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

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Facing Linden, but clearly speaking for the benefit of the other Masters, Stave explained the point which she had made.

  “Rather their return to the Plains of Ra was made possible by the Ramen. You spoke of ‘the plain, selfless devotion of ordinary men and women.’ And you averred that the Ranyhyn endeavored to make this known as a warning, so that such men as we are would not conceive that we must redeem the Land through any form of Mastery. To do so, you suggested, would be to repeat the folly of High Lord Elena, and perhaps of Kevin Landwaster and Kelenbhrabanal as well.”

  Stave paused as if to consult his memories; to assure himself that he had described her argument fairly. Then he lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug and went on.

  “Also you observed that both the form and the substance of the horserite offered a warning which I must not ignore. Therefore I consented to the will of the Ranyhyn. With you I partook of their dark waters, and was transformed.”

  Linden nodded, although he had not asked for her confirmation. Intent on him, she listened, unable to turn away.

  At last, he lifted his face to the few Masters among the broad empty spaces of the Close. “The perils which the Ranyhyn have foreseen for the Chosen are strait and arduous. They fear her as I do. They fear that the burdens of this age may be too great for her to bear.

  “To me the great horses offered no such caution.

  “Masters, kinsmen—” Again Stave paused for thought; and again he shrugged. Without raising his voice, he announced distinctly, “When I had drunk of the mind-blending waters, I learned that the Ranyhyn laughed at me.”

  Linden stared, unable to conceal her amazement. At her side, Liand’s aura showed that he, too, had expected to hear something very different. But Mahrtiir gave a snort of vindication, which his Cords echoed more discreetly.

  Yet the Masters around the Close listened as if they felt nothing: no surprise or indignation; no uncertainty. The features of Handir and the Humbled were as unreactive as engravings.

  Stolidly Stave explained, “Their laughter did not resemble Corruption’s, scornful and demeaning. The Giants laugh so, and it gives no hurt. Rather it was kindly and—” He hesitated for a moment, murmuring, “Such speech is awkward.” But then he pronounced clearly, “Their laughter was both kindly and affectionate. The Ranyhyn conceived no ill of me. They merely wished to express that they found amusement in my belief that our service is sufficient to the Land’s need.

  “Our Mastery amuses them. In their sight, we are too small to comprehend or gauge all of the paths which may lead to triumph or Desecration. Though they are beings of Earthpower and mystery, they do not claim for themselves either the discernment or the courage to determine the Land’s defense.”

  For a few heartbeats, Stave fell silent. He may have felt that his people needed time to absorb what he had said. Then he resumed.

  “At the same time, laughing, they desired me to grasp that they have declared themselves utterly to the service of the Chosen. They will bear her wheresoever she wills, until the end of days. Her paths may enter Falls and the hazardous depths of time. Each and all of her choices may conduce to ruin. Yet will they bear her gladly. Indeed, they deem themselves fortunate to serve her.

  “It is sooth,” he pronounced as if he were passing sentence, “that she may damn the Land. Yet the Ranyhyn believe that she will not. In their eyes, the Land’s life and hope require them to believe that she will not.”

  Around him, tension gathered. It seemed to well up from the twists and flaws of the floor, drift down from the obscured ceiling, until it became so thick that the light of the lamps flickered and dimmed.

  Stave’s kinsmen were taking umbrage.

  Now his tone appeared to quicken, although his words maintained their uninflected tread.

  “Masters, you will decide as you must, according to your beliefs. Doubtless it is difficult for the people who gave birth to the Guardian of the One Tree to consider themselves small. But the Manethrall has spoken aptly, though he knew it not.

  “I have shared the horserite of the Ranyhyn, and have learned that we are not greater than they. Nor are we greater than the Ramen, who are content with service, and who do not attempt to alter that which lies beyond them.”

  Mahrtiir muttered gruff approval. Surprise and wonder shone from the faces of his Cords.

  Stave’s voice took on a palpable sharpness. “Nor are we greater than this Stonedownor, the least of the Chosen’s companions, for he seeks only to join his cause with hers, and to partake in beauties and powers which we have withheld from him.”

  As he spoke, the assembled Masters watched him with darkness in their eyes, despite the many lamps; and the muscles at the corners of Handir’s jaw knotted and released with the heaviness of a deathwatch. Slowly the Humbled closed their hands into fists.

  But Liand seemed not to notice the tightening among the Haruchai. Instead he simply stared at Stave, astonished to hear a Master say such things. And Linden, who felt the rise of tension, ignored it to listen and hold her breath, waiting for Stave’s conclusion.

  Finally he turned again so that he stood facing the Voice of the Masters across the distorted stone. The lamplight emphasized the unwonted intensity in his gaze as he announced, “Because I have heard the laughter of the great horses, I will cast my lot with the Chosen. I cannot do less than the Ranyhyn. Whatever may befall her, I will endeavor to prove that I am equal to my fears.”

  Linden hugged the Staff of Law to her chest with both arms, blinking furiously to hold back her tears. She wept too easily and did not mean to do so now.

  At last—she breathed to herself. God, at last!

  Stave of the Haruchai had brought her to Revelstone for this: so that he could declare himself in front of his people.

  He had finally become her friend.

  12.

  Find Me

  She could not imagine what the Masters would do now. But their accumulated judgment had a tangible force which seemed to bear down upon her from the sides of the Close, as heavy as Revelstone’s unillumined rock.

  It felt like animosity.

  She spared a glance and a quick nod for Liand’s open relief and Mahrtiir’s begrudged approval. Then she rose to her feet, holding the Staff before her like a talisman. At once, Liand and the Manethrall came to stand beside her.

  Escorted by her friends, she approached Stave and bowed deeply, hoping that he would recognize the scale of her gratitude. However, the bow which he returned to her resembled a farewell more than an acknowledgment. His manner conveyed the impression that for her sake he had turned his back on more things than she could understand.

  She wanted to ask him how the Masters would respond to his profession of faith; but her throat was full of other words which demanded utterance.

  Meeting his single gaze, she said with her whole heart, “Thank you. I owe you more than I can ever repay.

  “You’ve already done so much for me. You’ve been true—” Her voice broke momentarily. “I can’t even begin to describe how glad I am—”

  In this place, she could not go further. Handir had not yet pronounced judgment upon her.

  Dispassionately, as if he had no interest in her gratitude, Stave replied, “You are Linden Avery the Chosen. The Ranyhyn have taught me that I cannot refuse your service.”

  “Still,” she countered, smiling sadly, “I hope that someday you’ll be sure you did the right thing.”

  Because she was determined not to weep, she bowed again, as deeply as before. Then she turned toward the Voice of the Masters.

  There she froze. The merciless clarity in his eyes chilled her: it seemed to settle like frost on her bones. She had to swallow a mouthful of dread before she could speak.

  Awkwardly she asked, “So what’s it going to be? Are we on the same side?” His gaze covered her with rime. She had to cling to the Staff’s warmth to keep her voice from shaking. “Will you let me have Anele? Will you give me your help?”

 
“How will the sleepless ones refuse?” put in Mahrtiir. His tone held a sting of asperity. “Stave has confirmed the will of the Ranyhyn. Naught else signifies.”

  But Handir did not choose to heed the Manethrall. Instead he replied, “Stand aside, Linden Avery. Another matter requires precedence. I will reply when it has been addressed.”

  Commanded by his certainty, she stepped back, drawing Mahrtiir and Liand with her.

  For a moment, Handir appeared to commune with all of the Masters mutely, mind to mind. When he was satisfied with their response, he nodded sternly; and the three Humbled moved closer.

  Instinctively Linden lifted the Staff higher, thinking that the Humbled meant to reclaim Anele. But they did not. When they reached Handir’s side, Galt moved forward to confront Stave.

  They faced each other in silence, as poised as predators, and as relaxed. They might have been living statues, motionless except for the subtle flex of their respiration; sculptures positioned to form a tableau of arcane and ambiguous intent. Then, without warning, Galt lashed a kick at Stave’s chest.

  Stave made no move to defend himself. Only a hard flat exhalation indicated that he was prepared for the blow. He stood like stone to receive it.

  The kick drove him backward a step; two. Linden could see its impact jolt through him, forceful as a sledgehammer. But then he regained his poise. Only a brief accentuation of his breathing betrayed that he had been struck.

  “Heaven and Earth!” Liand cried. Whipping his garrote from his hair, Mahrtiir launched himself at Galt’s back with the suddenness of a panther. At the same time, Bhapa and Pahni leaped to their feet and rushed forward.

  “No!” Linden gasped after the Manethrall. “Stop!”

  An arm’s length from Galt, Mahrtiir halted; wheeled to face her.

  She seemed to feel the power of Galt’s kick in her own chest. She could hardly choke out words.

  “This is between them.” She understood Galt’s attack. Long ago she had watched the Haruchai pass judgment on Cail. She had feared that their violence would kill him. “Stave has to do this. You know how he feels about help.”

  Unwitting flames licked along the surface of the Staff. Grimly she quenched them.

  Mahrtiir hesitated. His desire for battle burned like the fires which lit the Close. But he heard Linden—and respected her judgment. Growling, “Sleepless ones,” as though the words were an obscenity, he returned to her side. With a brusque wave of his hand, he motioned the Cords back to their seats.

  “Linden,” protested Liand under his breath, “they are Masters. They may be able to slay him.”

  Through her teeth, she repeated, “This is between them.” She could not forget how Esmer had torn into Stave, delivering millennia of rage despite the Haruchai’s best efforts to defend himself. “He’s already been shamed enough.”

  Galt did not renew his attack. Instead he withdrew; and Clyme came forward to take his place.

  Again the two Masters faced each other in stillness. They may have been sparring mentally, probing each other’s mind for openings or weakness. When Clyme exploded into motion, he did not kick or punch. Rather he leaped high into the air, driving down at Stave’s shoulder with his elbow and all of his weight.

  The Master was trying to cripple Stave—

  Once again, Stave made no effort to defend himself. This time, however, he shifted slightly at the last instant so that Clyme’s elbow struck muscle rather than bone. The blow almost drove him to his knees; but it broke nothing.

  Like Galt, Clyme withdrew, and the last of the Humbled advanced to challenge Stave.

  Apparently Branl had decided to try for surprise by attacking immediately. Before Stave could set aside the pain in his shoulder, Branl hooked a vicious punch to the left side of his face: the blind side. Branl’s knuckles dug deep into the puckered flesh of Stave’s scar, pounding against the damaged tissue and bone beneath it.

  Stave’s head rocked as if he had been clubbed: he barely kept his balance. But he did not repay the blow. The flat stare of his right eye suggested an acceptance more profound than resignation.

  Branl may or may not have been satisfied. Linden could not tell. Sympathetic hurts ached in her chest, her shoulder, her cheek. But the Humbled stepped aside without hesitation.

  Moving slowly, the Voice of the Masters stepped in front of Stave.

  Linden’s restraint broke. “Oh, come on!” she snapped, although she knew that Stave did not desire her intervention, and would not approve. “How much longer are you going to do this? There’s just one of him, for God’s sake! How much of your self-righteousness do you think he can stand?”

  Neither Handir nor Stave answered her. But the Voice of the Masters may have been tired of her objections. Instead of probing mentally, he addressed Stave aloud.

  “You have set yourself against the will of the Masters, when that will has not yet been decided. Indeed, you have endeavored to impose your will upon us, shaming us with your words and your example. But the Masters are not shamed. We will not be shamed.

  “We will consider your words and your example when we are ready to determine our path. But we will no longer heed you. Henceforth you are severed from the Masters, as from all of the Haruchai. When the rite of our disapproval has been completed, no hand will be raised against you. If you speak as I do now, you will be answered. But you are excluded from the true speech of the Haruchai, and if you call out you will not be heard. Nor will you be permitted to return to your home among the mountains. There will be no place for you. You have declared your allegiance. Now you must abide its outcome.

  “This is my word. I will not alter it.”

  So suddenly that Linden hardly saw him move, Handir attacked.

  Like the Humbled, he struck only once. Unlike them, however, he used just the palm of his hand. And his blow seemed easy and fluid, hardly more than a light thrust. Yet Stave burst backward as though he had been kicked by a Ranyhyn. He tumbled through the air; slammed helplessly to the rough stone. For a heartbeat or two, he lay motionless.

  Before Linden could start toward him, however, he raised his head. When he had braced his hands on the floor, he climbed slowly to his feet. Bright blood pulsed from the corner of his mouth as he resumed his stance. She could not imagine where he found the strength to remain standing.

  The Voice of the Masters held Stave’s gaze for a long moment. Then he turned to Linden. “Be content,” he told her stolidly. “The rite has been completed.”

  Blood splashed the front of Stave’s tunic, staining the ochre fabric with darkness. He did not deign to wipe it away.

  “You’re wrong,” Linden panted. “It’s not over.” She needed all of her resolve to withhold fire from the Staff. “It’ll never be over. Someday you’re going to understand that you’ve made a terrible mistake.”

  Handir replied with a slight shrug. When she fell silent, still panting, he said in the same tone, “There is much here which the Masters must consider. We will not choose our response in haste. Nevertheless our debate must now be curtailed.

  “Certain of our scouts seek to return. They run before the host of the Demondim, calling to forewarn us as they ride. And they are not alone. They have retrieved two”—he paused and glanced away as if consulting the air, then met Linden’s gaze again—“two strangers from the path of the Vile-spawn.” Complex intentions seemed to undermine the flatness of his gaze. “They hasten toward us, pursued by the Demondim.

  “We are summoned to greet the approach of our scouts, and of the strangers with them, as well as to answer an imminent siege.”

  Linden scowled bitterly; but before she could pose a question, Handir announced, “This much I may grant, however. The madman Anele we release to you. Let it be upon your head if harm should befall the Land through any deed or inaction of his.

  “All else which lies between us must remain unresolved until events permit consideration and decision.”

  Expressionless and impenetrable, the Voice of the
Masters strode past Linden toward the uneven slope leading up to the entrance of the Close. As one, the Humbled and the other Haruchai followed after him, leaving only Stave behind to guide Linden and her companions.

  She would have sworn at his back if she could have thought of a curse harsh enough to breach his dispassion.

  As soon as Handir and the other Masters had passed, she hurried toward Stave. “Are you all right?” His bleeding filled her with shame. She felt an almost unbearable yearning to cleanse it from him; to heal him. “Do you want my help?”

  He shook his head. “Hurts of the flesh have no significance. The severance from my people is a deeper wound, beyond your succor.” His eye held her stricken gaze without flinching. “In their place, I would have done as they have.”

  “But, Stave—” She tried to protest, but her dismay surpassed her.

  Swallowing blood, he continued, “We must witness the approach of the Demondim and these strangers.” A lift of his undamaged shoulder seemed to indicate the silence in his mind. His voice held an added stiffness like a hint of denied bereavement. “If we do not, we will be ignorant of what transpires.”

  Still Linden wanted to weep for him; rail at the Masters; demand their acquiescence with fire. But there had been something in Handir’s tone when he had mentioned strangers—Although she could not read him, she had felt a change in his demeanor; a slippage behind his impassivity.

  He had recognized the newcomers—

  She remained motionless for a moment while her mind wheeled, grasping at possibilities which she could not define. Then she sighed. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

  In spite of his injuries, the Haruchai turned at once to lead the way.

  When she looked toward her friends, Liand nodded in spite of his chagrin. Glowering, Mahrtiir beckoned for his Cords to join him; and together Pahni and Bhapa brought Anele, encouraging him gently.

  As she began the ascent to the entryway, Linden’s sense of loss grew. She felt that she was treading across Trell’s pain; that her boot heels wounded the twisted stone. When she reached the entrance, her mouth had gone dry; and the air beyond the chamber smelled of smoke and ashes, as if something more essential than lamp oil and torches were being consumed.