8.
The Amends of the Ranyhyn
054
Heading into the teeth of a bitter wind, the companions trudged toward the comparative shelter where they had intended to spend the night.
As soon as Stave handed the Staff to Linden, she stroked dark fire from the wood to counter the effects of her eerie ordeal. Then she extended Earthpower to soothe everyone around her.
They did not need it to the same extent that she did. Even Rime Coldspray did not require healing: her cataphract and bulk of muscle had preserved her. And Stave was Haruchai. He had been scalded by Linden’s burst of incandescence: beneath their coating of muck, his palms and forearms were blistered. Yet he seemed to shed his pain like water until it was gone.
Like Cirrus Kindwind, Stormpast Galesend, and Grueburn, Manethrall Mahrtiir and Jeremiah had played no part in the struggle. They had no discernible hurts.
Nevertheless Linden tended them all. She had put them in peril. Without knowing it, she had succumbed to the theurgies of the Feroce. She did not understand what the creatures had done, or how; but she felt sure that they had sent her mind back to Haven Farm. By some means, their green flames had caused that rupture in her reality. They had broken her connection to her present. And she had believed—
Somehow the fact that she had cut herself the previous night had left her vulnerable. Driven by memories, she had led or compelled her companions toward the Sarangrave. Where the lurker could reach them—and her Staff.
Now she tried to make restitution. At least for a time, she was not ashamed of the hue of her power. She felt more chagrin over the immediate consequences of her weakness.
And other issues were more important.
Who or what were the Feroce? What manner of magic did they wield? Why did they serve the lurker? Why did the lurker crave her Staff?
And why had the Ranyhyn abandoned their riders?
Carried in Grueburn’s arms, Linden felt Mahrtiir’s presence nearby. The long strides of the Giants forced him to trot, but the effort suited his compressed anger, his silent fulmination at his own uselessness. And at the actions of the Ranyhyn? Linden could not tell.
Slack as a discarded puppet, Jeremiah dangled in the cradle of Galesend’s clasp. He stared at nothing, as though the sky were empty of stars. Linden still did not know whether he ever blinked. Yet Earthpower pulsed in his veins. It had become part of him, as essential and vibrant as blood—and as devoid of purpose as his sealed thoughts.
Stave had dismissed his pain; but he was still covered in filth, stained from head to foot with mud, despoiled flesh, and the shredded remains of plants that fed on rot. And Coldspray, Cabledarm, and Bluntfist were no cleaner. Fetid water drained from the confines of their armor as they plodded between barricades of hills. Latebirth and Onyx Stonemage had not fallen: only their legs were caked and sodden, roped with mire and stems and putrid skin like vines. Yet their strides were as leaden as those of their comrades, clogged with old death, as if the touch of the Flat’s foulness had wounded them emotionally.
Or as if—
Linden groaned to herself.
—they had suffered some spiritual blight while she had floundered to escape the conflagration of the farmhouse.
Why did you prevent our aid?
God, what had she done?
In the confusion of flames and terror, she had thrown her medical bag. Because Covenant had told her, Do something they don’t expect. And because the marks on her jeans had shown the way. She must have thrown the Staff at the same time; must have believed that the Staff was her bag.
Over and over again, she had used her bag to beat back flames while she fled from ruin to ruin along the throat of She Who Must Not Be Named. The lurker’s creatures had found such things in her mind. Appalled past endurance, she had wielded her bag like a weapon against incineration. An instrument of power—
Some horror has befallen you!
Oh, hell. She must have used Staff-fire to repel her friends—to keep them away from her—as she ran down the engulfed hallway of hallucination or memory toward Sarangrave Flat.
Fortunately the Giants could withstand flames. Stave must have evaded her desperation. The Manethrall must have kept his distance, knowing himself powerless.
Nevertheless she was a danger to all of her companions.
But Covenant had also said, Just trust yourself. She must have done that; must have obeyed her instincts as well as her fears. She had seen a map in the random stains of blood and grass. And she had cast her Staff into the heart of her dismay. If she had not done so, the lurker would have taken her as well. The rupture imposed by the Feroce would have closed too late. No one would have been able to save her.
While she wondered how she would tell her friends what had happened to her, they brought her to the breach in the hills where they had sheltered earlier. When Grueburn set her on her feet in the hollow, Linden spent a quick moment confirming that Stave’s burns were not septic; that Rime Coldspray’s chest and neck and joints were indeed whole; that Cabledarm, Latebirth, Bluntfist, and Stonemage had no grave hurts. Then she turned the energies of her Staff on the stone around her, tuned Earthpower and Law to the pitch of heat. If Stave and the Swordmainnir did not suffer from the wind, at least she, Jeremiah, and Mahrtiir would be warm. And heat would dry wet garments. Then some portion of filth could be brushed off.
How had the Feroce mastered her so easily? She knew the answer. The cuts that she had made in her lower leg had exposed her true weakness. The gradient of her descent into despair was increasing. You tread paths prepared for you by Fangthane’s malice. Everything that she did and felt exacerbated her entanglement in the Despiser’s designs.
But her cuts had also saved her. There is hope in contradiction. They had given meaning to the mark of fecundity and long grass. Her own blood had interpreted a script which she had worn since she had visited the Verge of Wandering.
That rich valley was a habitation or resting-place for the Ramen and the Ranyhyn.
As she considered what had happened, Linden grew more troubled by the behavior of the Ranyhyn. The great horses had faced other horrors in her name. Why had they abandoned the company now? When she was becoming weaker?
Sighing, Rime Coldspray unfastened her armor and dropped it. Then she seated herself, resting against the warmed stone. Cabledarm and Halewhole Bluntfist followed her example: the other Swordmainnir did not. Apparently they intended to remain on guard. Scowling with disgust, Latebirth and Stonemage rubbed dirt from their legs. Cirrus Kindwind drew her sword and left the hollow to watch the length of the breach. Stormpast Galesend continued to hold Jeremiah as if she did not want to disturb him. But Grueburn stayed close to Linden. Perhaps the Swordmain intended to intervene if the Feroce returned.
Linden wanted to question Mahrtiir. He or no one would be able to explain the Ranyhyn. But before she could frame her first query, a distant whinny pierced the wind.
It sounded like Hynyn’s voice.
It sounded angry.
Another neigh carried into the breach, coming closer. Kindwind looked quickly in both directions; answered her companions by shaking her head. Nevertheless Mahrtiir left the warmth of the hollow to stand beside the maimed Giant.
Linden held her breath until she felt the faint thud of hooves through the hard ground. Then she relaxed slightly. One of the horses was coming closer. More than one had returned.
A moment later, the Manethrall faced the south. Kindwind nodded in that direction. To show her respect, she sheathed her blade. Through the wind, Linden heard hooves more clearly. At last, she saw Hynyn’s proud head past the rim of the shelter; saw the glare of ire in the stallion’s eyes.
Without hesitation, Mahrtiir prostrated himself. But Hynyn did not regard the Manethrall. The stallion was too angry—or, Linden thought suddenly, too ashamed. Instead Hynyn fixed his attention on Stave. Dim in the night, the star on his forehead nonetheless resembled a demand.
Stave appeared to understand. Perhaps he simply trusted Hynyn. Or perhaps he had formed a desire in his mind, confident that the stallion would heed him. He had done something similar when he, Linden, and their companions had ridden through a caesure to Revelstone. Saying nothing, he strode at once to Hynyn’s side; vaulted onto the horse’s back.
Still ignoring Mahrtiir, Hynyn wheeled in the breach and trotted away.
While Linden and the Giants watched, the Manethrall rose to his feet. His bandage did not conceal the fact that his own wrath was unappeased. Linden knew him well enough, however, to feel sure that he was not angry at Hynyn. Rather he seemed to share the stallion’s vexed pride.
“Manethrall of the Ramen,” Coldspray asked quietly, “do you comprehend what has transpired here?”
Mahrtiir’s hands curled and tightened as if they ached for his garrote. Through his teeth, he muttered, “Hynyn offers amends. By the deeds of the Ranyhyn were we brought into peril. But of those who suffered tangible harm, only Stave rides. Therefore only Stave is suited to receive their first contrition.” Bitterly the Manethrall shrugged. “More than that I have not been given to know.”
Trying to be careful with his emotions, Linden did not ask why the horses had risked venturing so close to the Sarangrave. Instead she said, “There’s too much that I don’t understand. If the Ranyhyn are afraid of the lurker, they must have a reason.” A good reason. Otherwise they would never have forsaken their riders. “Can you tell us what it is?”
“I cannot,” Mahrtiir snapped. He may have meant, Do not ask me. “No Raman has partaken of the horserite. We do not share their thoughts and knowledge in that fashion.”
Linden bit her lip; did not pursue an answer. Instead she only gazed at the Manethrall, watching passions writhe beneath the surface of his self-command.
The Giants studied him mutely. He could not discern their faces, except with his health-sense. Yet he must have felt their concern, their curiosity, their desire for comprehension—and their willingness to respect his silence. For a few moments, he appeared to wrestle with himself. Then, by slow degrees, his shoulders sagged.
“Yet we speculate.” He kept his voice low. “How can we not? They are the Ranyhyn. It was known even to Bloodguard and Lords that they fear the abomination of the Sarangrave—they who master every other dread. How then can we not endeavor to grasp the nature of their sole frailty?”
He rubbed his cheeks; checked the security of his bandage. As if he were assuming a painful burden, he began to explain.
“The tale of great Kelenbhrabanal, Father of Horses, has been widely shared. It is no secret that in a distant age, when an onslaught of kresh and other evils threatened the Ranyhyn with extinction, Kelenbhrabanal sought to treat with Fangthane. Seeking to spare his failing herd, Kelenbhrabanal offered his own life in return for theirs. To this dark exchange, Fangthane consented readily, intending betrayal. Thus Kelenbhrabanal surrendered his throat to his foe, and his blood was shed to the last drop—and still the kresh came, ravaging, until the Ranyhyn could not survive except by flight. The home of their hearts they forsook. Nor did they return until they had won the Ramen to their service, to fend and fight for them.
“This tale all the folk of the Land once knew. Now it has been forgotten.”
Linden had heard the story before: the Giants had not. They listened avidly, with their love for tales in their eyes.
“But among the Ramen,” Mahrtiir continued, “the mystery of Kelenbhrabanal has been contemplated for uncounted generations.” Gradually a tinge of sorrow crept into his voice. “Across the centuries, telling and re-telling our tales, we have wondered, and wondered again. And always we have returned to the same question. How was Kelenbhrabanal slain?
“In every age of the Lords, we were assured that Fangthane is a bodiless evil. Aye, he is able to master or discard physical substance at will. And doubtless his theurgies are capable of tangible manifestation. Yet his essence is incorporeal. In this, he resembles the Ravers, who wield no direct force when they do not possess a host.
“How, then, was Kelenbhrabanal’s murder effected?” The Manethrall had slipped into a reverie of sadness. As he spoke, he turned his head slowly from side to side as if he were searching for insight. “If Fangthane assumed flesh to slay the Father of Horses, he risked physical death under Kelenbhrabanal’s hooves. And Kelenbhrabanal was too great a sire to be overcome by the manner of magicks which Fangthane wields indirectly.
“Yet Kelenbhrabanal was indeed slain. His blood was shed. Generation after generation, the Ramen have asked of themselves, How? By what means was Kelenbhrabanal’s life torn from him?
“What crime do the Ranyhyn grieve, apart from betrayal?”
There Mahrtiir recovered his ire. His tone became sharper; more insistent. And as his manner changed, Linden’s attention sharpened as well. She had never considered his questions, but she could guess where they might lead.
In the horserite, she had learned that the Ranyhyn felt shame. At the time, she had understood how and why they faulted themselves for Elena’s fate. But now she suspected that Mahrtiir would offer a deeper explanation. Obliquely he might reveal why beasts as knowing and sufficient as the great horses gave others the same selfless service that they received from the Ramen.
“We merely speculate among ourselves,” the Manethrall stated. He still spoke softly, but his underlying anger was plain. “We possess no knowledge of such matters. Yet the fear which the Ranyhyn evince toward the lurker of the Sarangrave—toward that evil and no other—is certain. Thus in our minds the mystery of Kelenbhrabanal has become entwined with the fear of the Ranyhyn, another mystery. And we surmise, having no assurance of truth, that the lurker was the means by which Fangthane slew the Father of Horses.
“Perchance we are mistaken. Fangthane has never lacked servants to do his biding. Yet the pith of our speculation remains. Among those evils which the Ramen have encountered, none but the lurker daunt the Ranyhyn. And we are certain that the great horses have not forgotten Kelenbhrabanal’s death. Their recall is renewed in every horserite across the generations, mind to mind, until each mare and stallion knows treachery and terror. For that reason, we surmise, they grieve, and cannot rule their fear, and are ashamed.”
Hearing the Manethrall, Linden understood his anger—and perhaps Hynyn’s as well. Covenant’s farmhouse still burned in the background of her mind: she had her own causes for shame. But Mahrtiir’s guesswork raised the question that she had not asked.
The Ranyhyn had chosen the company’s path. Why had they elected to drift toward Sarangrave Flat? Surely they could have found another route through the barricades of hills? What purpose had been served by exposing the company—exposing Linden and the Staff of Law—to the Feroce, and to the lurker’s hunger?
While she searched for a way to pose her query that did not sound like an accusation, however, the Manethrall’s manner changed again. As if he expected a rebuff, and did not mean to accept it, he said, “I have replied as well as I am able. Now, Ringthane, I also require a reply. That the Feroce imposed a geas upon you is plain. Yet they wielded no force to equal that of the Staff. Any and all of your companions would have intervened to spare you, but you did not permit our aid. With fire and seeming fear, you spurned us as you ran to the lurker’s embrace.
“I crave some account of the coercion which ruled you.”
Involuntarily Linden winced. She owed her friends an explanation: she knew that. But her vulnerability had not begun with cutting herself. Nor had it arisen from her encounter with She Who Must Not Be Named, or from Roger’s treachery, and the croyel’s, under Melenkurion Skyweir. She had brought it with her from her former life. Ultimately its roots reached past Sara Clint and the savaged ruin of Covenant’s home to the futility of Linden’s love for her son, to her failure to prevent Covenant’s murder, and from there to the plight of being her unforgiven parents’ daughter. She did not want to describe the real sources of her despair.
Nevertheless she could not refuse to answer Mahrtiir. His need, and the ache in the eyes of the Giants, compelled her.
Swallowing against a sudden thickness in her throat, Linden said unsteadily, “The Feroce—Whatever they are. They have a kind of power that I’ve never felt before. A kind of glamour.” Even with her health-sense, she had never been able to pierce the theurgy with which Roger could conceal or disguise himself. “But it was all in my mind. It took over”—she swallowed again—“the whole inside of my head.
“It wasn’t possession. They didn’t force me to think their thoughts. They didn’t control what I was feeling. Instead they used who I already am against me. They used my own memories to make me believe—”
She wanted to stop there. Surely her companions could imagine the rest? But no: Mahrtiir’s stance demanded more. The expectant attention of the Giants resembled pleading.
When was she going to start trusting them?
With a private groan, she told them as much as she could bear about what the glamour had unleashed within her.
Roger and Jeremiah. Covenant’s farmhouse. Sara Clint. The fire. Fighting the flames. She Who Must Not Be Named. Recursive agony and horror. Desperate flight.
Rime Coldspray’s eyes widened as Linden spoke. Frostheart Grueburn muttered Giantish oaths under her breath. But Linden did not allow herself to pause.
These people were her friends—
She elided as many details as she could. She did not wish to experience them again. But she interpreted the effects of the imposed hallucinations as she had explained them to herself.
“When I thought that I was beating at the flames, I must have been fighting you. Keeping you away while I tried to escape. But when I threw the Staff, the Feroce dropped their glamour. I wasn’t what they wanted.” Our High God hungers for it. The stick of power. “All at once, I stopped believing that I was trapped. The house and the fire disappeared, and I was here again.”
Finally Linden bowed her head. What more could she say?
Manethrall Mahrtiir regarded her in silence for a moment. Then, gravely, he nodded. “Ringthane, I am content.” He may have meant that she had accepted a burden as hurtful as the one he had been asked to bear.
Marveling, Rime Coldspray mused, “Much you have concealed from us, Linden Giantfriend—aye, and much revealed. You say nothing of the reasons for the Timewarden’s son’s deeds. Yet you make plain that you have long sought your son, at great cost. And though you speak little of your former world, you have allowed us to discern that it is fraught with hazard. With these scant words, too few to contain their own substance, you imply the import of your trials.
“Therefore I salute you, Chosen Ringthane.” Sitting, she pressed both palms to her chest, then spread her arms wide as if she were opening her heart. “Once again, you have wrestled life from the teeth of death, as by your own account you have done from the first. Had you not cast away your Staff—”
The Ironhand shook her head in wonder. “I am not shamed to acknowledge that eight Swordmainnir are no match for the lurker of the Sarangrave. We would have spent our last strength, and caused much hurt. But in the end, the monster would have taken your life as well as the Staff of Law, and all hope would now be lost. In Andelain, you surrendered your Staff to redeem your son. Doing so again, you have rescued yourself and us.
“Therefore,” she continued more quietly, “I ask your consent in one matter. I wish to forestall the necessity of further surrenders. By your leave, Frostheart Grueburn will assume guardianship of your Staff in the event that the Feroce essay another approach. We cannot be assured that her mind will not also fall into glamour, as yours did. However—”
“It will not,” put in Onyx Stonemage. “You speak of Grueburn, whose natural bewilderment excludes other confusion.”
Several of the Giants chuckled; and Grueburn retorted, “Fie and folly, Stonemage. Breathes there a Giant upon the wide Earth whose acquaintance with bewilderment is as intimate as your own?”
But Coldspray’s manner remained serious. “However,” she persisted firmly, “the Staff is not hers. She has neither skill nor aptitude in its use. Should the lurker’s minions bemuse her, we will be able to intercede.
“By your leave, Linden Giantfriend,” she repeated.
Stifling an instinctive reluctance, Linden nodded. More than once, she had trusted Liand with her Staff. Surely she could trust Frostheart Grueburn?
Her own response if the Feroce returned might be to tear them apart before they could intrude on her mind again. But that would mean more killing—and more despair. Eventually she would become like her mother, begging someone who did not deserve the cost to put her out of her misery.
Too many people had already paid the price for her first failure to rescue Jeremiah.
055
She had not slept the previous night. She did so now. Warmed by the partial shelter’s infused Earthpower, she stretched out on her ground-cloth, then wrapped it around her. In spite of the erratic moan and rasp of the wind, and the cut of the unseasonable cold, Linden Avery stumbled into sleep as if she were fleeing.
During the remainder of the night, she dreamed of bonfires and flame-ripped houses; of a crude throne like a gaping maw in the Lost Deep; of centipedes and intimate pestilence. Deep in sleep, she pushed one hand into a pocket of her jeans and grasped Jeremiah’s toy racecar as if it were a sovereign talisman, potent to ward off nightmares and malice.
She was still clutching the car when Frostheart Grueburn nudged her awake to meet the dawn of another unanswerable day.
With the distant rise of the sun, a light as grey as ash had drifted into the gap among the hills. When Linden blinked the blur of dreams from her eyes, and sat up staring as if she were dazed, she saw that Stave had returned.
He was clean. Indeed, he looked positively scrubbed. Every hint of marsh-filth was gone from his skin, his strife-marred tunic. Hynyn must have taken him to a source of clean water. There he must have beaten his vellum garment against a rock until even the stains of old blood were pounded away.
Now he stood between Manethrall Mahrtiir and Grueburn, gazing at Linden with his one eye and waiting as if he had never known a moment of impatience in his life.
His cleanliness made Linden consider her own condition. She had not been fouled in the Sarangrave. But she still wore the grime of riding in rain and harsh wind. She, too, needed a bath; needed to wash her hair. As for her clothes—
Nothing had changed. The over-worn flannel of her shirt looked like it had been plucked by thorns. A small hole marked the place where her heart should have stopped beating. The fraying threads where she had torn a patch from the hem were all that remained of her gratitude to the Mahdoubt.
On both legs below the knees of her jeans, green lines explicated her plight in a script that she could not read. Where she had cut herself, small blots of blood complicated the grass stains, altering them to obscure or transform their content.
Aching in every limb as though her dreams had been battles, Linden climbed to her feet. As she accepted a waterskin and a little food from Latebirth, Stave told her, “The Ranyhyn will convey us to a tributary of the Ruinwash. There we will find fresh water and aliantha.”
“That is well,” muttered Cabledarm sourly. “The muck of the Sarangrave”—she grimaced—“clings. It assails my nostrils yet. I cannot rub it away.”
The Ironhand and Stonemage nodded, sharing her distaste.
“But I must counsel against delay,” Stave added. “Chosen, I lack the Manethrall’s communion with the great horses. Yet in Hynyn I sense a new urgency. The Ranyhyn appear to desire haste.”
“Let the beasts desire what they will,” replied Coldspray. “We must wash. We will be better able to quicken our strides when rot and malevolence no longer clog our lungs.”
Haste? Linden wanted to ask. Why now? After walking for two days? But she was still too groggy to pose questions that none of her companions would be able to answer. Baffled, she drank and chewed and swallowed, and tried to believe that she was ready.
As ready as she would ever be.
Latebirth repacked the company’s dwindling supplies, tied the blankets into a tight roll. Apparently the Giants and Mahrtiir had eaten while Linden slept; or they had elected to forgo a meal. Stormpast Galesend informed Linden that she had fed Jeremiah, although he gave no sign of it. When Linden nodded to Stave, to Mahrtiir, to Rime Coldspray, the company set out, led southward through the hills by Cirrus Kindwind.
With the rising of the sun, the wind had ceased. Now the air was as still as a held breath: it was growing warmer. Yet it remained grey, tainted by fires and dust-storms which had never occurred. Overhead the sky was leaden with rue, as if a pall of regret had settled over the eastern reaches of the Land. Through the haze, the dispirited sun shone wanly.
In the dulled light, the company found Hyn, Hynyn, Narunal, and Khelen waiting on open ground. Beyond a narrow lowland rose another crooked barrier, and then another. But Linden did not regard the obstacles ahead. She was simply glad to see Hyn again.
She should have known that the mare would return. Whatever the Ranyhyn had sought near Sarangrave Flat, they had not wished to rid themselves of their riders.
An abashed look darkened Hyn’s eyes as she approached Linden; a suggestion of shame. At the last moment, the dappled grey hesitated. She halted just out of Linden’s reach, issued a nickering query. In response to Hynyn’s peremptory snort, however, Hyn came another step closer, then bent one leg and lowered her head, bowing.
Oh, stop, Linden thought. I don’t blame you. I don’t know why you did it. But I’m sure you had your reasons. If I knew what they were, I might even approve.
They’re Ranyhyn, for God’s sake. They’ll think of something.
To reassure the mare, Linden went to her and wrapped her arms around Hyn’s neck.
Manethrall Mahrtiir prostrated himself briefly in front of Narunal, then sprang onto his mount’s back. When Galesend set Jeremiah astride Khelen, the boy settled there, passive and unmoved, as if there were no perceptible difference between the Swordmain’s care and the young stallion’s. While Linden still held Hyn, Stave mounted Hynyn; and the Giants arrayed themselves around the Ranyhyn.
For a long moment, Linden gazed into the softness of Hyn’s eyes until she was sure that the mare’s abashment had faded. Then she looked up at Frostheart Grueburn.
“All right,” she said as firmly as she could. “Let’s go. I want a bath as much as you do.”
With a fond grin, Grueburn put her huge hands on Linden’s waist, lifted Linden lightly onto Hyn’s back.
At once, the Ranyhyn began to move, trotting at a pace that the Giants could match without running.
The horses had chosen to approach the next wall of hills at a westward angle, away from the Sarangrave; closer to Landsdrop. From Linden’s perspective, the barricade looked impassable, for the mounts if not for the Giants. But within half a league, the Ranyhyn came to a more gradual slope that allowed them to reach a notch like a bite taken out of the forbidding ridge. And as they passed between rocky crests gnarled with lichen and age, she saw that the south-facing hillsides provided an easy descent.
The hills ahead appeared to be the last obstruction plowed to defend the Spoiled Plains.
In the furrow between the ridges, Stave guided Hynyn to Hyn’s side opposite Frostheart Grueburn. Linden expected him to say something about her actions the previous night. But when he had taken his position, he remained silent. Apparently he desired nothing more than to resume his wonted role as her guardian.
She scanned the company; confirmed that Khelen bore Jeremiah easily, and that the Swordmainnir looked able to keep pace with the horses. Then she said to Stave sidelong, “You weren’t with us when Mahrtiir talked about Kelenbhrabanal. He did what he could to explain why the Ranyhyn are afraid of the lurker. But he didn’t say anything about why the Ranyhyn took us so close to the Sarangrave in the first place.”
The company’s present path demonstrated that the horses could have chosen a different route.
The former Master gazed at her steadily. “Chosen?”
“You probably don’t know any more about that than I do. But hearing about Kelenbhrabanal made me think about Kevin.” Both had sacrificed themselves, if by different means for dissimilar reasons. “I was wondering if you can tell me anything about him.”
Again Stave asked, “Chosen?”
Her query was too vague. But clarifying it would require her to reveal one of her deepest fears. Instinctively she wanted to keep the core of her emotional plight secret. Nevertheless the crisis induced by the Feroce had convinced her that she had to rely more on her friends. If she did not, she might never find a way to thwart Lord Foul’s intentions.
The next rise still looked insurmountable. Among steep slides of shale, sandstone, and gravel, massive knurls of granite and schist gripped each other like fists, too clenched and contorted for horses. Some of the slopes conveyed an impression of imminent collapse: any slight disturbance might unloose them. In places, slabs of sandstone leaned ominously outward, poised to topple. Yet the Ranyhyn approached the obstruction without slackening their pace, heading into the southwest as though they expected the hills to part for them.
Linden had fled flames in a hallway—a gullet—that had no end and no escape. She had only survived because she had turned to face the blaze; had read the map on her jeans and thrown away her only defense.
Trusting someone—
“There’s something that I want to understand about Kevin,” she told Stave awkwardly, “but I don’t know how to put it into words.” Grueburn’s presence discomfited her. Her friendship with the Swordmain lacked the earned certainty of her bond with Stave. Still she forced herself to proceed as if she and Stave were alone. “Ever since the Ritual of Desecration, he’s been called the Landwaster. I guess that makes me the Earthwaster. Compared to waking up the Worm, his Ritual looks like a petty offense. I want to know what he and I have in common.”
She needed a reason to believe that she had not already achieved Lord Foul’s victory for him.
“I can see how what Kelenbhrabanal did is different. He only sacrificed himself. And he did it because he thought that he was saving the Ranyhyn. He wasn’t trying to commit a Desecration. But what I’ve heard about Kevin sounds like how I feel.
“I mean like how I feel now. I didn’t feel this way in Andelain. Sure, I was too angry to think about the consequences. But I also had hope.” And need. “I wanted Covenant alive because I love him. But I also believed that he’s the only one who can save the Land. If I brought him back, I could afford to concentrate on rescuing Jeremiah. He would take care of everything else.”
Covenant was supposed to be her defense against despair. She had counted on that. She had never imagined that he would want to leave her behind—
“So now,” she finished like a sigh, “I want to know what Kevin and I have in common.” She felt the force of Grueburn’s scrutiny at her side; but she tried to ignore it. “He destroyed pretty much everything. I thought that I was saving everything.”
Fortunately Grueburn did not speak. If she had questions, she was too considerate to express them.
The Ranyhyn confronted the hills as if they were proof against mundane doubts. To Linden’s distracted gaze, the immediate slopes looked ready to slip. Sandstone columns whispered to her nerves that they were friable, too heavy to support their own mass. And beyond the columns stood glowering buttresses without any breach or gap. Nevertheless Narunal and Khelen began an angled ascent as if they were confident of safety. And Hyn and Hynyn followed without hesitation, surrounded by their coterie of stonewise Giants.
Somehow the surface held as horses and Swordmainnir pushed upward.
Stave appeared to dismiss the potential dangers of the climb. For a long moment, he was silent, perhaps probing the ancient memories of the Bloodguard. Then he replied, “If, Chosen.”
Grueburn nodded as though she knew what he meant. But Linden stared at him. “I don’t understand.”
Like a man who had resolved a conundrum, Stave stated, “That you share with High Lord Kevin Landwaster, who is now forgiven by his sires. If.
“Summoned to a parley with or concerning the Demondim, if he had not sent his friends and fellow Lords in his stead. Concerned and grieving for your son, if you had heeded Anele’s desire for the Sunstone. You believe that you might have acted otherwise, and that you are culpable for your failure to do so. Thus you open your heart to despair, as High Lord Kevin did also.”
Again Frostheart Grueburn nodded—and said nothing.
“Chosen,” Stave continued, “you have rightly charged the Masters with arrogance. They have deemed themselves wise enough, and worthy, to prejudge the use which the folk of the Land would make of their knowledge. After his own fashion, Kevin Landwaster was similarly arrogant. In his damning if, he neglected to consider that his friends and fellow Lords selected their own path. He commanded none of them to assume his place. Indeed, many among the Council valued his wisdom when he declined to hazard his own vast lore and the Staff of Law in a perilous vesture. Yet those voices he did not hear. Arrogating to himself responsibility for the fate of those who fell, he demeaned them—and failed to perceive Corruption clearly. Faulting himself for error rather than Corruption for treachery, he was self-misled to the Ritual of Desecration, and could not turn aside.
“So it is with you.”
Linden listened as if she were in shock; as if the impact of his words were so great that her nerves refused to absorb it. No, she thought, shaking her head. No. Damnit, I learned that lesson.
I thought I learned it—
Leading the company, Narunal and then Khelen rounded the base of the first plinth; altered the thrust of their strides to pass above the next column. In spite of the sun’s shrouded light, the day was growing warmer. Already the spires of porous rock appeared to shimmer in the heat as if they were about to shatter.
Hell and blood! Echoing one of Covenant’s epithets, Linden reminded herself that she had asked the question. She should at least try to understand the answer.
“Chosen,” Stave said again when he had given her a chance to protest, “I do not name the Unbeliever’s resurrection a Desecration. The Humbled do so. I do not. Yet there you were yourself arrogant. Fearing that your companions would oppose you, you kept your full purpose secret from them. By that means, you denied them the freedom of their own paths. Yet you were honest enough to acknowledge that you do not forgive. And you insisted upon doubt. So doing, you allowed your companions to estimate the extremity of your intent. Also, as you have said, your heart was filled with rage and love rather than with blame. Therefore your deeds in Andelain differ in their essence from High Lord Kevin’s.
“Now, however”—the former Master shrugged—“matters stand otherwise. Now you do not consider that Liand acted according to his own desires, or that Anele did not plainly or loudly or vigorously demand the orcrest, or that you had companions who might have been better able to heed the old man at that moment. Nor do you consider that the deed of Liand’s death was Kastenessen’s. Rather you demean all who stand with you by believing that there can be no other fault than yours, and that no fault of yours can be condoned. Doing so, ‘You tread paths prepared for you by Fangthane’s malice,’ as Manethrall Mahrtiir has said. Thus you emulate High Lord Kevin.
“In your present state, Chosen, Desecration lies ahead of you. It does not crowd at your back.”
Linden reeled in her seat. Had her mount been anything less than a Ranyhyn, she might have fallen to the ground. Stave said, Desecration lies ahead of you, as if he meant, I perceive only that her need for death is great.
God in Heaven! How bad was it? How fatal had her personal failures become? Had she gleaned nothing from Liand’s death, or Anele’s, or Galt’s; or from She Who Must Not Be Named? From the rousing of the Worm of the World’s End?
Did you sojourn under the Sunbane with Sunder and Hollian, and learn nothing of ruin?
Yet the world did not reel. The Ranyhyn did not falter, or feel faint. Those weaknesses were hers alone. Narunal and Khelen were moving along the foot of a high wall like a fortification, knuckled and obdurate; visibly impenetrable. After a score of paces, however, they turned upward and disappeared as if the stone had swallowed them. Behind them, Rime Coldspray beckoned to the rest of the company. Then she, too, was gone.
When Hynyn and Hyn reached that spot, Linden found that her companions had entered a narrow defile like a cleft in the gutrock. There the stone was cut as if it had been smitten by a titanic axe. The crevice was too strait to allow either Stave or Grueburn to remain beside her: the company was forced to file upward singly. But the steep clutter of the surface did not impede the Ranyhyn; and the Giants knew stone as if it were the substance of their bones.
Hynyn and Stave must have discovered this route during the night.
Desecration lies ahead of you.
Enclosed by uncompromising walls, she could not have turned aside to save herself from falling rocks or flung spears or theurgy. Jeremiah was beyond her reach in the gloom. Crude rock brushed against her knees. At intervals, she had to lean left or right to avoid an outcropping. Grueburn’s tense breathing carried up the crevice, magnified by echoes.
This symbolized Linden’s life, this defile. She had never lacked for help and support: not really. In the end, even Sheriff Lytton had tried to save her. Nevertheless she had never been able to turn aside. Ever since Roger had come to claim his mother, Linden had been caught between impossible choices.
And every compelled step took her closer to Lord Foul’s ultimate triumph.
Yet the defile was only a cleft in the granite: a passage, comparatively brief. It had an end. Already Linden could see it growing wider. Ahead of her, she sensed that Narunal and Khelen and now the Ironhand had emerged onto a more open hillside.
When Hyn finally surged out of the split, Linden was breathing hard, not from exertion, but from the constriction of her plight.
Desecration lies ahead of you.
She could not contest Stave’s reasoning.
Overhead a soiled sky covered the Lower Land like a foretaste of calamity. To her health-sense, the air did not smell of smoke or destruction. Rather it seemed to be the natural atmosphere of the region, characteristically arid, and reminiscent of ancient warfare. Yet no more than two days ago, the firmament had been blue, untainted by Kevin’s Dirt or omens. Like the previous day’s storms, this ashen sky was a consequence of powers or movements too distant for her to discern.
Linden wanted a few moments alone with Stave and Frostheart Grueburn. At her request, Hyn waited for Grueburn to rejoin her. Then the mare walked away from Mahrtiir, Jeremiah, Coldspray, and the arriving Giants. Without being asked, Hynyn and Stave accompanied her.
When she was confident that she would not be overheard, Linden asked Grueburn awkwardly, “What are you going to tell the others?”
She had revealed and heard truths that filled her with dismay. She was not ready to share them.
Grueburn cocked her head to one side. She appeared to be stifling a grin. “I have no wish to shock you, Linden Giantfriend. Yet I must assure you that Giants are acquainted with discretion. Your words were intended for Stave’s ears, not for mine. I cannot say that I did not attend to them, or that I will forget. But Giants tell no tales that have not been freely offered.”
For a moment, relief closed Linden’s throat. Saving her strength for Stave, she mouthed to the Swordmain, Thank you. Then she turned to the former Master.
He faced her stolidly, as if nothing had passed between them.
He was not merely her friend: he had been her best counselor. She had confided in him when she had felt unable to name her fears to anyone else. And in the Hall of Gifts, he had given her reason to hope for Jeremiah.
Swallowing dust and dread, she said, “You’re a harsh judge.”
He had named her doom.
His eye held hers. “Indeed. I am Haruchai.” Then he shrugged. “Yet grief is now known to me. Therefore compassion also is known. And in your company I have learned that I must aspire to humility.”
Just for an instant, the lines of his mouth hinted at a smile.
Desecration lies ahead of you. But Giants tell no tales—Obliquely both Stave and Grueburn triggered memories of Anele’s excoriated lucidity in Revelstone. She had promised to protect him from the consequences of her desires—and he had refused her.
All who live share the Land’s plight. Its cost will be borne by all who live. This you cannot alter. In the attempt, you may achieve only ruin.
Now she understood the old man. When your deeds have come to doom, as they must—She understood Stave. She had spent so many years taking care of Jeremiah, so many years tending patients too damaged to provide for their own survival, that she had forgotten how to count on other kinds of relationships. She had allowed herself to believe only in Covenant—and now she doubted even him. Blind to the implications of her actions, she had in some sense treated all of her friends like children or invalids.
Even Liand. Even Stave.
Why else had she felt diminished whenever they had risen to challenges which had defeated her?
She still did not comprehend why the Ranyhyn had risked taking her close to the lurker of the Sarangrave; but she knew what the experience meant. It had forced her to cast aside her Staff: the emblem of her arrogance. Perhaps inadvertently, the horses had shown her that she could rely on her friends to save her and Jeremiah and the Land when she could not.
Hyn and the others were still trying to show her how to find her way. How to forgive her weaknesses by having faith in the strength of her companions.
056
The company’s path upward remained tortuous until the ridgecrest. From that height, however, Linden could see that the southward descent was more gradual. And she caught sight of Landsdrop. Grey in the depthless sunlight, it loomed two thousand feet and more above her own elevation: a blunt rampart smoothed by the ages until it appeared almost blank; too sheer to scale. But she knew from old experience as well as from tales that Landsdrop was more accessible than it looked. There were trails of all kinds up and down the precipice, although she could not descry them at this distance.
Ignoring the impatience of the Ranyhyn, Linden studied the vista. Almost directly to the west, a thin string of water fell as though it had been tossed over the rim by a negligent hand. Dull against the dim stone, like a strand of tarnished silver, it dropped in stages, shifting from side to side as its plunge encountered obstacles, and casting fine hints of spray into the etiolated sunshine.
Was that the River Landrider, tumbling to become the Ruinwash? No, she decided. The stream was too small. It had to be the tributary that Stave had mentioned. At its base, it disappeared among the cliff’s crumpled foothills. When its twisted length brought it back into view, it was less than a league away, still tending generally eastward. There it gathered into a pool, little more than an islet in the barren landscape, before it turned southward, following the contours of the terrain.
In that pool, Stave must have bathed during the night.
The company reached it before a third of the morning had passed. Some of the slopes sweeping down from the ridge were treacherous, on the verge of slippage; but for long stretches, the footing was secure. Palpably eager, the Ranyhyn quickened their pace; and the Giants began to trot, cheered by the prospect of fresh water in abundance. Along the way, Linden watched Jeremiah for signs that he might fall from Khelen’s back. But the young roan was careful to ensure that nothing unbalanced his rider. Jeremiah sat the Ranyhyn as if Khelen were motionless.
Linden had a plethora of questions that she could not ask the horses. Why had they risked proximity to the Sarangrave? Where were they taking her? And why were they in a hurry now, when they had insisted on plodding for two days? Nevertheless she had reasons for gratitude. Khelen’s attentiveness to Jeremiah’s passivity was only one of them.
Urged by Mahrtiir, she and the Giants bathed quickly, drank their fill, washed some of the stains from their apparel. While the Giants gulped a swift meal of cured mutton, stale bread, and aliantha, Linden took Jeremiah into the stream and scrubbed briefly at his blood- and gore-streaked pajamas. But she did not linger over the task.
When she was done, the Manethrall announced, “Narunal makes plain to me that the Ranyhyn require greater speed.” His tone was raw frustration. “Time grows urgent. Events or perils have acquired suddenness. Why or how this is so, they cannot convey to my human mind. Nonetheless they must run.
“Their pace will be too swift for weary Giants. Yet they do not wish to forsake the Swordmainnir. Therefore I must remain with Narunal to guide the Ironhand and her comrades. With Stave, the Ringthane, and her son, Hynyn, Hyn, and Khelen will strive to accomplish the nameless intent of this quest. We will follow with such alacrity as the Giants are able to sustain.”
Before Linden or the others could object, Mahrtiir added fiercely, “Ringthane, I do not part from you by my own choice. More, I am shamed to be apart from you in this exigency. I do not willingly surrender my place in your tale. Yet my service to the Ranyhyn compels me. I cannot flout their will and remain Ramen.”
In their own fashion, the Ramen were as severe as the Haruchai.
“Hell, Mahrtiir,” Linden muttered. “I don’t want to lose you either. We’ve been walking for two damn days—and now we’re in a hurry? But—”
“But,” Rime Coldspray interrupted sharply, “we have agreed to entrust our fate to the Ranyhyn. We were not coerced to this heading. Nor were we able to select a clearer course. And the Manethrall belabors a manifest truth when he observes that we are weary.
“Linden Avery, we are Giants, loath to fail the aid of any and all whom we name friends. Yet we are also sailors. We do not choose the world’s winds. We do what we may to seek our own desires, but we do not pretend to rule that which is offered to our sails. Come calm or gale, we gain our sought harborage—when we gain it—by endurance rather than by mastery.
“For our part, we will accept the will of these horses. If they are worthy of the honor which Manethrall Mahrtiir and the Ramen have accorded them, they will not mislead us.”
“But,” Linden repeated, “I was about to say that I’ve been making too many decisions for other people. And I don’t know that the Ranyhyn have ever been wrong.” They may have erred when they had exposed her to the Feroce and the lurker; but she no longer cared. Like Hyn, Hynyn, and Khelen, she yearned for speed. Desecration lies ahead of you. She wanted to meet it before fear or despair paralyzed her; while she could still choose. “Something has changed. I can’t guess what it is, but I believe that they know.
“So maybe they’re right. Maybe you should eat more. Rest more. Try to build up your strength. Narunal won’t hold you back when you’re needed.”
Then she faced the Manethrall. “Mahrtiir, I’m sorry. I can imagine how you feel.” She had watched Covenant ride away without her. “But as far as I’m concerned, nothing makes sense anymore. And we’ve come this far. Without the Ranyhyn, we’re all lost now. I’m just glad that they still know what they want.”
Mahrtiir appeared to flinch. But his emotions were too complex for Linden to read clearly. He radiated chagrin, anger, pride, umbrage, all in turmoil.
Stave’s reply was to vault astride Hynyn. Sitting the stallion, he bowed gravely, first to Manethrall Mahrtiir, then to Rime Coldspray.
For perhaps the last time, Grueburn boosted Linden onto her mount’s back. While Stormpast Galesend did the same for Jeremiah, the boy seemed to gaze at the cemetery of his thoughts as though every grave had been emptied of meaning.
At once, Hynyn, Hyn, and Khelen started away from the pool. For Jeremiah’s sake, apparently, they moved slowly at first. But with every heartbeat, they lengthened their strides. Soon they were running at a full gallop.
The Giants let the riders go without a word. Linden suspected that they did not wish to acknowledge that they might never see their companions again. But Narunal whinnied a farewell. As it carried across the uneven ground under the ashen sky, his cry sounded as formal as a fanfare: a call to battle, or a proclamation of homage.
Leaning low over Hyn’s neck, and clutching the Staff of Law across her thighs, Linden prayed that she was not making a fatal mistake.