This didn’t feel the same. She felt no Charter mark, no connection with the Charter. Instead there were two painful welts of new scar tissue, crossing each other to make something like a misshapen, twisted X.

Clariel let her hands fall. She lay there, staring out at the sky for a long time. She had tried to do what was right, but in retrospect so much of it had been wrong. The Clayr would have defeated Kilp without her. All she’d done was help Aziminil get close to carrying out some long-laid plan to destroy the Great Charter Stones.

Even worse than that, she had to admit to herself, was the fact that Free Magic was wonderful. If she had let herself not worry about anyone else, then she could have just used the power of Aziminil and Baazalanan. They would never have dared turn against her without Mogget’s help, and her own weakness. She could have flown to Estwael, gone to live in the Great Forest, ruled the Forest …

‘No …’ whispered Clariel. She sat up in the bed and slapped herself in the head. What was she thinking? She’d been stupid, and would no doubt pay the price. But it was better this way, far better than if she had become a fully fledged Free Magic sorcerer.

Or a necromancer, whispered a voice in the back of her mind, remembering the bells in the cavern on the slopes of Mount Aunden. The bells were still there, even if the sword was gone. It was probably destroyed already, melted down by the Abhorsen and his lackeys. But if she could get to the mountain, or find bells elsewhere …

‘No,’ groaned Clariel. She put her face in her hands and tried to think of her place of willow arches by the two streams, her calm and pleasant refuge. But though she could picture it, she could no longer imagine herself there. She was a traitor, even if she hadn’t meant to be, and there was only one punishment for that.

A soft knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. It opened, and through the gap she saw a winding stair beyond. She was in a tower room, Clariel realised, probably in the Palace. She had no real memory beyond fading out in the Great Hall, though she had some faint recollection of a place of rippling water, and great stones that thronged with Charter marks …

Bel came through the door, his finger to his lips. He was wearing a simple blue tunic dusted with silver keys, hunting breeches and soft slippers, and he looked much better than he had when last she’d seen him. He moved well, as if his shoulder no longer troubled him. That made her wonder how long she had been unconscious. Such healing as she must have needed did not take place in a few days, no matter how much magic was involved.

‘We must be quiet,’ whispered Bel.