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The creature suddenly slumped. Clariel felt something shift inside Aziminil’s mind, some last shred of resistance snap.
‘I will serve you, Mistress,’ said Aziminil. She bent forward till her head struck the ground at Clariel’s feet.
‘Forever, until I release you,’ boomed Clariel.
‘Forever, until you release me,’ agreed the Free Magic creature.
As Aziminil spoke, Clariel felt a sharp pain in the middle of her forehead, where her baptismal Charter mark was, but the pain was lost as she also felt a sudden surge of power. It was Aziminil’s power that she felt, power that she knew she could draw upon, shape and direct as she willed.
Power that would be far greater still if she took off the gauntlets and the robe, the mask and the overshoes, and took Aziminil into her body, there to dwell and be ever ready to serve her mistress.
It was a great temptation, made greater because the fury wanted that power, wanted that fuel to become greater still, to become such a warrior that nothing could stand against her and she would wade through her enemies, rending them limb from limb, laughing as they sought to flee …
But unlike all previous occasions when she had gone berserk, this time Clariel retained some sense of her own self. She had summoned the fury, but as the book had taught her, had kept back some part of her being. From this redoubt of her true self, she sallied forth, banking down the angry fires that threatened to burn up all the fuel within her, the fires that wanted all Aziminil’s power, not just the fraction available to her without being touched, skin to skin.
‘No,’ whispered Clariel. She let go of Aziminil and stepped back. The creature was bound. Nothing more was needed, at least for now. She must resist the temptation for more.
‘Clariel! The door!’ shrieked Mogget.
Clariel whirled around. The door was slowly creaking open. Beyond it she saw a great crowd of armoured warriors, sendings all. Instantly she drew upon Aziminil’s power and, gesturing with one hand, directed a great blast of raw sorcery that struck the ceiling above the door and shattered the rock. Huge boulders came tumbling down to block the doorway, a cloud of dust bursting over Clariel and out beyond, only to be washed away by the waterfall.
Clariel smiled and looked at Aziminil, who remained kneeling near her feet.
‘It is good,’ she said. ‘The power … Now none shall gainsay me …’
She faltered, words trailing away. The fury was rising again, as was a strange joy in what she had just done, a feeling of near ecstasy. She had merely willed something to be so, and it was. The stone destroyed, the way blocked, the enemy foiled …
Concentrate, thought Clariel. I must not enjoy this, I must use it only as I need to, I must do only what must be done and no more.
Slowly she forced the fury back, damped down the savage excitement that wanted to unleash more sorcery. She slowed her breathing, and brought up the memory of the quiet calm of the willow-arched glade on the river, and let that gentle flow take the rage away.
She told herself once more: I must use it only as I need to, only to do what must be done. No more.
‘Aziminil. I want you to carry me beyond the waterfall, to the eastern bank of the Ratterlin, and then beyond to Belisaere, as safely and swiftly as you may. And should my garments fray, or my skin somehow be shown, you will not touch any part of me. Do you understand and obey?’
‘I understand and obey, Mistress,’ replied Aziminil, lifting her head, the strange void that served as her face directed towards Clariel. A small cloud of mist wafted across her blood-red skin, tiny gouts of steam blowing up as it touched. ‘But I do not have the strength alone to carry you through the waterfall. It is too great a cascade, the water too swift.’
‘You must release and bind another creature,’ said Mogget from near Clariel’s feet, his emerald eyes intent on Aziminil. ‘Draw up one of the chains; open a bottle.’
‘But which one?’ asked Clariel. ‘There could be anything out there. Is there some record, some register?’
‘Once there was,’ said Mogget. ‘Long neglected, lost these many years. But you are strong, Clariel. Take any bottle, none within the waterfall can stand against your will.’
‘The Mogget’s advice is sound, Mistress,’ said Aziminil.
‘I just draw up a chain?’ asked Clariel. She looked back at the table, and the hooked stick. ‘With that gaff thing?’
‘Yes,’ said Mogget. ‘Best be quick. Rock alone will not stay the sendings long, and a message must already have gone to the Abhorsen.’
‘Again, the Mogget offers good counsel,’ said Aziminil.
Clariel looked at the gaff, then back at the waterfall, and the narrow chain-wrapped outcrop. Even lying down, it would be very slippery, and she would have to edge some way into the waterfall itself, go into that massive down rush of water. It would be so easy to get washed away. But if Aziminil spoke the truth, then she had to bring up another bottle to make her escape …
She could still feel the rage, close at hand. It would not need any great effort to bring it back. She could bind another Free Magic creature, she knew. More than one, if it proved necessary. She could gather all the bottles, bind a score, no a hundred creatures to serve her, and then none could stand …
Clariel lifted her hand to slap herself in the face, but the movement alone was enough to break these runaway thoughts. Which was just as well given she wore a bronze mask. She would have bruised her hand. This made her laugh, and that helped too. She felt more secure, more normal.
But there was still only one way out and that meant getting another bottle, binding another servant …
‘Aziminil. Go to the rocks by the door and do what you can to slow the sendings coming through. Mogget, you go with her.’
‘I can help you with the bottles,’ said Mogget. ‘Tell you who’s inside perhaps.’
Clariel shook her head.
‘You should stay away from the water,’ she said, though they both knew this was not the reason. She did not trust the cat-thing, despite his Charter mark collar or perhaps even because of it, for she did not understand where his loyalties truly lay, or what he was. It would be too easy even for a small cat to help her fall from that slippery tongue of stone.
‘As you wish,’ said Mogget haughtily, and stalked away. Aziminil bowed, and followed him, spiked feet striking sparks that leaped and spat and made sharp cracking noises as they fell into the puddled water on the floor.
Clariel picked up the gaff and felt along its length. The wooden shaft had moss growing on it, and a few soft patches, but it felt solid enough. The hook was rusted, but she banged it on the stone table and it rang true.
She took off her sword and laid it on the table. After a moment’s hesitation, she also took off the robe, gauntlets and overshoes and then even her simple leather slippers. The stone was very cold under her feet, but she knew that bare soles would serve her better. She left the bronze mask on, thinking it would offer some prot
ection for her eyes from the force of the falling water.
Taking up the gaff in both hands, Clariel walked to the spit of stone and knelt down. Dragging the gaff, she crawled out of the shelter of the cavern and into the waterfall. It hit her like a bruising blow, all along her back, water gushing around her head so forcefully that it threatened to drown her even as she hunched over, trying to maintain some small pocket of air. It was like being in the heaviest rainstorm ever, one so dense there were no individual drops, just a constant wave of water.
If she had entered it standing up, she would have been knocked over in an instant. Even crawling it was very difficult to keep steady, at least till she reached the first of the chains, which at least offered something to hold onto. For a moment, Clariel thought she would hook that one up, but then she reconsidered. Closer to the edge probably meant more newly placed, she reasoned. It might be a weak thing, insufficiently strong to help Aziminil take Clariel out through the falls. Then she would have to come out this way again to find a third.
No, better to go out further now. Find something older and more powerful, something that would serve her better.
Clariel crawled over the first chain, holding on to others ahead, and continued on, going further out and deeper into the waterfall. The crashing waters were really hurting her now, as savage as any blow she’d ever felt, as hard-hitting as the training weapons she’d used long ago with her school-fellows in the practice yard of the Estwael Trained Band. Still she kept on, till reaching ahead her fingers encountered no more chains, but a jagged edge of rock, so unlike the smoothly worked edges to either side that she thought it must once have extended further, but had been broken off by the tireless assault of falling water.
The third-last chain would do, Clariel thought, some vestige of caution exerting itself at last. Whatever dangled from the furthermost chain might offer a challenge too great even for her new and much puffed-up confidence. Holding tight, she reached out and down with the gaff, and, after a few attempts, got the hook securely through a link. Then she cautiously drew up a green glass bottle from below, the Charter marks on it glowing so brightly they cut through even the dense wall of water.
