That shocked the Ramen. They blurred like tears. Voices protested, “No,” and, “No.” Someone hissed through the rain, “It is false. She lies.”
Stave blinked at the glaze in his eyes. Sternly he retorted, “It is sooth.” He nodded at Linden past the fire. “Behold her. Do you discern falsehood?”
“Do not shame yourselves,” Hami told the indignation of her people. “Do you lack sight? She has no falsehood in her.”
Fever had burned away any lies that Linden might have wished to believe.
“We are Ramen,” the Manethrall informed the Cords severely. “We will hear the truth.”
They heeded her, but Linden did not. Her heart seemed to bleed memories for which she had no words and no courage. Running hard enough to vanquish time, she had shared the visions of the Ranyhyn: images not of Kelenbhrabanal and Fangthane, but of the child Elena, daughter of Lena and rape.
Another warning—
At that time, Elena was a young girl, lovely as only a child could be, and innocent in spite of her mother’s instability. Lena had been deranged by violation and yearning, rendered unfit to raise a child. And both of Lena’s parents, Trell and Atiaran, had been broken to some extent by the crime against their daughter. Thus Elena was effectively abandoned by her own family; left to the care of a young, unregarded man who adored Lena. For the Land’s sake, he had effectively adopted Elena. His embittered tenderness, and the boon of the Ranyhyn, were all that had sustained her.
To Linden, the girl’s loneliness and need were as vivid as Jeremiah’s, as acute as her son’s compelled maiming. The great horses had seen Elena clearly. Once each year, every year, a Ranyhyn, an old stallion, had approached Mithil Stonedown in order to relieve Lena’s bereavement; and so he had witnessed again and again how the child’s life was transformed for that brief time. When the mare Myrha had taken the stallion’s place, she had seen her potency in Elena’s heart more vividly than any man or woman who might have loved the child.
“Because of Elena,” Linden explained as clearly as she could, although she had no words. “That’s why the Ranyhyn are ashamed. The horserite doomed her.”
If Jeremiah had been granted Ranyhyn rather than hospitals and surgery after his ordeal in Lord Foul’s bonfire, an excitement like Elena’s might have drawn him out of himself.
Surely the Ramen remembered Elena’s participation in that rite millennia ago? They had not been present. Perhaps no Raman had ever witnessed or shared a horserite. But they must have heard the tale—
“They blame themselves,” she told the eager flames, “for what she became.”
Precisely because the Ranyhyn had recognized the nature of their power within Elena, Myrha had borne her to that long-ago conclave. They saw far ahead in time; sensed the danger which would confront Elena years later. And they had hoped to dissuade her from accepting her heritage of harm.
Now they knew that they had failed terribly.
They had shown Elena the arrogance of Kelenbhrabanal’s despair, thinking to teach her that failure was preferable to violation. Lena should have resisted Covenant with all her strength. Better to combat Fangthane directly and die than to believe that some grand sacrifice might alter Fangthane’s nature—or the Land’s fate.
But Elena had missed the lesson. She was deafened to it by the thunder of hundreds of hooves; blinded by the communion of the Ranyhyn. Covenant’s gift had left her insensible. She already adored the great horses. From their rite, she had learned something akin to worship for Kelenbhrabanal. His sacrifice had seemed splendid to her: an act of valor so transcendental that it could not be tainted or surpassed.
The horserite had not dissuaded her from ruin. Rather it had set her more firmly on the path to destruction.
Speaking hurt Linden’s mouth and throat: words bit like blades of glass, slivers of the past. Nevertheless she forced herself to say, “They think she got the idea of commanding Kevin from Kelenbhrabanal.”
Perhaps she would have raised the Father of Horses himself if he had possessed the mighty lore of the Old Lords.
Now the Ranyhyn saw that they had fallen prey to an arrogance of their own. Discerning Elena’s vulnerability, they had believed themselves wise enough to guide her future.
If Hyn and Hynyn had stopped there, however, Linden could have endured their self-blame; perhaps even refuted it. Her soul would not have sickened within her. The shame of the great horses, she might have said, was itself arrogant. The Ranyhyn had claimed responsibility for Elena’s actions when that burden belonged properly and solely to Elena herself.
But the two horses did not stop. When they had shared their racial memories of Elena, they began their tale again from the beginning—with one appalling alteration. In their visions, they replaced Elena’s visage with Linden’s.
Still trying to warn her.
“Now they’re afraid of me,” she moaned, “for the same reason. They believe—”
She could not say it. It hurt too much.
Their minds united with her, Hyn and Hynyn retold the same story as if it had happened to Linden rather than Elena; as if Linden’s mother and father had been Atiaran and Trell as well as Lena and Covenant. And she experienced it with them: it transpired anew. It held the same abandonment and grief, the same failed cherishing, the same loneliness—and the same exalting in-rush of love for the Ranyhyn. Mercilessly, Hyn and Hynyn described Elena’s introduction to the murder and betrayal of Kelenbhrabanal as if that crisis were indistinguishable from Linden’s experience of the Land with Covenant under the Sunbane.
And still the images of the horserite did not end. The Ranyhyn had erred with Elena, perhaps, by not revealing the true extent of her peril. She had been a child, too young to apprehend the truth of their prophecies. They had feared to overwhelm her.
On behalf of all their kind, Hyn and Hynyn did not make that mistake with Linden.
Instead they found within her a still graver hurt. Galloping in frenzy, they touched the ravaged memories of moksha Raver’s possession, the killing horror of Jehannum’s malice. And with that knowledge, they caused her to experience what was being done to her son.
To damaged Jeremiah, who had no defense except blankness.
Linden could focus only on Stave. Surely he had seen the same visions, felt the same dismay? The Ranyhyn had not brought him to their horserite against his will in order to spare him. Yet he sat beyond the flames as though he were untouched, unmoved; implacable as blame.
Liand had not stopped murmuring her name. But now he crooned as if he meant to comfort her, “Linden, no. No.
“The Ranyhyn do not fear you. They cannot.”
His support could not interrupt her trembling. She was too ill for any solace.
Belaboring the floor of the dell with her pain, she saw Jeremiah’s plight as Hyn and Hynyn wished her to see it: as if he were simultaneously herself occupied by a Raver and Thomas Covenant lost in the stasis imposed by the Elohim. She needed them back desperately, Covenant and her son. All of their lives depended on it: the Land depended on it. And so she reached—or would reach—into him with her health-sense, seeking the place where his mind still lived.
The Ranyhyn elicited it from her, shared it with her: a field of flowers under an immaculate sun, pristine with warmth and promises. Covenant and now Jeremiah met her there, or would meet her, both children again, and unharmed; capable of a child’s love, happiness, joy. Yet the visions of the horserite were unutterably cruel; for when she reached out to Covenant and Jeremiah, trying to restore them with herself, the Worm of the World’s End squirmed from Covenant’s mouth, and her son’s dear face seemed to break open and become vile, bitter as Despite.
Hyn and Hynyn would have been kinder to simply trample Linden under their hooves.
“The Ranyhyn believe,” she said with her last strength, “I’ll do the same thing Elena did.”
Surely Stave would have admitted as much, had he chosen to speak? Yet he said nothing. His eyes held an uncharacte
ristic softness as he regarded her. Somehow he conveyed the impression that he, too, would have comforted her, if he had known how.
Hyn and Hynyn had given her a warning. Unlike Elena, she recognized that. And she understood that such efforts were necessary to the great horses. They needed to appease their shame. How could they see what they had seen, dread what they dreaded, and not try to guide the hope of the Land?
But she did not know where or when they wished her to step aside from her intentions. And she did not mean to recant any of her decisions.
Thomas Covenant had told her to trust herself.
She did not know that she had fallen asleep; or that her friends had stretched her out on one of the beds and covered her with blankets; or that Liand and
Bhapa, Char and Pahni, had kept watch over her throughout the night. She did not know whether she dreamed, or what those insights may have cost her. When she awakened, however, aliantha and Earthpower had worked a transformation within her, and she was sure of herself.
Sleep and warmth and nourishment had done much to heal her; but she still could not stop shivering. Now, however, she understood what was happening to her. She shook as if she were feverish because she was sick with fear.
Her plan to enter a caesure and reverse its flow might damage or destroy the Arch of Time. And she had no one to guide her through history’s ramified layers except a blind old man with a broken mind.
Hyn and Hynyn would aid her as they had aided Elena: she did not doubt that. They had declared their allegiance in the horserite, articulated it against the hard floor of the dell. They would bear her wherever she willed. And she had become convinced that their warnings did not pertain to her immediate choices. The dangers they foresaw lay somewhere in the distance ahead of her.
But others around her might not be so trusting; or so desperate. She had told everyone who could hear her that the Ranyhyn feared what she might do—
The visions of the horserite may have inspired Stave to renew his opposition. That was possible. On the other hand, she trusted Liand to stand by her. And Anele would certainly accompany her. Even at his most demented, he would accept any risk which might restore him to the Staff of Law.
But she did not know what to expect from the Ramen. They supported the Ranyhyn utterly, bowed to the will of the great horses in all things. However, they knew now that the Ranyhyn feared her. After millennia of service, they might decide that their responsibilities ran deeper than simple compliance.
Then there were the ur-viles. And Esmer. Both had the power to prevent her, if they elected to do so. Esmer had told her that the ur-viles wished to serve her. But he wielded forces which she could not begin to measure or counteract.
Two days ago—was it only two days?—he had spent the night among the mountains, exerting himself in ways which the Ramen had called storms.
She tried to open her eyes then, impelled by tremors; but they were caked shut. Sleep and the aftereffects of prostration blinded her. She had to lift the rough weight of her blankets in order to raise her hands to her face, rub the crust from her lids.
When she had done so, she blinked her sight clear and looked up into Liand’s waiting concern.
Bhapa and Pahni stood behind him, watching her efforts to rouse herself. Nearby Char tended the fire; kept the flames hot for her sake. But the Stonedownor sat on the bed beside her, bending over her, stroking her hair. His strained visage dominated her view.
“Linden,” he said softly as she focused her eyes on him. “It is good to see you wake. I feared that this ague would hold you until it frayed the thews of your spirit.”
Liand, she tried to say. Oh, Liand. But she could not force her throat to release words.
Tears moistened his gaze for a moment. “If you are able, you must speak. I would urge you to rest silent, but there is an illness within you which we know not how to tend. You must name what is needed to restore you.
“Is it hurtloam? Already the Manethralls have dispatched Cords for it, but the way is long, and they will not return soon. Will treasure-berries succor you? The Ramen have gathered them in plenty. And amanibhavam, if that is your need. Only speak—”
She shook her head, striving to interrupt him. She wanted to tell him that she was not as sick as she appeared; or that she was sick in another way. But the residue of the horserite filled her throat with ashes, and her mouth and tongue had forgotten the shapes of language.
As Liand pleaded with her, Char left the fire and hastened from the shelter. In the distance, she heard him announce, “The Ringthane wakes.”
Oh, God. Linden closed her eyes, covered her face with her hands. Give me courage.
Then Liand thrust an arm under her neck, lifted her into a half-sitting position. Carefully, almost reverently, Pahni offered a bowl of water to her lips. From the bowl came a delicate scent of aliantha.
Lowering her arms, Linden sipped at water mixed with the juice of treasure-berries. Succored by that gentle touch of Earthpower, she found words.
“Liand.” Her voice was a thin croak, barely audible. “Just hold me. You’re already giving me”—she sipped more water—“what I need. Just hold me until I’m ready to stand.”
At once, he shifted himself behind her; braced her against his chest with his arms around her. Tentatively he protested, “Yet this fever, Linden—”
She shook her head. “I’ll be all right.” His attention to her weakness threatened her resolve. She could not afford to acknowledge that she might fail. She was too fragile—“You’re my friend. That’s enough.”
Reaching for Pahni’s bowl again, she gulped down as much as she could swallow. Then she began climbing to her feet.
“No,” Liand objected. “Linden, it is too soon. You suffered sorely in the storm—and the horserite. You must rest. Perhaps on the morrow you will be ready for these exertions.”
Still she strove to stand. He was wrong about her: she was not physically ill. And she had slept long and warmly. She had been given treasure-berries. Her bodily weakness would pass when she began to move around.
He could have held her down, but he did not. Instead he relented; helped lift her to her feet. For a moment, she had difficulty finding her balance. Then, however, her unsteadiness receded, and she was able to stand.
But she could not stop shivering.
While she tried to reassure Liand with a smile, a small group of Ramen entered the shelter: Hami, Mahrtiir, and two or three Cords.
Stave accompanied them. As ever, she could not discern his emotional state. She saw only that he had regained his strength; and that the pain in his hip had declined.
The moisture in their hair and on their faces made her aware for the first time that the rain had not stopped. But it fell more gently now, no longer lashed by the blasts of the storm. And it had become warmer, more springlike.
The malice which had harried her after the horserite had spent its force and faded from the clouds.
Apparently Esmer had accomplished his purpose—
Or he had seen that the Ranyhyn were too enduring to be daunted, and had decided to change his tactics.
Yet the rain continued steadily, soaking the Verge of Wandering until every step outside the shelters splashed water through the thick grass. From her place between her bed and the fire, Linden could not see the sky; but the hue of the air and the texture of the rainfall conveyed the impression that it might continue for days.
Facing her, the Ramen bowed deeply, as though she had earned their admiration. Stave did not join them, however. He remained behind his companions as if he had nothing to say to her.
Hami’s concern matched Liand’s; but Mahrtiir’s gaze caught gleams of eagerness from the firelight.
“Linden Avery,” Hami began gravely, “Ringthane and Chosen, we are pleased to see you so much recovered. You returned from the horserite in such straits that we feared for your life.” She scrutinized Linden narrowly, then added with a touch of asperity, “Yet you remain fevered. You
must rest. Surely Liand has told you so. It is not well to expend yourself when you require sleep and healing.”
Linden felt Liand squirm. “She is the Chosen,” he said a bit defensively. “I have no power over her.”
Again Linden shook her head, trying to stop Hami as she had interrupted Liand a few moments ago. “Don’t worry about me.” Her voice still croaked despite the soothing effects of aliantha, and her throat hurt as if she had howled for hours against the scourge of the storm. “I’m not as weak as I look.”
Before Hami could respond, she asked, “Where’s Esmer?”
The Manethrall frowned. “Ringthane, your need is plain, but it lies beyond our lore. We know not how you may be restored. That is our first concern. What is Esmer’s part in this?”
She and her companions wanted explanations which Linden did not know how to provide. Nevertheless she had to try.
“Would you get me some more aliantha?” she asked Liand: a husky whisper. “And a little amanibhavam? That’s really all I need.”
The Ramen had never shared a horserite. She did not know how to tell them that the potent waters of the tarn had preserved her from malevolence which might otherwise have slain her.
Liand hesitated for a moment: he may have looked to Hami for advice. But the Manethrall did not react, and after a moment, he referred Linden’s request to Pahni and Bhapa. Clearly he meant to stay at her side; to catch her if her endurance failed.
She wanted to thank him, and the Cords as well, but that could wait. Instead she faced Hami.
“That storm,” she said as firmly as she could. “It wasn’t natural. It had malice in it.”
Still frowning, Hami nodded. “Yet the desire for harm has passed. Only the rain remains.”
Beside the point. Linden persisted. “Has Esmer come back?”
Hami made a sound of vexation. Apparently she distrusted Linden’s insistence on Esmer. Yet she replied, “He returned while you slept. I will summon him, if you wish it.”
Linden shook her head. “When he came back,” she said through waves of fever, “the malice stopped. The desire for harm.”