The Runes of the Earth

Chapter One: “I am content”

Gunfire seemed to track her down into blackness like a cannonade: each harsh blast drove her deeper. Concussions shocked breath and pulse and pain out of her until only silent cries remained. She had abandoned her son to bloodshed. She tried and tried to shout his name, strove to twist her body so that she might shield him from the rush of death; but she only plunged farther into the dark.

She had sworn that she would protect Joan with her life. And she had promised that she would allow no harm to touch Jeremiah. This was how she kept her vows.

She was dying; was already close to death. Lytton’s deputies had granted Roger the outcome he most desired.

Nevertheless she felt no pain. She knew only the force which had struck her to the stone, and which struck her still, ceaselessly, impelling her always deeper into the abyss of the Despiser’s despair.

And Jeremiah-

Blinded by blood, she had not seen him fall. He may not have been hit: the fusillade might conceivably have spared him, when he could not have warded himself. But Lord Foul did not require his death in order to snare him. Linden herself had once been taken alive in Thomas Covenant’s wake. If Roger had not relaxed his grasp on Jeremiah’s wrist-

God, let it be true that Lord Foul did not require his death!

Yet the outcome would be the same, whatever the Despiser demanded. She had failed to protect her son, failed utterly. She had not so much as witnessed his fate.

Barton Lytton had probably survived. And Sandy Eastwall might live still. Prostrate, they had sprawled below the wild gunfire. They had no part in this.

Nevertheless everything which Linden had ached to cherish and preserve had been lost. She had failed her son, the frail boy with one red racing car clutched in his good hand. No one else needs you the way he does. Dead or alive, he must believe that she had forsaken him.

Falling, she could only pray that they would not be separated; that by some miracle he would be swept after her as she had once followed Thomas Covenant, rather than being borne away by Roger’s madness. If the Despiser took Jeremiah, claimed him; possessed him-

The thought went through her like flame through the abandoned tinder of Covenant’s home; and her own fire answered it, as extravagant as lightning. Without transition she became a blaze of passion and argence. She had fallen so far from herself that Covenant’s ring responded. Its heat seemed to demand life from her when her heart had already burst; laboured its last. Hot silver knitted desperation into her tissues, her bones, and made them whole. It burned the stigma of Roger’s blood from her face.

Jeremiah.

If there had been any justice-any justice in all the world-her anguish would have undone the darkness. Such power should have been stronger than loss and time; should have allowed her to fling herself back to the desolate hollow in the woods, and to the gunfire, so that she might shield her son with her own flesh.

Did not the Land believe that white gold was the keystone of the Arch of Time? How else had Thomas Covenant defeated the Despiser, if not by sealing Time against him?

But Covenant was dead. Alone, she contained nothing which would enable her to withstand the loss of her son.

Still the sound and impact of shots receded, smothered by her measureless fall. Their violence blurred and deepened until it became a low tectonic rumble, the ancient grinding of the world’s bones. She could feel realities shift as she plunged through them, translating her away from the people and commitments to which she had dedicated herself.

And as she fell, she felt a blow strike her right temple.

Its force snatched a phosphene flare across the blackness in her eyes. The abyss into which she fell became vivid with consumed comets, bursting suns, scattered stars. She shook her head, trying to dispel them, but they did not fade. Rather they took on coherence, definition: like a cleaned lens, they resolved suddenly into vision.

She saw him sitting on the edge of the bed in which she lay: Thomas Covenant as she had known him on Haven Farm, gaunt with pain and empathy, his stricken gaze fixed on her. She saw fingers that must have been hers rise to rake their nails along the back of his right hand. Appalled, she watched herself smear her fingers in his blood and lift them to her mouth.

Her fall had carried her into the abysm of Joan’s memories. With her white gold ring, Joan now wielded her power to rip open the barrier between worlds; summoning-

Another blow reached Linden. Again she rocked with the impact, and found herself stretched out in a bed in Berenford Memorial, her arms tied to the rails. At the same time, she sat beside herself, wearing a doctor’s white coat and a plain skirt. In scorn, her external self snorted, Of course you can bear it. That’s what you do.

Compulsory as hallucinations, times and places and identities reeled through her.

She had a son, a ten-year-old boy. He gazed at her earnestly, absorbing every word, while she held his face between her hands. He goes somewhere, she told him. I know he does. She loved and loathed Roger’s features as though they were his father’s. It’s a powerful place. He matters there. He makes a difference. Everyone makes a difference. Now the face she held was Thomas Covenant’s, the man she had known and loved and betrayed. I have to go there. I have to find that place.

He met her tormented stare as if he understood her; as if he acquiesced.

If I fail, she adjured him, you’ll have to take my place.

His acceptance was another blow.

Time blurred and ran; and Linden folded to her knees. Even in death, Joan’s pain consumed her. Kneeling, she heard fanatics preach over her like Roger or Thomas Covenant hurling imprecations. You failed him. You broke your vows. You abandoned him when he needed you most.

The preachers might have been Jeremiah.

Her knees hurt as if she had dropped to the hard floor from a great height. The figure before her had become Roger again, impossibly tall and cruel. Behind him rose a gleaming brass cross. Within each of its arms hung a bitter eye like a fang suspended in fire. Gothic letters on a banner beyond the cross announced like a shout:

The COMMUNITY of RETRIBUTION

You are worthless. Broken. Empty of faith. Without value to God or man or Satan. Unworthy even of damnation.

Joan! she cried into the grinding silence. Dear God. Is that what they told you?

You must expiate, her son retorted. Sacrifice. But you are worthless. You have nothing to sacrifice that God or man or Satan would want. The sacrifice must have some value. Otherwise it counts for nothing.

Is that what they told you?

Only the man you betrayed can expiate for you.

Righteous and enraged, Thomas Covenant turned his back on her.

She was Joan, trapped in Joan’s torment. As Roger and Lord Foul must have intended, she reached out with power and pain to draw others after her. But she was also herself, Linden Avery, and she had felt the touch of Covenant’s ring. Reborn resources strove for definition within her: the health-sense, the spiritual discernment, which she had known in the Land. Tentative and fragile, her former ability to see opened itself to the abyss and denunciation, to the excoriation of soul which tortured Joan-

– and felt a Raver.

She knew it instantly, recognised its evil. Its craving for destruction was familiar to her. It called itself turiya: it was known as Herem.

The bare memory of its hunger hurt.

It had no face, no hands, no flesh, it was a black soul, the ancient foe and ravager of the great forest that had once thrived in the Land. Its presence was suppuration and horror, the old screaming of trees.

In Revelstone, one of turiya’s brothers, samadhi Sheol, had touched her. You have been especially chosen for this desecration, it had told her, glad of her terror. You are being forged as iron is forged to achieve the ruin of the Earth. Through eyes and ears and touch, you are made to be what the Despiser requires.

Then samadhi Raver had withdrawn. But that had been enough. Appalled, she had fallen so far into the knowledge of evil that she knew only despair; desired only death. To herself she had appeared as ruined as the wasteland which the Ravers coveted; lost in her own crimes.

Now a Raver had taken hold of Joan. Perhaps it had lived in her for years. Certainly it filled her now, feeding on her madness, consuming her with its voracious malevolence.

And it possessed Joan’s ring. Turiya Herem could wield wild magic in the service of the Despiser. Coerced by the Raver, Joan had summoned others after her. Roger. Linden herself.

And Jeremiah-?

The woman she had once been would have quailed and fled.

But that Linden Avery was gone, unmade by Covenant’s love and the Land’s need. So many of the people who had opened their hearts to her had surpassed her: Sunder and Hollian, Pitchwife and the First, Honninscrave and Seadreamer. Covenant himself had gone to glory in the Land’s name; had defeated Lord Foul and passed beyond her. Nevertheless they had all helped her to become who she was now: not the frangible woman who had fled within herself from her own darkness, but rather the healer who had raised wild magic and the Staff of Law against the Sunbane.

In the abyss between worlds, Thomas Covenant or his son had just told her, Only the man you betrayed can expiate for you. Now he turned from her in contempt.

She stared after him with conflagration in her eyes.

She would not accept his denunciation. Joan had betrayed only her own heart. Fear had undermined her until she became too frail to stand: fear for herself, and for her infant son. A stronger woman might have made a different choice. But no one couId condemn her for what she had done. No one had the right.

Joan herself did not have the right.

Inspired by passion and flame, Linden refused to endure it.

With fire she dismissed Joan’s self-loathing. With white power she swept her own pain aside. The ring burned between her breasts as she shocked the dark with argence. As if wild magic were words, she shouted a blaze of defiance into the void of Lord Foul’s malice.

Thomas Covenant-the real Covenant, not the tormentor in Joan’s mind-had taught Linden that no contempt or cruelty or hurt could defeat her if she did not choose to be defeated. The Despiser might assail and savage her as a predator attacked prey, but he could not deprive her of herself. Only her own weaknesses could wreak so much harm.

That she believed utterly.

Jolted by her sudden strength, reality veered again: a nauseating reel like the plunge of heavy seas. She seemed to tumble as if she had been snared by breakers until she came down hard on a flash of vision like a shingled beach.

For the second time in her life, she stood with Covenant and the rest of their companions in the depths of the isle where the One Tree spread its limbs. There Seadreamer suffered and perished; and Vain met salvific harm; and her other companions came near to death. But this time-

Oh, this time it was not Covenant who raved with white fire, disturbing the Worm of the World’s End in its slumbers, threatening to rouse the destruction of the Earth. Now it was Linden herself. In her hands she held more power than she could comprehend or control; and with it she lashed out in a frenzy of desperation, seeking to reclaim her son, and achieving only cataclysm.

Unchecked, her needs goaded the Worm to wakefulness. It lifted its vast head, seeking havoc. For a moment as terrible as eternity, it looked into her eyes with recognition.

No! she cried in protest. No! This was more of Joan’s madness; more of Lord Foul’s malice. But it was not: it was prophecy. She had regained her health-sense and knew the truth.

If she did not quail and flee, this augury could come to pass. With Covenant’s ring, she might indeed be capable of rousing the Worm.

Nevertheless she did not falter. Her fury held. She had lost her son, and would dare any devastation to win him back. In her scales, he outweighed the life of worlds. If Lord Foul believed that she could be daunted-

Abruptly reality veered again, flinging her from vision to vision. For a moment, she ambled through a chaos of outcomes: moments of outrage and stark evil; instances of slaughter and betrayal, the cruel scything of death. Then she staggered to a halt.

Now she stood on a bluff overlooking a plain of rich life and ineffable loveliness. The ground below her undulated among hills and woodlands; luxuriant greenswards; streams delicate as crystal, cleansing as sunlight. Here and there, majestic Gilden trees lifted their boughs to the flawless sky, and vast oaks shed beneficent shade. Birds like reified song soared overhead while small animals and deer gambolled alertly among the woods. With her enhanced discernment, Linden beheld the vibrant health of the plain, its apt fecundity and kindliness. She might have been gazing down at Andelain, the essential treasure of the Land, born of its most necessary beauty; the incarnation of everything which she had striven to attain when she had fashioned the new Staff of Law.

This, too, felt like a form of prophecy.

As she drank in the gentle grandeur below her, however, a spot of wrongness like a chancre appeared amid the grasses. It was not large-not at first-but its intensity multiplied moment by moment as she studied it in dismay. Soon it seemed as bright as a glimpse into a furnace, incandescent, malefic, and brutally hot. And from it writhed forth a fiery beast like a serpent of magma; an avatar of lava with the insidious, squirming length of a snake and the massive jaws of a kraken. While she watched, appalled, the monster began to devour its surroundings as if earth and grass and trees were the flesh on which it fed.

And around it other chancres appeared. They, too, gathered intensity until they gave birth to more monsters which also feasted on the plain, consuming its loveliness in horrifying chunks. A handful of the creatures would destroy the entire vista in a matter of hours. But more of them clawed ravening from the earth, and still more, as calamitous as the Sunbane. Soon every blade and leaf of life would be gone. If the beasts were not stopped, they might eat through the world.

Then her vision fell to darkness like the closing of an eye. And she fell with it, blind and dismayed; full of woe. If this were death, then she could only believe that she was being translated, not to the Land, but to Hell.

But instead of the shrieks of the damned she heard a voice she knew.

It was fathomless and resonant, as vast as the abyss: her fall itself might have been speaking. And it brought with it a sweet and cloying reek, a stench like attar, as vile as putrefaction.

“It is enough,” Lord Foul said softly. “I am content.” His tone wrapped around her caressingly, like the oil of cerements and death. “She will work my will, and I will be freed at last.”

He may have been speaking to Joan. Or to turiya Herem.

Then the shock of her power rebounded against her, and she was flung away as if in rejection; as if the abyss itself sought to vomit her out.

For a moment longer, she could hear the Despiser. As his voice receded, he said, “Tell her that I have her son.”

She would have wailed then: the pain would have sundered her. Now, however, she tumbled headlong through the tectonic groan of shifting realities; and she could draw no breath with which to cry out. Percipience came to her in scraps and tatters, granting her glimpses of emptiness: the unspeakable beauty of the spaces between the stars. The passion of Covenant’s ring faded from her, quenched by the sheer scale of what might suffer and die.

Only the loss of her son remained.

Jeremiah-

It might be better for him if he had been slain.

Later she no longer tumbled, although she was unaware that anything had changed. She did not notice the smooth cool stone under her face and chest, or the high, thin touch of open air. Tell her that I have her son. At their fringes, her senses tasted the immense expanse of the sky; but the Despiser had taken Jeremiah, and nothing else conveyed any meaning.

No one else needs you the way he does.

Yet the old stone insisted against her face. Her hands at her sides felt its ancient, flawed strength. The danger of another fatal plunge tugged at her nerves. Along her back the breeze whispered of distant horizons and striding crests of upraised, illimitable rock.

Where was Thomas Covenant, now that her need for him had grown so vast? She was no match for the Despiser. Without Covenant, she would never win back her son.

She remembered Sheol’s touch. At its behest, she had fled from consciousness and responsibility. But she was no longer that woman: she could not flee now. Jeremiah needed her. He required her absolutely.

Covenant was gone. She lacked the strength to stand in his place.

Nevertheless.

Finally she noticed that Roger’s blood was gone from her face. It had clogged her nostrils, blinded her eyes: she could still taste its coppery sickness in her mouth. Yet it no longer stained her skin.

Despite the bullet wound in her chest-the death she could not feel-she lifted her head and drew up her hands to confirm that she had been burned clean.

When she opened her eyes, she found herself on stone in deep sunlight. Finished granite formed a circle around her, enclosed by a low parapet. She was alone.

Tell her that I have her son.

Once more she cried Jeremiah’s name. For a moment, the sound echoed back to her, vacant and forlorn under the wide sky. Then it vanished into the sunlight and left no trace.

Chapter Two: Caesure

At first Linden could not move. Her cry had taken the last of her strength. Haunted by echoes, she folded her arms on the stone and lowered her head to rest.

She knew where she was. Oh, she knew. Her brief look around had confirmed it. She had been here once before, ten years and a lifetime ago. This stone circle with its parapet was Kevin’s Watch, a platform carved into the pinnacle of a leaning stone spire high above the line of hills which divided the South Plains from the Plains of Ra.

How much time had passed since her first appearance here? She knew from experience that months in the Land were mere hours in her natural world: centuries were months. And Thomas Covenant had told her that between his imposed translations the Land had undergone three and a half millennia of transformation.

If a comparable interval had passed again, the healing which she had begun should have worked its way into every stretch of rock and blade of grass, every vein of leaf and truck of tree, from the Westron Mountains to Landsdrop and beyond.

But thirty centuries and more were also time enough for Lord Foul to restore himself, and to devise a new corruption of this precious, vulnerable place.

She would have to search for her son in a country that had almost certainly changed beyond recognition.

According to Covenant, the Land had once been a region of health and beauty, rich in vitality. In those days, the natural puissance of the world had flowed close to the surface here; and the Land’s inward loveliness had been tangible to everyone who gazed upon it. But the Sunbane had tainted that elemental grace; had twisted it to desert and rain, pestilence and fertility. As a result, Linden had only grasped the true worth of the

Land when she had at last visited Andelain.

There, in the final bastion of Law against the Sunbane, she had seen and felt and tasted the real wealth of Earthpower, the anodyne and solace of the Land’s essential largesse. Her preternatural discernment had made its health and abundance palpable to her senses.

Inspired by Andelain and Covenant, she had striven with all her love and compassion to remake the Land as it had been before Lord Foul had launched his attack on its nature.

Three and a half millennia? Time enough, and more than enough, for everything which she and Covenant had accomplished to change, or be forgotten.

And the prophetic figure who should have warned her of her peril had given her nothing. He had denied her any chance to protect her son.

Dear God, how bad was it this time? What had Lord Foul done?

What was he doing to Jeremiah right now?

That thought stung her; galvanised her.

In her own world, she was dead, or dying. Her life there was gone, stamped out by a leaden slug. She had failed all of her promises.

Here, however, she remained somehow among the living, just as Covenant had remained after his murder in the woods behind Haven Farm. And while she retained any vestige of herself, only Jeremiah mattered to her.

Tell her that I have her son.

He, too, had survived: here at least, if not in his former existence.

As long as she could still breathe and think and strive, she would not, would not, allow the Despiser to keep him.

Yet she did not leap to her feet. Already she knew that any attempt to rescue Jeremiah might well require months. She could not simply descend from Kevin’s Watch and step to his side. The place where Lord Foul had secreted her son could be hundreds of leagues distant. Hell, she might need days simply to gain an understanding of her own circumstances-and the Land’s.

She had seen herself rouse the Worm of the World’s End. She had witnessed monstrous creatures devouring the ground as though they fed on life and Earthpower.

And this time she was alone. Entirely alone. She did not even know whether the village of Mithil Stonedown, where she and Covenant had found Sunder to aid them, still existed. She had no supplies or maps; no means of travel except her untrained legs.

All she had was power: Covenant’s white gold ring, wild magic that destroys peace. Enough power to crumble Time and set the Despiser free, if she could learn how to use it.

Lord Foul had prepared her well to understand despair.

Nevertheless her alarm for Jeremiah had restored her to herself; and she recognised that she had one other resource as well. During her fall from her own life, she had tasted her former health-sense. Now she felt it fully: it sang in her nerves, as discerning and keen as augury. It told her of the cleanliness of the sunshine; of its untrammeled, life-giving warmth. It described to her senses the high purity of the air and the breeze, the sky, the heavens. It made her aware of the bold reach of the mountains behind her, ancient and enduring, although she had not glanced toward them.

And it warned her-

Involuntarily she flinched; jerked herself onto the support of her hands and knees. Had she misunderstood the sensation? No, it was there, in the stone: a suggestion of weakness, of frailty; a visceral tremor among the old bones of the spire. The platform did not literally move or quiver. Still the message was unmistakable.

Something threatened Kevin’s Watch. It had been strained to the breaking point. Any new stress might cause it to collapse-

– dropping her a thousand feet and more to the hard hills.

Panic flared briefly through her, and she nearly sprang erect. But then her percipience gained clarity, and she saw that the danger was not imminent. She could not imagine what manner of force had done the Watch so much harm, when it had withstood every assault of weather, earthquake, and magic since at least the time of High Lord Kevin Landwaster, a thousand years before Covenant’s first appearance here. However, no such power impinged upon it now.

Kevin’s Watch would stand awhile longer.

Breathing deeply, Linden Avery closed her eyes and at last turned her discernment on herself.

She had been shot. She had felt the shock in her chest, the irreversible rupture that had severed her link to the life that she had chosen for herself.

Yet she was not in pain now. Probing gingerly inward, her reborn senses descried no damage. Her heart beat too rapidly, spurred by Jeremiah’s plight and her own fear; but it remained whole. Her lungs sucked in the clean air without difficulty, and her ribs flexed with each breath, as if they had not been touched by frantic lead.

Anxiously she opened her eyes and looked down at her shirt.

A neat round hole had been punched through the red flannel directly below her sternum. Yet the fabric at the rim of the hole showed no blood. Even that sign that she had been slain had been burned away.

When she unbuttoned her shirt, however, to study the skin between her breasts, she found a round white scar in the V where her ribs came together. Covenant’s ring hung on its thin chain only an inch or two above the newly healed flesh.

Undoubtedly there was another scar in the centre of her back, a larger and more ragged wound, impossibly repaired. And her palm had been made whole as well.

Moments or hours ago, in the darkness of Joan’s mind, she had felt power flare through her; the argence of white gold. Had she healed herself? Covenant had once done something similar. He had borne the scar of a knife throughout his remaining time in the Land.

Such healing violated every precept of her medical training. Nevertheless it was natural here. Wild magic and Earthpower worked such wonders. She had experienced them at Covenant’s side too often to doubt them.

Still her former life was gone; irretrievable. She would never see Berenford Memorial again, or her patients, or her friends. She would never know whether Sandy and Sheriff Lytton had survived-

But she could not afford such griefs. Lord Foul had taken Jeremiah. She had lost something more precious to her than her own life.

Her healed scars gave her courage. When she had rebuttoned her shirt, she climbed slowly upright.

She knew what she would see; and at first the scene which greeted her was just as she remembered it. The circle of stone and its parapet had been smoothed from the native granite of the mountains; and its spire leaned northward, toward Andelain. The sun, nearly overhead and slightly to her left in the southern expanse of the sky, suggested that she had arrived in late morning, despite the violent darkness which she had left behind. Confirming her other senses, the light showed her immediately that there was no flaw upon the sun; that no vestige or reminder of the Sunbane remained.

In this one way, if in no other, she resembled Thomas Covenant. She had not failed the Land.

Turning slowly with the sun’s health on her face, she saw the familiar mountains rearing up over the spire to the south. Here, she recalled, the Southron Range jutted some distance northward, forming a wedge of peaks that ended at Kevin’s Watch and the north-lying hills. From among those peaks to the west arose the Mithil River, which then flowed along a widening valley out into the South Plains. But on the other side, the mountains were more strongly fortified. They stretched east and then northeast like a curtain-wall from Kevin’s Watch to Landsdrop, separating the Plains of Ra from the distant south.

Linden had never seen or heard what lay beyond the Southron Range. East of Landsdrop, however, past Lord Foul’s former demesne in Ridjeck Thome, was the Sunbirth Sea. And as the littoral ran northward, the Spoiled Plains lapsed into Lifeswallower, the Great Swamp, which in turn eventually rose from its fens to form the verdant land of Seareach, where the Unhomed Giants had once lived.

Her head swirling with memories, she sat down in the centre of the Watch so that she would not fall again. She had already plunged too far: farther than she could measure; perhaps farther than she could endure. While her eyes scanned the crests and valleys of the mountains, and her memories gyred across the Land, she steadied herself on the stone’s stubborn endurance.

She faced there because she did not want to remember Revelstone, Lord’s Keep, three hundred leagues to the west and north: the huge granite habitation which Jeremiah had re-created in Lego in her living room; in the life she had lost.

But beyond the Keep, high in the cold-clad fastness of the Westron Mountains-so she had been told-lived the Haruchai. She thought of them more willingly, recalling their distrust of her and their fidelity to Thomas Covenant; their extravagant strength; their costly rejection of compromise.

Had they survived the uncounted centuries of her absence? Were they still a presence in the Land?

If so, she could hope for help.

And if the tale of what she and Covenant had accomplished for the Land had withstood so much time, she might find other allies as well. Covenant’s first victory against Lord Foul had survived the telling and retelling of it over a comparable stretch of centuries. In Mithil Stonedown, Sunder had cast in his lot with Covenant and Linden because his father had taught him to preserve the memory of the Unbeliever.

She needed aid of some kind. She had to trust that she would find it somehow. Otherwise she might not have the courage to creep down the long, precarious stair which descended from Kevin’s Watch. She would certainly not be brave enough to search the entire Land for her son.

Joan was out there somewhere, the summoner with her madness and her white ring. And Roger was there as well, serving his bitter master. He had to be. How else could Lord Foul have claimed Jeremiah?

At that moment, she felt Thomas Covenant’s loss so acutely that it wrung her heart. She could have borne anything, faced any peril, endured any hardship, if only he were alive to stand beside her.

Yet when she had rested awhile, she climbed to her feet again. Yearning for her dead lover was a weakness she could not afford. The Despiser had captured her son. While she lived, she would do everything in her power to win him back.

Wrapping her fingers around Covenant’s ring for comfort, she shifted toward the western side of the Watch. She wanted to look down at the valley of the Mithil River.

She had hardly taken a step, however, when she froze in surprise and dismay. Her first glance past the parapet showed her that the entire vista from horizon to horizon was shrouded in a thick layer of yellow cloud.

No, not cloud, she corrected herself almost immediately: smog. It looked like smog. The air thickened to obscurity no more than a hundred feet below her; as dense as thunderheads. But it had the hue of pollution, the stifling and damaged shade of industrial exhaust. From the mountains behind her, it stretched as far as she could see in every direction, hiding even the base of the spire. Beneath it, where her senses could not penetrate, the Land might have become a wasteland.

And it was wrong. Her eyes and nose, the nerves of her face, even her tongue, were certain of that: the shrilling of her health-sense permitted no doubt. It was as vile as the Sunbane, and as pervasive, lying like cerements over slain flesh as though the vital beauty, the very Law, which she had once given her utmost to preserve had been arrayed for burial.

I am content. God in Heaven! What had the Despiser done?

Her percipience told her only that this acrid yellow shroud was an act of violence against the fundamental Law of the Land’s nature. It could not reveal the smog’s cause, effects, or purpose.

Instinctively she retreated into the centre of the Watch; hugged her arms around her stomach to contain her distress. Now she feared the descent from Kevin’s Watch in a new way. The stair was exposed, dangerous. And it would take her into that yellow shroud. Remembering the Sunbane, she believed that the eerie smog would savage her open nerves. It might hurt her so severely that she would lose her balance-

While she squirmed in alarm, however, she heard a new sound through the gentle breeze. Its susurration was punctuated by the noise of scrambling, the frantic movement of skin on stone.

Where-? She looked around quickly; saw only the clean sky and the bluff mountains and the acrid shroud.

The sound appeared to come from the stair-from someone climbing toward her.

Because she was frightened, she dropped to the stone. Then she eased forward on her belly to peer furtively through the gap in the parapet at the top of the stair.

There she heard scrambling more clearly. Hands and feet against rock: hoarse, ragged breathing.

A few heartbeats later, a head emerged from the yellow cloud.

A tangle of rank grey hair straggled to the shoulders of a torn and filthy tunic which may once have been brown. A man: she knew that at once. An old man. His hands clutching at the treads looked gnarled and bent, almost crippled. She sensed their arthritic straining as if they ached aloud. His laboured breathing threatened to choke him.

He was mortally afraid. His ascent was an attempt at escape.

Linden’s percipience was too sharp: she felt his difficulties too acutely. She had forgotten how to manage the sensations which inundated her. Carefully she retreated to the far edge of the Watch and sat with her back against the parapet, bracing herself for the moment when he would emerge from the gap.

What could he flee by coming here? There was no escape for either of them now.

Lifting Covenant’s ring out of her shirt, she folded it in both hands as if she were Praying.

With a gasp of desperation, he heaved himself over the rim of the last stair and collapsed, panting. His legs still dangled off the Watch.

The nature of his prostration told her at once that he had lost his mental balance a long time ago; had toppled into a kind of madness. And he had not eaten for days. Hunger and sorrow had taken his mind.

He reminded her of Nassic-

When she and Covenant had arrived together in the Land, they had been greeted by Sunder’s father, Nassic, who had inherited a vague knowledge of the Unbeliever from a long line of half-mad hermits called Unfettered Ones. In spite of his confused grasp on events, he had done everything in his power to aid them.

A Raver had killed him for his trouble.

This old man might be in similar danger.

At once she set her own fears aside. Kneeling forward, she gripped him by his arms and pulled him fully onto the Watch. Then she crept to the gap and looked downward again, searching the shroud for anything that resembled turiya Herem’s malice.

Still the cloud baffled her percipience; concealed its secrets.

Come on! she urged the long fall. Try me. I am in no mood for this!

Until now, she had been helpless to save any of Roger’s victims. But Covenant’s ring had power here. She was done with helplessness.

Nothing appeared out of the shroud.

Slowly she withdrew from the gap; returned her attention to the collapsed old man.

For a moment, she studied him with her health-sense, trying to determine how close he had come to death. Now that she could observe him more precisely, however, she saw that he had not exhausted his life. In fact, he possessed an astonishing resilience, in spite of his inanition. He was sustained by-

New surprise rocked her back onto her heels.

– by Earthpower.

Automatically she rubbed at her eyes, trying to sharpen her senses.

The old man was a being of some puissance. Human, undoubtedly: old, arthritic, and frail. Nevertheless an active pulse of Earthpower throbbed in his worn veins. It made her think of Hollian, who had been brought back from death by Caer-Caveral’s sacrifice and the krill of Loric. Linden remembered her vividly as she had stood at Sunder’s side, lambent with Earthpower made tangible and lovely-and mortal. Sunder himself had shared her numinous glow. Even the child in her womb had shared it.

But neither Sunder nor Hollian had been mad.

And there was something else in the old man, another ill in addition to his arthritis and his instability. When Linden first became aware of it, she could not define it. But then he groaned, stirred, and raised his head; and she saw that he was blind.

He had a face like a broken rock, all ragged edges and rough planes, softened by an old tangle of neglected beard and a patina of ingrained grime. His mouth resembled a crack in dried mud.

And above it, his eyes were the milky colour of moonstone, devoid of iris or pupil. She thought at first that he suffered from cataracts; but when she looked more closely, she realised that his sightlessness ran deeper. His mind itself appeared to have rejected vision. In some way-perhaps by Earthpower-he had blinded himself.

With the Staff of Law she might have been able to heal him. She could certainly have eased his arthritis. But with Covenant’s ring? She had used its power on herself successfully. Yet she hardly knew how she had done so. And she had been guided by her instinctive awareness of her condition. For this tattered old man-

She had little experience with wild magic; was not even sure that she could call it up at will. And it was called wild magic for a reason: it tended always toward increase; rampant flame; chaos. After his confrontation with the Banefire, Covenant had turned his back on the use of such power. He had feared that it would tower beyond the reach of his restraint: that it would rage and grow until it shattered Time, and the Despiser was set free.

Linden’s control would not be delicate enough to help the abused figure in front of her.

If he had rejected sight, he might not want to be helped.

Nevertheless she was a physician: she wished to succour him in some way, despite the desperation of her circumstances-and, apparently, of his. Putting aside the surprise of his presence, she cleared her throat, then said cautiously, “Don’t try to move. You’re too weak-and this place isn’t exactly safe. I’m here. I’ll try to help you “

In response, he faced her with his blind eyes and broken mien. “Protect Anele.” His voice was a cracked whisper, hoarse with exhaustion, uncertain with disuse. “Protect-”

“I will,” she answered without hesitation. “I want to. I’ll do what I can. But-”

Who or what was Anele?

As if she had not spoken, he moaned, “They search for him. It pursues him. Always he is pursued. If they take him, he will not be able to escape it. His last hope. Poor Anele, who has lost his birthright and harms no one. His sacred trust-” He reached one trembling hand toward her. “Protect.”

A sound like a dusty sob escaped from his chest.

“I will” she said again, more strongly. “You aren’t alone.” She had too many questions-and he was plainly in no state to answer them. “We’re in danger here. I don’t trust this stone. And the only way down is the same way you came up. But I’m sure there’s something I can do.”

Covenant’s ring would serve her somehow.

“Power,” the old man croaked, “yes. Anele feels it. He climbed to find it.”

On his knees, he shuffled toward her, groping with his gnarled hand until he touched her arm. Then, however, his hand flinched away as if he feared to presume-or feared the sensation of contact.

“They search for him,” he offered abjectly, “but Anele tricks them. They can be tricked, a little.” Again he touched her arm, appealing to her-and flinched back. “But it is not tricked. It knows where Anele is. It pursues him. If it takes him-

“Ah!” he cried out weakly, “lost! All lost.” Another sob broke his voice. “Anele climbed high. His last trick. If it comes close, he will jump and die.”

His distress twisted Linden’s heart. “Anele,” she responded, sure now of his name, “listen to me. I’m here. I’ll do everything I can. Don’t jump.”

She had already felt too much falling.

His hand fumbled toward her and away as though he feared to believe her. “Lost,” he said again. “All lost.”

“I understand,” she told him, although she did not; could not. “I’m here. Whatever happens, you aren’t alone.”

He gaped at her blindly as if she were the one deranged, not he.

“But I need-” she began. Then, however, she hesitated. She hardly knew where to start. Even if he had been sane, she would not have known which question to ask first. She had to guess at the things he might be able to answer.

But she had spent years dealing with damaged minds. She had learned how to probe them gently. “You’re Anele?” she inquired quietly. “That’s your name?” Begin with something concrete. Unthreatening.

He nodded as if in confirmation.

“And you have enemies?” A frail old man in his condition? “What do they want?”

What was it?

His white eyes stared at her. “They seek to catch Anele. Imprison him. They are terrible, terrible everywhere. It will take him. They can be tricked. It is not tricked.”

His reply explained nothing. She tried a different approach. “Why does it pursue you? Why do they?”

“Ah!” Anele broke into a low wail. “His birthright. Sacred trust. Lost, failed. Anele failed. Everything, all lost.”

Apparently he was too badly hurt to answer in terms that she could comprehend. Perhaps her questions were too abstract; too far removed from his immediate plight.

“I understand,” she repeated, striving to calm him. “I’m here. I have power.” He had said as much himself. “Whoever they are-whatever it is-they have no idea what I can do.”

Then she remarked as though she felt no threat herself, “It pursues you. Is it close?”

“Yes!” he returned instantly. “Yes!” His head nodded vehemently. “Protect him. He must be protected!”

“Anele!” Linden spoke more sternly. “I’m here.” Perhaps severity would pierce his confusion. “I know you need protection. I want to help you. But I need to know. How close is it? Where is it?”

Without warning, Anele sprang to his feet. His blind eyes remained fixed on her, but his left arm gestured wildly behind him, indicating some portion of the shrouded cliff-face.

“There!”

“Now?” she asked in disbelief. Her senses had detected nothing. “It’s there now?”

“Yes!” Lifting his head, he shouted into the clear sky, “It pursues him!” Frantically he brandished his arms at the clean sunlight. Under their dirt, they looked as brittle as dry twigs. “Poor Anele. His last trick. He will jump. He must! “

Then he began to weep as if he had come to the end of himself, and even the vibrant Earthpower in his veins could no longer sustain him.

At once, Linden stood as well. “Anele!” she called softly, taking hold of his shoulders so that he would not fling himself from the Watch. “Anele! Listen to me. I’m here. I’ll protect you.”

A heartbeat later, however, a swirl of distortion against the mountains snagged in her peripheral vision: caught and tugged so hard that she almost staggered.

Still gripping one of Anele’s shoulders, she turned her head.

God in Heaven! What’s that?

Standing, had lifted her high enough to see the thing Anele dreaded.

The sight of it seemed to crawl over her skin like a rush of formication. The eerie kinesthesia of her health-sense was so intense that she could hardly restrain her impulse to slap at the squirming sensation.

Hundreds of feet tall, it stood against the western edge of the blunt cliff-face: a spinning chiaroscuro of multicoloured dots like the phosphene aura of a migraine. Towering in the shape of a whirlwind, it seethed and danced hotly, each spot of colour incandescent with force, each indistinguishable from the others. Its initial impact struck Linden so hard that she could not focus on it clearly: it appeared to be superimposed on the impenetrable shroud below her, as if it swirled in a different dimension. But then her senses sharpened, and she realised that she was seeing the manifestation through the cloud. It was definitely below her, beneath the obscuring blanket.

In all the region under Kevin’s Watch, that aura was the only thing powerful enough to pierce the shroud.

And like the shroud, it was wrong. It violated her percipience in similar ways, but more acutely, as if it were the distilled essence of violation. In that swirl, fundamental Laws which enabled this world’s existence were suspended or distorted: reality seemed to flow and melt into itself like the confusion in Joan’s mind. Any living thing swallowed by it might be torn apart.

And it was moving; advancing along the cliff-face toward the Watch. Soon it would be near enough to touch the spire.

Moaning in distress, Anele wrenched at Linden’s grasp. Now she understood his reaction. She might leap from Kevin’s Watch herself, if that aura came near her.

“Release Anele!” he panted urgently. “It pursues him! He must escape!”

His alarm helped her to step back from her own. Pursues him? she thought fiercely. Not damn likely. His madness misled him. That fatal aura had no interest in him. It had no interests at all; no consciousness and no volition. Her senses were certain. It resembled a force of nature hideously perverted: blind, insentient, and entirely destructive.

Yet it continued to advance on the Watch, drawing closer with every beat of her heart.

“Anele, no!” she called with as much authority as she could summon. “Don’t!” Deliberately she turned her back on the aura so that she could hold him more tightly. “I said I’ll protect you. I can’t do that if you jump.”

His white, staring eyes glistened as if they were sweating in terror.

Why did he think that the mad distortion wanted him?

But she could not phrase her questions in words that he would be able to answer. With the whirlwind approaching at her back, she could hardly think. And it moved nearer at every moment. Clutching Anele, she abandoned her confusion and reached instead for the memory of her fall to this place. The memory of wild magic.

Under her boots, the stone seemed to shiver in anticipation or dread.

Linden had healed her wounds somehow. Yet wild magic was not inherently apt for healing. Its impulse toward rampage limited its ordinary, mortal uses. She did not know whether she could oppose the aura with white gold. She was not even sure that she could muster its fire consciously.

But she did not doubt that both she and Anele would die if the seething swirl touched them.

Moment by moment, the aura advanced. At the same time, the shivering of the stone mounted; became insistent. Earlier she had felt a flaw in the spire, a suggestion of frangibility. Her health-sense had told her that the Watch had been damaged-

Its instability undermined her balance. Only her grim grip on Anele kept her from stumbling.

– but she had not been able to guess what form of power had done the spire such harm.

Now she knew.

The aura was not the only manifestation of its kind. Or it had existed for a long time-a very long time-roving the Land as its energies dictated. In some form, it had been here before.

Then it had left Kevin’s Watch barely standing. Even through her boots, the tremors in the stone assured her that the next touch would be the last.

The swirl would reach the base of the spire in moments.

“Anele!” she yelled frantically, “get behind me! Hold on! Don’t let go, whatever happens. We’re going down!”

With all her strength, she wrenched him aside so that she stood between him and the danger.

Obedient to her desperate command, he flung his arms around her neck, caught her in a hug of panic. When he shoved the side of his head against hers, his gasping sounded like a death rattle in her ear.

Seething viciously, the aura approached the base of the spire.

Enveloped it.

For an instant nothing happened. The stone quivered and quailed-and held.

Then a rending shriek shivered the Watch, and the ancient granite twisted to splinters like torn kindling.

Chapter Three: In the Rubble

Through a din like the destruction of the heavens, the massive spire of Kevin’s

Watch shuddered and snapped. Between one heartbeat and the next, it became rubble hopelessly poised a thousand feet above the hills.

Dust and flung detritus obscured the sun. Ponderously at first, and as poignant as augury, it sagged away from the cliff. Stone screams stunned the air as the platform on which Linden and Anele stood tilted outward.

She had time for one last cry; barely heard Anele’s lorn wail. Then the weight of so much granite took hold, and the ruined Watch collapsed like a cataract.

With Anele clutching her neck, Linden fell down the sky, accompanied by shattered menhirs-hundreds, thousands of them-heavy enough to crush villages. As she and her burden dropped, they seemed to rebound from one tremendous shard to the next, striking One to be deflected toward another. At any instant, they might have been smashed to pulp between stones; slain long before their flesh was flung against the hard hills.

Anele’s grasp threatened to crush her larynx: she could not breathe. Already she might have broken bones. Her last outcry was the rending of Kevin’s Watch, an eternity of terror and protest compressed into one small splinter of time.

And again she was struck, as she had been struck before: her temple collided with a boulder the size of a dwelling, and the whole inside of her head-her mind and her scream and her frantic heart-turned white with pain.

White and silver.

In the plunge of her translation here, she had given no thought to wild magic; had made no attempt to call it forth. Instead, beneath or beyond consciousness, she had reached out instinctively for her own strength. But this time she had already begun groping toward Covenant’s ring when the stark wrong of the aura had overwhelmed the spire’s ancient intransigence.

While the cruel bulk of stones swept her downward, and helpless collisions battered her bones, Linden Avery became a detonation of argent fire.

In the imponderable gap between instants, she felt that she had dropped into the core of a sun. Its glare appeared to catch and seethe in the earth’s yellow shroud, lighting the obscurity to its horizons like a lightning strike.

Then rampant flame bore her away, and she vanished into a whiteness like the pure grief of stars.

Stars, she had heard, were the bright children of the world’s birth, the glad offspring of the Creator, trapped inadvertently in the heavens by the same binding that had imprisoned the Despiser. They could only be set free, restored to their infinite home, by the severing of Time. Hence their crystalline keening: they mourned for the lost grandeur of eternity.

And wild magic was the keystone of Time, the pivot, the crux. Bound by Law, and yet illimitable, it both sustained and threatened the processes which made existence possible, for without causality and sequence there could be no life; no creation; no beauty.

No evil.

Joan held a white gold ring.

Lord Foul had taken Jeremiah.

Although she had failed at everything else, Linden took hold of Covenant’s power and with it transcended the necessary strictures of gravity and mass, of falling and mortal frailty. Bearing Anele clasped at her neck, she became the centre of a fire which emblazoned the sky. Not knowing what she did, guided only by instinct and passion, she briefly set aside the bonds of life.

For a time which she could not have measured or understood, she passed among the sorrows of the stars, and wept with them, and felt no other hurt.

Eventually, however, the stars drew nearer until they became the pressure of the sun against her eyelids. Warmth soothed her battered face while constellations danced into dazzles across her vision. A vast silence seemed to cover her-a silence given depth and definition by the delicate soughing of the breeze, and by the distant call of birds. Under her, cool edges of rock punctuated the encompassing warmth.

A deep lassitude held her, as if she had expended all her strength and could have slept where she lay.

Every breath hurt her chest. She felt beaten from head to foot: a woman caught in a profound wreck, and surrounded by devastation. Yet she could breathe. As far as she knew, she had been merely bruised, not broken. The air tasted of dust and torn earth, and soon it would make her cough; but for now she responded only to its sweetness.

The stone beneath her seemed recently damaged. Faintly she tasted its granite pain, the raw hurt of new wounds. If she could have slowed her perceptions to the pace of its ineffable pulse, she might have been able to hear it groaning.

Somehow she had landed atop the fragments of the Watch rather than under them. And she had survived the impact. Falling so far, she had come down gently enough to live.

Wild magic again.

But where was Anele? She had lost him while she fell. His arms were no longer around her neck.

At the thought, she inhaled sharply, and immediately began coughing. Tears welled in her eyes to wash away grit and dirt. When the pressure in her chest eased, she found that she could blink her sight clear and look around for the old man.

Damn it, she had to be able to save somebody.

She lay amid a chaos of shattered stone. Apparently the collapse of Kevin’s Watch had struck a hillside and spread itself down into a low valley, burying grass, shrubs, and trees under mounds and monoliths of granite. Hillcrests softened by verdure constricted her horizons on all sides. In the direction of her feet, the vale wandered away toward more hills.

Above her, a new scar marked the cliff-face where Kevin’s Watch had clung for all its millennia. The sun hung almost directly over the mountains, suggesting that she had not been unconscious long. Yet the dire swirling which had caused the fall of the spire was gone. It had dissipated or moved on.

Still, enough time had passed for the heavy debris of the Watch to settle, and for most of the dust to drift away. And the birds had apparently forgotten the event. Already they had resumed their piping soars and flits among the hills.

After a moment, she realised that the tumbling stone must have been seen or heard by everyone who lived in the vicinity. Simple curiosity might bring them out to look at the wreckage. The help she needed might be on its way to her.

Or Anele’s enemies might come-

In spite of the intervening shock, she remembered his fears. He had been right to fear that aura of wrongness. He might be right to fear them as well.

Were there truly people in the Land now who meant harm to crazy old men?

She needed to find him.

If she could move-

Groaning and wincing, she shifted her arms in an attempt to prop herself up. But her limbs were as weak as an infant’s: she could hardly move them. And when after a while she succeeded, the effort left her gasping. Although her bones were apparently intact, she felt as broken as the stone.

Sitting, she rested. Unaware at first of what she did, she gazed dully at her hands as though she wondered what had become of them. They seemed strange to her; pallid with powdered stone. Dumbly she stared at them, trying to determine how they had changed.

How had they grown so frail?

They were caked in dust, but the blood which had marred her right palm was gone. Like her other wounds, the cut she had inflicted on herself had been healed. Even the blood had been scoured away. Still the sight of her hands disturbed her. Something was wrong with them.

She was too tired to think.

She had lost Anele.

Surely he was around here somewhere? She had saved herself. Surely she had done the same for him?

Vaguely she lifted her eyes to the cerulean expanse of the sky. Northward only the crests of the hills defined the horizon, their slopes blurred by trees and brush. Behind her, however, mountains lambent with sunlight piled into the heavens. The more distant peaks held snow.

When she glanced back down at her cut palm, she realised that she could not discern whether it had healed cleanly. She could not tell whether the nerves were whole, or the tendons. If blood flowed in the veins, it lay beneath the reach of her perceptions.

From the Watch, she had not been able to see the ground. The whole region had been covered by a smog of wrongness. Now nothing obscured her view in any direction. Yet the sun shining down on her had lost its impression of beatitude. It might have been any sun in any world.

Suddenly frightened, she dropped her hands to the stone edges under her, probed their rough planes with her fingers-and felt only cool stone, superficial and crude; mute; lifeless.

The Land’s yellow cerements had vanished-

– taking her health-sense with them. She had lost her sensitivity to the Land’s rich vitality and substance. A remnant of her percipience had endured after she had regained consciousness: now it was gone.

Goaded by new fears, she forced herself to her feet, standing awkwardly on the broken stones so that she could search for Anele.

The rubble covered the hillside where it had fallen. Above her, massive fragments of granite balanced precariously on other stones of all sizes. She had not felt Anele slip away. For all she knew, wild magic had burned out his life. Or he might have been crushed under the jagged menhirs around her.

He was all she had.

But then, ten or fifteen paces above her on the slope, she spotted a hand clutching at the stone as if it groped for help.

Without her health-sense, she could only see its surface; could discern nothing about the body to which it belonged. Yet it moved. The fingers searched feebly at the rocks.

In a rush, Linden scrambled toward it.

She was weak, and haste made her careless. She slipped repeatedly on the treacherous rubble, fell; caught herself and climbed again, panting with urgency. Without her boots and jeans, she would have scraped her legs raw; but she took no notice.

When she reached the stone where the hand clutched, she found Anele among the wreckage behind it.

He lay on his back, blind eyes staring whitely upward. With both hands he clawed vaguely at the granite as if he sought to dig his way out of a grave. His breath laboured painfully through his filthy beard.

“Anele,” she gasped thinly. Bending over him, she tried to force her senses into him; tried to see beyond the surface of his seamed, unwashed skin. But of the madness and Earthpower which had defined him earlier she caught no glimpse. He was closed to her now.

Oh, God. She did not understand.

A moment of sharp grief overtook her, and her vision blurred as she mourned the loss of her health-sense. For her, the beauty had gone out of the world. And she had tasted it so briefly-

During her previous time in the Land, percipience had exposed her to evils against which she had no armour and no weapons. The Sunbane and samadhi Raver had nearly shattered her spirit. Nevertheless she had learned to treasure such discernment. It had shed light into beauty as well as evil. It had enabled her to understand why Covenant loved the Land. It had taught her to view healing in a new way, less as a repudiation of death and more as an affirmation of life. And it had given her purpose, a reason to continue striving when her burdens, and Covenant’s, and the Land’s, seemed more than she could bear.

A Raver had told her, You are being forged as iron is forged to achieve the ruin of the Earth. You have been chosen, Linden Avery, because you can see. But Lord Foul had misjudged her. Because she could see, she had learned to loathe and oppose him. In the end, her health-sense had made her effective against the Sunbane.

She had lived without it for ten years now, but she treasured it still. For a while, the loss of it rent her heart.

However, she had no time for grief. The hole in her shirt and the scar on her chest changed nothing. She needed answers; understanding. And she hungered for companionship. Therefore she needed Anele.

She repeated his name more strongly. “Can you hear me? Are you all right?”

He jerked as though she had slapped him. “You!” For a moment he rubbed at his eyes as if he wanted to force his blindness aside. Then he rolled over and lurched upright. “You are here.” Coughing at the dust in his throat, he leaned against the boulder behind which he had lain, braced his feet on a canted shelf of stone. “I did not delude myself. You have saved me.”

Before she could respond, he fumbled toward her. Instinctively she reached out to help him. One of his hands found her arm, gripped it hard. With the other, he reached up to explore her face as if he thought that he might recognise her by touch.

In spite of herself, Linden flinched. But the old man held her.

“The Law of Death was broken,” he murmured, apparently speaking to himself while his fingertips traced her expression, “long ago.” He held his head cocked to one side, considering her eyelessly. “The Law of Life was sundered in Andelain. Such things are possible.”

She stared at him, baffled at first by the change in his manner. The angle of his head suggested a derangement of some kind. Yet his madness had apparently passed with the smog. He sounded sane now, in possession of himself.

Capable of answers.

“I’m Linden,” she told him at once. “Linden Avery. I just got here. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of me. I don’t know what’s going on. But I-”

Abruptly he dropped his hand. With one trembling finger, he pointed at Covenant’s ring hanging outside her shirt.

“And you have power. That is well. You will have need of it.”

His words disturbed her as if they had been pronounced by an oracle. He had become strangely knowledgeable since the collapse of the Watch. She did not know how to approach him.

“I was worried,” she responded awkwardly as she slipped the ring back under her shirt. “You disappeared while we were falling. I was afraid you were dead.”

He cocked his head farther. “I feared you. You might have been-” He shuddered; and with his free hand he rubbed the top of his head roughly. “The folk of this region are kindly toward me. Kevin’s Dirt blinds them, and they cannot see me. Upon occasion they grant me food and shelter. But they are not blinded. If any Master came upon me, I would be taken and doomed. Therefore I did not seek you out.”

Cautious with him, Linden did not ask him to explain who they were. That question could wait. First she needed to know more about his mental state; his apparent recovery. Gently she inquired, “‘Kevin’s Dirt’? What’s that?”

In spite of her care, he winced. Suddenly impatient, he demanded, “You have beheld it, have you not? From the Watch? An evil which concealed all the Land? That is Kevin’s Dirt.”

“Yes, of course,” she replied, confused. “A dirty yellow cloud, like smog. But it’s gone now.”

Anele snorted. “It is not. You are merely blind.”

Floundering, she said, “I don’t understand.”

With a jerk, he cocked his head over to the other side. “Do you behold me now? Do you discern what I am?”

“Of course-” she began, then stopped herself. “Not the way I did,” she admitted. There the distortion of his mind, and the Earthpower in his veins, had been plain to her. Now she could not detect them.

“You are blind,” he repeated scornfully. “Kevin’s Dirt blinds you. On the Watch you stood above it. It could not affect you. Now-” He smacked his lips as if in disdain or regret. “You are unaware of it because it blinds you. You do not see me. Only the Masters-”

Abruptly he tightened his grip on her forearm. Without transition, his manner became fearful. “Do they come?” he whispered. “I have no sight, and their stealth exceeds my hearing.”

Although he could not watch her, Linden made a show of looking around the hillsides, studying the slope of rubble. “I don’t see anyone. We’re alone, at least for now.”

Anele clutched at her with both hands. “They will come.” His voice shook. “You must protect me.”

That was the opening she needed. Taking him by the shoulders, she held him firmly. “I will. I’ve already promised that. And I’ve kept you alive so far. No one will hurt you, or trap you, while I can do anything about it.”

Slowly his features relaxed. “From the breaking of the Watch,” he responded softly, “yes. With power. Such things are possible.” He released a low sigh. “I have failed my power. It was given into my hands, but I have betrayed that trust.”

His Earthpower? Linden wondered obliquely. Had “Kevin’s Dirt” deprived him of his nature, as it had blinded her health-sense? Or did he refer to something else?

But she did not pursue such questions. Instead she broached her own needs. “That’s right,” she began. “I saved you. Now you can help me.

“Anele, I’m a stranger. I was here once before, but that was a very long time ago. Now everything has changed.” She appealed to him as she had so often appealed to her patients, asking them for hints to guide their treatment. “You have to understand that I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know anything about Kevin’s Dirt, or Masters, or that sick aura-”

“The caesure,” he offered helpfully. If his eyes had been whole, they might have been as bright as a bird’s.

Linden nodded. “All right, that caesure. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what it does,” except cause harm and dread. “I can’t even imagine what Lord Foul is trying to accomplish-”

At the Despiser’s name, Anele winced again. Shrugging her hands away, he crouched against the stone. His head turned fearfully from side to side: he might have been trying to locate a threat.

“The Grey Slayer,” he breathed. “Maker of Desecration. He seeks to destroy me. He sends his caesures to achieve ruin. Kevin’s Dirt blinds the Land. The Masters name him their foe, yet they serve him and know it not.”

“Anele.” Linden stooped to his side, sure now that he was still mad. “I said I would protect you,” She did not believe for a moment that the Despiser’s caesures were aimed at him. “You know how powerful I am.”

Carefully she touched him again, stroked his shoulder, hoping to convince his nerves, if not his faulty mind, that he was safe with her.

“But Lord Foul has taken my son. My son, Anele.” This old man had once been someone’s son, cherished as she cherished Jeremiah. If he could remember- “I have to get him back.”

For Jeremiah’s sake, she risked saying, “That means I have to find the Despiser.”

Anele did not respond. She could not be sure that he had understood her. Nevertheless some of the tension in his shoulder eased.

“I don’t know how to do that.” She took a deep breath and held it for a moment to steady herself. “I have a white gold ring. I have power. But I can’t help my son if I don’t know where Lord Foul is. I can’t even imagine where to look.

“Anele, I need answers. I need you to answer my questions.”

Still the old man did not speak. However, he appeared to be considering her words. She fell silent herself, trusting her hand on his shoulder to communicate what she could not.

After a while, he shifted so that he could sit with his back to the stone. His scrawny legs sprawled pitifully in front of him. His feet were twisted and scarred, gnarled with old injuries and calluses. He must have lived without the benefit of sandals for many long years.

At last he said, “You have a son.” His voice was a forlorn sigh, filled with decades of bereavement and suffering. “His birthright has been torn from him. Mine I have lost. I am not worthy of protection. I live only because I am the Land’s last hope.

“Ask your questions. I will attempt to answer.”

Oh, Anele. His reply caught at Linden’s heart. The last hope? Was that possible?

What had happened to him? How had he been so badly damaged?

Still striving for caution, she asked in a musing tone, “‘Kevin’s Dirt.’ Why is it called that?”

He leaned his head to the other side and looked around, apparently searching for an explanation. “These stones do not know,” he replied gruffly. “Kevin Landwaster they know, the last of the Old Lords. The Ritual of Desecration is written within them. But Kevin’s Dirt is a human name. It is too recent to be discerned here.”

Linden did not understand. She was too tired; and the mounting ache of her many bruises confused her. She, too, had known the High Lord. Kevin’s shade had accosted her in Andelain, trying to persuade her to turn against Thomas Covenant. The dead Lord had believed that Covenant’s intentions would damn the Land.

His tormented spirit had been difficult to refuse. He was familiar with despair; as familiar as Linden herself. Yet in the end she had set her doubts aside to join Covenant against the Despiser.

Kevin’s Dirt. It was not a good omen that Lord Foul’s blinding shroud had been named for the man who had helped perform the Ritual of Desecration.

While Linden tried to comprehend Anele’s response, the old man continued to study the shattered rocks blindly. After a while, he asked, “Are you content? I must not remain here. They will discover me.”

She made an attempt to go on. “How long-” But her throat closed, choked by auguries and dust. She had to swallow several times before she could ask, “How long has the Dirt been up there?”

Her companion shrugged. “Twenty-five score years? Fifty score? The bones of the Earth do not regard such details.”

“And these caesures? ” she pursued. “Have they been around that long?”

He shook his head. “I read nothing certainly. It appears that they have hunted the Land for perhaps five score years. No more than that, I judge.”

“And you?” Linden asked. “How old are you?”

Anele sagged as though her question diminished him. “The stones do not know.” An undercurrent of bitterness ran beneath the surface of his tone. “I also am too recent. And I cannot answer you. My recall is disturbed. Have my parents perished? Did I receive my birthright from their failing hands?” He sighed again. “I am uncertain.”

The more he spoke, the more confused he seemed.

“But you said the caesures hunt for you,” she objected. “If they’ve been around for a hundred years, they must have appeared before you were born. You aren’t that old.”

“Did I? It may be that I did” By degrees, his bitterness lapsed into mourning. “My mind wanders betimes.

“Certainly they did not threaten the Land when I was born.” His head fell further to the side as if he lacked the strength to hold it up. “Yet I cannot be so aged. I have been harried beyond endurance, lost and alone, footsore and battered and hungry to the marrow of my bones. It is not possible that I have lived so long. My flesh could not have borne it.”

Softly he finished, “The caesures do not desire me. I am scant threat to the Grey Slayer. Yet I fear them utterly. If they take me, I am doomed and damned.”

As Anele spoke, Linden’s frustration grew. He had been born before the caesures began, yet they were older? Impossible. Clearly she could not trust his apparent sanity. His mind existed in fragments dissociated from each other, and he had lost the ability to combine them into a coherent whole.

Pausing to gather her resolve, she gazed around at the rocks and hillsides. If or when someone came to investigate the collapse of Kevin’s Watch, she did not want to be taken by surprise. Then she returned her attention to Anele.

“What do they do,” she asked, “these caesures? “

“They sever,” he answered. “Dislocate. I cannot name it. Five score years is too short a time. These stones do not speak of it plainly.”

Sever? Dislocate? Vexation tugged at her restraint. With an effort, she fought it down. “The stones speak to you? You can read them?”

In spite of Kevin’s Dirt? Did his inherent Earthpower give him that discernment?

He turned to face her squarely. His white eyes regarded her like closed shutters, concealing the strange rooms of his mind. “Look about you,” he said with a touch of his former impatience. “The truth is visible here.”

Ah, visible, she groaned to herself. To him, perhaps: not to her. In crucial ways, she was as blind as her companion. And she felt so weak-She had eaten nothing for several hours; drunk nothing. And since then she had been stretched to her limits.

She only continued questioning Anele because she could not imagine where she might find food or water.

“All right,” she murmured. “You already know I can’t see whatever is in the rocks. She had never been a woman who could read stone. “Never mind that. Earlier you said the Law of Death was broken. And the Law of Life. What did you mean?”

“Only what all folk know.” His air of impatience grew as he answered: he may have felt as frustrated as she did. As if he were reciting part of a liturgy, he intoned, “High Lord Elena wrested Kevin Landwaster from beyond death. She drank the Blood of the Earth and coerced him with the Power of Command. Thus was the boundary which distinguishes the end of life made fragile. In her folly, she violated the Law of Death.”

Linden had heard such things from Thomas Covenant.

But then Anele faltered. “The Law of Life-” For a moment, he fell silent, angrily slapping the top of his head with both hands. Next he rubbed his face roughly. “Do I read or remember? Nothing is certain, nothing sure. Have I heard a tale? Do the stones remember?” His impatience vanished, engulfed in sorrow. “The fault is mine. All this”-he gestured wildly around him-”Kevin’s Dirt and caesures, the Masters and the dread fire of the skurj. All the Land’s pain. The fault is mine.”

Shaken by his distress, Linden reached out to comfort him; but he struck her hand aside.

God help me, she thought. Protect me from people who punish themselves. She had spent far too much of her own life doing the same.

Sadly she said again, “All right. Never mind. I can live without knowing that. Just tell me what the Law of Life is.”

She already knew the answer. She only wanted to keep him talking while she groped for courage.

“It is hope and cruelty,” he replied like a tocsin, “redemption and ruin. It is the boundary which distinguishes the end of death.”

She had been in Andelain when Sunder and the last Forestal had brought Hollian back to life-and with Hollian her unborn child.

Surely thousands of years had passed since that fraught night? It had nothing to do with Anele. It could not. Nor could Linden imagine that it pertained to her dilemma now.

By its very nature, the new Staff of Law that she had fashioned should have stabilised the disturbed boundaries between life and death. And its wielders-Sunder, Hollian, and their descendants-would have wished to restore the Land’s essential health. Surely their use of the Staff would have healed the strictures which separated the living from the dead long ago?

Such evils as Kevin’s Dirt and caesures should not have been able to exist in the presence of the Staff of Law. Had her efforts for the Land accomplished nothing?

Everything Anele said carried her farther and farther from sanity.

Roughly she demanded, “And you had something to do with it? It’s your `fault’?”

In response, he clutched for the sides of her face. His hands shook feverishly. “Gaze about you!” he cried. “Consider the stones!” His eyes burned as if he had gone blind with terror and abhorrence. “Do not torment me so.”

Trying to ease him, Linden softened her tone. “Does the Law of Life have anything to do with your birthright? You keep saying that you failed somehow. You lost your birthright. Do you want to recover it? Is that what you mean when you talk about hope?”

None of this made any sense.

Anele answered with an abject wail.

Then he whirled away from her to scramble over the shattered rocks, heedless of his old flesh and brittle bones. She shouted after him urgently, but he did not stop. Groping for holds and footing, he fled as swiftly as his frail strength could take him.

Again she looked around. Had he sensed some peril? But she saw nothing to alarm her. The sky and the sun hung over the quiet hills as if they could not be touched.

The old man did not flee from her. He fled because of the question she had asked.

“Anele!” she called again, “wait!” Then, groaning to herself, she started after him.

Her bruises had begun to throb, draining her endurance. Unable to move quickly, she concentrated instead on placing her feet and bracing her hands so that she did not slip or tumble. If Anele desired her protection, he would wait for her when his distress receded. And if he did notHe was her only link to the Land’s present.

When she had traversed half the rock fall, she glanced up and saw Anele standing on the rough grass of the hillside a few steps beyond the rubble. He had turned to watch her progress.

He appeared to be grinning.

Beyond doubt, he was a lunatic.

He had stopped just below a bulge in the hillside. There the ground swelled into an outcropping, as if under the soil a massive fist of gutrock had been trapped in the act of straining for release. His position provided him with cover from the east while allowing him a clear view over the rock fall to the western hills, toward Mithil Stonedown.

Had he thought of such things? Did his sanity-or his cunning-stretch so far?

Linden sorely wished that she knew.

At last, she left the broken stones behind, crossed a band of gouged dirt, and reached hardy grass. Pausing for a moment’s rest, she looked up at Anele.

The blind old man held his head oddly askew, grinning at her open-mouthed. His smile exposed the gaps between his remaining teeth.

Despite his expression, the white glare of his eyes resembled anguish.

Linden felt a pang of concern. Without hesitation, she ascended the slope until she stood no more than a pace below him.

He was not tall: his head was nearly on a level with hers as she tried to gauge his condition; discern what lay behind his mad grin and tormented stare.

“Anele,” she asked softly, “what’s wrong? Help me understand”

His grin suggested that he wanted to laugh at her. When he replied, his voice had changed gained depth and resonance so that it seemed to reach past her toward the far hillsides, warning them to beware.

Distinctly he pronounced, “I see that you are the Chosen, called Linden Avery. At one time, you were named ‘Sun-Sage’ for your power against the Sunbane. I have your son.”

Then he began to laugh as if his heart would break.

Chapter Four: Old Friends

Linden staggered backward, downhill: she nearly fell. I have your son, her son, at Lord Foul’s mercy. The eerie change in Anele’s tone echoed the Despiser s resonant malice.

It was as though-

Oh, God!

– as though Lord Foul spoke through the blind old man.

She wanted to shout back at him, repudiate him somehow; but stark silence smothered her voice. Even the birds had ceased calling, and the breeze had fallen quiet, shocked still by the hurtful sound of Anele’s voice. In an instant, the air seemed to lose its warmth: a chill crept through her clothes. The sun mocked her from its unattainable height.

Anele continued laughing in mad agony.

“That dismays you, does it not? You have cause. He lies beyond you. At my whim, I am able to command or destroy him.”

Stop! she tried to cry out, stop! but her voice choked in her throat.

Which shall I perform?” he him mused cruelly. “Would it harm you more to observe my service, or to witness his death in torment?” He laughed harder. “Wretched woman! I do not reveal my aims to such as you.”

For a moment, Linden could not breathe. Then she gasped, “Anele, stop this. Stop it.”

Anele did not comply. Insanity or Despite held him like a geas: tears streamed from his white eyes. Barking harsh laughter, he took a step toward her.

“Yet this I vow. 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. Think on that when you seek to retrieve him from me. If you discover him, you will only hasten his doom. While you are apart from him, you cannot know his sufferings. You may be certain only that he lives.”

His voice knelled in her ears. It was no wonder that the old man had lost his mind.

The woman she had once been might have covered her ears and cowered; but she was different now. In response, an abrupt torrent of rage flashed through her, and she did not doubt herself. Inspired by memories of argent, she surged back up the hillside like a rush of fire. As she caught her fists in the front of his tattered raiment, she seemed on the verge of wild magic, almost capable of erupting in flame at will.

“Foul, you sick bastard,” she hissed into Anele’s weeping face, “hear me. If you can talk through this miserable old man, I’m sure you can hear me. You’re finished. You just don’t know it yet. Whatever you do to my son, I’m going to tear your heart out.

“Your only hope”- her fury rose into a shout- “is to let him go unharmed!”

Anele struggled weakly against her grasp, but Lord Foul did not release him. His lips trembled as he jeered at her, “Fool! I have no heart. I have only darkness. For that reason, I strive to free myself.” His blindness sneered at her. “For that reason, I do not relent, though my torments are endless. For that reason, you may no longer oppose me.

“No mortal may stand in my path. I have gained white gold, and my triumph is certain.”

“Just watch me,” Linden muttered. Deliberately she stepped back, letting Anele go as her anger took another form. She was too furious to bandy threats with the Despiser. “Talk all you want.” And she did not mean to take her ire out on the old man. He was not responsible for the words in his mouth. “I’ll have more to say when I find you.”

Turning her back, she sat down on the grass and closed her eyes. Briefly her exhaustion became a blessing: she could sink into its depths and shut her ears to anything Anele might say.

I have your son. Oh, Jeremiah. Hang on. Please. I’ll get you back somehow. I swear on my soul.

I have gained white gold-

He had access to Joan’s ring. That poor aggrieved woman had been brought here. And she must have drawn Roger after her, as she had drawn Linden. Linden could not imagine that he had been left behind to die of his wounds.

– and my triumph is certain.

How many enemies did she have? she thought, aching. How many people would she have to fight in order to reach her son?

But she had more immediate concerns. She was near exhaustion and needed to concentrate on water and food. Shelter. Rest. If she turned her mind to them, such necessities would defend her against feeling overwhelmed.

The Staff of Law should have made Kevin’s Dirt impossible.

Opening her eyes, she scanned the hills. There might be a stream somewhere among them. If there were not, she should be able to reach the Mithil River. As for food-

Surely treasure-berries still throve in the Land, in spite of caesures and Kevin’s Dirt? Long ago the Sunbane had been unable to quench them: they had endured its depredations even without the beneficent influence of the original Staff. At times she and Covenant, Sunder and Hollian, had lived on aliantha alone, and had grown stronger. If the gnarled shrubs had not been destroyed somehow, they should be easy to locate now.

Groaning at her bruises, Linden forced herself to her feet.

Anele remained rooted to the grass with his head on one side and moist distress in his moonstone eyes. He still wept, although he no longer spoke. Tears spread streaks through the grime on his cheeks into his ragged beard. His mouth worked in silence, forming imprecations or appeals which made no sound.

“Come on,” she breathed to him wearily. “If you’re done threatening me, let’s go find water. And food.” Touched by his mute distress, she added, “I’ll start crying myself if I don’t at least get something to drink soon.”

Perhaps he would comprehend that she did not intend to abandon him, and would take heart.

In a cracked whisper, he replied, “You have delayed too long. The Masters are here.”

The Masters-?

Quickly she glanced around at the wide tumble of rock, and the hills beyond; the rolling slopes on either side of her. But she saw no one, no movement of any kind-

Facing Anele again, she asked, “Where? I don’t see anyone.”

“Then you are blind,” Lord Foul retorted while Anele’s features twisted in fear, “as you should be.” The old man’s chest heaved for air as if he were choking.

Linden raised a hand toward him, made her tone as soothing as she could. “Try to stay calm. I said I would protect you. Just tell me where they are, if you can. Or point them out.”

Anele chuckled between painful breaths, but did not respond.

She started to turn away, then froze as a figure dropped out of the sky and landed on the grass half a dozen paces from her.

He must have leaped from the edge of the bulge behind Anele, nearly a stone’s throw above her. Nevertheless the newcomer landed with feline grace and an easy flex of his legs, and stood facing her like a man who had spent long moments waiting patiently to be noticed.

After her first fright, Linden felt a jolt of recognition. He was one of the Haruchai.

Panting, Anele plunged to his knees as if his tendons had been cut.

Relief nearly undid her as well.

The Haruchai- Thank God!

She had not known them when they were the Bloodguard, the guardians of the Lords: faithful beyond sorrow or sleep. She had first met them as the victims of the Clave, sacrificed to feed the Banefire with their potent blood. After that, however, they had served Thomas Covenant-and Linden herself-with a severe and absolute fidelity.

For a long time, they had not trusted her. Committed to their own certainty, they had not endured her internal conflicts graciously. Nevertheless she had learned to consider them friends. They were men who kept their promises. And they had the strength to give their promises substance.

They demanded of themselves commitments more strict than anything that they required from others.

Friends, she told herself again. Answers. Anele feared the Haruchai, that was plain; but she did not doubt that they would aid her against Lord Foul.

Their name for the Despiser was Corruption. He was their antithesis, their sovereign foe.

The man before her had the characteristic features of his kind: a stocky and muscular frame; a flat, undecipherable countenance that seemed impervious to time; brown skin; dark curly hair cropped short. Above his bare feet and legs, he wore a short tunic made of a material that resembled vellum dyed ochre. A sash of the same hue cinched the tunic to his waist.

A ragged scar, long healed, marred the skin under his left eye.

If the Haruchai had not changed since she had known them, this man was a fearsome warrior, full of great force, prodigious skill, and uncompromising judgment. Even to her truncated senses, he seemed impenetrably solid, weighty enough to have gouged holes in the hillside when he landed.

“Protect!” Anele gasped in his own voice. “Oh, protect. You swore. You swore! “

The Haruchai glanced toward Anele. “She cannot protect you,” he stated with an awkward inflection. “We have sought you long and arduously. Now you are done. You will no longer threaten the Land.”

For her companion’s sake, Linden moved to stand between him and the Haruchai. “Wait a minute,” she said unsteadily. “Wait. Let’s not rush into anything. I don’t understand any of this.

“I know you. I mean I knew you. A long time ago. Back then, the Haruchai were another name for faithfulness. Don’t you know me? I was hoping that your people would remember-”

She sagged into silence, momentarily defeated by the man’s lack of expression.

“How can we know you?” countered the Haruchai. “You have not spoken your name.”

Of course, Linden thought. She should have realised-Too much time had passed.

As clearly as she could, she announced, “I’m Linden Avery the Chosen. I was with Thomas Covenant when he fought the Clave and the Sunbane. I don’t know how long ago that was. Time”- she rubbed a blur of memory from her eyes- “moves differently here.” Then she added, “Some of your people helped us search for the One Tree. Don’t you remember?”

The Haruchai stared at her inflexibly.

She stood her ground. “This poor old man is terrified of people he calls “Masters”, I promised I would protect him. I won’t let you hurt him.”

The newcomer continued to stare at her. After a moment, however, he replied, “We remember, though many centuries have passed. We remember the Lords before the Ritual of Desecration. We remember the destruction of the Staff of Law, and the slaughter of the Unhomed. We do not forget the malevolence of the Clave. The name you have given is known to us.”

The edge of discomfort in his tone reminded Linden that among themselves the Haruchai communicated mind to mind. They did not naturally express themselves aloud.

“It is spoken with respect,” he went on. “And your raiment is strange. The same is said of the white gold wielder, ur-Lord Thomas Covenant, and of his companion, Linden Avery the Chosen. It may be that you speak the truth. Later we will grant you opportunity to persuade us that we must honour you.”

Then the Haruchai glanced at Anele. “But the old man is ours. He has eluded us for many years. We are indeed the Masters of the Land, and we do not permit freedom to such as he.”

She regarded the Haruchai in dismay. The Masters-?

Damn you, Foul, what have you done?

The people whom she had known here had never sought to rule any aspect of the Land. Only the Despiser and his servants nurtured such ambitions.

Certainly the Haruchai had displayed no interest in sovereignty. They had defined themselves by their devotion to people whom they deemed greater than themselves; to causes which they considered worthy of service. Linden remembered vividly those who had accompanied the Search for the One Tree, Brinn and Cail among them. In her experience, no one had ever matched their fierce rectitude.

She would have been proud to call them friends.

Now they were the Masters of the Land-?

But the Haruchai before her had not finished speaking. “Do not fear for him. He will come to no harm. We do not desire his distress. We will only deliver him to Revelstone so that he may work no ill.”

The Master apparently thought that this would reassure her.

It did not. She had been through too much, and could not bear to fail another commitment. “You aren’t listening,” she told the Haruchai. “I said I promised to protect him. He’s old and confused, he’s no threat. And he’s terrified of being trapped. He won’t be able to avoid those caesures.

“We name them “Falls”, said the Haruchai.

Linden ignored that. “I don’t know why he’s so afraid of them. But I think they’re what broke his mind in the first place. Being helpless is the worst thing that could happen to him. He’s so scared-Any kind of restraint might destroy him. Even if you’re gentle about it, you could ruin what’s left of him.

“I made him a promise,” she finished. “You of all people should understand what that means.”

The Haruchai showed no reaction. He did not so much as blink.

A moment later, however, she heard an impact on the grass behind her: the sound of a body landing lightly. In alarm she wheeled toward Anele and saw another Haruchai already standing behind him.

This one bore no scars. He may have been younger than his companion.

“Where is your power now?” Anele cackled at her in Lord Foul’s voice, “the wild magic that destroys peace?”

“He belongs to us,” the new arrival said flatly. “We will permit him no more freedom.”

Bitter with anger and fatigue, Linden turned back to the first Haruchai.

He had moved one or two steps closer to her.

“I told you-!” she began.

He interrupted her. “I have said,” he repeated without expression, “that we will grant you opportunity to persuade us that we must honour you. Until that time you must accompany us. We will treat the old man gently.”

“No!” Linden shook her head, infuriated by his impenetrability. “You will not touch him!”

The Haruchai shrugged as if in dismissal.

Anele went on chortling. “They are Haruchai. Did you believe that they would heed you?”

Roger Covenant also had refused to hear her.

Before she could defend herself, the Haruchai swept forward. Swiftly his fist lashed out; struck her in the centre of her forehead. Her head snapped back. The hills reeled drunkenly around her.

As she lapsed into darkness, she heard Anele’s cry of woe.

Haunted by lamentation, Linden Avery rode a dark tide of pain and futility, as helpless as a dried leaf on a wave. She chose nothing, determined nothing: she merely reacted to events. The Despiser had laid a snare for the people of the Land, and they walked toward it blindly. She could not even warn them. They refused to listen.

Why should they heed her? She had no name for their peril. She had no idea what the Falls and Kevin’s Dirt were for.

Jeremiah’s plight was only more immediate, not worse. Lord Foul threatened the life of the Land, and of all the Earth, and she had no means to save any of them, except by wild magic. Yet any use of white gold endangered the Arch of Time. For that very reason, Thomas Covenant had forsworn his power.

Now the man she loved lay forever beyond her reach. No matter how acutely she had yearned for him over the years, she would never see him again, or feel his touch, or hold him in her arms.

She had learned to yearn instead for her son. Whatever happened, she intended to save Jeremiah.

Borne along by the current of her unconsciousness, she endeavoured to slough away all other considerations; to concentrate her whole heart on her vulnerable son. But the dark scend did not float her to Jeremiah. Instead it brought Covenant’s voice to her ears.

He sounded as he had sounded in life: harsh and compassionate; driven to extremes, deeply wounded, and dear; full of comprehension and rue.

Linden, he said distinctly, you aren’t listening.

Oh, Covenant! she cried out within herself. Where are you? Why can’t I see you? Are you all right?

I’m trying to tell you. He seemed as strict as the Haruchai. You need the Staff of Law.

For a moment, he surprised her questions to silence. I don’t know where it is. She might have wept. It doesn’t seem to work anymore.

Violations of Law like Kevin’s Dirt and caesures could not have flourished in the presence of the Staff.

You aren’t listening, he repeated more gently. I said, I understand how you feel. It’s too much to ask of anyone. Don’t worry about that. Do something they don’t expect.

Like what? she countered in tears. All I have is your ring. It isn’t mine. It isn’t me. It doesn’t belong to me the way it did to you. I don’t understand any of this.

Foul has my son!

Don’t worry about that, he said again. Already his voice had begun to recede from her. Trust yourself. She could barely hear him. Do something they don’t expect.

Then he was gone. She sobbed his name, but only breakers and seething answered.

Eventually a swell lifted her up to deposit her upon a plane of stone above the tide. When she returned to herself there, her cheeks were wet with weeping.

For a time, she lay still, resting her bruised body on the cool smooth stone. Her former life had not prepared her for physical ordeals. All of her muscles throbbed with overexertion. In addition, her tongue felt thick with thirst, and her stomach ached for food.

Nevertheless those pangs hurt her less than the knowledge that she had failed to keep her promise to Anele. Covenant had told her to trust herself. He might as well have advised her to fly to the moon. Too many people had already died.

Groaning softly, she opened her eyes on darkness like the inside of her mind. She lay face-down on stone worn or polished smooth. The air felt cool and clean in her sore lungs. When she tried to shift her limbs, they moved as easily as her injuries allowed. To that extent, at least, she was intact. She simply could not see.

But when she raised her head, pain lanced into her neck: whiplash from the blow she had received. At once, a sharp throbbing began in her forehead, and the stone under her seemed to tilt. Cursing to herself, she lowered her head again.

Damn them anyway. The Haruchai she had known-Brinn, Cail, and the others had not made a practice of striking down strangers.

And where had she been taken? Underground? No. The air was too fresh, and the stone not cold enough, for a cave or cavern.

Night must have fallen while she was unconscious. Or the Haruchai had left her in a windowless cell somewhere. Mithil Stonedown? To the best of her knowledge, that was the nearest village.

The Haruchai did not need cells to control their prisoners.

For a while, she postponed the challenge of rising to her feet. Instead she reached under her chest to confirm that Covenant’s ring still hung on its chain around her neck; to reassure herself on its hard circle. Then she turned her attention to the scents of this space.

At first, she detected only grime and old sweat, the sour odour of an untended body: probably hers. Stone dust still caked her hair, clogging her senses. When she reached past those smells, however, she caught a faint whiff of water and the unmistakable aroma of cooked food.

Suddenly eager, she braced her arms on the stone, wedged her legs under her. Then, carefully, she pushed herself up onto her hands and knees.

The pain in her neck brought tears to her eyes; and for a moment the stone seemed to cant under her. Briefly she rested where she was. Then she began to grope forward, hoping for water.

Her right hand found an emaciated ankle.

It jerked away from her touch as she snatched back her hand. Hoarsely an old voice croaked, “Leave Anele alone. Cruel Masters. Let him perish.”

Anele. Her throat was too dry for sound: she could not say his name. Nevertheless she felt a rush of relief. At least the Haruchai had not separated them. Presumably they were prisoners together.

She might yet be given a chance to keep her promise.

Shifting her knees to the left, she continued searching.

After a moment, the edge of her left hand encountered a hard shape. Quickly she reached for it.

It was round and curved: a large bowl. Its surface felt like polished stone, cooler than the floor. When she dipped her fingers into it, she found water.

At once, she lowered her pounding head and drank.

Every swallow was bliss on her swollen tongue and parched throat. She could easily have emptied the bowl. As the level of the water dropped, however, she pulled back her head.

“Anele,” she panted softly into the dark, “it’s me. Linden. I found water.”

The Haruchai had told her that they treated their prisoners gently.

A prompt scuffling answered her. “Where?” her companion asked. “Anele is thirsty. So thirsty. They are cruel. They give him nothing.”

One of his hands grasped at her side.

“Here.” She reached for his wrist and guided him to the bowl. As he clutched its sides, she added, “Take all you want. I’m sure they’ll bring us more.”

Anele’s only response was to lift the bowl so that he could drink more deeply.

While the old man satisfied himself, Linden resumed her search. She was confident that she had scented food.

Their captors would have left it near the water.

Less than an arm’s length away, she discovered a second bowl. It had been fashioned of stone like the first, but its sides were warm. When she poised her face over it, she felt a waft of steam stroke her cheeks.

Stew, definitely: meat and broth; vegetables of some kind. And-Was it possible? Had she caught a hint of aliantha?

Dear God.

Saliva filled her mouth. Sweeping the floor with one hand, she found a pair of wooden spoons. Without hesitation, she dipped a spoon into the bowl and tested its contents.

They retained some warmth, but were no longer hot. Mutton and gravy thick with flour. Small round shapes that tasted like spring peas. And yes, beyond question: aliantha. As her first mouthful comforted her tongue, it left behind a distinctive savour of peach tinged with salt and lime.

For the first time since she had arrived on Kevin’s Watch, Linden remembered hope. The Haruchai had told her the truth. If they stirred healing treasure-berries into their viands, they did not intend their prisoners to suffer.

To that extent, at least, Anele had misapprehended the Masters. They had not fallen entirely under Lord Foul’s sway.

Linden ate several spoonfuls of the stew while her companion drained the bowl of water. Then she whispered to him, “Over here, Anele. It’s food.”

“It is fatal,” he answered anxiously. “They seek to poison Anele:”

“No, they don’t,” she replied as calmly as she could. “I’ve already tasted it. It’s good.” Unsure how to persuade him, she added, “They put treasure-berries in it.”

Immediately he shuffled to her side. “Aliantha sustains Anele,” he muttered as she pressed a spoon into his hands. “Often naught else preserves his life.”

Together they crouched over the bowl.

She stopped before she was satisfied, leaving the rest for her companion. But Anele continued ladling stew into his mouth until he had scraped the bowl empty.

Half to herself, she murmured, “Poor man, how long have you been lost?”

He did not answer. No doubt in his present condition he could not. His manner of speaking told her that his madness had reasserted its hold over him.

“In a minute or two,” she breathed absently, “I’m going to look for a way out of this place-whatever it is. But first I’m going to rest a bit.”

Her torn muscles and bruises demanded that.

Turning away from Anele, she crawled until the tips of her fingers brushed a wall. Like the floor, it was formed of smooth, cool stone. She sat with her back against it and leaned her head on it to reduce the strain on her neck.

Water and food. Aliantha. And captors who were prepared to treat her kindly. The Haruchai had only struck her because she had opposed his desire to take Anele. Perhaps she did indeed have reason to hope.

If she could convince the Masters that she was the Linden Avery who had accompanied Covenant to the Land so many centuries ago, she might win back their amity Then she would get answers. Guidance. Aid.

If.

You need the Staff of Law.

Otherwise she would have to find a way to escape. She would have to tackle the whole Land with only Anele’s insanity to direct her.

Do something they don’t expect.

What in hell was that supposed to mean?

She ought to move; start exploring. But she was entirely out of her depth. She hardly knew how to tread water in this situation: she could not imagine how she might extricate herself. And she was so tired-Her last night in her own bed, her last experience of comparative innocence, seemed to have occurred weeks or months ago.

Somewhere in the darkness, her companion sighed. “Anele is weak,” he muttered to himself. “Too old. Too hungry. He should refuse food, water. Better to perish. They only prolong Anele’s life to hurt him. Hold him for it.”

He meant a caesure.

Quietly Linden asked, “What will it do to you, Anele?” In spite of her fatigue, she could still be moved. “What’re you so afraid of?”

His voice shuddered as he replied, “It severs.”

She swore to herself. “So you said. What does it sever?”

“Life.” Anele moaned as though she had dismayed him. “Anele’s life. It is the maw of the Seven Hells. Betrayed trust. Failure. Sorrow.”

Linden did not press him. His distress restrained her.

And she remembered the Seven Hells.

During their generations of dominion over the Land, the Clave had preached that the Earth had been created as a prison for a being called a-Jeroth of the Seven Hells, whose domain was pestilence, desert, fertility, war, savagery, rain, and darkness. Thus Sunder had explained the Sunbane to Covenant and Linden. It was the manifestation of a-Jeroth’s evil; and it was also retribution against those who had failed to oppose the lord of the Seven Hells.

After so many centuries, Linden was appalled to think that any vestige of those teachings still persisted. Surely she and Covenant and their friends had discredited the Clave utterly when they had driven it out of existence?

The Masters name him their foe, yet they serve him and know it not.

Ah, God. She was out of her depth in all truth: floundering in quicksand. Caesures were the gullet of the Seven Hells, swallowing people away from life? The Haruchai served Lord Foul?

Catching her lower lip between her teeth, Linden braced her hands on the floor and pushed herself to her feet. Forget whiplash and bruises. Never mind exhaustion or murder. More than sleep or healing, she needed answers. She had to find out what was going on.

The pain in her neck undermined her balance; but she leaned against the wall and followed it with her hands. If nothing else, she might be able to determine the dimensions of her prison.

She had hardly taken two steps, however, when a flicker of light caught at the corner of her vision.

She flinched, clinging to the wall as if for protection.

She saw nothing. Blackness seemed to swim about her head, tugging her toward a fall.

Staring into the dark, she held on.

There. A small flame reappeared in front of her. She saw it through a thin vertical slit like a cut in the wall of her gaol. An instant later, it shifted out of reach. But she had seen it.

The slit had appeared tall enough to be the edge of a door. Or the gap between a doorframe and a hanging curtain-

Before she could move forward to investigate the opening, she saw the flame again. This time it did not disappear. Instead it came toward her.

A heartbeat later, a figure swept aside a heavy leather curtain and stepped through the doorway.

He held what appeared to be a cruse cupped in one hand; and from within it a burning wick flamed upward: an oil lamp. The thin yellow light nevertheless seemed bright to her darkened sight. She could see his garments and features clearly, his short vellum tunic, the jagged scar under his left eye.

He was the Haruchai who had struck her down.

“Protect!” gasped her companion. “Protect Anele!” Hissing through his teeth, he scrambled backward to crouch against the far wall of the chamber.

The Haruchai gazed at Anele for a moment, then shifted his attention to Linden. “You understand that we will not harm him. We seek only to ward him, and the Land.” He faced her like a man who could not be impugned. However, he may have been able to sense her distrust. Stooping, he set his lamp down at his feet. Then he asked awkwardly, “Are you well?”

Making him wait while she tried to calm herself, Linden glanced around the space.

The lamp showed her a square room that she could have crossed in five or six strides. The wall at her back-she stood to the right of the doorway-held a wide window sealed with rocks. Another curtain hung opposite her, filling a second doorframe; and a third marked the wall near Anele. Presumably they both opened on to other rooms.

This place had not been built as a gaol. It may once have been a small dwelling, abandoned now to the Masters’ use.

Perhaps they did not routinely take prisoners.

Holding that scant comfort, Linden faced the Haruchai again.

“How could I be well?” she countered sourly. “You damn near broke my neck.”

The man returned an impenetrable stare. The unsteady flame of his lamp cast shadows like streaks of repudiation across his countenance. “You will heal.”

Instead of answering, she held his gaze as she had held Sheriff Lytton’s, daring him to believe that she could be intimidated.

He was Haruchai: his manner did not waver. “Do you desire more water? More food? We will provide for your comfort.”

“Thank you.” His offer softened Linden’s attitude. His people had already demonstrated that they meant to treat their prisoners kindly. “We do need more food and water. As for our comfort-” She paused, wondering how much he would be willing to tell her.

If he had not struck her, she might already have blurted out Jeremiah’s name.

Her captor waited stolidly. After a moment, she suggested, “You might start by telling me your name.”

“I am Stave,” he replied without hesitation. “With Jass and Bornin, I ward this Stonedown.”

Ward it from what? she wanted to ask. But that could wait until she had convinced him of her identity. And until she had discovered whether or not she could trust him.

If Anele were right about the Masters, they would strive to prevent her from reaching her son.

Rather than dive into those murkier waters, she inquired, “This is Mithil Stonedown?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“Good.” That small confirmation of her assumptions made her feel stronger. “I’m glad to find something that hasn’t changed.

“Now, about our comfort-”

Stave faced her with no discernible impatience.

Linden took a deep breath. “What Anele needs is to be set free, but I already know you won’t take my word for that. At least not yet. So let’s start with me.

“I’m Linden Avery. People called me “the Chosen”. I came here a long time ago with Thomas Covenant, Ur-Lord and Unbeliever. For a while, I was a prisoner of the Clave. So were a lot of the Haruchai. Brinn, Cail, and several others joined us on a quest for the One Tree. We wanted to make a new Staff of Law. Eventually we succeeded.”

Several of the Haruchai had given their lives to make that possible.

“You said,” she continued, “you would let me prove I’m telling the truth. When are you going to do that?”

Stave continued to study her. “How will you persuade us?”

Linden stifled an impulse to reach for Covenant’s ring. Instead she offered, “You said you remember. Ask me questions.”

Behind her as she faced her captor, Anele made frightened noises deep in his throat.

“Very well:” Stave’s manner stiffened slightly. He might have been listening to other voices than hers. “Name the Haruchai who failed to refuse the Dancers of the Sea”

His people set inhumane standards for themselves. They had no mercy for those who demonstrated mortal desires and flaws.

“Brinn and Cail” She had forgotten nothing of her time with Covenant. “Ceer and Hergrom were already dead. Hergrom was killed by a Sandgorgon. Ceer died saving my life.” Grimly she refused to relive the events she described. Her memories would only weaken her here: she needed to keep her concentration fixed on Stave. “Brinn and Cail were the only ones left to hear the merewives.”

On his hands and knees, Anele crept forward a little way, leaving the protection of the wall as if he wanted to be near Linden.

The Master studied her with apparent disinterest. “What became of Brinn and Cail?”

She sighed. Such things should have been common knowledge; the stuff of legends. Sunder and Hollian had heard the story. The Giants of the Search had participated in the events. Surely they had told the tale?

What had happened during the millennia of her absence? What had gone wrong?

Stung by loss, she replied stiffly, “Brinn decided to challenge ak-Haru Kenaustin Ardenol. Otherwise we wouldn’t have been able to approach the One Tree.” She and her companions had been lost in mist until Brinn had released them. “The Guardian was invisible. Brinn didn’t stand a chance.” Gaps in the gravid mist had allowed glimpses of his struggle. “But he found a way. When the Guardian drove him off a precipice, he dragged Kenaustin Ardenol with him. He bought us access to the One Tree by surrendering his life.

“We thought he was dead.” No living flesh could have survived the punishment Brinn had taken, or the fall from that height. “But his surrender defeated the Guardian. Instead of dying, he took Kenaustin Ardenol’s place. He became the ak-Haru.”

The Guardian of the One Tree.

“As for Cail-”

Linden paused to swallow memories and grief. Stave waited for her like a man who could not be swayed.

Again Anele advanced slightly. Apparently her tales meant something to him.

“Your people judged him pretty harshly,” she told the Haruchai when she was ready to continue. “He was faithful to Covenant and the Search,” and finally to Linden herself, “for months, and they practically beat him to death. They considered him a failure.”

And Cail had accepted their denunciation.

“But in spite of that,” she went on, “he helped us against the Clave and the Banefire.” Against Gibbon Raver and the na-Mhoram’s Grim. “He didn’t leave us until Covenant put out the Banefire, and we were all safe.”

All but Grimmand Honninscrave, who had given his life to rend samadhi Sheol.

There she stopped. Stave gave no sign that he had understood her answer; that the heritage of his people meant anything to him. Yet he was not done. In the same awkward, ungiving tone, he asked, “When Cail departed from you, where did he go?”

Again Linden restrained an impulse to reach for Covenant’s ring. “Your people called him a failure,” she repeated. “Where else could he go? He went to look for the merewives.”

Their song had planted a glamour in his soul which he had not wished to refuse. Bereft of home and kinship and purpose, he had embarked on a quest for the depths of the sea.

If Stave challenged her further, she feared that she would rage at him. Like all of those who had been lost in the Land’s service, Brinn and Cail deserved more respect than he appeared to give them.

However, he did not demand more answers. Instead he studied her flatly. His mien conveyed an impression of absence, as if he were no longer entirely present in the room. Then without transition he seemed to return. Holding both fists together at the level of his heart with his arms extended, he gave her a formal bow.

“You are Linden Avery the Chosen,” he said uncomfortably, “as you have declared. We do not doubt you.

“Be free among us.” Reaching behind him, he held the curtain aside for her. “Tell us how we may honour your fidelity to ur-Lord Thomas Covenant and your triumph over Corruption’

Sudden relief nearly dropped Linden to her knees. Thank God! She had hardly dared to acknowledge how badly she needed his aid: his, and that of all the Haruchai.

She let her head drop mutely, a bow of her own to repay his acceptance. You need the Staff of Law. Perhaps now she would be able to begin her search.

Scrambling forward, Anele startled her by throwing his arms around her calves. “Free Anele!” he panted. “Oh, free him. They will slay him and name it kindness.”

Linden looked down at his face. Shadows shed by the shifting flame of the lamp seemed to chase a stream of expressions across his visage: terror and hope, disgust, profound bafflement. Light in flickers turned his moonstone eyes to milk.

He must have meant that as a prisoner he would be exposed to a caesure. The Haruchai had never been killers. They fought with transcendent skill: they slew when the exigencies which they served required it. But to harm a forlorn creature like Anele was surely beneath them.

Yet she had promised the old man her care. She could not set aside her word merely because she was weak and in need.

Groaning to herself, she dragged up her head to meet Stave’s gaze.

“You heard him.” The words sighed between her lips. “Honour me by letting him go. He’s just a crazy old man.” A madman rife with secrets and inbred Earthpower. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone.”

Stave regarded her implacably. “Linden Avery,” he replied at last, “we regret that you have asked this of us. We wish to honour you, but in this we will not comply. We have taken upon ourselves the guardianship of the Land. We are its Masters because we cannot preserve the Land from Corruption in any other way. We do not permit such beings as this Anele to work their will. They serve Corruption, whatever they may believe of themselves.”

Anele clung harder to Linden’s legs, breathing in sharp gasps like mouthfuls of dread. If he leaned on her, he would topple her to the floor. Her sense of balance already had too many flaws.

“Anele.” She stooped to him, urged him to ease his grasp. “I won’t leave you. You can trust me.” The thought of freedom blew to dust in her chest. “If the Masters won’t let you go, I won’t go either. I’ll stay with you until they come to their senses.”

She knew the Haruchai too well to believe that they would change their minds.

Anele groaned as if she had betrayed him. Dropping his head, he pressed his face against her shins. However, he loosened his hold slightly; enough to let her keep her feet.

Like a shrug, Stave released the curtain. The leather fell back into place, swaying heavily.

“All right,” Linden told him faintly. “I’m staying here. But I need answers. I’ve been away for a long time. I need to know what’s going on.”

The Haruchai acquiesced with a slight nod.

She still did not know whether she could trust him.

She ached to learn who held the Staff of Law-and why it had apparently lost its effectiveness. But she withheld those questions. First she needed to test Stave as he had tested her; needed to hear him prove himself.

She wobbled for a moment, barely caught herself. “Forgive me,” she breathed as though he might disdain her weakness. “I’m very tired. It’s hard to think.

“What is it about Anele that worries you? Why is it so important to keep him prisoner?”

What harm could the poor old man possibly do?

Stolidly Stave responded, “He is a man of Earthpower.”

“You can see that?” Anele had told her that the Masters were not hampered by Kevin’s Dirt, but she had been suspicious of his sanity.

“You have stood upon Kevin’s Watch, have you not?” the Haruchai replied like a shrug. “We felt the force of wild magic there. From that height, you surely beheld a yellow cloud like a shroud upon the Land. Did it not appear to cloak the Land in evil?” When she nodded, he said, “It is named Kevin’s Dirt. It has blinded the folk of the Land. It deprives them of their”- he seemed to search for a word- “penetration. The life of the Land has been closed to them.

“But we are Haruchai. We retain our discernment. Thus we are able to guard the Land.”

In spite of his mental confusion, Anele had told her the truth-about a number of things.

But Stave’s explanation raised another question. Guard the Land from what? He and his people were strong and fearless; but they had no power to oppose evils like Kevin’s Dirt and the Falls. She was not sure that they could be opposed.

What else threatened the Land?

She kept that fear to herself, however. She did not mean to be distracted from Anele’s plight.

“All right,” she repeated. “He’s full of Earthpower. So what? How does that make him dangerous?”

“We do not know,” Stave admitted. “Yet the Earthpower is his. It cannot be taken from him. Therefore we will not release him.”

“Because you think he might use it someday? What’s wrong with that?”

It was Earthpower, the vital substance of the Land, and infinitely precious.

“You do not comprehend,” the Haruchai informed her dispassionately. “Any use of Earthpower serves Corruption.”

Now Linden stared at him in dismay. “What, Earthpower? You think Earthpower is wrong?”

How could any sentient being consider the spirit and essence of the Land evil?

Straining at her knees, Anele gasped, “Do not permit them! They are fierce and terrible. Can you not see? They will destroy Anele.” Then he cried out, “He is the hope of the Land!”

Convulsively he began to cough as if he were suffocating on sorrow.

Stave ignored the old man. “You are indeed weary, Linden Avery,” he stated. “You have not heard me. Earthpower is not “wrong”. That is impossible. My words were that any use of Earthpower serves Corruption.”

Linden reeled inwardly, staggered by too many assaults on her perceptions. He is the hope of the Land- Who, Anele? How? And how could using Earthpower serve Lord Foul? The two were fundamentally antithetical. Any use-? How in sanity’s name had Stave’s people reached such a grotesque conclusion?

She could not-

Suddenly urgent, she stooped again, clasping her hands to the sides of Anele’s face to demand his attention. “Anele, listen to me. I heard you. I won’t forget. But I can’t deal with this many questions at the same time. I need you to let go of me. I need you to be patient. Before I do anything else, I have to concentrate on what Stave is saying.

“I’ll stay with you. I’ll get to the bottom of all this. Somehow. “But first you have to let go.”

Anele’s eyes stared into hers blindly. Bits and streaks of lamplight cast desperation across his features. Between bursts of coughing, he groaned deep in his chest.

By slow increments, he released her.

When his arms had finally dropped free, he crawled back to the rear wall and curled himself against it as though he found more comfort in blank stone than in her avowals.

Cursing to herself, Linden faced the Haruchai again.

“You’d better explain yourself,” she said darkly. “Earthpower is good, but using it isn’t?” All life in the Land throve on Earthpower. “How is that even possible?”

And who in hell gave you the right to judge the natural essence of any living thing?

Stave may have shrugged: shadows made her uncertain. The scar on his cheek gleamed like a small grin in the wavering light. “We do not account for it;” he replied. “That is not our place. We lack the lore for such explanations. We only remember, and learn.

“But the Staff of Law which you formed was soon lost. Doubtless if it had remained in wise hands, the peril of Earthpower would be diminished.

“You are Linden-”

“Just a minute.” Without knowing what she did, she covered her ears to close out his words; as if she might cause them to be unsaid. “Give me a minute.”

The Staff was lost? That explained-

It explained too much.

But it should have been impossible. Soon lost-People like Sunder and Hollian would not have been careless with something so precious. And after his defeat Lord Foul would have needed centuries, millennia, to recover his strength.

The touch of hope which she had felt earlier fell to ashes as she lowered her hands. Without the Staff of Law, the Land was effectively defenceless. Cryptic evils like the caesures and Kevin’s Dirt might prove as ruinous as the Sunbane had ever been.

“This is terrible,” she began weakly. “I had no idea.” She could barely force herself to meet Stave’s flat gaze. “I don’t know what to say.”

Unconscious, she had heard Covenant tell her, You need the Staff of Law. But if the Staff were lost-Lord Foul may have sent Covenant’s voice to taunt her, as he had caused her to be tormented during her translation to the Land.

“Who lost it? How could this happen?”

Anele squirmed against the wall, apparently trying to find a comfortable position.

“We do not know what transpired,” the Haruchai replied. “We were not present. We know only that the new Staff of Law was delivered into the hands of the Graveler Sunder and the eh-Brand Hollian when the Sunbane had been quenched. Among their kind, they were long-lived, and for perhaps five score years they served the Land with great care, healing what they could, and easing what they could not. Without them, many villages would not have survived the abrupt cessation of the Sunbane, for the folk of the Land knew no other way to live.

“Yet at last Sunder and Hollian grew weary and wished to set aside their labours. To their son they gave the Staff so that he might continue their service. Of a sudden, however, he disappeared, and the Staff with him.” A liquid rattle disturbed Anele’s respiration. “We have discovered no account of his doom. The Staff has not been found, though the Haruchai and the folk of the Land sought for it long and arduously.”

Stricken, Linden sighed, “All right. Go on. I just”- weakly she retreated to the nearest wall and slid down it to the floor- “just need to sit down.”

She lacked the courage to hear the rest of Stave’s explanation on her feet.

Apparently considerate, he allowed her a moment to compose herself. Then he began again.

“You are Linden Avery the Chosen. The Haruchai are known to you. You must grasp that to speak as you do is”- again he hunted for the right word- “graceless for us. Our thoughts are not easily contained in uttered speech. I can only assure you that we remember, and learn.

“And we remember much.

“The Haruchai recall High Lord Kevin son of Loric in his grandeur, with Revelstone his glorious habitation, and all the Council at his side in strength and peace.”

As he continued, Stave’s voice took on a slight sing-song cadence. Occasionally he touched on details which had been mentioned to Linden by Covenant and others, but most of what he said was new to her.

“Many times many centuries ago,” he related, “the Haruchai marched from their icy fastness in the Westron Mountains seeking opposition against which they might measure themselves. They had no wish to diminish or command those who dwelt elsewhere. Rather they sought to discover their own true strength in contest. Therefore they entered the Land. And therefore, when they had seen the might of High Lord Kevin and felt the astonishment of his works, our distant ancestors challenged him.

“However, he declined contention. He desired only peace and beauty, he treasured the richness of the Earth’s life, and he welcomed the Haruchai in friendship and honour.

“Your words will not convey his effect upon our people. Above all else, they desired to show themselves equal to those admirable Lords. Because they could not test themselves in combat, they elected rather to demonstrate their worth in service.

“Together they swore an undying Vow, enabled and preserved by Earthpower. They became the Bloodguard, five hundred Haruchai who set aside the fierce love of their Women and the stark beauty of their homes, and who neither slept nor rested nor wavered in the Lords’ defence. If one were slain in that service, the Vow brought another to take his place.

“For centuries the Bloodguard kept faith. They knew the marvels of Andelain and the eldritch Forests, extravagant with Earthpower. They knew the love and fealty of the Unhomed, the Giants of Seareach. They knew the broad backs and strong thews and boundless fidelity of the Ranyhyn, the great horses of Ra, in whom the Earthpower shone abundantly. In their Vow, the Bloodguard themselves became men of wonder.”

An undercurrent in Stave’s tone suggested that he would have gladly lived in that ancient time; shared that Vow.

“Yet High Lord Kevin’s greatness was misled by Corruption. In his love of peace and health, he countenanced Corruption’s place among the Council of Lords, not recognising the truth of the Despiser. And from that honourable blindness arose the enduring ills which have befallen the Land. For when Corruption unveiled his face, he had grown too puissant to be defeated in any contest of arms and powers, though the attempt was made at great cost.

“The Bloodguard burned to challenge the Despiser themselves, to exceed his might with their own valour. They believed that they were indomitable. Corruption had not yet taught them otherwise.

“But the High Lord forbade them. He could not bear to chance that they might fail and fall. Concealing the darkness in his heart, he ordered the Bloodguard from the Land. And because they honoured him-because they trusted him-they obeyed his will, dispersing themselves among the mountains.”

A note of sadness entered the faint music of Stave’s tone. “They did not grasp that darkness had mastered the High Lord’s heart. In despair he had conceived a stratagem of desperation. By his command, both the Bloodguard and the Unhomed were barred from the Upper Land. Likewise he sent the folk of the Land from their homes, and instructed the Ramen to guide the Ranyhyn away. Then he met with Corruption in Kiril Threndor, and there challenged the Despiser to the Ritual of Desecration.”

Bits of lamplight reflected from Stave’s gaze as if his eyes were full of embers and kindling, primed for fire.

“It is said that Corruption acceded gleefully. Desecration is his demesne, and he knew as High Lord Kevin did not that from such an expression of pain no life or being or power could emerge unscathed.”

Linden lowered her head to her knees to rest her throbbing neck. She remembered Kevin’s tormented shade as keenly as the cut of a blade.

Anele lay hugging himself with his knees against his chest. He had turned to face the wall, away from Linden and Stave. He may have fallen asleep.

“Together,” Stave continued, “Corruption and the Landwaster wrought devastation. In that Ritual, the old Lords and many of their most precious works were swept from the Land. Much of beauty was crippled, and much destroyed utterly. When those who had been dispersed returned to the Land, they found a wilderland where they had left vitality and health. A thousand years passed before the many healings of the new Lords bore fruit, and the beauty which belonged to the Land could grow anew.”

There the Haruchai paused briefly.

Linden did not raise her head. She did not want to see sparks gather into conflagration in his eyes.

When Stave resumed, however, his voice had regained its familiar dispassion.

“From Kevin Landwaster, the Bloodguard learned the peril of trust. Linden Avery, you have felt the doubt of the Haruchai. You know that these words are truth.”

She did indeed. The persistent suspicions of Brinn, Cail, and their companions had caused her more pain than she could recall without trembling. But she said nothing that might deflect Stave’s narrative.

“The Bloodguard served the new Council as they had served the old. Once again, they honoured the Giants and the Ranyhyn. Where they could, they gave battle to Corruption’s minions. But they had learned to doubt, and now they did not relax their vigilance, or grant unquestioning compliance to any act or choice of the Lords.”

Once more the cadences of distant singing claimed Stave’s tone. “Yet their strength was proven weakness. In the battles of the new Lords against Corruption’s armies, the Unhomed, whom the Bloodguard loved, were utterly destroyed. Confronting a Raver in the flesh of a Giant-a Raver that held a fragment of the Illearth Stone and was thereby made extravagant in power and malice-the Giants could not rouse themselves to oppose their own doom. Therefore they were slaughtered.

“There the Bloodguard glimpsed the onset of a new Desecration. For that reason, they determined to take the Despiser’s defeat into their own hands. When the Illearth Stone had been wrested from the Raver’s hand, three of the Bloodguard, Korik, Sill, and Doar, claimed that fragment of great evil. Seeking to prevent a greater ruin, they fulfilled the desire of all the Bloodguard to challenge Corruption.”

Now Stave’s tone hinted at bitterness. “They were mastered easily and entirely. Their skill and fidelity had no force against Despite. They were enslaved. They were maimed to resemble the Unbeliever. And they were dispatched to Revelstone to declare the Lords’ last defeat.

“There the Vow was broken” Vistas of sorrow filled the background of his voice. “The Bloodguard were Haruchai. They could not suffer it that they had been so turned against themselves. The beauty and grandeur which had inspired the Vow required flawless service, and they had shown themselves flawed. Earthpower had enabled their service, but it had not preserved them from dishonour.

“In the name of the purity which they had failed to equal, the Haruchai returned to their cold homes, turning their backs in shame on the Council and the Ranyhyn, on Andelain and all the Land. Aided by the last of the Unhomed, ur-Lord Thomas Covenant defeated Corruption, and so the Land was spared another Desecration, but the Haruchai had no hand in that triumph.”

Still Stave’s inbred dispassion sustained him. “From their shame, they learned that they could not endure it. And from their Vow, they learned that they had been misled by Earthpower. Such puissance both transcended and falsified their mortality. Without Earthpower, they would have remained what they were, Haruchai, inviolate. They would have known themselves unequal to such banes as the Illearth Stone and Ravers.”

That Linden understood. She, too, was certain of her own inadequacy. And she had learned from Thomas Covenant that such knowledge could be a source of strength.

“Yet evil continued to flow from the use of Earthpower,” Stave explained. “For thirty centuries and more, the Haruchai remained among their mountains and their women, and at last their memories gave birth to a wish to see what had become of the Land. Again some among them sojourned eastward. Thus they discovered the Clave and the Sunbane.

“So much of their tale you know. The Haruchai were imprisoned by the Clave. Their fierce blood was shed to feed the Banefire. When they, and you, were freed by the Unbeliever, they again set themselves against Corruption in anger and repudiation.

“But they did not renew the shame of their past arrogance. Instead they contented themselves in Thomas Covenant’s troubled service, and in yours, and in defence of the folk of the Land. Therefore they were not again turned against themselves.

“And again the ur-Lord triumphed over his foe. That tale the Haruchai heard from the Giants of the Search. And they heard as well that Linden Avery the Chosen gave form to a new Staff of Law. Thus you triumphed over the Sunbane, so that the Land might once again be allowed to heal.”

She found herself nodding, although the movement hurt her neck. Hardly aware of what she did, she had raised her head to gaze into Stave’s indecipherable face.

“Desiring a service in which they might also triumph,” he said, “the Haruchai remained when you had returned to your world. The new Staff was given to the folk of the Land, but it was soon lost, and there were no Lords who might have defended Earthpower from darkness. The Land required our care.”

Anele whimpered as if in nightmare; but he did not turn from the wall.

“Do you understand me, Linden Avery? We had learned that the Ritual of Desecration and the Sunbane were expressions of Earthpower. We had learned that Earthpower could not preserve any service from shame, neither ours nor the Lords. We had learned that mortal hearts are weak, and that Corruption is cunning to exploit that weakness. And we had learned to love the Land, as the Lords did before us.

“In the end, we learned that the Land and all its life would not have suffered such renewed and again renewed cruelty if Earthpower were not”- again he paused to search for a word- “accessible for use. Certainly it is not Corruption. But in the absence of the Staff of Law, only Corruption is served when mortal hearts exercise Earthpower. Even in the presence of the Staff, great evil may be wrought. Therefore we have taken upon ourselves the guardianship of the Land.

“We do not rule here. We command nothing. We demand nothing. All life is free to live as it wills. But we do not permit any exertion of Earthpower.”

Linden stared at him, but she could no longer see him. Tears blurred her vision. Only Corruption is served-How was it possible to have learned so much, and to understand so little?

Earthpower was life: no mere decision or belief on the part of the Haruchai could gainsay it. Everything that had form and substance here was in some sense an “exertion of Earthpower.” The true peril lay not in its use, but in the hearts of those who did not understand their own vulnerability to despair.

Against that danger, Linden Avery, like Thomas Covenant before her, was defended by the knowledge of her inadequacy. She could not be misled by despair because she did not expect herself to be greater than she was.

Kevin’s Dirt held sway, and caesures stalked the Land, because the Staff of Law had been lost-and because the Haruchai did not “permit” any other use of Earthpower to oppose those evils.

But Stave was not done. “Nor are we content,” he stated more stiffly. “We do more. Though we remember much, we do not share our memories. We seek to end all recollection of Earthpower, so that no new use may arise to thwart us.

“We command nothing,” he insisted. “We rule nothing. But we discourage tales of the past. We relate none ourselves. We confirm none that others relate. Human memories are brief, and we nurture that brevity.

“For many centuries now, the folk of the Land have known little which might harm them. You are forgotten, Linden Avery. The ur-Lord himself, whom we greatly honour, is no longer remembered. If it is your wish to oppose us, you will find no aid in all the Land.”

Now Linden dashed the blur from her sight to gape aghast at the Haruchai, silently begging him to stop. But he did not.

“In this the Giants have been our gravest hazard. The folk of the Land are as short of life as of memory, but the span of the Giants is measured in centuries. They remember. They return to the Land at intervals, when their wide sojourning tends hither. And they speak of what they remember.

“They love long tales, which they recount at all opportunities. Therefore we are Wary of them. As it lies within our power, we dissuade their travels to the Upper Land. And we do what we may to prevent the folk of the Land from hearing their tales.”

Linden flinched as if Stave had struck her-and still he was not done. “The Giants have not forgotten you, Linden Avery,” he assured her, “yet you will find no aid among them. Their last sojourn to the Land ended scant decades ago. They will not return in your lifetime, or the next.”

Good God, she groaned in protest. And you think you’ve given up arrogance? Stave’s people had gone beyond folly. Anele was right about them. They might call Lord Foul their enemy, but they served him and did not know it.

She should have risen to her feet; faced him with her anger and dismay. But she did not. He had shaken her profoundly. The flame of the lamp guttered in her face, and all of her courage had fallen to ash.

However, her face must have betrayed her reaction. After a moment, Stave observed, “Still you do not understand.” He addressed her from an unattainable height. “This manner of speech misrepresents us. It misrepresents truth. And I have deflected myself from the pith of that which I must convey.”

He appeared to reconsider his approach. “All other matters are secondary,” he said then. “Only the question of Earthpower signifies. Grasping that, you will grasp all else.”

He began again as though he could read the floundering incomprehension written in the play of lamplight on her features, and knew now how to answer it.

“Consider, Linden Avery. The Elohim are beings of Earthpower, and they serve only their own freedom rather than the needs of the Earth. And the Worm of the World’s End is Earthpower incarnate.

“The peril is manifest. It cannot be denied.

“When he had concealed the old Staff of Law so that it would not constrain him, Kevin Landwaster enacted the Ritual of Desecration. That was Earthpower.

“Though she held the old Staff in her hands, and Thomas Covenant urged restraint, High Lord Elena exercised the essential ichor of the Earth to lift dead Kevin from his grave. Disdaining his agony, she compelled his shade against Corruption. Thus was the Law of Death broken, and the Staff lost, to no avail.

“That was Earthpower.”

And still Stave was not done.

“The ancient Forestals were beings of wonder. Long they laboured to preserve the remnants of the One Forest. Yet when they had dwindled to the last, and Caer-Caveral stood alone in Andelain, he surrendered all use and purpose to break the Law of Life so that Hollian eh-Brand might live again. Now no guardian remains to the trees, and their long sentience has faded away.

“That was Earthpower.

“The Vow which misled the honour of the Bloodguard was made possible by Earthpower. Like the Sunbane before it, Kevin’s Dirt is an expression of Earthpower. Beasts of Earthpower rage upon Mount Thunder, and the lurker of the Sarangrave grows restive. Of the evils which now threaten the Land, only the Falls appear to spring from another fount. In all other forms, it is by Earthpower that the Land is imperilled, as it has been from the beginning.”

There the Master finished. “Give answer, Linden Avery. As you have said, Brinn of the Haruchai has become the Guardian of the One Tree. In this he surpasses our knowledge of ourselves. He both exalts and humbles us. We must show that we are worthy of him, in guardianship and devotion.

“We have determined that we will serve the Land. How then may we countenance any exercise of Earthpower?”

Still Linden could not muster the strength to stand. She needed help from someone. She had no idea how to free her son. She did not even know where to look for him. Nor could she imagine where the lost Staff might be found. For that search also she would need help. And she was certain now that the Haruchai would not “countenance” such a quest. How could they? The Staff was an instrument of Earthpower.

She did not answer Stave as he might have desired. Instead she countered his query with one of her own.

Bowing her head, she asked past the swaying veil of her hair, “If you’re so determined to suppress the past, why are you willing to let me go?” She was a portion of the Land’s history incarnate. “Aren’t you afraid of what I might do?”

Another man might have sighed. Stave only lifted his shoulders slightly. “You are Linden Avery the Chosen. You have stood at the Unbeliever’s side, and have kept faith. To our knowledge, no harm has arisen from you, or from the wild magic which you now wield. With white gold, ur-Lord Thomas Covenant has twice defeated Corruption. And when we have doubted you, your choices and actions have shown their worth.

“We will”-once more he searched for the right word-”accept the hazard that you may seek to oppose us.”

Oh, I’ll oppose you, she wanted to say. I haven’t forgotten a thing. I’ll tell it all, and to hell with you.

Don’t you understand that Earthpower is life?

Nevertheless she kept her anger to herself. Her plight was too grave; and she was too Weak: she feared to declare herself. And Stave would not be swayed by Jeremiah’s peril.

Instead of responding to the Master’s assertion, she said obliquely, “That smog that yellow shroud. Why is it called Kevin’s Dirt?”

His answer had the finality of a knell. “We name it so because we deem it to be a foretaste of Desecration. Its pall covers the Land in preparation.”

Have mercy, Linden groaned to herself. A foretaste-Was Lord Foul that sure of himself?

Hiding behind her hair, she told the Haruchai softly, “If that’s true, I need time to think. I want to be alone for a while.”

She had come to the end of what she could bear to hear.

Until she heard the soft rustle of the curtain and knew that Stave was gone, she did not raise her head.

Incongruously considerate, he had left his lamp behind.

His people did not allow any use of Earthpower. Deliberately they had caused its very existence-the Land’s true heritage-to be forgotten.

If Covenant could have heard her-if he had been anything more than a figment of her dreams-she might have groaned aloud, I need you. I don’t think I can do this.

Abruptly her companion rolled away from the wall. His arms trembled as he braced himself into a sitting position. Tears glistened in the grime on his cheeks, formed lamp-lit beads in his tattered beard. His lower lip quivered.

Miserably he breathed, “Anele is doomed.”

She could not contradict him. She did not know how.

Chapter Five: Distraction

After a time, Anele wore out his inchoate sorrow and lapsed from weeping. A low breeze seemed to blow through Linden, scattering the ashes in her heart until nothing remained to indicate that she had ever known fire. But she could not remain where she was. The stone of the floor and walls offered her no accommodation. Instead its hard surfaces pressed on her bruises when she already felt too much distress.

Eventually she rose to her feet, picked up the lamp, and limped across the room to investigate the other chambers of their gaol.

The curtained doorway near Anele admitted her to Mithil Stonedown’s version of a lavatory. A stone basin and a large ewer full of water sat on a low wooden table. Beside them was a pot of fine sand, presumably for scrubbing away dirt. A clay pipe angled down into the floor answered other needs.

She wanted to wash. A lifetime of ablution might not suffice to make her clean again. However, her hurts were too deep and tender to be rubbed. And she was nearly prostrate on her feet, hardly able to hold up her head.

Unsteadily she left the lavatory.

In the next chamber, she found what she sought: beds; two of them standing against the side walls. They had trestle frames well-padded with bracken and grass covered by blankets woven of rough wool. A window interrupted the far wall above the level of her eyes: it, too, had been wedged full of rocks.

Turning her head, she informed Anele wanly, “Two beds.” When he did not respond, she added, “You probably haven’t slept in a bed for years.”

Still he showed no reaction. He had slumped until his body appeared to meld itself against the stone.

Sighing, she entered the bedchamber and let the curtain drop behind her.

For no particular reason, she chose the bed on the left. Stumbling to it, she sat on its edge and unlaced her boots, pulled off her socks. Then she stretched out between two of the blankets and fell instantly asleep.

Pain disturbed her at intervals, but it could not rouse her. Exhaustion held her hurts at bay. Jeremiah appeared to her in spikes like coronary crises. She saw the supplication in his muddy gaze. Tousled by neglect and rough treatment, his hair hung in poignant clumps. Horses reared, unregarded, across the blue flannel of his pyjamas.

She wept for him without waking.

Covenant spoke to her distantly, too far away to be heard. Honninscrave screamed as he contained samadhi Sheol so that Nom the Sandgorgon could rend Lord Foul’s servant. Covenant insisted, but his desire to console or guide her could not cross the boundaries between them. Warped ur-viles fell in butchered clusters, crushed by the unexpected vehemence of Vain’s midnight hands.

In life, Covenant had drawn her into the light when her darkness had threatened to overwhelm her. He had done so repeatedly. He had taught her that her fears and failures, her inadequacies, were what made her human and precious; worthy of love. But he could not reach her now.

Because the ur-viles had turned against the Despiser, he had destroyed them all.

To free Covenant from the fatal stasis imposed by the Elohim, Linden had possessed him with her health-sense. There she had found herself in a field of flowers under a healing sun, full of light and capable of joy. Covenant had appeared as a youth, as dear to her as Jeremiah. He had opened his hands to her open heart, and had been made whole.

Linden, he called to her faintly, find me.

If her son could have spoken, he might have begged her for the same thing.

In dreams she cried out his name, and still slept.

Followed by an echo of her lost loves, she drifted finally out of slumber. Tears cooled her cheeks when she opened her eyes.

A weight of lassitude clung to her limbs, holding her down. Yet she was awake. Dimly lit by small motes and streaks of sunshine from the blocked window, the stone walls of her gaol rose around her.

When she glanced at the other bed, she saw that it lay vacant, untouched. Anele had slept in the outer room.

Or the Haruchai had taken him during the night; delivered him to Revelstone-

He is the hope of the Land.

Her only companion.

Stupefied with rest and dreams, Linden rolled her stiff body out of bed.

Her joints protested sharply as she forced herself to her feet. Standing motionless, she rested for a moment or two; tried to summon her resources. Then she shambled forward like a poorly articulated manikin.

Beyond the curtain, gloom filled the outer chamber. The lamp had burned out. The only illumination angled in strips past the edges of the leather that hung in the gaol’s entrance.

She could hear no sound from the village around this small dwelling: no calls or conversation, no passing feet, no children at play. Mithil Stonedown seemed entirely still; lifeless as a graveyard. Only Anele’s hoarse breathing humanised the silence.

He lay where Linden had left him, curled tightly against the wall as if for comfort. In sleep and gloom, he looked inexpressibly forlorn. Nevertheless she felt a muffled relief to find that he had not been taken from her.

While she slept, fresh bowls of food and water had been placed on the floor. But they were half empty: Anele must have eaten again during the night.

For herself, she was not conscious of hunger or thirst. Somnolence and dreams filled her head, crowding out other sensations. But she knew that she needed food; and so she crossed the floor to sit beside the bowls. In Jeremiah’s name, she spooned cold stew into her mouth and drank cool water until she had emptied both bowls.

Covenant had told her to find him. Trust yourself Do something they don’t expect.

Her dreams were going to drive her crazy.

In an effort to undo their effects, she struggled to her feet and went into the lavatory. There she splashed herself with cold water and rubbed her skin with sand until her bare feet began to cramp against the unwarmed floor. Then she returned to the bedchamber to don her socks and boots.

Simple things: trivial actions. Meaningless in themselves. Nevertheless they helped her shrug aside her sense of helplessness.

She had made promises to Anele. She did not regret that. Because of them, however, she was trapped here as much as he. But she was a physician, trained to patience and imprecise solutions; the circadian rhythms of devotion. If she were a woman who gave way to frustration-or to despair-she would have lost courage and will long ago.

Thomas Covenant had taught her that even the most damaged and frail spirits could not be defeated if they did not elect to abandon themselves.

When she had secured her resolve, she left the bedchamber again, intending to open the outer curtain, locate the nearest Haruchai, and insist on talking to Stave once more. She wanted to hear everything that he might be able to tell her about how the Staff of Law had been lost.

She needed to understand what had become of the Land.

In the larger room, however, she found Anele awake, sitting with his back to the wall.

Clearly sleep and food had done him good. His skin tone and colour had improved, and some of the wreckage was gone from his features. He did not rise to greet her; but his small movements as he turned his head and shifted his shoulders seemed more elastic now, less fragile.

“Anele,” she inquired quietly, “how are you? Why didn’t you use the bed? You would have slept better.”

He dropped his chin to his chest, avoiding her gaze. His fingertips moved aimlessly over the stone on either side of him. “Anele does not sleep in beds. Dreams are snares. He will be lost in them. They cannot find him here.”

Without her health-sense, Linden felt profoundly truncated, almost crippled. But she needed to understand him. As gently as she could, she pursued him.

“Here?” she prompted, her voice soft. “On the floor?”

“On stone,” he acknowledged. “You do not protect Anele. He has no friend but stone.”

In another phase of his madness, he had claimed that the rocks around him spoke.

“Anele-” Muttering to herself at the pain in her muscles, Linden squatted to sit beside him. Deliberately she set her shoulder against his, hoping to reassure him. “I said I Would protect you. I meant it. I just haven’t figured out how yet.”

Then she asked, “What does stone do for you? Why do you need it?”

How could walls and floors guard him from dreaming?

The old man struggled for an answer. “Anele tries-He strives-So hard. It pains him. Yet he tries and tries.”

She waited.

After a long moment, he finished, “Always. Trapped and lost. Anele tries. He must remember.”

Remember what? she wanted to ask. What kind of knowledge did his fractured mind conceal from him? Why had he chosen madness?

But if he could have answered that question, he would not have been in such straits. Seeking a way to slip past his barricades, she asked instead, “Do you remember me?”

He flashed her a blind glance, then turned his head away. “Anele found you. High up. The Watch. It pursued him. He fled. You were there.”

So much he retained, if no more.

“Do you remember what happened to us?” Linden kept her tone calm, almost incurious. She wanted him to believe that he was safe with her. “Do you remember what happened to the Watch?”

In spite of her caution, however, she had disturbed him. He seemed to shrink into himself. “It came. Anele fell. Fire and darkness. White. Terrible.”

Perhaps she had not phrased her question simply enough. Gently, softly, she tried again.

“Anele, are you still alive?”

If he could have caused the wall to swallow him, he might have done so. “It came,” he repeated. “They came. Worse than death.”

Linden sighed to herself. Her brief percipience on Kevin’s Watch had given her the impression that he was fundamentally responsible for his own condition. He had chosen insanity as a form of self-defence. Having chosen it, however, he could not simply set it aside. He would have to find his own way through it, for good or ill.

The same necessity ruled her, as it ruled Jeremiah.

Hoping to comfort him, she reached out to squeeze the old man’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.” Covenant had said the same to her. “It’s easier to remember when you don’t try too hard.

“Once I figure out what to do, we’ll get out of here. In the meantime, I’m sure the Masters will bring us more food and water. And I need someone to talk to”- a new idea occurred to her in mid-sentence- “preferably someone who isn’t one of them.

She wanted to talk to a Stonedownor. If the Haruchai would allow her.

Deliberately she climbed to her feet. Limping to the outer doorway, she pushed the leather curtain aside and leaned her head into the sunlight.

The door opened on a narrow passage of packed dirt between flat-roofed stone dwellings. A mid-morning sky arched overhead, deep blue and apparently untrammelled in spite of Kevin’s Dirt. A few birds called to each other in the distance, but she heard nothing else; saw no one. The whole village might have been deserted.

She wanted to bask in the sun’s warmth for a moment, let its touch sink into her hurts; but almost immediately one of the Haruchai appeared around the corner of her gaol.

She recognised the unscarred Master who had helped Stave capture Anele and her.

“Linden Avery.” He bowed as Stave had done, with both fists extended from the level of his heart. “I am Bornin. You are welcome among us. What is your desire?”

She nodded a bow. His characteristic stolidity brought back her sense of betrayal and outrage. However, she kept her reaction to herself. “Thank you, Bornin,” she replied evenly. “There are a couple of things you could do for me, if you don’t mind.”

Expressionlessly he waited for her to continue.

“We could use more water and something to eat,” she explained. “And I want to talk to one of the Stonedownors. Is there anyone around who can spare me a little time?”

If she could not seek out comprehension, she would make it come to her.

Bornin appeared momentarily uncertain. “What will a Stonedownor reveal to you that we cannot?”

“I’m not sure,” she answered noncommittally. “I might ask what it’s like to live without Earthpower. Or I might just want some company. Anele isn’t much of a conversationalist.”

The Haruchai seemed to consult the open air. Then he nodded. “Very well, Linden Avery. Do you wish to accompany me, or will you await my return?”

Thinking of Anele, she swallowed her desire for freedom and sunshine, and let the curtain drop between herself and Bornin.

The old man lifted his head briefly, then returned to his fractured thoughts.

“Anele,” she said on an impulse, “you’ve scrambled to survive for a long time. Decades. Does anyone ever help you? Do you have any friends?”

How was it possible for a demented old man to keep himself alive? Hunger and injuries, if not sheer loneliness, should have killed him long ago.

Again he raised his white eyes. For a moment, he appeared to consider her question seriously. “Anele is lost,” he said almost calmly. “Always alone. And always harried. They seek him.

“But-” Concentration and gloom filled his sightless gaze. “Folk are kind. When they are far away. Even here-Anele is fed. Given raiment. When they are far away.

“And-”

His voice trailed off as if he had lost the thread of a memory.

“And?” Linden prompted.

Come on, Anele. Give me something. I can’t do it all alone.

“And-” he began again. He seemed to cower against a wall deep inside himself. “Creatures. Dark. Fearsome. Lost things, long dead. Anele fears them. He fears-

“They feed him. Force blackness into him. Make him strong. Heal him, whispering madness.

“Madness.”

Without warning, he shouted in protest, “Creatures make Anele remember!”

Then he collapsed to his side, clutching his knees to his chest, hiding his face.

“Anele!” At once, Linden dropped to the floor beside him, tugged him into the cradle of her arms. “Oh, Anele, I’m so sorry. I know you suffer. I didn’t mean to remind you. I just-”

She had no way of knowing what might cause him pain. Helpless to do otherwise, she held him and rocked him until his tension eased and he grew still.

At the same time, she tried to comfort herself. She had been in worse straits than this. The Clave had imprisoned her for days: a Raver had demeaned her utterly. In Kiril Threndor, moksha Jehannum had tortured her while Covenant confronted the Despiser. Oh, she had been in worse straits. Much worse.

But Jeremiah had not. Even when he had held his right hand in the bonfire: even then. That agony had been relatively brief; and he had found a way to escape from it. It could not be compared to the torments Lord Foul might devise for him. His dissociation would not defend him from the malice of a being who could possess him-

While you are apart from him, you cannot know his sufferings.

And he could hope for nothing from her. She did not know where to look for him-and might not have been able to reach him if she had known.

Anele’s state frustrated and pained her; but it also protected her. If she had not felt compelled to care for him, she might not have been able to contain her own anguish.

Later the old man left her to use the lavatory. When he returned, he sat beside her again, his shoulder touching hers like a recognition of companionship. For that she was grateful.

Eventually a hesitant scratching came to the outer curtain; and the stocky frame of a Stonedownor ducked inward with a large stone bowl cupped in each hand. “Anele?” he asked uncertainly. “Linden Avery? You wished to speak with me? I was told-”

His voice faded into doubt. Unsure of himself, he stooped to set his bowls on the floor.

Without hesitation, Anele rose to cross the room and drink from one of the bowls.

Linden struggled to rouse herself. She had asked to speak to a Stonedownor, but she no longer remembered why. Nothing that he might say would enable her to help her son.

The man waited for a long moment, indecisive. Then he made an attempt to pull up his dignity.

“I see now that I was mistaken. Pardon my intrusion.”

With the constrained light behind him, his face lay in shadows. Yet his eyes found a way to appeal to her. Somehow he conveyed the impression that he had come, not because a Master had requested it, but because he wanted to.

“Wait,” Linden murmured hoarsely. “I’m sorry. Wait.”

Somewhere she found the strength to gain her feet.

“I don’t mean to be rude.” Her own voice seemed to reach her from a great distance. “I’m just”- her throat closed convulsively- “just scared.”

She took a step or two forward. While the Stonedownor waited for her, she rubbed her hands across her face; pulled her hair back over her shoulders.

“There’s something I didn’t tell the Masters.” She sounded too far away from herself to speak coherently. “The Haruchai.

“It’s my son-”

Unable to go on, she stopped, hoping that her visitor would reach out to her in some way.

He seemed to swallow conflicting responses. After a last hesitation, he said, “I am Liand son of Fostil. The Master did not say that you wished to speak to me. He said only that you wished to speak to a Stonedownor. I presumed to offer myself.”

As if he understood that she needed an explanation-a chance to gather herself-he continued. “My duties are among the horses rather than in the fields, and horses are easily tended. They are few in any event, and not needed today. Having no other demands upon me, I often accompany the Masters, or do their bidding.

“I was-” Sudden embarrassment made him falter. “I had concealed myself nearby when they took you and your companion. I helped them to bear you here.

“Since that moment, I have wished to speak with you. You are strange in the South Plains, and to me, and I am hungry to learn of new things.”

While he spoke, Linden rallied her resources. She felt the delicacy of his manner, the instinctive consideration: his unprompted account of his presence gave her time to prepare. He may have felt awkward, but he did not appear so to her. Instead he seemed spontaneously kind.

That contrast with Stave and the Haruchai encouraged her to gather her courage.

“Thank you, Liand,” she said when she could breathe more easily. “I’m glad you’re willing to talk to me.”

Anele turned his back, dismissing the Stonedownor, and moved to sit once again against the far wall.

“Oh, I am willing in all truth.” Liand’s voice was an intent baritone, full of concentration and interest. “Your speech is foreign to my ears, and your raiment is unlike any I have beheld.” Frankly he admitted, “I am eager to offer whatever I may.”

“Thank you,” she said again. Inadvertently she had provided herself with an opening, an approach to her immediate concerns. As she considered how she might proceed, she tried to see his face more clearly. However, the gloom shrouded his features, blurring their definitions. Tentatively she asked, “Can you let in more light? The Masters won’t release Anele, and I promised not to leave him. But I want to be able to look at you.”

“Surely.” Liand reached at once to the side of the doorframe, located a hook which must have been formed or attached for the purpose, and hung the curtain there. “Will this suffice?”

The sunlight did not stretch far into the chamber; but enough reflected illumination washed inward to brighten the room considerably.

“It will”- Linden smiled wanly- “as soon as we sit down.” Easing herself to the floor, she indicated a spot for him inside the doorway. “Anele and I had a rough time yesterday,” she explained as neutrally as she could. “I haven’t got my strength back yet.”

When Liand complied, the light revealed him plainly. He was a young man, perhaps half her age, with broad shoulders and sturdy, workman’s hands, wearing a jerkin and leggings of rough wool dyed the hue of sand. Thick leather sandals protected his feet. His features reminded her distantly of Sunder, the only Stonedownor whom she had known well: he had Sunder’s blunt openness without the bereavements and guilt which had complicated her friend’s native simplicity. And he was characteristically brown-skinned, brown-eyed. Above his square jaw, imprecise nose, and eager gaze, his loose hair and eyebrows were a startling black, as dark as crow’s wings.

His mouth seemed made for smiles; but he was not smiling now.

“I witnessed your capture,” he told Linden gravely. “The Masters were not gentle with you. And I cannot conceive what you must have endured in the fall of the Watch. Indeed, I cannot conceive how it is that you yet live.”

Dropping his eyes, he observed noncommittally, “The Masters may comprehend that wonder, but they answer inquiries rarely-and never when what has transpired surpasses our experience. To justify your captivity, they say only that Anele requires their care, and that you opposed them.”

He did not need to add that he was eager to hear a better explanation. His excitement was plain in the feigned relaxation of his posture, the quick clench and release of his hands. However, she was not ready to put him in peril. Anything that she revealed might turn the Haruchai against him. Hell, they might decide to treat him like they did Anele. She could not take that kind of chance with him: not yet.

And she did not know if he were truly as guileless as he appeared. The health-sense which she had regained and lost again would have discerned his essential nature. Without it, she had to be more careful.

“Maybe we can talk about that later,” she answered. “There’s a lot at stake, and right now I don’t know who I can trust and who I can’t.” To forestall an interruption, she went on more quickly, “I was here once before, but that was a very long time ago. I gather my name doesn’t mean anything to you?”

The Stonedownor shook his head.

“Thomas Covenant?” she continued. “Sunder son of Nassic, the Graveler of Mithil Stonedown? Hollian eh-Brand?”

The First of the Search? Pitchwife?

Liand shook his head again. “This is Mithil Stonedown. These other names I have never heard.” He hesitated, then asked, “What is a “Graveler”?

Linden swallowed indignation. Those damn Masters had suppressed everything. If the people of the South Plains had forgotten the lore on which their lives had once depended-

Controlling herself with difficulty, she told Liand, “You see my problem. Too much time has passed. If you don’t even know what a Graveler is-” She sighed. “I can’t tell you who I am, or what I’m doing here. You wouldn’t understand unless I explained the whole history of the Land first.”

Liand leaned forward, undaunted by her response. “But you are able to explain that history. The Masters do not speak of such things. If they are asked, they do not answer.

“Linden Avery, I would do anything that might serve you, if in return you would share with me the Land’s past. I know naught beyond the small tale of my family and Mithil Stonedown for a few generations only, a few score years. Yet I have-”

Abruptly he stopped; pulled himself back from his enthusiasm. “My heart speaks to me of greater matters,” he said more warily. “Simple fragments of the Land’s lost tale would content me. There is little that I would not do for you in exchange.”

His words nearly broke down her defences. An offer like that-She could have taken advantage of him shamelessly.

Betray the Masters for me. Help us escape. Guide us. I’ll tell you stories that will turn your head inside out.

She might be able to find her son.

Surely the Haruchai deserved no restraint from her? God, no. In the name of their own self-esteem, they had deprived the Land of its history and power; its access to glory. They deserved anything that she could do to subvert them.

But she knew better. Stave’s convictions may have offended hers; but that did not detract from his essential worth: his rigorous honesty and candour; his readiness to judge himself more stringently than he judged anyone else.

And-

Unhappily she told herself the truth.

And Liand was no match for them. They were the Haruchai, preternaturally potent, and defiantly uncompromising. If she set him against them, they might kill him. They would certainly damage his spirit. She would have his pain on her conscience, and would gain nothing.

In spite of Jeremiah’s plight, she could not turn her back on her own scruples.

Restraining herself, Linden gazed into the Stonedownor’s face. “Convince me,” she countered quietly. “Tell me what you were about to say. “Yet I have-”

Liand hesitated. Apparently she had asked him to take a significant risk. Her nerves stretched as he debated within himself. In a moment, however, his excitement-or his trusting nature-won out.

He glanced around quickly; leaned forward. Lowering his voice to a whisper, he said, “I have ascended the Watch, though the Masters forbid it. I have seen a vast pall of harm upon the Land, a dire cloud which I cannot now discern. And I have beheld the peaks of the south rise mighty and glorious above that pall, fraught with majesty. I have ached to sojourn among them, to taste their rare substance with my own flesh, though such savours may destroy me.

“Surely at one time the Land itself was home to similar marvels.”

He brought tears to Linden’s eyes: she could not quench the burning he inspired. He had stolen a brief glimpse of something that should have been readily apparent to everyone in the Land at all times. Ignorant of what his people had lost, he did not grieve over it as she did. Nevertheless the loss was real, and abominable.

She wanted to match his honesty with her own, in spite of the danger to him.

“Liand-” Roughly she rubbed back her tears. “I can’t explain things to you right now. Not here,” where any Haruchai might overhear her. “But I’m in trouble, and I need help.

“I knew the Masters a long time ago. They remember me. They were my friends then, but I don’t think I can trust them now. They’ve changed. I want to hear anything you can tell me about them.”

Anele snorted as if in disgust, but did not speak.

Liand’s stare showed his concern. “I do not understand,” he admitted. “Your knowledge of them is surely deeper than mine. They seldom answer our inquiries. Indeed, they seldom speak. I know only what all in Mithil Stonedown know, and that is little. There is a place which they name Revelstone, though what it may be, or where, they do not say. Upon occasion, they sojourn there, and return.” After a pause, he finished, “I have observed no alteration in them.”

She sighed. “All right. I’ll ask it a different way. What do you know about Lord Foul the Despiser?” She searched his face. “The Grey Slayer? The Masters call him Corruption.”

At the back wall, Anele flinched, then covered his head with his arms.

The Stonedownor gave her a perplexed frown. “I fear that I know nothing. I have never heard these names.”

“There,” Linden responded bitterly. “That’s my problem.

“The Land has an ancient enemy. If he isn’t immortal, he might as well be. Over the centuries,” the millennia, “he’s done more harm than I could possibly describe. And you’ve never heard of him.

“The Masters know more about him than I do, and I know him too damn well.” The Despiser had found an echo of himself in her, and had nearly destroyed her with it. “He’s here. He’s still here. But they don’t talk about him.

“Liand,” she told the young man as openly as she could, “that terrifies me.”

Stave had explained his position only too well, yet still she could not comprehend it.

“This Lord Foul,” Liand asked uncertainly, “this Despiser? He remains among us? What has he done?”

Unable to contain her fear and anger, Linden rasped, “He has taken my son.”

Her words seemed to shock the Stonedownor. He straightened his back; clasped his arms over his stomach. Alarm darkened his frank gaze.

Anele whimpered softly to himself as though he feared to be overheard.

“That’s my problem,” she repeated. “Lord Foul has my son, and you’ve never heard of him. The Masters want you ignorant. They think they can defend the Land by themselves, even though they’re no match for him.

“I’ve got to find my son. To do that, I need help. But I didn’t tell Stave about him. I don’t want to turn the Masters against me. If they knew the truth-what I have to do-” She was already sure that she would not be able to search for Jeremiah without Earthpower and the Staff of Law. “I’m afraid they’ll try to stop me.”

More quietly, she concluded, “I need to make some decisions. I can’t just sit here.” And Anele required freedom. “Anything you can tell me might help me make up my mind.”

Plainly out of his depth, Liand unfolded his arms and spread his hands. “Linden Avery, I know not how to reply.” Uncertainty confused his gaze. “To me as to all my people, the Masters have ever been what they are. Upon occasion, as I have said, they are absent from Mithil Stonedown. More commonly they are not. They do not aid us in tilling the soil, or in harvesting crops, or in gathering fruits. They neither tend the weak nor succour the infirm. Yet they countenance all that we do. In no way do they intervene in our pursuits, or alter our lives.”

Linden studied him sharply. “But you said they forbade you to climb Kevin’s Watch “

“Yes,” he admitted. “That they have done.” His expression suggested that until this moment he had not considered the prohibition unusual. It was merely one more item on a long list of things which the Masters did not explain. “I did not dare to defy their command until a sojourn of some days took them from among us.”

As Liand spoke, a cloud seemed to pass over the sun. The light reflecting through the doorway grew dim, bleeding illumination from the room. Shadows obscured his face as he added, “And they discourage wandering. They say that our lives are better lived in proximity to Mithil Stonedown.”

Then his tone quickened. “Yet we have horses because the Masters provide them.” Apparently he considered it important to describe the Haruchai fairly. “Our herd is too scant to be replenished by breeding, and they say that we must have means to bear tidings swiftly at need.”

After a brief pause, he said, “Also they aid us against the kresh. And-”

“Kresh?” interrupted Linden. That name was new to her.

“The yellow wolves,” Liand explained, “more terrible in size than the grey wolves we know, and savage beyond description. Our old songs and tales speak of a time when no such beasts harried the Plains. For three generations, however, or perhaps four, kresh have fallen upon us at intervals, hunting blood in fearsome packs. Lacking the aid of the Masters, we could not withstand them.

“In this our mounts are precious. At any warning-often it is the Masters themselves who warn us-we ride abroad to gather our people so that we may make defence in Mithil Stonedown.”

Linden had expected the light to improve as the cloud drifted past; but it did not. Instead twilight gathered in the room, and a faint chill breathed past the open curtain. The weather was changing. When she glanced away from Liand to check on Anele, she saw that the old man had begun to shiver.

For a moment, she yearned for percipience so keenly that she could not continue. In the Land as she had once known it, the simple touch of the air on her cheek would have told her what the deepening gloom presaged.

But aching for her lost health-sense weakened her as much as the loss itself. With an effort, she set the pang aside.

“You said sometimes the Masters go away. For days?”

“Upon occasion,” the Stonedownor affirmed. “Other absences are less prolonged.

Revelstone was three hundred leagues away. Even on horseback, the journey would take more than a few days.

“Do you know where they go?” she asked. “I mean, when they aren’t going to Revelstone. Why do they need to go anywhere?”

Liand shrugged. “They are the Masters. They reveal little, and explain less.

“However,” he added more slowly, “at times they accept my company, when my duties permit it. Thus I have learned that in certain absences they searched for your companion.”

Linden caught her breath. In this also, Anele had told the truth.

“I know not,” Liand went on, “why they have attended so to the capture of one frail old man. Nor am I able to describe how he has eluded them. I could not have done so in his place. Yet it is certain that their desire against him is no recent wish.”

She nodded in the gloom. The sun’s light had faded further, and as it did so the air grew noticeably cooler. Soon she might start to shiver. Liand’s account was consistent with what both Stave and Anele had told her.

How had the old man been able to evade capture? She could not imagine. Like Liand, she would have been helpless to foil the Haruchai.

If she wanted to escape, she needed to learn Anele’s secret.

He had mentioned dark, fearsome creatures. Lost things, long dead. Creatures that forced him to remember

That question would have to wait. Something that Liand had been about to reveal nagged at her. Instead of pursuing his sporadic travels with the Masters, she said, “A minute ago, you started to say something else. You mentioned kresh and-?”

He frowned, momentarily confused. “Kresh and-?” But then his expression lifted. “Ah, yes. I meant to add that the Masters aid us also against the Falls.”

As if to himself, Anele muttered, “Caesures.”

“Go on,” Linden urged the young man.

Liand sighed. “By some means which we do not comprehend, and which the Masters do not explain, they discern the Falls at great distance. We are scarcely able to behold the Falls when they are nigh, yet the Masters perceive their presence and their movements from afar. Destructive as they are, and unpredictable to us, they might well have torn us from life if the Masters did not forewarn and guide us.”

The Stonedownors could not detect the caesures because they had been blinded; yet the Haruchai had not so much as mentioned Kevin’s Dirt to Liand’s people.

Cursing to herself, Linden asked, “Could you see the Fall that broke Kevin’s Watch?”

Liand shook his head. “We could not. The distance was too great for our eyes. We only guessed at its presence when the spire fell.”

She understood none of this. What did Lord Foul gain by it? Nevertheless the yellow smog baffled her less than did the caesures. If she could not imagine its ultimate purpose, she could grasp the nature of its evil. But the migraine aura which had shattered Kevin’s Watch was another matter. She had seen that it was potent and harmful; but what was it for?

Groping, she probed further.

“You said you’ve had trouble with kresh for three or four generations. How long have you had to worry about Falls?”

“Four score years, perhaps, or five. Falls are more”- he grimaced- “remarkable than kresh, fearsome though the wolves may be. They disturb our lives more profoundly.” Liand thought for a moment, then offered, “If I question my people, I may be able to determine the time of their first appearance among us.”

Eighty or a hundred years. Three or four generations. Caesures and kresh had begun to afflict the South Plains at about the same time.

“What do the Falls do?” Linden asked intently.

The young man’s mouth twisted again. “They are destructive, as I have said.” He did not enjoy the taste of his memories. “Trees and shrubs are often blasted, and crops are ruined as though ploughs by the score had torn through them. At times we have been brought near to starvation by the loss of our fields, and winter has been cruel to us because we could find little wood to feed our fires.” He sighed. “Beyond question the aid of the Masters has enabled us to endure.”

His voice held a note of fatality as he concluded, “Stone may withstand a Fall, though it does not do so repeatedly. But any beast or bird or human that nears a Fall is swallowed away and does not return.”

Linden stared at him. Swallowed away? Actually devoured? God! No wonder Anele was terrified-

Fearing Liand’s answer, she asked, “How often do you see Falls?”

He shrugged uncomfortably. “We cannot foretell them. They are not constant. However, the interval between them is commonly measured in years. Some pass, harmless, across the Plains. Others disappear among the mountains, or emerge from them. It is rare that a Fall enters this valley.”

As he spoke, Linden winced at an abrupt flash of intuition. Caesures had begun to afflict the Land, say, ninety years ago. Covenant had told her that roughly a year passed in the Land for every day in her ordinary world. And three months had passed since she had restored a white gold ring-

Was it possible? Behind Liand’s shrouded form, and the blank stone walls, and the gloom, Linden seemed to see Roger’s mother in her hospital bed raising her fist against herself. Had Lord Foul taken hold of Joan’s mind so completely that she had been able to reach across the barrier between realities with wild magic? Had Joan caused the Falls by beating out her pain on the bones of her temple?

If so, the danger was about to get a lot worse. She was here now; able to strike directly at the Land.

And Linden was inadvertently responsible. Nothing in her experience had prepare her for the possibility that Joan’s madness might have power across such distances.

Even the Staff of Law-if Linden could somehow contrive to find it-might Prove useless against such wrong.

Her voice shook as she asked, “Do the kresh ever attack while you’re threatened by a Fall?”

How far did Joan’s insanity-and Lord Foul’s machinations-extend? Kevin’s Dirt effectively masked the caesures. Did the Falls similarly disguise the peril of the wolves?

“I have beheld one such attack,” Liand admitted, “no more. Yet when they neared the Fall, the kresh attempted flight. Those that failed were consumed.”

His answer gave her a small relief. It suggested that Joan-or the Despiser-was somehow constrained; limited. Or that separate intentions were at work; hungers driven by differing impulses.

Nevertheless she did not understand it. It did not sound like Lord Foul. Surely his appetite for ruin would be better fed by a coordinated assault? The Masters alone could not repeatedly withstand such an attack.

Stave’s people had spent centuries ensuring that the Land had no other defenders.

Linden needed more information. She lacked some crucial fact or insight which would have allowed her to grasp the Despiser’s purpose.

“So kresh and Falls are new,” she mused. “Comparatively. Have there been any other changes? Maybe not in your lifetime, but in the past few generations? Do your people talk about anything unusual? Has anything strange happened?”

“Do you mean apart from the fall of the Watch, and your own presence?” Liand’s tone suggested a grin, but the accumulating gloom concealed his features. “Do you inquire of stillbirths, or twins, or unwonted blights?” Then he shook his shadowed head. “Surely you do not.

“One event,” he said more seriously, “which we would deem “strange” without hesitation has transpired. Indeed, I was present at its occurrence. Though I was little more than a child, I recall it well-as do we all.”

“Tell me,” Linden urged.

He rubbed his arms roughly for a moment, as if the thought of what he would say left him vulnerable to the growing cold. Outside the day had turned crepuscular somehow ominous: she could hardly make out the wall of the home beyond her gaol. An erratic breeze began to scrub up dust from the packed dirt between the dwellings.

“The occasion itself” he said quietly, remembering dismay, “was in no way remarkable. Our folk had gathered at day’s end in the centre of the Stonedown to speak of that which had been accomplished, and to prepare for the morrow’s labours. Also such gatherings provide opportunity for songs and tales an ease. Thus do the folk of Mithil Stonedown combine their hearts for the aid and comfort of all.

Wind plucked at the curtain. An accumulating tension in the air hinted at thunder. For reasons of his own, Anele left the rear wall and crept forward on his hands and knees. He may have wished to hear better.

Liand continued.

The occasion commenced in the ordinary fashion, occupied with matters which held little interest for a child of my few years. Labours were discussed, plans made. I attended to them scantly, awaiting tales.

“Yet of a sudden it became apparent that a stranger stood among us. His visage was merely unfamiliar, for we had never seen him before. And his raiment resembled ours. We found it surpassingly strange, however, that none of us had observed his approach. Indeed, the Masters themselves had given no sign that they were aware of him ere he appeared.

“He did not ask for our notice. He merely awaited it. Yet soon every eye and ear was concentrated toward him. Then he began to speak.”

An abrupt gust pulled the curtain from its hook. The leather slapped down, sealing out the last of the light. Startled, Linden clutched at Covenant’s ring. Now she could see nothing of Liand except his outlines. Anele was an undefined blur in the centre of the chamber, breathing feverishly through his teeth.

Almost whispering, the Stonedownor said, “The stranger spoke of matters which conveyed no meaning to us. Sandgorgons. Croyel. A shadow upon the heart of his kind. Merewives and other bafflements. To none of them could we make response. We did not comprehend them.

“Then, however”- Liand faltered as though the memory still discomfited him”- he informed us that a bane of great puissance and ferocity in the far north had slipped its bonds, and had found release in Mount Thunder.

“Mount Thunder?” we inquired of him courteously. “We know nothing of that place. Is it near? Does it concern us? We are imperilled betimes by Falls. But packs of kresh are the only harm which has visited us from the north.”

Linden groaned like the mounting wind. In the gaps between gusts, she heard a faint sizzling noise like rain on hot stone. Liand’s people had never even heard of Mount Thunder-The thoroughness with which the Haruchai had expunged the Land’s past shocked her.

But Liand could not see her reaction; knew nothing of her concerns. He had not stopped.

“At first the stranger answered us with anger. Were we blind? Had we grown foolish across the centuries? Did we disdain the harsh evils of the world?

“There, however, Stave of the Masters intervened. I have not forgotten his words.

“Elohim,” he said, “you are not welcome here.”

Oh, hell. Linden gaped at the dark. An Elohim? What were those arrogant, Earthpowerful beings doing in the Land?

In the distance, thunder opened a cannonade. Crushing volleys echoed from the mountains which sheltered Mithil Stonedown. Anele quailed at the sound as though each barrage were aimed at him.

“These folk are ignorant, Haruchai,” replied the stranger. “You have maimed them of knowledge. Their doom is upon your heads.” But he did not tell us what he meant.

“Instead he gave warning. “Beware the halfhand,” he pronounced in a voice which shook our hearts. Then he appeared to dissolve into the air as salt does in water, and was gone, leaving only the taste of disturbance on our tongues.”

If she could have cleared her throat, Linden might have protested, Beware the halfhand? Distress crowded her chest. That title had been given to Thomas Covenant during his first visit to the Land.

But Jeremiah was also a halfhand, in his own way.

She hardly heard Liand ask, “Do you deem that strange, Linden Avery? Do you know of this “halfhand”?

The Elohim had never trusted Covenant. They had feared his white ring; feared its power to compel even them, despite their fluid transcendence. But he was dead-

What did they know of her son?

They were Elohim. They knew everything that transpired throughout the Earth. It was their nature to know. Of course they were aware of Jeremiah’s plight.

Surely they understood Lord Foul’s intentions precisely?

“It troubles us still,” Liand admitted when she did not respond, “though the stranger has not returned. For that reason, my heart speaks to me of matters greater than the Masters permit us to know.”

Beware the halfhand.

Find me, Covenant had pleaded in her dreams.

She had assumed that her son had been taken as a hostage against her, so that she might be coerced into surrendering Covenant’s ring. But the warning of the Elohim seemed to imply a larger danger.

Larger than the destruction of the Arch of Time and the extinction of the Earth-?

Seconded by thunder, Liand finished, “And therefore I ascended the Watch, defying the prohibition of the Masters, though to do so may have been foolish and perilous. I wish to know the name of our doom.”

Linden stared at him, seeing nothing. Worse than Lord Foul’s complete victory-?

“Protect Anele,” the old man whimpered through the thrashing of the wind. “Power comes. It will shred his heart.”

“Linden Avery.” Liand’s voice held a note of supplication. “Speak to me. You grasp much which is denied to us. Do you comprehend this doom? Who is this Elohim? What is the “halfhand,” that we must be wary of him?”

Magnified by the wind, thunder thudded against the ground so heavily that the floor under her shook. The air flurrying past the curtain had turned as cold as frost.

She had encountered the croyel. They were parasites which gave power in exchange for mastery. She had seen them unify the primitive savagery of the arghuleh; exalt Kasreyn of the Gyre’s dangerous theurgies.

What might such a creature do to Jeremiah?

The croyel posed no threat to the Elohim. The danger must be to the Land, and to the Earth. Or to her son-

“What’s happening?”

She did not hear herself speak aloud. She only knew that the thunder had grown as violent as the rending of Kevin’s Watch.

“Protect,” Anele repeated. His voice quavered in fright.

Abruptly a ragged wail carried along the wind. “We are assailed!” At once, Liand sprang to his feet. “Kresh?” he gasped. “Now?”

In a rush, he flung himself past the curtain; disappeared between the dwellings.

Instinctively Linden surged upright, echoing Liand’s question. Wolves? In a storm like this?

No. Not unless the Despiser had compelled them to attack.

Mithil Stonedown would need all of its defenders. Even the Haruchai might find themselves overwhelmed.

“Come on,” she told Anele urgently. With her right hand, she gripped Covenant’s ring. “They need help, and I can’t leave you. You’re coming with me.”

Her companion did not react. He could not have heard her. Wind and thunder like detonations smothered her voice.

“Come on!” she yelled, beckoning furiously at the thick gloom. Then she slapped the curtain aside and hurried into the storm.

There, however, she staggered to a halt.

She stood in the narrow passage between her gaol and the nearest home. It was deserted: every passage in sight was deserted. The Masters had abandoned their watch on Anele. The force of the wind had swept them away.

Clouds frothed like spume overhead, black and grey tangled together, and racing for the horizons. The dwellings around her appeared in shades of darkness, as comfortless as sepulchres. Dust stung at her eyes and flared away.

She expected rain, but there was none.

Out of the gloom, Anele stumbled against her back. He caught himself, staggered to her side. His lips worked feverishly, but she could not hear him.

If Liand’s people and the Haruchai fought kresh, they did so without a sound no snarling; no cries of effort or pain.

Not wolves, then; or any other form of attack that Linden knew. A running battle could not be waged in silence between shocks of thunder.

The whole Stonedown had lost its voice. She and Anele might have been the only ones left alive-

The next slam of thunder brought no lightning. She had seen none since the storm began. Instead the shrouded air ahead of her seemed to congeal into a knot of perfect and impenetrable blackness: distilled ebony or obsidian. Even her blunted senses felt its concentration and power like a shout of wreckage.

As she stared at it in dismay, it shattered downward.

Dirt and broken stone spouted from the ground where the power struck; too much stone. Stunned moments passed before she understood that a home had been blasted to scree and flinders.

No natural force drove this storm. It was the Despiser’s handiwork. Nothing in Mithil Stonedown could hope to stand against it.

Except wild magic-

She started forward again.

A heartbeat later, she stopped once more.

If Lord Foul had caused this storm, what did he hope to gain? Gratuitous destruction? Homelessness and pain? He delighted in such things. But she remembered him vividly. Always he hid one purpose within another. He would not be content with tearing Mithil Stonedown apart. He wanted more-

What would happen if she allowed herself to be lured into a contest of powers, white fire against black havoc? She did not know how to use Covenant’s ring. If she found the way, she might break the storm, save some of Liand’s people. Or the seething clouds might prove too potent for her. She might be impelled to flee for her life. Or worse, might lose control completely-

Or she might find that she could not raise wild magic by any act of will. Unable to defend herself, she might be struck down by the storm. Jeremiah’s last faint hope would be gone.

In either case, the Masters would imprison Anele again when the danger passed. Her chance to escape-perhaps the only chance she would get-would be gone. That would serve the Despiser beyond question.

No, she panted to herself. No. She would not. Not while she could still breathe and think-

Do something they don’t expect.

– and run.

If this storm was aimed at her, it might follow. Some of the Stonedownors, at least, would be spared. And Stave’s people might not be able to pursue her.

Wheeling, she reached out for Anele, grabbed him by the shoulder of his tattered tunic. Instead of trying to shout through the wind, she shoved him ahead of her, away from the boiling centre of darkness.

He complied as though she had set a goad to his ribs; as though he were not hindered by blindness.

Together they ran with all their strength between the dwellings and out of the Stonedown: away from thunder and Masters and the Land she knew.

Chapter Six: The Despiser? Guidance

South: Linden prayed that she and Anele ran south; deeper into the valley. Surely that black storm arose from the north? – from the peril which had found its release in Mount Thunder? If so, she needed to flee southward, toward the place where the mountains rose like barricades.

Away from Masters and dark thunder and Jeremiah.

Something they don’t expect.

Away from any hope that she would find people to help her.

Dreams are snares.

Running, hardly able to see, she and the old man made their way between the homes and out of Mithil Stonedown. Anele stayed near her without urging or explanation. In every phase of his madness, apparently, he understood flight and did not need vision. Indeed, when they gained open ground he began to pull ahead. Guided by some instinct which she could hardly imagine, his feet seemed to find and follow a path of their own accord, despite the dense cloud and trailing thunder.

She did not want that. The Haruchai would come in pursuit. They were too doughty, and too familiar with power, to die in the darkness which assailed the village. And they had access to horses. Any path would guide the Masters swiftly after her.

Hoping that she had chosen the right direction and knew where she was, Linden panted at Anele’s back, “Not that way! Head for the river!” Anele were going

Liand’s village lay on the eastern bank of the Mithil. If she and Anele were going south they could reach the watercourse by veering to their right. Perhaps they would be able to confuse the Haruchai by crossing the river-or by travelling along it.

Or by floating down it, as she and Covenant had done with Sunder under a sun of rain.

Would Stave make that assumption? He might. Certainly he would have to consider it seriously. If she could slip past Mithil Stonedown on the river, aiming toward the open expanse of the South Plains, she would be difficult to track.

And if she rode the current of the Mithil long enough, it would carry her to the southern edge of Andelain. There she might discover the counsel and guidance of the Dead-

It was possible that those shades no longer occupied the Hills. The Masters would know. But they would also know that she did not. Surely they might believe that she would head in that direction?

Fearing that she might lose him in the heavy gloom, Linden ran hard after Anele as he angled away from the path. He must have understood her, in spite of his derangement. And must have believed, as she did, that they fled for the south.

She could hardly see her feet, but her boots found easy footing on the tough cushion of the grass. And in moments the turf seemed to lean gently downward, perhaps declining toward the watercourse. For a few strides, she ran more easily.

Nevertheless she soon knew that her attempt to escape would fail.

She did not have the strength to run far. Already she could scarcely breathe. The heavy cloud filled her sight like dusk, swirled like phosphenes before her: darkness seeped into her eyes as if her life and blood were oozing away. Again and again, she missed her balance and nearly fell; or the harsh wind knocked her off her stride.

She had been battered too severely; had found too little rest. Her flesh demanded days of healing, not hours. And she had not prepared herself-For ten years, she had done little to sustain the physical toughness that she had developed on her travels with Thomas Covenant.

If the Despiser had appeared before her here and now-and if she could have drawn one full breath-she would have flung everything she had against him without hesitation. But she could not, simply could not, evade the Haruchai by running.

Yet Anele sped ahead of her over the dim grass as though all fatigue, every vestige of his mortality, had been left behind in the gaol of the Masters. Galvanized by Earthpower or dread, and hardened by years of privation, he outdistanced her easily. Already he had begun to fade from sight, evanescent as a spectre in the fog. In another moment she would lose him altogether.

She thought she heard him cackle as he ran, overflowing with mad glee. She would have begged him to slow down if she could have made any sound except gasping.

Then without transition she saw him clearly for an instant, and a glimpse of sunlight flared ahead of her. The outer edge of the storm-? Goading herself forward, she struggled after him.

Another flash of sunlight: a sweep of hillside, sloping mildly downward. Abruptly the cerements of the strange storm unwound from her limbs, and she broke free into dazzling light and clean day.

Momentarily exhausted, she dropped to her hands and knees, panting while the grass seemed to sway under her and the low breeze tugged her sideways.

For a while, she heard nothing except her hoarse breathing and the unsteady labour of her heart. The hills around her seemed silent as a grave, deprived of birds and life by the passage of the storm. She meant to lift her head, look for Anele, but the muscles in her neck and shoulders refused to obey her. For all she knew, he had continued running; would continue until he had left her behind forever.

After a few moments, however, the sound of movement upon the grass reached her, and a pair of old feet, abused and bare, appeared at the edge of her vision. Anele had returned for her.

He chortled in tight bursts like a man who could not catch his breath for mirth.

Linden tried to say his name, but she had no breath. How far had she stretched her frail attempt at escape? A hundred yards? Two hundred? The Masters would recapture her swiftly when the attack on Mithil Stonedown ended.

“Pathetic,” Anele cackled in Lord Foul’s voice. “Entirely abject. You disappoint me, Linden Avery. I would delight to see you grovel thus, but I have not yet earned your prostration.

“If you had not released this failing cripple, my servants the Haruchai would have aided you. They would have fostered your false hopes. Now they will hunt you down and imprison you.

“This displeases me.”

She had no stamina; but she could still feel outrage. At once, she surged to her feet, clutching for Covenant’s ring with fury in her gaze.

Anele flinched involuntarily. His blind eyes wept dread and misery as his mouth articulated the Despiser’s bitter laughter.

“Damn it, Foul!” she panted through her teeth. “Leave him alone. If you need a victim, try me. Take your chances.”

“And if I do not?” Lord Foul retorted. “If I elect rather to mock you with this cripple’s torment? What then? Insipid woman! Will you scour the life from these displaced bones for my amusement?”

Linden yearned for strength; for the validation of white fire. Wild magic would have given force to her repudiation. If Covenant’s ring had not lain inert in her grasp she might have been able to daunt even the Despiser. But she was not Covenant. His power did not belong to her.

Nevertheless her anger was enough for her. With ire and determination, if not with fire, she confronted Anele’s anguish.

“Are you having fun, asshole?” she lashed out. “Enjoy it while you can. Sooner or later, I’m going to recover my health-sense.” Somehow. “And when I do, you will leave Anele alone. That I guarantee.

“If you don’t, I’ll be able to get at you.” More than once, percipience had enabled her to take possession of Covenant. “I’ll tear you out of him with my bare hands.”

For what he did to Jeremiah as much as for his cruelty to Anele.

The old man recoiled in fright. The spirit within him chortled harshly.

“Do you believe so?” he retorted. “That would please me. I would find satisfaction in such a contest. And this mad vessel, that clings so stubbornly to continuance when he should have perished ages ago”-Lord Foul laughed outright “ah, he would be quite destroyed.”

Not necessarily, Linden assured him in silence. You have no idea what I can do.

As matters stood, however, she posed no true threat. She knew that. Though Anele’s plight wrung her heart, she gained nothing by exhausting herself with anger.

Sagging, she released the ring. “Then what is all this for?” she countered bitterly. “Does mocking us please you so much that you just can’t resist? Hell, you can’t escape unless you destroy the whole Earth. Don’t you have anything better to do?”

Come on, Foul. Reveal something I can use. Tell me what you’ve done.

“At this moment?” the Despiser asked merrily. “Indeed I do. You must be restored, lest you prove unable to serve me. I mean to assist you.”

Abruptly her companion turned away, beckoning her to follow. “Come, woman. Accept our guidance. We will show you hurtloam.”

For the first time since she had regained her feet, Linden looked past him and saw the Mithil River at the bottom of the slope, bright with sunshine hardly a stone’s throw away. Beyond it, mountains reared upward, jagged as teeth, forbidding the sky. Off to her right, they declined toward the plains; but in the south they gathered into a rugged wall at the head of the valley.

Behind her, partially hidden by the shape of the terrain, the storm still boiled and frothed over Mithil Stonedown. Apart from the occasional thunderclap of violence, the only sounds she could hear were the damp rush of the river between its banks, murmuring of high cold and distant seas, and her own laboured respiration.

Somewhere she had heard of “hurtloam,” but she could not remember what it was, or who had mentioned it.

In spite of the storm, the air held a crisp tang that hinted at snow and ice among the distant peaks. The breeze on her flushed cheeks felt like spring; and the Mithil’s current was turbulent, heavy with melted winter.

The Haruchai would come in pursuit as soon as the attack on Mithil Stonedown ended.

Seeing that she had not moved, Anele beckoned more urgently. “You require healing,” Lord Foul assured her. “Without it, these self-maimed Masters will ensnare you blithely and this time you will not win free. They will hold you helpless until I am forced to foil them on your behalf.

“Without hurtloam, also,” he added as though he were explaining himself to a dotard, and weary of it, “you will not regain the discernment which renders you able to serve me.

“Come, I say. I find little sport in your wretchedness. Be assured that this abject old man does not wish harm upon you.”

The sweat had begun to dry on Linden’s forehead. Hurtloam? She could not run farther: escape was no longer possible. But she could think, and probe, and stand her ground.

I mean to assist you.

She did not believe him for an instant; could hardly credit that Lord Foul had spoken such words. Nevertheless his bizarre offer gave her an opportunity which she did not intend to miss.

Feigning boldness, she retorted, “And you think I’ll do what you tell me why? Because I’ve lost my mind? I’m suddenly stupid? Shit, Foul, you’ve had things your own way too long. You’re getting complacent.”

“Blind fool!” the Despiser jeered. Anele’s moonstone eyes rolled in desperation. “Do you doubt that the Haruchai will give chase? Do you conceive that they will now offer you friendship and aid?”

Linden replied with a laugh full of warning. “Of course not. But I know you, Foul. I know better than to believe anything you say.”

“Paugh!” he spat. “You have never known wisdom or discernment sufficient to comprehend my designs. Your defiance serves no purpose. It merely feeds my Contempt. You disdain me at your peril.”

“So convince me,” she countered promptly. “Give me a reason to listen to you.

Anele squirmed as though she had threatened him with fire. Tears formed a sheen on his seamed cheeks. His head flinched from side to side as if he feared to speak. But the Despiser ruled him, and he could not remain silent.

“I have said,” Lord Foul answered, “that the Haruchai serve me, albeit unwitting, That is sooth. Also it is sooth that they will imprison you.

“Whether you partake in them or no, my designs will be fulfilled. Forces have been set in motion which will shatter the Arch of Time, putting an end to the Earth, and to all that I abhor. If you are imprisoned, however, certain aspects of what will ensue re, ill not main clouded to my sight. On that path, I cannot determine that my Enemy will not again find means to snare me.

“But if you remain free, apt and able to satisfy me, my release is assured, Your attempts to oppose me will secure it. The Arch will be torn asunder, and I will reclaim my rightful place among the eternal Heavens. My Enemy will be unable to thwart me.”

Cunningly the rank voice added, “There is more, but of my deeper purpose I will not speak.”

Then the Despiser stated brusquely, “It must therefore be plain that I do not desire your capture. And it must surely be plain as well that you will fail to evade the Haruchai if you are not restored to your fullest strength. You require hurtloam. The Haruchai have ensured that no lore remains which might aid you. Only Earthpower will suffice”

Linden stared at him, momentarily horrified and transfixed. Forces have been set in motion-But then she fought down her dismay. Gritting her teeth, she demanded, “Stop it. Don’t be so damn cryptic. It’s petty. And you’re wasting time.

“Just tell me what you’ve done.”

Anele’s mouth twisted, although his trapped soul made no sound. “Done?” the Despiser chortled. “I?” His delight wrung Anele’s scrawny frame. “Naught. Apart from the claiming of your vacant son, I have merely whispered a word of counsel here and there, and awaited events.

“The caesures are none of mine. Also I had no hand in your blindness, for I did not utter the fine riposte of Kevin’s Dirt. If you fear what has been done, think on the Elohim and feel despair. They serve me as do the Haruchai, unwittingly, and in arrogance.”

Linden muttered a curse. “And you expect me to believe you? You didn’t send that storm?”

Anele’s hands jerked to his head, pulled at his scraps of hair. “Shame upon you, woman. Shame and excruciation! You undervalue my enmity. That pitiable assault serves me well enough, but it is too crude, far too crude. I would not deign to raise my hand for such an unsubtle ploy.”

Not? Shaken by uncertainty, Linden fell silent. In this, at least, she did believe her foe* Lord Foul was not one to refuse credit for his actions. He enjoyed his own malice too much.

Yet if he did not send the storm-

She was weak; too weak. She could not summon strength which she did not possess.

– who did?

How many enemies did Mithil Stonedown have?

For a moment longer, Anele squirmed as though his guts were being torn. Then he whirled away, sprinting for the Mithil.

As he ran, Lord Foul called back at her, “Refuse me and be damned! That you will be captured is certain! Then you will be helpless while your son remains in my hands!”

She had been holding her fears at bay: now they broke past her restraint. She had so little power, and had lost so much time. The river might be her only chance to avoid the Masters.

Stiffly she let the slope carry her downward after Anele.

Ahead of her, the old man sprawled on his belly at the edge of the watercourse. His head stretched past the rim of the grass: he might have been searching for his lost mind among the ripples and eddies of the river. From her angle, the current appeared to twist past within reach of his face.

One step at a time, she closed the gap; jerked to a stop at his side. “What now, Foul?” she panted heavily. “Do you tell fortunes by staring into riverbeds?”

“More than you know, fool,” retorted the Despiser. “Men commonly find their fates graven within the rock, but yours is written in water.”

Then his arm flapped, pointing downward. “There,” he announced, “as I promised.” An undercurrent of distress or loathing marred his glee. “Hurtloam.”

Ah, shit. The last of Linden’s resistance leaked away, and she folded to her knees. Hurtloam, is it? She felt herself falling into a defeated weariness. Now what was she supposed to do? Trust the Despiser?

Yet Anele’s distress was terrible to behold. He needed to be healed of his vulnerability, freed from madness, more than he needed anything else in life; perhaps more than he needed to live.

That would never happen while the Haruchai kept him, and she remained blind.

She had promised to protect him. And he was her only link to her son. The old man was possessed by Lord Foul, who also held Jeremiah. Whenever the Despiser taunted her through Anele, he connected her, however tenuously, to her son. If she could see, she might be able to reach Jeremiah-

In fact, Anele might be the only link she would ever have.

Below her, the Mithil complicated the air with whispers of escape. Her panting silence seemed to make her companion frantic. Grimaces and revulsion clenched his features as he pointed downward again. “There!” His eyes glistened with white terror. “Are you mad as well? It is hurtloam, I tell you.”

You require healing.

Half hypnotised by his intensity, Linden looked over the riverbank; but she saw nothing to account for his insistence. Absorbed by its own concerns, the river moiled past little more than an arm’s length below the grassy rim of its bank. Where Anele pointed, in a notch between slick stones at the lapping edge of the water, lay a roughly triangular patch of fine sand. She could not distinguish it from other patches of sand nearby, among similar stones.

The murmuring of the water filled her head.

“There!” Lord Foul repeated; but it might have been Anele who pleaded with her. “This doddering cripple is rife with Earthpower, which I loathe. In this he cannot be mistaken.”

He had told her that hurtloam would renew her health-sense. Without it, she might never learn how to use Covenants ring. Only percipience offered her any hope-

The Despiser sought harm and freedom. If hurtloam could truly restore her, then her foe had something to gain by offering it to her: something virulent and dangerous.

But she also might gain something. She might be able to turn his designs against him.

Do something they don’t expect.

Holding her breath to contain the clamour of her heart, Linden stretched her arm over the rim of the bank as if she had at last become sure of herself.

With her palm, she touched the damp triangle of sand-and felt nothing.

Anele had squeezed his eyes shut. His head bobbed furiously, signalling lunatic assent.

Carefully she pushed her fingers into the sand; scooped up a handful.

For a moment, she felt only cool moisture against her skin.

Her companion rolled over onto his back; covered his face with his gnarled hands. He made whimpering sounds that she could not hear.

Then Linden saw a faint gleam like a spark in the sand. She nearly winced in surprise as spangles of light began to tingle over her palm. Glints of gold seemed to catch the sunlight, swirling like cast embers or the tiny reflections of Wraiths.

As they swirled, they spread a sparkling sensation into her hand. Bits and motes of vitality soaked her fingers and palm, then swept along her forearm to her elbow and shoulder. Involuntarily, hardly aware of what she did, she raised the sand closer to her face so that she could peer into it; and gleaming like a taste of renewal expanded into her chest, wiping away weariness and exertion as though they had never touched her.

Soon the exuberant tang of Earthpower, numinous and ineffable, thronged throughout her senses, lifting her into a realm of perception as keen as crystal, as vibrant as the language of the sun.

From her hand to her arm, from her shoulder to her ribs and thighs, one by one her bruises evaporated as though they had been blessed away. Her abrasions faded. Palpably caressed, her torn muscles and strained ligaments regained their elasticity and vigour; their eagerness. The harsh effort of flight slipped from her as though she had forgotten it. In a wave of transformation, she felt herself exalted to health.

That was hurtloam, there in her palm. That tincture of pure health had been stirred and Wealth by the washing of the river into the plainer substance of the sand: a subtle and transcendent instance of the Land’s essential mystery. It was not common, oh, no, not common at all: most of the sand and soil on either side of the Mithil gave no hint of it, But now she could discern it without difficulty here and there, in small whorls and traces between the stones, as though it called out gladly to her nerves.

The River itself called out to her as it curled and chuckled in its course. Its waters sang to her of nourished growth and protracted journeys; of life renewed after sleep. In its bright running, she heard the music of winter storms among the peaks, the yearning chords of the current’s long hunger for the sea.

Wherever it found her, the grass on which she lay pressed its green and burgeoning richness to her skin. It spoke of health won by fine, cunning roots from the thin fertility of the sand and loam which cloaked the underlying stone: soil too recently worn from granite, obsidian, and schist to provide the abundant sustenance that enriched the Centre Plains and the Andelainian Hills.

And beneath the grass and the soil and the first rocks, she felt the living skeleton of the slopes and crests: obdurate stone that hugged to its heart secrets at once enduring and elusive, tangible enough to be tasted, yet too vast and slow to hear.

Gradually the hurtloam in her hand lost its gleaming as it expended its potency. Nevertheless it had lifted her to her feet: it had lifted up her heart. Tears of gladness blurred her sight as she faced the crisp morning, the burnished sunshine. All around her, the savour of the new season filled the air with possibilities. From its place near the height of noon, the sun warmed away the last of her bruises and fatigue.

In that way, one small handful of sand and hurtloam and Earthpower restored to her the glory of the Land. She felt positively reborn. For reasons which she could not begin to comprehend, Lord Foul had guided her here so that she might set aside her blindness and futility.

At last, she turned her renewed percipience toward her companion.

He still lay on his back with his hands covering his face. Now, however, she did not need to see his features or hear his voice in order to discern his insanity. His posture and his skin, his breathing and the angle of his bones, proclaimed it to her. She knew beyond question that his mind had been broken by more loss than it could endure.

And she knew as well, though the knowledge surprised her, that the Despiser had played no part in Anele’s derangement. The incoherence of Anele’s mind allowed Lord Foul entrance; permitted the Despiser to speak. Yet the Land’s foe had not caused that madness.

Anele’s straits brought an ache to her heart. He required healing; absolutely required it. He had already suffered far too long.

Now, suddenly, she had the means to help him.

“Anele,” she asked softly, “can you hear me?” him;

He did not respond. His hands covered his eyes urgently. Lord Foul still held she could see that. However, the Despiser had withdrawn from the surface, from mastery, leaving the old man at the mercy of his fears.

Linden did not hesitate. Her health-sense seemed to set her free. Two quick along the riverbank carried her toward another swirl of fine gleams in the sand. Crouching, she reached down to wash the expended hurtloam from her hand and scoop up more.

Glad fire sang in her fingers as she moved to Anele’s side, knelt near his head. “Anele,” she said again, “if you can hear me,” if Lord Foul permitted him hearing, “I have more hurtloam. I’m going to put it on your forehead. It should heal you.”

She was not sure that even this power could knit his mind together. But she had no doubt that it would do him good. If nothing else, it would reduce the damage which years of flight and dread had done to his old flesh.

Immediately Anele jerked down his hands. Terror shone in his sightless eyes. His mouth fumbled to form a cry which might have been, No!

Still Linden did not hesitate. She expected the prospect of healing to dismay him. He had created his madness for reasons which had seemed compulsory to him. Until he recovered his mind, how could he know whether his need for insanity had passed?

Ignoring his distress, she overturned her hand and wiped hurtloam across his forehead.

Instantly the Despiser’s presence vanished from him, fled as if from the touch of dissolution-and Anele went into convulsions.

Before Linden could react, his whole frame snapped rigid. Blood spurted from his bitten tongue. His eyes rolled up into his head, protruding as if they were about to burst. From his skin sprang an acrid sweat that smelled like gall.

Anele! Too late, she saw what she had done. The hurtloam was too potent for him. He was already rife with Earthpower: his body could not contain more. It would scorch the marrow of his bones.

Desperately she slapped at his forehead, trying to remove the sand; but his preterite anguish had already carried him beyond her reach. One fatal scream ripped his throat: he seemed to explode to his feet. In a flurry of thrashing limbs, he flung himself from the riverbank out into the depths of the Mithil.

And the current bore him away.

He made no attempt to swim. Instead he pounded water at his forehead while he sank.

Christ!

Linden surged upright; dashed after him along the bank. Ahead of her, he broke to the surface, still floundering; foundering. Three more strides, four. Then she would gather herself to dive after him.

But she had no chance to save him. As she prepared to spring, a length of rope uncoiled through the air from somewhere above her on the slope.

It splashed the water within Anele’s grasp. Instinctively he threw his arms over it; closed his hands on it; clung to it fervidly as it dragged him across the current toward.

Linden staggered to a halt.

Now she saw Liand. Her concentration on Anele had left her blind and deaf to his approach. Unnoticed, he had ridden down the hillside toward her on a hardy mustang, responding to Anele’s peril more swiftly than she could.

For a moment, he anchored his rope from horseback while Anele struggled toward the riverbank. Then, when the old man began to gain footing, Liand dismounted. Keeping the line taut, he hurried down the slope to help Anele scramble out of the Mithil.

Soon Anele stood on the grass, streaming and unhealed. Blood spilled from his mouth: the hurtloam was gone from his forehead. While Linden stared at him, Lord Foul let out a snarling laugh.

Then the old man crumpled to the ground, coughing as if he had filled his lungs with water.

Chapter Seven: Companions in Flight

Linden stood on the riverbank, so shocked for the moment that she had ceased to move. Anele grovelled in the grass in front of her. She saw him as distinctly as if he had been etched in sunfire. Water poured like tears off the broken landscape of his face: he coughed as though he had swallowed too much blood.

Hurtloam had given back to her the beauty of the Land.

Beyond question he was full of Earthpower: she could not be mistaken now. Its vitality shimmered in every line of his emaciated limbs, every twist of his abused features. And hurtloam was Earthpower as well, an indisputable instance of healing and glory. It should have lifted him into light like an annunciation. The hurt he had taken from it contradicted its essential nature.

Now she saw that the loam had not been too potent for him. It had exerted its natural effect. But his inherent energies had become part of his madness, and had opposed his restoration.

Fortunately she had done him no lasting harm.

Retrieving his rope swiftly, Liand demanded, “Linden Avery, hear me.”

But she did not. She saw only Anele.

He stank of the Despiser.

However, Lord Foul remained beneath the surface, leaving the old man free to gasp and cough. Linden found that she could still distinguish between the Despiser’s presence and Anele’s madness. But now she discerned other things as well. She saw clearly that the Despiser did not control the phases of Anele’s condition; could not grasp possession of Anele at will. Instead he merely took advantage of a flaw in the defences which the old man had erected to protect his deepest pain. And that flaw shifted and changed with the unexplained modulations of Anele’s mental state.

She had no idea how this could be so. Her health-sense did not reach so deeply: not like this, separate from him. If she truly wished to understand his sufferings, she would have to immerse herself in him utterly; intrude upon his fundamental relationship with himself.

She had done such things before, long ago, and knew what they cost.

“Linden Avery,” Liand insisted, “do you not hear me? Is this madness?”

She might have been deaf to him. His voice could not pierce her awareness of Anele’s plight. Yet when she turned toward the Stonedownor, she saw him distinctly as well.

He was a sturdy young man, full of toughness and health: the more ordinary and friable health of the Land, nourished and sustained by Earthpower, but not transformed by it. He would not survive to an improbable age, or endure decades of bitter privation, as Anele had.

And he contained no hint of Despite. Instead he emitted sincerity and yearning. The lines of his form expressed an excitement which was turning rapidly into alarm. He was just who he had appeared to be when she had spoken to him earlier: an honest young man, capable of courage and devotion, and largely untried.

Nothing in his aura or his manner suggested that he could sense Lord Foul’s presence.

“Do you intend flight?” he asked urgently. “Then why do you tarry here?”

His mount shared his natural, Land-born vigour, his capacity for toughness-and his apparent blindness to the proximity of evil. It was not entirely whole, however. At one time, it had fallen awkwardly, scraping faint scars into the coat of its chest, and fraying the deep muscles around its lungs. That old injury had damaged its stamina. The pinto might be as willing as Liand, but it lacked his endurance.

And over them all the sky arched like a vault of crystal: it seemed to chime to the Pitch of its essential cleanliness. At first, Linden descried no hint of Kevin’s Dirt. But When she had refined her senses to the memory of that stifling yellow shroud, she tasted it faintly above her, distant and imprecise, like a thin smear of wrong across the crisp purity of the air. It was still there.

Eventually it would blind her again.

“Linden Avery!” Liand cried at her. “What ails you? Soon the Masters will hasten in pursuit. If they have not yet discovered your flight, they will do so at any moment. If you desire to avoid them, we must go. We must go now!”

We?

At last she heard him.

Of course she had to go. She had lost too much time; far too much. Indeed, she could hardly imagine why the Haruchai had not retaken her already. How had Liand found her, when they had not?

But such questions could wait. Escape might still be possible. And Anele might not be able to bear it if he were captured again.

They had to go.

We?

Damn it, she could not afford the time to argue.

“I’m sorry, Liand.” With an effort, she wrenched herself out of her distraction. “You’re right.” Do something they don’t expect. “Anele can ride with you. I’ll try to keep up.”

The young man stared, frankly unsure of her. He did not-could not-understand what had happened to her. Or what she had done to Anele.

At every moment, Linden expected to see Haruchai rush past the rim of the hills; descend on her like raptors. Cursing, she hurried to Anele’s side, tugged on one of his arms.

Even that small approach to the Despiser filled her nerves with revulsion. But she did not let go.

“Now, Liand!”

If Liand could pull Anele after him onto the pinto’s back, she intended to run and run as long as her new strength lasted, as far and as fast as she was able.

The old man tensed against her grasp; propped his free arm under him. Unsteadily he climbed to his feet. Behind the blood on his lips, his skin had a pallor of weakness, as if his stubborn fortitude were failing.

Liand was tangibly unsure of Linden, but he did not hesitate. Springing to his mount’s back, he secured his coil of rope to the rudimentary saddle, then extended his hand to Anele.

We?

Linden gave Anele’s arm to Liand, and with her help the Stonedownor heaved Anele up behind him. Inarticulate frights clenched Anele’s face as he clung to Liand support.

Yet every hint of Lord Foul’s presence was suddenly gone from him. Between one heartbeat and the next, he had become himself again.

At once, Liand wheeled his mount. With Linden running beside him, he cantered south along the riverbank, toward the head of the valley; away from Mithil Stonedown and the Masters.

Marvelling at herself, Linden matched Liand’s pace while the terrain allowed the pinto to canter. If she had been less familiar with the wonders of Earthpower, she might have believed that she was dreaming. She was not the same woman who had fallen to her knees only a short time ago. One small handful of hurtloam had apparently erased her mortality. While she ran, exaltation filled her heart. Buoyed by springy grass and soft soil, by the mountain tang of the air and the luxuriant quest of the river, and by hurtloam, she felt that she could run, and go on running, until she arrived at hope.

The riverbank changed as the valley rose, however, forcing Liand to slow his mount. The hillsides grew steeper, constricting the Mithil in their climb toward the mountains, and rocks and hazards littered the ground along the watercourse. The mustang could have broken an ankle there, or stumbled into the Mithil.

Above Linden and her companions, the mountains had become sheer and forbidding without apparent transition: a high, jagged wall glowering against intrusion. As she slackened her pace, she felt her lungs strain for breath as if the air had turned abruptly thin, inhospitable.

Panting, she asked Liand to halt. “Just for a minute. I need to think.”

Liand reined in the pinto, but did not dismount. The lines of his arms and shoulders told her as plainly as words that he wanted to press on. And Anele needed his support. Worn out by the effects of Lord Foul’s presence, the old man had fallen asleep against Liand’s back.

The Despiser had not returned. For some reason, he could not.

That was a relief, for Linden as well as for her battered companion. Now she could talk to Liand without being overheard.

She needed to understand him. Why was he here? Why was he helping her? And hold far was he willing to go-?

As her pulse slowed, she found that she could feel Kevin’s Dirt more clearly. It seemed to clog her lungs, depriving her not of oxygen but of some more subtle sustenance. Already it had begun to erode her health-sense, fraying her nerves toward blindness. This time the process was slow: the lingering power of hurtloam hindered it. She might not lose true percipience before nightfall. Yet it would eventually fail her.

By degrees, her exhilaration leaked away, leaving her to the realities of her situation.

There appeared to be no hurtloam anywhere around her. The hillsides were bare of its eldritch glitter. And the banks of the Mithil had grown steeper as the ground rose to the foothills, putting the river itself effectively out of reach. She would not be able to refresh her health-sense a second time.

Nor could she share the wonder of such vision with Liand. While her discernment lasted, she would have to see for both of them.

Muttering curses to herself, she scanned her surroundings.

The hills that shouldered the watercourse blocked her view of Mithil Stonedown. Past their crests, however, she could still make out the highest seething fringes of the storm which had enabled her escape. They boiled with violence and darkness; but their wrongness was of a different kind than Kevin’s Dirt and caesures. The stormtops violated Law and nature in less harmful ways. Nor did they gust in pursuit of her-or of Covenant’s ring. Instead they remained to harass the village.

I would not deign to raise my hand-

Lord Foul had told her the truth about more than hurtloam.

And as long as the Masters remained to ward the Stonedown, they could not search for her. Hell, they might not yet know that she was gone. It was possible-

“So far, so good,” she said to Liand’s impatience. “Now what? If we want to escape”- she indicated the mountains- “we need to get up there somehow.”

To the east lay her easiest road. There the valley diverged more and more from the course of the Mithil; and as it curved into the southeast it rose steadily until it became a vale between mountain heads. From this distance, its slopes appeared to remain grassy and gradual two thousand feet and more above Mithil Stonedown. If she and her companions angled in that direction, they would be able to travel as fast as her stamina could carry her.

And they would be in plain sight of the valley bottom for at least a league, until they rounded the curve up into the vale. The Haruchai would spot them as soon as the storm over Mithil Stonedown dissipated. Linden’s red shirt assured that.

She needed another route.

Even if Liand knew of one, however, she would not be able to stay ahead of the Masters for long. They would travel faster than she could. Ultimately her only realistic hope was that Stave and his people would believe she had fled north, into the open Land.

Responding to her question, Liand pointed toward the rising cliffs south and slightly west of him. When Linden looked there, she saw a rift between crags ending in a fan of scree above the foothills. The shape of the rift and scree suggested that the slope of loose stone piled higher as it reached out of sight. If it piled high enough, it might provide a route into the Range above the rift.

But it stood on the far side of the Mithil. And as the watercourse neared the head of the valley, it gathered into a crooked ravine tending somewhat east of south: too ragged and sheer to climb; too wide to cross. Then, at the base of the nearest cliff, it sprang up into a waterfall which thundered from a damp cut high and unattainable in the rock face.

The rift might as well have been on the dark side of the moon.

“Great,” Linden muttered in disappointment. “How can we get there? The last I checked, none of us can actually fly.”

“It will not be difficult.” Lifting his head, Liand indicated the waterfall. “That fall we name the Mithil’s Plunge. For a portion of its way, it pours beyond the cliff, and there we may pass behind it. We must take care that Somo does not slip, but we will be able to do so.

“Certainly the Masters know of this, as I do. But mayhap they will not readily notice my absence from Mithil Stonedown. I am only a young man whom they tolerate, not a valued companion. And if they do not guess that I accompany you, they may not pursue you there, believing that you have no knowledge of it.”

Linden nodded. “Good.” So it was possible: she still had a chance.

But the young man’s answer brought her back to another question. What in hell was he doing here? He was risking more than the disapproval of the Masters; far more than he knew. She could not accept his help simply because he chose to offer it.

Frowning, she waited until he turned to face her. Then, more harshly than she intended, she said, “But before we go any farther, you have some explaining to do.”

His eyes widened in surprise.

“Where do you get this `we’ stuff, Liand?” Because she was afraid and unsure, and could not afford to be, she sounded angry. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you defending Mithil Stonedown, where you belong?”

The young man swallowed uncomfortably, but did not drop her gaze. “Would you have been able to save your companion without my aid?”

“That’s not the point. Of course I would have saved him. I can swim, for God’s sake.”

“And will you save him now?” countered Liand. “You are able to gain the mountains, but how will you feed him among the rocks? How will you feed yourself? Can You bear the cold of the peaks?”

Linden scowled at him. “Oh, hell. You know I can’t. I didn’t exactly plan any of this. I just- She knotted her fists to contain her frustration. “I just can’t do anything for my son while I’m a prisoner.”

Liand indicated bundles tied to his saddle. “Then it is well that I have given the matter forethought which you could not. Here I have food and waterskins. Robes and blankets. Rope.

“Somo alone enhances your flight.” Apparently Somo, was the mustang. “I have one much to provide for your escape. All that I can.”

His eyes begged her to accept him.

“But-” With an effort, Linden restrained her impulse to swear at him. His manifest sincerity did not deserve it. “But,” she said more quietly, “that’s still beside the point. Obviously I need any help I can get. But your people need you, too. They were fighting for their lives when I ran. How could you leave them?”

Her demand increased his discomfort. For a moment, he looked away toward the mountains as if he were measuring himself against them. When he met her gaze again, the sunlight on his face exposed the difficulties within him.

Nevertheless he faced her squarely.

“At first I did not,” he admitted. He had set his impatience aside. “You know this. I ran to the defence of the Stonedown, thinking that we were assailed by kresh in the storm. But the Masters halted us, saying that there were no kresh, that only the storm itself threatened us.

“Against that power we could do nothing. And it struck no one. For reasons which I do not grasp, the storm’s violence harmed only our homes. Indeed, it fell only upon those homes which had been left empty. Their families were at work in the fields, or attending other concerns. And the Masters assured us that no lives had been lost – that none would be lost if we did not approach the storm.

“How they had gained their knowledge, I do not know. But I believed them. And I thought of you, Linden Avery.”

Homes which had been left empty? She frowned to herself. It made no sense. Why would any foe wish to damage empty dwellings?

“I considered your need for escape,” Liand continued, “and my desire to aid you. Then I stole away. Leaving the Masters and my people to regard the storm, I hastened to the stables for a mount. Gathering all that I could to assist your flight, I rode in search of you.”

Linden studied him, trying to understand. “All right. I get that.” She could read the nature of his emotions readily enough, but not their content, their causes. “But why did you head south?”

He had found her too easily.

The Stonedownor shrugged. “You had no mount. If you sought escape northward, the Masters would shortly ride you down, and no aid of mine would free you.

“Also,” he added a bit sheepishly, “the storm lay there, and I feared to hazard it.”

Perhaps his reply should have eased her anxiety. The Haruchai might not reason as he did. Surely they did not remember her as a woman who fled from eldritch storms?

Yet her trepidation increased as she considered the young man. The Masters had deprived him of a kind of birthright: he lived in the Land, but knew nothing of its power or peril. His desire to join her would have consequences beyond his comprehension

Gritting her courage, she placed one hand like an appeal, a hint of exigency, on his thigh.

“That’s not enough, Liand. You still haven’t answered my question. Not really. Mithil Stonedown is your home.” It was all he had ever known. “Everyone and everything you’ve ever cared about is there. Why do you want to risk all that for me?”

He did not hesitate. To this extent, at least, he was prepared for her questions.

“Linden Avery,” he replied gravely, “I might answer that I find no satisfaction in the life of my home. I sense the greatness of the Land, but I know nothing of it, and I crave such knowledge.

“Or I might answer that I mistrust the Masters, for it is plain that their knowledge is great, yet they reveal nothing.

“Or I might answer that I have no family or attachments to hold me.” His tone hinted at loneliness. “My father and mother had no other children, and both have fallen to time and mischance in recent years. Nor have I found other loves to fill their place in my heart.”

Again he looked away. When he faced Linden once more, his yearning had found its way to the surface. Stiffly he told her, “I might well answer so, for it is sooth.” Then he appeared to lose resolve. Ducking his head, he murmured awkwardly, “Yet there is another truth, of which I do not presume to speak.”

She nearly turned away from his discomfort. It was too obvious: his open nature held no concealment. And she could so easily have let the matter drop

Yet she did not release him, in spite of his vulnerability. She had her own qualms, her own conscience: she could not set them aside merely to gain aid from a man who could not imagine what his assistance might cost him.

Roughly she knotted her fingers in the rough wool of his leggings. “I’m sorry. That’s still not enough. You have friends and neighbours who feel the same way, you must have, but they aren’t here. I need to hear the rest.

“I can see it in you. I just don’t know what it means.”

Liand appeared to groan inwardly. However, it was not in his nature to refuse her probing, regardless of his own unease. And he had a palpable courage which enabled him to tell the truth.

“In my life,” he said, “I have beheld wonders.” The words seemed to come slowly from deep within him. “Linden Avery, you are one. The storm which provided for your escape is another. The Falls are both wondrous and dire. And the sight from Kevin’s Watch of the shroud which blinds the Land fills my dreams with fear.

“But it is the memory of the strange being whom the Masters named Elohim which impels me to your side. His words are a knell within me, though I was but a child when I heard them.

“All that he said lies beyond my ken. Yet I comprehend clearly that he has prophesied our doom. And I grasp also that he did not speak only of Mithil Stonedown. His words pronounced the destruction of the Land.”

The angle of the sunlight filled Liand’s eyes with shadows as he gazed down at Linden. “I am as I appear to be, merely a young man among my people. But I have seen that the Land is lovely. I wish to defend it. And if I am too small for so great a task, still I will not be content until I have learned the name of our doom”

Now he did not look away. She wished that he would. His undefended innocence wrung her heart, and she did not want to witness his reaction when she answered him.

Quietly, almost whispering, she said, “Liand, listen to me.” Her fingers tugged at his leggings of their own accord, urging him to understand her. “I can’t let you help me unless you hear what I have to say.

“You called me a wonder, but there’s nothing wonderful about me. I love the Land. I love my son.” In spite of her bereavement, she loved Thomas Covenant. “I try to keep my promises. And I’m carrying a power I don’t know how to use. That’s all there is.”

Grimly she spared herself nothing. “But it’s worse than that. In my own life, I’m already dead.

“Do you see this?” Releasing his leg, she used both hands to show him her shirt. “It’s a bullet hole. I was shot through the chest. I’m only alive because this is the Land.”

Because she had healed herself. And because Joan had summoned her.

Liand stared at her, plainly unable to grasp what her assertions entailed.

“On top of that, it looks like the whole Land is against me. The Masters don’t mean me any harm, but they’re deaf to everything I care about.” The weight of her concerns grew as she listed them. “You’ve seen Kevin’s Dirt. You know the caesures, the Falls. There are kresh and Elohim and Sandgorgons and Ravers.” Anele had mentioned skurj, whatever they might be. “There are at least two lunatics with too much power,” Roger and Joan. “And there’s Lord Foul, who has my son.

“Do you want to know the name of your doom? Do you really? It’s the Despiser. He’s trying to destroy the entire Earth.”

The mere act of speaking such words seemed to bring the peril nearer. Yet she could not stop. Liand needed to know what he risked in her company.

“And as if all of that weren’t enough, the Staff of Law has been lost. It’s the only weapon I know of against Kevin’s Dirt and the Falls, and it disappeared after only a couple of generations. I need it back, but I have no earthly idea where look.

Raising her hands, she clenched them into fists between her and the Stonedownor as if to fight off his growing chagrin.

“Do you think the Land is bigger than the Masters have ever told you? Do you think the danger is more terrible than anything you’ve ever imagined? You have no idea. Men with the power of gods could scarcely stand against what Lord Foul is doing, and I can’t begin to compare myself with them.

“I need your help, Liand. That’s painfully obvious. I’ll be glad for your company. But if you’ve got some confused notion that all we have to do is escape the Masters, you should go home now. They are the least of our problems.” Absolutely the least. “If you come with me, I can’t promise you anything except anguish and death.”

There she stopped, shaken by the danger of what she had said. If Liand chose to turn away now-as he should-she would have nothing except Covenant’s ring and her failing health-sense and Anele’s fractured guidance to aid her.

But she had struck a spark of anger in the young man. He glared at her, squaring his shoulders and straightening his back until he appeared to tower over her, bright with sunshine.

“Linden Avery,” he retorted sternly, “have you not said that you sojourned to Mithil Stonedown once before, in years long past? At that time, did it appear to you that the folk of my home were careless of their word, or lightly swayed from the path of their convictions and desires?”

She shook her head helplessly, remembering Sunder with rue and admiration. The Graveler she had known had held fast to all his choices, regardless of their consequences. Without him, she and Covenant would not have survived-

“If they did,” Liand went on, “then we have come far from that time, and do not regret what we have become.” Every upright line of his frame seemed to reproach her. “I am not so flighty of heart that I would recant my wish to aid you merely because the peril is great. I do not merit your doubt. And I will not abandon you.”

Linden bowed her head to hide her sudden tears. His unexpected dignity made him impossible to contradict. And she saw now, without warning, that he was taking the same stand that she had taken ten years ago, when she had involved herself in Covenant’s ordeal with Joan. Covenant had warned her in the simplest and most honest terms, You don’t know what’s going on here. You couldn’t possibly understand it. And you didn’t choose it. But she, too, had refused to be dissuaded.

She had paid a high price for her intransigence. Yet she had learned to regret none of it. Even her time in Revelstone, when samadhi Raver had touched her soul with evil, had proven to be worth the cost.

She had neither the foresight nor the wisdom to assure Liand that he was wrong now.

Blinking her eyes clear, she looked up at him again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I don’t doubt your honesty-or your word. I can see the kind of man you are. I’m just trying to be honest myself.

“I’ve been where you are. I met a man who needed help. I wanted to help him” needed to help him. “And I could never have imagined what I was getting into. If I′d known how bad it was going to be, I don’t think I could have done it.

“But I wouldn’t be who I am now if I hadn’t refused to abandon him.”

As she spoke, the young man’s indignation eased. The way his shoulders relaxed told her that he accepted her apology. “I hear you, Linden Avery,” he replied firmly. “l am content to aid you.”

“Good,” she repeated with more conviction. “In that case, we should go. I’ve already wasted too much time.”

They might make better progress while Anele slept. She could not predict how he might react when he awakened.

Liand nodded his agreement. With his heels, he nudged Somo into motion.

Now they will hunt you down-

Summoning her reserves, Linden trotted at his side as he began to angle across the hillside toward higher ground.

Chapter Eight: Into the Mountains

At first the climb was not arduous. The slopes had not yet swelled to true foothills, and Liand ascended them at a slant, aiming for the head of the valley. Nevertheless the joy of the Land’s health and vitality continued to fade from Linden’s muscles, and she began labouring to match his pace. Hurtloam had healed her, but it could not give her stamina. Inevitably her new strength diminished.

Before long, however, as she and her companions rounded a hilltop on their to the next rise, something ahead of her tugged at her senses; and when she looked toward it, she saw a clump of aliantha.

No wonder she loved the Land. Its providence delighted her.

Without urging, Liand guided his mount toward the low shrubs.

They had twisted limbs and dark green leaves shaped like a holly’s; and beneath the leaves grew clusters of viridian fruit the size of blueberries. Under the Sunbane, she had never found more than a single bush in any one place, but here they had proliferated into a group of six or eight. Perennial and hardy, and resistant to all Lord Foul’s depredations, they produced treasure-berries in every season, even during the winter-or so Covenant had once told her.

When she and her companions reached the clump, Liand might have dismounted; but Linden asked him to remain where he was so that he would not disturb Anele. The old man’s need for rest was as palpable as an ache. Gathering berries eagerly, she handed some to Liand, then placed several in her mouth.

They tasted like a gift, the distilled essence of the Land’s natural beneficence: light and sweet, with a flavour of peach followed by a refreshing suggestion of salt and lime. Her whole body seemed to sing with appreciation as their savour and juice washed the strain from her throat.

One by one, she dropped the seeds into her hand and cast them around the grassy slope as she had been taught, so that more aliantha would grow to nourish the Land. And from the pinto’s back, Liand did the same. Seeing him do so comforted her. Apparently his people had retained that aspect of their birthright, whatever else they may have lost.

At another time, she might have wished to linger here, relishing the taste of the berries. But the certainty that the Haruchai would come after her rode her pulse as if her heartbeats were the rhythm of feet and hooves. And when she looked back down the valley, she saw the thunderheads over Liand’s home dissipating at last, their violence expended. The search for her, and for Anele, would begin soon-if it had not already commenced.

Leaving some of the treasure-berries behind for others who might need them, Linden and Liand resumed their flight.

Now the terrain piled upward more strenuously, accumulating toward the heights. Liand’s path had temporarily diverged from the watercourse; but Linden measured their progress by watching how the mountains towered ever more grandly over them, single peaks and massifs jutting urgently into the heavens. Ahead of her, the Mithil’s Plunge loomed until it seemed to pour from the heart of the range, bearing the private thunder of mountains in its writhen turmoil.

She could see no sign of any path behind the Plunge. Already the roar of the water seemed to barricade the way against her.

And when she reached it, what then? Behind the fall: across the more obdurate foothills beyond it to the steep fan of scree: up that precarious slope to the concealment of the rift. And what then? She had no clear plans. In a general sense, she proposed to work her way eastward among the mountains until she could regain the Land somewhere beyond the remains of Kevin’s Watch. Then, if she had baffled the pursuit of the Masters, she might head toward Andelain, hoping to find an unspecified form of insight or support.

The vagueness of her intentions frustrated her. But what else could she do? Liand knew only Mithil Stonedown and its environs; nothing about the larger issues of the Land. And anything that Anele might comprehend was masked by madness.

She wanted to find the Staff of Law; but she had no idea how to look for it. It had already eluded the meticulous searching of the Haruchai.

Prompted as far as she knew by nothing but prescience, Jeremiah had constructed images of Mount Thunder and Revelstone in her living room. Perhaps he had meant them as hints; guidance. But she did not know how to interpret them.

Then a tug of the breeze brought spray to her cheeks; and when she looked up into the water’s buffeting roar, she saw that she and her companions were approaching the base of the Mithil’s Plunge.

The cataract pounded down from its heights as though it were driven by anger as well as eagerness; as though the cold force of the peaks filled the torrents with a fury for spring and renewal. Liand shouted something to her, pointing, but she could not hear him through the tumult. Spray chilled her in spite of her exertions: her shirt had begun to stick to her skin. Looking where Liand pointed, however, she saw that the waterfall tumbled free of the cliff-face for several hundred feet before it smashed into the head of its ravine. Still she would not have imagined that a passage existed behind the Plunge if her companion had not urged her forward.

Behind him on the mustang, Anele had awakened. As if he could see, the old man studied the waterfall intently, but he showed no alarm. Beads of moisture clung in his hair and whiskers, and sunlit sparks of reflection transformed his face as if he were being made new.

As they ascended, the spray became as thick as rain, and the water’s tumult seem to blare away every other sound.

A stone’s throw later, Liand dismounted; helped Anele to the ground. Panting against mist that threatened to fill her lungs, Linden climbed to join them as the Stonedownor unpacked a blanket from his supplies and wrapped it over Somo’s eyes, protecting the pinto from panic. Then he looped the reins around his hand and pointed again. His yell barely reached her.

“There!”

She made no effort to see what he indicated. She felt that she had begun to suffocate, smothered as much by the water’s weight as by its roar and spray. Liand meant to lead her behind that cataract. If they allowed its force to touch any part of them, it would snatch them down, crush them to pulp.

Unable to answer, she simply nodded and waved Liand ahead. As the young man pulled Somo into motion, she joined Anele; took his arm as if to remind him of her promise. Then she began to move toward the Plunge, forcing her way down a throat of sound.

Anele accepted her grasp. Perhaps in his blindness he trusted her as he did Liand. Or perhaps he was already familiar with this passage. In his long years of hiding and fear, he might have discovered it for himself.

Gradually Liand guided them nearer and nearer to the waterfall; but Linden did not so much as glance at it. It frightened her profoundly. Her clothes clung to her now, entirely soaked. Sodden hair straggled across her face. She had difficulty keeping her eyes clear. The complex thunder of the fall seemed to pull at her, urging her toward its touch.

Clutching Anele as much for her own protection as for his, she followed Somo’s hooves behind the massive curtain of the Mithil’s Plunge.

At first, she could not see: the water’s roar seemed to efface light. But then reflected illumination from the ends of the passage leaked through the spray, lifting her way out of the darkness.

Liand led her onto a ledge in the cliff-face, wide enough to be traversed safely, but complicated with piled stones and small boulders, as well as with moisture and moss as slick as ice. She had to test her footing carefully as she moved, holding back her weight until she had confirmed that the sole of her boot would grip the next step. Constantly the water howled at her to fall, and fall, and fall again. She had entered the demesne of irrefusable forces. Reality seemed to deliquesce along her nerves, soaking into her clothes and running from her skin in rivulets, chilling her heart.

Ahead of her, Liand let the mustang pick its way over the rocks at its own pace. Somehow the sodden blanket and Liand’s grasp on the reins kept Somo’s alarm within bounds.

With her hand on Anele’s arm, Linden felt his fear. Preoccupied with her footing, she initially tasted only a featureless apprehension in him; nothing more. By degrees, however, the character of his distress seeped into her like the waterfall’s power.

One timorous step at a time, he had passed into a realm of threats altogether his own; a crisis beyond her grasp. When she noticed the change in him at last, it shocked her out of her own frights.

He may have been becoming sane. If her senses discerned him accurately in this tumult-

On an uncluttered and comparatively level section of the ledge, he halted suddenly, drawing her to a stop beside him. His teeth gnashed the laden air as if he sought to tear use bitten chunks of meaning. He may have been crying her name, calling out for help or attention in a voice too mortal to be heard.

Linden flung her arms about him, holding him still; restraining herself from the howl of the water. She could hardly identify his features. Pressing her forehead against the side of his skull, trying to reach him bone to bone, she shouted, “Anele! Are you all right? I can’t hear you!”

His voice reached her like a distant vibration in her brain. “Skurj!” he shrieked. “Skurj and Elohim. He has broken the Durance. Skurj mar the very air. Oh, the Earth!

“Its bones-” Freeing one arm from Linden’s embrace, he pressed his palm to the cliff-side as if he meant to thrust himself away from it; out into the water and death. “Its bones cry out! Even here, they wail!”

“Anele!” she yelled again. She had nothing to offer him except his name. “Anele!” He had gone beyond her comprehension. Every clench and tremor of his emaciated frame told her that he was sane at last.

For him, sanity held more horror than any madness.

“My fault!” he cried as if he were being shattered. “Mine! The Elohim did naught to preserve the Durance. They are tainted. Arrogant. I lost the Staff! The treasure and bulwark of Law. My birthright. I lost it!”

Sane? Linden gripped him with all her strength. Chills shook her. This was sanity? According to Stave, the Staff of Law had been lost more than three thousand years ago.

“Anele! What’s wrong? What’s happening to you?”

Liand could not have heard them. He continued to lead Somo cautiously toward daylight and the westward foothills, abandoning Linden and Anele to the exigency between them.

Abruptly Anele released the stone of the cliff and wrenched himself around in her grasp. When they were face-to-face, he pressed his forehead against hers. Earthpower latent in his veins throbbed for conflagration. Furiously he drove his anguish into her mouth; down her throat.

“Are you blind?” he howled; and the greater howl of the Plunge swept his words instantly away. “Do you see nothing? I held it in my hands! It was given into my care. Trusted to me! For years, I studied the Earth, striving for courage. And I lost it!”

She could not understand him; could hardly think: spray and thunder smothered her mind. Shivers ran through her bones. Lost? The Staff of Law? Millennia ago? Sweet Christ! What manner of sanity had overtaken him? His deprived flesh had suffered the erosion of too much time, but nothing on that order of magnitude. Even her diminished perceptions could not have misread him to such an extent.

Water streamed down their faces, ran from their chins. His revulsion toward own failings had become a whirlwind of rage and grief. With the Staff!

“I could have preserved the Durance!” he cried. “Stopped the skurj. With the Staff! If I had been worthy. But I did not! Instead I betrayed my trust! My word. My birthright.” He might have been weeping. “All the Earth.”

“Anele!” Desperation surged in Linden. She had to get him out of this place. “Anele, come on!” She could not think. If the storm within him mounted any higher, he might hurl himself from the ledge, and her with him.

But his passion demanded release. Forcing his forehead against hers, he begged her fervently, “Oh, break me! Slay me! Tear away this pain and let me die! Did you sojourn under the Sunbane with Sunder and Hollian, and learn nothing of ruin?”

Did you sojourn-?

Had he recognised her at last?

In a tumult of confusion and thunder, she jerked her head away. “Damn it, Anele! Of course I understand ruin. It doesn’t give you the right to do this to yourself! For God’s sake, don’t make me drag you out of here!”

Perhaps in sunlight under an open sky he would become comprehensible to her.

For an instant, a flare of Earthpower burned in his white eyes, set light to the water beading in his beard. When it passed, it appeared to leave him chastened; covered in gloom. He nodded as if she had doomed him.

Suddenly frantic to escape the Plunge, Linden took his arm once more and urged him forward, after Liand and the pinto.

A moment later, Liand’s form restricted the passage. He had come back for them. “Why do you tarry?” he called anxiously. “What is amiss?”

She did not try to answer him. Instead she waved her arm to send him back the way he had come. As he complied, she continued to scramble grimly over the treacherous stones.

With all the will that she could muster, she concentrated on her footing. Anele’s sanity confounded her. She yearned for the safety of the sun and understanding.

Tear away this pain and let me die!

Elohim she knew; but what in hell were skurj?

Her boot skidded off a patch of wet moss. She caught herself on Anele’s arm. She was supposed to protect him. She knew him better when he was mad.

Liand receded ahead of her, drawing her on. He did not appear to fear falling. Perhaps on some atavistic level his people retained their ancient relationship with stone.

Oh, the Earth! Its bones cry out!

When at last she and Anele emerged into the bright solace of day, everything between them had changed.

“Linden Avery” Liand demanded her attention. “Why did you tarry? Are you harmed?”

The day’s spring warmth shone through the spray. She kept her grip on Anele. Blinking against the sun’s dazzle, she peered at him with all of her senses.

He had been sane: her nerves were certain of it. Now, however, a roil of confusion distorted his emanations. His mind had relapsed to madness.

And his Plight was changing. The character of his derangement shifted-and shifted again. Before her eyes, he modulated between the various phases of his insanity; and the landscape of his face appeared to shimmer and blur, smeared out of clarity by the heat of his rapid alternations. She could read nothing in him surely except that he was no longer the man who had cried out to her behind the Mithil’s Plunge.

He said nothing. For the moment, at least, even language was lost to him.

Finally Linden allowed herself to turn toward the Stonedownor. “I’m sorry, Liand.” She wiped tears of brightness from her eyes. “Something happened to Anele in there.” She had to shout to make herself heard. “He changed. All of a sudden, he seemed sane,” although everything he had said sounded crazy. “But it’s gone now. I don’t know what came over him.”

“But you are not harmed?” Liand persisted.

She shook her head. “Just scared. Everything here”- she gestured at the sky, the mountains, the foothills- “looks so normal.” Undisturbed. “The way the Land is supposed to look. But the things Anele said-”

She shuddered. “He was terrified. He sees dangers I’ve never even heard of.”

They were gone now, locked behind his madness.

In response, Liand’s expression darkened. “The Masters.” His disgust was barely audible through the waterfall’s roar. “The most dire perils stalk the Land, and they tell us nothing.”

Then he straightened his shoulders. “It would please me greatly to elude them. We must continue our ascent. Exposed on these hillsides, we may yet be discovered.” Frowning, he added, “The hue of your raiment will be easily seen.”

Linden needed no urging to move away from the mind-numbing thunder of the Plunge.

He had left his mount a short distance away, its reins loosely secured under a hunk of rock. While he wrung out the blanket he had used to cover Somo’s eyes, she said suddenly, “Don’t put that away. I can use it to cover my shirt.”

The blanket was damp, but it might warm her.

With a nod of approval, Liand handed it to her. As soon as she had draped the rough brown wool over her shoulders, she returned to Anele.

The old man did not react to her presence, or her voice. However, he allowed her to reclaim his arm. Pulling him with her, she started up the hillside.

With Liand and Somo a pace or two below her, she headed in the general direction of the rift.

Their path angled to the west as it challenged the tumbled foothills. Farther in that direction, along the northward reach of the mountains, the foothills were like fingers knotted in the valley floor, pulling the valley wider; and between the fingers lay steep vales and clefts. Here, however, in the head of the valley, the slopes were more even, draped down from the cliffs like a mussed skirt. Linden and her companions were spared the abrupt rises and drops of the northwestward hills.

Nevertheless their ascent was arduous. The stubborn grasses and wind-twisted brush which marked the hillside could not always hold the soil in place under the pressure of their feet, and they often had to scramble in order to gain ground. At the same time, the slope grew steadily steeper, with less vegetation to anchor the dirt. The distance from the passage behind the Mithil’s Plunge to the fan of scree below the rift may have been no more than a stone’s throw for a Giant; but after an hour’s labour Linden and her companions still had not reached their immediate aim.

They must have been visible from the vicinity of Mithil Stonedown. Until they reached the shelter of the rift, they had to hope that they were too small to be noticed from so far away.

Clinging to the blanket, she paused for a moment’s rest. Her respiration had become a deep heaving, and her legs trembled with each step. Sunlight and exertion had dried the blanket as well as her clothes; but that had proved to be a curse as much as a blessing. For a while, she had been grateful for anything which eased her various chills. Gradually, however, her dampness had become sweat and hard breathing, and even the crisp breeze of this elevation could not cool her. As the strength she had gained from hurtloam and treasure-berries faded, she began to believe that she would prove too weak for her task.

More and more, she relied on Anele’s support. In spite of his emaciation, he remained hardy: he seemed to forge upward as if he had never done anything else. His eldritch toughness helped her continue the climb.

His skin against hers described the irregular fluctuations of his mental estate. At odd intervals, he veered close to sanity: less frequently, she felt the Despiser’s dark scorn moil in his depths. Masques of rage and grief and appalled endurance drifted through him like shadows. But he did not speak; and she had no energy to spare for his complex lunacy. As she forced her trembling steps upward, her awareness of him withdrew. She only clung to him and laboured onward.

Ahead of her, Liand and his horse ascended more easily; had to wait for her more often. Although Somo’s hooves dragged the untrustworthy hillside downward, the mustang had stamina to spare in spite of its old wound. And Liand possessed the characteristic toughness of Stonedownors. He and his mount would be able to keep going long after Linden dropped.

They were here on her account; and yet their chances of escape would have been much higher without her.

Then Liand called softly, “Soon, Linden Avery!” and she looked up from her benumbed concentration to see him standing at the edge of the scree.

Lowering her head, she forced her quivering muscles to bear her to his side.

He had already taken a waterskin from one of his packs. Now he handed it to her. She held it shaking to her lips and drank until she had soothed her dry mouth and raw throat. Then she passed the waterskin to Anele.

While the old man sucked at the skin, Liand unpacked a little bread and sun-dried fruit. “We should not tarry here,” he remarked, “exposed to the sight of the Masters, l fear, however, that you near the end of your endurance. And Somo cannot bear you on this terrain. Our flight will fail if our haste exceeds your strength.”

He handed food to her first, then to Anele.

Linden thanked him with a nod. She was breathing too hard to speak.

Slowly she chewed bread and fruit, and tried to imagine sustenance flooding through her veins, filling the courses of her heart. Jeremiah needed her. She did not mean to fail him. While she ate, she surveyed the climb ahead and endeavoured to believe that she could master it.

That she could master herself.

For a while, Liand gave her silence; a chance to gather her resolve. But his tension increased as he waited, and eventually he asked, “Are you able to continue, Linden Avery? Until we gain shelter, every delay is perilous.”

“I’ll do it,” she muttered. “Able or not.” Then she gave him a wry frown. “But you have got to stop calling me `Linden Avery. ‘I feel like I’m in church.”

She had spent too many hours there as a child, wearing her one nice dress and fidgeting while a preacher levied strictures against her; a preacher who knew nothing about her pain-or her mother’s.

But she could not expect Liand to understand such things. “I’m “Linden”, she added. “That’s enough. I don’t need so much formality.”

He studied her as if she had asked him to commit an act of irreverence. “Very well,” he said cautiously. “You will be “Linden” to me.”

Then he turned away and began to repack Somo’s burdens.

Anele also seemed eager for movement. He had grown restive, shuffling his feet on the scree. He started upward without any urging.

Setting her teeth, Linden stumbled into motion and followed her companions.

There the ascent became harder for her. The slope of shale and loose stones increased the likelihood that she might fall; perhaps break an ankle. At the same time however, she found that she could use her hands to help her climb. If she simply let the blanket hang across her shoulders, her arms could ease some of the strain on her legs. In that way, in spite of her weakness, she was able to keep pace with Anele, Liand, and Somo for a time.

She scraped her palms; bruised her newly healed elbows and shins. The thinning air stung her lungs until phosphenes plucked erratically at her vision, dissolving d and wedged stones to bright swirls and then resolving them to granite again, schist and obsidian, feldspar and quartz. But she fixed Jeremiah’s face before her and went on climbing.

Halfway to the rough edges of the rift, however, she began to fall behind her companions. The blanket slipped from her shoulders, but she was unaware that she had lost it. The tremors in her legs expanded to her arms and chest. Eventually she found herself approaching each step as a discrete event, isolated in time from the one before it and the one which would come next. During that instant, nothing existed for her except the effort of heaving herself upward.

Then finally she discovered that her legs no longer shook and her cheek lay along a sheared plane of stone. Flakes of mica sent small gleams of sunlight into her eyes, but she could hardly distinguish them from the dissociated dance of anoxia. Had the air become so thin already? And why had the sun not warmed the chill from these rocks? She seemed to enjoy their cool touch, but could not understand it.

There was something missing, she knew that, but it eluded her until Liand grasped her arms and urged her upright. “Linden, come,” he panted softly, “the rift is nigh, you will be able to rest soon,” and she realised that she had stopped moving. Her legs must have failed without her knowledge or consent.

Stunned by exertion, she let Liand help her to her feet.

Anele had apparently disappeared, perhaps translated upward and out of reach by a rush of Earthpower; but Somo stood nearby. The pinto had flecks of froth on its nostrils: its chest heaved for breath. Still it had more strength than she did.

She had lost her son. She would have wept, but she had no tears.

Feigning a confidence which he palpably did not feel, Liand told her, “Here,” and placed her hand on one of the bindings which secured his mount’s packs. “Hold here. Somo will support you. The way is not far. In the shade of the cliffs, we will rest.”

Obediently she closed her fingers on the leather. She may have nodded: she could not be sure. Like her legs, her neck seemed to twitch for reasons of its own; but she had gone numb, and its motions lay beyond her awareness.

After that, the instances of effort which had defined her became a blur, and she climbed without recognising what she did, drawn upward by Somo’s strength and

Liand’s courage; and by the knowledge-the only thing she knew-that she needed to grow stronger.

When she returned to herself, she lay among boulders in the shadow of high cliffs, one near her head, the other a stone’s cast from her feet. Far above her, he sky still held the sun, and would for some time yet. But where she lay, a deep gloaming covered her, and all her courage had fallen away.

Liand stood nearby, watching her; making no attempt to hide his anxiety. When she met his gaze at last, he knelt beside her. Gently he put her hand on the throat of a waterskin. Then he reached under her arms to help her sit up.

“First water,” he said as if he knew what she needed. “Then bread. Later I Will give you meat and fruit.”

Sitting, she felt cold air tug through the bullet hole in her shirt, noticed its dry touch on her forehead. Her skin was no longer damp. She did not particularly need water. Or she had stopped sweating some time ago-

Perhaps that explained her weakness.

With Liand’s help, she guided the waterskin to her mouth, drank a few swallows. Almost instantly, sweat seemed to spring from all her pores at once.

Dehydration, she told herself weakly. Stupid, stupid. She was a doctor, for God’s sake; familiar with the effects of exertion. She ought to know better.

“My fault,” she murmured when Liand had helped her drink again. “I forgot about water.” Until she dropped it, the blanket must have heated her; increased her fluid loss. “I’ll be all right.”

The Stonedownor looked sceptical. “I am unsure. Our sojourn has only begun. If we are not taken by the Masters, we will face many days more harsh than this one. I fear that you will be unable to endure.”

She wanted to say, You and me both, but refrained for his sake. Instead she indicated the waterskin and asked, “Can we refill this?”

He frowned. “Linden Av-Linden. I have never ascended so far above Mithil Stonedown. I know nothing of what lies before us.” Then, as if he were taking pity on her, he said, “Yet I believe that we will discover streams and springs among the mountains. And snow remains upon the heights. Drink all that you require. Doubtless we will need to ration aliment, but it will be false caution to stint on water.”

“In that case,” she replied, “don’t worry about me. I’ll get tougher.” She would have to. “And I’ll take better care of myself.”

Liand nodded, clearly unconvinced, and turned away to unpack the food he had promised her.

While he did so, Linden looked around for Anele.

To her right, in the direction of the Mithil valley and the South Plains, she found her view blocked by a hill of rocks like a fold in the detritus spilling down the rift. Somehow Liand had urged her high enough up the scree to reach the shelter of a hollow in the scree. Past the rise, she could see only mountains and sky: she and her companions were hidden from the valley. If they had not been spotted before they reach the rift, the Masters would catch no sight of them now.

Of course, she also could not see if they were pursued-

To her left, the broken slope climbed southward into the narrowing cleft; and there she located the old man. He sat on shards of granite and obsidian several paces above her, his head cocked to one side, blindly studying the cliff opposite her and mumbling to himself.

Linden drank more water and tried to focus her fading health-sense on him.

Physically he looked no worse than when she had first met him: tired, certainly, and ill-fed; but sustained by old stubbornness and Earthpower. He conveyed the conflicting impressions that he had already suffered more privation than ordinary flesh could bear, and that he had reached none of his limits. As for his mental state, she could discern little through the shaded dusk. However, the phases of his madness had apparently stabilised, leaving him in a condition which resembled his partial sanity when she had talked to him among the rubble of Kevin’s Watch.

There he had spoken of reading the wreckage of the Watch. In his fractured way, he had tried to tell her what he saw.

He has no friend but stone.

She had no one else who could so much as hint at what had happened to the Land.

Unsteadily she rose to her feet. When she had reached a fragile poise, unsure of her centre as she was of her muscles, she picked up the waterskin and carried it to Anele’s side, wallowing like a derelict in the troughs of the rocks as she moved.

He did not turn his head at her approach: he might have been unaware of her. As soon as she placed the waterskin in his lap, however, he raised it to his mouth and drank, automatically, without shifting his sightless scrutiny of the cliff.

Stifling a groan, she eased herself to the rocks beside him. A low wind tumbled down the slope, cooling the sweat from her skin. Its faint susurrus covered his voice: she only knew that he spoke because his lips moved. For a moment, she rested, gathering herself. Then she asked softly, “Anele, what do you see?”

At first, he did not respond. She thought that perhaps he could not. His concentration resembled a trance: he might have been bespelled, caught by granite incantations audible only to him. His head hung to one side as if that might improve his hearing. But then he seemed to shudder, and a sad anger reached out to her senses.

“These stones are old.” A flick of his hand indicated the detritus in the rift as well as the cliffs themselves. “Old even by the ancient measure of mountains. They know nothing of caesures. Or Masters.” Gradually his voice took on a cadence she had not heard from him before, a rhythm hinting at music and gall. “Rather they speak of great forests filling all the Land. In their hearts they lament the rapine of trees.”

He is the hope of the Land.

Linden leaned close to him; breathed, “Tell me.”

“Their sorrow is no fault of mine,” he replied as if he were answering an accusation so old that its meaning had perished long ago. “That at least I am spared. It is aged beyond antiquity, and they neither forget nor cease to keen.

“Here is written the glory and slaughter of the One Forest.”

The One-? She had heard the name before; but she could not imagine why the stones of the world would remember the transient lives of wood. Nevertheless she yearned for anything he could reveal which might place the Land’s plight into some kind of context.

“Tell me,” she repeated softly.

Liand approached over the rocks to offer his companions a little bread, but Anele ignored him. When Linden had accepted it, however, the old man answered her, impelled to words by a threnody in granite.

“It is a tale of humankind and destruction, of defenceless beauty unheeded, ripped from life. A tale of Ravers and Elohim and Forestals and sleep, the fatal sleep of long time and unmitigated loss.”

Facing the cliff, Anele let his anger flow. His head leaned, first to one side, then to the other, as though he followed a tune that passed from stone to stone around him.

“Then was not the age of men and women in the Land, and neither wood nor stone had any knowledge of them. Rather it was an era of trees, sentient and grand, beloved by mountains, and the One Forest filled all the Land.

“Its vast life spread from the ancient thighs of Melenkurion Skyweir in the west to the restless song of the Sunbirth Sea in the east, from the ice-gnawed wilderness of the Northron Climbs to the high defiance of the Southron Range. Only at the marges of Lifeswallower did the One Forest stand aside, for even in that lovely age evils and darkness seeped from the depths of Gravin Threndor, leaking harm and malevolence into the Great Swamp.

“And in that age, the spanning woodland was cherished in every peak and fundament of the Land, held precious and treasured by slow granite beneath and around it, for the One Forest knew itself. It had no knowledge of malevolence, or of humankind, but of itself its awareness was immense beyond all estimation. It knew itself in every trunk and limb, every root and leaf, and it sang its ramified song to all the Earth. The music of its knowledge arose from a myriad myriad throats, and was heard by a myriad myriad myriad ears.”

Linden listened as if she were ensnared. She moved only to eat the viands min handed to her. In the rhythm of Anele’s voice as much as in his words, she recognised the Land she loved.

She knew little of the Land’s deepest past: even this much of its history was new to her. But she had sojourned in Andelain, her every nerve alight with percipience and Earthpower, and she felt the fitness of Anele’s story. It was condign: it belonged. She could believe that the Earth’s gutrock would remember such things.

At her side, Liand crouched down to listen, caught by wonder; but she hardly noticed him. For a time she forgot pursuit and black storms. The tale of the One Forest had no bearing on her immediate plight, but she drank it in as if it were hurt loam and aliantha; another form of nourishment.

“Yet in those distant years,” Anele related, “neither men nor women had true ears.” His anger sharpened as he continued, as if he had absorbed the passion of the stones. Linden heard his heart in every word. “When they came to the Land, they came heedless, providing only for themselves. And the malevolence within Lifeswallower had burgeoned, as all darkness must, or be quenched. It had grown great and avid, and its hunger surpassed satiation.

“No tongue can tell of the shock and rue among the trees when human fires and human blades cleared ground for habitation. The mountains know it, and in their hearts they yet protest and grieve, but mortal voice and utterance cannot contain it. A myriad myriad trunks, and a myriad myriad myriad leaves, which had known only themselves in natural growth and decay, and which had therefore never considered wanton pain, then cried out in illimitable dismay-a cry so poignant and prolonged that the deepest core of the peaks might have answered it, were stone itself not also defenceless and unwarded.”

Anele clasped his arms around his knees to contain his distress. “Yet men and women had no ears to hear such woe. And even if they had heard it, their single minds, enclosed and alone, could not have encompassed the Forest’s betrayal, the wood’s lamentation. Only the malice within Lifeswallower heeded it-and gave answer.

“For a time, those who had come to the Land felled trees and charred trunks only because they knew not how else they might achieve space for homes and fields. Thus was their cruelty at first restrained. But their restraint was brutal and brief by the measure of the One Forest’s slow sentience. And after those generations, humankind discovered malevolence, or was discovered by it. Then the murder of the trees was transformed from disregard to savagery.

“Hence came Ravers to the Land,” the old’ man rasped bitterly, “for they were the admixture of men and malevolence, an enduring hunger for evil coalesced and concentrated in transient flesh generation after swift generation until they became beings unto themselves-spirits capable of flesh, yet spared the necessities of death and birth. Thus they gained names and definition, three dark souls who knew themselves as they knew the One Forest, and who aspired above all things to trample underfoot its vast and vulnerable sentience.

“And humankind had no ears to hear what had occurred. Men and women were only ignorant, not malefic, for their lives were too brief to sustain such darkness, and when they perished their descendants were again only ignorant.

“Yet even that renewed and ever renewed ignorance could not spare the One Forest. Humankind was as deaf to malevolence as to lamentation, and so it was easily led, easily mastered, easily given purpose, by the three who had learned to name themselves moksha, turiya and samadhi. Therefore the butchery of the trees swelled and quickened from generation to generation.”

There Anele paused; released his knees in order to scrub unbidden tears from the grime on his cheeks. His blind eyes stared at the broken rocks as if he could see the ancient moment of their shattering. Around him, the breeze flowed slowly, and the chill of high ice seeped into the rift, as the westward peaks began to bar the sun.

Linden waited for him in a kind of suspense, as though she needed the old man’s tale.

When he had gripped his knees again, he said, “Still the One Forest could only wail and weep, unable to act in self-defence.” Voiceless tears spread anger and sorrow into his torn beard. “Despite its vastness, it, too, lived in ignorance. It knew only itself and pain, and so could not comprehend its own possible strength. Born of Earthpower, sustained by Earthpower, knowing Earthpower, the One Forest could not grasp that Earthpower might have other uses.

“Thus the destruction of the trees grew as the ambitions of humankind and Ravers mounted. And with that bereavement came another loss, inseparable from the first, but more bitter and deadly. In the slaughter of each tree, one small gleam of the Forest’s Land-spanning sentience failed, never to be renewed or replaced. Thus the wishes of the Ravers were fulfilled. As the butchery of the trees increased, so the One Forest’s knowledge of itself diminished, lapsing toward slumber and extinction.

“That grief was too great to be borne.” Anele himself seemed hardly able to contain it. His voice rose to a low cry. “Even mountains could not endure it. Peaks shattered themselves in sorrow and protest. This very cliff split as a heart is torn asunder by rage and loss, and by helplessness.”

For a moment, he gaped at the riven walls. Their yearning had come upon him like a geas. They needed his mortal tongue to articulate their interminable rue. Cold exhaled down the rift like a sigh of protest and loss.

But then his head jerked to the other side, and he seemed to find a new vein of song. His voice dropped to a murmur which Linden would not have been able to hear if he had not chipped each word off his stone lament like a flake of obsidian, jagged and distinct.

“The Earth itself heard that cry. Every knowing ear throughout the Earth heard it. And at last, when much of the Lower Land had been slain of trees, and the devastation of the Upper had truly begun, the cry was answered.”

Abruptly Anele leaned forward, shifted the angle of his head. “There.” With one trembling, gnarled finger, he pointed into the centre of the sloping rubble. “It is written there-the coming of the Elohim.”

Gloaming filled his moonstone eyes. “Many centuries after the rising of the Ravers, at a time when much of the One Forest’s sentience had dwindled to embers, a being such as the trees had never known came among them, singing of life and knowledge, of eldritch power beyond the puissance of any Raver. And singing as well of retribution.

“Why the Elohim came then and not earlier, before so much had been lost, these stones cannot grasp. Yet come she did-or he, for the Elohim are strange, and such distinctions describe them poorly. And with her song, the remaining leagues of the One Forest awoke to power.”

This part of the story Linden had heard before. Findail the Appointed had told it to the assembled Search for the One Tree aboard Starfare’s Gem. Still she listened with all her attention. Anele conveyed an impression of urgency, of necessity, which she could neither name nor ignore.

“The trees,” he told the gathering shadows, “could neither strike nor flee. Their limbs were not formed to wield fire and iron.” Findail had said, A tree may know love and feel pain and cry out, but has few means of defence. “Yet even that remnant of wakefulness which remained was vast by mortal measure, and its power was likewise vast. Capable then as well as aware, the One Forest turned its loathing and ire, not against the deaf ignorance of humankind, but rather against the Ravers.

“Nor did the trees count the cost of their new might. The Elohim had sung to them of retribution, and she was more puissant than any Raver. Her nature granted them the power to deny. Therefore they took her and bound her, and with Earthpower set her in bonds of stone at the edge of Landsdrop as a barricade, a forbidding, against the Ravers. And such was the strength of their ramified will that while she lived, while she retained any vestige of herself, moksha, turiya and samadhi were entirely barred from the Upper Land. No Raver in any form could pass that interdiction to threaten the remnants of the One Forest.”

There Anele stopped, although his tale was not done. He had lost the thread of memory in the granite, or his ability to discern it had faltered. Nevertheless its compulsion held Linden. When he did not continue, she finished his tale for him as if she, too, had been bound in place by the exigency of the trees.

“But that’s not all,” she added. “People didn’t stop cutting down forests just because the Ravers couldn’t goad them to it.” Covenant had told her this. “The trees had spared there, but they were still too ignorant to know it. Ordinary people kept on hacking and burning whenever they thought they needed more open ground. They didn’t know,” could not know, “that they were murdering the mind of the One Forest.

“So the trees went further. After they formed that forbidding,” the Colossus of the Fall, “they used what they had learned from the Elohim to create the Forestals. Guardians to protect the last forests.” Morinmoss between Mount Thunder and the Plains of Ra. Dark Grimmerdhore east of Revelstone. Fatal Garroting Deep around the flanks of Melenkurion Skyweir. Giant Woods at the borders of Seareach. “Because most of the time we humans don’t seem to care what we’re doing to the world.”

Then she had to stop as well. She needed time to pray that the ending of the Sun bane and the creation of a new Staff of Law had undone some of humankind’s harm; that the Land had regained enough vitality to enable the growth of new forests.

“It may be so,” Anele sighed into the gathering chill. “That knowledge is not written here.”

After a long moment, Liand stirred. He rose to his feet; gathered up the food and waterskins. “No one remembers it.” His bitterness echoed Anele’s tale. “The Masters do not speak of it. This treasure of the Land’s past, these memories of glory, they keep to themselves.”

Linden groaned inwardly. He was right. The Haruchai had left the people of the Land as ignorant and blind-and as potentially destructive-as their first ancestors had been.

In their own way, the Masters might prove as fatal as Ravers.

“Thank God,” she murmured obliquely, hardly aware that she spoke aloud, “there are only two of them left.”

No ordinary death could claim a Raver. But samadhi Sheol had been rent, torn to shreds, by the sacrifice of Grimmand Honninscrave and the power of the Sandgorgon Nom.

“Two?” Liand asked in confusion.

And, “Masters?” croaked Anele, rousing himself. “Masters?”

Linden brushed them aside with a flick of her hand. Anele’s tale filled her head. “I’m just thinking-”

She felt now that she had never before grasped the full atrocity of the Sunbane. Oh, she had experienced its horror in every nerve. Her knowledge was both personal and intimate. But she had not guessed what such devastation meant to the fading sentience of the trees. Or to Caer-Caveral, the last Forestal, who had lost more than he could bear.

It was no wonder, she thought, that he had given up his defence of Andelain for the sake of Hollian and her unborn child. He had known too much death, and needed to affirm life.

Suddenly Anele flung himself to his feet. Wailing, “Masters!” he began to scramble frantically up the raw sharp rocks.

Masters-? Stave

Remembering forests and slaughter, Linden struggled upright in time to see top the rise which blocked her view of the South Plains.

He approached swiftly. Deepening shadows obscured his face. Even with her health-sense, she had never been able to read the emotions of the Haruchai. Nevertheless her thin percipience was enough to let her feel the urgency of his stride.

Behind her, Anele rushed upward like a shout of fear.

“Linden Avery,” Stave barked as he drew near, “this is folly.” The timbre of his voice suggested anger, although its inflection did not. “Do you seek to flee? Then why are you not far from this place? While you linger, they have caught your scent.”

Instinctively, uselessly, Liand moved to interpose himself between Stave and Linden. “It is you we flee, Master.” Once again his innocence and resolve conveyed a dignity that she could not match. “If we have erred, it is because we were granted opportunity to hear a tale which you have denied us.”

Stave ignored him; seemed to slip past him without effort. “Abandon your supplies, Stonedownor,” he ordered as he advanced on Linden. “You must flee at once. The Chosen will require your aid.”

Then he stood before her.

“They have caught your scent,” he repeated. “Already they have severed any retreat. You must make haste.”

Liand started after Stave as if he meant to leap on the Master’s back. But then he seemed to hear something in Stave’s tone that halted his attack. “They?” he panted. “They?”

An instant later, he wheeled; rushed toward his packs and Somo.

Linden stared at Stave in blank shock. The mourning of the cliffs still gripped her: slain trees thronged in her mind. She could not grasp-

Your scent-?

“Have you forgotten your peril?” he demanded. “Alone, I cannot withstand them. Yet I will slay as many as I may. They will be hindered somewhat. Perhaps they will be daunted. Or perhaps you may gain some covert before they assail you”

“Linden!” Liand cried out to her. “Run! Do not delay for me!” Feverishly he threw bundles onto the pinto’s back. “I will follow!”

“Stave?” she breathed dumbly. “What-?”

“Linden Avery, you are hunted by kresh.”

In his flat tone, the words sounded as deadly as Ravers.

Chapter Nine: Scion of Stone

Had she heard of kresh in huge packs possessed by Ravers? Did she imagine the memory? Aboard Starfare’s Gem she had seen a black swarm of rats driven by a Raver’s malice. In a terrible storm, burning eels had come near to crippling the Search for the One Tree. But kresh-?

Had she ever heard of those great yellow wolves before Liand had mentioned them?

The Stonedownor yelled, “Linden!”

Stave insisted inflexibly, “Linden Avery.”

Her son needed her, and she had come to this.

The twilight of deep shade filled the cleft. Overhead the sun had passed into midafternoon, but the ragged cliffs rose too high to admit direct sunshine. Beyond them, the sky held an illimitable blue tinged to the verge of gloaming with purple and majesty. Its lambency was all that lit the rift.

Liand fumbled to secure Somo’s burdens. “Stave!” he shouted. “How far?”

“Half a league,” Stave answered as if Linden had asked the question, “no more.” His hands touched her shoulders. “If you do not flee, you will perish here. They will tear you asunder.”

“Flee?” she countered. “What for?” Disoriented by images of ruin, she could hardly concentrate on the Master. “I mean, seriously. I can’t outrun them. I can hardly walk. It’s been too long-”

She lifted Covenant’s ring out of her shirt and closed it in her fist. “You can’t protect us. You said so. Maybe I can.” She had no idea how. “If I can’t-” She shrugged. “We weren’t going to survive anyway.”

But Stave immediately wrapped one hand over her fist. “Do not,” he urged her. His hard eyes and the scar high on his left cheek seemed to call out to her through the gloom. “Linden Avery, I forbid you. Old evils inhabit these mountains. You will rout them, or draw them down upon us. Better the threat of fangs and claws than some darker peril.”

Finally Liand finished with Somo’s packs. At once, he hauled the pinto into motion, half-dragging the beast up the slope.

Linden stared back at Stave, floundering within herself. Old evils-? She could not imagine what he meant; but he was Haruchai and commanded belief.

And she did not know how to summon wild magic. It arose according to laws or logic she had not yet learned to understand. Without percipience to guide her-

“Linden, come!” Liand cried as he laboured upward. “You do not know the ferocity of these kresh! They will devour us flesh and bone. We must find some shelter which we are able to defend.”

“Then it’s up to you.” She faced Stave as squarely as she could. “I’m too weak.”

For a brief moment, no more than a heartbeat, Stave appeared to hesitate. He may have realised that there was more at stake between them than simple frailty and flight. His people remembered her as the Chosen, the Sun-Sage; worthy of service. But he could not simultaneously aid her and recapture Anele. Every step upward would carry him farther away from the driving convictions of his people.

An instant later, however, he surged at Linden, swept her into his arms, and began to spring easily up the rocks.

His feet were bare, yet he crossed the sharp edges and splinters of the rubble as though mere stone had no power to hurt him. In a dozen strides, he caught up with Liand and Somo; passed them. When Linden glanced up the rift, she saw that he was gaining on Anele, in spite of the old man’s frenetic haste.

An inestimable distance above Anele, the glow of the sky lit the place where the fallen rock met the rims of the cliffs. Those slopes might or might not provide a route onto the higher mountainsides: Linden was too far away to see them clearly.

Too far away to reach them at all.

Below her the wolves had not yet appeared. If they had gained the scree, or even the rift, they were still hidden by the rise behind which she had rested. How far was half a league? A stone’s throw? For a Giant? More? She should have known: she had travelled leagues by the hundreds during her earlier time in the Land. But she could not remember.

Anele’s pace appeared too headlong and frantic to be sustained; but she did not fear for him. He has no friend but stone. He had endured for decades in and around these mountains. Even now he might well outlast her.

When she glanced down at Stave’s feet, their swift certainty frightened her. If he tripped he would fall to the jagged stones atop her. To ease the strain of his task, she honked her arm over his neck. Then she watched behind her for the first glimpse of the kresh.

In his arms, she mounted the slope as if she were moving backward through time. With every step, Stave’s feet touched memories which only Anele could perceive. The Haruchai carried her up over broken pieces of song, fragments of lamentation.

No wonder Anele was mad. Such music might have fractured anyone’s mind.

Covenant’s ring bounced on its chain outside her shirt. It seemed to reproach her with its mystery and power. Its true owner would have known how to use it; save his comrades. She had seen him in the apotheosis of the Banefire, mastering the source and fuel of the Sunbane even though his veins were full of Lord Foul’s venom. In spite of his self-doubt, he had found within himself the passion and control to quench long generations of bloodshed.

But afterward he had foresworn power. He had refused to defend himself against Lord Foul.

In her dreams, he had told Linden to trust herself-and yet she did not believe that she could raise enough flame to hold back a pack of wolves. When minutes had passed, and the kresh did not appear, she caught Covenant’s ring in her free hand and put it back under her shirt. He had left it to her, but she could not claim it as her own.

Liand tried to match Stave’s pace, but could not. Somo slowed him. The beast was a mustang, bred to mountains; but the scree demanded great care.

Jostled in the cradle of the Haruchai’s arms, Linden panted, “Wait for Liand. We have to stick together.” With kresh on her scent, she would not have left even a Master behind.

She did not expect Stave to heed her. So far he had shown little regard for her wishes. Yet he slowed his strides for Liand’s sake. Apparently he and his people took their guardianship of the Land seriously.

When Liand and Somo had drawn level with him, Stave suited his pace to theirs. Ahead of them, Anele was able to maintain his lead. In that formation, they climbed as if they were ascending into recollections of the One Forest. To Linden, it seemed that the old man’s tale drew them upward.

She peered back at the horizon of the rubble below her. Stave had carried her perhaps a quarter of the way up the rift; possibly less. Still she saw no sign of any wolves. However, she did not doubt that the kresh would soon surge past the rise.

Liand may have felt otherwise. Breathing easily in spite of his exertions, he guided Somo closer to Stave and Linden. “I am disturbed, Master,” he said tensely. “You name yourselves the guardians of the Land. And you have recognised Linden Avery from had forgotten past.” His distrust reached through the dim light to Linden’s nerves. He had left his diffidence toward the Haruchai behind. “Yet you have come alone to her aid.

“You conceal many truths. Will you reveal one here, in the Chosen’s presence? Why have you come alone to ward her?”

Stave made a sound like a snort. Linden felt his strength flow; and for a moment he surged ahead of Liand. Irredeemable crimes passed beneath his feet. But then he seemed to reconsider. “Do not presume to challenge us, Stonedownor,” he retorted flatly. “You do not suffice. Inquire of the Chosen whether the word and the honour of the Haruchai have worth.”

Together humankind and Ravers had decimated a vast and marvellous intelligence. With the Sunbane Lord Foul had completed their cruel work.

Stave paused, apparently waiting for Linden to speak. When she did not, however, he added, “Yet I will acknowledge that we were unprepared for her flight.” His tone conveyed a two-edged disdain: for Liand’s disapproval as for Linden’s escape. “The Linden Avery who is remembered among us would not have done so. Rather she would have borne the white ring to the Stonedown’s defence. Therefore we were taken unaware.”

His words stung her. In his dry tone, she heard a criticism with which she was intimately familiar. Often in the past, the Haruchai had made no attempt to conceal their scorn for her doubts and hesitations.

He may have been right. Perhaps she should have remained to fight for the Stonedown. But Covenant had told her, Do something they don’t expect. And Stave knew nothing of Jeremiah.

If she had stayed behind, she would not have heard Anele’s tale.

The Master continued to answer Liand. “Nor could we estimate the direction of her flight. The Chosen has repudiated our knowledge of her. For that reason, we separated when the storm had passed, so that we might search more widely.

“We could conceive of no purpose which would impel her here, but we feared that she might attempt these mountains in ignorance, thinking them a sanctuary. Thus it fell to me to ride southward, while Jass and Bornin hastened to consider more likely paths.

“I found no sign to guide me. Almost I turned aside. But then I saw kresh gather among the hills beyond the Mithil. I saw the direction of their hunt, and was concerned that the Chosen had become their prey. Therefore I made haste to place myself ahead of the pack. At the Methyl’s Plunge, I left my mount so that it might not fall to the kresh, and continued on foot.”

Stave looked into Linden’s face as if she rather than Liand had questioned him. “Linden Avery, are you answered?”

He might have asked, Will you trust me now?

Because he distrusted her, she replied, “I thought Lord Foul sent that storm. I Wanted to draw it off.”

In his arms, she was entirely vulnerable to him. No doubt he could have broken her neck with one hand. Nevertheless she had enough faith in him to add, “And no, I don’t trust you. What you Masters are doing appalls me. The Haruchai I knew weren’t that arrogant.”

She could not bring herself to tell him about Jeremiah.

By rough increments, the rift narrowed, its walls leaning toward each other as though they yearned to seal away the ancient pain of the stones. As the gloom grew deeper, it brought with it a cold that seemed to congeal against Linden’s skin. Above her on the slope, Anele had begun to falter. Apparently he had exhausted his desperation. In spite of Somo’s difficulties with the ascent, Stave and even Liand diminished the old man’s lead.

“The Haruchai whom you knew,” Stave told Linden stiffly, “had not yet experienced the meaning of Brinn’s victory over ak-Haru Kenaustin Ardenol. We had seen the Staff of Law lost and regained. We had seen it un-made and then made anew. When it was lost yet again, we could not continue as we were.

“Brinn has proven himself equal to the guardianship of the One Tree. Will you tell us that we may not prove equal to other guardianships as well?”

“Of course not,” Linden murmured through the soft whisper of Stave’s breathing and the harder rhythm of Liand’s. “But I’ve seen your people die. It’s your definition of guardianship that frightens me. You’re asking too much of yourselves.”

He responded with a slight shrug. “What would you have us do?”

Still grieving for the trees, she turned her gaze downward, and her heart lurched as she saw a moiling line seethe past the rim of the rise. A darkness heavier than shade poured up the scree like a viscid spill flowing in reverse, running backward in time into the storehouse of the mountains’ memories. If she had not lost most of her health-sense, she might have felt ferocity and fangs pelting over the rocks after her scent.

In moments, the upward-cresting tide of kresh had filled the cleft from wall to wall. And still it crashed higher, and gathered to crest again: God, hundreds of them, more wolves than she could have imagined in one pack.

“Hurry,” she panted to Stave as if that were her only reply. Alarm clogged her throat. “They’re coming.”

One Master and an untried Stonedownor would never hold back that tide.

Liand flung a look over his shoulder, cursed under his breath, and began to haul on Somo’s reins, trying to hasten the pinto with his own strength.

But Stave did not quicken his pace, or glance behind him. “They will outrun us,” he said stolidly. “That cannot be altered. Over these rocks the mount travels poorly” He had told Liand to abandon the supplies-and Somo. “Haste will only exhaust your companions to no purpose.”

Then how-? she wanted to ask; demand. How do you expect us to survive? An instant later, however, she realised that Stave had no such expectation. Her flight into the rift had created this plight. He had merely pursued her so that he could fight on her behalf.

While she could, she rested in his arms and tried to focus her remaining percipience inward, searching for the link or passage which might connect her to the limitless power of Covenant’s ring.

The howling of the pack echoed up the rift; and the sound seemed to sharpen the chill on Linden’s skin. In it she heard more than ordinary animal ferocity. As they raced upwards, the kresh gave tongue to a more personal and fervid hunger; a desire not merely for food and blood, but for destruction. Redoubled by the cliffs, their howls suggested Lord Foul’s eager malice.

The Despiser had guided her to hurtloam. He had taunted her with Jeremiah’s suffering, the Land’s pain. And now he sent wolves to feast on her flesh?

No. She did not believe it. Lord Foul did not desire her death. Not yet.

He had sent the wolves to prevent her.

Prevent her from what? She could not imagine. Nevertheless she was abruptly certain that the true threat of the kresh surpassed mere fangs and rending.

When Lord Foul had aided her earlier, he may have expected her to flee in the opposite direction, toward the Land she knew. And he had not touched Anele again, however briefly, until after she and her companions had passed the Mithil’s Plunge.

If she gained the mountains, she might thereby foil some aspect of the Despiser’s machinations.

Even here, her foe had something to fear from her.

Ahead of her, Anele had stopped climbing. He had mounted no more than halfway up the cleft. A harsh ascent remained between him and the possibilities of the mountains. Yet he knelt among the rocks as if he had come to the end of his stamina-or his heart.

Peering through the shadows in alarm, Linden saw that he had halted at the lower edge of a rising plane of unbroken stone. There the fall of rubble had exposed a stretch of native granite which reached from cliff to cliff and perhaps a dozen strides upward.

The rough surface offered a few moments of easier flight. Yet the old man had faltered below it-

“Anele!” she called up to him. “Keep going! We have to keep going!”

With a twist of his shoulders, he looked back at her in Stave’s embrace; at Liand and Somo, and the rising wave of wolves. A faint cry reached her among the howls and echoes as he floundered to his feet and staggered onto the exposed gutrock.

He managed three steps, or four. Then he fell on his face and lay still.

“Hurry!” Linden panted to Stave. “God, Anele.”

This time the Haruchai heeded her. Springing into a run, he sped forward.

Behind them, Liand laboured over the rocks as swiftly as his mount could climb. Scant heartbeats later, Stave reached the plane of stone; strode to Anele’s prone form There he set her on her feet.

At Once, she dropped to her knees and found the old man gasping as if in terror. What’s wrong?”

Her health-sense had declined too far: she could not discern the source of his distress. She only knew that he had not exhausted his strange strength. But when she touched his arm, she realised that he was indeed terrified; that he was wracked, nearly undone by remorse and sanity.

Behind the Plunge, he had radiated similar emanations. Yet the character of his aura here had substantial differences. There he had writhed in self-recrimination, scourged by the consequences of his supposed crimes. I lost the Staff! He had blamed himself for impossible faults; mistakes which he could not have made. Here his dismay was more intimate. His fears seemed to come from the foundation of his being, the bedrock upon which his commitments and beliefs had once stood.

Although he did not move, he seemed to rise to meet her as if her touch had evoked him in some way; called him up from an abyss to speak to her.

“How was it possible?” he panted as if he were answering her. “I was not blind. Not deaf.” Echoes of hunger chased his words away. “I felt the wrongness of it. A thing which severed Law from Law. Yet I-

“Why am I not slain? I do not merit life. How is it that I am permitted to continue, when I have imperilled all the Land?”

Abruptly Somo’s hooves clattered on the plain stone. Tugged forward by Liand, the pinto came to Stave’s side and halted, blowing froth and trepidation from its nostrils. Its eyes rolled wildly. If Liand had not gripped the mustang’s reins, held them hard, Somo might have wheeled and fled into the jaws of the wolves.

“Anele.” Urgently Linden grasped the old man’s shoulders, rolled him over so that he lay on his back. If he had truly become sane at last- “Go on. Keep talking. I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

Distant howls beat about her head, resounding from the cliffs to harry her. The wolves had already swarmed halfway to her position. Any hope, however irrational, that she and her companions might outrace the pack was gone.

Even Stave’s transcendent skill and force could not meet so many slavering predators. Liand had a Stonedownor’s bulk of muscle: he would give a good account of himself before he went down. Somo’s hooves might stop a few wolves. Nevertheless the end would be swift and savage. And soon.

Stave’s warning no longer mattered. If Linden could not summon wild magic against the kresh, she would never help anyone again, or anything: not Anele; not Jeremiah; not the Land.

Still she knelt beside the old man. His moonstone eyes stared at her sightlessly-He needed to talk. She knew of no other way to lance the psychic suppuration of his Pain.

Tears smeared grime into his beard, down the sides of his neck. “It seemed a small thing,” he said brokenly. “Such a small thing. Yet I have wrought such evil-”

“Anele!” she breathed like a cry, “make sense! You’re sane now. I can feel it. For God’s sake, tell me something I can understand!”

He must have heard her. Abruptly his attention turned to her. Although he could not see her, he gulped in surprise, “I know you. You are Linden Avery the Chosen. The Haruchai has said so. You accompanied Sunder my father as he bore the corpse of Hollian my mother into Andelain and life.”

Linden gaped at him as though he had shocked the air from her lungs. He might have spoken in an alien tongue: she recognised each word individually, but together they conveyed no meaning.

“That’s impossible,” she protested.

Impossible.

God in Heaven-

How much time had passed since she had travelled with Sunder and Covenant into Andelain, and seen Hollian reborn? Stave could tell her, if she asked him. Millennia, certainly.

This was Anele’s sanity?

Now Stave stood beside her. He gazed down at the old man like a denunciation. “It cannot be,” he announced flatly. “He remains mad, though he appears sane. Do not heed him.”

“What-?” She surged erect to confront the Haruchai. “You want me to ignore this?”

Stave faced her steadily. He hardly seemed to blink.

“Linden Avery, you must not harken to him. He is mad. And the kresh will soon be upon us. You must flee. If you do not, the hope of white gold will be lost to the Land. The Stonedownor and I will strive to provide for your escape.”

When she did not move, he said in a tone like a shove, “You must flee now.”

Compelled by his appeal, she turned to look down the slope.

As the kresh boiled over the rubble, they moved from deep shade toward the borrowed light of the sky; and for the first time Linden saw them clearly.

The sight staggered her.

They were yellow, as Liand had told her, the hue of pestilence. And they were huge. God, they were huge: taller than ponies at the shoulders. A fulvous fire shone from their hot eyes, and their gaping fangs seemed to slather acid across the rocks. To her Senses, their fury for death was a scream pouring ahead of them up the rift.

They horrified her. Lord Foul drove them somehow: their ferocity was the febrile hunger of scourged animals. When they had ripped away her flesh, they might turn on each other to quench their coerced savagery.

Yet through her dismay she heard Anele murmur, “Linden Avery the Chosen. You alone” Tears spilled ceaselessly from his eyes, although he did not sob. “You have known those who trusted me. You alone may comprehend what I have done.”

So saying, he altered everything.

Instantly Linden shrugged off her shock and horror. Before all else, she was a physician’ and Anele had suffered too much. She could not abandon him now: this window into his shame and pain might never open again. Somehow she had to help hint unlock the bars which had closed his mind.

When the kresh attacked, she would trust herself to repulse them with white fire. Surely the same instincts which had preserved her during the collapse of Kevin’s Watch would come to her rescue again?

In a rush, she stooped to the old man and helped him to his feet. Then she positioned herself so that she could watch his face as well as the rising tide of kresh.

“Tell me,” she urged him softly. “I’m listening. I won’t leave you. Tell me what happened.”

A frown intensified Stave’s scar. For a moment, he appeared to consider the merits of simply snatching her into his arms again and running upward with her; leaving Liand and Anele to die. But then he shrugged slightly.

Without haste or fear, he called Liand to him; readied the Stonedownor and Somo to fight for their lives.

Liand cast Linden a look fraught with apprehension. But he showed no hesitation as he plucked a pair of stone knives from Somo’s packs and braced himself against the multiplied howling of the kresh. Events had not granted him time enough to learn regret.

Anele clung to her with supplication on his face. Tears still ran like blood from his eyes, although he spoke more steadily.

“This stone remembers,” he told her. “Therefore I remember. I am Anele son of Sunder and Hollian.” The child Hollian had carried in her resurrected womb. “In Mithil Stonedown I was born to them. I came to life in their care and their love.”

It was impossible: all of it. For him, sanity was only a more profound form of madness. Nevertheless he invoked names which Linden could not ignore. In spite of the danger, she listened to him as if they stood leagues rather than moments away from the charging pack, and had no cause for fear.

“Though they made their home in Mithil Stonedown, their concern was for all the Land.” Again Anele’s voice took on the cadences, the implied threnody, of the stone. The advance of the kresh might have ceased to exist for him. “The Staff of Law had been entrusted to them, and they knew what was required of them. Indeed, they felt no wish to shun it, for their task was one of healing, and its necessity lifted their h longer

Facing him, Linden tried to estimate the speed of the wolves. How much gin for could she delay before she reached for fire? She had already sacrificed any margin for failure. If Covenant’s ring did not answer immediately to her hand, she and her companions would be lost.

Still Anele spoke as if he were oblivious to everything beyond his incomprehensible sanity.

“I was born after the passing of the Sunbane, yet I recall its ravages for the harm was vast, and my parents journeyed throughout the Land for many years, bearing with them. From earliest childhood, I watched them wield the Staff for the Land’s healing. From them, I learned of love and hope and courage, and of commitment to beauty.

“And I learned also to be astonished at them, though they did not desire to astonish me.”

“Linden Avery,” Stave instructed distinctly, “you must not heed him. The old man is entirely mad”

The kresh had come so near that their fangs seemed to reflect the sick fire in their eyes. Their massive shoulders heaved as they bounded closer: in another moment their claws might strike sparks from the rocks.

Yet Anele was saying, “Their past you know. Ere I was born, Sunder and Hollian had already accomplished the most wonderful deeds. Knowing nothing of wild magic and true Law, they had nonetheless given themselves utterly to the Land’s redemption. So great was their love and devotion that even death did not stand against them. I would not otherwise have found life.”

Now, Linden thought, now, and as she came to readiness her last doubts slipped away. Anele might be a demented old man, but he had known Sunder and Hollian, whom she had loved. If this were madness, she preferred it to sanity.

In some sense, the last remnant of the One Forest had restored to Sunder his wife and unborn son.

Holding Anele’s blind gaze as the stone held his mind, she reached into herself for argence-

– and could not find it.

Covenant’s ring hung inert against her sternum; uninvoked. Though her entire being cried out in mute and sudden anguish, she felt no power anywhere within her. Three times before, Covenant’s vast fire had answered her needs. Yet now, with Anele’s life, and Stave’s, and Liand’s in her hands, her desperation called up no response from the hard metal.

The exertion of wild magic had never been a conscious choice for her. Without the guidance of her health-sense, she did not know how to transcend the constraints of her thinking mind.

Before her dismay could find its voice, however, a concussion like the shattering of tremendous bones shook the rift and a blackness more fathomless than ebony and midnight blossomed between the cliffs. It had the force of a great conflagration: in spite of its blackness, it shed illumination like flame, silent and blazing, and as ruddy as magma.

At the first touch of the blast, she feared that the storm which had threatened Mithil Stonedown had found her; that ruin had begun to thunder down. For an instant, all of the cleft around her shone, etched out of shadows until every bulge and edge and cranny seemed to blaze with fire. Stave and Liand and even Somo stood erect in the blare of heat and flame as if they had been transformed.

At once, the advance of the kresh collapsed onto itself in bestial panic. Taken unprepared, momentarily blinded, they flinched and shied away, stumbled under each other’s paws, wedged themselves between rocks. Terrified, they lashed out with fangs and claws, trying to drive back the strange violence which had fallen upon them.

Then the red light was quenched, and darkness swept back down the rift, redoubled by the sudden cessation of fire. The wolves might have vanished: only a tumult of snarls, yelping, and fear remained to define their presence.

Holding her breath, Linden braced herself on Anele’s voice and waited to regain her sight.

“They loved me dearly,” he insisted as if he were deaf to the kresh, blind to fear, “Sunder and Hollian. They shared with me the glory and loveliness of the Land, which they made new from the devastations of the Sunbane:”

Gradually the sky’s afternoon glow macerated the darkness.

“When I came to manhood, they taught me all that they had learned of the Law and the Staff.”

First one and then another, the kresh took form from the shadows.

“It was always their purpose that I should inherit their task when they had grown old and weary, and they taught me with all their hearts.”

Then a shudder seemed to run through the pack. Between one heartbeat and the next, the wolves reclaimed the scent of their prey.

“Also they had learned much from the Haruchai, and from the far-sojourning Giants, and this as well they granted to me as my birthright.”

Hurtling up from the rocks, the leading kresh launched themselves in pursuit again.

Now Linden knew that she was powerless. Her hope of wild magic had failed her: she had no time to learn its use. But she also knew that she and her companions were no longer alone. She had recognised the force of that concussion. Earlier a similar force had enabled her to escape from the Masters, and had damaged only empty

Some lore-wise being or beings had fired this blackness to delay the hunt. So that help could reach her-?

Without warning, men and women appeared among the stones as if they had reshaped themselves like Elohim from within the granite itself.

“Alas for the Land!” groaned Anele softly. His past gripped him, and he regarded nothing else. “Loving me as they did, my parents did not understand that I had learned to be astonished”

Ten of them, or more: as many as twenty? Men and women, short, slim, with swift lines to their limbs and dark hair sweeping like wings about their heads. Some of them stood between Linden’s companions and the pack: others rose up among the wolves.

Knotted in their hands they held lengths of thin rope like garrotes.

Tears streamed from Anele’s eyes. “Returned to life in Andelain, I was born of flesh and Earthpower:’

They were too small. None of them stood more than three hand spans taller than the kresh; and the wolves carried more weight. Bits of rope could not master fangs and claws: fewer than twenty men and women could not oppose so many of the great beasts. Yet the newcomers attacked without hesitation.

“I knew my nature, for my own strength answered to the strength of the Staff, and all the Land sang to me of its vitality and grandeur.”

Liquid with swiftness and precision, each man and woman flipped rope around the neck of a wolf, then leaped past it. Linden expected to see the kresh shrug off their assailants. But the newcomers used the wolves’ bulk and momentum to augment their own. Some of the beasts went down, writhing against strangulation. Others heard their own necks snap as they died.

“Nevertheless I had been astonished beyond bearing, amazed to the core of my spirit.”

Again the rush of the pack collapsed in turmoil. Wolves collided with each other in their frenzy to rend their assailants. They sprang to attack, and their jaws closed on fur rather than human flesh. All of the men and women disappeared under a thrashing chaos of wolves-

“I knew beyond doubt or appeal that I could not equal the example of my parents.”

– and re-emerged riding the backs of kresh, their garrotes cutting into the necks of their ravening mounts.

“Though I laboured at emulation eternally, I would never rise to the greatness of their deeds.”

Linden wanted to shout Stave’s name. Neither he nor Liand had moved. Liand’s inexperience might have done more harm than good; but Stave, at least, should have joined the newcomers. He was Haruchai: surely he could have slain wolves with his bare hands?

“And in time I grew to understand that I required a different path.”

Instead, however, the Master turned away. Striding up the exposed gutrock, he approached Linden. “Beware, Chosen!” he called through the struggle of fangs and ropes. “The evil has been roused. We are assailed!”

With one hand, he pointed up the rift behind her.

Behind her?

“The wolves-!” she protested. In moments, her unexpected defenders would all be dead. Kresh would surge past the fallen to leap on Liand and Somo.

Nevertheless Stave’s manner compelled her. Releasing Anele, she looked back over her shoulder.

At once, the old man fell silent. Perhaps he had recognised this new threat, in spite of his blindness. Or perhaps he could not speak without Linden’s attention to anchor him.

Down the broken slope like a wave of dark chrism flowed a compact wedge of black forms, barking to each other in guttural voices.

They resembled creatures she had once known, the Waynhim that had defended Covenant’s quest amid the ice and cold of the Northron Climbs. Like the Waynhim, these beings had long, hairless torsos and short limbs, better formed for running on all fours than for walking upright. Pointed ears perched atop their bald heads. And they had no eyes. Instead moist gaping nostrils filled their faces above the cruel slits of their mouths.

But these creatures were much larger than the Waynhim. Their skin was an unilluminable black, the colour of obsidian and murder. And they carried knives of bitter iron: knives like fangs, with blood-red blades which seethed like vitriol.

Their wedge seemed to concentrate their power. The creature at its tip held a short iron staff, almost a sceptre, pointed like a spike at one end. With this instrument the leading creature could wield the force of the whole formation.

The sceptre seemed to splash acid over the rocks as the wedge swept downward. Its power hit hard against Linden’s last percipience; struck sparks into the sudden tinder of her fear.

“Ur-viles!” Stave told her firmly. “The old evil. Against their might we cannot stand. Only wild magic may ward us.

“You must strike down the loremaster. There”-he pointed again-”at the focus of the wedge. Otherwise we perish, and the Ramen with us.”

Ramen-? she wondered dumbly. Had she heard that name before?

She had seen ur-viles: she recognised them now. Long ago, they had turned against Lord Foul and been punished by the Sunbane. With Sunder and Hollian, she and Covenant had been attacked by a horde of them made monstrous and insane. They had caused Hollian’s death. Indirectly, they were responsible for her resurrection-and Anele’s.

Yet these creatures were not monstrous. Dire though they seemed, they remained themselves: nothing had twisted their given nature.

“I thought they were dead,” she panted. Surely Lord Foul had destroyed them all? They had betrayed him by creating Vain.

“As we did,” Stave replied. “We cannot account for them. We know only that they are Demondim-spawn, servants of Corruption.

“Chosen, you must strike at them while you may.”

Like Anele-if the old man spoke the truth-they did not belong here. Somehow they had appeared out of time.

“I can’t!” she countered urgently. “I don’t know how.”

Who else could have produced the black concussion which had cast the kresh into confusion?

Before Stave could protest, a woman came swiftly toward them over the rock. Like the human fighters-the Ramen? – she seemed to emerge from within the stones. She, too, was slim and lithe, ready for quickness, with long black hair and dark skin, and clad in leggings of leather and a snug leather jerkin. But she wore her hair tied back with a length of rope: her garrote. About her neck hung a small band of yellow flowers.

“The Ringthane’s power is not needed, sleepless one.” Her voice sounded like nickering. “The ur-viles will not harm you.”

Stave stared at her for an instant, then bowed as if she had appeared out of legends to greet him. “Manethrall.” He sounded stiff, like a man deliberately withholding wonder. “This cannot be. Ur-viles are evil, and the Ramen do not serve Corruption.”

The woman did not return his bow. “Nevertheless,” she retorted. “They will harm none of you.”

“Stave!” Liand shouted frantically. “They come!”

Below the Stonedownor, the Ramen fought fiercely, fluidly. And they seemed improbably successful. Some of them must have fallen by now, bitten and torn. Yet they continued to disrupt the pack’s course, ten or more of them: rearing up from the struggle, leaping past teeth and claws; wielding their ropes to dislocate limbs, break necks, crush windpipes.

But they could only hamper the kresh, not halt them. Already wolves had broken from the melee to pelt upward.

Toward Liand and Somo.

The first of them sprang for Liand’s chest. At the last instant, he stepped aside. As the wolf passed him, he ripped both of his knives underhand through its belly. It crashed to the stone, screaming at its wounds.

Before he could recover, another beast charged. Two more went for the mustang’s throat.

Liand fell, overborne by the wolf’s impact. Together they rolled and thrashed on the stone.

Bounding downward, the woman whom Stave had called Manethrall flipped the rope from her hair and in the same motion looped it around the neck of Liand’s attacker. Her momentum carried her over the kresh; wrenched the beast aside.

At the same time, another Raman sped to Somo’s aid. Jumping onto one wolf’s back, the man bunched himself and leaped to plunge down onto the spine of another. Bones broke with a sickening crunch. The man rolled free while the kresh collapsed, grovelling helplessly.

Wheeling, Somo lashed out with its hooves to crush the other wolf’s skull.

Still the wedge of ur-viles poured downward, barking in cadence like an incantation. Power flared and spat from their glowing blades. In another heartbeat, they would reach the plane of native stone which had snared Anele in his memories.

Linden stared at them. They will harm none of you. She believed the Manethrall. Yet the force which she felt from the ur-viles was harm incarnate: it had been devised for death.

Covenant had told her of such creatures-and of butchery in Andelain

Grimly she held herself back, though her knuckles were white with fear, and the raw din of fighting kresh filled her head. She could see now that the wedge was not aimed at her.

The woman who had spoken to her trusted ur-viles.

And Stave must have trusted the Ramen. Instead of urging Linden to power, he followed the Manethrall into battle; met the brunt of the attack with his imponderable strength and skill.

Anele’s hands plucked at Linden’s shoulders. When she turned to him, he gripped her weakly, needing her support. “Linden Avery,” he pleaded. “Chosen.” He had ceased weeping: his pain had grown too great for tears. “You must heed me.” His head flinched from side to side, straining his thin neck. “I cannot bear it else.”

The ur-viles went past her at a run. Shouting in their harsh, incomprehensible tongue, they swept across the open rock and drove their wedge deep into the heart of the pack.

Crimson blades flashed. The staff of the loremaster lashed black acid to both sides. Ramen vaulted out of the path of the wedge; began to withdraw from the struggle.

Wherever the fluid force of the ur-viles touched fur, black flames burst. Acid knives parted flesh and bone as easily as rotten fabric. The frantic snarling of the kresh became torn yelps and shrieks.

Trembling, Linden met Anele’s supplication. The muscles of her legs quivered so that she could scarcely stand. Nevertheless she gazed into his ravaged face.

“I’m here.” Speaking required so much effort that her words came out in gasps. I’m listening. Go on.” There was nothing that she could do to aid her defenders. And the old man needed her. “Tell me what you remember.”

He replied with a fragile nod. For a moment, he mumbled to himself, apparently searching to find his place in the tale. Then he resumed the granitic dirge of his life.

“After many and many years of service,” he said, half-singing his grief and remorse, “Sunder and Hollian my parents elected at last to rest, and so they placed the Staff of Law in my hand.”

Below them, the fight intensified as the kresh raved for some point of weakness which would allow them to break open the wedge; but Linden no longer attended to the battle. Events had exceeded her frayed capacity to understand them. Instead she concentrated on Anele. His tale had become the only thing that made sense to her.

“Yet I could not continue their work.” His distress ached to her senses. “Daunted by astonishment, and inadequate to their example, I needed to discover my own use for my birthright. All other courses led to despair.

“So it transpired that when my parents had lapsed gently into death, and I had shared in the inexpressible mourning of Mithil Stonedown, and of all the Land, I did not take up the task left to me. Instead I took the Staff of Law and departed from my home so that I might seek out some more personal form of service.”

At the edges of the wedge, a few ur-viles fell to claws and fangs. Instantly, however, ur-viles within the wedge shifted to replace the fallen. And the loremaster’s distilled puissance dealt out fury as though it could not be quenched. Already more than a score of kresh writhed in flames; and still more caught fire with each acrid splash of power. Stave guarded the bare gutrock, delivering death whenever a wolf dared challenge him. Liand and Somo remained safely behind him, watching the fight. And at the walls of the rift, using the cliffs to guard their backs, the surviving Ramen crippled or slew every beast that came within reach.

Anele ignored them all. He might have forgotten their existence.

“High among these crests and vales,” he explained, nodding to the mountains, “I made a place for myself-not so distant from Mithil Stonedown that I could not hasten to the Land’s aid at need, but far enough to attain the silence and loneliness, the freedom from astonishment, which my spirit craved.

“There I became Unfettered. The Haruchai had spoken of such men and women. From them I had learned the words, though I did not know the song.”

In a frail voice, he recited:

“Free

Unfettered

Shriven

Free-

Dream that what is dreamed will be:

Hold eyes clasped shut until they see,

And sing the silent prophecy-

And be

Unfettered

Shriven

Free.”

Then he continued his story.

“Sunder and Hollian my parents had set themselves to heal the life of the Land. For myself I chose another task.”

Abruptly the character of the battle changed. Too many of the kresh had been slain: too many howled at the fire in their fur, or at the torment of their crippled and dangling limbs. First one at a time, then by twos and threes, then all together, the pack turned to flee.

“I wished to comprehend the Land’s spirit. I did not purpose healing. In my astonishment, I did not conceive that I might attempt so great a task. But I dreamed that if I could teach myself to harken to the essential language of the Land, I might hear of truths or needs which would enable those who came after me to provide deeper balms, more fundamental restorations.

“And betimes,” the old man admitted, “I imagined that if I could but tune my ears and Earthpower to an adequate acuity, I might learn from the gutrock itself how the Land might be rid of its most ancient and implacable evil.”

The ur-viles followed, killing every beast within reach of their power. The cries of the kresh filled the rift, a forlorn ululation. But the Ramen did not give chase. Instead they began to move among the fallen, searching for any of their comrades who were dead or injured, and ending the pain of the maimed wolves.

“For many years-a generation and more among the folk of the Land-I came here, to this place, this rock.” More and more, Anele leaned on Linden’s support. He had no strength left for anything but words. “Here with the Staff of Law and Earthpower, I studied stone in every flake of mica and complication of granite, every cunning mineral vein, every trace of recollected heat. Each ripple of texture and flake of loss I memorized until it became the substance of my heart. And when at last I had brought my mortal flesh into consonance with the Earth’s bones, I found that I could hear the speech of mountains.”

Bearing three dead comrades, and five sorely wounded, the Ramen ascended the rubble, led by the Manethrall.

He has no friend but stone.

“Have I spoken of years and generations? Sunder and Hollian my parents far surpassed the span of ordinary men and women. By the measure of other folk, I was an old man when I inherited the Staff of Law-and more than old before I discovered true hearing-for I had inherited also the longevity of Earthpower and Law.”

When the Ramen reached the gutrock, Stave joined them. And Liand did the same drawing Somo behind him. Blood streaked his left arm, but Linden could not gauge the extent of his injury.

“Much I learned here,” Anele breathed hoarsely, “more than I am able to contain. I heard hints of the Durance, and of the skurj. In such matters the Elohim played a part entwined with Earthpower and the Worm of the World’s End. Yet always I remained myself, incapable of the burden of astonishment. With the Staff and my own nature, I had opened a storeroom crowded immeasurably with memories and lore. Yet I was who I was, and could not attain the stature of such knowledge.”

On the open stone, the Ramen set down their hurt and fallen comrades. The dead they placed respectfully aside, then turned to tend the wounded. Some of the hurts looked grievous, but none of the Ramen cried out or made any sound.

“A better man might have felt the geas of the Earth’s need and found an answer. I did not. I could not imagine that the peril pertained to me, for the Staff exceeded me always. Therefore I only listened, and heard, and did naught.”

The Manethrall did not stay with her people, but instead approached Linden and Anele, with Stave beside her. The other Ramen gestured for Liand to join them, but he ignored them to accompany the Manethrall and Stave.

“Thus my doom came upon me at last, and I fell from the Land’s service through no cause but my own littleness and folly.”

As soon as the Master reached her, he said impassively, “Linden Avery, we must not tarry here. If these ur-viles will permit us, we must return to Mithil Stonedown while daylight holds. You have seen that I do not suffice to ward you. We require the greater safety of habitation and other Haruchai.”

But the Manethrall woman forestalled him with a severe movement of her hand. “Depart if you will, Bloodguard,” she told him sternly. “We will permit the old man to speak. Long have we wished to hear his tale.”

Obliquely Linden heard in the woman’s voice that she did not trust Stave. For some reason, she considered ur-viles less threatening than Masters.

Anele had not paused. He seemed to hear no voice except the lament of the stone’s memories.

“In one clean dawn, pristine and cherishable, while I rested from hearing in the kindly cave which had become my home, I felt the thing of wrong-the thing which destroyed me-and was fearful of it, for I had never known its like.”

At last, the ur-viles ceased harrying the kresh. Still in formation, they turned to climb back up the jumbled slope.

“In some fashion it resembled the Sunbane’s touch upon the Land. And in some fashion it echoed the seeping vileness which mars the waters flowing from Mount Thunder’s depths into the embrace of the Great Swamp. Yet it was neither of those. Rather it was fresh- new-born to harm, and virulent beyond my comprehension. This stone could not have described such abomination to me. It would have rent itself asunder in the telling.”

The wedge ascended steadily; but the Manethrall gave it no heed, although Stave regarded it askance.

“For a time,” Anele moaned, “my fear held me, and I faltered. Yet gradually I remembered courage, and determined that I would go forth to gaze upon this thing of evil.

“A simple choice, I assured myself, to go forth and gaze only. I would decide upon a better response when I had perceived its nature. Or perhaps when I had learned to understand it-”

Abruptly Stave insisted on the Raman woman’s attention. “Do not miscomprehend, Manethrall.” He may have wished to interrupt Anele’s tale. “Your presence among these mountains is a great boon to the Land, unexpected among the perils of these times. If you will consent to accompany us, or to return to your ancient homes upon the Plains of Ra, all the Haruchai will rejoice in your presence.”

He did not sound joyful, however. Instead his tone conveyed an adamantine resolve as he added, “I intend no disrespect when I say that we must depart now.

“I do not speak for the Chosen. As you have discerned, she is the Ringwielder, and will do as she must. But the old man is in our care, and we do not permit his freedom. He must return at once to Mithil Stonedown.”

Gasping, Anele stumbled to a halt as if in dread; as if the Master had laid cruel hands on him. His thin form sagged against Linden’s support.

The thought that he might not be able to continue-or that Stave might prevent him from saying more-sent a flush of anger through her. Before she could react, however, the Manethrall interposed herself between Stave and Anele; and Liand stepped closer to offer his aid.

Quietly, harshly, the woman said to Stave, “Then it is you he fears. You who have become Masters.”

Stave nodded, untouched by her accusation.

“Have a care, sleepless one.” The Manethrall lifted her garrote, stiff with the drying blood of wolves. “The Ramen do not forget. We remember that you have ridden Ranyhyn to their deaths.” Bitterness gave her voice a flaying edge. “In those years, we withheld our enmity only because the Bloodguard had sworn fealty to the Lords. But we remember also that you turned from fealty to the service of Fangthane the Render.”

The Manethrall’s assertion startled Linden. She had heard the tale from Stave: the defeat and maiming of Korik, Sill, and Doar had led the Bloodguard to turn their backs on their Vow. But that had been, what, seven thousand years ago? And the Ramen remembered it?

“We suffer your presence,” the Raman woman continued, “because we loathe the kresh, which you oppose, and because you do not bear the scent of evil. Also we seek to comprehend that which impels these ur-viles. But this old man has found a place in our hearts, and we will not withdraw our aid.”

“Your hearts mislead you.” Stave neither raised his voice nor spoke sharply; but his judgment was absolute. “This Anele has claimed kinship with a man and a woman who perished three millennia and more ago. He is mad, and speaks only madness.”

“Be quiet, both of you, please,” Linden pleaded. “I need to hear Anele.”

Stave did not relent. “Chosen, you profess concern for the Land.” He studied Linden past the Manethrall’s shoulder. “If you truly wish to serve it, you must not harken to him.”

“Then tell me something,” she retorted. “You people remember everything. Your ancestors must have known Sunder and Hollian’s son. What was his name?”

Stave’s eyes widened slightly, but he did not hesitate. “The inheritor of the Staff of Law was named Anele.” At once, he added, “It signifies nothing that this old man claims that name for himself.”

“Nothing?” countered Linden. “What else do you call `nothing’? Do you think it’s an accident that he can read stone?”

Before Stave could reply, the Manethrall put in, “If you truly wish to serve the Land, sleepless one, you will have patience. The Ramen do not desire to thwart you. We will do so only if we must.

“Grant us this tale. Grant us two days in which to take counsel, and to seek comprehension. Then if you have persuaded us to trust you, we will accompany you to Mithil Stonedown, to ensure your safe passage. And if you have not persuaded us, we will attempt to persuade you.”

“Finally,” Linden muttered between her teeth. “A suggestion we can use.”

She had no idea what two days among the Ramen might entail-and did not care.

Stave gazed inflexibly at the Manethrall. After a moment, still stiffly, he repeated his earlier bow. “Your distant ancestors held our respect. At the last, their devotion exceeded ours. In their name, and in that of the great Ranyhyn, which we adored, I will abide by your word.”

Thank God-!

Below Linden, the ur-viles had regained bare gutrock. They were so near that even her faint percipience felt the leashed savagery of their lore and their blades. But they could not frighten her now. Everything that remained to her, she focused on Anele.

He had not stirred in her grasp. Gently she shook him, tried to bring up his head. “Anele, Please. I’m ready now. Can you go on?”

No one would ever be able to help him if he could not speak of his distress; complete his tale.

Guided by instinctive empathy, she gently kissed the top of his head.

With an effort, one bone and joint at a time, he roused himself. By small increments, he dragged his eyes up to the level of Covenant’s ring hanging inside her shirt. There he fixed his gaze, staring blindly. When he finally found his voice, he spoke as if he were addressing that small metal band-

– appealing to it as though it represented the life of the Land, and might forgive him.

His own recollections had broken him once before. Now they threatened to tread the shards of his mind underfoot.

“A simple choice I made. Ah, simple. Such simplicity gives birth to woe, and its outcome is lamentation. In my place, a wiser man might have deemed so much harm sufficient. Yet I was not content, for with one choice I made another, again a simple one. I left the Staff of Law in the covert of my cave.

“I wished to preserve it from harm until I had gazed upon this thing of wrong, and determined my best course. So I assured myself. Was I not in my own flesh a being of Earthpower, capable of much? Surely I would be safe enough until I had learned to name the evil.

“Yet the truth-”

There remorse seemed to close his throat, and he could not continue. Linden murmured soothingly to his bowed head; tried to project her support into him so that he would be able to go on. And gradually he felt her encouragement; or his need to finish his story grew stronger. When he had mastered himself, his quavering voice resumed.

“Ah, the truth was that I left behind the Staff because with power comes duty. I feared that if I bore with me the implement of Law, I would be compelled to measure my littleness against the thing of wrong. And I knew that I would fail.

“Thus I went out to my doom, leaving behind the Staff.”

Liand and the Manethrall moved closer to hear him: the plaintive ache of his tale had become almost inaudible. Even the ur-viles drew near. Only Stave listened with his arms folded as though his heart were a fortress.

“Alas, the evil which I there beheld was one you also have witnessed.” Briefly the old man found a bit of strength, and his voice rose. “Among the Masters they are known as Falls. Others name them caesures. They are a spinning of vile power, an illimitable bane, and when I had beheld it I was appalled.” Then his energy faded, and he lapsed to whispering. “No, more than appalled. I was stricken immobile. My littleness unmade me.”

Weak and sorrowing, he gave his pain into Linden’s embrace; let her hold him so that he could reach an end.

“There the caesure took me. Its evil swept over me, and when it had passed my life and all that I had known had been swept away. Only the shape of the Land remained to me. These mountains. The valley of the Mithil. The reach of the South Plains. All else had ceased to exist.

“Oh, Mithil Stonedown endured, but it was no longer my home. Its folk knew nothing of the Land that I had known. All of my loves and lore had been effaced. The very stone on which I stood was not as I remembered it.

“And the Staff of Law-

“Ah, the Staff also had ceased to exist. It had vanished, lost by my folly. This Land knew nothing of it, and Law itself had given way to Falls and Kevin’s Dirt.”

Oh, Anele. Hugging him, Linden found that she could still weep, although he did not. Her tears dropped to his old head and dripped away, unregarded.

“That is the harm from which I flee, though I bear it with me always. I have lost the Staff of Law. It was my given birthright, entrusted to my care, and I failed it. I was too fearful for my task. The blame for the Land’s plight is mine.

“I am marked for damnation, and yet I cannot so much as die. If Sunder my father had known what the outcome of his love would be, he would have buried Hollian my mother beside the Soulsease, and the Land would have been spared the ill which I have wrought.”

When he was done, Linden simply stood and held him for a long time. She did not know how to comfort him. She could only bear witness to his bereavement.

Yet she had heard him: she knew that he needed more. For that reason, she told him softly, “I understand. I believe you, Anele.” The stone on which he stood would not have permitted falsehood. “Now I know the truth. You said it yourself. You’re the Land’s last hope.”

There was no one else who could even attempt to locate the Staff again.

Chapter Ten: Aided by Ur-viles

When Linden said it, she knew it to be true, although she could not have explained how she knew-or how it could be true. She was in no condition to question herself. Anele’s need for forgiveness had nearly exhausted her.

He knew where the Staff had been lost.

She could not continue to support him. Fortunately something in her voice roused him a little. He lifted his head from her chest, made an attempt to straighten his legs.

“Did I? It maybe so. Why otherwise am I precluded from death?”

He was the son of Sunder and Hollian-which made him three and a half thousand years old.

Unless-

Intuitive perceptions hunted for clarity within her, but she was too tired to concentrate on them.

“Old man,” Stave put in without warning, “hear me. Linden Avery has granted you credence. The Haruchai do not.”

In response, all of the ur-viles began to bark at once, apparently reacting to what they had heard. Their voices meant nothing to Linden, however: their speech resembled no language she knew. She turned a questioning look toward the Manethrall; but the woman shook her head.

“They comprehend us, but cannot form words in our tongue, and we know not how to grasp theirs.”

Stave ignored the exchange. “Have you made search?” he asked Anele. “Have you returned to your cave?”

Linden wanted to sigh, Oh, leave him alone. Don’t you think he’s been through enough? But the old man rallied before she could reply.

“What else have I ever done,” he answered like a spatter of gall, “since the accursed day of my failure?” He had grown sane enough to feel affronted. “The cave remains. I have searched it over upon occasions without number. I wander from it in despair, and in despair I return. Every span of its stone and dirt I have probed with my eyes and touched with my hands, even tasted with my tongue. The Staff is not there. No hint or memory of it is there. It passed out of knowledge when the Land I knew was erased by the evil of the Fall.”

Then he turned to face up the rift. “You will betray me,” he muttered. “I must not abide your presence.” A moment later, he shuddered. “And these creatures”- he indicated the ur-viles- “are harsh to my distress.”

In Mithil Stonedown, he had spoken of Lost things, long dead, creatures that had forced him to remember-

Gathering strength by the moment, as though he had left his frailty in Linden’s hands and was no longer hampered by it, he strode up the bare rock and began once again to climb the rubble.

Stave started upward as well, clearly intending to reclaim the old man. But the Manethrall stopped him with a frown. “Two days you have granted us, Bloodguard. We will ensure that your prey is not lost to you.”

At her word, the Haruchai nodded and let Anele go.

Linden’s health-sense was gone: she could no longer read her companions. Even the power of the ur-viles had faded from her nerves. Their blades had become mere lambent iron, eldritch and undefined. The Ramen might have been honest or treacherous, and she would not have known the difference.

Gazing after the old man, she asked the Manethrall, “You’ve met him before. How much do you know about him?”

“Little or naught,” replied the woman. Her tone remained stern, but her severity seemed to be directed at Stave rather than Linden. “We only pity him. Therefore when by chance our paths have crossed, we have given him what succour we may. However, he accepts little, and trusts less. He flees when he has been fed or healed. For that reason, we have not comforted him as we wish.”

“Will he be all right,” Linden continued, “climbing by himself? I don’t want to lose him. He’s too important-”

She had only begun to grasp how important.

“Do not fear for him,” the Manethrall responded. “He is accustomed to this place. And we will watch over him. Since you wish it, and because I have given my word to the sleepless one, he will be returned to you at need.”

Her kindness brought another moment of tears and blurring to Linden’s eyes. If these Ramen had treated Anele so, she would trust them for a while. Apparently their convictions and purposes were more humane than Stave’s.

“I’m sorry,” she told the Manethrall. “You and your people saved our lives, and I haven’t even thanked you. I’m Linden Avery. Stave calls me “the Chosen” because that’s what I was called the last time I came to the Land.”

The woman used her rope to tie back her hair, then bowed as she had not bowed to Stave, with her hands before her head and her palms turned outward, empty of danger. “Linden Avery,” she said in the nickering voice she had used earlier, “Ringthane, be welcome among us. I am Manethrall Hami of the Ramen, and they”- she indicated her companions where they tended their injured- “are my Cords.

“Your words suggest a tale which we will hear eagerly. However, we will not burden You with the telling of it until we have gathered at the Verge of Wandering, according to the word that I have given the Bloodguard. For the present, you are weary and in need. Before we ascend, we would offer you what aid or comfort we may.”

Linden hardly knew how to ask for what she needed. Help me find Jeremiah. Lead Me to the Staff. Tell me why you distrust Stave. None of that would enable her to do more climbing. Instead she answered indirectly, “You know Anele and Stave.” Well enough, anyway. “This is Liand son of Fostil, from Mithil Stonedown.” She nodded toward the young man. “Anele was a prisoner there. He helped us escape.”

As if for the first time, she noticed the streaks of blood on his left arm. They leaked from under his slashed sleeve: she could not see how badly he was hurt. But the tearing of his sleeve suggested claws.

Infection, she thought dully. Sepsis. If his wounds were not treated-Without percipience, she could not guess how grave the harm might be.

The Manethrall granted Liand a gracious bow, which he returned, emulating her movements awkwardly. He had already shared dangers and seen wonders far outside his experience, and his eyes sparkled with excitement.

“You honour me, Manethrall Hami. The Ramen are unknown in Mithil Stonedown, but you are doughty and generous, and would be made welcome”- he glanced pointedly at Stave- “if the Masters permitted it.”

She frowned at this reference to Masters. “Thank you, Liand of Mithil Stonedown. We will trust your welcome, if not that of the Bloodguard.”

Fearing that Stave might take offense, Linden put in, “With your permission, Manethrall, I want to look at your injured. Where I come from, I’m a physician. I don’t have any drugs or supplies with me, but I might be able to do something for them.” Uncertainly she added, “You lost lives for us. I want to help, if I can.”

Hami shrugged. “As you will, Ringthane. But your aid is not necessary. The Ramen are hardy, and I have taught my Cords the care of such wounds. Also”- a fierce grin twisted her lips- “our grievance against all kresh is ancient and enduring, ill-measured in mere centuries. Had you not been threatened, we would have assailed them still.”

Linden wanted to ask, And the ur-viles? Would they have joined you? But she was too weary for such questions. Murmuring, “Thanks,” she gestured for Liand to join her as she crossed the gutrock to join the Cords who were treating their hurt comrades.

They nodded to her courteously when she squatted among them, but did not pause in what they were doing.

They were nine, and none unmarked by the battle. However, they had suffered only scrapes and scratches, bruises. The wounds of the other five were more serious. Torn flesh hung in strips from the arms and legs of two of them, a man and a woman. Fangs had ripped grisly chunks out of one man’s shoulder and another’s thigh. As severe as those hurts appeared, however, they were small compared to the injuries of the fifth Raman.

The woman had been nearly eviscerated.

Three Cords laboured to keep her alive. The rest tended the other four.

“Damn it,” Linden muttered to herself. Peritonitis for sure. Even if the woman’s intestines were not too badly rent, and could be sewn intact back into her abdomen, she would develop a killing infection almost at once. Indeed, all of the wounds would turn septic: the claws and teeth of the kresh assured that.

Fire, she thought. We need a fire.

And then: hurtloam.

With an effort, she swallowed the fatigue clogging her throat. “Do you know hurtloam?” she asked the Cords.

“We do,” one of the men answered, abrupt with concentration. He appeared younger than Liand: too young for such work. Strain and pride stretched a pallor across his cheeks. All of the Cords were little more than adolescents. “It is not found here.” Not among these broken stones. “Nor do we often bear it with us. Its virtue slowly fades when it is lifted from the earth, and we lack the lore to sustain it. But we are Ramen. That which we have must suffice.”

From a pouch at his waist, he sifted into his palm a few sprigs of what appeared to be dried ferns or grass. Petals lay among them: the same flowers that Manethrall Hami wore around her neck. The Cord separated one sprig from the others, returned the rest to his pouch. Then he spat onto the herb in his palm; and at once a sharp tang pricked Linden’s nose.

“This is amanibhavam,” he told her, “the flower of health and madness. Fresh, it is too potent for human flesh, bringing ecstasy and death. Dried, however, it may be borne.”

Rubbing the damp herb between his hands, he wiped it into the gutted woman’s wound.

She gasped in pain; and Linden nearly gasped as well, shocked by the crudeness of such care. Damn it. She needed her health-sense; needed to know what amanibhavam was and did.

The suffering of the Ramen hung about her head; agony stifled by pride and fortitude. The other Cords had similar pouches. They dabbed bits of saliva and fern under strips of ripped tissue and bound the skin back into place with cloth bandages; rubbed the same mixture as though it were a sovereign poultice into bitten shoulders and thighs. She had witnessed miracles of healing in the Land. With percipience and power, she had wrought a few herself. But this

The last blood of the dead oozed from their wounds to stain the gutrock. Its lost scent tightened the back of her throat. They had died brutally, mangled almost beyond recognition. One had had her face ripped away. Another’s spine had been crushed in the massive jaws of a wolf.

These dead and injured young people had saved Linden’s life. She remembered evil; but on a purely visceral level, she had forgotten the real cost of Lord Foul’s malice.

Staggering, she heaved herself upright. “Manethrall,” she breathed urgently. “Hami. They’re going to die.”

The Manethrall came smoothly down the stone to consider the plight of her Cords. Then she met Linden’s troubled stare. “It may be so,” she admitted sadly. “Kresh are in all ways dire and filthy beasts. Yet amanibhavam has rare virtue. It may yet redeem these wounds. We can do naught else in this place. We must depart.”

“No.” Linden shook her head unsteadily. “It’s too dangerous. We can’t move them.” Especially the gut-torn woman. In a rush, she added, “Liand and I know where to find aliantha.”

Hurtloam was out of the question. Without percipience, she would not be able to identify it. And Liand had never seen it.

Manethrall Hami raised her eyebrows. “That would be a benison. Is it near?”

Linden gestured down toward the Mithil valley. “Send one of your Cords with me,” she urged. “Or with Liand, if I’m too weak. They can bring some back.” “Will they return before nightfall?”

Linden swallowed roughly. “No.”

“Then I will send no one. You have knowledge of the Land, but mayhap you do not know these mountains. With the setting of the sun, a wind as harsh as ice will blow here. Lacking shelter, they”- she meant her injured Cords- “will perish. Also you may succumb, for you are not hardy.

“We must ascend. Beyond the rims of this cleft, we will be capable of shelter and fire.”

Fire to boil water, cauterise wounds, burn away as much infection as possible. There was no wood for fuel in the rift.

Linden felt a pang of despair, and she faltered.

“Or we could go down,” she offered hesitantly. “Get out of the wind. Find aliantha.” Do what Stave wanted. “Mithil Stonedown will help us.”

Severity sharpened the Manethrall’s face. “Ringthane, we love the Land. It is the long dream of the Ramen that we will one day return there-to the Plains of Ra and Manhome, where we belong.” Her voice implied a suppressed outrage. “But we will not enter any place where these Masters hold sway.”

Turning away, she added, “My Cords will endure, if they are able. They are Ramen.

Stave regarded her impassively, as though he did not deign to take umbrage.

Linden could not imagine what grudge the Ramen held against the Haruchai. However, she herself feared to return to Mithil Stonedown. Stave had surprised her by promising the Manethrall two days. In her experience, his people neither compromised nor negotiated.

When she had absorbed the hard fact that she could do nothing for the Cords-that all her years of training were useless here-she sat down to save her strength. The shadows in the rift approached true twilight, and the tops of the walls seemed too far away to reach. She did not believe that she would be able to climb so high.

Dumbly she watched one of the Cords treat Liand’s arm. She had become certain that the Ramen meant him no harm.

The Cord applied a touch of amanibhavam and saliva to the gash, then bound it with a bandage of clean cloth. As he felt the effects of the poultice, Liand frowned at first, then gradually relaxed into a smile. “I know not what other benefits this grass may have,” he told Linden when he had thanked the Cord, “but it assuredly softens pain. For that I am grateful.”

Linden nodded vacantly. Her uselessness galled her. For the time being, at least, she had come to the end of herself.

Scant moments later, however, Manethrall Hami called her Cords into motion. Around Linden, the comparatively whole young men and women prepared themselves to carry their dead and fallen comrades, some in slings across their backs, others cradled in their arms. Liand readied Somo for an ascent they could scarcely see. And Linden realised that she was staring at a darkness deeper than shadows: the ur-viles.

Without thinking about it, she had expected them to depart. Surely they had already done what they came to do? Yet they remained, obviously waiting for something. Did they mean to accompany the Ramen? Did they anticipate another attack? Or were they wary of the moment when their interests might diverge from those of the Ramen?

Then Stave came to her side. “Chosen,” he announced, “I must bear you again.” Gloom obscured his features. If he had bared his teeth at her, she would not have known it. “If I do not, your weariness will hold you here, and you will be exposed to cold beyond your endurance.”

Too worn out to do otherwise, she surrendered herself and the immediate future to his ambiguous care.

As the Cords settled their burdens, the ur-viles also prepared to move. Apparently the disturbing creatures intended to accompany them.

Then the Ramen began to climb. Linden had assumed that they would move slowly and rest often, laden as they were. But she soon saw that she had underestimated their toughness. They managed the jagged slope more swiftly than she could have imagined.

And the ur-viles ascended with ease. The proportions of their limbs aided them here: although they looked awkward upright, they could use their hands for climbing as readily as their feet. Somehow they had put their weapons away, so that their hands were empty; unencumbered.

Soon it became obvious that only Liand and Somo could not match the pace of the Ramen. Alone, Liand might have kept up well enough; but in the deepening twilight the mustang had to pick its footing carefully. Otherwise it might snap a foreleg among the stones.

At a word from Manethrall Hami, the lone unburdened Cord dropped back to Liand. “Join your companions,” the young woman told him brusquely. “I will guide your mount.”

“No.” Liand may have shaken his head. “I brought Somo to this. The responsibility is mine.”

The Cord might have argued; but Stave put in, “You have wrought sufficient folly for one day, Stonedownor. Do not be foolish in this. The horselore of the Ramen surpasses you. Your mount will fare better in her care than in yours.”

“Linden?” Liand asked out of the darkness. He may have meant, What should I do?

He may have meant, Tell this damn Master to leave me alone.

Sighing to herself, Linden answered, “I think the Ramen know what they’re doing. Somo should be safe with her.”

“Very well,” Liand muttered to the Cord. “I have tended the mounts of Mithil Stonedown since I grew tall enough to curry them. If you do not return Somo to me, you will answer for it.”

The young woman snorted under her breath, but made no other retort.

Liand scrambled up the rocks to Stave’s side. “I know nothing of these Ramen, Master,” he said softly. “You have concealed them from us. If I am foolish, how could it be otherwise? You have kept secret all that might have made us wise.”

Stave ignored the justice of Liand’s accusation.

Overhead the sky had turned purple with evening. Slowly it dimmed toward black. For some time now, the breeze had gathered force as cold poured like a stream into the narrows of the rift. Linden felt chills seep into her skin in spite of Stave’s intransigent warmth. Soon she would start to shiver under the mounting weight of the wind.

A day and a half in the Land, hardly more than that, and she had already become as helpless as an infant. Jeremiah needed her. More than that: he needed her to be a figure of power, the stuff of legends; rapt with wild magic and efficacy. Yet here she lay, cradled weakly in the arms of a man who had turned his back on such things.

Ahead of her, the Ramen and ur-viles moved in their distinct groups, as obscure as clouds against the vague background of the rocks. Yearning to find some use for herself, she asked abruptly, “Stave, will you talk to me?”

He replied without turning his head. “What do you wish me to say?”

“Tell me what you know about ur-viles.” She desired a concession from him; something more personal than the forbearance he had shown the Ramen. “You called them a great evil, but they don’t act like it.”

Out of the gloaming, Stave said, “They are as strange to us as to you. We cannot account for them. We have never understood them.”

Linden persisted. “You still know more about them than I do. Their history. Where they come from. All I’ve ever heard is that they were made, not born. Created by the Demondim-whoever they were. I need more.

“Isn’t there anything else you can tell me?”

For a long moment, Stave appeared to consider the deeper ramifications of her question. Deliberately over the centuries, the Haruchai had suppressed the history of the Land. Now she asked him to speak of it-and in Liand’s presence.

Finally he countered, “Chosen, do you comprehend what you request? This foolish young man has elected to dare his fate with you. If I give you answer, and he seeks later to relate what he has heard, we must prevent him.

“You appear to value kindness. Will you treat him so roughly?”

Before Linden could object, Liand put in stiffly, “Your words sow confusion, Master. You threaten me rather than the Chosen. Therefore the choice is mine to make. To pretend otherwise is not honest. It ill becomes you.”

A subliminal tension seemed to run through Stave’s chest. “Have a care, Stonedownor,” he replied. “You are not equal to such determinations.”

“Because,” Linden protested, “you don’t allow him to be.” Stave’s inflexibility exasperated her. “He’s right. If you think he’s too ignorant to understand the risks, that’s your doing. No one else’s.”

The Haruchai had made themselves responsible for all the Land. Under the circumstances, the unexpected aid of the ur-viles must have undermined Stave’s convictions. And he may have felt disturbed by the way in which the presence of the Demondim-spawn lent credibility to Anele’s impossible tale. Perhaps his need to understand the creatures was as acute as Linden’s.

“Very well,” he said at last. His voice held no hint of concession. “I will answer. This Stonedownor must be wary of us as he sees fit.”

The indistinct group of the Ramen appeared nearer than it had earlier. Stave was gaining on them-or they had slowed their pace to listen.

“You have been told, Linden Avery, that the Haruchai first came to the Land in the time of High Lord Kevin Landwaster.” Having accepted this task, Stave spoke steadily, in spite of his taciturn nature. Nevertheless his tone conveyed an impression of awkwardness, as though he were translating a richer and more numinous tongue into blunt human language. “I say this again to explain that they did not know the High Lord’s father, Loric son of Damelon, who earned the name of Vilesilencer. They heard only tales of those years, and of the black Viles which had haunted the Land. We cannot now declare which of those tales were true.”

Linden settled herself in the Master’s arms. His decision to speak gave her an obscure comfort. It suggested that he could still compromise, in spite of his native severity.

“It was said by some,” he told her as well as Liand and the listening Ramen, “that the Vile, were creatures of miasma, evanescent and dire, arising from ancient banes buried within Mount Thunder as mist arises from tainted waters. Others claimed that they were spectres and ghouls, the tormented spirits of those who had fallen victim to Corruption’s evil. And yet others proclaimed that they were fragments of the One Forest’s lost soul, remnants of spirit rent by the slaughter of the trees, and ravenous for harm.

“On three things, however, the tales agreed. First, the Viles appeared where they willed, elusive as swamp lights, wreaking mortification and horror. Next, their lore, which they had gained from the buried banes of the Earth, was black and ruinous, delving into matters which the old Lords could not penetrate. And last, the evil of the Viles was inspired by their loathing of themselves.

“Doubt-ridden, perhaps, by the cleaner spirits from which they had arisen, or by the havoc which Corruption required of them, they desired above all things to become other than they were. And toward that desire they bent all their terrible lore.

“Therefore they created the Demondim, labouring long in the Lost Deep. And for a time it appeared that they had succeeded in their self-loathing, for the Demondim were unlike their makers. Among the Lords, they were described as “powerful and austere”. It was said of them that they were “once friendly” to the trees.

“Still the Viles were a bane upon the Land. For that reason, High Lord Loric took up the challenge of silencing their evil. And in this he prevailed, though at great cost. Because their lore was a mystery to him, beyond his conception, he enlisted the aid of the Demondim against their makers. There he learned dismay, and could never again be truly whole, for he did not know that Corruption had been at work among the Demondim, sending his Ravers to teach them self-Despite, the same abhorrence of themselves which had long tormented the Viles.

“Because they had been swayed, the Demondim became the foes of the forests. For the same reason, they returned to the breeding dens of the Viles in order to begin the making of the ur-viles. And for that same reason, the aid which the Demondim granted to Loric Vilesilencer was Despite in another form, for it arose from their self-loathing. They turned against their makers because Corruption is cunning, and because they saw no value in their own creation.

“Thus was High Lord Loric’s victory over evil made possible by Corruption. So were planted the seeds of doubt and chagrin which later blossomed in Kevin Landwaster and the Ritual of Desecration.”

Shades of evening still held the sky, but night now filled the rift, welling up from the memories of the rubble; flowing downward from the dark past of the ur-viles. And with it came the ice-sharp wind which Manethrall Hami had promised. Cold soughed and hissed in the background of Stave’s words.

Yet he was not chilled. His people made their home among the ice and snows of the Westron Mountains. The passion in his veins gave him all the warmth he required.

Bearing Linden upward appeared to cost him no effort at all.

“The Bloodguard,” he stated flatly, “heard only tales of the Viles, but of the Demondim their experience was certain. Among other causes, High Lord Kevin was driven to Desecration by his failure to answer the darkness of the Vile-spawn.

“The Viles were in some form wraiths, as enduring and insidious as mist. The ur-viles were”- he hesitated momentarily, corrected himself- “are as you see them, tangible flesh which may be slain, despite their deep lore. But the Demondim possessed a middle nature, at once both and neither, partaking of miasma and flesh together. As did the Viles, they persisted outside or beyond life and death. As do the ur-viles, they had forms which could be touched and harmed.”

“I do not understand,” Liand put in. “How is it possible?”

“The Demondim were animate dead,” Stave answered, “creatures such as those that came near to causing the fall of Revelstone in the time of High Lord Mhoram. Those creatures, however, were mere lifeless forms serving the power of the Illearth Stone. The Demondim were the lore and bitterness of the Viles made manifest in slain flesh, corpses with the puissance of Lords. The vitriol which the ur-viles wield for destruction pulsed in their hearts. Clad in cerements and rot, the Demondim arose from the graves of the fallen, and their touch was fire.

“They might be halted by blade or flame, but they could not be extinguished. From them, High Lord Kevin learned lessons of despair which doomed his spirit. Given time, an army of such creatures might overrun the Earth “

Out of the night, Manethrall Hami said, “The Ramen remember. We named them Fangs, the Teeth of the Render, and all their deeds were dire.”

“Indeed,” Stave responded. “The Ramen fought valiantly and often along the Roamsedge to bar the Demondim from the Plains of Ra, and were not defeated.

“Yet the Demondim did not comprise an army. Their numbers were too few. Neither scruple nor opposition restricted them, but they had turned against their makers, and therefore the Viles were gone. Nor did the Demondim turn their lore to the spawning of yet more Demondim. They had learned to abhor themselves, and had no desire to seek their own increase. Rather they studied and laboured to re-fashion themselves in living flesh.”

Covenant had told Linden similar things. She had met both ur-viles and Waynhim. However, she had no wish to interrupt what Stave was saying.

“While Corruption wrought covertly to mar the Council of Lords,” he told the dark climb, “the Demondim also laboured in secret, wielding their lore over breeding vats and fens in the Lost Deep, the lightless pits and caverns beneath the Wightwarrens of ‘Mount Thunder-There among forgotten banes and ancient cruelties, they strove with lore and Power to make of themselves new creatures.

“And from their labours emerged living flesh at last. Some were ur-viles, while others came forth as Waynhim, smaller than ur-viles, more grey than black, and less inclined to bloodshed. Why this should be so, the Haruchai do not know. Perhaps among the Demondim lingered the memory that they had once stood apart from the lust and loathing of the Viles. Perhaps some aspect or faction of the Demondim had not been entirely seduced by Despite. Whatever the cause, the truth remains that both ur-viles and Waynhim were created in the same fashion. Yet the Waynhim sought to heal their abhorrence in service rather than to quench it in slaughter, as the ur-viles did.

“So the downfall of the Demondim came upon them. They were undone by the Ritual of Desecration. Corruption had not forewarned his servants, or they had declined to heed their peril. It may be that they desired their own destruction. Thus the Landwaster’s despair achieved this one victory. Though ur-viles and Waynhim endured, the Demondim were swept aside.”

“That also,” announced Manethrall Hami softly, “the Ramen do not forget. We have known both Waynhim and ur-viles. In that time, an extravagant cruelty ruled the ur-viles, and all the Land feared them. They had indeed become mortal, however, and could be slain.” Her voice held relish. “Many were the creatures which perished at the hands of the Ramen.”

Stave nodded. “Yet they had become less than they were, for in the Ritual of Desecration even such beings as ur-viles and Waynhim were diminished. Much of the black lore of the Viles and the Demondim endured to them-and much did not.

“This the new Lords knew because in numbers both Waynhim and ur-viles continued to dwindle. Indeed, both had become the last of their kind. They created no descendants, and when they were slain nothing returned of them.”

Linden squirmed, suddenly uncomfortable in the Haruchai’s arms. He seemed to imply that the success of the Ramen against the ur-viles would not have been possible if the lore of the Demondim-spawn had retained its original force.

The Manethrall responded sharply, “And do you therefore discount us, Bloodguard? Do you deem that our battles were less fiercely fought, or our blood less freely spilled, because our foes had become less than they were?

“Much has been altered since the Bloodguard were turned to Fangthane’s service. You are Masters now, and a threat to harmless old men. Yet I see that the arrogance of your kind persists.”

Linden groaned to herself. She could not imagine what had caused the almost subcutaneous animosity between Stave and the Ramen. They had just met; could not know each other. Any grievance between them was several thousand years old.

However, Stave’s reply sounded courteous enough, if not conciliatory. “You mistake me, Manethrall. I speak only of ur-viles and Waynhim, not of Ramen. The courage of the Ramen was beyond question, and their devotion to the Ranyhyn proved greater than the fidelity of the Bloodguard.”

But then his tone grew harder. “Yet we “persist” in the Lands service. What has become of the Ramen and their devotion?

“In the time of the Sunbane, they withdrew the Ranyhyn from the Land. That was wisely done, for the Ranyhyn required preservation. Yet many centuries have now passed, and where are the great horses?

“The Ramen remain. That we see. They live secretly among these mountains, for purposes which are likewise secret. But what of the Ranyhyn? Do they also remain, Manethrall? Have they expired in some inhospitable region? Were they led from ruin to ruin by their Ramen? Or have you returned without them, thinking to deny them the birthright of their true home?”

Linden expected an angry rejoinder from the Manethrall; but instead she heard the rush of bare feet, the whisper of skin running over stone. The dark felt suddenly ominous around her, fretted with cold.

In the last glow of the sky, she saw ur-viles crowding between her and the Ramen. They barked to each other harshly, or to her, but she could not understand them.

Oh, shit.

Trying to forestall a conflict, she snapped, “Stave, stop. Put me down. We don’t need this. The Ramen are helping us. What more do you want?”

For a moment, the Haruchai strode up the rocks in silence. Then he stopped against an abrupt wall of ur-viles. The creatures had barred his way completely.

Facing them, he dropped Linden’s legs to set her on her feet. Liand scrambled to her side as she groped for balance on the uneven surface. She feared that she would see red blades gleaming among the black creatures, but no weapons marked the night.

The ur-viles smelled of decaying leaves and carrion: things which had become rotten.

What in hell was going on?

And what were “Ranyhyn”? Both Hami and Stave had mentioned them earlier, but she did not know what the name implied.

She wished urgently that she could understand the ur-viles.

“Manethrall,” she called out softly, “I’m sorry. He doesn’t speak for me. I don’t even know what he’s talking about. But you don’t have to be enemies. The Haruchai I’ve known have always been faithful No matter what happened they stood by us.”

“Chosen,” Stave put in impassively. “The Ramen do not hear you.”

What-?

“Indeed,” Liand confirmed acidly. “They have gone ahead. The Master’s words have driven them away.”

Linden gaped into the black mass of ur-viles, trying to see past them. “Why?” She was blind in the shrouded rift. “What are they doing?”

She could not believe that the Ramen had forsaken her.

“I do not Know” Stave answered. “Their purposes are hidden.”

“Yet if they do not guide us,” Liand muttered, “we cannot escape this place. We do not know the way.”

Linden turned from the innominate threat of the ur-viles.

“Stave, I don’t understand you.” He was no more than a vague shape in the night: indistinct; beyond persuasion. “They saved our lives. You acted like you respect theta. You even compromised with them, which is more than you’ve been willing to do for me. And now you want to pick a fight?”

Darkness and cold made the aid of the Ramen essential.

If Stave felt endangered by the ur-viles, his tone did not show it. “Linden Avery, you do not accept us. For that reason, perhaps, you are quick to place faith in these Ramen, though you know nothing of them. Yet I mistrust them. You should understand that I have cause.”

He may have been asking her to take sides.

“What cause?” she countered.

“You have not known the Ranyhyn,” he replied. “And spoken words cannot contain their worth. They are”- he hesitated briefly- “or perhaps were among the most precious of the Land’s glories.

“The great horses of Ra were Earthpower made flesh. Their beauty and power played no small part in the wonder which bound our ancestors to the Vow, and the Bloodguard rode them in pride and service. Their absence diminishes us. Without them, the Land is incomplete, and our care can never suffice to make it whole.”

He paused, then continued more severely, “The Ramen were the tenders of the Ranyhyn. Perhaps they continue in that devotion. Yet where are the Ranyhyn? Why have the great horses not returned to the Plains of Ra? And why do the Ramen conceal themselves among these mountains, consorting with ur-viles and succouring madmen, when the Land is their home, and the Ranyhyn are needed?”

Strictly he finished, “I fear Corruption’s hand upon them.”

He had called the ur-viles a great evil. For that, also, he had cause.

“Are you sure?” Linden demanded. “Do you see it?” The Haruchai were proof against Kevin’s Dirt, and mere night could not blind the other dimensions of health-sense.

“I do not,” he admitted. “Yet we are the Masters of the Land, and must consider such perils.”

“Linden.” Liand’s voice shook in the cold. “We cannot remain here. This wind will undo us. And our cloaks and blankets are with Somo, behind us. We must continue to climb, and attempt to discover the way.”

Damn it. He was right. The Ramen had left her and her companions in untenable position.

For his sake, however, she said, “We’ll be all right. They haven’t abandoned us. They’ll help us when we need it.”

Grimly she determined to try the broken slope with her own hands had had enough of Stave. If the ur-viles did not stand in her way-

But they continued to block her path. As she started forward, several of them began to bark more loudly. From the clotted darkness of their formation, one of them confronted her, holding an object in its hands.

“Chosen,” Stave said: a warning.

If she were in danger, surely he would be able to sense it?

The ur-vile extended a blurred shape toward her. It may have been a small cup. Liand grabbed her arm. “Linden. No. They are ur-viles. Demondim-spawn “

Until this evening, he had never heard of such creatures. Like Ramen and Ranyhyn, the One Forest and Ravers, they had not existed for him even as legends.

Linden shook off his hand. “They saved us,” she breathed.

She had already accepted aid from Lord Foul himself.

“And they are descendants of evil,” Liand objected. “The Master has said so.”

Haruchai did not lie.

Yet the ur-viles barked at her insistently. The nearest creature prodded its cup at her hands.

Their rank, decayed odour repulsed her. It seemed to blow against her skin like the steam of a corrosive-

– bringing another scent with it, musty and potent: an aroma compounded of dust and age and vitality.

She knew that smell. For a moment, the memory troubled her; elusive, fraught with bloodshed and loss. Then it returned in a rush of clarity.

The Northron Climbs and bitter cold, accompanied by Cail and Giants. A preternatural winter brought down from the north by arghuleh. And a Waynhim rhyshyshim, a gathering.

To Linden and her companions, the Waynhim had given succour and safety; warmth and rest and food. And a dark, musty drink which had nourished them like distilled aliantha.

“Stave,” she murmured in wonder and surprise, “that’s vitrim. They’re offering us vitrim,”

“Vitrim?” asked Liand. “What is vitrim?”

Stave stood beside her opposite the Stonedownor. “Are you certain? The Haruchai have not forgotten Cail’s tales of the Search for the One Tree. He spoke of vitrim. But ur-viles are not Waynhim.”

She could have asked him to take the cup for her; sample its contents. She did not doubt that he would do so, trusting his senses and strength to protect him from any Subtle Poison. But she was fed up with suspicion, and already had too many enemies.

Abruptly she opened her hands for the proffered cup.

The ur-vile Placed cold iron in her palms and stepped back, still barking. Perhaps it meant to encourage her.

So that she would not falter, she raised the cup at once and sipped from it.

The liquid tasted like dust and neglect: she had difficulty swallowing it. Nonetheless it seemed to fill her flesh with excitement; eagerness transformed almost instantly to sustenance as soon as it touched her stomach. With every beat of her heart, the cold lost its grip on her. The edges of the wind still drew tears from her eyes; but now they were tears of relief and possibility.

A kind of giddiness came over her, and she nearly laughed aloud. “Here,” she said, handing the cup to Liand. “Try it. You’ll like it. If you can ignore the taste.”

He hesitated, hampered by confusion.

“Go on,” she told him. “Just a sip.” Rejuvenation in waves washed her weariness aside, riding the scend of her pulse. Light seemed to shine from her nerves, mapping its own life within her. Liand should have been able to discern the glow she emitted.

Stave certainly could.

The young man would not refuse: she knew that. He had already wandered too far beyond the boundaries of his experience, and had no one else to guide him. Cautiously he eased the iron cup to his lips and tasted its contents.

The Master did not move or speak. Instead he faced the ur-viles as though he were carved of darkness.

For a long moment, Liand remained motionless over the cup. Then, softly, he began to laugh: a quiet, clean sound like the sweep of a broom brushing away cobwebs and anxiety.

“I am astonished. The savour is indeed unpleasant. I have tasted brackish water and dying mosses which were kinder to my tongue. Yet it outshines aliantha in my veins.

“Linden Avery, I would not have believed it possible.”

She nodded gladly; but before she could reply, the nearest ur-vile retrieved its cup, then retreated among its fellows. At once, a larger creature bearing a pointed iron rod like a jerrid stepped forward: the loremaster. Instinctively she braced herself, uncertain of the creature’s intentions.

But the loremaster only barked at its weapon, and gradually a crimson flame flowered from its tip, blooming until it resembled the blaze of a torch. Soon the fire shed a pool of incarnadine over the broken tumble of the slope; and Linden realised that the loremaster meant to light the way.

The ur-viles were still trying to help her. Spilling red illumination on all sides, the loremaster and its followers began to retreat up the rubble as if to draw her and her companions forward.

According to Stave, they were a great evil. And they should all have died millennia ago. Lord Foul had certainly tried to destroy them. Yet, impossibly, they were here. Like Anele, they seemed to have been displaced in time. If Anele’s account of himself could be trusted-

Linden glanced at Stave; at Liand. The Master regarded her flatly, conceding nothing. But Liand nodded. “Let us go. This vitrim warms me strangely. While its virtue endures, we would do well to escape the wind.”

Linden faced the loremaster. “Lead the way. We’ll follow you.”

Manethrall Hami had told her that the creatures understood human speech.

In response, they retreated farther; and she began to climb after them, lifted over the rocks by their weird encouragement.

Even with their help, the climb was painful and prolonged. Vitrim was not hurtloam; it gave her energy, but could not heal sore muscles or aching joints. Before long, her legs began to tremble, and her balance wavered in the sullen light. Nevertheless she was glad that she no longer needed Stave to carry her. She could not afford to be dependent on him.

The ur-viles had given her more than sustenance. The illumination in her veins had enabled her to reclaim some necessary sense of herself.

Still the ascent was arduous. Gradually she grew numb, worn down by the effort of forcing her boots upward, scraping her shins and palms over the jagged memories of the rocks, expending her given warmth and strength. Anele’s past, and the One Forest’s, ceased to pain her. The strange aid of the ur-viles lost its disturbing eloquence. As she climbed and climbed, the rift and the wind and the darkness shrank down to a splash of crimson light, a precarious tumble of stones. If anyone spoke to her, she no longer heard them.

At some point, one of the Ramen appeared. Perhaps Hami had sent the young man back as a guide. Then the way became steeper; more perilous. Linden might have been scaling a precipice from which she could have slipped at any moment to fall for the rest of her life. But she did not slip-or her companions upheld her-and after a time the wind lost its flensing edge. Then she found herself kneeling on soil and grass instead of stone, under a fathomless expanse of stars.

There she could walk more easily; and Liand or one of the Cords supported her when she sagged. Several Ramen accompanied her now, although the ur-viles had vanished somewhere, leaving her to darkness and starlight. Eventually she rounded a hill into the shelter of an escarpment lambent with fires.

Ordinary campfires of brush and wood, three of them, shed warmth and flames jut of stone which protected a hollow at the base of the scarp; and around them were gathered several Ramen, more than Linden remembered. Some of them tended their injured comrades, boiling water and preparing salves. Others readied food, while still others devised lean-tos to soften the last of the wind, or gathered bracken for bedding. Linden smelled amanibhavam and stew.

While she could, she went to help the Ramen clean and bandage the wounds of Cords who had nearly died saving her life, and Liand’s, and Anele’s.

The old man had reached the camp ahead of her, guided here by Ramen if he had not found the way on his own. Already he lay in one of the lean-tos, apparently sleeping, felled by exhaustion.

Linden aided the injured until she found the young woman who had been nearly disembowelled.

The woman lay on her back near one of the campfires; unconscious; pallid as wax. Several Cords squatted around her. Someone had placed a strip of leather between her jaws. She must have needed it earlier, to help her endure the jostling climb from the rift. Now her lips hung slack around it, baring her teeth.

Without her health-sense, Linden felt fundamentally truncated. She did not need percipience, however, to know that the woman’s condition had worsened. The Cords had lifted flaps of torn skin and muscle aside so that they could attempt to cleanse the wound; and through the pulsing ooze of blood, Linden saw that the claws of the kresh had ripped into the woman’s intestines and liver. In addition, a number of the fine ducts which connected the liver and the bowel had been severed: they leaked bile into the blood. That alone could cause the wound to mortify.

Linden needed a scalpel and sutures, clamps and sponges, IVs-and some very powerful antibiotics.

She had nothing.

With boiling water the Cords had made a salve of their amanibhavam. Surely they were right about its healing properties? But even so-She knew of nothing in the Land except hurtloam which might be potent enough to save this woman’s life.

Or wild magic, if she had known how to raise it-and if she could have wielded its fire with exactly the right delicacy and precision-and if she could have seen what she was doing-

Sighing to herself, she asked the nearest Cord, “Is there any hurtloam around here? Can you find it? Or do you have some other way to treat her? She’ll die if we don’t do something soon.”

At once, the Cord jumped to his feet and hastened away, apparently intending to consult with Manethrall Hami. The other Ramen stared at Linden, mutely asking for her help.

Grimly she set aside her exhaustion. “All right,” she murmured. “I need soft cloth. Something to soak up the blood and bile. And more boiling water. We’ll use your salve when we’ve cleaned her as much as we can.”

Two of the Cords withdrew promptly. One returned with several pale brown blankets which he tore into strips. The other brought an earthenware bowl full of steaming water.

Trusting her instincts, Linden took the first strip of cloth, showed it to the Cords. “Here’s what we’re going to do.” When she had dipped the cloth into the bowl just enough to moisten it, she lowered it softly into the puddled bile along the woman’s descending colon. By increments, the fabric absorbed splotches of red and yellow; stains of mortality. When it was sodden, she lifted it away; wrung it out over the grass; dipped it again into the bowl.

“Do it gently,” she instructed the Cords. “We want to clean out as much of this mess as we can. Especially the bile”- she pointed- “that yellow ooze.”

They nodded. Three of them joined her, setting moist cloths in the wound to sponge up small amounts of fluid, then squeezing out as much as they could and repeating the process.

The woman’s bleeding slowed as they worked: she had already lost too much blood. She needed a transfusion as badly as antibiotics. But Linden had no means to provide it.

She did not notice that an audience had gathered until Liand said her name in a way that made her lift her head. As far as she could tell, they were all there, Liand and Stave, Manethrall Hami, perhaps as many as thirty other Ramen: everyone except Anele. They studied what she did with uncertainty in their eyes; but none of them sought to interfere.

The intensity of their attention reminded Linden that she did not know the injured Cord’s name. She knew none of their names, except Hami’s.

Liand cleared his throat. “Linden,” he repeated. “The Ramen know a place where “hurtloam” may be found. The Manethrall has sent Cords. But it is five leagues distant, and the way is difficult. They cannot reach it and return before midday.”

He hesitated, then asked, “Will Sahah live so long?”

Hami may have nodded: Linden was not sure. She returned her blunted gaze to the Young Cord. Sahah, she thought. A young woman named Sahah with her guts ripped open: Younger than Liand, hardly more than sixteen. If she had not been in such pain, she would have looked like a girl.

Abruptly Linden’s hands began to shake, and a blur of weariness filled her gaze. “I don’t know. Probably not.” If she did, she would spend her last hours in agony. “Unless amanibhavam is some kind of wonder drug.”

Sahah.

But there was nothing more she could do: not without power. “That’s enough,” she told the Cords helping her. “Now your salve.” The Ramen had said that it was too potent for human flesh. “Give her as much as you think she can tolerate.”

Somehow she struggled to her feet. If Liand had not put his arm around her, she might not have been able to stand. “Close the wound,” she added. “Keep her warm. And give her water, if she can swallow it.”

Falling blood pressure might kill the Cord before sepsis and trauma took her.

“Linden Avery,” said the Manethrall firmly. “You are in sooth a healer. Yet you feel distress. Do you fear that you have failed Sahah? That she will perish because your care does not suffice?”

Linden nodded dumbly.

“It may be so,” Hami admitted. “I think not, however. Ringthane-” She faltered momentarily. “How may this be said? You have strange lore. I cannot know its extent.”

Linden might have murmured something; but the Manethrall was not done.

“There is a shroud of evil upon the Land. Mayhap you know this. It is one reason among several that we do not return to our ancient homes.

“It hampers discernment.”

Again Linden nodded. “Kevin’s Dirt.”

“You have felt its bale,” Hami explained. “We do not. For you, sight and touch and scent are constrained. You cannot see what is plain to us.”

Unsteadily Linden reached out to Harm; gripped the Manethrall’s shoulders for support. Blinking to clear her sight, she tried to understand Hami’s kindness.

“See-?”

The Ramen were like the Haruchai? Still able to see?

“Indeed,” the Manethrall answered. “You do not perceive that the pall of Sahah’s death has been diminished by your care. Nor do you discern the surpassing balm of amanibhavam. You cannot see that her end is no longer certain.”

Fatigue and relief clogged Linden’s throat. She could hardly find enough breath to ask, “How-?”

“Ringthane?”

Linden had spent barely a day and a half in the Land; and already too many People had died for her. But Sahah might live?

She tried again. “How can you see?”

Now Hami understood her. “It is no great wonder. Among these mountains we stand above the ill which you name Kevin’s Dirt. It does not hinder us because it does not touch us.” that she

Linden’s legs folded under her, but she hardly noticed it; hardly recognised that she would have fallen if Liand had not upheld her. Relief had taken the last of her resolve. She might yet recover from the effects of Kevin’s Dirt.

Somewhere she found the strength to say, “Thank you,” for more gifts than she could name.

Then she let herself sleep.

This time she did not dream. Perhaps she had moved beyond the reach of dreams.

Hungers woke her, several of them, the need for food among others. Her arms ached as though she had spent the night longing to embrace her son. She craved the necessary sustenance of comprehension. And an inchoate anticipation ran in her veins. She opened her eyes with the suddenness of surprise, like a woman who had been told that the world around her had been made new.

She found herself lying on bracken under the shelter of a lean-to in the first grey promise of dawn. The air was cold enough to sting her skin; but blankets and warmth enclosed her. Someone-Liand, probably-had put her to bed.

When she raised her head to look around, everything that she saw and felt had been transformed.

The dimness of dawn shrouded details; and yet she knew beyond question that the season was spring. The air itself told her: it whispered of thawing snows and new growth; of readiness inspired to germination. The bracken assured her that it had dried and fallen long ago, and would sprout again; and dew wet the hardy grass in profusion, already restoring the soil’s life.

The Ramen were up before her, moving about the camp in preparation for food and departure. The wide sky did not yet shed enough light to let her study their faces; but she needed no illumination to discern their essential fortitude, or to feel the clarity of their devotion. She could see beyond question that they were a people who kept faith: as unwavering in their service as Haruchai, and as unwilling to compromise.

Yet they were more human than Stave’s kind. They lacked the surpassing strength of Haruchai; did not live as long. And their fidelity took another form. They were not men and women who aspired to measure themselves against the perils of the wide Earth. They nurtured no ambitions which might seduce them. Instead they strove only to remain who they were, generation after generation, without doubt or hesitation.

Gazing at them from her warm bed, Linden felt both humbled and exultant. Do Something they don’t expect. Somehow she had found her way to people who would give her every conceivable aid-as long as what she asked did not interfere with their deeper commitments. What those commitments might be, she could not guess, and did not try. At this moment, she was content to know that she could trust the Ramen.

While she slept, she had regained her health-sense. Now life and Earthpower throbbed palpably beneath the surface of all she beheld. Even in the crepuscular air, her surroundings and her companions were lambent with implications. The sensations of percipience sang in her nerves like joy.

Pushing back her blankets, she arose into the chill to see how Sahah fared; and as she did so the mountains seemed to spring up around her as if they had been called into being by the dawn.

Beyond the escarpment that sheltered the camp, peaks reached into the heavens on all sides. These were the lower and more modest crests which buttressed the Land, rather than the higher bastions, hoary with age and rime, deeper in the Southron Range. Few of them still held ice and snow, and those only in patches which seldom felt the sun. Nonetheless they reared around the camp like guardians, massive and vertiginous: the true titans of the Earth. The air drifting down their rugged sides tasted like an elixir, sharp and pristine. With their bluff granite and their enduring hearts, they formed a place of safety in their midst.

Splashing her boots with dew, she strode toward the campfire where she had left Sahah; and even the heavy aching of her muscles could not blunt her anticipation. Torn fibres and strained ligaments merely hurt. They did not dim the restoration of her senses.

At once, Liand called her name, waved, and hastened to join her. Seeing him, she knew instantly that he had been awake for some time, too eager and young to sleep long in the company of Ramen. And she recognised that he, too, had felt the renewed touch of health-sense. He revelled in discernment as if he were exalted; drunk on the new depth and significance of everything around him. Excitement seemed to crow and preen in every line of his form.

“Linden,” he called joyously, “is it not wondrous?” Clearly he felt too many wonders to name them all.

Smiling at his pleasure, she continued toward the campfire.

She was still ten paces away when she began to feel Sahah’s wracked distress.

Manethrall Hami and two of her Cords squatted beside the woman; and Linden saw at a glance that they had been there all night: their vigil haunted their eyes. Hami’s matter-of-fact manner the previous day had conveyed the impression that she did not greatly value the lives of her Cords; that other considerations outweighed individual life and death. Now, however, Linden discerned the truth. The Ramen lived precarious lives, threatened at all times by privation, predators, and self-sacrifice: they sustained afford to bewail the cost of their convictions. Nevertheless the bonds which sustained them were strong and enduring.

One look told her that Sahah’s grasp on life had become tenuous, stretched as thin as a whisper. Fever glazed her eyes, and pain had cut lines like galls into her cheeks. Internal bleeding left her skin the colour of spilth, as if her flesh might slump from her bones at any moment.

The state of her abdomen cried out to Linden’s senses.

It could have been worse; far worse. Care and amanibhavam had accomplished this: Sabah still lived.

Antibiotics and transfusions might yet save her.

But the left side of her belly was swollen and seeping, crimson with sepsis. The internal ooze of bile had undone the effects of hot water and amanibhavam. Infection ate like acid at her fading endurance.

The Cords whom Hami had sent for hurtloam might return by midday; but Sahah would not last so long.

“Ringthane” The Manethrall’s voice was a rasp of weariness. “We have considered opening her wound to apply more amanibhavam.” She showed Linden a small bowl of the Ramen’s sovereign poultice. In water the pulped leaves emitted such potency that the scent stung Linden’s nostrils. “But I determined to await your counsel. Hampered in discernment, you have shown that you are capable of much. If you are now able to see, perhaps you are also able to tell us what we must do.”

Pride made what she wanted to say difficult for her. The previous day she had discounted Linden’s offer of help.

“Three Cords have fallen at my word. They are honoured among us, for they were valiant against the kresh. Yet they were Ramen, flesh and bone, and we are too few for the promises we have made. If you possess any lore or power which may retrieve Sahah from death-” For a moment, her eyes misted as though she might weep.

Linden turned away to spare Hami the sight of her own uncertainty. The Ramen knew that she had power. They had felt the presence of Covenant’s ring under her shirt.

She could read Sahah’s condition in frightening detail. Every rent tissue, every oozing duct, every mangled vessel was plain to her percipience; as vivid as a dissection. And everywhere within the Cord’s abdomen thronged the killing secretions of bile and pus. Sahah’s belly might have been the Great Swamp in miniature, its waters and growths and life made toxic by the leakage of Mount Thunder’s terrible banes.

Studying Sahah’s plight, Linden groaned to herself. She was a doctor, for God’s sake. She was supposed to know how to heal people.

She had done so in the past-

Long ago aboard Starfare’s Gem, she had once saved the life of a crushed Giant using only her health-sense. She had reached into him with her percipience, had possessed him, and caused his own nerves and muscles to pull closed some of his wounds, staunch some of his bleeding. In that way, she had kept him alive long enough for other aid to reach him.

But he had been a Giant, inconceivably strong by human standards. And she had his side immediately, before his condition could worsen. And his life had been sustained by the healing vitality of diamondraught. And there had been no danger of infection: no polluted fangs and claws; no spilled bile; no punishing climb up the rift.

Her health-sense alone would not suffice. Sahah could not be saved without power: without hurtloam or the Staff of Law.

Or wild magic.

Linden had already demonstrated to herself that she did not understand how to access white gold.

But even if she had been a master of argence, she might still have failed. Covenant’s ring was too puissant: its forces could more readily gouge out mountainsides than cleanse infections or seal internal wounds. And he had taught her that wild magic grew more rampant with use, not more delicate or subtle.

Yet the Manethrall and the Cords watched her as Liand did, as if she had led them to expect miracles.

Finally, because she did not know what else to do, Linden looked around the camp for Stave.

He stood apart from the Ramen as though he had been there all night, alone, and had no need for rest or friendship. He may have been waiting for her, however: as soon as she met his gaze, he came to join her.

The Haruchai had never been known as healers. They lived by their skills, or they died, and did not count the cost.

“Stave,” she said when he had acknowledged her with a nod. “Manethrall.” She could not have explained what she had in mind. For all she knew, she would be unable to make it work. For Sahah’s sake, however, she did not hesitate. “I want to try something.”

Mutely Hami proffered her bowl.

Linden shook her head. “Not that. She’s too weak. It’ll kill her. First we need to make her stronger.

“Do either of you know where the ur-viles went?”

The Manethrall shook her head; and Stave said, “They were ever secret creatures, more accustomed to caverns and warrens than to open sky. I cannot guess where they have hidden themselves, but I deem that you”- his tone implied, even you- “would be loathe to follow.”

Linden dismissed his point with a jerk of her head. “Can you summon asked Hami.

Again the woman shook her head.

“Then how were they brought to our aid?” Liand asked impulsively.

The Manethrall shrugged. “They come and go as they wish. I know not how your plight came to their notice. We do not speak their tongue.”

Linden stared at Ham”. For a moment, she heard a vibration that sounded like dishonesty in the Manethrall’s tone. Something in her response was meant to mislead-

Yet Linden saw immediately that Hami had told the literal truth: she did not know how to call the ur-viles. The Manethrall wished to conceal or avoid something; but it had no relevance to Sahah’s straits. Hami might well have sacrificed all her Cords in battle, but she would risk none of them for the sake of an untruth.

“Then I’ll have to do it.” Abruptly Linden started to walk away from her companions. “Keep everyone back. I’ve never done this before. I don’t know what’s going to happen.” Before anyone could question her, she headed out of the camp away from the escarpment.

She had no particular direction in mind: she only wanted a little distance. At her back, she heard Liand object to being left behind. The Manethrall’s command restrained him from following, however, if Stave’s did not.

Anxious and uncertain, Linden paced the wiry grass until she felt in the sensitive skin between her shoulder blades that she had reached a safe remove. There she stopped, facing away from the camp. Because she had no lore to guide her, and no experience, she sank to her knees. Perhaps that suppliant stance would convey what words could not.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she told the dawn and the mountain breeze. “I don’t know if you can hear me. Or if you care. But you’ve already helped us once.

“And once you saved the world.”

As she spoke, she slowly closed her eyes; turned her concentration inward. Without watching what she did, she pulled Covenant’s ring from under her shirt and folded it in her cupped palms as if she were praying. Somewhere hidden within her lay a door which could be opened on silver and conflagration. She knew that: otherwise she would already be dead. But it seemed to occupy a place in her heart and mind which she could only approach as if by misdirection. She had not yet learned how to find that door at will.

“You know who I am” She spoke softly. If the ur-viles could or would not hear her, no shout would reach them. “With this white gold ring and my own hand, I used Vain to make a new Staff of Law, as you intended.” Vain had been given to Covenant, but he had acknowledged and served her. “With your help, I went as far as I could go against the Despiser.”

Far enough to heal the ravages of the Sunbane. But only Covenant’s self-sacrifice had sufficed to contain Lord Foul’s malice.

“Now I’m back. This time I intend to do more.”

She thought of Jeremiah, alone and tormented. Of Anele’s terrors and bereavements. Of Lord Foul’s words in the old man’s mouth. Of a yellow shroud tainting the Land

She had heard Covenant say while she dreamed, Trust yourself

And within her a door which she could not find shifted on its hinges.

“I want your help again,” she continued, “if you’ll give it. Not against the Despiser this time,” although she sought that as well. “One of the Ramen is dying. She needs vitrim. You can save her.

“In Vain’s name I ask it, and my own. Hear me, please. Otherwise a young woman,” hardly more than a girl, “who fought with you against the kresh is going to die”

Reaching out as if blindly with the fingers of her volition, the hand of choice, she grasped for the handle and unfurled white flame into the new day.

It could have been a high sheet of fire or a small tendril: she neither knew nor cared. Only a moment of wild magic; scarcely more than a heartbeat. Then she opened her hands and let Covenant’s ring fall; left it dangling against her chest. Still with her eyes closed, she bowed her forehead to the grass.

If the ur-viles helped her now, they might do so again.

They might help her save Jeremiah.

She heard nothing except the mild curiosity of the breeze; felt nothing except the gravid silence of the mountains. Yet when she raised her head and opened her eyes, she saw an ur-vile standing before her on the grass with an iron cup in its hands.

In the burgeoning dawn, the aroma of vitrim- dusky, thick as silt-could not be mistaken.

Chapter Eleven: Hints

The Ramen broke camp when Linden and Liand had eaten a brief meal Then they set off along the escarpment, travelling generally eastward toward narrow gorge between two of the surrounding mountains.

Somo had arrived during the night, guided by Ramen. The mustang appeared hale and ready, undamaged by the difficulties of the rift. That visibly erased Liand’s doubts about the Ramen. Now he shared their company, and Linden’s, with a young man’s eagerness.

Sahah they left behind with a few of her companions to care for her. Under the sustaining influence of vitrim, the injured Cord had rallied. She could not be moved: her life still hung precariously from the strings of her native toughness. Nevertheless the infection in her belly and the fever in her eyes had receded. She sipped water as well as vitrim willingly. At intervals, her mind cleared enough to let her speak. Linden believed-and Manethrall Hami agreed-that Sahah would live until the Cords who had been sent for hurtloam returned.

As the company moved, one of the Cords retrieved Anele from the mountainside above the scarp. Linden had noticed the old man’s absence only after her concern for Sahah had eased. She had felt little alarm, however, although she needed Anele in ways which she could hardly name: the Manethrall had promised that the Ramen would not lose him. When Linden asked after him, Hami answered that he had roused early and wandered away, she could not say why: to avoid the Master’s presence, perhaps, or to commune with his demons alone. In any case, he rejoined Linden and the Ramen without any obvious reluctance. As he accompanied them toward the gorge, he mumbled to himself incomprehensibly, as if he were engaged in a debate that no one else could hear or understand.

He had been reclaimed by madness, and his blindness had the distracted cast of a man who wandered among ghosts and saw only death.

With her renewed senses, Linden might have tried to pierce his confusion. But she feared the prices they both might pay for such an intrusion. Any possession was a form of psychic violence which might damage the last shards of his sanity. And she herself would be in danger from his madness. When she had entered Covenant years ago to free him from the imposed stasis of the Elohim, his blankness had overcome her, and for a time she had been as lost as Jeremiah. Ceer had died protecting her because she had been so completely absent from herself.

For the present, at least, she was unwilling to take the risk. Her own emotional state was too frangible.

Her success with Covenant’s ring had given her a grim, febrile exhilaration. She had found the door to power within herself, and would be able to do so again. In addition, the restoration of her senses seemed to fill her with possibilities. To that extent, at least, she had regained her ability to make effective choices. To influence her own fate-and Jeremiah’s. She was no longer entirely dependent on the willingness of others to guide and aid her.

Unfortunately her more profound dilemmas remained unchanged. Beneath her sent joy lurked frustration and despair like a buried lake of magma, a potential volcano. Every step that she took in the company of the Ramen, like every tale that she heard-like wild magic itself-was necessary to her. Yet none of them brought her nearer to Jeremiah.

If her muscles had not stiffened to an acute soreness during the night, so that merely walking demanded most of her concentration, she might have been defenceless against the larger difficulties of her situation.

Off to one side of the vale where the Ramen had camped, snowmelt gathered to form a stream which ran along the floor of the gorge. There the company paused briefly to refill their waterskins. Then they entered the gorge itself.

The narrow defile squirmed between its crude walls, following an ancient seam in the substance of the peaks. At intervals, fallen boulders littered the way, constricting the stream to pools and small rapids. Stave, Anele, and the Ramen seemed oblivious to such obstacles, too sure-footed to be hindered. But Linden, Liand, and Somo had to pick their footing carefully.

By the time they reached the far end of the gorge, the sun had risen past the shoulders of the lowest mountains. In the new light, she saw crests piling southward until they grew dark with distance. In shadow their cloaks of ice looked grimy and tattered, eroded by time. Direct sunlight, however, gave the ice a purity that seemed almost blue. As if exalted by the sun, the peaks lifted their grandeur proudly into the sky.

There the route of the Ramen traversed an open mountain slope southeastwards. This easier surface allowed Linden’s muscles to grow accustomed to movement. In addition, the sun warmed some of the tension from her joints. Gradually the aching in her thighs and calves faded, and her knees began to feel less brittle.

Liand walked at her side, leading Somo after him; and his buoyant company also helped her along. He was new to percipience, delighted by it, and every unfamiliar vista among the peaks, every type of grass or shrub or tree which he had never seen before, every soaring bird, enhanced his excitement. For him, the world was being made fresh as he moved through it.

Linden still believed that he should have remained in Mithil Stonedown; should return home as soon as he could. Nevertheless she found that she relied upon him more with every passing hour. He helped her believe that a world which g to such people could never be entirely ruined by Despite.

Then the Ramen began to descend to the south, avoiding a gnarled bluff that jutted from the mountainside, and Linden was forced to concentrate on her steps again. Walking downward strained her knees and thighs until they threatened to fold under her. She had to grit her teeth as well as her determination in order to stay on her feet.

Whenever she glanced at Anele, she saw that his madness was modulating between its various phases, responding to necessities or catalysts which she could not begin to grasp.

Ahead of her, the slope dropped toward a place of torn and jagged boulders, great blocks and monoliths, where two of the lower mountains appeared to have collided with each other. Studying the granite chaos, she feared that the Ramen would ask her to clamber there. However, they reassured her by turning so that their path angled more toward the east. As they rounded the mountainside beyond the tumbled monoliths, she saw that they were headed toward an arete between massive cliffs, a ridge like a saddle. It had been formed by tremendous rockfalls which had echoed each other off the higher cliffs and crashed together in the intervening valley, filling all of the space between the mountainsides with rubble.

Linden groaned to herself. More rubble-She could not conceal her chagrin as she asked Manethrall Hami, “Is that where we’re going?”

The woman nodded. “The Verge of Wandering lies beyond. There we will attempt to answer the Bloodguard’s doubts-and our own.”

Temporising, Linden inquired, “Can Somo make it?” She was not sure that she could. “It looks rough from here.”

Hami concealed a smile. “We have learned a path among the stones. The mustang will not find it difficult.” Then she looked at Linden and said more gravely, “Your weariness is plain, Ringthane. Your mount will be able to bear you, if you wish it.”

Linden stiffened. “No, thanks,” she muttered. Her weakness the previous day had injured her self-confidence. “If Somo can manage it, I probably can too.”

The Ramen leader nodded. “I do not question it.”

“But tell me something,” Linden went on, “before I start breathing too hard to talk.” She had not forgotten the apparent disingenuousness of Hami’s earlier claim that her people had no communication with or comprehension of the ur-viles.

“If it will ease your way,” the Manethrall replied, “I will answer as I can.”

Her tone conveyed sincerity, although Linden also heard hints of hesitation. The Ramen had their own secrets, which they did not mean to reveal.

Troubled by her sense of unspoken intentions, Linden asked, “How did you know about the kresh?”

Hami gave her a perplexed frown. “Ringthane?”

“It all seems too tidy to me,” Linden explained awkwardly. “I don’t see how you could have known that I was in danger. But you came to my rescue anyway, right when I needed you.

“How did you do that?”

Ah” Hami nodded. “Now I comprehend. Our presence was indeed timely. It need not surprise you, however.

“It is our custom betimes to scout the borders of the Land, seeking some glimpse of what transpires there. Yesterday with my Cords I had elected to keep watch on the Mithil valley, for only there are these mountains readily entered-there, and from the Plains of Ra. Elsewhere the cliffs forbid passage.

“From the heights above the valley, we saw the kresh gather to hunt. We did not know what they hunted. We sought only to assail them when they dared the mountains. That you were their prey we did not discover until we had prepared our ambush.”

Her explanation sounded plausible. Linden would not have questioned it if she had not heard hints of avoidance in the Manethrall’s tone.

She stopped walking so that she would be able to stand her ground. When Hami halted as well, Linden said, “Yet somehow you picked yesterday to be right where I needed you. And so did the ur-viles.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” she added quickly. “I’m grateful. I trust you already. But I’m”- she shrugged uncomfortably- “suspicious of coincidences.”

Lord Foul had taught her that.

She could believe that the ur-viles had known of her presence in the Land, and of her need. Millennia ago, they had recognised that Covenant would return. But nothing about the Ramen suggested that they had such lore.

Cords gathered around her as she waited, but she ignored them; concentrated on Hami.

“You keep saying,” she went on when the Manethrall did not answer, “you don’t speak the ur-viles’ language. But that’s not the whole story, is it? You communicate with them somehow. You have some way of working together.”

“And the Demondim-spawn,” Stave put in harshly, “have ever served Corruption.” He had placed himself at Linden’s shoulder. “They opposed their ancient master in the time of the Sunbane. Yet plainly he did not destroy them, as he appeared to do. Perhaps he preserved them covertly across the centuries, in preparation, it may be, for the return of white gold to the Land.”

Now Linden took notice of the Cords, drawn by the tension emanating from them. When she studied them, she realised that they shared Hami’s secrets; that all of the Ramen knew the things which the Manethrall would not say.

Hami bristled at Stave’s words. Her fingers twitched to take hold of her garrote. Stave faced her impassively, however, unswayed by her indignation.

“Does it offend you, Manethrall, that the Haruchai are not gladdened by your turn to the borders of the Land? That we question your actions and your troth? The” reply to the Chosen’s query. Permit us to judge the nature of your purposes.”

No doubt he could discern the presence of secrets as clearly as Linden did.

Hami gauged him darkly: she seemed eager for combat. But then, distinctly, she closed the door on her ready pride.

“You speak of that which lies beyond you, sleepless one,” she answered like a sigh. “Two days I asked in which to take counsel and seek comprehension. This you accepted. Therefore there can be no contest between us. You are safe among the Ramen. We will permit no harm to you, or to your companions.

“Nor will we take offense. To provoke us is unseemly. Such impatience ill becomes you.”

Stave regarded Hami for a moment, apparently appraising her. Then he surprised Linden by bowing as he had in the rift.

“I hear you, Manethrall. I will be patient, as I have agreed. I have named the causes of my doubt. But know also that I am grieved to encounter the Ramen after so many generations, and to be denied knowledge of the Ranyhyn.

“You misjudge the Bloodguard. They did not ride Ranyhyn to their deaths, as you avow. Rather they accepted service which the Ranyhyn offered freely. No life or power in all the Land was honoured or loved more highly than that of the great horses.”

Again Hami did not return his bow. Instead she retorted, “The Bloodguard might have refused that service. The Ringthane did so. Yet he prevailed.”

Then she returned her attention to Linden’s question.

“As for the timeliness of our aid,” she answered like a shrug, “it is no great wonder. We were drawn to the region of the Mithil valley by the fall of Kevin’s Watch. I have said that we scout the borders of the Land. Such destruction could not escape our notice.”

Without another word, she turned away, leading her Cords on toward the base of the arete.

Linden wanted to stay where she was. The animosity between Stave and the Ramen disturbed her. Their every exchange was fraught with history; with memories and passions which she had not shared and could not evaluate. She did not know what to expect from them.

But the Ramen were moving, and so she followed them. She could not afford the severity which seemed to rule Stave and Hami.

At once, Liand came to her side, radiating confusion like heat. However, he waited until she acknowledged him with a glance before he murmured privately, “I do not understand. What troubles the Master? Can he not descry the worth of the Ramen?”

“Sure, he can,” Linden replied softly. “It isn’t their honesty he’s worried about. It’s their secrets.”

The Stonedownor looked surprised; but he did not contradict her. Perhaps he, too, had felt the undercurrents in Hami and her Cords. Instead he mused as if to himself, “l had not known that the Masters are capable of grief.”

Linden sighed, “Of course they are.” If they had not felt love or known loss, they would not have sworn the Vow which had bound them to the service of the Lords. They’re just too strict to admit it most of the time.”

Liand frowned. “Does that account for their denial of the Land’s history and wonder? Do they fear to grieve?”

Linden looked at him sharply. “Maybe.” She had not thought of Stave’s people in those terms. “I don’t know anything about Ranyhyn, but it’s obvious they were precious to the Haruchai. Stave is afraid something terrible has happened to them.”

The young man kept her company in silence for a while. Then he said slowly, “I do not believe so. I know nothing of these Ramen. Nor am I accustomed to the new life which fills my senses. Perhaps it misleads me. Yet-” He paused again, then said more strongly, “Yet I do not believe that any great harm has befallen the Ranyhyn. The Ramen would not countenance it. They would have died, all of them, to prevent it.”

Linden nodded. The Ramen had given her the same impression.

But surely Stave could see the Manethrall and her Cords as clearly as Liand did? As clearly as Linden herself? If so-

If so, his suspicions sprang from a deeper source.

Like him, she wanted to know why the Ramen would not speak of the great horses.

In silence, the company finished their descent to the foot of the rubble piled between the cliffs, the base of the arete.

By the time they reached it, the sun had risen near noon, and Linden could feel its force beginning to scorch her face and neck. She could not gauge how much elevation she had gained since leaving Mithil Stonedown; but the air was noticeably thinner, sharper, and the sun’s fire, masked by the cool atmosphere, had a deceptive intensity. Before long, every exposed inch of her skin would be burned.

She felt vaguely faint as she joined the Ramen below the arete, light-headed with too much exertion and sun. Fortunately Manethrall Hami called a halt so that the travellers could rest and refresh themselves before tackling the knurled litter of the ridge. No doubt she had done so primarily for Linden’s benefit. Nonetheless Linden was grateful,

Seen from its base, the arete looked unattainably high: an enormous wrack of boulders piled precariously toward the sky. Its sides appeared to lean outward, impending ominously over anyone foolish enough to attempt them. And some trick of perspective foreshortened the brusque cliffs on either side so that they seemed to emphasise rather than dwarf the ridge. Staring upward, Linden lost her balance and stumbled as though she had felt a tremor in the rubble, a hint of shattering like the unsteadiness which had presaged the fall of Kevin’s Watch.

The rock remembered its own breaking. If she could have heard granite speak, as Anele did, it might have shared with her the convulsion which had ripped it down from the cliffs.

She looked around for the old man. He would heed stone wherever he found it, she was sure of that. If he were in one of the more lucid phases of his madness, tell her what he gleaned.

However, she found him seated on a swath of grass sprinkled with wildflowers, gnawing on a strip of jerky which one of the Cords had given him, and muttering imprecations at anyone who went near. His aura reeked of Despite.

Even here, beyond the familiar borders of the Land, Lord Foul could still reach him.

Could still know where he was-and Linden with him.

She had become convinced that the Despiser had sent kresh after her because he had learned of her movements through Anele and sought to stop her. Therefore she assumed-prayed? – that her present course thwarted Lord Foul in some way. Yet as long as he retained his ability to inhabit Anele, however erratically, he could ambush her anywhere.

She told herself that she should approach the old man now; but the fears which had stopped her earlier restrained her still. She lacked the courage to take his madness into herself.

For a time, at least, she also might become accessible to the Despiser. And if Lord Foul could reach her, he would reach Covenant’s ring as well.

Trust yourself, Covenant had urged her in dreams. Linden, find me. But he was dead: she had seen him slain ten years and several millennia ago. She was no nearer to him now than she had been two days ago.

When the Manethrall called the company forward again, Linden complied with a groan.

Hami had told her the truth, however: the Ramen knew a way among the boulders that did not surpass her strength. Although the path wove and twisted upward, contorting itself back and forth across the slope, it offered stable footing and a gentle ascent. And it was wider than she had expected, in spite of the towering bulk and knuckled shapes of the stones. Somo navigated the path with little urging: she was able to climb it almost easily.

Still the ascent took some time. Linden had to stop more and more frequently to rest her quivering muscles. Under other circumstances, she might have accepted a ride on Somo’s back. But she was no horsewoman; and the pinto already looked heavily burdened by Liand’s supplies. And being carried would not make her stronger.

Lord Foul had Jeremiah. The Land needed her. And the fact that she was entirely unequal to such demands changed nothing. If she did not free her son, no one would.

The time had come for her to exceed herself.

This ridge was as good a place as any to start.

Somehow she made it. By the time she reached the saddle between the mountains, the sun had moved into the mid-afternoon sky, and her legs had gone numb with strain Sweat dripped from her cheeks, stained her shirt under her arms and down her back, At intervals, the pangs of cramps or blisters jabbed her feet. Yet she made it. And when she stood cooling in the breeze, at the crest of the piled stones, she could see what lay ahead of her.

Beyond the arete, a cluster of mountains leaned away from each other to unfurl a wide valley in their midst: a rich grassland, verdant as a meadow in springtime, fed by a network of delicate streams and small pools. In the afternoon light, the whole floor of the valley had a lush hue, an aspect of luxuriance, far deeper than the green sprouting of buds and grass around Mithil Stonedown; and the streams and pools seemed to catch the sun like liquid diamonds. It might have been a place out of time, sheltered from winter by the surrounding peaks: an instance of late spring or summer made possible by an abundance of water and sunshine amid the lingering cold of the mountains.

The eagerness of the Ramen assured Linden that there lay the Verge of Wandering. From this distance, however, she saw no signs of habitation. If the Ramen lived here, they concealed the evidence well. They may not have been a people who valued structures or permanence. Perhaps they preferred to roam, touching the Earth lightly wherever they paused.

They were waiting for a chance to return home. To the Plains of Ra, where they belonged.

Reflexively Linden looked around for Anele. At first, she was unable to locate him: he was not among the Ramen. Then she spotted him a short way off the path. He had clambered away from his companions in order to sprawl on a sheet of stone and wedge his face into the gap between two weathered chunks of granite.

Anele? Frowning in concern, she limped toward him.

He had not collapsed there; was not unconscious. Rather her health-sense detected a sharpened awareness, as if his nerves had been tuned to a higher pitch. His aura had taken on a hue of concentration, lucid and helpless. Automatically she assumed that he was listening to the stone; that he had jammed his face against it in order to hear its whispering.

When she reached his side, however, she saw that she was wrong. He was not listening: he was cowering. Fear boiled off him like steam. He had forced his head between those two stones as though they might stop his ears.

Earthpower throbbed in him like the labour of a stricken heart.

“Anele, what’s wrong?” She had asked him that too often. He needed more than her concerned incomprehension. “What do you hear?”

The stones he had chosen were comparatively smooth. Wind and water and time had worn away their roughness until they resembled the floor of his gaol in Mithil Stonedown; the surface of Kevin’s Watch.

“Be gone.” Rock muffled his voice. “Anele does not speak. He is Commanded. He obeys. Anele obeys.”

Commanded? By the stones? Linden resisted an impulse to grab at the fabric of his tunic; tug him out of his protective covert. Confusion and sunburn pulsed in her temples.

“Anele,” she repeated as calmly as she could, “what’s wrong? Talk to me.”

“Be gone,” he croaked again. “Anele demands. He begs. He is commanded. He must not speak.’

“Christ on a crutch,” Linden muttered at him. “You’re making me crazy.” She could not restrain herself: the ascent of the ridge had stretched more than her physical limitations. “I’m the best friend you’ve ever had. The Ramen want to help you. Liand wants to help you. Even Stave,” God damn it, “doesn’t want to see you in pain.

“Come out of there and talk to me.”

While she lacked the courage to challenge his plight, she had no one to blame but herself for her frustration.

“Do you not feel it?” protested the old man. “Are you not commanded? Anele must not speak.”

Liand, Stave, and the Ramen gathered behind Linden, drawn by Anele’s strangeness and her intensity. She paid them no heed.

“No,” she countered, “I don’t feel it. The only power here is yours.” In her spent state, she might have surrendered to any coercive force. “Make sense. Why in God’s name would the stones command you not to speak?”

So suddenly that she fell back in surprise, Anele jerked his head up, flung himself around to face her. The rush of returning blood stained his cheeks crimson, stark as stigmata. His white eyes glistened with fury.

“The stones do not command it, fool! This is the true rock of the Earth, too honest to be impugned. It only remembers, and holds fast.”

Then he sagged. He may have felt Linden’s shock, although he could not see it. With every word, his anger seemed to fray and drop away, leaving him defenceless.

“Do you not understand?” His voice shook. “It holds.”

“Then who?” she returned quickly, trying to catch him while he could still answer. “Who commands you?”

What secrets had the stones told him?

Urgently she searched him for hints of the Despiser’s presence-and found none.

“He does not wish it.” Now each word cost Anele more effort, greater distress. Compulsion seemed to accumulate against him. “He commands. If Anele did not obey, he would whisper what this rock”- he flapped his arms, apparently indicating the cliffs as well as the ridge- “cries out. He would tell of the Appointed Durance, the skurj, the Elohim.

“He would name Kastenessen-”

There Anele’s resistance crumbled. Whimpering, he leaped to his feet and fled over the rocks as though he were being whipped away from utterance.

Linden hung her head. Oh, Anele. Was there no end to his sufferings? He could not tell her the things she needed to know without being tormented in some way. Only his inherited Earthpower kept him alive: a cruel gift which enabled or coerced him to survive more anguish than any mortal heart should have been able to bear.

He commands-

Not Lord Foul: not this time. Some other being or power-

She was being stalked. A potent enemy hunted her steps; someone who wanted her to fail-Someone other than the Despiser.

After a moment, Manethrall Hami told one of her Cords, “Go. See that no harm comes to him.” At once, the Cord hastened away.

Liand cleared his throat. “Linden? Do you comprehend him? What are skurj? Who is Kastenessen?”

Cursing mutely, Linden forced herself to stand. Anele had spoken a name that she recognised.

Stave must have recognised it as well-

Instead of answering Liand’s questions, she sighed, “Give me time. I need to think.”

Anele had referred to skurj several times now, and to a Durance. Under the Mithil’s Plunge, he had wailed those names against the water’s thunder. They meant nothing to her.

Kastenessen, on the other hand-

“There is darkness nigh,” Stave announced abruptly, “potent and fatal. We have been warned of such perils. Perhaps it lives among the Ramen, concealing itself from their discernment.”

Dumb with bafflement, Linden stared at the Master. Liand’s eyebrows rose. Quick indignation flashed from Manethrall Hami to her Cords.

Stave ignored the Ramen. “We cannot oppose a being who remains hidden from our senses,” he told Linden, “and who is yet able to command the old man’s madness.” Holding her gaze, he added, “Who but the Elohim wield such power?”

Still she stared at him. She understood him too well. The Elohim were certainly capable of masking their presence from any form of percipience.

And beyond question the Masters had been forewarned. Years ago, according to

Liand, an Elohim had visited Mithil Stonedown. That strange, Earthpowerful being had spoken of terrible banes, which he had not explained.

Beware the halfhand.

But Hami was not swayed. She held herself on the balls of her feet, poised for combat. “You conceive that we harbour darkness,” she said through her teeth. “You credit that of us.”

Despite her stiff pride, an undercurrent in her tone hinted to Linden that Stagy’ might be right.

With an effort, Linden shook off her confusion. “We have to know,” she sighed to the Master. “You can see Anele as well as I can.” Better. “Lord Foul isn’t the only power that uses him. There’s so much he could tell us. We need to know who commanded him not to talk.”

Whoever it had been, that being lacked the Despiser’s ability to take full possession of the old man. An Elohim could certainly have done so. But this he had not entirely succeeded at coercing Anele. In some sense, he was a weaker foe.

Damn it, Anele was using too many indefinite pronouns. Behind the Plunge, he had cried, He has broken the Durance. Was that the same he who had just tried to silence the old man? Apparently not.

How many, enemies did she have?

She needed to know what the stone had told Anele. Somehow she had to confront his insanity. She had to find the courage somewhere-

Stave paid no heed to the Manethrall’s anger. Briefly he appeared to consider Linden’s statement. Then he nodded in agreement.

“The answer lies with the Ramen. We must discover it among them.” He paused again before saying, “There is no other way for us. The Masters must know of this new threat.”

The scar on his cheek underlined his hard gaze as he turned away, leaving Linden to Liand and the Ramen.

At the same time, Hami also turned away, concealing her secrets.

Leaning on Liand for support, Linden followed them to begin the long descent from the ridge. Her frustration had become a swollen blackness within her, a thunderhead fraught with lightning. She did not know how to contain the storm.

If she did not discover some clear answer to her questions soon, the cistern of her soul would crack open.

At the foot of the arete, with her boots on the marge of the sheltered vale’s rich grass, she released Liand in order to raise her eyes from the long path and look around.

The mountains seemed to have grown while she stumbled downward. From the perspective of the ridge, they had not appeared so tall; and the grassland cupped among them might have stretched for leagues. Now, however, they reared ponderously into the heavens, stern visages of granite gazing down with the august hauteur of titans. And the lower terrain of the valley looked smaller, reduced in scale by its place among the high massifs. The far mountainsides seemed almost attainable.

In contrast, the grass was even more lush and prodigal than it had appeared from the ridge’ Over the millennia, time and weather had filled the vale with fertility. Grass the colour of distilled emeralds grew to the height of Linden’s thighs, so thick that she wondered whether she would be able to forge through it.

Reassured by the sight of so much untrammelled vitality, Linden cast her health-sense wider; and when she did so, she spotted aliantha only a few dozen paces away.

With treasure-berries to sustain her, she might be able to walk as far as the Ramen wished, and need no help.

Hami had already sent several of her Cords ahead of the company to announce their coming; and the young Ramen seemed to flow away through the tall grass without disturbing it or forcing passage. They were attuned to it beyond hindrance. The rest of the group had gathered around Linden, apparently waiting for her to recover her strength.

But Stave remained apart, isolated by the strict intentions of the Masters. And Anele had moved out into the grass, presumably to put a little distance between himself and the Haruchai. One of the Cords had led Somo down the arete in Liand’s place so that the Stonedownor could concentrate on Linden.

Weakly she headed through the grass toward the aliantha.

She could not pass as the Ramen did, like a breeze among the blades and tassels. Grass caught at her boots and shins, tearing when she pushed her legs through it. Streaks of green sap stained her pants below the knees. She might have felt mired in the grass, hampered, opposed, if its simple abundance had not soothed her senses.

Like the grass, the aliantha flourished in the valley’s soil. The shrubs spread their twisted branches widely, and they were heavy with fruit. Plucking clusters of viridian berries hungrily, she fed as if she were feasting until their juice had washed the ache of defeat from her throat, and her exhausted muscles began to relax in relief.

When she was done, she felt lightened, fundamentally restored, as though she had partaken of a Eucharist. The gifts of the Land touched her to the marrow of her bones.

Liand and the Ramen had followed Linden to the aliantha. They each ate two or three berries, casting the seeds aside by ancient custom; but their need was not as great as hers, and they did not consume more.

Thoughtfully, as if to herself, the Manethrall observed, “No servant of Fangthane craves or will consume aliantha. The virtue of the berries is too potent.”

As though he had been challenged, Stave stepped forward, claimed one of the berries, and chewed it stolidly.

Around her, Linden felt a subtle shift in the emanations of the Ramen. Perhaps she and her companions had passed a test of some sort.

She wanted to pass another. Atop the ridge, she had asked Liand and the Ramen to be patient while she considered Anele’s outburst. Now she felt that she owed explanation.

It would be easier to talk while she rested.

“Kastenessen,” she said when she felt able to speak at last. “That name I’ve Heard Before. He was one of the Appointed.” Findail had described them, seeking to explain himself to the Search for the One Tree. “An Elohim.”

The memory filled her with foreboding. And her tension was reflected in Liand’s eyes. He moved closer as though he feared to miss a word.

“I don’t know what to tell you about the Elohim. They aren’t mortal. I guess you could call them incarnate Earthpower. They give the impression that they can do anything, and they do what they do for reasons of their own, no matter what anyone else thinks or wants” Findail himself had often behaved like an enemy, encouraging Linden and Covenant to fail. “They live far away, on the other side of the Sunbirth Sea. Most of the time, it seems, they ignore the Land.

“But sometimes they see a danger and decide to do something about it, I don’t know why.”

Liand had heard Anele speak of the One Forest and the Elohim.

“When they do, they pick one of their people, they Appoint him or her, to answer the danger. To be the answer.”

Findail had said that the Appointed passed out of name and choice and time for the sake of the frangible Earth. He had sung:

Let those who sail the Sea bow down:

Let those who walk bow low:

For there is neither peace nor dream

Where the Appointed go.

Manethrall Hami and her Cords regarded Linden gravely, waiting for her to go on. The quality of their attention seemed to hint that they were not ignorant of the Elohim. Liand listened avidly, hungry for understanding. But Stave gazed away as if he disapproved of the Elohim and all their deeds.

For the time being, at least, Anele had disappeared into the grass, perhaps seeking to avoid reminders of coercion.

“Kastenessen was Appointed a long time ago,” Linden explained as the implications of her memories crowded around her. “Dozens of millennia, for all I know,” if the years had any meaning to the Elohim. “Apparently something deadly happened in the north” the farthest north of the world, where winter has its roots of ice and cold. “Some kind of catastrophe. A fire that might have split open the Earth.

“Kastenessen was Appointed to stop it.” Set as a keystone for the threatened foundation of the north.

Thus was the fire capped, and the Earth preserved, and Kastenessen lost.

“But he didn’t go willingly. He’d broken one of the commandments of the Elohim, violated their Wurd or Weird, “by falling in love with a mortal woman. His people chose him, Appointed him, to punish the wrong he did her.”

He had brought harm to a woman who could not have harmed him, and he had called it love.

“He refused to go. He didn’t want to give her up. For her sake, he rejected his people and their Wurd.” Their destiny-or the Earth’s. “When the Elohim demanded submission, he fought back. Finally they had to force him into place. So that the world wouldn’t end in fire.”

Was that what “Durance” meant? Did it refer to the power that had contained Kastenessen? And had he found some way to free himself? If so, a fire would be set loose fatal enough to rive the shell of the world.

During her translation to the Land, Linden had seen fiery beasts suppurate from the ground in order to devour all that lived.

She sighed, then spread her hands. “That’s as much as I know about Kastenessen.”

The Ramen plainly wanted to question her further; but it was Liand who admitted, “I still do not understand. Did this Kastenessen not pass away?” Certainly that was the fate of the Elohim who had become the Colossus of the Fall. “How then does he command Anele not to speak of him?”

Linden shrugged, trying to do so without bitterness. “I don’t think that was Kastenessen. The Elohim wouldn’t command him to be quiet. They would just shut him up.”

Behind the Mithil’s Plunge, no force had demanded silence from the old man. Yet here, so close to the Verge of Wandering

“I can’t explain it,” she added after a moment’s hesitation. “All I know is that we have enemies we haven’t even met yet.”

“Yet your knowledge surpasses ours,” the Manethrall announced quietly. “The Ramen remember much, but we have no tales of these matters.” Once again, her tone Implied that she could have said more. “It becomes ever more imperative that we take counsel together. We must banish misapprehension between us.

“Ringthane”- she faced Linden squarely- “our encampment is but two leagues distant. Are you able now to walk so far? Does your heart hold other troubles to delay you?”

Two leagues, Linden thought. Six miles? On even ground, with aliantha in her veins-She attempted a smile; failed. “I think I can make it. I need all the counsel I can get.” of time but

She had enough other troubles in her heart to delay her until the end she did not mean to let them hold her back.

Fortunately several of the Cords travelled ahead of her, and she found that if she followed in their steps the grass did not hinder her. Somo could have borne her easily now-Liand offered her that-but she preferred to keep her burdens to herself.

She needed time to think; to prepare for what lay ahead.

At first, the distance passed easily. Aliantha sustained her, and the vernal grassland itself seemed to lift her from stride to stride. Every instance of health and Earthpower nourished her in some way. For a time, she watched the mood of the mountains modulate as the westering sun shifted shadows across them. When she encountered the occasional bursts of amanibhavam, she studied their dancing yellow flowers and their sharp scent, trying to understand their potency.

By degrees, however, she lapsed to numbness again. Step after step, her walking became a kind of ambulant doze. Guided by the Ramen, she made her slow way toward the centre of the Verge of Wandering, and did not notice how far she had come.

Yet around her more and more Ramen appeared out of the grass, answering the summons of Hami’s Cords. From the crest of the arete, Linden might have believed the vale empty, but it was not. When she finally shook herself out of her somnolence, she found that perhaps three score Ramen had joined her companions. Most of them were Cords, garrotes at their waists, hair flying loose; but three or four wore their hair as Hami did, tied back by their garrotes, and around their necks were garlands of amanibhavam.

And still more of them merged with the company as Linden took note of them. Soon they became a throng among the grass. Yet somehow they sifted through it rather than trampling it down. In spite of their numbers, she could hardly tell where they had been.

She had not expected to find so many of them thriving here: five or six score now, with more continuing to arrive. Before long, however, she noticed that they had no children among them-and no old men or women. Two or three of the Manethralls had grey in their hair, and their scars had acquired the pallor of years. A certain number of the Cords appeared older than those who followed Hami. But no children? No grandmothers or grandfathers?

Either the Ramen were dying as a people, or they had left all those who could not fight elsewhere.

Or both.

What had happened to them during their centuries of exile from the Land?

Linden might have questioned Hami then, although the Manethrall had made it plain that she did not wish to speak prematurely. But as Linden’s concern grew, she caught her first glimpse of their destination.

It appeared to be a dwelling of some kind, a tall, open-sided construct planted in the grass. Bare poles at the corners, and at intervals along the sides, supported a latticed ceiling of smaller wooden shafts like latias; and sod had been placed over the lattice to form a roof of deep grass. Within this shelter lay mounds of grass and bracken, and a scattering of bundles like bedrolls; and at its centre a space had been cleared for a ring of hearthstones and a cooking fire.

Two Cords tended the fire, apparently preparing a meal, while others came forward with their Manethrall to join the Ramen around Linden.

And beyond this dwelling stood others, she could not see how many, all with open sides and sod roofs. Now she knew why she had not been able to spot any structures from the vantage of the ridge: their design camouflaged them.

Yet the vale was treeless. The Ramen must have dragged their poles and latias from somewhere beyond the surrounding mountains. Presumably, then, the camp was not a temporary one, but rather a habitation either permanently or regularly occupied.

Still Linden saw no children; no aged Ramen.

Moving between the shelters, Hami and the Ramen escorted Linden, Liand, Stave, and Anele into a broad open circle where the grass had been worn to stubble and dirt by the passage of many feet. This clearing might have been visible from the ridge: it was certainly wide enough to stand out from the surrounding grass. The height of the shelters around it must have concealed it.

At the edge of the circle, Cords led Somo aside, promising to tend the pinto well; and Linden and her companions were invited into the centre of the clearing.

“This, Ringthane,” Hami announced quietly, “is the Ramen place of gathering. Here we will share food so that you may rest and regain your strength. In this way, we hope to encourage ease between us. Then we will take counsel after the fashion of the Ramen. We will speak of ourselves, and you will tell us your tales, that there may be friendship between us.”

Linden began to acquiesce automatically; but the Manethrall forestalled her. The crowd around her had shifted. All of the Cords had withdrawn to the rim of the clearing taking Anele with them. Only Manethralls surrounded Linden and her companions

“But above all there must be understanding,” Hami said more sternly, as if she spoke for all her people. “You will also be challenged. Thus we will distinguish honour from treachery.”

Oh, God. An involuntary wince twisted Linden’s mouth.

Liand turned to her in alarm: obviously he had not expected this of the Ramen.

Stave opened his mouth to protest; but Hami stopped him with a harsh gesture. Still addressing Linden, she said, “We desire friendship with you, Ringthane. You have been hunted by kresh, and have eaten aliantha. Of your own spirit and lore, you have brought Cord Sahah back from death when we could not. Also you bear that which commands respect, a ring of white fire such as Thomas Covenant wielded against the Render. If friendship is ours to give, we will offer it gladly.”

Linden did not react. Challenged? Treachery? Had she been stalked to this? Exposed to it by Anele’s compelled silence?

Who here had tried to prevent Anele from speaking?

“To Liand of Mithil Stonedown as well,” the Manethrall continued, “we mean no harm. We see that he is honest, though he has little skill. It would please us to welcome him without mistrust.”

Liand watched Hami anxiously, his eyes full of conflicted reactions.

The Manethralls glanced at him as Hami said his name, then returned their attention to Linden. They studied her in silence, sombrely, as if they were prepared to pass judgment.

Finally Hami indicated the Haruchai with a nod.

“In your name, Ringthane, we would welcome Stave of the Bloodguard also. Our grievance against his kind is ancient and enduring. Yet the Bloodguard were long Fangthane’s foes, until they were twisted from fealty. For that reason, we do not wish to spurn him, though the sleepless ones have become Masters now, diminishing the people of the Land.”

Stave faced the Manethralls without expression. Linden could not read his emotions, but his aura felt as blunt and uncompromising as knuckles.

Still she did not speak. For no clear reason, she found herself wondering if any ur-viles occupied the valley. Had those dark creatures played some role in the attitude of the Ramen? What was the connection between them? – the connection that Hami sought to conceal.

The woman met Linden’s apprehension steadily.

“Yet I must say plainly that if you do not answer our challenges, all of the Ramen will stand against you.” Her voice carried the sound of implied nickering. “If you attempt no harm, you will be offered none. We will care for you as kindly as we may. But you will not be permitted to depart from us. Whether you wish it or no, we will retain you with us, that there may be no hazard of betrayal to the Land.”

There the Manethrall paused, apparently awaiting a response.

Stave allowed himself a disdainful snort. “You are false with us, Manethrall. When You persuaded us to this place, you said nothing of challenges.”

“Master,” retorted Hami, “the past of the Bloodguard flows in your veins. How did you imagine that we would take counsel together, except by challenge?”

Unexpectedly the Haruchai nodded. He seemed to accept her answer. He may have understood it.

“Linden?” Liand asked, nearly whispering. “Do you know of this? They cannot mean to measure us in combat? I may strike a blow as well as any Stonedownor, but I have no skill to match theirs. In this they have described me truly.”

Linden shook her head, trying to face too many questions at once. But Manethrall Hami did not give her a chance to reply.

“Ringthane,” she pronounced formally, “Linden Avery the Chosen, do you consent to all that I have said?”

Linden felt that she had no choice; that she had done nothing to determine her own course, or to help Jeremiah, since she had appeared on Kevin’s Watch. But the concern of all the Manethralls, and their essential goodwill, were clear to her; plain and palpable. She had no idea why they chose to behave as they did. Nevertheless she had nothing to fear from them, no matter how much they might seem to threaten her.

“Manethrall,” she answered with a formality of her own, “I do. I don’t know what you’re worried about. I hope you’ll explain it. But I respect your caution. I’ll consent to whatever you want.”

Then she added, “You’ve already accepted Anele. And I think Liand will agree with me.” She did not wait for his nod: she trusted him to follow her example. “As for Stave-” She shrugged. “I get the impression that he knows more about what’s going on here than I do. He’ll probably welcome a challenge.”

In fact, however, the Haruchai appeared to have lost interest in the situation. He stood with his arms relaxed at his sides and his gaze fixed on the mountains as if he had decided to await the arrival of someone or something more worthy of his attention.

Then Hami bowed in the Ramen fashion. When Linden did the same, the gathered Manethralls relaxed somewhat.

At a word from Hami, the Manethralls turned toward the crowded ring of Cords; and at once the ring broke apart as the Cords hurried purposefully away. In moments, some of them returned carrying wooden blocks, apparently intended as seats, which they arranged in smaller circles within the clearing. Linden soon realised that they were preparing for a communal meal.

In the frugal lives of the Ramen, the occasion may have been considered a feast.

She did not need a feast: she needed rest. Liand wanted to talk to her, she could see that. No doubt he hoped that she might relieve some of his confusion. And Stave might have been willing to explain his unexpected air of indifference. But she bad had enough of them for the moment.

Ignoring her companions as well as the activity of the Cords, she sat down on one of the wooden blocks, propped her elbows on her knees, and dropped her face into her hands.

She needed to think. God, she needed-

Lord Foul had guided her to hurtloam-and then had sent kresh to hunt her down. He disavowed responsibility for both Kevin’s Dirt and the Falls.

An Elohim had passed through Mithil Stonedown, warning Liand’s people against the halfhand even though Thomas Covenant was long dead, and Jeremiah threatened no one.

Anele spoke repeatedly of skurj and the Durance. Some being who might or might not have been Kastenessen had commanded him not to reveal what he had learned from the stones of the arete. Kastenessen himself should have passed out of name and choice and time tens of thousands of years ago.

The Ramen planned challenges for Linden and her companions. They had apparently lost or abandoned the Ranyhyn somewhere, although they had once been the inseparable servants of the great horses. Occasionally Hami had hinted at other secrets.

Somehow the ur-viles had avoided Lord Foul’s attempts to destroy them. Linden believed that they had enabled her escape from Mithil Stonedown.

The Despiser held Jeremiah. The Staff of Law had been lost.

Anele claimed to be the son of Sunder and Hollian, who had died three and a half millennia ago.

And somewhere Roger Covenant and his mind-crippled mother walked the Land, seeking ruin as avidly as Lord Foul himself.

It was too much; too much. Linden could not absorb it all, or find her way through it. Because she understood nothing, she could do nothing. Covenant was dead: her dreams, illusions. Anele spoke only when his madness permitted it; and then his revelations gave her no guidance. And Stave, she suspected, knew little more than she did. Denying the Land’s past, the Masters also denied themselves.

Liand may have been right about them. Perhaps they feared to grieve.

She did not need a feast, or more stories. She had no use for unspecified challenges. Hell, she hardly needed life. She already had a bullet hole in her shirt.

She needed help.

When at last she lifted her head from her hands, she saw Anele standing on the grass beyond the edge of the clearing. A kind of fever shone from his blind face, and his whole body seemed to concentrate toward her.

He was beckoning as though he had heard her prayers and wished to answer them.

Briefly Linden considered ignoring him. Surely he would only confuse her further? Even from this distance, however, she could see that his madness had entered a new Phase, one unfamiliar to her. He was in the grip of an intention so acute that it made him frantic.

Dusk had entered the vale while she counted her dilemmas. Behind the mountains, the sun declined from the Land, and their shadows filled the air with omens. Cold drifted furtively down from the heights. Soon the Ramen would be ready to share their meal, and the challenges would begin.

Sighing, Linden forced her stiff body upright and walked across the open ground to meet Anele among the grass.

As soon as she drew near, he reached for her with both hands; took hold of her shoulders and pulled her closer as if he meant to fling his arms around her. “Linden,” he breathed in a voice suffused with weeping. “Oh, Linden. I’m so glad to see you.”

A voice she knew.

Tears streamed from his moonstone eyes, shocking her as sharply as the sound of that voice in his mouth. She had seen him weep often; but this was different. Until this moment, she had never seen him shed tears of sympathy.

Sympathy and pleasure.

“I didn’t think I would ever see you again.” He spoke quickly, almost babbling, as if he had too much to say, and too little time. “I wouldn’t have believed it. But it fits. It’s right. You’re the only one who can do this.”

Thomas Covenant’s voice.

She knew it as well as she knew her own, and loved it more. Through his madness, Anele spoke Covenant’s words to her in Covenant’s voice.

Her lungs heaved for air and found none. Covenant, she panted, nearly fainting. Oh, my love. The sound of him struck the whole vale to stillness. In an instant, the Ramen and all their doings had ceased to exist; lapsed to dreaming. Stave and Liand occupied the clearing in some other world, a dimension of reality which no longer impinged on hers. Her beloved did not speak to them.

Anele embraced her, a hard clasp with all the strength of Covenant’s heart. Then he held her at arm’s length so that he could gaze at her blindly. His eyes were awash in yearning.

“Linden,” he said, “listen to me,” still hurrying. “I don’t have time. There’s so little I can tell you.”

Covenant was dead, here and in the world they had once shared. She had spent ten years grieving for him. But this was the Land, and the Laws governing Life and Death had been broken.

She faced him mutely through her own tears, helpless to find words for her sorrow and rue. If she had opened her mouth, she would have sobbed like a child.

“The Law binds me in so many ways.” Anele was Covenant’s surrogate, voice. “If it didn’t, it wouldn’t be worth fighting for.

“And he opposes me. Here, like this, he’s stronger than I am. Poor Anele can’t hold me. I’m already fading.”

As he said so, she saw that it was true. The old man remained palpable before her. His fingers gripped her shoulders urgently: in some other life, they might have hurt her. But within him another form of lunacy struggled against Covenant’s presence. In spite of Covenant’s desire, and Anele’s rapt submission, a rabid force gathered loathing to expel her love.

He opposes me. The same he who had commanded Anele not to speak earlier? Or some other foe?

Anele’s madness now did not resemble his near-sanity on the ridge.

“You’re in trouble here.” Already her beloved’s voice sounded like tatters, scraps of presence. “Serious trouble.” She was losing him again. “You need the ring. But be careful with it.” His death had nearly undone her. “It feeds the caesures.”

Covenant!

She could not bear to lose him a second time.

“Linden,” he urged at the limit of himself, “find me. I can’t help you unless you find me”

The next instant, Anele shoved her aside with such vehemence that she nearly fell. Before she could grasp at him, cry Covenant’s name, try to pierce Anele’s turmoil with her health-sense, the old man rushed past her onto the bare dirt and stubble of the clearing.

She pursued him at a run. She was too late: she saw that clearly, although his face was turned away. The transformation of his aura could not be mistaken. Nevertheless she raced to catch up with him; hold him.

He opposes me. The being who now possessed Anele had made a mistake. He had manifested himself within her reach.

She had forgotten fear, caution, peril. She intended to know her enemy, this one if no other. If she could, she meant to wrest his presence from Anele’s tortured soul.

Anele halted a few strides into the clearing. She caught up with him almost at once. Without hesitation, she grabbed at his shoulder so that he would turn to face her; so that she could see his possessor in his blinded eyes.

Even through his filthy raiment, that touch scorched her fingers.

Cries of surprise and warning went up from the Cords. Manethralls snatched for their garrotes. Instinctively Linden flinched back. Anele’s old flesh had become fire; reified flame. Without transition, he roared with heat like scoria. His skin should have been charred from his bones by the burning ferocity of the being within him.

Earthpower wrapped the old man like a cocoon, however, and his fiery possessor could not harm him.

Wildly Linden clutched at Covenant’s ring as Anele’s head swung in her direction. But then she froze shocked helpless by his appearance.

Anele took a single, predatory step toward her. His jaws stretched open, impossibly wide: his few teeth strained at the air: his throat glowed like a glimpse into a furnace.

From the pit of his power, he exhaled straight into Linden’s face.

His breath struck her like a blast off a lake of magma; like the fume of a volcano. Instantly her eyebrows and lashes were burned away. The hair around her face crisped and stank, and her sunburn became agony. Around the clearing, the air itself ignited in flames and dazzles.

She had already begun to fall when Stave leaped to the old man’s side and struck him down.

Anele’s heat vanished so suddenly that she feared Stave had broken his neck.

Chapter Twelve: The Verge of Wandering

For a while, Linden went a little insane herself, demented by an excess of confusion and pain. There were no words in all the world to contain her dismay. At a command from Manethrall Hami, several Cords shouldered Stave away from Anele’s outstretched form. The Manethrall examined Anele swiftly, confirmed that he was no longer filled with fire, then assured Linden that he was merely unconscious, not slain. Cords lifted him from the dirt and bore him away. But Linden regarded none of it. She hardly understood it.

From beyond death, Covenant had tried to reach her. His spirit still endured somewhere within the spanning possibilities of the Arch of Time. Under other circumstances, her heart might have been lifted by the knowledge that he sought to communicate with her; that he strove to answer her prayers-

But he had been so viciously thrust aside. Some flagrant power had dismissed him as though he had no significance. He seemed to be at the mercy of some malignant being. Like her son in Lord Foul’s hands-

Her gaze streamed with grief. She could not shut it out. Even when she closed her eyes, her heart blurred and ran. She could not bear it that her lost love had tried to help her, and had been silenced.

Find me.

Liand knelt at her side: he spoke to her softly, trying to ease her in some way. Stave stood nearby, unrepentant. No doubt he believed that he had saved her and the Ramen from a futile grave. Perhaps he had. Linden neither knew nor cared.

It fits. Its right. You’re the only one who can do this.

Covenant’s assurance could not comfort her now: not after what had happened to Anele.

But then one of the Cords handed Liand a small clay bowl. When he began to stroke the poultice of the Ramen lightly onto her scorched features, the whetted aroma of amanibhavam stung her nostrils. In Covenant’s name, she allowed herself one harsh sob as if she were gasping for air; for life. Then she struggled to sit up.

Her beloved had told her in dreams, You need the Staff of Law. That she understood.

She was sick to death of helplessness.

Liand supported her; propped her so that she could lean against him while she gathered herself. “Do not be in haste,” he advised, whispering. “You are burned and utterly weary. I see no deep hurt in you, but I am no healer and may be mistaken.”

Softly he murmured, “Surely now the Ramen will forego their challenges. They must grasp that you can bear no more.”

The Stonedownor had first met Linden less than two days ago. Clearly he did not yet know her very well.

She swallowed to clear her throat; pushed away the poultice in his hand. Once again, she was struck by the blackness of his eyebrows. Frowning, they shrouded his eyes with foreboding; omens of loss.

Through her teeth, she breathed, “Help me up. I can’t do this without you.”

You’re in trouble here.

The young man braced her to her feet easily: he felt as sturdy and reliable as stone. When she tried to stand on her own, she wavered for a moment, undermined by the heat like guilt on her burned face. But Liand upheld her; and she did not hesitate. As soon as she found her balance, she said, “Take me to Anele.”

Manethrall Hami had come toward her as she rose: the woman tried to intervene. But Linden insisted, “Now, Liand. Before it’s too late.”

Before all trace of the being who had possessed Anele vanished.

Before she remembered to be afraid.

At once, Hami stepped back. She gave instructions to one of the nearby Cords, a young woman with flowing hair the same hue as Liand’s eyebrows. The Cord moved like her hair as she led him and Linden out of the clearing.

Linden clung to him. She was not done with him; not at all.

The Cord walked quickly past two or three shelters, then entered one near the edge of the encampment. Following her, Linden and Liand found Anele sprawled on a bed of piled grass and bracken.

Linden saw at once that Hami had described the old man accurately: he was unconscious, stunned, not broken. Yet his breathing had an obstructed sound, fraught with pain. His eyes were closed; mercifully, so that their blindness did not accuse her of failing him. His neck and the side of his head ached in response to Stave’s blow. But the Haruchai had measured out his strength precisely. He had cracked no bones, done no lasting harm. Anele would heal cleanly.

Because of the Earthpower in him, his hurts would probably heal more swiftly than Linden’s sore muscles and burned skin.

But she was not concerned with his bodily recovery. Other exigencies drove her. And still she did not hesitate. If she paused for thought or doubt, she would remember that what she meant to do was perilous. It might destroy her.

“Here.” Hurrying now, she released Liand and lifted the chain from around her neck; thrust the chain and Covenant’s ring into Liand’s hands. “Take this. Hold it for me.” Without its weight, her neck felt instantly naked, exposed to attack. “Guard it.”

He stared at her in shock. His hands cupped the chain and the ring as though he feared to close his fingers.

“If anything happens to me,” she ordered, “anything at all-anything that scares you-get the hell out of here. Do not try to help me. Take that,” the ring, “and run. Don’t come back until one of the Ramen tells you I’m all right.”

Otherwise-

He could not have known the reason for her command. Nevertheless he nodded dumbly, unable to speak.

Trusting the Stonedownor, she spared no consideration for what might happen if any of the powers that wracked Anele succeeded at entering her. Instead she dropped immediately to her knees beside the old man’s bed, pressed her palms to the sides of his head, and plunged her percipience into him as if she were falling.

At that moment, her attempt to possess him seemed a lesser evil than abandoning him to more torment.

Later she climbed unsteadily to her feet and reclaimed Covenant’s ring from Liand’s anxious hands.

She understood her failure well enough. And God knew that she should have expected it. She simply did not know how many more defeats she could bear.

“Linden?” Liand murmured, still fearful that she had been harmed, although he must have been able to see that she had not. “Linden-” His voice trailed away.

Weak with regret, she answered, “He’s protecting himself.” Of course. I can’t reach him.” How else had he survived his vulnerability for so long? “There’s a wall of Earthpower in his mind.” It was wrapped like cerements around the core of his identity. “I can see how badly he’s been hurt. But I can’t get in to where the damage is.”

The flaw in his defences which permitted him to be possessed was sealed away; beyond her reach. She knew now that she would never be able to help him without power. She needed some force potent enough to cut through the barriers which he had erected.

Covenant’s ring would do it. Anele’s inborn Earthpower preserved him, but it could not withstand wild magic. Even at its most delicate, however, that fire was too blunt and fierce to be used on anyone’s mind. She might blast every particle of his psyche long before she discovered how to make him whole.

Her beloved was right. Even if she had imagined him in dreams. She needed the Staff of Law. Without it, there was nothing she could do for Anele.

“I grieve for him,” Liand offered helplessly. “He has been made a plaything for powers which surpass him. It is wrong, Linden.” Then the young man’s tone sharpened. “It is evil. More so than kresh. As evil as Falls and Kevin’s Dirt.”

Linden nodded. If she spoke, she would not be able to contain her bitterness.

She had forgotten the presence of the woman who had guided her to Anele until the Cord touched Liand’s arm, asking for his attention. When he glanced at her, the young woman-like Sahah, she was hardly more than a girl-said bashfully, “If the Ringthane is willing, and Anele requires no other care, the gathering of the Ramen awaits her. Her need for sustenance is plain.”

Liand snorted. Taking a step forward as if to defend Linden, he demanded, “And do the Ramen intend still to affront the Ringthane with challenges which they do not name?”

In response, the Cord lifted her chin, and her Ramen pride flared in her eyes. “You are discourteous, Stonedownor. I do not doubt that the Ringthane is equal to any challenge.”

Tiredly Linden interposed herself between them. “Please tell Manethrall Hami that we’ll be there in a few minutes.”

To her own ears, her voice sounded too thin to be heeded; too badly beaten. However, the Cord quickly ducked her head, gave a deep Ramen bow, and hastened away, as graceful as water.

Sighing, Linden turned to meet Liand’s protests.

“Linden-” he began. “I fear you are unwise. You cannot behold yourself as I do. The weariness in you-”

She lifted her hands. Instead of contradicting him, she said as clearly as she could, “Thank you.”

He shook his head. “I have done naught deserving of thanks. And I would be an ill companion if I did not-”

Again she interrupted him. “For being here. For being my friend. I’d almost forgotten what that feels like.

“Don’t worry about me. The Ramen won’t hurt me. Even if they decide they don, t trust me, they won’t hurt any of us. They aren’t like that.”

Frowning, he studied her for a moment. Then he acceded. “Your sight is more discerning than mine. And the Cord spoke truly. Your need for aliment is great.”

She smiled wanly. “Then let me hold on to you. I don’t want to fall on my face in front of all those Manethralls.”

Liand replied with a sympathetic grimace; offered her his arm. Together they walked back to the clearing in the centre of the encampment.

As soon as they stepped from the grass onto the beaten dirt, Manethrall Hami approached them with concern in her eyes.

“Ringthane,” she said sternly, “it shames me that you were harmed in our care. Such fire is an aspect of the old man’s plight which we have not witnessed before. Believing you to be safe among so many Ramen, we relaxed our vigilance. Plainly we should not have done so.”

Linden shook her head. “It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known. And I’m not badly hurt.” No doubt Hami could see as much. “But I’m very tired. Can we get this over with?” She meant the challenges. “I want us to start trusting each other.”

Hami bowed an acknowledgment. “As do we.

“Come.” Respectfully the Manethrall touched Linden’s arm. “The Cords have completed their preparations. Let us eat together, that we may be sustained for the telling of tales.”

When Linden nodded, Hami guided her to a circle of seats in the centre of the clearing. There the Manethrall gathered eight or ten of her older Cords, and they all sat down with Linden. At the same time, Liand was taken to another circle nearby, and Stave to a third. As with Linden, one Manethrall and several Cords joined them. Soon each ring was occupied by a Manethrall and his or her Cords.

Within each circle, a fire had been set to illumine the meal. The younger Ramen stood around the rim of the clearing, holding small trenchers of food and bulging waterskins, waiting for some signal to serve the food.

Once everyone in the circles had seated themselves, the Manethralls stood together. In unison, they turned to the northeast, holding their heads high. From a circle near Linden, an older man with grey-streaked hair and a fretwork of scars on his arm raised a voice like an old whinny.

“We are the Ramen,” he called softly to the deepening twilight, “long exiled from our ancient home in the Land. For a hundred generations and more have we sojourned without place or welcome, carrying our dispossession upon our backs as nomads, wanderers, and telling to no one but ourselves the long tale of who we are.

“Yet have we kept faith with the past. Still we tell the tale of ourselves, and tell it again, precisely as it was told to us generation after generation, so that we will forget nothing, fail nothing, and our great purpose will never waver.”

The Cords bowed their heads as the older man spoke. But his fellow Manethralls stood tall in the clearing, and reflections of firelight glistened in their eyes.

“We are the Ramen, bereft and redeemed by service, and we will see our home again. This time we have not been promised an end to exile, as we were when High Lord Kevin Landwaster warned us from the Land. Yet we keep faith. Though the Earth may crack, and the Heavens fall, and all the peoples of the world be betrayed, we will hold fast to the tale of who we are. In the end, when our exile has run its course, we will return to the Plains of Ra.

“So our tale was told to our sires and dams, and to theirs, and to theirs again, for a hundred generations and more to the Ramen who first began our wandering. So it will be told to our children, and to theirs, and to theirs again, until the Ramen have been restored to the Land which is theirs.”

Then the gathered Manethralls sang together, raising their voices as one against the dark.

“We roam the world, lost, and learn

We have no place but home.

While time wears out its ceaseless grind

We wander still, the rind

And pulp and juice of our return

Forever unconsumed.

“For hope we have not rock but loam

Eroded by our sons

And daughters. Generations pass

And leave us as the grass,

Or as the froth on waves, the foam,

The rede of years unlearned.

“To eastward we have sought the sun’s

Acceptance. But the seas

We find too restive to give rest.

To Southward lie the best

Of lands and hills. Yet endless runs

Still leave us unfulfilled.

“And in the west lie bitter leas

And forage that will burn

The throat of each last roaming heart.

Their folk despise our part

In wandering. Nor can we seize

A dwelling undenied.

“Thus we return, and still return

While years and ages end.

We cannot let our yearning sleep,

And so we roam, and keep

Our hearts alive, for we must earn

Our dream of home fulfilled.”

In response, the Cords raised their palms before their faces, still holding their heads bowed.

When they looked up again, the Manethralls had seated themselves once more. Then some of the younger Cords hurried forward with their trenchers, carrying food and drink to the circles, while others brought waterskins so that the sitting Ramen and their guests could wash their hands.

Linden rubbed the grime of hard travelling from her hands gratefully, and splashed a bit of water on her face to cool her burned skin; but she did not drop her guard. You’re in trouble- Here food and even stories were a prelude to threats.

If you do not answer our challenges, all of the Ramen will stand against you.

She did not doubt that she was in serious trouble, in spite of the sincerity of her hosts.

A boy younger than Jeremiah knelt beside her to place a trencher on the ground in front of her. “I am Sahah’s brother,” he murmured softly so that only she would hear. “My name is Char.” Then he was gone before Linden could look at his face

Frowning uncertainly, disturbed without knowing why, she considered her platter.

It held stew, steaming and savoury, cupped in a bowl of glutinous white mush had a might have been cereal or potatoes, but which smelled like neither. Instead it had a loamy scent that suggested it had been made by boiling and pounding some form of tuber. Glancing at the nearby Cords, she saw that they ate by taking a bit of the mush, shaping it with their fingers, and then using it to scoop stew into their mouths.

She may have been hungrier than she realised.

When she leaned toward one of her neighbours, thinking to ask him what the mush was called, what the stew was made of, she found another Ramen kneeling beside her: the young woman who had guided her to Anele.

The woman’s black hair hung past the edges of her face, hiding her features. Apparently she still felt shy in Linden’s presence. As Linden looked at her, she whispered, “My sire is brother to Sahah’s dam. My name is Pahni.”

Surprised, Linden glared at her involuntarily.

Hurrying in apparent embarrassment, Pahni breathed, “The stew is hare and wild eland and shallots spiced with rosemary and the leaves of aliantha dried and ground fine. The rhee”- she indicated the mush- “is boiled from the roots of the grass of this valley. It has little virtue alone, but eaten with meat and shallots it is a sustaining food.”

As soon as she finished speaking, she withdrew.

First Sahah’s brother: then her cousin. What was going on?

Linden turned her head and found three Cords standing directly behind her: Pahni, Char, and a man who looked old enough to be a Manethrall. When Linden met his gaze, he also knelt to introduce himself.

“Like Char,” he said, smiling awkwardly, “I am Sahah’s brother. We are children of the same dam, though we do not share sires. My name is Bhapa.”

Linden stared at them dumbly. She could not think of any polite way to ask, What the hell is going on? What are the three of you doing?

Did they consider themselves responsible for her because she had tried to help Sahah? Or was it the other way around? Had she somehow become responsible for them?

However, they seemed to expect nothing from her. When he had given her his name, Bhapa rose to his feet. With Char and Pahni, he simply stood behind Linden as though the three of them had been asked to guard her back, and had no other interest in her.

Troubled for reasons which she could not name, Linden turned back to her food.

As an experiment, she tasted a bit of the rhee by itself. In spite of its smell, it had virtually no flavour. But when she combined it with the stew, she found that it added a taste like spelt bread to the spiced meat and shallots.

She was definitely hungrier than she had realised.

At intervals while she ate, Char or Bhapa or Pahni offered her a drink from a waterskin. She thanked them impersonally, trying not to think about the possible implications of their service. Whatever else may have been true about them, the Ramen dearly valued kinship.

Finally the meal was over. When the younger Cords had passed around more water for the washing of hands, they cleared away the trenchers and waterskins. The other Ramen remained seated, however, now obviously waiting.

Hami gave Linden a long, probing look. Then the Manethrall rose lightly to her feet and moved into the centre of the circle so that she stood near the small fire.

As she did so, the Ramen in the clearing turned their seats so that the whole gathering faced her together.

To Linden, Hami announced, “It is not the way of the Ramen to give trust where trust has not first been offered. At another time, we would not speak of ourselves until you had described to us your past and purposes.”

Then she raised her voice and her eyes so that she addressed her assembled people. “But she is Linden Avery, called the Chosen by the sleepless ones. And she is the Ringthane. The presence of her white ring is plain to all who behold her. And with my Cords, I have witnessed her argent flame.

“The name of the Ringthane we remember with reverence. Seeing that the Ranyhyn both honoured and feared him, Covenant Ringthane refused their service. He rode no Ranyhyn into peril and death. Instead he hazarded only himself against the Render. Therefore he is honoured among us. Though our lives are as brief as grass upon the Earth, our memories are long, for we have told the tale until it cannot be forgotten.”

Manethrall Hami held her head up to the valley and the dark mountains. “And there is more. With her companions, Linden Avery Ringthane came among us hunted by kresh. She has befriended the mad old man whose plight has long touched our hearts. She consumes aliantha with respect and gladness. And she retrieved Sahah of my Cords from death when Sahah’s wounds had surpassed our skills.

“For these reasons, I will speak first, in gratitude and acknowledgment.”

Around the clearing, Manethralls and Cords nodded their acquiescence. And Linden nodded as well, although she had not been asked for her assent. She was simply glad that she would not be required to account for herself before she knew what was at stake.

“I will speak briefly, however,” Hami promised, “as our lives are brief, for the matters which must be resolved here are urgent and compelling.

“This place we name the Verge of Wandering.” Her words may have been meant for Linden, but she gave them to the whole assembly. “It is here that the Ramen first gathered when the Sunbane had driven us from the Plains of Ra. Here we considered how we might fulfil the meaning of our lives in exile.”

Hami paused to drop a faggot or two onto the campfire so that its flames rose higher. As she continued, her voice became bleak, almost desolate, devoid of the nickering inflections which occasionally enlivened it.

“Twice before, we had fled the Land, but now there were no Lords to promise us an ending. As we withdrew to this place, we prayed that one day the Sunbane would be quenched-that the Ringthane or another like him would arise to again cast down the Render-but our hopes did not console us. We could see no outcome to the Sunbane except extinction.”

Now her desolation was unmistakable. Recalled loss ached in her words.

“Our memories were long then, as they are now. Here we told the tale of ourselves, and found that the toll of bloodshed had become greater than we could countenance. The Render had exacted too much death. His slaying of the Ranyhyn must cease.

“Therefore we determined that we would never again subject the meaning of our lives to Fangthane’s ravage.”

The Manethrall sighed. “Yet we had no power against him, no means by which we might end his malice. We could not impose the relief we craved.” The muscles at the corners of her jaw bunched with remembered resolve. “For that reason, we swore then, as each generation has sworn anew, that we would not return to the Plains of Ra until the Land’s foe had met his last doom, and would nevermore arise to shed the blood of Ranyhyn.”

Linden listened with growing discomfort. The Ramen were as draconian as the Haruchai, as absolute in their judgments. Both people rejected the reality of Lord Foul’s malevolence and the Land’s vulnerability. Where the Masters sought to alter that reality, however, the Ramen had simply turned their backs on it.

Compared to the stance which the Haruchai had chosen, that of the Ramen was more human; certainly less ambitious. Nevertheless it disturbed Linden profoundly. The Land would never be saved by people who believed and judged as the Ramen did.

She feared suddenly that her need for help had misled her; that the Ramen were not the allies she required. Even the intransigence of the Masters might be of more use to her.

Still Hami continued her tale. However, her tone had eased. The memories she described now did not hold as much hurt.

“Thus this place became the Verge of Wandering, the northernmost limit of our exile. From this valley, we found our way southward among the mountains, sojourning by decades and centuries among strange and distant lands, living as nomads among peoples who knew nothing of the Land and Fangthane. Perhaps at another time we will speak of such things. For the present, I will say merely that we found no home there. But neither have we returned to the Land.

“Once in each generation, however, we visit the Verge of Wandering. Here we remain for a season, or a year, or for several years, scouting the Land until we have discovered that Fangthane yet lives-that the Land has not yet been healed of evil. Then we depart to wander again.

For a hundred generations and more, no Ramen has set foot beyond these mountains, except to observe the life of the Land, and to carry word.”

And do you like what you see? Linden might have asked. Has the life of the Land become better since you abandoned it? Have you made it better? But she said nothing. She was out of her depth, and she knew it.

The things that Hami had not said were as loud in the darkened gathering as those she had. Where were the children of the Ramen? The old people?

Where were the Ranyhyn?

Then the Manethrall’s voice took on a new edge, a sound of keen wrath. For the first time, her tale implied challenges.

“Once in each generation, therefore, we have witnessed the rise of the Masters in the Land, the men who were formerly the sleepless ones, the Bloodguard. We have discerned no sign of Lords, or of other powers, that might bring about Fangthane’s end. Instead we have watched with growing anger, generation after generation, as those who once served the Lords now name themselves Masters and do nothing.

“The Land is in their care, and in their care it has been made helpless. Now the Render flourishes once again, and there are only Masters to oppose him.

“We have known the Bloodguard. We have seen them turned to Fangthane’s service. We know that they do not suffice.”

Threats seemed to mount around the clearing as Hami spoke. The ancient animosity of the Ramen toward the Bloodguard had been vindicated by the attitude of the Masters.

“At last, however, a new Ringthane stands among us. Because she is here, we might feel hope. But because the Masters are also here, we fear that she will be thwarted.”

In that, at least, Linden understood Hami perfectly.

“The Ramen have kept faith,” the Manethrall concluded severely. “What have the Masters done? How will Linden Avery bear the burden of wild magic against the Render, when the Masters have quelled any strength which might have aided her?

“These questions, and more, we will have answered.”

For a moment, silence greeted her demand. Ramen nodded to themselves, and to her, grimly. They seemed to feel their exile as if they had experienced the loss themselves, although they had known no other life but wandering. Their tales had the force of commandments, compulsory beyond the limits of flesh and time.

Concentrating on Hami, Linden sensed rather than saw Stave surge erect in the circle where he had been sitting.

“Do you claim the right to challenge us?” he replied flatly. He may have been full of ire and repudiation, but he did not show it. His hard form revealed only that he could not be swayed. “I also claim that right. My questions also require answers.”

His tone was calm. Nonetheless it drew tension from the Ramen like the touch of a flail.

“Manethrall,” he continued, “you speak harshly of the Masters, but you say little of the Ranyhyn. Did you not guide them into exile? And are they not the meaning lives? Why then are they absent from this place?

What has become of them? How are you able to avow that you have kept faith with the past, if you have not been true to the great horses of Ra?”

No. Linden reached her feet without realising that she had moved. She was fed up with people who never forgave, the Ramen as much as the Haruchai. They shared a combustible pride, as sensitive as tinder, primed for conflagration. If she did not intervene, they might strike blows which they would never be able to take back.

And she was suddenly furious. Lord Foul held Jeremiah. Like the Land, he would never be saved by people who gave ancient grievances precedence over their immediate peril and responsibility.

“Sleepless one,” Hami countered, “I am done speaking.” She held her garrote taut between her fists: it seemed to have appeared there without transition. “It is you who will answer here.”

“No. Wait a minute.” Fighting to quiet her heart, Linden confronted Stave across the circles. “Don’t say a word. Please. Whether your people are right or wrong-it doesn’t matter. It makes no difference. Not here. The Ramen don’t know why you became Masters. They can’t evaluate your reasons. And you’re only here because of me.” Because she had fled from Mithil Stonedown. “If they have questions, I’ll answer them.”

Facing her without expression, Stave opened and closed his fingers deliberately, cocked one eyebrow-and said nothing. Instead he shrugged as though he recognised that she had told him the simple truth.

Gratitude for his restraint helped Linden manage her anger as she turned to Manethrall Hami. “If you want to challenge someone,” she told Hami, “challenge me. My companions are under my protection. All of them.”

Leaving her place in the circle, she approached the campfire until she stood near enough to see every spark and shadow in the Manethrall’s face; near enough to let Hami gauge her honesty as accurately as the woman’s senses allowed.

“When Covenant came back to the Land to fight the Sunbane, I was with him. We would have failed if the Haruchai hadn’t helped us. I owe them a debt I’ll never be able to repay.

I know you have grievances. Old ones. I understand that. And I understand your distrust. I’ll answer your questions, anything you want to ask me. But tell me one thing first. Please.”

Hami frowned sternly across the flames. She seemed reluctant to set aside her belligerence toward Stave. Yet her desire to trust Linden was plain: Linden could see it in her. “After a moment, she conceded stiffly, “If I may.”

If Linden’s question did not exceed the limits of what the Ramen were willing to reveal.

Still wrestling with her own outrage, and trembling with effort, Linden said harshly, “Lord Foul has come back, that’s obvious. You’ve seen Kevin’s Dirt. You’ve seen caesures. It’s your return I don’t understand.

“You say you scout the Land “once in each generation”. But how did you happen to pick this year? This season?” Had the Ramen been told that she would appear? Had the ur-viles forewarned them? “A generation is a long time. You could have come last year-or next year.” If they had, she and her companions would probably have died. “But you didn’t. Instead you’re here now.

“How did that happen?”

Linden closed her eyes briefly, praying for an explanation that she would be able to accept. She needed to gain as much comprehension as she could before the Ramen put her to the test. Then she looked at Hami again.

There is darkness nigh. Perhaps it lives among the Ramen, concealing itself from their discernment.

Hami appeared to consider the question. Linden half expected her to consult with her fellow Manethralls, but she did not. Apparently she could be sure that her people would support her, whatever decision she made.

Finally she nodded. “In sooth, Ringthane,” she replied, “we have not come by happenstance. We are a decade and more ahead of our appointed time. However, two events persuaded us from our wonted round. The first I may relate.”

The Manethrall paused as if to compose herself, then began.

“Perhaps half a generation ago, in an unpeopled woodland many leagues to the south and west, a strange being came among us. His power must have been great, for we descried nothing of his approach or presence until he stood before us.” This point seemed important to Hami: her pride insisted on it. “Skills and senses which would have acknowledged an unfamiliar butterfly within a league of our camp caught no sign of the stranger until he deigned to make himself known to us.

“He offered us no harm, and therefore we acted similarly, though we misliked him at once, for his mien was haughty, and he appeared to hold us in scant regard.” Hami’s voice was tight with disapproval. “His raiment was of sandaline, without shade or tint, and his eyes held the coldness of gemstones. When we had granted him welcome, he said that he intended to forewarn us.”

A chill ran down Linden’s spine. She knew what was coming.

“He named himself one of the Elohim, dispatched by his people in their distant land to speak of perils which stalked the Land from the ends of the Earth.”

Behind her in the clearing, Linden heard Liand catch his breath; whisper her name. Silence held the rest of the gathering, however, and Hami did not heed the Stonedownor.

“He said nothing of Fangthane, nor did he speak any of the other names by which the Render is known. Rather he cited croyel, merewives, Sandgorgons, skurj and other creatures or beings of which we have no knowledge. When we pressed him to account for them, he refused disdainfully. His purpose, he averred, was to prepare the way, not to amend our shortcomings. Instead he instructed us to “Beware the halfhand”. With the coming of the halfhand, the Earth would suffer its most dire peril, and if we cared aught for our home we would return to the Land’s defence.”

The Manethrall snarled at her memories. “Remembering the legends of Berek Halfhand as well as the great victory of Covenant Ringthane, we took offense that the stranger had spoken so. Because he offered no harm, we did not drive him from us. Nevertheless we invited him to depart, for he declined to honour those whose valour and worth exceeded his.

“Mocking us, he went away as he had come, leaving no sign to mark his passage.”

Then Hami sighed. “When he had gone, we turned our way hither. Affronted by his manner, we did not wish to credit his words. Therefore we did not hasten. Yet we altered the sequence of our wandering, for he had sown disquiet among us, and we wished to determine whether he had spoken sooth or no.”

Over the flames, she asked Linden, “Are you answered, Ringthane? Will you now speak of yourself, as I have spoken of the Ramen?”

For a moment, Linden could not meet the Manethrall’s gaze. The fact that an Elohim had approached the Ramen as well as Liand’s people forced her to confront fears which she had tried to stifle.

Thomas Covenant was dead. But Jeremiah also lacked half of one hand. And as far as she knew, the Elohim felt only the most oblique and ambiguous concern for Lord Foul’s machinations. They were Earthpower incarnate, free of Law and perhaps impervious to wild magic. In addition, they considered themselves the Wurd of the Earth, the essence or purpose or fate of life; self-sufficient; beyond threat. No peril could touch them: few impinged on their notice. And fewer still stirred them from their hermetic self-contemplation.

The idea that those detached and apparently heartless beings had dispatched one of their own to forewarn the peoples of the Land made Linden want to rage and weep. Dear God, how bad was it going to get? What was Foul doing?

While she had known the Elohim Findail, he had dreaded only two things: his own Appointed doom; and the rousing of the Worm of the World’s End. And during her translation to the Land, she had caught a glimpse of the Worm-Lord Foul had mocked her with a nightmare in which she awakened the Worm with wild magic, causing the destruction of the Earth.

Yet the undefined challenges of the Ramen remained. When the Manethrall said her name again, Linden looked up from her trepidation.

Awkwardly she countered, “What was the second?”

Hami raised her eyebrows. “Ringthane?”

“You said two events brought you here now. You told me about the first one. What was the second?”

A new tension spread through the gathering. The Manethrall’s features closed: her expression became a wall. “That event entails the first challenge. Do you choose to meet it now? Will you not rather tell us the tale of yourself, that our hearts may be eased towards you?

No, Linden insisted in silence-not to Hami, but to herself. No, stop this. Her fears were running away with her: concern and frustration were making her crazy. She had no power to bring about the ruin of the Earth. Everything that the Despiser said or did was designed to mislead her in some way.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, so faintly that she hardly heard her own voice. “Of course I’ll tell you my story. You’ve shown us nothing but kindness. I want your friendship.”

And she was certain that the Land needed the Ramen.

Hami responded with a formal bow. “Then speak, Ringthane.” Her tone hinted at whinnying. “The Ramen hear you.”

Standing or sitting, all of the Cords and Manethralls seemed to lean toward Linden. The mountains themselves brought their darkness nearer, and a chill breeze fell from their sides to fill the vale. In the moonless heavens, the stars glittered coldly, like the eyes of the Elohim; instances of disdain.

Linden made no effort to raise her voice. Hami was enough for her. The rest of the Ramen would hear her as well as they could, and decide among themselves whether she spoke the truth.

“I’m like Thomas Covenant,” she said over the low crackle and hiss of the flames. “We come from a different place. Outside this world.” Her few possessions confirmed this: her clothes, her boots. And white gold did not exist in the Land, or anywhere in the wide Earth. “When he was summoned against the Sunbane, I came with him.

“You were brief. I’ll be the same.”

Firelight filled Hami’s eyes with shadows. The Manethrall seemed to watch Linden through a shroud of remembered wars and butchery, measuring Linden’s words against her own knowledge of evil.

Carefully Linden described her arrival with Covenant on Kevin’s Watch. She named Sunder and Hollian, whom Anele had claimed as his parents. Knowing that the viles were important in some way, she told how Covenant’s Dead in Andelain had given him Vain. The beginning of the Search for the One Tree; her meeting with Giants in Seareach; their encounter with the Elohim, and with Findail the Appointed: these things she explained as concisely as possible. But she did not scant Brinn’s self-sacrifice and triumph at the isle of the One Tree. She would not make it easy for the Ramen to think ill of Stave’s people. After that, however, she leaped ahead to Covenant’s victory over Lord Foul, the making of the new Staff of Law, and her own efforts to heal the Land.

The night around the clearing had grown impenetrable. Only the black bulk of the mountains showed against the stars. And only the campfires softened the stern faces of the Ramen.

“For me,” Linden said to the hushed gathering, “that was only ten years ago.” A quarter of her life. “Time is different where I come from.

“Three days ago, I was summoned again.” Shot through the heart. “I’m not sure, but I think two other people came to the Land at the same time.” Again she made no mention of Jeremiah. She did not want to expose him to the dire pronouncements of the Elohim. “If I’m right, they both serve Lord Foul. And one of them has a white gold ring.

“I don’t understand Kevin’s Dirt or the caesures. I don’t know anything about skurj or the Durance. I’ve encountered merewives, Sandgorgons, and croyel, but I can’t imagine what they have to do with the Land. As far as I’m concerned, none of that matters as much as the other ring.

“If Lord Foul can use wild magic, the Land is already in tremendous danger, and I’m going to need all the help I can get.”

There Linden bowed her head. Praying that she had satisfied the Manethrall, she waited for Hami’s response.

After a moment, Hami murmured, “The Ramen hear you, Ringthane.” Her voice held a tone that may have been awe. “Yet you have not spoken of your companions.”

Watching the ambivalent dance of the flames between her feet and Hami’s, Linden said, “Anele found me on Kevin’s Watch. He was trying to get away from a caesure. When the Watch fell, wild magic saved us. Then the Masters took us prisoner. Once they knew who I was, they would have let me go, but I stayed with Anele. Liand helped us escape,” Liand and a concussive storm which the ur-viles must have sent. “Stave found us a little while before you did.”

That was enough. If the Ramen could not recognise her honesty, no insistence of hers would convince them.

Flickering shadows concealed the Manethrall’s reaction. None of the Ramen spoke or moved. They might have been willing to listen all night. In their long history, no doubt, they had met wonders aplenty, as well as bloodshed and betrayal. Yet they seemed transfixed by Linden’s brief tale. Their distant ancestors had known the Seareach Giants during the ages of Damelon, Loric, and Kevin, and during the centuries of the new Lords, until the slaughter of the Unhomed. Since then, however, the Ramen may not have met anyone who had seen so many of the Earth’s marvels.

“Linden Avery,” the Manethrall began. “Ringthane.” Her tone was a knot of awe and apprehension. “We have heard you. There remains much that we might inquire of you. Yet I do not hesitate to say that we will offer our friendship gladly-yes, both friendship and honour-if they are ours to grant.

“But you have spoken of matters which are too high for us. We are Ramen, and proud-but we are only Ramen, powerless against Fangthane as against Elohim or any other fell being. Our purpose is all that we are, and its ambit is too small to contain such wonders and powers. Hearing your tale, we know that we cannot measure your claim upon us, for good or ill.”

Then Hami waved her hand; and one of the Cords at the edge of the clearing hurried away into the night. Watching the young Raman go, Linden felt a new twist of apprehension.

“Linden Avery,” Hami repeated more loudly, “Ringthane and Chosen, the time has come. You have given your consent to be challenged. This is well, for such testing is necessary to us.

“The time has come to speak of Esmer.”

At once, all of the Ramen rose to their feet. In one sense or another, they had been waiting for this moment. Hami’s Cords hedged Linden within their circle. The younger Ramen seemed to form a wall around the clearing.

Esmer? Linden thought mutely. Who-?

“I have said that two events brought us timely to the Verge of Wandering, and to your aid,” the Manethrall explained with a cadence of nickering in her voice. “This is the second. Three seasons past, we were yet far to the south, and though our way tended northward we did not hasten, for the Elohim had not persuaded us to urgency. But then a new stranger came among us.

“He named himself Esmer, and he approached us courteously from afar, asking that he might be welcomed among us. To our eyes, he appeared to be a man both like and unlike any other, ruled by love and loss, as others are, and yet as puissant as a Lord in his own fashion-a figure of both power and pain. His pain we did not comprehend, however, and his power disturbed us. Therefore we were unsure of him.

“Yet he met our challenge without demur or difficulty, but rather with a seemly reverence. And when it was made plain to us that we must cede our friendship, he became a worthy member of our journey, forewarning us of pitfalls and snares, and relieving our wants, so that our sojourn has been one of safety and ease.” e were

Linden waited with a mounting pressure in her ears and chest, as though she were holding her breath. A figure of both power and pain-

– who did not greet new arrivals among the Ramen, or join them while they ate.

Hidden by shadows, Hami’s eyes might have held eagerness or fear, empathy or suspicion.

“Because you will now be challenged in your turn” the Manethrall continued, I will tell you that it was Esmer who persuaded us to hasten toward the Verge of Wandering. It was he who informed us of the Ringthane’s return in peril. And it was he who summoned the ur-viles so that they might answer your need as we did, for he alone among us speaks their tongue.

“Indeed,” she added, “because of his presence, or his summoning, we have encountered them frequently since we neared the Land.”

Then she concluded, “It is our hope that his lore may enable us to determine our place in matters which surpass us.”

Suddenly Stave thrust himself between Hami’s Cords into the circle around Linden. Resolve poured from his hard form as if he were ready for battle.

As the Haruchai moved, Liand called out sharply: a tight cry, unexpectedly alarmed. In the same moment, Linden felt an acrid presence touch the back of her neck. Instinctively she wheeled toward the Stonedownor.

At the edge of the clearing near him, a wedge of Demondim-spawn appeared among the Cords as if Hami had invoked them.

The black creatures barked to each other softly as they advanced. They did not sound threatening, however, and the Ramen showed only tension, not fear. None of the ur-viles held weapons.

Were they here because Hami had summoned Esmer? Or because Linden herself was in danger?

Frightened and confused, Liand pushed his way through the Ramen to join Stave beside her. Both of them seemed to think that the ur-viles posed some threat.

Linden turned back to the Manethrall. “Hami-?”

Hami held up her hands to forestall questions. “I know not why they have come. We did not expect them. But they have given us no cause for enmity. Since we learned of their presence among these mountains, they have offered us no harm. Rather they have aided us upon occasion, at Esmer’s behest.”

Linden frowned to conceal her thoughts. If Esmer could talk to the ur-viles, he might be able to answer many of her questions.

“Ringthane,” the Manethrall hurried on, “our challenges need not alarm you. They require naught of you, except that you abide them.

Thus!”

Spreading her arms, she stepped back from the campfire; withdrew to the edge of the circle.

Off to her right, the crowd of Cords parted again, and a man came tensely through the firelight into the centre of the clearing.

The first sight of him made Linden’s stomach churn with nausea. She was instantly certain that she was looking at the being who had driven Covenant’s spirit from Anele’s mind; the power who had commanded Anele to keep silent at the crest of the arete.

He resembled the Haruchai.

He could have been young or old: his features seemed to refuse the definition, the constriction, of time. Like Stave’s people, he was flat-faced and brown-skinned, strongly built. Like them, he was not especially tall; no taller than Linden herself. And his cropped hair curled on his head. Seen from a distance, he could have been taken for Stave’s brother, unscarred and untried.

However, he wore a gilded cymar formed of a strange fabric which looked like it had been woven from the froth of waves: a garment entirely unlike the raiment of the Masters-or any raiment that Linden had seen in the Land. And his eyes were the deep and running green of dangerous seas.

Now she knew why his nearness nauseated her. Her health-sense saw him as a queasy squirm of power; a knot of conflicts and capabilities like a clenched nest of worms. Poisonous. Breeding.

And yet-

If he had not been so tense, he would have seemed oddly vulnerable, even frightened. The occasion threatened him in some way. Or he was a danger to himself. In spite of her own discomfort, she felt drawn to him, as if he had appealed to her for pity; inspired her to empathy.

And yet-

Her nerves were sure of him: she perceived clearly that he was the figure of power who had twice intervened to frustrate Anele’s insights, Anele’s madness. He had reft her of Covenant’s voice-

But he was distinctly not the being of fire that had possessed the old man. She could be confident of that as well. Rather he had merely blocked Covenant’s spirit, impelling Anele out onto open ground. There an altogether different being had taken hold of the old man; a power that blazed with malice and hunger, as Esmer did not.

In some sense, Esmer served that other, more vicious foe-and appeared to despise himself for doing so.

“Linden,” Liand panted in astonishment or dismay, “he is not human. Not mortal.”

Linden swallowed a rasp of sand. She wanted to ask Stave what he saw. His senses surpassed hers. And he might have knowledge which she lacked. But her throat was too dry for speech.

Stave confronted the newcomer mutely, without moving. Every line of his form had become an imminent blow.

“Esmer,” Hami announced, apparently intending to introduce him to Linden and her companions. But he stopped her with a gesture so fraught with force that it left a streak of incandescence across Linden’s sight. Then he turned to Liand.

“Liand of Mithil Stonedown.” His words seemed to writhe in Linden’s ears. “You have no part in this. You will withdraw.”

Like Stave, Liand stood motionless. “No.” His voice shook. “I will not.

Esmer shrugged as if with that lift of his shoulders he dismissed Liand’s existence.

“Linden Avery,” he said next, “Chosen and Sun-Sage. You have become the Wildwielder, as the Elohim knew that you must. Because you spurned their guidance long ago, much will now be lost which might have been preserved. You also have no part in this, and will withdraw.”

But she, too, did not comply. She could not. Instead she stood still, rooted in place by surprise and anger. He had silenced Covenant’s voice; had caused Anele terrible distress. And-

And many centuries ago, the Elohim had expressed surprise that she did not already wield Covenant’s ring. Because she did not, they had reduced Covenant’s mind to blankness, striving-among other things-to persuade or compel her to claim his wedding band for herself.

How had Esmer known-?

Observing her refusal, his manner softened momentarily. “If the Ramen heed my word, they will trust their hearts concerning you. And if they do not-” Again he shrugged; but this time the motion suggested diffidence, even timidity. “They will be persuaded otherwise.”

Then, however, all hint of softness vanished from him. Like Liand, she might have ceased to exist. Between one instant and the next, he began to seethe with fury as he shifted his dark emerald gaze to the Master.

“You,” he said; and his voice gathered potency as if he could bring down the night and the stars to hear him. “I know you, to my enduring cost. You are Stave, Bloodguard and Master, Haruchai.” With each word, his voice grew, acquired resonance, until it became the shout of great sackbuts, steerhorns, so loud that it seemed to echo off the mountainsides. “Because of you, I am made to be what I am!

“Defend yourself, heartless one, lest I destroy you!”

At once, he launched himself at Stave like a scend, the surge of a tumbling wave.

“Esmer!” Hami cried instantly. “No! They must not be harmed! I promised them safety!”

Together, she and several other Manethralls rushed to intervene.

Instinctively Linden reached for Covenant’s ring. But she had no power. She was blocked by nausea; trapped within herself by the confusion of her senses.

The ur-viles barked savagely in unison. At the tip of their wedge, an iron rod or Sceptre appeared in the loremaster’s hands. The creature raised the rod high, preparing conflagration.

Esmer s response shook the encampment. Around the clearing, the ground erupted like water in spouts, geysers, hurling dirt and stubble into the air. Linden was flung backwards: the Manethralls were picked up, tossed aside. Bursts of force and soil drove the Ramen back.

But the ur-viles were not affected. Linden realised as she sprawled to the ground that Esmer spared them; or they were able to withstand him. While he made the dirt hurl and dance, they remained upright in their wedge, poised for black might which they had not unleashed.

Liand fell on his back near her. The spouts continued erratically, leaping upward as if they had been squeezed from the guts of the Earth, first to one side, then another, back and forth at vehement intervals. But now they touched no one. Instead they kept the Ramen away; enforced a vacant place like a killing field in the middle of the clearing.

And in the midst of the geysers, Stave and Esmer fought.

Linden could not so much as whisper Stave’s name. Esmer’s power closed her throat.

The Master met Esmer’s first attack easily: blocked a punch, then used the impact of a kick to lift him away so that he gained a little distance. “You are a treacher, or misguided,” he informed his assailant calmly. “The Haruchai also have no part in this. We do not know you.

“If you have truly been made to be who you are, and do not choose your own way”- his tone carried a sting of scorn- “lay blame elsewhere. I know not how you have tricked or betrayed the Ramen to friendship, but I deny you. If you do not desist, I will teach you better wisdom.”

Esmer answered with a flurry of blows like a sudden squall: fists and feet so swift that Linden could not follow them. For a moment, Stave seemed to block and counter amid the storm and the bursting geysers as if he were Esmer’s equal. Strikes and gasps punctuated the air in staccato, at once sodden and sharp, flesh and bone. Then, abruptly, the Haruchai staggered backward; nearly fell to his knees.

His face bled from cuts and pulped skin on his cheeks and forehead. From where she lay, Linden could feel pain grinding in his chest like splinters of bone twisting against each other.

Esmer’s green eyes seethed with ferocity. “You are mistaken, Haruchai!” His voice thundered across the valley. A tidal wave might have broken over the clearing: Linden seemed to hear Stave’s accuser through a wall of water and chaos. “Your folk sired me. I am your descendant, conceived by Cail among merewives, and given birth by the Dancers of the Sea!

“Because of the Haruchai, there will be endless havoc!”

Tears caught the light and glowed like embers on his cheeks. In spite of his rage, he might have been sobbing.

Swift as lightning, he attacked again.

Several of the Manethralls and Cords tried to force their way into the battle. Liand joined them, ignoring his distrust of the Masters. But spouting dirt and stones repulsed them.

The Haruchai could be killed: Linden knew that. She had seen them slain by spears and Sandgorgons. Panting, No, no! she struggled to her feet against the overflow of Esmer’s power, the shock and virulence of his geysers.

Cail’s son?

As though he had not been bloodied, and felt no hurt, Stave sprang to meet the assault. He struck and struck, a whirlwind of blows and blocks: spinning; leaping; allowing Esmer to hit him so that he could hit back. Once he rocked Esmer’s head: several times, he drove his fists and feet into Esmer’s body.

Yet the punishment he received in return was worse. Linden saw his blood splash the ground; felt more of his ribs give way. A lashing elbow snapped one of his clavicles. Within herself, she scrambled frantically to find the hidden door of the ring’s fire, but it eluded her. Stave’s pain and Esmer’s churning power and her own fear paralysed her.

And still the ur-viles did not enter the conflict. They appeared to have no interest in Stave’s plight. They had come for some other purpose and ignored everything else.

Then the fight seemed to freeze for an instant, catching Stave in an attempt to fling a kick at Esmer’s head. He was off-balance and slow, however, already battered almost senseless. While his kick rose, Esmer dove at him with a blow to the pelvis that wrenched his leg from its socket.

Stave fell on his face, fingers clawing at the dirt, unable to rise.

Esmer stood over the Haruchai. With one hand, he knotted a grip in Stave’s hair, pulled Stave’s head back. With the other, he punched Stave’s head downward.

Stave’s head bounced once; settled to the ground like a sigh. He did not move again.

An instant later, the spouting ceased.

Fierce pressure evaporated from the air as if a squall had frayed and drifted apart. Linden stumbled at the abrupt release: her arms flailed. The ground under her boots held a residual tremor like the aftermath of a distant earthquake. Around her, the Ramen blinked dazedly, shocked by relief and the sudden end of violence. Liand stood among them with wildness in his eyes. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this.

Because of the Haruchai, there will be endless havoc.

Oh, Stave.

Linden felt rather than saw the ur-viles withdraw into the night; but she no longer cared what they did. Had they come to protect her? To protect Esmer from her? It made no difference now.

If they had wished Stave dead, they could easily have slain him themselves.

Shaking his head, Esmer stepped away from the beaten Master. He looked vaguely crestfallen, almost ashamed, as if he had been caught in an unjustified act of vengeance-or forbearance.

“Esmer,” Hami breathed, “what have you done?”

He did not answer.

Stave was still alive.

Freed from her paralysis, Linden ran to his side. Ignoring Cail’s son, she dropped to her knees to examine the Haruchai.

On the Sandwall of Bhrathairain, Ceer had taken a spear meant for her. With one leg shattered, he had not been able to defend her effectively, and so he had simply let himself be impaled.

Without Brinn’s self-sacrifice, she and Covenant would never have been able to approach the One Tree.

Trembling with her own fury, Linden reached into Stave with her health-sense. Somehow he still lived. If he could be saved, she did not mean to let him die.

As she studied his wounds, a hush fell over the gathering. The clenched attention of the Ramen turned away from her and the Master. But she did not raise her head. In moments, she was sure that Stave needed saving.

His body was a mass of bruises and bleeding, but that damage was superficial: his native vitality would heal it. In addition to his shattered clavicle, however, and his dislocated hip, she found a collapsed sinus in one cheek, stress fractures in both femurs, a variety of badly battered internal organs, and at least eight broken ribs.

One of them had splintered completely, puncturing a lung in several places. She could hear moisture rattle in his troubled breathing. The ground under him seemed to tremble with the difficulty of his respiration.

She looked up to find only Esmer gazing at her. Liand and the Ramen stared past her toward the far side of the clearing. Wonder and deference filled their faces.

Linden did not so much as glance at what they saw. The thunder in the dirt left her untouched.

“You bastard,” she spat at Esmer. “Why didn’t you just kill him? You’ve done everything else.”

“I have seen what you do not,” he answered ambiguously. The look in his eyes might have been gladness or remorse. “Behold.”

With one hand, he pointed beyond her to the sound of hooves.

When she turned her head, she saw two proud horses trot into the clearing though they had been incarnated from darkness and firelight.

She had encountered horses aplenty during her life; but she had never seen hot like these.

They were craggy and extreme, full of the essential substance of the Land, with deep chests and mighty shoulders, and a hot smoulder of intelligence in their eyes. Their coats gleamed as if they had been brushed and curried ceaselessly for generations, one a roan stallion, the other a dappled grey mare; and their long manes and tails flew like pennons.

In the centre of their foreheads, white stars blazed like heraldry, emblems of lineage and Earthpower.

As one, the Ramen bowed low to them: an action as natural and necessary as breathing to the horse-tenders of Ra. Liand gaped openly, transfixed, unable to look away.

“This is the true challenge of the Ramen,” Esmer explained gruffly. “The Ranyhyn have accepted me.” He sounded both forlorn and proud. “Now they have come to accept you, the Haruchai as well as yourself. And they are precious to me. Their approach stayed my hand. I will not gainsay them.”

The horses advanced across the clearing until they were mere strides from Linden and Stave. There they halted. She held her breath as they shook their heads and flourished their manes, gazing at her and the Haruchai gravely. The blowing sounds they made may have been greetings.

Then together they bent their forelegs and bowed their noses to the dirt as if in homage.