Linden groaned at the memory.
On a plane of exposed gutrock between the walls of the cleft, he had briefly become sane enough to reveal his past.
If she were right—if her memories had not misled her—it was God’s truth that he had no friend but stone. Every other surface under his feet in this time exposed him to possession and torment.
As she had understood it until now, Anele’s madness had seemed adequately cruel: bitter and undeserved. But this new vision of his plight was far worse. He had become the pawn of powers which would have savaged any less Earthpowerful flesh than his.
She might have stopped then to grieve for him; but implications continued to tumble through her. If she were right, Lord Foul could not know where she was or what she did when Anele was not accessible to him. That probably accounted for the attack of the kresh. The Despiser must have expected her to flee Mithil Stonedown northward, into the South Plains—away from the Ramen and the Ranyhyn and hope. And Anele had been hidden from him on Somo’s back. When the old man had reentered Lord Foul’s reach beyond the Mithil’s Plunge, the Despiser must have been taken by surprise. Realizing his error, he must have sent the kresh in an attempt to prevent Linden from reaching the mountains.
In addition, Anele’s particular vulnerability might explain why the Demondim had slowed their attack. By her reasoning, it was no accident that the horde had not assailed him when he was filled with fire and rage. The dire creatures had recognized an ally. In their midst, Anele’s possessor had spoken to them—and they had heeded him.
For some reason, they wanted Linden and her companions enclosed in Revelstone.
Deep within herself, she trembled at the possibilities. Evils other than the Despiser also used Anele to keep track of her; oppose her; guard against her. I have merely whispered a word of counsel here and there—And Covenant had warned her to beware of him.
Almost involuntarily, she imagined ways in which she might benefit from her new understanding. If it proved true—She could take Anele to the upland plateau, to the rich grass around Glimmermere, and ask him for Covenant’s guidance. Or she could—
The mere consideration of such ideas shamed her. Anele was a broken old man, and he had already experienced too many forms of violation. He did not deserve to be used, even by someone who cared for him.
But the Despiser had taken her son. And Anele’s madness was defended by Earthpower. Unconsciously he had shaped his birthright into a bulwark for his insanity. She could not succor him without committing an act of violence against the choices which he had made for himself.
And his plight did not outweigh Jeremiah’s. It could not; not with her. The old man had friends: Liand and the Ramen; Linden herself; even the ur-viles to some extent. He had episodes of sanity which enabled him to articulate his dilemma. And his heritage of Earthpower protected his underlying identity from the ravages of his possessors. Jeremiah had none of those things.
He had only Linden. If she did not redeem him from Lord Foul, there would be no limit to his agonies.
Therefore—
She hid her face in her hands.
—she had no choice. If she could find no alternative, no other way to reach her son, she would have to make use of Anele. To manipulate his madness so that it served her needs.
The prospect dismayed her; but she did not shrink from it. She had already risked the Arch of Time in the same cause.
Good cannot be accomplished by evil means.
She understood that. But such convictions, like the beliefs of the Masters, were too expensive. She could not afford them.
She might have remained where she was for some time, warming her weariness by the fire, and considering possibilities which shamed her. Before she could remember that she was hungry, however, or that she needed sleep, she heard a muted knock at her door.
Sighing, she uncovered her face and rose to her feet.
Her clothes were still too damp to wear. After a moment’s hesitation, she wrapped a couple of towels tightly around her, then retrieved the Staff and carried it with her as she went to unlatch the door.
The door was stone, and massive as a cenotaph, yet it swung easily on its hinges. It must have been counterbalanced in some way, perhaps by weights within the walls. Lord’s Keep had been wrought by Giants, and they were wizards of stonework.
In the corridor outside her chambers stood Liand, Galt, and a woman whom she had never seen before. The woman held a wicker tray laden with dried fruit, dark bread, cheese, and a steaming bowl of soup.
Liand smiled uncertainly. “Linden.” He seemed reluctant to enter; unsure of his welcome. “This is the Mahdoubt.” He indicated the woman. “I glean that she is the Mahdoubt, though I do not presume to know what the title may signify. When she brought food to my rooms, I inquired of you, and she replied that she had not yet served you. Wishing to ascertain that you are well, I craved her leave to accompany her.”
“Yes. Assuredly.” The woman plainly did not doubt her own welcome. Bustling past Linden, she swept into the room: a short dowdy figure apparently well past middle age, with a crow’s nest of hair askew on her head, plump flesh hanging from her arms, and features which might have been sculpted by an unruly child during a tantrum. About her she wore a robe of astonishing ugliness, a motley patchwork of scraps and swaths seemingly selected for their unsuitability to each other, and stitched together at random.
“The Mahdoubt, indeed,” she pronounced as she bent to place her tray on the low table. “Assuredly. Who else?” She may have been speaking to herself. “Meager fare for two. Does the Mahdoubt comprehend this? She does. But this flirtatious young man”—she indicated Liand—“has mazed her with blandishments, and so she did not return to the kitchens for a second tray.
“A long trudge, that,” she remarked to the air. “Long and weary. And the Mahdoubt can no longer recall her first youth, though she has been shamelessly charmed.”
For a moment, she studied her tray. Then she bent again and adjusted its position until it occupied the exact center of the table. When she straightened her back, her manner suggested satisfaction.
“Pssht. It is no matter,” she informed the room. “One tray may feed as many as two, if it be kindly shared.”
In an effort to make herself stop staring, Linden turned to Galt. “ ‘The Mahdoubt’?” she asked unsteadily.
The Master replied with a Haruchai shrug, at once subtle and expressive. “She is a servant of Revelstone. The name is her own. More than that we do not know.”
A servant—Linden scowled reflexively. Well, of course, she thought. If the Land had Masters, it naturally required servants as well. Men and women who had been born here for uncounted generations had been reduced to waiting on the Haruchai.
What fun.
Riding a wave of renewed irritation, she beckoned Liand into the room and started to close the door on Galt. But then she caught herself. Facing the Master past the edge of the door, she demanded, “Wait a minute. I know you’re here to guard me, but I assume you’re also going to at least pretend that I’m a guest. So tell me something.”
Galt lifted an eyebrow. “Chosen?”
“The gates.” She held him with her glare. “I’m tired of waiting for answers. Where did you get them?”
He cocked his head, apparently consulting his kinsmen. Then he shrugged again. “Very well. As you have heard, the gates were wrought by the Giants of the Search. It transpired thus.
“When the First of the Search and Pitchwife, her mate, had borne the Staff of Law to Sunder and Hollian, they returned to The Grieve. There they awaited some word of what had befallen Starfare’s Gem and the other Giants of the Search.” Covenant, Linden, and their companions had left the Giantship far to the north in the Sunbirth Sea, half crippled among floes of ice. “But when at last the dromond gained Coercri, the Giants did not then return to their homeland. Rather the First led them to Revelstone, that they might behold the handiwork of their lost kindred, the Unhomed.?
??
At first while Galt spoke, Linden simply listened, glad to hear what had become of her long-dead friends. When she was satisfied that he would indeed answer her question, however, she began to study the Master himself. Distracted by other concerns, she had paid no attention to him in the forehall. And she had seen little of him except his back during their ill-lit trek to her rooms. Now she looked at him as if they had never met before.
He appeared to be less than Stave’s age. The characteristic flat cheeks and brown skin of the Haruchai resisted the definition of years. But Galt’s lack of scars made him seem untried; therefore young.
“You are aware,” he continued, “that the Giants are a deliberate folk, hasty in neither speech nor deed. Though they had been long absent from their Home, they remained in the Land for several years. At first their efforts were dedicated to the restoration of Starfare’s Gem, which had been sorely damaged. Later, however, their hearts turned toward Revelstone, for Lord’s Keep also had known harm.
“They admired greatly the craft of the Unhomed, who had lived and perished in Seareach. In addition, they wished to honor the valor of all those who had striven against the Sunbane. And they desired to express their gratitude for the caamora which the ur-Lord Thomas Covenant granted to the dead of The Grieve. Therefore they determined to offer what they named a ‘small’ restoration to Revelstone.
“They professed that many of the hurts which the Keep had suffered lay beyond their skill. However, the fashioning of gates did not surpass them. Here the Giants of the Search labored long and mightily so that Revelstone might once again withstand its foes.”
Linden lowered her eyes to mask her own gratitude. Instinctively she did not want the Master to see what his explanation meant to her.
She was about to ask him if her friends had ever found their way Home; but when she looked down, she noticed his right hand.
It might have belonged to Thomas Covenant. The last two fingers had been cut away, leaving a ragged scar in their place. Its smooth pallor suggested that the mutilation had been performed long ago, perhaps in Galt’s youth—or his childhood.
At the sight, she flinched, stung by a sudden host of memories. With his maimed right hand, Covenant had drawn her toward sunlight and love aboard Starfare’s Gem. He had worn his wedding ring on the last finger of that hand. And she herself had cut away two of Jeremiah’s fingers in order to save the rest.
Beware the halfhand. Covenant and Jeremiah.
Now she had found another among the Masters.
“Linden?” Liand asked anxiously. She could not conceal her reactions from him. He had begun to know her too well; or his proximity to the Staff preserved the vestiges of his health-sense.
But she ignored his concern. The inferences which she had drawn about Anele seemed to carry her further. Now she saw implications, portents, too complex for her to articulate. Hugging the Staff to her chest, she asked brusquely, “Tell me about your hand.”
The Master did not deign to glance down at his missing fingers. “I am honored to be among the Humbled.”
She swallowed curses and waited for him to go on.
“When the Haruchai determined to take upon themselves the burdens of Mastery,” Galt said flatly, “they recognized their peril. It is the peril of Korik, Sill, and Doar.
“Their tale is surely known to you. Ruled by the Illearth Stone, they were made to serve Corruption. First they were maimed to resemble the Halfhand, ur-Lord Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever. Then they were sent to bear battle and despair against the Council of Lords. Thus was the Vow of the Bloodguard tarnished, and their service brought to an end.”
Linden knew the story: she had heard it from Stave only a few days ago. Still it filled her with dread.
Without haste or emphasis, Galt stated, “The fault of Korik and Sill and Doar lay in this, that they allowed their ire at the destruction of the Unhomed to sway them. They believed that the outrage in their hearts would raise them to the stature of terrible banes and deathless malice. From their example, the Haruchai learned the peril of such passions. When we determined to become the Masters of the Land, we determined also that we would commit no similar fault.
“Therefore in each generation three among us are selected to be the Humbled, so that the Masters will not neglect their resolve, or set it aside. Our hands are severed to resemble Korik’s, and Sill’s, and Doar’s. Among our people, we embody the error which destroyed the service of the Bloodguard. While the Humbled live, the Masters will not forget their peril.”
Linden stared at him in dismay. The judgments of the Haruchai continued to appall her. Again you have shamed me with your healing. Stave believed that he deserved the consequences of his failure to defeat insurmountable odds. And Galt considered his mutilation an honor—
Her voice nearly failed as she asked, “How did they pick you?”
“Chosen,” he replied, “I challenged others of my people, and was not defeated.”
Linden winced. “You wanted this? You wanted to be maimed?”
He regarded her gravely. “There is no higher place among us. Only the Voice of the Masters commands greater deference, and even he will accede when the Humbled speak as one.”
Commands greater deference—Abruptly new suggestions swept through her; hints of insight like a glimpse into the secret hearts of the Masters. Hardly aware of what she did, she closed the door on Galt. Then she leaned her forehead against the cool stone. He had given her what she needed.
Now she knew how she would argue for Anele’s release. The Haruchai had founded their Mastery of the Land on a profound misapprehension.
Perhaps she would be able to postpone making use of the old man’s madness a little longer.
When the rush of inferences had passed, she turned back to Liand and the Mahdoubt. The older woman was looking at her, apparently studying her; and for the first time Linden could see the mismatched color of her eyes. Her left was the rich blue of violets, but her right held a startling orange which gave the impression that it was about to burst from her head.
In spite of her strangeness, however, the Mahdoubt emanated a comfortable kindness that appealed to Linden. With the last of her dwindling percipience, she saw both solid health and untroubled beneficence in the woman. In response, she felt unexpectedly protective of the Mahdoubt. At the same time, she yearned to be protected by her.
Before either the older woman or Liand could speak, Linden asked, “You’re a servant? Why do you do it? Let the Masters wait on themselves. Why should it be your job to make their lives easier?”
Liand nodded his agreement.
But the question did not ruffle the Mahdoubt. Indeed, she appeared to occupy a space beyond the reach of disturbance. “Pssht, lady,” she replied. “Fine sentiments, assuredly. The Mahdoubt sees that your heart is great. Upon occasion, however, it misleads you.
“There is no dishonor in service. The Mahdoubt labors here, assuredly, and her tasks are weary. Yet by her efforts she is fed and clad and warmed. At night she sleeps beyond harm in a kindly bed, with no rough words.
“Lady, the Mahdoubt has lived too many years to find pleasure in the tending of sheep and cattle. The endless labors of crops and farming exceed her old bones. She and others—pssht, lady, there are many others—are grateful to end their days in the service of Revelstone. How otherwise should they provide for themselves?”
The older woman’s orange eye appeared to flare briefly. “Is there some miscompre-hension here?” she asked herself. “Assuredly.
“Lady, the Mahdoubt does not ‘wait’ upon the Masters. They are who they are, and require no care. Her labors serve the great Keep and all those within it who lack the sufficiency of Masters.”
Comforted by the Mahdoubt’s answer, Linden found herself smiling at last. “I’m sorry.” She could hardly remember the last time she had smiled at all. “I shouldn’t jump to conclusions like that. I’m just frustrated by all this Haruchai purity and absolutism. After a while, I can
’t help assuming the worst.”
Again Liand nodded.
“Assuredly, lady,” muttered the Mahdoubt. “Assuredly. Think no more on it. Is the Mahdoubt affronted? She is not. Indeed, the days when aught vexed her are long past.”
In the same tone, she added, “Does the wonder of my gown please you?” She indicated her jarring robe. “Are you gladdened to behold it? Yes, assuredly, it must be so. How should it be otherwise? Every scrap and patch was given to the Mahdoubt in gratitude and woven together in love.”
Linden smiled again. “It’s extraordinary.” She did not know what else to say. Certainly she had no wish to deny the older woman’s pride in her garment.
Liand cleared his throat. “That it is woven in love cannot be mistaken,” he remarked politely. “If I may say so without offense, however, the gratitude is less plain to me. Will you not speak of it, that I may see your gown more clearly?”
The Mahdoubt faced him with her plump fists braced on her hips. “Foolish boy, you must not tease the Mahdoubt so.” Her tone suggested tart amusement. “Matters of apparel are the province of women, beyond your blandishment. The lady grasps the presence of gratitude. And if she does not”—her blue eye flicked a quick glance at Linden—“yet she will. Oh, assuredly. It is as certain as the rising and setting of the sun.”
Before he could respond, she turned for the door. “You must have food. And then you must sleep. Assuredly. Your need for both is great.
“The Mahdoubt will return with a second tray.”
At once, she bustled out of the room as if her movements were as irresistible as tides.
As the door closed, Liand met Linden’s gaze with a perplexed smile. “That,” he said in bafflement, “is an unforeseen woman. I suspect that I should be wary of her, yet I feel only fondness. She has comforted me, Linden.” He sighed. “I do not understand it.”
Linden frowned. “Makes you want to curse Kevin’s Dirt, doesn’t it.” Because her percipience had dwindled, she had felt unable to see deeply into the Mahdoubt.