And her son had not been shot. He would live, whatever happened.
“In that case,” she replied, “I can’t pretend that I don’t need help. What can you do to make this easier?”
Her companion gestured along Covenant’s and Jeremiah’s trail. “Words will not demonstrate my intent. Walk and you will witness my aid.”
Linden stared at him for a moment longer. Then she sighed to herself. Gripping the Staff tensely in one hand, she resumed her long floundering trudge through the snow.
But she did not flounder: her boots did not break through the crust. Instead she found herself striding like the Theomach over the unreliable surface, unimpeded by brittle ice or clogging snow. The iron heel of the Staff struck the crust with a muted thud like a buried echo, but did not pierce it.
The change relieved her tired muscles and worn resolve more than she would have thought possible. She felt lighter, as though a portion of her mortal dross had been lifted from her.—with strength sufficient for what must be done. She had no idea what the Theomach meant; but now she could believe that she would be able to reach her immediate goal.
“All right,” she said when she had passed back into the shadows and could see no more sunlight along her way. “That’s one promise you’ve kept. As long as you don’t vanish again—”
“I will not.” Her companion sounded mildly offended. “Here my path lies with yours. You serve my purpose. Therefore I must serve yours.”
“Good.” She nodded to herself several times, arranging her thoughts to the rhythm of strides and echoes. “In that case, I’ll try a few questions. I need something to think about besides the cold.” She meant, Besides Covenant’s lies and my son’s life.
As she walked, she continued to pull a gentle current of warmth and sustenance from the Staff. She needed more support than the Theomach could give her.
“As you wish, lady.” Now his tone suggested an admixture of satisfaction and secret relief. “I will answer as our circumstances permit.”
“‘The Theomach’ seems a bit unwieldy,” Linden began. “Do you have a name?”
“I do. But it is not for your use.”
His words were brusque, although his manner was not.
She shrugged. “Never mind, then.” She had not expected him to reveal himself. “Since Jeremiah has already mentioned your people, maybe you can tell me something about them.
“Why do you hate the Elohim? And what did the Vizard want with Jeremiah? Do your people really think that my son can build a trap,” a prison. “to hold the Elohim?”
The Theomach replied with a shrug of his own. “Lady, we loathe the Elohim for their arrogance, and for their ease. Every other being that strides the Earth must strive for knowledge and power sedulously, at great cost. But the Elohim are power. They do not strive—and seldom encounter unease. Yet they do not scruple to determine the deeds and dooms of any striving being that mischances to attract their opprobrium.
“The differences between us are various and vast, but the chiefest is this. The Elohim have no hearts. I am not present in the Vizard’s thoughts. All of the Insequent hold their own counsel and knowledge, and some are spiteful. But where our interests oppose those of the Elohim, we are seldom petty. There larger concerns move us.”
For a moment, the Theomach walked beside Linden in silence, appearing to shift slightly in and out of definition with every step. Then he added, “Does your son possess both the knowledge and the prowess to devise a snare which the Elohim could not evade, and from which they would not escape? Of that I will not speak. It is a matter for another time. A distant time, lady.”
In the setting dark, Linden was slow to realize that the hills on either side of the valley had begun to slump away. But when she extended her health-sense, she felt the changing shapes of the terrain. Gradually the Last Hills were fading toward the flatland of the Center Plains.
Vexed by all of the secrets that surrounded Jeremiah, she let a taste of acid into her voice. “Then I don’t suppose that you’ll tell me how you’re going to ‘humiliate’ the Elohim yourself?”
“I will not.” Her tone did not ruffle the Theomach’s aura. “Were I to do so, you would feel the Arch of Time tremble to its roots. The Halfhand should not speak as he does.”
Linden took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. In an abstract sense, she understood his refusals and obfuscations. She was ten thousand years away from her own present. She could not begin to guess what the consequences of her actions might be. And inevitably her choices would be influenced by what she was told. Whatever the Theomach’s motives might be, they required him to strike a complex and ambiguous balance between his impulse to aid her and his determination to preserve the security of Time.
Although the details of their situation were very different, Covenant and Jeremiah faced the same problem. With the Staff of Law and Covenant’s ring, Linden had the power to alter the Land’s past irrevocably. If she acted on knowledge which she should not have been able to possess—
More to herself than to her companion, she muttered, “Are we having fun yet?” Then she resumed her questions.
“We’re going to Berek’s camp because we’re in an impossible position. We need help, and I couldn’t think of anywhere else to get it. But it’s pretty obvious that this is what you had in mind for us. If all you wanted was to interfere with Covenant’s plans, you could have left us anywhere. You picked this place. This time.
“I assume that what we’re doing suits your purpose, whatever that is. But isn’t it dangerous? For God’s sake, we’re about to meet the most famous of the Land’s old heroes.” Covenant had warned her about ripples. “No matter how careful we are, he’ll see and hear things—”
“Lady,” the Theomach put in, “be at peace.” His tone was gentle; meant to soothe her. “I have said that you serve my purpose. Therefore I must serve yours.
“Here the preservation of the Arch need not trouble you. That burden is mine. At great cost, I have garnered knowledge which you lack, and my knowledge is profound. Be assured that I will watch over you. Indeed, I have already done so. I have set you at a distance which ensured that my theurgy would not be witnessed, but which will not prevent the accomplishment of your intent.
“Where my guidance is needed, I will provide it. And I will accommodate the effects of both your presence and your deeds. You need only trust in yourself—and heed my counsel. In the fullness of time, my aid will demonstrate its worth.”
To her surprise, Linden found that she believed him. He was not closed to her: she could hear his sincerity.
In dreams, Covenant had told her to trust herself. And he had sounded like himself; like the Covenant whom she remembered rather than the man who led her eastward. The man who had lied—
“And I guess,” she murmured to the cold and the waiting night, “that I’ll have to take your promises on faith.”
Her companion answered her with a silence that seemed to imply assent.
By slow degrees, stars began to prick the darkening sky as if they were manifesting themselves like Covenant and Jeremiah across an unfathomable gulf of time. Warmed by Earthpower, Linden could endure the piercing accumulation of the cold. Nevertheless the first few stars seemed as chill as absolute ice, gelid with distance and loneliness. She could have considered herself one of them, unfathomably alone in spite of the Theomach’s presence.
Still she had to make use of the time which had been given to her—or imposed upon her.
“In that case,” she went on. “can you tell me why you interfered with Covenant and Jeremiah in the first place? What was so dangerous about what they were trying to do?”
“Lady,” the Insequent answered without hesitation, “I do not consider it plausible that you would have been able to avoid High Lord Damelon’s notice. From this arises the true peril. He holds the Staff of Law. The first Staff, of which yours is but an unfinished semblance.”
Linden wanted to ask, Unfinished? But the Theo
mach did not pause.
“Surely it is plain that the simultaneous proximity in Damelon’s presence of two such implements of Earthpower would cause a convulsion in the Arch. And your own knowledge that such an event both did not and should not occur would increase the violence of the violation. You are fully aware that your Staff was created many centuries after the destruction of the Staff which Damelon Giantfriend will hold upon his approach to Melenkurion Skyweir. That awareness would sever the continuity of the Land as it exists within your own experience. It would sever the essential continuity of Time.”
In this circumstance, her mind cannot be distinguished from the Arch of Time.
His explanation shocked her. “Then why—?” She faltered in dismay, unable to complete the question. Why would Covenant want to take that kind of risk? What had he hoped to accomplish?
“Lady, nothing is certain,” her companion said as if he wanted to reassure her. “Yet the peril cannot be doubted. In fear, I disturbed the Halfhand’s designs. And also in pride,” he admitted, “for assuredly the Elohim would have done so if I did not. Here both your presence and your ignorance ward the Halfhand. But neither would suffice to forestall the Elohim if High Lord Damelon became cognizant of your Staff.”
He paused for a moment, then added carefully, “It is sooth that you aid my purposes. But I do not require such service. I am able to achieve what I must. I was not compelled by my own needs to thwart the Halfhand.”
His tone asked Linden to believe him. She heard an emotion in it which may have been sympathy or pleading.
The heavens held too many stars: she could not imagine them all. They seemed as profligate and irredeemable as the motes of dust in a wilderland. Directly or indirectly, Covenant had lied to her. And he had planned to chance exposing Linden and Jeremiah and the Land and Time itself to the possibility of a catastrophic encounter with Berek’s son.
As she walked on across the surface of the snow and ice into the unknown dark, she clung to the Staff of Law, her Staff; and to Covenant’s ring on its chain under her shirt; and to the warning that Esmer had given her.
You must be the first to drink of the EarthBlood.
She absolutely did not trust the man who had brought her son back to her with his mind restored and his heart shut against her.
Some time later, long after her comparatively easy progress had become a stupefied trudge of hunger and weariness, and even the Staff’s given warmth had been enclosed in a cold as pitiless as the sky’s bedizened infinity, she caught the first scent of smoke.
When she noticed it initially, she was not sure of it. But soon it became unmistakable: wood smoke, the distinctive tang of a campfire. Somewhere within the range of her senses, people had lit flames against the winter’s cruelty.
She lifted her head as her pulse quickened. “Is that—?” she asked the Theomach. Studying the smells, she detected many fires. And now the smoke carried faint intimations of cooking; of meats being roasted, stews bubbling, poultices steeping over the fires.
“Berek’s camp is nigh,” her companion confirmed. “Half a league, no more. Shortly we will encounter those who scout the night for the protection of their comrades.”
As her percipience attuned itself, Linden became conscious of more than fires and food. She heard or felt muffled groans, oaths muttered in anger or pain, occasional sharp commands. They came to her through the silence, carried on the frigid air. And her nerves found an early taste of suffering; of wounds that threatened death, and hurts that were worse than dying. Among them, she perceived the sickly odors of illness, malnutrition, infection: fetid bowels, running sores, flesh in all of the crippling stages of putrefaction: the consequences of a prolonged and brutal struggle. Camped somewhere ahead of her were the remnants of two desperate armies; forces which had warred against each other season after season in a running battle across much of the Land’s terrain. Berek and his warriors—and their enemies—must have been marching and fighting and dying for two years or more. Those among them who had somehow remained hale enough to give battle must be pitifully few—and growing fewer by the day.
“If I am not mistaken,” the Theomach remarked after a brief pause, “the Halfhand and your son have marked the presence of Berek’s scouts, and have concealed themselves in darkness, awaiting our accompaniment ere they venture farther.”
Linden hardly heard him. She had begun to push her pace into a shambling rush, not because Covenant and Jeremiah might be in danger, but because she was needed. She was a physician; and Berek’s sick, wounded, and dying numbered in the hundreds.
People are hacking at each other, but they’re too tired to be much good at it. Sheer attrition should have forced them to surrender this war seasons ago.
“How many men has Berek got left?” she asked the Insequent.
“Men and women,” he amended. “Perhaps thirty score.”
“And how many of them are actually fit to fight?”
“Perhaps a third.” His tone suggested a shrug. “Others contribute as they can. They serve as wagoners and drovers, foragers and healers. Still others are able only to be conveyed in wagons and litters while they await their deaths.”
Linden swore under her breath. She had always hated wars. This one sickened her, and she had not yet encountered it.
For Jeremiah’s sake, and Covenant’s, she stemmed the flow of Earthpower from the Staff, although she craved its generous vitality. Then she asked the Theomach, “What about the other army? The King’s supporters?”
“Their numbers are thrice Berek’s. And they have this vantage, that they abandon their wounded and infirm as well as their dead. Thus they are unencumbered, as Berek is not. And indeed his straits are more narrow than I have described, for he retrieves the living fallen among his foes and accords to them the same succor which he provides for his own, scant though that succor assuredly is.
“Yet he continues to harry his foes toward Doom’s Retreat. They have lost heart and purpose, and give battle only because they fear to do otherwise. They adjudge Berek by the standard of themselves, and so they believe that to surrender is to be slaughtered.”
Linden went on swearing to herself. Now she wished that she could run; that she had the strength—Every passing moment meant more death.
When Covenant and Jeremiah appeared suddenly out of the dark, they startled her as if she had forgotten all about them. They moved without a sound. Here the snow was not as deep as it had been in the valley, and the ice did not break under them.
“Linden, slow down,” Covenant whispered urgently. “Berek has scouts out here. One of them just missed us. And there are outriders closer to the camp. We need a way to get around them.”
Linden strode past him and her son without hesitation. Deliberately she raised her voice. “Well, we certainly aren’t going to sneak up on them. We aren’t their enemies, for God’s sake.” And she was needed. “Maybe those outriders will let us use their horses.”
“Mom!” Jeremiah protested; but she did not pause, even for him.
The Theomach matched her stride. “Lady,” he remarked, “it grows ever more apparent that your folly is wisdom disguised.”
In response, she began to shout, punctuating each sentence with a stamp of the Staff. “Listen to me! I’m a healer! The people with me are my friends! We want Berek’s help, but we also want to help him!”
If the scouts did not hear her, they were too far gone in privation and weariness to be of any use.
Almost at once, however, they reacted. Leather slid over slick ice as they ran. Linden heard the muted jangle of armor, the scrape of drawn blades.
She continued ahead; but she stopped shouting. She had attracted enough attention.
Covenant swore as he and Jeremiah scrambled to catch up with her. Then the night in front of her seemed to solidify, and she found herself facing three warriors with their swords drawn.
Reluctantly she halted. She could not make out their features, but she felt their trepidation
as well as their exhaustion: two men and a woman who had endured for seasons or years on raw courage and belief alone. The woman had a badly infected cut in one bicep. One of the men had been slashed across the side of his face recently. The other bore so many smaller wounds that Linden could not count them all.
“There are four of us,” she stated. Her voice shook with exertion. “I’m a healer. The others are my friends. We’ve been walking all day. From the west,” she added because she guessed that Berek’s foes were in the southeast. “And we’re too tired to have much patience. We need to talk to Berek. But first I want to help your wounded. Some of them can still be saved.”
If she distanced herself from Jeremiah and Covenant, she could use her Staff.
“Spies would say the same,” countered the woman. The arm holding her sword trembled. “Doubtless Lord Berek”—she stressed the title grimly—“will speak to you when our Warhaft has ascertained your true purpose.”
“When you see the truth,” Linden retorted, “you’ll regret that you held us back. If you want to escort us to your camp, we won’t give you any trouble. But we aren’t going to waste time on some useless interrogation. This is too important.” She wanted to yell, but she swallowed the impulse. “Too many of your people are dying.”
Turning to the man with the smaller wounds, she commanded, “You. Go tell your outriders that we’re coming. They can warn Lord Berek. And maybe they can spare some horses for us.”
When none of the scouts moved, she said between her teeth. “Do it now. I won’t tolerate delays.”
“You are mistaken,” the woman replied more harshly. Her sword-arm stiffened. “You will tolerate this delay, and more. We have not suffered the struggles and pain of this war to be daunted by imperious strangers whose purposes are hidden. You will remain where you stand until we have gathered a force sufficient to ensure that you cause no harm. Then we will escort you to our Warhaft. Mayhap he will deign to treat gently with you.”
Fatal Revenant Page 25
