Handir paused, apparently offering Mahrtiir an opportunity to respond. But the Manethrall said nothing, and his fierce glare seemed to defy the Masters. With a shrug, Handir continued his reply.
“Preparations against the Demondim have begun, though you do not witness our efforts. As you have observed, we cannot equal the might of the Demondim. Therefore the watchtower is being filled with wood and oil, and made ready for fire. Any approach to the gates of Revelstone will fall in flames.”
And rise again, Linden thought darkly, until you run out of fuel. If the gates hold at all.
They troubled her for some reason. There was a question that she wanted to ask, but it eluded her. She was too tired to remember—
“Other preparations also have begun,” the Voice of the Masters promised. “You may partake in them, and in the defense of the Keep, if that is your desire.”
Still Mahrtiir glared at the Master on Linden’s behalf, and said nothing.
Again Handir shrugged. The Haruchai with him did not react to Mahrtiir’s belligerence.
“In one matter, however,” explained Handir, “you have spoken sooth. No defense will ward us from the evil of the Illearth Stone. Yet at present the Demondim do not wield it against us. Nor do they approach the gates. For reasons which we do not comprehend, they appear content to remain at some distance, ensuring that we cannot flee, but threatening us in no other form.
“We have heard your voice, Manethrall. Hear mine. Until we have determined how we must respond to the Chosen, we have no better course than to make our guests welcome as best we may.”
Abruptly Linden jerked up her head. Responsive to her mood, Hyn took a step or two forward, moving between Mahrtiir and the Voice of the Masters.
“The gates,” Linden said. “Now I remember. Where in hell did you get gates?”
When she had entered here three and a half thousand years ago, there were no gates below the watchtower. They had been destroyed long before. And the Sandgorgon Nom had shattered the Keep’s inner defenses at Covenant’s behest. Yet now both sets of gates were closed: great interlocking stone doors which sealed the Keep as effectively as blank walls.
Stave had said that Giants still visited the Land—
Handir paused as if he were consulting with his people. Then he asked, “Do you require to speak of this now, Chosen? You are weary. Your questions will be answered when you have rested.”
“I don’t know how to trust you,” Linden countered thinly. “Stave knows why. Tell me about the damn gates.”
Handir met her gaze with the ambiguous light of the torches in his eyes. “They were gifted to Revelstone by the Giants of the Search. More I will not say now. We will speak of all that lies between us when you are better able to do so.
“Here is Galt.” With a nod, he indicated a Master standing behind his shoulder. “He will guide you to chambers where you may sleep. We will gather on the morrow to speak of your plight, and of Revelstone’s. There your questions will be answered.”
Linden nodded. “All right. That’s fair enough, I guess. God knows I’m exhausted,” so tired that she could barely keep her thoughts in order. “So are my friends.
“There’s just one more thing.”
One more absolute responsibility. Then she would let herself sleep. With an effort, she pushed down the rising force of her weariness, and looked around for Anele.
She spotted him across the hall from her just as two Masters reached up to lift him down from Hrama’s back.
He was still asleep. Otherwise he would not have suffered their touch without protest. But he roused as soon as they took hold of him, and immediately began to struggle, thrashing against them as if the touch of their hard hands burned him.
Reacting to Anele’s distress, Hrama whinnied sharply. The other Ranyhyn tossed their heads and stamped their hooves anxiously. But they did not move against the Haruchai.
However, Hyn answered Linden’s swift alarm by shouldering her way between the warriors and their horses toward the old man. Alert now, and frantic, Linden shouted over the crowd, “Just a minute! Anele stays with me!”
In her hands, she held up the Staff like a threat.
At once, half a dozen Masters came together across her path, forming a barricade against her. Hyn shoved at them with her chest, then stepped back, awaiting Linden’s will.
“God damn it,” Linden protested, “aren’t you listening?” She could have swept them apart in an instant; but she would not. No matter what happened, they were not her enemies. “I said he stays with me! I promised him my protection.”
“Protect!” the old man panted as he twisted against the grasp of his captors. “Linden Avery! Protect Anele!”
Impassively Handir joined the barrier of Masters. The torches cast indecipherable shadows across his face. Galt stood at Hyn’s head as if his mere presence might restrain the mare.
Mahrtiir moved quickly to Linden’s side, with Pahni and Liand close behind him. Like Linden, the Stonedownor had not yet dismounted. Apprehension and resolve clenched his face.
“The old man is ours,” announced Handir. Stave had said the same when he had first captured Anele, after the collapse of Kevin’s Watch. “We do not permit freedom to such beings.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Linden snapped back. “Not this again. Hasn’t Stave talked to you? Don’t you people ever learn?”
Gasping, and unable to break free, Anele abruptly ceased his struggles. His blind gaze reproached Linden.
She did not doubt that Hyn and Rhohm could have thrust past the Masters. No Haruchai would lift his hand against the Ranyhyn. But that forbearance might not extend to her and Liand—or to the Ramen—in spite of Handir’s welcome.
“Sure,” she went on, “he’s full of Earthpower. So are the Ranyhyn. He can do things other people can’t. So can they. That doesn’t make them a threat. His power isn’t something he uses. It’s something he is.
“Hasn’t Stave told you that he loves the Land as much as you do? That the only thing he wants is to be of use?” Anele’s helpless stare tore at her heart. “He can’t forgive himself for losing the Staff until he does something to make restitution.” And his madness made that impossible. “That’s why being a prisoner hurts him so much. He can’t do anything to help the Land when you’ve got him locked away.”
Handir may have shrugged. “Yet the Earthpower within him cannot be set aside. Therefore his deeds will serve Corruption, whatever his intentions may be. And therefore we will not release him.”
Furiously Linden turned to scan the hall for Stave. She had healed him. More than once—He could vouch for Anele.
She found him moving slowly toward her. His wounds had left him painfully weak. Nevertheless he spurned his frailty, holding up his head as though he defied anyone to challenge him.
“Stave,” she urged at once, “tell them. You heard Anele’s story. You know what he’s been through. You’ve seen what he can do. Tell them.”
As if in response, Stave walked arduously past her to join the barricade between her and the old man.
When he had positioned himself among his kinsmen, he faced her. “Chosen,” he said in a wan voice, “you also do not appear to learn. Again you have shamed me with your healing. And I have permitted you to lift the burden of my failures from me. Do you now imagine that my people will heed whatever I might say?
“Anele will not be harmed. That is the given word of the Haruchai. There is no need to fear for him.”
But I promised him! Linden wanted to cry out. Yet she knew that she could not sway the Master. She could not sway any of them.
She felt like tearing her hair in frustration. “I can stop you,” she told Handir through her teeth. “You know I can.”
The Voice of the Masters shook his head. His gaze did not waver. “You hold great powers. Yet if we determine that we must wrest them from you, do you truly doubt that we will prevail?”
Her worst fear—
Perhaps he could see into her heart. H
e may have known that she would not strike out at him.
“Linden.” Carefully Liand leaned from Rhohm’s back to rest his hand like an appeal on her arm. “They have offered us rest and sustenance, which we sorely need. Many of them were slain to procure our escape. And they have vowed that they will not harm Anele. Would it not be well to grant them their will until the morrow, when we may speak of him again?”
If we’re still alive, Linden thought bitterly. If the Demondim haven’t torn this whole place apart.
Mahrtiir made a spitting sound, but did not protest.
Helpless in the hands of the Masters, Anele’s gasping sounded like sobs.
Linden did not glance at Liand. Instead she glared into Handir’s flat visage.
“He’s terrified of you. With good reason, as it turns out. If you hurt just one hair on his poor old head—” Abruptly she thrust her face closer to the Master. Whispering, she warned him, “If you do that, I’ll know whose side you’re really on.”
Before Handir could respond, she turned Hyn and rode away to the far end of the forehall, seeking to lose herself in shadows because she could no longer bear the reproach in Anele’s eyes.
Awhile later, still fuming, she entered the chambers which had been prepared for her and closed the door on Galt; nearly slammed it in his face. He was the only Master present, and her distress required an outlet.
She had seen the Ranyhyn led away, accompanied by the Ramen and followed by the Demondim-spawn. She had watched Anele taken from the forehall as gently as his frail resistance permitted. And she had nodded a temporary farewell to Liand when one of the Masters had urged him from her side. Now she was alone with her anger and her fear.
Anele had survived worse affronts than imprisonment by the Masters. Physically he would be well. But his despair might grow too great for his broken mind to contain.
In addition, most of the ur-viles and Waynhim had been killed for her sake. A frightening number of the Haruchai had been slain. Revelstone was besieged: it would soon fall. In spite of all her efforts, she had earned no support from Stave. She had risked the Arch of Time in order to retrieve the Staff; but she still had done nothing to rescue her son.
She was alone because she needed to be. She did not know how else to bear her sense of futility.
She had no idea where in the great Keep her rooms were located. Her scant familiarity with Revelstone was useless when few of the passages and stairways were lit. In fact, few of them seemed to be frequented at all. More than once, her boots had raised dust from the stone. Occasionally Galt had led her through pockets of stale air. And they had encountered no one along the way. The Masters believed that they served the Land; but Lord’s Keep was nearly empty.
Yet her quarters showed signs of care. The rooms were clean and fresh, with oil lamps glowing on small tables and stands, and a faint scent of soap in the air. Rough-woven rugs softened the smooth granite floors, while similar hangings eased the starkness of the walls. And when she closed the door and latched it, the old stone seemed to seal her away from the rest of the Keep, warding her from Masters and peril.
Here she was safe, at least temporarily, and could rest.
There were three rooms, a compact suite. The outer door had admitted her to a chamber with a few stone chairs, a low table for food, and a fireplace with a supply of wood. Beyond it lay a bedroom, empty except for a narrow bed, a large rug, and a shuttered window. And beyond that she found a bathroom with a basin, a rudimentary commode, a small tub, an urn filled with fine sand for scrubbing, and a system of simple valves which opened to release streams of water. A stand in the corner held a pile of flaxen towels neatly folded.
When she thought of bathing, she began to tremble.
Reaction setting in, she told herself. For days she had been under more strain than she knew how to handle: now she had been given rooms that felt safe, even though they were threatened by siege and betrayal. Here she could finally wash off days of grime and frenzy. With the Staff beside her, she might even be able to sleep.
Shivering in the cool air, she returned to the main room, where she built a fire in the hearth, lighting it with one of the lamps and feeding it with slivers of wood until it burned strongly. Then she went back to the bathroom.
Setting aside the Staff cost her an effort. Instinctively she clung to its severe cleanliness. But she needed a bath. When she had propped the wood against the wall, she ran water into the tub and stripped off her clothes.
In the bath, the cold of the water stung her skin. It must have arisen from a mountain spring and been drawn by gravity into pipes and conduits within Revelstone’s walls, where it was kept cold by the surrounding rock. But she fought the chill. Fumbling sand onto her arms and legs, her torso, her head, she rubbed them until she felt raw. Then she pulled her clothes into the water and did the same to them.
For all of her scrubbing, however, she could not remove the grass stains from her pants. They had become part of the fabric, indelible, and cryptic as runes.
And soon the chattering of her teeth drove her from the tub. Wrapping one of the rough towels around her, she hastened toward the warmth of the fire. There gradually the crackling heat soaked into her, easing the clench of her muscles and the deep pang of the cold; and she began to relax.
When she was warm, she returned to the bathroom, wrung out her clothes, and brought them to the fire, hanging them over the backs of chairs near the hearth to dry.
Now she wished that she had a comb. Her hair would be a mess when it dried. But she ran her fingers through it by the comfortable flames, untangling it as best she could. That would have to suffice. She had no energy left for vanity.
Then she began to feel hungry. Knowing the Haruchai, she felt sure that one of them—Galt, presumably—stood outside her door, guarding her; or guarding against her. If she opened the door, she could ask him for something to eat.
She did not. Instead she continued to sit by the fire, staring into the indecipherable dance of the flames while she forced herself to think about her circumstances.
And about Anele.
She told herself that she should prepare for the morrow; for the confrontation she had been promised. Always assuming, of course, that the Demondim could be held back so long. More than that, however, she needed to devise some stratagem which would allow her to bypass the horde and head for Mount Thunder.
She had not forgotten her desire to visit Andelain. If any guidance remained in the Land, she would find it there. But every day that slipped away from her only multiplied Jeremiah’s suffering. Now that she knew where to look for him, she intended to postpone other considerations.
But she could not concentrate: her weary thoughts seemed to bleed away from her. Rather than making plans, she found herself remembering the hazard and bloodshed which had purchased her escape from the Demondim.
Slain Haruchai and slaughtered horses haunted her. Blasts of opalescent acid devoured raw chunks of pain and death, while blurred forms shifted in and out of definition. Fanged flails of emerald scourged flesh to tatters, and yet represented only a small portion of the Illearth Stone’s potential evil.
Despite the peril, however, Anele had dropped from Hrama’s back to become an avatar of fire and rage. When his feet had touched the bare dirt, the bitterness of some other being had taken possession of him. He had been transformed—
—just as he had been in the open center of the Verge of Wandering.
Linden struggled to grasp the implications.
In at least one phase of his madness, apparently, the old man’s vulnerability was defined or controlled by the nature of the ground on which he stood. For the few days that she had known him in her proper time, she had only seen his feet touch bare dirt twice; and both times he had immediately begun to rave with heat and flame. But in the Land’s past he had evinced nothing similar. Instead every aspect of his madness with which she was familiar had been modified beyond recognition. There, in the presence of the Staff, he had c
ome close to ordinary sanity.
Perhaps his passage through the first caesure had taken him out of reach—
And the same was true, she realized suddenly, whenever Anele was on horseback. More than once, she had observed that he seemed less troubled when he rode. During their escape from Mithil Stonedown, Lord Foul’s grasp on his spirit had disappeared when he had been lifted onto Somo’s back. And after that it had not recurred until—
No, it had not recurred at all; not fully. From Somo’s back, Anele had climbed onto the rocks around the Mithil’s Plunge. Behind the Plunge, he had been wracked by an entirely different form of pain. And after that, during their ascent toward the cleft where they had later been attacked by the kresh—during that difficult trudge—
Damn it, she could not remember. But she seemed to recall that he had vacillated between varying manifestations of his insanity, shedding glimpses of Despite and woe. And where they walked had been primarily a kind of scrub-grass, hardy and thin, interspersed with patches of bare dirt and sections of fallen stone.
He had been standing on grass of that same kind when Lord Foul had guided her to hurtloam. And earlier, when the Despiser had first spoken to her through Anele: the same grass.
Dear God, was it possible?
He has no friend but stone.
Did the surface on which he stood determine the phase of his madness? Or did that surface control which of several beings or spirits could locate and possess him?
Thomas Covenant had spoken to her through Anele twice, on the lush grass of the Verge of Wandering: grass so rich and high that she had been unable to walk through it without floundering; the same grass which had stained her pants with a script which she did not know how to interpret.
In the rubble of Kevin’s Watch, and again among the shattered rocks which had filled the cleft, as well as on the piled granite of the ridge above the Verge of Wandering, he had professed to read what was written within the stones. He had seemed almost lucid—On more polished stone, he had appeared more broken and fearful; but still he had seemed able to understand what was said to him—and to offer an occasional coherent response. And—
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