The Runes of the Earth: The Last Chronicles of Thomas Covenant - Book One

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Someone—Bhapa?—was saying stubbornly, “We care not. It is her word that she must not be disturbed.”

  “You are not blind,” countered a man who may have been Esmer. “It is plain that she has spared the Haruchai from death. Did you not feel the wild magic that destroys peace?

  “I must speak with her while I am able.”

  “As you spoke with the sleepless one?” a girl responded: a younger voice, possibly Pahni’s. “Already you have betrayed our promise of safety. Even now the Manethralls debate whether you will be permitted to remain among us.”

  The man who sounded like Esmer snorted ambiguously. Contempt? Distress? Linden could not tell. “While I am accepted by the Ranyhyn,” he retorted in scorn or alarm, “the Ramen may not deny me, lest they break faith with the meaning of their lives.

  “Stand aside, Cords. I must speak with the Wildwielder.”

  Groaning, Linden brushed the bracken from her cheek; rubbed her face to restore at least a semblance of consciousness. Esmer wanted to talk to her? Fine. She had a few things to say herself.

  Stave could never have stood against him: Esmer had too much power. For a moment, she relived the lurch and spout of force which had kept the Ramen from Stave’s side; the numbing nausea which had eroded her defenses. Esmer’s unprovoked violence would delight the Despiser, if Lord Foul knew of it.

  If Foul had not caused it in some way—

  Just tell me what you’ve done.

  Done? I? Naught. I have merely whispered a word of counsel here and there, and awaited events.

  Angry herself now, Linden tried to rise; but her legs would not move. How long had she slept? Long enough, obviously, to deaden her nerves. With her arms, she tried to shift her weight—and gasped softly at the quick fire of returning sensation.

  You need the Staff of Law.

  She had not forgotten; but the advice of her dreams had taken on the weight of despair.

  Abruptly, hands came to her aid. With their support, she stood at last. When she could see past the pain in her legs, she found herself gazing into Char’s earnest young face.

  Sahah’s brother, repaying a debt. As Pahni and Bhapa did by withstanding Esmer. They had watched over while she labored for Stave’s life; and while she slept.

  They were still trying to obey her.

  The cookfire had died down to small flames, ruddy embers. Its dim light made Char’s face look flushed. Limned in the glow of other fires around the encampment, the forms of Esmer, Bhapa, and Pahni had an infernal cast, ominous and undefined.

  “You do not comprehend the difficulty,” Esmer insisted to Sahah’s cousin and half-brother. “You see what I am in part, but you do not know the cost of my nature.” His tone suggested elaborate patience, uncomfortable restraint. “The way is open for me now. But the time when I may speak to the Wildwielder for her benefit is not long. It will soon end.

  “You know that I esteem the Ramen for their service to the Ranyhyn. Do not misjudge me now. It is misguided devotion”—his tone said folly—“to refuse me in this.”

  Bhapa and Pahni did not stand aside. They did not so much as turn their heads to glance at Linden.

  In spite of his frustration, Esmer made no attempt to force his way past them. The man who had nearly killed Stave could have knocked both Cords aside easily. Apparently, however, he had no intention of doing so.

  “Let him in.” Sleep and fatigue clogged Linden’s throat: she could barely make herself heard. “I’ll talk to him.”

  She was not sure that anything Esmer might say would do her good. But he understood the speech of ur-viles. He possessed invaluable knowledge, if he chose to reveal it.

  “The Ringthane has awakened,” Char added as if to confirm her authority. “It is her wish to admit Esmer.”

  Reluctantly, Bhapa and Pahni stepped out of Esmer’s way.

  He had called himself the son of Cail and the Dancers of the Sea. He had demonstrated an astonishing power for which Linden had no answer. Nevertheless he entered the shelter cautiously, almost hesitantly, as if he were abashed in her presence. The low radiance of the cookfire turned his emerald eyes the color of shame.

  Again his nearness afflicted her with a sensation of nausea, a disturbing queasiness. In some way, he seemed to undermine her perceptions, her health-sense, even her grasp on reality.

  The Cords followed him, plainly concerned that Linden might need their protection.

  Esmer did not meet her gaze. When he reached the head of Stave’s bed, he stopped to study the Haruchai. With an uncomfortable frown, he murmured, “You surpass me. Small wonder that you are named ‘Chosen’ and ‘Wildwielder.’ To work such healing with wild magic—”

  He risked a quick glance at her face, then turned his head aside. Under his breath, he quoted:

  “This power is a paradox, because Power does not exist without Law, and wild magic has no Law.”

  In an abstracted tone, he told the Cords, “Leave us. I will speak to the Wildwielder alone.”

  “You will not,” retorted Bhapa stiffly.

  Char and Pahni looked to Linden for her assent.

  “It’s all right,” she assured them. She had her own reasons for speaking to Esmer privately. “You can go. He won’t hurt me.”

  Not now. Ranyhyn had bowed their heads to her: she had been accepted by the great horses of Ra. And Esmer had made it clear that he honored their choices.

  If the Ranyhyn had arrived sooner, Stave would not have been hurt—

  Scowling their mistrust at Esmer, Pahni and Bhapa acquiesced. When Linden had seated herself beside Stave’s supine form, Char also left the shelter. She did not watch where the Cords went; but she assumed that they would continue to protect her privacy.

  While she slept, intentions which she could not name had begun to take shape within her. Her present straits were untenable, that was certain. They had to be altered. She could not imagine what Esmer might say to her; but she knew what she would ask him. However, her questions were mere unformed guesses, inchoate intuitive leaps; too disturbing to be shared. For the time being, at least, she did not wish to be overheard by anyone who might misunderstand her—or disapprove.

  Still Esmer did not look at her directly. His arms moved awkwardly at his sides, uncertain of their purposes; restless with chagrin. Behind her, Stave bore unconscious witness to Esmer’s constrained deadliness.

  She did not hesitate. She was too angry. Too tired of being afraid. “You said you wanted to talk,” she rasped. “So talk. Tell me why I should listen to a man who nearly killed someone who couldn’t possibly hurt him. Where I come from, only cowards do that.”

  Esmer shrugged in discomfort. “I am the son of Cail and merewives.” His tone was meek: his manner proffered no challenge. “I descend from the blood and power and betrayal of Elohim, as from other theurgies. And from true service as well, the honor of Haruchai. The fault of my nature does not diminish your importance to me.”

  Linden’s guts churned suddenly. Aboard Starfare’s Gem, Findail had not spoken only of Kastenessen. He had also described the doomed Elohim’s damaged lover. Apparently that woman had learned many forms of power from Kastenessen, but no anodyne for her bereavement. Bitter with pain, she had eventually become the mother of the merewives, the Dancers of the Sea, who had seduced Brinn and Cail.

  For his weakness, Cail’s kinsmen had judged him a failure. After the quenching of the Banefire, he had left the Land, hoping to find the merewives again. He had preferred the passion and imprisonment of their unending, unrelieved desire to the harshness of his people.

  “That’s no answer,” Linden retorted. Everything about Esmer hinted at fatal hazards: she needed to guard herself. And his present meekness only aggravated her ire. “In any case, attacking Stave was a waste of time. What did you think you would accomplish? Even if you killed him, he’s only one Haruchai. Someday the rest of his people will become aware of you. Then you’ll have more enemies than you can count. So what was the damn point?
What did you have to gain?”

  Why did he wish to approach her now?

  Esmer appeared to sigh, although he made no sound. “I am made to be what I am, divided against myself, and eternally at war.”

  Abruptly, he seated himself on the bed near Stave’s head. Embers reflected greenly in his eyes as he watched the darkened movements of the Ramen within and around the neighboring shelters.

  “Do you not recall the merewives? Their song inspires those who hear it—those whose hearts are fierce, and can be touched—with a fathomless passion, love so needy and aspirant that the depths of the oceans cannot drown it away. Yet that song is sung in abhorrence, inspired by sorrow and the desire for death. The Dancers of the Sea loathe the love which they call forth, for they were themselves born of such vast yearning. Their nature grants them no mercy, and permits them none.

  “In Cail, they found a mate to match them. I am their sum, at once more than both and less than either.”

  His shoulders twitched: another shrug. “With blows I have expended my loathing, for a little time. Until its strength is renewed, I am able to set it aside.”

  Linden glared at him. “And you had to tear into him right then? You couldn’t wait until you knew whether the Ranyhyn would accept him?”

  Esmer’s eyes flared: the muscles at the corner of his jaw knotted. “Did you not hear me?” he said through his teeth. “I am made to be what I am. Every moment of my existence is conflict and pain.”

  Linden shook her head. Still he had not answered her. She did not grasp how the loathing of the merewives required his violence against Stave. She could see, however, that she would not get a more satisfying response. He may have told her as much as he knew of his own compulsions.

  Or—the thought stung her—he may have told her the exact truth. Perhaps his heritage rode and ruled him with such cruelty that he had no choice but to act on his mothers’ hatred for his father.

  The idea shocked her to silence. She was intimately familiar with such legacies. Her father had locked her in an attic with him so that she would be forced to watch him kill himself. And her mother—

  No one, she wanted to insist, makes you what you are. You have to choose. She believed that. Nevertheless his mere proximity nauseated her.

  In his case, she might be wrong.

  Floundering to recover her intentions, her sense of purpose, she changed directions.

  “You told the Cords you wanted to talk to me for my ‘benefit.’ What earthly good do you think you can do me?”

  This time, he sighed aloud. “Wildwielder, I am Elohim and Haruchai, theurgy and skill, betrayal and service. Loathing and love. I have wandered the Earth for millennia in pain, awaiting you. I have been given the knowledge of many things, and have learned more. If you ask, I will answer—while I can.”

  Until his abhorrence renewed its strength.

  Linden’s mind reeled. Possibilities stooped through her like striking raptors. She could not hold herself upright. Involuntarily, she sagged forward and braced her elbows on her knees, clutched her thoughts between her hands.

  If she asked, Esmer might explain Anele’s madness. He might tell her about Kastenessen, or the skurj, or Kevin’s Dirt. He might describe how ur-viles came to be here, when Lord Foul had striven to destroy them all.

  Many things—

  Hell, he might even know whether she had truly heard Covenant’s voice in her dreams; or in Anele’s mouth.

  If you ask—

  Hardly aware that she spoke aloud, she whispered, “Can you tell me where to find my son?”

  Brusquely Esmer replied, “No. The Despiser is hidden from me.”

  Esmer knew that she had a son. He knew that Jeremiah had been taken from her by Lord Foul.

  Nevertheless his tone gave her the impression that she had wasted a question.

  God in Heaven. With an effort, she fought down an impulse to ask—no, to demand—whether she and Jeremiah would ever be able to return to their own world. She knew better. The bullet hole in her shirt confirmed that she had already lost her former life permanently. Stabbed to the heart, Covenant had not eventually awakened in the woods behind Haven Farm. Nor would she.

  Instead she replied harshly, “That’s convenient. I wonder how many other crucial details just happen to be ‘hidden’ from you.”

  Then she held up her hands to forestall a response. “All right, I’ll try again. Why have you been tormenting Anele? That was you on the ridge, refusing to let him talk. And you stopped Covenant from—” A sudden clutch of grief closed her throat. She had to swallow several times before she could continue. “He’s been through so much—” She meant Anele. “I need to know anything he can tell me, but you forced him to shut up.

  “If you’re going to answer questions, answer that one.”

  Esmer’s gaze seemed to wander the night impatiently, as if he no longer knew why he had insisted on speaking to her. His voice held a new asperity as he said, “I have already done so. I must sate the division of my nature. The desires of the merewives are compulsory, as are the passions of Cail my father. That which lies hidden within the old man displeases the Dancers of the Sea.”

  “Oh, hell,” muttered Linden. “Why do they even care? They aren’t exactly here, you know. And they’ve never had anything to do with the Land.”

  As far as she knew—

  Still he kept his face turned away. “Yet the woman who made them gleaned both lore and power from Kastenessen. His fate taught her the abhorrence which defines the seductions of the merewives.”

  Again Linden received the impression that she had wasted a question; that she should have been able to deduce his answer from the things he had said earlier. That her time was running out—

  At last, she found the resolve to straighten her back and raise her head so that she could look squarely at Esmer. Soon, she guessed, he would leave her to her confusion and ignorance; her useless ire. If she hoped to gain any “benefit” from his conflicted willingness, she had to do so now.

  Fearfully, she asked the question on which she had half consciously decided to stake her survival—and her son’s.

  “All right,” she repeated roughly. “I’ll try this.

  “Tell me about caesures, Falls. What are they? What do they do?”

  Without shifting his gaze, Esmer nodded. “They are flaws in time, caused and fed by wild magic.”

  He sounded oddly gratified, as though this question, at least—or his ability to answer it—vindicated him in some way.

  “Within them,” he explained, “the Law of Time, which requires that events transpire in sequence, and that one action must lead to another, is severed. Within them, every moment which has ever passed in their ambit as they move exists at once.”

  He seemed oblivious to the way in which his words intensified the air between them. Covenant had told her that white gold fed the Falls.

  “Wait a minute,” she protested. “Wait. I need to be sure I understand this. You can’t mean that I’m doing it?”

  “No,” Esmer stated as if the truth should have been obvious. “There is other white gold in the Land, a ring in the possession of a madwoman.”

  Linden groaned to herself. As she had feared from the beginning, Joan must have preceded her to the Land; summoned her. Joan was responsible for the caesures.

  “She knows little of what she does,” Esmer continued, “and intends less. Yet there is savagery in her, a hunger for ruin as great as that of the Raver which torments her. As her nightmares devour her, so caesures devour the Land, displacing objects and beings and powers, corroding the Law of Time. That the harm is not greater—that the Law of Time has not already been shattered—is due only to the form of her madness.

  “There is no willingness in her. She is merely haunted and broken and used. She cannot choose freely to abdicate her soul. Thus is her power restrained from utter havoc.”

  Oh, Joan. For a moment, Linden could not go on. Now she knew surely that she had cause
d the Land’s peril when she had restored Joan’s ring. Her fears then had been accurate; prescient. But she had set them aside because she had not understood that wild magic might reach across the boundary between realities.

  Somehow Joan’s wedding band, the emblem of her weaknesses and failures, had exposed her to the Despiser. The Falls were born of her despair, her self-inflicted pain.

  No wonder she had grown calmer when the ring touched her skin. Inadvertently Linden had given her an outlet for her anguish.

  “I did that,” Linden murmured. “I was supposed to take care of her, but I didn’t. Instead I made it possible—”

  Esmer gave her one quick glance, a look full of emeralds and suffering. Sweat beaded among the shadows on his face, and his lips were pale with strain. Then he turned away once more.

  Shaken, she did not immediately recognize that her nausea in his presence was growing worse; that his emanations were becoming more intense. In spite of her dismay, however, her nerves felt him clearly. He lived in endless conflict with himself; and his mothers’ harsh loathing had begun to regain its force.

  Trembling as if she were chilled, she forced herself to set aside her chagrin. “Are you all right?” she asked hesitantly.

  “Your time is short,” retorted Esmer. “You waste me. If I do not depart soon, I will smother this Haruchai where he lies. Then the Ranyhyn will be lost to me forever.”

  She swore to herself. It was too much. She had too many questions, and could not think quickly enough.

  Trying to hurry, she said, “I’m sorry. Make it easy on yourself. Just correct me if I’m wrong.

  “Anele is here,” brought forward through the millennia, “because he stumbled into a caesure.”

  The old man had said as much. But she had not known then that the Falls were composed of severed instants. Now she guessed that within a caesure it might be possible to cross time; that anyone who entered a caesure would almost inevitably emerge somewhen else.