But it wasn’t. A spell broke as Clariel lifted the lid, Charter marks spilling out everywhere to fade as the complex web of the spell fell apart, leaving the scent of roses. Once again, she didn’t recognise any of the individual marks, but it had to be some kind of preservative or protective spell, because the inside of the chest looked fresh, clean and, most importantly, dry.

There were numerous articles of clothing inside, in different sizes. All were made of some kind of woven stone, or stonelike material, that was light as linen but enormously strong, and there were thousands and thousands of Charter marks swirling within the fabric. Clariel sorted through the clothes quickly, holding them up against her body. She chose a long hooded robe, gauntlets that came almost to her elbows, and curious tall overshoes that puzzled her for a few seconds till she realised they were footwear.

Underneath the clothes, there was a line of bronze masks. Full face masks, which would fit under the chin and extend back to the ears, with narrow slits for the eyes covered in some clear crystal, and a hinged flap over the larger mouth hole. The masks had leather straps with bronze buckles.

‘Hurry!’ hissed Mogget. ‘If I thought you’d be this slow I never would have bothered!’

Clariel continued to ignore him. She slipped on the robe, which wrapped around her almost twice and had several ties to make it fast. The overshoes were next, tying off just under her knees, the robe flowing over them down to her ankles. Then the gauntlets, which were also tied to the robe, a difficult operation.

She reached for the mask she thought would fit her best. It was heavier than she had expected, the bronze a finger-width thick. Like the clothes, it too was heavily laden with Charter marks. Clariel slipped it on, grimacing as the cold metal touched her face. She drew the straps tight, then pulled the hood up and fastened it to the sides and throat of the mask using the strings provided for that purpose.

The mask felt even heavier on her face, heavy and repressive. But then Charter Magic tingled, the baptismal mark on her forehead burned for a moment, and for a brief instant Clariel felt herself dip into a great swathe of the Charter, as if a storm composed of millions of marks had swept over her, there and gone in a second. The mask felt lighter and warmer thereafter. She hoped it meant that the protective magic was working, for she knew no way to wake it if it required some spell.

‘Hurry!’

Mogget was yowling now, his voice made more distant by hood and mask, even harder to distinguish above the roar of the waterfall.