Fatal Revenant

Chapter One: From the Depths

When Linden Avery emerged from the base of Rivenrock into Garroting Deep, the sun was setting behind Melenkurion Skyweir and the Westron Mountains. The trees here had fallen into shadow, and with the loss of the sun, the air had grown cold enough to bite into her bereaved throat and lungs. Winter held sway over the Deep in spite of Caerroil Wildwood’s stewardship. And she had been soaked by frigid springs as well as by diluted EarthBlood during her long struggle through the guts of the mountain. She was chilled to the marrow of her bones, weak with hunger, exhausted beyond bearing.

But she did not care.

Her son was dead, as doomed as she was, shot down when she and Roger had been slain. He belonged to Lord Foul and the croyel: they would never let him go. And she had no hope of reaching him. Too much time separated her arms and his; her love and his torment.

She had become a stillatory of pain, and her heart was stone.

She did not know how she was still alive, or why. After Roger and Jeremiah’s escape, she had somehow preserved herself with Earthpower and instinct, shaping the stone to her will: knocking aside thunderous slabs of granite; plunging in and out of the lashed river; following water and fire as the earthquake shook Melenkurion Skyweir. The upheaval had split the plateau as well as the vast mountain, buried the edges of the forest under a torrent of rubble, sent a vehement fume of dust skyward, but she was aware of none of it. Nor did she notice how much time passed before the roots of the Skyweir no longer trembled. The watercourse was nearly empty now. Deep springs slowly filled the spaces which she had formed under the peak. But she could not tell how long she scrambled and stumbled through the wreckage until she found her way out of the world of ruin.

When she clambered at last over the new detritus along the south bank of the Black River, and saw the fading sky above her, she knew only that she had lost her son-and that some essential part of her had been extinguished, burned away by battles which surpassed her strength. She was no longer the woman who had endured Roger’s cruelties for Jeremiah’s sake.

She had suffered enough; had earned the right to simply lie down and die. Yet she did not surrender. Instead she trudged on into Garroting Deep. Here the Forestal would surely end her travails, if sorrow and privation did not. Nevertheless she continued to plod among the darkening trees. Her right hand remained cramped to the Staff, unhealed and unheeded. In her left, she held Jeremiah’s crumpled racecar. At the core, she had been annealed like granite. The dross of restraint and inadequacy and acceptance had been consumed in flame. Like granite, she did not yield.

The Staff no longer lit her way. She had lost its fire when she left the mountain. In the evening gloom and the first glimmer of stars, she hardly recognised that the extravagant energies which had enabled her to fight and survive had remade the shaft. Its smooth wood had become a blackness as deep as ebony or fuligin. With the Seven Words and the EarthBlood, she had gone beyond herself; and so she had transformed her Staff as well.

Like her son, the natural cleanliness of the wood was lost.

But she did not concern herself with such things. Nor did she fear the cold night, or the prospect of prostration, or the Forestal’s coming. Her own frailty and the likelihood of death had lost their meaning. Her stone heart still beat: the tears were gone from her eyes. Therefore she walked on with her doom wrapped around her.

She travelled beside the Black River because she had no other guide. In the deeper twilight of the riverbed, a slow trickle of water remained. She caught glimpses of it when it rippled over rocks or twisted in hollows and caught the burgeoning starlight. It looked as unilluminable as blood.

The Ranyhyn had tried to caution her. At the horserite which she had shared with Hyn and Hynyn, and with Stave, she had been warned. Hyn and Hynyn had shown her Jeremiah possessed, in torment; made vile. They had revealed what would happen if she tried to rescue him, heal him, as she had once redeemed Thomas Covenant from his imprisonment by the Elohim. And they had compelled her to remember the depth to which she herself had been damaged. They had caused her to relive the maiming heritage of her parents as well as the eager brutality of moksha Raver.

It was possible that she should have known

If your son serves me, he will do so in your presence.

But her fears had been fixed on Ravers and the Despiser. She had failed to imagine the true implications of Hyn and Hynyn’s warning. Or she had been distracted by Roger’s glamour and manipulations; by the croyel’s intolerable use of Jeremiah. Ever since they had forbidden her to touch them-ever since they had turned her love and woe against her-she had foundered in confusion; and so she had been made to serve Despite.

You’ve done everything conceivable to help us become gods.

She did not surrender. She would not. But she could not think beyond doggedly placing one foot in front of the other, walking lightless and unassoiled into Garroting Deep.

She did not imagine that she might reach her proper time by creating a caesure. You’ll shatter the world. And even if she did not, she would still be lost. Without the Ranyhyn, she could not navigate the chaos of a Fall.

Nor could she save herself with the Staff of Law. No power available to her would transcend the intervening centuries.

The Theomach had recognised Roger and the croyel, and had said nothing.

While they abided by the restrictions which he had placed upon them, he had left her to meet her fate in ignorance.

— her mind cannot be distinguished from the Arch of Time.

In her own way, she chose to keep faith with the Land’s past.

Therefore she stumbled on into Caerroil Wildwood’s angry demesne, guiding herself by the darkness of the watercourse on her left and the star-limned branches of trees on her right. When she tripped, she caught herself with the Staff, although the jolt caused the scabbing of her wounded hand to break open and bleed. She had nowhere else to go.

Roger had called the Forestal an out-and-out butcher.

On his own ground, with the full force of Garroting Deep behind him, nothing could stand against him.

Why had he not already slain her?

Perhaps he had discerned her weakness and knew that there was no need for haste. If a badger took umbrage at her encroachment, she would be unable to defend herself. A single note of Caerroil Wildwood’s multifarious song would overwhelm her.

Some things she knew, however. They did not require thought. She could be sure that Roger and the croyel- and Kastenessen and Joan-had not yet accomplished the Despiser’s desires. The Arch of Time endured. Her boots still scuffed and tripped one after the other along the riverbank. Her heart still beat. Her lungs still sucked, wincing, at the edged air. And above her the cold stars became multitudinous glistening swaths as the last daylight faded behind the western peaks. Even her exhaustion confirmed that the strictures of sequence and causality remained intact.

Therefore the Land’s tale was not done.

Her confrontation with Roger had rubbed the truth like salt into a wound: for her, everything came back to Thomas Covenant. He was her hope when she had failed all of her loves. -help us become gods. In his own way, and for his own reasons, he himself had become a kind of god. While his spirit endured, she could refuse to believe that the Despiser would achieve victory.

The Earth held mysteries which she could not begin to comprehend. Even Jeremiah might someday be released. As long as Thomas Covenant remained-He might guide her friends to rouse the Elohim from their hermetic self-contemplation; or to thwart Roger and Lord Foul in some other fashion.

For that reason, she continued walking when she should not have been able to stay on her feet. She had failed utterly, and been filled with despair; but she no longer knew how to break.

Around her, full night gathered until the ancient ire of the trees seemed to form a palpable barrier. Aside from the soft liquid chatter of water in the riverbed, the whisper of wind among the wrathful boughs, and the unsteady plod of her boots, she heard only her own respiration, ragged and faltering. She might have been alone in the wide forest. Still her heart sustained its dark labour. Intransigent as the Masters, she let neither weakness nor the approach of death stop her.

Some time later, she saw a small blink of light ahead of her. It was too vague to be real: she could more easily believe that she had fallen into dreams. But gradually it gained substance; definition. Soon it resembled the caper of flames, yellow and flickering.

A will-o’-the-wisp, she thought. Or a hallucination induced by fatigue and loss. Yet it did not vanish and reappear, or shift from place to place. In spite of its allusive dance, it remained stationary, casting a faint illumination on the nearby tree trunks, the arched bare branches.

A fire, she realised dully. Someone had set a fire in this protected forest.

She did not hasten toward it. She could not. Her pulse did not quicken. But her uneven trudge took on a more concrete purpose. She was not alone in Garroting Deep. And whoever had lit that fire was in imminent peril: more so than Linden herself, who could not have raised any hint of flame from her black Staff.

The distance defied her estimation. By slow increments, however, she began to discern details. A small cookfire burned within a ring of stones. A pot that may have been iron rested among the flames. And beside the fire squatted an obscure figure with its back to the river. At intervals, the figure reached out with a spoon or ladle to stir the contents of the pot.

Linden seemed to draw no closer. Nonetheless she saw that the figure wore a tatterdemalion cloak against the winter. She saw a disregarded tangle of old hair, a plump shape. To her depleted senses, the figure appeared female.

Then she entered the fringes of the light; and the figure turned to gaze at her; and she stopped. But she was unaware of her own surprise. She still swayed from side to side, precariously balanced, as if she were walking. Her muscles conveyed the sensations of steps. In her dreams, her legs and the Staff carried her forward.

The fire was small, and the pot shrouded its light. Linden blinked and stared for several moments before she recognised the woman’s blunt and skewed features, her patchwork robe under her open cloak, her mismatched eyes. Briefly those eyes spilled shifting reflections. Then Linden saw that the left was a dark and luminous blue, the right a disconcerting, unmistakable orange.

The woman’s air of comfortable solicitude identified her as readily as her appearance. She was the Mahdoubt. Linden had last seen her in Revelstone ten thousand years from now, when the older woman had warned her to Be cautious of love.

The Mahdoubt was here.

That was impossible.

But Linden did not care about impossibilities. She had left every endurable aspect of her existence behind. At that moment, the only fact which held any significance for her was the Mahdoubt’s cookfire.

The kindly woman had dared to ignite flames in Caerroil Wildwood’s demesne.

Staring, Linden meant to say, You’ve got to put that out. The fire. This is Garroting Deep. She thought that she would speak aloud. She ought to speak urgently. But those words failed her. Her mouth and tongue seemed incapable of them. Instead she asked, faint as a whisper. “Why didn’t they just kill me?”

At any other time in her life, under any other circumstances, there would have been tears in her eyes and weeping in her voice. But all of her emotions had been melted down, fused into a lump of obsidian. She possessed only anger for which she had no strength.

“Across the years,” the woman replied, “the Mahdoubt has awaited the lady.” She sounded complacent, untroubled. “Oh, assuredly. And once again she offers naught but meagre fare. The lady will think her improvident. Yet here are shallots in a goodly broth”- she waved her ladle at the pot- “with winter greens and some few aliantha. And she has provided as well a flask of springwine. Will the lady not sup with her, and take comfort?”

Linden smelled the savour of the stew. She had eaten nothing, drunk nothing, for a long time. But she did not care. Wanly she tried again.

That fire-The Forestal-

“Why didn’t they just kill me?”

Useless screaming had left her hoarse. She hardly heard her own voice.

The Mahdoubt sighed. For a moment, her orange eye searched Linden while her right regarded the flames. Then she turned her head away. With a hint of sadness, she said. The Mahdoubt may answer none of the lady’s sorrows. Time has been made fragile. It must not be challenged further. Of that she gives assurance. Yet she is grieved to behold the lady thus, weary, unfed, and full of woe. Will she not accept these small comforts?” Again she indicated her pot; her fire. “Here are aliment, and warmth to nurture sleep, and the solace of the Mahdoubt’s goodwill. Refusal will augment her grief.”

Sleep? A dim anger at herself made Linden frown. At one time, she had ached to speak with the Mahdoubt. There is a glamour upon it which binds the heart to destruction. That, at least, had been the truth.

She made another effort to say what the woman’s kindness required of her. “Please-” she began weakly, still swaying; still unsure that she had stopped moving. “Your fire. The Forestal. He’ll see it.” Surely he had already done so? “We’ll both die.

“Why didn’t they kill me?”

Roger and the croyel could have slain her whenever she slept.

“Pssht, lady,” responded the Mahdoubt. “Is the Mahdoubt disquieted? She is not. In her youth, such concerns may perchance have vexed her, but her old bones have felt their full measure of years, and naught troubles her now.”

Calmly she added, “Hear her, lady. The Mahdoubt implores this. Be seated within her warmth. Accept the sustenance which she has prepared. Her courtesy merits that recompense.”

Again the Mahdoubt lifted her strange gaze to Linden’s face. “There is much in all sooth of which she must not speak. Yet the Mahdoubt may speculate without hazard-yes, assuredly-if she speaks only of that which the lady has properly heard, or which she might comprehend unaided, were she whole in spirit.”

Linden blinked vacantly. She had heard or tasted Caerroil Wildwood’s song: she knew its power. Surely she should have protested? She would have owed that much to a total stranger. The Mahdoubt deserved more-

But the balm of the Mahdoubt’s voice overcame her. She could not refuse that blue eye, or the orange one. As if she were helpless, she took one step toward the fire, then sank to the ground.

It was thickly matted with fallen leaves. They must once have been frozen to the dirt, but they had thawed to a soggy carpet in the heat of the cookfire. Gripping the Staff with her scabbed and seared fist, Linden struggled to sit cross-legged near the ring of stones.

Abruptly the Mahdoubt’s orange eye appeared to flare. The lady must release the Staff. How otherwise will she sup?”

Linden could not let go. Her cramped grasp would not unclose. And she would need the Staff. She had no other defence.

Nevertheless it slipped from her fingers and dropped soundlessly to the damp leaves.

Nodding with apparent satisfaction, the Mahdoubt produced a wooden bowl from a pocket or satchel under her cloak. As she ladled stew from the pot, she spoke to the cookfire and the louring night as though she had forgotten Linden’s presence.

“Assuredly the lady’s treachers required her absence from her condign time, lest she be succoured by such powers as they could not lightly oppose-by ur-viles and Waynhim, and perchance by others as well. Also they feared-and rightly-that which lies hidden within the old man whom the lady has befriended.”

Without glancing at Linden, she reached into her cloak for a spoon. When she had placed the spoon in the stew, she handed the bowl to Linden.

Like a bidden child, Linden began to eat. On some inchoate level, she must have understood that the older woman was saving her life-at least temporarily-but she was not conscious of it. Her attention was fixed on the Mahdoubt’s voice. Nothing existed for her while she ate except the woman’s words, and the looming threat of melody.

“Yet when she had been removed from all aid,” the Mahdoubt informed the trees placidly. “the lady’s death would serve no purpose. Indeed, her foes have never desired her death. They wish her to bear the burden of the Land’s doom. And the virtue of white gold is lessened when it is not freely ceded.

“Nor could she be engaged willingly in such combat as would endanger Time. With the Staff of Law, she might perchance have healed any harm. And she might have slain her betrayers with wild magic. That they assuredly did not desire. Nor could they assail the Arch directly, for the lady would then have surely destroyed them. Such errant evil craves its own preservation more than it desires the ruin of Life and Time.”

Linden nodded to herself as she slowly lifted stew into her mouth. She did not truly grasp what the woman was saying: her fatigue ran too deep. But she understood that Roger’s and the croyel’s actions could be explained. The Mahdoubt’s unthreatened tranquillity gave her that anodyne.

“Nor could the lady be merely forsaken in this time,” continued the Mahdoubt, “while her treachers sought the Power of Command. She might contrive means or acquire companions to assail them ere their ends were accomplished. Nor could they be assured that any use of that Power would accomplish their ends, for the Blood of the Earth is perilous. Any Command may return against its wielder, bringing calamity to those who fear no death except their own.”

By degrees, Linden began to detect strands of melody among the woman’s words; or she thought that she did. But they had the same quality of hallucination or dream that she had felt earlier. She could not be sure of anything except the Mahdoubt’s voice.

Without realising it, she had emptied the bowl. The Mahdoubt glanced at her, then retrieved the bowl, filled it again, and returned it to her. But the older woman continued to speak as she did so.

“The Mahdoubt merely speculates. Of that she assures herself. Therefore she does not fear to suggest that the chief desire of the lady’s betrayers was the lady’s pain.”

Facing the trees and the blind night, she reached once more into her cloak and withdrew a narrow-necked flask closed with a wooden plug. Its glassy sides shed reflections of viridian and tourmaline as she removed the plug and passed the vessel to Linden.

When Linden drank, she tasted springwine; and her senses lost some of their dullness. Now she was almost sure that she heard notes and words, fragments of song, behind the Mahdoubt’s voice. They may have been dusty waste and hate of hands; or perhaps rain and heat and snow.

Nevertheless the Mahdoubt went on speaking as though the forest’s anger held nothing to alarm her.

By that hurt, they sought to gain the surrender of white gold. And if they could not obtain its surrender, they desired the lady to exert the ring’s force in the name of her suffering under Melenkurion Skyweir, either for their aid or against their purpose. In such an outcome, the Staff of Law and the EarthBlood and wild magic would exceed the lady’s flesh, and Time would be truly endangered. Her foes could not have believed that she would find within herself force and lore sufficient to oppose them without recourse to white gold.”

At last, Linden raised her head. She had become certain that she heard pieces of music, the scattered notes of an unresolved threnody. They came skirling among the trees, taking shape as they approached, implying words which they did not utter. I know the hate of hands grown bold. She flung a look at the Mahdoubt and saw that both of the woman’s eyes were alight, vivid blue and stark orange. The Mahdoubt had fallen silent; or the song had stilled her voice. Yet she appeared to face the Forestal’s advance with comfortable unconcern.

Since days before the Earth was old

And Time began its walk to doom,

The Forests world’s bare rock anneal,

Forbidding dusty waste and death.

As if in response, the Mahdoubt murmured,

“Though wide world’s winds untimely blow,

And earthquakes rock and cliff unseal,

My leaves grow green and seedlings bloom.”

A wind rose through the woods, adding the dry harmony of barren boughs and brittle evergreen needles to the mournful ire of the music. Stern snatches of melody seemed to gather around the campfire like stars, underscored by the almost subterranean mutter of trunks and roots. Linden had seen and felt and tasted that song before, but in an angrier and less laden key. Now the woodland dirge held notes like questions, brief arcs and broad spans tuned to the pitch of uncertainty. Caerroil Wildwood may have intended to quash those who had raised flames here, but he had other desires as well, purposes which were not those of an out-and-out butcher.

A shimmer of melody rippled the surface of the night like a breeze passing over a still pool. The presence and power of the song was palpable, although Linden beheld it only with her health-sense. Nevertheless each note and chime and lift of music swirling from the branches like autumn leaves implied an imminent light which gradually coalesced into the form of a man.

Instinctively she reached for the Staff. But the Mahdoubt halted her by grasping her arm.

“Withhold, lady.” The older woman did not glance at Linden. Instead she studied the Forestal’s coming with her lit gaze. “The Great One’s knowledge of such power suffices. He has no wish to witness it now.”

Linden understood in spite of her bottomless fatigue. The Mahdoubt did not want her to do anything which might be interpreted as a threat.

Linden obeyed. Resting her hands on her thighs, she simply watched the stately figure, lambent as a monarch, walking among the dark trees.

The Forestal was tall, and his long hair and beard flowed whitely about him like water. From his eyes shone a piercing and severe silver which showed neither iris nor pupil; light so acute that she wanted to duck her head when his gaze touched her. In the bend of one arm, he carried a short, twisted branch as though it were a sceptre. Flowers she could not identify ornamented his neck in a garland of rich purple and purest white; and his samite robe was white as well, austere and free of taint from collar to hem. As he passed among the trees gravely, they appeared to do him homage, lowering their boughs in obeisance. His steps were wreathed in song as if he were melody incarnate.

The Mahdoubt’s eyes gleamed in appreciation. Their weird colours conveyed a placid warmth untrammelled by fear or doubt. When the Forestal stopped, regal and ominous, at the edge of the cookfire’s glow, she inclined her head in a grave bow.

“The Mahdoubt greets you, Great One,” she said with no trace of apprehension. “Be welcome at our fireside. Will you sup with us? Our fare is homely-oh, assuredly-but it is proffered with gladness, and the offer is kindly meant.”

“Presumptuous woman.” Caerroil Wildwood’s voice was the music of a rippling stream, delicate and clear. It seemed to chuckle to itself, although the silver flash of his eyes under his thick white brows denied mirth. Rather his glances demanded awe at his withheld wrath. “I do not require such sustenance.”

Linden bit her lip anxiously; but the older woman’s smile was unconcerned. “Then why have you come? The Mahdoubt asks with respect. Has this revered forest no need of your might elsewhere?”

“I am throughout the trees,” sang the Forestal, “elsewhere as well as here. Seek not to mislead me. You have intruded fire into Garroting Deep, where flames are met with loathing and fear. I have come to determine your purpose.”

“Ah.” Linden’s companion nodded. “This the Mahdoubt questions, Great One.” She raised both hands in deprecation. “With respect, with respect.” Then she rested her arms on her plump belly. “Do you not crave our extermination? Is it not your intent to slay all who encroach upon the ancient Deep’?”

The guardian of the trees appeared to assent. “From border to border, my demesne thirsts for the recompense of blood.”

The Mahdoubt nodded again. “Assuredly. And that thirst is justified, the Mahdoubt avers. Millennia of inconsolable loss provide its vindication.”

“Yet I refrain,” Caerroil Wildwood replied.

“Assuredly,” repeated the Mahdoubt. “Therefore the Mahdoubt’s heart is rich with gratitude. Nonetheless the purpose which the Great One desires to determine is his, not ours.

“Gazing upon us, he has observed that he has no cause for ire. And he has discerned as well that he must not harm the lady. He has heard all that the Mahdoubt has said of her. He perceives her service to that which is held dear. He has come seeking the name of his own intent, not that of the Mahdoubt, or of the lady.”

When the Forestal fixed his burning stare on Linden, she felt an almost physical impact. Fighting herself, she met his eyes; let him search her with silver. She heard a kind of recognition in his music, a wrath more personal than his appetite for the blood of those who slaughtered trees. Slowly his gaze sank to consider her apparel, study Covenant’s ring through her shirt, acknowledge the bullet hole over her heart, regard the Staff of Law. He noted her grass-stained jeans-and did not sing of her death.

Instead he returned his attention to the Mahdoubt.

“I am the Land’s Creator’s hold,” he pronounced in melody. “She wears the mark of fecundity and long grass. Also she has paid the price of woe. And the sigil of the Land’s need has been placed upon her.” He may have been referring to her stabbed hand. “Therefore she will not perish within this maimed remnant of the One Forest. Nor will any Forestal sing against her while she keeps faith with grass and tree.

“Come,” he commanded in a brusque fall of notes. “My path is chosen. She must stand upon Gallows Howe.”

Turning his back, he strode away.

At once, but without haste, the Mahdoubt rose to her feet. “Come, lady,” she echoed when Linden hesitated. “And now the lady must bring the Staff. Assuredly so.” She nodded. “The Great One will grant a boon which she has not asked of him, and he will require that in return which she does not expect. Yet his aid must not be refused. His desired recompense will not exceed her.”

Linden blinked at the woman. She understood nothing, and her heart was granite: beneath her fear of the Forestal, she held only Jeremiah and anger-and Thomas Covenant. For food and drink and warmth, she might have been thankful; but she had lost her son. Caerroil Wildwood had already promised that he would not slay her. What need did she have for an ambiguous gift which she would not know how to repay?

Caerroil Wildwood could not return her to her proper time. No Forestal had that power.

Carefully she set the Mahdoubt’s flask against a stone; but she did not stand. Instead she looked into the strange discrepancy of the Mahdoubt’s eyes.

You told me to “Be cautious of love”.” There is a glamour upon it- “You knew who they were.” Roger and the croyel. “Why didn’t you just say so?”

If the Mahdoubt had spoken plainly-

For the first time, the older woman’s mien hinted at disquiet; perhaps even at unhappiness. “It is not permitted-” she began, then stopped herself. When she had closed her eyes for a moment, she opened them again and faced Linden with chagrin in her gaze.

“Nay, the Mahdoubt will speak sooth. She does not permit it of herself, though her heart is wrung in her old breast by what has ensued, as it is by what may yet transpire. Her intent is kind, lady. Be assured that it is. But she has acquired neither wisdom nor knowledge adequate to contest that which appears needful. Others do so, to their cost. The Mahdoubt does not. If she craves to be kind in deed as well as intent, she has learned that she must betimes forbear. Yet she has won gratitude from other people in other times, if not from the lady.

“The Great One bids us,” she finished softly. “We must follow.”

Linden wanted to refuse. She wanted to demand, Needful? Needful? The Forestal and even the Mahdoubt surpassed her. But what choice did she have? Ever since she had returned to the Land, she had been guided by other people’s desires and demands, other people’s manipulations, and all of her actions had been fraught with peril. She could not afford to reject aid in any form.

Sighing, she clasped the Staff of Law and pushed herself to her feet.

As she did so, she found that the Mahdoubt’s providence had done her more good than she had realised. Her muscles protested, but they did not fail. Indeed, they hardly trembled. Food and springwine and soothing warmth had eased her weakness, although they could not relieve her exhaustion, or soften her heart.

When the Mahdoubt gestured toward the trees, Linden accompanied her into the forest, led by the majesty and restraint of Caerroil Wildwood’s music.

The way was not far-or it did not seem far in the thrall of the Forestal’s singing. Briefly Linden and the Mahdoubt walked among trees and darkness; and on all sides sycamores and oaks, birches and Gilden, cedars and firs proclaimed their unappeased recriminations. But then they found themselves on barren ground that rose up to form a high hill like a burial-mound. Even through her boots, Linden felt death in the soil. Here centuries or millennia of bloodshed had soaked into the dirt until it would never again support life. This, then, was Gallows Howe: the place where Caerroil Wildwood slew the butchers of his trees.

At first, she winced in recognition at every step. Until her betrayal under Melenkurion Skyweir, she had not understood people or beings or powers that feasted on death. She had been a physician, opposed to such hungers. Evil she knew, in herself as well as in her foes: she was intimately acquainted with the desire to inflict pain on those who had not caused it. But this unalloyed and unforgiving compulsion toward revenge; this righteous rage-She had not known that she contained such possibilities until she had beheld her son’s suffering.

Here, however, she found that she welcomed the taste of retribution. It made her stronger.

She knew what it meant.

Bringing her to this place sanctified by slaughter, Caerroil Wildwood had already given her a gift.

In starlight and the lucent allusions of the Forestal’s music, she saw two dead black trees standing beyond the lifeless hillcrest. They were ten or more paces apart, as strait and unanswerable as denunciations. All of their branches had been stripped away except for one heavy bough in each trunk above the ground. Long ages ago, these limbs had grown together to form a crossbar between the trees: Caerroil Wildwood’s gibbet. Here he had hanged the most fatal of those adversaries that came within his reach.

Linden’s reluctance beside the Mahdoubt’s gentle cookfire was gone. Gaining strength with every step, she ascended the Howe. She could think now, and begin to strive. On this denuded hill, beneath those pitiless trees, she might accept any boon-and pay any price.

At the crest, she and her companion stopped. For a moment, they appeared to be alone: then Caerroil Wildwood stood before them with song streaming from his robe and bright silver in his eyes. The Mahdoubt lowered her gaze as though she felt a measure of diffidence. But Linden held up her head, gripped her Staff, and waited for the Forestal to reveal his intentions.

For a time, he did not regard either woman. Instead he sang to himself. His song conveyed impressions of Ravers and loss; of a fading Interdict as the Colossus of the Fall waned; of Viles and rapacious kings and disdain. And it implied the era of the One Forest, when the Land had flourished as its Creator had intended, and there was no need of Forestals to defend the ravaged paean of the world. He may have been probing his own intentions, testing his decision to withhold Linden’s death, and the Mahdoubt’s.

Linden suspected that if she listened long enough she might hear extraordinary revelations about the Land’s ancient past. She might be told how the Ravers had been born and nurtured, or how they had come under Lord Foul’s dominion. She might learn how even the great puissance of the Forestals had failed to sustain the forests. But she had lost her patience for long tales which would not aid her. Without conscious forethought, she interrupted the sumptuous reverie of Caerroil Wildwood’s music.

“You can’t stop the Ravers,” she said as though she had forgotten that the Forestal could sing the flesh from her bones. “You know that. When you kill their bodies, their spirits just move on.”

He turned the piercing silver of his gaze on her as if she had offended him. But apparently she had not. In spite of his old anger, he did not strike out.

“Nevertheless,” he countered. “I have a particular hunger-”

Again Linden interrupted him. “But there’s going to come a time when one of them does die.” Samadhi Sheol would be rent by Grimmand Honninscrave and the Sandgorgon Nom. “It can happen. You can hope for that.”

She hazarded Time, and knew it. Speaking of the Land’s future might alter Caerroil Wildwood’s actions at some point during his long existence. But the Mahdoubt did nothing to forestall or caution her. And Linden had already taken greater risks. She was done with hesitation. If she could do or say anything that might encourage the Forestal to side with her, she would not hold back.

However, his response was sorrow rather than grim anticipation. His music became a fugue of mourning, interminable bereavement sung to a counterpoint of forlorn self-knowledge.

“While humans and monsters remain to murder trees, there can be no hope for any Forestal. Each death lessens me. The ages of the Earth are brief, and already I am not as I began.”

Then his melody sharpened. But you have said that the death of a Raver will come to pass. How do you know of this?”

Linden held his gaze. “I was there.”

Her past was the Land’s future. She hardly dared to imagine that Caerroil Wildwood would understand her, or believe. But her statement did not appear to confound him. Her displacement in time may have been as obvious to him as the stains on her jeans.

“And you played a part?” he asked while the wide forest echoed his words avidly.

“I saw it happen,” she replied steadily. “That’s all.” To explain herself, she added, “I wasn’t what I am now.”

When Thomas Covenant and his companions had faced the na-Mhoram in the Hall of Gifts, Linden had contributed nothing except her fears and her health-sense. But she had borne witness.

The Forestal withdrew his scrutiny. For a long moment, he appeared to muse to himself, harmonising with the trees. Now the Mahdoubt regarded him complacently. Under her breath, she made a humming sound as if she wished to contribute in some small way to the myriad-throated contemplations of Garroting Deep. When he sang in words again, he seemed to address the farthest reaches of his woods, or the black gibbet towering above him, rather than either Linden or her companion.

“I have granted boons, and may do so again. For each, I demand such payment as I deem meet. But you have not requested that which you most require. Therefore I will exact no recompense. Rather I ask only that you accept the burden of a question for which you have no answer.”

The Mahdoubt smiled with satisfaction; and Linden said. “Just tell me what it is. If I can find an answer, I will.”

Caerroil Wildwood continued singing to the trees rather than to her. “It is this. 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?”

Surprised, Linden murmured, “I don’t know.” She had seen Caer-Caveral sacrifice himself, and he was the last. The Sunbane had destroyed every remnant of the ancient forests west of Landsdrop.

Still smiling, the Mahdoubt said. “The Great One is aware of this. Assuredly so. He does not require that which the lady cannot possess. He asks only that she seek out knowledge, for its lack torments him. The fear that no answer exists multiplies his long sorrow.”

“I will,” repeated Linden, although she could not guess what her promise might cost her, and had no idea how she would keep it. Caerroil Wildwood was too extreme to be refused.

“Then I will grant that which you require.” The Forestal sang as though he spoke for every living thing throughout the Deep.

At once, music gathered around Linden’s grasp on the Staff. Involuntarily she flinched. Unbidden, her fingers opened. But the Staff did not fall to the ground. Instead it floated away from her, wafted by song toward the Forestal. When it was near, he reached out to claim it with his free hand; and his clasp shone with the same silver that illumined his eyes.

“This blackness is lamentable”- his tone itself was elegiac- “but I will not alter it. Its import lies beyond my ken. However, other flaws may be amended. The theurgy of the wood’s fashioning is unfinished. It was formed in ignorance, and could not be otherwise than it is. Yet its wholeness is needful. Willingly I complete the task of its creation.”

Then he sang a command that would have been Behold! if it had been expressed in words rather than melody. At the same time, he lifted his gnarled sceptre. It, too, radiated silver, telic and irrefusable, as he directed its singing at the Staff.

Slowly a nacre fire began to burn along the dark surface of the shaft from heel to heel; and as it did so, it incised shapes like a jagged script into the wood. Radiance lingered in them after the Forestal’s magic had passed: then it faded, line by line in dying streaks of argent, until the Staff had once again lapsed to ebony.

Runes, Linden thought in wonder. Caerroil Wildwood had carved runes-

A moment later, he released the Staff. Midnight between its bands of iron, it drifted through the air to Linden. When she closed her fingers around it, the shapes flared briefly once more, and she saw that they were indeed runes: inexplicable to her, but sequacious and acute. Their implications seemed to glow for an instant through the wound in her right hand. And as they fell away, she felt a renewed severity in the wood, a greater and more exacting commitment, as though the necessary commandments of Law had been fortified.

When the last of the luminance was gone from the symbols, she found that her hand had been healed. Pale against the black shaft, her human flesh too had become whole.

She had entered Garroting Deep bereft of every resource; exhausted beyond bearing; upheld by nothing except clenched intransigence-and thoughts of Thomas Covenant. But the Mahdoubt had fed and warmed her. Comforted her. And now Caerroil Wildwood had given her new power. Gallows Howe itself had made her stronger. All of her burdens except the pressing weight of millennia and incomprehension had been eased.

Finally she roused herself from her astonishment so that she could thank the Forestal. But he had already turned to walk away with his threnody and his silver eyes. And as he passed between the stark uprights of his gibbet, he seemed to shimmer into music and disappear, leaving her alone with the Mahdoubt and the starlight and the ceaseless sorrowing wrath of the trees.

For a long moment, Linden and the older woman listened to Caerroil Wildwood’s departure, hearing it fade like the future of Garroting Deep. Then the Mahdoubt spoke softly, in cadences that echoed the Forestal’s lorn song.

“The words of the Great One are sooth. His passing cannot be averted, though he will cling to his purpose for many centuries. These trees have forgotten the knowledge which enables him, and which also binds the Colossus of the Fall. The dark delight of the Ravers will have its freedom. Alas for the Earth, lady. The tale of the days to come will be one of rue and woe.”

With an effort, Linden shook off the Forestal’s ensorcellment. She had been given a gift which seemed to hold more meaning than she knew how to contain. Yet it changed nothing. The task of returning to her proper time still transcended her.

Standing on wrath and death, she confronted her companion.

“I just made a promise.” Her voice was hoarse with the memory of her promises. She had made so many of them- “But I can’t keep it. Not here. I have to go back where I belong.”

Darkness concealed the strange discrepancy of the Mahdoubt’s eyes, giving her a secretive air in spite of her comfortable demeanour. “Lady,” she replied, “your need for nourishment and rest is not yet sated. Return with the Mahdoubt to warmth and stew and springwine. She urges you, seeing you unsolaced.”

Linden shook her head. In this time, the Mahdoubt had not referred to her as you until now. “You can help me. That’s obvious. You wouldn’t be here if you couldn’t move through time.” Her urgency increased as she persisted. “You can take me back.”

The Mahdoubt seemed tranquil, but her tone hinted at sadness as she said, “Lady, the Mahdoubt may answer none of your queries. Nor may she lightly set aside the strictures of your plight. Nor may she transgress the constraints of her own knowledge. Assuredly not.” She touched the bare skin of Linden’s wrist near the Staff, allowing Linden’s nerves to feel her sincerity. “Will you not accompany her? The Great One cannot grant your desire, and this place”- she inclined her head to indicate Gallows Howe- “augurs only death.

“Will sustenance and companionship harm the lady? The Mahdoubt inquires respectfully, intending only kindness.”

Linden could not think of a reason to refuse. She felt a disquieting kinship with the Howe. And its blood-soaked earth held lessons which she had not yet understood. She was loath to leave it. But the Mahdoubt’s touch evoked a need that she had tried to suppress; a hunger for simple human contact. Jeremiah had refused her for so long-She could plead for her companion’s help beside the cookfire as well as here.

With a stiff shrug, she allowed the Mahdoubt to lead her back down the dead slope in the direction of food and the Black River.

The distance seemed greater than it had earlier. But once Linden and her guide had left Gallows Howe behind, and had spent a while moving like starlight through the bitter woodland, she began to catch glimpses of a soft yellow glow past the trees. Soon they reached the riverbank and the Mahdoubt’s cookfire.

To every dimension of Linden’s senses, the flames looked entirely mundane, as plain as air and cold-and as ordinary as the Mahdoubt’s plump flesh. However, they had not died down while they went untended. The pot still bubbled soothingly. And its contents were undiminished.

Sighing complacently, the older woman returned to her place with her back to the thin trickle of the river. Squatting as she had earlier, she stirred at her pot for a moment, smelled it with contentment, then retrieved Linden’s bowl and filled it. When she had set the bowl down near the warming flask of springwine, she looked up at Linden. Her blue eye regarded Linden directly, but the orange one appeared to focus past or through her, contemplating a vista that Linden could not discern.

“Be seated, lady,” she advised mildly. “Eat that which the Mahdoubt has prepared. And rest also. Sleep if you are able. Will your dreams be troubled, or your slumber disturbed? No, assuredly. The Mahdoubt provides peace as she does food and drink. That gift she may bestow freely, though her infirmities be many, and the years weigh unkindly upon her bones. The Great One will suffer our intrusion.”

Linden considered remaining on her feet. She felt restless, charged with new tensions: she could not imagine sleep. And an impossible journey lay ahead of her. More than food or rest, she needed some reason to believe that it could be accomplished.

The Mahdoubt had not come here merely to feed and comfort her, or to provide for her encounter with the Forestal: Linden was certain of that. While she remained in this time, she could not keep her promise to Caerroil Wildwood, or act on what she had learned from Gallows Howe, or try to rescue her son, or search for Thomas Covenant and hope-

But the aromas arising from the pot insisted that she was still hungry. And the Mahdoubt’s intent was palpably charitable, whatever its limitations. Abruptly Linden sat down within reach of the cookfire’s heat and set the Staff beside her.

Lifting the flask, she found it full. At once, she swallowed several long draughts, then turned the surface of her attention to the stew while her deeper mind tried to probe the conundrum of her companion. Doubtless food and drink and the balm of the cookfire did her good; but those benefits were trivial. In her present straits, even Caerroil Wildwood’s gifts were trivial. What she needed most, required absolutely, was some way to return to her friends and Revelstone.

That she would never find without the Mahdoubt’s help.

When she was ready-as ready as she would ever be-she arose and took her bowl to the edge of the watercourse. There she searched by the dim glitter of the stars until she located a manageable descent. Moving cautiously through mud that reached the ankles of her boots, she approached the small stream. There she rinsed out the bowl; and as she did so, the Earthpower pulsing along the current restored her further. Then, heedless of the damp and dirt that besmirched her clothes, she clambered back up the bank and returned to the Mahdoubt.

Handing the bowl to the older woman, she bowed with as much grace as she could muster. “I should thank you,” she said awkwardly. “I can’t imagine how you came here, or why you care. None of this makes sense to me.” Obliquely the Mahdoubt had already refused Linden’s desire for a passage through time. “But you’ve saved my life when I thought that I was completely alone.” Alone and doomed. “Even if there’s nothing more that you can do to help me, you deserve all the thanks I have.”

The woman inclined her head. “You are gracious, lady. Gratitude is always welcome-oh, assuredly-and more so when the years have become long and wearisome. The Mahdoubt has lived beyond her time, and now finds gladness only in service. Aye, and in such gratitude as you are able to provide.”

For a moment longer, Linden remained standing. Gazing down on her companion might give her an advantage. But then, deliberately, she set such ploys aside. They were unworthy of the Mahdoubt’s kindness. When she had resumed her seat beside the fire, and had picked up the Staff to rest it across her lap, she faced the challenge of finding answers.

Carefully, keeping her voice low and her tone neutral, she said, “You’re one of the Insequent.”

The Mahdoubt appeared to consider the night. “May the Mahdoubt reply to such a query? Indeed she may, for she relies on naught which the lady has not gleaned from her own pain. For that reason, no harm will ensue.”

Then she gave Linden a bright glimpse of her orange eye. “It is sooth, lady. The Mahdoubt is of the Insequent.”

Linden nodded. “So you know the Theomach. And-” She paused momentarily, unsure whether to trust what the croyel had told her through Jeremiah. “And the Vizard?”

The Mahdoubt returned her gaze to the shrouded darkness of Garroting Deep. “Lady, it is not so among us.” She spoke with apparent ease, but her manner hinted at caution as if she were feeling her way through a throng of possible calamities. “When the Insequent are young, they join and breed and make merry. But as their years accumulate, they are overtaken by an insatiable craving for knowledge. It compels them. Therefore they turn to questings which consume the remainder of their days.

“However, these questings demand solitude. They must be pursued privately or not at all. Each of the Insequent desires understanding and power which the others do not possess. For that reason, they become misers of knowledge. They move apart from each other, and their dealings are both infrequent and cryptic.”

The older woman sighed, and her tone took on an uncharacteristic bleakness. “The name of the Theomach is known to the Mahdoubt, as is that of the Vizard. Their separate paths are unlike hers, as hers is unlike theirs. But the Insequent have this loyalty to their own kind, that they neither oppose nor betray one another. Those who transgress in such matters-and they are few, assuredly so-descend to a darkness of spirit from which they do not return. They are lost to name and knowledge and purpose, and until death claims them naught remains but madness. Therefore of the Theomach’s quests and purposes, or of the Vizard’s, the Mahdoubt may not speak in this time.

All greed is perilous,” concluded the woman more mildly. “Hence is the Mahdoubt wary of her words. She has no wish for darkness.”

Linden heard a more profound refusal in the Mahdoubt’s reply. The older woman seemed to know where Linden’s questions would lead-and to warn Linden away. Nevertheless Linden persevered, although she approached her underlying query indirectly.

“Still,” she remarked, “it seems strange that I’ve never heard of your people before. Covenant-” She stumbled briefly, tripped by grief and rage. “I mean Thomas Covenant, not his sick son-” Then she squared her shoulders. “He told me a lot, but he didn’t say anything about the Insequent. Even the Giants didn’t, and they love to explore.” As for the Elohim, she would not have expected them to reveal anything that did not suit their self-absorbed machinations. “Where have you all been?”

The Mahdoubt smiled. The divergent colours of her eyes expressed a fond appreciation for Linden’s efforts. “It does not surpass conception,” she said easily, “that the lady-aye, and others as well, even those who will come to be named Lords-know naught of the Insequent because apt questions at the proper time have not been asked of those who might have given answer.”

Linden could not repress a frown of frustration. The woman’s response revealed nothing. Floundering, she faced the Mahdoubt with her dirt-smeared clothes and her black Staff and her desolation. “All right. You said that you can’t answer my questions. I think I understand why. But there must be some other way that you can help me.” Why else had the older woman awaited her here?

Abruptly she gave up on indirection. She had recovered some of her strength, and was growing frantic. The Theomach told me that I already know his “true name”.” Therefore she assumed that true names had power among the Insequent. “How is that possible’?”

If you won’t rescue me, tell me how to make him do it.

Slowly the older woman’s features sagged, adding years to her visage and sadness to her mien. Linden’s insistence seemed to pain her.

“Lady, it is not the Mahdoubt’s place to inform you of that which is known to you. Assuredly not. She may confirm your knowledge, but she may neither augment nor explain it. Also she has spoken of the loyalty of the Insequent, to neither oppose nor betray. Long and long has she spurned such darkness.” She shook her head with an air of weary determination. “Nay, that which you seek may be found only within yourself.

“The Mahdoubt has urged rest. Again she does so. Perchance with sleep will come comprehension or recall, and with them hope.”

Linden swallowed a sarcastic retort. She was confident that she had never heard the Theomach’s true name. And she was certain that she had not forgotten some means to bypass centuries safely. But she also recognised that no bitterness or supplication would sway the Mahdoubt. After her fashion, the woman adhered to an ethic as strict as the rectitude of the Haruchai. It gave meaning to the Mahdoubt’s life. Without it, she might have left Linden to face Garroting Deep and Caerroil Wildwood and despair alone.

For that reason, Linden stifled her rising desperation. As steadily as she could, she said, “I’m sorry. I don’t believe it. You didn’t go to all of this trouble just to feed and comfort me. If you can’t tell me what I need to know, there must be some other way that you can help. But I don’t know what it is.”

Now her companion avoided her gaze. Concealing her eyes behind the hood of her cloak, the Mahdoubt studied the night as if the darkened trees might offer her wisdom. “The lady holds all knowledge that is necessary to her,” she murmured. “Of this no more may be said. Yet is the Mahdoubt saddened by the lady’s plight? Assuredly she is. And does her desire to provide succour remain? It does, again assuredly. Perchance by her own quest for knowledge she may assist the lady.”

Without shifting her contemplation of the forest, the older woman addressed Linden.

“Understand, lady, that the Mahdoubt inquires with respect, seeking only kindness. What is your purpose? If you obtain that which you covet here, what will be your path?”

Linden scowled. “You mean if I can get back to the time where I belong? I’m going to rescue my son.”

“Oh, assuredly,” assented the Mahdoubt. “As would others in your place. The Mahdoubt herself might do so. But do you grasp that your son has known the power of a-Jeroth? He that is imprisoned, a-Jeroth of the Seven Hells?”

Linden winced. Long ago, the Clave had spoken of a-Jeroth. Both she and Covenant had taken that as another name for Lord Foul: an assumption which Roger had confirmed.

“He’s Lord Foul’s prisoner,” she replied through her teeth. Tell her that I have her son. “I’ve known that since I first arrived. One of the croyel has him now, but that doesn’t change anything.”

The older woman sighed. “The Mahdoubt does not speak of this. Rather she observes that a-Jeroth’s mark was placed upon the boy when he was yet a small child, as the lady recalls.”

Her statement stuck Linden’s heart like iron on stone; struck and shed sparks. The bonfire, she thought in sudden anguish. Jeremiah’s hand. He had been in Lord Foul’s power then, hypnotised by eyes like fangs in the savage flames; betrayed by his natural mother. He had borne the cost ever since. And when his raceway construct freed him to visit the Land, he may have felt the Despiser’s influence, directly or indirectly.

The Mahdoubt seemed to suggest that Jeremiah had formed a willing partnership with the croyel. That his sufferings had distorted and corrupted him within the secrecy of his dissociation.

If Linden’s heart had not been fused-

The older woman seemed unaware of Linden’s shock; or she chose to ignore it. “Respectfully the Mahdoubt inquires again. What is your purpose?”

Anchoring herself on stone, Linden answered. “That doesn’t change anything. Even if you’re right. I have to get him back.” Somehow. “If he’s been marked”- claimed? — “I’ll deal with that when he’s safe.”

“Assuredly,” countered the woman. “This the Mahdoubt comprehends. Yet her query remains unmet. What will be your path to the accomplishment of your purpose?”

If her questions and assertions were kindly meant, their benignance had become obscure.

“All right.” Linden gripped the Staff with both hands as if she intended to lash out at the Mahdoubt. But she did not; would not: she clenched the Staff only because she could not close her fingers around the hardness that filled her chest. “Assuming that I’m not stuck in this time, I’ll go to Andelain. Maybe the Dead are still there.” Maybe Covenant himself would be there: the real Thomas Covenant rather than his son’s malign simulacrum. Her need for him increased with every beat of her heart. They might help me.” Even the spectre of Kevin Landwaster had once counselled her according to the dictates of his torment. “But even if they aren’t-”

When Linden fell silent, holding back ideas that she had kept to herself for days, the Mahdoubt prompted her. “Lady?”

Oh, hell, Linden muttered to herself. What did she have left to lose? An idea that she had concealed from Roger and the croyel could not hurt her now.

Harshly she told her companion. “Maybe I can find Loric’s krill.” She had heard that there were no limits to the amount of force which could be expressed through the eldritch dagger. “Covenant and I left it in Andelain.” Millennia hence, it would enable the breaking of the Law of Life. And the clear gem around which it had been forged had always responded to white gold. She was counting on that. “If it’s still there, I’ll have a weapon that might let me use wild magic and my Staff at the same time.”

Had the Mahdoubt asked her why she wanted to wield power on that scale, she would have had difficulty answering. Certainly she needed all the puissance she could muster against foes like Roger, Kastenessen, and the Despiser. But she had begun to consider other possibilities as well; choices which she hardly knew how to articulate. She had already demonstrated that she was inadequate to the Land’s plight. Now every effort to envision some kind of hope brought her back to Covenant.

But the older woman did not pursue her questions. Wrapping her cloak more tightly about her, she shrank into herself.

“Then the Mahdoubt may say no more.” Her voice emerged, muffled and saddened, from her shrouded shape. “The lady is in possession of all that she requires. And her purpose exceeds the Mahdoubt’s infirm contemplation. It is fearsome and terrible. The lady embraces devastation.”

A moment later, she spoke to Linden more directly. “Nonetheless her years have taught the Mahdoubt that there is hope in contradiction. Upon occasion, ruin and redemption defy distinction. Assuredly they do. She will trust to that when every future has become cruel.

“Lady, if you will permit the Mahdoubt to guide you, you will set such thoughts aside until you have rested. Sleep comforts the wracked spirit. Behold.” The woman’s hand emerged from her cloak to indicate her flask. “Springwine has the virtue to compel slumber. Allow ease to soften your thoughts. This she implores of you. If you make haste toward the Earth’s doom, it will hasten to meet you.”

When her hand withdrew, she became motionless beside her steady cookfire as though she herself had fallen asleep.

Like her advice, her statements conveyed nothing. -in possession of all that she requires. Such assertions left Linden unillumined; or she could not hear them. As far as she was concerned, her own ignorance and helplessness were all that gave meaning to words like doom.

Nevertheless she did not protest or beg. She made no demands. The Mahdoubt had come to this time to rescue her: she was certain of that. The Mahdoubt’s desire to accomplish something good here was unmistakable, in spite of the obfuscation imposed by her peculiar morality. She had travelled an inconceivable distance in order to meet Linden’s simpler needs. She had spoken for Linden when Caerroil Wildwood might have slain her. The woman’s human aura, her presence, her manner-everything about her that was accessible to Linden’s percipience-elicited conviction.

And she had insisted that Linden was not ignorant. The lady is in possession of all that she requires.

When Linden could no longer contain the pressure of her caged passions, she rose to her feet. Taking the Staff with her, she began to pace out her futility on the cold-hardened ground of the riverbank.

She did not walk away into the trees, although the gall and ire of Gallows Howe seemed to whisper a summons. There, at least, she would not be urged to sleep. The Forestal’s gibbet would recognise her rage, and approve. Nevertheless she did not intrude on the Deep. She had no desire to test the extent of Caerroil Wildwood’s forbearance. And the glowering resentment of the forest would not encourage her to think more clearly.

Instead she strode along the narrow strip of open ground at the edge of the Black River. And when she had walked far enough to reduce the Mahdoubt’s cookfire to a small glimmer, she turned back, passing the older woman and continuing on until she was once more in danger of losing sight of her companion. Then she turned again as if she were drawn by the innominate and undiminished promise implicit in the gentle flames.

Repeatedly tracing the same circuit from verge to verge of the cookfire’s light, with the runed black wood of the Staff gripped in her healed hand, she tried to solve the conundrum of the Mahdoubt’s presence.

The older woman had suggested that sleep might bring comprehension or recall. Comprehension was beyond Linden; as unattainable as sleep. But recall was not. For long years, she had sustained herself with remembrance. Pacing back and forth within the boundaries of the fire’s frail illumination, she tried to recollect and examine everything that the Mahdoubt had said since Linden had come upon her beside the river.

Unfortunately her battle under Melenkurion Skyweir, and her brutal struggle out of the mountain, had left her so frayed and fraught that she could remember only hazy fragments of what had been said and done before the Forestal’s arrival.

— answer none of the lady’s sorrows. The Mahdoubt had tried to explain something. Time has been made fragile. It must not be challenged further. But in Linden’s mind the words had become a blur of earthquake and cruelty and desperate bereavement.

Stymied by her earlier weakness, she had to begin with food and forbearance and Gallows Howe; with runes and assurances.

Must it transpire that beauty and truth shall pass utterly when we are gone?

If I can find an answer, I will.

After that, the Staff of Law had been restored to her, written with knowledge and power. It had made her stronger. The Howe itself had made her stronger. Her memories were as distinct as keening.

This blackness is lamentable-

But nothing in her encounter with Caerroil Wildwood relieved her own lament.

Again and again, however, the Mahdoubt had avowed that her wishes for Linden were kindly. Apart from her obscure answers to Linden’s questions, the Mahdoubt had treated Linden with untainted gentleness and consideration.

And when Linden had tried to thank her, the Mahdoubt had replied, Gratitude is always welcome-The Mahdoubt has lived beyond her time, and now finds gladness only in service. Aye, and in such gratitude as you are able to provide.

Gratitude.

Linden could have gone on, remembering word for word. But something stopped her there: a nagging sensation in the back of her mind. Earlier, days ago, or millennia from now, the Mahdoubt had spoken of gratitude. Not when the woman had accosted Linden immediately before Roger’s arrival in Revelstone with Jeremiah and the croyel: not when she had warned Linden to Be cautious of love. Before that. Before Linden’s confrontation with the Masters. The day before. In her rooms. When she and the Mahdoubt had first met.

Linden’s heart quickened its beat.

Then also the older woman had offered food and urged rest. She had explained that she served Lord’s Keep, not the

Masters. And she had asked-

Linden’s strides became more urgent as she searched her memories.

She had asked, Does the wonder of my gown please you? Are you gladdened to behold it? Every scrap and patch was given to the Mahdoubt in gratitude and woven together in love.

My gown. That was the only occasion when Linden had heard the Insequent refer to herself in the first person.

Full of other concerns, Linden had missed her opportunity to learn more about the patchwork motley of the Mahdoubt’s garb. But Liand had supplied what Linden lacked, as he had done so often.

That it is woven in love cannot be mistaken. If I may say so without offense, however, the gratitude is less plain to me.

In response, the Mahdoubt had chided him playfully. Matters of apparel are the province of women, beyond your blandishment. And then she had said-

Oh, God. Linden was so surprised that she stumbled. When she had recovered her balance, she stood still and braced herself on the Staff while she remembered.

The Mahdoubt had said, The lady grasps the presence of gratitude. And if she does not, yet she will. It is as certain as the rising and setting of the sun.

Gratitude. In the gown, my gown: in the disconcerting unsuitability of the parti-coloured scraps and tatters which had been stitched together to form the garment. Other people in other times had given thanks to the Mahdoubt-or had earned her aid-by adding pieces of cloth to her raiment.

The lady is in possession of all that she requires.

The Mahdoubt had already given Linden an answer.

— such gratitude as you are able to provide.

Shaken, Linden entered a state of dissociation that resembled Jeremiah’s; a condition in which ordinary explicable logic no longer applied. She leapt to demented assumptions and did not question them. Suddenly the only problem which held any significance for her was that she had no cloth.

For that matter, she had neither a needle nor thread. But those lacks did not daunt her. They hardly slowed her steps as she hurried to stand across the campfire from the Mahdoubt.

Hidden within her cloak, the woman still squatted motionless. She did not react to Linden’s presence. If she felt the blaze of confusion and hope in Linden’s gaze, she gave no sign.

Linden opened her mouth to blurt out the first words that occurred to her. But they would have been too demanding, and she swallowed them unuttered. If she could, she wanted to match the Mahdoubt’s courtesy. Intuitively she believed that politeness was essential to the older woman’s ethos.

She took a deep breath to steady herself. Then she began softly, “I don’t know how to address you. “The Mahdoubt” seems too impersonal. It’s like calling you “the stone” or “the tree”. But I haven’t earned the right to know your name,” her true name. “And you don’t use mine. You call me “lady” or “the lady” to show your respect.

“Would it be all right if I called you “my friend”?”

Slowly the Mahdoubt lifted her head. With her hands, she pulled back the hood of her cloak. The jarring and comfortable contradiction of her eyes regarded Linden warmly.

“The Mahdoubt,” she said, smiling, “would name it an honour to be considered the lady’s friend.”

“Thank you.” Linden bowed, trying to honour the older woman in return. “I appreciate that.

“My friend, I have a request.”

Still smiling, the woman waited for Linden to continue.

Linden did not hesitate. The pressure building within her did not permit it. As if she were sure of herself, she said, “You once asked if looking at your gown made me glad. I didn’t understand. I still don’t. All I know is that it has something to do with the requirements of your knowledge. Your beliefs. But I would be glad to look at it again now. I’ll be grateful for a second chance.”

For an instant, a burst of light appeared in the Mahdoubt’s eyes; a brief reflection from the flames, perhaps, or an intensification of her unpredictable solidity and evanescence. Then she climbed slowly to her feet, unbending one joint at a time: an old woman grown frail, too plump for her strength, and unable to stand without effort. While she laboured upright, however, she seemed to blush with pleasure.

Facing Linden over the heat of her cookfire, she shrugged off her cloak so that Linden could behold the full ugliness of her piecemeal gown.

It had been made haphazardly, with a startling lack of concern for harmonious colours, similar fabrics, or even careful stitches. Some scraps were the size of Linden’s hand, or of both hands: others, as long and narrow as her arm. Some were brilliant greens and purples, as bright as when they were newly dyed. Others had the duller hues of ochre and dun, and showed long years of wear. The threads sewing the patches together varied from hair-fine silk to crude leather thongs.

If the garment had been worn by anyone other than the Mahdoubt, no one who saw it would have discerned love or gratitude.

Considering her task, Linden murmured with an indefinable mixture of bafflement and certainty. “My friend, I hope that you don’t mind standing. This is going to take a while.”

“The Mahdoubt is patient,” the woman replied. “Oh, assuredly. Has she not awaited the lady for many of her long years? And is she not pleased-aye, both pleased and gratified-by the lady’s offer of thanks? How then should she grow weary?”

Half to herself, Linden promised. “I’ll be as quick as I can.” Then she went to work.

She could not think about what she meant to do. It made no sense, and might paralyse her. Instead she concentrated on the practical details, the small things: matters as simple as the Mahdoubt’s gifts of food and drink and warmth and company.

So: cloth first. Then a needle of some sort. After that, she would confront the conundrum of thread.

She had no knife; no sharp edge of any kind. That was a problem. Yet she did not pause to doubt herself, or consider that she might fail. Nor did she waste her attention on embarrassment. Putting down the Staff, she unbuttoned her shirt and removed it.

The shirttail seemed the best place to tear the fabric. But the red flannel had been tightly hemmed: she would not be able to rend it with her fingers. And she lacked any implement to pick the stitches.

Lifting the edge of the material to her mouth, she began trying to chew through the hem.

The flannel proved tougher than she had expected. She gnawed and plucked at it until her jaws ached and her teeth hurt, but it refused to rip.

For a moment, she studied the area around the cookfire, hoping to find a rock with a jagged edge. However, every stone in sight was old and weathered; water-rounded.

Oh, hell, she thought; but again she did not pause. Instead she took up a dead twig and poked it at the bitten fabric. Then she used the twig to thrust that small section of hem into the fire.

When the flannel began to blacken and char, she withdrew it from the flames; blew on the material to extinguish it. Knotting her fists in her shirt, she pulled against the weakened hem.

The cloth was sturdy: it did not tear easily. But when she dropped her shirt over a stone, stood on it, and heaved at the shirttail with both hands, she was able to make a rent longer than a hand span.

The Mahdoubt watched her avidly, nodding as if in encouragement. But Linden paid no heed. Her task consumed her. Her palms and fingers were sore, her arms throbbed, she was breathing hard-and she had to rip another part of the hem.

This time, she did not expend effort chewing: she turned immediately to the fire. With her twig, she held the hem in the flames until the cloth and even the twig began to burn. Then she stamped on her shirt to quench the charred fibres.

Now the material tore more easily. One fierce tug sufficed to rip a sizable scrap from the shirttail.

More out of habit than self-consciousness, Linden donned her shirt and buttoned it, although it was filthy, caked with mud and dead leaves. For a moment while she caught her breath, she reminded herself, One step at a time. Just one. That’s all. She had procured a patch. Next she needed a needle.

Trusting that Caerroil Wildwood would not take offense, she went to the nearest evergreen-a scrub fir-and broke off one straight living twig. She wanted wood that still held sap; wood that would not be brittle.

Beside the cookfire, she rubbed her twig on the stones until it was as smooth as possible. Then she held one end in the small blaze, hoping to harden it. Before it could catch fire, she pulled it out to rub it again.

When she had repeated the process several times, her rubbing began to produce a point at the end of the twig.

“The lady is resourceful,” remarked the Mahdoubt in a voice rich with pride. “Must the Mahdoubt dismiss her fears? Assuredly she must. The lady has foiled her foes under great Melenkurion Skyweir. How then may it be contemplated that the Earth’s doom will exceed her cunning?”

Briefly Linden stopped to massage her tired face, stroke her parched eyes. All right, she told herself. Cloth. A needle. Now thread.

As far as she knew, the forest offered nothing suitable. Its thinnest vines and most supple fibres would eventually rot away, invalidating her gratitude.

Sighing, she spread out her scrap of flannel and began trying to pick threads from its torn edge with the point of her twig.

This was difficult work, close and meticulous. It brought back her weariness in waves until she could hardly keep her eyes open. Her world seemed to contract until it contained nothing except her hands and needle and a stubborn scrap of red. The weave of the flannel resisted her efforts. She had to be as careful and precise as her son when he worked on one of his constructs. She had watched him on occasions too numerous to count. His raceway in his bedroom may have enabled him to reach the Land, for good or ill. And she had seen him build a cage of deadwood to enter the depths of Melenkurion Skyweir. She knew his exactitude intimately; his assurance. Time and again, her needle separated stubby threads too short to serve any purpose. Nevertheless she persevered. Now or never, she repeated to herself like a mantra. Now or never.

In her exhaustion, she believed that if she put her task down to rest or sleep, she might give her enemies the time they needed to achieve the Earth’s end.

Finally she had obtained five red threads nearly as long as her hand. That, she decided, would have to suffice. Cloth. A needle. Thread. Now she lacked only a method of attaching thread to her twig.

While she groped for possibilities, she picked up the flask of springwine and drank. For a moment, she blinked rapidly, trying to moisten eyes that felt as barren as Gallows Howe. Then she took her sharpened twig and broke it in half.

The wood snapped unevenly, leaving small splits in the blunt end of her needle.

On her knees, she approached the Mahdoubt.

“Be at peace, lady,” the Insequent said softly. “There is no need for haste.”

Linden hardly heard her. The world had become cloth and thread, a wooden needle and the hanging edge of the Mahdoubt’s robe. When she was near enough to work, Linden laid her few threads out on a stone and examined the woman’s gown until she located a place where her patch could be made to fit. Still kneeling, and guided only by her memories of Jeremiah, she took one fragile thread, wedged it gently into a split at the end of her needle, and began sewing.

As she worked, she held her breath in an effort to steady her weariness.

Her needle did not pierce the fabric easily. And when it passed through her scrap of flannel and the edge of the gown, it made a hole much too large for her thread. But she knotted the thread as well as she could with her sore fingers, then forced her twig through the material a second time.

While she laboured, she felt the Mahdoubt touch her head. The older woman stroked Linden’s hair, comforting her with caresses. Then, softly, the Mahdoubt began to chant.

Her voice was low, as if she were reciting a litany to herself. Nevertheless her tone-or the words of her chant-or Linden’s flagrant fatigue-cast a trance like an enchantment, causing the world to shrink further. Garroting Deep ceased to impinge on Linden’s senses: the raw teeth of winter and the kindly flames of the cookfire lost their significance: darkness and stars were reduced to a vague brume that condensed and swirled, empty of meaning. Only Linden’s hands and the Mahdoubt’s gown held any light, any purpose. And only the Mahdoubt’s chant enabled Linden to continue sewing.

“A simple charm will master time,

A cantrip clean and cold as snow.

It melts upon the brow of thought,

As plain as death, and so as fraught,

Leaving its implications’ rime,

For understanding makes it so.

“The secret of its spell is trust.

It does not change or undergo

The transformations which it wreaks-

The end in silence which it seeks

But stands forever as it must,

For cause and sequence make it so.

“Such knowing is the sap of life

And death, the rich, ripe joy and woe

Ascending in vitality

To feed the wealth of life’s wide tree

Regardless of its own long strife,

For plain acceptance makes it so.

This simple truth must order time:

It simply is, and all minds know

The way of it, the how, the why:

They must forever live and die

In rhythm, for the metered rhyme

Of growth and passing makes it so.

“The silent mind does not protest

The ending of its days, or go

To loss in grief and futile pain,

But rather knows the healing gain

Of time’s eternity at rest.

The cause of sequence makes it so.”

Linden did not understand-and neither knew nor cared that she did not. While she worked, she set all other considerations aside. With her abused fingers and her blurring vision, she concentrated solely and entirely on completing her gratitude; her homage.

But when she came to the end of her thread, and the scrap of her shirt was loosely stitched to the Mahdoubt’s robe-when the older woman removed her hand, ceasing her chant-Linden thought that she heard a familiar voice shout with relief and gladness. “Ringthane! The Ringthane has returned!”

At the same time, she seemed to feel sunrise on her back and smell spring in the air. She appeared to kneel on dewy grass at the Mahdoubt’s feet with the sound of rushing water in her ears and the Staff of Law as black as a raven’s wing beside her.

And she heard other voices as well. They, too, were known to her, and dear. They may have been nickering.

As she toppled to the grass, she fell out of her ensorcelled trance. She had a chance to think, Revelstone. The plateau.

The Mahdoubt had restored her to her proper time and place.

Then exhaustion claimed her, and she was gone.

Chapter Two: In the Care of the Mahdoubt

Linden awoke slowly, climbing with effort and reluctance through the exhaustion of millennia. The years that she had bypassed or slipped between seemed to multiply her natural age; and her attempts to open her eyes, confirm the substance of her surroundings, felt hampered by caducity. She did not know where she was. She had told herself that she had reached the plateau above Revelstone in her proper time. She had believed that, trusted it; and slept. But the surface on which she lay was not fresh grass in springtime. Linen rather than soiled garments covered her nakedness, and her feet were bare. The light beyond her eyelids was too dim to be morning.

And she was diminished, truncated, in some fashion that she could not identify.

Yet she was warm, comfortably nestled. The unremitting clench of winter had released her. Her bed supported her softly. Like her eyes, her mouth and throat were too dry for ease, but those small discomforts were the normal consequences of unconsciousness. They did not hamper her.

For a moment like an instant of panic in a dream, quickly forgotten, she imagined that she had been taken to a hospital; that paramedics had rushed her, sirens wailing, to a place of urgent care. Had the bullet missed her heart? But the deeper levels of her mind knew the truth.

Gradually she recognised how she had been reduced.

Her skin felt nothing except the tactile solace of linen and softness and warm weight. She smelled nothing except the faint tang of wood smoke and the precious scent of cleanliness; heard nothing except the subtle effort of her own breathing. None of her senses extended beyond the confines of her body.

She did not know where she was, or how, or why-she hardly knew who-because her health-sense was gone. She had grown accustomed to its insights. Its absence diminished her.

Nonetheless she was paradoxically comforted by the realisation that Kevin’s Dirt had regained its hold. Now she could be certain that the Mahdoubt had brought her near to her rightful time.

In any case, her benevolent rescuer would not have stranded her earlier than she belonged. Then she would still have posed a threat to the integrity of the Arch. Nor had the Mahdoubt greatly overshot the day of Linden’s disappearance in rain from the upland plateau. She seemed to recall that she had heard Bhapa’s voice announcing her presence. If that were true, then she had also heard Manethrall Mahrtiir and Cord Pahni answer Bhapa’s call.

Surely they would not have awaited her return indefinitely? Not while their choices were constrained by the Masters-and the Demondim. At some point, they would have left Revelstone to rejoin their people, or to seek out a defence against the Land’s foes.

Linden had not been absent long enough to exhaust her friends’ hopes. And she had felt spring in the air—

When she was sure that the Mahdoubt had delivered her to the proper season in the proper year, a few of her numberless fears faded. At last, she allowed herself to remember why she was here.

Jeremiah. The croyel. Roger Covenant. Purpose and urgency.

Heavy with sleep, she raised her hands to confirm that Covenant’s ring still hung from its chain around her neck. Then she lifted them higher to rub her face. But she was not yet ready to sit up. She needed a moment to acknowledge that she had done Thomas Covenant the shameful injustice of permitting herself to be misled by his son.

She should have known better. Her dead love had earned more than her loyalty: he had earned her faith. Recalling the long tally of her mistakes, she was grieved that she let Roger tarnish her memories of the man who had twice defeated Lord Foul for the Land’s sake.

Grieved and angered.

Jeremiah’s presence had accomplished Roger’s intentions perfectly: it had distorted her judgment, leaving her vulnerable.

No more, she vowed. Not again. She had fallen in with the Despiser’s machinations once. She would not repeat that mistake.

Instead she meant to exact a price for Jeremiah’s torment.

But she was getting ahead of herself. Her night with the Mahdoubt in Garroting Deep had taught her-or retaught her-an important lesson. One step at a time. Just one. First she needed to absorb the details of her present situation. And she had to retrieve her Staff so that she could cast off the pall of Kevin’s Dirt. She would determine other actions later, after her true strength was restored.

Blinking against the smear of nightmares and regret, she looked around.

Strange, she thought. She was in a small room which she knew well enough, although it seemed vaguely unreal, dislocated by the passage of too much time; too much cold and desperation, battle and loss. She lay under blankets in a narrow bed. A pillow cradled her head. A shuttered window in the smooth stone wall above her admitted a dull grey light that could have been dawn or dusk. A doorway in the opposite wall past the foot of the bed held a soft illumination, yellow and flickering, which suggested lamps or a fire. Near her head, a second doorway led to a bathroom.

The chamber appeared to be the same one in which she had spent two nights before Roger and the croyel had translated her out of her time. She remembered it as though she had visited it in dreams rather than in life.

Yet she was here. As if to demonstrate the continuity of her existence, the Staff of Law leaned like a shaft of midnight against the wall at the head of the bed. And in a chair at its foot sat the Mahdoubt, watching Linden with a smile on her lips and gloaming in her mismatched eyes.

When Linden raised her head, the Mahdoubt left her chair, moved into the next room, and returned with an oil lamp and a clay goblet. The little flame, soothing in spite of its unsteadiness, accentuated her orange eye while it dimmed her blue one. The lurid patchwork of her robe blurred into a more harmonious mélange.

“Forbear speech, lady,” she murmured as she approached the bed. “Your slumber has been long and long, and you awaken to confusion and diminishment. Here is water fresh from the eldritch wealth of Glimmermere.” She offered the goblet to Linden. “Has its virtue declined somewhat? Assuredly. Yet much of its healing lingers.

“Drink, lady,” the Mahdoubt urged. “Then you may speak, and be restored.”

But Linden needed no encouragement. As soon as she caught sight of the goblet, she became conscious of an acute thirst. Propping herself up on one elbow, she accepted the goblet and drained it eagerly.

In the absence of any health-sense, she could not gauge how much of the water’s potency had been lost. Nevertheless it was bliss to her mouth and throat, balm to her thirst. And it awakened her more fully. A numinous tingling sharpened her senses, reminding her of a more fundamental discernment.

At once, she dropped the goblet on the bed, sat up, and reached for the Staff.

As soon as she closed her hands on the necessary warmth of the wood, and read with her fingers the deft precision of the Forestal’s runes, she felt the return of a more complete life. In the space between her heartbeats, the stone of the chamber ceased to be blind granite, inert and unresponsive: it became a vital and breathing aspect of Lord’s Keep. She recognised warmth and fire in the hearth of the larger room beyond her bedroom; smelled water poised to flow in the bathroom. Every inch of her skin and scalp became aware of its cleanliness. And the comfortable ease of the Mahdoubt’s aura washed over her like a baptism.

Hugging the Staff to her bare breasts, Linden retrieved the goblet and handed it back to the older woman, mutely asking for more of Glimmermere’s benison.

With a nod of approval, the Mahdoubt complied. When she returned from the sitting room this time, however, she brought a large wooden pitcher as well as the replenished goblet. The goblet she gave to Linden: the pitcher she placed on the floor beside the bed, where Linden could reach it easily. Then she retreated to her chair.

Until Linden had emptied the goblet again, she did not remember that she was naked.

Instinctively self-conscious, although she knew that she had no reason to be, she pulled up the sheet to cover herself. With a grimace of embarrassment, she found her voice at last.

“Who bathed me?”

Now the Mahdoubt grinned broadly. “The lady’s questions are endless. And some may be answered. Aye, assuredly, for there can be no peril in them.

“Lady, you and the Mahdoubt were chanced upon by Ramen beside the falls of Glimmermere. Their Manethrall himself bore you hither, and here-with pleasure the Mahdoubt proclaims it-you have slumbered for two days and a night. Was such rest needful? Beyond all doubt it was. But when she discerned the depth of your slumbers, she saw that other care was needful as well.

“It was the wish of all who have claimed your friendship, the flattering

Stonedownor youth among them, and also he who was once a Master, to stand in vigil at your side. Assuredly. Are you not worthy of their attendance? Yet the Mahdoubt dismissed them, permitting only the Ramen girl to remain. Together she and the girl bathed you. Your raiment as well they cleansed and in part mended, though the marks of fecundity and long grass remain-as they must. Oh, assuredly.

“When these small services had been accomplished, the Mahdoubt dismissed the girl also. The Mahdoubt is aged,” she explained lugubriously, in apparent playfulness, “and finds only brief ease in the accompaniment of the young. They remind her of much that she has left behind.” She sighed, but her tone held no regret. “Therefore the Mahdoubt has watched over you alone, taking satisfaction in your rest.”

The older woman’s gentle voice filled the room with a more ordinary and humane solace than the relief of urgent thirst, the Earthpower in Glimmermere’s waters, the recovery of percipience, the stubborn protectiveness of Revelstone, or the confirmed strictures of the Staff. Listening, Linden found that she could accept the sound and relax somewhat, despite the hard clench of her heart.

She wanted to see her friends. But the Mahdoubt’s reply implied that Liand, Stave, Anele, and the three Ramen were well. Indeed, it seemed to indicate that they had not been harmed by the violence surrounding Linden’s disappearance, or threatened by the siege of the Demondim. And if Linden’s resolve remained as unmistakable as a fist, her utter extremity had passed, sloughed off by sleep and the Mahdoubt’s astonishing succour. She could afford to take her steps one at a time-and to take them slowly.

“When you washed my clothes,” she asked, holding images of Jeremiah’s plight at bay, “did you find a piece of red metal?” She could not recall what she had done with her son’s ruined racecar; his only reminder of her love. “It would have looked unfamiliar, but you could tell that it was twisted out of shape.”

The older woman nodded. “Aye, lady.” Her expression became unexpectedly grave, as though she grasped the significance of the racecar. “It lies beneath your pillow.”

Reaching under her pillow, Linden drew out the crumpled toy. Her fingers recognised it before she looked at it. It had been warmed while she slept, yet the croyel’s touch lingered in it, palpable and malign; and for an instant, she could not understand why she did not weep. But of course she knew why: all of her tears had been fused into the igneous rock of her purpose.

Closing the car in her fingers, she met the Mahdoubt’s sympathetic gaze. “My friend,” she said, trying to soften her voice so that she would not sound angry. “I don’t know how to thank you. I can’t even imagine how to begin. I don’t understand how you helped me, or how you even knew that I needed help. And I certainly don’t understand why you went to all of that trouble. But you saved me when everything that I could have hoped for was gone.” Ever since we got you away from your present, there haven’t been any possible outcomes that don’t give us exactly what we want. “Now I hope that someday I’ll be worthy of you.”

She was not one of the Land’s great heroes. Her many inadequacies had almost given Lord Foul his ultimate victory. But the Mahdoubt had done more than restore her to her proper time: the Insequent had given her a new opportunity to fight for her son.

Linden did not mean to waste it.

“Pssht, lady,” replied the Mahdoubt. “Are your thanks pleasing to the Mahdoubt? Assuredly. Yet they are sufficient-nay, more than sufficient. Already you have surpassed her own hopes. And you have enabled her to gaze more deeply into the peril of these times. That which she has seen teaches her that she is not yet done with service.

“Lady,” she went on briskly. “one of those who is named the Humbled has discerned your awakening. Summons have been sent to your companions. Assuredly they will gather in haste, clamouring to attend upon you.” The woman smiled with evident affection. “Ere their coming, the Mahdoubt must depart, for she will not submit to their queries. Yet she is cognisant of your need for knowledge which none here possess. Perchance some few of your questions may now be sated. If there is aught that the Mahdoubt may reveal to you, she urges you to speak of it without qualm.”

Linden sat up straighter. She had not expected the Mahdoubt’s offer. And her mind was still clogged by long sleep as well as by the croyel’s cruel spoor on Jeremiah’s toy. Half reflexively, she called up a small tongue of flame from the Staff to lick away the disturbing residue in the metal. Then she scrambled to catch up with her circumstances.

She wanted details about the condition of her friends and the state of the siege. But Liand and the others would soon arrive to answer such questions in person. And the Mahdoubt was one of the Insequent. She had rescued Linden-but she had also permitted Roger’s and the croyel’s treachery.

While Linden tried to assemble her thoughts into some kind of order, she asked the first question that occurred to her.

“Before I left-” At first, words came awkwardly to her, as though she had to drag them across a vast gulf of years. “When the ur-viles tried to stop Roger and the croyel from taking me. There weren’t any Waynhim.” According to Esmer, he had imposed peace between the ur-viles and the Waynhim. Together they had helped her weaken the Demondim so that Revelstone might survive. “Why didn’t they join the ur-viles? Did they want me to get lost in the past?”

Her companion looked away. Apparently speaking to the rock of the Keep, she mused, “Does the Mahdoubt comprehend the lady’s concern in this? Oh, assuredly. The lady cannot grasp the speech of the Waynhim. Therefore she cannot inquire of them directly. And the sole interpreter known to her is betimes unworthy of credence. Do these reasons suffice to prompt a reply? They do.”

Then the woman faced Linden again. “Lady, the Waynhim absented themselves because they foresaw peril to those who now deem themselves Masters. The esteem between the Waynhim and the mountain race of the Haruchai is both old and earned. The Waynhim do not desire your loss. They would do much to preserve you. Yet they declined to share in deeds which hazarded their olden allies.”

Not for the first time, Linden felt that she had wasted a question. Nevertheless she was glad to have an answer. It relieved a nagging doubt. And it gave her time to decide what she most needed to know.

“All right,” she murmured. “That makes sense.”

Clenching Jeremiah’s racecar, she asked. Can you tell me how to save my son? Is he already lost?”

A-Jeroth’s mark was placed upon the boy when he was yet a small child—

The Insequent regarded Linden with one eye and then the other. “Sadly,” she said, “the Mahdoubt has no knowledge of this. It transcends her. In some measure, she has made of herself an adept of Time-as did the Theomach as well, assuredly, though in another form. But she beholds only the time in which she manifests herself, neither its past nor its future. Thus she is unable to witness her own future. Her present is here. Beyond this moment, she may estimate intentions and perils, but she cannot observe deeds and outcomes which lie ahead.

“The Theomach’s powers were greater than the Mahdoubt’s.”

Linden winced involuntarily; but she did not protest. She trusted the Mahdoubt. And Lord Foul had promised her through Anele, In time you will behold the fruit of my endeavours. If your son serves me, he will do so in your presence. If I slaughter him, I will do so before you. If you discover him, you will only hasten his doom. Roger had assured her that he and the Despiser still had plans for Jeremiah.

I do not reveal my aims to such as you.

For that reason, she chose to believe that her son was not beyond redemption. While Lord Foul still had a use for him, he would not be irreparably damaged-and she could hope to reach him.

Steadying herself on the stone of her heart, Linden said, “In that case, tell me why you didn’t expose Roger and the croyel when they first arrived. In Garroting Deep, you said that you aren’t wise enough to interfere with what you considered “needful”. But that was ten thousand years ago. You had to be careful. This is now. How could what Roger and that monster did to me be needful?”

The Mahdoubt could have spared her—

In response, chagrin and sorrow closed the woman’s features. She lowered the contradiction of her eyes: for a moment, she seemed to fumble within herself. When she replied, her voice was thick with sadness.

“Lady, the Mahdoubt comprehends your pain. Assuredly she herself must appear to be your treacher, for she stood aside while betrayal was wrought against you. If you choose condemnation, she cannot gainsay you.”

The Insequent knotted her fingers together. Her hands twisted at each other. “But if in aught the Mahdoubt has won your regard, then she observes-with respect, aye, and mourning also-that you have gained knowledge which you did not formerly possess. And had you not suffered and striven as you did, you would not have become who you are. The Mahdoubt could not foresee such an outcome when you were taken by your foes. She was able only to perceive that you were not then equal to the Land’s plight.

“Lady, you have become greater. That the Mahdoubt deemed needful.”

Linden scowled at her companion; but her anger was for herself, not the Mahdoubt. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean that to sound like an accusation.” It was certainly true that she knew more now. “I’m proud to call you my friend. I’m just trying to understand as much as I can.”

She had not become greater. She had simply been made harder and more certain.

Slowly the Mahdoubt raised her head. Her blue eye was damp with relief or gratitude, but the orange one glared like a promise of ferocity. “Pssht, my lady,” she said again. “You have no need of the Mahdoubt’s forgiveness. It is given before it is asked. Assuredly so. Your gratitude”- she indicated her robe- “has claimed her old heart.

“Inquire what you will. The Mahdoubt will attempt better answers.”

Now it was Linden who looked away. While she prepared herself, she muttered. “My real problem with what you did is that I feel so damn stupid. I should have seen the truth for myself. About Roger, anyway.” Jeremiah’s presence had confounded her utterly. “But he did things-

“How could he drink springwine?” she blurted. “How could either of them? It has aliantha in it.”

That was only one of the many means by which Covenant’s son had confused her. The Ramen believed that No servant of Fangthane craves or will consume aliantha.

“Ah.” The Mahdoubt nodded in recognition. “Assuredly. That chicane arose from the halfhand’s portion of the nature of the Elohim. The Elohim are not hampered by mortal distastes. With the cursed gift of such a hand, your betrayer received both the power of glamour, of seeming, and the capacity to set aside his revulsion for the goodly health of the Land. These given strengths he also employed to veil and ward the cruel beast which rules your son. Thus his loathing, and your son’s, for aliantha in springwine was hidden.

“Your wits did not fail you, my lady,” she added kindly. “Think no ill of yourself. Your foes’ deeds and appearances were prepared one and all for your consternation. You were hastened from event to event to assure that you found no occasion to imagine their concealment.” The woman nodded again. “There was no fault in you.”

“Then-” With an effort, Linden dragged her attention away from Roger’s and the croyel’s manipulations. If she considered them too closely, she might founder in outrage. They have done this to my son. For a moment, she closed her eyes, gathered herself. When she opened them again, she faced her companion squarely.

“The Theomach told me that he would protect history from what I did, but I don’t know whether I can trust him. I don’t know how that’s even possible.”

How had she not set in motion ripples which would change everything?

The Mahdoubt shook her head, turning it from side to side so that first her orange eye and then her blue one regarded Linden brightly. “My lady,” she said with an air of intention, urging Linden to believe her, “you may be assured that the Theomach did not neglect such matters. Does your heart not beat? Do your words not convey their meaning? And do these simple truths not proclaim that the Law of Time endures? It is manifest that you have not broken faith with the past.

“Yet the Mahdoubt may observe,” she added as if Linden had expressed doubt, “that Law seeks its own path. Diverted, it strives to return. Your exertion of Earthpower among Berek Heartthew’s warriors was easily transmuted to serve the Theomach’s purpose. You have not forgotten-assuredly not-that the Theomach found a place as the Lord-Fatherer’s tutor. Thus he was able to account for your presence and deeds in any manner which conformed to his own intentions-and to his knowledge of Time.

“My lady, he made of you the first of the Unfettered, those who in the time of the Lords sought lore and wisdom solitarily, as do the Insequent, according to their private natures. At the Theomach’s word, a tradition and a legend began from the wonderment of your aid, and all that has since transpired in the Land has confirmed it.

Linden listened in surprise and gradual comprehension. She had heard of the Unfettered-Covenant had told her a little about them after Sunder’s half-mad father had called himself a descendant of the Unfettered One.

“Understand, my lady,” the Mahdoubt continued, “that the Theomach did not require your presence or your aid. He merely made use of you. Had you not appeared, he would have contrived to win the Heartthew’s trust by other means. And he would have proposed the legend of the Unfettered to justify his own knowledge and power. Such ploys were needful to preserve the Arch.

“Nor did the visitation of your betrayers challenge the Theomach’s cleverness.” The older woman sighed heavily. “Among the Lords of later ages, there endured a belief that the Halfhand, the Lord-Fatherer, would one day return to meet the Land’s need. As events befell, the Theomach was not greatly troubled to bring forth such a tale from the form of those who accompanied you.”

For a moment, her voice held an edge of disapproval. “His purposes were his own, and selfish. All that he did conduced to his own aggrandisement. Therefore he did not scruple upon occasion to offer the Lord-Fatherer instruction which was either flawed or incomplete. Assuredly, however, he would have drawn upon the full depth of his knowledge to preserve the wholeness of that which ensued from his desires.

“The Insequent and the Elohim share only this, my lady, that we do not desire the destruction of the Earth.”

The Theomach had said virtually the same thing. Even Roger had said it.

And Linden had seen for herself how little Berek had known or understood in the aftermath of his encounter with the Fire-Lions. The Theomach could have told him anything, and he would have had no choice except to credit it.

As she drank more of Glimmermere’s waters, her mind grew sharper. There were so many things that she wanted to know. Because the Mahdoubt had said that she would depart soon, Linden began to hurry.

“All right,” she said. “I don’t really understand how the Theomach knew what his own future required. But if you explained it, I probably still wouldn’t understand.

“What can you tell me about that box? The way the croyel transported us into the mountain?” She winced at the memory. “Or used my son to do it. Is Jeremiah really capable of making portals? Doors through time and distance? And if he is, what does that have to do with the Elohim?”

Had Roger told her the truth about Jeremiah’s deadwood construct?

The Mahdoubt spread her hands to suggest a warning. “Is the lady’s query condign?” she asked herself. “The Mahdoubt deems it so. Yet there is peril here. She must display great care.

“My lady,” she said to Linden. “your son’s gifts are certain. The Mahdoubt can estimate neither their extent nor their uses. However, their worth is beyond question. Both the Vizard’s interest and a-Jeroth’s machinations proclaim that there is power concealed within your chosen child.”

According to Jeremiah-or the croyel- the Vizard had coveted a gaol for the Elohim.

“The Mahdoubt,” she continued, “has averred that neither Insequent nor Elohim desire the destruction of the Earth. Assuredly such havoc was the intent of your treachers. But they outdistanced the Theomach’s perception, as he selfishly permitted them to do, relying upon your strength to oppose them. Therefore your companions saw no further threat in him. And they conceived that your defeat was certain. For that reason, they feared only the Elohim.

“The purpose of the ‘box,’ as you name it, was to blind the eyes of the Elohim. They are”- she searched visibly for a cautious description- “susceptible to such structures. Its nature interacted with their fluidity, enabling your companions to elude detection. Thus were you compelled to meet the crisis of the EarthBlood alone.”

Susceptible to such structures? Linden wondered. Roger had said essentially the same thing. And she had seen how the Elohim had reacted to Vain, who had been a construct of the ur-viles.

If Jeremiah’s talent could “blind” the Elohim, what else might it accomplish?

But there again Linden hit a barrier of comprehension. Her thoughts were too sequential: she could not gauge the implications of ideas or abilities which appeared to defy linear cause and effect. And she sensed that she was running out of time. Her other friends were coming—

Swallowing bafflement, she said carefully, “That’s something else I may never understand. Can you answer one more question?”

The older woman appeared to consult the evening air through the shutters of the window. Then she gave Linden a comfortable smile. “Assuredly. If the Mahdoubt may reply briefly.”

“We keep coming back to the Theomach and the Elohim,” Linden said at once. An Elohim had given warning of the croyel as well as the halfhand. Is it true that your people are the shadow on the heart of the Elohim?” The Elohim had called themselves the heart of the Earth. And they had admitted that within the Earth’s heart, or their own, lay darkness. To account for her query, she added. “I’ve heard other explanations.”

Esmer had told her, The Elohim believe that they are equal to all things. This is false. Were it true, the Earth entire would exist in their image, and they would have no need to fear the rousing of the Worm of the World’s End. That is shadow enough to darken the heart of any being.

The Mahdoubt’s smile sagged, and she sighed. “My lady, the Theomach has given the Elohim cause to doubt their surquedry. Oh, assuredly. For that reason, many among the Mahdoubt’s race name him the greatest of all Insequent. Yet she deems that her kind are not a shadow cast by the unspoken Wurd of the Elohim. Nor do the Insequent themselves cast such shadows. They are merely men and women who crave knowledge as diligently as the Elohim desire the sopor of self-contentment.

“In its fashion, my lady, your comprehension of these matters is as great as the Mahdoubt’s-or the Theomach’s. Assuredly so. Have you not grown familiar with shadows?” Her mismatched eyes searched Linden deeply. And is your heart not filled with darkness still? You require no guidance to interpret the evils of the Earth, for you have encountered them within you.”

Involuntarily Linden squirmed. She had known Ravers: she recognised the nature of the passions which had driven her ever since she had coerced Roger Covenant and the croyel to reveal themselves. Her own shadow had responded to Gallows Howe. But she had gone beyond doubt, and did not question herself. Instead she chose to ignore the warning implicit in her companion’s reply.

“That’s probably true,” she said, dismissing the subject. She had confronted Lord Foul’s snares now. She would not fall into them again. “But I’m still confused about the details.

“How do I know the Theomach’s true name? Where did I hear it’?”

The Insequent had made themselves important to her. She wanted to know their weaknesses.

But the Mahdoubt did not react as Linden expected-or hoped. Leaning forward intently, the woman braced her plump arms on her knees. In a voice that seemed to resonate strangely, although it was as soft as a whisper, she answered, “My lady, you have not inquired of the Mahdoubt’s true name.”

Instinctively Linden pressed her back against the stone at the head of the bed. The Staff of Law lay across her lap: white gold hung against her sternum: one hand gripped her son’s toy while the other held a sheet over her breasts. Yet she felt unexpectedly exposed and vulnerable, as if all of her inadequacies had been laid bare.

Whispering herself, she said, “I’m not convinced that I deserve to know. And I’m sure that I don’t have the right to ask. Your people don’t use titles instead of names by accident. When the Theomach does it, he’s hiding something. That makes me suspicious. But you’re my friend. You didn’t just save my life. You saved my reasons for living. Obviously you know all kinds of things that you’ve decided not to tell me. And I don’t care. I respect whatever you do. Or don’t do.”

The Mahdoubt’s orange eye burned at Linden; but her blue one seemed to plead, asking for sufferance-or for discretion. “Then the Mahdoubt will reveal that her true name is Quern Ehstrel. Thus she grants the power to compel her. And in return she requests both wisdom and restraint.”

No, Linden wanted to protest. Please. Don’t you understand that I’ll use you? I need every weapon I can get. But she had already missed her chance to forestall the older woman’s gift.

Suddenly hoarse with chagrin, she asked. Is that why the Insequent hide their true names? Because they can be compelled?”

If so, she understood their loyalty to each other. The Insequent had too much power over their own people. Without loyalty, none of them would survive.

But the Mahdoubt did not respond directly. Instead she rose to her feet, pushing herself upward with her hands on her knees. Her gaze she turned away, although she was smiling fondly.

“My lady, those who have claimed your friendship draw nigh. The Mahdoubt must now depart. Her time of service to Revelstone is ended, for she awaited only the lady.

“Your raiment has been prepared.” She nodded toward the bathroom. And she has placed a tray before the hearth, for she does not doubt that you are hungry.

If you will permit the Mahdoubt a last word of counsel”- she gave Linden a teasing sidelong glance- “you will clothe yourself ere your companions attend upon you. Oh, assuredly. If you do not, you will disturb their wits.”

Without thinking, Linden surged up from her bed; dropped the Staff as well as her sheet so that she could fling her arms around the Mahdoubt. Her heart was not too hard to be touched. She had spent years starving for some embrace-She did not want power over her friend; yet it had been given to her freely. She knew no other language for her gratitude.

The Mahdoubt returned Linden’s hug briefly. Then she stepped back. “Pssht, my lady.” Her voice was redolent with affection. “The Mahdoubt merely departs. She does not pass away. Will you encounter her again? Be assured of it. It is as certain-”

“-as the rising and setting of the sun,” finished Linden. She wanted to smile, but could not. Even when her other friends arrived, she would be effectively alone without the Mahdoubt. Liand, Stave, Anele, and the Ramen: none of them would understand what had happened to her as the Mahdoubt did. “And by then I’ll probably have even more reasons to be grateful.”

The Mahdoubt bowed over her girth. “Then all is well,” she murmured, “while the sun continues in its course.”

With her head still lowered, she left the bedroom.

Dry-eyed and aching, Linden turned away so that she would not witness the Insequent’s departure. She did not hear the outer door of her rooms open or close. Nevertheless she felt the older woman’s sudden absence as if the Mahdoubt had stepped into a gap between instants and slipped out of time.

Shaken, Linden went into the bathroom. While she washed and dried her face, donned her well-scrubbed clothes, and tucked Jeremiah’s toy deep into one pocket, she willed herself to shed at least a few tears of thanks and sadness. But she could not. Under Melenkurion Skyweir, her capacity for weeping had been burned away.

Chapter Three: Tales Among Friends

Linden was eating cheese, grapes, and cold mutton, and washing them down with draughts of Glimmermere’s roborant, when she heard Liand knock at her door. She recognised his touch through the heavy granite by its mingled eagerness and anxiety; and she stood up at once to answer, although the door was not latched. She was eager and anxious herself. Among a host of other things, she did not know how long she had been gone from Revelstone, or how Lord’s Keep had fared against the Demondim; and she needed confirmation that her friends were unharmed.

As she opened the door, Liand burst unceremoniously into the room. He may have assumed that he would be met-and thwarted-by the Mahdoubt. When he caught sight of Linden, however, his open face seemed to catch light. His eyes shone with pleasure, and his black brows soared. At once, he wrapped her in a fierce, brief hug. Then he stepped back, simultaneously abashed and glowing.

“Linden,” he breathed as if his throat were too crowded with emotion for any other words. “Oh, Linden.”

Behind him, Manethrall Mahrtiir swept in, avid as a hawk. Standing before Linden, he gave her a deep Ramen bow, with his arms extended toward her on either side of his head, and his palms outward. His garrote bound his hair, and a garland of fresh amanibhavam hung about his neck. The sharp scent of the flowers emphasised his edged tone as he said, “Ringthane, you are well returned-and well restored. When first you appeared, we feared for you, though the Mahdoubt and our own discernment gave assurance that you required only rest. Our troubled hearts are now made glad.”

Mahrtiir’s accustomed sternness made his greeting seem almost effusive; but Linden had no time to reply. Bhapa and Pahni followed their Manethrall, bowing as well. The older Cord’s eyes were moist and grateful: an unwonted display of emotion for a Raman. But Pahni’s plain joy was more complex. She appeared to feel more than one kind of happiness, as if her delight at Linden’s recovery subsumed a deeper and more private gladness. And Linden detected a secret undercurrent of concern.

Leading Anele by the arm, Stave entered behind the Ramen. The old man suffered Stave’s touch without discomfort: apparently even he understood that the Haruchai was no longer a Master. His moonstone gaze passed over Linden as if he were unaware of her. Instead of acknowledging her, he shook off Stave’s hand, strode over to the tray of food, sat down, and began to eat as if his decades of privation had left him perpetually hungry.

Stave responded to Anele’s behaviour with a delicate shrug. Then he faced Linden and bowed. His flat features and impassive mien revealed nothing: she still could not read him. But his remaining eye held an unfamiliar brightness; and she guessed that her absence had been uniquely harsh for him. No doubt he judged himself severely for failing to protect her. In addition, however, he had sacrificed more in her name than any of her other friends. Liand had turned his back on his home, and the Ramen had left behind their lives among their people; but Stave had been effectively excommunicated by his kinsmen.

All of his wounds were long healed. In the place of his torn and soiled garment, he wore a clean tunic. Only his missing eye betrayed the scale of his losses.

Linden gazed at all of her companions with affection and relief. Often in her life, she had felt that she wept too easily. Now she regretted that she had no tears to show her friends how she felt about them. She could see that none of them had been harmed while she was away.

But she did not return Stave’s bow, or those of the Ramen. She did not reply to Liand or Mahrtiir. They had not come into her rooms alone: two of the Humbled had followed them. Galt and Clyme stood poised on either side of the open door as if they suspected her of some insidious betrayal.

Many of the Masters had been slaughtered by the Demondim. More may have suffered in the battle between Esmer and the ur-viles. And they had not interfered with Linden’s attack on the horde’s caesure. But she had not forgotten what they had done to the people of the Land, or how they had refused her own pleading. And she would not forgive their repudiation of Stave. She remembered their blows as though her own body had been struck.

“Stave,” she asked as though she stood on Gallows Howe and desired bloodshed, “what’s going on?”

“Chosen,” he relied flatly. “they are chary of me.”

Surprised, she demanded, “You mean that they don’t think they’ve punished you enough?”

Stave shook his head. “As you know, my people will no longer address their thoughts to me, or respond to mine. When I had experienced their rejection for a time, I found that I wished to foil it. Though I comprehend their denunciation, I became loath to countenance it. Therefore I have learned to mute my inward voice. I hear the silent speech of the Masters, but they do not hear mine.”

While Linden stared at him, he continued, “Formerly the Humbled might remain in the passage with the door sealed, and yet would know all that I heard and said and thought. But now my mind is hidden from them. If they do not stand in your presence, they will learn nothing of your tale or your purposes, for they judge rightly that I will not reveal you to them.”

“Stave-” His explanation filled her with such wonder that she could hardly find words. “Anyone who makes the mistake of underestimating you deserves what happens.” Then she fought down her awe and ire. The Land has had some great heroes. I’ve known a few myself,” too many to bear. “But you-all of you”- she looked around at Liand, Anele, and the Ramen- “could hold your heads up in any company.”

Then she faced Stave again. Articulating each word precisely, she said, But I can’t talk in front of these halfhands.” What had happened to her was too personal. “I need them to wait outside. I know this is a lot to ask. And I’ll understand if you don’t want to do it. But I hope that you’ll agree to answer their questions after we’re done here. Assure them that you’ll tell them whatever they need to know.”

The Haruchai raised an eyebrow; but he did not object. Instead he glanced at Clyme and Galt. Without inflection, he said, “The Chosen has spoken. I will comply. You may depart.”

As he spoke, Linden folded her arms across her chest to conceal her fists. Glaring, she dared the Humbled to believe that Stave would not abide by his word.

They considered her for a moment. Then Galt countered. And if his judgment differs from ours, concealing that which we would deem necessary? What then?”

Linden did not hesitate. “You’re forgetting something.” She had beaten back Roger Covenant and the croyel and Lord Foul’s manipulations. She had met Berek Halfhand and Damelon Giantfriend and the Theomach, the greatest of all Insequent. Caerroil Wildwood had given runes to her Staff. The Mahdoubt had crossed ten millennia to rescue her. She felt no impulse to doubt herself, or falter. The Land needs you. Even I need you. I’m still hoping that something will persuade you to help me. And Stave knows how you think. He won’t withhold anything that matters to you.”

Still neither of the Humbled moved. You speak of us as “halfhands”, observed Clyme. That name we accept, for we have claimed it in long combat, and our purpose among the Masters is honourable. But is it your belief that we are “the halfhand” of whom the Elohim sought to forewarn the people of the Land?”

She sighed, gripping herself tightly. “No. I know better.”

Galt, Branl, and Clyme represented that aspect of the Masters which might cause them to stand stubbornly aside when they were most needed. But she had seen the truth of Roger and the croyel. And Kastenessen himself might now be considered a halfhand. She was sure that the Elohim did not fear the Humbled.

For a moment longer, Clyme and Galt appeared to consult the air of the chamber, or perhaps the larger atmosphere of Revelstone. Then they left the room without further argument, closing the door behind them.

At last, Linden bowed to Stave. “Thank you.” When the Humbled were gone, some of her tension eased. She was finally able to look at her friends and smile.

Because Liand was the least reserved among them, and his apprehensions darkened his eyes, she faced him, although she spoke to the Ramen and Stave as well. “Please don’t misunderstand,” she urged with as much warmth as she could muster. “I probably don’t look happy to be back. But I am. It’s just that I’ve been through things that I don’t even know how to describe. For a while there, I didn’t think that I would ever see any of you again.” Her voice held steady when it should have quivered. “If the Mahdoubt hadn’t saved me, I would be as good as dead.”

The young Stonedownor’s face brimmed with questions. Linden held up her hand to forestall them.

“But now I know what I have to do. That’s what you see in me,” instead of gladness. “I was betrayed, and I’ve gone so far beyond anger that I might not come back. I want to hear what’s happened to all of you. I need to know how long I’ve been gone, and what the Demondim are doing. Then I have to find a way to leave Revelstone.” Trying to be clear, she finished, “I’ve been too passive. I’m tired of it. I want to start doing things that our enemies don’t expect.”

She was not surprised by Stave’s blunt nod, or by the sudden ferocity of Mahrtiir’s grin. And she took for granted that the Cords would follow their Manethrall in spite of their reasons for alarm, the ominous prophecies which they had heard from Anele. But Linden had expected doubt and worry from Liand: she was not prepared for the immediate excitement that brightened his gentle eyes. And Anele’s reaction actively startled her.

Swallowing a lump of mutton, he jumped to his feet. In a loud voice, he announced, “Anele no longer fears the creatures, the lost ones.” His head jerked from side to side as if he were searching for something. “He fears to remember. Oh, that he fears.” With one hand, he beckoned sharply to Liand, although he seemed unaware of the gesture. “And the Masters must be fled. So he proclaims to all who will heed him.

“But the others-” Abruptly his voice sank to a whisper. “They speak in Anele’s dreams. Their voices he fears more than horror and recrimination.”

His madness was visible in every line of his emaciated form. To some extent, however, it was vitiated by the fact that he stood on wrought stone. Here as on Kevin’s Watch, or in his gaol in Mithil Stonedown, he referred to himself as if he were someone else; but shaped or worn rock occasionally enabled him to respond with oblique poignancy to what was said and done around him.

Still he beckoned for Liand.

The others-?

“Linden-” said Liand awkwardly. The insistence of Anele’s gestures appeared to disturb him. He must have understood them. “I lack words to convey-”

“Then,” Mahrtiir instructed, “permit the Ringthane to witness his plight, as he desires. When she has beheld it, words will follow.”

The young man cast a look like an appeal at Linden; but he obeyed the Manethrall. Sighing unhappily, he reached to a sash at his waist, a pale blue strip of cloth which Linden had not seen before, and from which hung a leather pouch the size of his cupped hand. Untying the pouch, he slipped an object into his hand, took a deep breath to steady himself, then pressed the object into Anele’s grasp.

It was a smooth piece of stone, vaguely translucent-and distinctly familiar. Linden’s health-sense received an impression of compacted possibilities.

Anele’s fingers clenched immediately around the stone. At once, he flung back his head and wailed as though his heart were being torn from him.

Instinctively Linden moved toward the old man. But Liand reached out to stop her; and Mahrtiir barked. “Withhold, Ringthane! Anele wishes this.”

An instant later, a rush of power from Anele’s closed fist washed away every hint of his lunacy.

Linden jerked to a halt and stared. That was Earthpower, but it was not Anele’s inborn strength. Rather his latent force catalysed or evoked a different form of magic; a particular eldritch energy which she had known long ago.

Then the flood of puissance passed, and Anele fell silent. Slowly he lowered his head. When he looked at Linden, his blind gaze focused on her as if he could see.

“Linden Avery,” he said hoarsely. “Chosen and Sun-Sage. White gold wielder. You are known to me.”

“Anele,” she breathed. “You’re sane.”

None of her companions showed any surprise, although their distress was plain. They had recognised the old man’s gestures; must have seen this transformation before-

“I am,” he acknowledged, and do not wish it. It torments me, for it is clarity without succour. I cannot heal the harm that I have wrought. But I must speak and be understood. They ask it of me.”

“They”?” urged Linden. Anele had endured Lord Foul’s brutal presence, and Kastenessen’s. He had felt Esmer’s coercion. And Thomas Covenant had spoken through him as well: a more benign possession, but a violation nonetheless. If even sleep had become fear and anguish, how could he retain any vestige of himself?

“They do not possess me,” he replied with fragile dignity, as though he understood her alarm. “Rather they speak in my dreams, imploring this of me. They are Sunder my father and Hollian my mother, whom my weakness has betrayed. And behind them stands Thomas Covenant, who craves only that I assure you of his love. But the intent of Sunder Graveler and Hollian eh-Brand is more urgent.”

Sunder? Linden thought dumbly. Hollian? She gaped at the son of her long-dead friends as he continued, “They sojourn among the Dead in Andelain, and they beg of you that you do not seek them out. They know not how the peril of Kastenessen and the skurj and white gold may be answered. They cannot guide or counsel you. They are certain only that doom awaits you in the company of the Dead.”

His love. “Anele-” Linden’s voice was a croak of chagrin. “Can you talk to them?” They beg of you- “In your dreams? Can you tell them that I know what I’m doing?”

All of her hopes were founded in Andelain. If she were forbidden to approach the Dead, she was truly lost; and Jeremiah would suffer until the Arch of Time crumbled.

The old man shook his head. “Sleeping, I am mute.” His moonstone eyes regarded her in supplication. “In my remorse, I would cry out to them, but they cannot hear. No power of dream or comprehension will shrive me until I have discovered and fulfilled my geas.”

Then he turned away. “Liand,” he panted, faltering, “I beseech you. Relieve me of this burden. I cannot bear the knowledge of myself.”

Doom awaits you in the company of the Dead.

When he extended his hand and opened his fingers, he revealed a piece of orcrest, Sunstone. To Linden’s senses, it appeared identical to the smooth, unevenly shaped rock with which Sunder had warded the folk of Mithil Stonedown from the Sunbane. Its potency made it seem transparent, but it was not. Instead it resembled a void in the substance of Anele’s palm; an opening into some other dimension of reality or Earthpower.

Its touch had restored his mind.

“No.” As Liand reached for the stone, Linden grabbed Anele; forced him to face her again. She wanted to demand, Why? You’re sane now. Tell me why. She had heard too many prophesies of disaster. Even Liand had warned her, You have it within you to perform horrors. She needed to know what Sunder and Hollian feared from her.

But when her hands closed on his gaunt frame, her nerves felt his excruciation like a jolt of lightning. He was sane: oh, he was sane. And for that reason, he was defenceless. Even his heritage of Earthpower could not rebuff the self-denunciation and grief which had broken his mind; blinded him; condemned him to decades of starvation and loneliness while he searched for the implications of his fractured past.

Linden’s heart may have grown as ungiving and dark as obsidian; but she could ask nothing of this frail old man. Even to save her son, she could not. She had already extorted too much pain from Anele. She was done with it.

And behind them stands Thomas Covenant, who craves only that I assure you of his love.

Swallowing grief as acute as rage, Linden said softly, “I want you to understand something. While you still can. I used you. When I was trying to convince the Masters to help me.” And she had contemplated causing him more hurt. “But I won’t do that again. I’m finished.”

She had learned at least this much from her betrayal by Roger and the croyel. They had wanted her to achieve their ends for them. And their manipulations had nearly destroyed her. But what the croyel was doing to Jeremiah was worse.

“I’ll keep you with me,” she promised. “I’ll protect you as much as I can.” She had no other hope to offer him. “But I won’t ask you to pay the price for what I want. Not again.”

Anele breathed heavily for a moment. He shuddered in her grasp: his eyes were closed. When he had mastered himself, he replied. “Linden Avery, you are the Chosen, and will determine much.” His low growl echoed Mahrtiir’s severity. “But that choice is not vouchsafed to you. 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.”

Then he pulled away from her easily, as if her strength had failed. Leaving her confounded, he handed the orcrest to Liand.

As soon as the stone left his fingers, he appeared to faint.

Too late, Linden snatched at his slumping form. But Bhapa was quicker. He caught the old man and lowered him gently to the rug.

Obviously the Cord had known what to expect. All of Linden’s friends had known.

“Liand?” she asked in chagrin. “Is he-?”

Liand continued to cradle the orcrest in his palm as though its touch gave him pleasure. “We have spoken of this,” he answered quietly, gazing at Anele. “We discern no lasting hurt. He will slumber briefly. When he wakes, he will be as he was. In some form, his madness is kindly. It shields him. In its absence, his bereavements would compel despair.” When the young man looked up at Linden, his compassion for Anele filled his eyes. “This we have concluded among ourselves, for we know not how otherwise to comprehend either his pain or his endurance of it.”

Mahrtiir nodded; and Pahni rested her hand on Liand’s shoulder, sharing his sympathy.

Linden’s knees felt suddenly weak. “God,” she breathed, “I need to sit down.” Unsteadily she moved to the nearest chair and dropped into it. Then she covered her face with her hands, trying to absorb what had just happened.

Oh, Anele. How much more of this will you have to suffer?

— that doom awaits you-

Sunder and Hollian feared intentions which Linden had not revealed, even to the Mahdoubt. She had hardly named them to herself.

And behind them stands Thomas Covenant

Now she believed absolutely that it was her Covenant who had spoken in her dreams; who had warned her through Anele in the Verge of Wandering; who had addressed her friends on the rich grass of the plateau. No one else would have spoken as he did.

— who craves only that I assure you of his love.

For a while, her friends waited for her in silence. Then Stave said firmly, “Chosen, we must speak. We recognise that you have suffered much. But you propose to combat the Land’s foes. You speak of betrayal. And it appears that both the Unbeliever and your son have been lost, when their proclaimed intent was the Land’s redemption. Such matters require comprehension.”

“Also we are bewildered by the Mahdoubt,” added Mahrtiir, “who has shown herself able to pass through stone. She is absent from these chambers, though she was not seen to depart. Her role in your return pleads for explanation.”

Linden did not lower her hands. When her friends had come to her door, she had believed herself ready for them. Now she knew that she was not.

“Manethrall,” Stave countered, “if you will heed my counsel, we will not consider the Mahdoubt until other concerns have been addressed. I do not desire concealment, either from you or from the Chosen. But I deem that the Mahdoubt’s strangeness is less than urgent. The ur-Lord’s fate, and our own straits, hold greater import.”

“As you will.” Linden felt Mahrtiir’s nod. The mistrust which he had once displayed toward Stave was entirely gone. “I am content to speak of her when you find it condign to do so.”

Promptly Stave continued. “Then I will say to you, Linden Avery, Chosen, that you have been absent from Revelstone for half a moon-”

“Thirteen days, Linden,” put in Liand.

“-and have slept for two days more,” the Haruchai went on. “In that time, we have feared for your life. And now that you have returned, we fear for the life of Land. Your words give us reason to conceive that the Unbeliever has failed.”

Still Linden covered her face; hid from her companions. The spectres of Sunder and Hollian distrusted her. How could she tell her friends that she had come within a few heartbeats of giving the Despiser exactly what he desired?

Gallows Howe demanded a greater champion than Linden Avery.

“Linden,” said Liand, prodding her gently, we did not know how to hope. When you had disappeared, Esmer likewise vanished. The ur-viles then dispersed, leaving no sign of themselves-or of the Waynhim. And the Ranyhyn had departed among the mountains, suggesting that you had no more need of them-” His voice tightened momentarily. That you would not return. Yet the Demondim besieged Revelstone furiously. The loss of you filled our hearts with dread.”

“It was Thomas Covenant who took you from us,” Pahni added as if she feared that Linden might doubt Liand, “the first Ringthane. Now he is gone. Through Anele, we have been promised travails rather than relief. How then should we hope?”

Linden sighed. They were right, of course, all of them. She had to tell them what had happened. Still she was reluctant to answer them. She did not want to reveal what she had become.

Anele’s warning scared her because she already knew that she would ignore it.

Soon, she commanded herself. Soon she would face the risk of her story. But she would postpone it a little longer.

Slowly she lowered her hands.

Her friends stood clustered in front of her. Pahni’s hand remained on Liand’s shoulder, gripping him for support or comfort. Bhapa waited near Anele, ready to help the old man when he woke. The older Cord kept his gaze averted from Linden’s as if to show that he asked nothing of her; that her mere presence was enough for him. But both Mahrtiir and Stave studied her, the Manethrall avidly, the Haruchai without expression.

Clearing her throat, Linden asked carefully. “How often has Anele been sane?”

“Once only,” Liand answered at once. And he retained himself only so that he might command us to grant him the orcrest stone when he beckoned. For ten days and more, he has not touched the stone, or spoken clearly.”

The Stonedownor’s gaze encouraged her not to worry about Anele-or any of her friends. But his tone held a muffled eagerness, a whetted admixture of relief, uncertainty, and excitement. He appeared to feel elevated by the Sunstone, raised to a stature which surpassed his expectations for himself.

“And what about the orcrest?” Linden asked him. “The Sunstone? How did you find it?”

In a general sense, she knew the answer. What you need is in the Aumbrie. You’ll know what you’re looking for when you touch it. But she wanted Liand’s confirmation. She could not imagine why Covenant had urged him to go in search of power.

And she had never seen the Aumbrie of the Clave. She only knew that Vain had found the iron heels of Berek’s Staff there while she was a prisoner in Revelstone.

But Stave intervened before Liand could reply. “Chosen, I belittle neither Liand nor orcrest in saying that they do not outweigh our need for your tale. In the name of all that we have dreaded, I ask this of you. Speak to us, that we may know the truth of our peril.”

Linden did not glance away from Liand. “Just this one, Stave.” To her own ears, she sounded as inflexible as the Haruchai. “Please. I’m still trying to pull myself together. Hearing you talk-all of you-helps me.”

Their voices, and her concern, reminded her of the woman she had once been.

Stave glanced at Mahrtiir. When the Manethrall assented, Stave said stiffly, “Be brief, Stonedownor.”

Pahni continued to hold Liand’s shoulder; but she lowered her eyes as though she sought to mask the fact that where he felt excitement she knew only trepidation.

Abruptly Liand seated himself near Linden. Bracing his elbows on his knees, he leaned toward her; held his piece of orcrest like an offering or demonstration between them. His concern for her crowded against the surface of his attention. But his desire to speak of the Sunstone temporarily took precedence.

“In this matter, Linden, I am not formed for brevity. At your side, I have been mazed by marvels which surpassed all conception. But until I placed my hand upon this stone, and felt my spirit answer to its astonishment, I had not imagined that I, too, might find myself exalted.”

In life, Sunder had wielded his piece of Sunstone skilfully. But he had been educated by the Clave’s Rede. Liand had no such instruction; no lore of any kind. Only the inborn resources of his Stonedownor blood might enable him to make use of orcrest.

You must comprehend,” he explained earnestly, “that we were distraught to the depths of our hearts. The Unbeliever and your son had rent you from us, promising salvation. Yet the ur-viles opposed them-and were in turn opposed by Esmer, whose disturbed loyalties appear to shift at every occasion. Also a voice had spoken to us through Anele, foretelling obscure needs and burdens. And the Demondim battered Revelstone heinously. The Masters responded valorously, but their losses were grave, and none knew how long they might deny the horde.

“It is your word that you have endured events which defy description. Our consternation also exceeded telling.”

Pahni’s fingers dug into Liand’s shoulder; but she would not meet Linden’s gaze.

Liand continued to search Linden’s face for an answer to his underlying apprehension. “Galled by helplessness, we endeavoured to busy ourselves. Daily we bathed in Glimmermere to banish the bale of Kevin’s Dirt. The Ramen tended the mounts of the Masters. And Stave-as he later informed us-laboured to acquire the secret of silencing his thoughts. But Anele and I were without purpose or relief.

“He remained as he was, compliant and mumbling incoherently. Of him I knew only that he misliked the nearness of the Masters. I, however-” Liand shrugged at the memory. “I had no place in the defence of Lord’s Keep. My presence merely hindered the Masters. The Ramen sought a use for my aid, but their skills eluded me, though I have cared for horses since boyhood. I could discover no trace or trail of the Demondim-spawn. And Stave declined to guide me to the Aumbrie, declaring that the Masters would permit no approach to implements of Earthpower.

“Linden, the thought that I was barred from that which I had been advised to seek became anguish. In your company, I have encountered the greatness and import of the Land. But in your absence, I was no more than a foolish Stonedownor, superfluous and ignorant. Even the benison of Glimmermere gave me no solace. Were it not for Pahni’s attentiveness and generosity”- he smiled quickly at the young Cord- “I might have flung myself against the Demondim merely to relieve my futility.”

With an aborted snore, Anele raised his head, peered blindly around the room. Then he appeared to catch the scent of food. Muttering, “Anele is hungry,” he braced himself on Bhapa’s prompt support, climbed to his feet, and went at once to sit near the tray so that he could resume his interrupted meal.

If his temporary lucidity had left any aftereffects, they lay beyond the reach of Linden’s senses.

“Briefly, Liand,” muttered Mahrtiir in a low voice. “The Ringthane’s heart is sufficiently fraught. Do not dwell upon griefs which have passed.”

At once, Pahni turned to the Manethrall, apparently intending to defend Liand. But Mahrtiir silenced her with a frown, and she ducked her head again.

“I crave your pardon,” Liand said to Linden. The Manethrall speaks sooth. Your sorrows indeed defy utterance, for the fate of the Land rests with you. It is plain that the Unbeliever’s purpose has failed, and your son is lost to you. I speak of my plight only so that you may comprehend my transformation”- again he looked at the Ramen girl- “and Pahni’s dread.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Linden’s tone resembled Stave’s stoicism. “It’s going to be a long night, and there isn’t much that we can do until morning.” She might not be able to leave Revelstone until she found a way to help the Masters defeat the Demondim. “We don’t need to hurry.”

Liand’s countenance revealed his gratitude-as well as his alarm at her manner-as he resumed his explanation.

“On the fourth day from your disappearance, Stave approached me to announce that the time had come. He had learned to conceal his thoughts from the Masters. And the Masters themselves were heavily engaged by the Demondim. He conceived that we might therefore approach the Aumbrie without opposition. His kinsmen were too few to guard us closely.

“I accepted at once, though Pahni protested. I required some task or deed which might offer meaning to my days.

“Leaving Anele with the Ramen, we descended into the depths of Revelstone, where no lamps burned except that which Stave bore, and the neglected dust of many and many years had gathered heavily. There we entered a passage which appeared to serve no purpose, for it ended in blank stone. Glimmermere had refreshed my discernment, however, and when I had studied the wall for a time, I perceived a faint residue of glamour or theurgy.

“Though it was veiled from simple sight, a tracing of red outlined the shape of a portal. I have no knowledge of such matters, as you are aware. Yet to my senses, the tracing flowed toward a place of accentuation in the centre of the lintel. Testing me, perhaps, Stave offered no counsel. Nonetheless I dared to set my hand upon that accentuation. And when I had done so, a door became evident within the pattern of the lines.”

Linden listened closely, trying to prepare herself; bracing her resolve on Liand’s story. Some of its details begged for examination. Surely the Masters knew that he now held a piece of Sunstone? And they must have sensed Liand’s entrance into the Aumbrie. Why had they not taken the orcrest from him as soon as he found it?

His tone intensified as he continued. “Moved by an ancient magic beyond my ken, the door opened of its own accord, admitting us to corridors thick with dust and dank air. Thereafter Stave resumed his guidance, for the passages gave no hint of their design or intent. Soon the air grew nigh too foul to breathe, and Stave’s lamp faltered. Ere it failed, however, we came upon an iron door, heavy and dark, lying discarded upon the floor. And from the chamber which the door had once sealed shone the lumination of the moon at its full. Also I discerned an aura of eldritch vitality as poignant as Glimmermere’s, but immeasurably more complex. Indeed, I recognised nothing except that the atmosphere was compounded of Earthpower in a multitude of forms.

“To my inquiries,” Liand said, “Stave replied only that the chamber was the Aumbrie of the Clave, that the door had been wrested from its mounts by the ur-vile-made man or creature named Vain, and that none had seen a need to repair the door, guarded as it was by its outer theurgy. Then he did not speak for a time. Rather he appeared to listen for the inward speech of the Masters so that we might be forewarned if we were threatened. In silence, we entered the Aumbrie together.”

His effort to contain the wonder of what he had seen was plain: it showed in his grasp on the orcrest. As his fingers tightened, the stone began to glow softly, white as washed cotton, and clean as his heart.

“The chamber was large, perhaps twice the size of your quarters taken together, and clearly a storehouse for implements and talismans of aged puissance. Indeed, I was hardly able to advance against the radiance of Earthpower on every side.

“Tables crowded the floor as shelves covered the walls, their surfaces laden. Everywhere I saw scrolls and casks, amulets and torcs, periapts beyond my naming of them, swords of many shapes and fashions, staffs which compelled me to imagine that they had once been clasped by Lords. The light itself was emitted by three munificent caskets upon the shelves, as well as by some few objects upon the tables. Yet wherever I turned my senses, I beheld potencies of such transcendence that my spirit was dazzled by them.”

Suddenly Liand stopped. Easing his grip on the Sunstone, he let its light fade. Then he sat up straight, tucked the orcrest away in its pouch, and faced Linden with his hands braced on his thighs. An unexpected anger sharpened his tone.

“Linden, the proscriptions of the Masters no longer appear arrogant to me. Now I deem them madness. I comprehend that the Haruchai eschew weapons, trusting solely to strength and skill. This they deem necessary to their vision of themselves. And the Ramen are the servants of the Ranyhyn. They find no use in the exercise of theurgy, for the great horses do not require it of them. Yet the sheer waste of that which the Aumbrie contains staggers me. I discern no conscience in the denial-”

Linden interrupted him. Defending herself as much as Stave and the Masters, she stated heavily, “It isn’t that simple. You don’t just need the instrument. You have to know how to use it.”

“Yet-” the Stonedownor tried to protest.

She did not let him go on. “Liand, what happened to you in that room? How many of those things did you have to examine before you found what you were looking for?”

“Many,” he admitted uncomfortably. Some felt inert to my touch, though their power was visible. Others refused my hand entirely. The markings upon the scrolls conveyed no meaning, and the radiance of the caskets forbade me to open them. For a time, I craved a sword or a staff, but they proffered no response.”

“You see?” said Linden more gently. “Maybe the Masters were wrong. I think they were. But it doesn’t matter now. All of the old knowledge, the lore of the Lords, even the Rede of the Clave. It’s gone. It’s been lost. And without it-” She lifted her shoulders in a stiff shrug. “I can use the Staff of Law because I made it. But I can only call up wild magic because Covenant left me his ring.” In a sense, she had inherited it from him. “I’m surprised you found even one thing that felt right to you.”

Although he seemed unconvinced, Liand nodded. “And all that the Aumbrie contained bewildered me. The orcrest I would have ignored without Stave’s counsel. When I beseeched his aid, however, he observed that I am a Stonedownor, and that therefore some object of stone might serve me.”

Glancing around at her friends, Linden saw that Mahrtiir’s impatience was growing, and even Bhapa appeared restless. Pahni held herself motionless with her hand on Liand’s shoulder and her body stiff. Only Stave remained impassive, studying Linden with his single eye. And only Anele ignored the tension in the room.

Linden sighed. She could not postpone her own explanations much longer.

“But you found it,” she said to hasten Liand. “As soon as you touched it, you were sure. It makes you feel like you’ve come to life. We can all see what it means to you.” His heritage glowed within him as though the blood in his veins had taken light. Now I need you to skip ahead.

“Tell me why the Masters didn’t stop you. From their point of view, it was a major concession when they let me keep my Staff and Covenant’s ring. And they remember orcrest. They remember everything. Why didn’t they take it away from you?”

Liand glanced at Stave. When we returned to the door of theurgy,” the Stonedownor told Linden, “Branl of the Humbled awaited us, barring our passage. He demanded of me that I must replace the orcrest in the Aumbrie.” Then the young man’s grave eyes met hers again. “Stave dissuaded him.”

Linden caught her breath. Staring at Stave, she asked softly. “Did you fight him’?”

The Haruchai shook his head. “There was no need. To some small extent, the indulgence which the Masters have granted to you, and to Anele also, wards the Stonedownor as well. But that alone-” Stave shrugged.

“However, an uncertainty has been sown in the hearts of the Masters. They have not forgotten your words when you argued for their aid. In addition, the ur-Lord Thomas Covenant urged the Voice of the Masters to persuade you from your purpose against the Demondim. Yet it is apparent even to the least tractable of my kinsmen that only your quenching of the Fall, and thus of the Illearth Stone, has enabled Revelstone to withstand the horde.

“Afterward”- again Stave shrugged- “the Unbeliever took you from among us in a manner which encouraged doubt. And when the Unbeliever and your son had removed you, the siege remained. The unremitting attacks of the Demondim demonstrated that the ur-Lord had not accomplished his purpose-or that his purpose was not as he had avowed.

“Therefore the Masters have become uncertain. They do not yet question their own service. But they inquire now if they have justly gauged your worth. For that reason, Branl was reluctant to strike down even the least esteemed of your companions.”

Between her teeth, but quietly, Pahni exclaimed, “He is not the least. He is the first of the Ringthane’s friends, and the foremost.”

Involuntarily Liand blushed; but Linden kept her attention on Stave. “Are you telling me,” she asked, “that Branl let him keep something as Earthpowerful as orcrest because the Masters are uncertain?”

“No, Chosen,” replied Stave. “I have said only that Branl felt reluctance because the Masters have become uncertain. He did not reclaim the orcrest from Liand because I challenged him to the rhadhamaerl test of truth.”

Linden’s mien must have exposed her incomprehension. Without pausing, Stave explained, “In your sojourn with the ur-Lord, you knew only the Clave and the Sunbane. Your knowledge of the Land does not extend to the time of the Lords, when the stone-lore of the rhadhamaerl was the life and blood of every Stonedown, just as the lillianrill lore enriched and preserved every Woodhelven. You are unacquainted with the test of truth.

“It was performed with orcrest, or with lomillialor, to distinguish honesty from falsehood, fealty from Corruption. Such testing was known to be imperfect. At one time, Corruption himself accepted the challenge, and was not exposed. Among such lesser beings as the Ravers, however, or those who are mortal, the test of truth did not fail.

“I observed to Branl that Liand himself had met the test, though the lore of the rhadhamaerl has been lost for millennia. He held orcrest in his hand and suffered no hurt. And I proposed to endure the test as well, if Branl would do likewise.”

Liand nodded. In his face, Linden could see that Stave had surprised him then. He was not accustomed to thinking of any Haruchai as a friend.

“That challenge he refused,” Stave continued. “He did not doubt its outcome for himself. But such matters have too much import to be decided by a single Master when the Masters together have become uncertain. They have spurned me. In their sight, I have betrayed their chosen service. If I failed the test of truth, I would confirm their judgment. But if I did not, much would be altered. Therefore Branl permitted us to pass unopposed.

“Now Liand is suffered to hold the orcrest just as Anele is suffered to move freely, and your own actions have not been hindered. We are warded by the uncertainty of the Masters.”

Linden shook her head. “I’m sorry, Stave. I don’t understand. What would be altered?’

“Chosen,” Stave answered without impatience, “the Haruchai have not forgotten their ancient esteem for those dedicated to the rhadhamaerl and lillianrill lore. My kinsmen recall that the Bloodguard honoured the test of truth. If the orcrest did not reject me, the Masters would be compelled to consider that mayhap they had erred when I was made outcast. Thereafter other doubts would necessarily ensue. Then would their uncertainty burgeon rather than decline.

“The Masters in conclave might perchance have accepted the hazard. Branl alone could not. And the extremity of Revelstone’s defence precluded careful evaluation.”

“All right,” Linden said slowly. “Now I get it. I think.” She could never be certain that she grasped the full stringency of the Masters. But her own circumstances demanded all of her conviction. And she had already made her companions wait too long. “Thank you.”

She suspected that the doubts of the Masters would eventually make them more intransigent rather than less. And she did not know how to tell her friends that she had become as rigid and unyielding as Stave’s kindred.

Instead of standing to meet her own test, she allowed herself one last distraction. With as much gentleness as she could summon, she said. “Pahni.”

Quickly the young Cord lifted her troubled gaze to meet Linden’s, then dropped her eyes again. “Ringthane?”

With that one brief look, Pahni seemed to bare her soul.

Linden caught her breath; held it for a moment. Then she murmured like a sigh, “Liand has what Covenant told him to find,” Thomas Covenant himself, not some malign imitation. “Now you’re afraid of what’s going to happen to him.”

Pahni nodded without raising her head. Her grip on Liand’s shoulder looked tight enough to hurt; but he only reached up to rest one of his hands on hers, and did not flinch.

At last, Linden rose to her feet. For her own sake as much as for Pahni’s, she said, “What you’ll have to face is going to be harder.” Covenant had said so through Anele. “I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what’s going to happen to any of us. But I know that you and Liand need each other.” She was intimately familiar with the cruelty of being forced to face her doom unloved. “Try to understand his excitement. For the first time in his life, he has something that you’ve never lacked,” something comparable to the way in which the Ramen served the Ranyhyn. “A reason to believe that what he does matters.” The Masters had taken that away from all of the Land’s people. “A reason to believe in himself.”

Covenant had given Linden’s friends a message for her. She can do this. Tell her I said that. She did not believe him-or disbelieve. She could only promise that she would let nothing stop her.

She had also made a promise to Caerroil Wildwood, which she meant to keep.

Standing, Linden looked around at her companions: at Mahrtiir’s champing frustration and Stave’s impassivity, Bhapa’s conflicted desire to hear and not hear her tale, Anele’s inattentiveness, Liand’s growing concern; at Pahni’s surprise and appreciation. Then, for the first time since the Humbled had left the room, she let her underlying wrath rise to the surface.

“As it turns out,” she said like iron. “the Elohim told the truth.” He or she had given warning of croyel as well as skurj. And both the Ramen and the people of the Land had been urged to Beware the halfhand. “If they hadn’t been so damn cryptic about it, they might have actually done us some good.”

Had you not suffered and striven as you did, you would not have become who you are.

“Liand, would you put more wood on the fire? It’s going to get colder in here.”

Before anyone could react, she walked away into her bedroom.

Temporarily, at least, she had moved past her reluctance. First she opened the shutters over the window so that the comparative chill of the spring night could flow in unhindered. She wanted that small reminder of grim winter and desperation. For a moment, she breathed the air as if she were filling her lungs with darkness. Then she retrieved her Staff and carried its rune-carved ebony back to her waiting friends.

As they caught sight of it, Liand and the Cords winced. They were not surprised: they had seen the Staff when they had brought her here from the plateau. But they did not understand its transformation.

“What has transpired’?” Bhapa’s voice was husky with alarm. “Is this some new Staff?”

“Gaze more closely, Cord,” growled the Manethrall. “This is alteration, not replacement. Some lorewise being has constrained the Ringthane’s Staff, or exalted it. And she has wielded her power in battle greater and more terrible than any we have witnessed. She has met such foes-”

Abruptly he turned to Stave. “Perhaps now we must speak of the Mahdoubt, who has retrieved the Ringthane from the most dire peril.”

Stave studied Linden closely. “The Chosen will speak as she wills. However, I am loath to address such matters. We may consider them with greater assurance when more is known.”

“Anele sees this,” Anele remarked, peering blindly past or through the Staff. “He cannot name it. Yet he sees that it is fitting.”

Linden shook her head. “The Mahdoubt is beside the point.” She had no idea why Stave wanted to avoid the subject; but she did not wish to discuss the Insequent without the older woman’s permission. For reasons of her own-perhaps to evade questions like Mahrtiir’s-the Mahdoubt had avoided encountering Linden’s companions a short time ago. Whatever those reasons were, Linden intended to respect them. Lightly she tapped one shod end of her Staff on the floor. “Even this isn’t the point. I just wanted you to look at it. I don’t know how to describe everything that happened, but I wanted to give you some idea of the scale.”

Now everyone except Anele regarded her intently. While the old man mumbled a disjointed counterpoint, she tried to put what she had experienced into words.

She could not do it. The stone in the centre of her chest left no room for sorrow or regret, or for the urgent bafflement and need which had compelled her actions. She still felt those things, but she could not articulate them. They had melted and joined to form the igneous amalgam of her purpose. Any language except deeds would have falsified her to herself.

Instead of the truth, she told her friends the bare skeleton of her story; bones stripped of passion and necessity. While the night air from her bedroom blew softly on the back of her neck, she recited the facts of her time with Roger and the croyel as if she had heard them from someone else. Although she glossed over a number of details, she skipped nothing essential-until she came to her time with the Mahdoubt in Garroting Deep. Then she spoke only of Caerroil Wildwood and runes, leaving unexplained her rescue from the Land’s past.

If her companions had asked about her return to Revelstone, she would have deflected their inquiries until she understood Stave’s disinclination to discuss the Mahdoubt-or until she could seek the Mahdoubt’s consent. But they did not. Various aspects of her narrative snagged their attention, and they had too many other questions.

Stave and the Ramen understood more than Liand did. In their separate fashions, their people had preserved their knowledge of the Land’s history. Perhaps for that reason, Mahrtiir was caught and held by everything that Linden chose to say about the Insequent: it was entirely new to him. Bhapa stumbled over her description of the Viles and seemed unable to recover his balance. Pahni listened wide-eyed until Linden related how she had entered Melenkurion Skyweir in Jeremiah’s deadwood cage. Then confusion dulled her expression as if she had reached the limit of what she could hear and absorb. And Stave attended with a slight frown that slowly deepened into a scowl as Linden talked about Roger Covenant and the croyel. But he only evinced surprise when she spoke of Caerroil Wildwood. Apparently he found more wonder in the Forestal’s forbearance and aid than in anything else.

In contrast, Liand concentrated on Linden herself rather than on the substance of her story. As she talked, he radiated a mounting and entirely personal distress; a concern for her which outweighed everything that he could not grasp. And when she had put in place the last bones of her denatured tale, his alarm swept him to his feet.

“Linden-” he began, groping for words that would not come until he clenched his fists and punched them against each other to break the logjam of his emotions. “Chosen. Wildwielder. He was your son. And the man whom you have loved. Yet you say nothing of yourself. How do you bear it? How are you able-?”

“No.” Linden silenced him with sudden vehemence. His caring cut her too deeply. “We don’t talk about me. We aren’t going to talk about me at all.” How could she hope to explain her essential transformation? “I can try to answer practical questions. And I know what I have to do.” Within her she holds the devastation of the Earth- “But Lord Foul took my son and gave him to the croyel. That I do not forgive. I do not forgive.”

The Ranyhyn had tried to warn her, but she had failed to heed them. She had not understood-

Liand fell back a step, shocked by her ferocity. All of her friends stared at her, their eyes wide. Even Stave seemed to wince. Anele’s head flinched from side to side as if he sought to shake her words from his ears.

Thomas Covenant had urged her to find him. He had told her to trust herself.

For a long moment, no one moved. Linden heard no breathing but her own. The logs that Liand had tossed into the hearth seemed to burn without a sound. But then Bhapa shuddered as if he were chilled by the cool air from the bedroom. Raising his head, he looked directly into the mute fury of Linden’s gaze.

“Ringthane,” he said unsteadily. “you have spoken of your son’s plight, but you have said little else of him. How does it chance that he, too, is a halfhand?”

A-Jeroth’s mark was placed upon the boy when he was yet a small child.

She might have taken offense if she had not recognised what lay behind his question. It was a form of misdirection which she had used often herself. He did not mean to imply that Jeremiah was a danger to the Land. Instead Bhapa was trying to slip past her defences. He thought that if she began to talk about Jeremiah, she might be able to release some of her grief, and so find a measure of relief.

He did not know that she was stone and could not bend: she could only shatter.

But the Manethrall intervened at once. “Be still, Cord,” he snapped harshly. “Where is your sight? Are you blind to the fetters which bind her heart? We are Ramen, familiar with treachery and loss. We do not reply thus to suffering. The Ringthane will reveal more when more is needed. Sufficient here is the knowledge which we have gained-and the depth to which both she and the Land have been betrayed.”

Bhapa gave a bow of compliance to his Manethrall. Then he lowered his head and remained silent.

Liand made no protest. He may have been stricken dumb by the sight of Linden’s pain. An ache of misery filled his eyes, but he accepted her refusal.

No one spoke until Stave said stolidly, “You do not forgive.” He had recovered his flat composure. “This we comprehend. The Masters also do not. And they bear the cost of it, as you do.”

Then he added in a more formal tone. “Linden Avery, Chosen and Wildwielder. Tell us of your intent, that we may make ready. If you would seek out and confront the Land’s foes, we mean to accompany you. Doubtless, however, some preparation is needful.”

He sounded like a man who saw the necessity of risk and death, and was not afraid.

Privately Linden had feared that her friends would flinch away when they heard her story. She had given them a host of reasons to question her judgment-and would give them more. But Stave’s assertion affirmed their fidelity. They had given her no cause to believe that they would ever spurn her.

Whether she went to salvation or doom, she would not be alone; not as she had been in Roger’s company, and the croyel’s.

All right,” she replied when she meant, Thank you. Simple gratitude was beyond her: telling her tale had expended too much of her self-possession. “This is what I have in mind.”

The Mahdoubt had called Linden’s intentions fearsome and terrible. The Viles had spoken of the devastation of the Earth- Liand himself had said, You have it within you to perform horrors. But Linden did not pause to doubt herself.

“First,” she began, “I’ll have to end the siege somehow.” She could not leave Revelstone to the depredations of the Demondim. “But then I’m going to Andelain. If I can, I want to find Loric’s krill. It’s supposed to be able to channel any amount of power. It might let me use white gold and my Staff at the same time.”

Stave nodded as if to himself; but she did not stop.

“And I want to meet the Dead.” Before anyone could object, she continued grimly, “I know what Anele said. I heard him as well as you did. But I need answers, and there’s no one else that I can ask.”

She was done with Esmer: his attempts to aid her were too expensive. And she was sure that Sunder and Hollian were not the only shades who walked among the Andelainian Hills. Others of the Land’s lost heroes would be there as well, and might view her desires differently.

Mahrtiir and Stave exchanged a glance. Then the Manethrall faced Linden with a Ramen bow. “As you will, Ringthane. We will make such preparations as the Masters permit. And,” he added. “Cord Pahni will share with Liand any comprehension of your tale the Ramen possess. Some portion of his ignorance she will relieve.

“However,” he continued more harshly, “you are unaware of one event which has occurred in your absence.”

His manner claimed Linden’s full attention. Studying him, she saw predatory approval-although behind it lay a degree of apprehension.

“The siege,” she breathed.

Mahrtiir nodded. “It is gone.”

She stared. “How?” She could not believe that the Masters had defeated their enemies. The Demondim had too much power-

“Understand, Ringthane,” he replied, “that the battle to preserve Revelstone raged furiously, and for many days the eventual defeat of the Masters appeared certain. But then, ere sunset on the day before your return, a lone figure in the semblance of a man arrived on the plain. None beheld his approach. He merely appeared, just as you later appeared with the Mahdoubt. Alone, he advanced against the horde.”

Now Linden understood his desire to speak of the older woman earlier.

“The Demondim turned upon him in rage,” Mahrtiir went on, “and their power was extreme. Yet he defeated them to the last of their numbers. In the space of five score heartbeats, or perhaps ten, all of the Render’s Teeth ceased to exist.”

Linden made no effort to conceal her astonishment. Again she asked. “How?”

For a moment, no one responded. Then Liand cleared his throat. “Linden,” he said uncomfortably. “to our sight, it appeared that he devoured them.”

In that instant, the chill of the night air overtook the warmth of the fire. A shiver of hope or foreboding ran down Linden’s spine, and her limbs ached suddenly as though she had fallen back into the cruel winter where she had been betrayed.

Chapter Four: Old Conflicts

Linden tightened her grip on the Staff. -devoured them. All of those monsters: the entire horde. Hardly aware of what she did, she drew a subtle current of Earthpower from among the runes to counteract the cold touch of dread and desire. A man who could do that-Then she forced herself to look around at her friends.

It was plain that Liand understood what he had told her no better than she did.

Stave and the Ramen met her gaze. Anele had turned his head away; shifted sideways in his chair so that he could lean his cheek against the wall as if for comfort. His only reaction was a fractured muttering.

“Who is he?” Linden asked.

With a shake of his head, Mahrtiir deferred to Stave.

“None have inquired of him,” Stave replied stolidly. “The Masters permit no one to pass Revelstone’s gates.”

His response surprised Linden further. However, she held the obvious question in abeyance. But he’s still there’?”

“Aye, Chosen,” answered Stave. He remains at no great distance, warming his hands by a small fire which he does not replenish, yet which continues to burn. He appears to neither eat nor sleep. Rather it would seem that he merely waits.”

Linden caught her breath; held it briefly. She had seen a fire that did not need to be fed, and beside it a figure patiently motionless. Her mind raced as ideas reeled into new alignments. The Earth was vast, and inhabited by beings and powers which she had never encountered. The Land’s present as well as its past held mysteries. She could not be sure that she knew what a waiting figure beside a steady fire signified.

“Why haven’t the Masters talked to him? Why won’t they let anyone go out there?”

Stave lifted his shoulders in a Haruchai shrug. “They are uncertain. His puissance is manifest. They question the wisdom of accosting him. In addition”- he hesitated slightly- “there are other matters which I would prefer to name when more is known.”

Other matters, Linden thought. Like the Mahdoubt. Stave and the Masters knew something which they did not wish to reveal.

She wanted to pursue her instinctive assumptions immediately. She had slept for a long time. She had eaten well. And the unexpected doom of the Demondim distracted her from loss and rage. She was eager to act on her decisions.

But her companions had preparations to make. In addition, she had promised the Humbled that they would be told whatever they needed to know. She could not justify concealing the truth about Roger Covenant and the croyel from Stave’s kinsmen.

“All right,” she said while her thoughts ran in several directions at once. “We’ll let that go for now.” She had to resist an impulse to pace as she said, “We should start getting ready. Manethrall, I hope you’ll take care of that for me, you and your Cords. And Liand.”

When she felt the Stonedownor’s protest, she faced him squarely. “Pahni will explain some things while you’re finding supplies. Tomorrow I’ll answer your questions.” With her eyes, she added mutely, If they aren’t about me. “In the meantime, please take Anele with you. I need a chance to think.”

Then she said to Stave, “You should talk to the Humbled. Tell them”- she opened her free hand in a small gesture of surrender- “everything.” More sharply, she went on. “But when you’re done with that, I want to see you again. You can tell me how they take the news.”

That was only a portion of what she had in mind. However, she felt sure that Stave understood the rest.

She saw in the concentration of Mahrtiir’s mien that he understood as well, or guessed it. Yet he made no objection. He was a Raman, bred from childhood to unquestioning service. Without hesitation, he turned to the door, drawing Bhapa and Pahni in the wake of his authority.

For a moment, Liand continued to study Linden with a perplexed frown. But he was capable of dignity. And he had shown repeatedly that he could set his own desires and confusion aside whenever she asked that of him. Drawing himself up, he inclined his head in acquiescence. Then he approached Anele, urged the old man gently to his feet, and led him after the Ramen.

Stave bowed before he withdrew. Linden could only guess what sharing her story with Galt and Clyme might cost him; but he did not flinch from it.

As soon as he closed the door behind him, she began to stride back and forth in front of the hearth, stamping the Staff of Law lightly on the floor with each step. She had told the truth: she needed to think. But she was also restless for action. She had let too much time pass. Surely her foes had already formed new plans and started to carry them out? Roger and the croyel had escaped the convulsion under Melenkurion Skyweir. Moksha Jehannum’s role remained hidden. If they and the skurj and Kastenessen and Esmer and Kevin’s Dirt and Joan’s caesures did not suffice to achieve Lord Foul’s desires, he would devise new threats. The stranger outside Revelstone’s gates might be one such peril. Or he might be an ally as unexpected as the Mahdoubt.

Yet Linden could not leave her rooms without Stave. She did not know her way through Lord’s Keep. And she needed him for other reasons as well. Therefore she had to wait.

While she paced, she tried to imagine what she would have done if she had been free to exact answers from the Theomach.

Slowly the flames in the hearth dwindled, allowing a chill to fill Linden’s rooms. But she did not close the shutters, or put more wood on the fire. The darkness outside Revelstone would be colder.

When she heard a knock at her door, she called out immediately. “Come in!”

As the door opened to admit Stave, she saw all three of the Humbled behind him. But they did not follow him inside, or prevent him from closing the door. Apparently they were content to ensure that she could not leave her quarters without their consent.

“Chosen.” Perhaps to reassure her, Stave bowed yet again. “I have fulfilled your word. All that you have elected to relate, I have conveyed to the Masters.”

Poised and impatient on the verge of attempting to take charge of her fate, Linden found that her mouth and throat had gone dry. She could feel her heart’s labour in her chest. Her voice was unnaturally husky as she asked. “How did they react?”

He gave a small shrug. They are the Masters of the Land.”

She tried to grin, but succeeded only at grimacing. “In other words, they didn’t react at all.”

Stave faced her with his one eye and his flat countenance. “They chafe at my ability to silence my thoughts. For that reason, they seek to mute their own. But they cannot. Their communion precludes them from acquiring my skill.

“They conclude that you propose to confront the stranger who has brought an end to the Demondim. This they conceive in part because it is your way to leave no obstacle unchallenged, and in part because you have declined to speak of the Mahdoubt.”

And that’s why,” muttered Linden harshly. “there are now three of them outside my door.” Then she forced herself to soften her tone. “But do they believe me’?”

“That you have spoken sooth,” he replied without inflection. “is plain to me. Therefore I have made it plain to them.”

“Good.” A small relief lessened her tension briefly. “Thank you.”

While she could still bear to remain passive, she drank the last of Glimmermere’s water. Anele had not touched it, presumably for the same reason that he refused to bathe in the lake, or suffer the touch of hurtloam.

“Tell me,” she said, striving to sound conversational; undemanding. “Why don’t you want to talk about that stranger? Or about the Mahdoubt?”

He did not look away. “Like the Masters, I am uncertain. Therefore I prefer to await the resolution of my doubts.”

Linden scrutinised him. “Uncertain?”

“The Mahdoubt and the stranger are entwined in my thoughts. I speculate concerning them, but my imaginings are unconfirmed. If I am mistaken, I do not wish to compound my error by speaking prematurely.”

She nodded. “I understand. I don’t know why the Mahdoubt disappeared when she did, but she’s my friend. She saved my life. That’s why I didn’t say anything. As far as I’m concerned, she should be allowed to keep her secrets.” Then Linden added, “But I don’t feel that way about our stranger. He’s a bit too fortuitous for my taste.” His defeat of the horde resembled Roger’s and the croyel’s arrival in glamour. “I think that we should go relieve some of our ignorance.”

Stave appeared to hesitate. “Do you conceive that the Masters will permit it’?”

Linden tightened her grip on the Staff. “Oh, they’ll permit it, all right. You told them my story. Right now, they need answers as badly as we do.

“I’m sure that they still don’t trust me. And the fact that they were so wrong about Roger and my son might make them even more suspicious. Now they really don’t know who to trust.

“But you told them about the Theomach. And they know that the Mahdoubt isn’t just a servant of Revelstone. If they want to go on calling themselves the Masters of the Land, they need to know who that stranger is. They need to know how he disposed of the Demondim.” And why. “If I’m willing to risk talking to him, I don’t see how they can object.”

After a slight pause, Stave nodded. “As you say, Chosen. If they reason otherwise, they will reconsider.”

Then he turned to open the door.

In the hall outside, the Humbled stood arrayed like a blockade; and for an instant, Linden’s steps faltered. But Branl, Clyme, and Galt parted smoothly, permitting Stave to walk between them. At the former Master’s back, she left her rooms unopposed. As she followed Stave, the Humbled formed an escort behind her.

So far, at least, they tolerated her actions.

Her boots struck echoes from the smooth stone, but the Haruchai moved soundlessly. Obliquely she regretted that she had sent the rest of her friends away. Their company might have comforted her. You hold great powers. Yet if we determine that we must wrest them from you, do you truly doubt that we will prevail? She had heard too many forecasts of disaster. On some deep level, she feared herself in spite of her granite resolve; or because of it.

Nevertheless she kept pace with Stave as he guided her through the intricate passages of Lord’s Keep. She could acknowledge doubts and distrust, but they did not sway her.

Stairways descended at unexpected intervals. Corridors seemed to branch randomly, running in all directions. At every juncture, however, the way had been prepared. Lamps and torches illumined Stave’s route. And he walked ahead of her with unerring confidence. Apparently the Masters condoned her intentions.

The passages seemed long to her. Yet eventually Stave led her down a short hall that ended in the high cavern inside Revelstone’s inner gates. There, too, lamps and torches had been set out for her; and when she looked past Stave’s shoulder, she saw that the Keep’s heavy interlocking doors stood slightly open.

That they remained poised to close swiftly did not trouble her. The Masters were understandably chary. One man, alone, had defeated the entire horde of the Demondim-had eaten them, according to Liand-in spite of their prodigious theurgies and their apparently limitless power to resurrect themselves. Naturally the defenders of Revelstone wanted to be ready for the possibility-the likelihood? — of calamity.

Now her steps no longer echoed. The vast forehall swallowed the clap of her boots, diminishing her until she seemed laughable in the face of the dangers which crowded the Land’s deep night. Still she followed Stave. Occasionally she touched the cold circle of Covenant’s ring. If at intervals she wished for Liand’s presence, or for Mahrtiir’s, she did not show it.

As she trod the length of the forehall, she hoped that Galt, Clyme, and Branl would remain in Revelstone. She did not want to hold herself responsible for either their actions or their safety. And she was in no mood to argue with them if they disapproved of her choices. But when they accompanied her through the narrow gap between the gates into the walled courtyard that separated the main Keep from the watchtower, she shrugged off her wish to be free of them. She could not pretend, even to herself, that she might not need defenders.

Apparently she was doomed to pursue her fate in the company of halfhands.

While she walked along the passage under the watchtower, the warded throat of Revelstone, she heard her boot heels echoing again. The sound seemed to measure her progress like a form of mockery, a rhythmic iteration of Lord Foul’s distant scorn. And the air became distinctly colder. Involuntarily she shivered. She felt Masters watching her, wary and unreadable, through slits in the ceiling of the tunnel; but she could not discern what they expected from her.

During her previous time in the Land, she had been able to rely on the Haruchai even when they distrusted her. For a moment, the fact that she could not do so now filled her with bitterness. But then she passed between the teeth of the outer gates, and had no more attention to spare for the intransigence of the Masters.

Night held the slowly sloping plain beyond the watchtower and the massive prow of Revelstone. High in the eastern sky, a gibbous moon cast its silver sheen over the ground where the Demondim had raged, seething with frustration and corrosive lore. The aftereffects of their ancient hatred lingered in the bare dirt. But overhead a profusion of stars filled the heavens, glittering gems in swaths and multitudes untouched by the small concerns of suffering and death. They formed no constellations that she knew, but she found solace in them nonetheless.

Following Stave through the darkness, she was glad to be reminded that her fears and powers were little things, too evanescent and human to impinge upon the immeasurable cycles of the stars. Her life depended on what she did. It was possible that Stave and the Humbled and all of Revelstone’s people were at risk. In ways which she could not yet imagine, Jeremiah’s survival-and perhaps that of the Land as well-might hang in the balance. Yet the stars took no notice: they would not. She was too small to determine their doom.

As was the man who had destroyed the Demondim. He might well surpass her. But while the heavens endured, she could afford to push her limits until they broke-or she did. Like her, the stranger lacked the power to decide the destinies of stars.

In faint silver, Stave led Linden forward; and when she lowered her gaze from the sky, she saw the flickering of a campfire. Its lively flames cast the stranger into shadow, but he appeared to be seated with his back to her and his head bowed. If he heard her steps, or sensed the advancing Haruchai, he gave no sign. His limned shape remained motionless.

Within a dozen paces of the stranger, Linden halted Stave with a touch on his shoulder. He glanced at her, a quick flash of reflected firelight in his eye. Drawing him with her, she began to circle around the campfire so that she could approach the stranger in plain sight, unthreateningly-and so that she could watch his reactions.

She expected the Humbled to accompany her, but they did not. Instead they stopped where she and Stave had paused, no more than a few running strides from the stranger’s back. Swearing to herself, she considered gesturing-or calling aloud-for them to join her. But she felt sure that they would ignore her.

Grateful for Stave’s presence at her side, she continued to circle toward the far side of the fire.

As she entered the stranger’s range of vision, he lifted his head slowly. But he did not react in any other way until she and Stave stood near the flames. Then, as lithe and easy as if he had not been sitting still for days, he rose to his feet.

“Lady,” he said in a voice as deep and rich as the loam of a river delta. “Haruchai. You are well come. I feared that I would be compelled to await you for seasons rather than mere days. Such is the obduracy of those who rule yon delved dwelling.”

Linden stared at him, unable to mask her surprise. She had heard that voice somewhere before-

He was clad all in leather, and all in subtle shades of brown. Nevertheless his garb was unexpectedly elaborate: if its hues had been less harmonious, it would have seemed foppish. Boots incused with arcane symbols extended up his calves almost to his knees, then folded down over themselves and ended in dangling tassels. Leggings that looked as supple as water clung to his thighs, emphasising their contours. Above them, he wore a frocked doublet ornately worked with umber beads, the sleeves deeply cuffed. It was snug at the waist, unbelted, and hemmed with a long, flowing fringe. From his shoulders hung a short dun chlamys secured by a bronze clasp: the only piece of metal in his costume. The clasp resembled a ploughshare.

If he bore any weapons, they were concealed under his chlamys or inside his doublet.

He had a lean, muscular figure with strong hands, a neatly trimmed beard, and close-cropped hair. And every shade of his features, from his weathered cheeks and mouth to his hair and whiskers, blended subtly with the browns of his raiment. The combined effect suggested that his garments were not mere clothing: they expressed his identity.

But his eyes were a startling black, so stark and lustreless that they might have been holes or caves leading into subterranean depths.

Disturbed in spite of her efforts to prepare herself, Linden instinctively avoided meeting his gaze. Instead of looking directly into his face, she let her eyes wander over his broad shoulders, down the fluid folds of the chlamys. As far as she could discern with her health-sense, he was simply a man, devoid of magic or force. But at one time, she had mistaken the Mahdoubt for an ordinary woman. Even the Masters had done so. And Linden had failed to detect the Theomach’s secret puissance-

She held her runed Staff and Covenant’s ring. Alone, she had beaten Roger and the croyel back from the brink of the Land’s doom-and she had done it without drawing on wild magic. Yet she felt oddly abashed in the stranger’s presence; unsure of herself; exposed and frail.

His voice was familiar. Where had she heard it before?

She wanted to speak confidently, but her voice was an unsteady whisper. “You ate them? You ate the Demondim?”

The stranger laughed briefly, a comfortable sound with a slight trace of ridicule. “Alas, lady, that is imprecise. Were I able to consume them, I would have taken their power into myself and become stronger. Belike I would then have no need of you.

“No, the truth is merely that I have made a considerable study of such beings. Their lore is both potent and unnatural. It holds a great fascination for me. For many and many a long year, I have devoted myself to the comprehension of their theurgy. And I have learned the trick of unbinding them.”

Linden’s eyes flicked close to his. “Unbinding?”

He inclined his head. “Indeed, lady. Having no tangible forms, they would be lost to will and deed without some containing ensorcellment to preserve them from dissolution. Imagine,” he explained. “that they are bound to themselves by threads of lore and purpose. The threads are many, but if one alone is plucked and severed, all unravel.

“Thus I disposed of the Demondim, for their presence in this time endangered my desires.”

Again she felt her gaze drawn toward his. With an effort, she forced herself to concentrate on the centre of his forehead. At her side, Stave stood without movement or speech, as if he saw no threat in the stranger, and had lost interest.

Yet he, too, had heard that voice before. It had addressed Linden through Anele after she had quenched the horde’s caesure. She remembered it clearly now.

Such power becomes you. But it will not suffice.

Abruptly she stood straighter, holding her Staff like an asseveration. This stranger had imposed himself on Anele; had taken advantage of the old man’s vulnerability. As far as she knew, he had only done so once. But once was enough to win her animosity. He was not Thomas Covenant, striving to help her in spite of the boundaries of life and death. He was simply careless of Anele’s suffering.

In the end, you must succumb. If you do not, you will nonetheless be compelled to accept my aid, for which I will demand recompense.

Ignoring the seduction of the stranger’s eyes, Linden said like the first soft touch of a flail, before it began to swing in earnest. “You’re one of the Insequent.”

Stave must have guessed that the stranger belonged to the same race as the Mahdoubt and the Theomach

Now the stranger’s laugh was ripe with pleasure. “Lady, I am. You are known to me, together with all of your acts and powers, and your great peril. Permit me the honour of presenting myself. I am the Harrow.”

He bowed with courtesy as elaborate as his apparel; but Linden did not. Already she was starting to loathe the sound of his voice. He was not the first to foretell failure for her. But he had hurt Anele-

Before she could retort, however, a rush of movement behind the Harrow caught her attention. She looked past him in time to see the Humbled emerge from the darkness, flinging themselves as one at his undefended back.

Instinctively she cried out, “No!” but the Masters ignored her. Galt leaped high to punch at the Harrow’s head. Clyme drove a kick at the centre of his spine while Branl dove for his knees.

Even a Giant might have been felled by their assault. But the Harrow was not. All three of the Humbled struck him-and all three rebounded to the dirt as if they had been slapped away. The Harrow remained standing, apparently untouched. Neither his posture nor his amiable smile suggested that he had noticed his attackers.

“Lady,” he observed with easy nonchalance. “you have not inquired into the nature of my desires.”

Shocked, Linden realised too late that she was looking directly into the black caves of his eyes. They caught her and held as if they were sucking at her mind.

None of the Humbled hesitated. The force which had repulsed them must have hurt; yet they sprang up instantly to attack again. This time, however, they did not leave their feet. Planting themselves around the Harrow, they hammered him with blows too swift and heavy to be distinguished from each other. A plinth of sandstone might have been pulverised by their onslaught.

Still he ignored them. Instead he gazed at Linden, drawing her deeper and deeper into the fathomless abysm of his eyes. She could not think or move; could not look away. The frenzy of the Humbled and the cheerful dance of the campfire became imprecise, meaningless: they had slipped sideways somehow, into a slightly different dimension of existence. The Harrow himself had slipped. Only his eyes remained fully real, his eyes and the rich loam of his voice; only the darkness

Vaguely she tried to summon the power of her Staff. But she was already lost. The hands of her volition hung, useless, at her sides. She could not lift them.

“First,” he said pleasantly, “I desire this curious stick to which you cling as though it possessed the virtue to ward you. Second, I crave the circle of white gold which lies hidden by your raiment. And last, I covet the unfettered wrath at the centre of your heart. It will nourish me as the Demondim did not. Though the husk of yourself is comely, I will discard it, for it does not interest me.”

He laughed as he added. “Did I not forewarn you that you must succumb’?”

Stave may have shouted Linden’s name. She was almost sure that he had joined Galt, Branl, and Clyme, assailing the Harrow with all of his prodigious strength. But she knew that none of them would prevail. Knowledge is power, she thought absently. The Harrow had destroyed the entire horde of the Demondim. He could certainly withstand the Haruchai while he consumed her soul.

Long ago, she had succumbed. More than once. She was familiar with self-abandonment. Now she resisted. Desperately she tried to say the Seven Words. Any of them. She remembered them all: she could form them in her mind. But they required utterance. They had no efficacy without breath and effort. The Harrow cocked an eyebrow as if he were aware of her attempt, and mildly surprised by it. Nevertheless he went on laughing with the ease of complete certitude.

There was no pain; no falling; no sensation at all. She was not possessed and tortured as she had once been by a Raver. Nor did she feel the illimitable excruciation of a caesure. Her own capacity for evil held no horror. The voids of the Harrow’s eyes had simply grown as infinite as the heavens. But no stars sanctified them. No glimmering articulated their emptiness. Absolute loss unredeemed by choice or possibility claimed her. She could do nothing except observe her ruin until every particle of her being was devoured.

She wanted to plead with him somehow; beseech him to let her go. He did not care about Jeremiah. Her son would never be freed if she could not convince the Harrow to release her.

But she did not know his true name. She lacked the means to make him heed her.

There was another name, one which had been given to her for a reason, and which she had not forgotten. She was no longer substantial or significant enough to speak it.

Stave and the Humbled beat themselves raw on the Harrow’s impervious form. They hit and kicked so hard that any bones except theirs would have shattered. The skin of their fists and feet became pulp. With every blow, they splashed blood that did not touch the Insequent.

They could not save Linden.

Still they were Haruchai, deaf and blind to defeat. With a suddenness which would have startled her if all of her reactions had not been sucked away, Stave gouged at the Harrow’s eyes.

Stave was imponderably swift.

Nevertheless the Harrow snatched Stave’s hand aside before it reached his face. To prevent another strike, he kept his grip on Stave’s wrist.

Surprised by the Harrow’s quickness, Stave may have faltered for a small fraction of a heartbeat. Then he attacked the lnsequent’s eyes with his other hand.

That blow the Harrow caught and held easily as well; so easily that even Stave’s boundless courage must have known dismay.

But the Humbled followed the former Master’s example. Branl and Clyme grasped the Harrow’s arms in an attempt to prevent him from moving: Galt leaped onto the Harrow’s back. With both hands, Galt clawed at the lnsequent’s eyes.

Within herself, Linden continued to struggle.

The Harrow did not try to defend himself physically. Instead he released Stave and let out a roar of force which flung all of the Haruchai from him. They were tossed through the air like dolls to land in darkness beyond the reach of the firelight.

But while he scattered his attackers, his will or his attention wavered for an instant. And in that instant, Linden gasped softly. “Quern Ehstrel.”

At once, the Harrow staggered as though an avalanche had fallen on his shoulders. He stumbled into his campfire. Flames flared hungrily over his boots and onto his leggings.

And the grasp of his gaze snapped.

As his blackness vanished from Linden’s mind, she recoiled; pitched headlong to the ground with her hands clamped over her eyes. She had dropped her Staff, and did not care. Released, she returned to herself with a shock as violent as a seizure. Her muscles spasmed as she lay in the dirt, unable to move or think. At that moment, she only knew that she had to protect her eyes.

“Fool.” The Harrow’s voice was velvet with rage. “You are doomed, damned, ended. If you do not extinguish yourself, the entire race of the Insequent will rise up to excoriate your intrusion. Every commandment of what we are requires-”

“Oh, assuredly,” put in the Mahdoubt complacently. “By this deed, the Mahdoubt completes her long years of service. Yet her doom is not immediate. Even your animal fury cannot demand madness of her until her interference is beyond denial.”

Linden’s appeal had been answered.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she moved her hands. Although her arms trembled in reaction, and her heart shook, she fumbled around her for the Staff. But she found only bare ground and the residual loathing of the Demondim, bitter as gall.

The Mahdoubt had come. But surely she had no power to compare with the Harrow’s? She could cross time. And she could pass unseen to appear where she was needed. She was provident and considerate. But she had evinced no magic like that with which the Harrow had repulsed Stave and the Humbled.

“You prevaricate, old woman”- the largesse of the Harrow’s anger filled the night- “as has ever been your wont. You have intervened in my triumph, which no Insequent may attempt without cost. If you deny this, you are false to yourself as to me.”

Linden’s head reeled. Her whole sense of herself seemed to stagger drunkenly. Nevertheless she could not remain sprawling, blind and helpless, while the Mahdoubt confronted the Harrow on her behalf. Fearfully she slitted her eyes; confirmed that she was facing away from the campfire. Then she pushed herself up onto her knees and glanced around rapidly, looking for the Staff.

It was out of reach behind her and to the left. Even if she dove toward it while the Harrow was distracted, he might be too quick for her. She was still too dazed to summon Earthpower and Law without touching the black wood.

“Rage as you wish,” answered the Mahdoubt, unperturbed. “Assuredly the Mahdoubt seeks to defy the commandments of our kind. This she acknowledges. And in so doing, she hazards her life. Yet even your arrogance cannot proclaim that she has prevented your designs. Her intrusion has merely delayed them. She cannot be named inexculpate until she has coerced you to forswear your purpose against the lady’s person.”

Linden braced herself to lunge for the Staff. As she did so, however, Stave came to stand between her and the campfire. Blood dripped from his hands: it trickled down his shins, oozed from his feet. But he disdained his hurts.

Stooping, he retrieved the Staff and passed it to Linden. “Rise, Chosen,” he said quietly. “It appears that the Mahdoubt will have need of you.”

At once, she surged to her feet. For a moment longer, she kept her back to the flames and the Insequent while she assured herself of Earthpower. Then, abruptly, she turned to see what the Mahdoubt and the Harrow were doing.

The Harrow laughed with renewed confidence. “Forswear my purpose?’ he countered in a tone of abundant mirth. “I? As the years pass, you have become an object of ridicule. At one time, you were remembered respectfully among the Insequent, but now you are viewed with scorn.

“This, however, I will grant,” he added more dangerously. “I have merely been delayed, and will yet triumph. If you depart now, you may perchance retain some portion of your mind.”

Keeping her eyes lowered, Linden scanned the vicinity of the campfire. The Harrow stood on the far side of the flames with his arms folded across his chest, defiant and dire. Although he had staggered into the blaze, his boots and leggings were undamaged. Like their wearer, they seemed impervious to ordinary harm. The bottomless holes of his gaze tugged at Linden. But she did not allow herself to glance above the level of his waist.

While she looked around, she readied her own fire.

Opposite the Harrow-directly between him and Linden-the Mahdoubt squatted as she had beside her gentle flames in Garroting Deep. She faced her fellow Insequent steadily. The curve of her back suggested poised stillness rather than relaxation. Shining through the unkempt tangle of her hair, the firelight seemed to crown her head with an oblique glory, subtle and ineffable. Stark against the campfire, she wore a nimbus of determination.

Stave stood at Linden’s side a little ahead of her. Perhaps he thought that if the Harrow snared her again he would be able to save her by stepping in front of her; blocking the Harrow’s gaze.

The Humbled also had emerged from the night. They had positioned themselves behind the Harrow, waiting to see what would transpire. They had fought longer than Stave: their bruises and abrasions were worse. Nevertheless Linden did not doubt that they would attack again without hesitation if they saw a need to do so.

The random flare and gutter of the flames effaced the stars overhead. But around the horizons of the plain, and along the rims of Revelstone, faint gleams still defined the dark like sprinkled flecks of ice. And behind her, Linden felt the moon arc placidly across the heavens, undismayed by earthbound conflicts.

“On other matters,” the woman was saying as if the Harrow had not spoken, “the Mahdoubt does not intrude. Assuredly she does not. You will act according to your desires. But she will see your threat to the lady’s mind and spirit and flesh abandoned. If you accede, no evil has occurred. And if she fails, there is again no evil. But if you seek to measure yourself against her, and are outmatched, she will require your bound oath.

“Then will your paths be altered in all sooth, and there will be no gainsaying the Mahdoubt’s culpability. She herself will not question it.”

The campfire dwindled, and night crowded closer, as the Mahdoubt said distinctly, “Choose, then, proud one. Accede or give battle. The Mahdoubt has grown weary in the service of that which she deems precious. She does not fear to fail.”

The Harrow’s voice was full of amusement as he replied, “Do you dare this challenge?” Yet behind his mirth, Linden thought that she heard the gnashing of boulders. “Have you fallen prematurely into madness?”

“Pssht,” retorted the woman dismissively. “Words. The Mahdoubt will have deeds or naught.”

Linden wanted to protest, No, don’t do this! I can fight for myself! The Mahdoubt had nothing to gain here: she could only lose. And she was Linden’s friend. But Linden’s voice was locked in her throat.

Urgent fire curled around her fingers and ran along the Staff as she prepared to defend the older woman.

“Then ready yourself, relic of foolishness,” the Harrow pronounced with plush confidence. “You cannot rule me.”

Stave shifted closer to the direct line between Linden and the Harrow’s eyes.

Linden saw nothing to indicate that a contest had commenced. Her health-sense discerned nothing. To all appearances, the Harrow simply stood with his arms folded over his chest, a figure of irrefragable self-possession and surety. Opposite him, the Mahdoubt squatted motionless, seemingly devoid of power or purpose; as mundane as the gradual slope of the plain.

But the campfire continued to shrink as though moisture from some cryptic source were soaking imperceptibly into the wood. Around the battle, darkness thickened like a wall.

If she could have spoken, Linden would have asked Stave, What are they doing? She might have asked, Have they started yet? But she had no voice. As the flames died, they seemed draw sound as well as light with them. Nothing punctuated the night except her own taut breathing and the muffled thud of her heart.

But then, subtly, by increments too small to be defined, the Harrow began to fade as if his physical substance were being diluted or stretched thin. Some undetectable magic siphoned away his tangible existence.

For long moments, Linden watched the change, transfixed, until she was able to catch glimpses of the Humbled through the Harrow’s form.

With a palpable jolt, the Mahdoubt’s opponent snapped back into solidity. The flames of his fire flared higher, driving back the encroachment of the night.

Without risking the hunger of his eyes, Linden could not see his expression. But his chest heaved, and his strained breathing was louder than hers.

A heartbeat later, he started to fade again, leaking out of himself into some other dimension of reality. Or of time.

This change was more rapid. He seemed to dissolve in front of her as the fire died toward embers. Clyme, Branl, and Galt were clearly visible through the veil of the Harrow’s substance.

The impact when he forced himself back into definition was as visceral as a blow. Linden felt the intensity of his exertion. It touched her percipience on a pitch that scraped along her nerves, vibrated in the marrow of her bones. His flames guttered higher as he gasped hoarsely. Hazarding a glance upward, she saw that his cheeks were slick with sweat. Fine droplets caught a skein of ruddy reflections in his beard.

The Mahdoubt was beating him-

His arms remained clasped across his chest. Yet Linden could see that they trembled. All of his muscles were trembling.

The Mahdoubt still had not moved. But now her plump form and rounded shoulders no longer suggested quiet readiness. Instead they were implacable; vivid with innominate strength. She had made herself as unyielding as the bedrock of mountains.

Earthpower and protests itched for expression in Linden’s hands as the Mahdoubt renewed the Harrow’s failure.

Now he did not fade slowly toward evanescence; dissolution. Instead he appeared to flicker. For an instant, he was nearly solid: then he came so close to transparency that only his outlines remained: then he struggled back into substance. Linden felt every throb and falter of his efforts to find some finger hold or flaw in the Mahdoubt’s obdurate expulsion.

If Stave and the Humbled had struck at him, they might have broken his bones; or they might have passed through him as if he were no more than mist. But they merely witnessed the eerie conflict, as unmoving as the Mahdoubt, and as unmoved.

Linden did not realise that she was holding her breath until a soundless implosion snatched the air from her lungs. The sudden inrush of force swallowed the Harrow’s power, and the Mahdoubt’s. As Linden panted in surprise, the Harrow’s campfire burned normally again. He stood across the flames from the Mahdoubt as if nothing had occurred. Only the heaviness of his respiration, and the sweat on his face, and the wincing hunch of his shoulders betrayed the truth.

“That is difficult knowledge,” he remarked when he was able to speak evenly. “It emulates the Theomach’s. Yet I am not displaced.”

“Assuredly.” The Mahdoubt shook her head as if she were casting sparks from her hair. “The Mahdoubt acknowledges that choices remain to you, flight among them. But you will not flee. Greed will not permit you to surrender your intent. Nor are you able to withstand the Mahdoubt’s resolve.”

“You know me, then,” he admitted. “Yet you are thereby doomed. While I endure, your long service comes to naught.”

Again the woman shook her head. “Perchance it is so. Perchance it is not.” Her tone was as implacable as her strength. “No conclusion is reached until you have given your bound oath.”

Grimly Linden hoped that the Harrow would refuse. If he continued to fight, or chose to retreat, she could argue that the Mahdoubt had not prevented his designs. And if she cast her own force into the fray, surely the Mahdoubt could not be held accountable for the outcome? Damn it, the woman was her friend.

But the Harrow accepted defeat. “It is given.” Resentment pulsed in his voice. “If it must be spoken, I will speak it.

“My purpose against your lady’s person I forswear.” As he uttered them, the words took on resonance. They expanded outward as if they were addressed to the night and the uncaring stars. “From this moment, I will accept from her only that which she chooses to grant. No other aspect of my desires will I relinquish. But my efforts against her mind and spirit and flesh I hereby abandon. In herself, she will have no cause to fear me. And I adjure all of the Insequent to heed me. If I do not abide by this oath, I pray that their vengeance upon me will be both cruel and prolonged.”

When he was finished, his voice relapsed to its normal depth and richness. “Does this content you, old woman?”

“It does.” The Mahdoubt’s reply was soft and faintly forlorn, as if she rather than the Harrow had been humbled. She slumped beside the fire as though her bones had begun to crack. “Assuredly. The Mahdoubt acknowledges your oath, and is content.”

“Then,” responded the Harrow with fertile malice, “I bid you joy in your coming madness. It will be brief, for it brings death swiftly in its wake.”

Offering his opponent an elaborate and mocking bow, he turned away.

At last, Linden found her voice. “Just a minute!” she snapped. “I’m not done with you.”

Cocking an eyebrow in a show of surprise, the Harrow faced her. “Lady?”

As he had sworn, his eyes exerted no compulsion. Nevertheless Linden avoided them. Instead she moved to crouch beside the Mahdoubt. Resting a hand on the older woman’s shoulder, she murmured. “Are you all right?”

She meant, Why did you do that? I needed you at first. But then I could have fought for myself.

With an effort that made her old muscles quake, the woman straightened her back and raised her head to look at Linden. “My lady,” she said in a voice that quavered, “there is no need for haste. The Mahdoubt’s doom is assured, yet it will not overtake her instantly. You and she will speak together, friend to friend.” Her mismatched eyes searched Linden’s face. “The Mahdoubt prays that you will not prolong the Harrow’s departure on her behalf.”

“Are you sure?” Linden insisted. “There must be something that I can do for you.”

“Assuredly,” replied the old woman: a dying fall of sound. “Permit the Mahdoubt a moment’s respite.” Her chin sagged back down to her breast. “Then she will speak.”

Her words were sparks in the ready tinder of Linden’s outrage.

“In that case-”

Abruptly Linden surged upright to confront the Harrow.

He had recovered his air of undisturbed certitude. The night had cooled his cheeks and brow, and his strong arms rested casually on his chest as if his struggles had already lost their meaning. His eyes probed Linden, daring her to look directly into them; but she refused. If she could, she intended to scald the danger out of them. For the moment, however, she fixed her gaze on the hollow at the base of his throat.

“I think that I understand this,” she said between her teeth. “But I don’t have much experience with you Insequent, and I want to be sure that I’ve got it straight.

“I’m safe from you now? Is that right?’

Stave had joined her beside the Mahdoubt. He looked at her intently.

He may have wished to warn her; to explain something. But what he saw in her silenced him.

The Humbled remained poised, apparently passionless, behind the Harrow. They paid no attention to their hurts.

“Indeed.” The Harrow’s defeat left a caustic edge in his voice. “Until you are minded to grant my desires, I will not attempt to wrest them from you.”

“And your desires are-?” Linden demanded. “I want to hear you say it again.”

“What I seek, lady,” he answered without hesitation. “is to possess your instruments of power.” Then he shrugged. “What I will have, however, is your companionship.”

Linden glared at his throat as though she meant to rip it open. “What in God’s name makes you think that I’m going to let you follow me around?”

The Harrow laughed mordantly. “Apart from the mere detail that you cannot prevent me? There is a service which I am able to perform for you, and which you will not obtain from any other living being.”

Oh really? “In that case,” she repeated, “there’s something that you should know about me.”

Again he laughed. “Elucidate, lady. If there can be aught that I do not know of you, I will-”

Softly, almost whispering, Linden pronounced. “The Mahdoubt is my friend.”

As swift as anger, she summoned a howl of power from her Staff and hurled it straight into the Harrow’s eyes.

Her vehemence was hot enough to resemble the fire which had fused her heart. It should have burned its way deep into his brain. If it had left him blind and useless, as doomed as the Mahdoubt, she would not have permitted herself one small stumble of regret. This was what she had become, and she did not mean to step back from herself.

But she was not as quick as the Harrow. Before her blast struck him, he slapped a hand over his eyes. Her fire splashed away like water.

For a long moment, she poured Earthpower at him, dispersing the dark; trying to overwhelm his defences. However, he was proof against her: he appeared to withstand her assault easily, almost negligently. When she had tested him until she was sure that she could not daunt or damage him with the Staff alone, she released her flame and let night wash back around the campfire.

As the Harrow lowered his hand to gaze at her, unconcerned, she said harshly, “You’re tough,” loathing the tremor in her voice. “I’ll give you that. But don’t think for a second that I can’t hurt you. If you know as much about me as you claim, you know that I can do a hell of a lot more than this.”

Masked by his beard, the Harrow’s mouth twisted. “As your ‘friend’ has said, perchance it is so. Perchance it is not. For your part, know that my oath does not preclude me from causing you such pain that you will regret your unseemly defiance.”

Before she could retort, he added, “I bid you farewell. Rail against me at your pleasure. I will claim your companionship when you attempt aught which interests me.”

Brusquely he bowed. Then he turned and strode away in the direction of Revelstone. The Humbled did not step aside for him. Nevertheless he passed through them, leaving them untouched-and visibly startled in spite of their stoicism. Then he seemed to evaporate into the darkness. In an instant, he was gone.

The Humbled stared after him. Their stances suggested that they expected to be assailed. After a moment, however, they appeared to accept his disappearance. Shrugging, they dismissed him and approached the campfire.

The Mahdoubt made a vague plucking gesture. When Linden saw it, she moved at once to the woman’s side and extended her arm. The Mahdoubt grasped it feebly, tried to heave herself to her feet. At first, she failed: her strength had left her. But then Stave added his support, and she was able to rise.

Clinging to both Linden and the former Master, the Mahdoubt panted thinly, “My lady. In one matter. You have erred.” She took a moment to calm her breathing, then said, “Your challenge was unseemly. He has given his oath. Assuredly so. And the choice to demand it of him was freely made. It is through no act of his that the Mahdoubt must now pass away.”

“I don’t care.” Linden hunched close to the woman, trying vainly to transmit some her own health into the Mahdoubt’s sudden frailty. “I care about you.”

And you do not forgive,” Stave put in sternly. His tone held a hint of reproach. “This you have demonstrated. You are altered, Chosen and Sun-Sage. The woman who accompanied the ur-Lord Thomas Covenant to the redemption of the Land would not have struck thus.”

“What do you want from me?” Linden countered. She could not bear sorrow or shame: they would unmake her. Under Melenkurion Skyweir, such emotions had been clad in granite. “Am I supposed to call him back and apologise? God damn it, Stave, she’s going to die, and she did it for me.” More softly, she repeated. “She did it for me.”

Stave held Linden’s glare without blinking; but the Mahdoubt intervened. “Oh, assuredly,” she said with more firmness. “Of a certainty, the Mahdoubt will perish. But first she will fall into madness.”

Swallowing anger, Linden asked, “Does that have to happen? Isn’t there something we can do about it?”

The woman sighed. “It is the way of the Insequent, inherent in us. It is required of the Mahdoubt by birth rather than by choice or scruple. The Insequent exert no demands upon each other, for the cost of such conflict would be extinction. Some centuries past, the Vizard sought to thwart the Harrow’s desires, for he deemed them contrary to his own purpose. Thus was the Vizard lost to use and name and life. The outcome of what the Mahdoubt has done will not be otherwise.”

The eyes of the Humbled widened momentarily, and Stave cocked an eyebrow; but Linden paid no attention to them.

“Ere that end, however,” the Mahdoubt continued, “there is much that must be said.” She glanced at Stave. “You also must speak, Haruchai. The Mahdoubt falters, for her years come upon her swiftly. She is too weary to relate the tale of your people. Yet that tale must be told.”

“It must not,” countered Clyme promptly. “There is no need. And the will of the Masters has not been consulted.”

The Mahdoubt squinted at Clyme with her orange eye. In spite of her weakness, she retained enough force to silence him. “Were you efficacious against the Harrow, Master? Did he not dismiss your efforts, as did the Vizard in a distant age and place? Then do not speak to the Mahdoubt of “need”. While she retains any portion of herself, she will determine what is needful.”

To Linden’s surprise, all three of the Humbled bowed, and said nothing more.

While she scrambled to grasp why any Master would show the Mahdoubt such respect when earlier the Humbled had attacked the Harrow without provocation, Stave said. “If there is much that must be said, perhaps it would be well to speak first of this “service” which the Harrow may elect to perform for the Chosen.”

The Mahdoubt shook her head. “Nay. Doing so will alter my lady’s path-and the Mahdoubt has given her life in the belief that my lady must be trusted, though her deeds engender horrors. The Mahdoubt will not disturb a future which eludes her sight.”

“Then tell me why you did it,” Linden asked; pleaded. “I needed you at first. You saved me. But then I could have defended myself,” while the Harrow’s intentions had only been delayed. “You didn’t have to sacrifice yourself.”

The woman sighed. Has the Mahdoubt not said-assuredly, and often-that she is weary?” Linden could feel the Mahdoubt’s vitality slowly seeping from her limbs. “She prefers her own passing to a life in which she may behold the end of days.”

Then she turned her blue eye on Linden. “Yet if she is craven, persuaded to madness and death by apprehension, she is not merely so.

“My lady, you have become the Mahdoubt’s friend, as she is yours. You are sorely transformed. That is sooth. You have become fearsome. Yet in Garroting Deep, you found within yourself the means to warm the Mahdoubt’s heart. There she learned that the mystery of your needs and desires is unfathomable. It resembles the mystery of life, rich in malice and wonder. That good may be accomplished by evil means defies explication. Yet the Mahdoubt has assured herself that you are equal to such contradictions. Therefore she believes that you must not be turned aside.”

Slowly the Mahdoubt lowered her head to rest her tired neck. At the same time, however, her tone became sharper, whetted by indignation.

“My lady, the Harrow’s purpose lies athwart your path. His blandishments you may withstand. But if he failed here to consume your choices and your love, he would attempt the same wrong at another time. Oh, assuredly. Again and again he would attempt it, relentlessly, until your strength faltered. Then would you be altogether lost.

“This the Mahdoubt could not suffer, trusting you as she does. Therefore has she spent her mind and life to obtain the Harrow’s oath of forbearance.”

Aching at the scale of the Mahdoubt’s sacrifice, Linden said in a small voice. “Then tell me how. How did you beat him?”

“My lady,” the Mahdoubt sighed, “knowledge precludes knowledge. Our mortality cannot master one thing, and then another, and then yet another. The Harrow unmade the Demondim. The Mahdoubt could not have done so. But she has given centuries to the contemplation of Time. He has not. He passes from place to place as he wills-oh, assuredly-but he cannot journey among the years.

“The Mahdoubt gained his oath by revealing that her knowledge might displace him to another age of the Earth, a time in which the objects of his greed would not exist. There he would remain, abandoned, useless to himself, until his spirit was broken.

“For that reason, he acknowledged defeat.”

Her muscles trembled as she shifted her attention to Stave.

“Now, Haruchai,” she commanded softly, “you must speak. You have ascertained that the Mahdoubt is of the Insequent. You have been informed of the Vizard’s passing. And you have heard my lady’s mention of the Theomach. Share with her the tale of your people. It is the last boon which the Mahdoubt may grant.”

In the Harrow’s absence, his campfire died slowly, and with it the yellow elucidation of the flames. Shadows passed like small gusts of night over the older woman’s sagging frame and Stave’s unread countenance. More stars became visible overhead, throngs poised to hear or ignore what was unveiled in the dark.

Unsteady reflections in the former Master’s eye suggested conflicting emotions, obscure reluctance and rue, as he gazed past the Mahdoubt at Linden. “Chosen,” he said in a voice that sounded as removed as Revelstone and the Westron Mountains. “in the distant past, some centuries before the coming of the Haruchai to the Land, our ancestors encountered the Insequent.”

While Linden studied him in surprise, he continued. “We have ever been a combative race, glorying in struggle, for by such contests we demonstrate our worth-and it is by our worth that we survive the harsh ardour of the peaks. We have eschewed weapons because they detract from the purity of our battles, and because we did not desire our own destruction. Yet for many a century we were content to battle among ourselves, striving for wives, and for supremacy of skill, and for pride.

“There came a time, however, when we were no longer content. Ourselves we knew too well, speaking mind to mind. We desired to measure our worth against other peoples in less arduous climes, for we conceived that the rigors of the mountains had made us great. Therefore twenty-five score Haruchai journeyed together westward, seeking some race whom we might best in battle.”

Stave’s tone took on a defended formality as he explained, “Understand, Chosen, that we did not crave dominion. We sought only to express the heat of our pride.”

Peripherally Linden was aware that the Humbled had turned away as if to disavow Stave’s tale-or his telling of it. Galt, Clyme, and Branl withdrew to the edges of the light, standing guard. But she paid no real attention to them. She was immersed in the sound of Stave’s voice.

He spoke of we as though he had been one of those five hundred Haruchai thousands of years ago.

This, she knew, was an effect of their mental communion. They had shared their thoughts and passions and memories so completely, and for so long, that each of them embodied the long history of their race. Stave remembered his distant ancestors as if he had been present with them.

“After a trek of many days,” he said, “we at last left behind our high peaks and biting snows, and found a fertile lowland lush with crops and waters, a region in which we deemed that even a slothful and unstriving people would flourish. For a time, we encountered none of the region’s inhabitants. At last, however, we came upon a lone but with a single occupant.

“The hut was a rude structure of wattle and thatch, and the man who emerged from it was clad in rags which scarcely covered his limbs. Furthermore both his flesh and his hair were clotted with filth, for he seemed unconscious of his person.

“Yet he addressed us courteously, offering both shelter and sustenance, though we were twenty-five score and his but was small. In response, we declined, also courteously. Then he inquired, still courteously, of our purpose in the land of the Insequent. Intending no offense to one who plainly could not oppose us, we replied that we knew nothing of the Insequent, but that we had come in search of combat, seeking confirmation that our prowess knew no equal.”

The effect of what she heard on Linden was both immediate and detached. She seemed to experience Stave’s tale through a veil of imposed dispassion. She saw everything that he described, but it did not touch her. Her sensitivity to the Mahdoubt’s sinking vitality muffled her reactions.

“Hearing us,” Stave went on, “the man became haughty. He informed us that the Insequent were far too mighty and glorious to heed such trivialities. Sneering, he proclaimed that if we did not immediately depart, he would punish our arrogance with his own hands, driving us defeated back to our mountains.

“We had no wish to harm him, for he appeared frail to us, beneath our strength. Yet we were also loath to turn aside from any challenge. Therefore one among us, Zaynor, whom we deemed the least of our company, stepped forward. He inquired if the Insequent would consent to display his skill for our edification.

“The man laughed scornfully. To our sight, he became briefly indistinct. Then Zaynor lay senseless at his feet. Upon Zaynor’s face and limbs were the marks of many blows.”

While Stave spoke, the fire continued to shrink, contracting its light until the Mahdoubt clung in gloom to Linden’s and Stave’s support, and only coals reflected like memories in the former Master’s gaze.

“Though we vaunted ourselves for our readiness in all things, we were surprised. Yet we were not daunted, for we conceived that the lone man’s prowess lay in supernal swiftness, and we believed ourselves able to counter it, having been forewarned. Three of our number advanced to request a second demonstration of the man’s worth.

“His response was mockery. Rather than suffer the continued affront of our presence, he avowed that he would defeat all of us together, thereby teaching us a condign humility.”

Stave paused as though he had to search for words. When he resumed, his tone suggested a remembered disbelief.

“Chosen, we were twenty-five score, and we credited our might. We did not scoff in reply, for we consider scorn the refuge of the weak. Also our opponent appeared to be a madman. Yet he had felled Zaynor. For that reason, we contemplated the means by which a supernal swiftness may be defeated, and we stood prepared.

“Nevertheless he passed among us as wheat is scythed. Before the last of us recognised astonishment, twenty-five score Haruchai lay unconscious upon the ground, all pummelled insensate during the space of perhaps three heartbeats.”

The Mahdoubt sighed in sadness or disapproval, but she did not interrupt. Linden wanted to protest, Wait a minute. All of you? Five hundred-? If anyone else had told her this, she would not have believed it. However, she swallowed her shock for the Mahdoubt’s sake as much as for Stave’s.

Inflexibly he said. When we began to regain our wits and rise from the ground, the man stood before us still, showing no sign of exertion. Only our battered flesh, and the blood of many blows upon his hands and feet, verified that he had struck us down bodily rather than causing us to slumber by theurgy.

“Then we conceived that we had been humbled. Therefore we made obeisance, declaring our opponent ak-Haru, the greatest warrior known to the Haruchai. But his reply taught us that we had not yet discovered humility within ourselves.”

Ak-Haru? Linden thought in sudden recognition. Stave had reached the cusp of his story, the point on which everything else turned. She wanted to interrupt him with questions simply so that she would have time to brace herself for what was coming. Only her concern for the Mahdoubt restrained her.

“Courteous once more, he bowed, saying that he had foreseen neither doughtiness nor fair speech from such small folk. Then he informed us that among the Insequent he was known as the Vizard.”

Linden swore inwardly at that name; but she forced herself to remain silent.

“The Insequent, he explained, did not reveal their true names. Rather they claimed obscure and gratifying titles for their own amusement. Yet he bid us welcome, both to his dwelling and to the land of the Insequent, cautioning us only that to every man or woman of his kind we must make obeisance. The Insequent-so he averred-wielded skills as diverse as their numbers, and few shared his indulgent nature.

“Lastly he proclaimed in a manner which forbade contradiction that he was unworthy to be named ak-Haru, for he was not the greatest of his people. There we found that humility had a deeper meaning than we had recognised. The Vizard did not merely refuse the honour which we ceded to him. He named the Theomach as the only Insequent who would be deemed deserving by his own kind.”

Linden stared at Stave through the encroaching night, shaken in ways which she could not have articulated. Briefly she forgot the Mahdoubt’s plight. Roger had made cryptic comments about the Theomach’s role in the Land’s history. And the Theomach had assured her that she knew his true name

Stave faced her like a man who had determined to spare himself nothing. It was the Vizard’s word that the Theomach had joined himself to a great Lord in a land beyond our mountains to the east. In the Lord’s company, he had quested far across the Earth, risking Nicor and the Soulbiter and many other perils to discover the hiding place of the One Tree. That alone, said the Vizard, was knowledge of surpassing difficulty, deserving accolade. The One Tree may be found only by those who do not seek the thing they seek, yet the Theomach resolved the conundrum by seeking the One Tree on the Lord’s behalf rather than his own. For himself, he desired not the One Tree, but rather its Guardian.

“Therein lay his greatest feat. In single combat, he defeated the hated Elohim who stood as the Tree’s Appointed Guardian. Thus the Theomach became the Guardian in the Elohim’s stead. Alone among the Insequent-so said the Vizard-the Theomach passed beyond self and craving to join the rare company of those who do not heed death. And therefore the Vizard did not scruple to reveal the Theomach’s true name, for he could no longer be harmed by it.”

“Kenaustin Ardenol,” Linden breathed. “Oh, my God.”

She had known the Theomach’s true name for ten years. But she could not have recognised it until now.

He had become more than Berek Halfhand’s companion and teacher: far more.

She heard hints of mourning in Stave’s voice as he said. To the Vizard, we granted that we would name the Guardian of the One Tree ak-Haru. But we could not further swallow our crippled pride. That we had been bested by a single opponent who then refused our acknowledgment did not teach us humility. It taught us humiliation.”

The Mahdoubt raised her head, although the effort made her shudder. “Such was the Vizard’s intent.” Anger throbbed in her voice. “Assuredly. His peculiar greed ruled him, and no word or ploy of his was kindly. Even his courtesy was scorn. Had he lived to achieve his purpose, he would have undone the entire race of the Elohim to sate his hungers.”

Stave nodded. The night made him appear carved in stone.

“Being humiliated, we did not accept the welcome of the Vizard. Nor did we sojourn among the Insequent. Rather we returned in pain to our snow-clad peaks. When at a later time, we again elected to measure our worth, we did so in pain. In pain, we turned our trek to the east, for that was the direction named by the Vizard. In pain, we challenged High Lord Kevin Landwaster and all of his great Council. And when our challenge was met, not with combat, but with open-hearted respect and generosity, our pain was multiplied, for we were accorded a worth which we had not won. Therefore we swore the Vow of the Bloodguard, setting aside homes and wives and sleep and death that we might once again merit our own esteem.”

Now Linden could not remain silent. Impelled by her own ire, she said unsteadily, “It’s also why you abandoned your Vow.” She was learning to understand what the Vizard’s whims had cost Stave’s people. “When Korik, Sill, and Doar failed, you decided that you didn’t deserve to help the Lords fight Lord Foul.”

Again Stave nodded; but she did not stop. Her indignation rose into the night as if it were directed at every Haruchai who had ever lived, although it was not. For Stave’s people, she felt only a sorrow which she could not afford.

“And it’s why you never actually got together to fight the Clave, even though your people were being slaughtered,” shed to feed the Sunbane. “Even after Covenant saved you, only a few of you joined us. You knew that we were going to search for the One Tree, and you didn’t consider yourselves worthy to face your ak-Haru. You couldn’t commit yourselves to defend the Land until Brinn proved that he could take the Guardian’s place. Until he became the ak-Haru himself.

“That’s when you finally started to believe in yourselves again.”

The Masters had carried their perception of worth too far. Now she knew why. After millennia of loss, they had regained their self-respect, but they had never learned how to grieve. Liand was right about them. They could only find healing in the attempt to match Brinn’s example. Their humiliation had made them too rigid for any other release.

“So of course,” Linden continued. “the Humbled attacked the Harrow before he did anything to threaten us. They had to. He’s one of the Insequent. That’s all the provocation they needed.”

“Indeed.” Stave stood in darkness, as unrevealing as the stars. “Aspiring to Brinn’s triumph, they now desire to prove themselves against any of the Insequent. For that reason, among others, I did not wish to speak of the Mahdoubt, or of the stranger, until we were certain of their nature.”

“But you didn’t tell anyone about all this?” That, too, might have healed them. If nothing else, it might have eased their loneliness. “Anyone at all? Didn’t you think that someone might need to know your story?”

Her protest was addressed to the Mahdoubt as well.

The Humbled had moved closer, following the light as it shrank and faltered. They stood around Linden, Stave, and the Mahdoubt like sentinels or accusers, stiff with wariness or reproach.

“Until this moment,” Stave acknowledged, “no Haruchai has spoken of these matters aloud, saving only Brinn during your approach to the One Tree. In the time of the Lords, the Bloodguard would have answered if any Lord or Giant had inquired. But none knew of the Insequent. There were no queries. Even in the approach to the One Tree, neither you nor the Unbeliever nor any Giant questioned Brinn and Cail concerning ak-Haru Kenaustin Ardenol, though you were informed that our knowledge was older than the time of the Bloodguard.

“As you have confirmed, Berek Halfhand knew of the Theomach, as did Damelon Giantfriend. Yet that tale was transformed at its birth. It was told to suit the Theomach’s purpose. This also you have confirmed. No mention was made of the Insequent in Berek Heartthew’s presence, or in his son’s. Rather the first Halfhand’s thoughts were guided along other paths.

“Nor have we deemed it needful to reveal our ancient shame. Though it remains fresh from generation to generation among us, the Insequent played no part in the stratagems of Corruption or the perils of the Land. We could not state with certainty that the Vizard’s kind had not ceased to exist. Why then should we speak of our humiliation?”

Little more than embers remained in Stave’s eye as he said to Linden. “Perhaps now you will grasp the import of Brinn’s victory over the Guardian of the One Tree. It inspired the Haruchai to believe themselves equal to the Mastery of the Land, for it redeemed us to ourselves.”

Linden grasped too much: she could not absorb it all. The acquiescence of the Humbled when the Mahdoubt had contradicted their wishes made sense to her now. But she did not know why the Mahdoubt had insisted on Stave’s tale. How was it needful, except as a farewell?

When Stave was done, the Insequent seemed to call up old reserves of fortitude or determination. Straightening her shoulders arduously, she raised her chin to the advancing night.

“Accept the Mahdoubt’s thanks,” she said to Stave, quavering. “She desires to end her days with kindness. On her behalf, you have granted my lady a precious boon.”

In an instant, the woman’s utter frailty snatched away Linden’s other concerns. “My friend,” she murmured, bending close to the Mahdoubt. “Please. Isn’t there anything I can do? I’ve been trained to heal people. And I have the Staff of Law, for God’s sake. Surely I can-?”

“My lady, no.” The old woman sounded sure in spite of her weakness. “The Mahdoubt’s knowledge does not partake of Law. It has preserved her far beyond her mortality. Assuredly. Now her end cannot be undone.

“Her last boon,” she went on before Linden could protest, “is meant as solace. It is her wish to lessen your fears and sorrows. She desires you to be assured that you may trust this spurned Master. He has named his pain. By it he may be invoked.”

Stave lifted his eyebrow, but did not respond.

Damn it! Linden tried to protest. I know I can trust him. You don’t have to do this. But her grief remained trapped in her chest. She did not have the heart to plead, Please don’t leave me.

Instead she said, “Thank you.” She was able to summon that much grace. “You’ve been my friend in more ways than I can count. I can’t honestly say that I understand you, but I know your kindness. And you’ve saved me-” For a moment, her throat closed. “If I ever manage to do something good,” by evil means or otherwise. “it will be because you believed in me.”

The Mahdoubt lowered her head. “Then Quern Ehstrel is content.”

There Linden nearly lost the clenched wrath that defended her. Trembling with imminent bereavement, she whispered, “Now please. Let me at least try to stop what’s happening to you. There are a lot of things that I can do, if you’ll let me.” Stave and Anele had refused her healing. They had that right. “I might find something-”

“Forbear, my lady.” The Insequent’s voice held a desperate severity. “Permit to the Mahdoubt the dignity of departure.”

“I know your true name,” countered Linden hoarsely. “Can’t I compel you?”

The woman nodded. “Assuredly. The Mahdoubt begs that you do not.”

With a tremulous effort, she detached one arm from Stave’s support. Tears blurred the discrepancy of her eyes, urging Linden to release her.

When Linden let go at last, the Mahdoubt turned slowly from the dying embers of the campfire and began to walk away, tottering into the night. The Humbled bowed as they watched her pass. And Stave also bowed, according her the stern respect of the Haruchai.

Linden could not match their example. Instead she hugged her Staff and bore witness.

As the Mahdoubt reached the failing edge of the light, she tried to chant. “A simple charm will master time.” But her voice broke after a few words; shattered into giggling. And with every step, she lost substance, macerated by darkness. Dissolving from sight, she left a mad mirth behind her, laughter pinched with hysteria.

But Linden closed her heart to the sound. As if in defiance, she concentrated instead on the salvific unction of the verses which had retrieved her from the Land’s past.

The silent mind does not protest

The ending of its days, or go

To grief in loss and futile pain,

But rather knows the healing gain

Of time’s eternity at rest.

The cause of sequence makes it so.

No, she thought. I do not forgive. I will not.

She knew no other way to say goodbye.

Chapter Five: Departure from Revelstone

The walk back to Lord’s Keep seemed unnaturally long to Linden. She had gone farther from herself than she realised. Neither Stave nor the escorting Humbled spoke: she did not speak herself. The night was mute except for the sound of her boots on the hard ground. Yet the Mahdoubt’s broken giggling seemed to follow every step. In retrospect, Linden felt that she had wasted her friend’s life.

Behind her, the Harrow’s campfire died at last. And the lamps and torches in Revelstone had been extinguished. The Masters may have been reluctant to proclaim the fact that the Keep’s gates remained open. Only the cold stars and the moon remained to light her way; but now she found no comfort in them.

Stave would have directed her, of course, but she did not need that kind of help. She required an altogether different guidance. First she found her way by the limned silhouette of Revelstone. Then she headed toward the notched black slit where the gates under the watchtower stood partway open.

When she entered the echoing passage beneath the tower-when she heard the massive granite thud as the gates were sealed behind her-and still the Masters offered her no illumination, she brought up flame from the end of the Staff, a small fire too gentle and dim to dazzle her. Earthpower could not teach her to accept the Mahdoubt’s passing, but it allowed her to see.

Growing brighter and more needy with every stride, she paced the tunnel to the courtyard between the tower and the main Keep. Memories of giggling harried her as she approached the gap of the inner gates and the fraught space within them.

There also the lamps and torches had been quenched. And they were not relit as the gates were sealed behind her. The darkness told her as clearly as words that the Masters had reached a decision about her.

Defiantly she drew more strength from her Staff until its yellow warmth reached the ceiling of the forehall. With fire, she seemed to render incarnate the few Masters who awaited her. Then she turned to consider Stave and the Humbled.

She could not read the passions that moved like the eidolons of their ancient past behind their unyielding eyes; but she saw clearly that their injuries were not severe. Doubtless their bruises and abrasions were painful. In places, blood continued to seep from their battered flesh. Stave’s wrists had been scraped raw by the Harrow’s grasp, and the bones were cracked. But he and the Humbled were Haruchai: their wounds would soon heal.

After a brief scrutiny, Linden ignored Galt, Clyme, and Branl. Speaking only to Stave, she tried to emulate his unswayed demeanour.

“I know that you’ll mend. I know that you don’t mind the pain.” His tale had taught her that the Haruchai were defined by their hurts. “And I know that you haven’t asked for help. But we’ll be in danger as soon as we leave here.” She was confident that Kastenessen and Roger-and perhaps Esmer as well-would attempt to prevent her from her goal. “It might be a good idea to let me heal you.” Stiffly she added, “I’ll feel better.”

She had lost the Mahdoubt. She wanted to be able to succour at least one of her friends.

Stave glanced from the Humbled to the other Masters. He may have been listening to their thoughts; their judgments. Or perhaps he was simply consulting his pride, asking himself whether he was willing to appear less intractable than his kinsmen. Cracked bones broke easily: they might hinder his ability to defend her.

“Chosen,” he remarked. “the days that I have spent as your companion have been an unremitting exercise in humility.” He spoke without inflection; but his expression hinted that he had made the Haruchai equivalent of a joke.

He extended his hands to her as if he were surrendering them.

His decision-his acceptance-touched her too deeply to be acknowledged. She could not afford her own emotions, and had no reply except fire.

With Law and Earthpower and percipience, she worked swiftly. While the men who had spurned Stave watched, rigid in their disdain, she honoured his sacrifice; his abandoned pride. Her flame restored his flesh, sealed his bones. His gift to her was also a bereavement: it diminished him in front of his people. Thousands of years of Haruchai history would denounce him. Still she received his affirmation gladly. It helped her bear the loss of the Mahdoubt.

When she was done, she turned her senses elsewhere, searching Revelstone’s ambience for some indication of how much of the night remained. She was not ready for dawn-or for whatever decision the Masters had reached. She needed a chance to think; to absorb what she had seen and heard, and to ward away her grief.

After a moment, Stave asked as though nothing profound had occurred, Will you return to your rooms, Chosen? There is yet time for rest.”

Linden shook her head. The Keep’s vast bulk muffled her discernment, but she felt that sunrise was still a few hours away. She might have enough time to prepare herself-

“If you don’t mind,” she said quietly. “I want to go to the Hall of Gifts.”

She wished to visit Grimmand Honninscrave’s cairn. Old wounds were safer company: she had learned how to endure them. And remembering them might enable her to forget the Mahdoubt’s fading, shattered laughter. She had failed the older woman. Now she sought a reminder that great deeds could sometimes be accomplished by those who lacked Thomas Covenant’s instinct for impossible victories.

Fortunately Stave did not demur. And the Masters made no objection. If they had ignored the Aumbrie since the fall of the Clave, they had probably given even less attention to the Hall of Gifts. Indeed, Linden doubted that any of them had entered the Hall for centuries, except perhaps to retrieve the arras which she had seen hanging in Roger’s and Jeremiah’s quarters. Her desire would not threaten them: they had made up their minds about her.

At Stave’s side, she left the forehall, escaping from new sorrows to old, and lighting her steps with the ripe corn and sunshine comfort of Staff-fire.

Her destination was deep in Revelstone’s gutrock: she remembered that. But she had not been there for ten years. And Revelstone’s size and complexity still surprised her. She and Stave descended long stairways and followed unpredictable passages until the air, chilled by the tremendous mass of impending granite, grew too cool for comfort; cold enough to remind her of winter and bitterness. She warmed herself with the Staff, however, and did not falter.

Like the cave of the EarthBlood, the Hall of Gifts was a place where Lord Foul’s servants had suffered defeat.

At last, Stave brought her to a set of wide doors standing open on darkness. From beyond them came an impression of broad space and old dust. As far as she knew, they had not been closed for three and a half thousand years.

Lifting her flame higher, Linden entered with her companion into the Hall.

It was a cavern wider than Revelstone’s forehall, and its ceiling rested far above her on the shoulders of massive columns. Here the Giants who had fashioned Lord’s Keep had worked with uncharacteristic crudeness, smoothing only the expanses of the floor, leaving raw stone for the columns and walls. Nevertheless the rough rock and the distant ceiling with its mighty and misshapen supports held a reverent air, clean in spite of the dust; an atmosphere as hushed and humbling as that of a cathedral.

She had never beheld this place as its makers had intended. It had been meant as a kind of sanctuary to display and cherish works of beauty or prophecy fashioned by the folk of the Land. Long ago, paintings and tapestries hung on the walls. Sculptures large and small were placed around the floor or affixed to the columns on ledges and shelves. Stoneware urns and bowls, some plain, others elaborately decorated, were interspersed with works of delicate wooden filigree. And a large mosaic entranced the floor near the centre of the space. In colours of viridian and anguish, glossy stones depicted High Lord Kevin’s despair at the Ritual of Desecration.

Until the time of the Clave, the Hall of Gifts had been an expression of hope for the future of the Land. That was the mosaic’s import: Revelstone had survived the Ritual with its promise intact.

For Linden, however, the cavern was a place of sacrifice and death.

When she had followed Covenant here to challenge Gibbon Raver, she had been full of battle and terror. Instead of looking around, she had watched the Giant Grimmand Honninscrave and the Sandgorgon Nom defeat Gibbon. Honninscrave’s death had enabled Nom to destroy samadhi Sheol. For the first time since their birth in a distant age, one of the three Ravers had been effectively slain, rent; removed from Lord Foul’s service. Yet samadhi had not entirely perished. Rather Nom had consumed the fragments of the Raver, achieving a manner of thought and speech which the Sandgorgons had never before possessed.

In gratitude, it seemed, Nom had raised a cairn over Honninscrave’s corpse, using the rubble of battle to honour the Master of Starfare’s Gem.

Linden had come here now to remember her loves.

The mound of broken stone which dominated the centre of the cavern was Honninscrave’s threnody. It betokened more than his own sacrifice: it expressed his brother’s death as well. And it implied other Giants, other friends. The First of the Search. Her husband, Pitchwife. Ready laughter. Open hearts. Life catenulated to life.

Link by link, Nom’s homage to Honninscrave brought Linden to Sunder and Hollian, whom she had loved dearly-and whom she did not intend to heed.

They beg of you that you do not seek them out. Doom awaits you in the company of the Dead. But where could she turn for insight or understanding, if not to the people who had enabled her to become who she was?

Everything came back to Thomas Covenant.

As she began to move slowly around the cairn, studying old losses and valour by the light of Law, brave souls accompanied her, silent as reverie, and generous as they had been in life. And Stave, too, walked with her. If he wondered at her purpose here-at the strangeness of her response to the Mahdoubt’s fate-he kept his thoughts to himself.

He could not know what she sought among the legacies of those who had died.

When she had completed two circuits of the mound and begun a third, she murmured, musing, “You and the Masters talked about the Mahdoubt. “She serves Revelstone”, you told me. “Naught else is certain of her”. And Galt had said, She is a servant of Revelstone. The name is her own. More than that we do not know. “Looking back, it’s hard to imagine that none of you even guessed who she was.”

Her mind was full of slippage and indirect connections. She was hardly aware that she had spoken aloud until Stave stiffened slightly at her side. “Chosen? I do not comprehend.” Subtle undercurrents perplexed his tone. “Are you troubled that you were not forewarned?”

“Oh, that.” Linden’s attention was elsewhere. “No. The Mahdoubt could have warned me herself. You all had your reasons for what you did.”

Honninscrave had died in an agony of violation far worse than mere physical pain. Like him, she had once been possessed by a Raver: she knew that horror. But the Giant had gone further. Much further. He had held Sheol; had contained the Raver while Nom killed him. In its own way, Honninscrave’s end daunted her as profoundly as Covenant’s surrender to Lord Foul.

She would not hesitate to trade her life for Jeremiah’s. Of course. He was her son: she had adopted him freely. But for that very reason, her willingness to die for him seemed trivial compared to Honninscrave’s self-expenditure, and to Covenant’s.

“What then is your query?” asked Stave.

She groped for a reply as if she were searching through the rubble of the cairn. “Everything seems to depend on me, but I’m fighting blind. I don’t know enough. There are too many secrets.” Too many conflicted intentions. Too much malice. “Your people don’t trust me. I’m trying to guess how deep their uncertainty runs.”

How badly did it paralyse the Masters? How vehemently would they react against it?

Stave studied her for a long moment. “I have no answer,” he said finally. Your words suggest an inquiry, but your manner does not. If you wish it, I will speak of the Masters. Yet it appears that your desire lies elsewhere. What is it that you seek in this place?”

Linden heard him. She meant to answer. But her thoughts slipped again, seeking links and meaning which she could not have named. Distracted, she veered away toward the pillars near one end of the Hall, where the Gifts had not suffered from Gibbon Raver’s struggles. Bearing her light with her, she walked between the columns until an odd statue caught her eye. It stood alone, thickly layered with dust, on an open stretch of the floor.

At first glance, it appeared to be a random assortment of rough rocks balanced on top of each other to form a distorted shape nearly as tall as she was. Because it was riddled with gaps, it resembled the framework for a sculpture more than a finished piece. Puzzled, she looked at it from all sides, but could not make sense of it. But then she took several steps backward, and saw that the stones outlined a large head. After a moment, she realised that the statue was the bust of a Giant.

The stones had been cunningly set so that the gaps between them suggested an expression. There was the mouth in a wide grin: there, the heavy bulge of the nose. And there, the holes of the eyes seemed to have crinkles of laughter at their corners.

Linden could almost have believed that the rocks had been selected and placed to convey an impression of Pitchwife’s visage. But clearly the bust had been fashioned long before Pitchwife’s sojourn in the Land.

“Who do you suppose this is?” she asked.

Stave appeared to consider his memories. The Haruchai do not recall the Stonedownor who crafted this countenance, or the name of the Giant here revealed, or indeed the name given to this Gift. The craft itself, however, is suru-pa-maerl. In the ages of the Lords, artisans among the Stonedowns sought long and patiently to discover unwrought stones which might be combined and balanced to form such depictions.”

“When you stand back,” Linden murmured. “it’s pretty impressive.” If Jeremiah had been free, he might have constructed works like this one. Distantly she added. “I’m trying to put the pieces together myself. There’s one thing that I’m sure of now.

“I know why Roger didn’t want me to go to Andelain. Or Esmer either, for that matter.” After she had spoken of her intentions, Cail’s son had left the cave of the Waynhim in apparent vexation or distress. “It’s not just that they don’t want me to meet the Dead. They don’t want me to find the krill. They’re afraid of what I might be able to do with it.”

She had seen how its gem answered to the presence of white gold. According to Thomas Covenant, High Lord Loric had formed the krill so that it would be strong enough to bear any might.

Stave considered her flatly. “Then what is it that you seek to comprehend? You have not yet named your true query.”

Linden turned from the suru-pa-maerl Giant as if she were shying away. Aimlessly she carried the flame of her Staff among the columns, describing in fire slippages and connections which she did not want to put into words. She should have obtained an answer from the Mahdoubt-and had missed her only opportunity.

After a few steps, she asked, still indirectly, “How many times was Covenant summoned to the Land? I mean, before he and I came here together?”

“Four of which the Bloodguard had knowledge,” answered Stave.

“Who summoned him?”

Her companion had apparently accepted her fragmented state. He replied without hesitation, “The first summoning was performed by the Cavewight Drool Rockworm at Corruption’s bidding. The second, by High Lord Elena. The third, by High Lord Mhoram. In each such call, the necessary power was drawn from the Staff of Law. But the fourth was accomplished by the Giant Saltheart Foamfollower and the Stonedownor Triock, enabled only by their own desperation, and by a rod of lomillialor, of High Wood, gifted to Triock by High Lord Mhoram.”

Momentarily distracted, Linden asked, “Lomillialor”?” Stave had mentioned that name once before.

He shrugged. “These are matters of lore, beyond the devoir of the Haruchai. I know only that lomillialor was to the wood-lore of the lillianrill as orcrest was to the stone-lore of the rhadhamaerl. With it, Hirebrands and Lords invoked the test of truth, spoke across great distances, and wrought other acts of theurgy.”

She nodded as though she understood. Wandering, she recovered the thread of what she had been saying.

“But when Covenant and I came here together, we were summoned by Lord Foul. Back then, I didn’t wonder about that. But now I think he made a mistake. It may have been his biggest mistake.” Like Covenant before her, Linden had been freed when her summoner was defeated. “He tied our lives to his.

“That’s why he used Joan this time. Roger’s mother.”

Roger had made that possible. And he had kidnapped Jeremiah. Directly or indirectly, he had delivered Jeremiah to Lord Foul-and to the croyel.

“Was it not Corruption who summoned the ur-Lord’s former wife?” Stave may have been trying to help Linden think.

“Oh, sure.” She shook her head to dismiss the implications. “But she was already lost. What I’m trying to understand is ‘the necessity of freedom.’ I don’t know what that means.”

“Chosen?”

She turned at a column, headed in a different direction. But she clung to her musing. It protected her from a deeper fear.

“Before I came here the first time,” she said. “Lord Foul went after Covenant by attacking Joan. He pushed Covenant to sacrifice himself by threatening her. And Covenant did it. He traded his life for hers.

“The part that I don’t understand-” Linden searched for words. What she sought was only related by inference to what she asked. “When he saved her, did he give up his freedom? Was that why he could only defeat Lord Foul by surrendering? Because in effect he had already surrendered? Did saving Joan cost him his ability to fight?”

Would Linden doom the Land if she sold herself for Jeremiah?

Stave appeared to study the question. “This also is a matter of lore, beyond my ken. Yet I deem that it is not so. The Unbeliever’s surrender was his own, coerced by love and his own nature, not by Corruption’s might. Sacrificing himself, he did not sacrifice his freedom. Rather his submission was an expression of strength freely wielded. Had he been fettered by his surrender in your world, Corruption’s many efforts to mislead and compel him would have been needless.”

Honninscrave also had spent himself to win a precious victory.

Linden sighed as if she were baffled, although she was not. The Mahdoubt’s giggling had receded into the background of her thoughts, but she had not forgotten what she had lost. She understood the importance of choice.

Veering again, she found her attention fixed on a statuette poised on a ledge in one of the columns. It caught her notice because it represented a horse, clearly a Ranyhyn-and because it reared like the beasts ramping across Jeremiah’s pyjamas. It was perhaps as tall as her arm, and charged with an air of majesty, mane and tail flowing, muscles bunched. When she blew away its coat of dust, she saw that it was fashioned of bone. Over the millennia, it had aged to the hue of ivory.

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 counselled 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 Mahdoubt. 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 Mahdoubt 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 defence as much as a prison, a barricade against hurt. That it walled him off from her was almost incidental. And the Mahdoubt 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 defence-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 Mahdoubt, 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 Mahdoubt’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 Mahdoubt 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-” 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. I wish I could spare you. But there was no safety anywhere: not now. We should talk about orcrest.”

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 savour. 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 imperilled its wielder, as Linden had learned repeatedly. The young Cord was afraid for him.

Sighing to herself, Linden walked toward her confrontation with the Masters. Hell, I wish any of us could spare you. She could afford to spare none of her companions. Not now: not after everything that she had learned and endured under Melenkurion Skyweir. And the Mahdoubt’s fate had demonstrated that Linden did not suffice to make their choices for them.

Her friends would live longer if they did not rely on her to protect them.

Eventually they reached the forehall, followed by Galt; and still Linden did not know how she would respond to the decision of the Masters. But when she found Handir waiting for her among a score of other Masters, including Clyme and Branl, with the gates of Revelstone sealed at his back, she knew that she had gauged their resolution accurately.

The Masters knew that she meant to leave Revelstone. They knew why. Stave had told them at her request. And they knew that she had heard the tale of their ancient encounter with the Insequent.

The closing of the gates was their answer.

For reasons of their own, they had provided lamps and torches aplenty. The forehall was bright with their rejection. In spite of their characteristic dispassion, the Voice of the Masters and Stave’s other kinsmen conveyed the impression that they were poised for battle.

Linden did not hesitate. Striding directly to Handir, she stopped in front of him; inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Handir. Please open the gates. My friends and I need to go.”

She could imagine no circumstances under which the Land might be saved by people who remained in Revelstone. And the croyel would not bring Jeremiah to her again. She could only rescue her son by going in search of him.

Handir replied to her bow with a nod. Formally he announced, “Linden Avery, the Masters will not permit your departure.”

Behind Linden, the Manethrall muttered sour objurgations. Protests thronged in Liand. But they did not intrude between her and the Voice of the Masters.

Although she had known what to expect, Linden had to stifle a flare of anger. “Would you mind telling me why?”

She hugged the Staff against her chest to steady herself on its refined and blackened strength-and to show Handir that she did not mean to challenge him with Law and Earthpower.

The inflexibility of his response seemed to give his words the force of a decree. We recognise that you are Linden Avery, Chosen and Sun-Sage, who accompanied ur-Lord Thomas Covenant to the redemption of the Land. Nonetheless we have not been swayed.

“At your word, we have not imprisoned the old man. Yet we are not persuaded that he may safely roam the Land. For reasons which Stave has doubtless described, we have not opposed the Stonedownor’s possession of orcrest. But our acquiescence does not suggest that we see no hazard in his ignorance. We deem that he, also, may not safely roam the Land.”

The Voice of the Masters paused momentarily. Then he conceded. “These are small matters, however. In your name, we might set them aside. But we have greater concerns.”

Tension mounted among Linden’s companions. Anele shook his head anxiously from side to side while the Ramen tried to contain their indignation. With one hand, Liand gripped the pouch containing his piece of Sunstone. Only Stave appeared untouched by the attitude of the Masters.

Doubtless he knew precisely how and why they had reached their decision.

Holding her breath, Linden waited for Handir to continue.

“Linden Avery,” he pronounced. “you have grown in power, and may therefore wreak more harm. We must reason more stringently concerning your deeds and purposes.

“It appears that we erred gravely in granting credence to the semblance of the ur-Lord. His glamour defied our discernment. For that reason, however, we must consider that you also may be masked in glamour. Indeed, we must consider that perhaps there has been no other glamour than yours. Thus it becomes conceivable that you removed the ur-Lord and his companion in order to prevent the salvation of the Land, and that you now seek darker hurts.”

Grimly Linden contained herself: she felt sure that Handir was not done. But Mahrtiir did not emulate her restraint.

“Then you are indeed fools,” he snapped. “From the first, the distinction between the Ringthane and the seeming Unbeliever has been vivid to the Ramen. Her spirit is open to both love and injury. In all things, his purposes were concealed.

“And if our judgment may be questioned, that of the Ranyhyn may not. She has partaken of the horserite.” The Manethrall’s voice throbbed with anger. “The Ranyhyn have bowed their heads to her-aye, and to Stave as well. If you assert that she is false, you have forgotten the faith of the Bloodguard, and are unworthy to name yourselves their descendants.”

Linden saw Masters on both sides of Handir clench their fists. Both Branl and Clyme stepped forward; and Galt left the rear of Linden’s small group to stand with the other Humbled.

“Protect,” urged Anele, whispering as if he feared to speak more loudly. “Protect Anele. He is the Land’s hope. They will doom him.”

If Handir took umbrage, however, he did not show it. His countenance revealed nothing as he gazed past Linden at Mahrtiir.

“I do not say, Manethrall, that Linden Avery is false,” he answered flatly. “I say only that we must consider it.”

Then he faced her again. “Yet the state in which you have returned to us is beyond question. You now resemble the transformed Staff of Law. Darkness fills your heart. Indeed, you are as tinder, awaiting only a spark to achieve destruction. According to your tale, this alteration has been wrought by the Blood of the Earth and your son’s plight. Mayhap you have spoken truly. Yet the threat remains, regardless of its cause.

More than any of your companions, you may not safely roam the Land. You have become an avatar of woe and ire, and all of your deeds will conduce to evil.”

Gritting her teeth, Linden swallowed an impulse to say, If any of that is true, you might want to ask yourself why I’m not threatening you. When she had first entered Revelstone, Handir had assured her that the Masters could wrest her powers from her. She had believed him then: now she was not convinced. But she did not mean to respond with defiance. She simply wanted Handir to understand that she was not afraid. She had become a kind of Haruchai herself: like them, she could not be swayed.

Stiffly she asked. “Is there more?”

“There is,” he acknowledged. “A man who has shown himself greater than the Demondim is now among us. He is of the Insequent, as you have found to your cost. Yet in the spanning memory of the Haruchai, no Insequent has intruded upon the Land. In this, they resemble the Elohim. Heretofore both Elohim and Insequent have held themselves apart, except at the birth of Berek Halfhand’s High Lordship, and during the slow decline of the One Forest.

“Linden Avery, these are bleak auguries. And we have seen that the Harrow’s prowess exceeds you. If your own desires do not breed ruin, his craving for white gold and the Staff of Law will surely do so. To permit your departure will be to invoke calamity.”

There the Voice of the Masters stopped. He had said enough: Linden did not need to hear more in order to grasp the uncertainty of Stave’s kindred.

She felt surprise and confusion among Liand and the Ramen. They had not yet been told of her meeting with the Harrow, or of Stave’s tale, or of the Mahdoubt’s passing. Nevertheless Handir compelled her full attention. Because she needed some outlet for her bitterness, she asked, “I don’t suppose this has anything to do with the fact that Stave defied you by telling me about the Vizard and the Theomach?”

Handir regarded her without expression. “Stave has been adjudged. No further repudiation is seemly.”

After a moment, Linden nodded. In some ways, the worst part of Stave’s punishment was that the Masters no longer considered his actions to be of any consequence.

She was tempted to turn her back on them and their support. Let them continue to serve Lord Foul, in effect if not in intent, by clinging to their doubts in isolation. She would find some other way to leave the Keep. For the Land’s sake, however, more than for Jeremiah’s, she tried one last argument. She did not doubt that the Masters would be needed-

“All right,” she said harshly. “I think I understand why you don’t trust me. But there’s one thing that you haven’t explained.

“You weren’t able to beat the Demondim. If I hadn’t closed their caesure, you wouldn’t have been able to hold Revelstone. So what changed while I was away? What makes you think that now you can handle Esmer and Kastenessen and the skurj and Kevin’s Dirt and Falls and Roger Covenant and the Insequent, never mind Ravers and the Elohim and Joan’s ring and Corruption himself?

“Hasn’t it occurred to you yet that you need me? That you need all of us, and any other allies you can find?”

The Voice of the Masters shook his head. His countenance revealed nothing. Nonetheless some subtle shift in the quality of his intransigence gave his reply a faint patina of sadness.

“Still you do not comprehend our Mastery. We do not seek to prove ourselves equal to every peril which besets the Land. We seek only to forestall Desecration. Such evils may be performed only by those who wield power and love the Land and know despair.

“The true Thomas Covenant, ur-Lord and Unbeliever, charged us to preserve Revelstone. We will willingly spend our lives in the attempt. But our larger purpose does not require us to redeem the Land. It requires us to ensure that a new Landwaster does not commit a second Ritual of Desecration.”

In spite of her determination, Linden sagged. He was right: she had misapprehended the Masters. She had fixed her attention on the effects of what they had done; on their arrogance-As a result, she had missed the real point of Stave’s patient explanations. All of her attempts to persuade Handir and his kinsmen had been predicated on a misconception, an oblique error. She had faulted the application and results of their Mastery instead of addressing their fundamental concerns; and so her efforts to move them had failed.

Now it was too late. She could not promise Handir that his concerns were groundless; that she would never become another Landwaster. Too many people had seen darkness in her: she had seen it herself. Too many people feared that her intentions would lead to ruin rather than hope.

You have it within you to perform horrors.

Within her she holds the devastation of the Earth-

Doom awaits you in the company of the Dead.

All right, she tried to tell herself. She had failed here. She needed an entirely different approach. But for a few moments, she was caught and held by her regret for what her inadequacies had cost her. Standing before Handir, she bowed her head like an admission of defeat.

Her heart was stone: she was not beaten. But she needed a little time to recover her concentration.

While she tried to think of an alternative, Stave stepped forward unexpectedly. “It boots nothing to bandy words,” he said to Handir. “I propose a test of truth.”

A slight lift of Handir’s chin betrayed that Stave had surprised him.

While Liand fumbled in consternation at his pouch, Stave explained. “I do not suggest the use of orcrest. A challenge by Earthpower will not suffice among Haruchai. Rather I offer a test of truth by combat.”

“Stave, no,” Linden protested. She had not forgotten the blows which he had already received from his kinsmen.

“I have no wish to cause harm,” he said, holding Handir’s gaze. “And it is certain that the Chosen does not, for she comprehends that the Land requires the Haruchai. Therefore I will confront any three of the Masters. Let each in turn assail me. If I drive each from his feet and do not fall, you will permit the Chosen to depart. If I am thrown and any of the three remains standing, she will withdraw to the plateau and seek her son’s salvation by some other means.”

Before the Voice of the Masters could speak, Galt replied with unwonted eagerness, “The Humbled accept this contest.” Apparently he, Clyme, and Branl had seen a personal affront in Stave’s actions or attitude.

“Damn it, Stave,” Linden muttered; but she knew of no argument that he would heed. His offer did not commit her to anything which would block her search for another egress. And after all that he had done for her, she could not say aloud that she believed he would fall.

Liand began to object hotly; but Mahrtiir’s voice rode over his. Clarion as a trumpet, the Manethrall announced. “I also propose a test of truth.”

Linden wheeled toward him as he proclaimed, “Permit the Ringthane to enter the courtyard beyond this dark stone. Enclosed by the outer gates, she will summon the Ranyhyn. Their approach will be witnessed by those Masters who watch from the tower.

“Heretofore the Ranyhyn that have answered her need are seven, Hynyn, Hyn, Narunal, Hrama, Rhohm, Whrany, and Naharahn. If she is answered now by more than those seven, you will acknowledge that the great horses approve both her desires and your caution. They have determined that she must depart-and that some among you must accompany her. If she is answered by no more than seven, you will recognise that the Ranyhyn do not share your fear of Desecration. You will honour their wisdom. And if she is not answered, we will accept your refusal.”

Shaken, Linden strove to compose herself. Like Stave’s, Mahrtiir’s challenge did not undermine her. The Ranyhyn would answer: she was sure of that. Still the Manethrall’s audacity staggered her. Surely in their entire history no Ramen had ever suggested making commitments on behalf of the great horses?

Yet Stave’s test was no less bold. He had been healed: the Humbled had not. But he had lost an eye. He was subtly crippled by the truncation of his sight.

Nevertheless Linden could not refuse either Stave’s aid or Mahrtiir’s. She needed to leave Revelstone-and had no clear idea how to do so.

Liand brimmed with protests; but Pahni drew him aside, whispering urgently. She appeared to be asking him to accept the Manethrall’s authority.

When Handir responded, Linden faced him again.

To Stave, the Voice of the Masters said. “It is Linden Avery who threatens Desecration. You do not. How will the success or failure of your strength measure the Land’s peril?’

“It will not,” Stave replied stolidly. “It will measure your worthiness to adjudge her as you have adjudged me.”

Linden groaned to herself. If Stave failed, he would validate the repudiation of his people.

“The Humbled have spoken,” Galt put in sharply. “We will accept the contest.”

“But I have not spoken,” Handir returned with a tinge of asperity. “By right of years and attainment, I am the Voice of the Masters. I must be heeded.”

“As the Humbled also must be heeded,” Galt reminded him.

For a long moment, the Humbled and Handir regarded each other. Then all four of them nodded; and the Voice of the Masters shifted his attention to Mahrtiir.

“Manethrall, we have heard you. Though your ire is unseemly, you are a Manethrall of the Ramen, and we hear you with respect. But we do not perceive how the will of the Ranyhyn pertains to the nature of our service.”

Keen as a raptor, Mahrtiir answered. “The Ranyhyn are inherent to the Land as the Haruchai and even the Ramen are not. The great horses partake of the Land’s essence and grandeur, for they are expressions of Earthpower, wholly and purely themselves, unflawed by either lore or aggrandisement. They stand high among the wonders which have caused you to choose the nature of your service. Also their foresight is both well known and inestimable.

“Inform me, then, how any Master may disdain the choices of the Ranyhyn and yet claim that he serves the Land.”

Although several of the other Masters emanated indignation, Handir did not appear offended. Instead he nodded as if to acknowledge that the Manethrall had made a valid point. Linden gnawed her lip while Handir remained silent, presumably communing with the Haruchai in the forehall.

For no apparent reason, Anele stated. “Anele does not fear horses. He does not fear the dark ones. He fears them.”

Then the Voice of the Masters spoke. “Linden Avery,” he said as if words uttered aloud had become awkward for him, “you have healed Stave. The Humbled remain hampered by injury.”

He may have been asking her to disavow Stave’s test of truth.

If so, he had misjudged her. Stave had sacrificed his bond with his own sons for her sake. In spite of her apprehension, she replied. “And he only has one eye. I call that even.”

In any case, the hurts of the Humbled were superficial. And Stave had blows to repay-

“Linden,” breathed Liand, warning her. You have it within you-

For a few heartbeats, Handir resumed his silence. Then he shifted his stance to address everyone around him.

“It is decided,” he said rigidly. “Both tests have merit. Neither suffices.

“However, we do not desire Linden Avery’s enmity. Nor do we intend any slight to the Ramen, or to the majesty of the Ranyhyn. And the Humbled must be heeded. Therefore both tests will be essayed in turn. If Stave withstands each of the Humbled, Linden Avery will then summon the Ranyhyn, as the Manethrall has urged. If Stave falls, no summons will be countenanced.”

After a brief pause, he continued, “It is in my heart, however, that such trials resolve naught.” Again his manner or his tone seemed to imply a veiled sorrow. “Conceding them, we accept only the hazard of greater uncertainty, for the strictures of our service will not be set aside. If Linden Avery’s release is won, we will be compelled to consider whether we have damned the Land. Yet if Stave or the Ranyhyn fail her, she will not thereby be persuaded to accept our Mastery. Rather the darkness within her will deepen. And Desecration may be wrought as readily in Revelstone as in Kiril Threndor. Thus will we again be compelled to consider whether we have damned the Land.

“I am Handir, by right of years and attainment the Voice of the Masters. I have spoken. But my words will bear no sweet fruit. Rather they will ripen to gall and rue.”

When he was finished, he and the other Masters immediately withdrew, leaving only Galt, Clyme, and Branl between Linden’s company and the clenched gates. Clearly Handir intended the tests to begin at once.

Hugging the Staff harder, Linden tried to breathe as if she were calm. She was not sure that she could bear to see Stave beaten again.

While Stave advanced to confront the Humbled, Mahrtiir and Liand stood with Linden. “Gall and rue are the inescapable outcome of your Mastery,” the Manethrall said to Handir. “Do not complain of them here, where those who seek to preserve the Land wish only to do so without opposition.”

Then he whispered privately to Linden. “I proposed a test of the Ranyhyn hoping to spare Stave. He has been harmed in both body and spirit, and I feared for him. It was not my intent to hamper you, Ringthane.”

“I know,” she murmured tensely. “I’m scared, too. If they hurt him again, I don’t know how I’m going to forgive myself. But I just don’t have any better ideas.”

“Ah, Stave,” sighed Liand. “Now I am truly shamed that I have thought and spoken ill of you.”

As one, Stave and the Humbled bowed to each other with ritual formality. Then Branl and Clyme retreated to clear a space for Galt and Stave.

Involuntarily Linden remembered another battle in this place. When Nom had broken the inner gates, she and Covenant had entered the forehall with Sunder and Hollian, a few Giants, and a small company of Haruchai. Here they had fought desperately against the Clave, Coursers, and the na-Mhoram’s Grim. Old frenzy, terror, and bloodshed seemed to harry her now, as bleak as Handir’s omens.

So suddenly that she nearly gasped, Galt struck. Blood still crusted his hands and feet. Nonetheless he launched a blow swift and hard enough to crush the blinded side of Stave’s face.

Stave had said that he did not wish to cause harm. Plainly Galt’s intentions were more extreme. He seemed to want to eradicate Stave from his sight.

The lamps and torches provided light in abundance. Yet Linden could not distinguish the vicious blur of Galt’s punch from the details of Stave’s response. She saw only that Stave remained poised in front of Galt’s fist-and then he stood behind the Humbled with his hands on Galt’s shoulders. With delicate precision, he kicked away one of Galt’s feet and jerked the Humbled backward.

Galt fell: he could not prevent it. But as he fell, he twisted in the air; caught hold of Stave’s tunic; tried to wrench Stave down with him.

Stave countered by letting himself drop so that his knees landed heavily on Galt’s ribs. With his arms braced against Galt’s grasp, Stave kept his balance so that no part of him except his feet touched the floor.

A wince of shock or chagrin flashed over Galt’s features and vanished. For an instant, Linden feared that the Humbled would refuse to cede defeat; that he would attempt to roll Stave into a fall. Instead, however, Galt released Stave and relaxed. His Haruchai rectitude did not permit him to violate the conditions of the test.

Nodding, Stave rose smoothly to his feet and turned toward Branl and Clyme.

Handir and the observing Masters concealed whatever they may have felt. Linden found that Liand had placed his hand on her shoulder. He gripped her tightly to contain his suspense.

Clyme was the next to approach Stave. While they gazed at each other, motionless, the concentration-or perhaps the firelight-in the Humbled’s eyes conveyed the impression that he was probing Stave’s defences.

Linden knew that she would receive no forewarning; that even her health-sense could not anticipate the instant when either of the Haruchai would move. That in itself was a kind of presage. Nevertheless she was not ready. She flinched instinctively as Clyme attacked.

Smooth as oil, and swift as light, the Humbled lashed a kick at Stave’s abdomen.

Once again, Stave did not appear to react until he had already done so. Stepping aside, he swung an arm like a bar of iron across Clyme’s chest. Stave’s arm stopped Clyme’s momentum while Clyme’s kick carried him forward. Opposing forces swept the Humbled’s supporting leg out from under him.

Like Galt, Clyme clutched at Stave as he fell. Clasping Stave’s arm, the Humbled attempted to yank Stave from his feet. But Stave responded by crouching quickly, using Clyme’s hold to drive the Humbled downward.

Clyme landed hard. His shoulder blades could have been cracked. Certainly the breath should have been knocked from his lungs. But he was Haruchai: he did not react to the impact. Instead he let go of Stave’s arm, acknowledging defeat.

Again Stave stood upright. While Clyme rose and walked away to join his kinsmen, Stave waited for the last of the Humbled.

“My God,” Linden breathed to Liand and Mahrtiir. “They can’t hear his thoughts, but he still hears theirs. He knows exactly what they’re going to do.”

Even if he had lost both eyes, he might have been able to defend himself against his own people. Over the millennia, the Haruchai had become dependent on their mental communion. Linked to each other, they could not adjust their tactics to accommodate his unfamiliar blend of isolation and awareness.

But Branl appeared to understand the reasons for Stave’s success. The pace of his approach-or perhaps merely its tone-implied caution. And Handir studied the Humbled in a way that seemed to suggest inward counsel. All of the Masters may have been reminding Branl to fight as though Stave were not Haruchai.

Instead of striking, Branl circled Stave slowly. He may have wanted Stave to make the first move; to commit himself.

Yet even then Stave had the advantage. He had heard Handir’s advice-and Branl’s response. He understood Branl’s preparations. When Stave jabbed suddenly at Branl’s head, the blow was a feint.

The Humbled replied with a block which flowed seamlessly into a wheeling kick powerful enough to crumple Stave. But Stave had already stepped inside the kick and slapped down the block. While Branl snatched back his leg, Stave clipped him across the forehead with one elbow.

To Linden’s slower perceptions, the touch of Stave’s elbow looked harmless: a glancing blow, nothing more. The collision of bone with bone sounded too soft to have any force. Yet the Humbled sprawled backward.

In the fraction of a heartbeat remaining to him, Branl endeavoured to execute a flip which would land him on his feet. But he did not have enough time. His knees and then his hands hit the floor.

When he stood again, he gave Stave a small bow and withdrew to join the rest of the Masters.

For a moment or two, a silence as gravid as an aftershock held the forehall. Linden imagined that she could hear the preconceptions of Stave’s kinsmen crumbling. Then Liand crowed. “Stave!” and pumped jubilation into the air with both fists. “Heaven and Earth, Stave!”

Grinning fiercely, Mahrtiir growled, “Well done, Haruchai. Well done in all sooth. Here is a tale to gladden the hearts of the Ramen. At last blows have been struck which may humble the sleepless ones. And we have witnessed it, a Manethrall and his Cords. No longer may these Masters feign that their worth exceeds yours.”

Linden felt suddenly weak; drained by relief. She wanted to sit down. Stave had already suffered too many hurts in her name. Now he was safe-at least for the moment. But she clung to her resolve and hid her frailty. Holding herself upright, she gave thanks with her eyes.

Impassively Stave turned to Mahrtiir. “Manethrall, it was not done to demonstrate my worth. In their place, I would conduct myself as the Masters do. Rather it was done in the Chosen’s service-and to teach my people that they also may exceed themselves, if they elect to make the attempt.”

Mahrtiir replied with a deep Ramen bow as if he were accepting a reprimand; but his whetted grin remained.

“Worth is not at issue,” Handir said sternly. “One fall does not define merit or prowess. Yet we honour Stave’s wish to cause no harm, as we must. And we acknowledge the outcome of his trial.

“Behold.”

He nodded toward the gates; and as he did so, the massive stone began to open, turning soundlessly on its Giantish pivots or hinges. The savour of the air, chilled to crispness, and redolent with springtime, told Linden that the sun was rising. Its light was blocked by the bulk of the watchtower; but a grey illumination washed inward, softening the flames of the lamps and torches.

“Linden Avery,” the Voice of the Masters announced, “you may summon the Ranyhyn.”

His words seemed to dismiss some of the trepidation from the forehall.

She resisted an impulse to head immediately for the walled courtyard. The taste of the air, and the prospect of leaving Revelstone, restored her eagerness. She was confident now. She had shared a horserite with Hyn and Hynyn: she knew that they would answer.

But she had other concerns-

First she faced Handir and bowed, although he had never bowed to her. “Even when I believe that you’re wrong,” she said quietly, “I don’t question your integrity. If I’ve ever said anything to make you think otherwise, I regret it. I hope that someday we’ll be allies again,” as they had been in the time of the Sunbane. “But for now, I just hope that you’ll try to withhold judgment.”

She did not expect a reply, and Handir did not proffer one. She felt a tinge of sadness like an echo of his as she gestured for her friends to gather around her.

“The Ranyhyn won’t fail us,” she told them. “You all know that. And Handir is going to let us leave.” She had sensed it in his hidden sorrow. “He doesn’t like the fact that Roger and the croyel tricked him. None of the Masters do. And were a constant reminder that they can make mistakes. Once were gone, they can debate their definition of service in peace.”

If any peace remained to the Land-

Stave nodded his confirmation.

“But when we go,” Linden continued. “we have to remember that Anele is vulnerable when he stands on anything except stone.” Beyond the watchtower lay bare dirt. “Kastenessen can reach him. Lord Foul can reach him. Even Esmer can interfere with him. And there’s Covenant,” the real one. “who seems to suffer in the process as much as Anele does.

“Whenever he isn’t riding, we have to be sure that he’s on stone. If we can’t find stone, maybe we can convince him to climb a tree. And if there aren’t any trees, a bedroll might be enough to protect him.

“Or-” She held Liand’s gaze steadily. “If we don’t have any other options, you’ll have to let him hold your orcrest. I know that he hates being sane. But anything is better than allowing Kastenessen or Lord Foul to hurt him again.”

Certainly the mad Elohim or the Despiser would be able to locate Linden if they were allowed to enter Anele. They would know where to send their forces.

“As you say, Ringthane,” Mahrtiir promised. “The Ramen will not neglect the old man’s straits.”

Liand ducked his head. When he looked at Linden again, she saw shadows and pain in his eyes. Carefully he said, “I cannot unremember the fire of violence and rage which has twice claimed Anele. His anguish as he holds the orcrest is fearsome. Yet in my sight it is a lesser torment than that which is inflicted upon him by possession. I will do what must be done to ward him.”

Pahni gripped the Stonedownor’s hand as he spoke; and Stave nodded again.

“Good.” At last, Linden unfolded her arms from the Staff. Taking it in her right hand, she stamped one heel on the stone. With her left, she reminded herself that Covenant’s ring still hung under her shirt; that one of her pockets held Jeremiah’s twisted toy. Then she turned toward the courtyard. “In that case, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. Let’s do this.”

Flanked by her companions, she strode through the inner gates to the open air between the watchtower and the main Keep. Behind her walked Handir and his phalanx of Masters as if they had become spectators at an event which no longer held their interest.

In the centre of the courtyard, she stopped. Here, she told herself. Now. But she had never summoned the Ranyhyn: Stave had done so for her. And she did not know how to whistle as he did, shrilly, and as poignant as keening.

In a low voice, she asked Stave. “Would you mind?”

He complied at once. Raising his fingers to his mouth, he gave a sharp whistle like a flung shaft of sound. It resounded from the smooth granite of Revelstone, echoing off the Keep’s buttresses, repeating itself darkly from the passage under the watchtower; and Linden’s heart lifted with it. He had surpassed himself for her sake. Both Liand and Mahrtiir had given more than she could have asked of them. Even poor Anele-The Ranyhyn would do no less.

Then Stave whistled again, and the echoes multiplied until they beat like wings around the courtyard. When he whistled a third time, Linden seemed to hear the pinions of an imminent and ominous bird: a great raven, perhaps, just out of sight beyond the tower, and poised for augury.

Slowly the echoes died away, emptying the sky. The heavy stone of the outer gates hampered her percipience. But she was not afraid. At that moment, she feared nothing except that her foes might prevent her from reaching Andelain.

Instead of holding her breath or fretting, she counted her heartbeats until she heard the Voice of the Masters say her name. Then she met his flat gaze like a woman who had already departed, leaving her doubts and even her capacity for uncertainty with him.

“It is as the Manethrall proposed,” Handir announced. “This test of truth also has been satisfied. The Ranyhyn have answered. They await your will beyond the gates.”

For an instant, he appeared to hesitate. Then he admitted. “Their number is ten.”

Ten. Oh, God, ten. Seven for Linden and her friends: three for the Masters.

“Thus,” Handir continued, “the great horses acknowledge both your intent and your capacity for desecration.”

In effect, he had given his permission.

Linden meant to offer him a parting bow. In her relief, she might have thanked him. The Masters were Haruchai and deserved as much. But she could not stop herself: she was already running toward the tunnel under the watchtower as if the sheer force of her yearning would compel the gates at the end of the lightless passage to set her free.

Chapter Six: Sons

In sunrise, the Ramen and the Haruchai- the Humbled and their gathered kinsmen as well as Stave-gave homage to the Ranyhyn while Linden greeted Hyn gladly. Although she was impatient to be on her way, she did not chafe at the delay as Manethrall Mahrtiir named each of the great horses to the Masters: the seven who had borne Linden’s company as well as Mhornym, Bhanoryl, and Naybahn, who would be ridden by the Humbled. And she was not surprised that Handir had selected Branl, Galt, and Clyme to accompany her. Doubtless the Humbled had insisted on assuming that duty. They may have wanted another opportunity to prove themselves.

Still she mounted Hyn quickly when the Ramen and the Haruchai had completed their ceremonies of respect. As soon as Stave and Mahrtiir indicated that her companions were ready, she turned her back on Revelstone and rode away as if her path toward Andelain held fewer perils than the defended Keep.

Foes like Kastenessen and Roger, the Harrow and Lord Foul, merely wished to break her so that she might surrender or misuse her powers. The Masters believed that she could not be trusted.

Mahrtiir sent his Cords scouting ahead. The Manethrall and Stave rode on either side of Linden. Liand accompanied Anele behind her. The Humbled ranged around the company. In that formation, the Ranyhyn cantered easily into the southeast, angling across the light of the new sun.

From the vicinity of the fields that fed Lord’s Keep, the riders travelled down the bare plain which had been the battlefield for the Despiser’s final war against the Lords; his last attempt to achieve his ends through sheer force. But the swift gait of the Ranyhyn soon carried the company past the plain into a region of tumbled hills that stretched for leagues.

The hills permitted easy passage. Their slopes were gentle, worn down by ages of time and weather. Still they constricted the horizons on all sides. For safety’s sake, Mahrtiir joined his Cords searching the terrain while the Haruchai rode closely around Linden, Liand, and Anele. And the ground was clad in the tough, raw-edged grass that Linden feared for the old man’s sake. Throughout the first day of their journey, whenever the riders paused for food and water, or to scavenge a few treasure-berries, they remained on horseback.

As she rode, Linden watched for villages-for any habitations-but she saw none. Surely the Land’s people did not avoid living in the vicinity of Revelstone? She assumed, therefore, that the Ramen chose a path which would allow them to pass unseen. Perhaps Mahrtiir’s keenness to leave Lord’s Keep behind urged him to avoid encounters that might slow the company. Or perhaps he understood that the Humbled would oppose exposing villagers to the dangerous knowledge and magicks of Linden and her friends.

She also scanned the hillsides for some sign of the Harrow. But the Insequent did not appear. If he travelled somewhere nearby, neither the Ramen nor the Haruchai could discern him.

After Linden’s first rush of excitement, the day seemed to pass slowly. Yet Hyn’s comfortable strength supported her. And she was encouraged by the sensation that she had finally begun to take charge of her own fate; that she had wrested the initiative away from her enemies. For too long, she had simply reacted to their various gambits. Now they would be compelled to react to hers.

With luck and courage, and the inestimable aid of her friends, she might be able to surprise the Despiser’s allies.

That night, however, she and her companions made their camp on a swath of rubble which had spilled down over centuries or millennia from a rugged escarpment among the hills. A bed of tumbled and weathered stones protected Anele, but granted her no more than a little fitful sleep. As the night wore on, her anticipation became a restless anxiety.

An attack was likely. Kastenessen and Roger would surely try to stop her. Other foes-less predictable ones-would do the same. She had been warned away from Andelain by friends as well as enemies. And while she lay awake, she felt the constant bale of Kevin’s Dirt etiolating her resolve. Beyond question the Falls are a great evil, Liand had once said to her. Yet I deem them a little wrong beside the deprivation imposed by Kevin’s Dirt. In darkness, the impending weight of imminent blindness had the power to erode her judgment and conviction as well as her senses.

Under the circumstances, she was both comforted and disturbed by the fact that the Haruchai did not appear to sleep. Perhaps Stave, Galt, Branl, and Clyme dozed with their eyes open while they rode, or snatched naps when they were certain that their companions were safe.

In addition, they appeared to eat little, although they did not refuse treasure-berries. It was instinctive with them, Linden supposed, to keep private anything that resembled ordinary mortal needs and vulnerabilities. Thousands of years after the Vow of the Bloodguard had been broken, Stave and the Masters continued to emulate the Haruchai who had once served the Lords.

She could rely on their stringent inflexibility. But it was also their gravest weakness.

Fortunately Liand had spent a considerable time during the days ride, and in the evening, poring over his orcrest. The next morning, he demonstrated that Sunstone could indeed counteract Kevin’s Dirt. With quiet exultation, he restored health-sense to the Ramen, Linden, and himself, sparing her the exertion of her Staff. After that, she felt less alone; reassured to know that hers were no longer the company’s only instruments of power.

During the day, she was soothed by Hyn’s steady gait, as secure as a throne. And the hills opened into a billowing grassland that seemed to expand the possibilities of the world. Like the relief provided by Liand’s orcrest, being able to see farther eased some of her trepidation.

Near sunset, the company stopped for the night in an arroyo with a brisk stream rushing down its centre and a bed composed primarily of broken shingle and slate: enough stone to protect Anele from possession, but free of the deep rock which would expose him to his worst memories. The water was runoff from seasonal showers and mountain snows. Among its liquid secrets, it carried the faint flavours of rainfall and blizzards, new warmth and older ice. In summer, the watercourse would be turbulent to its rims, a small river hastening generally southward. Now, however, the littered bottom of the arroyo was the safest place that the scouting Ramen had found for Anele to spend the night.

For herself, Linden planned to lay out her bedroll on the softer ground above the stream. Her companions could watch over her wherever she made her bed. And she did not doubt that the Ranyhyn also would guard the company. After the discomforts of the previous night, she wanted a chance for better rest.

But first she sat with her back against the dry wall of the gully while twilight deepened into evening overhead, and Liand and Pahni readied a meal over a cheery cookfire. There she was able to relax and think.

When the company had eaten-when the Ramen had returned from tending the Ranyhyn, and the Humbled had taken places above Linden and her friends along the edges of the watercourse-Stave finally broached the subject of the Harrow and the Mahdoubt. He described their eerie contest and its outcome. And he repeated what Linden had already heard about the Vizard and the Theomach, although he did not explain how the Haruchai knew of the Insequent. The ancient defeat of his people he kept to himself, perhaps to protect his own hidden emotions, or perhaps to appease the Humbled.

Watching Liand and the Cords, Linden saw that they had questions which they would have liked to ask. But Stave’s uninflected severity forbade inquiry. However, the sharpness of Mahrtiir’s concentration suggested that he would ask his questions in spite of Stave’s reticence. For the former Master’s sake, Linden forestalled the Manethrall.

“Stave,” she asked quietly, “what can you tell us about where we are and where were going? You and the Humbled know this area. We don’t.” When she and Covenant had begun their search for the One Tree long ago, she had been in no condition to attend to her surroundings. She remembered only that they had left Revelstone eastward against the lethal permutations of the Sunbane. “I want some idea of what we have ahead of us.”

Once again, she encouraged him to violate the prohibitions of the Masters-and to do so in their presence. However, she doubted that the Humbled would object. Having committed themselves to this endeavour, they could not very well claim that she and her friends had no need of their knowledge.

Stave’s manner remained stiff, but he did not hesitate. “The distance from Revelstone to the northwestmost verge of the Andelainian Hills is ninety leagues. Riding as we have, without urging the Ranyhyn excessively, thirty now lie behind us.”

“So four more days,” murmured Linden.

The Haruchai shook his head. “Chosen, your count presupposes that we will encounter neither delay nor opposition. Opposition I am unable to foretell, though we have been warned of the skurj, and the chance of Falls must not be forgotten. But some delays may be desirable, while others cannot be avoided.

On the morrow, we will pass nigh unto First Woodhelven, so named because it was the first, and indeed the most viable, of the attempts by Sunder Graveler and Hollian eh-Brand to create anew the tree-dwellings which were among the Land’s wonders during the ages of the Lords. You may wish to pause there, for the Haruchai remember that you have never beheld a true Woodhelven. Also it would perhaps be wise to refresh our supplies, if the Humbled will permit it.”

Linden felt sure that the Humbled would reject any meeting with the villagers. But if they reacted to Stave’s suggestions, they did so in silence, and he did not share what he heard.

She tightened her grip on herself. Roger Covenant in his father’s guise had told her that Kastenessen now occupied Andelain, that he commanded the skurj, and that he could send those devouring monsters to meet her because he was able to locate her through Anele. But Roger had lied about so many things-She was not convinced that Kastenessen could detect the old man unless Anele touched bare dirt.

Also she considered the idea that the enraged Elohim occupied Andelain implausible. Surely such a being would shun the quintessential health and beauty of the Land? He might well loathe the austere strictures of the Dead. And an attack on Andelain would only waste his strength: it would not threaten his people, and so it would not relieve his fury.

No, on this subject she believed none of Roger’s assertions except that Kastenessen ruled the skurj- and that the Land’s enemies would try to thwart her purpose. If Kastenessen sought to acquire Loric’s krill for himself-if the krill were not inherently inimical to him-she suspected that he would do so indirectly.

“Go on,” she urged Stave softly. “What else can you tell us?”

His expression remained stubbornly neutral. But if the Humbled urged him to say no more, he did not heed them.

“Of the many wounds inflicted by the Clave and the Sunbane, the most grievous was the loss of the great forests. On the Upper Land, they were three. Dark Grimmerdhore lay to the east of Revelstone, but it extended southward toward Andelain. Our path lies across a portion of the region where Grimmerdhore once flourished, and where it perished.

“Southeast of Andelain between the Black River and the Roamsedge stood brooding Morinmoss. There the Unbeliever was once retrieved from death by an Unfettered healer. And southwest of the Centre Plains and the Last Hills rose Garroting Deep, mighty and bitter.

“But there was also a fourth forest, Giant Woods, which survived the Sunbane, and which still remains, lying as it does on the Lower Land north of the fouled waters of Sarangrave Flat.”

The Sarangrave Linden remembered. There she and Covenant, with Sunder, Hollian, and a small band of Haruchai, had nearly fallen to the lurker, and to the lurker’s corrosive minions, the skest. And there they had encountered the Giants of the Search, who had made possible the Despiser’s defeat and the Land’s healing. But she did not let memories of friends whom she had loved and lost interrupt Stave.

“Some measure,” he said. “of what transpired after Corruption’s overthrow and the Sunbane’s unmaking was first told to the Haruchai by the Giants of the Search, though the tale was later repeated by Sunder Graveler and Hollian eh-Brand.

“For a time, Sunder and Hollian were confined to Andelain. She was newly reborn, he had expended much of himself to restore her, and the Sunbane’s ill lingered in the Land. The First of the Search and Pitchwife had given the Staff of Law into their care, but they had not yet learned its uses. They required Andelain’s wealth of Earthpower. Therefore they remained among the Hills, and studied the Staff, and grew stronger.”

Linden leaned forward, listening closely as Stave’s flat voice defined the darkness around the small campfire. Like Anele’s tale of the One Forest, her encounter with Caerroil Wildwood had left her hungry to know more about forests. And she treasured the Haruchai’s recollections of her friends. Her last deed before she was dismissed from the Land had been to reach out to Sunder and Hollian. She had wished them to know that they were loved-and had reason for hope.

Liand and the Ramen also listened, rapt, to Stave’s explanation. Millennia ago, the Ramen had led the Ranyhyn away from the Plains of Ra to escape the Sunbane. And none of them had returned, except to scout along the Land’s borders at long intervals, until

Hyn and Hynyn had declared their devotion to Linden. As a result, Mahrtiir and his Cords knew little of events in the Land during their people’s self-imposed exile.

“However,” Stave continued, “Sunder and Hollian remembered well the majesty of Giant Woods. And she was an eh-Brand, born to the love of wood. Among the great and vital tasks which they had accepted with their acceptance of the Staff, they desired first to begin the restoration of forests to the Land.

“Yet they had no knowledge of Grimmerdhore, or of Morinmoss, or of Garroting Deep. Nor did the Giants of the Search. And no Haruchai sought for Sunder and Hollian. Until the Giants returned to Revelstone, the Haruchai did not know that Sunder and Hollian remained living. Thus the Graveler and the eh-Brand were not guided by the history of forests in the Land.

“Rather they devised their own purpose. When their comprehension of the Staff had grown sufficiently to heal the last of the Sunbane’s ravages within Andelain, they turned their attention outward. Around all of the boundaries of Andelain, from Landsdrop north of Mount Thunder westward, then into the southeast toward the Mithil River, thence across the Mithil east to the region where Morinmoss once endured, and finally northward along the Mithil to the southmost slopes of Gravin Threndor, Sunder and Hollian inspired and nurtured one encompassing forest which they named Salva Gildenbourne to honour the Gilden trees of Andelain.”

Again Stave considered the Humbled, perhaps offering them an opportunity to advise him. But he did not query them aloud, and so they did not answer. After a moment, he gave a small shrug and went on.

“Had they been able to do so, the Graveler and the eh-Brand would have extended the largesse of woodlands over all the war-ravaged earth between Andelain and Landsdrop. There, however, they were baffled. Their comprehension of the Staff-or perhaps the Staff itself, being incomplete-could not entirely overcome the harm wrought by Corruption’s ancient armies and battles.”

Facing Linden directly, Stave concluded, “Salva Gildenbourne stands across our approach to Andelain. After its fashion, it is a wondrous region, precious to the Land. But it was formed without the benefit of lore, and has grown both vast and unruly. If we are not opposed or delayed, we will gain its marge in three days. However, Salva Gildenbourne itself hinders passage. And there the Ranyhyn cannot quicken our way. For that reason, I gauge that the forest must add two days and more to our journey.”

Linden nodded to herself. Six days, then-and only if the Land’s foes did not strike. She wanted to travel with more haste; to ride harder and longer. She could not truly begin to search for Jeremiah until she accomplished her purpose in Andelain. But when she thought back, she could still hear the rabid howling of the kresh. An Elohim had warned the Land of Sandgorgons as well as croyel and skurj. She did not know what had become of moksha Jehannum, the Raver who had once possessed her. Doubtless he was at work somewhere, serving Lord Foul. And she had not forgotten turiya Herem’s possession of Joan. It was conceivable that turiya might be able to impose a degree of focus on Joan’s madness. If he did so, her blasts of wild magic might achieve a measure of direction and intent-

Haste would almost certainly increase the danger to Linden and all of her companions. The Ramen and even the Ranyhyn would be more easily ambushed.

Musing, Liand said, “I have never beheld a forest. Pahni urges me to imagine the trees of the upland plateau multiplied a thousand fold, or a thousand thousand. But it lies beyond my conception.”

The Manethrall nodded sharply. “The Ramen love openness and long hills. Nevertheless our ancestors held the forests of the Land in reverence. Their many-splendored grandeur surpassed description. I am eager now to cast my gaze upon Salva Gildenbourne, and to pass among its uncounted majesties.

You are a Stonedownor,” he added to Liand, “born to rock and permanence. Yet I do not doubt that you also will be moved to worship by the glories of wood. And we have not yet spoken of Andelain, where the Land’s loveliness thrives in abundance.”

The Ramen and Liand continued to talk while Anele snored fitfully beside the fire and the Humbled stood guard; but Linden hardly heard them. Isolated by her apprehensions, she wrapped a blanket around her shoulders to ward off the chill of the spring night, and tried to think.

According to Covenant’s son, Kastenessen had only summoned a few skurj to the Land. On that point, Roger may have been telling the truth. Surely a throng of those creatures could not have evaded the notice of the Masters? Nevertheless the monsters which Linden had seen during her translation to the Land were capable of tremendous devastation. Already she had succeeded twice at extinguishing Falls-and she was stronger now. The Staff itself was stronger. But she could not guess whether Law and Earthpower would be enough to hold back the skurj. The Elohim might not have Appointed Kastenessen to his Durance if any other theurgy could contain those horrific creatures.

Yet when she slept at last, her dreams were not haunted by the jaws of kraken, or by cruel yellow fangs, or by the excruciation of caesures. Instead she seemed to fall endlessly into the numb black abysm of the Harrow’s eyes, where there was no sound except her son’s anguished weeping.

She awoke in a mood of fretful urgency. Over and over again, the pressures and dilemmas of her immediate circumstances pushed thoughts of Jeremiah into the background; but whenever the extremity of his plight reclaimed her, it did so with redoubled force. She still had a long way to go to reach Andelain, Loric’s krill, and the Dead. But those were only the first stages of her quest to find her son. Ultimately such things were necessary simply because she did not know how else to begin looking for Jeremiah.

While she ate a tense breakfast with her friends, Liand observed gently. “You did not rest well, Linden.”

She nodded; but she was not listening. Instead she harkened to the sound of whistling and formal salutations. At her request, Stave and Mahrtiir had joined the Humbled beyond the eastern rim of the arroyo to summon the Ranyhyn: she was waiting for Stave’s return. As soon as he dropped back down into the watercourse, she handed the remains of her meal to Bhapa and rose to her feet.

“First Woodhelven?” she asked. “How far is it?”

Stave cocked his eyebrow at her abrupt manner. If our way is not contested, we will near the Woodhelven before midday.”

Linden bit her lip. Are you sure that we should stop there? Don’t we have enough supplies?”

If the Woodhelvennin needed to be warned of impending hazards, one of the Humbled could perform that task without violating their commitment to preserve the villagers’ ignorance.

Stave shrugged, studying her. “The future is uncertain, Chosen. Soon we may be driven far from our direct road. It would be improvident to neglect an opportunity to replenish our viands.”

“All right,” she muttered unhappily. “But let’s be as quick as we can. Jeremiah needs me.”

“Also you do not forgive,” Stave remarked. This all Haruchai comprehend. The Ranyhyn await you. And among themselves the Humbled acknowledge that your desire for haste is justified. We will journey as swiftly as we may without sacrificing caution.”

As if his words were a command, Liand and Pahni hurried to wash their pots, bowls, and utensils while Bhapa repacked the company’s bedrolls. At the same time, Branl and Galt surprised Linden by leaping down into the gully. Without a word, they searched the shale and shingle of the riverbed until they found a large pane of slate perhaps two fingers thick on which one or two people could have stood. Lifting it together, Branl and Galt tossed it up to Clyme at the rim of the watercourse. When Clyme had secured his grip on the slate, he carried it out of sight.

To Linden’s perplexed stare, Stave explained. “Though a fertile lowland girdles First Woodhelven, the surrounding hills are barren, as is much of the region which we must traverse this day. While he can, Clyme will bear his stone upon Mhornym’s back. At need, it may ward the old man from Kastenessen’s touch.”

Linden made a whistling sound through her teeth. “That’s good.” She was familiar with the preternatural strength of the Haruchai, but she often forgot just how strong they were. “I’m glad one of you thought of it.”

Repeatedly she had promised Anele her protection-and repeatedly she concentrated on other concerns instead.

Grinning, Liand clapped Stave appreciatively on the back. Then he offered to help Linden clamber out of the arroyo.

When she gained the rim, she found Mahrtiir there with the gathered Ranyhyn. Hyn approached Linden with a look of affection in her soft eyes: Hynyn stamped his hooves imperiously. Clyme had already made a harness of thongs for the slate, set it on his back, and mounted Mhornym. Linden saw now that Mhornym was nearly a hand taller than the other horses, with heavily muscled thighs and a deep chest. Clearly the stallion would be able to bear the added weight of Clyme’s burden.

The chief purpose of the Humbled may have been to guard against Linden, but they also took the task of aiding her and her friends seriously. In this, they resembled the Haruchai whom she had known with Thomas Covenant. For a long time, Brinn, Cail, Ceer, and Hergrom had distrusted her profoundly, but their doubts had not prevented them from warding her with their lives.

When they had become the Masters of the Land, the Haruchai had not ceased to be themselves.

Reassured by that recognition, and comforted by Hyn’s steady acceptance, Linden grew calmer for a while. But when she and her companions were mounted at last, and the Ranyhyn had turned toward the southeast across the sunrise, she had to resist an impulse to urge Hyn into a gallop.

As long as Lord Foul and the croyel held Jeremiah, he might never see the sun again. The Despiser preferred the dark places of the world. And under Melenkurion Skyweir, he had nearly lost Jeremiah. She felt sure that Lord Foul would not take that risk a second time.

Whatever happened, Andelain and Loric’s krill would be the beginning of her search rather than the end.

With the sun like a barrier in her eyes, she felt time drag, leaden with worry. For her sake, however, the Ranyhyn quickened their fluid canter. Mahrtiir sent Bhapa scouting far ahead of the company: Galt and Branl travelled as outriders nearly out of sight on both sides. And gradually the flow of Hyn’s gait settled Linden’s nerves. The mare’s undisturbed rhythm seemed to impose a subliminal equipoise, soothing Linden as though she were being rocked in protective arms. She stopped watching the sun, and so her perception of progress was altered.

Stave and Mahrtiir rode with her. Behind them came Liand and Pahni flanking Anele. And Clyme kept Mhornym close to the heels of the old man’s mount. Pausing only for occasional sips of water, or for a few treasure-berries, the riders made their way around the slopes of low hills, over incremental ridges, and through swales and small valleys punctuated by copses and lone trees like eyots in the slow surge of a grass-foamed sea.

As the sun passed the middle of the morning sky, Linden’s tuned senses caught the first whiff of wrongness.

At first, it was too evanescent to be defined: as elusive as will-o’-the-wisps; scarcely distinguishable from the overarching fug of Kevin’s Dirt. She had no idea what it might represent. But when she glanced around her, she saw Mahrtiir scenting the air. Anele had become restive on Hrama’s back, jerking his head awkwardly from side to side. And both Branl and Galt had drawn closer to the company as if they were tightening a cordon.

Liand turned a puzzled look toward Pahni. But he did not call out to her over the constant rumble of hooves, and she did not answer his gaze.

There: Linden felt the sensation again. It was less an odour than a form of stridulation, as if something cruel had scraped briefly against her percipience, making her nerves vibrate. She was about to shout a question at the Manethrall or Stave when she saw Bhapa ahead of her, racing to rejoin the company as though kresh harried him.

But it was not the musky fetor of wolves that Linden had sensed. It was something darker; something without hunger or intention-and far more fatal.

By touch, or perhaps merely by thought, Stave and Mahrtiir slowed Hynyn and Narunal; and the rest of the Ranyhyn followed their example. The horses were barely trotting when Bhapa rode near enough to report without yelling.

“Manethrall, Ringthane, it is a caesure.” Ramen rigor vied with urgency in his tone. “I have not beheld it, for it lay at the limit of my discernment. Yet I am certain of it. Such evils cannot be mistaken.”

Turning Whrany to pace at Mahrtiir’s side, the Cord continued. “At first, it stood directly before us. But it moves, as do all caesures. For the present, it drifts southward as if borne by the wind, though the wind is from the west. If some caprice does not alter its course, it will not endanger us. Indeed, it may pass a league or more beyond our path.”

“How close did it get to First Woodhelven?” Linden asked. Can you tell?”

She had stood on Kevin’s Watch when it fell; she and Anele. She groaned as she imagined what a caesure might do to any substance less stubborn than granite.

Bhapa looked helplessly at Mahrtiir. “Alas, I know not. The auras of human habitations are little things on the scale of Falls. I was able to descry the caesure, and to be certain of it, because it is an immense ill. I felt nothing of the Woodhelven.”

“In that case,” said Linden grimly, “I think it’s time to ride hard. The Woodhelvennin might need us. And if they don’t, I want to get past that thing before it can change directions.”

Automatically she dismissed the idea of pursuing the caesure in order to quench it. Doing so would delay her. Each of Joan’s temporal violations was short-lived: she knew that. Otherwise the Arch would already have fallen. If no one-no other force-sustained the Fall, it would soon expend itself and vanish.

The Manethrall and Stave shared a nod. Then all of the Ranyhyn stretched their strides in unison, accelerating smoothly until they raced like coursers into the southeast.

Under other circumstances, Hyn’s vitality and swiftness might have exhilarated Linden. But now her attention was focused ahead. With the Staff, she sharpened her senses and cast her percipience farther, seeking the caesure.

Initially she felt it in small suggestions, innominate flickers of distortion. But soon she was sure of it. She had learned to distinguish between the queasiness that afflicted her in Esmer’s presence and the more visceral sick squirming caused by the proximity of Falls. Esmer made her ill by disturbing her connection with aspects of herself: the impact of caesures ran deeper. On an almost cellular level, they threatened her dependence upon tangible reality.

And a caesure was there, where Bhapa had indicated: ahead of her and to the right, slipping erratically southward. If its heading did not shift, it would not endanger her company. Rather it would carry Joan’s unreasoning violence into the distance until it dissipated itself. And while it lasted, its destructiveness would depend less on the amount of wild magic that Joan had unleashed than on what lay along its mindless road.

With an effort, Linden swallowed her fear of what the Fall might do. The silent acquiescence of Stave and the Humbled assured her that there were no villages or habitations near the caesure’s present course. The Haruchai would certainly have warned her if lives were at stake.

Only one concern remained: First Woodhelven.

Gripping the Staff of Law until her knuckles ached, Linden leaned along Hyn’s neck, silently urging the mare and all of the Ranyhyn to run faster.

A long rising slope blocked the view ahead. It fell away to lower ground on the south: to the north, it mounted toward a rocky tor, rugged with old stone. But along the company’s path the ascent was too gradual to slow the pounding horses. They sped upward over earth that lost its scruff of grass to become an ungiving admixture of flint, crumbled shale, and bare dirt. The hooves of the Ranyhyn pelted debris behind them with every stride. The horses following Linden were forced to space themselves so that they did not run in the spray of jagged pebbles and grit kicked up by Hyn and Hynyn, Whrany and Narunal.

Along the lower terrain, she saw evidence of the caesure’s passage. The ground there was as barren as the slope, but it had a churned look, as though it had been raked by thousands of claws. A stretch of disturbed soil nearly a stone’s throw across led like a crooked road into the south.

God, the Fall was big-

Now Linden spotted what appeared to be a storm around the caesure’s seething column. The sky was free of clouds, uncluttered from horizon to horizon. Nevertheless lightning flared in the distance, crackling around the caesure like a nimbus. The air thickened as if it were crowded with thunderheads; full of theurgy rather than moisture and wind.

She stifled a gasp of chagrin. The Fall was not the only peril. Some power as lorewise and puissant as the Demondim was striving urgently to interrupt or influence the caesure.

Biting her lip, she turned her head away. Stave had said that First Woodhelven occupied a fertile lowland surrounded by bare hills. If it lay beyond this rise, it may have been directly in the path of the Fall.

The crest was near. Already she could see past it to more hills perhaps half a league distant; slopes as barren as the dirt over which the Ranyhyn galloped.

Oh, God, she groaned as Hyn bore her to the top of the rise. Please. No.

Then the Ranyhyn swept over the crest, poured like a torrent down the far side; and Linden saw that First Woodhelven had not been spared.

It occupied a wide, low valley which stretched beyond the tor in the northwest and curved away to the east; a slow crescent of soil made arable by a bright brook and seasonal flooding. As Stave had suggested, the lowland was contained by hills like mounds of shale, dirt, and marl. But centuries of water and overflow had made the bottom of the valley as hospitable as pasturage.

At one time-perhaps as long as half an hour ago-the tree-village must have been extraordinary: a magnificent banyan straddling the stream, sending down tendrils in thick clusters to become new roots and secondary trunks until the single tree formed an extensive grove. Massive boughs by the thousands must have offered their leaves to the heavens, growing between and among each other until they provided abundant opportunities for homes as well as for paths from trunk to trunk. And the homes themselves must have been extraordinary as well, for they would have been fashioned, not of planks and timbers, but of interwoven limbs and branches, and sheltered by a dense thatch-work of twigs and leaves. All along the brook, the crops of the Woodhelvennin would have flourished.

If Linden had seen First Woodhelven before the caesure hit, the sight might have gladdened her sore heart. She would have been so proud of Sunder and Hollian-But she and her companions had not reached the tree-village in time to save it.

Now it looked like a cyclone had torn through it. Ancient trunks as thick as five or six Giants standing together had been shattered; split apart and scattered like kindling. Their oozing stumps were jagged as fractured bones. Broken boughs made a trail of wreckage in the wake of the Fall: rent wood in jumbled clusters resembled the piles of pyres: leaves littered the ground like bloodshed.

After millennia of growth and health, generation following generation, a thriving community had become a catastrophe.

Yet for Linden that was not the worst of it, although the damage cried out to her senses. The tree was only wood. Precious beyond measure, its ruin nonetheless did not communicate the full cost of the caesure. More poignant to her was the condition of the fields-and of the Woodhelvennin themselves.

On either side of the Fall’s path, the fields remained untouched. They had been recently ploughed and tended, and wore the fresh vulnerable green of new crops. But where the caesure had passed, it had dragged carnage through the soil, maiming First Woodhelven’s hopes for food; for a future. Raw dirt ached in the sunlight like a weeping gall in the body of the Land.

And all around the calamity of their homes stood the banyan-dwellers, hundreds of men, women, and children milling in shock and dismay, utterly lost.

Among them moved two Masters. No doubt that explained why the Woodhelvennin were still alive: the unblinded senses of the Masters had warned the villagers to gather their families and flee before the Fall struck. And a few horses had been saved as well. But the Haruchai could do nothing to ease the effects, the force and impact, of the disaster. The Woodhelvennin gazed dumbly upon the devastation of their lives, too appalled to think or take action. They did not know how to bear the sheer casualness, the complete lack of purpose or desire, with which their homes and possessions and tasks had been reduced to debris.

Lacking any knowledge of the Land’s history, they had no context for atrocity.

In Berek Halfhand’s camp, Linden had gone without hesitation to do what she could for the victims of his war. This was different. The Woodhelvennin were not wounded: their hearts rather than their bodies had been pierced. With all of her power, she could not make their spirits whole again.

And she had shared no responsibility for the sufferings of Berek’s warriors. First Woodhelven’s razing she could have prevented, if she had insisted on haste hours earlier, when her company had broken camp-

If she had not restored Joan’s wedding band-

She hardly noticed that the Ranyhyn, the whole company, had slowed to a halt on the rise above the shattered grove. A deep rage held her attention.

Roger had said of Falls, Wherever they are at a particular moment, every bit of time in that precise spot happens at once. He had tried to explain why the fabric of reality had not already been irreparably shredded. Since they’re moving, they give those bits of time back as fast as they pick up new ones. In addition, the Law of Time strove to preserve itself. Presumably Thomas Covenant himself fought to defend it. And Joan’s inability to concentrate prevented the caesures from expanding to consume everything. Thus the larger integrity of causality and sequence endured despite the severity of the Falls.

Nevertheless the restoration of Law as the caesure passed contributed to its destructiveness. Every instant of First Woodhelven’s life had been superimposed-and then those instants had been flung back into their natural order. The result was a doubled violation. In effect, the Fall’s departure did as much harm as its arrival.

Linden concentrated on such things in an effort to control the wild scramble of guilt and sorrow that made her want to rage at the heavens rather than seek some means to ease the villagers. In another moment, she might turn her back on them. She hungered to ride like vengeance after the Fall and rip it out of existence. The eldritch storm surrounding it she would sweep aside. She had stood on Gallows Howe: she yearned to repay savagery with destruction.

“Chosen.” Stave put his hand on her arm as if to pull her back from a kind of insanity. “The fault is mine. I urged caution when you craved haste.”

In response, Mahrtiir made a fierce spitting sound. “Do not speak of fault here, Haruchai. Neither you nor the Ringthane is gifted with foreknowledge. There is no fault. There is only the need of these stricken Woodhelvennin.”

Fault, Linden thought, biting her lip until it bled. Oh, there was fault, and plenty of it. The Manethrall was right: she could not have known. Even Joan, abused and broken, did not deserve blame. But Lord Foul was another matter. Kastenessen and Roger, the Ravers and the skurj and the croyel: the Despiser had aimed them like a barrage at the Land.

“All right,” she said with her mouth full of blood. “I understand. Let’s go see what we can do for those poor people.”

But she did not move. Instead she struggled to suppress her outrage. She needed a moment of clarity, of containment, in which she might regain some aspect of the Linden Avery who healed. That woman had never fully emerged from the depths of Melenkurion Skyweir.

There must be something-

Rubbing the blood from her lip with the back of her hand, she tightened the grip of her heels on Hyn’s flanks; mutely asked the mare to approach the remains of First Woodhelven. But as Hyn began to walk, Galt called sharply. “Linden Avery!”

He rode a short way off to her right, guarding the company from the south. When she jerked a look at him, he announced, “The Fall’s course has been altered. It turns toward us, compelled by some power which we do not recognise. And it moves swiftly. If it does not veer aside, it will soon be upon us.”

Flinching, Linden snatched her percipience toward the south and saw that he was right. The caesure was retracing its ruin, harried by a palpable cloudless storm. And it was coming fast-

Some silent part of her snarled curses, but she paid no attention to them. The Fall’s advance evoked a different clarity than the one that she had tried to impose on herself.

“Go!” she shouted at Galt and his comrades as though she had the right to command them. “Get those people out of there,” away from their riven homes, their lost lives. “Take them west. I’ll try to snuff that thing. But I don’t know what I’m up against. If something goes wrong, they’ll be right in front of it.”

If the skurj came, they would approach from the east.

Because he was a Master, she expected him to refuse. Yet he did not. Wheeling his Ranyhyn, he headed at a gallop into the lowland.

Immediately Branl joined him. Clyme took a moment to unsling the slate from his back and pass it in its harness to Stave, transferring responsibility for Anele. Then he sped after the other Humbled.

In their minds, all three of them may have been calling to the Masters among the Woodhelvennin.

So many people-It would take time to rally them. They were too stunned to think for themselves.

“Mahrtiir!” Linden flung a gesture after the Humbled. “Help those people. What’s coming isn’t just a Fall. Somebody is pushing that thing.” Someone nearby: someone who wanted the caesure to devour the Woodhelvennin-or to assail her. “Get as many of them on horses as you can. Make them move.”

When the Manethrall hesitated, she urged him, “Go! Leave Liand and Anele with me.” She could not ask Liand to watch over Anele and aid the villagers at the same time; and the old man was close to panic, filled by the old dread which had driven him to climb Kevin’s Watch. If he left Hrama’s back and tried to fend for himself-if his feet touched barren ground- “Stave will take care of them.”

“Ringthane.” Mahrtiir nodded an acknowledgment, then turned Narunal to follow the Humbled. As the Ranyhyn gathered speed, the Manethrall shouted. “Cords!”

Bhapa was already in motion, racing to catch up with Mahrtiir. Pahni gave Liand a quick desperate look before she sent Naharahn after Whrany.

Liand had already taken out his orcrest. He gripped it tightly while he murmured to Hrama and Rhohm, imploring them to stay together.

The sight of Liand’s Sunstone made Anele cower as if he feared it-feared sanity-more than the caesure.

On all sides of Linden and her remaining companions were flint, shale, eroded sandstone, dirt. Hardly a hundred paces away lay the torn path of the Fall. If Anele dismounted, even for a moment, Kastenessen would find him. The pain-maddened Elohim would know where to send the skurj. And if he gained full possession of the old man, he might attack Linden directly while she fought the caesure and its unseen drover.

Kastenessen might already be somewhere nearby. Surely he was capable of herding a Fall wherever he wished?

“How long-?” Abruptly she found that she could not speak: her throat was too dry. She had to swallow several times before she could ask Stave, “How much time do we have?”

The Haruchai gazed into the south for a moment, then glanced behind him to consider the tree-dwellers. “If the Woodhelvennin comprehend their peril, and do not refuse to be commanded, they will be spared.”

If the Fall did not change directions to pursue them-

“In that case”- Linden took a deep breath, held it, let it out-let’s go down there.” She indicated the furrowed ground where the Fall had passed. “We’ll be able to see farther.”

On this terrain, one place would not be more dangerous than another for Anele.

Stave nodded. Beckoning for Liand and Anele to follow, he nudged Hynyn into a trot, angling across the slope to keep his distance from the blasted village while he sought an unobstructed view to the south.

Fighting her urgent anger, Linden dropped back briefly to ride beside Liand. “You know what you have to do?”

His black eyebrows accentuated the apprehension in his eyes. “Linden?”

“Remember what I told you,” she ordered brusquely. “Protect Anele. Whatever happens. Get Stave to help you if you need him. I’ll stop the caesure.” Somehow. “But you have to keep Anele away from Kastenessen. We can’t face another attack right now.”

Of any kind.

When the Stonedownor said, “I will,” biting off the words as though they caused him pain, she left him, riding faster to catch up with Stave.

“Did you hear me?” she asked as she reached Stave’s side. On his back, he bore the pane of slate. “I know how you feel about protecting me. But you can’t fight a Fall. You can’t fight that storm. Helping Liand keep Anele safe is the best thing that you can do for me.”

For a moment, Stave appeared to contemplate what she requested of him. Then he replied evenly, “Your fate is mine, Chosen. I will have no other. Yet while I may, I will do as you desire.” Without expression, he met her gaze. “Have I not shown that I am able to abandon you for the old man’s sake?”

He had left her to retrieve Anele from the horde of the Demondim-

Trying to smile, Linden bared her teeth. “You have. I should know better than to tell you what to do.”

As soon as she reached the centre of the caesure’s raked path, she turned to face the south. For a few heartbeats, Hyn’s muscles quivered as if she were afraid; as if she longed to carry Linden out of danger. Then Hynyn snorted assertively, and the mare seemed to calm herself.

The Fall was moving faster than Linden had anticipated. It was already clear to her ordinary sight: a swirling miasma of wrongness in the shape of a tornado. Its emanations burrowed along her nerves as though hornets hived in her belly. And it was growing-The storm driving it seemed to increase its virulence and size as well as its speed. It would strike like the bludgeon of a titan.

Now she could discern the storm itself distinctly, although it had no clouds to account for the lurid punch of its thunder or the bright flare and sizzle of its lightning. Her health-sense perceived the turmoil in etched detail: it resembled a squall at sea. But its forces were too great for a mere squall. Its vehemence suggested the fury of a hurricane.

She had never seen theurgy like that before. More than once, however, she had felt a similar puissance: when Esmer had attacked Stave; and again when he had blocked the ur-viles from assailing Roger and the croyel. Before she and her companions had risked the Land’s past to search for the Staff of Law, the Ramen had informed her that he wields a storm among the mountains-

With it, he had summoned a caesure for her.

“Damn it,” she breathed more to herself than to Stave. “That’s Esmer.”

“So I deem,” replied Stave as though he had not been almost beaten to death by Cail’s son.

For the first time, Linden wondered whether Esmer himself might be the havoc for which he had blamed Stave and the Haruchai.

Yet she could not believe that Esmer intended to threaten her like this. His conflicting inheritances precluded a direct assault. And a desire to ravage the Woodhelvennin seemed out of character. He had never shown the kind of omnivorous malice that delighted Lord Foul, or that Kastenessen and Roger might have enjoyed.

But why, then-?

An instant later, she saw an explanation. Ahead of the caesure, a rider fled desperately. He flogged his horse straight toward her. The Fall and the storm seemed to be chasing him.

She recognised him before Stave stated flatly. It is the Harrow.”

He was mounted on a brown destrier as large and strongly made as Mhornym, although the beast was not a Ranyhyn: it lacked the characteristic star-shaped blaze on its forehead; the unmistakable tang of Earthpower. Froth splashed from the horse’s mouth and nostrils, and its eyes glared with dumb terror, as its rider lashed its hindquarters with a short quirt. Hunched low over his mount’s neck, with his chlamys flapping, the Harrow rode for his life just ahead of the caesure.

He had promised Linden his companionship. Now he raced toward her as though he hoped that she would save him.

He was her enemy: she believed that. Oh, he had unmade the threat of the Demondim. But he had also tried to swallow her mind. He had cost her the Mahdoubt’s friendship and support; the Mahdoubt’s life.

And he coveted Covenant’s ring. He wanted the Staff of Law. To tempt her, he had said, There is a service which I am able to perform for you, and which you will not obtain from any other living being.

Nevertheless she did not hesitate. Unfurling plumes of fire from her Staff, she began to tune her percipience to the exact pitch and timbre of the Fall. Her private rages and bereavements had no significance now. The Woodhelvennin were still in peril, and they had already lost too much.

If Esmer sought to destroy the Harrow, he did not do so for Linden’s benefit, or for the Land’s. In him, aid and betrayal were indistinguishable. Perhaps he saw some threat to one of his ruling compulsions in the Harrow’s proposed service. If so, she needed to know more about the Insequent.

With the back of her neck, she felt the villagers stumbling slowly westward. They did not resist the shepherding of the Masters and the Ramen. But there were too many of them-and too many were still in shock. Their progress was sluggish, hampered by grief.

The caesure was no more than a stone’s throw for a Giant away: it towered over her, feral and deadly. The Harrow raced less than ten strides ahead of it, and the gap was narrowing-If she ran out of time, she would be devoured by the conflagration of instants.

She could do this, she told herself. She had done it before. And Esmer’s storm did not camouflage the caesure, or confuse her health-sense. If anything, his efforts to flail the Fall only emphasised its specific ferocity.

Muttering, “Melenkurion abatha,” she raised Law and Earthpower in sunlight flames to meet the impending chaos. “Duroc minas mill.” In one sense, every Fall was different: it occurred in a different place; shattered different fragments of time. But in another, they were all the same, and she knew them well. “Harad khabaal!”

Fervid as a bonfire, her power geysered into the heavens.

The Harrow gestured at her frantically, urging her to rescue him. Lightning in fatal bursts blasted the dirt between her and the destrier. Concussions of thunder shook the ground. Each searing bolt liquefied the shale and flint, leaving molten pools where it struck.

“Anele!”

Liand’s yell nearly broke Linden’s concentration. She felt the old man fling himself headlong from Hrama’s back; felt him hit the stony soil rolling, wild to escape the caesure or the storm, she did not know which. With every nerve, she sensed the eruption of bitter magma that took hold of him.

Instantly Stave wheeled Hynyn away from Linden. At the same time, Liand sprang after Anele, still shouting.

She had no choice: she could not stop Kastenessen now. If she did not quench the Fall, she would do nothing ever again.

Fear for Anele hampered her-and for Stave and Liand as well. Kastenessen would savage the old man; but he would not kill a vessel that could still serve him. Stave and Liand were another matter. The insane Elohim might incinerate them.

Nevertheless Linden had grown stronger, annealed under Melenkurion Skyweir. And Caerroil Wildwood’s runes defined her Staff; sharpened its black possibilities. Hindrances of which she had been unaware had been carved away. Between one heartbeat and the next, she gathered Law and flame into a detonation as great as any that Esmer had unleashed. Shouting the Seven Words, she hurled Earthpower into the core of the caesure.

Time seemed to have no meaning. For an instant or an eternity, she threw her fire at the Fall; and the Harrow raced toward her in a fever of dread; and dire lava gathered at her back. Lightning coruscated near Hyn’s hooves. The caesure appeared to swell as though it feasted on flame.

Then she felt the sudden brilliance of orcrest behind her.

Through Liand’s glaring light, the storm thundered in a voice like a convulsion of despair. “Wildwielder, do not!”

Abruptly Kastenessen’s lava imploded, sucked back into itself.

As if fetters had been struck from her limbs, Linden felt freedom and energy surge through her. Almost calmly, she thought, No, Esmer. Not until I know what’s at stake. Not until one of you bastards tells me the truth.

With Law and Earthpower and repudiation, she lit a deflagration in the Fall’s heart and watched while the tumult of sundered instants swallowed itself whole. Like the scoria of Kastenessen’s rage, the migraine tornado appeared to consume its own substance. Moments before the caesure caught the heels of the Harrow’s mount, the fabric of time was rewoven; restored where it had been rent.

Briefly Esmer’s storm became a stentorian wail of frustration and dismay. Then it started to fray as though intangible winds were pulling it apart. Swirling like the Fall, lightning and thunder dissipated, drifting away toward all of the horizons simultaneously.

The Harrow hauled at his horse’s reins; stopped short of a collision with Linden. At the same time, Esmer stepped out of the air behind the Insequent. Gales seething in his eyes, Cail’s son strode forward as if he meant to assail the Harrow as he had once attacked Stave.

In Esmer’s presence, Linden’s viscera squirmed with an almost metaphysical nausea. But she ignored the sensation. Turning her back on both men, she looked for her friends.

Fifteen or twenty paces away, in the middle of the caesure’s wide gall, Stave stood on the pane of slate, holding Anele upright and unconscious against his chest. On his knees near them, Liand cupped his quenched Sunstone in one hand and gazed at it in wonder, studying it as if he were amazed that the flesh had not been scalded from his fingers.

In the distance beyond them, the Masters and the Ramen continued herding the villagers into motion, a pitiful few on horseback, the rest walking. Frightened and distraught, men, women, and children trudged away from the wreckage of First Woodhelven in the general direction of Lord’s Keep. As a group, they radiated numbness and misery that ran too deep for utterance.

She could not help them: not with Esmer advancing on the Harrow behind her. In another moment, they might begin to lash at each other-or at her-with forces as lethal as the Fall’s.

Gritting her teeth, she returned her attention to Liand, Stave, and Anele.

When she had assured herself that Liand and Stave were unharmed, and that Anele was only asleep, apparently exhausted by mere moments of possession and imposed sanity, she asked unsteadily. “How did you do that? Why aren’t you hurt?”

Liand still stared at his hand and the Sunstone as though they astonished him. “I would not have credited it,” he breathed. “In my heart, I believed that my hand would be destroyed, and perhaps the orcrest with it. But when I touched the stone to Anele’s forehead, the conflagration within him ended. In some fashion that I do not comprehend, Kastenessen has been expelled.”

“I can’t explain it.” Liand’s success confounded Linden. She had hoped only that an imposed sanity might forestall Kastenessen’s violation. She had not expected Liand to exorcise the Elohim once Kastenessen had established his possession. Perhaps contact with orcrest enabled Anele to draw upon his inborn magic. “I’m just glad that you’re all right. All of you.”

“Chosen,” Stave said distinctly, warning her. “attend.”

Instinctively she looked to the Woodhelvennin again. They had stopped moving; stood crowded together on the near side of the brook. Most of them now faced in her direction.

Both the Humbled and the Ramen were galloping swiftly toward her.

Cursing, Linden wheeled Hyn to meet the threat of the Harrow and Esmer-and saw that a multitude of ur-viles had appeared as if they had risen suddenly out of the gouged dirt, accompanied by a much smaller number of Waynhim. Sunshine on the obsidian skin of the ur-viles made them look like avatars of midnight, stark as fuligin. The greyer flesh of the Waynhim had the colour of ash and exhaustion.

They were the last of their kind-

Shit, she thought. Of course. Ur-viles, Waynhim-and Esmer. It is their intent to serve you. They had come for her sake. They watch against me-

In spite of their distrust for each other, Cail’s son had brought several score of them out of the distant past. And they had earned her faith. Now she did not know whom Esmer was trying to betray.

United as if they had forgotten their long enmity, the ur-viles and Waynhim had formed themselves into two fighting wedges, one led by their only loremaster, the other by a small knot of Waynhim. Barking raucously to each other, the creatures in one wedge faced Esmer. The other formation confronted the Harrow.

The loremaster held an iron sceptre or jerrid that fumed with vitriol. The Waynhim brandished short curved daggers that looked like they had been forged of lucent blood.

Both men had stopped. Esmer stood with his fists clenched. His cymar billowed around him as if it were being tugged by winds which Linden could not feel. Spume rose like vapour from the dangerous seas of his eyes. His limbs seemed to quiver with suppressed outrage and alarm.

“Wildwielder,” he said in a voice like a blare of trumpets, “you do not know the harm that this Insequent desires. In another moment, the caesure would have taken him, and you would have been spared much. It was madness to redeem him.”

Closer to Linden, the Harrow sat his destrier with an air of deliberate nonchalance, although he was breathing heavily, and beads of sweat stood on his forehead. From the symbols on his boots to the beads in his leathern doublet, he was a figure of sculpted muscle and casual elegance. The ploughshare clasp which secured his chlamys emphasised the neatness of his hair and beard. And the hues of his raiment harmonised with the moisture-darkened shades of his destrier’s coat. Only the lightless depths of his eyes suggested that he had not accidentally wandered into the Land from some more courtly realm where a munificent king or queen presided sumptuously over lordlings and damsels bright with meretricious grace.

“Lady,” he said, inclining his head. “Your intervention was indeed timely.” His voice had not lost its loamy richness, in spite of his exertions. “I see with pleasure that you have elected to accept my companionship.”

His quirt had disappeared. He must have concealed it somewhere under his short cloak.

Tightening her grasp on the Staff, Linden forced herself to look away again. “Stave,” she said over her shoulder. “the Woodhelvennin need to keep moving. They have to get out of here.”

Kastenessen had touched Anele. He knew where to send the skurj.

Stave glanced toward the approaching riders, then met her gaze. Through the tumult of hooves, he replied. “The Masters comprehend this. They will not neglect their care for the folk of the Land. The villagers will be urged away. If any remain living when this peril has passed, they will be escorted to Revelstone.”

The ur-viles and Waynhim continued their rasping growls and coughs, cautioning Linden or threatening Esmer and the Harrow in a tongue as indecipherable to her as the language of crows.

“All right.” Slowly Linden faced Esmer and the Harrow once more. With both hands, she gripped the Staff, anchoring herself on Law and Earthpower, blackness and runes. “You’ve had your fun. Now it’s my turn. You both want something from me, but you aren’t going to get it this way.

“No,” she said to the Insequent. “I don’t accept your companionship. But you don’t care about that. If you did, you wouldn’t have led Esmer here,” where so many innocent and helpless people might have lost their lives-and might yet die if she did not find a way to defuse the danger. “In a minute, you can justify yourself by telling me why Esmer wants you dead.” As if she were fearless, she glared into the dark tunnels of his eyes. “Right now, you can keep your mouth shut.

“As for you,” she flung at Esmer. “if you think that you absolutely need to destroy the Harrow, you could have found some other way to do it. You didn’t have to drive him straight toward those poor Woodhelvennin. I don’t care how much he scares you. This is just another betrayal.”

Esmer’s face held a torrent of protests and indignation. But when she said the word, “betrayal,” he flinched visibly, and his anger collapsed into consternation, as if she had touched a hidden vulnerability; a concealed self-abhorrence.

“So tell me-” Linden was about to say, Tell me about this service that he claims he can perform. But then she changed her mind. Esmer feared the Harrow’s intentions; therefore he would refuse to explain them. Instead she finished, “Tell me what the ur-viles and Waynhim are saying.”

Amid a clatter of hooves, the Humbled and the Ramen drew near. Immediately Mahrtiir rode to her side, and Bhapa joined her opposite the Manethrall. Mahrtiir’s gaze was fierce, eager to repay First Woodhelven’s ruin, but the plight of the villagers lined Bhapa’s visage.

In a flash of brown limbs and grace, Pahni jumped down to help Liand and Stave boost Anele onto Hrama’s back. Then the three of them remounted their Ranyhyn; and Stave brought Hynyn forward to guard Linden with Mahrtiir and Bhapa.

The ur-viles and Waynhim may have been asking Linden what she wanted them to do.

“I am able to interpret their speech as well as the mere-son,” said the Harrow with a suggestion of smugness. “Though they recognise that you do not comprehend them, they strive to inform you that I possess the knowledge to unmake them. Also they fear my purpose, just as they fear my attacker’s. In the name of their Weird, however, they will give of their utmost to preserve you, ignoring the certainty of failure and doom.”

Linden stared at him. “Wait a minute. You understand them?”

She had made a promise to the Waynhim and the ur-viles. If the Harrow could kill them all-

“Lady,” he replied. “I repeat that I have made a considerable study of such beings. I have pored over the Demondim, as you know, but also over both their makers and their makings. These spawn are corporeal. Therefore they are not as readily unbound as the Demondim. Yet they may be erased from life by one who has gleaned the secrets of their creation.

“Behold.”

With one hand, the Harrow performed a florid gesture as if he were drawing mystic symbols in the air. With the other, he stroked the umber beads of his doublet.

Suddenly one of the ur-viles at the edge of the wedge near him slumped. As he gestured, the creature appeared to sag into itself as if it were being corroded by its own acrid blood. In moments, it had become a frothing puddle of blackness in the ploughed dirt and shale.

From Esmer came a sound like the sighing of water over jagged rocks. A blast seemed to gather around him as if he were mustering seas.

“They will wield dark theurgies against me,” said the Harrow like a shrug. “However, I am not troubled. I have expended much to garner difficult knowledge. It will suffice to ward me.”

What I seek, lady, is to possess your instruments of power.

Far too late, Linden shouted. “Stop that! God damn you, I promised them!” The liquid remains of the ur-vile bubbled and steamed, denaturing quickly. Soon it had evaporated. “Do it again, and I’ll make a caesure for Esmer to use against you!”

She was bluffing: she could not draw on Covenant’s ring while Esmer stood nearby. Cail’s son knew it. She gambled that the Insequent did not.

In response, he laughed. “A dire threat, lady, but empty. You are known to me. Your desire for the service which I am able to perform will outweigh other avowals.”

“Then,” Linden snapped hotly. “you had better explain yourself. And make it fast. If you know me even half as well as you think, you know that I’m sick of being manipulated. I am not going to put up with it.”

He had already cost her the Mahdoubt. He had put the villagers in danger to obtain her aid against the Fall; to coerce her. Now he had slain an ur-vile. And by summoning the Demondim, Esmer had caused the deaths of dozens of Masters, ur-viles, and Waynhim. He had helped Roger and the croyel snatch her out of her proper time. Clearly he had been willing to cause the deaths of the Woodhelvennin in order to snare the Harrow.

Moving slowly, Liand brought Rhohm to Mahrtiir’s side. In his hand, he still cupped the orcrest. The Sunstone shone again: it burned like a clean star in his palm, brilliant and ineffable. Its white light seemed to exalt him, limning both his youth and his resolve.

“Perhaps a test of truth, Linden’?” he suggested. His voice shook, but his hand held steady.

Behind Linden, Pahni radiated apprehension. Yet she stayed with Anele, watching over the old man while he slept on Hrama’s back.

“No!” Esmer shouted in a voice that resounded as though it echoed back to him from tall cliffs. “Uncaring Insequent, your purpose is an abomination!” Energy accumulated around him, imminent and potent. If he released it, it would hit like a cyclone. “You will not speak.”

The Harrow cocked a scornful eyebrow. “How will I be prevented? Your power is great, mere-son. You have inherited much. Doubtless I might be slain, were I unable to step aside. Yet here there is no caesure to constrain me. Undisturbed by such forces, I may pass where and how I will. Strike as you choose. I will not remain to receive your blow.”

“Flee if you dare,” countered Esmer. “I am the descendant of Elohim. I will harry you to the outermost verge of the Earth.”

“You will not,” the Harrow snorted. “You are bound to the lady. Also you are no true Elohim. Your mortal blood cannot withstand her Staff. She will defend me because she must. She greatly desires my service. And when her fire is raised against you, it will scour you to the marrow of your bones. If you do not perish, you will be made helpless, for good or ill.”

Esmer’s and the Harrow’s threats were loud. Linden spoke softly. “A test of truth. I like it.” I wish I could spare you. Hell, I wish any of us could spare you. The thought that she might be risking Liand’s life made her heart quail, but she betrayed no hesitation. “Does one of you want to volunteer? Should I choose for you?”

She had no idea what would happen. As far as she knew, both Liand and the orcrest would crumble. But she needed to counter the animosity between Esmer and the Harrow. She had to understand their fear or loathing toward each other. And she wanted at least one of them to give her an honest explanation.

She thought that she saw a flicker of uncertainty in the shrouded emerald of Esmer’s gaze. His incipient storm wavered. And the Harrow seemed troubled by her proposal.

Or by something else-

Unexpectedly Galt announced. It is needless to hazard the Stonedownor, or the orcrest.” He and the other Humbled had joined Linden’s defenders. He spoke to her, although his gaze was fixed on the Harrow. “This Insequent has defeated us once. But he has forgotten that Brinn of the Haruchai surpassed ak-Haru Kenaustin Ardenol in single combat. Knowing the Harrow, we will not again fail against him.”

Linden expected Esmer and the Harrow to react with scorn; but she was wrong. Suddenly vindicated or alarmed, Esmer took a few steps backward. Ignoring Galt, the Harrow turned the caves of his eyes to the east, past Linden and her companions.

With an air of insouciance, the Insequent informed the empty air, “This is a petty chicane. You are indeed reduced without the aid and knowledge of the croyel. I concede that your glamour is potent, extending as it does to conceal so many. But such ploys do not become you. If you claim the stature to stand among this company, more valour will be required of you.”

“Talk’s cheap, asshole,” retorted Roger.

Twenty or thirty paces in the direction of the Harrow’s gaze, Covenant’s son appeared as if he had stepped through an imperceptible portal.

“Run while you can,” he continued. As he unveiled himself to her senses, Linden felt the seething rage of his right hand, Kastenessen’s hand; magma and fury free of dross, distilled down to their essential savagery. If you don’t, I’m going to fry your bones. Then I think we’ll all eat that silly horse of yours.”

He did not have Jeremiah with him. Still Linden’s heart ached as if she had been spurned.

“Indeed?” The Harrow’s tone was a snarl of mockery. The lady will not permit it. And I will aid her against you, as will these many Demondim-spawn.”

“I know,” Roger spat. “That’s why I didn’t come alone.”

With a gesture that left a reeking wail across Linden’s sight, he unwrapped his glamour from an army of Cavewights.

Instinctively she cried out for power; and the Staff answered with a clarion spout of flame.

She had seen such creatures before, in the Wightwarrens under Mount Thunder. They were formed for delving, with huge spatulate hands like mattocks and heads that resembled battering rams; disproportionately long scrawny limbs; hunched torsos and protruding ribs. Standing erect, they were nearly as tall as Giants. Because their arms and legs were so thin, she might have expected them to be weak; but she already knew their strength. Although they could crawl in improbable spaces, they were mighty diggers, able to gouge and crush rocks in their fingers. Their heavy jaws may have been capable of chewing stone. The ruddy heat of the Earth’s depths filled their eyes like molten granite.

Roger Covenant had brought at least two hundred Cavewights with him, ready for battle. They wore crude armour fashioned from thick plates of stone lashed together. And they were all armed. Some bore spears and bludgeons: others hefted hacking broadswords as brutal as claymores.

Linden had expected the skurj, not Roger and Cavewights. But she had told him that she planned to head for Andelain. He could assume that she would essay the most direct route from Revelstone. Certainly he had had plenty of time to position his forces. And Kastenessen had touched Anele: the Elohim knew precisely where she was.

Like Esmer, Roger meant to block the Harrow’s intentions. If Covenant’s son-and therefore Kastenessen-had wished only to prevent her from reaching Andelain, he would not have come when other powers might defend her.

The skurj might not be far behind-

Linden’s flame rose higher, leaping into the heavens.

As if on command, Hrama and Naharahn brought Anele and Pahni close to Linden. Liand was pushed toward her as Stave and the Humbled quickly formed a cordon around the most vulnerable members of their company. At the same time, Mahrtiir and Bhapa charged at Roger and the Cavewights, two against two hundred-

In the distance, the Woodhelvennin watched the onset of battle. The Masters among them may have urged them to flee. If so, they paid no heed.

Desperately Linden prepared a scourge of fire. But she could not choose a target: she was torn between her rage at Roger and her frantic desire to protect the Ramen.

Narunal and Whrany pounded toward the army. The Cavewights responded with a cacophonous shriek. From Roger’s right hand came a spew of hot theurgy like a bolt of fluid stone. It would have slain the two Ranyhyn and their riders instantly; should have slain them. Yet Narunal and Whrany veered aside, supernally swift, as if they had foreseen Roger’s attack. His blast hit the ground, sending an eruption of flint and shale into the air, charring the dirt as if the soil were leaves and twigs. It did not touch flesh.

A heartbeat later, the Manethrall and his Cord sprang from their mounts with their garrotes ready. They leapt past two of the leading Cavewights; wrapped their weapons around the Cavewights’ necks as they passed. Their momentum jerked the cords taut. Then they stood on the backs of the creatures, using the strength of their legs to strangle the Cavewights.

Mahrtiir’s opponent reached up with both hands to snatch the Manethrall from its back. But before the long fingers found Mahrtiir, Narunal reared, slamming his hooves into the creature’s chest. As the Cavewight toppled backward, its neck snapped. Mahrtiir dropped to the ground, unscathed amid an enraged throng of creatures.

Whrany endeavoured to give Bhapa similar aid, but the vicious thrust of another Cavewight’s spear forced the Ranyhyn to dance aside. Then Whrany whinnied sharply: a warning. As the creature that Bhapa was trying to throttle grabbed for him, the Cord released his grip and jumped toward his mount-and a bludgeon which would have crushed him struck the Cavewight’s skull instead.

Now Linden burned to defend the Ramen. Mahrtiir was about to be trampled: a spear would spit Bhapa if a swinging broadsword did not catch Whrany first. But Roger had already mustered another quarrel of magma. If she did not strike at him-

“Linden!” Liand yelled.

Instantly she was surrounded by flaring powers and combat.

Behind her, the ur-viles and Waynhim had rearranged themselves into three wedges. One hurled a lurid splash of vitriol at the Harrow. Another struck Esmer with concussions like the spasms of an earthquake. And from the third, a volley of blackness roared over Linden’s head to fall, howling, toward Roger. He was compelled to redirect his blast so that he would not be incinerated.

The Harrow seemed momentarily surprised by his danger. Wherever he was struck, his chlamys, doublet, and leggings caught fire. But with one hand he swept the flames away: with the other he rubbed his beads in an intricate pattern. Then he began to gesture urgently, muttering incantations.

No more acid touched him, although the loremaster’s wedge assailed him furiously, barking like maddened dogs. Instead the corrosive fluid evaporated before it could bite into him.

Behind the loremaster, ur-viles began to drop one by one, sagging into themselves as though they were being eaten alive by their own lore.

Esmer stood upright to meet the concussive assault, and his eyes gleamed like the glare of lightning on the waves of a bitter sea. He made no effort to defend himself. Rather he accepted each crash and detonation, although they shook him as if they struck his bones. In spite of his obvious pain, he ignored the wedge attacking him.

As he had in the Verge of Wandering, and again on Revelstone’s plateau, he caused the ground to erupt like water into spouts and squalls. Dirt and broken stone became little hurricanes which swirled upward as if they had been spewed forth by the earth. Waving his arms, he sent towering geysers, not against his assailants, but toward the Harrow.

The Harrow had said that he could step aside from Esmer’s power; yet he did not. He may have been snared by the force of the ur-viles- or by the imminent threat of Roger’s might.

Linden felt the Cavewights rushing at her. Instinctively she turned Earthpower on them, whirling the Staff around her head to flail the creatures with flame. The Cavewights wielded no magic except their own strength and weapons: alone, they were no match for the ur-viles and Waynhim. But the Demondim-spawn were fighting three other antagonists at once. They had no theurgy to spare for the Cavewights.

In one place, the charge of the Cavewights was occluded by the Ramen and their Ranyhyn. From the ground, Mahrtiir dodged blows and kicks, avoided stamping feet. At the same time, he contrived to trip creatures with his garrote. In the confusion, Cavewights trying to slash or gut him often hit each other instead. And Narunal reared to his full height, lashing out powerfully with his hooves. Meanwhile Bhapa had urged Whrany among the creatures around Mahrtiir. Whrany delivered kicks with uncanny accuracy as Bhapa sprang away. The Raman wrapped his cord around a broadsword-wielding Cavewight’s arm and used his own weight and the creature’s fury to redirect the blade so that it cut at other attackers.

The efforts of the Ramen and their mounts slowed one small section of the charge, leaving Linden free to fling fire and desperation at nearer foes. She could strike there without endangering her friends.

Yet a dissociated reluctance hampered her. Surely she was still a healer? Surely she still loathed war and killing? But she had found new aspects of herself on Gallows Howe; had become a woman whom she hardly knew: she yearned to repay with death the affront of her foes. Images of the croyel feasting on her son’s neck demanded recompense.

Her own eagerness for bloodshed dismayed her. Apart from their sheer numbers, the Cavewights had no defence against the power of her Staff. She could slaughter them too easily. In spite of her companions’ peril, she unleashed only a portion of her full strength. She ached to fling it at Roger rather than at the brute rampage of the creatures.

Nevertheless she fought. Mahrtiir and Bhapa might be slain in moments. Already the Ranyhyn bled from several wounds, and both Ramen had been hurt. They needed her; needed more violence from her than she knew how to countenance. She could not save the Ramen unless she overcame her chagrin.

If Roger struck at her now-

Liand might be able to defend himself with the orcrest, perhaps by blinding a few assailants. Pahni might find some way to keep Anele alive briefly. But they would not survive for long.

“Stave!” Linden panted. “Stave.” But it was Branl and Galt who answered her.

Leaving their Ranyhyn behind to aid in the last defence, the two Humbled sprinted on foot toward the chaos clustered around Mahrtiir and Bhapa. They seemed as mighty as Giants as they hammered into the fray. With heavy punches and iron kicks and slashing elbows, they attacked the knees of the Cavewights. And when the creatures fell, squealing in pain, Galt and Branl battered their throats.

Igniting creatures until they burned like torches, Linden tried to see what happened to the Humbled and the Ramen. But the rest of Roger’s army continued to surge toward her, and she could not afford to let her concentration slip.

Roger ignored the damage to his army. Now he seemed to counter the roaring blackness of the Demondim-spawn with dismissive ease. The power blazing from his right fist increased moment by moment as if Kastenessen fed it; as if the Elohim channelled more and more of his scoria and anguish through Roger. And as Roger drove back the assault of the ur-viles and Waynhim, he also sent shafts of rage at the Harrow.

A spear arched through the air, plummeting toward Linden. Stave knocked it aside without apparent effort. Frantically she struggled against her consternation to pour more and still more passion into the Staffs yellow fire.

Embattled, the Harrow began to give ground. When she risked a glance behind her, however, Linden saw that the Insequent fought only Roger and Esmer. The acid of the ur-viles no longer reached him. He gestured furiously with one hand and shouted commands to ward off Roger’s blasts. With the other, he sketched arcane symbols in an attempt to quash earthen geysers. Frenzy filled the emptiness of his eyes. Yet the black theurgy of the ur-viles did not endanger him, although their loremaster still flung gouts of vitriol. Esmer’s efforts to hurt the Harrow disrupted the attack of the Demondim-spawn.

Esmer-?

He could have attacked the Harrow from any direction. At first, Linden thought that Cail’s son chose an angle of assault which blocked the magicks of the ur-viles because he did not wish to share the Harrow’s death with them: he craved it for himself-or for Kastenessen. But then she saw the truth. While he assailed the Harrow, Esmer continued to leave himself exposed to the shattering concussions of the third wedge; and they were weakening him. Blood haemorrhaged from his mouth with every breath. His arms and legs were livid with detonations and bruises. His cymar hung in tatters. As a result, his force was simply not great enough to overwhelm the Insequent. Yet he accepted his own hurts in order to concentrate his waning puissance on the Harrow.

In fact, he appeared to be protecting the Demondim-spawn. The Harrow needed too much of his mystic knowledge to survive Roger’s magma: the added threat of Esmer’s swirling bombardment prevented him from unmaking any more of the ur-viles.

Aid and betrayal. Even here, the son of Cail and the Dancers of the Sea could not pick a side.

In spite of Linden’s fire, the leading Cavewights drew nearer. Now Clyme charged to meet them, crashing into them with all of Mhornym’s mass and might. A barrage of spears seemed to plummet as one toward Linden. Impossibly swift, Stave used one to strike the others down. The incessant clash of eldritch powers shook the ground. Hyn’s hooves danced as she strove to provide Linden with a steady seat.

“No!” Linden howled, although she could hardly hear herself through the mad clangour and tumult of weapons, blows, screams. Nevertheless the ur-viles and Waynhim must have understood her; or understood what was happening better than she did. In unison, they stopped attacking Esmer. Turning their wedge, they began to hurl corrosion among the Cavewights.

The impact slowed the creatures’ onrush. And Linden set fires among them as if they were dried and brittle, primed for conflagration. Sickening herself, she wielded her flail of Earthpower. As long as Roger only defended himself from the Demondim-spawn while he tried to destroy the Harrow-as long as he did not strike at her and her mortal allies-she forced herself to fight his army instead of renewing the battle that had begun under Melenkurion Skyweir; instead of repaying him for his part in Jeremiah’s pain.

In glimpses, she saw Mahrtiir and Bhapa; Galt and Branl; Clyme. The Ramen had neither the strength nor the speed of Haruchai: they certainly could not stand against the size and muscle of the Cavewights. Nonetheless they were experienced fighters, trained to protect the Ranyhyn with quickness and cunning. And their mounts fought for them. Gradually Galt and Branl on foot and Clyme on Mhornym lunged and dodged their way through the melee toward Bhapa and Mahrtiir.

They were all covered in blood, their own as well as the Cavewights’. The carnage among the creatures was terrible. Yet the Cavewights surged closer to Linden and her remaining defenders with every step and heartbeat.

At a word from Stave, Bhanoryl and Naybahn joined the battle for the sake of their riders, leaving only the former Master to protect Linden while Liand and Pahni guarded Anele.

Roger appeared to laugh, exulting in power. If he had turned his vehemence against the Waynhim and ur-viles, he might have butchered them all. But he was content to ward off their black lore while he strove to burn down the Harrow.

Again and again, the Insequent was driven back. If he had the ability to step aside, he could not use it: he was too hard-pressed by Roger’s gleeful fury and Esmer’s wounded assault.

Linden had no idea what a being as dangerous and greedy as the Harrow had done-or could do-to earn such enmity from Lord Foul’s minions.

Still the wedge challenging the Harrow could not reach him through Esmer’s ragged eruptions. Abruptly those ur-viles changed their objectives. In small groups of five or six, they began to peel away. Scampering on all fours, they sped to join the formation which fought the Cavewights.

They were too late-and the Cavewights were too many. Even Linden’s desperation was not enough. In spite of the dark efforts of the Demondim-spawn, she and her last companions would soon be inundated. If Esmer and perhaps even the Harrow did not turn to aid her, she might not be able to keep herself alive. She would certainly not be able to preserve Stave and Liand, Pahni and Anele.

As far as she knew, the other Ramen and the Humbled were already dead.

While she transformed creatures into living, screaming firewood, a Cavewight hurled a bludgeon at her from a distance of no more than six or seven paces. She barely saw it before Hynyn sprang in front of Hyn, and Stave snatched the massive club out of the air. Using the weapon’s velocity, he swung his arm to fling the bludgeon back at the Cavewight.

This time when Liand shouted her name, Linden looked at him; saw him pointing toward the Woodhelvennin.

They had been standing at some distance, watching in comparative safety. Now they were running toward the battle. They appeared to be yelling, although she could not hear them through the din. For an instant, she thought that they meant to join the fight; that the destruction of First Woodhelven had inspired them to strike back.

But then she saw a huge pack of kresh sweeping down on the villagers from the north. Easily the great yellow wolves leapt over or splashed through the brook. Men, women, and children fled slaughter in the only direction open to them. The wolves would have run them down in moments if they had turned to either side.

Nevertheless they were caught between the battle and the kresh. Soon all of them would die.

The two Masters-the only defenders of the Woodhelvennin-had already thrown themselves at the pack. But they were only two. And their mounts were merely horses, not Ranyhyn. They would be engulfed almost immediately.

Despite the turmoil and frenzy around her, Linden felt the presence of a Raver among the kresh.

She knew that malign spirit well: it had once possessed her, seeking to desecrate her love for Covenant. It was moksha Jehannum, and it ruled the wolves, goading them until they were rabid for bloodshed.

She did not pause for thought. She had no time. An Elohim had warned the Land of merewives and skurj and croyel. He had spoken of a shadow upon the hearts of his people. He had foretold the threat of the halfhand.

And he had mentioned Sandgorgons

Linden had seen his other prophecies fulfilled. Why not this one?

Distance has no meaning to such power.

Hardly aware of her own actions, she cried. “Nom! We need you!” Then she sent Hyn hurtling into the collision of theurgies, pounding through cataclysm toward the panicked villagers.

Instantly Stave and Liand joined her, and Pahni and Anele followed at her back, as if they-or their mounts-had known what she would do.

When Thomas Covenant had summoned Nom against the Clave, the Sandgorgon had taken some time to respond. The creature had been compelled to cross nameless oceans and uncounted leagues from Bhrathairealm and the Great Desert. If the same delay occurred now-assuming that Nom answered Linden at all-every human and horse in the valley, and perhaps every Demondim-spawn as well, would be dead before the creature appeared. Nevertheless she did not turn aside or look back. The straits of the Woodhelvennin drove her. For their sake, and to confront moksha, she could resolve the contradictions within her. With Law and Earthpower, she opened a passage through the battle. At Hyn’s best speed, she raced northward.

She did not see the Harrow blanch as if he were appalled at what she had done. She only heard him call wildly. “I am able to convey you to your son!”

He may have intended to break her heart.

Still she did not falter. She could not: at that moment, the need of the villagers outweighed every other consideration. Even her friends-Concentrating on the kresh, she felt rather than saw the Insequent allow his defences to collapse. Only her nerves recognised what was happening as he wrapped himself and his destrier in a different kind of knowledge and vanished.

Deprived of his immediate target, Roger gave a howl of rage. But he had other prey: he, too, did not pause. Whirling, he aimed lava and loathing at Linden’s back.

She did not care. He had become incidental to her; a mere annoyance. At that moment, Gallows Howe and Caerroil Wildwood were incarnate in her. Like the Forestal, she had precious lives to defend. She only needed the Woodhelvennin to make way for her. If they did not-if they impeded her charge-

The kresh and the Raver were almost upon them.

Roger’s first blast fell short, intercepted by roiling blackness: the ur-viles and Waynhim had adjusted swiftly to counter him. A heartbeat later, he was attacked by half or more of the surviving Demondim-spawn. The rest threw their lore against the Cavewights in an attempt to prevent Roger’s army from following Linden.

But he was ecstatic with Kastenessen’s power. In this time, his given hand could draw directly on its source: Kastenessen’s savagery exalted him. The concussions and vitriol of his attackers he slammed aside with scornful ease. And his efforts to strike at Linden coerced them to spend their force in her defence rather than against him.

Then the Demondim-spawn themselves were assailed. In spite of his injuries and weakness, Esmer sent shocks through the ground to disrupt the formations of the Waynhim and ur-viles. He slew none of them; but his interference exposed them to the cruder force of the Cavewights. While Roger aimed his viciousness at Linden, his creatures hacked brutally at her defenders.

Almost screaming, Linden shouted the Seven Words until her Staff shone like an avatar of the sun’s fire. Frantic men and women dashed out of her path, snatching their children after them. Pahni’s young voice in a Ramen war-cry echoed the brilliance of Liand’s orcrest. Stave’s implacable mien promised death. Anele had awakened; but with the caesure gone, he clung to Hrama’s neck and did not hinder the Ranyhyn or his friends.

The huge fierce wolves had already begun to tear down and rend the slowest of the villagers when Linden and her last companions crashed into the pack.

The Cavewights were thinking creatures: the kresh were not. The Raver was worse than any beast or creature. And the Woodhelvennin were as helpless as trees. They had children with them, children, and could not defend themselves. As if she had become mindless herself, she sent great waves and breakers of flame at the wolves, burning them by the score to misshapen lumps of flesh, charred and reeking.

But she barely saw individual kresh: she paid no attention to what became of them. She sought moksha Jehannum. If she could do it, she meant to light a conflagration that would end the Raver’s cruelty forever.

Roger might have killed her then. She had no desire to defend herself-and no power to spare. In addition, Esmer had broken apart the wedges of the Demondim-spawn. Most of the ur-viles and Waynhim were fighting for their lives in small clusters: only a few remained to oppose Roger’s scoria. While she rampaged among the kresh, she left herself as vulnerable as the villagers.

But Roger did not send his puissance against her. He could not. Before he could hurl another blast, half a dozen Sandgorgons smashed into the rear of his army.

Crushing Cavewights with ease, three of the Sandgorgons wrought havoc among Roger’s forces while the rest attacked him directly.

Their strength dwarfed that of the Cavewights. Alone, Nom had once shattered Revelstone’s inner gates; had gouged out a passage for Glimmermere’s waters to quench the last of the Banefire. With Grimmand Honninscrave’s help, Nom had shredded samadhi Sheol’s spirit. Given time, half a dozen Sandgorgons could have levelled Lord’s Keep entirely.

The weapons and desperation of the Cavewights could not wound them. The ur-viles and Waynhim scattered before them. And Esmer did not turn his power against them. Instead he quelled his spouts of dirt and stone, his tremors in the ground, as if he had acknowledged defeat-or achieved victory. Panting blood, he seemed to fold the air around him as he disappeared.

Roger would have been beaten to pulp if he had not turned all of his scoria and wrath against the Sandgorgons. Their blunt arms and pulverising might would have left no recognisable remains of his ordinary flesh.

Moksha Jehannum lashed the kresh to frothing madness; but the Raver eluded Linden. It was here and there throughout the pack, mastering the wolves, transmuting their natural fear of fire into ferocity. She feared that moksha would attempt to escape her by possessing one of the Woodhelvennin, forcing her to slay an innocent victim if she wished to harm the Raver. Therefore she wielded her fire like devastation, taking care only that she did not harm any human or Haruchai or Ranyhyn.

On one side of her, the brightness of Liand’s Sunstone dazzled the kresh so that they gnashed and tore at each other blindly. On the other, Stave rode Hynyn and let the roan stallion fight for him while he watched over Linden. Behind them, Pahni clung to Anele with one hand, supporting him, keeping him close to her, while she used her garrote to whip away any wolf that sprang for Hrama or Naharahn.

Suddenly Stave reached down to snatch a Master out of a raging mass of wolves. Hynyn hammered with his hooves at the skulls and spines of kresh as Stave swung the Haruchai up behind him. The Master was badly rent, bleeding from many grim bites and gouges; but as soon as he settled himself against Stave’s back, he kicked at every wolf that came within reach.

Of the other Master, Linden saw no sign. She did not know if Mahrtiir, Bhapa, the Humbled, or any of their mounts remained alive. But the villagers were behind her now, and she did not permit any kind of fear to inhibit her scouring flame.

Nevertheless, on some subcutaneous level of perception, she recognised that the Cavewights were being decimated. She felt them break as they died, shattered by the tremendous force of the Sandgorgons. And she sensed the precise instant when Roger’s rage and frustration turned to terror. He burned the Sandgorgons until their hides bubbled and the bubbles burst, spilling viscid blood that stank of dire vitality; but he could not stop them.

He was about to meet the same doom which had fallen on his army: Linden knew that. But she did not pause to watch him fight for his life. She was too busy killing. Too busy searching for the Raver so that she could at least try to unmake Lord Foul’s ancient servant.

And she was nearing the outermost limits of her own endurance.

Gradually she began to flicker and fail. Consumed by the struggle to keep going-to seek moksha Jehannum with percipience and fire-she did not see Roger call the few remaining Cavewights to him, leap onto one of their backs, and send them racing eastward away from the Sandgorgons.

With their long legs and their peculiar strength, the Cavewights ran as if they were as fleet as Ranyhyn. Perhaps the Sandgorgons could have caught them: the denizens of the Great Desert were also swift. But Roger had hurt all of the Sandgorgons to some extent. And he flung a terrible heat behind him as the Cavewights fled. The Sandgorgons did not give chase. Instead they began stamping to death any of their foes which they had merely crippled.

After Esmer’s disappearance, the ur-viles and Waynhim had slipped away, vanishing as imperceptibly as they had appeared.

When finally the last two or three dozen wolves turned to flee, moksha Raver escaped among them, untouched by her flagging vehemence. Within moments, they had crossed the brook northward.

She wanted to pursue them; to go on raining down fire until she reached the Raver itself. But she could not. As the kresh fled, something within her broke, and she lost her grasp on Earthpower. Her flames guttered and faded in the dust of battle; the dust and the tarnished sunlight.

She had already gone too far beyond herself. She did not know how to go farther.

Chapter Seven: An Aftertaste of Victory

In spite of her exhaustion and dismay, Linden tried to keep moving. But she was numb with killing; too profoundly weary to consider what she did. She did not go in search of her friends. She did not ask what had become of them. Instead, trembling, she fell back on years of training and experience: triage, trauma, emergency care. Her depleted spirit she focused on the needs directly in front of her.

Mutely she asked Hyn to bear her among the nearest of the fallen Woodhelvennin.

Some were dead. She ignored them. And some were so close to death that no power of hers would save them. She ignored them as well. But when she found a toddler clutched in his mother’s arms, both savagely mauled, and both still clinging to life, she dropped down from Hyn’s back, knelt beside them, and reached far inside herself to uncover a few faint embers of resolve.

As much as she could, Linden gave herself to the woman and her child.

I am able to convey you to your son.

After a few moments of Earthpower, the woman opened her eyes, gazed about her with dumb incomprehension. The toddler recovered enough to wail.

Linden looked to Hyn again.

The mare stood over a man whose right leg had been nearly severed. Terrible chunks had been ripped from his sides. But he, too, clung to life. Staggering toward him, Linden blessed or cursed him with frail flames until he began to feel his own agony, and she believed that he might live. Then she let Hyn guide her to another breathing victim of the kresh.

As she moved, stumbling, she passed the body of a Master. His flesh was a killing field, torn and bitten almost beyond recognition. Dead wolves were piled around him, blood seeping from their corpses to mingle with his and stain the churned soil. They were his legacy of service to the Land.

Hyn indicated an old couple who had fled holding hands. After they had fallen, they had continued to clasp each other as though that touch might keep them alive. Linden heard blood in their breathing, saw long gashes in their limbs and torsos. She would have passed them by, convinced that they could not be saved; but Hyn seemed to insist. Obediently Linden braced the Staff between them and dripped fire into them like a transfusion. The world tilted around her while she waited for some sign that she had not failed.

She was not the woman she had once been, the healer who had rushed headlong into Berek Halfhand’s camp. Her battle under Melenkurion Skyweir had changed her. And here she had expended herself in bloodshed; drenched herself in it. She no longer knew what she meant when she called herself a physician.

Nevertheless the old man eventually lifted his head, coughing blood as he looked toward his companion. His wife? Linden did not know. But the woman stirred; tightened her grip on the old man’s hand. Seeing her move, feeling her grasp, he smiled as if he no longer feared the consequences of his wounds.

— to convey you-

Weakly Linden reached into her pocket for the twisted remains of Jeremiah’s red racecar. She closed her fingers on it, drew it out to look at it. Then she let the tilting earth lower her to the ground. Hardly conscious that she sat on a dying wolf, she peered at Jeremiah’s ruined toy. It was all that she had left of him; and her heart had become stone.

— to your son.

The Harrow had destroyed ur-viles and Waynhim. More had been killed by the Cavewights. The Sandgorgons may have slain still more as they rampaged among Roger’s army. She had made a promise to the Demondim-spawn. Now many of them were dead.

And the Harrow was gone.

The bullet hole in her shirt seemed a little thing, as trivial as the grass stains written on her jeans; but that small catastrophe had cost her both her life and her son. Around her, the price continued to mount.

There was movement nearby. The villagers wandered among the slain, haunted by death. Some of them searched for friends or families; lovers or elders or children. Others stumbled aimlessly, as though they had lost the meaning of their lives. Doubtless they had seen caesures before. They were acquainted with the depredations of kresh. But they knew nothing of calamities on this scale. The Masters had not prepared them

Hyn nudged Linden, urging her to rise. There was work to be done. No one else could do it. But she had come to the end of herself. She stared at Jeremiah’s toy and made no attempt to stand.

Liand and Pahni found her there. Inspired by some impulse of sanity and simple care beyond her conception, they had gone to pick through the wreckage of First Woodhelven. Now they returned, bearing waterskins, some broken bread, and a small bundle of dried fruit. One of the waterskins held springwine.

While her friends watched, she drank both water and springwine greedily; ate bread until she felt strong enough to chew small bits of apple and fig. Such things could not relieve her deepest prostration, but they reduced her trembling and restored a measure of awareness.

I am able to convey you to your son.

When she regained her feet at last, she put away the racecar and resumed the labour that she had chosen for herself long ago.

Linden, find me.

She knew what Thomas Covenant and Jeremiah and the Land’s plight required of her; but those burdens would have to wait. Guided by Hyn, she walked between the fallen, weaving kind fire into their wounds and gently burning away their agony. And Liand and Pahni went with her, supporting her efforts with orcrest and powdered flakes of amanibhavam, or with springwine and water.

Anele still rested along Hrama’s neck, although he remained alert. His blind gaze regarded the Sandgorgons with apprehension. Yet he did not try to flee. Apparently he found the creatures less terrifying than a Fall.

Linden estimated that thirty or forty of the Woodhelvennin had been ripped down before she struck the kresh. A third of them were already dead: five or six more had passed beyond any succour except the solace of the last sleep. With Liand’s aid, and Pahni’s, she retrieved the rest from their worst wounds. Sepsis would be a serious problem later: the fangs and claws of the wolves had left filth in every hurt. But she spent her scant energies on only the most immediate damage. As she worked, she slowly recovered her concern for Mahrtiir, Bhapa, the Humbled, and their Ranyhyn. When she had done what she could for the villagers in a short time, with little strength, she asked Hyn to lead her to the companions whom she had abandoned.

Even Galt, Clyme, and Branl deserved more than she had done for them.

Along the way, she came upon the other Master who had warded First Woodhelven. His mangled left leg was only the most cruel of his many injuries. Nonetheless Linden found him limping among his charges, urging them to set aside their shock and attend to their fallen. Unable to stand or walk without support, he had improvised a crutch from a branch of the shattered banyan-grove. His pain was as vivid as the blood pulsing from his leg.

His name, he informed Linden, was Vernigil. Stolidly he acknowledged her intervention on behalf of the tree-dwellers. But when she offered to treat his hurts, he declined. His wounds were honourable. He meant to bear them honourably.

She was far too weary to protest. And she saw a certain logic in his refusal. Those Woodhelvennin who were able to understand what he had endured for them responded to the authority of his torn flesh.

Leaving the Master to live or die, Linden followed Hyn back toward the battlefield where she had last seen Bhapa, Mahrtiir, and the Humbled.

Vaguely she noticed that the Sandgorgons stood together on the far side of the carnage. Stave was with them: he faced them as if he could communicate with them. But she had no fortitude to spare for what passed between them.

Her vision was a blur of fatigue. Yet she needed to watch where she walked. The ground was littered with the corpses of Cavewights, their long limbs jutting at odd angles where the bones had been twisted or split. They baffled her senses: she might trip over them. And if she could not see, she would be unable to find those whom she sought.

Fortunately Pahni’s sight was keener; less bewildered by the ramifications of slaughter. Abruptly she cried out in anguish. Racing ahead, she dropped to her knees amid the stench and confusion of the dead.

Liand hurried after her; but Linden could not hasten. She could only blink and stare, and try to find her way.

The Humbled waited near Pahni: they appeared to stand in attendance. Like Vernigil, they were all severely injured; cut and battered from scalp to shin. Runnels of blood flowed down their arms and legs. Yet they retained their wonted upright intransigence, as if neither pain nor death could touch them.

Now Linden saw four Ranyhyn there. She recognised Narunal. Bhanoryl, Mhornym, and Naybahn were less familiar to her, but she squinted at them until she was sure. They, too, were gravely wounded; almost staggering with blood loss. But they, too, seemed to stand in attendance, as though they had come to pay homage.

They would let Linden treat them, if the Humbled would not. But it was possible that neither the great horses nor the Haruchai absolutely required her aid. In their separate fashions, the Ranyhyn and the Masters were preternaturally hardy. They might survive as they were.

Then Linden reached the place where Pahni and Liand knelt over Mahrtiir, Bhapa, and Whrany. Pahni fought tears as she fumbled at her pouch of amanibhavam. Beside her, Liand’s face was pale with dismay. The orcrest rested, inert and forgotten, in his fist. He could find no use for its magic here.

Bhapa huddled on his knees between the Manethrall and Whrany, beating his forehead on the blood-raddled ground. He did not permit himself to howl or weep, and so he had no other outlet for his pain. Peering at him, Linden discerned that he had suffered less physical damage than the Humbled or the Ranyhyn. He had a few broken ribs, a few slashes and contusions. Infection would kill him eventually: his injuries themselves would not. And a poultice of amanibhavam might suffice to save him, if Linden’s stamina failed.

But Whrany was dead. The Ranyhyn’s head had been almost severed from his body. His blood drenched Bhapa. The Cord wore it as if it were a winding-sheet.

Mahrtiir still breathed. That was unfortunate. Death would have been a kinder fate.

He lay on his back, gasping at the dusty reek of bloodshed. In spite of his Ramen toughness, he writhed as though he knew that he should not move-and could not restrain himself. He had been cut and pierced as severely as the Humbled; as often as the Ranyhyn. But some weapon, possibly a spear, had struck him near his left temple and carried straight through the front of his skull, ripping away both of his eyes.

Only countless hours in County Hospital’s emergency room enabled Linden to study the Manethrall’s face until she was sure that the bones behind his eyes remained essentially intact; that this wound had not reached his brain.

Unable to efface her weakness, she strove to ignore it. With desperation and willpower, a kind of grieving rage, she fanned embers of Earthpower into unsteady flames and spilled them over Mahrtiir until he was laved in fire.

In some sense, Linden was still a physician. She could not behold his suffering and remain passive.

Please, she prayed, although there was no one who might have heeded her. Please.

Please don’t die.

Don’t hate me for not letting you die.

The Manethrall had chosen to accompany her because he chafed against the predictable and unambitious lives of his people. He had craved a tale which would deserve to be remembered among the Ramen. And he had supported her with complete fidelity.

This was the result. He might live, but he would never see again.

Exhaustion left her defenceless: she could not control the intensity of her health-sense. It was empathy transmogrified into excruciation. She saw every detail of his torn tissues-flesh and muscle, nerve and bone-as if it were replicated in her own body. She could have counted every ripped blood vessel, numbered every delicate channel of lymph and mucus. And she descried precisely how each tiny increment of damage could be repaired by Earthpower and Law.

She did not have the strength for the task. Even if she had been fresh and ready-even if she had not done so much killing-she could not have restored his eyes. There was nothing left of them. But everything that was possible for her, she did, and more. When she began to falter, she reached out to Liand, mutely asking for his aid. Instinctively he gave her what she needed. Summoning light from the orcrest, he gripped her hand so that the Sunstone was pressed between his palm and hers.

With that influx of power, she brought Mahrtiir back from agony and the borderlands of death.

His breathing grew quieter in spite of his pain. Now Linden was the one who gasped. As she released Liand’s hand, her surroundings seemed to turn themselves inside out, and she felt herself begin to fall.

But Bhapa surged to his feet and caught her in a fierce hug, ignoring his damaged ribs; staining her with Whrany’s blood as well as his own. “Ringthane,” he whispered, calling her away from collapse. “Mane and Tail, Ringthane! My life is yours. It was so before. Now it is yours utterly.” She heard weeping in his voice. “If the Manethrall and the Ranyhyn do not forbid it, I will accompany you into the depths of Gravin Threndor, or the inferno of Hotash Slay, or the bitter heart of the Sarangrave, and name myself blessed.”

She had no answer. She could bear neither his gratitude nor his sorrow. Mahrtiir would never see again. She had given the Manethrall a life of irredeemable darkness.

When Bhapa eased his embrace, she pulled away. “Amanibhavam,” she replied, panting raggedly. “Poultices. Bandages. Stop the bleeding.” Mahrtiir had too many other wounds, and she had tended none of them. “Then help the Ranyhyn.”

“Yes, Ringthane.” At once, Bhapa turned to obey.

Pahni had already set to work. Together the Cords mixed water with the crushed, dried blades of their potent grass to make a salve.

Helplessly Linden looked to Liand. Again he gave her what she needed. Supporting her with one arm, he lifted springwine to her lips. At the same time, he kept his orcrest alight. He may have hoped that the Sunstone’s eldritch possibilities would lend vitality to the springwine.

His instincts had not misled him. As she drank, Linden tasted something akin to Glimmermere’s lacustrine potency. If she could have bathed in the tarn, she might have been able to wash away the charnel stench of what she had done: the Cavewights burning like brittle sticks, the wolves scoured by sheets of flame-But Revelstone was too far away. She would find no healing there.

Nevertheless springwine and Liand’s considerate exertion brought her back from the brink of herself once more. Soon she was able to leave Mahrtiir and the Ranyhyn to the ministrations of Bhapa and Pahni. The Humbled she consigned to their stubbornness. First Woodhelven’s people needed more than she had done for them; far more.

There was a breeze blowing, some vagary of the undisturbed sunlight. Gently it carried the dust of battle and butchery away. But it could not shift the raw choleric stink of bloodshed, or the implications of Linden’s inadequacy.

Liand offered to accompany her. She told him to find clean cloth for bandages instead. She felt as laden with death as the dirt of Gallows Howe. If she were alone, she might finally find tears for everything that had been lost.

But before she could move past Galt, Branl, and Clyme toward the Woodhelvennin, Stave stopped her. Somehow she had failed to notice his approach.

“Chosen,” he said quietly. “you must accompany me.” Like Liand, Pahni, and Anele, he was unharmed. “The Sandgorgons require your attendance.”

Linden gestured vaguely. “I’m needed here.”

How was it possible that only those who had ridden with her against the kresh were whole?

Stave’s gaze held her. “Linden.”

His flat tone hinted at compassion. If he had ever used her given name before, she could not remember it.

“I’m not Linden.” She was dimly surprised to hear herself say those words aloud. “I’m not her anymore. Somebody else took my place under Melenkurion Skyweir.”

The Harrow wanted to trade Jeremiah for the Staff of Law and Covenant’s ring. Esmer and Roger would ensure that she had no opportunity to accept the lnsequent’s offer.

“Nonetheless,” Stave stated inflexibly, the Sandgorgons are insistent.” He was her only friend among the Haruchai. They will accept no reply except yours. If you do not comply, they will turn against the Woodhelvennin.”

Of course, she thought. Perfect. Just what we need.

She was still expected to choose who would live and who would not.

“All right.” Abruptly she addressed the Humbled. “Before you bleed to death, you might as well make yourselves useful.” Her ire was not for them, but she made no attempt to stifle it. “Liand is looking for bandages. We need hot water. Lots of it.” Surely cook pots and fabric could be found among the ruins of First Woodhelven? “And get some hurtloam if you can. These poor people don’t know what it is. They can’t see it.”

Kevin’s Dirt had deprived them of health-sense. The Masters had deprived them of knowledge.

Clyme nodded. At once, he, Galt, and Branl limped away toward the shredded village. They looked like incarnations of pain: each step exacerbated their injuries. Yet they moved stolidly, undeterred by the cost of their actions.

Soon they were joined by a number of Woodhelvennin, sent by Vernigil to assist the Humbled.

For reasons of their own, Hyn, Rhohm, and Naharahn galloped off in the direction of the brook. They may have been thirsty.

Shaking her head, Linden let Stave take her to face the Sandgorgons.

They stood in a united cluster as if the six of them shared one mind. Apart from the wounds Roger had inflicted on them-rank burns and boils that had already begun to heal-they matched her memories of Nom. Interminable ages of the Great Desert’s iron sun had leached them of colour, leaving their hides the distressed whiteness of albinos. They were shorter than Cavewights, but much more powerfully formed, bred to withstand the harshest extremes of sand and heat and gales. Their knees flexed backward, supported by the wide pads of their feet: they could traverse dunes and hardpan alike with tremendous speed.

However, their knees and hides were not their strangest features. Their arms did not include hands. Instead their forearms grew into flexible stumps like elastic truncheons, able to plough through sand or batter down stone. And they had no faces; no features of any kind apart from the subtle ridges of their skulls and two almost hidden slits that resembled gills where humankind and even Cavewights had ears. Like their forearms, their heads were made to crash against obstacles.

Linden remembered Nom well. But she had forgotten how much raw force a Sandgorgon contained. Alone, each of the creatures looked as irrefusable as a tornado. Together they seemed to reify the worst storms of the world. They were cyclones distilled to unmitigated havoc.

Long ago, Thomas Covenant had mastered Nom with wild magic and delirant resolve. At his command, Nom had crossed lands and oceans to aid him against Revelstone and the Clave. With Honninscrave’s help, Nom had torn apart samadhi Sheol. Then, somehow, the Sandgorgon had consumed the scraps of the Raver’s existence-and had thereby gained a form of sentience unknown to Sandgorgons: the ability to communicate as the Haruchai did, mind to mind. Millennia ago, Nom had exchanged understandings with the Haruchai who had fought at Covenant’s side. Now, apparently, these creatures had been speaking to Stave.

“Much has transpired during the millennia of your absence, Chosen,” he said. “I am informed that Nom returned to the Great Desert and Sandgorgons Doom bearing the rent fragments of samadhi Sheol’s spirit. These had been forever torn from coherence, but they were not deprived of intention and malice. Nom distributed them among the Sandgorgons, giving to his kind faint remnants of the Raver’s memories and lore and cruelty. Thus in small tatters the brutish minds of the Sandgorgons acquired knowledge.

“Across a great span of years, they learned to unmake the Doom in which Kasreyn of the Gyre had imprisoned them. And across a far greater span, they discovered purpose. A host of them, all those who share samadhi Sheol’s spirit, have now come to the Land. For that reason, they were able to answer your call without delay.

“Of their host, these are but a few. The rest await the outcome of your summons.”

Linden frowned in confusion. “I’m needed, Stave.” Bhapa had marked her with Whrany’s blood, and his own. “Get to the point.”

The former Master studied the Sandgorgons for a moment. Then he told Linden, “They seek your acknowledgment that they have fulfilled your desire.”

As if so many deaths were not acknowledgment enough.

“Oh, hell.” Bitterly she looked around at the battlefield, the crushed and splattered bodies of the Cavewights. “Sure. Of course.” This, too, was her doing. “There’s nothing left for them here. We can always get more corpses.”

They had threatened to attack the Woodhelvennin

Her spirit also had been torn. But she resembled Esmer more than samadhi Sheol: she was appalled by what she had become.

She needed Thomas Covenant to make her whole.

In response, Stave’s manner became more formal. “Then they are done with you. You are not the ur-Lord. You did not defeat or compel Nom. But you are the last of his companions. In gratitude for the quality of mind which they now possess, they answered your summons. They will not do so again.”

Linden nodded, too weary and aghast to find words. She hardly understood what Stave was saying.

He lowered his voice. “There is darkness in them, Chosen. Rent, samadhi Sheol’s spirit yet clings to Corruption. They have beheld majesty in the Raver’s visions of Doriendor Corishev, of kings and queens and rule. They have learned a hunger for suzerainty. In the Land, samadhi’s thoughts assure them, they will know what it means to hold sway.

“They avow that if you oppose them, they will crush you as ferociously as they slew these Cavewights, and with the same joy.”

“I don’t care.” Linden started to turn away. “I just want them to do their crushing somewhere else.”

But then she stopped. Impulsively she suggested, “Try telling them where Doriendor Corishev is.” Let them follow Doom’s Retreat to the Southron Waste; away from the Land. She trembled to imagine what would happen if a host of Sandgorgons struck at Revelstone. “If they want to “hold sway”, they can start there. No one has held that region for thousands of years.”

Doriendor Corishev’s rulers had made a wilderland of their kingdom. But the Sandgorgons were born to deserts, formed for harsh landscapes. They might like the Southron Waste.

Perhaps the fragmentation of samadhi Sheol’s memories would prevent the Raver from directing the Sandgorgons elsewhere.

“Or if that doesn’t work,” she added. “tell them about the skurj. Tell them that those monsters are more powerful than they can imagine.” Perhaps the Sandgorgons could be taunted into defending the Land. “If they want to rule here, they’ll have to deal with Kastenessen’s creatures.”

For a moment, Stave regarded her as if her advice surprised him. Then he turned back to the Sandgorgons.

Leaving him to be as persuasive as he could, Linden headed toward the tree-dwellers again.

While she stumbled among the bodies, however, the Ramen caught her attention. Unfortunately Mahrtiir was conscious. Linden wished him a respite from the enormity of his hurts. With the Staff, she might have imposed a little sleep on his wracked body and mind. But his life was in no immediate danger. Bhapa tended him diligently while Pahni did what she could for the Ranyhyn. And some of the Woodhelvennin had worse injuries. Simple triage required her to conserve her scant resources.

Liand, the Humbled, and a few villagers had emerged from the wreckage of the banyan-grove bearing bundles of garments for bandages. Three or four of them carried cook pots which could be used to heat water. In a moment, Liand rejoined the Ramen.

Although she ached for Mahrtiir, Linden pushed herself back into motion.

The Manethrall stopped her with a ragged croak. “Ringthane.”

In spite of his agony, his health-sense enabled him to discern her presence.

“I’m here.” Linden’s voice resembled his. “You shouldn’t try to talk. You’ve lost a lot of blood. And there isn’t much that I can do about your pain right now.”

He shook his head as if he were wincing. “My hurts are naught.” The shattered mess of his eye sockets wept slow drops of blood. “I rue only that I am made useless to you.”

She tried to say, Mahrtiir, stop. But she could not force her mouth and throat to form words.

“Many needs press upon you,” he continued, wrenching speech past his wounds. “I ask but one boon. There is no other Manethrall here, and a witness is required. I ask you to stand in the stead of those who lead the Ramen.”

A moment passed before Linden realised that Bhapa was whispering as if he were horrified. “No. No. No.”

With an effort that felt like anguish, she managed to repeat, “I’m here.” She may have been making another promise that she would be unable to keep.

Hoarsely Mahrtiir said, “I am no longer able to bear the burdens of a Manethrall. Among the Ramen, those who have been blinded do not command the deeds of those who see. Cord Bhapa must assume my place. We cannot now perform the full ceremony of Maneing, but your witness will suffice.

“I ask Liand of Mithil Stonedown to remove the garland from my neck and set it upon Bhapa’s.” His woven necklace of yellow flowers, amanibhavam in faded bloom, was splashed with blood. It hung in tatters, but had not been severed. “Then he will take his long delayed place among the Manethralls, and I will serve him and you as I do the Ranyhyn, until my last breath.”

In dismay, Liand flung a look of appeal at Linden. He did not move to touch Mahrtiir’s garland.

Mahrtiir, no. Linden could not find her voice. Please. I can’t do this right now. I can’t let you do it. If she had been able to speak, she might have said, This can wait. Then she might have turned away.

But Bhapa rushed to his feet. Softly, as if he were in tears, he cried. “No, Manethrall. No. I will not. I am not fit for Maneing. And I cannot abide-”

Abruptly he wheeled toward Linden. His eyes were dry, but every line of his face resembled sobbing.

“Ringthane,” he said, pleading with her, “do not permit this. It was not my tarnished sight-the sight which you have healed-that caused me to remain a Cord when others of my years had become Manethralls. It was my hesitancy. I bear uncertainties and doubts which consort ill with decision and command. I follow willingly. I am not suited to lead.”

Linden stared at him. She herself had uncertainties and doubts enough to cripple a legion. But she did not mean to let Jeremiah’s suffering continue unopposed-or unpunished.

However, Bhapa seemed to need no answer from her. At once, he turned back to Mahrtiir.

“And you cannot so lightly set aside your tasks,” he told the Manethrall, “or your yearning to be worthy of tales. You are merely hurt and blinded. You are not unmade. You are a Manethrall blood and bone. It determines you.

“Nor may you set aside the geas that was placed upon you.” The Cord’s passion mounted. “You were informed that you must go far, seeking “your heart’s desire”. And you were urged to return when you had found it, for the Land has need of you. Those words were not granted to me. They were for you alone.”

Anele had spoken to Mahrtiir on the rich grass of Revelstone’s plateau. Linden believed that her friends had heard Thomas Covenant’s voice through the old man.

Bhapa and Pahni had been given a different message. In some way, you two have the hardest job. You’ll have to survive. And you’ll have to make them listen to you.

“Manethrall Mahrtiir,” Bhapa concluded, “I have obeyed you in all things. In this I will not.”

Mahrtiir bared his bloodied teeth. For a moment, he appeared to struggle with imprecations. An involuntary groan wrenched his chest. When he spoke, his voice was taut and raw.

“Then be Ramen, if you will not be Manethrall. Aid Pahni among the Ranyhyn. The needs of the great horses come foremost.”

Briefly he coughed, splashing his chest with arterial droplets. But Liand called up light from the orcrest and touched it to Mahrtiir’s sternum. By degrees, Mahrtiir relaxed.

“And Liand tends me well,” he said: a brittle rustling like the sound of dried leaves in a breeze. “I will not impose my garland upon you by perishing.”

Shamed in spite of her exhaustion, Linden found somewhere enough gentle fire to stop the Manethrall’s bleeding and grant him sleep. For years, she had wept too easily. She wanted to weep now. But she could not. Her stone heart held no tears.

The Sandgorgons departed a short time later; pelted avidly into the east as if they were eager for more destruction. Presumably they were returning to their host. And when they were gone, Esmer reappeared.

He still wore his wounds and his shredded raiment. Perhaps his many powers did not include the ability to heal himself.

He did not approach Linden. He spoke to no one. Indeed, he seemed unaware that anyone watched him as he sent waves of force through the ground to gather up corpses: Cavewights and kresh; slain villagers. Intimidated by powers beyond their comprehension, the Woodhelvennin did not object.

Whrany’s body he took as well: he made no distinctions among the fallen. Linden expected protests from the Ramen, but they said nothing. Even the Ranyhyn did not interfere. Instead the great horses called a kind of farewell, at once haunting and brazen, to their lost herd-mate; and Bhapa and Pahni bowed their foreheads to the ground.

When Esmer had pulled all of the dead together into a bitter mound, he called down lightning to set the pile ablaze. Then he wrapped the acrid reek of burning flesh and blood around him and vanished again. However, he left enough of his eerie force behind to keep the flames of the pyre roaring. Linden guessed that the fire would not burn down until it had consumed every scrap of slaughtered flesh.

Black smoke, viscid as oil, and sour as the fumes of a midden, rolled skyward. Fortunately the breeze tugged it away from the survivors. That, too, may have been Esmer’s doing.

As soon as Cail’s son removed himself, Stave returned to Linden. He said nothing about Esmer or the Sandgorgons. And she asked him nothing. Perhaps Esmer was grieved by the cost of the battle. Perhaps the Sandgorgons had gone to lead their host to Doriendor Corishev. It made no difference.

Taking Stave with her, she let him care for her with water, springwine, and a little food while she exerted frail flames of Earthpower and Law among the Woodhelvennin.

She still had done nothing for the Ranyhyn. But Liand had added his efforts to Pahni’s and Bhapa’s. And the horses absorbed the white brilliance of his Sunstone gratefully. Earthpower in that form did not heal them; but they appeared to draw a different sustenance from it, as they did from amanibhavam, so that they became stronger in spite of their hurts.

Somewhere in the distance, Linden heard insistent whinnying. But she ignored it, and after a while it stopped. She did not grasp what it signified until Vernigil and a few villagers approached her bearing fired clay bowls redolent with the salvific savour of hurtloam. Apparently Hyn, Rhohm, and Naharahn had galloped away to search along the brook for the healing sand. They had found a small vein in the washed streambed.

Vernigil’s condition had improved visibly. Already some of the damage to his mangled leg had begun to repair itself. Yet Linden did not imagine that the Master had availed himself of the hurtloam’s benison. Rather he had benefited from the humble act of carrying it.

The Woodhelvennin accompanying him were full of astonishment. They must have used their hands to scoop up the spangled sand; and Earthpower had come to life within them, banishing the pall of Kevin’s Dirt. Now for the first time in their lives-the first time in unnumbered generations-they were able to see. They could not yet understand what had happened to them. Nevertheless they had been transformed.

Finally Linden allowed herself to rest. She touched the tip of one finger to the hurtloam, let its sovereign potency spread through her. Then she sank to the dirt and covered her face, leaving Stave and Vernigil to instruct the tree-dwellers in the use of the Land’s largesse.

Later, she recovered enough to wonder why the Masters had permitted the Woodhelvennin to experience Earthpower; to discover health-sense and know what they had been denied.

In addition to the unremitting stench of the pyre, she smelled cooking. When she sat up and looked around, she saw that many of the villagers were busy at fires, using boughs and branches from their homes for fuel. Inspired, perhaps, by the miraculous recovery of their maimed and dying friends and families, they had emerged from their dismay to perform the necessary tasks of staying alive.

When she had observed them for a while, Linden saw that they were being organised by an old couple, the same man and woman whom she had aided at Hyn’s insistence. She had not truly healed them: she had merely postponed their deaths. But they must have shared in the unequivocal efficacy of hurtloam. Although they were fragile and hurt, they walked among their neighbours, still holding hands as they sorted the Woodhelvennin into cooperating teams.

Hyn stood near Linden, watching over her rider. And soon after Linden sat up, Liand came to join her. Squatting comfortably on the shale and grit, he studied her for a moment to assure himself that she was physically unharmed. Then he, too, turned his attention to the villagers.

“I am told,” he remarked quietly, “that the elders who lead them are named Heers. The customs of Woodhelvennin are strange to me.” He gave Linden a wry smile. “I had not known that such folk inhabited the Land. But “by right of years and attainment”- he quoted Handir good-naturedly- “Karnis and his mate, Quilla, are the Heers of First Woodhelven. You did well to redeem their lives, Linden. They command respect among their people which the Masters do not. Vernigil nearly perished in their defence. His companion was slain. Nonetheless here the Masters appear to lack some increment of their stature in Mithil Stonedown. It was Karnis and Quilla rather than Vernigil who truly roused these folk from their bereavement.”

Linden sighed. The tree must have been wonderful. I wish I could have seen it. Maybe it affected them. Maybe they knew in their bones that the Land isn’t as”- she grimaced reflexively- “as superficial as the Masters wanted them to believe.”

The Masters had spent many centuries teaching the villagers to be unprepared for the peril and loss which had befallen them.

Yet now Stave’s kinsmen had recanted? She did not believe it. Decades of caesures had not swayed the Masters: the terrible magicks of the Demondim and the Illearth Stone had not moved them. So why had Vernigil and the Humbled allowed the Woodhelvennin to touch hurtloam?

To some extent, she understood the Harrow. I am able to convey you to your son. The actions of Esmer, Roger, and moksha Jehannum seemed explicable. But the Masters baffled her.

As the villagers prepared food, or searched through the grove’s debris for the supplies that they would need in order to reach Revelstone, the sun sank toward late afternoon, drawing stark shadows across the stained ground. With Liand’s help, Linden climbed wearily to her feet and went to check on the condition of her friends.

She was relieved to see that the Ranyhyn also had been given the benefit of hurtloam. The worst of their injuries were mending with remarkable celerity. Soon they would be able to bear their riders again.

And Mahrtiir and Bhapa had been treated with the gold-flecked sand as well. Although the Cord moved stiffly, and would no doubt feel the ache of his saft ribs for days, he was free of infection; no longer bleeding. Since the Ranyhyn no longer needed care, he and Pahni watched over their Manethrall.

Blessed by hurtloam, Mahrtiir slept deeply, and all of his wounds showed signs of swift healing. With strips of clean wool, the Cords had bandaged his gouged forehead and nose, as well as several deep slashes in his limbs and along his ribs. But first they had washed his eye sockets and cuts, removing dirt and chipped bone. Linden’s health-sense assured her that he would live.

How his blindness would affect him was a different question.

Sighing again, she scanned the area for Anele. At first, she failed to spot him. But then Liand pointed at one of the cooking fires, and Linden saw the old man there amid a busy cluster of Woodhelvennin. He had dismounted beside the flames: apparently he was eager to eat. She felt a moment of trepidation on his behalf until she realised that Stave was with him. Gently but firmly, Stave kept Anele on the sheet of slate which protected him from Kastenessen.

Thank God, Linden thought wanly. Thank God for friends. Without Liand, Stave, and the Ramen-without Anele and the Ranyhyn and the Mahdoubt-she would have been lost a long time ago. And all of her choices seemed to attract new enemies.

She must be doing something right.

Stave seemed to feel her gaze. When he had spoken to the villagers, presumably asking them to guard Anele, he left the fire to approach Linden and Liand.

The pyre was gradually burning itself out. But its grim smoke still tarnished the air, and Linden gauged that it would not sink down to coals until after nightfall.

As Stave drew near, she looked around for the Humbled. They stood like sentinels at separate points around the fringe of the lowland where the tree-dwellers were preparing to spend the night. They were too far away for her to see their faces, but even at this distance she could feel the concentrated harm of their untended wounds. It made them appear as forlorn as outcasts in spite of their unrelenting stoicism.

Stave greeted her with a deep bow which she accepted because she was too weary to refuse it. Still studying the Humbled, she said, “I’ve seen Vernigil. He got a little healing, whether he wanted it or not. But what about them? Will they be all right?”

Stave did not glance at his former comrades. They are Haruchai. None of their hurts are mortal. And we are not prone to the corruption which devours flesh and life. They will not regain their full prowess for some days. But if we are spared a renewed assault-” With a shrug, he fell silent.

If Roger did not return with more Cavewights. If the Sandgorgons marched on Doriendor Corishev or the skurj instead of preferring easier victims, more immediate slaughter. If the Harrow did not appear again, drawing Esmer’s storms with him. If moksha Raver could not gather more kresh.

If Kastenessen did not send his monsters-

Damn it. Linden would have to learn how to wield Covenant’s ring. The Staff of Law was not enough.

Grimly she muttered, “Then I guess we should hope that driving the Harrow away will be enough to satisfy Kastenessen and Roger,” Jehannum and Lord Foul. “At least for the time being.”

Liand winced. “Since the fall of Kevin’s Watch,” he admitted. “we have known incessant peril-and still I am not accustomed to it. I had not considered the likelihood of further battles”- he glanced around him- “or the vulnerability of these Woodhelvennin when we are parted from them.”

Linden rested a hand on his shoulder, as much to steady herself as to reassure him; but she did not reply. Instead she asked Stave. “Can you tell me why they haven’t interfered?” With a nod, she indicated Clyme, Galt, and Branl. “Your people have worked long and hard to keep anyone from knowing about Earthpower. But now dozens of ordinary villagers have felt hurtloam. Temporarily, at least, they’re free of Kevin’s Dirt. And they won’t forget what it feels like. Why didn’t the Masters try to prevent that? What made them change their minds?”

Was it possible that events had forced a chink in the intransigence of Stave’s kinsmen?

But Stave shook his head. “Other matters aside, no Haruchai would willingly oppose the clear wishes of the Ranyhyn. Yet the Masters have altered neither their thoughts nor their commitments. They merely acknowledge that this disturbance of their service surpassed prevention. They could not have forestalled the battle, or the unveiling of powers unknown to the Woodhelvennin. By the measure of those forces, any experience of hurtloam and health-sense is a slight consideration.

“Also they acknowledge that they have failed.” Stave’s tone seemed to harden. “To prevent the misuse of Earthpower is but one aspect of their stewardship. Another is to preserve the Land’s peoples. The Masters do not fault themselves for their inability to defeat the forces arrayed against them. But when they have failed, their Mastery does not require that others must suffer. They accept no ease for their wounds because they have chosen the path of their service. They do not regret its cost. But the Woodhelvennin did not choose. Therefore they are not asked to share the cost.”

After a moment, he added, “When they have entered Revelstone, they will not be permitted to depart.”

Linden swore under her breath. But she did not protest. She had done so often enough, to no avail. Instead she said, “I still don’t understand, but that doesn’t mean I’m not grateful. These people have a long way to go. They’re going to need all the compassion that they can get.”

“Indeed,” assented Liand fervently.

“So tell me that I’m doing the right thing,” she continued. “Tell me that we don’t have to help them reach Revelstone. I need to get to Andelain. We’ve already lost a day here. But these poor people-”

“They will not be assailed,” Stave stated without hesitation. “There is no gain in their deaths for the Land’s foes. Neither Esmer nor the Harrow appears inclined to harm those who wield no power. And the Unbeliever’s son, his Cavewights, the skurj, and the Sandgorgons, all remain in the east. As we journey toward Andelain, we will ride between them and the Woodhelvennin, and will pose a far greater threat. Thus only the hazard of the kresh remains. But the carnage among them was extreme. If moksha Raver does not compel them, they will not soon crave human flesh.

“At another time, any Raver might revel in the slaughter of the helpless. But we seek Corruption’s doom. And you bear powers sufficient to endanger him. As we distance ourselves from the Woodhelvennin, we will draw moksha Jehannum after us.”

“And should Stave be mistaken,” Liand put in, “which I do not believe, there is another matter. After what has transpired here, no one among these folk will desire to delay your purpose. In this I am certain, for their hearts are open, and I have heard them speak among themselves. They are homeless and bereft, and their needs are many. But they have beheld the puissance of those who loathe the Land-and have seen you wreathed in a glory of fire and salvation. Also you have preserved the lives of their Heers. If you offered to accompany them, they would implore you not to turn aside from your intent.”

Linden did not look at either Liand or Stave: she did not want them to see that their assurances shamed her. If they had told her that every one of the villagers would die without her protection, she would have continued her journey nonetheless. She believed that she would never be able to rescue Jeremiah if she did not first reach Andelain; and so she would have abandoned the Woodhelvennin.

Linden, find me.

Everything came back to Thomas Covenant.

In spite of her shame-or because of it-she thanked the Stonedownor and the former Master. Then, as a kind of penance, she took the long walk away from the tree-dwellers and the battlefield in order to speak to each of the Humbled individually. She wanted to tell them that she valued what they had done.

That night, Linden’s company and the Woodhelvennin ate a communal meal organised by Quilla and Karnis. The Heers were still too weak to haul supplies, firewood, and cook pots themselves, or to prepare viands. Nonetheless they worked doggedly to ensure that none of the needs of their people were neglected.

Earlier, Linden and Bhapa had washed as thoroughly as they could in the brook. With Pahni’s help, and Liand’s, they had bathed Mahrtiir. And when the Ranyhyn had moved out into the gathering twilight to help the Humbled stand watch, Branl, Galt, and Clyme had taken turns at the stream, cleansing their injuries and their tunics with equal impassivity.

Now Linden, Anele, Liand, and the Ramen shared food with the villagers, sitting around several large fires. Linden was regarded with wonder-and attended diligently. Liand and the Ramen were given care as though it were a form of obeisance. And Anele was gently prevented from leaving his plate of stone: a restriction which he accepted without protest.

Mahrtiir sat cross-legged between Bhapa and Linden, feeding himself by touch. Apart from the ruin of his eyes, he had made an extraordinary recovery, healed by amanibhavam, hurtloam, and the Staff’s flame. In the firelight, his scars seemed almost metaphysical. He sat as straight as a spear, fiercely refusing any assistance that was not absolutely necessary.

Beside him, Bhapa slumped uncharacteristically, shoulders bowed in dejection; but Linden could not tell whether he grieved for his Manethrall or for Whrany.

Later, the Heers spoke briefly. In quavering voices, they described their sorrow over their lost homes, their relief that they could seek sanctuary in Revelstone, and their astonished gratitude for all that Linden’s company had done. Then, almost timidly, they asked her to explain what had befallen them.

She had no heart for the task; but Liand took it from her unasked. Standing among the fires, he emanated dignity and openness as he told the hushed Woodhelvennin what he knew. His version of the causes of the battle, and of the nature of the Land’s foes, was not what Linden might have said in his place. It was simpler and more direct; unconflicted by inadequacy or bitterness. But it was also better suited to the limited comprehension of his audience, and the villagers received it as if it were an act of grace.

With every word, he violated the long prohibitions of the Masters. Yet neither Vernigil nor the Humbled interrupted him. In this, as in the use of hurtloam, the Masters seemed to take pity on the Woodhelvennin.

Linden knew better. When the tree-dwellers entered Lord’s Keep, they would never leave. If that were pity, she wanted no part of it.

At last, the villagers prepared to sleep on beds of gathered leaves and retrieved blankets. In spite of Bhapa’s urging, Mahrtiir refused rest. Harshly he proclaimed that he had lost only his eyes, not his ears and nose, or the use of his limbs. Alone, he walked away from the fires, clearly intending to help the Ranyhyn and the Masters keep watch. For a moment, the ruddy light of the flames seemed to cling to the pale swath of his bandaged head. Then the night took him, and he was gone.

With anguish in his eyes, Bhapa followed the Manethrall.

When Linden was offered a bed, she paused only to confirm that Stave warded Anele. Then she sank into the blankets, tucked the Staff of Law under her arm, and fell instantly asleep.

During the night, she was tormented by nightmares, not of fire and killing, but of violation. She lay like carrion, unable to move, while centipedes and venomous spiders crawled over her face, emerging from her mouth and nose. Molten worms circled her eyes: noisome things crept unhindered through the privacy of her clothes: pincers and fouled teeth gnawed her flesh. The knowledge that they had been hatched in the dank cesspit of her heart filled her with horror.

Whimpering weakly, she ached to awaken, and could not. Her dreams held her until Stave roused her with the dawn.

A sense of moral sickness clung to her as she arose, shivering, from her bed. A heavy dew had fallen, and its dampness had soaked through the blankets to her flannel shirt and jeans. Hoping to dispel her nightmares as well as the chill, she drew delicate tendrils of Earthpower from the Staff to meet the sunrise. Then she scanned the area to see how her friends and the Woodhelvennin fared.

Most of the camp was stirring. Stave had left Anele to the care of the Heers, and the old man seemed compliant in their company. Joined by Liand and Pahni, one group of villagers brought more wood from the banyans to build up the fires. Other people had begun to prepare a fresh meal. The Ranyhyn were nowhere in sight: they must have ranged far to find more grass, and to search for intimations of danger. Lit by the dawn, the Humbled and Vernigil kept a closer watch. But Mahrtiir and Bhapa had returned during the night. Now they stood at one of the fires, apparently arguing-if the Cord’s diffident replies to his Manethrall’s assertions could be called argument.

Bhapa urged Mahrtiir to remove the bandage from his eyes. The Cord suggested that open air and sunlight would speed Mahrtiir’s healing. But the Manethrall refused to expose his ravaged face. With suppressed fury, he insisted that doing so would encourage pity. Also he averred that he required the binding around his head to remind him that he could not see. If his other senses caused him to forget his blindness, he might make some hazardous mistake.

When Linden had absorbed enough of the Staff’s strength to collect her thoughts, she nodded toward the two Ramen. “Bhapa is taking this personally.”

To her ears, she sounded callous. Her tone falsified what she felt. But remnants of dreams clung to her like revenants. Vile scurrying seemed to lurk beneath the surface of her attention. When she had restored Joan’s wedding band, she had made possible atrocities like the destruction of First Woodhelven.

“The Ramen are prideful,” Stave observed with implied compassion. “I have learned to see that this is both strength and weakness. The Cord and the Manethrall have lost much. Uncertain of himself, the Cord fears to acknowledge that he is no longer certain of the Manethrall. Dreading the outcome of his blindness, the Manethrall is guided by anger.

“For such reasons, the Haruchai strive to set aside passion. Yet it rules us. I am no less its servant than are the Masters.”

Nightmares had left Linden ripe for shame. She, too, had lost much, and was ruled by fears and passions which she did not know how to bear. Frowning uselessly, she went to break her fast.

With her friends, she joined the villagers around cook pots of steaming cereal sweetened with fruit.

The new sun leaned past the higher ground to the east, blunting the chill of night and dew. The air should have tasted as clean as the light, full of spring and the scents of cooking. But the ground had been ploughed to chaos by the caesure, charred with power and malice, steeped in blood. And the ashen reek of Esmer’s pyre lingered over the slopes, irreparable as Kevin’s Dirt.

Fretting at the residue of her dreams, Linden wanted to hurry. She had abundant reasons for haste, among them the chance that her presence might endanger the villagers further. Their shy greetings and thanks she brushed aside. She ate quickly; quenched her thirst at the bourn, grateful that the current had washed itself clear of killing; prepared herself to ride.

The Ramen followed her example. And Stave was always ready. Even the Humbled seemed determined to resume their journey in spite of their long, stiff scabs and damaged bones.

But Anele sat with Karnis and Quilla, devouring his meal voraciously, and making incoherent remarks which the Heers kindly elected to interpret as jests. And Liand ate with slow gravity, as if he were mustering his strength for a severe task.

Linden was tempted to prod him, but his air of purpose silenced her. She could see that he had reached a decision of some kind-and that some aspect of his intent troubled him. However, her percipience showed her only the nature of his emotions: she could not discern his thoughts.

While the Stonedownor took his time, Linden looked to Pahni and asked uncomfortably, “Do you know what’s going on? He has something in mind, but I can’t tell what it is.”

The young Cord shook her head. Her soft brown eyes were dark with worry. “I have felt his resolve. It swelled within him throughout the night, and he slept little. But he has not spoken of it. And I-” Pahni faltered. Almost whispering, she said. “I feared to inquire. I fear for him.”

Through Anele, Thomas Covenant had told Liand, I wish I could spare you. Surely the Stonedownor had not decided to sacrifice himself in some extreme fashion, responding to a need which Linden as well as the Ramen and Stave had failed to perceive?

Before long, however, Liand appeared to resolve an internal debate. Nodding to himself, he gathered his bundles of supplies. Then he signalled his readiness to Linden and Stave.

Finally. “All right,” Linden muttered. “Let’s get going.”

At once, Stave raised his fingers to his mouth and began the series of whistles which summoned the Ranyhyn.

When they heard the sound, Mahrtiir and Bhapa came toward Linden, Pahni, and Stave. Vernigil and the Humbled left their posts. Even Anele jerked up his head, scanning the area with his moonstone eyes as if he were eager.

Soon the Ranyhyn swept into sight from the southeast. As they drew near, Linden counted ten of the star-browed horses.

Ten, she thought, distracted by wonder. Of course. She had been told that the fidelity of the Ranyhyn did not end in death. Whrany had fallen: therefore another of the great horses had come to bear Bhapa.

With glad homage, the Ramen greeted the Ranyhyn. Stave and the Humbled bowed gravely, honouring their mounts as the Bloodguard had done millennia ago; and Vernigil did the same, although he had not been chosen. Hrama trotted among the villagers toward Anele while Narunal offered his muzzle to Mahrtiir’s uncertain hands. And Bhapa had tears of gratitude and rue in his eyes as he knelt before the tall bayard that had answered in Whrany’s place.

When he stood again, he proclaimed as steadily as he could, This mighty stallion is Rohnhyn. I pray of all the Ranyhyn, and of revered Kelenbhrabanal, Father of Horses, that I may prove worthy to serve such a sovereign.”

Hyn nudged Linden affectionately. Hynyn flared his nostrils, snorting his impatience. Relieved by the prospect of departure, Linden mounted without delay, as did Stave and Mahrtiir. After a moment, Bhapa joined them. Flinging an anxious glance at Liand, Pahni followed the older Cord’s example.

To Linden, the Humbled did not look hale enough to ride. Nevertheless they contrived to leap astride their horses. There they sat, rigid as stone, although the exertion had torn open some of their wounds, and fresh blood seeped into their tunics.

When two of the tree-dwellers had helped Anele onto Hrama, only Liand remained unmounted.

Briefly Liand hugged Rhohm’s neck. Setting his bundles on Rhohm’s back, he vaulted onto the Ranyhyn. But he did not move toward Linden and the rest of her companions. Instead he rode into the centre of the encampment.

Most of the villagers were engaged in a confusion of tasks: cooking and eating; tending their children and their injured; searching their stricken homes for blankets, food, and raiment. But Liand was limned in sunlight. His high seat on his mount, and the youthful gravity of his demeanour, gradually drew the attention of the tree-dwellers. Silence spread across the camp as more and more people stopped what they were doing to gaze at him.

When he began to speak, he did not shout. In that way, he gathered his audience around him. Linden herself rode closer, accompanied by the Ramen and Stave. She needed Liand. Until she knew what he intended, she wanted to be near enough to intervene.

“Woodhelvennin, hear me,” he called quietly. “We are scantly acquainted, yet you know me well. You have beheld me in the nature of my deeds, as you have in the valour of my companions. And you have heard me speak of the reasons for our presence among you. We must now part. The needs which compel Linden Avery the Chosen are many and urgent. But I am loath to ride from you without sharing the greatest of the benisons which I have gained in her company.”

Sighing, Linden let herself relax. When she touched Pahni’s shoulder, she found that the young Cord also felt relieved. Liand did not mean to offer up his life. He was simply too sensitive and generous to leave the villagers as they were.

“It has been given to me,” he explained. “to discern a Land which lies unseen within the lives that we have known.” To Linden, his voice sounded like the rising of the sun. His sincerity was as nourishing as sunshine. “In its unshrouded form, the Land is a place of marvels beyond imagining, and I have been enabled to partake in its mysteries. This gift, which Linden Avery names “health-sense”, I would grant to you, as it has been granted to me, if you will honour me with its acceptance.

“But it is not a gentle gift,” he warned the villagers, “and its cost is pain and loss, anger and sorrow. Some of you have felt the healing of hurtloam and know the gift of which I speak. Others know it because you have been brought back from death by fire. When you touched the eldritch sand, or were laved in flames, your eyes were opened. All of your senses were opened as they have not been opened before. You became able to see truly, and all that you beheld was transformed.”

Karnis, Quilla, and a number of the Woodhelvennin nodded. The rest regarded Liand with perplexed frowns.

“For a time,” he said in sunlight, “you recognised the transcendence of that which you had deemed commonplace. Yet now your awareness of transcendence is gone. The Land has become what it was. You have become what you were. And you are no longer content.

“Others among you know nothing of this. If you inquire of those who comprehend my words, you will find them bewildered, unable to convey what they have witnessed, or what they have lost. They cannot name the cause of their sadness and ire.”

Again the healed, the Heers, and those who had carried hurtloam nodded, grateful to hear their innominate grief described.

Now Liand raised his voice. Still he did not shout; but he spoke in bright tones that sent a shiver through Linden’s heart. Pahni’s eyes shone, and Mahrtiir heard the Stonedownor with his chin raised as though Liand had made him proud.

“Nevertheless I say to you that what they have tasted and lost is your birthright. It is the essential spirit of the Land, inherent to all that lives, and you have been made blind to it. For many generations, you have been deprived of the deepest truth of who and what and where you are.

“It is my wish to grant unto you, all of you, the gift that I have been given. I wish to share my vision of your birthright.”

There the Humbled or Vernigil might have interrupted him. But none of them betrayed any reaction. Perhaps their silence acknowledged an irreducible truth: whether Linden succeeded or failed, nothing in the Land would remain unchanged.

She had accomplished that much, at least, Linden thought grimly. Liand could speak without fear. For the present, at least, the service of the Masters had ceased to be a general prohibition. Now it was focused almost exclusively on her.

You hold great powers. Yet if we determine that we must wrest them from you, do you truly doubt that we will prevail?

If the day ever came when the Humbled decided to oppose her, every Master in the Land would become her enemy.

“But in all sooth,” the Stonedownor continued, “it is not a gentle gift, and you will not bless me for it. In itself, it is wondrous beyond telling. While it remains to you, you will be exalted. But it will be fleeting. And when it drains away, you will be left in sorrow. Nor will you be able to regain any portion of what you have lost.

“Why, then, do I offer this increase of woe? Your destination is Revelstone, the seat and habitation of the Masters. There you will find some small safety in a world which has become perilous beyond your knowledge. And there, if you desire it, you may reclaim my gift. Above Revelstone lies a plateau, and the plateau holds Glimmermere, a lake munificent to restore your birthright. It is a theriac for the bane which has made both you and the Land appear to be less than you are.

“Yet Revelstone is distant,” he said as if he were arguing against himself, “and your path will be arduous. You will not soon know my gift again.

“It is here.” Reaching into the pouch at his waist, Liand drew out the orcrest and held it high. In his grasp, it shone like a beacon, as white as refined daylight, and as clear as the purest gem. “If you desire to know the savour and bereavement of your birthright, approach me. If you do not, withdraw.

“Yet hear me nonetheless. Your losses have been cruel. They may worsen in your journey, or within Revelstone. Still I believe that you will not regret my gift. To know your birthright is precious, even when that birthright is denied. And if Linden Avery the Chosen does not fail in her quest, your birthright will one day be restored to all the folk of the Land.”

Linden was not surprised when most of the Woodhelvennin surged forward, crowding into the brightness around Rhohm and Liand as though the Sunstone’s radiance offered meaning to their lives. She would have done the same in their place, if Liand’s generosity could have eased her irreconciled heart.

With tears in her eyes, Pahni murmured. “For this he has become my love.”

Nodding, Mahrtiir announced, “He reveals a greater heritage than he comprehends. In the tales of the Ramen, the ancient Lords had such stature, humble in their glory, and open-hearted to every need. Yet he is more. He has touched the lore of the rhadhamaerl. After uncounted generations of diminishment, he is the first true Stonedownor among his kind.”

“Aye,” assented Bhapa gruffly. “I am Ramen, and do not lightly avow that he has surpassed me.”

But Stave said without inflection. That is his peril. Corruption delights in the ruin of such innocence.”

Linden turned away. She could feel health-sense and excitement effloresce among the Woodhelvennin as the hindering brume of Kevin’s Dirt was swept aside by Earthpower and Liand’s courage. Like Pahni and the Manethrall, she was proud of him. Like Stave, she feared for him. But she was also ashamed.

If Linden Avery the Chosen does not fail in her quest-

Her mere presence among the villagers was a promise which she did not know how to keep.

Chapter Eight: Salva Gildenbourne

I am able to convey you to your son.

The Harrow’s parting words were a knell in Linden’s heart. While the glory of Liand’s orcrest washed over the villagers, she rode away from the crowd and the shattered remnants of First Woodhelven; from her friends. Doubt-ridden, and haunted by her dreams, she wanted to be alone with Hyn.

She did not understand how the Ramen seemed to know what the Ranyhyn wanted or intended: she could not even guess how the Ramen knew the names of the great horses. Nevertheless a form of communion existed between the Ramen and the Ranyhyn. She had tasted that bond herself during the horserite which she had shared with Hyn, Hynyn, and Stave. At need, Hyn never failed to grasp what Linden desired of her-and to obey.

Impelled by fears and yearning, Linden guided the mare a short distance away from her companions. There, bending low over Hyn’s neck and whispering so that she would not be overheard, she asked the Ranyhyn to take her to Jeremiah.

She felt the mare’s muscles quiver in willingness or trepidation. Hyn shifted her hooves restively, tossed her head, then shook it from side it side. She stood where she was.

Trying to be clear, Linden took Jeremiah’s toy from her pocket and clenched it in her fist. Then she closed her eyes and visualised her son, not as she had known and loved him in their former life together, but as she had last seen him under Melenkurion Skyweir, with the croyel clinging savagely to his back; debased by the creature’s bitter theurgy. She formed his image in precise detail and offered it to Hyn, silently pleading with the Ranyhyn.

Still the mare did not move.

Then Mahrtiir came to Linden’s side, and to Hyn’s, drawn by his sensitivity to Linden, or by his instinctive rapport with the Ranyhyn. Murmuring, he gentled the mare until she no longer trembled.

“Do not misunderstand, Ringthane,” he urged Linden gruffly. “Hyn is valorous in all things. She would bear you into any of the Seven Hells, as she has into the horror of caesures. But she does not know where your son may be found. Mayhap she is able to discern the nature of his hiding place or prison, but she cannot determine its location. Therefore she shies from your desire.

“The son of the former Ringthane is present in this time. For that reason, I deem that your son is likewise present. As you have described them, the powers of both the halfhand and the croyel were required to elude the Law of Time. Therefore the halfhand’s evil assures us that your son has not been secreted in some other age. He does not lie beyond your reach. But Hyn cannot pierce his concealment.”

Linden sighed. “I didn’t really expect it to work.” If she could have found her son simply by asking the Ranyhyn to aid her, the Harrow would have no leverage with her-and Roger and Esmer would have no reason to fear that she might strike a bargain with the Insequent. “I just had to try.”

The Manethrall seemed to study her through his bandage. “Indeed, Ringthane. Who would comprehend, if I do not? Against the Cavewights, I did not expect to retain my life. Yet I could not decline to give battle. It is ever thus. Attempts must be made, even when there can be no hope. The alternative is despair. And betimes some wonder is wrought to redeem us. Expecting death, I have sacrificed only my sight.

“Therein lay Kevin Landwaster’s error-aye, and great Kelenbhrabanal’s also. When all hope was gone, they heeded the counsels of despair. Had they continued to strive, defying their doom, some unforeseen wonder might have occurred. And if it did not, still their glory would have surpassed their failure.”

“I know,” Linden murmured: a dying fall of sound. “The world is full of Kastenessens and Rogers.” Esmers and Joans, croyel and Cavewights. “Lord Foul is everywhere. But there are still people like Liand.” And the Mahdoubt. “Stave is on our side. The ur-viles have changed. Even the Sandgorgons-” In spite of samadhi Raver’s shredded malignance, they had retained enough gratitude to answer her. “I’ll try anything to save Jeremiah.”

She meant her assertion as a warning, but she lacked the courage to speak more clearly. She was afraid that Mahrtiir-that all of her friends-would attempt to stop her.

As matters stood, she did not know the difference between the Manethrall’s advice and the counsels of despair.

To her relief, Liand did not take long to cleanse the senses of those Woodhelvennin who desired his gift. Although his efforts left his skin pale with weariness, and he wavered on Rhohm’s back, breathing raggedly, he was still able to ride. When he swayed too far, Pahni steadied him.

Now none of Linden’s companions urged caution. The time had come for haste. She needed it; and the villagers would be safer when she was far from them. Her friends delayed only to consider the pane of slate which had protected Anele.

Clyme asserted his willingness to carry it-or to make the attempt-regardless of his hurts and renewed bleeding. But Linden shook her head. “It’s too heavy,” she stated as though she had the authority to command the Humbled. “It’ll get in your way if were attacked again. We’ll try blankets. Five or six of them might be enough to block Kastenessen.”

For a moment, the Masters appeared to debate their responsibilities. Then Clyme abandoned the slate.

At a word from the Heers, grateful villagers hurried to gather blankets, which they tied into a roll and handed to Pahni.

With difficulty, Linden held back her impatience as Karnis and Quilla endeavoured to express their thanks for all that she and her companions had done. But the Heers were among those who had been blessed or afflicted with percipience: they could see how she felt. Seeming flustered by her frustration, they cut short what they wished to say.

On Linden’s behalf, and Liand’s, Manethrall Mahrtiir responded to the Heers; but he spoke curtly. “It is sooth that Liand of Mithil Stonedown has granted no gentle gift. Also it is sooth that neither kresh nor Cavewights would have assailed you in our absence. Our aid is small recompense for the harm which we have brought among you.

“The Master Vernigil will guide you. While it endures, your new sight will serve you well. May you fare in safety. Beyond question, you will fare more safely for our departure.”

At last, Linden and her companions turned away, leaving silence and uncertainty behind them. With Mahrtiir beside her, Pahni, Liand, and Anele following, and Stave in the rear, she rode after Bhapa and the Humbled at a brisk canter which Hyn and the other Ranyhyn soon stretched into a rolling gallop.

For a time, they traversed rough hills of flint and shale. But then stones and scant dirt gave way to better soil as more streams traced their crooked paths across the landscape; and the riders began to encounter occasional clusters of aliantha. Linden called a halt at the first of these so that Liand could restore his depleted strength.

When she dismounted to join him, she noticed the marks of other hooves. To her questioning glance, Pahni replied that the Humbled and Bhapa had paused here as well.

Privately Linden hoped that the Masters were not too proud to avail themselves of treasure-berries. They were in no condition to face another conflict. They needed as much sustenance as their stubbornness could accept.

“To this place,” Pahni added, studying the ground, “they rode together. Now, however, they have separated. Mhornym and Rohnhyn continue southeastward, but Bhanoryl’s path lies to the east, and Naybahn has turned to the south. Doubtless they will guard our passage at the farthest extent of their senses.”

Linden nodded. Remembering Cail and Brinn, Ceer and Hergrom, she trusted the Humbled to protect her company as well as they could.

When Liand had eaten a handful of aliantha, and had recovered enough to whisper something playful that made Pahni smile and duck her head, Linden and her friends remounted. Together the Ranyhyn resumed their run, devouring the distance at a long gallop.

Before noon, the hills faded into a wide plain like a steppe lambent with grasses and bright wildflowers. Birds scattered in waves before the rush of the riders, the muffled rumble of hooves. At intervals, Linden and her companions passed a small stand of wattle or scrub oak; splashed through a rambling stream or sprang over a sun-spangled rill; swept down into a shallow swale and flowed up the far side. But such features were few. Between them, the plain unfurled itself to the horizons as if the earth had opened its heart to the sun. There the Ranyhyn seemed to run effortlessly, buoyed by the grass and the vast sky as if they were born to revel in grasslands and illimitable vistas.

For a while, Linden caught no glimpse of the Humbled and Bhapa. Under the midday sun, however, she eventually saw Clyme waiting ahead of her. Apparently he had decided that the time had come to rest the Ranyhyn while their riders ate a quick meal.

His bleeding had stopped. Aided, perhaps, by treasure-berries, his native toughness had reasserted itself. Even while he rode, his wounds healed slowly.

Before Pahni and Liand allowed Anele to dismount, Linden took a moment to study the grass. All around her, many varieties grew together. Some resembled the lush wealth of the Verge of Wandering. But among more luxuriant greens were streaks and swaths of the raw-edged scrub grass which covered the hills and slopes of the Mithil valley: the grass on which the old man was vulnerable to Lord Foul.

Here Anele needed protection.

Instead of insisting that he remain on Hrama, she decided to test the effectiveness of the blankets. At her request, Pahni unrolled the thick pad and guided Anele onto it from Hrama’s back.

Warded by wool, the old man showed no sign of possession. His fractured muttering was disturbed only by his discomfort at Clyme’s nearness.

The horizons remained clear. When Linden questioned Clyme, he reported no indication of danger. He and Bhapa had found evidence of Roger’s army’s trek toward First Woodhelven. For a time, Galt had been able to track Roger and his remaining Cavewights eastward. But nothing stirred to threaten the riders-unless it was concealed by the glamour which had enabled Roger’s forces to take Linden’s company by surprise.

She might have felt relief. Perhaps she should have. Apparently Roger was indeed reduced without the aid and knowledge of the croyel. Alone, he could not simply bypass time or space: he was forced to travel by more ordinary means.

But his limitations confirmed that he had set out to intercept her several days before Kastenessen had touched Anele. Conceivably Roger had begun to lead his army westward as soon as he and Jeremiah had returned to their proper time. Kastenessen may have precipitated Roger’s attack; but Roger and his forces must have already been poised to strike. Hidden by glamour- extending as it does to conceal so many- he must have been waiting for her along her most direct route toward Andelain.

She had told him what her intentions were; forewarned him-

Nevertheless he had lost too many Cavewights to challenge her again soon. He knew her power. He knew that scores of ur-viles and Waynhim remained willing to serve her. And he no longer had the support of the croyel. He would need time to rally more of Kastenessen’s-or Lord Foul’s-allies.

Therefore-Linden swore under her breath. Therefore the next attack would probably come from the skurj.

In spite of everything that she had learned and suffered, she was inadequate to her task. If she were wiser, or stronger, or calmer-When the battle ended yesterday, she should have tried to catch Roger while he was still within reach, and vulnerable. That might have forced Kastenessen to hesitate. But she had been consumed by desperation and killing; exhaustion and remorse. She had missed her chance. Now she could only hope to outrun the maddened Elohim’s malice.

When she and her companions were mounted, ready to ride, she described her concerns. Then she told Clyme, “We’ll need as much warning as possible. You and Bhapa have to be able to ride as far and as fast as you can. We need you at your best.”

With difficulty, she restrained an impulse to demand, So heal, damn it. Or let me help you. You aren’t much good like this.

His hurts were as unmistakable as groans.

Clyme faced her without expression. For a moment, he appeared to be waiting for her to say more; to speak her wishes aloud so that he could refuse her. Then he gave a slight nod. Urging Mhornym to greater speed with every stride, he rode away.

Abruptly Mahrtiir growled, “The Ringthane speaks sooth. Yet needful tasks in which the Ramen have no equal I cannot now perform. Cord Pahni, you also must watch over this company, that no sign or hint which may elude the sleepless ones will be missed. The Stonedownor and Stave will care for Anele.”

Pahni flung a look like pleading at Liand, urging him to be safe, before she sent Naharahn into a gallop after Clyme. Behind her, the remaining Ranyhyn began to run, carrying their riders with the swift ease of birds toward Andelain and the Land’s threatened heart.

While the great horses pounded the steppe, Linden prayed that she would be able to reach the Hills and Loric’s krill in time; and that she would find Thomas Covenant and hope among the Dead.

Eventually the steppe modulated into a region of rugged, stony hills like glacial moraines. Although the horses found passage along the valleys, the littered ground forced them to slow their pace. When they finally emerged from the hills toward gentler terrain, the sun was setting.

Linden did not doubt that the Ranyhyn could travel confidently in darkness. Nevertheless she called a halt on the last of the granite debris. Temporarily, at least, her concern for Anele outweighed her desire for haste. She did not yet entirely trust his pad of blankets. Loose stone would guard him from possession as well as restore a measure of his sanity.

Mumbling to himself, he began to pick through the igneous refuse as if he were seeking a particular kind of rock; specific memories. But whenever he found a bit of granite, or schist, or obsidian that seemed to interest him, he studied it briefly, then cast it aside and resumed his search.

As Liand and Stave unpacked supplies and set out bedding, Bhapa and Pahni emerged from the dusk. They had found no cause for concern within a league of the company, and the Humbled had instructed them to rejoin their companions for food and rest. If the Manethrall approved, Bhapa and Pahni proposed to take turns standing watch atop the nearest of the hills. The Humbled and the Ranyhyn would form a more distant cordon around the company.

Mahrtiir nodded. “It is well. Let it be so.” He sounded vexed, as though the Cords had disappointed him. But Linden understood that his ire was not directed at them. Rather he was galled by his comparative helplessness. As long as Linden or Liand renewed his health-sense regularly, he would remain capable of much. Still his abilities were irretrievably compromised.

Seeking to distract him while Pahni helped Liand prepare a meal, Linden said. “I’m worried, Mahrtiir. We’re pushing the Ranyhyn pretty hard. How much longer can they keep this up?”

Mahrtiir squatted among the stones until she sat down facing him. Then he said, “Do not mistake them, Ringthane. They are far from the bounds of their endurance. Many are the great deeds that they have performed at need. I will speak of one, though it is a tale which no Ramen witnessed. We heard of it from those few Haruchai who chose to serve the Ranyhyn during Fangthane’s unnatural winter, when the Vow of the Bloodguard had been broken.”

Linden settled herself to listen. Liand and Pahni did not pause in their tasks, but their attention was turned toward the Manethrall. Liand was always eager for tales of the Land’s past; and all Ramen loved to speak and hear of the great horses.

“In the years preceding the last siege of Revelstone,” Mahrtiir told the evening and his own darkness. “a silence had fallen over Seareach, and all who loved the Land were troubled by it. No Giants walked the Upper Land to gladden the heart with their friendship and their ready laughter. Nor did the Unhomed send word of their plight in The Grieve. Therefore two Lords and a party of Bloodguard set out for Seareach, to discover what had befallen the Giants.”

“This the Haruchai remember,” Stave put in. “Lord Mhoram, seer and oracle to the Council of Lords, had discerned the peril of the Giants. Therefore Hyrim son of Hoole and Shetra Verement-mate were dispatched to Seareach, accompanied by fifteen Bloodguard. Among that number were Runnik and Tull, who returned to tell the tale.”

Mahrtiir accepted Stave’s confirmation with a nod. Then the Manethrall continued.

“The passage of the Lords and Bloodguard eastward was opposed, but their gravest hazard found them upon the Giantway within Sarangrave Flat, for that was their most direct path to Seareach. There they were beset by the lurker of the Sarangrave. So dire was the lurker’s power that even the great horses could not endure it. In their fear, they endangered the Lords, and Ahnryn of the Ranyhyn was slain.

“Therefore the choice was made to abandon the Giantway-to return westward to Landsdrop and thence into the southeast toward the Defiles Course, that poisoned river which emerges from among the banes deep within Mount Thunder to corrupt Lifeswallower, the Great Swamp. The Lords had determined to fashion a raft to bear them along the Defiles Course and through the Sarangrave until they had passed beyond the reach of the lurker.

“But first it was necessary to cross many arduous leagues to approach the bitter river. The hills which foot the cliff of Landsdrop are raw and twisted, forbidding haste. Also night had fallen, obscuring the treachery of the terrain. Yet the company’s need for haste had grown extreme. And the Ranyhyn were shamed by their fear. Therefore they performed a prodigious feat. In the course of one night and a portion of the subsequent morning, they emerged from the Sarangrave and bore their riders to the Defiles Course, a distance of more than three score leagues.”

God, Linden thought. Three score-Her company had begun its journey by covering fifteen leagues a day.

“By the measure of that accomplishment, Ringthane,” Mahrtiir concluded, “the labours which the Ranyhyn have undertaken on our behalf may be deemed paltry.” His voice was full of pride in the great horses. “If you ask it of them, they will teach you the true meaning of astonishment.”

“Ha!” snorted Anele unexpectedly. He had given no indication that he was listening to the Manethrall; but now he held out a rough pebble as though he expected his companions to marvel at it. “Here is astonishment. Within this stone is written the convulsion which formed Landsdrop when the Illearth Stone and other banes were buried among the roots of Gravin Threndor. Such knowledge is ancient beyond reckoning, yet it is remembered here.”

With a dismissive shrug, he tossed the pebble aside and resumed his search, apparently heedless of his friends. Indeed, he seemed unaware that he had spoken.

Linden watched his innominate quest while Liand and Pahni finished readying a meal. After the collapse of Kevin’s Watch, he had told her, I am the Land’s last hope, but she understood him no better now than she had then. Certainly he had made possible the recovery of the Staff of Law. Yet she did not see herself bringing hope to the Land: she could scarcely believe that she might eventually bring hope to Jeremiah. And if Anele had already achieved his life’s purpose, she could not imagine why he still clung to his madness. Perhaps he refused lucidity only because he feared it. Or perhaps he had not yet discovered or revealed the real purpose of his derangement.

In either case, the ramifications of his condition were too vague to be trusted. As far as she was concerned, the Land’s last-and best-hope lay in Thomas Covenant.

When she and her friends had eaten, they settled themselves as comfortably as the rocky ground allowed while Stave stood guard over the camp, and Bhapa kept watch from the crest of a nearby hill. Rather than allowing herself to dread Roger and attack, Linden concentrated on Roger’s father as she tried to sleep. She wanted to fill herself with images and desires which might enable Covenant to visit her dreams.

But the night did not bring dreams. Instead it brought the first in a tumbled series of spring showers that followed the company for much of the next day: prolonged sprinkles and quick downpours that soaked the riders in spite of the cloaks which they had brought from Revelstone for Linden, Liand, and Anele. At intervals, rain streaked the horizons, constricting the landscape to sodden grass and vleis, and to occasional copses shrouded with moisture. Then, between the showers and clouds, sunshine burst over the region, sketching bright transitory reflected jewels among the water drops until the earth and the trees were anademed in light.

Responding to the weather, the Ranyhyn slowed their fleet gallop somewhat, careful not to outrun the protection of the Humbled and the two Cords as they scouted ahead in a wide arc beyond the range of Linden’s senses. Still the horses went swiftly, crossing slopes and lowlands until the contours of the Land appeared to open before them like a scroll.

Once in the distance, through a gap between showers, she glimpsed a caesure. But it was far against the northern horizon, seething erratically away from the riders. When Stave assured her that there were no villages or smaller habitations in the vicinity of the Fall, she decided to let it go. Deliberately she closed her mind to its migraine nausea, and by degrees it receded from her awareness.

Late in the day, the sky finally cleared, leaving the air full of sunlight as if the Land had been washed clean. Whenever Pahni or Bhapa rejoined the company to describe what lay ahead, they reported only that neither they nor the Humbled had found any evidence of danger. And the Ranyhyn quickened their strides to the pace that they had set the day before. Linden began to think that perhaps they were indeed travelling too swiftly to be caught by Kastenessen’s servants, or Lord Foul’s.

As for the Harrow, she could not begin to guess what he would do, or when he would do it. If she had known how to bargain with him-or been willing to do so-she still had no idea how to invoke his presence. Apparently his promise of companionship had been an empty threat.

While the company made camp that night on a broad swath of gravel and stones at the edge of a watercourse, Linden asked Stave how far they were from Salva Gildenbourne. He replied that they would catch sight of the sprawling forest before mid-morning, if they were not delayed. Then she asked Bhapa about the condition of the Humbled. She had not seen them since they had ridden away the previous morning.

The Cord considered her question for a moment, then shrugged. “Their hardiness is remarkable,” he admitted as if he begrudged them any admiration. “No Raman heals as they do. Yet they are not what they were. The rigors of our journey hamper them.

With rest, I do not doubt that their full strength would soon return. Without it-”

Facing Mahrtiir rather than Linden, the Cord fell silent.

“Then, Cord,” replied the Manethrall gruffly, “it falls to you, and to Cord Pahni, to increase your vigilance.

“Ringthane.” He turned the hollows of his bandage toward Linden. “If you will accept my counsel, it is this. Request of the sleepless ones that they ride with you on the morrow. Permit my Cords to assume all the tasks of scouting. If the Masters are not yet whole, their skills will provide better service nearby than at a distance.

“Warded by Narunal’s discernment where mine does not suffice, I will ride ahead of you. Thus any sudden threat will strike first against he who has the least worth in your defence.”

Surprised by Mahrtiir’s suggestion, Linden faltered. Too many people had already sacrificed themselves in her name-and now the Manethrall proposed to offer himself as bait. She could not bear to think of him as having the least worth; or to consider losing him.

Hesitating, she looked to Stave.

“The Manethrall’s counsel is apt,” he said at once. “I do not fear for the Humbled. But the Land’s foes must oppose you. They cannot suffer you to obtain High Lord Loric’s krill. When they appear, you must have every aid nigh about you.”

In response, Linden made a stern effort to shake off her reluctance. In a moment of imposed coherence, Anele had informed her severely, All who live share the Land’s plight. Its cost will be borne by all who live.

All right,” she said through her teeth. “We’ll do that.” This you cannot alter. In the attempt, you may achieve only ruin. “Bhapa, I need you to find the Humbled for me.” She had no means to contact them herself, except by a dangerous display of her powers; and the Masters would not heed Stave’s mental voice. “Make sure that they understand what we want, and why. I don’t think that they’ll object.” They would reason as Stave did. But if they do, tell them that they’ll have to argue with me in person. You’re just the messenger.”

When the Manethrall nodded his approval, Bhapa replied, “As you wish, Ringthane.” Whistling for Rohnhyn, he strode out into the last of the gloaming and passed from sight. Briefly Linden heard the crunch of hooves on the stones. Then Bhapa and his mount were gone.

He did not return until after moonrise. But when he reentered the watercourse, he reported that the Humbled would rejoin Linden as she approached Salva Gildenbourne in the morning. “They, too, deem the Manethrall’s counsel apt.”

That night, Linden did not expect to sleep. The rocks on which she lay seemed full of memories and fears, as legible to her flesh as they were to Anele’s peculiar sight. They jutted against her like tangible reminders of all that she had gained and lost since she had first approached the Hills of Andelain with Covenant, Sunder, and Hollian. But she called a faint current of Earthpower from the Staff to soothe her taut nerves. Then she closed her eyes to rest them-and when she opened them again a moment later, dawn had come upon her, as stealthy and unforeseen as the results of every choice that she had ever made.

Her companions roused quickly, at once eager and apprehensive. Anele scented the air fretfully, as if he could smell trouble; but the fragmentation of his mind prevented him from describing what he sensed. Perhaps anticipating another battle, Liand frowned darkly. However, he could not conceal the growing excitement behind his concern. Salva Gildenbourne promised to be unlike anything that he had ever seen.

Pahni also may have wished to gaze upon the vast woodland: her only knowledge of the Land’s olden forests came from Ramen tales. Yet her anxiety for Liand dominated her. And Bhapa’s emotions were similar, although he worried for the Manethrall rather than Liand. As for Mahrtiir, his belief that he had lost much of his usefulness dulled his characteristic hunger for peril and striving. The role which he had chosen for himself resembled that of a sacrificial lamb.

Only Stave faced the new day as if it were like any other. His single eye and his flat mien suggested neither hope nor trepidation.

As soon as the companions had eaten, Pahni kissed Liand quickly. Then the Cords summoned their Ranyhyn and rode away to assume the responsibilities of the Humbled.

In moments, Stave and Liand had repacked the bedding and supplies. Hyn and Hynyn, Rhohm, Hrama, and Narunal answered Stave’s whistle almost immediately, as if they had their own reasons for excitement or alarm. With Anele between them, Liand and Linden followed Mahrtiir and Stave to meet the horses.

The early sky looked too pristine to hold any omens. As the sun mounted, it spread light and azure across the heavens, immaculate and unfathomable; absolved from taint. If Anele were indeed able to detect an ominous scent, Linden could not. She smelled only the freshness of a bright day after rain; the gentle pleasure of grasses and wildflowers and loam in springtime.

First at a canter, then a liquid run, the Ranyhyn bore their riders into the southeast, toward the last obstacle or opportunity between Linden’s company and Andelain.

Here the ground rose into a sequence of low ridges like striations across the landscape. Where the slopes were gradual, the horses confronted them directly, pounding upward without hesitation, and descending in a rush as smooth and secure as the surface of Glimmermere. But where the ridges jutted more steeply, Narunal angled across their sides; and the other Ranyhyn followed seamlessly, letting Mahrtiir’s mount lead them by a stone’s throw.

In the vale between the second and third ridge, Branl awaited Linden and her companions. At the same time, Galt approached them from the south. Although he rode at a full gallop, he conveyed no impression of haste or urgency. And Stave said nothing: apparently he heard no warning in the thoughts of the Humbled. While Hynyn and Narunal nickered a greeting to Bhanoryl, all of the Ranyhyn ran at the next rise as if it were level ground.

As Hyn kept pace with the other horses, still following Mahrtiir and Narunal, Linden looked around for Clyme. Presumably Bhapa and Pahni were far ahead, searching the air and the grass and the rumpled slopes for hints of ambush. But Linden wanted to see Clyme. He would come from the east, the most likely direction of attack.

Soon he appeared against the sky on the crest of the fourth ridge. Like Galt, he rode at speed, but without indicating the proximity of foes.

In the vale beyond that ridge-low ground as narrow as a barranca, but not as sheer, with a freshet from the previous day’s rain running through it-Clyme met Linden and her companions. At once, she asked the Manethrall for a halt. The morning was still early, and the stream between the ridges lay in shadow. But she did not need broad daylight in order to study the condition of the Humbled.

They were closer to wholeness than she had imagined; closer than she would have believed possible. Some of their cuts and gashes had already become scars. The rest were healing cleanly. And their cracked or broken bones were almost entirely mended.

Like their strength, the native resilience of the Haruchai was more than human. Hard riding had not harmed them. It had only slowed their recuperation.

Satisfied, Linden said quietly, “All right.” Doubtless the Humbled remained uncertain of her. Perhaps their suspicions had increased. “Let’s get going.” Nevertheless she trusted them with her life-and with the lives of her friends as well. “I’ve been waiting to see Andelain again for years.”

Without hesitation, the Manethrall headed along the vale until he reached a place where the Ranyhyn could surge up the sides of the next ridge. Slowly he increased his lead-or the other horses held back-until he rode a dozen strides or more ahead of Linden and her defenders.

Passing the crest, the riders ran out of shadow and down a gentle expanse of sunlit grass toward another rise. But it was little more than a line of low hillocks, and did not slow the Ranyhyn. Perhaps half a league beyond it stood a much higher ridge with more difficult slopes. Here and there, lichen-mottled fists and foreheads of bedrock jutted from the hillsides like buttresses. The horses were forced to pick a crooked and cautious way upward.

At the end of that ascent, however, Linden and her companions saw Salva Gildenbourne for the first time. As if involuntarily, they stopped to gaze at the forest’s immanent majesty.

It lay on the far side of a last ridge, a small interruption like a ripple in the earth. From the vantage of higher ground, Linden could see that Salva Gildenbourne was indeed vast. It stretched from the eastern horizon across her path and into the west, where it began to curve by slight degrees toward the south: a rich variegated green panoply bedecked at intervals with the ineffable gold of Gilden trees, and prodigal with the new growth of spring and rain; profligate with life and subtle Earthpower.

By her estimation, she was roughly fifteen leagues from Andelain. At this elevation, she might have been able to hope for a glimpse of the Hills which held the Land’s defining glory. But Sunder and Hollian had wrought well when they had brought forth Salva Gildenbourne. In addition, the forest had flourished for millennia on the overflow of Andelain’s fecundity. The woodland was too deep, dense, and tall to permit any faint emanation of the Hills to reach Linden’s senses.

Still she searched the southeast so avidly that moments passed before she felt the tension thick around her; the growing apprehension of her companions. Then she heard Liand say anxiously. “Linden,” and she saw him point toward the east.

The four Haruchai were gazing in that direction. Anele did the same in spite of his blindness. Mahrtiir had already ridden past the crest; but Narunal had halted when the other Ranyhyn did, and the Manethrall’s face also was turned to the east.

As soon as Linden saw the smoke seething out of the trees at the farthest limit of her sight, she wondered how she had failed to notice it immediately.

The smoke itself was black and fatal, but it was only smoke: it did not cry out to her health-sense. Natural fires were possible. Yet the season was spring. Showers had soaked the woods. Nonetheless Salva Gildenbourne was burning.

And there was more.

At that distance, she did not expect to see flames; but she discerned something worse. Rather than fire, she descried a kind of diseased Earthpower, an organic mystical energy distilled and polluted until it had become as fiery as a furnace, as hot as lava, and incandescent with hunger.

Instantly, instinctively, Linden knew the cause of the blaze. You’ll recognise them when you see them. Foul showed you what they’re like. In imposed visions during her translation to the Land, she had seen spots of wrongness bloom like chancres in the body of the Land, eruptions of ruin among the grass and beauty of the landscape. And from those vile pustulent boils, buboes, infections, had squirmed forth devouring monsters which seemed to emerge from the depths of volcanoes. Serpentlike and massive, with kraken jaws formed to rip and swallow earth and grass and trees, those beasts had feasted on the Land as if it were flesh. Ravenously they had consumed the vista of her vision.

Since then, she had learned to name the monsters. They were skurj, and they served Kastenessen because he had released them when he won free of his Durance.

They were a distortion rather than a shattering of Law, but they had one quality in common with caesures: they were discrete, localised; individually small compared to Salva Gildenbourne, or to the wider Land. However, enough of them together could wreak enormous devastation. Their combined hungers might prove to be as ruinous as the Sunbane.

Linden did not say their name aloud. None of her companions uttered it. Instead she asked softly so that she would not gasp or groan, “How far-? Stave, can you tell how far away they are?”

“A score of leagues,” the former Master replied as if he were unacquainted with dread or horror. “Perhaps somewhat more.”

“More,” stated Galt flatly.

“Are you able to determine their number?” asked Liand. “I cannot.”

Roger had told Linden that Kastenessen had not brought very many of them down from the north yet, but she had no confidence that Covenant’s son had given her the truth.

“The distance precludes certainty,” answered Stave. “but they do not appear to be as many as ten. Salva Gildenbourne has endured substantial harm. The source of this smoke is not the only region where the trees have suffered. Other portions also have been devoured, some at the verge, some in the depths, and some nigh unto Andelain itself. Yet the savaging of the forest is fresh only at the site of the smoke. Earlier flames were extinguished by rain.” He looked to the Humbled for confirmation. “Therefore we judge that this smoke reveals where Kastenessen’s beasts feed, and that the skurj are few in number.”

At the sound of that name, Anele groaned.

“It is conceivable,” Stave continued implacably. “that they feed for a time, then burrow beneath the trees to emerge in another place. But this is by no means certain. It is also conceivable that other skurj lurk within the earth. Indeed, it is conceivable that beasts in far greater numbers are masked by trees and distance, and that the razing of Andelain has already begun.

“Nor are we able to estimate the swiftness of the skurj. We can be certain only that Kastenessen is aware of your journey, and of your purpose. He will not find it difficult to gauge the point at which you will enter Salva Gildenbourne.”

Linden swallowed at the dread beating in her throat. “Then we need to move fast. And we need to go now,” before the distant monsters could cross twenty leagues of forest.

She had to hope that Roger and a new army of Cavewights or other forces did not await her among the trees.

Mahrtiir must have heard her-or Narunal did. At once, the Manethrall’s Ranyhyn sprang into a hard gallop down the slope.

In formation, with the Humbled surrounding Stave and Linden, Liand and Anele, the company plunged after Mahrtiir.

As Hyn rushed toward the last ridge before the descent to Salva Gildenbourne, Linden confirmed that Covenant’s ring still hung under her shirt; that Jeremiah’s racecar remained in her pocket. Then she tightened her grasp on the Staff of Law and tried to ready herself. At her back, she felt Liand take the orcrest from its pouch and close it in his fist; but he did not invoke its radiance.

Clutching Hrama’s mane, Anele continued to face the smoke in the east. His fixation there gave Linden reason to hope that no skurj were concealed closer to her small company.

In moments, the Ranyhyn were pounding up the shallow sides of the final rise; and she began to worry about Pahni and Bhapa. But as she and her companions followed Mahrtiir over the crest and downward again, she spotted the two Cords at the edge of the forest.

Their apprehension as they waved told her that they had seen the smoke and drawn their own conclusions; but their manner did not suggest any immediate peril.

Now Linden could see why Stave had described Salva Gildenbourne as unruly. -formed without the benefit of lore. She would not have called it a forest: it was a jungle. With no Forestal, or any other benign power, to shepherd the trees, they had thronged so close to each other over the centuries, and were crowded by such a multitude of brush, fallen branches, and massive moss-thick deadwood trunks, that they seemed to forbid intrusion. Indeed, they almost forbade light.

They would restrict the percipience of anyone who walked among them.

Fifteen leagues of this woodland stood between her and Andelain; within Salva Gildenbourne, she and her companions might be taken by surprise; and she did not know how quickly the skurj moved.

By the time that Hyn and the other horses had slowed to join the Ramen, Mahrtiir had already spoken to Bhapa and Pahni. “There is no present peril apart from the distant skurj,” he announced. “The Cords are certain of this.

“We are Ramen. Only theurgy may baffle our skills. But there is another matter which must be decided here.”

Linden hugged the Staff to her chest. “Go on. I don’t know how much time we have.”

“Ringthane,” said Mahrtiir as if he were glowering beneath his bandage. “we cannot ask the Ranyhyn to enter this forest. They would bear us, forcing passage among the brush and saplings. But if we were assailed, by the skurj or any other foe, they could neither defend themselves nor flee. Salva Gildenbourne is too densely obstructed. Such monsters as we have cause to fear would devour the Ranyhyn whole.”

Linden winced. “You’re saying that we’ll have to make it on foot.” Fifteen leagues through the heaviest jungle that she had seen since the rampant dire fertility of the Sunbane. “That doesn’t even sound possible.”

“Yet the Manethrall speaks sooth,” said Stave. “In this, the Humbled and I concur.”

Damn it, she thought. “And there aren’t any roads? Any paths? No, of course not.” The Masters had discouraged travel for centuries. They certainly had not wanted anyone to visit Andelain, where the numinous manifestation of Earthpower would undermine everything that Stave’s kinsmen had striven to accomplish. “So where is the nearest river?”

“In this region,” Bhapa offered hesitantly, “are streams aplenty. The nearest lies no more than half a league to the east. Doubtless it provides a path into Salva Gildenbourne. Yet-”

“Yet,” rasped Mahrtiir. “it would serve neither us nor the Ranyhyn if we are assailed. Such a path would be too easily blocked against us.”

“No true river enters Salva Gildenbourne from the north,” Stave added. “Only the nearer streams flow southward. Others gather toward Landsdrop in the east. If you seek to approach Andelain by water, we must ride west and south to the Soulsease. Even mounted as we are, that journey must delay us further. And there we will be no less distant from our goal.”

Bitter with frustration, Linden faced Stave. “Why didn’t you tell me? You knew all this. We could have headed straight for the Soulsease from Revelstone. We could have saved-”

“Chosen.” Stave’s eye flashed. “I did not speak of the Soulsease because I had no certain knowledge of the skurj. Also I deem our present course to be the safer road. Any passage into Salva Gildenbourne by river will be fraught with hazard. Doubtless the Ranyhyn would be able to bear us, swimming. But doing so, they could not guard themselves.” He indicated her other companions. “Nor could we give battle on their behalf-or on our own. Only your powers might preserve us.”

Mahrtiir and the Cords nodded their agreement.

“A raft-?” Liand offered tentatively.

Stave held Linden’s gaze. “Grant that we may devise a raft adequate to convey us. Still we would be required to part from the Ranyhyn. And still would we be defenceless, apart from your powers. Do you relish the prospect of spears, arrows, flung stones, and nameless theurgies while we stand exposed upon the unsteady support of a raft?

“If you did not ward us all, we could do naught but perish.”

From the forest’s edge, Linden could not see the place where the skurj consumed Salva Gildenbourne. She sensed nothing of the monsters. For that very reason, she seemed to feel them rush closer by the moment.

Bracing herself on the hard stone of her purpose, she said, All right. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to blame you.

“I’m sure that you’re right. And I really can’t face the delay of riding around this forest.” She did not want to give Kastenessen or Roger that much time- “Let’s go to that stream Bhapa mentioned. Well do what we can on foot.”

Surely any watercourse would be less occluded with brush and deadwood than the rest of the forest?

Mahrtiir nodded his assent. Without waiting for a reply from Stave or any of the Humbled, he and his Cords sent their mounts racing eastward along the fringe of Salva Gildenbourne.

Linden ground her teeth as she and the rest of her companions followed. She was galloping straight toward the most deadly of her many foes, but she could not imagine a better alternative. She had to locate Loric’s krill; needed to find Thomas Covenant among the Dead. She would never rescue Jeremiah without them.

The Harrow’s claim that he could take her to her son meant nothing while he stayed away. He may have feared Kastenessen and the skurj as badly as she did-

The swift run of the Ranyhyn startled birds from the nearby trees.

Grasshoppers leapt away and butterflies scattered. Linden’s company ploughed a furrow of small frights, quickly forgotten in the immaculate sunlight, as the riders shortened the distance between themselves and their peril.

Soon they reached the stream. It came tumbling through a notch in the nearest ridge and down a series of flat stones like shelves or stairs, then slowed as the ground tilted more gradually toward the forest. Where it disappeared under the crowded canopy, it was little more than a rill which Linden could have crossed with a step. However, the watercourse was wider than the stream. More water often flowed there, chuckling over its rocks as it was fed by spring and summer rains. If trees and brush did not throng too closely to the stream, or spill over its banks, Linden and her companions would not be forced to walk in single-file into Salva Gildenbourne.

Linden could not guess how Anele’s mind would be affected by the jungle, but the stones and sand of the streambed might suffice to keep him safe.

Mahrtiir and the Cords had already dismounted when the rest of the riders arrived in muted thunder. Carrying bundles of supplies, Bhapa and Pahni entered the trees at once to scout ahead. At the same time, Stave and the Humbled sprang down from their Ranyhyn to survey the forest and take defensive positions.

For a moment, Linden, Liand, and Anele remained on their horses. Now that she had decided to part from Hyn, Linden found that she was acutely reluctant to do so. She had learned to feel safe on Hyn’s back-And the trees seemed to brood ominously among their shadows, in spite of the distant calling of birds and the glad rippling of the stream.

Liand was uncharacteristically anxious: he had heard the Elohim give warning, and had spent enough time in Anele’s company to absorb the old man’s horror of the skurj. And Anele himself was obviously alarmed. He tested the air repeatedly, jerking his head from side to side as if his blindness galled him. His knuckles were white as he clung to Hrama’s mane.

I could have preserved the Durance! Stopped the skurj. With the Staff!

Somewhere underneath his madness, he blamed himself for Kastenessen’s freedom. My fault! Behind the Mithil’s Plunge, he had begged Linden to let him die. If the skurj closed on him, he would be trapped between terror and culpability.

Oh, hell, Linden growled to herself. She could not heal the old man’s mind: he had made that clear. She had no hope for him, or for any of her companions, if she did not reach Andelain and Loric’s krill.

Angry at her own fear, she dropped abruptly from Hyn’s back and strode over to the stream. Standing in the watercourse beside the rill, she muttered. “Let’s do this. I’m not getting any younger.

“Clyme,” she ordered as Liand dismounted and began urging Anele to join him, “you’re in the lead with Mahrtiir.” She could not bear to send the Manethrall ahead alone. “Stave, you’re with Liand, Anele, and me. Galt and Branl can take the rear.” The Cords would watch over the company from among the trees. If they were fortunate, they might avoid being caught. “We should spread out a bit. I don’t want anything”- or anyone- “to hit all of us at once.”

Facing the Humbled, she added stiffly, “I know what Handir said. No Master will answer Stave unless he speaks aloud. This is the exception. Sound won’t carry far through these trees.”

And she and her companions might easily lose sight of each other along the twisted stream. “If you refuse to communicate with Stave, you might get us killed.”

Galt, Clyme, and Branl gazed at her without expression. She thought that they would take offense-or simply ignore her. But then Clyme joined Mahrtiir, and Branl gestured for Linden to precede him.

Apparently they had decided to obey her.

The Manethrall met Clyme with a keen-edged grin. He bid farewell to Narunal with a deep bow and a whinnying shout of gratitude. Then he headed into the gloom of Salva Gildenbourne, compensating for his lack of sight with percipience.

Linden did not doubt that he could sense the shape of the sand and stones ahead of his feet, feel the weight of the boughs overhead, hear the quick scurrying of beetles and small animals, smell the tangled growth of the jungle. And she trusted Clyme to protect Mahrtiir from the more insidious ramifications of his blindness. The Bloodguard had esteemed the Ramen as much as the Ramen had distrusted them.

While Liand extricated Anele from Hrama, Linden hugged Hyn’s neck. She felt that she should say something to thank the great horses, all of them. But words were inadequate-and she was too full of trepidation. Instead she promised softly, “I’ll see you again. I’ll need you. The Land needs you.”

When Liand brought Anele to her, she linked her free arm with his, hugging his emaciated limb. She walked in the stream so that he could remain on drier ground. The water would soon soak through her boots, but that would be a minor discomfort. She wanted the old man to feel as much tactile reassurance as possible. Sand that was not damp and stones that were not slick might soothe his distress.

With Liand and Stave a few paces behind her, each bearing two or three bundles and bedrolls, she approached the sun-dappled obscurity of Salva Gildenbourne.

She did not understand why Kastenessen was wasting his time on an undefended forest when he could have torn out the Land’s heart by attacking Andelain. Surely that would have been the most effective way to counter her opposition and ruin her hopes? Under Melenkurion Skyweir, Roger had spoken of A portal to eternity. He had told her, You’ve done everything conceivable to help us become gods. Yet now he and Kastenessen appeared to have no larger objective than her death.

She looked over her shoulder to confirm that Branl and Galt were ready to follow Stave and Liand. Then she secured her grip on the Staff and took Anele into the thick veil of the trees.

As her eyes adjusted to Salva Gildenbourne’s crepuscular atmosphere, she found that Mahrtiir and Clyme had already passed beyond a curve in the rill. But even if the watercourse had run straight, the Manethrall and the Humbled might have been veiled by the tangle of brush and saplings that arched over the stream. Here and there, small instances of sunshine filtered through the leaves; and in those etched rays-narrow shafts of light made precise and precious by shadows-gnats and other insects danced like motes of dust. At first, the plash of her boots in the risible current seemed loud. But gradually the jungle swallowed the implications of her passage. She could not hear Anele’s breathing: she could hardly recognise her own. She moved through a louring silence as if she had inadvertently crossed the borders of deafness or substance.

When she looked back now, she could not see Galt and Branl, or the place where they had entered Salva Gildenbourne. Liand’s features, and Stave’s, were only distinct when a moment of light touched them.

For a time, she and Anele walked down the watercourse with comparative ease. At intervals, they had to duck under hanging branches or sidestep fallen logs, but they did not encounter any significant obstructions. As they followed their gnarled path, however, they began to meet trees that had toppled across the stream. The roots of the trees had been undermined by changes in the watercourse, perhaps, or the trunks had been struck by lightning, or they had collapsed and died under the burden of too much time. Some had failed so long ago that they had sunk into the streambed, feeding moss and mushrooms with their decay. Others were more recent victims of the forest’s unchecked growth, and they bristled with branches as rampant as thickets. Linden and Anele could not pass without scrambling over or crawling under the trunks, forcing their way through the boughs.

More and more, Salva Gildenbourne resembled a maze. Linden could not tell how much time had passed, or in which direction she was moving. In spite of the woodland’s naturalness, its fundamental untamed health, she seemed to wander a fatal wilderland, trackless and involuted, where she was doomed to trudge in circles until her courage drained away. She only knew that she was making progress when Bhapa or Pahni appeared suddenly to relate that they had found no hazards: no lurking Cavewights or other predators; no scent or impression of the skurj; no sign that any other sentient beings had joined the chary animals and birds among the trees.

Whenever Bhapa paused to speak with Linden, he assured her that Mahrtiir was unharmed and fearless in the distance ahead. But Pahni lingered for Liand rather than for Linden. She whispered to him privately, confirming that he was well; promising him her utmost care.

The brief visits of the Cords comforted Linden. When they disappeared back into the jungle, she felt an unreasoning fear that she would not see them again. They were Ramen, highly skilled: she did not doubt that they understood caution better than she did. Nonetheless her apprehension grew as she advanced into the dusk and misdirection of Salva Gildenbourne.

She was not worried about Cavewights now: not here, amid the massed impediments of the forest. They would not be able to fight effectively. In addition, she suspected that Roger was too craven to assail her alone. He would insist on allies, support; overwhelming force. Nor was she concerned about wolves or other natural predators. If they were not mastered and compelled, they would instinctively keep their distance from unfamiliar prey.

And she could discern no other dangers. Riotous growth and decay surrounded her: old monolithic cedars, contorted cypresses behung with moss, broad-boughed Gilden vivid and golden where flecks of sunlight touched them, lush ferns and creepers, occasional aliantha and other stubborn shrubs. Such things filled her senses; walled her away from everything except the stream and her immediate companions. Even time faded: she was no longer sure of it. Whenever Liand passed her a bit of cheese or fruit or bread, she was surprised to find that she was hungry.

Still her trepidation deepened like the imposed dusk of the jungle. And Anele felt as she did-or his nerves were attuned to other dimensions of hazard and knowledge. He became increasingly agitated. He flung his head from side to side, and his hands trembled. For no apparent reason, he slapped his face as if he sought to rouse himself from a stupor. Linden heard or tasted small fluctuations in his mental state; but she could not interpret them.

Then, in a crook of the stream, she and the old man began to cross a wide sandbar littered with the mouldering remains of a scrub oak or a stunted sycamore. Abruptly he clutched at her shoulder. Grimaces and flinching passed like darker shadows over his obscured features: his arms shook with the force of an intention which he seemed unable to express.

“Anele? What is it?’

At once, Liand moved closer. Stave stepped back to study the jungle.

Bhapa and Pahni had given no warning. Linden could not remember when she had last seen them.

Anele shuddered. He dug his toes deeper into the sand, or into the decayed and crumbling deadwood, Linden did not know which.

“Linden Avery,” he whispered. His voice was hoarse with strain. “Chosen. Hear me.”

“I’m listening.” She feared that he had been possessed again. But if some potent being had slipped through the cracks in his mind, she could not feel its presence. He may have been speaking for the sand, or the rotting wood; or for Salva Gildenbourne.

Urgently he hissed. Only rock and wood know the truth of the Earth. The truth of life. But wood is too brief. Morinmoss redeemed the covenant, the white gold wielder. The Forestal sang, and Morinmoss answered. Now those days are lost. All vastness is forgotten. Unsustained, wood cannot remember the lore of the Colossus, the necessary forbidding of evils-”

Anele broke off; wrenched himself away from Linden. With one hand and then the other, he slapped his face. Then he scrubbed at his seamed forehead, his milky eyes, his weathered cheeks, as if he were struggling to wipe away his derangement.

“Linden,” Liand murmured, “Linden,” but he did not seem to want her attention. Rather he gave the impression that he was trying to remind her of who she was.

“I’m here, Anele.” Linden stifled an impulse to summon fire from the Staff, cast away shadows. The light of Law might enable him to speak more clearly. But she did not want to announce her location. “Go on. I’m listening.”

Morinmoss redeemed the covenant-?

The old man threw out his arms as if he were opening his heart to the forest. “There is too much. Power and peril. Malevolence. Ruin. And too little time. The last days of the Land are counted.” His voice became a growl of distress. “Without forbidding, there is too little time.”

He wedged his feet deeper into the damp sand and rot.

“Anele.” Linden reached out to take hold of his arm. She did not know how else to steady him, anchor him, except by repeating his name. “Are we in danger? Are the skurj coming?”

Anele, make sense.

Flatly Stave announced, “I descry no threat. The Manethrall and the Humbled report nothing. The Cords are distant, but they do not convey alarm.”

As if in response, Anele urged Linden. “Seek deep rock. The oldest stone. You must. Only there the memory remains.”

She stared at him. Memory-? Did he mean the ancient lore which had been lost when the sentience of the One Forest failed, and the last Forestal was gone? Did he believe that the bones of the Earth remembered what the trees had forgotten?

Did the sand into which he had pushed his feet believe it?

“I don’t understand,” she protested. “The Elohim taught that lore to the One Forest.” Anele had told her so himself. “They remember it even if the trees don’t. And they obviously care,” although she could not explain their actions-or their inaction. “Otherwise they wouldn’t have tried to warn the Land. Why can’t we just ask them?”

Anele gnashed his teeth. “Forget understanding,” he snapped. “Forget purpose.” His eyes were hints, nacre and frenetic, in his shadowed face. “Forget the Elohim. They, too, are imperilled. Become as trees, the roots of trees. Seek deep rock.”

“Anele, please.” Linden wanted to swear at him. “I’m not the one who can read stone. You are. Even if I could reach deep enough,” even if she had not lost her only opportunity under Melenkurion Skyweir. “I can’t hear rock.

“I have to go to Andelain. I have to believe in what I’m doing. Covenant told me to find him. I don’t know where else to look.”

Briefly the old man pulled at his bedraggled hair. Then he appeared to make a supreme effort, as if he were clasping at lucidity that leaked through his fingers like water; and his voice changed. For a moment, a handful of words, he sounded like Sunder; like his own father, eerie and sorrowing.

“He did not know of your intent.”

Then he jerked his feet out of the sand and stamped into the stream to wash them clean of perceptions which he could not articulate. In a small voice that reminded Linden of Hollian’s, he murmured. “We are not alone. Others also are lost.”

After that, he lapsed into aimless babbling, as inchoate as the secrets of the rill.

Damn it, Linden breathed to herself. Damn it. She already knew that Sunder and Hollian did not wish her to enter Andelain. Anele had been completely sane when he had spoken for his long-dead parents. He had held the orcrest, and could not have been mistaken. But everything else-

Forget the Elohim. They, too, are imperilled.

The Elohim-? The people who had called themselves the heart of the Earth? The people who had said, We stand at the centre of all that lives and moves and is?

Others also are lost.

Only rock and wood know the truth-

“Linden,” Liand suggested quietly, “perhaps it would be well to offer him the orcrest? Without it, he cannot speak plainly.”

She shook her head. “I wish. But we can’t risk calling attention to ourselves. We don’t know what the skurj can sense.”

Or Kastenessen-

Studying the old man, Liand nodded sadly.

When Stave urged her to continue, Linden took Anele’s arm and drew him with her along the watercourse.

Darker shadows merged into each other. The flickers of light between the leaves grew more evanescent and rare, implying that the sun had fallen far down the western sky. Still her sense of time remained vague, obscured by shade and the stream’s writhen path. She could have believed that she had spent an hour or days in Salve Gildenbourne, and had drawn no nearer to the boundaries of Andelain. Eventually she might find that time had no meaning at all; that Roger and Kastenessen and the Despiser had nothing to fear because she had snared herself in a place from which she could not escape.

For a while, she continued walking only because she knew that she had no choice. Her steps became an apparently endless trudge over slick stones and damp sand. The mounting gloom seemed to swallow her mind as the trees swallowed sound. She was beginning to think that she was too tired to go on much farther when Stave announced suddenly. “Cord Bhapa approaches in haste.”

Anele tugged against her grasp on his arm, but she did not let him go.

“Has he found some sign of the skurj?” asked Liand tensely.

“I do not know.” Stave’s voice seemed to fade behind Linden. He had stopped to scrutinise the jungle. “He is not Haruchai. I discern only his alarm.”

They, too, are imperilled, Linden repeated to herself for no particular reason. Others also are lost. Someday she would be tired enough to forgive herself. She hoped that that day would come soon.

Then Anele broke free of her, and she felt a belated pang of anxiety. She heard him splash through the stream, but she was no longer able to see him: the shadows were too thick. Instead she felt him scramble westward out of the watercourse, fleeing into darkness.

“Liand!” she called softly. “Go after him. Find Pahni.” Intentionally or not, Anele was heading toward the young Cord. “Keep him safe.”

The skurj terrified the old man. After his fashion, he had good reason. And Linden could not think of any other danger-apart from a caesure- that might frighten him into abandoning his protectors.

Liand paused only long enough to drop his burdens beside the rill. Then he sped after Anele.

Wheeling, Linden located Stave more by his impassive aura than by his vague shape. She was about to ask him where Bhapa was when she felt the Cord’s approach through the undergrowth

— his approach and his fear. He was close to panic; closer than he had been three and a half thousand years ago, when he had returned, seriously injured, to describe the advance of the Demondim. He had never seen such monsters before. Among them, they had wielded the emerald bane of the Illearth Stone. Yet they had not scared him this badly.

“Clyme returns,” Stave told her, “responding to the Cord’s alarm. The Manethrall cannot move as swiftly. He has elected to scout eastward alone, seeking to discover more of this peril.” A moment later, the Haruchai added, “Branl also draws nigh. Like the Manethrall, Galt searches to the east.”

Linden hoped that the Humbled would keep their distance until she knew what she was up against. And she did not want Mahrtiir left alone. But she doubted that Clyme, Branl, and Galt would heed her wishes.

Her fingers itched on the written surface of the Staff. Its shaft was visible only because it was darker, blacker, than the masked dusk.

Bhapa seemed to rush toward her headlong. In his place, she would have tripped and fallen; crashed into tree trunks; blinded herself on whipping branches. But he was Ramen, and his craft did not desert him. Sprinting, he slipped through the jungle and sprang down into the watercourse.

Linden could not see his expression, but she smelled his sweat and desperation. His aura was as loud as a shout.

“Ringthane.” With a fierce effort, he controlled his breathing. “I have felt the skurj.”

She had expected this; assumed it. Nevertheless Bhapa’s words inspired an atavistic dread. On some irrational level, she must have hoped

Gritting her teeth, she asked. “How many? Can you tell?”

“I felt one. But-” Frustration sharpened the edges of Bhapa’s fear. “Ringthane, I cannot be certain. Such ravening and rage are altogether beyond my knowledge. Its seeming is of a multitude. And it does not advance through the forest. Rather it flows beneath the roots of the trees. I was forewarned of its presence when I beheld leaves withering for no clear cause, and with unnatural speed, as though years of blight had passed within moments. When I then pressed my fingers to the earth, I felt-”

The Cord shuddered. Hoarsely he concluded. “I believe that I have outrun it. But its passage is swift, and it does not turn aside. I fear that it is aware of us”- he faltered- “of you. Of your powers, Ringthane.”

“The skurj draws nigh.” Stave’s voice held no inflection. “It is but one, as the Cord has discerned. And it does not rise. If it does not alter its course, it will pass below us.”

Aware-? Linden thought, scrambling to understand. Below us? The fires which she and her company had seen earlier had been at least twenty leagues away. If one of the skurj had crossed that distance unerringly, it must have been guided somehow.

It had been directed by its master. Or Bhapa was right: the monster could sense-

But she had not made any use of the Staff.

Below us?

Anele! Instinctively she whirled toward the west. She was merely human. Perceptions attuned to theurgy would not detect her unless she exerted her Staff or Covenant’s ring. The Haruchai would be more noticeable than she was; easier to spot. But Anele was full of Earthpower, rife with it: he had been born to it. Although his heritage was deeply submerged, he might be a beacon for any extraordinary percipience. And if he had stepped on bare dirt, even for an instant-

As she searched the evening for some hint of the old man, she saw a glimmer of white brilliance through the dark trunks and brush; and her heart seemed to stop.

Orcrest. Liand was using the orcrest.

Oh, God!

Below us. Below Stave and her. Liand’s Sunstone would attract Kastenessen’s creature. Trying to calm Anele-or perhaps simply to light their way-Liand had inadvertently exposed himself to the skurj.

Yelling, “Watch out!” she snatched power from the runes of the Staff; sent cornflower fire gusting out along the watercourse. “I’m going to try to stop that thing!” For an instant, the stream blazed as if the current had become incandescent. Then she concentrated her flame and drove it into the ground, down through sand and soil and stone, to intercept the skurj before it passed.

Stunned, Bhapa stared at her. But Stave appeared to understand. Grabbing the Cord’s arm, he drew Bhapa away from her; out to the fringes of her fire.

At first, she could not feel the monstrous creature. Her boots muffled the sensitivity of her feet, and her nerves had not found the pitch of ravening and rage which had appalled Bhapa. Urgently she sent Earthpower and Law deeper and deeper into the earth, deeper than the oldest roots of the most thirsty trees, and still no hunger responded to her flames.

Then Stave shouted. “Ware, Chosen! The skurj rises!”

In front of her, the watercourse spat filth in a spray of water, rocks, sand. The soil of its banks began to seethe as if the trees and brush were suppurating. Leaves overhead withered and charred. At the same time, she smelled gangrene; a miasma of sickness and rot; necrosis. Disease boiled upward as though dirt and stone and wood were dying flesh.

When her power touched the surging creature, she staggered. The sheer vehemence of the skurj struck her like a physical blow. God, it was strong-

Putrefaction clogged her throat: she could hardly breathe. She tasted similarities to Roger’s bitter scoria. But the forces which confronted her now were worse; purer. They resembled the ruddy extravagance of volcanoes: tremendous energies barely contained by the world’s friable shell.

As it came, she read the nature of the skurj. Mindless as cyclones and earthquakes, the monster was a product of organic magic. It had been born in magma: it throve in infernos and molten stone. And it ate the living earth. The earth’s flesh sustained its savagery. Yet it was not an inherent evil comparable to the Illearth Stone. Nor did it exist outside the bounds of Law, as did the Viles and their descendants. And it did not intend ruin: it had no intention except appetite.

Over the course of millennia, however, all of the skurj had received the legacy of Kastenessen’s rage. During his Appointed Durance, they had been transmogrified; harnessed to his service. From him, they had inherited perversion. Goaded by his hate, they had become havoc and insatiable sickness.

The creature rising to devour trees and dirt and Linden did not reason, and knew no fear. Therefore it could not be turned aside. It would eat and eat, afflicting everything in its vicinity with rot, until the very Earth was torn open at last.

Gasping at the stench, Linden felt her courage fail. She could not move or think. Around her, a wide span of the watercourse and the forest boiled and frothed, immedicably diseased. The Staff was useless to her. The skurj consumed her flames; swallowed or ignored her power.

Covenant had told her to find him. Lord Foul and the croyel held Jeremiah. She and all of her companions were here because she had decided to take the Land’s fate into her own hands. Now she was helpless. Before she saw Kastenessen’s beast for the first time, it had already defeated her.

For an instant, the fabric of reality seemed to rip like a fouled tapestry. The ground pitched and heaved; dropped her to her knees. The pustulent reek of mortification filled her lungs, her nerves, her wailing mind.

Then the skurj erupted from the earth, and she gaped into its avid mouth.

It rose as tall as a Giant above her, and as thick as a cedar. Its hide was as heavy and hot as slag: the entire length of the creature emitted a terrible heat. Yet the hide shed no light. Even the tremendous kraken maw and gullet gave no illumination. Only the teeth, the fearsome fangs, long as stakes, curved and keen as scimitars, row after row of them filling the jaws: only the teeth shone. They burned with a sick red slashing radiance like lamps along the passage into hell.

Linden did not move. She believed that she could not. Her weakness was her birthright: her parents had spent their lives so that she would receive and accept their last gifts.

Nevertheless she was not the woman she had once been; the emotional cripple who had watched, frozen, while Jeremiah had surrendered his hand to Lord Foul, and Covenant had sacrificed himself for Joan. Her heart had become stone-and the stone held.

She did not move, but she could whisper. Gazing into the fanged throat of slaughter, she murmured. “Melenkurion abatha. Duroc minas mill. Harad khabaal.”

The skurj arched over her, mindless and savage. Its lambent teeth strained toward her. It could have swallowed her in a heartbeat. Yet it did not strike. Hearing her, it hesitated, caught by the potency of the Seven Words.

Then Clyme appeared on the poisoned ground beyond the skurj; and the suddenness of his arrival wrenched Linden from her paralysis. He was a Master, a potential antagonist. But he was also Haruchai: he would not hold back. Already she saw him gather himself to spring at the monster.

One touch of that fierce hide would burn the flesh from his bones. One flash of those wicked fangs would sever his limbs.

She was on her feet before she heard herself howl. “Clyme, no!” Screaming the Seven Words, she flung the full strength of the Staff at the skurj. Every scrap of her desperation and weakness and Earthpower she transmuted to fire and hurled against the creature.

Frantically she unleashed strength enough to set Salva Gildenbourne ablaze. But the focus of her terror and resolve was so single-minded that none of her flames touched the trees.

The skurj reared above her. Its jaws stretched to devour her inadequacy. For a moment or two, however, a handful of heartbeats, her coruscating incendiary repulsion sufficed to stop the beast. Although it ate her power, she lashed it with more force than it could consume.

Hampered by fire and the invocation of Law, the skurj reached toward her with its bright fangs-and failed to strike.

“Clyme!” Stave shouted: a stentorian roar which Linden scarcely heard. “Humbled! Preserve the Stonedownor! His orcrest may serve to distract this abomination!”

The skurj forced Linden backward step after step. Its brute force, prodigious and incapable of dismay, threatened to overwhelm her. Among the roots of Melenkurion Skyweir, she had outfought the combined theurgies of Roger and the croyel. But there she had drawn directly upon the EarthBlood: Earthpower unconstrained by mortality and fragile flesh. Here she had only herself.

Then Clyme turned from the creature and ran westward into the trees, followed by Bhapa and then Branl. When she saw that only Stave remained with her, in instant danger, Linden felt a touch of relief. Retreating, she grew stronger.

Grimly she poured torrential fire into the creature’s jaws; down its gullet. She was Linden Avery the Chosen. With no resources except the Staff of Law, the Seven Words, and her own granite, she had survived Melenkurion Skyweir’s convulsion. And Caerroil Wildwood had completed her Staff. Nothing limited the puissance available to her except her own abilities; her circumscribed humanity.

Still she retreated. She had no choice. The creature was too strong: she could not hold it back entirely. But her moment of defeat had passed. As the jaws of the skurj blazed toward her, she reached deeper and deeper into herself for power.

Half of the beast’s serpentine length remained buried beneath it. Balancing as if it were coiled, the creature thrust itself forward. With every violent movement, the fangs burned closer to Linden, and the ground boiled and rotted.

Stave stood directly behind her; supported her with his hands on her shoulders. In part, he gave her his intransigence, his unyielding Haruchai valour. But he also steadied her as she stumbled backward over sand and rocks. Unable to fight the creature himself, he preserved her from falling.

In gratitude and extreme fever, Linden howled the Seven Words, and hurled conflagration as intense as a solar flare at the skurj- and learned the real purpose of Kevin’s Dirt.

Within its definitions-within the bounds of Earthpower and Law-the Staff had no limits except those of its wielder. And Linden’s doubt and terror had passed. She had been annealed in her battle with Roger and the croyel: she was prepared to unleash any amount of flame against the skurj. It was not alone. Doubtless more of its kind rushed to assail her. She would have to slay them all. The Land’s life as well as Jeremiah’s depended on her. She did not mean to fail.

She should have been able to ask the Staff for as much Earthpower as she needed.

But she had forgotten the cloying pall of Kevin’s Dirt. The blindness, the truncation of percipience, which it imposed was only one of its effects. Fighting for her life, she discovered that Kevin’s Dirt hampered other forms of Earthpower as well.

It restricted her fire.

During her battle with Roger and the croyel, Kevin’s Dirt had not constrained her. It had not existed in that time. And it had not prevented her from extinguishing caesures, or from slaying Cavewights and kresh, because those exertions had not required as much raw force as she sought here. Caesures violated all Law: all Law aided her against them. And Cavewights and kresh were perishable, as prone to immolation as any man or woman or child.

But now-God!

Kevin’s Dirt had been created for this: to inhibit the uttermost use of Earthpower. Linden was not being driven backward because she was human and weak, but rather because her attempts to summon the full resources of the Staff were clogged by a ubiquitous fug of wrongness.

And this skurj was only one. There would be more.

Stave was right: Linden needed a distraction. She needed to risk Liand and the orcrest and perhaps all of her companions. She could not stop even one of these monsters with Earthpower. She would die in moments if she did not cast the Staff aside and oppose the skurj with wild magic.

But that would take time. She had not begun to master Covenant’s ring. And white gold defied Law. By its very nature, the Staff would hamper her. It might block her altogether. Even if she surrendered it to Stave, she might not be able to invoke the wild magic that destroys peace swiftly enough to prevent the skurj from crushing her.

Stave! she cried in silence because she could not stop howling the Seven Words. Get Liand!

Stave could not hear her thoughts. She had to rely on his instinctive comprehension of her peril. She would falter and die if Liand did not distract the creature.

Just for a moment. Please.

I am not going to lose my son!

Her task should have been impossible. Without Stave’s support, she would have fallen. Nevertheless she continued to block the monster’s jaws, opposing its fury with fire and utter dismay.

Dimly she heard a voice that was not hers. Somewhere in the distance, Mahrtiir yelled, “Ringthane!” as if the word were a battle cry.

Another roar answered his, as loud as the crushing of boulders.

Then the Manethrall crashed into her from the side; drove her staggering through the stream to collide heavily with the bank of the watercourse.

At once, her power collapsed. The breath and stench were driven from her lungs: she nearly lost her grasp on the Staff. In the sudden cessation of flame, night closed like a tomb over the forest. Only the fangs of the skurj still shone, gaping for prey.

Linden twisted to the side. She clutched for Covenant’s ring.

Between her and the monster’s maw, she saw in silhouette the mighty form of a Giant. Limned by rows of ravenous burning, he advanced on her with his arms raised over his head. In his hands, he gripped a longsword taller than she was, a wave-bladed flamberge.

We are not alone. Others also are lost.

The Giant’s features were a contorted yammer of rage and insanity as he swung his sword, trying to hack Linden in half.

Chapter Nine: The Long Journey of the Lost

Stunned by her impact with the bank of the watercourse, Linden could not breathe. She had no capacity for power. Every Giant whom she had ever known had been her friend: bluff, kindly, humorous, extravagant of heart. Some of them she had loved. She would have felt a rush of joy if she had heard that those sea-and stone-loving people had returned to the Land.

The figure looming over her with butchery in his hands was unmistakably a Giant. He was at least twice her height, twice as broad, and muscled like an oak. His weathered features looked like they had been chiselled from brown marble. Even the cropped cut of his beard might have been shaped stone.

Yet he could not have belonged to the race that had called the people of the Land “Rockbrother” and “Rocksister” in friendship and mirth. She had seen Giants in every extreme of desperation and agony, outrage and sorrow, yearning and fear, as well as in affection and laughter and comradeship; but she had never seen one raving with madness, or frantic for bloodshed.

She could not save herself. The wave-lined blade of his longsword plunged toward her: it would hit with the force of a guillotine. Her shocked heart would not have time to beat again.

When Mahrtiir had knocked her aside, he had fallen with her. But he had rebounded to his feet in the same motion. More swift than she would ever be, he confronted the Giant, gripping his garrote between his fists. Eyeless and human, he may nonetheless have hoped to loop his cord over the flamberge, alter its arc.

The sword was sharp iron: it would sever the garrote as though the Manethrall and his weapon did not exist.

But Stave was faster than the Manethrall-and far stronger. Cartwheeling past Mahrtiir, he intercepted the Giant’s blow with his feet; slammed his heels against the vicious plummet of the Giant’s hands.

Deflected, the longsword hammered into the earth a hand span from Linden’s shoulder.

The Giant’s might buried his blade halfway to its hilt. Raging, he snatched it back to strike again.

Stave landed on his feet. At once, he leapt at the Giant’s arms, trying to pin them together; hamper the Giant’s next blow.

The Giant jerked him into the air as if he were a trivial encumbrance.

In that instant, the skurj surged forward. It sank its fangs into the Giant’s shoulder.

All light vanished as the terrible jaws closed. Linden sensed rather than saw the beast heave the Giant upward and shake him, driving its bite deeper.

She felt Stave spring clear; felt Mahrtiir search eyelessly for an opening in which he could use his garrote.

She heard the Giant howl-

— in fury: not in pain.

Now she discerned that he was armoured in stone. He wore a cataphract of granite slabs which had been fused together by some Giantish lore. Briefly the stone protected him.

But the skurj fed on earth and rock: it chewed through the armour. Cruel curved fiery teeth searched for flesh and muscle and bone. In spite of the Giant’s tremendous strength, his entire arm would be torn away.

Still his screams were rage rather than excruciation.

He had just tried to kill Linden. But he was a Giant, a Giant. Instinctively she scrambled upright to defend him. Wielding the Staff with both hands, she hurled a frantic yell of flame at the creature.

In the sudden blaze of Earthpower, its multiplied fire reflecting from the stream’s turmoil, she saw the jungle along the eastern edge of the watercourse erupt with Giants.

They arrived too abruptly to be counted. Linden recognised only that they were all women; that they, too, wore stone armour and brandished longswords; and that Galt was among them.

They attacked like an explosion.

One of them hacked with a massive stone glaive at the monster’s jaws. Some act of cunning or magic had hardened the sword. A single blow cut the mad Giant free. Ruddy horror splashed from the exposed fangs.

Another woman slashed iron through the thick hide of the skurj, spilling viscid blood that reeked of rot and disease. Then she plunged her fist into the wound-into the living magma-as if she sought to rip out the creature’s heart. The monster’s heat tore a shout of pain from her throat; but she did not withdraw.

A third Giant chopped at the beast’s body where it emerged from the ground as if she were trying to fell a tree.

Dumbfounded, Linden remembered that Giants could endure fire, even lava-at least for a short time. In their caamora, their ritual of grief, they purged sorrow by immersing their flesh in flames and anguish.

By that means, Covenant had released the Dead of The Grieve. Saltheart Foamfollower had enabled him to cross over Hotash Slay.

Nevertheless she snatched back her own blaze so that it would not interfere with the creature’s assailants.

When the skurj dropped the raving Giant, he rolled to his feet. Swinging his flamberge, he charged at Linden again.

Only Mahrtiir stood between her and the shaped blade.

By the light of the Staff, she saw the Giant clearly. Flagrant lunacy gripped his features like a rictus: his desire for her death burned in his eyes. And some time ago-a year or more-his face had suffered an edged wound. A deep, scarred dent crossed his visage from above his left eye and over the bridge of his nose into his right cheek. It gave him a crumpled look, as though the bones of his skull had tried to fold in on themselves.

He was no more than two quick strides from her, near enough to have slain Mahrtiir if he had noticed the Manethrall, when one of the women clubbed at his temple with the pommel of her longsword. At the same time, Stave kicked a leg out from under him. He fell so heavily that the ground lurched.

He tried to rise, still gripping his flamberge. But the Giant who had struck him stamped her foot down on his blade; and another woman pounced at him, landing with her knees on his back.

A heartbeat later, the Giant who had freed him from the skurj joined her companions. Like him-like all of the Giants-she wore armour of stone. Dropping her glaive, she reached under her cataphract and drew out two sets of iron shackles. With the help of the other women, she forced his arms behind him and secured his wrists together. Then she fettered his ankles.

As soon as he was bound, his captors jumped back. He hauled his knees under him, heaved himself upright, surged to his feet. Without hesitation, he charged at Linden again as if he meant to kill her with his teeth; bite open her throat.

Grimly the Giant who had shackled him punched him in the centre of his forehead.

Her blow stopped him; may have stunned him: it seemed to alter his rage. His roar became urgent gasping. “Slay her!” he pleaded hugely. “Are you blind? Are you fools? Slay her!”

He did not appear to be aware of his damaged shoulder.

Muttering bitterly, one of the other women jammed a rock into his mouth to gag him. Then she pulled back his head and pushed down on his shoulders, forcing him to his knees.

The Giant hacking at the creature’s trunk had nearly cut through it; but still the skurj fought, flinging fetid gouts of blood in all directions. Its fangs flared murderously despite its maimed jaw. Where its blood struck armour, the sick fluid frothed and fumed, but did not corrode the stone.

Other Giants slashed at the monster. However, they did not press their attacks. Instead they distracted the beast so that it did not turn its teeth against the woman who had thrust her arm into its viscera. Her shout had thickened to a strangled snarl of pain, but she continued to grope inside the skurj, trying to grasp some unimaginable vital organ.

Then she pulled away. For an instant, Linden thought that the Giant had suffered more fire and hurt than she could endure. But in her fist, she clutched a rancid pulsing mass.

With a hideous shriek that nearly split Linden’s eardrums, the skurj collapsed. At first, the conflagration of its fangs continued to throb and flicker. Slowly, however, darkness filled the creature’s maw, and she knew that it was dead.

Growling Giantish obscenities, the woman flung the monster’s organ far out over the trees.

The woman who had produced the shackles retrieved her stone longsword. When she had wiped it on the bank of the watercourse, she slipped it into a sheath at her back.

Fumbling as if he were disoriented, Mahrtiir felt his way to Linden; touched her face and arms to assure himself that she was unharmed. “Mane and Tail, Ringthane,” he murmured. “Are they Giants? Truly?”

She seemed to hear weeping in the background of his voice. But he was too proud to surrender to his astonishment and relief.

When she tried to answer, her throat closed on the words.

How many Giants were there? She counted ten women and the madman. Two stood guard over him, ensuring that he did not regain his feet. Seven quickly formed a protective perimeter around Linden, Stave, Mahrtiir, and Galt. And one-the Giant with the shackles and the stone glaive-turned toward Linden.

She was a bit shorter and less muscular than her prisoner, but she emanated great strength. Streaks of grey marked her short hair, which appeared to sweep back from her forehead of its own accord. The lined toughness of her skin suggested age-whatever that word might mean among people who lived as long as Giants-but there was no hint of diminished vigour in her demeanour or her movements. Combat and hardship smouldered in her eyes. The precise symmetry of her features was marred by a deep bruise on her right cheekbone. Rerebraces of hardened leather protected her upper arms: old scars latticed her forearms and hands.

Her manner announced that she was the leader of the Giants.

Both Stave and Galt bowed deeply, honouring the ancient respect of the Haruchai for the Giants; and Stave said. “We are timely met, Giant. Unexpected aid is twice welcome. And we”- he flicked a glance at Galt- “I did not anticipate your return to the Land.”

The woman ignored Stave and the Humbled. To Linden, she said brusquely, “You would do well to extinguish your flame. In this dire wood, darkness is less perilous than power.”

Linden swallowed heavily, struggling to clear her throat of relief and dismay and memory. The Giant’s air of command and obvious prowess reminded her poignantly of the First of the Search. This woman’s countenance did not resemble the First’s. Nor did her armour. Nonetheless she seemed to have emerged from Linden’s distant past, bringing with her Linden’s love for the First and Pitchwife, for lost Honninscrave and doomed Seadreamer.

And Linden had failed against the skurj. She was adrift in recollection, bereavement, inadequacy. Because she could not find any other words, she said dully, “You killed it.”

She had done little more than slow the monster. Soon it would have consumed her-

The Staffs light was all that kept the Giants from vanishing.

“For a short time,” the Giant replied. “Its death and your magicks will soon draw others of its kind. They will devour its remains and multiply. When they have feasted, two or three will become four or six. With each death, their numbers increase.

“Again I ask you to quench your flame. Then we must depart with as much haste as we may. These creatures-knowing nothing of them, we name them were-menhirs- are not laggardly. Ere long they will assail us in numbers too great for our strength.”

Linden stared in chagrin. With each death-? The skurj reproduced by eating their own dead? Trembling, she clung to Earthpower and Law; to herself. Without fire, she would be at the night’s mercy.

What in God’s name were the Giants doing here? And why did one of them want to kill her?

“You’re a Swordmain,” she murmured as if she were stupefied. All of the Giants were Swordmainnir. Even the madman- “Like the First of the Search.”

They could have been a war party-

Grimly the Giant answered, “And you are Linden Avery, called Chosen and Sun-Sage”- she grinned like a threat- “if the tales of our people have not been excessively embellished. As the Master has said, we are timely met. But if you do not-”

Sudden relief shook Linden. With a convulsive effort, she stifled her fire; let herself fall into darkness. She was known: these Giants knew her. She did not need to fear facing them without light.

The survivors of the Search had carried stories of their adventures back to their people. The Giants loved such tales; told and retold them in eager detail. And their lives were measured by centuries rather than years or decades. They would not have forgotten her. Or Covenant. Or the love for the Land which the First and Pitchwife had learned in Andelain.

For a moment, she was lost; blinded. The intense mephitic stench and sickness of the monster’s corpse overwhelmed her senses. She required other dimensions of perception in order to distinguish the figures around her, Stave, Galt, and Mahrtiir as well as the Giants.

Unsteadily she said, “I don’t know how to thank you. I couldn’t stop that thing.” It was only one of the skurj- “Kevin’s Dirt is worse than I thought. We would all be dead if you hadn’t found us.”

“Linden Avery”- the Giant’s tone was iron- “our cause for gratitude is no less than yours. We must exchange tales. Yet our foremost need is for distance from this beast’s remains.”

“Chosen,” Stave said at once. “the Swordmain speaks sooth. We have now no guard to the east, and the skurj surely draw nigh. We must gather our companions and make haste.”

“Companions’?” asked the woman sharply. You are not alone’?”

“Only some of us are here.” Linden’s voice still shook. “We have-” She was about to say, — a madman of our own to worry about. But the injustice of comparing Anele to the Giant who had tried to hack her down stopped her. “We have an old man with us. The others are protecting him.”

“They approach,” stated Galt flatly. “Though you do not acknowledge our presence, Giant, you hear us. Watch to the west.”

“The unwelcome of the Masters is not forgotten,” the woman rasped. “We-” Then she halted: Linden felt her stiffen. “Stone and Sea! Your companions are a beacon, Linden Avery. Surely every were-menhir- do you name them skurj? — within a score of leagues speeds hither.”

At once, the leader of the Giants shouted, “Quell your power, stranger! You summon a peril too swift to be outrun!”

Glimmering among the benighted trees, Liand’s Sunstone shone like a star.

“Linden?” he called in the distance; and Bhapa added, “Ringthane?” Then they fell silent. A moment later, the radiance of the orcrest winked out.

Linden felt them now, all of them: Liand and Anele, Bhapa and Pahni, Clyme and Branl. They were less than a stone’s throw away. She might have descried them sooner if the dead skurj had not occluded her health-sense.

Presumably Branl or Clyme had commanded Liand to obey the Giant. If so, Linden was sure that the Humbled had not deigned to explain why.

To reassure her friends, she shouted, “Hurry! The skurj is dead. We’ve met some people who might help us. But we have to get away from here!”

“You presume much, Linden Avery,” growled the Giant; but she did not sound vexed. Rather she conveyed the impression that she was grinning fiercely. “How do you conclude that we may be inclined to aid you?”

Thinking of Giants who grinned and laughed, Linden grew calmer. “Because you know who I am. The Giants of the Search were my friends. Grimmand Honninscrave and Cable Seadreamer died protecting Thomas Covenant and me. The First and Pitchwife went into the Wightwarrens of Mount Thunder with us. Remembering them gives me hope.

“You saved my life. And if that isn’t enough, one of you just tried to kill me.” She had mentioned Seadreamer. After a severe blow to the head, he had gained what his people called “Earth-Sight,” a vision of a terrible danger abroad in the world. The mad Giant had also been hit hard. Now he wanted her dead. If he, too, were guided by Earth-Sight- Weakly she finished, “The way I see it, that makes you responsible for me.”

The Giant barked a harsh laugh. “We are too well known to you. All doubt that you are in good sooth Linden Avery, Chosen and Sun-Sage, is thus dispelled. Accept my name in token that Longwrath’s sufferings do not define our goodwill. I am Rime Coldspray, the Ironhand of the Swordmainnir. Though I am far from the mightiest among us, I am so honoured”- again her tone suggested a grin- “for my many years as for my low cunning.”

The Giants guarding the madman chuckled as if Rime Coldspray had made a familiar jest. Apparently his name was Longwrath.

In response, Mahrtiir proclaimed, “The giving of your name honours us. I am Mahrtiir, a Manethrall of the Ramen. Two of those who draw nigh are my Cords. Though we are unknown to you, we have some knowledge of you. In the distant past of our race, we were acquainted with your lost kindred, the Giants of Seareach. They were much loved, for they were mirthful and kind, leal and compassionate, in spite of their bereavement.

“I have no eyes, yet I behold you well, Rime Coldspray, Ironhand. I do not hesitate to avow that you will find naught but friendship among the Ramen.”

His stern courtesy dignified the darkness. Hearing him, Linden felt obliquely reproached. He may have been trying to compensate for her comparative impolitesse.

We are likewise honoured by the gift of your name,” replied the Giant. “Having known Giants, you are doubtless aware that we find much pleasure in courtesies. Nor do we turn aside from fulsomeness in praise or thanksgiving.” The lronhand’s companions chuckled again; but she continued darkly. For the present, however, we must delay further joy. Your followers arrive, and our circumstances require haste.”

As Coldspray spoke, Linden heard her friends. The Cords and the Humbled did not make a sound in the dense undergrowth; but Liand stumbled occasionally, and Anele shuffled his feet as if he were feeling his way, reluctant to come near the dead skurj.

As the group emerged from the trees above the watercourse, Linden tasted Liand’s astonishment, Anele’s confused apprehension and relief. The wonder of the Cords was vivid as they saw ancient tales come to life before them. But Mahrtiir did not allow them an opportunity for questions or explanations.

“Cords, guide us,” he commanded. “We require a path suitable for Giants. We must proceed toward Andelain, but more urgent is our need to elude the coming skurj.” With an edge of asperity in his voice, he added, “Doubtless the Humbled will guard our passage. Their caution will suffice.”

Without hesitation, Bhapa swallowed his amazement and disappeared back into the forest, heading south and west from the stream. Pahni was younger; too young to contain her emotions so promptly. After a moment, however, she turned to follow Bhapa.

To Rime Coldspray, the Manethrall said gruffly, The Ramen are skilled in this. Their guidance will speed us. And the arrogance of the Masters is matched by their discernment and prowess. They will do much to ensure our safety.”

Galt, Branl, and Clyme appeared to consult with each other. Then they withdrew into the night on both sides of Bhapa’s heading. If they took offense at the attitude of the Ironhand, or at Mahrtiir’s assumption of command, they did not show it.

At a gesture from Coldspray, the Swordmainnir guarding Longwrath pulled him to his feet. Others retrieved the bundles and bedrolls dropped by Linden’s companions. Two matters remain,” the Ironhand told Linden and Mahrtiir roughly. “Shackled, Longwrath cannot hasten. Yet I dare not unbind his legs with the target of his madness so near at hand. Five of us will accompany him at his pace, both to ward him and to preserve you, Linden Avery. The rest will follow the Manethrall’s Cords more swiftly.

“However-” She surveyed Linden and Mahrtiir, Liand and Anele. “Giants are not formed for stealth. Yet we pass with ease over or through obstacles which would deter you. And the clamour of our movements does not attract the were-menhirs, the skurj. They appear deaf to ordinary sound.

“Linden Avery, Manethrall Mahrtiir, will you permit us to bear you and your companions?”

Perhaps out of courtesy, she did not mention Mahrtiir’s blindness, or Anele’s.

“Linden-?” asked Liand in a congested voice.

Linden had nearly exhausted herself against the skurj. On foot, she would not have been able to keep pace with Liand and Anele and Stave. The Giants would leave her far behind.

She looked at Stave. When he nodded, she said to the Ironhand. If you don’t mind. That’s probably a good idea.”

Rime Coldspray gestured again; and four Giants strode forward. As one, effortlessly, they swept Linden, Mahrtiir, Liand, and Anele into their arms, holding her and her companions upright so that they sat on the forearms of the women. In that position, they could lean against the Giants’ chests and watch where they were going.

Anele may or may not have understood what was happening. But he appeared comfortable in his seat. Perhaps the well-meaning strength of the Giants reassured him.

Skirting the ground polluted by the skurj, Coldspray led her Swordmainnir out of the watercourse and into the jungle while the remaining Giants gathered to herd Longwrath along more slowly. Stave joined the Ironhand, trotting smoothly through the brush.

At first, Linden felt helpless; vaguely vulnerable. She did not know how to hold the Staff so that it would not catch on branches or vines. But gradually the oaken steadiness of the Giant calmed her. Coldspray was right: the Swordmainnir were not stealthy. They crashed through brush and boughs, leaving a tumult of frightened birds and animals in their wake. However, they were protected from thorns and jutting branches by armour and tough skin. In addition, they seemed to need as little illumination as the Haruchai or the Cords. And Bhapa and Pahni guided them well. In relays, so that one led the way while the other searched ahead, the Cords found a relatively clear route. The Giants were able to move with surprising speed.

— deaf to ordinary sound. Linden considered the idea. The skurj were creatures of the Earth’s deep lava. What need did they have for organs of hearing? They had other senses.

Certainly Kastenessen did. So why had he sent just one of his monsters against her? To be sure of her location? Probe her power? Measure the effectiveness of Kevin’s Dirt? In every case, the outcome of his gambit would please him. And his next attack would be more vicious-

Aiding Linden, the Giants had accepted a greater hazard than they knew.

At present, however, she caught no hint of Kastenessen or the skurj, or of any malevolence. And the solidity of the woman who carried her inspired a familiar trust. The mere presence of the Swordmainnir comforted her. By degrees, the pressure in her chest loosened.

While Giants and Ramen and Haruchai cared for her and her friends, Linden sank into herself. Resting, she tried to think about the challenge of finding the elusive mental or spiritual door which opened on wild magic.

She knew now that she could not confront the skurj with her Staff and live: not unless she first freed the Land from Kevin’s Dirt. As matters stood, she needed Covenant’s ring.

Time passed, undefined except by the long strides of the Giants, the sharp breakage of branches and undergrowth. Pahni and Bhapa guided the company with unflagging stamina and woodcraft. No one spoke until Rime Coldspray asked abruptly, “Why do you accompany me, Master? Your comrades ward our way. Why do you not join their vigilance?”

Breathing easily in spite of the pace, Stave replied. “You have honoured us with your name, Ironhand. Intending honour, I offer mine. I am Stave of the Haruchai, outcast by the Masters of the Land for my service to Linden Avery the Chosen.

“The others are the Humbled, maimed to resemble the ur-Lord, Covenant Giantfriend. It is the task of the Humbled to affirm and preserve the commitments of the Masters. They ward us because they mistrust the Chosen. They consider that her powers and needs may compel her to commit Desecration. I do not. For that reason, I have been spurned by my kindred.

“I accompany you because I have claimed a place at her side, as have the Ramen and the Stonedownor-and also the old man, after his fashion.” The Giants of the Search had known Sunder and Hollian. Presumably these Swordmainnir would recognise Stave’s term for Liand. “I have learned to fear many things, but I no longer oppose any deed or desire of the Chosen’s.”

Coldspray strode forward sternly for a moment. Then she said. “Permit me to comprehend you, Stave of the Haruchai. Have I heard you aright? Were the choice yours, would you welcome the return of Giants to the Land’?”

In response, Stave made a sound that was as close as Linden had ever heard him come to laughter. “Rime Coldspray,” he answered, “Ironhand of the Swordmainnir, since the Chosen’s coming I have been humbled both profoundly and often. I no longer deem myself wise enough to discourage the friendship of Giants.”

To Linden’s ears, Stave seemed to be indulging in a peculiarly Haruchai form of humour.

“Then, Stave of the Haruchai,” replied the Ironhand gravely. “I am indeed honoured by the gift of your name. Among us, the tales of the Haruchai are many and admirable. We have long been grieved by the dissuasion of the Masters, for we love friendship wherever it may be found. Take no offense when I ask if these Humbled are trustworthy to watch over us.”

Stave did not hesitate. “While they encounter no discrepancy among their commitments, they remain Haruchai. They will preserve any life with theirs, if doing so does not betray their opposition to Corruption, or to the corrupting use of Earthpower.”

Coldspray considered his answer. “And is this force which the Chosen wields not a ‘corrupting use of Earthpower?”

“The Masters are uncertain. Therefore the Humbled guard against her, but do not demand the surrender of her powers. In our present straits, they will grant to her-and to you-their utmost service.”

“Powers”, Coldspray mused. But she did not question Stave further.

The Giants of the Search must have taken back to their people stories of Covenant’s victory over Lord Foul, of Linden and her Staff-and of white gold. The First and Pitchwife had seen Covenant exert wild magic. They had seen Linden claim his ring when he was gone. Rime Coldspray and the other Swordmainnir would know everything that their ancestors had done and witnessed.

Longwrath must have learned that history as well. It may have shaped his insanity-

Linden sighed to herself. At least she would not have to explain how she intended to fight the skurj.

Belatedly she realised that she did not know the name of the woman who carried her. Weary and fearful, and troubled by her unpredictable relationship with Covenant’s ring, she had paid scant attention to the people around her.

One way or another, their lives were in her hands.

But she could not think of a way to address the woman without sounding brusque and graceless; too stilted to be polite. Like the courtesies of the Ramen, those of the Giants exceeded her.

While she groped for an approach, the dense canopy of Salva Gildenbourne opened unexpectedly. By starlight and percipience, she saw that Bhapa and Pahni had guided the Giants into a small glade. For some reason, the quality of the soil here discouraged trees. Instead wild grasses and brush flourished, interspersed with the piquant promise of aliantha.

The Cords awaited the Giants in the centre of the glade. There Clyme had joined them. When Coldspray and her comrades stopped to consider their surroundings-unrelieved jungle on all sides, dark as midnight-the Master said, “Even Giants rest betimes, though their hardiness is beyond question. Ranging widely, we have found no sign of peril. If you will accept our counsel, you will abide here until the dawn. And if you will not sleep, mayhap you will find succour in your tales.”

The lronhand’s posture stiffened. “The Masters mislike our tales,” she said coldly: an old grievance.

“For the present,” replied Clyme impassively, “we find no harm in them.” His lack of inflection seemed to suggest that he did not expect Linden or her companions to live long enough to speak of what they heard.

Coldspray glared at him for a moment. Then she turned to Stave. “What is your word, Stave of the Haruchai?”

His manner conveyed a shrug. In this the Humbled counsel wisely. The Chosen and the Stonedownor require rest-aye, and the Ramen as well, though it would be foolish to doubt their fortitude or resolve. And we would be well served by an exchange of tales.”

Rime Coldspray looked at Linden. “Linden Avery?”

Linden nodded. “Please.” She was tired of being a burden. “I need time to think. And we really have to talk. I want to know what you’re doing here,” at this precise point in Lord Foul’s machinations, with a deranged man who craved her death. “You may not realise how much trouble you’re in.

“If we rest for a while,” she added. “the others can catch up with us.”

Then she said quickly, “But be careful with Anele.” She pointed at the old man. “Strange things happen to him when he stands on grass. This glade isn’t like any place that we’ve been before.” The grasses were wilder, tasseled like wheat, with thin, sawing blades. “Blankets seem to protect him, but stone would be better.”

“There is no stone, Ringthane,” Bhapa observed. “Here the loam lies deep.”

Coldspray studied Anele: his blind, staring eyes, his tangled hair and beard, his emaciated limbs; his air of madness and secret power. “Will any manner of stone suffice?”

Before Linden could answer, Anele announced, “He has no friend but stone. The stone of the Land is unkindly. It remembers. Yet it preserves him.”

The Swordmain chuckled humourlessly. “Then I will offer you stone which is not of the Land. Perchance it also will preserve you, and hold no remembrance.”

First she unslung her sheathed glaive from her shoulders. Then she undid the hidden clasps which secured her armour. When she set the heavy curved plates on the ground, they formed a kind of cradle. If the stone had not been moulded to fit her, Anele could have stretched out on it.

The Giant bearing Anele lowered him to the armour. At the same time, Linden, Liand, and Mahrtiir were placed on their feet. Immediately Liand moved toward Linden, brimming with questions. But the Manethrall told Bhapa and Pahni to gather deadwood from the forest. “Fire will comfort the darkness of our straits. In this, I do not fear the skurj. Their hungers are too vast to regard such small fare.”

Both Coldspray and Clyme indicated their agreement. When the Cords headed obediently for the trees, Liand shook himself, shrugged, and joined them. Holding Pahni’s hand, he let her lead him into the darker night of Salva Gildenbourne.

The Ironhand faced Linden again. “As I have said, Longwrath’s shackles hinder him. Some time will pass before my comrades join us. Yet I hold little fear for them. Of necessity, we have grown adept at discerning the evils which you name skurj. I have caught no fresh scent of them. And it appears that the Masters who ward us concur.”

“It is the word of the Humbled,” Clyme insisted. “that there is no imminent peril.”

Coldspray seemed to ignore him. “Therefore, Linden Avery, I deem that the time is apt for tales. By the light of the stars, and with a fire for warmth, let us each account for the strange fortune of our encounter.”

Now that she was no longer held by the heat of the Giant’s arms, or shrouded by the warm vitality of the forest, Linden found that the night had turned cold. A breeze seemed to flow down into the glade from the heavens, sharp and chill.

Hugging the Staff to her chest, she said, “I agree.” Then she asked, “But don’t you have any supplies? I haven’t seen your people carrying anything.”

The Ironhand chuckled again, still without humour. “You approach the conclusion of our tale. We are Giants, and love the journey from a tale’s birth to its ending. You observe truly that we bear neither sustenance nor unworn apparel. If our weapons fail us, we have no others. However, at need we are able to endure some measure of privation.” A brief spatter of laughter arose from the other Giants; but Coldspray did not pause. “And in this glade, none need fear hunger. Informed by tales, we know the virtue of aliantha. Neither our pleasure nor our solemnity will be hindered by inanition while we hold our Giantclave, seeking the import of our encounter. We must clarify our path toward a future which appears as tangled and trackless as this wood.”

“Solemnity, ha!” muttered one of the other Giants. “In her lifetime, Rime Coldspray has never drawn a solemn breath.”

The woman’s companions laughed softly again.

“You forget, Frostheart Grueburn,” retorted Coldspray, “you who laugh at all jests and comprehend none, that I am not merely immeasurably aged and wise. I am also ripe with cunning. And while I retain my sight, I have not grown deaf. I hear you when you scoff at me.”

Now the Ironhand’s comrades laughed outright, and one of them punched affectionately at the shoulder of the Swordmain called Frostheart Grueburn. With a shiver, Linden realised that Grueburn was the woman who had just carried her for several leagues through Salva Gildenbourne.

These Giants had rescued her from both Longwrath and Kastenessen’s monster; and she had barely thanked them-

While she searched herself for graciousness, Liand returned laden with firewood. As he crossed to the centre of the glade, an unnamed Swordmain produced a pair of rocks and a pouch of tinder from a pocket covered by her cataphract. When he had dropped his burden, she built a small mound of twigs, leaves, and bark, sprinkled them with flakes of tinder, and began striking sparks with her stones.

Brushing debris from his jerkin and leggings, Liand came to stand beside Linden. “Giants, Linden?” he asked in a whisper. “Are these indeed Giants? You have made no more than passing mention of such folk, and I did not think to query Pahni concerning them. Yet it is plain that you know them well.” His tone did not reproach her. When I beheld Sandgorgons, I conceived that the wide Earth held no greater wonder-aye, and no greater terror-for they were mighty and fearsome beyond my imagining. Now, however, I have felt the terrible puissance of the skurj. And I have been borne kindly by a Giant, when I had not grasped that such folk walked the world.

“Linden, I-” Liand’s eyes echoed sparks. “Perhaps my wits are sluggish. Only now does it occur to me that I do not comprehend how you are able to bear such knowledge. I am filled to bursting, and I have neither spoken with ancient Lords nor given battle in the depths of the Earth. We have witnessed powers which surpass me utterly, yet they revolve about you as moths do about a lamp-and with as little effect.

“I do not ask why you have not spoken more of Giants. They will soon speak of themselves. I ask how you contrive to endure all that you have known and done. You exceed forces and beings whose sheer magnitude turns my heart and mind to dust.”

The Ironhand drew closer as he spoke. “Do not be dismayed, Stonedownor,” she advised him. “There is no mystery here. She is Linden Avery, Chosen and Sun-Sage. Our tales say that she is merely magnificent.”

At the fringe of the jungle, Pahni’s slim form stepped out of deeper blackness. She, too, carried a load of dead branches.

“No,” Linden protested uncomfortably. “You’re thinking of Covenant. I’m just me.” Then she faced Liand. “And I’m not the only one who exceeds.” If she had ever done so. “I’m not the one who gave those Woodhelvennin their health-sense.”

Flames had begun to bloom from the mound of twigs and tinder. The Giant put away her pouch and stones, feeding larger bits of wood to the fire as it took hold. Aching for warmth and reassurance, Linden moved closer to the small blaze.

“It’s Jeremiah, Liand,” she murmured. “He’s how I do it. I would have fallen apart days ago, but I can’t afford to. I can’t let anything stop me. Lord Foul has my son.”

He’s belonged to Foul for years.

But if she found the krill- If she could evoke Thomas Covenant-

“And you do not forgive,” Stave remarked. “There is strength in ire, Chosen. But it may also become a snare.”

With the Staff in the crook of her arm, Linden held out her hands to the flames. Tell that to Kastenessen, she thought bitterly. Tell the Despiser. But she kept her retort to herself.

Pahni added her wood to Liand’s pile, then went to stand beside him. A moment later, Bhapa approached with his arms full. When Mahrtiir had studied the supply of firewood as though he could see it, he nodded. “You are weary,” he told the Cords. “Gather aliantha and rest. As more wood is needed, perhaps Stave will guide me to obtain it.”

Pahni and Bhapa started to obey; but Coldspray stopped them. “You have laboured much, and are indeed worn, Ramen. Permit us to perform this service.” She motioned for two of her comrades. “Stormpast Galesend and Onyx Stonemage have ears to hear. They will not be denied our tales while they gather treasure-berries.”

In response, Mahrtiir bowed. “Centuries have passed into millennia,” he pronounced. “but the Giants remain considerate and compassionate. Gladly we accept the honour of your courtesy.”

Rime Coldspray smiled. “In appearance, the Ramen are a nomadic and brusque people. Yet their politeness would grace a courtly kingdom. Were the Masters as gracious, much that now lies fallow would flourish.”

Both Stave and Clyme gazed at her without expression, and said nothing.

When the Manethrall had seated himself near the fire, Bhapa sank to the ground beside him. Pahni linked her arm with Liand’s. In a more formal tone, the Ironhand continued. “Linden Avery, it is unmistakable that you are the intersection of our tales. Yet mayhap this truth is not evident to you. Therefore I will speak first, though we are far from Home, and beset by perils which we cannot comprehend. When you have heard of our ventures, you will be better able to determine how you may account for our needs as well as your own.”

Linden edged a bit closer to the crackling fire. Its dancing illumination cast light and shadows across the faces of the Swordmainnir. At one moment, their strong faces seemed grotesque and suspicious, and at another, fraught with mirth.

“Thank you,” she said as clearly as she could. “We just met a few hours ago, and already I haven’t thanked you enough. The Giants of the Search were my friends. I loved them. I hope that when we’ve talked, we’ll be able to face our problems together.”

She wanted the help of these women.

Coldspray nodded soberly. “A worthy desire. Thus I begin.”

She remained standing, tall against the heavens, while Frostheart Grueburn and the Giant who tended the fire sat cross-legged nearby, and Galesend and Stonemage wandered the glade, picking aliantha. Anele had curled himself into Coldspray’s armour as if he had lost interest in everything except the touch of her stone. But Linden, Liand, and Pahni rested on one side of the fire, and Mahrtiir and Bhapa squatted opposite them. Stave remained near Linden. After a moment, Clyme drifted into the night, presumably to join Galt and Branl as they watched over the glade. He must have trusted Stave to relay the story of the Swordmainnir.

“Giants live long, as you know,” began the Ironhand. “This is well, for we are not a fecund race, and our children, whom we treasure, are too few to content us. Thus we account for our restless roving of the Earth. Our hearts seldom find fullness among our families.

“It was with wonder, joy, and astonishment that we greeted the return of the Search, led by the First and her mate, Pitchwife. It was with mingled delight and weeping that we heard their tales, narratives of bitter loss and brave triumph, cruel suffering and dear friendship. But in the succeeding years, our happiness and amazement were multiplied when the First of the Search, Gossamer Glowlimn, gave birth to a son, and then to a second, and then in her later years to a third. This we deemed nigh miraculous, and our celebrations-which I will not describe, for one night is too brief-endured for decades.

“Yet wonder was compounded upon wonder, and joy upon joy, for as the centuries turned, the youngest son of Pitchwife and Gossamer Glowlimn, who was named Soar Gladbirth, found love and a mate in Sablehair Foamheart, called by all who knew her Filigree for her delicacy and loveliness. And in the fullness of time, Filigree also gave birth to sons, first one and then another. That alone would have made Glowlimn and Pitchwife a treasury of tales and pride, for across the millennia it has been rare and precious that two Giants were so blessed with descendants. Yet Filigree and Gladbirth were not done. When some decades had passed, they received the gift of a third son.

“Now our exultation knew no bounds. The Giants have ever lived their lives on the verge of diminishment. Our seafaring ways are in themselves hazardous, the loss of the Giants who became the Unhomed of the Land was rue and gall to us, and our children are not numerous, as I have said. In the sons of Filigree and Gladbirth, we felt that we had been granted an augury of hope, a promise that the seed of the Giants had regained its lost vitality.”

Firelight shed fraught shadows across Coldspray’s features. “Linden Avery, the third son of the third son of Glowlimn and Pitchwife was Exalt Widenedworld. But now the Giants of Home name him Lostson, and among the Swordmainnir he is called Longwrath.”

To herself, Linden groaned for Pitchwife’s sake, and for the First’s. But she did not interrupt the lronhand’s tale.

“The fault is mine,” continued Rime Coldspray, “if indeed the notion of “fault” retains its meaning in such matters. Rare among our men, Widenedworld was drawn to the Swordmain craft. In jest, we say that our men are too soft of heart for battle. However, the truth is merely that their passions flow differently. All Giants love stone and sea, “permanence at rest and permanence in motion”, but the adoration of our men is more direct. They are drawn to the fashioning of ships and dwellings intended to endure. Perhaps because the joy of birth and children is both uncommon and fleeting, our women seek skills and purposes which are likewise fleeting. So it occurs that we are women, as you have seen.”

While the Ironhand spoke, Galesend and Stonemage returned to the fire with their huge hands full of aliantha. In silence, they shared treasure-berries liberally among Linden and her companions. Linden accepted her portion and ate, although she scarcely noticed her own hunger, or the piquant nourishment of the fruit. All of her attention was focused on Rime Coldspray.

“Yet Exalt Widenedworld wished to join the Swordmainnir,” Coldspray said without pausing, “and so he was made welcome. Thereafter his training revealed that he was prodigious in both might and aptitude, born to the sword and all weapons. Were our present plight a Search, and he whole in mind, I do not doubt that he would be the First.”

Briefly she bowed her head. Then she raised her countenance and her courage to the disconsolate stars. “However, this is no Search. It is not guided by Earth-Sight. It is a journey of sorrow, and after our fashion we are as truly lost as Lostson Longwrath.

When Widenedworld had mastered our more familiar skills, it fell to me to teach him cunning. Often we speak of cunning mirthfully, but the refinement of which I speak is no jest. It is the quality by which skill is transformed to art. I am the Ironhand, not because I am the mightiest of the Swordmainnir-”

“It is certain that she is not,” put in Grueburn affectionately.

“-but because,” Coldspray explained, “I am able to best those who are mightier. Therefore the teaching of Exalt Widenedworld became my particular task.

“Gifted as he was, and exuberant of heart, within brief decades I found myself hard pressed to master him. And one day, by doom or ill chance, I misjudged his growth in our craft. With cunning rather than strength, I caused what I believed to be a breach in his self-defence, and into that breach I struck, intending to slap his forehead with the flat of my blade, blunt stone which the Swordmainnir wield in training. However, he had in some measure foiled me. By his own cunning, he had drawn me beyond my balance, and there he strove to turn my blade. Sadly either too little cunning or too much betrayed him. Because he had unbalanced me, I struck with too much force. And because he turned but did not deflect my blade, I struck with its edge.”

Liand winced, and Pahni stifled a sigh. But they said nothing. Like Linden, they were held by the Giant’s tale.

“You have beheld the extent of his wound.” An undercurrent of self-recrimination troubled Coldspray’s tone. “At that time, we did not. We saw only that the bone of his visage had been broken. Therefore we tended him. Of necessity, the Swordmainnir study healing as well as warcraft. And Giants are hardy. We were grieved by the severity of his wound, but we did not fear for his life. Nor did Filigree and Gladbirth dread that he would perish, though they were likewise grieved.

Now we have learned that death would have been a gentler fate.”

The Ironhand accepted a few aliantha from Galesend; ate them without haste; discarded the seeds. Then she resumed.

“His recovery was slow and arduous, and even in delirancy he did not speak. Remembering Cable Seadreamer, whose gift or affliction of Earth-Sight resulted from a similar wound, and who was rendered mute by visions, we considered that perhaps Exalt Widenedworld would also display signs of Earth-Sight. But he did not. Rather he arose one day from his bed, seemingly without cause or alteration, and announced his intention to “slay” some nameless “her”. Then he struck down or forced aside the Giants tending him and hastened toward our harbourage, apparently seeking a vessel to bear him.

“The Swordmainnir captured him. What else might we have done? And when we discovered that we could not relieve his purpose-that no strength or kindness, no speech or expression of love, no medicament or diamondraught, calmed his violent resolve-we bound him. We had no recourse. Unrestrained, he harmed all who warded him. Again and again, he sought the harbour, and his mad wrath was terrible to those who opposed him.

“At first, his only words were, “Slay her”. Later he inquired if we were fools. And no binding held him. Mere rope he parted as though it were twine. So great was his strength that he sundered hawsers. Fetters of wood became kindling on his limbs. Finally we were compelled to fashion shackles of heavy granite. Unwilling to end his life or cripple him, we knew no other means to contain his fury.

“Thereafter we gathered in Giantclave to choose what we must do. And while we debated together, he whom none now called Exalt Widenedworld shattered his bonds. With his fists, he battered senseless Soar Gladbirth his father and caused the death of Filigree his mother. When his escape was discovered, he had already taken to the sea in a small craft, a tyrscull, apparently intending to sail alone to the ends of the Earth in search of the “her” whom he desired to “slay”.

Mahrtiir’s hands clenched each other as though he gripped his emotions in a garrote. Stave listened without expression.

“We recaptured him. Again we bound him in stone, he raving, “Slay her!” all the while, and, “Are you fools?” Only Swordmainnir stood guard over him, risking no other Giants.

“Now the disputes of the Giantclave had ceased to be, “How may we relieve his madness?” They had become simply, “How may we prevent further harm?” And our dilemma was this. We are lovers of stone. We are not cunning in ironwork. We disdain none of the metals of the Earth. Much we have acquired in trade and seafaring. But our hearts are turned elsewhere. Yet it had been made plain that we required iron to bind Lostson Longwrath. We could conceive of no other means to constrain his wildness.

“Therefore we resolved to convey Longwrath to the land of the Bhrathair, where iron is artfully forged-and commonly traded, for the Bhrathair meet the many needs of their inhospitable home with commerce. We ten of the Swordmainnir were given a compact dromond which we christened Dire’s Vessel. A crew was chosen so that we need not be distracted from Longwrath’s care. Grieving and baffled, we set our sails for Bhrathairealm.”

Linden held her breath without realising it. She felt neither the chill of the night nor the warmth of the fire. Long ago, she had visited Bhrathairealm with Covenant and the Giants of the Search. Kasreyn of the Gyre had tried to destroy them. Both Hergrom and Ceer had been slain.

“I will not consume the night with tales of our voyage,” Rime Coldspray promised, “though it was much beleaguered, and for a time we wandered, helpless, in the toils of the Soulbiter. I am content to say that at last we found our course to known seas. Among the fading storms of summer, we gained shelter in Bhrathairain Harbour.

“Our sojourn there was protracted for several causes. The shackles which we required could not be quickly fashioned. And the Bhrathair bargained stringently, perceiving the scale of our need. Their need also was great, for a fearsome calamity-or perchance an extraordinary redemption-had befallen them.

“Some centuries past, the eldritch prison of Sandgorgons Doom had frayed and failed. By unguessed means, the Sandgorgons of the Great Desert had achieved their freedom. Yet their bestial savagery was but rarely turned toward Bhrathairealm. Against all likelihood, the Bhrathair were left in peace for decades together. When they were struck, the damage was slight.

“But no more than a moon or two before our arrival, the Sandgorgons appeared to conceive an unprecedented assault. United by some unknown force, a considerable number attacked the Sandwall of Bhrathairealm in a bayamo of immeasurable strength.”

Remembering how Sandgorgons had slaughtered Roger’s Cavewights, Linden bit her lip until she tasted blood.

“The Bhrathair feared extermination. However, it transpired that the Sandgorgons had another purpose. They did not wage warfare. Rather they merely bludgeoned a path through an obstacle. When they had breached the Sandwall, maimed the Sandhold, and torn passage across the heart of Bhrathairain Town, they disappeared into the sea. To the wonder of the Bhrathair, an uncounted host of Sandgorgons had departed.

“Therefore the ironworkers of Bhrathairealm bartered greedily. They craved the service of Giants to restore the Sandwall, to secure the remnants of the Sandhold, and to clear the debris from Bhrathairain Town.

“Even discounting our need to bind Longwrath,” Coldspray admitted, “we would have aided the Bhrathair willingly, loving as we do both stone and friendship. But our stay among them was prolonged by another cause also. While we laboured, awaiting the preparation of shackles, we found that we were unable to imprison Longwrath. His madness appeared daily to increase his might. Or mayhap he gained aid by some unknown theurgy. Time and again, he escaped the donjons of the Bhrathair and our own vigilance. Time and again, we recaptured him in Bhrathairain Harbour while he strove to claim a vessel.

“Still he would say only, “Slay her”, and, “Are you fools?”

“Aye,” muttered the Giant who tended the fire. “and we came to abhor the sound of those words in his mouth. We were not inured by repetition. Rather each utterance appeared to augment the meaning of his derangement. As by accretion, he acquired the authority of Earth-Sight.”

Coldspray nodded. “Soon the Bhrathair grew fearful of his violence. They hastened the making of his shackles. And when he was bound in iron, we thought him helpless at last. His bonds he could not break. While we watched over him, he remained passive. Therefore we attempted to complete our promised service. By increments, the Swordmainnir became complacent. I became complacent. Trusting iron, we joined the Giants of Dire’s Vessel in our agreed labours.

“However, we were indeed fools, as he had named us. During our absence from his donjon, he escaped his bonds, leaving them unopened and undamaged.”

Joan, Linden thought. Oh, God. For weeks, Covenant’s ex-wife had slipped repeatedly, impossibly, out of her restraints.

“And now he eluded us,” Coldspray stated grimly. “We found no sign of him, neither at the harbour nor aboard any ship, nor along the length of the Sandwall. We discovered only that he had breached the armoury of the Sandhold, beating aside its sentries to claim a sword. Thereafter it appeared to us that he had disappeared into the sea, as the Sandgorgons had done.

“When all our searching had proven fruitless, we elected to depart, thinking Longwrath lost and our purpose unmade. Approval was granted without demur, for the Bhrathair had learned to consider our presence costly. As the Harbour Captain escorted us aboard Dire’s Vessel, however, we found Longwrath there before us, though earlier we had sought him assiduously. He stood like a heading near the prow of the dromond with his new blade sheathed at his back. And he did not resist when we affixed his shackles. Yet he struggled frantically when we strove to move him from his place. When we attempted merely to withdraw his sword, he fell into frothing frenzy. Therefore we left him as he was, bound and armed and calmed, with his gaze fixed before him.

“Ere we set sail, the Harbour Captain informed us that Longwrath faced in the direction taken by the Sandgorgons.”

Of course, Linden sighed, bleak in the darkness. Of course. Hugging her Staff, she faced Rime Coldspray and tried to contain her apprehension. Lord Foul was calling in his allies.

Joan had become calmer, if not more reactive or accessible, when Linden had “armed” her by returning her ring.

“Linden Avery,” the Ironhand said with regret, “we were entirely mystified-and felt entirely witless. Though Earth-Sight occurs seldom among us, it has never taken the form of murderous rage. Yet we had failed to manage our charge. We had failed dramatically. Indeed, we could not in good sooth name him our prisoner, for his madness or his theurgy had exceeded us.

“Therefore we took counsel together, the Swordmainnir and the Giants of Dire’s Vessel. After much debate, we determined to put aside our opposition for a time. While we could, we would set our sails to the heading of Longwrath’s desire. Thereby we hoped to learn the meaning of his madness.

“Thus Lostson Longwrath became our lodestone.

“The season was now winter,” Coldspray explained as if she spoke for the gravid dark. “In those seas, the gales of winter possess a legendary virulence. Yet we were neither beset nor becalmed. Guided by Longwrath’s gaze, we encountered naught but favourable winds and kind passage. The shackles did not fall from his limbs. While he retained his sword, he accepted food and care, and offered no harm. And soon it became clear to even our crudest reckonings that his face was turned toward the Land.”

Liand and Pahni held each other with growing comprehension in their faces. Bhapa sat with his head lowered and his eyes covered as if he endeavoured to emulate Mahrtiir’s blindness. The Manethrall gripped himself fiercely. Only Stave remained unmoved.

Acknowledging the reactions of her audience, Coldspray said, “Then did we truly question the wisdom of our course. That we were unwelcome in the Land we knew, but the attitude of the Masters did not alarm us. For centuries, they have proffered only discouragement, not resistance. No, our concern was this. If indeed we traced the path of the Sandgorgons, as the Harbour Captain had suggested, we feared that a grave peril gripped the Land, and that we fared toward havoc which we were too few to oppose.

“Thus among us the words “slay” and her and “fools” gained new import.”

She sighed. “And as winter became spring, we found new cause to debate our course, for it grew evident that Longwrath directed Dire’s Vessel toward the noisome banes of Lifeswallower, the Great Swamp. There we were unwilling to follow his rapt gaze. The foulness of Lifeswallower dismayed our senses. Also we remembered the tales of the Search, which warned of the lurker of the Sarangrave, and of the lurker’s servants, the corrosive skest.

“Therefore we turned aside from Longwrath’s hunger. Sailing northward along the littoral of the Land, we sought a safer harbourage in The Grieve of the Unhomed.

“We did not doubt our choice,” Coldspray stated in sadness and defiance. “We do not question it now. Yet we learned at once that the ease of our voyage was ended. Contrary and unseasonable winds opposed our course, compelling us to beat ceaselessly against them. And Longwrath emerged from his quiescence to rave and struggle. Had we permitted it, he would have hurled himself, iron-bound, into the sea. No less than three Swordmainnir were needed to restrain him-and five if we touched his blade. Yet we were also required among the sheets and canvas, for Dire’s Vessel was sorely tried, and every element conspired to thwart us.

“Still we are Giants, not readily daunted. Our race has striven with sea and wind for millennia. We ourselves had endured the travail of the Soulbiter. We persisted, exerting our skill and strength to their utmost. At last, we gained anchorage in Coercri, ancient and ruined, The Grieve of the Unhomed.”

The Ironhand paused as if to acknowledge what she and her comrades had accomplished. When Coldspray fell silent, however, Linden’s attention drifted. She remembered too much. In Coercri, Covenant had given a caamora to the Dead of the Unhomed. She needed him. And she did not have to hear the rest of the Swordmain’s story to know where it was going.

She had been warned often enough-

After a moment, Coldspray resumed, “There we deemed that we might rest. We wished to mourn for our lost kindred. And some of their dwellings remained habitable, defying long centuries of storm and disuse. But as we slumbered, believing Longwrath secure, he slipped again from his unopened shackles and fled.

“When his escape was discovered, we held a last, foreshortened Giantclave. We elected to separate, the Swordmainnir pursuing Longwrath while our friends and kin preserved Dire’s Vessel for our future need.

“At another time”- Rime Coldspray looked in turn at each of her smaller companions- “tales will be made of our urgent, maddened, and maddening chase. Few Giants have crossed so many leagues so swiftly, for we ran and ran, and still we ran. Traversing Seareach southwestward, we skirted the foothills of the Northron Climbs to pass through Giant Woods and enter the perils of Sarangrave Flat. There, however, we scented faintly the ancient evil of the lurker. While we were compelled to caution, Longwrath continued to elude us. Yet he made no secret of his path. When every hint of the lurker had fallen behind us, we were able to gain ground in spite of our weariness.

“Finally we caught him, for we are more fleet than he.” Again she sighed. “At the foot of Landsdrop, we shackled him once more. And for a handful of days thereafter, he ceased his escapes. Perhaps because we followed the path of his madness, or mayhap because the ascent of Landsdrop and the obstructions of this woodland hindered him, he permitted us to remain his captors. Thus we were granted a measure of rest.

“Yet our fear increased, for now when he spoke of “slay” and “her” and “fools”, we heard eagerness as well as fury. By this sign, he revealed that he drew ever nearer to the object of his wish for murder.”

“Indeed,” murmured Onyx Stonemage. “I am a Swordmain and deem myself valorous. Yet I knew such dread at his pronouncements that I am shamed by it.”

At Stonemage’s side, Stormpast Galesend nodded. “Though he uttered only, “Slay her”, and “Are you fools?” his enflamed and avid vehemence prophesied ruin as much as death.”

Touched by an ire of her own, Coldspray said in a voice of metal, “It was then that we first encountered the were-menhirs, which you name skurj. They were two, and they did not threaten us. Indeed, they appeared ignorant of our presence. We might have passed by in safety, as Longwrath clearly wished.

“Yet when we had witnessed their devouring of this great wood, their carnage and savagery, we could not refrain from combat. We are Giants and Swordmainnir, and our love for the living world is not limited to stone and sea. Though Longwrath howled in protest, we gave battle to the skurj.

“Tales will one day be made of that struggle, as they will of our pursuit of Longwrath, for we were unacquainted with our foes, and their monstrous fire and ferocity hindered our efforts to learn how they might be slain. Nevertheless at last they lay dead. And still Longwrath suffered himself to remain among us, bound and armed.

“In our ignorance, we sought to ascertain that the skurj were indeed lifeless by severing them into less ominous portions.” She snorted a bitter laugh. “However, our error was soon made plain to us. Two were dead-but in a short time, five more came to consume the fallen, and by that means their number became ten.”

Linden shivered in spite of the campfire’s warmth.

“Then in dismay we fled, though we are Giants and Swordmainnir. We had met a foe which we could not defeat. Still guided by Longwrath’s greed for bloodshed, we ran.

“Since that day, we have once more fought the skurj, though not by our own choosing. In some fashion which we do not comprehend, they have become aware of us. After our first battle, they did not appear to seek us out. When we chanced to draw near them, they paid no heed. Yestereve, however, we found ourselves hunted deliberately, with cunning as well as hunger. By some means, three skurj contrived to pass unsensed through the earth, emerging beneath our feet to catch us unprepared.

“It was there, Linden Avery, that we lost our supplies. While we gave battle, Longwrath slipped his shackles once more. Having stricken me to the ground”- she indicated the bruise on her cheek- “he escaped. What food, raiment, and weapons were not devoured by our foes, we of necessity abandoned. And it is well that we did so. Had we delayed to gather our burdens, we could not have pursued Longwrath swiftly enough to forestall the fulfilment of his madness.”

Again the Ironhand paused to regard Linden and her companions. Then Coldspray concluded, “Thus our tale ends, though I have refrained from telling it as Giants do, fully, exploring each inference. The time is strait, and hazards await every heading. Therefore I ask. Do you now grasp how it is that we have come to be in this place at this time, and how we may be certain that happenstance has played no part in our meeting? Do you recognise that your own tale has become as necessary to us as breath and blood?

“Linden Avery, you have attained the stature of legends among the Giants. Had the Search not informed us that time flows otherwise in your world, your presence-aye, and your comparative youth-would surpass belief. You have been a redeemer of the Land, and mayhap of the wide Earth also. Yet now Lostson Longwrath craves the sacrifice of your life upon the altar of his derangement. Across a year of the world and thousands of leagues, he has pursued your death. If you do not grant us comprehension, we will remain as lost as he, and as bereft.”

Linden swallowed heavily, trying to clear her throat of implications and dread. She understood too much as well as too little, and her heart trembled. Instead of answering the Ironhand directly, she murmured, “I don’t think that they’re aware of you. I think that they’re being commanded.”

The skurj had attacked the Giants because Kastenessen wished it. So that Longwrath could elude his guardians. Now the creatures held back so that the mad Swordmain could get close to Linden again. Kastenessen meant to help him carry out his geas.

Liand shook himself as though he were rousing from a trance. “Aye,” he whispered. “It must be so. The skurj would not otherwise act as they have done. They are appetite incarnate. Hunger rules them, as Longwrath also is ruled.”

Like Joan, Linden thought. Joan’s despair was a kind of hunger. And turiya Raver tormented her, urging destruction.

Kastenessen and Longwrath, Joan and Roger and Lord Foul: they all sought the same thing.

Apart from the claiming of your vacant son, I have merely whispered a word of counsel here and there, and awaited events.

Understanding too much, Linden knew that her need for the aid of the Swordmainnir was absolute, if only so that she might reach Andelain and Loric’s krill alive.

And she could not tell them the truth. Not all of it: not the one thing which she had never revealed to anyone. If she did, they might turn their backs on her. Even Stave, Liand, and Mahrtiir might prefer a doom of their own making. The Humbled would oppose her with all of their great strength.

He did not know of your intent.

While Linden attempted to sort her conflicting priorities, Stave said, “A question, Rime Coldspray, if you will permit it?”

Unsteady flames made Coldspray’s grin look crooked; broken. “I would ‘permit’ questions to any Master, Stave of the Haruchai, regardless of their unwelcome. But you stand with Linden Avery as Brinn, Cail, and others of your kind did with Thomas Covenant. You require no permission of mine.”

“Then I ask if you have encountered Masters in your pursuit of Longwrath.”

The Ironhand shook her head. “We have sighted none. But I cannot say that we have not been sighted. Our haste”- she scowled up at the stars- “has precluded care. Apart from forests, and the skurj, and Longwrath, we have observed little. If any Master discerned us at a distance, he did so without our notice.

“Indeed,” she added, “we pray that we have been observed-that even now some Master bears word of us, and of the skurj, to mighty Revelstone. The folk of the Land must be forewarned.

“Yet even a mounted Master will require many days to convey his tidings westward. For good or ill, your kinsmen will know naught of what transpires here until events have moved beyond their power to thwart or succour.”

Stave bowed gravely. His flat mien concealed his reactions. But Mahrtiir said gruffly, “It is well. I doubt neither the valour of the Masters nor their dedication to the Land. Yet it is evident that no human flesh can withstand the skurj. Only Giants will serve here. The Masters would merely perish.” He turned his bandaged face toward Stave. “As will the Ramen, and indeed the Ringthane herself, if these Swordmainnir do not accompany us-and if the Ringthane does not call upon powers other than Law to preserve her.”

Linden took a deep breath. “Mahrtiir is right,” she told Coldspray. “We need you. When were attacked again, I’m going to try using Covenant’s ring.” These Giants had heard the tales of the Search: they knew that she had claimed his wedding band. “But I haven’t exactly mastered it. And I don’t know how many skurj I can face at once.”

Still hugging her Staff for reassurance, she began.

“Here’s the short version. I want to reach Andelain. I hope to talk to the Dead.” She yearned to find Thomas Covenant among the Land’s attending ghosts- “And I need to locate Loric’s krill.” The Giants of the Search would not have neglected to mention High Lord Loric’s eldritch weapon. “I’m too weak the way I am. We’ve all seen that. The krill might let me use my Staff and Covenant’s ring at the same time.”

Coldspray stared at her. In that event,” the Ironhand said cautiously, “your strength will exceed comprehension.”

“I hope so,” Linden responded. “I need to be that strong.”

Then she told her story as well as her secret intentions permitted. She glossed over those details which the Giants might already know. For Stave’s sake, she said nothing of the ancient meeting of the Haruchai with the Insequent. And she did not dwell on the frightening similarities between Joan and Longwrath. But for herself, she omitted only the personal ramifications of her trials in the Land’s past, and of her experiences with the Mahdoubt. Everyone that she had encountered, everything that she had learned or done, since Roger had first taken Jeremiah from her, she endeavoured to explain.

While she spoke, the night grew deeper. Darkness gathered close around her, relieved only by firelight and the faint silver gilding of the stars. During her tale, the rest of the Giants arrived with Longwrath still shackled in their midst. When he saw Linden, he tried to roar around his gag; began to struggle feverishly. But the Swordmainnir quelled him with as much gentleness as possible. And she did not pause for him. She had to finish her story.

Her friends listened uncomfortably. Until now, events had prevented her from telling them how Kevin’s Dirt inhibited the power of her Staff. And doubtless they knew her well enough to recognise-or guess at-some of her elisions. But they did not protest. Perhaps they had grown accustomed to the ways in which she did not allow herself to be fully understood. Although that possibility grieved her, she valued their silence. She had her own reasons for truncating her story, and some of her intentions were honest.

After she was done, the Giants murmured together for a time, clearly troubled. Their fire-lit bulk seemed to fill the glade with apprehension. Then Rime Coldspray met Linden’s gaze across the erratic dance of the flames.

“It is an extraordinary tale, Linden Avery. Your gift for brevity discomfits us. There is much that you have set aside. At another time, perhaps, we will ask more of you concerning the Insequent, Esmer, Kastenessen, and halfhands. Certainly we wish to grasp how it is that you remain among the living when you have been slain.”

She glanced around at the rest of the Swordmainnir. When Stonemage, Grueburn, Galesend, and the others nodded, she faced Linden again.

“However, the night grows short, and we cannot foretell how Kastenessen will direct his skurj. Therefore we must give precedence to a different concern.”

Linden tightened her embrace on the Staff. She knew what was coming.

The Ironhand appeared to select her words with care as she said, We cannot do otherwise than surmise that Longwrath’s craving for your death bears upon your purpose in some fashion. Do you dispute this?”

Linden shook her head. “Lord Foul seems to be everywhere these days. He told me that he hasn’t done anything himself. He just gives advice and waits to see what happens. But even if he’s telling the truth, he has a whole list of surrogates who could have twisted Longwrath’s mind.” Or his madness might be a distorted form of Earth-Sight- “One way or another, the Despiser wants to stop me.”

“Then, Linden Avery,” Coldspray pronounced distinctly, “Chosen and Sun-Sage, it behooves me to observe that you have not named your purpose.”

Linden feigned incomprehension. “What do you mean? I told you-”

“You wish to speak to the Dead,” countered the Swordmain. “You desire their knowledge and counsel. This we acknowledge. But you also seek the krill of Loric-and you have not justified your need for its immeasurable magicks.” Her voice had a whetted edge. “What use will you make of such vast puissance?”

“I thought that I was clear,” Linden insisted. “I want to find my son. I want to free him from the croyel. I might have to fight my way through the Despiser to do that. I’ll certainly have to deal with Kastenessen and Roger-and the skurj. And I want to do as much as I can for the Land.”

In that, she meant what she said.

“Does your intent end there, Chosen?” asked Stave quietly. “Do you not also seek retribution?”

I do not forgive.

Linden rounded on him. “So what?” He did not deserve her anger, but she made no effort to restrain it. “That comes last.” She had too much to conceal. “If I want to pay back some of my son’s pain after I’ve rescued him, what do you carer

Coldspray folded her arms across her chest. “Linden Avery, you are not forthright.” Her eyes caught a combative glint from the firelight. “Your words have another meaning which you do not name. It is audible.

“Will you not reveal how you propose to accomplish your ends? The power which you seek will not in itself uncover your son’s hiding place. It may defeat Kastenessen and his skurj, but it will not halt the ruptures which you name caesures, or silence the madness of Thomas Covenant’s lost mate. Nor will it reveal the machinations of the Despiser-or of the Elohim. It will merely enable the riving of the world.

“Why do you wish to wield illimitable might? What will you accomplish with Loric’s krill that does not serve the Despiser’?”

Linden resisted an impulse to duck her head, hide her eyes. Coldspray searched her, and she did not mean to be exposed. The Waynhim believed that Good cannot be accomplished by evil means. Instinctively she agreed with them. Therefore she had to trust that her intended means were not evil. Nonetheless her desire to protect her secret was inherently dishonest: it compelled her to tell lies of omission.

Yet some of her intentions were honest. She clung to that, and held the Ironhand’s probing gaze.

“I’m sorry,” she said carefully. “I know this is hard. But I’m not going to tell you. I won’t say it out loud.” If she did, the granite of her heart might crack open, spilling more rage and terror and shame than she could bear. “I need your help. I want your friendship. But I’m not going to answer you.”

Within her she holds the devastation of the Earth-

Long ago, she had learned the cost of escape. If she told the truth, someone here would try to stop her. Even her friends might oppose her. The Humbled would attack her without hesitation. Then she would be spared the burdens that she had chosen to bear-and Jeremiah would be lost to her-and she would not be able to endure it.

Liand, Pahni, and Bhapa stared at her openly. Mahrtiir’s stiffness suggested surprise. Apparently they had not thought so far ahead: they had focused their attention on the hazards of Linden’s journey rather than on its outcome. Only Stave betrayed no reaction. He may have recognised her need to avoid the enmity of the Humbled.

Surely Galt, Branl, and Clyme would not have left the glade if Stave had not agreed to let them hear what he heard?

“You prick my curiosity,” remarked Coldspray, poised and casual, like a woman ready to strike. “Do you seek to encourage our doubts? Is that your intention here?”

In spite of his gag, Longwrath fought to make himself heard. Linden was sure that he wanted to howl, Slay her!

How quickly, she wondered, could the Ironhand reach her glaive? Coldspray would not need it. None of the Swordmainnir would need their weapons. Linden was too small; too human. Any blow of their heavy fists would kill her.

Trust yourself. The Giants of the Search had become her friends long before the Haruchai had learned to respect her.

“Yes,” she answered as firmly as she could. “I need you to doubt me. If you don’t decide to help me for your own reasons instead of for mine, I’m doomed anyway. I don’t know how else to explain it. This is as close as I can come to the truth,” as close as she could afford to come. “I’ve told you what I want to accomplish. If you aren’t satisfied, you should walk away.”

Coldspray considered Linden for a long moment while Longwrath writhed in protest and stars thronged the cold sky. One by one, the Ironhand looked into the eyes of each of her comrades. In the moving shadows spread by the fire, some of them appeared to glower. Others grimaced.

Then she cocked her fists on her hips, threw back her head, and began to laugh.

Her laughter was as rich and open-throated as an act of defiance. At first, Linden heard strain in it, effort and constriction: a difficult choice rather than humour. Almost at once, however, two or three and then more of the other Giants joined her; and her laughing loosened until it became untroubled mirth, full of gladness and freedom. Soon all of the Swordmainnir laughed with her, and their voices reached the heavens.

Liand laughed as well, as if he had been released from his cares. Pahni and Bhapa smiled broadly, and Mahrtiir grinned below his bandage. Anele stroked the smooth stone of Coldspray armour and crooned as though he were being cradled. For a time, Longwrath ceased his struggles: his gagged rage fell silent. Stave surveyed them all impassively; but the firelight in his eye hinted at relief.

Linden, too, would have laughed, if she could. The unfettered pleasure of the Giants reassured her. But she did not know what it meant.

Gradually Rime Coldspray subsided. Still chuckling, she said, “Stone and Sea! We are Giants indeed. Though we live and die, we change as little as the permanence that we adore. In spite of our many centuries, we have not yet learned to be other than we are.

“After our children,” she continued, speaking more directly to Linden. “tales are our greatest treasures. But there can be no story without hazard and daring, fortitude and uncertainty. Events and deeds which lack peril seldom enthrall. And joy is in the ears that hear, not in the mouth that speaks. Already you have supplied our most exigent need. You have allowed us to see that our seemingly lost and aimless voyages in Longwrath’s name are but the prelude to a far larger tale.

“Linden Avery,” she proclaimed while her comrades went on laughing, “it is enough. Seeking the import of our many labours, we will accompany you. If Stave of the Haruchai stands at your side, joined by the courteous and considerate Ramen-and likewise this wide-eyed Stonedownor and the anguished son of Sunder and Hollian-the Swordmainnir can do no less. Indeed, I name you Giantfriend, both for your known love toward the Giants of the Search, and in token of our own esteem.

“I have spoken.” Chuckling again, she asked, “Does our doubt content you? Will you now accept our comradeship, come good or ill, joy or woe?”

At Coldspray’s words, some of the fear lifted from Linden’s heart. Although she could not laugh, she smiled warmly. “Thank you. The First and Pitchwife would be so proud-” The Giants may have had few children-too few-but they bred true. That was their birthright. “Meeting you is the best thing that’s happened to us since we left Revelstone.”

Her voice broke as she finished. “God, I’ve missed you.”

She believed now that none of her many enemies would be able to prevent her from reaching the Hills of Andelain.

Chapter Ten: Struggles over Wild Magic

During the remainder of that night, Linden slept little. Her story was strange to the Swordmainnir: it raised more issues than it explained. Although they expressed concern for the weariness of their new companions, the Giants needed to talk.

They asked nothing more about Linden’s intentions. For a while, they discussed the actions of the Sandgorgons, pondering what those creatures would do now that they had satisfied their ancient “gratitude.” Then, with elaborate delicacy, Rime Coldspray indicated the bullet hole in Linden’s shirt and inquired about the relationship between death in her former world and life in the Land.

Linden could not explain it: she could only relate what she had experienced. Like the lightning which had taken Joan, bullets were too violent for doubt. Therefore Linden could only assume that she, Jeremiah, and Roger had perished in the instant of their passage to the Land. In some sense, their presence here was permanent: they would endure until they were slain.

She had seen her son’s wounds, and Roger’s; but she did not want to remember them.

Clearing his throat, Mahrtiir turned toward Stave. Softly, as if he were prompting the Haruchai, he said. “There are tales better known to the Bloodguard-”

Stave nodded. To Coldspray, he said, “Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever was not the only man of the Chosen’s world summoned to the Land. In the time of the new Lords, when Elena daughter of Lena was High Lord of the Council, a man named Hile Troy appeared, invoked by Atiaran Trell-mate. He it was who led the Warward into Garroting Deep, bartering his soul to Caerroil Wildwood in exchange for the ruin of moksha Fleshharrower’s forces. Thus he ceased to be himself, for he was transformed, becoming Caer-Caveral, the last Forestal. For more than three millennia thereafter, he endured as the guardian of Andelain.”

In spite of her fatigue, Linden listened closely. Long ago, Covenant had told her about Hile Troy and Caer-Caveral; but Stave offered details which were new to her.

“The First of the Search and Pitchwife were present,” remarked Coldspray. “We know their tale. If we understand events aright, Caer-Caveral’s final sacrifice did much to enable Covenant Giantfriend’s victory over the Despiser.”

Stave shrugged. It may be so. The Masters and all Haruchai distrust violations of Law. We are not persuaded that the ur-Lord would have failed to achieve his victory by some other means if the Law of Life had remained unmarred.

“However, it is of Hile Troy that I would speak, rather than of Caer-Caveral.”

The Manethrall murmured his approval. Liand and the Cords listened as they had since the tales began, rapt and troubled.

With his usual flatness, Stave said, She who invoked him, Atiaran Trell-mate, perished when she had completed his summons. By the common understanding of the Lords, the death of the summoner ended the summons. So it transpired three times for the ur-Lord, the Unbeliever. Yet when Atiaran Trell-mate died in fire, Hile Troy remained.

“The Council of Lords believed that his summons was not undone because in his own world his death preceded that of his summoner. Therefore his spirit could not return to its former life, and his place in the Land was fixed.

“I cannot know if Hile Troy’s example is pertinent to the plight of the Chosen and her son. Their summoner yet lives, though she is tormented and possessed.

“Nonetheless,” the Haruchai stated with an air of increased concentration. “there is hope in Hile Troy’s tale. The woman Joan wields wild magic. With High Lord Loric’s krill, the Chosen may be able to confront her, and yet remain among us. If so, the Land will be spared much, and perhaps Linden Avery’s son also.”

The Giants considered Stave’s assertion for a long moment. Then their leader chuckled grimly.

“You are cunning as well as valorous, Stave of the Haruchai. Indirectly you seek to allay both our doubts and those of the Humbled. At another time, perchance, my comrades and I will applaud your service to Linden Giantfriend. For the present, however, we can do no more than acknowledge that the magicks which rule the passage between worlds lie beyond our comprehension.”

The Ironhand’s expression tightened as she continued. “Of other foes and powers, we know only that they do not appear to threaten us here. But the peril of Kastenessen and his skurj is immediate and urgent. If Linden Giantfriend seeks the krill, Kastenessen must oppose her. And I do not doubt that he will strike with all the ferocity he may command.”

He hasn’t brought very many of them down from the north yet. But he can get more whenever he wants them. Roger had lied about any number of things-but occasionally he had told the truth.

A score of those monsters would devour Linden’s entire company as easily as breathing.

“By my reckoning,” said Coldspray. “Andelain lies perhaps eight or nine leagues distant. But we cannot know whether Andelain has been overrun with skurj. If the krill has been neither taken nor unmade, it stands beyond the Soulsease. And Salva Gildenbourne’s abundance hinders us. I foresee frantic battle and desperate flight ere we may hope to approach our goal.”

And while the company fought, Longwrath would strive for Linden’s death. Two or three Giants would have to guard him at all times, regardless of the scale of Kastenessen’s attacks.

“Linden Avery,” the Ironhand pronounced formally. “Chosen and Giantfriend, you have spoken of white gold. We have no other clear hope. If we cannot trust to the Staff of Law, then only wild magic may preserve us.”

Linden felt the focused attention of the Giants. Even Longwrath paused to listen. While her friends watched, she reached under her shirt and drew Covenant’s ring into the firelight.

Trying to be precise, she said, “It isn’t literally true that Covenant gave this to me, but it’s probably fair to say that he left it for me. I’ve certainly claimed it.” And used it. “You might think that I already have enough power to accomplish almost anything. God knows I’ve astonished myself-” She still did not understand how she had saved herself and Anele from the collapse of Kevin’s Watch. “But it doesn’t come easily. I have to work hard for it.

“Maybe I’m afraid of it.” Covenant had taught her that wild magic tended to surge out of control; that with each use it grew more rampant and ungovernable. “Or maybe I don’t really have the right to wield it.” According to Roger, only the person to whom white gold truly belonged could call forth its full strength. “All I know is that I can’t chance it when I’m holding the Staff. Apparently Law and wild magic are antithetical.”

She believed this even though she had once exerted both argent fire and Earthpower. With Covenant’s ring, she had melded Vain and Findail to form a new Staff of Law; her Staff. Then she had wielded both wild magic and Law to remain in the Land while she ended the Sunbane, began healing its ravages, and restored her friends. And since that time, her Staff had been annealed in EarthBlood; refined with runes. Caerroil Wildwood had granted her new possibilities which she did not fully comprehend.

Nonetheless Esmer and Stave together had assured her that no ordinary flesh could withstand such forces. In Kiril Threndor, when she had taken up Covenant’s ring, his spirit had protected her. His love and her own grief had enabled her to perform feats which should have been impossible. And her summons to the Land had already been half undone: she had not been entirely corporeal. Now her health-sense insisted that she was simply inadequate-too human and frail-to contain or manage Earthpower and white gold simultaneously.

Like her struggles under Melenkurion Skyweir, the Forestal’s runes had not made her strong enough to overcome the hindrance of Kevin’s Dirt.

“On top of that,” she finished bitterly. “I’m helpless whenever Esmer decides to put in an appearance. I don’t know how he does it, but his presence blocks me. I can’t touch wild magic while he’s around.”

Abruptly Anele spoke from the cradle of Coldspray’s armour. Stroking the rock, he murmured. “This stone is unaware that Kevin’s Watch has fallen. The knowledge is too recent-and too far removed. The stone believes. It will hold, ignorant of ruin.”

With Liand and Pahni, Linden stared at the old man. She wanted him to say more-and to say it so that she could understand him. Seek deep rock. Only there the memory remains. But he ignored her yearning. Nestled in the cataphract, he lapsed into incoherence again.

Oh, hell. With a sigh, Linden turned back to face Coldspray.

The Ironhand was grinning, but her eyes were empty of humour as she said, “Take no umbrage, Linden Giantfriend, when I observe that you do not nurture confidence. Considering your many uncertainties, do you yet insist that you must gain Andelain and the krill?”

Linden glared up at the Swordmain. “Lord Foul has my son. I’m certain of that.” She had been fused to her purpose: her heart held no room for doubt. “If you don’t want to risk it, I’ll go by myself.”

For the second time, Coldspray and her comrades laughed joyfully. Linden might have thought that they were mocking her; but they were Giants, and their laughter held rich affection rather than scorn.

“Ah, risk,” the Ironhand said as she subsided. “Linden Avery, life is risk. All who inhabit the Earth inhale peril with each breath. Though some hazards inspire more alarm than others, the truth remains, as sure as stone and sea. We are Giants and adore life. We do not baulk at mere risk.”

Comforted, Linden sighed again. “I know. I just forget sometimes. Covenant might say something about laughing yourselves to death. Me, I’m just glad that you’re here.”

At that moment, Longwrath’s desire for her blood seemed a small price to pay for the warmth and aid of Giants.

Later Liand and the Cords opened the bedrolls so that Linden’s company could try to find a little sleep before dawn. As she stretched out in her blankets, however, the Stonedownor squatted beside her. “I wish rest for you, Linden,” he said softly. “but I also fear it. The Giants are mighty, and they fill me with gladness. But if we are assailed by more than two or three skurj together-

“Why do they not attack now? If Kastenessen directs them, does he not grasp that delay is perilous to him? Surely he must harry us while we remain far from the krill.”

In the background of his voice, Linden heard that his concern was more for Pahni than for himself. Like Linden’s, his passage through Salva Gildenbourne had been comparatively easy, while Pahni’s efforts had tested her Ramen toughness.

“I don’t know, Liand.” Linden lay holding the Staff, although it did not reassure her. “He’s waiting for something, but I have no idea what.” Roger and Cavewights? Moksha Raver and kresh? Sandgorgons? “Maybe he just needs time to gather more skurj.” Or maybe Lord Foul had other plans for Kastenessen. She had been given hints which revealed nothing. “I can’t worry about it right now. I’ll just paralyse myself.”

Face it, Covenant had once told her. Go forward. Give yourself a chance to find out who you are. But he had also said to Liand through Anele, I wish I could spare you. Yet Liand was more afraid for Pahni, Linden, and the others than for himself.

His courage was less conflicted than Linden’s.

For a while, he considered her and the campfire and the sharp night. Then he said through his teeth, “Indeed.” A moment later, he surprised her by adding, “When our need is upon us, I pray that you will entrust the Staff of Law to me, as you did when we fled through time to counter the Demondim.”

Before she could respond, he left her and went to lie down on his own blankets beside Pahni.

She could not read his thoughts, but she recognised the character of his emotions. He had reached a decision, one which resembled his determination to offer health-sense to the Woodhelvennin.

He had conceived of another extravagant use for his orcrest.

That prospect troubled her until weariness overcame her, and she drifted into an anxious sleep, fretful and unresolved.

Dawn came too early: Linden was not ready for it. But she forced herself to arise when Stave spoke her name. Jeremiah needed her. All of her companions needed her. Befogged by too little rest and too many dreams, she stumbled toward the campfire to warm the chill from her bones.

The Giants must have kept the flames burning all night.

She had made no attempt to wield wild magic since she had created the caesure which had carried her to Revelstone after she had recovered her Staff. Now she was not sure that she knew how to find the pathway to power hidden within her.

The Swordmainnir were all awake and moving, as were the rest of Linden’s friends. Under Mahrtiir’s blind supervision, Bhapa, Pahni, and Liand prepared all of their remaining viands so that the Giants could each have one or two mouthfuls to supplement their breakfast of aliantha. While Linden rubbed her hands over the fire in the dim, grey morning, Stave informed her that the Humbled had discerned no danger during the night. Kastenessen was still waiting-She nodded inattentively: her thoughts were elsewhere. She could feel her health-sense leeching from her, sucked away by Kevin’s Dirt.

As always, she felt an almost metaphysical pang of bereavement. Without percipience, she could not gauge the condition of her companions. And she could not see into herself. She had never tried to wield wild magic under the bale of Kevin’s Dirt. She might be entirely unable to access Covenant’s ring. She would certainly not be able to control its force.

But if she restored herself with Earthpower, she would attract the skurj.

When she had eaten a few treasure-berries, and their tonic vitality had begun to lift the brume of fatigue and dreams from her mind, Linden looked around for Rime Coldspray.

The Ironhand was with Longwrath. While Onyx Stonemage and another Giant held him, shackled but ungagged, Coldspray interrupted his harsh demands by pushing aliantha into his mouth. He chewed the berries reflexively, swallowing the seeds as well as the fruit. They seemed to feed his rage.

Beckoning for Stave to join her, Linden approached Coldspray through grass heavy with dew. As soon as the Ironhand greeted her, she said. “Coldspray, we need to talk.”

Without hesitation, Coldspray asked another Giant to take over her task. Then she faced Linden and Stave, towering over them like a buttress against uncertainties and fears.

“I didn’t ask you last night,” Linden began. “Have any of your senses changed since you came to the Upper Land? Do they seem diminished?’

Coldspray shook her head. “They do not. I behold your concern, Linden Giantfriend. I see that it swells within you, though I cannot hear its name. And we retain our acuteness to the evil of the skurj.”

“Good. You’re like the Haruchai. Kevin’s Dirt doesn’t affect you. But the rest of us-” Linden dropped her gaze, irrationally ashamed of her weakness. “We’re being numbed. All of our senses are fading. And it’s getting worse. Soon we’ll be”- she fumbled for an adequate description- “stuck on the surface of everything. We won’t be able to see anything that isn’t right in front of us.”

“We will preserve you,” Coldspray replied gruffly. “Stave and the Humbled will do the same.”

Linden shook her head. “I know you will. That’s not the point. The point is that I can’t use power,” any power. “without my health-sense. Liand can’t use his orcrest. The Ramen will lose some of their effectiveness as scouts.”

Coldspray started to object, then stopped herself and waited for Linden to go on.

With an effort, Linden raised her head again. We can solve the problem. Temporarily, anyway. But we can’t do it without Earthpower-and that draws the skurj.” Bracing herself on granite, she concluded. “Before we put you in any more danger, you should have a chance to think about it. If you have a better idea-”

Her voice sank away like water in sand. She could not imagine any response to the threat of Kastenessen and his creatures except wild magic.

Stave consulted the rising dawn. “The Humbled distrust any exertion of Earthpower. However, they can offer no alternative. They are certain that stealth alone will not ward us from our foes. And they remain in doubt concerning your purpose. They have not yet opposed you. They will continue to refrain.”

“And you, Stave of the Haruchai?” asked Coldspray with a glint of morning or humour in her eyes. “What is your counsel?”

The former Master gave a slight shrug. “I have said that I no longer oppose the Chosen’s deeds and desires. Also there is this to consider. Some use of orcrest or the Staff of Law may provoke a premature reply. Should Kastenessen strike before his forces have been fully prepared, he will grant us an advantage which we could not obtain otherwise.”

The Ironhand chuckled. “My friend,” she said, slapping Stave lightly on the shoulder. “your cunning grows ever more evident. If it should chance that you weary of being Haruchai, know that you will be made welcome among the Swordmainnir. Lacking the good fortune-and also the stature-of our blood and bone, you will become a Giant by acclamation rather than by birth.

“Linden Avery,” she continued more seriously, “my thoughts follow Stave’s. We cannot hope to conceal our presence from the discernment of an Elohim. Therefore we lose naught, and may gain much, if Kastenessen answers the cleansing of your senses.”

Linden ducked her head again. When she raised her eyes, she tried to smile. “Thank you,” she said unsteadily. “I must have spent too much time alone. I keep forgetting what it’s like to have friends. Stave and Liand and the Ramen are doing their best to teach me, but I’m out of the habit.”

Coldspray and the Giants around Longwrath replied by laughing as though they were delighted. “Linden Giantfriend,” the Ironhand explained, “that tale is too sad for tears. “Out of the habit”. She laughed again. “And its dolour is made more cruel by brevity. We are Giants. If we do not laugh, we will be compelled to insist upon the full tale of your years and loneliness. The very blood in our veins will require it.”

“Slay her,” remarked Longwrath. “Slay. Her.” For the moment, at least, he sounded strangely casual. He may have been affected by aliantha. Or perhaps the mirth of his people eased his turmoil.

“Oh, well,” Linden sighed, feigning sorrow or disappointment while her heart lifted. “I haven’t forgotten everything. I do remember Giants.” Then she called over her shoulder. “Liand! Are you ready?”

At once, the Stonedownor bounded to his feet. “I am.” His piece of Sunstone was already in his hand, and his face was bright with eagerness.

Quiescent, his orcrest seemed both translucent and empty, as if it formed a gap in the substance of his palm.

An oblique memory caught Linden. Millennia ago among the Dead in Andelain, High Lord Mhoram had urged Covenant to remember the paradox of white gold. Covenant had described that occasion to Linden days later, after he had rescued her from the Clave. There is hope in contradiction.

In Garroting Deep, the Mahdoubt had said the same thing. Upon occasion, ruin and redemption defy distinction.

Then Liand tightened his grip; and the Sunstone began to shine. Its light was whiter, purer, than the argent cast of wild magic. And it did not burn or flame: it simply emitted an immaculate radiance. Soon it filled the glade.

While the Giants watched in wonder, Liand bathed Pahni in whiteness until she, too, shone as if she had been transfigured.

Linden knew that the young Cord was afraid for Liand: Pahni dreaded the implications of his power or his fate. Nevertheless she made no attempt to conceal her gladness as her health-sense was renewed.

Linden ached to share in that restoration. Her nerves hungered for it.

Fortunately experience had made Liand adept. Although his people had been denied their true birthright for millennia, his entire being responded to the Sunstone. He needed only a few moments to cleanse Mahrtiir’s perceptions, and Bhapa’s. Then he turned his light on Linden as if it were chrism.

Earthpower could not heal her emotional hurts. It could not relieve her anguished yearning for Jeremiah-or for Thomas Covenant. Still it made her feel whole again; capable in spite of her many limitations. When Liand was done, she was once again the Linden Avery who had beaten back Roger and the croyel; the Linden who could tear open time-

Trust yourself. Do something they don’t expect.

I can’t help you unless you find me.

The Giants observed in mute joy, as if they were witnessing an exaltation. Then as one they began to cheer.

There is hope in contradiction.

At the same time, Longwrath’s rage returned. “Slay her!” he demanded. “Slay her!”

Liand ignored the other Swordmainnir. Linden saw the brilliance of orcrest echo like daring in his eyes as he strode toward Longwrath. Days ago, she had witnessed the Sunstone’s effect on Anele. Clearly Liand intended to try a similar experiment with the damaged Giant.

Through his madness, Longwrath appeared to understand Liand’s purpose. As the Stonedownor approached, Longwrath hunched suddenly forward, jerked his guardians off balance. Then, roaring, he pitched himself backward with such vehemence that he broke free.

He landed on his back; flipped over to pull his feet under him. As he sprang upright, the shackles dropped from his wrists and ankles. An inarticulate howl corded his throat as he snatched his sword from its sheath.

Quickly Liand retreated. Quenching the Sunstone, he hid it behind his back. Chagrin burned in his face.

Linden feared that Longwrath would harm one of the Swordmainnir; but they recaptured their comrade with practiced ease. Coldspray stepped in front of him and engaged his flamberge with her glaive, compelled his attention, while four women circled swiftly behind him. As soon as Coldspray created an opening, another Giant kicked him in the small of his back. The shock of the blow dropped him to his knees; and immediately the women swarmed over him. In a moment, they had twisted the sword from his grasp and pinned his arms.

Muttering Giantish curses, the Ironhand retrieved Longwrath’s shackles and secured his wrists and ankles. Deceptively gentle, she replaced the gag in his mouth; returned his sword to its sheath. Then she left him to the care of Galesend and another Swordmain.

Linden sighed with relief-and regret. “Well, that didn’t work.”

“Forsooth,” growled Coldspray trenchantly. To Liand, she said. “I do not doubt that your attempt was kindly meant, but you must not hazard it again.” He nodded, openly dismayed, as she continued, “I fear that Longwrath poses a greater threat than any skurj. He will free himself and strike when we are least able to oppose him. Do not provoke him further.”

The thought made Linden’s stomach clench. “Then what should we do? He’s going to get people killed, and there are too few of us as it is.”

The Ironhand scowled around the glade, considering her choices. “We will separate once more,” she announced. “Surely Kastenessen does not desire the death of one who desires yours. While Longwrath lags behind us, he will be spared. I will ask three of my comrades to accompany him.” Clearly she meant, To guard him. “If Stave and the Manethrall of the Ramen have no better counsel, the remainder of our company will hasten toward Andelain with such speed as Salva Gildenbourne permits.”

Stave deferred to Mahrtiir. The Manethrall cleared his throat. “My Cords will again scout our path. Their task will be to seek clear passage for long strides. It falls to the Humbled to ward us against peril.” Then he turned his bandaged face toward Bhapa and Pahni, locating them by scent and sound and aura. “But you must also seek rocky ground. Surely vestiges of the former plains remain, bouldered and barren, where the ancient litter of scarps and tors hinders the trees. If it can be done, we must stand among an abundance of loose stones when Kastenessen strikes.”

He did not explain himself; but Linden assumed that he thought her companions would be better able to defend themselves if they were not obstructed by jungle and brush.

Bhapa swallowed heavily. “We hear you, Manethrall. If your command can be met, we will meet it.”

Pahni gave Liand a quick hug, then clenched her teeth and left him to stand beside Bhapa.

With fierceness in his voice, Mahrtiir replied, “I do not doubt you. Trust to the Humbled, and fare well.”

However, Bhapa and Pahni did not set out immediately. Instead they waited to hear what the Ironhand and Stave would say.

“Stave of the Haruchai?” asked Coldspray.

Stave shrugged. “The Manethrall is wise and farseeing in the ways of strife. The Humbled approve his counsel. And I do not fear for them. It is their word that they are much healed. While they live, they will ward us.

“Rime Coldspray, I inquire only if you will bear the Chosen and her slower companions, as you have done before.”

“We will.” The Ironhand snorted a laugh. “Indeed, we insist upon it.” Several of her comrades nodded. “As stealth will not serve us, we must have speed.” Then she looked to Linden.

“Linden Giantfriend, what is your word?”

Linden took a deep breath; tightened her grip on the Staff. With as much confidence as she could summon, she said. “All right. Let’s do it. Just take care of Anele. And keep Liand near me.”

Chuckling, Frostheart Grueburn stepped forward and lifted Linden into her arms. “You misgauge us, Linden Avery,” she said with a grin. “Though we are large and for the most part foolish, we know a stick when it jabs our eyes. Any man as blighted as your old companion compels our esteem. Already we prize him.”

Stormpast Galesend chortled at Grueburn’s jest as she picked up Anele; cradled him gently against her stone-clad chest. While the Ironhand donned her armour, Grueburn continued more seriously. “As for the Stonedownor, we have heard you. He must bear the Staff of Law when the time has come for wild magic. Salva Gildenbourne permitting, Onyx Stonemage will run at my shoulder. At worst, she will be a stride before or behind me.”

Stonemage bent down so that Liand could sit on her forearm. Then she carried him to Grueburn’s side. Both Giants appeared to be stifling laughter.

A Swordmain who introduced herself as Cirrus Kindwind bowed to Mahrtiir gravely before she presumed to take him in her arms. Her manner revealed an instinctive sensitivity to his emotional straits. Being carried as if he were a child galled his combative spirit. Hidden deep within him was a dumb snarl of anguish and frustration. Kindwind had not known him before he lost his eyes. Nevertheless she appeared to recognise-and respect-his denied distress. She supported him on her forearm as if he were a visiting dignitary, and her posture conveyed the impression that she bore him with pride.

As Coldspray finished securing her cataphract, three Giants pulled Longwrath to his feet. The rest gathered around the Ironhand. At a nod from Mahrtiir, Bhapa and Pahni ran south across the glade. Abandoning the blankets and bundles that Linden’s friends had brought from Revelstone, seven Giants and Stave followed the Cords toward the knotted shade of the jungle.

Behind them, Longwrath protested through his gag. But he made no effort to break free. His shackles remained in place. For the moment, at least, he seemed willing to shuffle along in the wake of the woman he wanted to kill.

Then Rime Coldspray and Stave led Grueburn, Kindwind, and the others at a brisk trot into Salva Gildenbourne. The thick gloom of the trees closed over Linden’s company, immersed her in darkness. The early light could not penetrate the canopy. While her eyes adjusted to the shifting weight of shadows, she felt herself hurtling toward a future which might become an abyss.

Branches slapped at Grueburn. A few flicked Linden’s head and shoulders. The path of the Cords left no room for Grueburn and Onyx Stonemage to run side by side. Stonemage was compelled to follow Grueburn. Nonetheless it was obvious that Pahni and Bhapa had found a route along which the Swordmainnir could travel easily. While Bhapa scouted farther ahead, Pahni stayed near enough to guide the Giants. To Linden, they seemed to flit among the massive old trees and the younger saplings.

Because she felt helpless and wanted reassurance, she called softly. “Stave, where are the Humbled?” She did not trust herself to raise wild magic suddenly. She would need warning

Stave’s voice filtered back to her through the leaves. “Galt and Branl match our pace to the east, where we are certain of the skurj. Galt ranges ahead while Branl wards our rear at the outermost extent of our speech. To the west, Clyme watches. When the skurj approach, we will be forewarned while they are perhaps a league distant.”

A league, Linden thought; but the word told her nothing. She could not estimate distances in the constricted and bestrewn jungle. And she had no idea how swiftly the skurj might come. She only knew that tree trunks and boughs, fallen deadwood and swarming vines, rushed past her with disorienting quickness; that she crossed low hills and swept through shallow vales before she could count them; that Grueburn’s breathing was deep and hard, but far from desperation, and that her strength ran like valour in her veins. All of the Swordmainnir gave the impression that they were as fleet as Ranyhyn.

If they could sustain this pace, would they reach the boundaries of Andelain by noon?

Whatever happened, Linden would not have much time to prepare herself for Kastenessen’s attack.

Still she was too distracted to concentrate. Grueburn’s steps shook her; and the woodland inundated her senses with a cacophony of growth and decay. Sunlight began to glitter in the treetops. Around her, the forest seemed to unfurl endlessly, rumpled and unruly; manic with untended life. From the jouncing perspective of Grueburn’s arms, Salva Gildenbourne appeared impenetrable. The Swordmainnir should not have been able to move so rapidly. But at every twist and angle of the earth, every place where the trees clustered to form a barricade, every obstruction of vines and deadwood, the Cords found a path that allowed the Giants to run unhindered.

Hills and more hills. Swales and streambeds. Unexpected swaths of open grass bedecked with wildflowers. Small marshes like puddles in the jungle.

Every stride brought the need for wild magic nearer; and still Linden was not ready.

Snagged occasionally by snarls of brush, the company pelted down a long slope. Whenever Grueburn missed her footing and collided with a tree, she wrapped her free arm protectively around Linden; accepted the impact with her shoulder and ran on. Held against the woman’s armour, Linden felt the jolt as if she had been punched. But the branches that plucked at her face and arms only scratched her rarely; slightly. She kept her grip on the Staff.

She did not know how Mahrtiir’s Cords contrived to stay ahead of the Giants. She was familiar with the immense stamina of Coldspray’s people. And Stave was Haruchai. But there was nothing preternatural about the Ramen, except perhaps their communion with the Ranyhyn. Being smaller, Bhapa and Pahni had to sprint while the Swordmainnir trotted. Surely even their hardiness would not enable them to continue like this indefinitely?

At the bottom of the slope, the Cords led the Giants into a ravine like a jagged wound in the flesh of the terrain. There the ground was complicated with boulders, and the Giants were forced to move more slowly. In that respite, Linden cast her health-sense ahead; tried to catch a hint of Pahni’s condition. But the ravine twisted: the mossed granite of its walls blocked her view. The thick odours of damp, mould, and cold stone crowded her nose. She was tossed from side to side by Grueburn’s passage around and over the boulders. And the Giants in front of her filled her percipience. When she concentrated on Mahrtiir, Liand, and Anele, she could see that they were well. But she failed to detect Pahni’s presence.

“Mahrtiir?” she asked anxiously. “I’m worried about Pahni and Bhapa. How long can they keep this up?”

Over Kindwind’s shoulder, the Manethrall answered, “You have not been long acquainted with the Ramen, Ringthane. At need, we are able to run briefly with the Ranyhyn. And our inborn endurance is rigorously trained.

“My Cords will perform all that is asked of them.” After an instant’s hesitation, he added, “Yet it is plain that they near the limits of their strength. I do not wish them driven beyond themselves, if that may be avoided.”

As one, the Giants slowed their strides. Through the labour of their breathing, Linden heard Coldspray ask. “Stave?”

“The Cords have guided us well.” Stave did not sound winded. His voice betrayed none of his exertions. “We will sacrifice the benefit of their aid if we ask more haste than they can sustain.” To the Ironhand’s unspoken question, he replied, “The Humbled sense no peril.”

“Very well.” At the head of the company, Coldspray slackened her pace further. In all sooth, we also are weary. We have known no true rest for many days, and even Giants must tire.

“I gauge that we have traversed four leagues. Doubtless our foes gather against us. If the Manethrall’s Cords discover a favourable battleground, perhaps we will do well to await our doom there rather than hazard exhaustion.”

“Aye,” answered Mahrtiir. “Rime Coldspray, you possess wisdom as well as cunning. If Kastenessen desires to prevent us from Andelain, he must strike soon. Therefore speed is no longer our greatest requirement.”

Covered in omens of shadow, the Ironhand’s aura seemed to imply a wish for confirmation. Again she asked. “Stave?”

Stave’s tone resembled a shrug. “If the Chosen does not gainsay it, I concur with the Manethrall.” After a moment, he added, As do the Humbled. The time has come to seek terrain which may aid us.”

“Linden Giantfriend?” Coldspray inquired. “Do you consent?”

Four leagues? wondered Linden. Halfway to Andelain? She had no idea how much time had passed. Sunshine spangled the leaves in tiny flecks far overhead, but the sides of the ravine hid the sun. If the Giants had indeed covered four leagues

Coldspray, Mahrtiir, and Stave were right. Kastenessen would attack soon. She needed to prepare herself.

What in God’s name was he waiting for?

Perhaps he was not waiting. Perhaps he had already prepared an ambush in Andelain.

The possibility that the skurj were feasting among the Hills of Andelain made Linden feel sick. But she swallowed her trepidations.

“You’re probably right. In any case, I don’t have a better suggestion. I could use the rest. And I need a chance to pull myself together.”

At once, the Ironhand sent one of her unburdened comrades ahead to talk to Pahni and Bhapa. Stave and the other Giants continued along the depths of the ravine.

Vaguely Linden wondered how much ground Longwrath and his guards had lost-and how long he would delay before he tried to kill her again. But she could not afford to distract herself with such concerns. The Swordmainnir would protect her. She needed to focus her attention on power and the skurj; on Thomas Covenant’s ring and his illimitable resolve. Not for the first time, her circumstances pressed her to surpass herself.

A grieved and frightened part of her insisted that she was not Covenant, she was not. She had never been his equal. It was folly to pretend that she could match his capacity for extravagant and unforeseen victories.

But if Roger and the croyel had given her time to think in the cave of the EarthBlood, she would have said the same; and by doing so, she would have helped them destroy her. At least in part, she had succeeded against them because they had left her no room for self-doubt. Jeremiah’s wounded helplessness and the croyel’s cruelty had made her certain.

That certainty remained deep in her, as unshaken as buried stone. As long as she did not dwell on her inadequacies, she would be able to fight for what she loved; oppose what she loathed. She would find a way.

She had done so after the destruction of First Woodhelven.

Resting in Grueburn’s arms, Linden searched herself for scraps of Covenant’s power.

Gradually the walls of the ravine slumped away, releasing the company into a wide valley bordered on the south by an overgrown escarpment, high and thick with trees. Glimpsed through the jungle, the skyward thrust of the scarp looked too sheer to be climbed. But Bhapa and Pahni found a path upward by angling across the rise, bracing themselves on tree trunks and clinging to bushes. The roots of the trees and brush were deeply knotted in the escarpment’s fissured bones: they held the Swordmainnir as easily as the Ramen. Linden’s company made the ascent with less difficulty than she would have thought possible.

Beyond the crest, Salva Gildenbourne lost elevation by slow increments; and the Giants quickened their pace. Here the soil lay more thinly over its bedrock. Wider spaces separated the trees: undergrowth no longer clogged the ground. At irregular intervals, rocks mantled with grey-green lichen jutted among Gilden, sycamore, and oak. For the first time since dawn, Linden could look around her and see all seven of the Swordmainnir. When she glanced at Liand, he smiled to reassure her.

Pahni remained out of sight ahead, hidden by broad-boughed trees and the heavy shoulders of the Giants; but now Linden caught hints of the Cord with her other senses. Although Pahni moved fluidly down the gentle slope, she emanated an unmistakable pang of fatigue. Linden could feel the Cord’s muscles trembling.

Soon, Linden thought. Bhapa would have to find a place that suited Mahrtiir soon.

Abruptly Stave’s head jerked. An instant later, he announced to Coldspray, “The skurj, Ironhand. Galt has discerned them.”

Fear clutched at Linden as the Swordmain asked, “Is he able to count their number?”

He cannot. They blur at the limit of his senses. However, they advance as though they are certain of us. And their pace exceeds ours. Soon Galt will endeavour to number them.”

Coldspray glanced back at Mahrtiir and Linden. “Shall we run, then? Is there hope in flight’?”

Presumably the Giants could carry Pahni and Bhapa.

“Galt deems that there is not,” replied Stave flatly. “Trees and terrain do not hinder the skurj. And they appear capable of great speed. Can you outrun them at need? Can you do so until we have gained Loric’s krill?”

The Ironhand shook her head. “We have run too much. Already weariness weighs upon us, though we are Giants, and proud of our strength. If it can be done, we must abide by the Manethrall’s counsel.”

“Then my Cords must be forewarned,” growled Mahrtiir. “They cannot hear the minds of the Humbled.”

“Cabledarm!” Coldspray called to one of the Giants. “This falls to you. Overtake the Cords. Aid them in their search.”

“Aye,” Cabledarm responded. “Who else?” She bared her teeth in a willing grin. “When wisdom and cunning exhaust themselves, simple strength must prevail.

“Observe and learn, Linden Giantfriend!” she shouted as she broke into a run. “It is with good cause that Cabledarm is acknowledged as the mightiest of the Swordmainnir!”

Assisted by the slope, she seemed to bound after Pahni.

“Mightiest, ha!” muttered Grueburn to her comrades. “I claim that title. Free my arms, and I will “acknowledge” any might that strives to prove itself against me.”

Several of the Giants chuckled; but Coldspray commanded sternly, “Quicken your strides, Swordmainnir. Haste now may earn a measure of respite ere the skurj assail us.”

The women picked up their pace. Linden expected them to race after Cabledarm, but they did not. Instead the Ironhand held them to a swift walk. After a moment, Linden realised that Coldspray did not want to overrun the Cords’ search for an abundance of loose stones- the ancient litter of scarps and tors- When-or if-Bhapa found a place that satisfied Mahrtiir’s requirements, Coldspray wished to head toward it without needing to double back.

Trembling as if she, too, had run for leagues, Linden touched her pocket to confirm that she still had Jeremiah’s racecar. Then she drew out Covenant’s ring.

Irregular splashes of sunshine caught the small metal circle as the sun rose toward midday. Whenever Covenant’s wedding band flared silver in her hand, Linden winced involuntarily. Please, God, she prayed without hearing herself. Please. The ring looked puny against the pale skin of her palm; too little to encompass either hope or contradiction.

Wild magic is only as powerful as the will, the determination, of the person it belongs to. The rightful white gold wielder.

With it, Covenant had mastered Nom; faced Kasreyn of the Gyre; denatured the virulence of the Banefire. Wielded by the Despiser, its savage ecstasy had exalted Covenant’s spirit to secure and sustain the Arch of Time. And Linden herself had caused a caesure. In the wrong hands, it’s still pretty strong. Nevertheless this immaculate instance of white gold was not hers.

It doesn’t really come to life until the person it belongs to chooses to use it.

Roger could have been lying; but she did not think so. Too much of what he had said matched her memories, her experiences.

Damn it. She clenched her fist around the ring. She had created one caesure: she could form another; catch the skurj in a mad whirl of instants and send them hurtling toward an imponderable future. If she were willing to take the risk-

When she had asked Roger about Falls, he had replied, Eventually they’ll destroy everything.

On that subject as well, she could believe that he had told the truth.

All right, she promised herself grimly. No more caesures. I’ll try something else.

But she did not know what she would be able to attempt.

In the distance ahead, she felt Cabledarm reach Pahni; felt the Giant sweep Pahni into her arms and go on running. They sought Bhapa, but they passed beyond Linden’s range without finding him.

Moving at Coldspray’s side, Stave spoke so that Linden and the Manethrall could hear him. “Branl reports no threat. It appears that Longwrath and his escort will not be assailed. And Clyme also descries no presage of harm. Therefore he and Branl come to join our defence.

“Galt will do likewise. However, he intends first to number the skurj. At present, he perceives less than a score. If he discovers no increase in their force, he will endeavour to learn if they may be made to turn aside.”

Linden flinched. One of those monsters could swallow Galt whole-

“Then he is a fool,” snapped the Ironhand.

Stolidly Stave replied, “He is Haruchai as well as Humbled, neither slow of wit nor weak of limb. He will not sacrifice himself except in our direct aid. Rather he will seek only to determine whether the skurj may be slowed or diverted.”

Coldspray started to respond, but a distant shout interrupted her. Muffled by trees and foliage, Cabledarm’s bellow was barely audible.

“A place is found! Alter your heading somewhat eastward!”

Eastward-Closer to the skurj.

The Ironhand stopped; turned to face Mahrtiir. “Manethrall,” she said tensely. our esteem for the Ramen grows ever greater. To say that your Cords have served us well is scant praise. We cannot delay for true gratitude. Know, however, that we are honoured to claim the friendship of a people who possess such fortitude and skill.”

Before he could answer, she spun away and began to run. At once, her comrades followed, angling slightly to the left as they rushed between the trees.

Linden did not know how far they ran. Fears confused her. Repeatedly she caught herself holding her breath. Nevertheless the pace of the Giants made it obvious that Salva Gildenbourne’s verdure was growing thin. As the soil lost its richness, it exposed new sheets of stone and older outcroppings of bedrock stained by weather and time and lichen. Few shrubs and saplings obstructed the strides of the Swordmainnir. Gilden, ancient oaks, and occasional, brittle birches stood farther apart, allowing swathes of sunlight to reach the ground. The Giants flashed through incursions of brightness as if they flickered in and out of predictable reality.

Ahead of them, the trees opened briefly. Through the gap, Linden spotted a rocky tor, high and rounded like the burial-mound of a titan. Then the Giants ran into full sunshine, brilliant as Staff-fire; and she found herself staring at a formation like a volcanic plug so immeasurably ancient that the eons had worn it down to rubble.

It seemed tall to her: she could not have thrown a pebble to reach its crown. Yet it stood lower than the surrounding trees. Without Bhapa’s guidance, and Pahni’s, the Giants might easily have missed it.

Boulders as big as dwellings supported its sides, but the rest of the mound was composed of broken rocks in all sizes and shapes. From Linden’s perspective, the crest looked wide enough for all of the Giants to stand together and wield their weapons.

Mahrtiir’s eagerness suggested that the tor was exactly what he wanted. But Linden was not convinced. If her companions chose to defend themselves atop the mound, they would have no line of escape.

Bhapa stood, panting urgently, at the foot of the knuckled slope. But Cabledarm had carried Pahni up the tor. The Swordmain waved dramatically as her comrades emerged from the forest. “I recant my vaunt!” she crowed: a shout of delight. “Skill may accomplish much which lies beyond the reach of muscle and thew! The Manethrall’s Cords have humbled me. I would not have stumbled upon this admirable redoubt!”

“It will serve,” muttered Mahrtiir, peering at the mound with senses other than sight. “Here even Ramen may oppose Kastenessen’s vile beasts.”

Linden blinked in the sunlight; shook her head. Bhapa’s condition alarmed her. He gasped as if he were still running, on the edge of exhaustion. Dehydration made his limbs tremble. Apparently he had not paused for treasure-berries or water while he searched. After the battle of First Woodhelven, he had refused Mahrtiir’s place as Manethrall. Perhaps in compensation, he had nearly prostrated himself to prove worthy of Mahrtiir’s trust.

By finding this tor? Linden did not understand. The skurj devoured granite. She had assumed that the Cords sought an open rock field where the Giants could dodge and strike and flee. If they mounted the rocks, they would be trapped.

But the Ironhand did not seem to share Linden’s concern. “Serve?” she retorted as if Mahrtiir had made a jest. “It will do more than serve. It will concentrate our foes where the advantage of elevation and stone is ours. If Linden Giantfriend does not falter, we may yet hope for our lives.”

If Linden did not falter-

“Galt hastens toward us,” Stave announced. “The skurj pass beneath him. He has failed to deflect their course. Therefore he will endeavour to outrun them. He descries eighteen of the creatures. If others follow, he cannot yet discern them.”

“And the distance?” asked Coldspray.

“Less than a league.”

The Ironhand nodded sharply. “Then we must ascend now. Linden Avery may ready her power while we prepare ourselves.”

Coldspray’s comrades responded quickly. As Grueburn and Stonemage confronted the piled boulders, the last unburdened Giant lifted Bhapa into her arms and began to climb.

Supporting herself with her free hand, Grueburn worked her way upward. Time and weight had made the tor more stable than it appeared. And the Giants were intimately familiar with stone in every manifestation. None of them slipped on their way to the crest of the mound.

There the rocks were jagged and dangerous. Cracked granite and slick basalt protruded everywhere, as raw-edged as teeth: an invitation to twisted ankles, scraped shins, snapped bones. Combat would be difficult here. The Giants would have to watch where they placed their feet as closely as they studied their assailants. However, the crown formed a rough circle broader than Linden had guessed, perhaps thirty paces from edge to edge. Her defenders would have more than enough room to fight.

Grueburn set her down carefully. Bracing herself on uneven angles and splits, Linden looked at Pahni to gauge the young Cord’s condition. Like Bhapa, Pahni was close to the end of her strength-and seriously dehydrated. And she lacked his years of training and stamina. In spite of her Ramen pride, she sagged against Cabledarm.

As soon as Stonemage released him, Liand sprang over the rocks toward Pahni. He seemed careless of the treacherous surface, but his Stonedownor heritage must have guided his feet. He reached her in a moment; caught her in his arms. When he had held her for a few heartbeats, he panted. “Water. She is hardy, but she must have water.”

“As must Cord Bhapa,” muttered Coldspray distantly. Her gaze searched the eastward expanse of Salva Gildenbourne as if she sought to see past or through the trees. “We have none. And I will not risk one of my comrades to seek out a stream.” Then she glanced at Liand, smiling to reassure him. “Yet we would be abject indeed, unworthy of ourselves, if we had failed to secure some meagre store of diamondraught.”

Liand stared, uncomprehending and frightened; but Linden’s anxiety for the Cords eased. She remembered diamondraught well. It was a potent liquor distilled to suit Giants. But it had virtues in common with aliantha: it would restore Bhapa and Pahni for a while.

Grinning, Grueburn and Stonemage reached under their armour and brought out stone flasks that looked small in their massive hands. By some application of Giantish lore, the flasks had been fashioned flat and slightly curved so that they fit comfortably inside the shaped armour.

Grueburn gave her flask to Liand; let him care for Pahni while Stonemage tended to Bhapa.

Relieved, Linden turned to consider the state of her other companions.

The Giants were visibly tired. They had been under too much strain for too long: their huge vitality had begun to fray like overstressed hawsers. But they still had reserves of endurance. And a few swallows of diamondraught appeared to lift their hearts.

At need, they would fight with the force of gales.

When Galesend released him, Anele moved, blind and sure-footed, toward the centre of the crown. There he sat down, wedged into a snug crack between boulders. Bowing his head, he began to stroke the stone and hum as if he wished to soothe it.

Less certain than Anele, Mahrtiir felt his way around the rim of the crest, apparently examining the stones. Then he said to Stave. You comprehend the worth of this vantage?”

“I do,” replied Stave impassively. “As will the Humbled. I honour your foresight, Manethrall.”

“I merit no honour, Stave of the Haruchai.” Mahrtiir continued his scrutiny of the mound. “I will be of scant use in these straits.” Then he bared his teeth. “Yet I am gladdened that my devotion to the lessons of struggle and combat has been of service.”

“Manethrall,” Rime Coldspray put in like a reprimand. “your tales are as mournful as Linden Avery’s, and as bitter in their concision. Do not speak of them here.”

“Aye,” Mahrtiir growled under his breath. “I hear you.” His bandage obscured his eyeless mien.

Muttering empty curses, Linden scanned the region around the tor.

When she looked to the west, she saw Clyme emerge from the forest. He ran easily; flung himself at the steep sides of the tor without obvious difficulty. She saw at a glance that he had told Stave the truth: his injuries were almost entirely healed.

A few moments later, Branl approached from the northeast. He sped to join Linden and her companions, unhampered by the rugged climb, as if he were as much an acolyte of stone as the Giants. He, too, was nearly whole.

Linden felt Galt’s absence like a burr in her mind. She wanted to wait for him; to hear his report on the movements of the skurj. To postpone as long as possible the moment when she would need to concentrate on white gold. Every life around her depended on her ability to wield Covenant’s ring. Fearing failure, she hesitated to make the attempt.

For that very reason, however, she could not afford to procrastinate any longer. She could not. Her companions had trapped themselves, and her. The skurj did not yet impinge upon her health-sense, but they were near. Kastenessen was not the Despiser. If Roger had described him honestly, his driving agony would make him impatient, intolerant of delay. She did not know why he had waited so long-

Now, she commanded herself. Do it now.

Liand still hovered over Pahni. Nevertheless Linden called his name as if she were callous to his apprehension. When he turned toward her, she said simply, “Here,” and handed him the Staff of Law.

Instant possibilities flared in his eyes. He had asked her to do this. Perhaps he thought that holding the Staff would enable him to channel more Earthpower through his orcrest.

Linden nodded to him, accepting the promise of his nascent excitement. Then, half cowering as though she felt naked without her Staff, exposed to shame and inadequacy, she clambered awkwardly toward a flat sheet of basalt within ten paces of the crest’s eastern rim. There she seated herself cross-legged, folded Covenant’s ring in both hands as if she were praying, and tried to think her way to wild magic.

Around her, the Giants drank small sips of diamondraught; talked quietly among themselves; adjusted their armour and readied their weapons. Clyme and Branl watched the east for Galt and peril. Stave waited, apparently relaxed, beside Linden. At Mahrtiir’s command, the Cords gathered to protect Anele.

Two or three paces beyond the old man, Liand stood alone with the Staff and his unspoken desires.

For the first time, Linden noticed the breeze that gusted over the tor, rustling like whispers among the treetops on all sides. Its touch made her aware of tiny lines of pain like damp streaks on her cheeks and forehead. She had been scratched during the rush of the Giants through Salva Gildenbourne. Bits of scab crusted her small hurts.

But some of the branches must have caught at her shirt hard enough to snag and tear the red flannel. Minor rents were scattered over her shoulders and down her arms. A few of them held droplets of dried blood. Like the bullet hole over her heart-like the cryptic grass stains on her jeans-the tears and plucked threads seemed trivial; meaningless. They did not reveal her doom.

Jeremiah needed her. She needed Thomas Covenant. Nothing else mattered.

The door that opened on silver fire lay within her somewhere. She only had to find it.

But when she reached inward, there was no door. Instead a twist of nausea squirmed in her stomach.

Oh, God! Sudden terror thudded through her. That’s it! That’s what he’s been waiting for!

Hardly realising what she did, Linden dropped the ring. It dangled, useless, from its chain as she sprang to her feet-

— and Esmer materialised in front of her as if he had created himself out of wind and sunlight.

Kastenessen’s grandson, by theurgy if not by blood. I serve him utterly. As I also serve you.

Without hesitation, Stave stepped between her and Cail’s son; the son of the merewives. Shouting in surprise, the Giants wheeled. Their ready blades hissed across the breeze. Branl moved toward Stave. Undisturbed or simply uncaring, Clyme continued to watch for Galt and the skurj.

“Mane and Tail!” Mahrtiir snapped. “Esmer, no! This is not mere betrayal. It is Kastenessen’s triumph, and Fangthane’s.”

If Liand reacted, Linden did not hear or feel it.

Esmer’s presence precluded wild magic. Beyond question, this was what Kastenessen had been waiting for.

Yet Linden’s terror became dismay as she stared at Esmer. Unconsciously she had expected him to heal himself; to appear immaculate and severe, poised for power. But she was wrong. His graceful cymar hung in tatters, fouled with dirt and blood. And the wounds which he had suffered in his bizarre struggle with the Harrow, Roger, and the Demondim-spawn remained. His flesh had been burned and torn because he had declined to defend himself. Now his hurts stank of filth. Some of them were festering.

The green seethe of his gaze resembled weeping seas. Dolour and gall twisted his countenance. He looked like he had come to ensure Linden’s death; to make certain that both the Staff of Law and Covenant’s ring fell to Kastenessen-or to Roger and Lord Foul, if Kastenessen disdained such powers.

Coldspray stood behind him. “Is this indeed Esmer?” she asked through her teeth. “Then I will dismiss him.” Raising her stone sword, she demanded, “Turn, caitiff cateran, and make the acquaintance of my glaive.”

Without glancing away from Linden, Esmer cried, “Hold!” The word was a yelp of chagrin.

Sharply Stave said. “Do not, Rime Coldspray. His powers are unfathomable and virulent. Should he so choose, he will shatter this mound, sweeping us into the maws of the skurj. Your strength will merely provoke him. You cannot prevail.”

Coldspray hesitated, but did not lower her sword. “Linden Avery-” she began; then stopped as if in shock.

Until Mahrtiir barked her name, Linden did not see that the peak of the for teemed with ur-viles and Waynhim.

In silence, they swarmed like shadows around the far taller Giants: several score of them, all that had survived the Harrow, and Roger, and the weapons of the Cavewights. Once again, their lore had enabled them to divine Esmer’s intentions. And they had veiled their presence until he manifested himself. Now they massed around Linden and Cail’s son, encircling Stave and Branl.

“Linden Avery-” Coldspray repeated. With an effort, she quenched her surprise. “What is your will? Are these the creatures that have aided you? The Demondim-spawn? Why then do they now ward Esmer? We cannot oppose him without harming them.”

In response, the Waynhim and ur-viles began to shout, raucous as wild dogs. Their yipping howls and harsh coughs filled the air. They seemed to cast a pall over the tor as if their inherent darkness obscured the sunlight.

None of them brandished weapons. Even the loremaster did not.

Coldspray tried again. “Linden-”

Esmer cut her off. Suddenly disdainful, he rasped, They do not ward me, Giant. That is the import of their speech.

“You possess a gift of tongues obtained from the Elohim. By my will, it is withdrawn. At no time will you be permitted to comprehend these creatures.

“However, they command me to inform you that they serve the Wildwielder. They acknowledge Giants. They have known the Unhomed, for good or ill. If you strike at them, they will not guard themselves. For her sake, they will raise neither hand nor theurgy against you. Yet you play no part in their desires.”

Coldspray glanced around at her comrades, then shook her head in bafflement. By my will-Apparently Esmer had the power to enforce his word.

Linden had made a promise to the ur-viles and Waynhim. If you can ever figure out how to tell me what you need or want from me, I’ll do it. Now Esmer had erased her only chance to understand them.

“But they also wish you to apprehend,” he continued less scornfully. “that their lore will not slow the skurj. They cannot preserve you.” An emotion that resembled remorse troubled his gaze. “They intend only to ensure that I may harm neither you nor any of the Wildwielder’s companions. If they mean to proffer some further service, they do not speak of it.”

The lronhand’s shoulders sagged. As if in defeat, she dropped her glaive back into its sheath. “Then we must perish, son of malice. Kastenessen’s beasts are too many. We cannot defeat them without wild magic-and we are informed that your presence prevents any use of white gold.

Is that your purpose? Will you impose our deaths?”

“It is my nature.” Hauteur fumed like spray from Esmer’s eyes, but his voice winced. “I am made to be what I am. I do not command the skurj. Like them, I am commanded.”

Fierce with alarm and granite rage, Linden wanted to retort; but Stave spoke first. Facing Esmer impassively, he said, “You are swift to cast blame, Esmer mere-son. It is your word that because of the Haruchai “there will be endless havoc”. Yet is it not sooth that you fault Cail your sire and his kindred for your deeds rather than for theirs? The “havoc” will be of your making, not ours. When we fall”- his tone sharpened- “we fall by your hand, Esmer, not by any act or reticence of the Haruchai.”

Esmer flinched. But he did not respond. And he did not withdraw.

Before Linden could voice her own accusations, Clyme announced, “Galt approaches.” His voice carried, blunt as a fist, through the clamour of the Demondim-spawn. The skurj follow. They do not hasten, but they come.”

Involuntarily Linden imagined a path of blight and withering in Salva Gildenbourne’s abundance, formed by the fiery passage of Kastenessen’s monsters.

“Are they eighteen?” asked Coldspray tensely. “Does that remain Galt’s count?”

“It does,” Clyme answered. He has discerned no others.”

Branl’s lack of expression suggested a sneer as he turned abruptly away from Linden, Esmer, and Stave. The ur-viles and Waynhim parted for him: their barking subsided as if they had given up demanding translation. A few of them watched Branl join Coldspray and Clyme. Others shifted their attention toward Anele and Liand.

“Eighteen.” The Ironhand bowed her head. “It cannot be done.” But then she raised her chin, bared her teeth. “Nevertheless we will attempt it.”

Her eyes flared dangerously as she began positioning her comrades to defend the tor.

Linden had tried before: she tried again. But she found no wild magic within herself. The door was gone. The sick clench of her stomach confirmed its absence. She could not pierce the barrier imposed by Esmer’s proximity.

And she could not oppose the skurj effectively with her Staff: not while Kevin’s Dirt held sway.

Nevertheless she was not beaten. She refused to accept it. Aid and betrayal. Esmer’s presence was a betrayal. Therefore he was vulnerable. His divided nature would compel him to help her, if she could ask the right questions, insist on the right answers; find the right lever-

You must be the first to drink of the EarthBlood.

His gaze remained fixed on her as if none of her companions existed. He ignored the Demondim-spawn. In a voice that steamed with pleading, he asked. “Wildwielder, why have you come to this place?” His wounds seemed to ooze concern like pus. “What madness drives you? Have you not been told that you must not enter Andelain? Do you hear neither friend nor foe?”

Linden shook her head. “Damn it, Esmer,” she countered. “can’t you even heal yourself? Is this really what Kastenessen wants?” Or Lord Foul?

She intended to put as much pressure on Esmer as she could. And she was not going to reveal her underlying purpose: the bedrock on which she had founded all of her actions since Melenkurion Skyweir.

His manner stiffened. “I have inherited many gifts. There is no healing among them.”

Cruelly Linden insisted, “Your own grandfather wants you like this?” Flagrantly wounded, suppurating with pain. “He doesn’t want you whole?’

Esmer squirmed. “Delivering the Demondim-spawn to this time, I displeased him. Defending them against the Harrow, I displeased him greatly. His wrath is boundless. Therefore I am here.”

Behind him, Galt appeared on the rim of the mound. The Master’s chest heaved, demanding air, but he did not look weak or hurt-or troubled. “They come,” he informed Coldspray and the other Giants. “Strength alone will not avail against them. Yet we will strive to create opportunities for your blades.”

The Ironhand nodded grimly. “Aye. Some few of them we will slay, with your aid. Then we must pray that they do not pause to feast upon their fallen and multiply.”

“That also,” replied Branl. “we will endeavour to prevent.”

“As will I,” Mahrtiir promised gruffly. “Blindness will not hamper my aim.”

Linden clenched her fists until her knuckles ached. Her palm and fingers missed the ciphered warmth of the Staff. “All right, Esmer,” she said through her teeth. “So Kastenessen is mad at you. So what? Give me something to count against this betrayal. Tell me why no one wants me to go to Andelain.”

She did not have much time.

His eyes bled anger and self-castigation. “I know not how to serve you, other than by preventing you from ruin.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” she retorted. “I’m not going to ruin anything. If you go away-if you let me use wild magic-I won’t threaten the Arch. I can’t. I’m not the ring’s rightful wielder.” Roger had insisted on that. She believed him despite his many falsehoods. “I don’t have enough power.”

Esmer drew himself up. “You are mistaken.” Now he seemed to seethe with squalls as if she had insulted his intelligence. “There are two white golds. Each alone may damage Law. When both are wielded, their peril swells.”

Covenant had told her to be careful with wild magic. It feeds the caesures.

“Kastenessen’s desires are not the Despiser’s,” Esmer continued harshly. “He cares naught for the Arch of Time. Rather he yearns for the destruction of the Elohim. Yet he is but one against many. And the skurj are merely the skurj. He cannot sate his hunger by direct challenge. However, your white ring, and the other, may accomplish his desires. The ending of life within the Arch will achieve it. It will consume his true foes. Therefore Kastenessen commits his creatures against you. Your efforts to withstand them will commingle with the madness of the other Wildwielder. Your puissance will conduce to the end of those who Appointed him to bereavement and agony.”

Again Linden shook her head. “No. That still doesn’t make sense. If Kastenessen wants me to use wild magic, why are you here? Didn’t you say that you were commanded?”

Esmer made a show of patience while his eyes frothed and his wounds wept. “The attack of the skurj is a blade with two edges. Because of my presence, you will perish. Then your ring will fall into the hands of some other being. Kastenessen does not covet it for himself. No Elohim truly desires white gold. For such beings, its peril transcends its promise of might. But lesser wights crave it avidly. Should Thomas Covenant’s son or the Harrow gain possession of your ring, they will evoke wild magic sufficient to feed Kastenessen’s hunger.

“However, my grandsire is wroth with me. He execrates my wish to serve you. Therefore I am commanded here, as both a punishment and a snare. My presence ensures your death-and his triumph. Yet should you discover some means to sway me, so that I am induced to betray him, you yourself will provide his triumph.”

Abruptly the entire for trembled. While Linden spread her feet to keep her balance, a scream of fire erupted beyond the eastern edge of the crest. Virulence shocked her senses as the skurj broke from the ground. From where she stood, the rim blocked her view of the beasts; but she recognised that they were many. Each roar exacerbated the others until the very air seemed to shriek with pain.

She closed her mind to the sound. She could not afford to quail. She would not. Therefore she chose to believe that the Giants would contrive to hold back the creatures.

“So either way Kastenessen wins,” she rasped at Esmer. “All right. I get that. But you still haven’t told me why you’re here. Since he can’t lose, why do you bother to do what he tells you? Why do you care?”

He ducked his head. His manner changed as unpredictably as wind-torn waves. “It is my nature. I must strive to serve you.”

“Then tell me how I can get enough Earthpower from my Staff to hold off those monsters.”

“You cannot,” he said as though he feared her in spite of her helplessness. “That is the true purpose of Kevin’s Dirt. My grandsire and I laboured long and assiduously among the fouled depths and banes of Gravin Threndor to procure this outcome.”

You? Linden thought, aghast. You did that?

“We have been aided,” Esmer admitted. “The extremes of Kastenessen’s excruciation madden him. His thoughts do not cohere. But he has been counselled by moksha Raver. Jehannum serves him, winning connivance from Thomas Covenant’s son as from Cavewights and other powers. At the Raver’s urging, my grandsire severed his hand to exalt Thomas Covenant’s son. The magic to raise Kevin’s Dirt from the roots of Mount Thunder was Kastenessen’s, and mine. But the ploy was moksha Jehannum’s.”

Linden swallowed her dismay. Esmer was helping her: she knew that. He had told her where to look for Kastenessen-and perhaps how to end Kevin’s Dirt. He had revealed how her disparate foes had been induced to work together. But he had given her nothing that would thwart the skurj.

If he answered her questions in order to betray Kastenessen, he was doing his grandsire no harm.

“You’re just talking, Esmer,” she said, deliberately dismissive. “You can say whatever you want because you know that I won’t live to do anything about it. If you want to prove that you’re worthy of your father,” of Cail, whose courage had been as boundless as Kastenessen’s rage. “tell me something useful. Tell me why no one wants me to go to Andelain.”

Without warning, the first of the skurj reared into view.

The sight staggered her; broke her concentration. Even in full daylight, the beast seemed to dominate the sky. Its heat washed over the tor, terrible and chancrous: its massive jaws gaped, blazing with repeated rows of fangs like magma shaped and whetted until the teeth resembled kukris. Heat shouted from the monster’s deep maw as if it articulated the Earth’s quintessential hunger.

The ur-viles and Waynhim huddled around Linden, apparently cowed. Their subdued chittering sounded like whimpers.

Rime Coldspray confronted the creature with her sword held ready. Yet she did not strike. She might have been immobilised; stricken with terror; helpless before the lambent ineluctable fangs of the skurj. But she was not. She was waiting-

The beast towered over her, savouring her death. Then the tremendous kraken jaws pounced for her head. If it caught her, it would bite her in half.

Branl interrupted the creature’s strike. Before it reached Coldspray, he flung a heavy rock down the throat of the skurj.

Reflexively the monster paused. It closed its jaws to swallow; concealed the sick radiance of its fangs.

In that instant, Coldspray swung her glaive. With all of her Giantish might and her Swordmainnir training, she cut into and through the heavy muscles at one hinge of the creature’s jaws.

The skurj fell into a convulsion of pain. Yowling through a spray of vile blood, it plunged out of sight.

Dear God- An abundance of loose stones. Now Linden understood. The mound was not a trap: it was an armoury. Her companions could use the autonomic reactions of the creatures against them. Branl, Galt, and Clyme-even Mahrtiir-could force the skurj to pause.

Any interruption would create openings for the Giants.

But Coldspray’s blow appeared to infuriate the rest of the skurj. Their roaring lashed the air: their heat stank like gangrene. Eight or ten of them charged upward simultaneously. The others were close behind. Threats of slaughter scaled into lunacy as the creatures arched above the tor to crash slavering toward the Giants.

In the space between heartbeats, one small sliver of time, Linden whirled toward Stave. “The Seven Words!” she panted. “They affect the skurj!”

The Giants believed that the monsters could not hear. But Linden had seen one of them hesitate before the implicit theurgy of the Seven Words.

Stave acknowledged her with a nod. Then he sprang away, shifting easily among the Demondim-spawn to inform her companions.

Around the entire rim of the crown, battle exploded.

“Wildwielder!” Esmer shouted. “Forswear your purpose in Andelain, and I will depart!” A cryptic desperation edged his voice. “Do as you will with the Harrow. Others will oppose your efforts to retrieve your son. I will not!”

Pallid with strain, Linden faced him again. The horrid gaping of fangs made his features ruddy and lurid: it seemed to fill his hurts with disease. A bloody sunset shone in his eyes. Her companions were fighting for their lives; everyone who had aided her; her friends-

There was nothing that she could do to help them.

“That’s not an answer, Esmer.” If she turned her back on Andelain-on Covenant and the krill- she would sacrifice her only chance to save the Land. Terror and evil would rampage wherever they wished. The Harrow isn’t here.”

“If I depart, he will come.” Esmer’s mien was rife with supplication. He will remove you from this doom. Your death would complicate his desires.”

Should you discover some means to sway me-

The Giants were too few. The Humbled and Mahrtiir were fewer still. Kindwind tried to stop a skurj by jamming her sword past its teeth into the back of its maw. She hurt it; drove it back. But it clamped its jaws as it pulled away, taking her sword and her hand and all of her forearm with it. Blood fountained from the severed stump.

Guided by percipience, Mahrtiir heaved stones bigger than his fists between the fangs of the beasts. He yelled the Seven Words with such ferocity that the for itself quivered. Skurj after skurj was forced to pause and swallow-or to falter. But that was the limit of what he could accomplish. If he touched one of the creatures, its hide would scald the flesh from his bones.

One of Clyme’s rocks interrupted a flash of fangs and incandescence. In that instant, Grueburn ducked beneath the skurj and drove her sword upward through its hide behind its jaws; buried her blade to the hilt. Somehow she struck a vital nerve-centre, perhaps the monster’s brain. Spasming frantically, the skurj toppled down the stones. When its bulk collided with another creature, that beast tumbled as well.

Giants began to shout the Seven Words: a cacophony of invocation.

It was not enough.

Grinding her teeth, Linden demanded, “And if he does? If the Harrow offers me a bargain that I can live with? Will he save my friends? Can he rescue all of us?”

Esmer snorted contemptuously. “Doubtless he is able to do so. He will not. He need not. He cares naught for your companions. Knowing where your son is imprisoned, he requires no other suasion. He will not hazard himself for any cause other than white gold and the Staff of Law. If you insist upon the salvation of your companions, he will merely await a later opportunity to acquire your powers.

“The might of wild magic will be diminished if it is not ceded voluntarily. That he will regret. Nevertheless this plight serves his ends also.”

Bhapa and Pahni hovered uselessly over Anele. When they could, they threw stones at the skurj. The old man made mewling noises deep in his throat. His hands clutched at granite and basalt as if he thought that the broken rocks might redeem him.

Emulating Grueburn, Onyx Stonemage ducked under a blaze of fangs and thrust her sword like a spear behind the beast’s jaws. But she missed her target. In a vast roar of pain and blood, the skurj struck at her; slammed her to the jagged stones.

For a moment, her armour blocked the monster’s bite. At the same time, however, the beast’s fury twisted her blade within its wound. Before her cataphract failed, her thrust became a killing stroke. The skurj recoiled, seized by death. Its blood drenched her, stinking like offal, as the creature fell.

Two skurj were dead. At least one had been badly wounded.

Too many remained.

Stave joined the Humbled. Together they hurled a barrage of rock. Risking her whole arm, Cabledarm succeeded at chopping one huge maw into a grin that could not close by cutting through the muscles at both corners of the jaw. With a volcanic howl, the skurj lurched away. A froth of vile blood spattered the tor.

“But he knows where Jeremiah is,” Linden insisted, panting urgently. “Isn’t that why you tried to suck him into a Fall? To keep him from helping me rescue my son?”

Esmer groaned. “It is. It was.” His pleading became a kind of frenzy. “Your son is beyond price. But if you will forswear your purpose in Andelain, the threat to Kastenessen is diminished. Therefore your son’s worth declines. The Harrow will serve Kastenessen’s desires, though he intends only his own glory. It cannot be otherwise when wild magic and Law are wielded by greed and aggrandisement.”

Kastenessen’s desires are not the Despiser’s.

Others will oppose your efforts to retrieve your son. I will not!

The ruddy hue of burning over the tor began to change. It grew pale. White brilliance reflected in the seethe and misery of Esmer’s gaze. Through a fever of concentration, Linden felt Earthpower rise behind her.

The ur-viles and Waynhim jerked up their heads, scented the fraught air. Barking fervidly, they left Linden and Esmer. On all fours, they scampered to surround Liand.

The Stonedownor was calling up the light of his orcrest. He would draw the skurj to him; distract them-

But he was doing something else as well. Linden’s attention nearly snapped when she realised that he was also summoning power from the Staff. Or summoning the Staff’s strength through the Sunstone. By instinct or health-sense, he had tuned the Staffs resources to the specific pitch and possibility of his orcrest.

The Staff appeared to give him only a small portion of its potential. He lacked Linden’s organic relationship with the runed black wood; and he had no experience. But in a mere handful of days, he had become intimately familiar with his piece of orcrest. Now he used Linden’s Staff to feed the Sunstone, enhance its distinctive theurgy-and to reinforce his stone so that it would not be shattered by the magicks which he demanded from it.

Linden did not know what he had in mind. He had told her nothing. Nevertheless she understood that he was not merely trying to attract or disturb the skurj. He meant to attempt something far more ambitious-

Kevin’s Dirt would hinder him as it did her.

Liand! Fearing the hunger of the monsters, she nearly shouted at him to stop. But she fought down the impulse. All of her companions were about to die. Her own death was no more than moments away. She could not afford to reject any gambit that might confuse or slow the skurj.

All who live share the Land’s plight. Its cost will be borne by all who live.

She had to let Liand take his own risks.

Perhaps the Demondim-spawn would protect him-

Like an act of violence against herself, Linden closed her mind to Liand. Instead she told Esmer. “Then you still have to answer my question. Why don’t you want me in Andelain? I’m not going to ‘forswear’ anything until I know what’s at stake.”

“Because you are not needed!” Esmer cried in stymied supplication. “There is no peril in Andelain! The skurj cannot enter among the Hills. Kastenessen himself cannot. Caesures do not form there. When Thomas Covenant’s ring returned to the Land, Loric’s krill was roused from its slumber. Its might wards the Hills. And other beings also act in Andelain’s defence. The skurj are turned aside. Kastenessen is shunned. Disturbances of time dissipate.

“Andelain is preserved,” Esmer asserted frantically. “It has no need of you.”

Linden heard him with a surge of joy and despair. Andelain was safe-! If she and her companions could cross four more leagues, they, too, would be protected.

But the distance was too great. They would die on this pile of rocks. None of them would leave its crown alive.

Behind her, the ur-viles and Waynhim growled an indecipherable incantation. Her nerves felt a streak of dank power, black and vitriolic, as the loremaster produced a dagger with a blade that resembled molten iron.

One dagger. The dark lore of all the Waynhim and ur-viles combined could not make one dagger potent enough to ward Liand.

What did he hope to accomplish?

Unable to jump back quickly enough, Galesend dove under an attack; pitched herself headlong down the tearing rocks of the mound’s slope. The creature’s jaws tried to follow her. But Mahrtiir was screaming the Seven Words. And while the beast hesitated, Stave threw rock after rock into its gullet, coercing it to swallow, and swallow again.

In that respite, Galesend regained her feet. Battered and bleeding, she plunged her sword into the monster’s hide to cut an opening. Then she shoved her arm to the shoulder into its fire. Though she cried out in pain, she probed within the skurj, seeking some essential organ or artery which her fingers could crush.

Coldspray seemed to hack in all directions. Cabledarm, Grueburn, and the other Giants fought like titans; delivered an avalanche of blows. Even Kindwind gave battle, kicking heavily while she clutched her severed arm to slow the bleeding. Stave and Mahrtiir and the Humbled laboured everywhere, hurling rocks and interruptions.

Still monsters mounted the tor, as unrelenting as seas.

“That still isn’t an answer!” Linden shouted, nearly wailing in frustration and terror. Come on, you sick bastard! Tell me something I can use! “It doesn’t explain why you and Kastenessen and Roger,” and Sunder and Hollian. “don’t want me to go there.”

Find me, Covenant had urged her. Find me.

Remember that I’m dead.

Esmer writhed as if he were being torn apart. “Are you blind, Wildwielder?” Excoriation and horror bled from his eyes; his wounds. His shredded cymar fluttered in a kind of ecstasy. “Do you comprehend nothing? We fear you.

“We fear what you may attempt with the krill. All the Earth fears it, every discerning or lorewise being among the living and the Dead. Even those who crave the destruction of life and Time fear it. The Harrow fears it, though doubtless he will feign otherwise. We cannot perceive your purpose. We know only your grief and your great rage. Thus we are assured that your intent is dreadful beyond any estimation. It will be no mere Ritual of Desecration. With Loric’s krill, you will strive toward an end too absolute and abominable to be endured.

“Therefore you must forswear your purpose,” he finished in a harsh whisper. “If you do not, I must incur your death, though Cail’s blood in my veins demands to serve you. You will extinguish hope forever in the Earth.”

Esmer had answered her. But he gave her nothing.

And she did not believe him: not entirely. Linden, find me. She was convinced that Esmer and Kastenessen-and Roger-wanted to prevent her from reaching Thomas Covenant among the Dead.

The one Swordmain whose name she did not know went down: Linden could not tell whether she would stand again. Somehow the remaining Giants, the four Haruchai, and Mahrtiir prevented the skurj from swarming over the crest. But with each strike, their incinerating crimson fangs reached deeper among the defenders. Bhapa, Pahni, and Anele had all been scorched with fetid blood.

And Linden could not fight for them. She had no power. Esmer stood in front of her like a mute wail, quelling any possibility of wild magic.

While she reeled, helpless to save herself, helpless to save anyone, she heard a massive concussion like a crash of thunder.

She had not seen the sky grow dark; had not noticed the daylight failing until only incandescent fangs and the orcrest’s pure radiance illuminated the battle. But when raindrops splashed her face, she looked up and saw thunderheads boiling overhead.

Elsewhere there were no clouds: only the vicinity of the tor was covered in storm. Nevertheless the thunderheads were swollen and livid, flagrant with lightning and wind and violence-

— and rain.

When she spun toward Liand, saw him standing with the orcrest clenched over his head, she realised what he had done.

Stave had confirmed that the Sunstone could be used to cause weather-

Liand held the Staff in the crook of his elbow. His other hand gripped the hand of the ur-vile loremaster palm to palm. Both his human skin and the loremaster’s black flesh were crusted with blood.

Oh, God, Linden thought, oh, God, remembering how the ur-viles shared their strength and clarity. The loremaster must have cut its own palm as well as Liand’s; mingled its blood with his; infused him with its weird lore and puissance.

With blood, the Demondim-spawn had shown him how to create a storm. They had made him able to do so, in spite of their own suffering in proximity to the Staff.

Rain! Water-It was a weapon. Wind and thunder and lightning meant nothing: those elemental forces could not deter the skurj. But rain-!

As soon as she understood what Liand was doing, Linden knew that he would fail. He had already surpassed all of his limits-and his Sunstone had not shattered. But no mere shower would cool or daunt the terrible fires of the skurj. He had achieved more than she could have imagined. Nevertheless he simply did not have enough power

The Staff did not belong to him. It was hers: she had made it. Caerroil Wildwood had incised it with unfathomable implications, and had returned it to her.

“Liand!” she yelled as she scrambled over the rocks toward him. “That’s brilliant! You’re brilliant!

“Give me the Staff!

Esmer made a sound like keening or exultation; but he did not leave the mound.

She feared that Liand would not hear her. He had immersed himself utterly in his efforts; in his orcrest and her Staff and the loremaster’s blood. He may have gone beyond hearing.

But as she neared him, he unfolded his elbow to release the Staff.

Suddenly one of the monsters toppled, yowling, as if its serpentlike body had been cut in half. With a rage as loud as the massed thunder, Longwrath climbed onto the crest.

Anointed and annealed by the gore of the creature that he had slain, his flamberge steamed in the gathering fall of rain.

Without hesitation, he sprang at Linden. His great size and strength carried him toward her in three strides. His sword wheeled to send her head spinning far from the tor.

In the same instant, Stave hurled a large rock that struck the side of Longwrath’s head. The impact staggered the mad Swordmain. He missed his footing; fell involuntarily to one knee with the tip of his blade inches from Linden’s face.

Desperately Grueburn and Coldspray converged on Longwrath. Grueburn grappled for his sword-arm while Coldspray kicked him in the jaw.

Linden heard a snapping sound that may have been Longwrath’s neck; but she did not falter. She was already shouting, “Melenkurion abatha!” as she snatched the Staff from Liand. “Duroc minas mill!” At once, Earthpower and Law poured through her as though she had uncapped a geyser. “Harad khabaal!”

With every ounce of her passion and purpose, she reached for Liand’s storm. Wielding her fire like a scourge, she flailed at the rain until it become torrential.

Between heartbeats, she transformed Liand’s showers. At once, they became a downpour so heavy that she seemed to have torn open an ocean in the sky. Water pounded the stones with such force that it nearly knocked her from her feet. Everything around her was inundated, hammered, bludgeoned, as if she stood directly under the cascade of the Mithil’s Plunge.

Now there was no light at all apart from the fire of the Staff and the laval gaping of the monsters’ fangs. Liand had collapsed. The loremaster held him while a Waynhim retrieved his quenched orcrest and returned it to its pouch at his waist.

Linden could no longer hear thunder: the torrent was louder. Rain swept the voices of her companions away. Only the furious consternation of the skurj pierced the downpour. They were creatures of magma and fire, stone and earth. They would not have survived if they had been dropped into the Sunbirth Sea. The whipped weight and ferocity of Linden’s rainstorm did not kill them. But it erupted into steam in their mouths. Crimson fume burst from their teeth. Explosive gouts of superheated vapour tore at their fangs, their flesh, while their necessary heat cooled. When they swallowed, they swallowed water as if it were poison.

The sheer mass of the rain forced them to close their jaws. Then it drove them to eat their way into the ground, seeking an escape from the pummelling torrents.

Linden’s fire was all that remained to light her companions.

She could not blink fast enough to keep her vision clear. She could scarcely hold up her head. Through a cataclysm of water, she barely saw two of Longwrath’s guards clamber onto the crest. She heard nothing while the Giants yelled at each other, making swift decisions. She was focused heart and soul on the Staff and the storm. If Esmer remained or vanished, she did not notice it. She was only distantly aware that the Waynhim and ur-viles had scattered. She had no attention left for anything except rain.

If she could sustain this downpour-

Without disturbing Linden’s concentration, Grueburn lifted her from her feet. Stonemage cradled Liand like a sleeping child. Galesend carried Anele while Cabledarm bore Pahni. Still gripping the stump of her lost arm, Kindwind squatted so that Mahrtiir could climb her back, cling to her shoulders. One of Longwrath’s guards took Bhapa. The other and Coldspray supported Longwrath between them.

Leaving one Giant dead on the peak and another presumably lost to Longwrath’s madness, the Swordmainnir and the Haruchai descended the tor in a perilous rush and ran south.

Chapter Eleven: The Essence of the Land

When the company had passed out from under the downpour into the ambiguous shelter of the trees, the Giants paused-briefly, briefly-so that Linden could shift her attention to healing.

Kindwind’s arm was the most urgent of their wounds, but their hurts were many. Galesend had been nearly hamstrung by raking fangs. Coldspray, Cabledarm, and Stonemage bled from gashes like latticework on their arms and legs. And one of Longwrath’s guards wore fractured bones in her cheek: he must have struck her when he broke free to pursue Linden. Only Grueburn and the Swordmain who aided Coldspray with Longwrath’s unconscious bulk had avoided serious harm.

In addition, the Humbled, the Ramen, Stave, Liand, and Anele had all been burned by splashes of gore. Among Linden’s original companions, she alone had escaped any physical hurt. Her injuries were more spiritual, and she had borne them longer.

As soon as the Giants stopped, she withdrew her scourge of Earthpower from the thunderheads. Gritting her teeth against her fear of the skurj, she transformed her fire to more gentle flames and spread them over her friends. Rapidly she sealed Kindwind’s severed arm; stopped the bleeding of the Giants; sent a quick wash of Law and balm to soothe the Ramen, Liand, and Stave. But she did not offend the Humbled by offering to ease them. And she did not risk triggering Anele’s self-imposed defences. She already knew how fiercely he would fight against healing and sanity.

Then the company ran again, dragging Longwrath with them. None of them knew when the skurj would attack again, and Liand’s storm clouds were beginning to scatter.

Grueburn’s arms seemed as certain as the Earth’s bones. The senses of the Haruchai were preternaturally acute, and the Giants could see far. Surely they would know it when Kastenessen rallied his monsters?

The skurj had vindicated Linden’s visions during her translation to the Land. If Lord Foul kept his promises, she would eventually have to face the Worm of the World’s End.

In spite of her dreads, however, her efforts with the Staff had drained her. Fatigue blurred her attention for a time. Like the torrents which she had left behind, she frayed and drifted until only Jeremiah remained. Her son and Covenant.

Within the Andelainian Hills, Loric’s krill summoned her like a beacon.

Esmer had not rescued her or her companions. But the lodestone of his presence had drawn the Demondim spawn. And he had answered some of her questions.

Aid and betrayal.

Her foes were right to fear her.

Slowly Liand regained consciousness, although he rested with his eyes closed in Stonemage’s embrace. The Humbled had already scattered to search for signs of pursuit behind or snares ahead. Mahrtiir watched over the company fervidly without his eyes. Alert for threats, Stave sped a few paces ahead of Grueburn.

Later the sound of Grueburn’s stertorous breathing began to trouble Linden. The Giants had been under too much strain for too long. Their reserves of stamina were wearing thin. And they had lost two of their comrades. They needed to grieve.

But ahead of her, Salva Gildenbourne relapsed to thick jungle. Once again, it became a tangle of thickets, vines, draped ivy, crowding trees, and deadwood monoliths like fallen kings. Without the guidance of the Cords, the Giants could not run unhindered; and they had no time to seek an easy route. They had to brunt their way by plain strength.

The skurj could move faster than this; much faster. The fact that the Humbled detected nothing did not reassure Linden. It may have meant only that Kastenessen had received new counsel, and had begun to devise a surer assault. She did not believe that the furious Elohim would cease his efforts to prevent her from reaching Andelain.

The company needed speed, but the Giants were too tired.

Apparently Coldspray shared Linden’s concerns. Muttering Giantish obscenities, the Ironhand left her comrade to bear the burden of Longwrath alone. The woman draped his arms over her shoulders so that she could drag him on her back. Meanwhile Coldspray moved ahead of her people and began to hack a passage with her glaive. Arduously the Giants improved their pace.

Linden’s percipience was focused behind her, northward toward the skurj. Too late to give warning, she felt Longwrath plant his feet and heave against the Giant supporting him. He moved so suddenly that Linden feared he would break the woman’s neck.

But the Swordmain must have sensed his intent. She caught his wrists before his hands struck her throat. Holding him, she ducked under his arms and spun in an attempt to wrench him off balance, flip him to the ground.

He countered by kicking her hard enough to loosen her grasp.

The Giants heard that instant of struggle. Bracing themselves to protect their burdens, they turned quickly to face their comrade and Longwrath. Stave sprang to Grueburn’s side as Longwrath reached for his flamberge.

But its sheath was empty. His sword had been left behind among the rocks and desperation of the tor.

For a moment, he gaped at Linden, apparently torn between his hunger for her death and his need for his weapon. Then, howling, he wheeled and raced away, back toward the battle-mound.

In the scales of his madness, his flamberge outweighed Linden’s blood.

The Giant who had been carrying him started to give chase; but Coldspray called her back. “Permit him, Latebirth,” the Ironhand commanded sadly. “You are needed among us. And I deem that he is in no peril. While he covets Linden Giantfriend’s death, our foes will not harm him. He will return when he has retrieved his blade.”

Cursing, Latebirth acquiesced. “The fault of Scend Wavegift’s death is mine, Ironhand,” she proclaimed loudly, bitterly. “Halewhole Bluntfist and I held Longwrath’s arms to aid him against the constraint of his shackles. Wavegift followed at his back. But I allowed my concern for your fate to loosen my clasp. When his shackles dropped from him, Bluntfist held him, but my grip was broken. With the hand that I should have restrained, he struck down Bluntfist. I endeavoured to grapple with him, but I stumbled, unable to avoid Bluntfist’s fall. While I floundered, he confronted Wavegift.

“She was armed. He did not draw his blade. Therefore she hesitated. Doubtless she believed that Bluntfist and I would regain our feet swiftly to join her. But we hindered each other. While we rose, he slapped Wavegift’s blade aside and contrived to snap her neck. Then he ran. Though Bluntfist and I gave chase, we could not catch him.

“With clumsiness and inattention, I have shamed the Swordmainnir as well as myself. Henceforth I will name myself Lax Blunderfoot. When our journey has come to its end, for good or ill, I will lay down my sword.”

Stop, Linden wanted to say. We don’t have time for this. It doesn’t do any good. But she bit her lip and did not intervene. She understood Latebirth too well.

“We will speak of your name in Andelain,” retorted Coldspray. “Our present straits forbid recrimination. We must have haste. Let your shame become anger, and aid me in shaping a path.”

“Aye,” Latebirth muttered. “I hear you.” Drawing her sword, she stamped past Grueburn, Stave, and Linden to join Coldspray at the head of the company.

With pity in his eyes, Liand watched the woman pass. Like Linden, he said nothing; but she could see that his emotions were kinder than hers.

Together Rime Coldspray and Latebirth attacked the worst of the jungle’s impediments. In a kind of shared outrage, they cut vines, ivy, and deadwood aside, driving themselves past their fatigue so that their comrades could move more rapidly.

Fortunately the knotted underbrush and trees soon thinned as the terrain became a declining slope littered with moss-furred rocks and fallen leaves. There clusters of elm and sycamore stood back from solitary Gilden, and few shrubs and creepers found enough soil for their roots. As the Giants trotted downward, their feet stirred up a haze of insects and the damp mould of fallen leaves.

And at the bottom of the slope, the company found a stream turbulent with new rain. The invoked torrents of Liand’s storm filled the rushing current with silt, torn leaves, snapped twigs. Nevertheless the Swordmainnir paused once more so that the company could drink.

When he had eased his thirst, Bhapa asked Mahrtiir’s permission to lead the Giants once more. But Coldspray shook her head before the Manethrall could respond.

“While this stream tends southward, we need no guidance. And we are Giants, agile on rock-aye, even on slick stones concealed by debris. I cast no doubt on your skill, Cord, when I say that your aid will not quicken us here.”

“Heed the Ironhand,” instructed Mahrtiir. His tone was unexpectedly gentle. You and Cord Pahni have won my pride. I do not doubt your resolve. Yet some further rest will harm neither you nor this company. When your aid becomes needful, you will be better able to provide it.”

If Bhapa or Pahni replied, Linden did hear them. The Giants were already running again.

Now their long, heavy strides raised a loud clatter of water. They splashed forward with extraordinary speed, sending spray in all directions. Within moments, Linden’s clothes were soaked, so wet that she shivered against Frostheart Grueburn’s stone armour.

Here Stave could not keep pace: he sank too deeply into pools and holes that barely reached the Giants’ knees. Unwilling to fall behind, he left the stream and made his way among the trees, flickering through patches of sunlight as he dodged past trunks and tore through the undergrowth.

Surely, Linden thought, surely this stream would lead the Giants into Andelain? But she could not credit that she and her companions had outrun the skurj- or Kastenessen’s savagery. Her enemies could not afford to let her reach her goal. If they failed to thwart her themselves, moksha Jehannum would suggest other tactics; summon other foes.

The scraps of samadhi Sheol’s dark spirit wielded some form of influence among the Sandgorgons. And they had repaid their self-imposed debt. They are done with you. If the skurj could not catch her in time, and Roger’s resources proved useless in Salva Gildenbourne, moksha Raver might reach out to his rent brother-

Linden had made too many mistakes. Acknowledging that the Sandgorgons had honoured their debt was only one of them.

Still Stave reported that the Humbled discerned no sign of pursuit. They saw no dangers ahead.

How far had Grueburn carried Linden from the tor? She could not gauge the distance. The rapid stutter of trees and brush, shade and sunlight, along the western side of the stream confused her. And the foliage occluded any landmarks which might have defined the company’s progress. She was sure only that the sun was falling past midafternoon-and that the Giants could not continue to run like this much longer.

The ragged labour of Grueburn’s respiration was painful to hear. Linden tried to close her mind to it, and failed. She was barely able to stop herself from counting the frantic beats of Grueburn’s heart.

By degrees, however, the current slowed as its flood dissipated. At the same time, the hills on either side gradually seemed to acquire a kind of gentleness. Flowing through softer terrain, the stream became more direct. Still it tended southward across bursts of afternoon sunshine.

Then Linden noticed that Salva Gildenbourne’s unkempt extravagance was changing. By degrees, the constricted throng of trees modulated into a more stately forest, and the undergrowth gave way to unexpected swaths of grass. Stands of twisted jacaranda and crowded mimosa were replaced by comfortable chestnuts, austere elms, nervous birches. The rich gold leaves of the Gilden caught more sunlight and shone like resplendence. At last, the Giants were able to leave the stream and travel unobstructed by water or unseen rocks and holes.

And ahead of the company-

In faint whiffs and suggestions, evanescent savours like caresses, Linden’s nerves found their first taste of Andelain.

She sat up straighter; leaned forward with instinctive eagerness. Was it possible? Had she and her companions come four leagues since their battle on the tor? Without being attacked? She did not know how to believe it: it surpassed all of her expectations. Instinctively she distrusted her senses-and strained to confirm them.

The Andelainian Hills. In some sense, consciously or unconsciously, she had been striving to reach them ever since she had first heard Thomas Covenant’s voice in her dreams; ever since she had begun to imagine that he walked among the Dead.

Linden, find me.

She could be wrong. Surely she was wrong?

Careless of the danger, she drew Earthpower from the Staff to sharpen her health-sense. Her heart swelled with supplications which she could not utter: anticipation, hope, doubt; desire as acute as exultation.

Allusive and enticing, scents came to her: greensward and munificent verdure, air as crisp and sapid as aliantha, wildflowers luxuriating in their abundance. No, she was not wrong. More and more, Salva Gildenbourne became a cathedral forest, solemn and sacral. With every step, the trees verged closer to transubstantiation. Ahead of her, they implied a bedecked panoply clinquant with Gilden sunshine. Grueburn carried her through splashes of declining light toward a woodland vista so numinous and vital that every line was limned with health.

Long ago, during her first approach to the Hills of Andelain, she had feared them. They had appeared to nurture something cancerous, a disease which would destroy her if she walked among them. Later, however, she had learned the truth. Her initial perceptions had been distorted by the Sunbane. Immersed in relentless evil, and unable to control her sensitivity, she had seen sickness everywhere. As a result, she had failed to discern the real source of her dread.

Even then, the Hills were not ill. They could not be: the last Forestal protected them. Her trepidation had arisen, not from Andelain itself, but from the presence of the Dead. Because the Law of Death had been broken-and because Earthpower suffused the Hills-spectres walked in Andelain’s loveliness. Confused by the Sunbane, she had felt their nearness as if they were evil.

Now she knew better. High Lord Elena’s abuse of the Power of Command had made it possible for Covenant’s Dead to speak with him; counsel him. Without their aid, he would not have been able to save the Land. Linden herself had met the shade of Kevin Landwaster and quailed; but even in his unrelieved despair, he had not been evil.

There is hope in contradiction.

Since that time, the Law of Life had been damaged as well. The Land held new possibilities, for good or ill. If the breaking of Laws enabled Joan to spawn caesures, it might also free Linden to accomplish her unspoken purpose.

She approached Andelain with yearning because she had learned to love the Hills-and because she hoped to gain something more precious than reassurance or counsel.

Around her, her companions also beheld what lay ahead of them. Excitement shone in Liand’s eyes, and he gazed past the Swordmainnir eagerly. Near him, Pahni glowed as if her weariness had become a form of enchantment. Even Stave appeared to lift more lightly from stride to stride, strengthened by the prospect of Andelain’s distilled beauty.

As one, the Giants slowed their steps. As if in reverence, they set aside their haste, assumed a more condign gravitas. When they left the last fringes of Salva Gildenbourne and crossed into Andelain, they did so as if they were entering a place of worship. Here was the Land’s untrammelled bounty, as essential as blood, and as profound as orogeny. And they were Giants: instinctively they revelled in largesse.

Together they ascended partway up the first slope and surcease of Andelain’s welcome. There Clyme awaited them calmly, certain that they had passed beyond peril. And there the Giants set down Linden and her friends so that they could walk at last, and feel the air freely, and be eased.

— Loric’s krill was roused from its slumber. Its might wards the Hills. The skurj cannot enter-Kastenessen himself cannot.

Joyfully Bhapa and Pahni threw themselves prostrate on the lush grass, doing homage to Andelain and escape. Mahrtiir knelt with his head bowed to the earth as if he were praying. Liand flung his arms wide and spun in circles, crowing with delight. “Andelain?” he cried. “Oh, Linden! This is Andelain? I could not have believed-!”

Linden wanted to share their joy. She felt as they did, and would have celebrated. But her first concern was for Anele.

Amid the long verdure of the Verge of Wandering, the old man had spoken to her in Covenant’s voice. Among the rich grasses of Revelstone’s upland plateau, he had offered her friends rue and advice. And here every aspect of the tangible world was more-

The hillside glistened with grace, green and lavish. The air was a cleansing ache in her lungs, and the springtime daisies, forsythia, and columbine were as bright as laughter. Every tree spread its leaves in wealth and majesty. The late sunlight offered warmth to soothe the chill of Linden’s damp clothes.

She did not know how Anele would respond. The tonic atmosphere might comfort him. Or he might feel threatened by the inherent health on every side. Or he might be possessed

Galesend had already lowered him to the ground. Now, however, the company had no blankets to protect him.

Suppressing her own reaction to escape and glory, Linden approached the old man. Softly she murmured his name.

For a moment, he seemed unaware of her. His moonstone gaze wandered the southward expanse of the Hills, and he stood stiffly erect as if he were awaiting the acknowledgment of an august host. But then a subtle alteration came over him. As he turned toward Linden, his posture loosened. Studying her, he seemed to peer outward through veils of madness.

“Ah, Linden,” he sighed. His voice was his own; but it was also Hollian’s, light and loving, and as poignant as lamentation. “You should not have come. The hazard is too great. Darkness consumes you. The Despiser has planned long and cunningly for your presence, and his snares are many.”

Anele paused, swallowing grief. He blinked at tears which were not his. Then he continued to speak words bestowed by his long-dead mother.

“Yet the sight of you gladdens me. I pray that you will be able to bear the burden of so many needs. There is more in Andelain-and among the Dead-and in your heart-than Lord Foul can conceive.”

The old man started to withdraw. But before Linden could cry out to him-or to Hollian-he faced her again. “Be kind to my beloved son,” he said, quietly imploring. “His vision of his parents is too lofty. He torments himself for faults which are not his. When your deeds have come to doom, as they must, remember that he is the hope of the Land.

“This, also, the Despiser and all who serve him cannot imagine.”

Abruptly Anele turned to the south. While Linden floundered in silence, shaken and unsure, he strode away from her. After a moment, he began to run deeper into Andelain as if he could hear Hollian and Sunder calling for him.

“Linden?” Liand asked. Apparently Anele’s voice and her distress had pierced his jubilant astonishment. “Linden? Shall I follow after him? Will he be lost?”

Liand’s concern seemed to rouse the Ramen. Mahrtiir rose to his feet: his wrapped head moved like a hawk’s as he scrutinised his companions. At once, Bhapa and Pahni stood. The young Cord’s mien promised that she would accompany Liand if he pursued Anele.

Linden’s eyes burned, but they were dry. “No.” The stone of her purpose was too hard for weeping. “Let him go. He’s safe here.” When your deeds have come to doom- “If we don’t catch up with him, he’ll wander back to us eventually.”- as they must- “In the meantime, maybe he’ll find a little peace.”

— remember that he is the hope of the Land.

After an instant of hesitation, Liand nodded. The angle of his raven eyebrows showed that he was more troubled on Linden’s behalf than

Anele’s. But she had nothing more to say to him. She was not prepared to explain why she intended to ignore Hollian’s warning.

While Anele ran, Branl and Galt emerged from the trees near the boundary of Andelain. Like Clyme, they seemed confident that they had passed beyond danger. Without obvious hurry, they trotted lightly into crystalline cleanliness. Soon they joined Clyme amid the wildflowers and the casual hum of feeding bees.

Rime Coldspray had gathered her Swordmainnir around her. For a few moments, they spoke together in low voices. Then the Ironhand turned to address the Humbled.

We are Giants,” she said formally. “and have not found pleasure in the unwelcome of the Masters. But the time has come to set aside such affronts. In the name of my comrades, I thank you for your many labours. You are the Humbled, Masters of the Land. But you are also Haruchai, and have done much to ensure our lives. I hope that you will honour us by accepting our gratitude.”

The Humbled faced her impassively. In a flat tone, Branl said. “There is no need for gratitude, Rime Coldspray, Ironhand of the Swordmainnir. The unwelcome of which you speak was not meant as unfriendship. We were concerned only that your open hearts and tales might undermine our service to the Land. Now you have accomplished that which we deemed impossible. With the aid of this unlikely Stonedownor-he indicated Liand- “you have wrested the lives of Linden Avery’s company from the jaws of the skurj. Together we acknowledge your deeds. When the time comes to speak of you before the Masters assembled in Revelstone, we will speak with one voice, and will be heeded.”

Sure, Linden thought dourly. Of course you will. The Humbled had as much authority among their people as Handir. But Branl had not revealed what he would say to the Masters.

She intended to pursue the question with Stave later, when she had a chance to talk to him alone.

Nonetheless Coldspray inclined her head as if Branl had satisfied her. Only her frown and an oblique timbre of anger in her voice suggested otherwise as she continued, “Yet our gratitude remains. Therefore we ask your counsel. We are Giants. We must grieve for those whom we have lost. For that reason, we require a caamora. We wish to gather wood from Salva Gildenbourne, that we may express our sorrow in fire. Will your Mastery gainsay us? Will our flames offend the spirit of Andelain?”

If the Humbled felt any reluctance, they did not reveal it. Instead Clyme replied, “Ironhand, we have no heart for sorrow. Yet here we would not oppose any need or desire of the Swordmainnir. And Andelain is the soul and essence of the Land. As the Land has known grief beyond description, so the Hills themselves are familiar with mourning and loss. Your flames cannot give offense where their meaning is shared and honoured.”

“That is well,” said Coldspray gruffly. “Accept our thanks.”

With a gesture, she sent Cabledarm and Latebirth back down the slope toward the darkening forest.

Linden still did not know the name of the Giant who had died on the tor.

Doubtless Cabledarm and Latebirth were safe enough. If they sensed the skurj, or any other foes, they could return to Andelain quickly. While Mahrtiir instructed Bhapa and Pahni to forage for treasure-berries, Linden drew Earthpower from her Staff again; but she did not do so to protect the Giants. Rather she turned her attention and the Staff’s flame, as yellow and lively as buttercups, to healing.

The Swordmainnir needed better care than she had given them earlier. Now she treated their many wounds with more diligence. Walking slowly among the women, she tended severed nerves and blood vessels, ripped flesh and muscles. Gently she cauterised bleeding, burned away sepsis, repaired bone. The Giants were hardy: their wellsprings of health ran deep. Nevertheless the virulence of the poisons left by the fangs and blood of the monsters shocked her. Already every wound oozed with infection. The most severe hurts required a delicate balance of power and precision.

Kindwind’s condition was the worst. Septicemia had polluted her bloodstream, and her long exertions had spread its taint throughout her body. Linden could not cleanse away the infection until she had searched the marrow of Kindwind’s bones with percipience and strict fire.

By comparison, repairing the structure of Bluntfist’s cheek was a simple task, easily completed. The burns suffered by Liand, the Ramen, and Stave responded well to their given healing.

Linden expected her own weariness to hamper her efforts, but it did not. Andelain’s air was a roborant, restoring her reserves. It dimmed the effects of Kevin’s Dirt. Every glance around the ineffable Hills strengthened her. And the grass under her boots sent a caress of warmth and generosity along her nerves. While she worked, she found that she was capable of more than she had imagined.

The krill was in Andelain. Esmer had said so. The Hills themselves might make her strong enough to fulfil her intentions.

As she tended the Swordmainnir, their wonder and thankfulness gathered palpably around her. The tales of their people had not prepared them for what could be accomplished with health-sense and Earthpower. Even the First and Pitchwife had never seen her wield the Staff as she used it here.

If these women ever found their way Home, they would tell long tales about Linden’s efforts. Like the other Giants whom she had known, they relished small miracles as much as grander achievements.

When Cabledarm and Latebirth returned, they bore huge stacks of deadwood. For a moment, Cabledarm bowed over the spot where she meant to build a fire as if she were asking the grass and ground to forgive her. Then she readied a small pile of twigs and kindling, took out her pouch of tinder and stones, and began to strike sparks.

As the wood began to burn, Linden cared for Cabledarm and Latebirth with the same attentiveness that she had expended on Coldspray and her other companions.

In the west, the sun was setting among the tallest trees. Long shadows blurred by distance streaked the hillside while darkness accumulated in the margins of Salva Gildenbourne. A soothing breeze wafted like beneficence among the Hills. Pahni and Bhapa brought back an abundance of aliantha to nourish the company. And water was plentiful nearby. The stream which had led the Giants here ran eastward along the foot of the slope until it found its own course into Andelain.

Within the borders of the Land’s essential health and bounty, Rime Coldspray and her comrades formed a circle around Cabledarm’s fire and began their ritual of grief.

They were Giants: they took their time. Dusk and then night covered the hillside. Slowly stars added their cold glitter to the subdued dance of the flames. In the numinous dark, the Swordmainnir raised their voices as if they addressed Andelain and the wide heavens as well as each other.

First the Ironhand spoke sternly of “fault.” The previous night, she had accepted some responsibility for Longwrath’s condition. Now she claimed a similar blame for Scend Wavegift’s death. Certainly Latebirth had erred. She was mortal: she could be taken by surprise, or suffer mishap, as easily as any being defined by birth and death. But she had not caused Longwrath’s plight-and the deed of Wavegift’s end was his, not Latebirth’s.

Then Coldspray assumed the fault-if fault there was-for Moire Squareset, who had been slain by the skurj. Responsibility belonged to the Ironhand, whose decisions led the Swordmainnir. Like Wavegift’s, Squareset’s blood was on Coldspray’s hands or no one’s, for even Longwrath could not be held accountable. While she lived, she would both accuse and forgive herself.

When she was done, she knelt beside the fire and reached into the heart of the flames with both hands as though she sought to burn them clean.

Her flesh refused the harm of fire, but it could not refuse the pain. Her act was a deliberate immolation: in flame and willing agony, she surrendered her bereavement and remorse. This was the Giantish caamora, the articulation of their grief. In some sense, Linden understood it, although it filled her with dismay. Coldspray kept her hands in the fire while Cabledarm stoked it with more and more wood. A scream stretched the lronhand’s mouth, but she did not permit herself to voice it. The flames spoke for her.

The Ramen watched with their fists clenched and a kind of ferocity in their eyes. Long ago, their ancestors had known the Unhomed. Ramen may have witnessed a caamora: they had certainly given the story to their descendants. But millennia had passed since any Ramen had seen what transpired here. Their legends could not have prepared them for the intensity of Coldspray’s chosen excruciation.

Liand stood near Pahni, but he did not touch her. He needed his arms; needed to clasp them across his chest with all of his strength in order to contain his horror and empathy, his protests. Unlike the Ramen and Linden-and the Haruchai- he had nothing except his health-sense to help him comprehend what he was seeing.

Finally Coldspray withdrew. As she regained her feet, her arms trembled, and tears spilled from her eyes. But her hands were whole.

Cirrus Kindwind was the next to speak. In careful detail, alternately grave and humorous, she described Moire Squareset’s training and initiation among the Swordmainnir. Kindwind herself, with Onyx Stonemage and two other Giants, had been charged with developing Squareset’s skills, and she remembered those years with loving vividness. She knew Squareset’s strengths and weaknesses intimately, and she gave them all to the night.

Then she took her turn in the flames. The harsh silence of her pain and rue was so loud that Linden did not know how to bear it.

When Kindwind was done, Stormpast Galesend told similar tales of Scend Wavegift. She, too, thrust her hands into the fire. Grueburn, Bluntfist, and the rest of the Giants related their experiences with Wavegift and Squareset, their shared love and laughter, their memories of blunders and triumphs and longing. Each in turn, they offered their grief to the flames, and endured agony, and were annealed. Separately as well as together, they gave the ambergris of their woe to the dead.

But Linden turned away long before the Giants were done. She could not release her own tears and fury: they had been fused, made adamantine, by Roger’s betrayal and Jeremiah’s immeasurable suffering. She, too, yearned for a caamora- but not like this. Her heart craved an altogether different fire.

When she had gained some distance from the firelight and the Giants, she spent a while studying the vast isolation of the stars. In the expanse of the heavens, only the faintest glimmer of their mourning reached her-or each other. Yet she heeded their infinite lament. They could not burn away their loneliness without extinguishing themselves.

In that aspect of their limitless sojourn, she understood them better than she did the Giants. They calmed her as if she were in the presence of kindred spirits.

Gradually she let her attention return to Andelain, to the gentle embrace of health-and to the reasons that had compelled her here. But she did not rejoin the Giants, or listen to their stories and pain. Instead, certain of Stave’s notice, she beckoned the former Master toward her.

He came to her softly, more silent than the drifting breeze. Under the stars, he asked in a low voice. “Linden?”

It was the second time that he had called her by her given name.

His friendship touched her-and she did not want to be touched. More brusquely than she intended, she asked. “What are the Humbled going to say when they get back to Revelstone?” We will speak with one voice-What will they tell the Masters?”

Stave made a small sound that may have been a snort. “They remain uncertain. The Giants threaten the defined service of the Masters. It is their nature to do so. With tales alone, they wield power to overthrow millennia of dedication and sacrifice. Yet in all ways they merit admiration. Therefore the Humbled withhold appraisal. They will adjudge the Giants according to your deeds rather than theirs.”

Oh, good, Linden thought mordantly. That’s perfect. It galled her to think that the attitude of the Masters toward the Giants depended on her. But then she swallowed her vexation. Whatever the Humbled decided was their problem, not hers. She could not make their choices for them. She would simply have to live with the consequences.

Sighing, she said, “This is Andelain, Stave. You might think that here, at least,” if nowhere else in the Land. “it would be acceptable for the Giants to be who they are.”

“Yet Andelain is not free of peril,” he returned stolidly. “It may be that Kastenessen and the skurj cannot enter. Nonetheless the fate of the Land is the fate of Andelain as well. I do not concur with the Humbled, but I comprehend their doubt. In some measure, I share it.”

You share-? He startled her. In dozens of ways, he had declared his loyalty.

“Chosen,” he explained. “you have not revealed your deeper purpose. You have not named your hopes for the unfathomable theurgies which the krill of Loric Vilesilencer will enable. By your own word, you desire those around you to know doubt.

“I do not seek to question you,” he stated before she could respond. “I am content in the knowledge that you are Linden Avery the Chosen, Sun-Sage and Ringthane, companion of Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever. To me, you are “acceptable” in all things.

“Yet I am constrained by doubt to inquire if you also are uncertain. Have you not found cause to reconsider your intent?”

Linden stared at him in darkness. The stars shed too little light to unmask his features, and her health-sense could not reach into the mind or emotions of any Haruchai. She was barely able to discern the new skin where she had healed Stave’s burns.

Without inflection, he continued, “We stand now within the safety of Andelain. Here choices may diverge. Other paths lie before you. If you must confront your Dead, you do not require Loric’s krill to do so. And Gravin Threndor may be approached without risk, though hazards wait within the Wightwarrens. It is there-is it not? — that Kevin’s Dirt has its source. Are not Gravin Threndor’s depths conceivable as a hiding place for the Unbeliever’s son, and for your own?”

Linden wanted to cover her face. Jeremiah had built an image of Mount Thunder in her living room, as he had of Revelstone. Eventually she would have to go into the catacombs under the mountain: she knew that. But not yet-

Not while she was still so weak.

“I’m not Covenant,” she answered softly. “I’m not Berek, or some other hero. I’m just me. And I could be wrong. Of course I could be wrong. This whole thing might turn out to be a monumental exercise in futility.” Or something worse- “That’s possible. It’s absolutely possible.”

The breeze seemed to pause as if it wanted to hear her. Andelain itself appeared to hold its breath. In the distance, the voices of the Giants withdrew to a nearly inaudible murmur.

She needed to be doubted because she could not afford to doubt herself.

But I have to have more power. Covenant’s ring is useless whenever Esmer decides to interfere. Kevin’s Dirt hampers Earthpower. If Jeremiah”- oh, my son! — “stood right in front of me, I might not be able to save him. I don’t know how to kill the croyel without killing him. I’m just not that strong.

“And look at who wants to stop me.” She gathered force as she spoke. “Look at who wants to help. Kastenessen and Roger and the Ravers have tried hard to kill us. The ur-viles and Waynhim are united, for God’s sake, even though they’re the last, and too many of them are dead. The Mahdoubt gave up everything to protect me. I must be doing something right.”

“Chosen-” Stave tried to interrupt her, but she was not finished.

“Lord Foul has my son. I’m going to get him back. But first I need more power.”

“Chosen,” Stave said again more firmly. “Longwrath approaches Andelain.”

Oh, shit. Wheeling, Linden projected her senses toward Salva Gildenbourne.

Almost immediately, she felt Longwrath’s unbridled rage. It was lurid in the darkness, a cynosure of hunger and desperation. The last trees still shrouded him, but he was heading straight toward her with his flamberge in his fists. Evanescent glints like phosphorescence wavered along the edges of his blade as though the iron had been forged to catch and hold starshine.

For the first time, Linden wondered whether his sword might be an instrument of magic. If his weapon had been formed with theurgy as well as fire, however, the effects were no longer perceptible. They had been attenuated by too much time-or they had been designed for circumstances which no longer existed.

The Swordmainnir seemed unaware of Longwrath. They were not done with their caamora: it held them like a geas. The Ramen and Liand remained transfixed by what they witnessed. But the Humbled were already moving, silent as thought.

Surely three Haruchai would suffice to restrain Longwrath until the caamora ended?

Nonetheless Linden tightened her grip on the Staff. Stave walked a little way down the slope to place himself between her and Longwrath.

But Esmer had told her the truth. Andelain is preserved. Suddenly a small piece of night appeared to condense as if something blurred or invisible had come into focus; made itself real. Without transition, a yellow light like the delicate flame of a candle began to dance along the grass. As precise and self-contained as a single note of song, it bobbed some distance beyond the Giants. Yet it conveyed the impression that the distance was irrelevant. If the flame had shone directly in front of Linden, it would have been no larger-and no less vivid.

She recognised it instantly. It was a Wraith: one of the Wraiths of Andelain. She had seen its like before, during that cruel and necessary night when Sunder had slain Caer-Caveral with Loric’s krill so that Hollian could live again. Wraiths had appeared then, dozens of them, hundreds, to mourn the passing of the last Forestal’s music, and to celebrate what Sunder and Hollian had become.

The sight compelled an involuntary gasp from Linden. For a moment, she forgot Longwrath and every peril. The Wraith incarnated Andelain’s eldritch beauty: it entranced her. Its beauty reminded her of loss and resurrection; of broken Law and death that enabled life and victory. And it made Thomas Covenant live again in her mind, her saviour and lover, whose consternation and courage had ruled him as severely as commandments.

I can’t help you unless you find me.

Everything for which she had struggled since her escape from Melenkurion Skyweir was contingent upon him.

Then the moment passed-and the Wraith was not alone. Another appeared near Linden, and another among the Ramen. Exquisite candle flames pranced over the hillside, more and more of them, until at least a score had become manifest.

They seemed to cast a spell over the caamora as they swept down the slope toward Longwrath. Even the Humbled paused as if they were amazed.

As soon as Longwrath’s foot touched the palpable demarcation between Salva Gildenbourne and Andelain, the Wraiths arrayed themselves in front of him. Together they gyred and flared as though they meant to ensorcel his madness.

Linden held her breath. At the edge of the stream, Longwrath hesitated. Yellow warmth illuminated his confusion. Other beings also act in Andelain’s defence. Although they exerted no magic that Linden could detect, the Wraiths formed a barrier against Longwrath’s craving for death.

Then he roared in defiance and charged at the lucent denial of the flames-

— and staggered as if he had collided with a wall. In some fashion that baffled Linden, he was shoved back. Each Wraith was a note, and together they formed a lush chord of rejection. As they danced, they looked small and frail; easily plucked from the air. Yet they refused Longwrath despite his size and strength.

His rage scaled higher as he charged again. The Wraiths took no visible notice of him. They merely swirled, bright and lovely, and self-absorbed as stars, as though they had no purpose except to be themselves: the simple fact of their existence summed up their significance. Nonetheless they repulsed Longwrath so firmly that he nearly fell.

Now he cut at them with his sword. His flamberge wove and slashed among the flames as if its dance might equal theirs. But his vehemence could not touch the Wraiths. They only flickered and burned, and were unharmed.

His fury became a scream that threatened to tear his throat; his lungs. Still the Wraiths did not permit him to advance. They made no discernible effort to elude his blade, yet their chord remained inviolate.

Then one of them swooped closer to alight delicately on the scar that disfigured his visage.

At once, his scream rose into a shriek. He plunged backward, pounding at his face with fists that still clutched his sword. An instant later, the Wraith danced away; but he continued to strike and flounder after the flame was gone.

Finally he appeared to realise that he was no longer threatened; and his cry turned to rent sobs. Stumbling to his feet, he fled back into the forest. Behind him, dismay and horror seemed to linger in the air. When they faded at last, he had passed beyond the reach of Linden’s percipience.

Shuddering, she began to breathe again.

After a moment, Stave observed quietly. “Andelain is indeed warded. Yet the Wraiths refuse none but Longwrath. Perhaps the shades of Sunder Graveler and Hollian eh-Brand are mistaken.” Darkness consumes you. Doom awaits you in the company of the Dead. “Perhaps there is no peril in your craving for Loric’s krill- or in your chosen ire.”

The Wraiths had permitted Anele. They had permitted Linden herself. By forbidding Longwrath, they had countered Stave’s doubt.

Until she concentrated on Stave’s voice and understood what he was saying, she did not realise that the flames had scattered. Somehow they had wandered away without calling attention to their departure.

The Despiser has planned long and cunningly for your presence, and his snares are many.

Simultaneously bemused and troubled, Linden began to take notice of her companions once more. Around the fire, the caamora of the Giants had ended. At first, she did not know whether they had finished grieving. But the mood of their ritual had been broken-or the time for it had passed. They moved slowly, glancing around with a dazed air as if they had been dazzled by the Wraiths. Liand and the Ramen seemed to rouse themselves from reveries or dreams.

Then Linden looked at the Swordmainnir more closely and saw that they had relieved their sorrow. Although some sadness remained, they were ready now to bear Moire Squareset’s death, and Scend Wavegift’s.

They had assuaged their bereavement with fire. Long ago, Covenant had done the same for the Dead of The Grieve.

In her own way, Linden intended to follow their example.

The company talked for a while, eating treasure-berries and considering what lay ahead of them. The Humbled said nothing; but Stave offered the unsurprising information that the Masters knew the location of Loric’s krill. The eldritch blade remained where Linden had last seen it after Caer-Caveral’s passing and Hollian’s resurrection. Doubtless the Masters had taken pains to ensure that the krill was forgotten; that Andelain itself was forgotten. And the Earthpower of the Hills had prevented the Land’s enemies from removing or using High Lord Loric’s weapon.

However, the desultory conversations did not last long. All of Linden’s companions were profoundly weary. And in every respect, Andelain comforted their strained nerves, their burdened hearts. The air filled their lungs with relaxation: their bodies absorbed reassurance from the grass: the scents of flowers and fruit trees and aliantha promised sanctuary. Even the darkness had a hushed and reverent timbre, a tone of reified consolation.

Soon Pahni and then Bhapa drifted into slumber. When Liand stretched out beside Pahni on the soft hillside, he fell asleep almost immediately. One by one, the Giants did the same until only Coldspray, Mahrtiir, the Haruchai, and Linden remained awake.

Confident that the Humbled, Stave, and perhaps Mahrtiir would keep watch when the Ironhand finally slept, Linden let herself lie down on the long balm of the grass. Reflexively she confirmed the presence of Jeremiah’s racecar in her pocket and Covenant’s ring under her shirt. Because her clothes were still damp, she wondered idly whether the spring night would grow cold enough to trouble her rest. Yet mere moments seemed to pass before she was awakened by sunlight rising beyond the tall monarchs of Andelain and Salva Gildenbourne.

Now she wondered if she had ever slept so deeply here, or felt so refreshed. Her previous nights among the Hills had been troubled ones. Involuntarily she remembered the spectre of Kevin Landwaster. Tormented by despair, the former High Lord had implored her to halt the Unbeliever’s mad intent. Kevin had believed that the Despiser’s cruelty had broken Covenant.

His purpose is the work of Despite. He must not be permitted.

Similar things had been said about Linden.

Yet Kevin had been wrong. Covenant’s surrender had secured the Arch of Time. With sunshine on her face and Andelain’s beneficence like chrism in her veins, Linden could believe that those who feared her capacity for darkness were also wrong.

She can do this. And there’s no one else who can even make the attempt.

The Hills were safe. She and her friends had survived to reach this place of luxuriance and health. Now she was ready for the outcome of her choices. When she reached the krill-

Around the ashes of the caamora, some of the Giants were awake. The others stirred, roused by the quiet murmurs of their comrades. Liand still slept; but Pahni and Bhapa had risen to walk the greensward with their Manethrall, gathering treasure-berries. Stave and the Humbled guarded the rest of the company from perils which no longer threatened them. They looked as poised and vigilant as ever, like men who did not need rest and had never experienced fatigue. One night in Andelain had healed their lingering hurts.

There was no sign of Longwrath. If he remained hidden near the border of Salva Gildenbourne, Linden could not detect him. Like Anele, apparently, he was terrified by anything which endangered the hermetic logic of his madness. Therefore he feared the Wraiths. If their touch amended his insanity, he would remember the consequences of his deeds.

Sighing, Linden set the ramifications of Longwrath’s dilemma aside. Anele had not been refused by the Wraiths. That meant more to her than Longwrath’s desire for her death. She could hope that Anele might find a measure of solace among his Dead.

When Stonemage saw that Linden was awake, the woman nudged Liand. His eyes sparkled with anticipation as he sat up.

Escorted unnecessarily by Stave, Linden walked down the slope to drink from the stream. Then she washed her face and hands and arms. The water ran cleanly now, free of the tumbling detritus of the previous day’s storm; and its chill tang sharpened her senses.

A handful of aliantha completed her preparations. While her companions ate enough to sustain them, she asked Stave how long it would take to reach the krill.

“In two days, we will gain the Soulsease,” he replied. if you are borne by the Giants, and they do not weary themselves running. Loric’s krill stands little more than half a league to the south of the river.”

Linden frowned. She was more than ready: she was eager. And Jeremiah had already spent far too much time in torment. “Damn it,” she muttered. “Isn’t there some way that we can go faster?

“Don’t misunderstand me.” She included Coldspray in her appeal. “I’m grateful to be here. I’m grateful for everything that you’ve done. I can’t remember the last time that we weren’t in danger. This is Andelain. We ought to relax and enjoy it.

“But I need my son.” She needed Thomas Covenant. “I have to be able to save him. And for that, I need power,” a weapon which would transcend her inadequacy. “I don’t know how I can stand waiting for two more days.”

Coldspray’s chagrin was plain as she contemplated more haste. The Swordmainnir had already run most of the way from The Grieve. And they had lost two of their comrades: they had lost Longwrath. Protests clouded her gaze as she searched for a reply.

But Stave held up a hand to forestall the Giant. Instead of answering Linden, he turned to Mahrtiir.

For a long moment, he and the Manethrall appeared to study each other, although Mahrtiir had no eyes and one of Stave’s was gone. Then Mahrtiir cleared his throat.

“Ringthane-” he began carefully. “We parted from the Ranyhyn in order that they might be spared from the skurj. It is well that we did so. But now that danger has passed. And they are Ranyhyn, capable of much which defies comprehension. They could not have borne us safely in Salva Gildenbourne. Yet you cannot question that they are able to rejoin us in Andelain.

“Then it will not be we who slow the long strides of the Giants. Rather it will be they who limit our pace.”

The Ranyhyn-Caught by astonishment, Linden stared at him. Hyn! God, yes.

She yearned to arrive by nightfall, when the Dead might walk among the trees and copses and lucent rivulets of Andelain.

“Linden,” Liand put in. “is this wise? We did not quit the Ranyhyn solely to preserve them from the skurj. We sought also to spare them an arduous passage through Salva Gildenbourne. And we have been less than two days separated from them. Surely they-” He faltered, then finished more strongly. They are Ranyhyn, but they are also flesh and bone. If you summon them, will they not suffer in the attempt to answer?”

While Linden hesitated, Mahrtiir said gruffly, “Do not speak when you are ignorant, Stonedownor. The Ranyhyn are beasts of Earthpower, as precious to the Land as Andelain.” Beneath the surface, he appeared to wrestle with the pain of knowing that he would never again gaze upon the great horses. “If they are summoned, they will find a path and come, ready to bear those riders whom they have chosen.

“Also,” he added. “the Ringthane has good cause to seek swiftness. Her own need is exceeded only by the plight of her son, and by the Land’s doom.”

For a moment, Liand seemed unconvinced. But then Pahni tucked her arm through his, held him tightly. When he saw her reassuring smile, his apprehension eased.

Rime Coldspray peered down at Mahrtiir and Stave; at Linden; at Liand. “Limit your pace?” she growled. “That I will not credit until I have witnessed it-and even then I will require corroboration.”

Two or three of her Swordmainnir chuckled.

Slowly a combative grin bared the lronhand’s teeth. Are we not Giants? And do we not welcome wonders? The Manethrall of the Ramen has inspired in me a wish to behold these Ranyhyn. If they merit the service of the Ramen, they are worthy indeed.” She glanced around at her comrades. When they nodded, she said, “We are loath to hasten in Andelain, where every view is balm to the worn of heart. But we have endured much to come so far. One day more will not daunt us.”

Linden’s heart lifted. Quickly she urged. “Stave? I can’t whistle the way you do.”

He complied with a bow. Facing Andelain and the west as if he had turned his back on a silent debate among the Humbled, he put his fingers to his mouth and let out a piercing call.

Three times he whistled. Then he fell silent.

For moments that seemed long to Linden, she heard no reply. She had time to doubt herself and feel the first pricklings of alarm. Soon, however, a distant whinny carried through the crystal air, followed by the muted rumble of hooves on deep grass.

When the horses appeared, they seemed to gallop straight into the glory of the sun. Its light blazed like heraldry in the stars on their foreheads. They were ten, and they ran as though they were the rich heart of the Hills made flesh.

Linden recognised them all: Hyn and Hynyn and Rhohm; Narunal, Naybahn, and the others. Even Hrama had answered.

Nevertheless her immediate joy faltered as she realised that all of them were hurt; desperately tired; nearly undone.

Their injuries were superficial: scratches, jabs, and bruises caused by a hurried passage through the jungle. They showed no sign that they had encountered the skurj. But their weariness was altogether more serious. Sweat stained their coats like blood: froth splashed from their muzzles. Two or three of them stumbled at intervals, and their long muscles shuddered.

God, Linden thought. Oh, Christ. What have I done?

She could not even begin to guess how many leagues they had crossed, or how many obstacles they had overcome.

Yet they grew stronger as they approached. The change was slight but unmistakable. Andelain’s vitality buoyed them along. With every stride, they absorbed energy from the ground, sucked renewal into their heaving chests. They remained near the edge of their endurance. But with a few hours of rest-with water and abundant nourishment-their exhaustion would fade. They would be ready to bear their riders.

Still Linden blamed herself for their condition. Every living thing that supported her paid too high a price for doing so. She ached to protect them all. As the Ranyhyn lurched to a halt before the glad appreciation of the Giants and the sharp empathy of the Ramen, she unfurled healing from the Staff of Law and threw it like a blanket over the great horses.

There was no danger. In this place, any exertion of Law was condign. And the Hills’ benison diminished Kevin’s Dirt. Nothing hindered her as she poured strength into the depleted stamina of the Ranyhyn.

By their very nature, they participated in Earthpower: they were apt vessels for her magic. They drank in flame as if it were the potent waters of Glimmermere; inhaled fire as if it combined the benefits of amanibhavam and aliantha. And as they did so, their fatigue fell away. When she was done-when she had banished their hurts and dried their coats and offered them her deepest gratitude-they gleamed with life.

Some of them nickered in delight and relief. Others tossed their manes, whisked their tails, stamped their hooves. Sunshine gleamed on their coats. While the Haruchai spoke their ancient ceremonial greeting, and the Ramen bowed their heads to the earth in homage, Hyn came prancing toward Linden.

First the mare bent her forelegs and bowed her head as if in obeisance or thanks. Then she nuzzled Linden’s shoulder, urging Linden to mount. Her eyes were full of laughter.

In the horserite, Hyn and Hynyn had laughed at Stave with the same affectionate kindness that Linden saw in Hyn’s soft gaze. To him, they had revealed their amusement at the presumption of the Masters-and their willingness to serve her utterly.

But her own experience when she had shared the mind-blending waters of the tarn had been entirely different. Hyn and Hynyn had offered her neither laughter nor affection. Instead they had shown her visions of such horror-

They had portrayed her to herself as if she were High Lord Elena, misguided and doomed. And they had superimposed images of both Linden and Covenant on Jeremiah. In the nightmare of the horserite, her efforts to redeem Covenant and her son had brought forth the Worm of the World’s End.

Linden might have quailed at the memory; but she was spared by the fond mirth of Hyn’s gaze. See? the mare’s eyes seemed to say. I am here. We are here. And we stand with you. We have only given warning. We have not prophesied that you will fail.

“All right,” she replied like a promise. In her own way, she strove to emulate the Wraiths; to repel horror and doubt as they had refused Longwrath. She had come too far to falter, and the stakes were too high. She required a conflagration so mighty that it would shake the foundations of Lord Foul’s evil. You’re the only one who can do this. “All right.”

While the Giants voiced their approval, Linden vaulted onto Hyn’s back. And when she had settled herself on the mare’s immaculate acceptance, she raised high the Staff.

“It’s time!” she called to her companions. Andelain and the Land’s future lay open before her. “I’m done waiting. Let’s do this!”

In response, the Ramen surged up from the grass. Nickering like horses, they seemed to flow onto the backs of their Ranyhyn. Even Mahrtiir mounted Narunal without uncertainty or fumbling. Stave and Liand followed their example. While the Ironhand gathered her comrades, the Humbled surged to sit astride their Ranyhyn. In moments, only Hrama lacked a rider; and he reared as if he were eager to find Anele.

“Coldspray!” Linden urged. “Set a pace that you can keep. Stop when you need rest. We’ll stay with you.” Somehow she would restrain her impatience. “All I want is to reach the Soulsease by sunset.”

“All”? Coldspray responded, chuckling. “That is “all”? Then we must give thanks that it is not more. Already we have run for days without number, until we feared that our souls would break, Giants though we are.” After a moment, she added, “I have a better thought. When we crave rest, lave us in fire as you have bathed these Ranyhyn. With such sustenance, we will surely accomplish your desire.”

“I’ll do that.” Leaning forward, Linden nudged Hyn into motion. “Remind me later to tell you how glad I am that you’re here. I’ll make a speech.”

Then she whirled the Staff around her head; and the Swordmainnir began to move, chortling as they spread out behind the Ranyhyn and stretched their strides to a brisk trot. At a canter, the horses bore Linden’s company up the hillside into the burgeoning splendour of spring in Andelain.

Throughout the day, Linden revelled in swiftness, and in the munificent landscape, and in the prospect of culmination. The Ranyhyn could have travelled faster; much faster. Galloping, they could have outdistanced the best speed of the Giants. But she did not wish for that. She was already fond of Coldspray, Grueburn, and their comrades. Their readiness to laugh with delight or appreciation in spite of their exertions nourished her spirit.

And the Hills nourished her as well. Although she remembered them vividly, her mind was too human to retain the full health and majesty of the woodlands, the shining of Gilden anademed in sunlight, the comfortable spread of sycamores and elms and oaks, the almost lambent sumptuousness of the greenswards. Or perhaps during her previous time in Andelain her senses had been tainted by the Sunbane, too troubled by wrongness to absorb so much beauty. As if for the first time, she saw hillsides and vales encircled by torcs or chaplets of wildflowers, aliantha, profuse primrose and daisies. When she swept past proud stands of spruce and cedar, or copses of wattle, she immersed herself in their tang and redolence as though she had never known such scents before. The friendly chatter of brooks and streams bedizened with reflections greeted her like loved ones long lost.

As she rode, Linden felt that she was absorbing and storing the essence of the Land; the ultimate reason for everything that she endured or craved. If she had not seen the Hills corrupted by the Sunbane after the passing of the last Forestal, she might not have found the strength, the sheer passion, to form and wield a new Staff of Law. And without Thomas Covenant and Giants, without Sunder and Hollian-without Andelain itself, treasured and vulnerable-she would not have become the woman who had given so much of herself to her chosen son.

Beyond question, she would not have loved Jeremiah if Covenant had not first loved her-and if her soul’s response to Andelain had not taught her to love the Land.

On Hyn’s strong back, Linden rode among the Hills as if they answered every objection to her purpose. In the life that she had lost, Jeremiah had been her Andelain. His fey creative constructs and helplessness echoed Andelain’s frangible loveliness. And the use that Lord Foul now made of her son was as bitter and unforgivable as the Sunbane.

If Good cannot be accomplished by evil means, then she would believe that her means were not evil.

Three times, the company paused. The first was for Anele. Apparently his blind destination was the same as Linden’s. She had scarcely begun to worry about him when she found him directly in her path. He was talking to himself in a variety of voices-too many for her to distinguish-and walking at an erratic rate, alternately slowed and spurred by a chaos of fractured communication. But he noticed the riders as soon as they drew near. At once, he scrambled at Hrama’s sides as if he knew that his mount would protect him. When Galesend lifted him onto Hrama’s back, he fell silent at once. Moments later, worn out by indecipherable utterances, he fell asleep with his arms dangling on either side of Hrama’s neck.

Andelain had healed the burns inflicted by the blood of the skurj.

Later, as the sun reached noon, the company halted beside a lazy rill to water the Ranyhyn and let them crop the grass. The Ramen and Liand gathered treasure-berries while Linden restored the flagging stamina of the Giants. And later still, in the middle of the afternoon, they stopped again for the same reasons.

In spite of the pressure driving her, Linden felt calm and sure; content with the company’s progress. Andelain nurtured a tranquillity as pervasive as mansuetude. She would reach the Soulsease when she reached it. If night fell, darkness would not prevent her from locating the krill.

The Wraiths had allowed her to enter among the Hills.

Bemused by thoughts of acceptance and vindication, Linden mounted Hyn once more. When the Giants were ready, she rode on as if Andelain had healed all of her fears.

And as the sun neared the treetops in the west, casting long shadows like striations of augury across her path, she caught her first glimpse of the river through the gold leaves of Gilden and the warm flowers of fruit trees.

Tossing his head with an air of hauteur, Hynyn greeted the sight with a clarion whinny; and Hyn took a few dancing steps in a horse’s gavotte. “Stone and Sea!” panted Coldspray. “When you tell the tale of your journeys, Linden Giantfriend, you must credit what we have accomplished in your name. Weary as we were, and are, I would not have believed-” She cut short her wonder and pride to catch her breath. Then she said, “You voiced a desire to gain the Soulsease River ere nightfall. We have done so. The achievement of your purpose is at hand. We will pray for the Land’s healing. Thereafter we will expend entire seasons in celebration.”

In a rush of excitement, Linden urged Hyn to quicken her strides. The Soulsease-! Conflicted by confluences in the west, and polluted in the east by its turmoil within the belly of Mount Thunder, the river was untrammelled and placid while it ran through Andelain: gentle as a caress, and warm as a vein of life. Millennia ago, she and Covenant had followed the course of the Soulsease toward their confrontation with the Despiser. Now she was less than a league from the place where they had left Loric’s krill after Hollian’s resurrection.

The sun had only begun to set, and already she was within a Giant’s shout of her goal: the justification for everything that she had suffered and done since she had learned the truth about Roger Covenant and the croyel.

The other Ranyhyn kept pace with Hyn. Behind them, the Giants ran in spite of their protracted weariness. Swift with anticipation, the company rounded a last hillock, passed through a grove of stately Gilden, and reached the river.

Here the Soulsease tended quietly northeastward. Between its broad banks, however, it opened a gap among the trees. Although the sun was sinking, its light still lay along the water; and its farewell fire burnished the river, transforming the current to ruddy bronze like a carpet unrolled to welcome the advent of night.

As the company halted, Linden recognised the satisfied pride of the Giants, the calm confidence of the Ranyhyn. She tasted Liand’s pleasure and that of the Cords. Indeed, Pahni’s and Bhapa’s gladness was dimmed only by their Manethrall’s clenched, contained sorrow. Linden sensed the depth of Anele’s dreamless slumber, the solidity of Stave’s presence, the ungiving impassivity of the Humbled. But now she shared none of their reactions. Her attention had already gone past the Soulsease.

On the far side of the river, she saw the Harrow.

His relaxed poise as he sat his destrier made it obvious that he was waiting for her.

Chapter Twelve: Trust Yourself

Linden’s heart thudded as Stave said quietly. “Chosen,” warning her.

What I seek, lady, is to possess your instruments of power.

A moment later, she felt a surge of alarm from Liand. “Heaven and Earth,” he breathed. “He is here? Does he dare to meditate harm in Andelain?”

What I will have, however, is your companionship.

Under his breath, Mahrtiir muttered Ramen curses.

“Mayhap he does not,” suggested Stave. “The Wraiths have permitted him.”

The Harrow could unmake Demondim-spawn with a gesture; an incantation. Did he have the same kind of power over the Wraiths?

Linden shook her head. No. The ur-viles and Waynhim were unnatural creatures. I have made a considerable study of such beings. But the Wraiths were avatars of Earthpower: they flourished among Andelain’s organic largesse. The Harrow’s ability to destroy artificial life did not imply a comparable threat to the Wraiths.

They had accepted his presence as they had accepted Linden’s.

I am able to convey you to your son.

The sight of him transformed her certainty to confusion.

Gritting his teeth, Mahrtiir answered the surprise of the Swordmainnir. Two nights ago, Linden had told them about the Harrow. Now Mahrtiir identified the figure, dun with dusk, on the south bank of the Soulsease. Grimly he repeated what he knew of the ornately caped and clad Insequent.

While the Manethrall spoke, Liand nudged Rhohm to Hyn’s side. “Linden,” he whispered urgently, “what will you do? He covets both your Staff and the white gold ring. Yet he has forsworn coercion.” The Mahdoubt had given up her life to wrest that oath from the Harrow. “And he claims that he can bear you to your son.

“If his word holds, how will he gain his desires? Will you bargain with him to gain passage to your son?”

Esmer and Roger had fought to stop the Harrow; to kill him if they could not remove him from this time. Linden assumed that moksha Raver’s kresh had attacked for the same reason. They wanted to prevent her from reaching Jeremiah.

But Kastenessen could not enter Andelain. The Despiser would not. Perhaps Esmer himself had no power here. Presumably even Roger did not pose a threat. The awakened krill and the Wraiths warded the Hills.

The Harrow was safe. As safe as Linden.

She had nothing to bargain with except her Staff and Covenant’s ring. Could she trade them away now? Abandon her purpose? For Jeremiah’s sake?

What would that accomplish? Without Earthpower and wild magic, she would have nothing to free him from the croyel-

The prospect scattered her thoughts like a gust of wind in dried leaves. She had experienced imponderable rescues, miracles of hope. Caerroil Wildwood had completed her Staff. The Mahdoubt had retrieved her from the Land’s past. And Anele had named other mysteries. Two days ago, he had told her that Morinmoss redeemed the covenant, the white gold wielder. The Forestal sang, and Morinmoss answered.

She needed to believe that she was not done with wonders; that she could accomplish what she had come here to do. That she might find Jeremiah without surrendering any of her strengths. Otherwise she would be helpless to refuse the Insequent.

Now those days are lost.

Instead of answering Liand, Linden turned to Stave.

“Do you know what Anele was talking about?” she asked. “In Salva Gildenbourne, before the Giants found us, he said that Morinmoss “redeemed” Covenant. It was a long time ago. Do you remember? Can you tell me what he meant?”

All vastness is forgotten.

If her query surprised Stave, he did not show it. “There is a tale,” he said carefully. “Some of its aspects are not known. The ur-Lord himself could not recall them clearly. Having eaten amanibhavam, he was held by delirancy for a time, and retained only fragments of what transpired.”

Beyond the trees, the sun sank lower. Its light left the Soulsease, shrouding the Harrow in gloom.

“In the unnatural winter which High Lord Elena had imposed upon the Land,” Stave continued, “wielding the Staff of Law in Corruption’s service, the Unbeliever sought sanctuary in a Ramen covert. But the covert was beset, and he fled. Freezing and alone, he confronted another servant of Corruption. Aided by a Ranyhyn, Lena mother of Elena saved his life. In the attempt, however, Lena perished, and the ur-Lord’s ankle was broken.

“He would not consent to ride the Ranyhyn. Rather he freed them to escape that dire winter.”

“Aye,” Mahrtiir assented. He and the whole company listened to Stave. “So the tale is told among the Ramen.”

“At first,” Stave explained. “he wandered, lost. Yet in some fashion he was guided beyond the Roamsedge into Morinmoss. It appeared to him that he was called by the song of a Forestal-a song which summoned him to the care of an unknown woman.

“There memory failed him. He did not return to himself until his hurts had been healed, both his ankle and his amanibhavam-stricken mind, and the woman lay dead.

“If it is sooth that he was drawn into Morinmoss by a Forestal, and that he was restored at a Forestal’s urging, then it may truly be said that he was ‘redeemed’ by the power of wood and sap and song. Also he was later aided by the brief awakening of the Colossus when he confronted High Lord Elena and was powerless.”

The Giants harkened to Stave with fascination, the Ramen with acknowledgment and approval. The Humbled paid no apparent heed to anything except the crepuscular loom of the Harrow. But Liand chafed at Stave’s explanation. As soon as the former Master was done, he protested. “Linden, I do not comprehend. Often Anele has revealed much which others can not or do not discern. Yet how does this tale pertain to the Harrow?”

Linden felt an obscure relief. Her confusion was fading; dripping away like wave-tossed water from a boulder. There is more in Andelain-and among the Dead-and in your heart-than Lord Foul can conceive. Once again, she discovered that Anele’s eerie utterances had substance. Remember that he is the hope of the Land.

“It doesn’t,” she told Liand. “Not directly.” Everything pertained, the doom of the One Forest and the passing of the Forestals as much as the Mahdoubt’s ruin and Esmer’s conflicted betrayals. “I’m just trying to imagine what a bargain with the Harrow might cost.” She intended to redeem her son at any price-but she also intended to choose that price. “The Wraiths refused Longwrath. But they’re ignoring him. That must mean something.”

There is hope in contradiction.

The Law of Life had been broken in Andelain. Elena had broken the Law of Death among the roots of Melenkurion Skyweir. On both occasions, Covenant had found a way to save the Land.

Rime Coldspray’s voice was a low rumble. “In this, we cannot counsel you. Among us, children are precious beyond description. Both the Swordmainnir and the Giants of Dire’s Vessel have hazarded their lives for Longwrath’s unattained redemption. But you have not named your purpose. Ignorant of what you will attempt, we cannot gauge the import of the Harrow’s presence.”

A moment passed before Linden realised that all of her companions were waiting for her decision.

“All right.” She had already made up her mind. “I want to hear what he has to say. But I’m not going to agree to anything until we reach the krill. I don’t trust him. I won’t take any chances until I know more.”

The krill responded to wild magic. She had the Staff of Law. And if she found Thomas Covenant among the Dead-

One way or another, she meant to end Jeremiah’s suffering.

Her answer appeared to satisfy Liand, although he did not relax his distrust of the Harrow.

“So how do we get across?” she asked Stave and Mahrtiir. “Can the Ranyhyn carry us? Is there a ford?”

She was already familiar with the prowess of the Giants. The weight of their armour and swords would not hinder them.

The Manethrall snorted at the mere suggestion that the horses might not be able to bear their riders through the river; and Stave said, “In Andelain, the current of the Soulsease is gentle. There will be no difficulty.”

As if to demonstrate his assertion, he sent Hynyn down the riverbank and into the water. For a few strides, Hynyn kept his footing. Then the stallion began to swim strongly.

Galt followed at once. Crossing the river, the company would be vulnerable. Clearly he and Stave meant to gain the south bank so that they could protect Linden and the others if the Harrow contemplated an attack.

“Swordmainnir!” called the Ironhand with a laugh. “Here is opportunity for refreshment. Never let it be said that Giants shun clear water and cleansing!”

At once, she plunged into the Soulsease with her comrades behind her, chuckling as they forged ahead. Without warning, Grueburn threw a splash of water in Cabledarm’s face. Stonemage responded by drenching Bluntfist. But their play did not slow them. In spite of their mirth, they carried their swords drawn.

Mahrtiir and Narunal entered the river after the Giants. Bhapa and Pahni, and then Clyme and Branl, positioned themselves around Linden, Liand, and Anele as they followed the Manethrall.

When the water hit Linden’s legs, she caught her breath. The Soulsease was colder than she had expected. But it did not resemble the winter which she had experienced with Roger and the croyel. The river was distilled springtime; the eagerness of fertility and flowing after winter’s long sleep. Its touch conveyed hints of the world’s renewal. And Hyn passed through it easily, thrusting ahead when her hooves could find the bottom, swimming with her head held high when they could not.

Surging up from the watercourse, Stave and Galt greeted the Harrow. If he granted them a reply, Linden did not hear it. Motionless on his destrier, he did not so much as incline his head to the Haruchai- or to the Swordmainnir when they splashed out of the river and surrounded him. This is an un-looked-for meeting,” Coldspray announced. “Declare yourself, stranger.” But the Harrow’s answer-if he gave one-did not reach Linden. Encircled by swords, he appeared to do nothing except wait for the arrival of his desires.

A fading glow still held the sky as Hyn gained the riverbank; heaved herself and her rider out of the Soulsease. The evening was too early for stars. And the Harrow had placed himself beneath the outspread shadows of a broad oak at the water’s edge. Linden saw him as little more than a deeper blackness in the coming night. His leather apparel seemed to muffle or diffuse his aura; mask his intentions.

His destrier was more tangible. The beast was a gelding as massive and tall as Mhornym. It champed at its bit and fretted while its master sat without moving. Occasional quivers ran through its muscles like small galvanic shocks, jolts of excitement or terror. But its tension did not trouble the Harrow. Instead his mount’s disquiet only made him look more unpredictable and dangerous.

Stave and Mahrtiir moved to escort Linden as she advanced. The Soulsease had carried her eastward: she faced the Harrow with the last of the sunset in her eyes. Some of the Swordmainnir stepped aside to watch over Liand, Anele, and the Cords, but Coldspray, Grueburn, and Stonemage continued to confront the Insequent with their weapons ready.

Poised for battle, the Humbled regarded him impassively. He had already defeated them once. He had done so without difficulty. Yet Linden recognised that his physical strength did not equal theirs. His prowess was external in some fashion: an expression of acquired theurgy rather than of innate might. He wore his magicks like a form of raiment, as elaborate and distinctive as his leather garb.

When she reached the verge of the oak’s shade, she asked Hyn to stop. She wanted to keep her distance. She could not see his eyes, but she was sure that he could see hers-and those of her companions. He had vowed that he would not make a second attempt to swallow her mind. He had called on his fellow Insequent to ensure that he kept his word. However, he had not promised to refrain from threatening her friends.

Mahrtiir and Anele were safe. The intransigence of the Haruchai might protect them from a fall into the Harrow’s bottomless gaze. Even the Giants might be able to resist. But Liand, Bhapa, and Pahni had no defence. If the Harrow wanted leverage-

Time seemed to stretch as though it might tear. The darkness under the oak became all darkness despite the faint light beyond the shadows. The Giants shifted their feet, waiting for Linden to speak. The destrier stamped one hoof restively.

Linden secured her grip on the Staff. With one hand, she touched Covenant’s ring through the fabric of her shirt.

“Say something,” she demanded. “I’m here. It’s your move.”

The Harrow laughed softly. “Be welcome in Andelain, lady.” His voice held the fertile depth of damp loam. Unlike Esmer, he had suffered no apparent damage in their earlier struggle. “You will find much to delight and surprise you in this bourne of peace.”

He may have been mocking her.

“Don’t play games with me,” she retorted. “Peace” isn’t one of your strengths. Get to the point.”

He laughed again, a low rustle like the sound of canvas sliding over stone. “Is it not sufficient that I am able to enter Andelain? Must I refrain from the enjoyment of loveliness because Kastenessen and the mere-son and your perished love’s scion cannot share my pleasure?”

Linden started to reply, then stopped herself. Roger was blocked from Andelain? And Esmer? She had hoped for that, but Esmer had not said so explicitly.

Then why did the Harrow hold back? He was in no danger of any kind. Why did he taunt her instead of bargaining?

Implied threats scraped across her nerves. At that moment, however, her certainty was greater than her alarm. She was so close to her goal-

Apart from Stave and the Humbled, all of her companions were taut, apprehensive; braced for danger. In spite of their concerns, she forced herself to relax her shoulders and breathe more slowly.

“All right,” she said as if she had become calm. “I’m confused. I know why you’re here. What I don’t know is how. Why didn’t the Wraiths stop you? Or the krill? If they can forbid Kastenessen, how did you get in?”

The Harrow did not answer. His emanations suggested that he was not paying attention.

Linden thought that she heard a distant sound which did not belong to evening in Andelain. But it was too elusive to be identified; and then it was gone.

“Mayhap, Chosen,” Stave offered, “he was not prevented because he is not a being of power. His theurgy is that of knowledge. It does not reside within him.”

Even Longwrath was possessed by a kind of magic: the ability to slough off his shackles whenever he wished.

Linden felt the Harrow’s gaze return. “Lady, I have promised my companionship, and the word of any Insequent is holy. Lacking such fidelity, knowledge erodes itself. I have striven too long, and have learned too much, to be made trivial by unfaith. Therefore I am here. No other justification is required.”

He still seemed to be mocking her.

Goaded by what he had done to the Mahdoubt, she said angrily, “And you think that just showing up occasionally makes you honest?” But then she caught herself. “No, forget that. I don’t care how you justify yourself. Tell me something else. I want to understand this.

“Anele has power. Why didn’t the Wraiths refuse him?”

Was it possible that the Wraiths had allowed the Harrow to enter Andelain because he did not serve Despite?

Something that she could not define seemed to snag his notice. It was not birdsong or breeze or the soughing of the Soulsease, although it resembled those sounds. Still she felt his posture shift; felt him probe the twilight behind her. Again he did not answer.

Stave appeared to shrug. “The old man desires no harm. And his power is that of Andelain. Here he was transformed in his mother’s womb, and given birth.”

“Then what about Longwrath?” Linden insisted, aiming her questions at the Harrow in spite of his inattention. “Is he possessed?” She did not think so. If a Raver-or some similar entity-ruled him, she would have sensed its presence. But she wanted to be sure. “Did the Wraiths stop him just because he’s trying to kill me?”

The Insequent faced her. “I would do so in their place.” His tone continued to jeer at her, but his manner implied boredom or distraction. “Have I not said that your might becomes you? Others may desire your death. I do not.

“However, concerning this Giant who craves your blood-”

He paused as though he expected an interruption. But Linden waited, and her companions were silent. After a moment, he resumed.

“His blade holds some interest. It was forged at a time millennia past, when Kasreyn of the Gyre feared the Sandgorgons, having not yet devised their Doom. He hungered for a weapon puissant to slay those feral beasts. Therefore he wrought the flamberge, aided by the croyel. It was fearsome in the hands of a knowing wielder. Yet its purpose ended when the Sandgorgons were bound to their Doom. Deprived of use, its theurgy fades.”

Staring, Linden asked. “Is that what attracted the Wraiths? His sword?”

“Lady,” replied the Harrow sardonically, “I have said that his blade holds some interest. It does not fascinate me. And the Wraiths are of no consequence. They merely articulate the might of Loric’s krill. Born of Andelain, they nurture its beauty. Far greater beings walk the Hills, among them one of vast arrogance and self-worship.”

She shook her head, trying to rid herself an innominate whisper. Far greater beings-Was he referring to the Dead?

Stubbornly she returned to her essential question. “I know what you want. You tried to force me, but you failed. So now I’m supposed to need your help.” I am able to convey you to your son. “That way, you can “demand recompense”. All right. Let’s get on with it. Isn’t it time for you to offer me a bargain? Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“It is,” he replied. “and it is not. For the present, it would be bootless to barter. One comes who will preclude my desires without qualm. I do not relish the indignity of being thwarted. I will await a more congenial opportunity to speak of your son.”

Linden scowled. Hints of sound became more persistent, in spite of her efforts to dismiss them. She could almost-

An instant later, she realised that she was hearing the delicate music of bells or chimes: a soft ringing, at once beautiful and imprecise, as allusive as the scent of an exotic perfume. She nearly gasped as she recognised the tones. She knew them well.

Instinctively dismayed, she wheeled Hyn away from the Harrow.

“Linden?” Liand asked in surprise. Stave and the Humbled looked around, alert for danger. Muttering Giantish oaths, the Swordmainnir did the same.

They could not discern what Linden heard: she knew that. Long ago, this same chiming had filled her with turmoil and confusion-and none of her companions had been aware of it, not Covenant, not the Giants of the Search, not even the Haruchai.

Behind her, the Harrow said with rich sarcasm, “Be at peace, lady. Your concern is needless. No powers will contend in this place.”

Linden ignored him; ignored her friends. At once alarmed and angry, she watched a portion of Andelain’s dusk concatenate and flow as if the soul of the Hills were taking form.

Adorned with the tang and piquancy of tuned bells, a woman stepped out of the twilight and became herself.

She was tall and supple, lovely and lucent; bright with hues that glowed like the light of gems. Her raiment may have been sendaline, or it may have been composed of diamonds and rubies, its glitter and incarnadine woven together by the illimitable magic of dreams. The regal lustre of her hair seemed more precious than jewels: it shone like her ornate cymar and her sovereign eyes; like a sea entranced by the moon. Her chosen flesh spread gleams that caused or resembled her chiming. When she moved, every line and curve was limned in exaltation.

And in her gaze and her mien, an imperious disdain struggled against pleading and sorrow.

Linden knew her. She was Infelice. In some sense which Linden had never understood, she was the leader or spokeswoman or potentate of the Elohim. Among her people, she embodied what they called the Wurd of the Earth,” although in their mellifluous voices “Wurd” might have been “Wyrd” or “Word” or “Weird.”

Her simple presence commanded humility: it urged abasement. In spite of Hyn’s unflinching calm, Linden felt a blind impulse to kneel, abashed, before Infelice.

Her reaction was echoed by Liand and the Ramen. Their faces reflected Infelice’s radiance. Even Mahrtiir was stricken with awe and chagrin. Scowling, Anele refused to turn toward her. And the Giants, who had been acquainted with the Elohim for millennia, scrambled to put away their weapons and bow deeply. Only the Haruchai showed no reaction-the Haruchai and the Harrow.

Thousands of years ago, the uncompromising dedication of Stave’s ancestors had offended the Elohim. More recently, Linden had learned from the Theomach that his people resented the hauteur and power of the Elohim. The Vizard had tried to encourage Jeremiah to imprison them.

In the Elohimfest where Linden had first seen Infelice, her people had betrayed Covenant because they distrusted his possession of white gold. They had believed that Linden should wield wild magic. Even then, they had been certain that Covenant’s efforts to defeat Lord Foul would ultimately fail.

Facing Infelice, Linden feared suddenly that her straits, and the Land’s, demonstrated that the Elohim had been right all along. The Despiser’s repeated return to strength demeaned Covenant’s victories. They might as well have been failures.

Infelice did not walk on the grass. Instead she moved through the air at the height of the Giants. She may have wished to look down on Linden and the Harrow.

Her voice wore a penumbra of bells as she said, “The Insequent speaks sooth, Wildwielder.” Around her, night thickened over the Hills and the Soulsease as if her appearance absorbed the last of the light. “No powers will contend in sacred Andelain. Conscious of his littleness, and embittered, he faults us for arrogance and self-worship. Yet he declines to acknowledge that the quality which he deplores, the certainty that we are equal to all things, preserves his petty machinations as well as his life. Our unconcern spares smaller beings. Were we less than we are, we would have taken umbrage in an earlier age and extinguished the Insequent for their meddlesomeness.”

You vaunt yourself without cause, Elohim,” retorted the Harrow. “Was not your Appointed Guardian of the One Tree defeated by the Theomach?”

“He was,” admitted Infelice in a tone that conceded nothing. “And in his turn, the Theomach was defeated. Though he strove to affect the Wurd of the Earth, he fell before one mere Haruchai. Thus our present peril is in part attributable to the Insequent. Had the Theomach refrained from aggrandisement, much which now threatens the Earth would not have occurred, and I would not have come to counter your gluttony.”

The Harrow laughed, mocking Infelice as he had mocked Linden. “You are clever, Elohim. You speak truth to conceal truth. Did you not also come to prevent the lady?”

Infelice did not waver. “I did.” Nevertheless expressions molted across her face, ire and grief and alarm commingled with a look that resembled self-pity. “If the Wildwielder will heed me.”

Their exchange gave Linden time to rally herself; step back from the brink of consternation. She did not trust the Harrow: she knew the intensity of his greed. And she was painfully, intimately familiar with the surquedry and secrets of the Elohim: she could not believe that Infelice wished her-or Jeremiah-well. As a people, the Elohim cared only for themselves.

The Theomach had enabled Berek Halfhand to fashion the first Staff of Law. He had made himself the Guardian of the One Tree. Then his stewardship had become Brinn’s. But Linden did not understand how such things contributed to Lord Foul’s designs.

“No,” she said before the Harrow spoke again. “You can talk around me as if I’m not here some other time. Tonight is mine.

“Stave. Mahrtiir. Coldspray.” Deliberately she turned away from Infelice. “We’re going. I need the krill.” And the Dead. “If Infelice and the Harrow want to come with us, I don’t mind. They can answer a few questions along the way.”

The Harrow laughed. A flare of anger burned in Infelice’s eyes. Almost immediately, however, he cut short his scorn, and she quelled her indignation.

Out of the new dark, Wraiths came skirling like music, the song of pipes and flutes. Dancing and bobbing, they appeared as if in response to Linden’s declaration, more and more of them at every moment: first a small handful, then a dozen, then one and two and three score. And as they lit themselves from their impalpable arcane wicks, they joined together in two rows to form an aisle leading southward.

Involuntarily Linden gasped. The Giants exclaimed their astonishment. “Linden,” Liand breathed, unable to contain himself. “Heaven and Earth. Linden.” The Ramen stared as if the Cords and their eyeless Manethrall were bedazzled.

“Sunder my father,” Anele panted between his teeth. “Hollian my mother. Preserve your son.” A tumult of distress ran through his voice. “Preserve me. Anele is lost. Without your forgiveness, he is damned.”

The Wraiths had come-

— to welcome Linden. For reasons which she could not fathom, they meant to escort her like an honour guard to Loric’s krill.

Their presence filled her with hope as if they had opened her heart.

Unable to speak, she urged Hyn into motion. With a stately step and an arched neck, the mare entered the avenue of Wraiths as though she had accepted an obeisance.

Quickly the Swordmainnir arrayed themselves around Linden and Hyn. Prompted by an instinctive reverence, they drew their swords and stretched out their arms, pointing their blades at the first faint stars. A moment later, Stave guided Liand, Anele, and the Ramen into formation behind Linden. None of the Humbled went ahead of her. Instead they rode down the aisle at the rear of the company as if to distance themselves from her intentions.

Without hesitation, the Harrow joined Linden; but he did not presume to precede her. Instead he rode his destrier beside one of the Giants. After an instant of outrage and chagrin, Infelice came to accompany Linden between the Wraiths. She, too, did not take the lead, but chose rather to float opposite the Harrow, placing her light in contrast with his darkness.

— hope in contradiction. Although they shared a wish to preserve the Arch of Time, the Insequent and the Elohim seemed to cancel each other.

Along a path defined by flames and implied melody, the riders, the Giants, and Infelice crossed a rounded hill and moved into a lea swept with night. Gradually stars began to peek out of the heavens, glittering dispassionately as the final remnants of daylight frayed and faded.

Old elms dotted the lea. Amid trees and Wraiths, the Harrow remarked quietly. In an ancient age, this night would have been Banas Nimoram, the Celebration of Spring. We might perchance have witnessed the Dance of the Wraiths of Andelain.” Every hint of mockery had fled from his deep voice. “Millennia have passed since they last enacted their rite of gladness. Yet they remain to signify the import of our deeds and needs. Did I not say, lady, that here you would find delight and surprise?” After a pause, he added. “No other Insequent has beheld such a sight.”

Linden made no reply. The voiceless entrancement of the living fires held her. Doubtless the Haruchai and the Ramen had memories or tales of Banas Nimoram: she did not. Yet she understood that every swirl and glow and note of the Wraiths accentuated the meaning of her presence.

Then, however, Infelice said in a tone of careful severity, “Wildwielder, we must speak of your purpose here.”

With an effort, Linden set aside her hushed awe. She needed to ready herself for what she meant to attempt. More to occupy her conscious mind than to resolve any lingering uncertainty, she countered by asking. “Did you really come all of this way just to stop the Harrow from taking me to my son?”

The Elohim made their home far to the east beyond the Sunbirth Sea. Infelice had crossed many hundred of leagues, leaving behind the rapt self-contemplation of her people.

“In part,” she admitted with a faint suggestion of disdain or revulsion. “But I will not speak of the Harrow, or of his unscrupling greed, or of your son. We must address your intent.”

Linden refused to be distracted. “I would rather talk about meddling.” The Elohim had Appointed Findail and Kastenessen: they had sealed Covenant’s mind and tried to imprison Vain. They had sent one of their number to the aid of the One Forest, and another to warn the Land. “Even though you’re “equal to all things”, the heart of the Earth. “you sometimes take matters into your own hands. You’re here to block the Harrow. You want to interfere with me. So tell me something.

“According to the Theomach, if he hadn’t disrupted Roger’s plans to destroy the Arch, you would have intervened. Is that true?”

Haughtiness and pleading bled together in Infelice. “It is. Much of the Despiser’s evil does not concern us. His ends are an abomination, but often his means are too paltry to merit our notice. When he strives to unmake Time, however, our existence is imperilled. This alone we share with the Insequent. We do not desire the destruction of the Earth.”

Softly, as if in the distance, the Harrow began to sing. His low voice followed the inferred tune of the Wraiths as if he had deciphered their minuet.

“The ending of all things is nigh.

Both grief and rue will pass away,

Both love and gratefulness; and why?

No one will stand to offer, “Nay.”

“This chosen plight is chosen doom,

A path unwisely, bravely found

Which leads us to a lonely tomb,

A sepulchre of ruined ground.

“Some fool or seer has made it so:

That life and lore give way to dross

And so preclude our wail of woe.

No heart remains to feel the loss.

“And so this way the world ends,

In failure and mistaken faith.

We dream that we will make amends,

Yet ev’ry hope is but a Wraith,

“A touch of soon extinguished flame,

A residue of ash and dust.

We ache to save our use and name,

And yet we die because we must.”

He seemed to be smiling as he sang.

But Linden did not heed him. “Then is it also true,” she continued stubbornly, probing the Elohim. “that the Insequent are the “shadow” on your hearts?”

Other Elohim had referred to a shadow upon the heart of the Earth. It justified their distress that Linden did not wield Covenant’s ring, their betrayal of Covenant, and their efforts to neutralise Vain.

Divergent emotions chased each other across lnfelice’s lambent features. “Wildwielder, the Insequent are filled to bursting with boasts. They vaunt their might and efficacy. Yet among them, only the Theomach has achieved an effect upon the fate of the Earth. Thoughts of them do not darken our absorption.”

“Then,” Linden insisted. “what is it? What is the “shadow”?

All who live contain some darkness, and much lies hidden there. But in us it has not been a matter of exigency-for are we not equal to all things?

Infelice sighed; but she did not decline to answer. Apparently her desire to sway Linden compelled her.

For a time which you would measure in eons, it remained nameless among us. Later, we considered that perhaps it was cast by the Despiser’s malevolence. But then we grew to understand that it was the threat of beings from beyond Time, beings such as yourself and also the Timewarden-beings both small and mortal who are nonetheless capable of utter devastation.

“By his own deeds, the Despiser cannot destroy the Arch of Time. He requires the connivance of such men and women as the Timewarden’s son and mate. He requires your aid, Wildwielder, and that of the man who was once the Unbeliever.”

Linden winced; but she did not relent. Is that why you wanted me to have Covenant’s ring? Is that how you justify closing his mind?”

It is,” assented Infelice. “Had wild magic been yours to wield in millennia past, you would have posed no hazard to the Arch of Time. The Unbeliever’s white gold would have answered your need. But his ring was not yours. Constrained by incomplete mastery, you could not have summoned utter havoc. Yet you were the Sun-Sage, empowered with percipience to wield wild magic precisely. Had you rather than the Unbeliever confronted the Despiser then, his defeat would not have been what it was, both partial and ambiguous. The Earth would have been preserved-and you would not now aim to achieve the ruin for which the Despiser has long hungered.”

Achieve the ruin-

Linden refused listen. She could not heed the Elohim: not now. Instead she concentrated on more immediate details. The dampness of her jeans. The water in her boots. The strict and comforting sensation of the Staff in her hand. Aflame, the Wraiths wove her way among the copses and greenswards. On her behalf, they held back every darkness. Their fires were too little to dim the thronging stars; but still the Wraiths gave a processional dignity to the night.

And so this way the world ends-

Everyone except Linden’s friends expected calamities. And even they were not impervious to doubt. The Giants had expressed their concern. Earlier Stave had asked her to consider turning aside. Days ago, Liand had admitted, It is possible that your loves will bind your heart to destruction- The Theomach himself had warned her. If you err in this, your losses will be greater than you are able to conceive.

Now, however, Linden felt no reaction from her companions. Apart from the Harrow, they walked or rode in stillness. As far as she could tell, they were ensorcelled by the Wraiths and heard nothing. Infelice was certainly capable of making her voice, and Linden’s, inaudible to others. By his own means, the Theomach had performed a similar feat in Berek’s camp.

Speaking of Linden’s capacity for darkness, Liand had also said, I am not afraid.

When she had steadied herself, she realised that lnfelice’s pronouncements made her stronger. Opposition confirmed her choices. The fact that she inspired fear in beings like Roger and Kastenessen, Esmer and Infelice, demonstrated that she was on the right path.

“You Elohim amaze me,” she remarked almost casually. “You always have. After all of this time, you still don’t realise that you’re wrong.

“I’m not like Covenant. I never was. If he hadn’t beaten Lord Foul, I would have broken.” She lacked his capacity for miracles. “Lord Foul would have won, and none of us would be here to discuss whether Covenant and I did the right thing.”

“No, Wildwielder,” insisted Infelice with a flush of heat and pleading. “We are not in error. Your thoughts are inadequate to comprehend ours. It was not for the Despiser’s defeat that we sought to impose the burden of wild magic upon you. Had you indeed “broken”, as you believe, both the Land and the Earth would have suffered great harm. That is sooth. But Time would have endured. Deprived of its rightful wielder, white gold is not puissant to destroy the Arch.

“Also there would now exist no Staff of Law. Its benisons are many. Nonetheless it constrains the Timewarden. By wild magic, he came into being-and by your deeds, he was made weak.”

If you hadn’t taken my ring and made that Staff, l would have been able to fix everything-

“And we are the Elohim,” Infelice continued, “equal to all things. Across the centuries, we would have healed much. Perhaps the Despiser’s blight upon the Land would have remained, but the Earth we would have preserved and restored.”

With a strange calm exasperation as unexpected and luminous as her passage through Andelain, Linden asked. “Then what was it all for? If you didn’t care about the outcome-or the Land-why did you try so hard to force me to take Covenant’s place?’

To himself, the Harrow chuckled scornfully.

Guided by Wraiths like candle flames, Linden rode under a broad Gilden and crossed the lip of a shallow vale-and saw her goal. It had always been there. Esmer had told her so: Stave and the Masters knew its location. Nevertheless it seemed to come into existence suddenly, as if it had manifested itself in response to her need. Between instants, the night was cast back, and silver fire shone from the bottom of the vale.

Dancing, the Wraiths moved ahead of her down the gentle slope and spread out to encircle the krill of High Lord Loric, son of Damelon, father of Kevin. There they bobbed and grew brighter, apparently bowing-and feeding, drawing sustenance from the blade’s incandescence.

Here was the source of their power to preserve Andelain. The krill was powerful in itself, able to cut stone without being dulled, and to sever the lives of eldritch creatures like the Viles and the Demondim. But its greatest strength-the chief accomplishment of Loric’s lore-was as a channel for other magicks. Made active by the mere presence, quiescent and extravagant, of white gold, the blade protected the Hills. Yet Linden had seen it accomplish more. With the krill, Sunder had slain Caer-Caveral, although Sunder was no more than a grieved Stonedownor, and Caer-Caveral was the last Forestal, powerful enough to preserve Andelain against the Sunbane. And in the release of Caer-Caveral’s music, the krill had enabled Sunder’s yearning to tear apart the fabric of Law so that Hollian lived again.

Loric’s weapon was a two-edged dagger almost as long as a short sword. At the intersection of its blade, its straight guards, and its ribbed hilt, it had been forged around a clear gem, mystic and immaculate: the focal point of its power. There the gem blazed with condensed argent like contained wild magic, at once potent and controlled; ready for any use.

It remained exactly as Linden remembered it: a cynosure of vindication and loss deeply embedded in the black, blasted stump of a ruined tree which had once been Caer-Caveral and Hile Troy.

Goaded by memories and exigency, a purpose as desperate as the last Forestal’s, she urged Hyn into a swift canter. Graceful as water, Hyn carried Linden through the acknowledgment of the Wraiths toward the bottom of the vale; toward dead wood and shining and culmination.

Behind her, Infelice called urgently, “It was for this! To avert this present moment.” Dread and supplication squirmed through her voice. “Broken or triumphant in the past, you would not have returned to the Land. You would not now hold white gold and the Staff of Law. Nor would you approach Loric’s krill in Andelain accompanied by Wraiths. You would not be driven by mistaken love to bring about the end of all things!”

Linden wanted to laugh like the Harrow. As she swept closer to her destination, she answered in derision. “Does it bother you at all that you’re completely insane?”

Then Hyn led Linden’s companions into the expanding circle of the Wraiths. There Linden dismounted. With the opulent grass of the Hills beneath her sodden boots and stained pants, she hugged the Staff of Law to her chest. It was here: Loric’s krill was here. — that which will enable her to bear her strengths- And Covenant’s ring hung under her shirt. Jeremiah’s racecar rested in her pocket. She had gained everything that she required-except the Dead.

The krill had been driven deeply into the wood: she was not sure that she could remove it. And she remembered its heat. She was not Covenant, the rightful white gold wielder, numb with leprosy: if she touched the dagger with her bare skin, it might burn her. Instead she stood before it as though it were the altar of Caer-Caveral’s sacrifice.

Liand and the rest of her friends arrived after her. Only Stave and the Humbled dropped to the ground: the other riders remained aback their Ranyhyn as if they were caught in dreams, bespelled by the Wraiths. Even the Giants appeared to wander entranced, lost in mysteries. Coldspray and perhaps Grueburn seemed to struggle against their amazement, but their comrades gazed upon the circling of the Wraiths and did not awaken.

Like Liand, Anele, and the Ramen, the Harrow remained mounted at a distance from Linden and the krill. The bottomless holes of his eyes considered the fiery gem hungrily.

Floating, Infelice drifted to the ground near Linden. The intensity of the krill dimmed her raiment, robbed her of lustre. She sounded almost human-almost petulant-as she said, “I have heard you, Wildwielder. Have you heard me? We stand now at the last crisis of the Earth. If you do not turn aside, you will be broken indeed. Your remorse will surpass your strength to bear it.”

Linden did not answer. Instead she spoke softly to the waiting night.

“I’m here. It’s time. You know why I’ve come. You know what I have to do.” When Covenant had entered Andelain without her, his Dead had given him gifts to aid his efforts to redeem the Land. Linden, find me. I can’t help you unless you find me. “The Harrow says that this is Banas Nimoram, and you called me here. I can’t save anything”- not Jeremiah, not the Land, not even herself- “without you.”

Around her and the Wraiths, the darkness seemed to hold its breath. The Harrow murmured quiet invocations which meant nothing to her. Infelice fretted as if she were inconsolable. The Swordmainnir shifted restlessly in their trance, and Anele jerked his head from side to side, watchful and frightened, like a man being hunted. The stars grew still in their stately allemande.

Linden could not know that she would be heeded. Yet she felt no doubt. In dreams and through Anele, Covenant had reached out to her across the boundaries of life and death. She no longer considered it possible that she might be mistaken.

Then the night gave a low sigh; and beyond the Wraiths two figures came forward from the rim of the vale. They were portrayed in silver as though they were made of moonlight: they shone with phosphorescence like a gentler manifestation of the krill’s argent blaze. But they were at once more definite than moonshine and less acute than the blade’s echo of wild magic. Although they walked with formal steps, they appeared to drift like wisps over the grass, as evanescent as dreaming, and as allusive.

Linden knew them. They were Sunder Graveler and Hollian eh-Brand, Anele’s parents.

When they had passed between the reverent flames, they stopped partway down the slope. They seemed strangely commanding and penitent, and their moonstone eyes gleamed with austere compassion. Linden’s heart surged at the sight of them; but they did not glance in her direction or speak. Instead they gazed at Anele as if they were full of suppressed weeping.

He must have been aware of them. With his hands, he covered his face. But then he seemed to find that his fingers and palms were too thin, too frail, to protect him. Flinging his arms around his head, he ducked low over Hrama’s neck like a child who hoped to hide from chastisement.

Now Linden saw tears in Hollian’s eyes and sorrow in Sunder’s. Yet they beckoned to their son, summoning him toward them with the certainty of monarchs. In life, their courage and love and Earthpower had earned them the stature of Lords.

Anele did not react to their mute call. But Hrama responded. As if both he and his rider belonged in such company, the Ranyhyn carried Anele toward his Dead.

Sunder and then Hollian bowed to Hrama, silent and grave. Gesturing, they invited the Ranyhyn to walk between them. Solemn as a cortege, they turned to escort Hrama and Anele away from Loric’s krill; out of the vale. Linden felt her heart try to break-try and fail-while Sunder and Hollian departed with their son. But they said nothing; and so she could not. A cry of abandonment sounded within her for a moment. Then it relapsed to stone.

As Sunder, Hollian, and their son passed away among the flames, Linden lost sight of them. In their place, another ghost strode down the slope.

She knew him as well, grieved for him as much.

He was Grimmand Honninscrave, the Master of Starfare’s Gem. In measureless agony, he had contained samadhi Sheol so that the Sandgorgon Nom could kill him in order to rend the Raver. Thirty-five centuries later, anguish still gripped his face. As he moved, he seemed to shed droplets of moonlight like blood.

He also stopped midway between the Wraiths and the dead stump of Caer-Caveral’s sacrifice. He also did not speak. And he did not spare a glance for Linden, in spite of their friendship. His ancient pain conveyed the impression that he feared her as he summoned the Swordmainnir.

They obeyed without hesitation, sheathing their weapons as they strode toward the Dead Giant. Around Honninscrave’s moonstruck figure, they stood for a moment in silence and awe. Then they accompanied him away from Linden, leaving her to face her choices without their encouragement, their strength, their laughter. Together they followed Honninscrave past the Wraiths until he and they had faded into the night.

Of Linden’s friends, only Stave, Liand, and the Ramen remained.

“Do you behold this, Wildwielder?” Infelice hissed with the urgency of a serpent. “Do you see? These are your Dead. Their love for you is not forgotten. Yet they shun you. They seek to spare their descendants the peril of your intent. If you will not heed me, heed them.”

The Harrow countered lnfelice’s appeal with a jeer, although he kept his distance. “She is Infelice,” he told Linden scornfully, “suzerain among the Elohim, and blind with self-worship. Yet there is insight in her disregard. You also have been made blind, lady.” His disdain became veiled supplication. “There is a Kevin’s Dirt of the soul as there is of the flesh. The Earth would have been better served if you had not cast away the Mahdoubt’s name and use and life.”

Linden might have wavered then. But she had not come here for Honninscrave, or for Sunder and Hollian. Covenant’s ring hung, untouched, under her shirt, and Jeremiah’s racecar was in her pocket: she was still waiting. If all of her friends were taken from her, she would stand where she was until Covenant appeared.

Through her teeth, she repeated. “I’m here. It’s time.”

I need you. I need you now.

But if any ghost among the Hills heard her, it was not Thomas Covenant. Instead ten stern spirits walked like wafting down into the vale, and she saw that they were Haruchai whom she had known: Cail, Ceer, and Hergrom, as well as others who had fought against the Clave in Revelstone. When she recognised Esmer’s father, she had to bite her lip to stifle a groan. In spite of his long devotion, he had been beaten bloody by his kinsmen because he had failed to resist the seduction of the merewives. Forlorn, he had later left Lord’s Keep to seek the Dancers of the Sea once again. He could not forget the passion and cruelty of their siren lure. The denunciation of his people had left him no other path.

Now he and his Dead company entered the vale severely, as if they had come to repay judgment with judgment.

They, too, halted on the slope of the vale. And they, too, did not speak. With moonlight in their eyes and authority in their gestures, they beckoned Stave and the Humbled toward them. If they addressed the living Haruchai mind to mind, Linden felt nothing.

But neither Stave nor the Masters obeyed.

The Dead insisted, upright and uncompromising. The argence of the krill reflected in Stave’s eye, and in the eyes of the Humbled, echoing the glow of the Dead. Still none of the Haruchai left their places with Linden.

“Stave?” she breathed. “What do they want? What are they saying?”

Stave shook his head. He did not glance away from Cail, Ceer, and Hergrom. “This night holds no enmity,” he said as if to himself. “The Dead neither spurn nor oppose you. Rather they seek to make way. Other spirits inhabit Andelain, spectres which may not be denied. While Loric’s krill burns, their might requires compliance. They will come to affirm the necessity of freedom.

“The Insequent and the Elohim honour no power but their own. They remain because they fear for themselves. Yet they dare not contend. If they offer strife, they will be expelled in spite of their theurgies. And they cannot sway you. You hold no love for them. Therefore you cannot be misled.”

Be cautious of love. There is a glamour upon it which binds the heart to destruction.

Stave’s quiet voice seemed to rouse Liand and the Ramen from their imposed reverie. They stirred as if they were awakening; turned their heads and looked around them. Linden felt their attention sharpen. Mahrtiir lifted his garrote in his hands.

After a time, the Dead Haruchai appeared to accept that they had been refused. Cail’s expression was radiant sorrow; but Ceer and the others glowered in disapproval. Their movements were stiff with reproach as they withdrew.

“Stave?” Linden asked again. She believed that she understood Cail’s sadness. But Hergrom, Ceer, and the others were the ancestors of the Masters. If they were alive, surely they would have stood beside the Humbled?

Stave frowned. “Be still, Chosen,” he said in a constrained hush. “The Dead have no words for your ears. They are forbidden to address you. In this place, your deeds must be your own, unpersuaded for good or ill by the counsel and knowledge of those who have perished. So it has been commanded, and the Dead obey.”

Other spirits inhabit Andelain-

Who but Covenant had the stature to command the Dead?

The answer came toward the vale from four directions. As the Dead Haruchai faded past the dancing adulation of the Wraiths, vast doors seemed to open, rents in the fabric of the night, and four towering shades strode forth.

They were tall, prodigiously tall, not because they were Giants, but because their spirits were great. Their brightness emulated the blaze of the krill.

One of them walked out of the west. With a shock, Linden saw that he was Berek Halfhand. But he was not the Berek whom she had met, embattled and weary, baffled by nameless powers. Rather he was High Lord Berek Heartthew, limned in victory and lore. Under the Theomach’s tutelage, he had transcended himself. His eyes were stars, and he gazed upon Linden with sombre gladness, simultaneously concerned and gratified.

From the north came another mighty spectre whom she knew, although she had only met him briefly as a young man. He was Damelon son of Berek, now High Lord Damelon Giantfriend. In his time, he had both discovered and guarded the Blood of the Earth. As he aged, he had put on girth: Dead, he implied the bulk of mountains against the background of Andelain’s darkness and the black heavens. To Linden’s shaken stare, he replied with a beatific smile.

The figure approaching from the south was a man whom she had not encountered; but he could only be Damelon’s son, High Lord Loric Vilesilencer. He was gaunt with striving and mastered anguish, and the dark pits of his eyes held the intimate ache of despair. Yet he gazed upon the krill, his handiwork, with an air of profound vindication. When he looked at Linden, he nodded in approval, as if he were certain of her.

But Kevin Landwaster entered the vale from the east. She knew him too well. He had confronted her once before in Andelain, ordering her to halt the Unbeliever’s mad intent; prevent Covenant from surrendering his ring. We are kindred in our way-the victims and enactors of Despite. In torment and outrage, High Lord Kevin’s ghost had implored or commanded her to kill Covenant if she could find no other way to stop him.

Living, he had fashioned and hidden the Seven Wards to preserve the lore of the Old Lords for future generations. He had greeted the Haruchai with respect, inspiring them to become the Bloodguard. And he had saved them as well as the Ranyhyn, the Ramen, and most of the Land’s people from the consequences of his despair. But his last act had been to join with Lord Foul in the Ritual of Desecration. And when Elena had broken the Law of Death to summon him, he had defeated her, turning the Staff of Law to the Despiser’s service. Now he wore the cost of his deeds in every tortured line of his visage.

When evil rises in its full power, it surpasses truth and may wear the guise of good-

His presence made Linden tremble. Good cannot be accomplished by evil means. He had been wrong about Covenant. He may have been wrong about Despite. There is hope in contradiction. But she could not affirm that he was wrong about her. Too many people had tried to caution her-

Like the other Dead, the four High Lords were silent. And they did not enter the wide circle of the Wraiths. Instead they stood, august, etched in light, beyond the flames as if they had come to bear witness as Linden unveiled the Land’s fate.

But of Covenant himself, who had called Linden here, there was no sign anywhere.

“Now, Linden,” Stave said distinctly. “The time has indeed come. Act or turn aside, according to the dictates of your heart.”

Her sudden anguish resembled both Kevin’s and Honninscrave’s. “Covenant isn’t here. I need him. He’s the reason I came.”

He did not know of your intent.

“Then summon the Law-Breakers,” Stave answered. But he did not explain. Instead he stepped back as if to abjure her.

For a moment, she could not understand him, and she nearly broke. His apparent disapproval hurt her worse than Cail’s mute departure, or Honninscrave’s, or Sunder’s and Hollian’s. She loved them all, but she had accepted their deaths. Stave was alive: as mortal as she was, and as much at risk. He was her friend-

But then her mind was filled with luminescence like the stringent shining of the High Lords. Of course, she thought. Of course. The Law-Breakers. The Laws of Death and Life. If Covenant could not hear or answer her directly, who else might invoke him from his participation in the Arch of Time? Who except the Law-Breakers, those who by their unique desperation had made possible the triumph of his surrender to Lord Foul?

Fearless again, and beyond doubt, Linden raised her head to the stars. “Elena!” she called firmly. “You were Lena’s daughter, but you were also Covenant’s. You drank the Blood of the Earth. Now I need you.

“Hile Troy! First you sacrificed yourself to save the army of the Lords. Then you became Caer-Caveral and sacrificed yourself again. I need you, too.”

As she spoke, the darkness trembled. Around her, the substance of reality seemed to ripple and surge like shaken cloth. Kevin Landwaster glared with unassuaged bitterness. An eager scowl clenched his father’s moonlight face. Damelon continued to beam, but Berek gnawed his lips anxiously.

Beyond the krill and the Wraiths, three ghosts appeared at the rim of the vale.

One was a man, eyeless as an ur-vile, and fretted with commitments. He wore the raiment of a Forestal, apparel that flowed like melody even though the song of his life and power had been stilled; and in his hand, he carried a gnarled staff like an accompaniment to his lost music. To Linden, he was Caer-Caveral: she had not known him as Hile Troy. She would never forget his final threnody.

Oh, Andelain! forgive! for I am doomed to fail this war.

Near him walked a woman; surely Elena? But she was not the High Lord whom Covenant had described as one of his Dead, a figure of love and loveliness. Rather she appeared as she must have been when Covenant had destroyed the original Staff of Law, Berek’s Staff, tearing loose her last grasp on life; exposing her soul to the horror of what she had done. Her hair was rent with woe: bleeding galls marked her face as if she had tried to claw away her failures. As she entered the vale and paused with Caer-Caveral, her form flickered, alternately lit and obscured as though clouds scudded across her spectral moonshine.

The Law-Breakers, dead and broken; doomed. The ghosts of all that the Land had lost.

But Linden scarcely saw them. Instead she stared at the man who walked between them, silver and compelled, as if he had been brought forth against his will.

He was Thomas Covenant: he had come to her at last.

And he was more than the Dead, oh, infinitely more: he was a sovereign spirit, suffused with wild magic and Time. In one sense, he was unchanged. Wreathed in argence, he wore the same pierced T-shirt, the same worn jeans and boots, that she remembered. The scar on his forehead was a faint crease of nacre. Even his soul had lost the last two fingers of his right hand. When he met her gaze, he searched her with the same strict and irrefusable compassion which had made her who she was; taught her to love him-and the Land.

But in every other respect, he had gone beyond recognition. He was no more human than the stars: a being of such illimitable loneliness and grandeur that he both defied and deified understanding.

Briefly the krill seemed to grow dim in his presence. Then it blazed brighter, alight with rapture and exaltation. And

Linden blazed with it. She did not hear herself cry out Covenant’s name, or feel the stone of her heart torn asunder. She only knew that when Caer-Caveral and Elena stopped, Covenant continued on down the slope, striding like a prophet of ruin and hope until he had passed among the High Lords, through the ecstasy of the Wraiths, and reached the bottom of the vale, where Linden could see him clearly.

On the far side of Loric’s embedded blade, he halted. There he stood with his arms folded like denial across his chest.

“Oh, Covenant.” Linden verged on weeping. “God, I need you. Lord Foul has my son. I don’t know how to save him without you.”

I can’t help you unless you find me.

Only Covenant could stand up to the forces arrayed against her. Just be wary-

His eyes bled nacre on her behalf. But he shook his head. Harsh as a blow, he raised his halfhand to cover his mouth.

She understood in spite of her dismay. He, too, accepted the command of silence. No matter how she yearned for his guidance, he would not speak to her. His gaze begged her to make the right choice.

In this place, your deeds must be your own, unpersuaded for good or ill-

With every nerve, Linden ached to hear his voice; his counsel; his love. But the mere fact that he had come told her everything.

Trust yourself.

Ever since her battle with Roger and the croyel, she had striven toward this moment.

Do something they don’t expect.

Holding the Staff with her left hand, she planted its heel in the grass. With her right, she reached under her shirt and drew out Covenant’s ring. Deliberately she pulled its chain over her head. Then she closed the ring in her fist.

Either alone will transcend your strength, as they would that of any mortal. Together they will wreak only madness, for wild magic defies all Law.

But the gem of Loric’s krill could hold and focus any amount of power.

With her arms outstretched in welcome or supplication, Linden Avery the Chosen confronted her purpose.

“Wildwielder!” Infelice gasped. “Do not. I implore you!”

Linden did not glance at the Elohim. “Then free my son. Give him back to me.”

Are we not equal to all things?

Infelice made no answer. Instead the Harrow said disdainfully. “They will not. They can not. They fear your son more than they fear you. Though his worth to the Despiser is beyond measure, his gifts taint the self-contemplation of the Elohim.”

— a shadow upon the heart-

Specific constructs attract them. Jeremiah could make a door to lure the Elohim in and never let them out.

When he was little more than a toddler, he had been touched and maimed by Lord Foul.

That I do not forgive.

“Then leave me alone,” muttered Linden. “I have to concentrate.”

First health-sense and Loric’s gem: then wild magic: then Earthpower and Law.

But before she could begin, Galt stepped in front of her.

“Linden Avery, no,” he said flatly. “This we will not permit. Uncertain of you, we have withheld judgment. But now we deem that the peril is too great. Such extravagance is not wisdom. Nor is it seemly or salvific. You will unleash havoc, to the measureless delight of all who loathe life and the Land. Similar extreme passions performed the Ritual of Desecration, marred the Laws of Death and Life, and invoked the Sunbane.

“If you do not turn aside, we will wrest both Staff and ring from you because we must.”

An instant of absolute fury gathered in Linden, but she did not utter it.

The Humbled could not hear Stave’s thoughts. While Galt’s assertion lingered in the air, Stave charged into him; bore him thrashing to the ground.

At the same instant, Mahrtiir sprang from Narunal’s back. Flipping his garrote around Clyme’s neck, he wrenched the Master off balance.

Even sight would not have made the Manethrall a match for Clyme. But Bhapa and Pahni followed less than a heartbeat behind Mahrtiir. Pahni grappled for Clyme’s legs: Bhapa snagged one of Clyme’s hands with his fighting cord and heaved. Together the three Ramen pulled Clyme from his feet.

Simultaneously both Rhohm and the Ranyhyn Naybahn surged between Branl and Linden. Naybahn’s chest struck his rider’s: Rhohm collided with Branl from the side.

The great horses had declared themselves utterly to the service of the Chosen.

As Rhohm opposed Branl, Liand snatched out his orcrest; held it shining in his hand. “Do you dare, Master?” he shouted. “Will you accept the test of truth? If you refuse, you declare yourself unworthy to oppose the Chosen!”

The Masters ignored Liand. But Rhohm and Naybahn countered Branl’s speed as if they were herding him. Bhanoryl stood ready to intervene if Galt broke free of Stave. Mhornym and Hynyn circled Clyme’s struggle with the Ramen. Hyn guarded Linden.

Infelice turned away as if she scorned the indignity of physical combat. The Harrow remained apart, laughing bitterly. From near the rim of the vale, Elena and Caer-Caveral watched with anguish and ire. The High Lords contained their reactions, although Kevin’s jaws clenched and strained.

Covenant regarded them all with yearning and pity in every limned line of his form; but he did not move or speak.

The actions of Linden’s friends were like Caerroil Wildwood’s runes: they articulated her resolve. Grateful and ready, sure of her allies, she closed her eyes. In darkness, she began to tune her percipience to the precise splendour of the krill. When she opened her hidden door and found wild magic, she intended to release it in only one direction, using Loric’s gem to manage its possible devastation.

There. She could not imagine how Loric had forged his blade, but she saw its nature; its unconstrained potential. With her Staff warm in her hand, she felt every eldritch quality and significance of the gem, and of its position in the dagger. She descried how the edges and guards and hilt contributed to the complex purity of the stone. She sensed the meaning of its many facets. Immense lore and ineffable skill had provided for the shaping of the gem, designed the form and function of the dagger. There were no defined boundaries to the forces which could be wielded with Loric’s weapon.

Nothing intruded on Linden’s attention now. Perhaps the will of the Ranyhyn had thwarted the Humbled. In every age, the Haruchai had treasured the horses of Ra: no Master would strike at a Ranyhyn. And Stave and the Ramen and even Liand would fight without compunction.

The Harrow’s laughter had fallen silent. Infelice did not speak. The Dead remained still.

When Linden was confident of the krill, she turned her health-sense inward.

Proximity to the gem’s incandescence aided her; guided her. Brilliance led her through her human concealments, the secret implications of old doubts. And when she found the door, white fire responded eagerly to her desires. At her call, wild magic grew and branched within her like an image of the One Tree in purest argent, its boughs emblazoned with stars. During the space of two heartbeats, or three, flame accumulated until she held enough power to rive the night; alter the heraldry of the heavens.

When she released it, it became a ceaseless blast of lightning, a bolt which struck and flared and crackled between her right fist and Loric’s gem.

She had been assured-repeatedly- that she could not damage the Arch of Time. Not alone. She was not the ring’s rightful wielder: therefore her ability to use white gold was limited. But she did not feel limited. Her conflagration stopped the night: it seemed to stop the movement of one moment to the next. While her lightning rent the air, she possessed unfathomable might. Her choices and desires could shape reality.

Jeremiah, she thought: an uninterrupted blare of wild magic. I’m coming. The only way I know how.

Her fire became so extreme that she saw everything with her eyes closed: the Humbled and their opponents frozen in shock or chagrin or astonishment; the terror on Infelice’s face, the frightened calculation in the Harrow’s gaze; the scrutiny of the High Lords, solemn and alarmed. She saw Covenant consider her as if he were praying.

She had gone beyond fear-beyond the very concept of fear-as she reached out for the blessed yellow flame of her Staff.

At once, Earthpower and Law responded as though they had come to efface every darkness from the Hills of Andelain. Strength as blissful as sunshine, as natural as Gilden, and as capable as a furnace erupted from the Staff, pouring like the incarnation of her will into the heart of Loric’s krill.

Briefly she seemed to feel herself battling in the depths of Melenkurion Skyweir, wielding the Power of Command and the Seven Words while Roger Covenant and the croyel strove to extinguish her. But wild lightning exceeded the frenzy of her earlier struggles. It lit the vale as if it could illuminate the Earth. Together argence and cornflower flame and the dagger’s incandescence swallowed any possibility of opposition or malice, drowning mere inadequacy in a vast sea of power.

Now instinctively she understood the runes with which Caerroil Wildwood had elaborated her Staff. They were for this. The Forestal of Garroting Deep had engraved the ebony wood with his knowledge of Life and Death. Indirectly he had given her a supernal relationship with Law. For a moment, at least, his gift enabled her to commingle wild magic and Earthpower without losing control of one or falsifying the other.

She could have raised or levelled mountains, divided oceans, carved glaciers. She had become greater than her most flagrant expectations: as efficacious as a god, and as complete.

It should have been too much. Either alone will transcend your strength- Human flesh had not been formed to survive such forces. Yet Linden felt no danger. She was hardly conscious of strain. Perhaps her mind had already shattered. If so, she did not recognise the loss, or choose to regret it. Loric’s gem drew immeasurable might away from her mortal blood and nerves and bones. Caerroil Wildwood’s runes imposed a kind of structure on potential chaos. Her beloved stood before her, radiant in the admixture of theurgies and his own innominate transcendence. And she did not doubt herself at all.

She could imagine that the Swordmainnir knew the location of Covenant’s human bones. The First and Pitchwife had carried his body out of the Wightwarrens for burial. And they had told the tale. Rime Coldspray and her comrades might know where to find the last time-gnawed residue of his life. Linden could have summoned them to her with a thought.

But she did not need any lingering particle of his ordinary flesh. His spirit stood before her, as necessary as love, and as compulsory as a commandment. She had wild magic and Earthpower, Loric’s krill and Caer-Caveral’s runes. She had her health-sense. And the Laws of Death and Life had already been broken once. They were weaker now.

She knew of no power with which she could cause the immediate release of her son. Jeremiah was hidden from her; beyond her reach. Covenant’s ring and her Staff did not enable her to scry, or to search out secrets, or to foretell the effects of malevolence.

But that which she could do, she did without hesitation.

Now, she said in fire and passion. Now. Covenant, I need you. I need your help. I need to get you back.

She had demonstrated again and again that she could not save Jeremiah alone. Without Covenant, she was inadequate to the task.

Gazing steadily through her eyelids at the Land’s redeemer, she murmured his name in an exultation of fires. Then she brought her hands together, wild magic and Earthpower.

A blast that seemed to quell the stars erupted from Loric’s krill. Deliberately she invoked a concussion which compelled conflicting energies to become one.

This was not culmination. It was apotheosis. Power shocked the bedrock of the world: it strove to claim the sky. Convulsions like the earthquake under Melenkurion Skyweir cast reality into madness.

Around the vale, the Wraiths scattered suddenly; fled and winked out. They may have been screaming. Someone wailed or roared: Elena or Kevin, Infelice or the Harrow. Emotions trumpeted from the High Lords. But Linden heeded nothing except Covenant and her own purpose.

Through the gem, her powers took hold of him as if she had chosen to incinerate his soul.

An instant later, the sheer scale of the forces which she had unleashed overwhelmed her; and the world was swept away.

Covenant’s agony must have been terrible to behold. His cry of protest may have deafened the night. But Linden was no longer able to see or hear him. Absolute vastness stunned every nerve in her body, every impulse in her mind. For a moment, her detonation left her entirely insensate, unable to feel or think or move. She did not know that she had dropped

Covenant’s ring as if it had scalded her. Her fingers were too numb to realise that the Staff had slipped from her grasp. Her eyes might as well have been charred away: she did not see the knits coruscating puissance rupture and vanish, blown apart by fundamental contradictions.

She did not recognise what she had done until darkness reasserted her mortality, and the frantic labour of her pulse began to force new awareness into her muscles and nerves.

When she opened her eyes, she saw Covenant’s resurrected form standing, twisted with pain, on the far side of the blank gem, the dead stump. Theurgies flared and spat from his arms, his shoulders, his chest. Linden had burned him as badly as Lord Foul had burned him in Kiril Threndor. But she had burned him to life instead of death. The fading energies of his transformation wracked him as though he had emerged from a bonfire.

Like Joan, he bore the consequences of too much time.

Yet he was alive. In some sense, he was whole; unmarked except by his old wounds. Even his clothes were intact. Linden could see the rent in his T-shirt where he had been stabbed for Joan’s sake. His hair was tousled silver like reified white gold.

Fires flickered up and down his body. They were the only light in the vale; or in Andelain; or in the Land. Slowly they exhausted themselves and went out.

While the last wisps of power streamed from his eyes, Covenant forced himself to straighten his back and look at Linden.

He took one step toward her, then another, before his legs failed and he plunged to his knees. Still upright, he gazed at her with such dismay that her throat closed. She could not breathe.

“Oh, Linden.” His first words to her were a hoarse gasp. “What have you done?”

“Done, Timewarden?” Infelice snapped viciously. “Done? She has roused the Worm of the World’s End. Such magicks must be answered. Because of her madness and folly, every Elohim will be devoured.”

Abruptly the krill’s gem began to shine again. Its light throbbed like a heart in ecstasy, as if it echoed Joan’s distant excitement-or Lord Foul’s.

Hyn’s dolorous whickering reminded Linden that the Ranyhyn had tried to warn her.

Here ends

Fatal Revenant

Book Two of

The Last Chronicles of Thomas Covenant.

The story continues in Book Three

Against All Things Ending