The Runes of the Earth: The Last Chronicles of Thomas Covenant - Book One

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  The Haruchai showed no reaction. He did not so much as blink.

  A moment later, however, she heard an impact on the grass behind her: the sound of a body landing lightly. In alarm she wheeled toward Anele and saw another Haruchai already standing behind him.

  This one bore no scars. He may have been younger than his companion.

  “Where is your power now?” Anele cackled at her in Lord Foul’s voice, “the wild magic that destroys peace?”

  “He belongs to us,” the new arrival said flatly. “We will permit him no more freedom.”

  Bitter with anger and fatigue, Linden turned back to the first Haruchai.

  He had moved one or two steps closer to her.

  “I told you—!” she began.

  He interrupted her. “I have said,” he repeated without expression, “that we will grant you opportunity to persuade us that we must honor you. Until that time you must accompany us. We will treat the old man gently.”

  “No!” Linden shook her head, infuriated by his impenetrability. “You will not touch him!”

  The Haruchai shrugged as if in dismissal.

  Anele went on chortling. “They are Haruchai. Did you believe that they would heed you?”

  Roger Covenant also had refused to hear her.

  Before she could defend herself, the Haruchai swept forward. Swiftly his fist lashed out; struck her in the center of her forehead. Her head snapped back. The hills reeled drunkenly around her.

  As she lapsed into darkness, she heard Anele’s cry of woe.

  Haunted by lamentation, Linden Avery rode a dark tide of pain and futility, as helpless as a dried leaf on a wave. She chose nothing, determined nothing: she merely reacted to events. The Despiser had laid a snare for the people of the Land, and they walked toward it blindly. She could not even warn them. They refused to listen.

  Why should they heed her? She had no name for their peril. She had no idea what the Falls and Kevin’s Dirt were for.

  Jeremiah’s plight was only more immediate, not worse. Lord Foul threatened the life of the Land, and of all the Earth, and she had no means to save any of them, except by wild magic. Yet any use of white gold endangered the Arch of Time. For that very reason, Thomas Covenant had forsworn his power.

  Now the man she loved lay forever beyond her reach. No matter how acutely she had yearned for him over the years, she would never see him again, or feel his touch, or hold him in her arms.

  She had learned to yearn instead for her son. Whatever happened, she intended to save Jeremiah.

  Borne along by the current of her unconsciousness, she endeavored to slough away all other considerations; to concentrate her whole heart on her vulnerable son. But the dark scend did not float her to Jeremiah. Instead it brought Covenant’s voice to her ears.

  He sounded as he had sounded in life: harsh and compassionate; driven to extremes, deeply wounded, and dear; full of comprehension and rue.

  Linden, he said distinctly, you aren’t listening.

  Oh, Covenant! she cried out within herself. Where are you? Why can’t I see you? Are you all right?

  I’m trying to tell you. He seemed as strict as the Haruchai. You need the Staff of Law.

  For a moment, he surprised her questions to silence. I don’t know where it is. She might have wept. It doesn’t seem to work anymore.

  Violations of Law like Kevin’s Dirt and caesures could not have flourished in the presence of the Staff.

  You aren’t listening, he repeated more gently. I said, I understand how you feel. It’s too much to ask of anyone. Don’t worry about that. Do something they don’t expect.

  Like what? she countered in tears. All I have is your ring. It isn’t mine. It isn’t me. It doesn’t belong to me the way it did to you. I don’t understand any of this.

  Foul has my son!

  Don’t worry about that, he said again. Already his voice had begun to recede from her. Trust yourself. She could barely hear him. Do something they don’t expect.

  Then he was gone. She sobbed his name, but only breakers and seething answered.

  Eventually a swell lifted her up to deposit her upon a plane of stone above the tide. When she returned to herself there, her cheeks were wet with weeping.

  For a time, she lay still, resting her bruised body on the cool smooth stone. Her former life had not prepared her for physical ordeals. All of her muscles throbbed with overexertion. In addition, her tongue felt thick with thirst, and her stomach ached for food.

  Nevertheless those pangs hurt her less than the knowledge that she had failed to keep her promise to Anele. Covenant had told her to trust herself. He might as well have advised her to fly to the moon. Too many people had already died.

  Groaning softly, she opened her eyes on darkness like the inside of her mind.

  She lay facedown on stone worn or polished smooth. The air felt cool and clean in her sore lungs. When she tried to shift her limbs, they moved as easily as her injuries allowed. To that extent, at least, she was intact. She simply could not see.

  But when she raised her head, pain lanced into her neck: whiplash from the blow she had received. At once, a sharp throbbing began in her forehead, and the stone under her seemed to tilt. Cursing to herself, she lowered her head again.

  Damn them anyway. The Haruchai she had known—Brinn, Cail, and the others—had not made a practice of striking down strangers.

  And where had she been taken? Underground? No. The air was too fresh, and the stone not cold enough, for a cave or cavern.

  Night must have fallen while she was unconscious. Or the Haruchai had left her in a windowless cell somewhere. Mithil Stonedown? To the best of her knowledge, that was the nearest village.

  The Haruchai did not need cells to control their prisoners.

  For a while, she postponed the challenge of rising to her feet. Instead she reached under her chest to confirm that Covenant’s ring still hung on its chain around her neck; to reassure herself on its hard circle. Then she turned her attention to the scents of this space.

  At first, she detected only grime and old sweat, the sour odor of an untended body: probably hers. Stone dust still caked her hair, clogging her senses. When she reached past those smells, however, she caught a faint whiff of water and the unmistakable aroma of cooked food.

  Suddenly eager, she braced her arms on the stone, wedged her legs under her. Then, carefully, she pushed herself up onto her hands and knees.

  The pain in her neck brought tears to her eyes; and for a moment the stone seemed to cant under her. Briefly she rested where she was. Then she began to grope forward, hoping for water.

  Her right hand found an emaciated ankle.

  It jerked away from her touch as she snatched back her hand. Hoarsely an old voice croaked, “Leave Anele alone. Cruel Masters. Let him perish.”

  Anele. Her throat was too dry for sound: she could not say his name. Nevertheless she felt a rush of relief. At least the Haruchai had not separated them. Presumably they were prisoners together.

  She might yet be given a chance to keep her promise.

  Shifting her knees to the left, she continued searching.

  After a moment, the edge of her left hand encountered a hard shape. Quickly she reached for it.

  It was round and curved: a large bowl. Its surface felt like polished stone, cooler than the floor. When she dipped her fingers into it, she found water.

  At once, she lowered her pounding head and drank.

  Every swallow was bliss on her swollen tongue and parched throat. She could easily have emptied the bowl. As the level of the water dropped, however, she pulled back her head.

  “Anele,” she panted softly into the dark, “it’s me. Linden. I found water.”

  The Haruchai had told her that they treated their prisoners gently.

  A prompt scuffling answered her. “Where?” her companion asked. “Anele is thirsty. So thirsty. They are cruel. They give him nothing.”

  One of his hands grasped at h
er side.

  “Here.” She reached for his wrist and guided him to the bowl. As he clutched its sides, she added, “Take all you want. I’m sure they’ll bring us more.”

  Anele’s only response was to lift the bowl so that he could drink more deeply.

  While the old man satisfied himself, Linden resumed her search. She was confident that she had scented food.

  Their captors would have left it near the water.

  Less than an arm’s length away, she discovered a second bowl. It had been fashioned of stone like the first, but its sides were warm. When she poised her face over it, she felt a waft of steam stroke her cheeks.

  Stew, definitely: meat and broth; vegetables of some kind. And—Was it possible? Had she caught a hint of aliantha?

  Dear God.

  Saliva filled her mouth. Sweeping the floor with one hand, she found a pair of wooden spoons. Without hesitation, she dipped a spoon into the bowl and tested its contents.

  They retained some warmth, but were no longer hot. Mutton and gravy thick with flour. Small round shapes that tasted like spring peas. And yes, beyond question: aliantha. As her first mouthful comforted her tongue, it left behind a distinctive savor of peach tinged with salt and lime.

  For the first time since she had arrived on Kevin’s Watch, Linden remembered hope. The Haruchai had told her the truth. If they stirred healing treasure-berries into their viands, they did not intend their prisoners to suffer.

  To that extent, at least, Anele had misapprehended the Masters. They had not fallen entirely under Lord Foul’s sway.

  Linden ate several spoonfuls of the stew while her companion drained the bowl of water. Then she whispered to him, “Over here, Anele. It’s food.”

  “It is fatal,” he answered anxiously. “They seek to poison Anele.”

  “No, they don’t,” she replied as calmly as she could. “I’ve already tasted it. It’s good.” Unsure how to persuade him, she added, “They put treasure-berries in it.”

  Immediately he shuffled to her side. “Aliantha sustains Anele,” he muttered as she pressed a spoon into his hands. “Often naught else preserves his life.”

  Together they crouched over the bowl.

  She stopped before she was satisfied, leaving the rest for her companion. But Anele continued ladling stew into his mouth until he had scraped the bowl empty.

  Half to herself, she murmured, “Poor man, how long have you been lost?”

  He did not answer. No doubt in his present condition he could not. His manner of speaking told her that his madness had reasserted its hold over him.

  “In a minute or two,” she breathed absently, “I’m going to look for a way out of this place—whatever it is. But first I’m going to rest a bit.”

  Her torn muscles and bruises demanded that.

  Turning away from Anele, she crawled until the tips of her fingers brushed a wall. Like the floor, it was formed of smooth, cool stone. She sat with her back against it and leaned her head on it to reduce the strain on her neck.

  Water and food. Aliantha. And captors who were prepared to treat her kindly. The Haruchai had only struck her because she had opposed his desire to take Anele. Perhaps she did indeed have reason to hope.

  If she could convince the Masters that she was the Linden Avery who had accompanied Covenant to the Land so many centuries ago, she might win back their amity. Then she would get answers. Guidance. Aid.

  If.

  You need the Staff of Law.

  Otherwise she would have to find a way to escape. She would have to tackle the whole Land with only Anele’s insanity to direct her.

  Do something they don’t expect.

  What in hell was that supposed to mean?

  She ought to move; start exploring. But she was entirely out of her depth. She hardly knew how to tread water in this situation: she could not imagine how she might extricate herself. And she was so tired—Her last night in her own bed, her last experience of comparative innocence, seemed to have occurred weeks or months ago.

  Somewhere in the darkness, her companion sighed. “Anele is weak,” he muttered to himself. “Too old. Too hungry. He should refuse food, water. Better to perish. They only prolong Anele’s life to hurt him. Hold him for it.”

  He meant a caesure.

  Quietly Linden asked, “What will it do to you, Anele?” In spite of her fatigue, she could still be moved. “What’re you so afraid of?”

  His voice shuddered as he replied, “It severs.”

  She swore to herself. “So you said. What does it sever?”

  “Life.” Anele moaned as though she had dismayed him. “Anele’s life. It is the maw of the Seven Hells. Betrayed trust. Failure. Sorrow.”

  Linden did not press him. His distress restrained her.

  And she remembered the Seven Hells.

  During their generations of dominion over the Land, the Clave had preached that the Earth had been created as a prison for a being called a-Jeroth of the Seven Hells, whose domain was pestilence, desert, fertility, war, savagery, rain, and darkness. Thus Sunder had explained the Sunbane to Covenant and Linden. It was the manifestation of a-Jeroth’s evil; and it was also retribution against those who had failed to oppose the lord of the Seven Hells.

  After so many centuries, Linden was appalled to think that any vestige of those teachings still persisted. Surely she and Covenant and their friends had discredited the Clave utterly when they had driven it out of existence?

  The Masters name him their foe, yet they serve him and know it not.

  Ah, God. She was out of her depth in all truth: floundering in quicksand. Caesures were the gullet of the Seven Hells, swallowing people away from life? The Haruchai served Lord Foul?

  Catching her lower lip between her teeth, Linden braced her hands on the floor and pushed herself to her feet. Forget whiplash and bruises. Never mind exhaustion or murder. More than sleep or healing, she needed answers. She had to find out what was going on.

  The pain in her neck undermined her balance; but she leaned against the wall and followed it with her hands. If nothing else, she might be able to determine the dimensions of her prison.

  She had hardly taken two steps, however, when a flicker of light caught at the corner of her vision.

  She flinched, clinging to the wall as if for protection.

  She saw nothing. Blackness seemed to swim about her head, tugging her toward a fall.

  Staring into the dark, she held on.

  There. A small flame reappeared in front of her. She saw it through a thin vertical slit like a cut in the wall of her gaol. An instant later, it shifted out of reach. But she had seen it.

  The slit had appeared tall enough to be the edge of a door. Or the gap between a doorframe and a hanging curtain—

  Before she could move forward to investigate the opening, she saw the flame again. This time it did not disappear. Instead it came toward her.

  A heartbeat later, a figure swept aside a heavy leather curtain and stepped through the doorway.

  He held what appeared to be a cruse cupped in one hand; and from within it a burning wick flamed upward: an oil lamp. The thin yellow light nevertheless seemed bright to her darkened sight. She could see his garments and features clearly, his short vellum tunic, the jagged scar under his left eye.

  He was the Haruchai who had struck her down.

  “Protect!” gasped her companion. “Protect Anele!” Hissing through his teeth, he scrambled backward to crouch against the far wall of the chamber.

  The Haruchai gazed at Anele for a moment, then shifted his attention to Linden. “You understand that we will not harm him. We seek only to ward him, and the Land.” He faced her like a man who could not be impugned. However, he may have been able to sense her distrust. Stooping, he set his lamp down at his feet. Then he asked awkwardly, “Are you well?”

  Making him wait while she tried to calm herself, Linden glanced around the space.

  The lamp showed her a square room that she cou
ld have crossed in five or six strides. The wall at her back—she stood to the right of the doorway—held a wide window sealed with rocks. Another curtain hung opposite her, filling a second doorframe; and a third marked the wall near Anele. Presumably they both opened on to other rooms.

  This place had not been built as a gaol. It may once have been a small dwelling, abandoned now to the Masters’ use.

  Perhaps they did not routinely take prisoners.

  Holding that scant comfort, Linden faced the Haruchai again.

  “How could I be well?” she countered sourly. “You damn near broke my neck.”

  The man returned an impenetrable stare. The unsteady flame of his lamp cast shadows like streaks of repudiation across his countenance. “You will heal.”

  Instead of answering, she held his gaze as she had held Sheriff Lytton’s, daring him to believe that she could be intimidated.

  He was Haruchai: his manner did not waver. “Do you desire more water? More food? We will provide for your comfort.”

  “Thank you.” His offer softened Linden’s attitude. His people had already demonstrated that they meant to treat their prisoners kindly. “We do need more food and water. As for our comfort—” She paused, wondering how much he would be willing to tell her.

  If he had not struck her, she might already have blurted out Jeremiah’s name.

  Her captor waited stolidly. After a moment, she suggested, “You might start by telling me your name.”

  “I am Stave,” he replied without hesitation. “With Jass and Bornin, I ward this Stonedown.”

  Ward it from what? she wanted to ask. But that could wait until she had convinced him of her identity. And until she had discovered whether or not she could trust him.

  If Anele were right about the Masters, they would strive to prevent her from reaching her son.

  Rather than dive into those murkier waters, she inquired, “This is Mithil Stonedown?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  “Good.” That small confirmation of her assumptions made her feel stronger. “I’m glad to find something that hasn’t changed.

  “Now, about our comfort—”

  Stave faced her with no discernible impatience.