Rage filled Clariel. Her nostrils flared open as she exhaled and almost closed shut as she breathed in. She picked up one of the massive benches and threw it up at Kargrin, but he jumped away, across twelve feet or more to the next beam end, an impossible jump were he not aided by some magic. Clariel dropped her knife and ran towards him, raging. She swarmed up the wall, her fingers thrust into the tiniest cracks between stones, dislodging ancient mortar, but even so she could not find enough hand- and footholds. She fell back, immediately circling to find a weapon, something to throw at the enemy above her. But even as her hand closed upon a fallen piece of stone the size of an apple, a glowing net of Charter marks fell on her from above, wrapped itself around her three times and bound her as securely as a spider ever tied a fly.

Clariel thrashed in her binding, enough to bruise herself more, and perhaps would even have dashed her own brains out on the floor if Kargrin had not dropped lightly by her side and laid a spell for sleep upon her brow, quickly followed by another, stronger spell when the first one was shrugged off by the anger that shone from her like the heat from one of her mother’s forges, busy smelting gold.

chapter eight

complications and opportunities

Clariel came to her senses to find herself lying on the table in Kargrin’s hall, with a cushion under her head. For a moment she was disoriented, then she remembered what had happened. Her hand went into her sleeve for her dagger again, only to find nothing there, and her wrist gently but firmly clasped by the magister.

‘Peace,’ rumbled Kargrin. ‘Roban told me he thought you had the rage, and indeed I felt the presence of it when I tested your mark. But my attacks, save for the plate I dropped on your head, were illusory. Part-formed sendings that I would have expected even a half-trained Charter Mage to see through, particularly one of your heritage.’

‘A test?’ mumbled Clariel. Her head ached, and she felt slightly nauseous. ‘You might have told me.’

‘It would not serve as a useful test if I told you,’ said Kargrin. ‘If I release you, will you keep that anger in check?’

‘Yes,’ said Clariel. She slowly sat up and cradled her head in her hands. The ache intensified, a deep throbbing pain behind her eyes. ‘I’ve never … almost never let it get out of control like that …’

‘You are a berserk,’ said Kargrin, in a very matter-of-fact tone. ‘It is not uncommon in the royal blood, and though rarer among Abhorsens, it does crop up from time to time. You have both bloodlines from your mother. It is curious that you have the rage, but not the usual affinity of your kin for the Charter. There is danger in this, for you, and for others.’