Without thinking, Linden surged up from her bed; dropped the Staff as well as her sheet so that she could fling her arms around the Mahdoubt. Her heart was not too hard to be touched. She had spent years starving for some embrace-She did not want power over her friend; yet it had been given to her freely. She knew no other language for her gratitude.
The Mahdoubt returned Linden’s hug briefly. Then she stepped back. “Pssht, my lady.” Her voice was redolent with affection. “The Mahdoubt merely departs. She does not pass away. Will you encounter her again? Be assured of it. It is as certain-”
“-as the rising and setting of the sun,” finished Linden. She wanted to smile, but could not. Even when her other friends arrived, she would be effectively alone without the Mahdoubt. Liand, Stave, Anele, and the Ramen: none of them would understand what had happened to her as the Mahdoubt did. “And by then I’ll probably have even more reasons to be grateful.”
The Mahdoubt bowed over her girth. “Then all is well,” she murmured, “while the sun continues in its course.”
With her head still lowered, she left the bedroom.
Dry-eyed and aching, Linden turned away so that she would not witness the Insequent’s departure. She did not hear the outer door of her rooms open or close. Nevertheless she felt the older woman’s sudden absence as if the Mahdoubt had stepped into a gap between instants and slipped out of time.
Shaken, Linden went into the bathroom. While she washed and dried her face, donned her well-scrubbed clothes, and tucked Jeremiah’s toy deep into one pocket, she willed herself to shed at least a few tears of thanks and sadness. But she could not. Under Melenkurion Skyweir, her capacity for weeping had been burned away.
Chapter Three: Tales Among Friends
Linden was eating cheese, grapes, and cold mutton, and washing them down with draughts of Glimmermere’s roborant, when she heard Liand knock at her door. She recognised his touch through the heavy granite by its mingled eagerness and anxiety; and she stood up at once to answer, although the door was not latched. She was eager and anxious herself. Among a host of other things, she did not know how long she had been gone from Revelstone, or how Lord’s Keep had fared against the Demondim; and she needed confirmation that her friends were unharmed.
As she opened the door, Liand burst unceremoniously into the room. He may have assumed that he would be met-and thwarted-by the Mahdoubt. When he caught sight of Linden, however, his open face seemed to catch light. His eyes shone with pleasure, and his black brows soared. At once, he wrapped her in a fierce, brief hug. Then he stepped back, simultaneously abashed and glowing.
“Linden,” he breathed as if his throat were too crowded with emotion for any other words. “Oh, Linden.”
Behind him, Manethrall Mahrtiir swept in, avid as a hawk. Standing before Linden, he gave her a deep Ramen bow, with his arms extended toward her on either side of his head, and his palms outward. His garrote bound his hair, and a garland of fresh amanibhavam hung about his neck. The sharp scent of the flowers emphasised his edged tone as he said, “Ringthane, you are well returned-and well restored. When first you appeared, we feared for you, though the Mahdoubt and our own discernment gave assurance that you required only rest. Our troubled hearts are now made glad.”
Mahrtiir’s accustomed sternness made his greeting seem almost effusive; but Linden had no time to reply. Bhapa and Pahni followed their Manethrall, bowing as well. The older Cord’s eyes were moist and grateful: an unwonted display of emotion for a Raman. But Pahni’s plain joy was more complex. She appeared to feel more than one kind of happiness, as if her delight at Linden’s recovery subsumed a deeper and more private gladness. And Linden detected a secret undercurrent of concern.
Leading Anele by the arm, Stave entered behind the Ramen. The old man suffered Stave’s touch without discomfort: apparently even he understood that the Haruchai was no longer a Master. His moonstone gaze passed over Linden as if he were unaware of her. Instead of acknowledging her, he shook off Stave’s hand, strode over to the tray of food, sat down, and began to eat as if his decades of privation had left him perpetually hungry.
Stave responded to Anele’s behaviour with a delicate shrug. Then he faced Linden and bowed. His flat features and impassive mien revealed nothing: she still could not read him. But his remaining eye held an unfamiliar brightness; and she guessed that her absence had been uniquely harsh for him. No doubt he judged himself severely for failing to protect her. In addition, however, he had sacrificed more in her name than any of her other friends. Liand had turned his back on his home, and the Ramen had left behind their lives among their people; but Stave had been effectively excommunicated by his kinsmen.
All of his wounds were long healed. In the place of his torn and soiled garment, he wore a clean tunic. Only his missing eye betrayed the scale of his losses.
Linden gazed at all of her companions with affection and relief. Often in her life, she had felt that she wept too easily. Now she regretted that she had no tears to show her friends how she felt about them. She could see that none of them had been harmed while she was away.
But she did not return Stave’s bow, or those of the Ramen. She did not reply to Liand or Mahrtiir. They had not come into her rooms alone: two of the Humbled had followed them. Galt and Clyme stood poised on either side of the open door as if they suspected her of some insidious betrayal.
Many of the Masters had been slaughtered by the Demondim. More may have suffered in the battle between Esmer and the ur-viles. And they had not interfered with Linden’s attack on the horde’s caesure. But she had not forgotten what they had done to the people of the Land, or how they had refused her own pleading. And she would not forgive their repudiation of Stave. She remembered their blows as though her own body had been struck.
“Stave,” she asked as though she stood on Gallows Howe and desired bloodshed, “what’s going on?”
“Chosen,” he relied flatly. “they are chary of me.”
Surprised, she demanded, “You mean that they don’t think they’ve punished you enough?”
Stave shook his head. “As you know, my people will no longer address their thoughts to me, or respond to mine. When I had experienced their rejection for a time, I found that I wished to foil it. Though I comprehend their denunciation, I became loath to countenance it. Therefore I have learned to mute my inward voice. I hear the silent speech of the Masters, but they do not hear mine.”
While Linden stared at him, he continued, “Formerly the Humbled might remain in the passage with the door sealed, and yet would know all that I heard and said and thought. But now my mind is hidden from them. If they do not stand in your presence, they will learn nothing of your tale or your purposes, for they judge rightly that I will not reveal you to them.”
“Stave-” His explanation filled her with such wonder that she could hardly find words. “Anyone who makes the mistake of underestimating you deserves what happens.” Then she fought down her awe and ire. The Land has had some great heroes. I’ve known a few myself,” too many to bear. “But you-all of you”- she looked around at Liand, Anele, and the Ramen- “could hold your heads up in any company.”
Then she faced Stave again. Articulating each word precisely, she said, But I can’t talk in front of these halfhands.” What had happened to her was too personal. “I need them to wait outside. I know this is a lot to ask. And I’ll understand if you don’t want to do it. But I hope that you’ll agree to answer their questions after we’re done here. Assure them that you’ll tell them whatever they need to know.”
The Haruchai raised an eyebrow; but he did not object. Instead he glanced at Clyme and Galt. Without inflection, he said, “The Chosen has spoken. I will comply. You may depart.”
As he spoke, Linden folded her arms across her chest to conceal her fists. Glaring, she dared the Humbled to believe that Stave would not abide by his word.
They considered her for a moment. Then Galt countered. And if his judgment differs from ours, c
oncealing that which we would deem necessary? What then?”
Linden did not hesitate. “You’re forgetting something.” She had beaten back Roger Covenant and the croyel and Lord Foul’s manipulations. She had met Berek Halfhand and Damelon Giantfriend and the Theomach, the greatest of all Insequent. Caerroil Wildwood had given runes to her Staff. The Mahdoubt had crossed ten millennia to rescue her. She felt no impulse to doubt herself, or falter. The Land needs you. Even I need you. I’m still hoping that something will persuade you to help me. And Stave knows how you think. He won’t withhold anything that matters to you.”
Still neither of the Humbled moved. You speak of us as “halfhands”, observed Clyme. That name we accept, for we have claimed it in long combat, and our purpose among the Masters is honourable. But is it your belief that we are “the halfhand” of whom the Elohim sought to forewarn the people of the Land?”
She sighed, gripping herself tightly. “No. I know better.”
Galt, Branl, and Clyme represented that aspect of the Masters which might cause them to stand stubbornly aside when they were most needed. But she had seen the truth of Roger and the croyel. And Kastenessen himself might now be considered a halfhand. She was sure that the Elohim did not fear the Humbled.
For a moment longer, Clyme and Galt appeared to consult the air of the chamber, or perhaps the larger atmosphere of Revelstone. Then they left the room without further argument, closing the door behind them.
At last, Linden bowed to Stave. “Thank you.” When the Humbled were gone, some of her tension eased. She was finally able to look at her friends and smile.
Because Liand was the least reserved among them, and his apprehensions darkened his eyes, she faced him, although she spoke to the Ramen and Stave as well. “Please don’t misunderstand,” she urged with as much warmth as she could muster. “I probably don’t look happy to be back. But I am. It’s just that I’ve been through things that I don’t even know how to describe. For a while there, I didn’t think that I would ever see any of you again.” Her voice held steady when it should have quivered. “If the Mahdoubt hadn’t saved me, I would be as good as dead.”
The young Stonedownor’s face brimmed with questions. Linden held up her hand to forestall them.
“But now I know what I have to do. That’s what you see in me,” instead of gladness. “I was betrayed, and I’ve gone so far beyond anger that I might not come back. I want to hear what’s happened to all of you. I need to know how long I’ve been gone, and what the Demondim are doing. Then I have to find a way to leave Revelstone.” Trying to be clear, she finished, “I’ve been too passive. I’m tired of it. I want to start doing things that our enemies don’t expect.”
She was not surprised by Stave’s blunt nod, or by the sudden ferocity of Mahrtiir’s grin. And she took for granted that the Cords would follow their Manethrall in spite of their reasons for alarm, the ominous prophecies which they had heard from Anele. But Linden had expected doubt and worry from Liand: she was not prepared for the immediate excitement that brightened his gentle eyes. And Anele’s reaction actively startled her.
Swallowing a lump of mutton, he jumped to his feet. In a loud voice, he announced, “Anele no longer fears the creatures, the lost ones.” His head jerked from side to side as if he were searching for something. “He fears to remember. Oh, that he fears.” With one hand, he beckoned sharply to Liand, although he seemed unaware of the gesture. “And the Masters must be fled. So he proclaims to all who will heed him.
“But the others-” Abruptly his voice sank to a whisper. “They speak in Anele’s dreams. Their voices he fears more than horror and recrimination.”
His madness was visible in every line of his emaciated form. To some extent, however, it was vitiated by the fact that he stood on wrought stone. Here as on Kevin’s Watch, or in his gaol in Mithil Stonedown, he referred to himself as if he were someone else; but shaped or worn rock occasionally enabled him to respond with oblique poignancy to what was said and done around him.
Still he beckoned for Liand.
The others-?
“Linden-” said Liand awkwardly. The insistence of Anele’s gestures appeared to disturb him. He must have understood them. “I lack words to convey-”
“Then,” Mahrtiir instructed, “permit the Ringthane to witness his plight, as he desires. When she has beheld it, words will follow.”
The young man cast a look like an appeal at Linden; but he obeyed the Manethrall. Sighing unhappily, he reached to a sash at his waist, a pale blue strip of cloth which Linden had not seen before, and from which hung a leather pouch the size of his cupped hand. Untying the pouch, he slipped an object into his hand, took a deep breath to steady himself, then pressed the object into Anele’s grasp.
It was a smooth piece of stone, vaguely translucent-and distinctly familiar. Linden’s health-sense received an impression of compacted possibilities.
Anele’s fingers clenched immediately around the stone. At once, he flung back his head and wailed as though his heart were being torn from him.
Instinctively Linden moved toward the old man. But Liand reached out to stop her; and Mahrtiir barked. “Withhold, Ringthane! Anele wishes this.”
An instant later, a rush of power from Anele’s closed fist washed away every hint of his lunacy.
Linden jerked to a halt and stared. That was Earthpower, but it was not Anele’s inborn strength. Rather his latent force catalysed or evoked a different form of magic; a particular eldritch energy which she had known long ago.
Then the flood of puissance passed, and Anele fell silent. Slowly he lowered his head. When he looked at Linden, his blind gaze focused on her as if he could see.
“Linden Avery,” he said hoarsely. “Chosen and Sun-Sage. White gold wielder. You are known to me.”
“Anele,” she breathed. “You’re sane.”
None of her companions showed any surprise, although their distress was plain. They had recognised the old man’s gestures; must have seen this transformation before-
“I am,” he acknowledged, and do not wish it. It torments me, for it is clarity without succour. I cannot heal the harm that I have wrought. But I must speak and be understood. They ask it of me.”
“They”?” urged Linden. Anele had endured Lord Foul’s brutal presence, and Kastenessen’s. He had felt Esmer’s coercion. And Thomas Covenant had spoken through him as well: a more benign possession, but a violation nonetheless. If even sleep had become fear and anguish, how could he retain any vestige of himself?
“They do not possess me,” he replied with fragile dignity, as though he understood her alarm. “Rather they speak in my dreams, imploring this of me. They are Sunder my father and Hollian my mother, whom my weakness has betrayed. And behind them stands Thomas Covenant, who craves only that I assure you of his love. But the intent of Sunder Graveler and Hollian eh-Brand is more urgent.”
Sunder? Linden thought dumbly. Hollian? She gaped at the son of her long-dead friends as he continued, “They sojourn among the Dead in Andelain, and they beg of you that you do not seek them out. They know not how the peril of Kastenessen and the skurj and white gold may be answered. They cannot guide or counsel you. They are certain only that doom awaits you in the company of the Dead.”
His love. “Anele-” Linden’s voice was a croak of chagrin. “Can you talk to them?” They beg of you- “In your dreams? Can you tell them that I know what I’m doing?”
All of her hopes were founded in Andelain. If she were forbidden to approach the Dead, she was truly lost; and Jeremiah would suffer until the Arch of Time crumbled.
The old man shook his head. “Sleeping, I am mute.” His moonstone eyes regarded her in supplication. “In my remorse, I would cry out to them, but they cannot hear. No power of dream or comprehension will shrive me until I have discovered and fulfilled my geas.”
Then he turned away. “Liand,” he panted, faltering, “I beseech you. Relieve me of this burden. I cannot bear the knowledge of mys
elf.”
Doom awaits you in the company of the Dead.
When he extended his hand and opened his fingers, he revealed a piece of orcrest, Sunstone. To Linden’s senses, it appeared identical to the smooth, unevenly shaped rock with which Sunder had warded the folk of Mithil Stonedown from the Sunbane. Its potency made it seem transparent, but it was not. Instead it resembled a void in the substance of Anele’s palm; an opening into some other dimension of reality or Earthpower.
Its touch had restored his mind.
“No.” As Liand reached for the stone, Linden grabbed Anele; forced him to face her again. She wanted to demand, Why? You’re sane now. Tell me why. She had heard too many prophesies of disaster. Even Liand had warned her, You have it within you to perform horrors. She needed to know what Sunder and Hollian feared from her.
But when her hands closed on his gaunt frame, her nerves felt his excruciation like a jolt of lightning. He was sane: oh, he was sane. And for that reason, he was defenceless. Even his heritage of Earthpower could not rebuff the self-denunciation and grief which had broken his mind; blinded him; condemned him to decades of starvation and loneliness while he searched for the implications of his fractured past.
Linden’s heart may have grown as ungiving and dark as obsidian; but she could ask nothing of this frail old man. Even to save her son, she could not. She had already extorted too much pain from Anele. She was done with it.
And behind them stands Thomas Covenant, who craves only that I assure you of his love.
Swallowing grief as acute as rage, Linden said softly, “I want you to understand something. While you still can. I used you. When I was trying to convince the Masters to help me.” And she had contemplated causing him more hurt. “But I won’t do that again. I’m finished.”
She had learned at least this much from her betrayal by Roger and the croyel. They had wanted her to achieve their ends for them. And their manipulations had nearly destroyed her. But what the croyel was doing to Jeremiah was worse.
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