How his blindness would affect him was a different question.
Sighing again, she scanned the area for Anele. At first, she failed to spot him. But then Liand pointed at one of the cooking fires, and Linden saw the old man there amid a busy cluster of Woodhelvennin. He had dismounted beside the flames: apparently he was eager to eat. She felt a moment of trepidation on his behalf until she realized that Stave was with him. Gently but firmly, Stave kept Anele on the sheet of slate which protected him from Kastenessen.
Thank God, Linden thought wanly. Thank God for friends. Without Liand, Stave, and the Ramen—without Anele and the Ranyhyn and the Mahdoubt—she would have been lost a long time ago. And all of her choices seemed to attract new enemies.
She must be doing something right.
Stave seemed to feel her gaze. When he had spoken to the villagers, presumably asking them to guard Anele, he left the fire to approach Linden and Liand.
The pyre was gradually burning itself out. But its grim smoke still tarnished the air, and Linden gauged that it would not sink down to coals until after nightfall.
As Stave drew near, she looked around for the Humbled. They stood like sentinels at separate points around the fringe of the lowland where the tree-dwellers were preparing to spend the night. They were too far away for her to see their faces, but even at this distance she could feel the concentrated harm of their untended wounds. It made them appear as forlorn as outcasts in spite of their unrelenting stoicism.
Stave greeted her with a deep bow which she accepted because she was too weary to refuse it. Still studying the Humbled, she said, “I’ve seen Vernigil. He got a little healing, whether he wanted it or not. But what about them? Will they be all right?”
Stave did not glance at his former comrades. “They are Haruchai. None of their hurts are mortal. And we are not prone to the corruption which devours flesh and life. They will not regain their full prowess for some days. But if we are spared a renewed assault—” With a shrug, he fell silent.
If Roger did not return with more Cavewights. If the Sandgorgons marched on Doriendor Corishev or the skurj instead of preferring easier victims, more immediate slaughter. If the Harrow did not appear again, drawing Esmer’s storms with him. If moksha Raver could not gather more kresh.
If Kastenessen did not send his monsters—
Damn it. Linden would have to learn how to wield Covenant’s ring. The Staff of Law was not enough.
Grimly she muttered, “Then I guess we should hope that driving the Harrow away will be enough to satisfy Kastenessen and Roger,” Jehannum and Lord Foul. “At least for the time being.”
Liand winced. “Since the fall of Kevin’s Watch,” he admitted. “we have known incessant peril—and still I am not accustomed to it. I had not considered the likelihood of further battles”—he glanced around him—“or the vulnerability of these Woodhelvennin when we are parted from them.”
Linden rested a hand on his shoulder, as much to steady herself as to reassure him; but she did not reply. Instead she asked Stave. “Can you tell me why they haven’t interfered?” With a nod, she indicated Clyme, Galt, and Branl. “Your people have worked long and hard to keep anyone from knowing about Earthpower. But now dozens of ordinary villagers have felt hurtloam. Temporarily, at least, they’re free of Kevin’s Dirt. And they won’t forget what it feels like. Why didn’t the Masters try to prevent that? What made them change their minds?”
Was it possible that events had forced a chink in the intransigence of Stave’s kinsmen?
But Stave shook his head. “Other matters aside, no Haruchai would willingly oppose the clear wishes of the Ranyhyn. Yet the Masters have altered neither their thoughts nor their commitments. They merely acknowledge that this disturbance of their service surpassed prevention. They could not have forestalled the battle, or the unveiling of powers unknown to the Woodhelvennin. By the measure of those forces, any experience of hurtloam and health-sense is a slight consideration.
“Also they acknowledge that they have failed.” Stave’s tone seemed to harden. “To prevent the misuse of Earthpower is but one aspect of their stewardship. Another is to preserve the Land’s peoples. The Masters do not fault themselves for their inability to defeat the forces arrayed against them. But when they have failed, their Mastery does not require that others must suffer. They accept no ease for their wounds because they have chosen the path of their service. They do not regret its cost. But the Woodhelvennin did not choose. Therefore they are not asked to share the cost.”
After a moment, he added, “When they have entered Revelstone, they will not be permitted to depart.”
Linden swore under her breath. But she did not protest. She had done so often enough, to no avail. Instead she said, “I still don’t understand, but that doesn’t mean I’m not grateful. These people have a long way to go. They’re going to need all the compassion that they can get.”
“Indeed,” assented Liand fervently.
“So tell me that I’m doing the right thing,” she continued. “Tell me that we don’t have to help them reach Revelstone. I need to get to Andelain. We’ve already lost a day here. But these poor people—”
“They will not be assailed,” Stave stated without hesitation. “There is no gain in their deaths for the Land’s foes. Neither Esmer nor the Harrow appears inclined to harm those who wield no power. And the Unbeliever’s son, his Cavewights, the skurj, and the Sandgorgons, all remain in the east. As we journey toward Andelain, we will ride between them and the Woodhelvennin, and will pose a far greater threat. Thus only the hazard of the kresh remains. But the carnage among them was extreme. If moksha Raver does not compel them, they will not soon crave human flesh.
“At another time, any Raver might revel in the slaughter of the helpless. But we seek Corruption’s doom. And you bear powers sufficient to endanger him. As we distance ourselves from the Woodhelvennin, we will draw moksha Jehannum after us.”
“And should Stave be mistaken,” Liand put in, “which I do not believe, there is another matter. After what has transpired here, no one among these folk will desire to delay your purpose. In this I am certain, for their hearts are open, and I have heard them speak among themselves. They are homeless and bereft, and their needs are many. But they have beheld the puissance of those who loathe the Land—and have seen you wreathed in a glory of fire and salvation. Also you have preserved the lives of their Heers. If you offered to accompany them, they would implore you not to turn aside from your intent.”
Linden did not look at either Liand or Stave: she did not want them to see that their assurances shamed her. If they had told her that every one of the villagers would die without her protection, she would have continued her journey nonetheless. She believed that she would never be able to rescue Jeremiah if she did not first reach Andelain; and so she would have abandoned the Woodhelvennin.
Linden, find me.
Everything came back to Thomas Covenant.
In spite of her shame—or because of it—she thanked the Stonedownor and the former Master. Then, as a kind of penance, she took the long walk away from the tree-dwellers and the battlefield in order to speak to each of the Humbled individually. She wanted to tell them that she valued what they had done.
That night, Linden’s company and the Woodhelvennin ate a communal meal organized by Quilla and Karnis. The Heers were still too weak to haul supplies, firewood, and cook pots themselves, or to prepare viands. Nonetheless they worked doggedly to ensure that none of the needs of their people were neglected.
Earlier, Linden and Bhapa had washed as thoroughly as they could in the brook. With Pahni’s help, and Liand’s, they had bathed Mahrtiir. And when the Ranyhyn had moved out into the gathering twilight to help the Humbled stand watch, Branl, Galt, and Clyme had taken turns at the stream, cleansing their injuries and their tunics with equal impassivity.
Now Linden, Anele, Liand, and the Ramen shared food with the villagers, sitting around several large fires. Linden wa
s regarded with wonder—and attended diligently. Liand and the Ramen were given care as though it were a form of obeisance. And Anele was gently prevented from leaving his plate of stone: a restriction which he accepted without protest.
Mahrtiir sat cross-legged between Bhapa and Linden, feeding himself by touch. Apart from the ruin of his eyes, he had made an extraordinary recovery, healed by amanibhavam, hurtloam, and the Staff’s flame. In the firelight, his scars seemed almost metaphysical. He sat as straight as a spear, fiercely refusing any assistance that was not absolutely necessary.
Beside him, Bhapa slumped uncharacteristically, shoulders bowed in dejection; but Linden could not tell whether he grieved for his Manethrall or for Whrany.
Later, the Heers spoke briefly. In quavering voices, they described their sorrow over their lost homes, their relief that they could seek sanctuary in Revelstone, and their astonished gratitude for all that Linden’s company had done. Then, almost timidly, they asked her to explain what had befallen them.
She had no heart for the task; but Liand took it from her unasked. Standing among the fires, he emanated dignity and openness as he told the hushed Woodhelvennin what he knew. His version of the causes of the battle, and of the nature of the Land’s foes, was not what Linden might have said in his place. It was simpler and more direct; unconflicted by inadequacy or bitterness. But it was also better suited to the limited comprehension of his audience, and the villagers received it as if it were an act of grace.
With every word, he violated the long prohibitions of the Masters. Yet neither Vernigil nor the Humbled interrupted him. In this, as in the use of hurtloam, the Masters seemed to take pity on the Woodhelvennin.
Linden knew better. When the tree-dwellers entered Lord’s Keep, they would never leave. If that were pity, she wanted no part of it.
At last, the villagers prepared to sleep on beds of gathered leaves and retrieved blankets. In spite of Bhapa’s urging, Mahrtiir refused rest. Harshly he proclaimed that he had lost only his eyes, not his ears and nose, or the use of his limbs. Alone, he walked away from the fires, clearly intending to help the Ranyhyn and the Masters keep watch. For a moment, the ruddy light of the flames seemed to cling to the pale swath of his bandaged head. Then the night took him, and he was gone.
With anguish in his eyes, Bhapa followed the Manethrall.
When Linden was offered a bed, she paused only to confirm that Stave warded Anele. Then she sank into the blankets, tucked the Staff of Law under her arm, and fell instantly asleep.
During the night, she was tormented by nightmares, not of fire and killing, but of violation. She lay like carrion, unable to move, while centipedes and venomous spiders crawled over her face, emerging from her mouth and nose. Molten worms circled her eyes: noisome things crept unhindered through the privacy of her clothes: pincers and fouled teeth gnawed her flesh. The knowledge that they had been hatched in the dank cesspit of her heart filled her with horror.
Whimpering weakly, she ached to awaken, and could not. Her dreams held her until Stave roused her with the dawn.
A sense of moral sickness clung to her as she arose, shivering, from her bed. A heavy dew had fallen, and its dampness had soaked through the blankets to her flannel shirt and jeans. Hoping to dispel her nightmares as well as the chill, she drew delicate tendrils of Earthpower from the Staff to meet the sunrise. Then she scanned the area to see how her friends and the Woodhelvennin fared.
Most of the camp was stirring. Stave had left Anele to the care of the Heers, and the old man seemed compliant in their company. Joined by Liand and Pahni, one group of villagers brought more wood from the banyans to build up the fires. Other people had begun to prepare a fresh meal. The Ranyhyn were nowhere in sight: they must have ranged far to find more grass, and to search for intimations of danger. Lit by the dawn, the Humbled and Vernigil kept a closer watch. But Mahrtiir and Bhapa had returned during the night. Now they stood at one of the fires, apparently arguing—if the Cord’s diffident replies to his Manethrall’s assertions could be called argument.
Bhapa urged Mahrtiir to remove the bandage from his eyes. The Cord suggested that open air and sunlight would speed Mahrtiir’s healing. But the Manethrall refused to expose his ravaged face. With suppressed fury, he insisted that doing so would encourage pity. Also he averred that he required the binding around his head to remind him that he could not see. If his other senses caused him to forget his blindness, he might make some hazardous mistake.
When Linden had absorbed enough of the Staff’s strength to collect her thoughts, she nodded toward the two Ramen. “Bhapa is taking this personally.”
To her ears, she sounded callous. Her tone falsified what she felt. But remnants of dreams clung to her like revenants. Vile scurrying seemed to lurk beneath the surface of her attention. When she had restored Joan’s wedding band, she had made possible atrocities like the destruction of First Woodhelven.
“The Ramen are prideful,” Stave observed with implied compassion. “I have learned to see that this is both strength and weakness. The Cord and the Manethrall have lost much. Uncertain of himself, the Cord fears to acknowledge that he is no longer certain of the Manethrall. Dreading the outcome of his blindness, the Manethrall is guided by anger.
“For such reasons, the Haruchai strive to set aside passion. Yet it rules us. I am no less its servant than are the Masters.”
Nightmares had left Linden ripe for shame. She, too, had lost much, and was ruled by fears and passions which she did not know how to bear. Frowning uselessly, she went to break her fast.
With her friends, she joined the villagers around cook pots of steaming cereal sweetened with fruit.
The new sun leaned past the higher ground to the east, blunting the chill of night and dew. The air should have tasted as clean as the light, full of spring and the scents of cooking. But the ground had been plowed to chaos by the caesure, charred with power and malice, steeped in blood. And the ashen reek of Esmer’s pyre lingered over the slopes, irreparable as Kevin’s Dirt.
Fretting at the residue of her dreams, Linden wanted to hurry. She had abundant reasons for haste, among them the chance that her presence might endanger the villagers further. Their shy greetings and thanks she brushed aside. She ate quickly; quenched her thirst at the bourn, grateful that the current had washed itself clear of killing; prepared herself to ride.
The Ramen followed her example. And Stave was always ready. Even the Humbled seemed determined to resume their journey in spite of their long, stiff scabs and damaged bones.
But Anele sat with Karnis and Quilla, devouring his meal voraciously, and making incoherent remarks which the Heers kindly elected to interpret as jests. And Liand ate with slow gravity, as if he were mustering his strength for a severe task.
Linden was tempted to prod him, but his air of purpose silenced her. She could see that he had reached a decision of some kind—and that some aspect of his intent troubled him. However, her percipience showed her only the nature of his emotions: she could not discern his thoughts.
While the Stonedownor took his time, Linden looked to Pahni and asked uncomfortably, “Do you know what’s going on? He has something in mind, but I can’t tell what it is.”
The young Cord shook her head. Her soft brown eyes were dark with worry. “I have felt his resolve. It swelled within him throughout the night, and he slept little. But he has not spoken of it. And I—” Pahni faltered. Almost whispering, she said. “I feared to inquire. I fear for him.”
Through Anele, Thomas Covenant had told Liand, I wish I could spare you. Surely the Stonedownor had not decided to sacrifice himself in some extreme fashion, responding to a need which Linden as well as the Ramen and Stave had failed to perceive?
Before long, however, Liand appeared to resolve an internal debate. Nodding to himself, he gathered his bundles of supplies. Then he signaled his readiness to Linden and Stave.
Finally. “All right,” Linden muttered. “Let’s get going.”
&nbs
p; At once, Stave raised his fingers to his mouth and began the series of whistles which summoned the Ranyhyn.
When they heard the sound, Mahrtiir and Bhapa came toward Linden, Pahni, and Stave. Vernigil and the Humbled left their posts. Even Anele jerked up his head, scanning the area with his moonstone eyes as if he were eager.
Soon the Ranyhyn swept into sight from the southeast. As they drew near, Linden counted ten of the star-browed horses.
Ten, she thought, distracted by wonder. Of course. She had been told that the fidelity of the Ranyhyn did not end in death. Whrany had fallen: therefore another of the great horses had come to bear Bhapa.
With glad homage, the Ramen greeted the Ranyhyn. Stave and the Humbled bowed gravely, honoring their mounts as the Bloodguard had done millennia ago; and Vernigil did the same, although he had not been chosen. Hrama trotted among the villagers toward Anele while Narunal offered his muzzle to Mahrtiir’s uncertain hands. And Bhapa had tears of gratitude and rue in his eyes as he knelt before the tall bayard that had answered in Whrany’s place.
When he stood again, he proclaimed as steadily as he could, “This mighty stallion is Rohnhyn. I pray of all the Ranyhyn, and of revered Kelenbhrabanal, Father of Horses, that I may prove worthy to serve such a sovereign.”
Hyn nudged Linden affectionately. Hynyn flared his nostrils, snorting his impatience. Relieved by the prospect of departure, Linden mounted without delay, as did Stave and Mahrtiir. After a moment, Bhapa joined them. Flinging an anxious glance at Liand, Pahni followed the older Cord’s example.
To Linden, the Humbled did not look hale enough to ride. Nevertheless they contrived to leap astride their horses. There they sat, rigid as stone, although the exertion had torn open some of their wounds, and fresh blood seeped into their tunics.
When two of the tree-dwellers had helped Anele onto Hrama, only Liand remained unmounted.
Briefly Liand hugged Rhohm’s neck. Setting his bundles on Rhohm’s back, he vaulted onto the Ranyhyn. But he did not move toward Linden and the rest of her companions. Instead he rode into the center of the encampment.