But she was a surgeon, trained for emergencies; and her training ran deep. She could not refuse to treat the patient in front of her. Even if Liand had not been who he was—
“Why him?” Ire made her voice shake. “I was here. The Harrow was here. Covenant and Stave were already coming.” They must have been. Otherwise they would not have arrived in time to save her. “But that monster ignored us. It only hurt Liand.”
No one answered her. She did not expect an answer. Nevertheless she needed the question. It might help her regain a measure of her professional detachment, the ability to look at wounds as problems to be solved rather than as accusations.
There had to be a reason. No doubt the croyel had seen that she was powerless. And it had proven itself a match for the Harrow. But still—Liand was only Liand. And orcrest was only orcrest, a small thing compared to white gold and the Staff of Law. Facing such powers in the Harrow’s hands, why had the creature bothered to strike at Liand?
Why had it feared him?
Over and over again, he had demonstrated that he could use his Sunstone to counter the effects of Kevin’s Dirt. It had some kind of virtue against wrongness: a potential for spiritual restoration that she did not know how to gauge or define.
Covenant was right. If the croyel wanted Liand dead, Linden had to save him. He would be needed. Somehow.
If that thought did not count as detachment or clarity, it sufficed nonetheless. Will you waste the remnants of your life thus—? No. She would not.
Lifting flame into the air, she swept away the caustic fumes of corroded stone and burned flesh. Then she stepped closer to Stonemage and enveloped Liand in fire. Carefully, fearfully, she reached into him with her senses, seeking to identify the nature and scale of his wounds.
“Madness,” Esmer repeated. His exasperation sounded like a growl of distant thunder. “Delay hastens your deaths, yet you linger as though you conceive yourselves equal to every bane and betrayal. Does the Stonedownor’s life merit your destruction?”
“Mere-son—” began the Ironhand, warning him again.
Manethrall Mahrtiir interrupted Coldspray. “Attend, Swordmainnir. The Ringthane’s exertion of the Staff renews health-sense. Now I discern the vileness which rules yon vacant boy, who is surely Linden Avery’s son. And I perceive the krill in the hand of a Master. Why has that”—outrage mounted in his voice—“that horror not been slain? Do you not descry that the youth is in torment?”
His own uselessness seemed to infuriate Mahrtiir. Twisting in Latebirth’s arms, he demanded, “Grant the krill to me. I will act where your resolve falters.”
While Latebirth hesitated, Covenant panted hoarsely, “No. Mahrtiir, listen to me. You can’t kill the croyel that way.” Pain throbbed in every word. “I mean, you can, but you’ll kill Jeremiah at the same time. Even the Elohim don’t know how to kill one of the croyel without killing its host. It’s too deep inside him. We can’t cut it out.
“He’s important. We can’t risk him. As long as we can control the croyel, that’s enough.”
“And what is the boy’s import?” countered Mahrtiir. “I inquire with respect, ur-Lord.” The Manethrall did not sound respectful. “Do you speak of his worth to the Ringthane, or to the fate of the Earth? How may he be redeemed, if his life and this monster’s are one?”
“Be eased, Manethrall,” Latebirth put in to spare Covenant. “Your discernment returns. Therefore gaze closely. Behold the creature’s terror. In all sooth, its vileness surpasses description. Yet it recognizes—” The Giant spoke to Mahrtiir, but she appeared to be cautioning the croyel. “It perceives that any struggle to free itself, or to strike against us, may result in the cutting of its throat. The mere-son asserts that we hasten our own deaths. We need not also speed the death of Linden Giantfriend’s son.”
Mahrtiir wrestled with his frustration, snarled Ramen obscenities under his breath. But he did not argue, or insist that Latebirth release him.
Linden ignored them. Liand’s straits were too extreme. The human body was so fragile—Fragile and precious. One blow could stop its life as easily as snuffing a candle. The Stonedownor required the intervention of Earthpower. He required it now. Only his youth and strength had kept him alive this long.
Briefly she glanced up at the severity of Stonemage’s mien, the hard glitter of her eyes, the embattled lines of her countenance. Then Linden Avery the Chosen tried to remember that she had once been a healer.
Keeping Liand wrapped in gentle fire, she began at his mouth and followed his bleeding inward because that was her easiest path. Blood would lead her to the center of his hurts. There she would be able to identify their ramifications.
As she sent her health-sense inward, she felt Stave drop the chain that supported Covenant’s ring around her neck. Its slight weight seemed to steady her in spite of Esmer’s strange ability to block wild magic.
Shaking her head, Frostheart Grueburn muttered, “The harsh clangor of these Demondim-spawn maddens me. I am a Giant, accustomed to comprehension. Yet I cannot grasp their speech.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Coldspray. “Here is your occasion, Esmer mere-son. You wish to speak. And it is by your doing that we are denied our gift of tongues. Speak, then. Reveal what these creatures wish to make known.”
“Fools,” Esmer retorted sourly. “They say nothing that I would not freely convey, should you condescend to hear me.”
“A moment,” Latebirth interjected. “A moment, if you will grant it, Ironhand.” Her blunt features and misted eyes were full of chagrin. “There is too much of which we know nothing. If he is able, let Stave speak of events that transpired here before the Ardent freed us from our sopor. When we grasp what has occurred, mayhap we will be better able to cede the mere-son our heed.”
Fluttering his clothes to attract the attention of the company, the Ardent said meekly, “Permit me. Though he denies his hurt, this Haruchai is gravely wounded. The substance of the skest has not lost its virulence. It burrows inward still. And my knowledge does not extend to the amelioration of such hurts. Indeed, it is no longer sufficient to ease the Timewarden. Both in their turn will have need of the lady’s gifts.”
“Oh, surely,” Esmer muttered, sneering. “Permit all who would do so to speak. What need has this wise and mighty company for an awareness of its jeopardy, or for the scant counsels of the Demondim-spawn?”
“Unlike this Haruchai,” continued the Ardent, addressing Rime Coldspray in spite of Esmer’s protest, “his kinsmen have indeed been humbled. He contrived to free himself from the ensorcelment of the Viles. They could not. Yet none have fallen low as I. I have prided myself on the trust which the Insequent have placed in me—and I have learned that their trust was folly. My doom I have ensured. Permit me to make what amends I may.”
“To be humbled,” Stave replied, “comes in many guises, Insequent, as does to be humiliated.” His raw tone betrayed his pain. “Yet you persist in striving. Perhaps my kinsmen will profit from your example.”
Apparently he wished to remind the Humbled that the Haruchai had a long history of abandoning their commitments when they judged that they had failed.
Following blood, Linden found the ribs which had pierced Liand’s lungs. Those bones led her to the places where they had splintered. As clearly as signposts, they pointed her toward crushed vertebrae and mangled nerves.
In her former life, she could have done enough to save his life. But even a team of neurosurgeons might have left him permanently crippled. Here, however, her powers surpassed scalpels and sutures, clamps and swabs. Her percipience was as precise as the most delicate of his veins, the smallest of his torn nerves. And with the Staff, she could—
If she took her time, and her frayed strength held, she could do everything that Liand’s abused body begged of her.
But there were other demands—
Though he denies his hurt, this Haruchai is gravely wounded.
What need has this wise and mighty company for an awaren
ess of its jeopardy—?
Covenant hands seemed to cry out for her care.
Grimly she concentrated on Liand and tried to let everything else go.
“Speak, then,” Coldspray told the Insequent. “Relate your tale. But tell it briefly. I do not doubt the mere-son’s warnings. We must soon hear him.”
“Briefly.” The Ardent nodded. Settling his bulk more comfortably on his legs, he explained, “It was the unfamiliar entrancements of the Viles which bemused us in their edifice of water and lore. For a time, I reveled in experiences beyond my ken. I was cognizant of the lady’s doings, and the Timewarden’s, as well as the Harrow’s, but I was not inclined to regard them. The fabric of my resolve—I acknowledge it—was too loosely woven to shed the wonders of the palace.
“However, I was bestirred by the Harrow’s passing. His death awakened the will of the Insequent within me. It was not their intent that I should cause or permit his ruin. He required my aid, and I did not provide it. By my inattention, therefore, I have caused their involvement in his designs to become true interference.
“My own fate is now assured. For a time, however, the geas of my people sustains me. I must attempt the fulfillment of the Harrow’s oath. Compelled, I roused those who had not pursued him. Your subsequent tale you know.
“But the events which took place ere we entered this chamber were these.”
Concisely the Ardent described what had transpired. Then he added, “Doubtless the appearance of the Demondim-spawn now rather than earlier has meaning. Perchance their lore revealed that his first efforts would deliver the lady’s son to the krill. Or perchance his swiftness outpaced theirs. In either instance, they did not or could not oppose him. Yet now they have come. I must conclude that they hope to counter some new act of malice.”
“Indeed,” snorted Esmer. “I marvel at the insights of the Insequent, which are exceeded only by their ignorance.”
While Linden worked, moving from the more fatal injuries to Liand’s lungs toward the more maiming damage to his spine, she heard Bhapa whispering to Mahrtiir. Abruptly the Manethrall announced, “Cord Bhapa’s sight is clear. Though the Ringthane labors for Liand, her theurgy expands beyond his wounds. Bhapa has perceived how Stave may be succored.”
Coldspray swore under her breath. “He descries sooth. Giants, we have been blinded by distraction.
“Stonemage?” she asked or commanded. “Cabledarm?”
Holding Liand for Linden, Stonemage nodded. Without pausing for Stave’s permission, Cabledarm lifted the Haruchai high and set him down on Stonemage’s shoulders, straddling her neck so that his ravaged legs dangled near Linden. There they were washed from sole to knee in the overflow of Linden’s fire.
Indirectly Linden gave Stave a measure of relief while she focused on Liand.
At the same time, she felt Branl and Clyme draw Covenant to stand at her back. Apparently they sought to follow Cabledarm’s example. Linden sensed his reluctance, but it was overcome by his burns. He did not resist as Branl and Clyme lifted his arms to rest his heat-mangled hands on Linden’s shoulders.
If the Humbled believed that they had failed, as the Ardent had suggested, they might eventually withdraw their service; but they had not done so yet.
Still Linden heeded only Liand’s injuries. Her attempts to discern and heal his hurts demanded all of her attention. Peripherally, however, she knew that the ambit of her flames contained Covenant’s hands as well as Stave’s legs. Like the restoration of Covenant’s ring, that recognition anchored her. Now she did not need to fear that Covenant and Stave would suffer while she attended to Liand.
Calling upon more Earthpower, she did what she could.
“Still you delay.” Hints of desperation marred Esmer’s sarcasm. “Is there no end to your desire for death, or for the havoc of the world?”
The Ironhand sighed. “Cease your scorn, mere-son. It is bootless. We are who we are, and must act as we do. Neither your protests nor your desire to inflict dismay alter us.”
“Mayhap, mere-son,” the Ardent suggested, “you will begin your litany of hazards by accounting for the absence of any Elohim. Are they not ‘equal to all things,’ as they have proclaimed? Has the lady not unveiled this covert to their sight? And do they not fear her son? Why, then, do they not intervene for their own salvation?”
“They do not intervene,” Esmer snapped harshly, “because they discern no need. By my deeds, as by my presence, I have ensured that the Wildwielder’s son will perish. What remains to interrupt their terror of the Worm? While the boy cannot threaten them, they need dread only the Worm’s hunger.”
“Then tell us,” Coldspray said like her glaive, “how you have ensured our doom. Since you chafe to do so, reveal the import of your deeds and presence.”
After the simpler challenge of healing Liand’s lungs and ribs, the task of repairing his spine stretched Linden’s depleted stamina to its limits. There the damage was unspeakably complex. But she was immersed in her work now; and the strict vitality of the Staff aided her.
With percipience and Earthpower, she found the shards of vertebrae that pressed on his spinal cord. Those fragments she nudged aside so that she could mend the cord. Then she puzzled them back into their proper alignment. When they were all in place, she made split and shredded bones whole until she had reincarnated the structural integrity of Liand’s back.
At the same time, obliquely, she soothed Stave’s legs and Covenant’s hands. Given time, Stave’s hurts would now be able to heal. Covenant’s fingers and palms would not.
“By the display of powers here,” Esmer continued, “She Who Must Not Be Named has been fully roused.” As he spoke, chagrin and anger scudded through his voice like squalls. “Even now, She rises to ravage your souls. Against Her ire, only white gold may hope for efficacy. But there can be no wild magic while I remain nigh the ring.
“Yet that is not the sum of your perils, or of my treachery.” Fiercely Esmer accused himself. “I removed the Timewarden’s son from this chamber. Doing so, I prevented the Wildwielder’s child from flight. But I did not remove Kastenessen’s halfhand to his death. Rather I restored him to the Wightwarrens.
“In his greed for eternity, he fears that the Wildwielder’s son will be forever lost to him. Even now, he summons an army of Cavewights to join his efforts to reclaim the boy—and to confirm that no impossible twist of fate may retrieve you from ruin.”
Surprised, the Ardent sent out a flurry of ribbands to press themselves against the unmarked stone of the walls and ceiling. His eyes rolled back until only the whites reflected the nacre of the Viles, the silver of the krill’s gem, the yellow fire of Law. In a tranced croon, he murmured, “It is so. Perhaps two leagues above us lie the Wightwarrens. There gather Cavewights in their thousands. They answer the halfhand’s call to war.
“Millennia have passed since Drool Rockworm’s resurrection was denied to them, but they have not forgotten their fury.”
Deflected by memories, Linden faltered. Her senses stood at the threshold of the trauma to Liand’s skull, Liand’s brain; but she did not enter.—resurrection was denied—Long ago, the Cavewights had endeavored to restore their long-dead sovereign. Pitchwife and the First of the Search had interrupted their ritual, saving Linden and Covenant in the process. Later Covenant himself had turned that ritual against the creatures so that the Giants could reach Linden and the Staff of Law in Kiril Threndor.
She did not doubt that the wrath of the Cavewights had endured across the centuries. And she was no brain surgeon. The myriad implications of every neuron daunted her. With Earthpower and one mistake, she might erase Liand’s mind altogether.
But one memory of her struggles in Mount Thunder brought others. Wielding the Staff, she had quenched the Sunbane, not by overpowering it, but rather by accepting it into herself; by denaturing its virulence with her love for Covenant and the Land.
And earlier, she had brought Covenant back from an imposed stasis by making his plig
ht her own.
She might do the same for Liand. If she erred, she rather than the Stonedownor would bear the cost.
At her side, Pahni emanated supplications which Linden Avery the Chosen could not refuse.
“In addition,” Esmer said like the knelling of storms, “samadhi Sheol has turned the Sandgorgons. Already they have begun the slaughter of Salva Gildenbourne. Soon, however, the Raver will direct them to more fatal deeds. And Kastenessen is now conscious of your presence here. In rage, he musters the skurj. Though She Who Must Not Be Named cannot fail, he covets your doom for himself. He fears the imprisonment which the Wildwielder’s son may devise for him. And he intends also to defend the source of Kevin’s Dirt.”
As Esmer recited threats, the Ardent appeared to grow unaccountably stronger; more sure of himself. His expression suggested knowledge or abilities that Esmer lacked. But he did not interrupt.
Like the Harrow, he knew how to transport the company out of the mountain’s depths. Out of danger.
“These creatures”—Cail’s son indicated the Waynhim and ur-viles dismissively—“have already informed you that they cannot oppose the skurj. They offer guidance, but they cannot save you. Apart from white gold, no living power may oppose She Who Must Not Be Named. Yet even this tally does not content a-Jeroth of the Seven Hells. At moksha Jehannum’s urging, Kastenessen commands further betrayals.”
Flinching as if his own treachery galled his many wounds, Esmer fell silent. Around him, the ur-viles and Waynhim muttered growls which the company could not interpret.
“Name them,” Coldspray demanded when Esmer did not continue. “Tell the tale of your evils in full.”
Conflicts seethed in Esmer’s gaze. “I will not. They will be revealed when they are needed. For that reason, I must have the Wildwielder’s heed. To her, I must repay the accumulating debt of my crimes.”
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