Thomas Covenant 8 - The Fatal Revenant (74 page)

Like all of the Land’s knowledge and

secrets, the statuette had become an emblem of antiquity and neglect.

Unlike the suru-pa-maerl bust,

however, the Ranyhyn did not appear to be something that Jeremiah could have made. Although it had been formed from many pieces, its components had been fused in some way, melded to create an integral whole.

“Can you tell me anything about this,

Stave?” she asked in a tone of reverie. “Who worked with bone?”

Who among all of the people that had perished from the Land?

Watching her, he said. “It is perhaps the most ancient of the Gifts in the Hall. It exemplifies a Ramen art, called by them marrowmeld, bone-sculpting, and anundivian yajna. I know naught of its history, for the Ramen do not speak of it. In the ages of the Lords,

they said only that the art had been lost. Mayhap the loss occurred during their flight with the Ranyhyn to escape the Ritual of Desecration, for much that was treasured did not survive the Landwaster’s despair. Or mayhap the truth lies hidden in some other tale.

“The Manethrall may give answer, if you inquire. He may refuse. Yet still you have not named your true query.”

Linden could not face him. The image

of the Ranyhyn, in old and dusty bone before her, and in dyed threads on Jeremiah’s ruined pajamas, seemed to demand more of her than Stave did. But the sculpted horse could not look into her eyes and see her fear.

God, she needed Covenant! His unflinching acceptance might have enabled her to envision a path which was not laid out by wrath and bitterness. Honninscrave’s cairn counseled sacrifice-but it was not

enough. Gallows Howe made more sense to her.

By degrees, she reduced the flame of the Staff to a small flicker that scarcely illuminated Stave’s visage. Isolated by darkness, Linden tried to name the search which had brought her to this place of bloodshed and remembrance.

“She said-” she began, faltering. “The Mandoubt. She reminded me-” For a moment, pain closed her throat. The

Harrow had shown her that she could still be made helpless, in spite of everything which she had learned and endured. Because of her paralysis ten years ago, Covenant had been slain-and Jeremiah had been compelled to maim himself in the Despiser’s bonfire. “Roger said that Lord Foul has owned my son for a long time. Ever since Covenant and I first came to the Land. That Jeremiah belongs to the Despiser,” and all of Linden’s love and devotion meant nothing. “The

Mandoubt seemed to think that might be true.”

Every word hurt, but she articulated them without weeping. In her eyes burned fires which she withheld from the Staff.

Stave appeared to examine her for a moment. Then he said as if he could not be moved, “I know naught of these matters. I do not know your son. Nor do I know all that he has suffered. But

it is not so among the children of the Haruchai. They are born to strength, and it is their birthright to remain who they are.

Are you certain that the same may not be said of your son’?”

Linden took a deep breath; released it, shuddering. No, she was not certain. She had always believed Jeremiah’s dissociation to be a defense as much as a prison, a barricade against hurt.

That it walled him off from her was almost incidental. And the Mandoubt had not averred that Jeremiah belonged to the Despiser. She had only observed that a-Jeroth’s mark was placed upon the boy when he was yet a small child—

Lord Foul had marked Jeremiah: that was true enough. In their separate ways, both Linden and Covenant had been marked. And perhaps the Despiser conceived that his mark

constituted ownership. He had acted on similar convictions in the past-and had been proven wrong.

If her son had not willingly joined himself to the croyel

Slowly she turned to meet Stave’s gaze; and as she did so, she restored the brightness of the Staff. She could not read his spirit: no doubt she would never be able to see past his physical presence. Nonetheless she suspected

that his passions ran to depths which she could hardly fathom. Like Jeremiah’s dissociation, his stoicism might be a defense-and a prison.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “That helps. He isn’t my son because I gave him birth. He’s my son because I chose him. I don’t know what the truth is. I may never know. But I can still choose. I’m going to believe that he has the right,” every child’s right. “to be himself.”

To her surprise, Stave responded with a deep Haruchai bow. “Chosen,” he replied, unexpectedly formal. “thus would I speak of my own sons, though they remain among the Masters, and with the Masters have spurned me.”

Linden stared at him in chagrin. His sons-? She had known in the abstract that his people had wives and children. How could they not? But she had never considered the possibility that he might have sons who had turned their backs

on him.

His determination to stand with her had cost him more than she had ever imagined.

You didn’t-She wanted to say, You didn’t tell me. You never even hinted-According to the Mandoubt, He has named his pain. But he had not truly done so until now.

Before she could find her voice,

however, he went on more sternly. “Now I comprehend your query. And you have answered it. Here the Giant Grimmand Honninscrave accepted possession by samadhi Sheol and remained himself. You will not think less of your son than of any Giant whom you have known.”

His manner forbade questions. He would not think less of his own sons—

Trust yourself.

At last, the Mandoubt’s voice fell to silence in Linden’s mind.

With an effort, she swallowed her protests. When she felt ready to respect his privacy-and his loneliness-she said. “All right. I don’t know how long we’ve been here, but it must be time to go. Mahrtiir will wonder where we are. And if he doesn’t, Liand will.” For Stave’s sake, she attempted a smile. “In any case, they’re probably as ready as they’ll ever be.” Glancing

around to locate the doors, she added uncomfortably, “There’s just one more thing.”

The rejected Master faced her as though nothing had passed between them. “Chosen?”

“I don’t know how much of your story you want to tell. It’s your story. I won’t say anything. But the others,” Liand and the Ramen, “should at least know that the Mandoubt and the Harrow are

Insequent,” linked to the Theomach. “It might help them understand what were up against.”

Stave shrugged slightly. “As you say.” With that she had to be content.

Sighing, she started toward the doors. Walking together in spite of his acute separation, she and Stave left the Hall of Gifts.

There may have been thousands of stairs. It was conceivable. The Hall lay a considerable distance below the level of Revelstone’s gates, and her rooms were high in the Keep’s south-facing wall. By the time she and Stave gained the corridor outside her quarters, her legs were trembling with strain, and she had to pant for breath. Only the coolness of the air spared her from

sweating through her shirt.

Outside her door, Liand, the Ramen, and Anele awaited her. With the exception of Anele, they radiated varying degrees of anxiety and frustration. On the floor around their feet lay a number of bedrolls, bundles, and sacks: supplies for an unpredictable journey. Whatever the Masters may have decided, the servants of Revelstone had been generous.

In spite of his scrapes and bruises, Galt guarded her door. Clearly he had refused admittance to Linden’s companions. His stance may have been intended as courtesy toward her. Or it may have been a foretaste of the Masters’ attitude.

Liand greeted her with a gust of relief. “Linden!”

“Ringthane.” Mahrtiir was less easily reassured. “This Master,” he snorted,

slapping a gesture at Galt, “grants nothing. He has refused to reveal your whereabouts. He will say only that in your absence we may not enter your chambers. Yet it is manifest that he has seen combat. Events of import have transpired while we are kept in ignorance, confined by stone.

“Does some new threat confront this harsh Keep?”

Bhapa shared the Manethrall’s ire.

Pahni stood beside Liand, holding his arm as if she were determined not to let him go. Under his breath, Anele mumbled his distrust of the Masters and imprisonment.

Linden held up her hands to quiet Mahrtiir’s vexation. Still panting, she said, “I’m sorry. Were all right. You can see that. There were a couple of things that I needed to do while you were getting ready. Stave will tell you about them when he gets a chance.

Right now”-she tasted the air and found that daybreak was near-“we should head down to the gates. We have a long way to go, and I don’t think that any of it will be easy.”

She had left nothing of hers in her rooms.

“Linden Avery,” Galt began firmly. “the Masters-“

She cut him off. “Don’t say it. I already

know.” And she was not yet sure what form her response might take. “If I’m wrong, Handir won’t hesitate to set me straight.”

The Humbled raised an eyebrow in apparent disapproval. But he did not insist on speaking.

Mahrtiir flashed a fierce grin at Galt; at Linden. Linden did not know what the Manethrall saw in her-or in the Humbled-but he was eager for its

outcome.

Bhapa and Pahni said nothing: they would not when their Manethrall was silent. But Linden expected a flood of questions from Liand. She braced herself to fend them off.

He surprised her, however. With unfamiliar ease, he dammed his baffled concerns. Studying him, she guessed that Pahni had relieved much of his ignorance. But the change in him

[

had another source as well: she could see it. On a visceral and perhaps unconscious level, the focus of his attention had shifted. It was now concentrated on Pahni. He was Linden’s friend: he would always be her friend. He would stand by her with the same steadfastness that she had known in Sunder. But she no longer consumed his thoughts, or his heart.

His alteration gave her a touch of relief, which she attempted to conceal for his

sake. It freed her to focus more closely on her own intentions.

Even when her thoughts were elsewhere, everything that she felt and did revolved around Jeremiah.

Stave faced her with inquiry in his eye. He may have wanted to know how she would reply to the Masters. When she said nothing, however, he gave another small shrug and went to help the Ramen and Liand carry their burdens.

As soon as her companions had shouldered their bedrolls and supplies, Mahrtiir nodded sharply. With Stave beside her to lead the way, Linden headed back down the many stairs and passages toward the forehall. Her companions came after her; and Galt followed behind them as if to ensure that they did not change their minds.

After a short distance, Linden asked Liand to walk with her. In spite of her relief, she needed to talk to him.

Through Anele, Covenant had

promised the Stonedownor an obscure and difficult burden. And Liand had given her more generosity and consideration than she could measure. She wanted to contribute to his sense of discovered purpose. She owed him that much.

He left Pahni and Anele to join her. For a moment, she studied him sidelong, observing the ease with which his sturdy frame bore two bedrolls and a

bulging sack; measuring the extent of his new anticipation. Then, trying to sound casual, she said. “I promised you some answers. Pahni has told you what she can. Stave will fill in a few of the gaps. But you and I-11 She paused briefly to consider what she could offer him. Not for the first time, she regretted that he was not safe in Mithil Stonedown.
wish I could spare you. But there was no safety anywhere: not now. We should talk about orcrest.”p>

His eyes widened. “Linden?” He could not mask his excitement.

“It suits you,” she said. “That kind of Earthpower-It feels right.” He had inherited it across scores of generations. “But I wonder if you’ve had time to explore what it can do.”

“I have seen that it gives light at need,” Liand replied with a mixture of awe, appreciation, and doubt. “It is puissant to reunite the fragments of Anele’s

thoughts. And Stave has spoken of the test of truth. But I have gained no other knowledge.”

Carefully Linden probed with her health-sense at the pouch hanging from his belt, studying the strange textures of the Sunstone; tasting its unique savor. The impression of absence which it conveyed to ordinary sight was belied on other planes of perception.

“I think that there’s more.” Wonder as gentle as a breeze curled through Linden. “If I’m not mistaken, it can counter the effects of Kevin’s Dirt. And not just for you. You should be able to help the rest of us. You won’t need me,” or Glimmermere. “to fend off that kind of blindness.

“In fact, you might be able to go further. I get the impression that orcrest can do some healing. Not physical. Spiritual.” With the Sunstone,

Liand might be able to redress afflictions of wrongness. And that’s not all.”

Then she snatched herself back, startled by what she felt. “My God, Liand,” she breathed; but she should not have been surprised. Over and over again, the Land had demonstrated its provident richness. “I think that you can affect the weather.”

With enough practice-and enough

courage—

Liand stared at her. “Surely that cannot be done.”

Linden tried to meet his disbelief; but before she found a reply, Stave said impassively, “The Haruchai remember it. During the ages of the Bloodguard and the Lords, masters of the rhadhamaerl lore betimes performed such deeds with orcrest. In that use, however, the stone was destroyed.

Therefore orcrest was seldom thus expended, for all Stonedownors loved the Land’s rock.”

He may have been cautioning Liand.

Watching the young man’s gaze grow lambent with excitement, while behind him shadows filled Pahni’s eyes, Linden murmured. “I can’t be sure. And I don’t know how much lore is involved. I’m not even sure that I know what ‘lore’ means. But it’s obvious that you

have your own power now.”

She intended what she said as an affirmation, and in that she succeeded. Light and promises seemed to illumine Liand like a sunrise. But for Linden his reaction was eclipsed by Pahni’s troubled pride and dread. Power imperiled its wielder, as Linden had learned repeatedly. The young Cord was afraid for him.