There were a dozen more message-hawks on their perches inside the mews behind the veranda, a large, fairly dim room that looked like it had been added onto whatever building they were in – which wasn’t the hall, because she had seen the roof of that from the veranda. Despite that, Clariel wasn’t sure which end of the hall she’d been looking at. Hillfair could prove just as easy to get lost in as the city, she thought, and she liked it no more than she liked Belisaere.
The Abhorsen Tyriel was sitting at a writing desk in the middle of the room, reading a transcribed message. A clerk with inky fingers sat next to him, writing with a quill but not looking at what he was writing, because his eyes were fixed on the message-hawk that sat on its perch two inches from his face, something you would never do with a hunting bird. Hearing a confidential message, Clariel presumed. She knew the message-hawks could speak if they were so instructed, but it wasn’t unusual for them to carry messages that could only be ‘heard’ inside the mind, and only then if the correct marks or passwords were given to the hawk.
‘Ah, Clariel,’ said the Abhorsen. He had changed, but like Yan, only into a different set of hunting leathers. He still wore the collar of silver keys. At least he didn’t smell of horses and blood any more, Clariel was pleased to note as she approached his desk. ‘We’ll talk outside. You may return to the feast, Yannael, and give the toast. I may be some time.’
‘Yes, Father,’ said Yan. She shot her niece another swift look that defied interpretation but was probably just pure meanness, Clariel thought.
‘Come,’ said Tyriel, walking out to the veranda with Clariel close behind. The hawks once again turned their heads in unison – one look at the moving humans and then back again, out towards the open sky. Though their behaviour was controlled by Charter Magic, Clariel thought they still had the primal urge to fly. Only now all they could do was look, until they were dispatched upon their next mission.
‘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 the 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 had 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 u
nstoppably 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