Nor did his vividness, his particular intensity, arise from his physical presence. He was little more than half a head taller than Linden: a stocky man, broad of shoulder and girth; prematurely bald, with deep eyes, a short-cropped beard the colour of old iron, and a nose that had been dented by a blow. His hands looked as heavy as truncheons, and they had seen hard use in spite of the loss of two of his fingers; the same two which had been amputated from Covenant. The slashed and battered condition of his cuirass and vambraces proclaimed that he did not remain aloof from battle. He was a powerful man, familiar with fighting for his life. Yet that also did not account for his obvious dominance, his air of unmistakable authority. Most of the men and women in his escort were muscular and injured, marked by an interminable series of fierce engagements.
No, it was his emotional aura that made him seem more distinct, more necessary, than the people with him. Covenant had said, He’s charismatic as all hell, but Linden saw more. With her full senses, she discerned that he was haunted by death; that loss and despair had been carved into the bedrock of his nature. And the sheer depth of his bereavements had taught him a desperate compassion. She loathed war, but her abhorrence lacked the intimacy of his, the hideously prolonged exposure to that which rent his heart. Now he grieved for his foes as much as for his own forces. When he slew them, he did so as if he were weeping; as if his strokes were sobs. He fought-and fought endlessly, season after season, battle upon battle-only because the darkness which drove his enemies left him no choice. And because he had given his oath to the Land.
He would have questions for her. He would demand answers. And Linden could not imagine arguing with such a man, or attempting to persuade him. When Vertorn announced with a bow. “My lord Berek, here is my lady Linden,” she did not respond. Nothing that she could say would raise her to the stature of the man who had created the first Staff of Law and founded the Council of Lords.
Yet Berek bowed to her as though her muteness were eloquence, and his gratitude enfolded her like an embrace. “My lady,” he said in a voice made gruff by incessant shouting. “your coming is a great benison, a boon beyond our conception. Already you have wrought miracles among us. Yet even a sightless man may behold your weariness. Will you not rest? With your consent, I will provide food and safety, and such small comforts as we possess, and will count myself glad to do so.”
Without warning, tears which were not caused by smoke and fatigue filled Linden’s eyes. She had not expected gentle courtesy from a man fighting for survival. Nevertheless she stiffened slightly; drew back as if she had taken offense. Surely, she would have said if she had not forgotten her voice, surely your wounded are more important? There are two more tents.
Berek studied her, apparently gauging her silence. Then he offered in the same tone, “If you will not rest, name any aid that you require. If it exists, and if it is possible for us, it will be granted to you.”
He seemed to understand that she could not turn away from his injured, his dying. In her place, he would have felt as she did.
Roughly Linden squeezed the tears from her eyes. Like wild magic, her voice was hidden from her; but she searched until she found it.
“Lord Berek,” she said in a thin croak. “My lord.” That was as close as she could come to matching his courtesy. “You’ve changed. You see different things now. New things.”
He nodded, frowning. “It is strange to me, glorious but unclear.” Her question may have perplexed or disturbed him: he had reason to wonder how she knew such things. Yet he answered without hesitation. “I cannot identify the significance of that which I now behold.”
You will, Linden would have told him. Just give it time. But too many people were dying. She could not afford to waste words. Instead she asked. “Have you seen any mud-or fine sand-that sparkles? Gleams? Like it has bits of gold in it? Or flecks of sunlight?”
Berek’s frown deepened. “I have, my lady.” Plainly he wanted to inquire, What do you know of this? How is it that you comprehend my transformation? But he did not. “It lies along the flow of water in streams and rivers. Sadly, I have no lore to name it.”
Her heart lifted a little. “Is there any of it nearby?”
“There is, my lady.” Again he did not question her. “We endeavour to place our encampments near water, as armies must. A creek lies a stone’s throw distant. When we broke the ice to draw water, I glimpsed a sand such as you describe.”
To herself, Linden breathed, Thank God. “It’s called hurtloam.” Unexpected hope filled her with trembling. “It’s full of the same power that’s changing you, the same power that you saw in the FireLions. It heals.”
Hearing herself, she wanted to wince. Heals was too small a word for the mystery of hurtloam. But she continued in spite of her inadequacy. “We need it. As much as you can find. Bring it here. And carry it in stone.” Stone would preserve its efficacy. “I’ll show your people how to use it.”
Surely now he would question her, and expect to be answered? Surely he would not comply merely because she had spoken?
But Berek turned at once to his escort. “Hand Damelon.”
A young man stepped forward promptly. Linden would have guessed that he was no older than Liand, although he had seen as much hard combat as anyone around him. He saluted by tapping his right fist twice against his twisted and mended cuirass, then asked. “My lord?”
Linden was too tired and numb to feel surprise. Damelon-Through the grime and blood of battle, the young man’s resemblance to his father was unmistakable, although he was somewhat taller and not as broad. Also he lacked Berek’s damaged nose as well as Berek’s emanation of Earthpower.
She was looking at the future High Lord Damelon Giantfriend, the man who would one day discover the Blood of the Earth.
Humbled by the presence of legends, she hardly heard Berek say, “Hand, you have gathered the names of those who report alterations to their sight and senses.”
“I have, my lord.” Presumably a Hand was an aide of some kind. “Some two score remain able to wield their weapons.”
In response, Berek ordered. “Inform each Haft and Warhaft,” although there was no command in his voice. He had no reason to doubt that he would be obeyed. All who are able to discern the gleaming in the sand will hasten to the creek, bearing any stone which may be used to convey the sand hither. They will search diligently for as much as may be found. Others will bear torches to light the search.”
Damelon nodded. “At once, my lord.” With a second salute, the young man strode quickly out of the tent.
Berek returned his deep gaze to
Linden. “Surely there is more, my lady?” His voice was rough with compassion. “You are one, and those who suffer, many. For their sake, will you not name further aid?”
Linden took a step backward. She had felt another warrior perish, a man no more than half a dozen paces away. Everywhere in the tent, she heard wounds cry out for succour.
“Just let me work, my lord.” She doubted that Covenant, Jeremiah, or the Theomach would-or could-help her. And Covenant and Jeremiah would not be able to abide Berek’s presence. Assuming that they had reached the camp unhindered- “I can’t think of anything else.” She did not feel equal to the challenge of explaining aliantha. “We need to talk. I know that. But first-” She gestured weakly around the wide tent.
“Yet you are weary,” Berek countered, “nearly falling. Is there naught that you require for yourself?”
Linden paused for a moment. Almost timidly, she murmured. “I left three companions behind. I hope that they’re safe.” Then she turned her back on Berek Halfhand.
While she reached out mentally for the strength of the Staff, she whispered to Palla, “Guide me, please. I need to rest my eyes.” She did not know another way to contain her weeping.
If Berek’s people found enough hurtloam, she could allow herself-
As Palla led her away, Berek commanded gently. “Healer Vertorn, you will interrupt the lady L
inden after each healing. You will not permit her to continue until she has swallowed a little of your wine and eaten a mouthful of bread.”
“My lord, it will be done,” replied the physician. Linden felt him hurrying after her.
But she soon forgot such details. Within moments, she had immersed herself once more in the hurts of the wounded and the fire of the Staff.
This time, however, she did not neglect to draw on Earthpower for support. And she did not resist Vertorn’s efforts to minister to her. The prospect of hurtloam had that effect on her: she no longer felt driven to care for every need except her own.
At some point during her endless progress back and forth around the tent, she became peripherally aware that Berek had not departed. He seemed to be standing guard, not over her, but for her; ready to give her his assistance if she required it. But she did not let his presence distract her from the next sword-cut and spear-thrust, the next trauma, the next putrefying infection. She swallowed wine and chewed bread as Palla guided her from patient to patient, and did not relax her flames.
By degrees, she grew stronger, in spite of her exertions. Vertorn’s herbed wine was a mild restorative. Bits of bread gave her a little nourishment. And the Staff sustained her. It could not redeem her mortality, but it preserved her concentration so that she was able to work effectively.
Then the first of the hurtloam arrived, carried in stone urns or on brittle pieces of slate. Linden dipped her finger into the glittering sand to show Vertorn, Palla, and Jevin how little was required for each wound, and how wondrously it took effect; and as she did so, she granted healing to herself. Spangles of revitalisation lit the blood in her veins, coursing through her heart until her pulse lost its febrile weakness, and the trembling in her muscles receded. Gradually the illimitable gift of the Land restored her to herself.
She was dimly amazed by the abundance of the vein of hurtloam which Berek had discovered. A score of his people made several trips each to convey the sand. Perhaps this was simply another instance of the Land’s largesse, undiminished because it had not been used until now. Or perhaps, like the FireLions, it expressed the Land’s response to Berek’s oath.
When Linden could finally blink the smoke and tears from her eyes-when she was able to see as well as feel the excitement, the near ecstasy, of the three physicians-she sent Vertorn, Jevin, and the irregular stream of warriors bearing hurtloam to the other tents. Those warriors, too, had been healed as they gathered the sand, and they carried their burdens with eager alacrity.
She did not think about ripples or time. She thought about lives that would have been lost, men and women who still needed care; and she was not afraid.
For a while, she and Palla laboured over the pallets alone, moving as efficiently as they could through the array of injuries and infections. But soon she realised that the worst was over. Dozens of warriors remained stricken, but none were near death. Some would cling to life for another day or two, some considerably longer. And Berek understood hurtloam now: he would search for it everywhere. In addition, Linden saw in Palla that touching the ineffable sand had awakened the physician’s latent health-sense. She, and Vertorn and Jevin, and perhaps every warrior who had been healed by it, would be able to recognise hurtloam for themselves.
If Linden rested now, she would not have so many-too many-lives on her conscience.
To spare herself, she began a more partial form of treatment, focusing on infections, pneumonia, and other illnesses rather than wounds. These required her keenest percipience, but they needed subtler care; demanded less raw power.
In her concentration, she did not immediately notice the growing mutter of voices outside the tent; the occasional shouts. But then she heard Covenant rasp distinctly, “Hellfire! Get your hands off me, you overgrown oaf!”
“Covenant!” protested Jeremiah. “We can’t-Berek-!”
Other voices protested as well. “Warhaft!” Yellinin shouted. “Lord Berek commanded courtesy!” And Basila added, “Are you deaf? The tale of her healing is everywhere!”
But Krenwill, who had vouched for Linden’s truthfulness, countered, “You do not see them, Basila. I did not until we gained the light of the encampment. They are sealed against discernment. Unnaturally sealed. They may conceal vast powers. Fatal powers, Yellinin. If they mean harm to Lord Berek-”
“Warhaft Inbull!” roared a man who sounded like Damelon. You will desist! Lord Berek has commanded courtesy.”
“I will not,” a guttural voice retorted. “Let Lord Berek chastise me if he must. I will not hazard his life on the faith of strangers merely because they journey with a woman who heals.”
Oh, shit. Forgetting the wounded, Linden dropped her fire and ran.
Ahead of her, the tent flaps burst open. Both Jeremiah and Covenant were flung inward by a huge man with rage on his face and blood on his knuckles.
An instant later, Damelon sprang in front of the Warhaft, attempting to restrain Inbull by main strength. But the big man swatted Damelon aside as though the Hand were a minor annoyance.
Linden saw him clearly, in spite of the smoke; saw him as if he were surrounded by torches. He looked as solid as oak, with massively gnarled limbs and a mouth full of broken teeth. The heavy slash of a sword had cut deeply into the left side of his face and head, smashing bone and cutting away flesh; chopping out a crease which had collapsed his features. The only expression left to him was a grimace as suggestive of death as a rictus.
Between one heartbeat and the next, running frantically, Linden understood that he was a traitor. His brutality was the self-loathing of a man who had turned his back on a cause in which he had once believed. She did not know how or why his loyalties had changed. Nonetheless his betrayal was as palpable as a chancre.
He had brought Covenant and Jeremiah here violently because he hoped to provoke an attack.
At the same time, almost simultaneously, she saw Jeremiah stumble to his hands and knees near Berek’s feet. And she saw that he had been hit. His left eye had been struck as if with a club. Some of the bones there may have been cracked. His eye had already swollen shut, silencing the cipher of his tic.
His blood still tainted the Warhaft’s knuckles. That was how Inbull had prevented Jeremiah from defending himself and Covenant. The Warhaft had taken her son by surprise, her son, striking him down before he recognised his peril.
And at the same time again, as though the images were superimposed, Linden saw Covenant struggling to avoid a collision with Berek. Covenant, too, had been struck: he staggered as if his ribs had been broken. But his efforts to recover his balance were hindered by the fact that he kept his right hand, his halfhand, thrust deep in the pocket of his jeans.
Frowning darkly at the clamour, Berek turned in time to reach out with one strong hand. While Linden strove to shout a warning and could not-the crisis came upon her too swiftly-Berek caught Covenant by the shoulder and steadied him.
Then Berek snatched back his hand as though he had been scalded. Involuntarily he gasped-
— and Covenant did not disappear.
Nor did Jeremiah. He remained on his hands and knees, staring with his good eye at Covenant and Berek in dismay.
Cursing, Covenant jerked away from Berek; into Inbull’s reach.
The Warhaft cocked his fist as if he had been justified by Berek’s reaction-and still Linden could not summon a shout. Although she ran desperately, she hardly seemed to move.
In a tone like the bite of a sword, Berek snapped. “If you strike again, Warhaft, I will have your head.”
Without warning, Linden was wrenched to a halt, caught in the grasp of the Theomach. Somehow he had passed through the throng of warriors as though they did not exist; or he did not. Now he stood in front of her. Catching her arms in a grip as compulsory as manacles, he absorbed the force of her haste effortlessly.
Her heart may have had time to beat once. She heard both Covenant’s voice and Berek’s, Covenant swearing viciously, Berek demanding e
xplanations. But then everything blurred as if the Theomach had lifted her partway into a different reality, shifted her slightly out of sequence with her surroundings; and all sound was cut off. She seemed to stand with the Insequent in a hiatus between moments, a place where causality and result had not yet moved on to their next incarnation.
Within their private silence, the Theomach urged her softly. “Say nothing, lady. Do not speak here. There are intentions at work which you do not yet comprehend, and upon which the outcome of this time in large measure depends.”
She fought him briefly. When she realised that she could not break free, however, she ceased struggling. Only her Staff and Covenant’s ring would aid her here; and they might prove disastrous.
Able to raise her voice at last, she shouted into the Theomach’s face, You did this! This is your path. Jeremiah can’t defend himself. There’s nothing Covenant can do. You haven’t left them any choice!”
He shrugged. “That is sooth.” His wrapped face made him appear as cryptic and careless as an oracle. “I regret that I did not foresee the Warhaft’s falseness and brutality. I desire only to aid Lord Berek. Therefore I employ your wisdom-aye, and your valour also-to appease his mistrust toward strangers. Thus I am indeed culpable for the harm which has befallen your comrades.”
Linden spat an oath. At that moment-between those moments-the Theomach’s intentions meant nothing to her. Ignoring his near-apology, she demanded. But why didn’t Covenant vanish?” And Jeremiah? “He said that Berek’s Earthpower is too strong-”
The Insequent studied her through his cerements. “The force within Lord Berek has not yet fully awakened.” As he spoke, he eased his hard clasp on her arms. “And he whom you name Covenant is more hardy than he has encouraged you to believe.”
Then he urged again, “Still I must insist, lady. I must caution you. Say nothing in the presence of others. When Lord Berek speaks with you and your companions alone, as he must, be chary in your replies. If you are at any time uncertain of what may be said, permit me to answer in your stead. By my true name, which is known to you, I assure you that my first purpose is to aid Lord Berek-and to preserve the Arch of Time.”
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