The Last Dark (43 page)

She could not imagine an escape that did not require another
caesure
, another Desecration. And she could not guess what would happen if she violated Time in this era. Thousands of years separated her from Jeremiah, Stave, and the Giants; from any conceivable reconciliation with Thomas Covenant. The Law of Life had not yet been violated. A time-storm created here might consume every possible future.

She bit her lower lip in an effort to control herself; but she could not stop trembling. These trees did not belong to Andelain: she was sure now. The forest beyond them was too dark, too angry. And she knew of no time in which the heart of the Land had been gripped by a drought like this. Clearly Hyn and Narunal had ignored her desire to reach Caer-Caveral. So when
was
she?

Why did the mood of the woodland seem familiar?

Nagged by the same concerns, Mahrtiir continued, “Yet I confess that I am troubled. Was it not your intent to seek out the Forestal Caer-Caveral? That I conveyed to great Narunal. But this is not Andelain. Plainly it is not. Rather we have come to a place and time unknown to me.” He muttered a Ramen curse. “I cannot account for it. I am certain only that the gifts of the Ranyhyn are unerring. They have turned aside from your wishes for some good purpose.”

Linden nodded in bafflement. The presence of the great horses nearby offered an oblique solace. Still she could not keep the tremor from her voice as she asked, “Do you recognize anything? Anything at all? Can you guess where we are?”

The Manethrall scowled above his bandage. “In these straits, Ringthane, blindness hinders me, though I am not constrained by Kevin’s Dirt. I am able to assure you only that I have never stood in this region of the Land.” After a moment of hesitation, he added, “Among the Ramen, however, there are tales—”

His voice trailed away. Before Linden could prod him, however, he asked, “The trees lie to the north, yes?”

She nodded automatically, trusting his awareness of her.

“Are there hills in the east?” he continued. “Do they mount toward mountains?”

She looked in that direction, summoned Earthpower to increase the range of her senses. “If I’m not mistaken.”

“And in the west? Do mountains also arise there?”

Squinting into the distance, she murmured, “I think so.”

Mahrtiir’s manner became sharper. “One question more, Ringthane. Does a waste extend at our backs? I perceive barrenness. Does it spread to the horizon and beyond?”

“As far as I can tell. It looks like the edge of a desert.”

The Manethrall stood taller, straightened his shoulders as if he had found himself in the presence of majesty. “Then I must surmise,” he announced so that the trees and even the wide sky might hear him, “that we stand in the gap of Cravenhaw. Before us lies dire Garroting Deep. Narunal and Hyn have delivered us, not to Caer-Caveral, but to Caerroil Wildwood. If you would speak with him, Ringthane, we must dare his demesne.”

He sounded almost eager.

But his words gave Linden a jolt. Details came together, formed connections.

Caerroil Wildwood. Garroting Deep.

No wonder the darkness seemed familiar.

She had encountered Caerroil Wildwood when Roger and the
croyel
had stranded her deep in the Land’s past. At that point in his long life, the Forestal’s puissance was undiminished. He had given her gifts: her life as well as runes for her Staff. In some sense, he had made possible Covenant’s resurrection. And he had charged her with a question.

How may life endure in the Land, if the Forestals fail and perish, as they must, and naught remains to ward its most vulnerable treasures? We were formed to stand as guardians in the Creator’s stead. Must it transpire that beauty and truth shall pass utterly when we are gone?

He had understood that she had no reply. Nevertheless he had spared her. He had seen something in her,
the mark of fecundity and long grass
.
And the sigil of the Land’s need has been placed upon her
. What sigil? For all she knew, then or now, he had referred to the bullet hole in her shirt. Or to the healed wound in her hand where the
croyel
had stabbed her. Still she had felt compelled to promise an answer.

But long ago—millennia later in the Land’s life, a decade earlier in Linden’s—when she and Covenant had first met Caer-Caveral in Andelain—when the guardian who had once been Hile Troy had sacrificed himself against the Law of Life—he had been the last Forestal. By that time, Caerroil Wildwood had passed away. All of the Upper Land’s ancient forests had been destroyed by the Sunbane.

“My God, Mahrtiir.” Inferences linked themselves into language as rapidly as she could speak. “This must be hundreds of years after I met Caerroil Wildwood,” after the Mahdoubt had saved her. “It must be before the Clave. Before the Sunbane.”

The kingdom against which Berek Halfhand had waged his war was not a desert.

Hyn and Narunal had known what they were doing. Here she was in no danger of confronting the Forestal before her first encounter with him.

“That is well,” averred Mahrtiir. “Alas, to their shame the Ramen have no tales of events in the Land after the onset of the Sunbane. I must believe that Caerroil Wildwood perished striving against that abomination.”

“No,” Linden said at once. Covenant had learned the truth from the Clave. He had told her. “He passed earlier. Before the Sunbane.”

The Manethrall’s surprise was plain. “Then how was he brought to his end?”

She bit her lip again. “I’m not sure. It had something to do with the destruction of the first Staff of Law.” Then she hurried on. “But at least now we know
when
we are—approximately, anyway. Caerroil Wildwood is still alive. He may recognize me. If he doesn’t, he’ll recognize his runes. We have a chance.”

She had intended to address her appeal to Caer-Caveral; but she saw now that Hyn and Narunal understood her needs, and the Land’s, better than she did. What had she expected of Andelain’s Forestal? Had she truly imagined that meeting her before her proper time would not affect his later decisions?

In
this
time, here and now, she was in no danger of burdening Caer-Caveral with knowledge which he had not earned. The Ranyhyn had spared her a potentially catastrophic miscalculation.

“Thus,” the Manethrall observed proudly, “Hyn and Narunal vindicate their wisdom once again.” Then he admitted, “Yet queries remain. Are you able to summon the Forestal? To attract his notice is both perilous and necessary. And will he heed your desires? If the tales are sooth, Caerroil Wildwood will not grant a kindly hearing. Even in the days of dark Grimmerdhore, Garroting Deep was deemed the most wrathful of the forests. You have encountered this Forestal and lived—aye, and were given ambiguous boons. Do you conclude therefore that he will bestow the knowledge you seek, though you wish to preserve a world in which he does not exist? Neither he nor any Forestal?

“Ringthane, if you are able to gain his heed, how will you sway him?”

How may life
endure in the Land
—?

Linden watched birds soar like questions among the trees. Beyond them, Garroting Deep brooded over its innumerable wounds and grievances, its savage hungers. Winds from the mountains which walled Cravenhaw on both sides did nothing to soften the heat swelling from the south. Already sweat gathered at the corners of her eyes. Dampness trickled down her spine.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Caerroil Wildwood gave me his runes for a reason, and I don’t think that it was just because I needed help. It had something to do with the question he asked me. He knew that I couldn’t answer it, but he wanted an answer anyway. Maybe his runes were part of the question. Or he hoped that they might be part of the answer.”

Mahrtiir considered her for a moment. Then he nodded with an air of renewed anticipation. “For us, then, only the simpler query remains. How will you attract the Forestal’s notice? He is said to be an imperious being, mighty and impatient withal, having good cause to loathe humankind. Also Garroting Deep is vast. He may be many leagues distant, unaware of our approach. Or he may be unwilling to acknowledge beings whose like have butchered trees beyond all counting.”

Linden frowned, shook her head. “Hyn and Narunal got his attention for us. They brought us so close—I almost let that
caesure
hurt his forest. I don’t care how far away he is. He must have felt that kind of violence. He’ll come, even if all he wants to do is to kill us.”

The Manethrall nodded again. “Indeed, Ringthane. I cannot gainsay you. Thus my query becomes, how will you forestall his ire? Our tales assure us that the Forestals were mighty beyond comprehension. How otherwise did their puissance suffice to forbid the Ravers from the Upper Land?”

She shrugged. “I’m not exactly helpless myself.” She had different concerns: fears that baffled her.
How may life endure in the Land—?
They were laden with doom.
Just be sure you come back
. “But I won’t fight him.” She, too, loved trees. And she had not forgotten the lessons of Gallows Howe. “I won’t have to.” Again she said, “He’ll recognize his runes.”

For another moment, Mahrtiir scrutinized her as if he sought to gauge her resolve. Then he nodded once more. “As you say, Ringthane. As ever, the deeds of the great horses conduce to hope. I grasp now that there is a fitness to your purpose. My own desires are thereby justified. Come good or ill, boon or bane, I will regret no moment of our quest.”

“All right,” Linden murmured. Gradually her attention shifted away from her companion. “Then all we have to do right now is wait. And try not to go crazy.”

What choice did she have? She did not want to think about Jeremiah; about people and loves that she had left behind and might never see again. In one respect, her presence in a time where she did not belong was no different than any other crisis. In fact, it was no different than ordinary life. The only way out was forward. While Time endured, there was no going back.

Gripping her Staff for courage, she tried to put everything else out of her mind. At her side, Mahrtiir folded his arms across his chest like a man who knew how to contain his impatience. In the service of the Ranyhyn, he had learned the discipline of setting himself aside. He knew how to accommodate his frustration.

Her former world had taught Linden similar skills. She had acquired a professional detachment in medical school and emergency rooms and Berenford Memorial. But she had lost that resource, or had left it behind with Jeremiah and the Giants, Stave and Covenant. She did not know how to stop fretting. Instead she gnawed on her fears as if she hungered for them; as if at the marrow she would find sustenance.

She needed her son and Covenant. She had to do what she could to keep them alive in spite of the intervening millennia.

“Oh, hell,” she muttered abruptly. “Who am I kidding? I can’t just wait around. Let’s at least get closer.”

Holding her Staff ready, she moved toward the nearest trees.

Their suffering without sufficient water was palpable. The willows in particular ached with distress, and the grass crackled under her boots. As the ground sloped down behind her toward the wasteland, moisture was wicked away from the woods. Apparently Caerroil Wildwood’s music could no longer protect the outlying trees from the effects of the diminished watershed. Even if Garroting Deep faced no other perils, it was under assault by the perpetual drought in the south.

Tensely Linden crossed through stippled shade to bypass the forest’s first fringes. Unaware that she was holding her breath, she approached the ragged edge of the Deep. At her shoulder, Mahrtiir matched her pace. A short distance away, Hyn whickered softly, and Narunal stamped his hooves; but the Ranyhyn did not follow.

Linden passed a stunted copse, then a magisterial Gilden with leaves like scraps of clawed fabric, an oak mottled with brown stains like blights. The low rustle of breezes among their branches seemed to sound her name until she reached a stretch of open ground like a clearing. With enough water, it might have been a glade surrounded by verdure and consolation. Here it was simply earth that nourished little more than grass. Nevertheless the grass was healthier than it was beyond the trees.

In the center of the clearing, she stopped. Surely the Forestal was close? Surely he had felt her presence? But he was needed everywhere in Garroting Deep. He might turn away when he saw that the danger of the
caesure
had passed. And she could only call out to him in one language: the speech of fire.

Unsure of herself, she turned to Mahrtiir.

The Manethrall considered the forest for a moment. Then he offered gruffly, “Here I am reminded of a tale concerning Lord Mhoram at a time when the forces of the Lords were threatened by an army commanded by a Raver. It is the same tale which relates the doom of Hile Troy. Risking much, the Lord approached Garroting Deep from Cravenhaw and raised fire in supplication. But he also dared to speak words of power, words which belonged to the Forestal. Therefore Caerroil Wildwood came.

“But those words were not repeated to the Ramen. The tale is known to us only because it was shared by Bannor and others after the
Haruchai
had withdrawn from their service as the Bloodguard. They are a reticent people, as you know”—Mahrtiir sounded grimly amused—“and did not tell the tale fully.”

“I wonder what they were,” Linden mused absently. Her ears strained for hints of Caerroil Wildwood’s singing: the poignant and feral melody of the Forestal’s strength.

A
caesure
should have been inconceivable in this time. How could any lover of trees ignore such a threat?

Apparently Caerroil Wildwood could not. When Mahrtiir had been silent for a while, and Linden’s trepidation seemed ready to burst out of her chest, she heard the first notes of a song that rent her heart.

It seemed to arch from tree to tree as if it were setting every leaf alight. Its power was unmistakable, a force as fraught as wild magic. But its potential ferocity was muted, held in abeyance: perhaps because its full might was not needed to rid the Deep of two mere humans; or perhaps because the Forestal was curious in spite of his unrelieved wrath; or perhaps because he recognized—