All three creatures fought the Charter, and Clariel could not keep her grip. Mogget edged slowly backwards, snarling as he exerted his will against the compulsion of his collar.

Clariel could not hold on. As her fingers weakened, so did the stream of marks.

The sparks streaming from Baazalanan’s eyes faltered. The creature started to move again, taking a step, the King dead or unconscious in his arms. Aziminil’s face returned to darkness, and she jerkily lifted her foot above Clariel’s back, a fraction at a time, slow steps towards a killing blow.

Clariel only gripped the collar with two fingers now. All strength had fled from her body. She felt used up, the fury gone, all her hopes and dreams fled. Aronzo and Kilp were dead, but now the King was to be killed, and the Charter broken. Creatures like Aziminil and Baazalanan would roam freely, slaying and wreaking havoc …

It was all her fault.

‘Stop,’ she croaked at Mogget, who was ever so slowly continuing to edge away from her, ever so slowly breaking her grip. ‘Stop, Mogget. In the name of the Abhorsen whom you serve.’

Mogget did not answer. Clariel’s fingers slipped again. She held the collar by only one finger now and it was giving way. She could feel the spike of Aziminil’s foot against her back, just touching below her shoulder blade. But the pain from that was nothing compared to the other pain in her side, and even that was less than the pain in her forehead. This pain came from the contact with the Charter. It would go if she released her grip, she knew. But still she tried to slide forward, to keep her hold, to keep the marks flowing through her into the Free Magic creatures …

This was how Bel saw her, when he came running into the Great Hall, with the sword Cleave in his right hand, the bell Saraneth in his left.

He saw a tumbled, masked figure on the ground, desperately trying to struggle forward as Mogget retreated back, her one finger hooked around his collar. Bel saw the marks flowing from collar to Clariel to the creatures: the dagger-footed one from the Islet, her spiked foot about to deliver a terrible blow; and another, tall and impossibly thin, who cradled the King in its arms, sidling towards the door that led to the reservoir below.

Bel saw it all, and in that instant knew what was happening, saw that Clariel was the dupe of Aziminil and Mogget, and not the deceiver he had feared.

Bel rang Saraneth even as Clariel’s finger slipped.

In the moment of its sounding, all became still. Saraneth’s deep voice commanded all who heard it to obey. In the echo of the bell’s call, Belatiel spoke, the voice of an Abhorsen come fully to his power.

‘Stop!’