Mutely Stave extended his hand to help her rise.
She shook her head. She needed an entirely different form of aid from him—and she had to talk to him about it alone. He deserved that.
“Stave,” she said or coughed. Her throat was as dry as the wilderland. Deliberately she did not regard her son, or her approaching friends, or what she had done to the cliff. “There’s something that I want you to do for me.”
Cruel days ago, the Mahdoubt had said of the former Master, He has named his pain. By it he may be invoked. That had been her last gift before she was lost to use and name and life. But Linden did not want to insist. She suspected that she would damage their friendship if she pressed him.
“Then speak of it, Chosen.” His tone was uncharacteristically wry. “Have you not learned that there need be no constraint between us?”
Responding to a question about Kevin Landwaster, he had once told her, In your present state, Chosen, Desecration lies ahead of you. It does not crowd at your back. She knew now that he was right. Nonetheless she hoped that he was also wrong.
“All right.” She tried to clear her throat. Then she gave up. Coughing intermittently, she said, “I have to go away, and you can’t come with me. I want you to stay with Jeremiah.”
Stave’s silence seemed louder than curses. Was he not her friend? Had he not endured the spurning of the Masters for her? Had he not stood by her in every crisis? The ferocity with which he could have protested, and did not, made her flinch.
“Covenant said it,” she explained hoarsely. “It’s all about power. I have to assume that Jeremiah has enough malachite. If he does, the Giants will find a way to help him. He’ll be able to build his door. And it will work. The Elohim will come. I have to assume all of that.
“So he’s going to draw the Worm. I have to assume that, too. And when he does, he’ll be in danger. He has too many enemies. I might be able to hold off Roger, but I can’t fight Kastenessen. No matter how careful we are, a Raver might slip past us.” If moksha Jehannum took possession of Jeremiah—“I can’t even imagine what Lord Foul is going to do. And we don’t have a prayer of resisting the Worm.
“We need more power.” She was pleading. “I’m going to go look for it. But I can’t bear to do that if you don’t stay here for Jeremiah.”
Stave’s flat mien concealed his reactions. His aura seemed to assert that he had no emotions. Yet Linden had seen him grieve over Galt. And she knew his concern as well as his fidelity. Surely he had other human feelings as well, in spite of his stoicism and his vast memories? Surely he could understand her?
He sounded as ungiving as schist as he asked, “Where will you go?”
“I’ll tell you.” She was done coughing. “Everyone has to know.” She no longer flinched. “But I’m not brave enough to say it more than once. This part is between us. It doesn’t involve anyone else.”
Again Stave was silent. Linden folded her arms over the Staff, held it against her heart, and tried to match him.
After some consideration, he said, “Do not mistake me, Chosen.” His tone was like the dusk, unrelieved from horizon to horizon. “I await only some mention of the Mahdoubt—or perhaps of the Vizard. Were you not offered the means to command me?”
Clinging to her weariness as if it were courage, Linden replied, “I won’t do that. I’m just asking. I’ll beg if that’s what you want. If Covenant were here, things would be different. But he isn’t. I’m the one who has to go. I’m the only one who can. If I know that you’ll protect my son.”
Stave’s manner conceded nothing. Nevertheless his response seemed to imply that a concession was possible. “Yet some companion you must have.”
In Muirwin Delenoth, he had argued that the participation of the natural inhabitants of the Earth was a necessary condition for the world’s survival, just as the presence of beings from beyond Time was essential to Lord Foul’s designs. And Linden knew that she needed help.
“I’ll take Hyn,” she answered weakly. “And Mahrtiir, if he’s willing.”
He, too, could not assist Jeremiah. Nor could he fight Roger or Kastenessen or Ravers or—
“Then, Linden,” Stave said as if he were merely offering to help her stand, “I will do as you request.” A heartbeat later, he added, “But do not doubt that my heart is torn within me. I will know neither certainty nor peace until your return.”
Linden’s eyes were too dry for tears, but a sob twisted in her chest. “All right.” Bracing herself on the Staff of Law, she climbed to her feet. Then she dropped the wood so that she could wrap her arms around the former Master. “Thank you.”
He called her by her name so rarely—
She would not have been surprised if he had stood rigidly passive in her clasp. But he answered her hug with his own. Almost gently, he murmured, “You will not fail. Come good or ill, boon or bane, you are Linden Avery the Chosen. You will suffice.”
When he let her go and stepped back, he had done enough. As he had from the first, he had given her more than she had any right to expect.
She offered him a wrenched smile. “If you say so.”
In spite of her weariness, she stooped to retrieve her Staff. Then she turned to face Jeremiah and the Giants and Mahrtiir and the meaning of her life.
While her attention had been fixed on Stave, Jeremiah had descended from the rubble which she had gouged out of the ridge. Now he was running toward the Ironhand, Mahrtiir, and the rest of their companions. Rime Coldspray quickened her pace slightly to meet him; and Linden thought that he would leap into the Ironhand’s arms. But at the last moment, he restrained himself. Stopping suddenly, he braced his fists on his hips.
“What kept you?” he demanded cheerfully. “We’ve been waiting for ages.”
“Alas,” the Ironhand replied with a wan smile, “we are Giants and perforce laggardly. Yet at last we have come.” She kept on walking. With the boy trotting at her side to match her strides, she asked more soberly, “What are your tidings, young Jeremiah? Malachite we see. And we see that it has been but recently torn from the thrust of yon ridge. A prodigious feat, and unexpected. Your tale must be equally prodigious.”
Stooping under her burdens, Linden moved to intercept her friends. The exhaustion of the Giants was plain at any distance. To arrive so promptly, they must have marched through the night. Nevertheless her heart was drawn to Manethrall Mahrtiir.
His condition seemed as explicit as iconography. Uselessness and the loss of his health-sense had marked his mien until he looked haggard, too downtrodden to endure more: as deprived as he had been in the Lost Deep. But there he had been almost continuously active, and occasional gifts of Earthpower had eased his sense of futility. Here he had received no relief from the grinding depression wrought by Kevin’s Dirt. Now his misery ached like an unhealed wound.
To ease his plight, Linden uncurled tendrils of flame from her Staff and stretched them over him. It was the least that she could do.
Fortunately this effort was within her strength. When her fire touched the Manethrall, he reacted as if he had been struck. For an instant, his misery seemed to spread its wings and become joy. Almost at once, however, he reassumed the glower which had become habitual during the past few days. But now his scowl had recovered its familiar combativeness.
While Linden wielded Earthpower, some of the Giants paused to stare at her. Others cheered for her sake, or for Mahrtiir’s. And Frostheart Grueburn called, “Prodigious tidings, in all sooth! Here surely is a tale worthy to be told at length, and to be heard with laughter!”
“It was all Mom,” said Jeremiah proudly. “She was brilliant! She found pockets of water in the cliff and made them explode. Now we have malachite.” Then he made a visible effort to contain his eagerness. “We can get started when you’ve had a chance to rest.”
Through the twilight, Linden studied the faces of the Swordmainnir. Like Mahrtiir, they needed the Staff’s gifts. Yet she could see that rest and refreshment were not th
eir primary concerns. They were hungry for some reason to believe that they had not expended themselves in a futile cause.
“Alas,” repeated Rime Coldspray, speaking to Linden rather to Jeremiah, “our small store of viands we have consumed, lest we falter in our trek. Now I find that I am grieved by our failure of foresight. Your need for sustenance is clear.”
Linden started to say, Don’t worry about it, but the Ironhand continued without pausing, “In truth, we knew not how to measure your need against our own. And we did not imagine that we would encounter no aliantha along our course.” Then she grinned grimly. “However, great Narunal is provident. We do not lack for water.”
Wearily Grueburn, Latebirth, and Onyx Stonemage held up bulging waterskins.
Linden wanted to express her thanks, but her throat was too dry for speech.
“Well, all right!” Jeremiah answered for her. “We haven’t eaten since we cooked some roots near the Sarangrave. But it was like chewing mud. My stomach still isn’t happy. And you have no idea how bad water tastes there. I could drink a gallon.”
The Giants exchanged quick glances. Stonemage promptly lowered a waterskin, untied its neck, and held it for Jeremiah.
At the same time, Coldspray faced Linden with danger in her eyes. “Beyond question, there are tidings here. What mischance or peril guided you within the lurker’s reach? At no time did our own course approach the noisome banes of Sarangrave Flat.”
Struggling to moisten her throat, Linden admitted in an awkward rasp, “That’s a story. We have a lot to talk about.” She looked around. “Maybe we can find a place to sit down. I’m thirsty too,” and so tired that her knees quivered. “I can try to explain while we’re resting.”
Coldspray agreed with a nod. Pointing toward an area where several large chunks of the ridge formed an arc with a clear space among them, she said, “There we may sit at our ease. When you have relieved your thirst, we will hear your tale.”
Linden nodded in turn. That place would be as good as any. It was far enough from the scar to be safe from late-falling stones and slides. And she wanted something to lean against: support for her back, if not for her raw heart.
Sighing, she accompanied Rime Coldspray.
The rest of the Giants followed with Stave and Jeremiah; but Mahrtiir brought Narunal to Linden’s side. Dismounting, he bowed his homage to the stallion; watched briefly as the Ranyhyn cantered away in the direction taken by Hyn, Hynyn, and Khelen. Then he turned to Linden.
“Ringthane,” he began gruffly, “I have no speech adequate to my gratitude—aye, or to my bitterness. It is my greatest wish to prove worthy of this company, and of the peril of these times, yet Kevin’s Dirt renders me effectless. Having naught of merit to say on such matters, I will not speak of them again. Know only that I am avid for use—and that my thoughts are clamorous with concern for the Swordmainnir. Giants they are in good sooth. Yet they have walked without respite for nigh unto two days and a night, and now an immense labor awaits them. Some succor they must have.
“Ringthane, I ask this of you. When you have rested, extend to the Ironhand and her comrades the same benison which you have bestowed upon me. They will have need of it.”
Oh, Mahrtiir. Linden dragged her free hand through her hair, tugging to untangle emotions as complex and self-referential as the wards which had guarded the Lost Deep. “As soon as I get some rest,” she assured him. “After what they’ve been through, I’m surprised that they’re still on their feet.”
“That is well,” the Manethrall replied more quietly.
Watching him sidelong, Linden saw that his spirit required more substantial nourishment. But she was not ready to speak of that.
He would get his chance to be of use.
As she and her friends reached the stones that Coldspray had indicated, several of the Swordmainnir groaned with relief. Cirrus Kindwind, Cabledarm, and Halewhole Bluntfist began loosening their armor. Latebirth, Stonemage, and Galesend handed their water skins to Grueburn. Then they, too, unclasped their cataphracts. When they had shrugged the shaped stone off their shoulders, they slumped to the ground.
Before seating herself, Frostheart Grueburn handed a waterskin to Linden, and another to Mahrtiir. Stave she did not neglect in spite of his ability to convey the impression that he had no physical needs. Then she joined her comrades, leaving only Rime Coldspray upright.
Jeremiah was too excited to sit. With his thirst satisfied, he began to pace as if he were already measuring out the dimensions of his construct. And Stave remained on his feet. But Linden sank gratefully to rest against a rough curve of rock. Fumbling, she untied the neck of her waterskin, lifted it to her mouth. For a long moment, she let the simple bliss of untainted water pour down her throat.
As she drank, fresh beads of sweat gathered on her forehead and were cooled by ragged winds. Tears stung her eyes; but on this occasion, she was glad to be a woman who could weep. Briefly she paused to let her flesh absorb the blessing which the Giants had brought. Then she swallowed more water.
Mahrtiir studied her closely. When he was satisfied with what he saw, he seated himself cross-legged near Latebirth: a position that allowed him to face Linden directly.
While she could, Linden unfurled her power and spread it around the company as Mahrtiir had requested, sharing her only resource. But she did not heed the reactions of the Giants. Whatever she did for them would not be enough.
Grateful for any relief, Coldspray removed her own armor, placed it near her feet so that her stone glaive was within easy reach. Rolling her shoulders and neck, she loosened her sore muscles. Then she folded her arms across her chest and waited for Linden’s tale.
Before long, Jeremiah’s impatience overcame him. “Mom,” he prompted. “You said we have a lot to talk about. And I want to get started. The sooner we can build my door, the more Elohim we can save.”
Linden sighed; set her half-empty waterskin beside her. “I know. This isn’t easy to talk about. We could discuss it for a long time. But I’m going to keep it short. If you want to argue, you’ll just be wasting effort. I’ve already made up my mind.”
Eventually she would have to call upon the strength of the Staff for herself. But not yet. Later she would need all of the energy that she could impose on herself.
Around the arc, her friends and her son waited, watching her as though they heard omens in her tone; tocsins of dismay.
“Going to the Sarangrave wasn’t our idea,” she began. Wind twisted around her. She smelled dust from the wilderland of craters; dust and old death from the wound that she had torn in the cliff. In the sun’s absence, the air had acquired a chill edge. “The Ranyhyn made that decision.”
In a few words, she described what had happened just before dawn. She recited the message that the Feroce had delivered. Even more tersely, she outlined the memories which the lurker’s worshippers had invoked. While her companions considered her tidings, she drew her conclusions.
“So now I think that the Ranyhyn got what they wanted. Somehow they gave the lurker a reason to form an alliance with Covenant. An alliance with us.” No harm will come to you—“What that means, I don’t know—except that Covenant is alive. And he wanted me to remember forbidding. He wanted to remind me that it’s necessary.
“I’ve thought about it, and as far as I’m concerned, we can only get what we need from wood. I don’t mean the Staff of Law. I mean the forests. From the One Forest. From a time when the Forestals knew how to forbid Ravers.”
She felt Mahrtiir’s reverent awe at the motives which she ascribed to the Ranyhyn. In the eyes of the Giants, she saw speculations and chagrin. Stave’s mien revealed nothing; but Jeremiah stared at her as though he did not know whether to feel amazed or appalled.
The wind was growing stronger. Unexpected gusts brought tears to Linden’s eyes again. She let them fall, careless of the streaks of dust with which they marked her cheeks.
Resisting an impulse to hurry, she drank again. Then sh
e continued.
“We need power.” Her tone was steady. Fatigue had the effect of calm. “You all know that. We aren’t enough. I’m not a rightful white gold wielder, and Kevin’s Dirt limits what I can do with Earthpower. If we have to fight off Roger and Kastenessen and God knows who else—if we want to protect Jeremiah’s door—if we want to save the Elohim and the stars—we aren’t enough.” Not without Covenant. “We have to have more power.
“So—” Briefly the consternation mounting in Jeremiah’s gaze undermined her, and she faltered. But she had prepared herself for this. And she had done as much as she could for him. The time had come to confront other concerns.
Everything would have been different if she had known how to help him. But his needs were too deep for her to reach—and she had too little time.
“So,” she began again, “I’m going to open a caesure and force my way into the past. Hyn can take me where I need to go. She won’t get lost. And I have Caerroil Wildwood’s runes. They should be good for something more than bringing Covenant back to life. Maybe they can guide me.
“I’m not just too weak the way I am. I’m too ignorant. I don’t have any lore. All I have is emotion,” despair and love, joy and grief and dread, “and it isn’t enough. I want to find the Forestals and get them to teach me forbidding. There’s no one else I can ask—except the Elohim, and they won’t tell me.” They considered Jeremiah’s purpose abominable. “If I want an answer, I have to get it from the Forestals. Then maybe I can use that kind of magic to stop our enemies. Maybe I can even use it to keep the Worm away from Jeremiah’s door.”
“Mom!” Jeremiah protested hotly. “You can’t. Caesures are dangerous.” In a smaller voice, he said, “And I need you. I need help.”
Linden avoided looking at him. The sight might break her. Leaving him felt like committing a crime; but she could not make any other choice.
“You’ll have help. You’ve always had help. But you can do what you have to do. I’m not worried about that.”