and raised one expressive eyebrow.
“Is she always like that? I had heard tales, but . . .”
“She is,” confirmed Terciel awkwardly. “Um, would you like some luncheon? The Sendings have put out a variety of things.”
“Enough to feed a dozen or more,” said Mirelle, casting her eye over the dishes laid out on the table.
“They always do that when we have guests,” said Terciel.
“Though one dish has been sampled already,” said Mirelle, pointing to a silver platter that had half a salmon laid out on it. Not an artfully split fish, bisected from head to tail, but simply the tail and about two inches of the body, the rest torn away.
Terciel dropped to one knee to look under the table, just in time to see the white-furred dwarf scuttling away, down on all fours, the other half of the salmon in his mouth. He did not stand up when he reached the end of the table, but raced through the open kitchen door.
“Moregrim,” he said, surprised the strange, white-furred man had been in the hall with Tizanael. “I hope you didn’t want fish, Mirelle.”
Mirelle was still looking out the kitchen door.
“Moregrim? I have heard other names,” she said. “An ancient spirit, a servant of the Abhorsens?”
“Yes,” said Terciel. “Tizanael says he is safe enough, if he is firmly directed.”
“I hope so,” said Mirelle, her eyes narrowed. “That is a Free Magic creature of a high order. Something we would do our best to kill or banish if we encountered it anywhere the Clayr hold sway.”
“Moregrim is tightly bound,” repeated Terciel. He tried to sound confident, though he had his own doubts about the dwarf, and the red belt with its miniature version of the bell Saraneth. “Would you care to eat? Wine?”
“I will eat,” said Mirelle, pulling out a chair and sitting down before the nearest Sending could do it for her. Forestalled, it sidestepped and drew out a chair for Terciel before he could do so himself. “As it happens, I wanted to talk to you, Terciel, as well as bringing the book to Tizanael.”
“Oh,” replied Terciel cautiously, sitting down. He couldn’t help but shift uneasily across his chair, to be somewhat farther away. “What about?”
“We have always Seen you, off and on,” said Mirelle easily, once again thwarting a Sending by pouring her own wine. “As we tend to have visions of the prominent persons of the
Kingdom. But nothing of significance or at any distance in time, until recently. But twice now the Nine Day Watch has Seen you.”
“Oh,” repeated Terciel. He took an overly large swig of his own wine, just poured by a Sending, and almost choked.
“Yes,” said Mirelle. “Unfortunately not as clear visions as we would wish. Nothing is, of course, these last few hundred years.”
Terciel nodded. He knew about that, at least in essence. About a hundred and eighty years ago, the son of the ruling Queen had slain his mother and his sisters, and something else had happened that he felt he almost knew about but could never pin down or remember had happened, something that affected all Charter Magic. He kept meaning to ask Tizanael about it, but somehow never did. Prince Rogir had been killed, but the aftereffects of whatever he had done continued.
“And, of course, we have Seen only some of the possible futures. But a number of them indicate that you will father two children with women of the Clayr.”
Terciel did choke on his wine this time. He clutched at a linen napkin, coughing into it as a Sending smacked him between the shoulder blades.
“Not soon, I should add,” continued Mirelle, reaching over to spear several slices of saffron-crusted beef with her fork. She appeared to be enjoying herself. “In fact, it looks like the two will be many years separate, and born to different mothers.”
Terciel choked again, after having just managed to get his breath.
“These are only possible futures, but there are indications your potential children will be very significant to the Kingdom,” said Mirelle. “Naturally, this makes you of even more interest to us than you were already.”
“I . . . I don’t want to have any children,” rasped Terciel. He took a sip of wine and tried to clear his throat.
“Why not?” asked Mirelle.
Terciel grimaced. This was why he avoided the Clayr.
“I don’t want to discuss the matter,” he said.
“But I do,” said Mirelle.
“It isn’t anything to do with you,” mumbled Terciel, even as the horrible thought came into his mind that maybe she had Seen herself as one of these two possible mothers. The Clayr were very ready to make futures they had Seen and liked come about, if they could do so. Though how she could imagine she might seduce him here—
Mirelle laughed.
“The look on your face! You are so transparent, Terciel. I have not come here to take you to bed, young man. My hearth-mate back home would not be happy, for one thing, and for another, we have not Seen the individual Clayr you may lie with, only . . . symbology . . . that indicates they are Clayr. Also, in our visions you are older, in one of the visions much older. As for it having nothing to do with me, it does have a great deal to do with the kingdom we both serve. So tell me, why do you not want to have children?”
Terciel stared into his wine.
“I am an orphan,” he said, after a long silence. “My parents died when I was very young. I cannot remember them. My sister, Rahiniel, left me and died before I ever had the chance to see her again. I have only the vaguest memory of her. Tizanael took me in solely because she needed an apprentice, and I was more likely than most to survive, because of my heritage, my blood.
“I have become the Abhorsen-in-Waiting, knowing more of Death than Life. I have nothing but this. Nothing but the work we do, the necessary work, I acknowledge that. How can anyone love me, knowing what I am? How can I love anyone else? And why would I want to bring a child into this world, an Abhorsen child doomed to follow in my footsteps?”
Mirelle did not laugh this time. She looked directly at Terciel, who did not meet her gaze.
“We See many futures,” said Mirelle at last. “The awful and the bright, mixed sometimes beyond any unraveling. But we can never be absolutely sure what will come. We can only See the good that might be and work toward making it come about, or we can try to turn back the evil happenings. A child brought into the world has no more certain future than anyone else. We strive to make them safe and loved and equip them to both withstand the bad things and to make the most of the good.
“To be an Abhorsen is to carry the weight of terrible responsibility, but your life can be more than that, and you can both love and be loved. You can make space for love in your life, for happiness, for peace, even if they are but fleeting moments of sunshine and calm amid the ongoing storm.”
“Make the best of it?” asked Terciel sarcastically.
“I do not know a better philosophy for living,” answered Mirelle. She hesitated. “You are young. I know, only in some ways! You know death and dying, none better. But I think you need to set your mind more upon how you will live and love.”
“I follow Tizanael, and do as I am told,” said Terciel bitterly. He took another deep draft of wine, emptying his glass, and quickly poured it full to the brim, before a Sending could give him a more conservative portion.
“Tizanael has found her own way,” said Mirelle. “One of endurance, with no room for anything save duty. It works for her, but is that what you want? Other Abhorsens have found different ways to live, to love, to have families and still to do what they must for the Kingdom.”
“I don’t want to be like Tizanael, that’s for sure,” muttered Terciel, surprising himself. He’d never really thought about his own future much. He was always so focused on learning, following Tizanael’s strict instructions, defeating their foes . . .
“Does the walker choose the path, or the path the walker?” asked Mirelle softly.
“What?” asked Terciel. He knew the phrase well, for it was the last line of The Book of the Dead, the dread volume he had studied since he was a child, with its ever-shifting text, the bone-penetrating tingle of Free Magic in every page, held back by the Charter marks that were infused throughout. Only a necromancer could open The Book of the Dead, and only an uncorrupted Charter Mage could close it, at least the copy the Abhorsens held.
“The final line of the Abhorsens’ principal book,” said Mirelle. “I know that much, though I have never read it.”
“I’ve never understood what that line means,” said Terciel. “Tizanael has typically never explained it to me.”
“I doubt it can be explained,” said Mirelle. “But it is a good question to think on.”
“I’m not having a child with a Clayr or anyone else,” said Terciel, draining glass again. He let the Sending fill it this time. He was never much of a drinker, and he was feeling the effects of the wine already, not in a good way. He felt angry and belligerent, not relaxed at all.
“You must do as you see fit,” said Mirelle. She turned away from him to select various other foodstuffs to put on her plate, and changed the subject. “As must we all. I, for example, must fly back to the Glacier this afternoon, and despite the warming spells, it will be cold, so I take on fuel against it. Try the saffron beef. It is very good.”
Terciel nodded, and reached over, glad the conversation had turned to ordinary things.
But his thoughts had not.
Chapter Eleven
The forcefulness of Professor Kinrosh could not be resisted. Elinor took the job, signed an employment contract, and within an hour of having tea with the headmistress was being shown her room by one of the school servants and shortly after that was watching a rehearsal of The Court of the Sad Prince and was immediately called upon by Madame Lancier to choreograph six courtiers falling down in a line like ninepins when the fool tumbled into the leader of the file.
Within a week, Elinor loved being at Wyverley College, and though she tried not to, resented her mother even more. She would have loved to have been a student at the school. Being a teacher’s assistant, though still in many ways wonderful, was not the same as having been there for years, growing up with other girls and finding lifelong friends. She was also, for the first time in her life, suddenly aware that she had missed out on learning things the girls took for granted, though she did not begrudge the peculiarities of her own circus-base
d learning from Ham, interleaved with the very old-fashioned curriculum taught by Mrs. Watkins, using the textbooks she’d had herself as a young girl, which even then had been fifty years out of date.
She loved being part of a proper theater troupe, or as close to it as could be. Madame Lancier had in her younger life been a professional performer in Corvere, and she was an inspired teacher. Elinor had been worried she would not like having an assistant with no experience thrust upon her by Professor Kinrosh, but she took to Elinor immediately and put her in charge of all the clowning, fighting, and horseplay of The Court of the Sad Prince, which, as the headmistress had said, did need attention. She had to particularly work with Corinna, the Sixth Former who played the Prince’s Fool, to help her with the juggling and tumbling and conjuring, much of which they had been about to cut out for lack of a proper tutor, Madame Lancier’s skills being more in voice and dancing.
Magistrix Tallowe ignored her as much possible, so that learning Charter Magic seemed out of reach, but Elinor found there was another teacher at Wyverley who could help her with her preparations to journey into the Old Kingdom even if it was not with Charter Magic. She had no idea Wyverley College continued to offer the old-fashioned and generally long-vanished subject called “Fighting Arts” until one of her juggling rehearsals for the cast of the play went overtime in the gymnasium.
The Fighting Arts teacher, a whip-thin, hard-faced woman from the distant south of the continent, where she had been a soldier, police officer, and hunting guide, was Miss Sargraya, or “Sarge” as the girls called her, apparently with her permission. One afternoon she came over to watch Elinor demonstrate juggling a knife, fork, and spoon as her own class assembled with their practice swords.
A discussion on throwing knives led to Elinor explaining and then demonstrating the swordplay Ham had taught her, both the theatrical and the real, and this led to her being immediately co-opted as Sarge’s assistant in Fighting Arts in addition to her work with Madame Lancier on the play.