The Runes of the Earth

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Shaken by his distress, Linden reached out to comfort him; but he struck her hand aside.

  God help me, she thought. Protect me from people who punish themselves. She had spent far too much of her own life doing the same.

  Sadly she said again, “All right. Never mind. I can live without knowing that. Just tell me what the Law of Life is.”

  She already knew the answer. She only wanted to keep him talking while she groped for courage.

  “It is hope and cruelty,” he replied like a tocsin, “redemption and ruin. It is the boundary which distinguishes the end of death.”

  She had been in Andelain when Sunder and the last Forestal had brought Hollian back to life—and with Hollian her unborn child.

  Surely thousands of years had passed since that fraught night? It had nothing to do with Anele. It could not. Nor could Linden imagine that it pertained to her dilemma now.

  By its very nature, the new Staff of Law that she had fashioned should have stabilized the disturbed boundaries between life and death. And its wielders—Sunder, Hollian, and their descendants—would have wished to restore the Land’s essential health. Surely their use of the Staff would have healed the strictures which separated the living from the dead long ago?

  Such evils as Kevin’s Dirt and caesures should not have been able to exist in the presence of the Staff of Law. Had her efforts for the Land accomplished nothing?

  Everything Anele said carried her farther and farther from sanity.

  Roughly she demanded, “And you had something to do with it? It’s your ‘fault’?”

  In response, he clutched for the sides of her face. His hands shook feverishly. “Gaze about you!” he cried. “Consider the stones!” His eyes burned as if he had gone blind with terror and abhorrence. “Do not torment me so.”

  Trying to ease him, Linden softened her tone. “Does the Law of Life have anything to do with your birthright? You keep saying that you failed somehow. You lost your birthright. Do you want to recover it? Is that what you mean when you talk about hope?”

  None of this made any sense.

  Anele answered with an abject wail.

  Then he whirled away from her to scramble over the shattered rocks, heedless of his old flesh and brittle bones. She shouted after him urgently, but he did not stop. Groping for holds and footing, he fled as swiftly as his frail strength could take him.

  Again she looked around. Had he sensed some peril? But she saw nothing to alarm her. The sky and the sun hung over the quiet hills as if they could not be touched.

  The old man did not flee from her. He fled because of the question she had asked.

  “Anele!” she called again, “wait!” Then, groaning to herself, she started after him.

  Her bruises had begun to throb, draining her endurance. Unable to move quickly, she concentrated instead on placing her feet and bracing her hands so that she did not slip or tumble. If Anele desired her protection, he would wait for her when his distress receded. And if he did not—

  He was her only link to the Land’s present.

  When she had traversed half the rock fall, she glanced up and saw Anele standing on the rough grass of the hillside a few steps beyond the rubble. He had turned to watch her progress.

  He appeared to be grinning.

  Beyond doubt, he was a lunatic.

  He had stopped just below a bulge in the hillside. There the ground swelled into an outcropping, as if under the soil a massive fist of gutrock had been trapped in the act of straining for release. His position provided him with cover from the east while allowing him a clear view over the rock fall to the western hills, toward Mithil Stonedown.

  Had he thought of such things? Did his sanity—or his cunning—stretch so far?

  Linden sorely wished that she knew.

  At last, she left the broken stones behind, crossed a band of gouged dirt, and reached hardy grass. Pausing for a moment’s rest, she looked up at Anele.

  The blind old man held his head oddly askew, grinning at her openmouthed. His smile exposed the gaps between his remaining teeth.

  Despite his expression, the white glare of his eyes resembled anguish.

  Linden felt a pang of concern. Without hesitation, she ascended the slope until she stood no more than a pace below him.

  He was not tall: his head was nearly on a level with hers as she tried to gauge his condition; discern what lay behind his mad grin and tormented stare.

  “Anele,” she asked softly, “what’s wrong? Help me understand.”

  His grin suggested that he wanted to laugh at her. When he replied, his voice had changed; gained depth and resonance so that it seemed to reach past her toward the far hillsides, warning them to beware.

  Distinctly he pronounced, “I see that you are the Chosen, called Linden Avery. At one time, you were named ‘Sun-Sage’ for your power against the Sunbane. I have your son.”

  Then he began to laugh as if his heart would break.

  4.

  Old Friends

  Linden staggered backward, downhill: she nearly fell. I have your son, her son, at Lord Foul’s mercy. The eerie change in Anele’s tone echoed the Despiser’s resonant malice.

  It was as though—

  Oh, God!

  —as though Lord Foul spoke through the blind old man.

  She wanted to shout back at him, repudiate him somehow; but stark silence smothered her voice. Even the birds had ceased calling, and the breeze had fallen quiet, shocked still by the hurtful sound of Anele’s voice. In an instant, the air seemed to lose its warmth: a chill crept through her clothes. The sun mocked her from its unattainable height.

  Anele continued laughing in mad agony.

  “That dismays you, does it not? You have cause. He lies beyond you. At my whim, I am able to command or destroy him.”

  Stop! she tried to cry out, stop! but her voice choked in her throat.

  “Which shall I perform?” he mused cruelly. “Would it harm you more to observe him in my service, or to witness his death in torment?” He laughed harder. “Wretched woman! I do not reveal my aims to such as you.”

  For a moment, Linden could not breathe. Then she gasped, “Anele, stop this. Stop it.”

  Anele did not comply. Insanity or Despite held him like a geas: tears streamed from his white eyes. Barking harsh laughter, he took a step toward her.

  “Yet this I vow. In time you will behold the fruit of my endeavors. If your son serves me, he will do so in your presence. If I slaughter him, I will do so before you. Think on that when you seek to retrieve him from me. If you discover him, you will only hasten his doom. While you are apart from him, you cannot know his sufferings. You may be certain only that he lives.”

  His voice knelled in her ears. It was no wonder that the old man had lost his mind.

  The woman she had once been might have covered her ears and cowered; but she was different now. In response, an abrupt torrent of rage flashed through her, and she did not doubt herself. Inspired by memories of argent, she surged back up the hillside like a rush of fire. As she caught her fists in the front of his tattered raiment, she seemed on the verge of wild magic, almost capable of erupting in flame at will.

  “Foul, you sick bastard,” she hissed into Anele’s weeping face, “hear me. If you can talk through this miserable old man, I’m sure you can hear me. You’re finished. You just don’t know it yet. Whatever you do to my son, I’m going to tear your heart out.

  “Your only hope”—her fury rose into a shout—“is to let him go unharmed!”

  Anele struggled weakly against her grasp, but Lord Foul did not release him. His lips trembled as he jeered at her, “Fool! I have no heart. I have only darkness. For that reason, I strive to free myself.” His blindness sneered at her. “For that reason, I do not relent, though my torments are endless. For that reason, you may no longer oppose me.

  “No mortal may stand in my path. I have gained white gold, and my triumph is certain.”

  “Just
watch me,” Linden muttered. Deliberately she stepped back, letting Anele go as her anger took another form. She was too furious to bandy threats with the Despiser. “Talk all you want.” And she did not mean to take her ire out on the old man. He was not responsible for the words in his mouth. “I’ll have more to say when I find you.”

  Turning her back, she sat down on the grass and closed her eyes. Briefly her exhaustion became a blessing: she could sink into its depths and shut her ears to anything Anele might say.

  I have your son. Oh, Jeremiah. Hang on. Please. I’ll get you back somehow. I swear on my soul.

  I have gained white gold—

  He had access to Joan’s ring. That poor aggrieved woman had been brought here. And she must have drawn Roger after her, as she had drawn Linden. Linden could not imagine that he had been left behind to die of his wounds.

  —and my triumph is certain.

  How many enemies did she have? she thought, aching. How many people would she have to fight in order to reach her son?

  But she had more immediate concerns. She was near exhaustion and needed to concentrate on water and food. Shelter. Rest. If she turned her mind to them, such necessities would defend her against feeling overwhelmed.

  The Staff of Law should have made Kevin’s Dirt impossible.

  Opening her eyes, she scanned the hills. There might be a stream somewhere among them. If there were not, she should be able to reach the Mithil River. As for food—

  Surely treasure-berries still throve in the Land, in spite of caesures and Kevin’s Dirt? Long ago the Sunbane had been unable to quench them: they had endured its depredations even without the beneficent influence of the original Staff. At times she and Covenant, Sunder and Hollian, had lived on aliantha alone, and had grown stronger. If the gnarled shrubs had not been destroyed somehow, they should be easy to locate now.

  Groaning at her bruises, Linden forced herself to her feet.

  Anele remained rooted to the grass with his head on one side and moist distress in his moonstone eyes. He still wept, although he no longer spoke. Tears spread streaks through the grime on his cheeks into his ragged beard. His mouth worked in silence, forming imprecations or appeals which made no sound.

  “Come on,” she breathed to him wearily. “If you’re done threatening me, let’s go find water. And food.” Touched by his mute distress, she added, “I’ll start crying myself if I don’t at least get something to drink soon.”

  Perhaps he would comprehend that she did not intend to abandon him, and would take heart.

  In a cracked whisper, he replied, “You have delayed too long. The Masters are here.”

  The Masters—?

  Quickly she glanced around at the wide tumble of rock, and the hills beyond; the rolling slopes on either side of her. But she saw no one, no movement of any kind—

  Facing Anele again, she asked, “Where? I don’t see anyone.”

  “Then you are blind,” Lord Foul retorted while Anele’s features twisted in fear, “as you should be.” The old man’s chest heaved for air as if he were choking.

  Linden raised a hand toward him, made her tone as soothing as she could. “Try to stay calm. I said I would protect you. Just tell me where they are, if you can. Or point them out.”

  Anele chuckled between painful breaths, but did not respond.

  She started to turn away, then froze as a figure dropped out of the sky and landed on the grass half a dozen paces from her.

  He must have leaped from the edge of the bulge behind Anele, nearly a stone’s throw above her. Nevertheless the newcomer landed with feline grace and an easy flex of his legs, and stood facing her like a man who had spent long moments waiting patiently to be noticed.

  After her first fright, Linden felt a jolt of recognition. He was one of the Haruchai.

  Panting, Anele plunged to his knees as if his tendons had been cut.

  Relief nearly undid her as well.

  The Haruchai—Thank God!

  She had not known them when they were the Bloodguard, the guardians of the Lords: faithful beyond sorrow or sleep. She had first met them as the victims of the Clave, sacrificed to feed the Banefire with their potent blood. After that, however, they had served Thomas Covenant—and Linden herself—with a severe and absolute fidelity.

  For a long time, they had not trusted her. Committed to their own certainty, they had not endured her internal conflicts graciously. Nevertheless she had learned to consider them friends. They were men who kept their promises. And they had the strength to give their promises substance.

  They demanded of themselves commitments more strict than anything that they required from others.

  Friends, she told herself again. Answers. Anele feared the Haruchai, that was plain; but she did not doubt that they would aid her against Lord Foul.

  Their name for the Despiser was Corruption. He was their antithesis, their sovereign foe.

  The man before her had the characteristic features of his kind: a stocky and muscular frame; a flat, undecipherable countenance that seemed impervious to time; brown skin; dark curly hair cropped short. Above his bare feet and legs, he wore a short tunic made of a material that resembled vellum dyed ochre. A sash of the same hue cinched the tunic to his waist.

  A ragged scar, long healed, marred the skin under his left eye.

  If the Haruchai had not changed since she had known them, this man was a fearsome warrior, full of great force, prodigious skill, and uncompromising judgment. Even to her truncated senses, he seemed impenetrably solid, weighty enough to have gouged holes in the hillside when he landed.

  “Protect!” Anele gasped in his own voice. “Oh, protect. You swore. You swore!”

  The Haruchai glanced toward Anele. “She cannot protect you,” he stated with an awkward inflection. “We have sought you long and arduously. Now you are done. You will no longer threaten the Land.”

  For her companion’s sake, Linden moved to stand between him and the Haruchai. “Wait a minute,” she said unsteadily. “Wait. Let’s not rush into anything. I don’t understand any of this.

  “I know you. I mean I knew you. A long time ago. Back then, the Haruchai were another name for faithfulness. Don’t you know me? I was hoping that your people would remember—”

  She sagged into silence, momentarily defeated by the man’s lack of expression.

  “How can we know you?” countered the Haruchai. “You have not spoken your name.”

  Of course, Linden thought. She should have realized—Too much time had passed.

  As clearly as she could, she announced, “I’m Linden Avery the Chosen. I was with Thomas Covenant when he fought the Clave and the Sunbane. I don’t know how long ago that was. Time”—she rubbed a blur of memory from her eyes—“moves differently here.” Then she added, “Some of your people helped us search for the One Tree. Don’t you remember?”

  The Haruchai stared at her inflexibly.

  She stood her ground. “This poor old man is terrified of people he calls ‘Masters.’ I promised I would protect him. I won’t let you hurt him.”

  The newcomer continued to stare at her. After a moment, however, he replied, “We remember, though many centuries have passed. We remember the Lords before the Ritual of Desecration. We remember the destruction of the Staff of Law, and the slaughter of the Unhomed. We do not forget the malevolence of the Clave. The name you have given is known to us.”

  The edge of discomfort in his tone reminded Linden that among themselves the Haruchai communicated mind to mind. They did not naturally express themselves aloud.

  “It is spoken with respect,” he went on. “And your raiment is strange. The same is said of the white gold wielder, ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, and of his companion, Linden Avery the Chosen. It may be that you speak the truth. Later we will grant you opportunity to persuade us that we must honor you.”

  Then the Haruchai glanced at Anele. “But the old man is ours. He has eluded us for many years. We are indeed the Masters of the La
nd, and we do not permit freedom to such as he.”

  She regarded the Haruchai in dismay. The Masters—?

  Damn you, Foul, what have you done?

  The people whom she had known here had never sought to rule any aspect of the Land. Only the Despiser and his servants nurtured such ambitions.

  Certainly the Haruchai had displayed no interest in sovereignty. They had defined themselves by their devotion to people whom they deemed greater than themselves; to causes which they considered worthy of service. Linden remembered vividly those who had accompanied the Search for the One Tree, Brinn and Cail among them. In her experience, no one had ever matched their fierce rectitude.

  She would have been proud to call them friends.

  Now they were the Masters of the Land—?

  But the Haruchai before her had not finished speaking. “Do not fear for him. He will come to no harm. We do not desire his distress. We will only deliver him to Revelstone so that he may work no ill.”

  The Master apparently thought that this would reassure her.

  It did not. She had been through too much, and could not bear to fail another commitment. “You aren’t listening,” she told the Haruchai. “I said I promised to protect him. He’s old and confused, he’s no threat. And he’s terrified of being trapped. He won’t be able to avoid those caesures.”

  “We name them ‘Falls,’ ” said the Haruchai.

  Linden ignored that. “I don’t know why he’s so afraid of them. But I think they’re what broke his mind in the first place. Being helpless is the worst thing that could happen to him. He’s so scared—Any kind of restraint might destroy him. Even if you’re gentle about it, you could ruin what’s left of him.

  “I made him a promise,” she finished. “You of all people should understand what that means.”

  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.