It was very peaceful, Clariel thought, as she tied the cord around her slim waist and checked the knife moved freely in its scabbard. The sun was shining, she’d had a rejuvenating sleep and there were wonderful smells of fresh-baked bread and cooking bacon coming up the stairs.

Mogget wasn’t at breakfast either, but even after only a short acquaintance Clariel presumed he’d simply had his earlier rather than skipping it. After Clariel had eaten she went out into the garden. It was warmer outside in the sun, but there was a cool northerly breeze blowing in off the river. She walked around the rose garden, marvelling at all the different varieties, most of them in bloom. There were red, white and yellow roses, and even one so dark purple it looked black from a distance. A black rose would be a suitable flower for the Abhorsens, she thought, a death-flower. Not for Tyriel and his hunters, who it appeared had mostly given up the old ways. A black rose for the old Abhorsens, the ones who often walked in Death.

Clariel thought about that as she walked across the lawn to the grove of oaks. She never really thought much about the sensation she felt when an animal died. It was something she had got used to in the forest. But in Kilp’s dining chamber, the deaths there … It was the same feeling, but magnified many times.

So she had the Abhorsen’s death sense, inherited along with the berserk fury from the royal side. But all the Abhorsens and the royal family were great Charter Mages, and she wasn’t, as Kargrin had discovered. She couldn’t even begin to understand why Bel, for instance, was so interested in the Charter and felt so much a part of it. Perhaps it was because she was an outsider, and wanted to be an outsider.

Clariel put her hand on one of the oaks, feeling the strength of it under her hand. It was old, all the oaks here were old. Hundreds and hundreds of years, growing tall and strong. But like her, they were contained within the white walls …

‘Heading for the fishing tower? Excellent idea.’

Clariel jumped at the sound of Mogget’s voice. The cat emerged from behind one of the other oaks and sat near Clariel’s foot as if he had been waiting there all morning.

‘I wasn’t,’ said Clariel. ‘But I could. I want to ask you some questions, away from –’

‘Away from the cruel cares of deciding what to have for breakfast,’ interrupted Mogget.

‘No, I meant away from the –’

‘Repressive number of plates of dry crusty things those sendings put out,’ interrupted Mogget again. ‘I trust they’re looking after you? That one there can be a bit pushy.’

‘What?’