Clariel

by Nix,Garth

  “I think he got away,” said Clariel. “He made the street rise up. All the guards chasing him were knocked down, and when the dust cleared I couldn’t see him.”

  “Trust Kargrin,” laughed Bel. “I wonder what that spell was? Must ask him next time I see him.”

  “I hope you do get to see him again,” said Clariel, all too conscious of those she would never see again.

  “Yes,” said Bel, the laughter gone as he caught her mood. “I um . . . Kargrin said he thought your parents . . . that they were . . . were killed . . . I don’t know . . .”

  “Yes,” said Clariel quietly, almost to herself. “They are dead. It was all so very quick. We were at this dreadful dinner, and I was thinking about how soon we could leave, and how soon I could leave . . . I mean leave the dinner and also leave Belisaere altogether. Aronzo was annoying and Kilp scared me, but I never thought . . . I never thought anything could happen, not like that . . .”

  “Then the world was changed, all in a few moments,” said Bel. “I never thought Kilp would try to take the Palace either. If Gullaine wasn’t so suspicious, I’d be dead too.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “The Abhorsen’s rooms are in the lower west court,” said Bel. “Much easier to attack, but almost completely separate from the rest of the palace. They broke in there and I suppose they thought there’d be an easy way into the palace proper. The first I knew about it was Gullaine shaking me awake just after midnight and rushing me along a maze of secret ways, with guard sendings popping out the walls and floors and growling off behind us, and then there was Anstyr’s horn echoing everywhere. There was no chance of them taking the Palace after that, though they did try an escalade on the lower wall by the gatehouse. Not one ladder reached the top. It was horrible, not least because so many of the Guild’s people were clearly halfhearted, unsure what was really going on . . .”

  He fell uncharacteristically silent. Clariel didn’t think she’d ever heard Bel stop speaking without someone asking him to, or some other interruption.

  With Bel not talking, Clariel noticed it was much quieter than she had expected. They were borne up by the breeze and carried along by it at a pace far swifter than any horse could gallop, but she could only hear a dull humming sound, and that was almost more a vibration felt rather than heard.

  “Why is it so quiet?” she asked.

  “What? Oh, we are inside the wind, carried with it, rather than having it pass across us,” said Bel. “But the paperwing is also imbued with charms to still the air here where we sit, and to make it warmer as well. Though if we go much higher, you’ll still need your cloak. It gets very cold, like being up a mountain.”

  “Kargrin said you are to take me to the Abhorsens,” said Clariel.

  “He thinks that will be the safest place for you,” said Bel. “Gullaine agreed. She let me take this paperwing, it’s one of the royal ones, though I guess you knew that from the color.”

  “What if I asked you to take me to Estwael?” asked Clariel, suddenly struck with a guilty, but almost overwhelming desire to get to the Great Forest, to the only place she truly felt at home. She felt if she could get there, then somehow everything that had happened could be dealt with, or the effects lessened. “We could fly there, couldn’t we?”

  Bel didn’t answer for a moment.

  “I suppose we could fly there,” he said. “Though chances are we’d get lost. As it is, I can only find my way to Hillfair by flying west by the sun till we see the Ratterlin, and then follow that south. The flying part is relatively easy. The navigating is hard.”

  “We could follow the Yanyl from the Ratterlin,” said Clariel. “It rises close to Estwael.”

  Bel shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m under orders from Kargrin and Gullaine. I have to take you to the Abhorsen. Besides, you probably wouldn’t be safe in Estwael. Kilp controls all the royal officials in the towns.”

  “I would be safe in the Great Forest,” said Clariel. She hesitated for a moment, before adding, “I really don’t want to go to the Abhorsens.”

  “The Abhorsen is your grandfather,” said Bel tentatively. “I guess . . . he would be your closest relative . . . uh . . . now—”

  “I have my aunt Lemmin in Estwael,” snapped Clariel. “And I’m old enough to live on my own anyway.”

  “Yes, of course,” muttered Bel. “It’s just that with your mother being declared Queen by Kilp and everything—”

  “My mother is dead,” said Clariel bleakly. “But I understand. I am a card to be played, and Gullaine and Kargrin and probably my grandfather too wish to hold me in their hand.”

  “I would take you to Estwael if I could,” protested Bel. He half twisted around to look at her before a sudden sharp pain reminded him why he couldn’t. “If the Abhorsen lets me, I’ll fly you there. I promise.”

  “If he lets me,” said Clariel. “There is small chance of that.”

  Bel didn’t answer. After a moment, seeing his downcast head and slumped shoulders, Clariel added, “But thank you. If the opportunity arises, I will take you up on your offer, and have you fly me away again. But I fear that it might need to be more of an escape than anything. If you don’t think you can fly me there now, I doubt things will be different later.”

  “You never know,” said Bel. “Just like it says in The Book of the Dead, ‘Does the walker choose the path, or the path the walker’?”

  “What does that mean?” asked Clariel. “And what is The Book of the Dead? You mentioned it once before.”

  “It is the book that teaches every Abhorsen the secrets of walking in Death, of the bells we wield, and the mysteries therein,” said Bel. “But I have to confess that I’ve never been exactly sure what the path and the walker thing really means. Only that perhaps it means something in between, that even if there is destiny, you get to choose to take it on or not. The path is your choice, but once you tread there, you have also chosen where you will go. I think.”

  “Hmmm,” said Clariel. “How long will it take to get to Hillfair? We seem to be traveling very fast, faster than a horse can gallop.”

  “It is faster, but not quite as fast as it looks,” said Bel. “We’ll have to land at a way station before dark; paperwings won’t fly at night unless there’s a full moon and a clear sky, and . . . uh . . . I’m getting a bit . . . a bit tired anyway. If we get an early start tomorrow, we should be at Hillfair by early afternoon, I guess.”

  “A way station?” asked Clariel. “Kilp could have sent a message-hawk to have me arrested. Would a hawk get there before us?”

  “Yes,” said Bel. “But since the King stopped looking after them a few years back, the way stations south of Belisaere have been run by the Abhorsens and those north by the Clayr. The one I’m thinking of is between Orchyre and Sindle, so even if Kilp sent guards from either town, they couldn’t get to us before morning.”

  They were flying over farmland now, a patchwork of well-ordered fields bounded by low stone walls beneath, with occasional stands of woodland and every now and then a village or a large farmstead. A shepherd waved to them from atop a low hill, her flock of sheep on the slope below being gathered by a dog darting hither and thither to drive them to some new pasturage.

  They flew in silence for some hours after sighting the shepherd. Clariel lost in her own thoughts and sadness, Bel intent on flying the paperwing. The sun rose in the sky to its zenith, and then began to fall again.

  Around the middle of the afternoon, the land some way off on their left-hand side began to change, fields giving way to a long fringe of trees that soon gathered together to become a forest that marched for miles to the south, the paperwing taking a path almost parallel to its northern border, though several leagues distant.

  Clariel stared at the green expanse of woods hungrily.

  “That must be the Sindlewood!” she exclaimed, sitting up straighter and leaning out the left-hand side so suddenly that the paperwing rocked.

/>   “Careful!” exclaimed Bel. “Slow movements, please. You really don’t want to fall out, you know.”

  “Sorry,” mumbled Clariel. She gazed out at the vast green mass of the forest. The Sindlewood was the closest major forest to Belisaere and though she had never been there, she had read about it, and heard about it from the Borderers who had been stationed there before their time in the Great Forest.

  “The way station shouldn’t be too far ahead,” said Bel about five minutes later. He sounded slightly anxious, and was moving his head from side to side, peering at the ground ahead. “Can you see anything?”

  “What am I looking for?” asked Clariel.

  “A low hill, like where the sheep were, but flatter on top and longer,” said Bel. “There’s a tower, not very tall, it should have a big flag on top so I can see where the wind’s blowing from down there . . . surely I couldn’t have missed it . . .”

  Clariel looked away from the Sindlewood off in the distance and focused on the ground closer ahead and to the sides. It was still settled farmland beneath them, the patchwork of fields continuing up and down and over the slight rolling hills, dotted occasionally by copse or small wood, house or steading, with bare earth roads between. The only major paved road in the area was farther north, joining Belisaere to Sindle and parts east, the road that ultimately led to Estwael.

  “We could follow the road,” Clariel said suddenly.

  “What?”

  “We could fly along the main west road,” said Clariel. “To Estwael. You wouldn’t get lost, we wouldn’t have to follow the Yanyl.”

  “We’re not going to Estwael, and roads are harder to follow than big rivers unless you go low, which is dangerous,” said Bel wearily. “We really need to find that way station. I’m getting tired and the paperwing will get very difficult if we’re not down before dark.”

  “Right,” said Clariel. “I’m looking.”

  They flew in silence again, but it was less companionable than before. Clariel’s eyes kept following the road that headed to the west, to Estwael and home. Bel looked down, anxiously searching for the way station.

  “I’m just going back the way I flew in last year,” said Bel a little later. “But everything looks the same, there’s no decent landmarks. If we don’t find the way station soon we’ll just have to set down wherever we can. We do have some food but it’s nothing fancy . . .”

  “I don’t need fancy food,” said Clariel. “Could you . . . could you land near one of these small woods? I would like to be among trees again. The night will be warm, we won’t need to be under a roof.”

  “I suppose so,” said Bel. “But it’s always easier to take off down a hill. And the way station has actual beds.”

  “A scrape in the ground filled with fern and grass is quite comfortable,” said Clariel. “And we have our cloaks.”

  “We are definitely going to have to land anyway,” said Bel, with an anxious glance ahead at the westering sun, which would soon be setting. “How about by that farmhouse over there?”

  “Surely it would be better no one knows we have passed by,” said Clariel.

  Bel nodded reluctantly.

  “Look for a large, flat field,” he said. “Without big stones. We’ll swoop over low to look closer and then turn back and land.”

  “There,” said Clariel, pointing over Bel’s shoulder. Up ahead there was a larger field than usual left fallow, so it currently sported short pale green and yellow grasses in tufts between patches of dirt. At its northwestern end, it abutted a low, forested hill of old, lichen-covered oaks, accompanied by chestnuts and birches of lesser ancestry. It was clearly tended by foresters, for it was more open and sparse than any ancient forest, but even so it called to Clariel.

  “Looks all right,” confirmed Bel. He pursed his lips and blew. At first nothing came out and he looked disturbed, even frightened, then he managed a whistle. It was soft, but true, and infused with Charter marks. The paperwing heard it and angled down, till they were swooping along only twenty or thirty paces above the ground, their speed much more apparent to Clariel now, as were the various stone walls, stumps, trees, and other obstacles they could run into and be smashed to pieces.

  But their chosen field looked safe enough, the plow marks still present, indicating it had been turned over in the spring, if not replanted. Bel whistled again, the paperwing rose and veered to the left, away from the forest, rising a little to circle back the way they had come.

  “Can you see from the treetops which way the wind is blowing?” asked Bel.

  “From the south,” said Clariel. “Not very strong.”

  “Hold on tight for the landing,” said Bel as the paperwing completed its turn into the wind and began to descend. “Could be bumpy.”

  But it wasn’t bumpy at all. The paperwing skimmed over the grass, occasionally touching to lose speed, before coming down to skid some twenty paces through loose soil, sending a spray of dirt to either side but barely rocking its two passengers.

  Bel’s head dropped onto his chest and he let out a long sigh. Clariel waited a moment to make sure the paperwing wasn’t going to move again, then climbed out, stretched her arms up, and unkinked her back.

  “I am very tired,” announced Bel. He struggled to stand up and would have fallen over if Clariel hadn’t lunged forward to steady his elbow. “I hope your forest beds are as comfortable as you say.”

  “If you’re that tired it won’t matter,” said Clariel. “How’s your shoulder?”

  Bel moved his arm slightly and winced.

  “It’s just stiff,” he said. “I was supposed to stay in bed for another week. But I can do that once we get to Hillfair. I’m sure I’ll be fine to fly in the morning.”

  He stepped out of the paperwing and started to turn and bend down to get something from inside the hollow nose, but stopped suddenly, his face showing intense pain.

  “Ah, if you wouldn’t mind . . . could you fetch my sword? And the food and water by your seat? I’m just going to sit down over against that tree . . .”

  He walked very slowly toward one of the lone, outlying trees of the wood, a younger oak, its trunk merely spotted with lichen. Clariel picked up his sword, an ordinary-looking weapon in a plain scabbard on a simple leather belt, albeit with a gold-chased buckle. She strapped it on herself, then bent down again to take the water bottle and the muslin-wrapped bread.

  There was something else there too, wedged almost in the nose of the paperwing. A silver bottle wreathed in gold wires. Clariel reached down to pick it up but as her fingers closed there was a flare of Charter Magic. Pain shot through the bones of her hand to her elbow, and she flinched back.

  With the pain, she heard a distant, despairing voice.

  The voice of the Free Magic creature.

  Aziminil.

  “Help me! Help me . . .”

  Clariel’s hand stayed frozen near the bottle. She stayed completely still for a few seconds, the sound of Aziminil’s voice receding till she heard it no more. Once again she felt the desire to help the creature, to free it from its prison, a desire made stronger by her own experiences as a prisoner.

  But there was a stronger emotion. She remembered the thrill of incipient power, when she had almost dominated Aziminil, when her will had closed like a fist upon the creature’s mind and she had been on the brink of seizing it, of using its sorcerous gifts. If she released it from the bottle, Clariel could force it to obey, and then it could help her. Who knew what she might be able to do with the creature’s powers at her disposal?

  But the thing had tried to kill Bel before. Everyone said Free Magic creatures were evil. Yet against that, Kargrin himself said they were not evil as such, and surely that meant it was all about what you did with them—

  Clariel withdrew her hand and shook her head violently, as if she could clear it of unsuitable thoughts. Grabbing the water and the bread, she went after the staggering Bel, catching up just in time to help manage his controlled collapse,
getting his back against the trunk and slowly bending his knees till he was sitting down.

  “I’ll be fine after a rest,” he whispered. “I did say that wind-working took it out of me, didn’t I?”

  “You did,” replied Clariel. She set the food and water by his side.

  “Thanks,” asked Bel, his eyes half-shut. “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

  Clariel did not answer. She looked back at the paperwing and then over to the shadowed edge of the wood proper, with the dusky light coming through the trees. She felt the trees beckon to her, inviting her in.

  Here she had a real choice, for the first time ever. Her parents were gone, the ties of love, affection, and duty broken by their violent deaths. She had not wanted that, and she felt guilty at the thought that they could no longer hold her back from living the life she wanted to lead.

  Against that, even in death they had set a very strong obligation upon her. They had to be revenged, and she was their daughter; surely this was her task.

  But even as Clariel thought this, some small part of her was whispering away, suggesting that they would be avenged anyway, no matter what Clariel did. The Abhorsens and the Clayr and Captain Gullaine and Kargrin would deal with Kilp and Aronzo. Besides, what did the living ever really owe the dead?

  That same sly internal voice suggested Clariel could and should simply go into the forest here. This was a small wood, perhaps only a league from side to side, but it would be a stepping stone. She could head west on foot, there would be other small forests to hide within, she would cross the Ratterlin somehow . . .

  Clariel paused, forcing herself to make a realistic assessment of her chances. She had neither the gold nor the disguise promised by Kargrin, and without either she would be taken easily at the ferry by the guards there, who would answer to Kilp as Governor or Lord Protector or whatever he called himself now. Besides that, she would have to survive forest and road, weather and ill-chance, barefoot, dressed in just a smock and cloak, with only the small knife around her neck and, if she could sink so low to steal it, Bel’s sword.