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‘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 travelling 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 a good 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 below. ‘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 further 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 plough 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.
