4.
Attempts Must Be Made
037
Storms of time and anguish filled the night. Somewhere turiya Raver imposed purpose on Joan’s weakness by sheer brutality; compelled her to direct her blasts. Moments after Linden quenched the nearest caesure, a fourth made madness of the stream at the foot of the canyon, spun the sand where she and her companions had eaten and slept into a migraine tornado. A fifth nearly claimed Branl as he sprinted toward the company. He saved himself only by diving headlong down a bouldered slope. A sixth found the ridge a stone’s throw to the east and staggered closer.
After that, there were no more. The Raver must have exhausted Joan. Still five fierce instances of chaos converged on Jeremiah—or on the krill. Linden could not answer them all. Other storms raged through her, leaving her concentration in shreds.
Liand.
She had brought this upon him. In spite of his youth and ignorance, she had allowed him to accompany her when she fled from Mithil Stonedown. She had taken him to Revelstone, where he had become the first true Stonedownor in many millennia. And she had practically commanded him to risk his life for Jeremiah.
Liand!
She had seen Anele gesture at Liand, asking for the orcrest and sanity: his only defense against possession. But in the frenzy of other pressures, she had ignored the old man’s plea.
Liand!
Here was the result. Still on his knees, Liand leaned against Jeremiah’s legs, resting there with his skull torn open as though he prayed to the idol of a false god.
In a sense, Handir had foretold this. Speaking of Anele, the Voice of the Masters had said, Yet the Earthpower within him cannot be set aside. Therefore his deeds will serve Corruption, whatever his intentions may be. Now Anele had killed Liand.
It was too much. Linden needed to hold Liand in her arms and wail her bereavement; weep herself out of existence. Yet caesures lurched closer. Toward Jeremiah. Joan sent no more; but these five did not dissipate. Instead they raved like hurricanes trapped in spaces too small for them. Joan or turiya Herem had made them strong. And Thomas Covenant’s spirit no longer defended the Arch of Time.
If Linden did not set aside her horror and grief—and if she did not do so now—everyone she loved would be destroyed. Swept away into a future of unrelieved absence and cruel cold. The eventual outcome of Joan’s craziness.
Voices shouted tumult at Linden, but she did not hear Covenant’s among them. Stave said her name with something like urgency. She did not hear him at all.
Battered by storms, she could not look away from Liand and Jeremiah.
The hunger echoing like exaltation from the krill’s gem had begun to ebb. Now the croyel struggled for freedom. Finally it feared the caesures. Jeremiah jerked up his head; his arms. Reaching behind him, he clawed at Galt’s forearm, tried to drag it away from the throat of the creature.
If he shifted Galt’s grasp, the blade would bite into his own neck. Nevertheless he strained to free the croyel.
The Humbled did not move. He betrayed no hint that the heat of wild magic had hurt him. Unyielding as Loric’s dagger, his forearm defied Jeremiah’s efforts.
The Ironhand barked orders, rallied the Swordmainnir. Still on her back, Stormpast Galesend hugged Anele as though she meant to squeeze out his life. Swift as a hawk, Pahni threw herself at Liand.
Through the confusion, Mahrtiir yelled Bhapa’s name.
Instantly obedient, the older Cord rushed to Linden’s side. But she hardly noticed him. She only remained on her feet because Stave held her.
Caesures yowled at her from every direction. Their sheer wrongness made her want to puke up her soul.
Bhapa may have rubbed something under her nose. He may have dabbed a powder as fine as dust onto her tongue. Nothing made any sense—
—until she closed her mouth and swallowed; inhaled through her nose.
At once, the acrid sting of amanibhavam ignited flames in her as if she were tinder, apt only for bonfires and lightning, conflagrations that would consume the housing of her entire life.
She needed flame. Oh, she needed it!
With an inadvertent slash of Earthpower and despair, Linden sent Bhapa tumbling down the slope. Involuntarily her gaze followed his plunge; but she could not afford to watch what happened to him. The Fall which had routed Clyme was only heartbeats away. Bhapa was not swift enough to catch his balance and sprint aside.
This, too, was her doing.
There were four other Falls. They were all advancing. But she did not look at them. Crying curses as if they were the Seven Words, she flung dire Earthpower and Law like a shriek into the abomination which threatened Bhapa.
Perhaps she extinguished it. Perhaps she failed. She did not wait to observe the outcome. Like a surgeon surrounded by carnage, she did not pause to check her work or watch for intimations of survival. With Stave’s help, she whirled away.
Four more caesures. Four unconscionable rents in the necessary fabric of time.
Her Staff was a streak of midnight in Linden’s hands as she wheeled it around her head; lashed ebon fire like the scourge of a titan in every direction. Her theurgy had changed, but she did not feel the difference. It was an exact reflection of her spirit.
Blinded by fury and woe, she did not know whether she snuffed the Falls, any of them. Her own flame consumed her. Moments ago, she had been helpless; paralyzed. She had simply watched while Liand was slain; watched and done nothing. But if Lord Foul, or Joan, or Roger, or any abhorrent bane had stood before her now, she would have striven to tear them apart.
I perceive only that her need for death is great.
God damn right!
Shouting accompanied her grief-stricken rage, her inconsolable slash of flame. She may have been yelling herself. The only voices that she could hear clearly were the cries and excoriation of She Who Must Not Be Named’s victims. Around herself and her companions and the ridgecrest, she created a whirlwind to answer the seethe and distortion of the Falls. But she no longer knew what she did. Exalted or broken by pain and loss, she whipped blackness into the dark heavens until it seemed to erase the stars.
Until Stave reached out to catch hold of the Staff.
Until her vehemence and Stave’s grip nearly ripped the Staff out of her hands.
Then the energies of amanibhavam and fury failed her. In an instant, her lash of Earthpower vanished, leaving only Loric’s krill to answer the irreparable night. Panting like sobs, she sagged into Stave’s clasp.
“It is done, Linden.” His voice sounded as unrelieved as the Earth’s deep rock. He seemed to know the cost of what she had done—and had failed to do. “There is no more need. Wild magic and Desecration have passed. We endure.”
Word by word, he brought Linden back from storms. Every sentence restored some riven piece of her. Leaning against him, she believed that he had stopped her at the brink of a catastrophe as intimate as her immersion in She Who Must Not Be Named.
But he could not heal her.
“When you are able,” he continued as if he spoke for the darkness, “you will observe that we have lost only Liand. Bruises and gashed flesh we have in abundance. And Kastenessen’s fires were bitter to the Swordmainnir. But they are Giants, hardy against any heat or flame. They will prevail over their hurts. Also the Manethrall has preserved the Unbeliever. He is absent once again, but unharmed. And your son stands unscathed”—Linden felt Stave shrug—“apart from the many cruelties of the croyel.
“Six Falls assailed us, Linden. Nonetheless we endure.”
He may have meant to comfort her. But she could not be comforted. She felt like a derelict in his arms, wracked beyond repair.
Nevertheless her health-sense returned by increments. As her vision cleared, she saw that Stave spoke the truth.
Above her on the ridge, Giants towered against the benighted sky. The dagger’s gem lit their forms with silver streaks like cuts. Cirrus Kindwind had taken Covenant from Mahrtiir. Vaguely Linden recognized that Covenant had again collapsed into his crippled memories. Kindwind carried him in one arm as if to protect him from himself.
Frostheart Grueburn trod heavily toward Linden and Stave while Bhapa scrambled upward. The Swordmain’s face and arms radiated a scalding pain, and a deep contusion ached on one side of her forehead. Her right hand and forearm bled from various scrapes. Yet she was essentially whole.
As was Bhapa. Patches of skin had been torn from his limbs, but those injuries were superficial. At some other time—perhaps in another life—Linden would be able to treat them.
Both Grueburn and the Cord peered at Linden, perhaps seeking to assure themselves that she was still sane. Then Grueburn called a few words over her shoulder to Rime Coldspray; and the Ironhand passed them to the other Giants. Linden Giantfriend remains among us. She has suffered no bodily wound.
Galt and Jeremiah were likewise untouched. The croyel had ceased its struggles. The boy stood slack and vacant, as if the creature had relaxed his puppet-strings. Blood and gore stained his pajama bottoms from thigh to hem.
Careful to keep Anele from touching dirt, Stormpast Galesend climbed to her feet. Unconscious, the old man dangled in her arms as if every possible meaning had been taken from him. But he still gripped Liand’s orcrest as though it might restore what he had lost.
—the hope of the Land.
Fresh wailing strained for release in Linden. Biting down on her lower lip, she held it back. Any cry that she permitted herself to utter now would be Elena’s screaming, and Emereau Vrai’s, and Diassomer Mininderain’s. It would be the compacted rage and ruin of Gallows Howe.
Dark in Jeremiah’s shadow, Pahni had taken Liand into her arms. She knelt on gypsum and shale, hugging her lover against her while his sundered skull oozed its last blood onto her shoulder. She seemed as motionless as the Stonedownor, as unable to draw breath. Nevertheless the young Cord emanated distress as loud as keening. Her pain struck blows at Linden’s heart.
Gently Galesend bore Anele to the spine of the ridge where Coldspray and Kindwind stood with their comrades. At Grueburn’s urging, Linden forced herself to step away from Stave’s support. With Stave and Bhapa ready to catch her if she stumbled, she trudged toward her gathered companions.
Her friends. Who had loved Liand as much as she did.
Mahrtiir had placed himself like a guardian in front of Kindwind and Covenant. Blindly he scrutinized Linden’s approach. In his stance, she saw a raptor’s acute ferocity.
Clyme and Branl now stood poised on either side of Kindwind. But their attention was fixed, not on Linden, but on Anele, and their hands were fists. The krill’s reflections in their eyes resembled threats. They had stood watch over the company to no purpose. And they had foreseen the peril in Anele from the first.
Instinctively Linden feared them. They were Haruchai, Masters, the Humbled—and they had failed. If they did not fault Galt for Liand’s death, they would accuse Anele.
Hoping to forestall them, Linden said in a hoarse rasp, “You can’t blame him. He didn’t choose this.”
Days ago, Anele had urged his companions to give him the Sunstone when he requested it.
“The Earthpower is his,” Branl replied without glancing at her. “It alone enabled him to endure such possession. Also the madness is his. The openness to Corruption is his. Such flaws conduce always to Desecration. Who will accept the burden of his deeds, if he does not?”
“I will,” Linden answered through the turmoil of remembered cries. “It’s my fault.” She deserved this. “I only cared about Jeremiah. I stopped paying attention to Anele.”
Together Clyme and Branl turned to regard her sternly.
You hold great powers. Yet if we determine that we must wrest them from you, do you truly doubt that we will prevail?
Mahrtiir ignored the tension in the Humbled. Standing between argent and darkness, he retorted, “Do not speak of fault, Ringthane. The deed was Kastenessen’s. His and no other’s.” Suppressed mourning fretted the Manethrall’s wrath. “To assert otherwise is to urge despair in the guise of blame.”
“I stopped paying attention,” Linden insisted. “I let it happen. Anyone here could have told you what Kastenessen would do if Anele touched bare dirt without—” Her voice caught in her throat. Oh, Liand! She could not say his name. “Without the Sunstone. I caused this when I ignored him.”
Galt might conceivably have warned Liand. But she had seen Cail beaten bloody by his kindred. She had watched Stave’s expulsion from the communion of the Masters. For Galt’s sake as well as her own, she insisted that she was culpable.
But Mahrtiir did not relent. “And I will not hear of fault!” he shouted. “Attempts must be made. We have spoken of this, Ringthane. Even when there can be no hope. Your son requires redemption. Therefore Liand strove to succor him. To claim fault demeans the Stonedownor’s sacrifice.”
With a visible effort, the Manethrall lowered his voice. “Mischance alone released Anele from Stormpast Galesend’s protection. Thereafter Kastenessen’s deeds could doubtless be foreseen. Yet the assault of such caesures—aye, and of caesures invested with such purpose—could not. And it was not inattention which caused the mischance of Anele’s release. Stormpast Galesend’s stumble was the consequence of unprecedented hazards. If you wish to assign fault, you must name her also. Indeed, you must name every Giant among us, and cast aspersion upon all who have learned to love the Stonedownor. Like you, we knew of the old man’s plight, and of his desire to be given orcrest when some aspect of his madness demanded clarity.
“Hear me well, Ringthane,” Mahrtiir demanded through his teeth. “You tread paths prepared for you by Fangthane’s malice. Speaking of fault, you bind yourself to his service.”
Linden bowed her head under the weight of his ire. As if to herself, she sighed, “You don’t understand.” No one except Covenant had truly understood her. Lord Foul knew her better than Mahrtiir did. She Who Must Not Be Named knew her better. “What I’ve done is all I have. Without it, I’m nothing. I ignored Anele. I roused the Worm. I followed Roger when he was pretending to be Covenant.” Despair made sense. The new blackness of Earthpower in her hands suited her. “If I don’t take responsibility, I might as well be dead.”
All three of the Humbled watched her as if she had justified their deepest distrust.
She felt Bhapa’s desire to protest. Stave also seemed ready to object. But Rime Coldspray spoke first.
“Enough.” Like an appeal for forbearance, she rested one hand on Clyme’s shoulder. “Linden Giantfriend, it is enough. If joy is in the ears that hear, then I must answer you with laughter. I do not only because I fear to augment your dismay.”
Frostheart Grueburn murmured her assent. Several of the other Giants nodded.
“You demand perfection of yourself,” Coldspray continued, “when mischance and error are the lot of all who live and die. You have assumed burdens sufficient to cow even Giants. For doing so, we honor you. If betimes you chance to stumble, as did Stormpast Galesend—
“Well.” The Ironhand tightened her grip on Clyme momentarily, then released him. “Among Giants, you would perhaps be named Blunderfoot.” Frowning, she nodded toward both Latebirth and Galesend. “Thereafter you would doubtless be often teased. But you would not be faulted. In the caamora, you would allay your pain and lamentation. Then you would arise, and shoulder your burdens again, and be held in undiminished esteem by all who accompany you.
“I myself,” she admitted, “have upon occasion assigned blame to myself. Now I cede that I erred in doing so. There was no harm in my heart when I delivered the blow which gave rise to Lostson Longwrath’s madness. There was no harm in Latebirth’s heart when by mischance she permitted Longwrath’s escape and Scend Wavegift’s death. There was no harm in Stormpast Galesend’s heart when she stumbled. And there was no harm in your heart, Linden Giantfriend, when you fixed your attention and yearning upon your son rather than upon Anele. If I grieve for you, I grieve only because your flesh cannot suffer the healing hurt of flames.
“There is wisdom in the Manethrall’s words.” Coldspray shook her head sadly. “You have spoken with the voice of despair.”
If the Ironhand had shared Linden’s nightmares, she would have recognized that voice. It was the scurry of noisome things that feasted on carrion; the shrieking of the bane’s victims. Ever since Linden had surrendered to the horror of She Who Must Not Be Named??no, ever since she had stood on Gallows Howe—she had forgotten forgiveness.
She did not choose to remember it now.
With the surface of her mind, however, she understood Coldspray. She understood Mahrtiir. Superficially she could acknowledge their arguments. And she had succeeded in her immediate aim: she had deflected the recriminations of the Humbled from both Galt and Anele.
“All right,” she muttered without lifting her head. “I get it. Liand is dead.” She said his name as if it were as dangerous as the krill. “The croyel still has Jeremiah. That’s what matters. Talking about me right now is just a distraction.
“We’re wasting time.” Grimly she forced herself to look up at her companions. “We ought to concentrate on what’s important.”
The Giants had no wood for a caamora. Like Linden and the Ramen and even Stave, they would have to find some other way to anneal their loss.
Apparently Pahni had been waiting for Linden to acknowledge Liand’s death. Now she lowered him to the ground. Gently she settled his limbs as if to make him comfortable. Then she surged to her feet and flung herself at Linden.
With the krill’s light behind her, the Cord’s visage was masked by shadows. Nevertheless her anguish outran her. Pain as raw as an objurgation stung Linden like a blow. Before Pahni reached her, she flinched.
Quicker than the girl, Stave stepped forward to intercept her. But Pahni wrenched to a halt before he touched her. Her garrote she gripped taut between her fists, although she seemed unaware of it. For a moment, her chest heaved so hard that she could not shape words.
“Cord,” Mahrtiir said sharply. “Compose yourself.” Ire and compassion struggled in his tone. “This is unseemly.”
Pahni ignored him. “Ringthane!” she cried: a ragged shout rife with imminent hysteria. “Restore him!”
“Pahni!” Now the Manethrall’s voice cracked like a whip. “Compose yourself! Is this the conduct of a Cord?”
Still she ignored him. In jagged gasps, she demanded, “You must restore him!”
Shaken, Linden hardly heard herself protest, “I can’t.”
“You must!” yelled Pahni. “He is my love! And his death is needless! He has given himself in your name, and it is needless!”
“Pahni!” Mahrtiir urged. With both hands, he reached out to restrain or embrace her.
So fluidly that Linden scarcely saw her move, Pahni snapped her garrote around the Manethrall’s wrists, jerked them together. In the same motion, she sprang past Mahrtiir and raised her arms over her head; used her fighting cord to flip him off his feet.
Branl caught him before he struck the ground. Clyme positioned himself to ward off a following attack.
But Pahni had already returned to Linden. She held her garrote ready for Linden’s throat.
“You will heed me, Ringthane!” she shouted like pelting hailstones. “In Andelain, you restored your own love! Now you will return mine to me! Every instrument is present. White gold. The Staff of Law. The krill of High Lord Loric. And there”—she did not drop her hands—“lies Liand slain!
“Are you heartless? I know that you are not! Therefore you must renew his life!”
Mahrtiir had regained his feet. Now he showed his own speed. Blind, he moved unerringly to grasp Pahni’s garrote between her fists. Then he was behind her. Pulling on her cord, he bent her arms until he could pin them with his own.
“Pahni,” groaned Bhapa. “Oh, Pahni.” Refused weeping clogged his voice. “You must not. You must not.”
“Ringthane!” The young Cord thrashed against Mahrtiir’s clasp. “You will heed me!”
Her every word left wounds like the scoring of claws.
“I can’t,” Linden said again. Abruptly she dropped her Staff. As if she were striking herself, she snatched Covenant’s ring out of her pocket and hurled it to the dirt. Then she went to wrap her arms around Pahni and Mahrtiir.
“I would if I could,” she breathed like a moan in Pahni’s ear. “For you, I would. Even if I didn’t love him myself.” Even if she had not already violated so many Laws. “But I can’t. I just can’t.
“I don’t know where he is.”
For a moment, the Cord paused to listen. Then she began to fight again. “He is there!” she cried as if she wanted to sink her teeth into Linden’s throat. “His body lies there!”
“I know.” Like Bhapa, Linden refused weeping. “I know that. But I don’t know where his spirit is.
“In Andelain, Covenant was right in front of me. I didn’t need his body because his spirit was there.” It implied every aspect of his lost flesh. “He was still himself. But all I have now is Liand’s body. I can’t call his spirit back,” even if she could have repaired his skull, “because I don’t know where it is.
“Maybe he’s among the Dead in Andelain. I hope so. But I can’t reach that far. I can’t locate him, never mind ask him to live again. And I can’t create a new soul for his poor body out of empty air. I don’t know how.” She had learned none of the lore of the Old Lords. Even the meaning of Caerroil Wildwood’s runes mystified her. “Whatever I made—if I could make anything at all—it wouldn’t be Liand.”
This time, the sound of his name in her own mouth went through her like a spear. It seemed to repeat the moment of his destruction: the brutal slap of Anele’s hands; the sudden rage of lava; the ravage of bone and blood and brain. Gasping, she clenched her teeth, bit down on her pain, so that she would not cry out in Pahni’s ear.
Briefly Pahni continued to writhe against Mahrtiir’s embrace, and Linden’s. Then, so suddenly that she appeared to stop breathing, the Cord went limp.
Imagining that Pahni had fainted, Linden released her. The Manethrall eased his clasp; shifted his feet so that he could scoop the Cord into his arms.
In that instant, Pahni spun free. Fiercely she threw a punch at Linden’s face: a blow that would have staggered Linden if Stave had not deflected it. Instead Pahni’s knuckles only clipped Linden’s cheek; jolted her. Phosphenes like lightning flashed across her sight and were gone.
Wailing, “He is my love!” Pahni fled.
Mahrtiir made no attempt to stop her. When Cabledarm moved to catch her, the Manethrall barked, “Do not!” and Cabledarm let the girl pass.
Sprinting into the night, Pahni headed down the southward slope of the ridge. Almost at once, she dropped beyond the reach of the krill’s illumination.
“Manethrall,” Bhapa protested: a muffled plea.
Mahrtiir faced Pahni’s flight. In his fist, he held her garrote. After a moment, he gestured Bhapa into motion.
“Follow, Cord,” he commanded softly. “Do what you may to ward her from harm. But do not intrude upon her sorrow. She has lost her first love. Such attachment is sometimes deep and lifelong, but always as rending as fangs.”
Linden had done nothing to relieve Bhapa’s hurts. She had treated none of her companions.
While the older Cord hastened away, the Manethrall addressed Linden obliquely. “She is Ramen. She will become herself again when she is needed.”
Then he turned to study Linden through his bandage. “Ringthane,” he said stiffly, withholding anger, “I crave your pardon on my Cord’s behalf. She would not suffer so, had she not heard the Timewarden imply Liand’s doom.”
I wish I could spare you.
“Nonetheless she is Ramen, and has committed insult. To raise her hand against the Ringthane is inexcusable. Yet I must excuse it. Therefore I will bear any consequence which you may choose to require.”
Mahrtiir—Unable to master her voice, Linden simply went to the Manethrall and hugged him: the only language she had.
At first, he stood rigid, affronted; as unyielding as one of the Haruchai. But then she felt him soften as though she had won his assent.
She wanted to sob on his shoulder, and could not. Her emotions were too extreme. Liand’s death and Jeremiah’s plight left no room in her heart for other forms of surrender.
After a moment, she stepped back.
“The consequence,” said Cabledarm gruffly, as if she expected an argument, “is that all must excuse Pahni of the Ramen.”
“Our regard for her is assured,” the Ironhand answered, mildly reproving. “We need no urging to countenance her grief and ire. Therefore I ask a more exigent consequence.
“Linden Giantfriend must also excuse herself.”
Before Linden could find words, Clyme spoke.
“The Humbled do not excuse her. All that has transpired results from her transgressions. We sought to prevent her violation of Law in Andelain, but were opposed. That failure cannot be undone. And because we are the Humbled, we now honor the Unbeliever’s return. Yet some action we must take against Desecration. We are Haruchai. We are Masters. In a former age, we were Bloodguard. We do not condone. Nor will we permit.”
“Permit what, sleepless one?” asked Mahrtiir sharply. “What is it that you will not condone?”
Around him, several of the Giants moved closer, ready to intervene. Cirrus Kindwind withdrew slightly to keep Covenant out of harm. But Stave did not react.
He knew what the Humbled were thinking.
Without inflection, Clyme replied, “You have beheld the blackness of Linden Avery’s flame. You have witnessed her taint. You can no longer doubt that Earthpower is perilous. Therefore we will retrieve the Sunstone from the old man. We will allow him no further access to its magicks. In his hands, orcrest may also be turned to Corruption.”
As if their rectitude were self-evident, Clyme and Branl started toward Stormpast Galesend and Anele.
“No!” Linden cried out. God, she had misunderstood the Humbled. Again! Fearing for Galt and Anele as well as herself, she had jumped to the wrong conclusions.
With one arm, Coldspray barred the path of the two Humbled, although she did not touch them. In a granite voice, she announced, “Nevertheless you will do Linden Giantfriend the courtesy of hearing her objection. You propose to wrest Anele’s only sanity from him. Yet he has served us well—and has been much abused. We will not stand aside while he is harmed.”
Out of respect for the Ironhand, perhaps, or perhaps simply because Linden no longer held her instruments of resistance, Branl and Clyme paused; waited.
Silent as the heavens, Stave moved to stand with Galesend.
“Name your objection, Linden Avery,” Branl commanded. “We will consider it.”
Linden felt her companions watching her. Deliberately she left her Staff and Covenant’s ring where they were. If the Humbled were caught in a contradiction for which they have no answer, as Stave had told her, they might be susceptible—Hell, they might be almost human. Her voluntary powerlessness might do more to sway them than any words.
When she had swallowed as much of her despair as she could, she answered carefully, “Maybe what’s happened to the way that I use Earthpower is corruption.” She could not tell. “Maybe it isn’t. But it’s an effect of the runes.” An expression of Caerroil Wildwood’s power. The legacy of Gallows Howe. “They seemed to come alive while I was inside Jeremiah. Maybe they changed my Staff.” Reinterpreted it. “Or they changed me. I don’t know how,” although she could guess why. “But they didn’t change Earthpower. You saw me snuff those caesures. You saw that Earthpower hasn’t changed.
“The Sunstone is what it is. It won’t serve Lord Foul.
“Anele needs it. It’s his only real protection. And it protects us at the same time.” Trying not to mourn, she insisted, “If we had given it to him when he wanted it, Kastenessen wouldn’t have been able to touch him. Liand would still be alive.”
She could not imagine what use Anele might have made of the Sunstone, or of his resulting lucidity. In Andelain, he had spent time alone with the spectres of his parents. For all Linden knew, they had shared insights which she desperately needed.
For all she knew, Covenant had urged the doom of the Sunstone on Liand so that it would eventually be inherited by Anele. The old man certainly could not have found or taken the orcrest for himself. The Masters would never have allowed it.
The flat faces of the Humbled concealed their reactions; but Linden did not stop. “As it is, we almost lost Galt and Jeremiah. And Kastenessen is still Kastenessen. As soon as he gets a chance, he’ll slaughter us all.
“If you can’t trust Anele, trust Sunder and Hollian. Your ancestors knew them. You remember that. If Sunder and Hollian thought that he might ever commit Desecration, they wouldn’t have called him ‘the hope of the Land.’ And they made it possible for us to escape the bane. How is letting Anele have the Sunstone worse than leaving him open for Kastenessen?”
Clyme and Branl gazed at Linden. Krill-shadows shrouded their faces: they looked as dangerous as darkness, and as unpredictable.
Trembling with self-restraint, she finished, “Before you make any decisions, why don’t you ask Covenant what he thinks? Sooner or later, he’ll come back. Finding the orcrest was his idea. Maybe he’ll remember why he wanted Liand to have it.”
The Ironhand of the Swordmainnir nodded. “Well said.”
“Aye,” growled Frostheart Grueburn as if she were clenching her fists. “Linden Giantfriend reasons wisely. I have felt my flesh scalded by Kastenessen’s touch, Giant though I am. I applaud her caution.”
For a long moment, the Humbled did not speak. They may have been considering Linden’s appeal. Or they may have already dismissed it. She could not read them.
But Clyme and Branl made no move toward Galesend and Anele.
From his place behind Jeremiah and the croyel, Galt stated, “I serve no purpose as I am, except as bondage for this fell creature. If a Giant will consent to assume my task, I do not fear to confront Kastenessen once more.”
With an unfamiliar asperity, Stave asked Galt,“And are you, Humbled and Haruchai, the equal of any Giant against the puissance of an Elohim who has merged with the skurj?”
“I repeat,” Galt retorted, “that I do not fear—”
Stave cut him off. “You are also a Master. That service presumes that you do not fear. Therefore it demands your concern for the larger well-being of others, for the preservation of your companions as well as of the Land.
“In this, you have already failed. You did not warn the Stonedownor of his peril. You made no attempt to evade Kastenessen, either for Liand’s sake or for that of the Chosen’s son. Do not speak of fearlessness when you have withheld your full service from this company.”
The krill blazed in Galt’s eyes, implying anger that his countenance concealed. Instinctively Linden feared an attack on Stave. For several heartbeats, there was no sound apart from the restless tension of the Giants, Mahrtiir’s vexed respiration, and the delicate waft of the breeze.
Then, in unison, the three Humbled nodded.
“We are answered,” Clyme announced. “For the present, we will await the counsel of the ur-Lord. If thereafter we determine a different course, we will speak of it plainly. We desire no animosity with the Giants, whom we honor. Also the Unbeliever has commanded our acquiescence to Linden Avery.”
In spite of her personal darkness, Linden felt a moment of relief. Rime Coldspray sighed: a gust of released pressure. Then she acknowledged, “That also is well said.” Other Swordmainnir broke their silence, commenting quietly to each other. Mahrtiir turned away as if he were biting his tongue.
After a brief exchange with Onyx Stonemage, the Ironhand said formally, “We are Giants. We crave the release of a caamora. Here, however, we have no fire for our grief. How then shall we lament Liand of Mithil Stonedown’s passing?”
Lament? Linden’s chest tightened at the thought. If she allowed herself sorrow now, she might not be able to contain it.
Yet how could she refuse to grieve for Liand, when he had given so much of himself?
She had done nothing to ease the burns and hurts of her companions.
“In a distant age,” Stave offered after a moment, “when each Stonedown was nurtured by the lore of the rhadhamaerl, Liand’s forebears raised cairns to honor their fallen.”
Coldspray considered the idea; nodded sharply. “Then we will do likewise. Perhaps it is fortuitous that we have no abundance of worthy stone.” She indicated the ridge. “We must delve and strain to wrest condign rock from the earth of these hills. By that labor, we will attempt to articulate our woe.”
One at a time, her comrades expressed their approval.
But Linden said, “No.” Then she corrected herself. “I mean, not right away. If you don’t mind, I want to be alone with him for a while.” She could not ease her heart by carrying rocks. “I need a chance to say goodbye. Before you cover him up.”
She read the emanations of the Giants clearly, though they did not speak. They were not reluctant to respect her wishes. They simply had no words suited to her distress. Stave and the Humbled said nothing. For its own obscure reasons, the croyel withheld its bitterness or mockery. But Mahrtiir reached up to touch Cirrus Kindwind’s arm.
“Come, Giant,” he urged quietly. “Let us discover if any of the Ardent’s largesse remains. The Ramen also must lament Liand’s death. But it is our nature to do so running, as Cord Pahni now runs, and perhaps Cord Bhapa also. I will expend my own sorrow when we have learned the full extent to which we have been harmed by caesures.”
Mutely Kindwind accompanied the Manethrall, taking Covenant with her, as he turned to descend the ridgeside toward the stream where the companions had left their supplies.
Together the other Giants bowed their heads and followed. But not in silence now. Instead, softly, their Ironhand began to sing.
“There is no death that is not deeply felt,
No pain that does not bite through flesh and bone.
All hurt is like the endless surge of seas,
The wear and tumbling that leaves no welt
But only sand instead of granite ease.”
Frostheart Grueburn’s voice joined Coldspray’s for the second line, and Cabledarm’s for the third. Line by line, each Giant added her sadness to the song until all of them were singing. Before the end of the second stanza, the Ironhand’s threnody had risen to become a shared hymn.
“Yet stone endures, endures, against the surge:
It comes to sand, and still the world is stone.
While shores are gnawed, new mountains elsewhere rise.
And so the seas’ lament is not a dirge:
It is a prayer for rock that fronts the skies,
“The calm of rock that always meets the seas,
A harmony that is both song and groan.
This music is the Earth’s reply to pain,
The slow release that lifts us from our knees.
By this, harsh death becomes both loss and gain.”
Stormpast Galesend still carried Anele, still unconscious, still clutching the Sunstone as though his fate depended on it.
While the last Giants left the ridge, Clyme and Branl separated, heading north and south to resume their insufficient watch. Stave also walked out into the night, although he did not go far. And Galt trailed after the Swordmainnir, taking Jeremiah carefully down the uneven slope. Soon Linden was left alone with Liand’s body.
Alone and lightless, regarded only by the bereavement of the stars.
Briefly she considered her Staff and Covenant’s ring, but did not retrieve them. Instead she moved slowly toward Liand’s ruined form. Thinking, Gain? Oh, Liand! she sank to her knees beside her friend and bowed her head to the pebbles and crushed gypsum.
There is hope in contradiction.
Maybe that was true. But she could not see it. Her only consolation was that Jeremiah did not belong to Lord Foul. If he had indeed been claimed, as the Despiser apparently believed, he would not need to hide his thoughts in graves.
038
When Linden returned to the canyon at last, with the Staff of Law in her hand, Covenant’s ring hanging from its chain around her neck, and sorrows engraved like galls on her countenance, the first pallor of dawn had touched the east, emphasizing the crooked horizon of the hills. Stave had joined her when she had walked partway down the first slope, but he had said nothing; asked nothing. And she had not spoken. What could she have said that Stave had not already heard?
In silence, they made their way across the shale and slippage of the hillsides until they reached the thick sand of the canyon-bottom and the impatient mutter of the stream.
There they found their companions organizing the supplies left behind by one of Joan’s caesures. In the light of the krill, Linden saw that several bundles remained. Most of the bedrolls were gone, as well as a few waterskins and two or three sacks of food. But a substantial portion of the Ardent’s providence was intact.
That was good fortune, better than she had imagined. But it did not touch her.
Anele was awake now, eating a sparse meal that Latebirth had set out for him. Protected in Galesend’s armor, he ate with one hand, clutching Liand’s orcrest with the other. However, he showed no sign that contact with the Sunstone had relieved his madness. When Linden studied him more closely, she saw that he had buried his legacy of Earthpower deep within him, as if he feared its interaction with orcrest. Not for the first time, she thought that he did not want to be sane. Not now: not yet. He dreaded what coherence would impose on him—or require from him.
Mahrtiir also was eating a little food. Jeremiah chewed and swallowed whatever Cabledarm put in his mouth, drank whatever she offered, without any perceptible reaction. But the Giants had apparently decided to save their rations for an occasion of greater need. And Covenant’s absence was as plain as a seizure. Broken memories held him, leaving him as uninhabited as Jeremiah.
As if Linden’s silence were a commandment, no one spoke. Rime Coldspray and the other Giants watched her with shrouded eyes, keeping what they saw to themselves. The Manethrall finished his food, swallowed a little water. Then, severely, he gestured for Linden’s attention and pointed her toward Covenant.
When she did not respond, he sighed. Breaking the night’s quietude seemed to cost him an effort as he said, “Like the Cords, Ringthane, I must run my grief. I await only your word. Shall I endeavor to rouse Thomas Covenant? Whether his plight is cruel or soothing, I cannot discern. Therefore the choice is yours.”
Part of Linden wanted to leave Covenant alone. She wanted the same thing for herself. But her need for him was greater.
“All right.” She sounded awkward to herself, as if she had forgotten how to use her voice. “Give it a try. We have too many decisions to make, and I don’t know where to start. Maybe this time he’ll remember—”
Her throat closed. Her last decision had led to Liand’s death.
Mahrtiir nodded sharply. He was in a hurry. Pinching the nub of a withered bloom from his garland, he rubbed it between his palms as he approached Covenant. There he squatted. With a mute glance up at Cirrus Kindwind, he asked for her aid. The last time that he had used amanibhavam in this fashion, Covenant had hurt his head on the boulder.
Kindwind responded by kneeling beside Covenant and cupping her hand behind his head. The stump of her forearm she held ready to catch him if he flung himself to one side or the other.
In slashes of argent from Loric’s gem, Linden saw Mahrtiir close Covenant’s mouth and press powdered grass to Covenant’s nose. She saw Covenant inhale; felt the lingering potency of amanibhavam spread like a pang into his bloodstream.
With such suddenness that Mahrtiir jerked backward, Covenant slapped his hand away.
“You aren’t here,” Covenant snapped. “You don’t see what Kastenessen’s Durance costs him.” His vehemence was as startling as a shout. “The Elohim think he deserves it. I don’t know how it’s possible to deserve this kind of pain.”
Linden’s health-sense recognized the truth. Covenant was still lost in some fissure of recollection. He spoke as though he stood at Kastenessen’s side while the horrific task of containing the skurj drove the Elohim mad.
Shaking his head, Mahrtiir rose to his feet. “Accept my regret, Ringthane,” he said gruffly. “He has fallen too far. Amanibhavam cannot restore him now.”
Linden sighed. “Then go.” In her own way, she was as displaced as Covenant. “Do what you have to do. When you come back, we’ll try to figure out”—she had no language for her sense of helplessness—“something.”
The Manethrall replied with a grave bow. Then he left the company, heading east along the floor of the canyon. As he moved, he gradually quickened his pace until he was sprinting blind. Soon he had faded beyond the reach of Linden’s senses.
He, too, had loved Liand.
Without meeting Rime Coldspray’s gaze, Linden murmured, “If you still want to do it, Liand deserves a cairn.”
The Ironhand nodded. “In a moment. First there is a question that I must ask. Linden Giantfriend, your discernment surpasses ours. Perhaps you will be able to answer.”
Done with apportioning and securing the Ardent’s supplies, several of the Giants gathered around Coldspray and Linden.
“We were informed,” Rime Coldspray began, “that the touch of orcrest inspires sanity in Anele. Yet now he holds the Sunstone—and is not transformed.”
“I know,” said Linden sadly. “I see the same thing.”
“Then my question is twofold. If orcrest no longer wields the virtue of sanity, does it yet ward him from possession? If it does not, what purpose is served by his grasp? In another’s hands—in the Timewarden’s, perchance, or in yours—it might aid us well.”
It might force Covenant to remain present. If so, he would reject it.
“And if Anele no longer finds himself in orcrest,” Coldspray continued, “are you not blameless for Liand’s death? While the skein of his mind remains confused, the deeds which ensued from your heedlessness would not have been altered. Does his state not demonstrate the unwisdom of claiming fault? Does he not give you cause to excuse yourself?”
Linden shook her head. “No.” Still she avoided Coldspray’s eyes. “He’s even more vulnerable like this.” She had found no forgiveness while she was alone with Liand’s body. “Orcrest isn’t affecting him right now”—she scrutinized the old man to confirm her perceptions—“because he isn’t letting it.
“Usually it triggers the Earthpower bred in his bones—or his magic triggers Earthpower from the Sunstone. Then he’s sane. But now—” Linden shrugged stiffly. “He’s hiding himself somehow. I didn’t know he could do that. But he needs his madness.”
Like an answer, the old man muttered, “Anele fears.”
His voice snatched at Linden’s attention. Cautiously she moved toward him. “Anele?”
He sat in the curve of Galesend’s breastplate, jerking his head from side to side. Occasional glints of argent accentuated the milky hue of his eyes. One hand gripped the Sunstone against his stomach as if to appease his incessant hunger. The other punched a rhythm at the cataphract, bruising his knuckles.
“He fears to fail—and to succeed.” With every phrase, he rocked back and forth in time to his blows. “He wears shackles of horror and shame. Murder. Futility. Error. Greater spirits speak of hope. They do not grasp that he is old and weak. Unable. He must, and cannot. Must. Cannot.”
Repeating, “Must,” and, “Cannot,” like a mantra, he hit the stone, oblivious of his audience.
“Anele?” Linden asked again softly, as if she were crooning to a child. “Anele?” The idea that he knew what he had done to Liand ached in her chest. “Just let it happen. Let it happen. I know that it hurts. But it might help us understand. We might be able to take better care of you.”
“Must,” Anele replied like an echo of himself. He may not have heard her. “Cannot.”
Gritting her teeth, Linden swallowed curses. She was intimately familiar with at least some of Anele’s emotions, and they ravaged her.
“I don’t know what else to do,” she admitted unhappily to Coldspray. “Trusting him is the only thing that I can think of. His parents were my friends. And they were talking to him in his dreams before he ever got to Andelain.
“Sometime long ago, he decided to be crazy—not to mention blind—because he couldn’t stand what was happening to him, or how he looked at himself, or what he thought he might have to do. But he’s still the son of his parents. I have to believe that his heart is as good as theirs. Eventually he’ll prove himself.”
So far, everything that Anele had contributed to the company, and to the Land, had been imposed on or wrested from him. In effect, insanity, blindness, and survival were the only choices that he had made for himself.
The Ironhand had come to stand near Linden. Now she rested a gentle hand on Linden’s shoulder. “We believe as you do. The old man has become dear to us. And we see no point of resemblance between his plight and Lostson Longwrath’s. For his sake, we pray only that ‘eventually’ will not be long delayed.”
Thus she sanctioned Linden’s desire to leave Liand’s birthright in Anele’s hands.
Then Coldspray stepped away. To her comrades, she said, “Come, Swordmainnir. A task awaits us. We must grieve with effort and stone, having no other caamora.”
At once, the other Giants readied themselves to depart. They seemed grimly eager to confront their own pain and loss. Only Cirrus Kindwind did not join them. Indicating her maimed arm with a grimace, she rose from her knees to stand near Covenant.
Linden smelled sunrise in the air. Soon dawn would find its way into the canyon. Of course the Giants needed to grieve. How could they not, being who they were? Nevertheless she felt a primitive desire to hold them back. When they had honored Liand with their sorrow, the company would need to make decisions. But she had no idea what to do—or how to face being asked to choose. She had failed Jeremiah. And she had sacrificed Liand in the name of her failure. How could she answer her friends when they posed their questions again?
Forcing herself, she nodded to Rime Coldspray. “I’ll wait here. Maybe Covenant will recover. Or Pahni and Bhapa will come back. There might be something that I can do for them.”
Certainly she had done nothing to heal the Giants’ burns and gashes, or Stave’s. In spite of her assertions to the Humbled, she feared the blackness of her power.
“That is well,” assented the Ironhand. “We will return when we are content.”
Without more words, the leader of the Swordmainnir turned her back on the stream and strode away. Flanked by her comrades, she rose into the first gloom of dawn until she and they became one with the gloaming, discernible only by their troubled auras.
Sighing to herself, Linden considered the radiance of Loric’s krill for a moment; looked at Galt’s rigid stoicism and the croyel’s quiescent malice and Jeremiah’s emptiness. Briefly she wondered whether Stave might be able to offer some insight into her dilemmas, as he had done before.
But his chance to speak would come, as would that of the Humbled. All of Linden’s companions would be free to say what they wished, to no purpose.
Without Covenant—
Her need for some loving touch throbbed like a deep bruise. Covenant had forbidden her; but his mind was gone. After a moment, she went to him. Setting down her Staff, she seated herself beside him; leaned her futility against his boulder.
Cirrus Kindwind had turned away. Her attention was fixed on her comrades in the distance, sharing indirectly the ambergris of their efforts. Stave’s manner conveyed the impression that he was listening to Galt’s thoughts, or to Clyme’s and Branl’s, rather than standing watch over Linden and Covenant. The croyel had closed its eyes, presumably resting. Jeremiah’s unfocused stare resembled the windows of an abandoned dwelling.
Linden almost felt that she was alone with Covenant.
For a time, she studied his vacant profile: the strict line of his jaw, the distinct assertion of his nose, the potential empathy of his mouth. Illumined by the krill’s argent, his silver hair looked like reified wild magic.
Tentatively, ready to snatch away her hand, she reached out and stroked his cheek with the backs of her fingers.
He betrayed no reaction. Under her touch, his skin gave off a faint hint of fierce cold and absolute blight: a sensation so diffuse that it was barely palpable. She could imagine him trudging across the gelid heart of a caesure within himself, trapped in a wilderland where her caress had no effect.
Oh, Covenant. She had never called him Tom, or even Thomas: only Covenant. In her eyes, pacts and promises defined him. Without them, she could not have learned to love him.
Leaning closer, she said in a low voice as soft as a breath, “I wish that you would come back. I need you. I can’t do this without you.”
Still he did not react. After a moment, an autonomic shiver ran through him as if he were indeed chilled; freezing in the white void of destroyed life.
He had warned her not to touch him. But surely that prohibition was meaningless while his memories ruled him?
Surely his flesh would welcome her human warmth?
With great care, Linden shifted closer to him. Timidly, as if she risked violating a bond as fragile as trust, she lowered her head to his shoulder.
When he did not flinch or spurn her, she allowed herself to snuggle against him; nestle her forehead in the hollow of his neck. Later she stretched her arm lightly across his chest.
In that position, his absence was vivid to her, as hurtful as a wound. Nevertheless she did not pull away. The sense of cold in him was growing stronger: she hoped to help him resist it. And she needed this contact. Since she could not rescue Jeremiah, Covenant’s involuntary embrace, vacant and fraught, might be as close as she would ever come to the touch of true tenderness.
Some time later, her hopes were answered. The wedding band between her breasts began to emit a gentle heat, responding naturally to his need. And soon the ring’s soft warmth eased his chill. He did not return to himself; but perhaps he had found his way into some less bitter region of his memories.
After that, the metal cooled again. Apparently he had stopped calling upon it, or he had slipped beyond its reach. Still his ring’s brief energy reassured Linden, as if she had been given a sign. Some of her fears receded as she waited for daylight, and for the completion of Liand’s cairn, and for decisions that she could not make.
039
Seeming as reluctant as Linden, the sun finally rose above the constricted horizon of the hills. If she had looked westward, she might have glimpsed daylight on the dour cliff of Landsdrop earlier. But she had remained pressed against Covenant, unwilling to surrender any precious moment of contact with him, until she felt the sun shining directly on her. When he recovered from his fall, he would push her away.
With the sun’s rising, however, she became self-conscious. Stave had heard Covenant forbid her to touch him. In daylight, she could not ignore the former Master. With an effort, she forced herself to shift until she leaned on stone rather than on Covenant’s unwitting support.
The sun was pleasant on her cheek, a balm for the night’s coolness. Later, she knew, it would gather warmth until it seemed too hot for the season. But by then the heat would be the least of her problems.
When she had stretched her arms and her back, she reclaimed the Staff of Law and climbed stiffly to her feet.
Stave greeted her with a bow. If he—or Galt and Cirrus Kindwind, for that matter—had any opinions about what she had done, they kept their reactions to themselves.
Kindwind had not moved. Her attention remained focused toward her comrades, although the shape of the terrain blocked them from ordinary sight. Apparently her health-sense was strong enough to discern what they were doing. With percipience, she shared their grief in the only fashion available to her.
Linden could have extended her own senses to the place of Liand’s death, if she had drawn upon the Staff to do so. But she did not want to observe the Giants at their labors, or to discern the shape of their lament: not until she had no choice. When the cairn was complete, Liand would be sealed away; entirely gone.
Instead she asked Stave quietly, “Are they almost done?”
He considered her question for a moment, then replied, “I deem that they are not.” Through Branl and Clyme, he could see the Giants. “Much of this region’s stone is porous and eroded, too friable to content them.”
“Aye,” Kindwind sighed without turning her head.
“Therefore,” Stave continued, “they search widely for boulders adequate to express their respect for the Stonedownor, and to expend their lamentation. I question whether they will name their homage complete before the sun approaches midday.”
“Aye,” Kindwind repeated. “By the measure of the Land’s need, and the Earth’s, they are too meticulous. While they labor, the time remaining to us drips away. Yet we are Giants. By the measure of our grief, their haste is great.
“And”—for the first time, she looked at Linden—“there is this to consider. We have not yet found our path. The perils arrayed against us are many, and we have not determined our course among them. By the measure of our indecision, the efforts of my comrades impose no delay.”
Midday? Linden thought. Good. She was not ready. She did not know how to make herself think about anything except Covenant and Jeremiah.
040
She prayed for Covenant, but he remained absent. The crevasse into which he had fallen was deep. The sun rose high and hot enough to draw sweat from his forehead, and still he seemed vacant, as though he had forgotten the Land and Linden and his own flesh. For him, Time had become a maze without an egress.
Instead Manethrall Mahrtiir was the first to return.
He came from the east along the shallow canyon, trotting as if his health-sense were as precise as vision. His chest heaved, and his garments showed dark patches of sweat; but Linden could see that he had begun to recover from his sorrow. He appeared calmer, soothed by physical strain. In spite of his bandage, he looked as keen for strife as ever. But his aura of anger and self-recrimination was gone.
Approaching Linden, he paused to offer her his familiar Ramen bow. But he did not address her, or wait for her to speak. Rather he continued down to the water’s edge, flung himself into the stream’s embrace, and let the current carry him along as he scrubbed dust and grime from his limbs.
Until he floated out of sight, Linden did not realize that she wanted to ask him if he had encountered Pahni.
Before long, however, the young Cord emerged from a gully among the southward hillsides. Moving slowly, with a tremor in her legs and a shudder in her respiration, she picked a cautious path toward Linden. Dust clung to her skin, a pale dun that resembled the hue of her leather jerkin and leggings. Caked with dirt and sweat, her features were a mask. From it, her eyes stared, white and stricken, like those of a woman who no longer recognized herself.
Before she reached the sand, she stumbled. Goaded by loss, she had pushed herself until she had nothing left—
Instinctively Linden started toward her. But Stave was faster; much faster. As Pahni fell to one knee and sprawled forward, he reached her, caught her. But he did not lift her in his arms. Careful of her pride, he only supported her until she forced her legs under her and regained a semblance of balance. Then he released her.
Expressionless at her side, he accompanied her while she finished her fragile descent to the floor of the canyon.
Then Bhapa appeared on a hilltop behind them. To Linden’s percipience, he looked less weary than Pahni—and less relieved than Mahrtiir. Concerned for the young Cord, he had run more to watch over her than to appease his grief. As a result, he was both stronger than Pahni and more troubled.
For Pahni’s sake, Cirrus Kindwind turned away from the labor of her comrades. As wordless as the Cord, the Giant set her hand on Pahni’s shoulder and steered her toward Anele, then urged her to sit. Uncharacteristically Anele had not touched his food since he had last spoken. Instead he crouched in Stormpast Galesend’s cataphract, staring blindly at nothing, and clasping the Sunstone in both hands as though he both needed and refused it.
Faced with the remains of Anele’s viands, Pahni seemed no more inclined to eat it than the old man did. Her gaze may have been as sightless as his. But Kindwind left the Cord there and went to retrieve a waterskin. When she held the waterskin to Pahni’s lips, Pahni took it and drank urgently.
Linden sighed in private relief. Apparently the girl still wanted to live, in spite of her bereavement.
There Bhapa joined Linden, Kindwind, and Stave. Descending the last slopes, he had regained a measure of control over his breathing. To Linden he bowed as Mahrtiir had bowed, gravely and in silence. But to the Giant, he said hoarsely, “Accept the thanks of a Cord, Cirrus Kindwind. Your care and kindness toward the least of your companions is a gift for which I have no adequate guerdon. I have long been a Cord, and have witnessed sorrow that would test the fortitude of a Manethrall.” Then he nodded toward Pahni. “Ere now, however, I have not seen grief threaten to extinguish any Raman.”
Pahni had begun eating. With painful slowness, she lifted small morsels to her mouth and chewed them as if they had no meaning except survival. She did not appear to hear Bhapa.
“In the lives that we have known,” the older Cord continued, “our love for the Ranyhyn is an anodyne for mourning. How can our hearts not lift when we behold the great horses in their glory? But in this circumstance Pahni is thrice bereft. Her joy is slain, the Ringthane has of necessity refused her, and here there are no Ranyhyn.
“My gratitude for your consideration—”
Bhapa swallowed fiercely, unable to find his voice again. He looked like he might weep, although his body had no moisture to spare for tears. As if he were ashamed of his emotions, he ducked his head.
More harshly than she intended, Linden asked, “Did you think about calling her Ranyhyn? Naharahn would have answered. Pahni wouldn’t have come so close to the edge—”
Then Linden stopped, cursing herself. She was not angry at Bhapa. It was her own role in Pahni’s pain that vexed her.
Before she could apologize, Bhapa raised his head. For the first time since she had known him, she saw ire in his eyes.
“The Ranyhyn do not live to serve us,” he said like sand scraped by stone. “They are not ours to command. We live to serve them. Until you came among us, no Ramen had ever ridden them. Enabling us to accompany you on your dire quests, they do us too much honor. None but a Manethrall may ask more of them.”
“I’m sorry,” Linden replied as gently as she could. “I shouldn’t have said that. I know better. I’m just upset that there’s nothing I can do for Pahni.”
Bhapa’s glare did not soften: he seemed unwilling to accept her apology. She had awakened his Ramen pride. But Cirrus Kindwind rested her arm across his shoulders and drew him away from Linden. “Come, Cord,” she said to soothe him. “If you deem me considerate, permit me to be so now. Your need for aliment emulates Pahni’s. Join her, I beseech you, and nourish your strength. We must soon depend upon yours, and hers, and every heart among us.”
Firmly Kindwind guided him to the meal that she had offered Pahni and seated him beside the young Cord.
“Thank you,” Linden murmured. Little as it was, it was as much as she could do. The comfort of resting against Covenant was gone, eroded by the effects of the Liand’s death. Pahni’s distress triggered reminders of She Who Must Not Be Named.
Cirrus Kindwind nodded; shrugged. Briefly she glanced at Stave, perhaps asking him with her gaze to watch over the Cords. Then she turned her attention toward her comrades once more.
The croyel kept its eyes closed. Jeremiah continued to gape at nothing as if he did not need sleep—or could not tell the difference between slumber and wakefulness.
Ah, God, Linden thought. Resurrected spiders and centipedes scurried on her skin. Covenant, please. I’m falling apart here.
But Covenant did not hear her prayer, or did not heed it. Sweating slightly, he slumped against his boulder as if he were as trapped as Jeremiah; as if his memories were graves.
After a while, the Manethrall returned, wading against the current. As he drew near, Linden saw that he had washed his garments as well as his limbs and hair. He had even scrubbed his bandage. Then he had retied it around his head, concealing the ruin of his lost eyes.
When he had surveyed Linden and her diminished company, he turned to his Cords. At once, Bhapa surged to his feet. Perhaps ashamed of his lingering anger, he bowed as if he were accepting a reprimand. But Mahrtiir did not address the older Cord. Instead, standing with his feet in the stream, he spoke to Pahni in a tone of quiet authority, confident that he would be obeyed.
“Cord Pahni, Bhapa requires your aid. He must bathe. You must insist upon it. He is a Cord deprived of his Maneing only by the absence other Manethralls. His appearance is unseemly.”
Linden had expected Mahrtiir to respond to Pahni’s pain more directly. But he knew the girl’s Ramen nature better than Linden did. In Pahni’s present state, attempts at consolation might only weaken her. Instead he directed her awareness outward; away from her woe and exhaustion.
Linden could not see Pahni’s face, but she felt the girl flinch. A moment later, however, the young Cord climbed, tottering, to stand upright. Wavering on the frayed edge of her balance, she bowed to her Manethrall. Then, weak as a foal, she turned to Bhapa. “Come, Bhapa.” Briefly her voice seemed to stick in her throat, clogged by sorrows. “Ramen do not protest when a Manethrall commands.”
Taking Bhapa’s hand, she led him into the stream as if he, too, had been blinded.
As Mahrtiir had foreseen, she responded when she was given reason to believe that she was needed.
If Linden had thought for an instant that Covenant would do the same, she might have tried to slit her wrists.
041
Eventually Rime Coldspray and the rest of the Swordmainnir came back from the ridgecrest, carrying their armor. After their fashion, they seemed as tired as Bhapa, and as unresolved. Yet their fortitude ran deep. Although they adored stone and sea, they were timbers, able to flex instead of shattering. To honor Liand, they had spent much of their endurance. But much remained.
When they had greeted Linden, Stave, and the Ramen, and shared their condolences with Cirrus Kindwind, they went first to the stream to wash off the grime of sweat and digging, and to drink their fill. Afterward they ruefully doled out an inadequate meal for themselves. Then, while the other Swordmainnir began to resume their armor, Rime Coldspray turned to Linden.
“Linden Giantfriend,” said the Ironhand formally, “we have spent too long in sorrow. The day advances, and doubtless the Land’s foes do the same. We must delay no longer.
“We”—she indicated her comrades—“wish to display our handiwork. Will you ascend to the place of Liand’s passing? From his cairn, we may set our course, for good or ill.”
“All right,” Linden answered. She did not want to see it. “I don’t have any better ideas.” Trying to be clear, she added, “About anything. I was counting on Covenant. I was counting on being able to free Jeremiah. Now I’m as lost as they are. If Covenant doesn’t come back, you’ll have to make our decisions for us. You and Stave and Mahrtiir. I’m done choosing.”
The results of her inadequacy were all around her. She had already done too much harm. And she had been changed by her nightmares; by mistakes and weaknesses beyond counting.
The Ironhand frowned. “You mis-esteem yourself. It is plain that indeed you do not forgive. Yet heretofore you have assumed great and fearsome burdens, as I have averred. Therefore I acknowledge that you require a greater respite. With Stave’s consent, and that of the Ramen, we will take upon ourselves the task of choice.
“If the Masters protest, they must name their own desires.”
“We will do so,” Galt stated flatly.
The Manethrall studied Linden and Coldspray. After a moment, he nodded. “It will be as you have said, Ironhand of the Swordmainnir. Nonetheless I must affirm that the Ramen stand with the Ringthane. When she becomes Linden Avery the Chosen once more, as she must, her word will command us, whatever the cost.”
Ah, God.—as she must—
Stave indicated his own commitments by shifting closer to Linden. His single eye watched Galt impassively.
The Master had already implied that he was not content to simply restrain the croyel. Like Clyme and Branl, he might soon feel compelled to act on other priorities.
Coldspray answered Mahrtiir’s nod with her own. “We are in accord, Manethrall. We also wish to follow Linden Giantfriend until the end. I seek only to ease her present distress.”
This time, the Manethrall bowed. “Then let us go now to honor Liand’s cairn as well as we may. We will make of the Stonedownor’s steadfastness a lodestone to guide our purposes.”
Bowing in turn, Coldspray stooped to retrieve her armor.
Frostheart Grueburn, Latebirth, and Halewhole Bluntfist had already fastened their cataphracts around them, loosened their longswords in their scabbards. Now Bluntfist lifted Anele’s unresisting form out of Stormpast Galesend’s breastplate.
The old man did not react. He seemed oblivious to the activity around him. His thoughts remained fixed on something that no one else could see: the dilemma of his personal contradiction, Must and Cannot in unrelieved succession.
Soon Galesend was ready to reclaim Anele. The rest of the Giants had secured their armor and shouldered their bundles of supplies. Unasked, Galt turned Jeremiah and the croyel, and began to impel them carefully up the hillsides toward the gypsum ridge. Cirrus Kindwind offered to carry Covenant, but Manethrall Mahrtiir stopped her. “Other attempts have failed,” he explained. “Mayhap the exertion of walking will reassert the claims of his flesh upon his mind.”
Then he instructed his Cords to take Covenant’s arms, raise him to his feet, and support him on his way. In spite of their weariness, they obeyed at once. Pahni’s dull stare conveyed the impression that she was too numb to care what she did.
Acquiescing with a shrug, Kindwind joined her fellow Swordmainnir. Shortly Linden and all of her companions were in motion, repeating their angled ascent to the place where Liand had perished.
Her friends intended to make her decisions for her—but only until she felt able to become the Chosen again: the woman in whom they elected to believe. They did not understand that Liand’s death, and the state of Jeremiah’s mind, and the bane’s screaming power had taught her the truth about herself. At her heart, she was carrion. Food for maggots and vultures. She was done with choosing.
She had no other defense against the Despiser’s machinations.