But she did not understand why Anele’s gift of Earthpower had failed to rouse her son. That mystery surpassed her. The vigor of his new theurgies was clear to every dimension of her health-sense. It should have sufficed—yet it was not enough.
While Linden clung to her son, Rime Coldspray cleared her throat. “Linden Giantfriend.” Her voice was husky with weariness. A little food and a sufficiency of water could not replenish her spent strength. Nevertheless she sounded grimly determined. “The day flees from us. Soon the sun will near the rim of Landsdrop, and still we stand in this harm-ridden region. We must not delay longer. The Worm of the World’s End will not await our readiness to meet it.”
Linden tightened her grip on Jeremiah for a moment. Then she let him go. The Ironhand was right. The sunlight slanted from the west, casting shadows like omens after Covenant. The fact that the Worm seemed like an abstraction, a mere word rather than an imminent threat, did not lessen its significance. Turning away from her son, Linden faced the leader of the Swordmainnir.
As if for the first time, she saw how deeply exertion had chiseled Coldspray’s visage. The Ironhand bore the marks of strain and imponderable effort like galls on her forehead, around her eyes, along the sides of her mouth. Faint tremors shook her muscles whenever she moved.
Apart from his bandage, Manethrall Mahrtiir’s features reflected Coldspray’s. His posture slumped uncharacteristically: he carried himself like a man who had cut off his hands by sending his Cords away. Of the three who had labored to honor Anele and Galt, only Stave showed no sign that he had paid a price. His hurts were internal, masked by his Haruchai mien and his stoicism.
Fortunately the other Giants had recovered more fully. They had fought as hard as Rime Coldspray; had suffered as much from their wounds. And the healing which Linden had provided for them had been as swift as cruelty: it had its own cost. Latebirth still moved gingerly, protecting her ribs. Both Cabledarm and Frostheart Grueburn were limping, and Onyx Stonemage looked unsure of her balance. Nevertheless they had rested longer, and eaten more, than their Ironhand. They looked ready to wear their armor and carry supplies and travel, at least for a while.
For that Linden could be grateful.
“All right,” she sighed to Coldspray. “I’m sick of this place anyway. But there’s still the question of where we’re going, or what we think that we can do when we get there.” Bitterly she added, “Assuming that no one attacks us on the way.
“Covenant—” She swallowed bile and grief. “Abandoning us like that. It changes things.” It changed everything. “Maybe we should rethink this whole situation.”
Rime Coldspray opened her mouth to reply; but Mahrtiir spoke first. “Ringthane.” Fatigue thickened his voice until he seemed to be groaning. “Ere we consider such matters, will you not make some new attempt to bestir your son?” Without his Cords, he was a different man: smaller in some way; perhaps more fragile. Time and again, he had relied on Bhapa and Pahni to compensate for his blindness. “As he is, he remains helpless. And much has been altered since you last strove to retrieve his mind. Can you not now discover some means to restore him to himself?”
Linden shook her head; but she did not respond at once. She had to search for words to describe perceptions which had become plain to her. How often do I have to talk about trust? She had made too many mistakes. Worse, she had made the same ones too often. She needed to believe that better solutions existed; but she did not know how.
With an effort of will, she forced herself to say, “He isn’t helpless in there. Not really. He’s like Anele. He chose this. It’s his only defense. Or it was. That deserves some respect. I can’t think of any other way that he could have protected himself.
“So maybe he’s stuck there now,” she conceded to forestall protests. “He’s been like this for a long time. Maybe he wants to come out and just can’t find the way. But I can’t help him unless I go deeper than I did before.” Much deeper: deep enough to drag him from his graves. “I’ll have to possess him. And that’s just wrong. The Ranyhyn warned me. They showed me how bad things can get if I insist on violating people who have the right to make their own decisions.”
More than once, in differing ways, Anele had opposed her impulse to heal him. Before the horserite, Stave had done the same in spite of the injuries that he had received from Esmer.
“I used to be a doctor. A healer for people with broken minds. And the one thing I learned is that I couldn’t heal them.” God, this was hard to admit! She had learned to accept the truth where her patients were concerned. But to say the same about her own son—“They had to heal themselves. My only real job was to help them feel safe so that maybe they would believe that they could risk healing themselves.
“I’m not much of a healer anymore.” She had committed such slaughter—“But possession is still wrong. I know because it’s been done to me.” By moksha Jehannum. “And I’ve done it myself.” To Covenant. “Covenant keeps telling me to trust myself, but that doesn’t make much sense.” She meant that it was impossible. “Not after what I’ve accomplished so far. What does make sense to me is trusting the Ranyhyn.
“They went to a lot of trouble to warn me.” She did not want to remember the images with which they had filled her thoughts. “I think it’s time that I stopped ignoring them.”
Attempts must be made, Mahrtiir had told her days ago, even when there can be no hope. But he had also said, And betimes some wonder is wrought to redeem us.
She anticipated objections. How could her companions grasp what she was trying to say? None of them had been taken by Ravers, or had participated in Joan’s lurid agony, or had become carrion. But Coldspray’s only reply was a frown of consideration. None of the other Giants offered an argument. Stave regarded Linden impassively; accepted her. And Mahrtiir—
The Manethrall relaxed visibly. She had eased some unspoken doubt or burden for him. His shoulders lifted as he announced, “Then I see no cause to alter our intent. Earlier we resolved to entrust our course to the will of the Ranyhyn. That choice I have approved. I do so again. Few as we are, we can select no better path. Let Stave of the Haruchai summon the great horses. Let us renew our intent to abide by their guidance.”
His counsel was a gift. Linden did not want to make more decisions. And in one respect, she was like the Ramen. The prospect of the Ranyhyn eased her spirits. She could find a kind of solace, comfort as visceral as a caress, in the kindness of Hyn’s eyes, the security of the mare’s strong strides.
Briefly the Ironhand considered Mahrtiir’s advice. For a moment, she scanned the reactions of her comrades. When she returned her attention to the Manethrall, and to Linden, her countenance opened into a broad grin.
“Manethrall, your words are folly. By some measure, they are madness. For that reason, they are a delight to us. Are we not Giants? Fools all? And do we not desire to cast our strength against the utter ravage of the Earth? What fate, therefore, can be more condign for us, than that we must commit every passion and every life to the will of beasts that cannot reveal their purposes? Earlier we assented to this course because we saw no other. Now we do so because it gladdens our hearts.
“If it should chance that the Earth and Time endure, tales will one day be told of Giants who dared the destruction of all things at the behest—I mean no offense, Manethrall—at the behest of mere horses.”
Mahrtiir also was grinning. Unlike Coldspray’s, however, and those of the other Giants, his expression had a whetted edge, fierce and eager, like a promise of vindication.
If Roger or Kastenessen, Linden thought, or even Lord Foul had seen the Manethrall at that moment, they might have felt apprehension writhing in their guts.
“All right,” she said again. She tried to sound stronger, and may have succeeded. “Let’s see how much ground we can cover without getting into trouble.” She meant, Without running into another attack. But she also meant, Without asking too much of the Giants. “I’ll never be any readier than
this.”
Nodding to Linden, Mahrtiir, and the Swordmainnir in turn, Stave raised his hand to his mouth and began the ritual summoning which his ancestors had used during the time of the Bloodguard, and of the Council of Lords.
Three whistles, each as piercing as cries; each separated by half a dozen heartbeats. Linden scarcely had time to shake her head in wonder at the inexplicable magic which enabled the horses of Ra to know hours or days or seasons in advance when and where they would be called, and to arrive when they were needed. Then she heard the muted impact of hooves cantering on packed sand.
She should not have been able to hear it at that distance. Perhaps the sound carried simply because the horses were Ranyhyn, majestic and ineffable, as vital as the Land’s pulse of Earthpower, and as numinous as the Hills of Andelain. Soon, however, she saw them. Constrained by the litter of boulders and the quirks of the slopes, they came in single-file: first proud Hynyn, roan and magisterial, then Hyn dappled grey with her star like heraldry on her forehead, then Narunal, palomino and eager—as eager as Mahrtiir, with the same air of fierceness. Just for an instant, Linden thought that there would be no more. But another Ranyhyn followed behind Narunal, another roan, as like to Hynyn as a son, but less heavily muscled, less broad in the chest, and somewhat smaller.
Hynyn, Hyn, and Narunal: Stave, Linden, and Mahrtiir. The last of the ten that had set out from Revelstone with the begrudged permission of the Masters.
And a mount for Jeremiah.
A mount for Jeremiah, who had never ridden and would not throw himself off balance, and could therefore sit his Ranyhyn as safely as if the beast were made of stone.
Linden had watched Naybahn and Mhornym carry Branl and Clyme away. She believed that she would never see Rhohm, Hrama, and Bhanoryl again: their riders were dead. As for Rohnhyn and Naharahn, Bhapa and Pahni, she did not know what to think. She could hardly believe that they would be able to sway the Masters.
But Jeremiah had a mount! He would be better cared-for aback a Ranyhyn than he would have been in her arms. And maybe—Oh, maybe! The experience of riding might serve to guide or lure him out of his dissociation.
She had seen stranger things during her years at Berenford Memorial. Sometimes a simple touch was enough, if it were the right touch given at the right moment—by the right person.
Her hugs were not the reassurance that Jeremiah needed; or she was not. The knowledge was anguish. Nonetheless she told herself that she could be content with any form of consolation that restored his mind.
In their disparate fashions, Stave and Mahrtiir greeted the approach of the Ranyhyn. As the Giants watched, simultaneously bemused and entranced, the former Master spoke formally of Land-riders and proud-bearers, sun-flesh and sky-mane. At the same time, the Manethrall prostrated himself, pressing his forehead to the sand in a manner that seemed both self-effacing and exultant.
Clearly none of the horses had run hard or suffered trials: a dramatic contrast to their state when they had been called in Andelain. They must have left the Hills in plenty of time, and known of a comparatively direct descent from the Upper Land.
With his neck imperiously arched, Hynyn stamped to a halt in front of Stave and whinnied like a shout of defiance. Prancing, Hyn moved among the Giants toward Linden. The mare’s affection was plain as she nuzzled Linden’s shoulder, asking to be petted. Linden complied willingly; but she did not look away from Hyn’s companions.
Narunal stopped near Mahrtiir’s out-stretched arms and nickered a soft demand. Apparently the stallion was impatient with Mahrtiir’s obeisance and wanted him to rise. The fourth horse paused a few paces behind the others. The younger roan’s eyes were fixed on Jeremiah, but Linden could not interpret their expression. Was that pride? Anticipation? Dread?
When Hynyn whinnied again, Mahrtiir rose to his feet. For a moment, he stroked Narunal’s nose and neck, communing in some intuitive fashion with his mount. Then he turned to Linden.
“Ringthane,” he pronounced distinctly, “here is Khelen, young among the stallions of the herd. Youth to youth, he has come to bear your son—if you will consent. But he requires your consent. He has not yet inherited his sire’s pride, and he is cognizant—as are all of the great horses—that he offers to assume a charge both perilous and exalted. Will you grant him leave to care for your son? He will do so with his life.”
Linden could not imagine how the Manethrall knew such things. Nevertheless she believed him. Carefully courteous, she replied, “Please thank Khelen for me. He has my consent.”
Mahrtiir answered her with a Ramen bow; but he said nothing. Doubtless he had reason to trust that the Ranyhyn understood her. Instead of relaying her words, he whirled away and sprang onto Narunal’s back. Indeed, he seemed to flow into his seat as though he had spent all of his life riding; as though he and his Cords were not the first Ramen to ever sit astride Ranyhyn.
Tentatively Khelen moved a few steps closer to Jeremiah.
“Again with your consent, Linden Giantfriend,” said Stormpast Galesend briskly. But she did not wait for Linden’s response. Lifting Jeremiah, the Swordmain set him down on Khelen’s back.
Hoping, Linden held her breath.
For a long moment, Khelen stood utterly motionless. If the fouled scent of Jeremiah’s pajamas disturbed him, the young stallion did not show it. Instead he appeared to be waiting for some reaction from Jeremiah: some flinch of fright or hint of relaxation. But Jeremiah gave no sign of consciousness. His mind was too deeply buried. He sat exactly as he had stood a few heartbeats earlier, slack-lipped and silt-eyed, oblivious to the saliva gathering at the corners of his mouth.
Oh, well, Linden sighed to herself. Maybe when Khelen started to walk—or to run—
Finally Khelen tossed his head, made a whickering sound like a query. Hynyn answered with a snort of command; and the younger roan began to move away from the stream, carrying Jeremiah as if the boy were a treasure.
At last, Linden looked away. When she glanced at Stave, he came to boost her onto Hyn’s back.
Almost at once, Hyn’s familiar ability to communicate ease and stability settled into Linden’s muscles, although she had not ridden for days that felt as long as seasons. As Stave mounted Hynyn, Linden nodded to Rime Coldspray, who answered with a grin as wide as Pitchwife’s.
“Thus we turn to a new heading,” the Ironhand proclaimed, “foolishly, and glad of it. Many have been the vagaries of our journey, and extreme its trials. Each new course has been as unforeseen as the Soulbiter, as unforeseeable—and betimes as reluctant to permit passage. Yet never, I deem, have we sailed seas as chartless as those now spread before us.
“Had we the strength for exuberance, we would announce with songs our pleasure that in the Sargasso of the Earth’s fate we will be guided by the innominate mystery of these Ranyhyn.”
“Aye,” assented Frostheart Grueburn gruffly. “And if we reserve our breath for wheezing, we will trust that joy is in the ears that hear, not in the mouth that does not sing.”
Chuckling, Cabledarm shouldered a sack of supplies. In spite of her unsteadiness, Onyx Stonemage took another: the last of the Ardent’s foodstuffs and waterskins. Cirrus Kindwind hefted the only bedroll. Then, laughing softly, she tossed it to Stave: a feigned admission that it was too heavy for her. The Haruchai caught it as if it were weightless and set it across his thighs.
“Ringthane?” Mahrtiir asked with something of Hynyn’s brazen assurance in his voice.
“Sure,” Linden muttered. She was watching Jeremiah again as if her attentiveness might serve to rouse him. “I assume that you can tell the Ranyhyn what we want.” Somehow. “If they refuse, we’ll know soon enough.”
The Manethrall barked like one of the ur-viles. Then he bent low over Narunal’s neck, stroking the stallion as he whispered words in a language that sounded like nickering. Linden thought that she caught Kelenbhrabanal’s name, but the rest escaped her.
If the Giants understood, they only grinned, and checked th
eir weapons, and readied themselves to leave the stream.
Narunal responded with a neigh as clarion as Hynyn’s. At once, Mahrtiir’s mount turned to retrace his path along the floor of the ravine. Without any sign from Stave that Linden could discern, Hynyn followed. And Khelen went next, stepping with such care that Jeremiah was not jostled or disturbed in any way.
Snorting soft reassurances, Hyn took a position behind Khelen. And after them came the eight Swordmainnir led by Rime Coldspray, with Bluntfist in the rear.
Clearly the Ranyhyn had elected to accept at least this much responsibility for the company’s role in the Land’s fate.
While the ravine twisted westward, and its floor formed a comparatively clear path, the Ranyhyn followed it. But as the company moved beyond the region of battle, beyond the cairns, the hills on both sides began to slump. At intervals now, Linden glimpsed more distant landscapes to the north and south: barren slopes interspersed with swaths of dirt and gravel like long-desiccated swales.
When Narunal and the other Ranyhyn finally turned away from the fading trail of sand onto a broad field of grit and fine dust made hazardous by shards of flint, they surprised Linden by heading into the southeast.
Surely they should be going northwest? Toward Mount Thunder, if not toward Salva Gildenbourne? In that direction, the skurj and the Sandgorgons were laying waste to the forest as they moved to defend Kastenessen. Yet the horses chose the southeast, picking their way warily among flint splinters and knives.
Were they following Covenant? Linden’s heart squirmed at the thought. He had suggested that he intended to look for Joan along the same heading that the Ardent had taken from the Lost Deep: this heading. Did the Ranyhyn believe that Covenant would need Linden’s help when he faced his ex-wife at last?
If so, she wanted to hurry. She feared losing him to a caesure more than his rejection; his efforts to spare her.
But the company could not hasten: not yet. The horses had to be careful where they placed their hooves. And the Giants—They plodded doggedly ahead as if they were impervious to sharp stones, raising small puffs of dust with every heavy step; but weariness clogged their strides. They moved like women carrying boulders on their backs.
Against All Things Ending Page 64
