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.’