“Mom?” he protested; then. “Covenant?”
“Do it carefully,” she insisted. “Don’t hurt anyone.”
“Hellfire,” Covenant muttered. “You know your mother. If we don’t help her, this mess is going to get worse fast.”
Linden resisted a fierce desire to thrust her way between the warriors; to force them aside with the Staff if necessary. Biting her lip, she waited for Jeremiah.
The scouts took a step backward, prepared to swing their weapons. Their stances shouted belligerence; nerves stretched past weariness into unthinking rage. Then Linden felt a warm wave of force flow past her from Jeremiah’s outstretched hand. At once, the man with the slashed face lurched out of her way. The woman and the other man stumbled aside.
While her son’s weird theurgy held, she set off quickly in the direction of the camp with the Theomach silent at her side and Covenant and Jeremiah following close behind her.
When the scouts recovered their balance, they swore in fear and anger; tried to rush an attack. But Jeremiah’s unseen magic repulsed them: they rebounded from it as though they had encountered a barricade.
Walking with as much speed as she could manage, Linden asserted as if she spoke to the frigid darkness, “I’ve already told you that I’m a healer. I want to help. And we don’t want trouble. You’re in no danger. There’s no need to turn this into a fight. You’ve done too much fighting as it is.
“Why don’t you just escort us while one of you lets Lord Berek know that we’re coming? If nothing else, you have to think that we’re strange enough to be worth his attention.”
For a long moment, the scouts held back. Then, abruptly, the woman sheathed her sword. “Very well,” she rasped. “It will be as you have said.”
She made a rough gesture that Linden felt rather than saw; and at once, the man with the smaller wounds sprinted away, clearly heading toward the nearest of Berek’s outriders. The woman jogged to catch up with Linden at a safe distance, while her comrade took a similar position on the far side of Linden’s small company.
After a brief hesitation, Jeremiah lowered his barrier. Linden sent him her silent gratitude, hoping that he would be able to read her aura. But she did not pause to thank him aloud. The woman who led the scouts was speaking again.
“Comprehend me, however,” she said in a bitten voice. “I accede because I know not how to oppose you. But you are folk of power, hazardous in this war. If by any word or deed you threaten the Lord, or cause harm to those who stand with him, I will contrive to slay you. I have learned much of death. By some means, I will evade your eldritch force and end your haughtiness.”
Linden sighed. Without turning her head, or shifting her attention from the burgeoning and hurtful emanations of Berek’s camp, she asked, “Don’t you have anyone with you who can hear truth? I would have thought that by now,” under the influence of the Land’s rich Earthpower. “some of you would start to notice changes in what you can see and feel and hear.”
“What do you know of such matters?” demanded the woman suspiciously. She seemed unaware that Jeremiah’s barrier was gone.
“This war,” Linden replied. “It changed on the slopes of Mount Thunder. That’s when Lord Berek started to show signs of power you hadn’t seen before. But I find it hard to believe that he’s the only one.” Surely Berek was not alone in his sensitivity to the true life around him? “There have to be more of you who can sense things that seem impossible.”
Now the woman sounded less sure of herself. “Krenwill avers that he has become able to distinguish truth from falsehood.” A jerk of her head indicated the scout striding opposite her. “At first, I deemed him a fool. Yet I have beheld proofs—Commonly now, our Warhaft enlists his aid in the questioning of prisoners, for the Lord frowns upon harshness toward our foes when they cannot defend themselves.”
Linden glanced at the man, a vague shape in the night. With every step, the sensations of Berek’s camp became stronger: the fear and pain bordering on madness; the frantic fatigue; the stunned, almost unreactive resolve. And now she could smell horses, already half maimed by inadequate provender and far too much exertion. The cold carried the scents of dung and rotting straw as clearly as sounds.
“Then listen,” she told the scout Krenwill. “I’m a healer. I want to help. Not with the war. With the wounded. And my companions don’t mean you any harm.”
The man studied her in silence for a moment. Then he announced softly, “I hear truth, Basila. If her words are false, she does not know them to be so.”
Linden felt a grudging, uncertain relief from the woman. Still suspiciously, Basila asked. “You say that you desire Lord Berek’s aid. What do you wish of him?”
The clatter of hooves on ice came faintly through the dark, growing louder. Linden counted two riders approaching cautiously. And they were alone. Presumably the man who had run to warn them had continued on toward the camp.
“Horses,” she answered, brusque with the effort of sustaining her haste. “Food. Warm clothes. I want to get as far away from here as possible.
“That’s a lot to ask, I know,” she added. “But first I’m going to earn it.”
If the stubborn hostility of men and women who had seen too much war did not prevent her—
“Wisdom indeed,” the Theomach remarked to the forlorn multitude of the stars. Then he told Linden. “You have been well chosen, lady.”
“Hell and blood,” Covenant muttered at her back. “How did the two of you become such buddies? I’m the one who’s trying to save the damn world.”
“There is your error,” replied the Theomach over his shoulder. “You aim too high. The Earth is too wide and rife with mystery to be saved or damned by such as you.”
Peering ahead, Linden studied the approach of the riders. Long ago, Covenant had told her of prophecies which the Council of Lords had preserved concerning the white gold wielder.
And with the one word of truth or treachery,
he will save or damn the Earth
because he is mad and sane,
cold and passionate,
lost and found.
She did not know what she would do if the outriders blocked her path. She needed to reach Berek’s camp while she still had enough stamina to be of some use. But she was reluctant to call on Jeremiah’s aid again. She did not understand his power, and feared its consequences.
With a muffled clash of tack and an uneasy skitter of hooves, two mounted horses condensed from the dark. Involuntarily she slowed to a stop; leaned on the Staff while she strove to steady her breathing. The riders were both women. When they had halted, one of them asked gruffly. “What transpires, Basila? All darkness is fraught with peril, and the coming of these strangers does not rest lightly upon us.”
Basila’s manner conveyed a shrug. “Krenwill conceives that the woman speaks sooth.”
“That she means no harm?” insisted the rider. “That she is a healer, and intends healing? That she seeks aid of the Lord?”
“Aye,” Basila replied. And Krenwill said. “If there is falsehood here, or peril, she has no knowledge of it.”
“And the theurgy which compelled you to let them pass?” the rider continued. “Does it ward them still?”
Basila extended her arm toward Linden; moved closer until she was almost near enough to touch Linden. Then she let her arm drop. “It does not.” As if she wished to be fair, she added, “And we received no hurt from it. We were merely”—she shrugged again—“repelled.”
“Then we will not tarry,” the rider announced. She radiated a desire for haste that had nothing to do with Linden’s urgency. Rather she seemed to feel exposed on the open plain; eager for light—and for the support of Berek’s army. “Warhaft Inbull will adjudge the matter. A healer we would welcome gladly. But that the woman speaks sooth promises little for her companions.
“Resume your watch,” she told the scouts. “This seems a night for hazards. If four strangers approach from the west, eigh
t may follow, or a score, or—” She left the thought unfinished. “Epemin and I will continue your escort.”
Relieved, Linden started forward again with her companions. At once, the two riders separated, turning their weary horses to take the positions that Basila and Krenwill had occupied; and the scouts drifted back into the night.
Linden forgot the scouts as soon as they were gone. Her percipience was focused on the growing emanations of Berek’s camp. Her face felt frozen, and all of her skin ached with cold. Nonetheless her nerves were certain. She was nearing a large body of men and women—and a much smaller number of horses. She sensed the turmoil and determination among the warriors; the prolonged strain of overexertion and blood loss and insufficient food; the instances of agony and anguish. As well as she could, she watched the east for the glow of campfires. But her eyes themselves felt frozen, and ordinary sight was of little use to her. Unable to sustain herself with Earthpower while Covenant and Jeremiah were nearby, she had nothing to rely on except her health-sense.
In her concentration, she was slow to realize that the nearer rider, the woman who had spoken earlier, was speaking again. “I am Yellinin,” the woman said, “third after Warhaft Inbull in the tenth Eoman of the second Eoward. He will require your names. And if indeed you come as friends, I would wish to speak of you courteously. How shall I introduce you to the Warhaft?”
Linden bit down on her numb lip. She had no time, and less strength, for questions. And she had caught her first glimpse of firelight. It dimmed the stars, diminished the depth of the night—and limned a long, low rise ahead of her, the last obstacle between her and the encampment. The sight increased her feeling of urgency. Nevertheless she tried to contain her impatience.
“I’m Linden Avery. The man beside me is the Theomach. Thomas Covenant and my son, Jeremiah, are behind us.” Then, because she was desperate in her own way, she asked, “Can’t we just skip arguing with your Warhaft? I don’t mean to be rude myself. But you have an appalling number of wounded. I can feel them from here. It would be better for all of us if you took me straight to your field hospital”—she grimaced at the awkwardness of using a term which might not be familiar to Yellinin—“or wherever you care for your wounded.
“Let me prove myself,” she urged the rider as they began to ascend the rise, and the light of uncounted campfires grew brighter. “Then your Warhaft—or Lord Berek—can decide what he thinks of me.” Suddenly an idea came to her. “In the meantime, you can take my companions to your Warhaft. Let him ask them as many questions as he wants.” Linden wished him joy of the experience. Together, Covenant, Jeremiah, and the Theomach were probably cryptic enough to confound tree trunks or plinths of basalt. But if Berek’s cutters and herbalists had no other resources, she would need to draw on the Staff of Law—and for that she required as much distance from Covenant and Jeremiah as possible. “Think of them as hostages to ensure my good faith.”
“Mom,” Jeremiah objected: he sounded frightened. And Covenant muttered, “Bloody hell, Linden. Just when I think you’ve run out of terrible ideas.”
Her son’s alarm tugged at her as Covenant’s vexation did not. But she kept her back to them; hardened her heart. Her attention was fixed on the injuries of Berek’s people, and her gaze focused her appeal on Yellinin. If she had not been so tightly clenched to her purpose, she might have said, Please. I beg of you.
“Wisdom, as I have proclaimed,” the Theomach announced. “Lady, I am both pleased and gratified.”
The mounted woman leaned down from her saddle, trying to study Linden’s face in the dim glow of the camp. “You ask much, Linden Avery,” she replied severely. “If I judge wrongly—or if Krenwill’s hearing has misled him—you may cause great woe.”
“And if I’m telling the truth,” Linden countered. “you’ll save lives.” She did not slow her strides to accommodate Yellinin’s uncertainty.
After a moment, the outrider said slowly, feeling her way. “It was the one whom you name Jeremiah—was it not?—who wielded theurgy against Basila and her comrades? If you are parted from him, he will be unable to ward you.”
Her tone added, And in your absence, he will be free to wreak any harm which he may desire.
“Yes,” Linden answered at once. “it was. But I don’t need his protection.” If she had been a different woman, she could have challenged Berek’s foes for him; perhaps routed them. “He won’t use his power again unless Covenant tells him to—and Covenant won’t do that.” Covenant had accepted the path which the Theomach had laid out for him. Linden was confident that he would not risk Berek’s enmity: not in the Theomach’s presence. “I can’t promise that your Warhaft will like their answers. But they won’t fight him.”
“Assuredly I will not,” the Theomach offered lightly. “And I will watch over your companions.”
“Linden.” Covenant’s voice was harsh with warnings or threats. “You know what can go wrong here.”
“Sure,” she replied over her shoulder. Disturbances in the integrity of Time, lethal discontinuities. And she had been warned that Berek held enough Earthpower to erase Covenant and Jeremiah—“But you know what we have to gain. You’ll be all right without me for a while.”
Abruptly Yellinin dismounted. Leaving her horse, she came to Linden. In spite of her obscured features, her sword and cuirass, and her warrior’s bearing, she radiated concern rather than suspicion as she grasped Linden’s arm and pulled her away from her companions.
Softly, tensely, Yellinin said, “Linden Avery, if you choose to part from your comrades, I must inform you that Warhaft Inbull is not known for gentleness. Lord Berek endeavors to restrain him, but he has suffered much in this war—lost much, endured much—and has become cruel. Upon occasion, he has refused Krenwill’s aid because he desires to discover truth with pain.
“Is it truly your wish that your son should be delivered to the Warhaft?”
For the first time since she had become aware that she was needed, Linden faltered. Instinctively she looked at the pleading on Jeremiah’s face. He, Covenant, and the Theomach had stopped: they stood watching her; waiting for her. She could not read Covenant or her son; but the meaning of Covenant’s scowl was obvious, and Jeremiah’s open chagrin seemed as poignant as a cry.
—has become cruel.
He’s full of Earthpower. If he so much as touches us, this whole ordeal will be wasted.
But the call of the wounded was too strong. She was a physician, and could not refuse it.
Like Covenant and the Theomach, Jeremiah had resources which surpassed her ability to measure them.
Deliberately Linden turned back to Yellinin. “My companions don’t mean any harm.” She made no effort to conceal the pressure rising in her. “They won’t cause any trouble. I keep saying that. But they can protect themselves if they have to. Right now, people are dying. Your people.” She could feel them: they were as vivid to her as the ravages of the Sunbane. “The sooner I get to work, the more of them I can help.”
The outrider remained caught in indecision for a moment longer. Then she shook it off. She was a fighter, uncomfortable with doubt and hesitation.
“Accept my mount, Linden Avery,” she said as if she were sure. Her hand released Linden’s arm. “If you are indeed able to feel the wounded and dying, you will have no difficulty discovering where they lie. Should any seek to thwart you, reply that you act by Yellinin’s command. Epemin and I will escort your comrades to the Warhaft. If I have erred, I will bear his wrath, and Lord Berek’s.”
“I don’t believe it,” Covenant growled under his breath. “Here she is, completely lost, with no idea what’s at stake—and total strangers still do what she wants.”
“That’s my Mom,” Jeremiah sighed glumly. He sounded like a boy who had resigned himself to an unjust punishment.
But Linden ignored them now. As soon as Yellinin let her go, she strode to the woman’s mount; grabbed at the reins. When she had found the stirrup, she heaved herself into
the saddle.
“Thank you,” she said to the outrider. “You’re not going to regret this.” Then she called, “Jeremiah! I’m counting on you!” She did not trust Covenant. “Don’t make these people sorry that they helped me.”
No one responded—and she did not wait. Digging her heels inexpertly into the horse’s sides, she headed for the top of the rise as swiftly as her shambling mount could carry her.
God, she loathed war.
8. The Stuff of Legends
Her mount was no Ranyhyn, and the beast was frail. It stumbled under her whenever a hoof skidded on the glazed ice. She could feel its heart strain against its gaunt ribs. But as soon as she was thirty or forty paces beyond her companions, Linden began to draw Earthpower from the Staff, using its vitality to nurture her horse as well as to warm her numb skin, her cold-stiff limbs. Surely she would not endanger Covenant and Jeremiah now, when her mount increased the distance between them with every stride?
Gradually the horse grew stronger. Its gait increased toward a gallop as she fed it with the substance of life.
Then she crossed the crest of the rise, and Berek’s camp appeared like a tapestry woven of fires and tents and wagons; picket lines and latrines; gritted pain, exhaustion, and graves.
The encampment seemed huge, although she knew that it was not. The surrounding dark dwarfed it. Nevertheless it was all that the night contained. The larger host of Berek’s foes lay beyond the reach of her senses. Even the stars were lessened by the human multitude of the camp’s fires.
As she crossed the ridge, she was already near enough to see individual figures; dim tottering shapes that moved among the tents and campfires. Most of the tents were small, hardly big enough for two or three warriors to share their meager warmth. But a few were larger: mess tents, perhaps, or command posts. One of these occupied the center of the encampment. Linden guessed that it was Berek’s. However, three of the tents were the size of pavilions, and their burden of suffering drew her toward them immediately. Enclosed by thick clusters of wagons, they had been erected along the northern edge of the encampment, as far as possible from any attack; and they called out to every dimension of her health-sense, beseeching her for succor. There the most grievously wounded of Berek’s army carried on their faint and fading struggle for life.
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