Aziminil’s spiked foot stopped, just piercing the skin of Clariel’s back. Baazalanan froze in place. Mogget gave a disgruntled yowl, but he too became still.

Yet even Saraneth could not command a wound to stop bleeding, and the blood flowed without stint from the dagger wound in Clariel’s side.

Bel held up his sword hand. The silver ring that Tyriel had worn was on his index finger. The ring that sealed Mogget’s allegiance.

‘Mogget, I am the Abhorsen, and I renew all instructions, orders and commands that have been given to thee these many years, and reiterate them anew.’

Mogget rolled his eyes and muttered something that Clariel couldn’t catch. She couldn’t hear properly. It was the hood, she thought, though in fact the hood was in tatters around her head. Like the rest of her robe, all its virtue lost, all Charter Magic long since fled.

Only the bronze mask remained, though she no longer felt the metal on her face.

‘Mistress Ader, if you could help me with the creatures?’

Clariel heard that. So Mistress Ader had survived. That was good, she thought dimly. She knew Gullaine had not lived, for the Captain of the Guard was lying only a few paces away in front of the throne, her sightless eyes turned towards the ceiling, eyes that had once been so alive.

Gullaine had a dozen wounds or more upon her front. They would all be at the front, Clariel thought.

Charter marks suddenly flew above her, like a flock of bright starlings come home to roost. She screamed as they struck Aziminil, as she shared the pain of the creature’s binding. Then there was a sudden vacancy in her mind and Aziminil was gone, gone as if she had never been. Another agonising stab of pain followed and Baazalanan too disappeared.

Clariel sobbed from the pain of their absence, and for the loss of the great power she had never dared fully use. And perhaps most of all for the power she had used so unwisely.

Finally, Bel knelt by her side. Clariel tried to sit up, or even roll upon her back, but she couldn’t move. She craned her neck and tried to speak, the words slow, her mouth strangely dry and twisted.

‘Sorry,’ she croaked. ‘Thought no one was doing anything. Didn’t understand. Free Magic.’

‘I know,’ said Bel. He saw the blood pooling under her, suppressed a gasp, and reached for the Charter to choose the marks of a healing spell.

‘My aunt Lemmin,’ whispered Clariel. ‘Rescue her?’

‘We will,’ said Bel. ‘There will be no more fighting. Not with Kilp dead, and the Clayr and the others coming through the Erchan Gate.’

‘The King?’ whispered Clariel.