Stave and the Ramen understood more than Liand did. In their separate fashions, their people had preserved their knowledge of the Land’s history. Perhaps for that reason, Mahrtiir was caught and held by everything that Linden chose to say about the Insequent: it was entirely new to him. Bhapa stumbled over her description of the Viles and seemed unable to recover his balance. Pahni listened wide-eyed until Linden related how she had entered Melenkurion Skyweir in Jeremiah’s deadwood cage. Then confusion dulled her expression as if she had reached the limit of what she could hear and absorb. And Stave attended with a slight frown that slowly deepened into a scowl as Linden talked about Roger Covenant and the croyel. But he only evinced surprise when she spoke of Caerroil Wildwood. Apparently he found more wonder in the Forestal’s forbearance and aid than in anything else.
In contrast, Liand concentrated on Linden herself rather than on the substance of her story. As she talked, he radiated a mounting and entirely personal distress; a concern for her which outweighed everything that he could not grasp. And when she had put in place the last bones of her denatured tale, his alarm swept him to his feet.
“Linden—” he began, groping for words that would not come until he clenched his fists and punched them against each other to break the logjam of his emotions. “Chosen. Wildwielder. He was your son. And the man whom you have loved. Yet you say nothing of yourself. How do you bear it? How are you able—?”
“No.” Linden silenced him with sudden vehemence. His caring cut her too deeply. “We don’t talk about me. We aren’t going to talk about me at all.” How could she hope to explain her essential transformation? “I can try to answer practical questions. And I know what I have to do.” Within her she holds the devastation of the Earth—“But Lord Foul took my son and gave him to the croyel. That I do not forgive. I do not forgive.”
The Ranyhyn had tried to warn her, but she had failed to heed them. She had not understood—
Liand fell back a step, shocked by her ferocity. All of her friends stared at her, their eyes wide. Even Stave seemed to wince. Anele’s head flinched from side to side as if he sought to shake her words from his ears.
Thomas Covenant had urged her to find him. He had told her to trust herself.
For a long moment, no one moved. Linden heard no breathing but her own. The logs that Liand had tossed into the hearth seemed to burn without a sound. But then Bhapa shuddered as if he were chilled by the cool air from the bedroom. Raising his head, he looked directly into the mute fury of Linden’s gaze.
“Ringthane,” he said unsteadily. “you have spoken of your son’s plight, but you have said little else of him. How does it chance that he, too, is a halfhand?”
A-Jeroth’s mark was placed upon the boy when he was yet a small child.
She might have taken offense if she had not recognized what lay behind his question. It was a form of misdirection which she had used often herself. He did not mean to imply that Jeremiah was a danger to the Land. Instead Bhapa was trying to slip past her defenses. He thought that if she began to talk about Jeremiah, she might be able to release some of her grief, and so find a measure of relief.
He did not know that she was stone and could not bend: she could only shatter.
But the Manethrall intervened at once. “Be still, Cord,” he snapped harshly. “Where is your sight? Are you blind to the fetters which bind her heart? We are Ramen, familiar with treachery and loss. We do not reply thus to suffering. The Ringthane will reveal more when more is needed. Sufficient here is the knowledge which we have gained—and the depth to which both she and the Land have been betrayed.”
Bhapa gave a bow of compliance to his Manethrall. Then he lowered his head and remained silent.
Liand made no protest. He may have been stricken dumb by the sight of Linden’s pain. An ache of misery filled his eyes, but he accepted her refusal.
No one spoke until Stave said stolidly, “You do not forgive.” He had recovered his flat composure. “This we comprehend. The Masters also do not. And they bear the cost of it, as you do.”
Then he added in a more formal tone. “Linden Avery, Chosen and Wildwielder. Tell us of your intent, that we may make ready. If you would seek out and confront the Land’s foes, we mean to accompany you. Doubtless, however, some preparation is needful.”
He sounded like a man who saw the necessity of risk and death, and was not afraid.
Privately Linden had feared that her friends would flinch away when they heard her story. She had given them a host of reasons to question her judgment—and would give them more. But Stave’s assertion affirmed their fidelity. They had given her no cause to believe that they would ever spurn her.
Whether she went to salvation or doom, she would not be alone; not as she had been in Roger’s company, and the croyel’s.
“All right,” she replied when she meant, Thank you. Simple gratitude was beyond her: telling her tale had expended too much of her self-possession. “This is what I have in mind.”
The Mahdoubt had called Linden’s intentions fearsome and terrible. The Viles had spoken of the devastation of the Earth—Liand himself had said, You have it within you to perform horrors. But Linden did not pause to doubt herself.
“First,” she began, “I’ll have to end the siege somehow.” She could not leave Revelstone to the depredations of the Demondim. “But then I’m going to Andelain. If I can, I want to find Loric’s krill. It’s supposed to be able to channel any amount of power. It might let me use white gold and my Staff at the same time.”
Stave nodded as if to himself; but she did not stop.
“And I want to meet the Dead.” Before anyone could object, she continued grimly, “I know what Anele said. I heard him as well as you did. But I need answers, and there’s no one else that I can ask.”
She was done with Esmer: his attempts to aid her were too expensive. And she was sure that Sunder and Hollian were not the only shades who walked among the Andelainian Hills. Others of the Land’s lost heroes would be there as well, and might view her desires differently.
Mahrtiir and Stave exchanged a glance. Then the Manethrall faced Linden with a Ramen bow. “As you will, Ringthane. We will make such preparations as the Masters permit. And,” he added. “Cord Pahni will share with Liand any comprehension of your tale the Ramen possess. Some portion of his ignorance she will relieve.
“However,” he continued more harshly, “you are unaware of one event which has occurred in your absence.”
His manner claimed Linden’s full attention. Studying him, she saw predatory approval—although behind it lay a degree of apprehension.
“The siege,” she breathed.
Mahrtiir nodded. “It is gone.”
She stared. “How?” She could not believe that the Masters had defeated their enemies. The Demondim had too much power—
“Understand, Ringthane,” he replied, “that the battle to preserve Revelstone raged furiously, and for many days the eventual defeat of the Masters appeared certain. But then, ere sunset on the day before your return, a lone figure in the semblance of a man arrived on the plain. None beheld his approach. He merely appeared, just as you later appeared with the Mahdoubt. Alone, he advanced against the horde.”
Now Linden understood his desire to speak of the older woman earlier.
“The Demondim turned upon him in rage,” Mahrtiir went on, “and their power was extreme. Yet he defeated them to the last of their numbers. In the space of five score heartbeats, or perhaps ten, all of the Render’s Teeth ceased to exist.”
Linden made no effort to conceal her astonishment. Again she asked. “How?”
For a moment, no one responded. Then Liand cleared his throat. “Linden,” he said uncomfortably. “to our sight, it appeared that he devoured them.”
In that instant, the chill of the night air overtook the warmth of the fire. A shiver of hope or foreboding ran down Linden’s spine, and her limbs ached suddenly as though she had fallen back into the cruel wint
er where she had been betrayed.
4.
Old Conflicts
Linden tightened her grip on the Staff.—devoured them. All of those monsters: the entire horde. Hardly aware of what she did, she drew a subtle current of Earthpower from among the runes to counteract the cold touch of dread and desire. A man who could do that—Then she forced herself to look around at her friends.
It was plain that Liand understood what he had told her no better than she did.
Stave and the Ramen met her gaze. Anele had turned his head away; shifted sideways in his chair so that he could lean his cheek against the wall as if for comfort. His only reaction was a fractured muttering.
“Who is he?” Linden asked.
With a shake of his head, Mahrtiir deferred to Stave.
“None have inquired of him,” Stave replied stolidly. “The Masters permit no one to pass Revelstone’s gates.”
His response surprised Linden further. However, she held the obvious question in abeyance. “But he’s still there?”
“Aye, Chosen,” answered Stave. “He remains at no great distance, warming his hands by a small fire which he does not replenish, yet which continues to burn. He appears to neither eat nor sleep. Rather it would seem that he merely waits.”
Linden caught her breath; held it briefly. She had seen a fire that did not need to be fed, and beside it a figure patiently motionless. Her mind raced as ideas reeled into new alignments. The Earth was vast, and inhabited by beings and powers which she had never encountered. The Land’s present as well as its past held mysteries. She could not be sure that she knew what a waiting figure beside a steady fire signified.
“Why haven’t the Masters talked to him? Why won’t they let anyone go out there?”
Stave lifted his shoulders in a Haruchai shrug. “They are uncertain. His puissance is manifest. They question the wisdom of accosting him. In addition”—he hesitated slightly—“there are other matters which I would prefer to name when more is known.”
Other matters, Linden thought. Like the Mahdoubt. Stave and the Masters knew something which they did not wish to reveal.
She wanted to pursue her instinctive assumptions immediately. She had slept for a long time. She had eaten well. And the unexpected doom of the Demondim distracted her from loss and rage. She was eager to act on her decisions.
But her companions had preparations to make. In addition, she had promised the Humbled that they would be told whatever they needed to know. She could not justify concealing the truth about Roger Covenant and the croyel from Stave’s kinsmen.
“All right,” she said while her thoughts ran in several directions at once. “We’ll let that go for now.” She had to resist an impulse to pace as she said, “We should start getting ready. Manethrall, I hope you’ll take care of that for me, you and your Cords. And Liand.”
When she felt the Stonedownor’s protest, she faced him squarely. “Pahni will explain some things while you’re finding supplies. Tomorrow I’ll answer your questions.” With her eyes, she added mutely, If they aren’t about me. “In the meantime, please take Anele with you. I need a chance to think.”
Then she said to Stave, “You should talk to the Humbled. Tell them”—she opened her free hand in a small gesture of surrender—“everything.” More sharply, she went on. “But when you’re done with that, I want to see you again. You can tell me how they take the news.”
That was only a portion of what she had in mind. However, she felt sure that Stave understood the rest.
She saw in the concentration of Mahrtiir’s mien that he understood as well, or guessed it. Yet he made no objection. He was a Raman, bred from childhood to unquestioning service. Without hesitation, he turned to the door, drawing Bhapa and Pahni in the wake of his authority.
For a moment, Liand continued to study Linden with a perplexed frown. But he was capable of dignity. And he had shown repeatedly that he could set his own desires and confusion aside whenever she asked that of him. Drawing himself up, he inclined his head in acquiescence. Then he approached Anele, urged the old man gently to his feet, and led him after the Ramen.
Stave bowed before he withdrew. Linden could only guess what sharing her story with Galt and Clyme might cost him; but he did not flinch from it.
As soon as he closed the door behind him, she began to stride back and forth in front of the hearth, stamping the Staff of Law lightly on the floor with each step. She had told the truth: she needed to think. But she was also restless for action. She had let too much time pass. Surely her foes had already formed new plans and started to carry them out? Roger and the croyel had escaped the convulsion under Melenkurion Skyweir. Moksha Jehannum’s role remained hidden. If they and the skurj and Kastenessen and Esmer and Kevin’s Dirt and Joan’s caesures did not suffice to achieve Lord Foul’s desires, he would devise new threats. The stranger outside Revelstone’s gates might be one such peril. Or he might be an ally as unexpected as the Mahdoubt.
Yet Linden could not leave her rooms without Stave. She did not know her way through Lord’s Keep. And she needed him for other reasons as well. Therefore she had to wait.
While she paced, she tried to imagine what she would have done if she had been free to exact answers from the Theomach.
Slowly the flames in the hearth dwindled, allowing a chill to fill Linden’s rooms. But she did not close the shutters, or put more wood on the fire. The darkness outside Revelstone would be colder.
When she heard a knock at her door, she called out immediately. “Come in!”
As the door opened to admit Stave, she saw all three of the Humbled behind him. But they did not follow him inside, or prevent him from closing the door. Apparently they were content to ensure that she could not leave her quarters without their consent.
“Chosen.” Perhaps to reassure her, Stave bowed yet again. “I have fulfilled your word. All that you have elected to relate, I have conveyed to the Masters.”
Poised and impatient on the verge of attempting to take charge of her fate, Linden found that her mouth and throat had gone dry. She could feel her heart’s labor in her chest. Her voice was unnaturally husky as she asked. “How did they react?”
He gave a small shrug. “They are the Masters of the Land.”
She tried to grin, but succeeded only at grimacing. “In other words, they didn’t react at all.”
Stave faced her with his one eye and his flat countenance. “They chafe at my ability to silence my thoughts. For that reason, they seek to mute their own. But they cannot. Their communion precludes them from acquiring my skill.
“They conclude that you propose to confront the stranger who has brought an end to the Demondim. This they conceive in part because it is your way to leave no obstacle unchallenged, and in part because you have declined to speak of the Mahdoubt.”
“And that’s why,” muttered Linden harshly. “there are now three of them outside my door.” Then she forced herself to soften her tone. “But do they believe me?”
“That you have spoken sooth,” he replied without inflection. “is plain to me. Therefore I have made it plain to them.”
“Good.” A small relief lessened her tension briefly. “Thank you.”
While she could still bear to remain passive, she drank the last of Glimmermere’s water. Anele had not touched it, presumably for the same reason that he refused to bathe in the lake, or suffer the touch of hurtloam.
“Tell me,” she said, striving to sound conversational; undemanding. “Why don’t you want to talk about that stranger? Or about the Mahdoubt?”
He did not look away. “Like the Masters, I am uncertain. Therefore I prefer to await the resolution of my doubts.”
Linden scrutinized him. “Uncertain?”
“The Mahdoubt and the stranger are entwined in my thoughts. I speculate concerning them, but my imaginings are unconfirmed. If I am mistaken, I do not wish to compound my error by speaking prematurely.”
She nodded. “I understand. I
don’t know why the Mahdoubt disappeared when she did, but she’s my friend. She saved my life. That’s why I didn’t say anything. As far as I’m concerned, she should be allowed to keep her secrets.” Then Linden added, “But I don’t feel that way about our stranger. He’s a bit too fortuitous for my taste.” His defeat of the horde resembled Roger’s and the croyel’s arrival in glamour. “I think that we should go relieve some of our ignorance.”
Stave appeared to hesitate. “Do you conceive that the Masters will permit it?”
Linden tightened her grip on the Staff. “Oh, they’ll permit it, all right. You told them my story. Right now, they need answers as badly as we do.
“I’m sure that they still don’t trust me. And the fact that they were so wrong about Roger and my son might make them even more suspicious. Now they really don’t know who to trust.
“But you told them about the Theomach. And they know that the Mahdoubt isn’t just a servant of Revelstone. If they want to go on calling themselves the Masters of the Land, they need to know who that stranger is. They need to know how he disposed of the Demondim.” And why. “If I’m willing to risk talking to him, I don’t see how they can object.”
After a slight pause, Stave nodded. “As you say, Chosen. If they reason otherwise, they will reconsider.”
Then he turned to open the door.
In the hall outside, the Humbled stood arrayed like a blockade; and for an instant, Linden’s steps faltered. But Branl, Clyme, and Galt parted smoothly, permitting Stave to walk between them. At the former Master’s back, she left her rooms unopposed. As she followed Stave, the Humbled formed an escort behind her.
So far, at least, they tolerated her actions.
Her boots struck echoes from the smooth stone, but the Haruchai moved soundlessly. Obliquely she regretted that she had sent the rest of her friends away. Their company might have comforted her. You hold great powers. Yet if we determine that we must wrest them from you, do you truly doubt that we will prevail? She had heard too many forecasts of disaster. On some deep level, she feared herself in spite of her granite resolve; or because of it.
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