An instant later, Damelon sprang in front of the Warhaft, attempting to restrain Inbull by main strength. But the big man swatted Damelon aside as though the Hand were a minor annoyance.
Linden saw him clearly, in spite of the smoke; saw him as if he were surrounded by torches. He looked as solid as oak, with massively gnarled limbs and a mouth full of broken teeth. The heavy slash of a sword had cut deeply into the left side of his face and head, smashing bone and cutting away flesh; chopping out a crease which had collapsed his features. The only expression left to him was a grimace as suggestive of death as a rictus.
Between one heartbeat and the next, running frantically, Linden understood that he was a traitor. His brutality was the self-loathing of a man who had turned his back on a cause in which he had once believed. She did not know how or why his loyalties had changed. Nonetheless his betrayal was as palpable as a chancre.
He had brought Covenant and Jeremiah here violently because he hoped to provoke an attack.
At the same time, almost simultaneously, she saw Jeremiah stumble to his hands and knees near Berek’s feet. And she saw that he had been hit. His left eye had been struck as if with a club. Some of the bones there may have been cracked. His eye had already swollen shut, silencing the cipher of his tic.
His blood still tainted the Warhaft’s knuckles. That was how Inbull had prevented Jeremiah from defending himself and Covenant. The Warhaft had taken her son by surprise, her son, striking him down before he recognized his peril.
And at the same time again, as though the images were superimposed, Linden saw Covenant struggling to avoid a collision with Berek. Covenant, too, had been struck: he staggered as if his ribs had been broken. But his efforts to recover his balance were hindered by the fact that he kept his right hand, his halfhand, thrust deep in the pocket of his jeans.
Frowning darkly at the clamor, Berek turned in time to reach out with one strong hand. While Linden strove to shout a warning and could not—the crisis came upon her too swiftly—Berek caught Covenant by the shoulder and steadied him.
Then Berek snatched back his hand as though he had been scalded. Involuntarily he gasped—
—and Covenant did not disappear.
Nor did Jeremiah. He remained on his hands and knees, staring with his good eye at Covenant and Berek in dismay.
Cursing, Covenant jerked away from Berek; into Inbull’s reach.
The Warhaft cocked his fist as if he had been justified by Berek’s reaction—and still Linden could not summon a shout. Although she ran desperately, she hardly seemed to move.
In a tone like the bite of a sword, Berek snapped. “If you strike again, Warhaft, I will have your head.”
Without warning, Linden was wrenched to a halt, caught in the grasp of the Theomach. Somehow he had passed through the throng of warriors as though they did not exist; or he did not. Now he stood in front of her. Catching her arms in a grip as compulsory as manacles, he absorbed the force of her haste effortlessly.
Her heart may have had time to beat once. She heard both Covenant’s voice and Berek’s, Covenant swearing viciously, Berek demanding explanations. But then everything blurred as if the Theomach had lifted her partway into a different reality, shifted her slightly out of sequence with her surroundings; and all sound was cut off. She seemed to stand with the Insequent in a hiatus between moments, a place where causality and result had not yet moved on to their next incarnation.
Within their private silence, the Theomach urged her softly. “Say nothing, lady. Do not speak here. There are intentions at work which you do not yet comprehend, and upon which the outcome of this time in large measure depends.”
She fought him briefly. When she realized that she could not break free, however, she ceased struggling. Only her Staff and Covenant’s ring would aid her here; and they might prove disastrous.
Able to raise her voice at last, she shouted into the Theomach’s face, “You did this! This is your path. Jeremiah can’t defend himself. There’s nothing Covenant can do. You haven’t left them any choice!”
He shrugged. “That is sooth.” His wrapped face made him appear as cryptic and careless as an oracle. “I regret that I did not foresee the Warhaft’s falseness and brutality. I desire only to aid Lord Berek. Therefore I employ your wisdom—aye, and your valor also—to appease his mistrust toward strangers. Thus I am indeed culpable for the harm which has befallen your comrades.”
Linden spat an oath. At that moment—between those moments—the Theomach’s intentions meant nothing to her. Ignoring his near-apology, she demanded. “But why didn’t Covenant vanish?” And Jeremiah? “He said that Berek’s Earthpower is too strong—”
The Insequent studied her through his cerements. “The force within Lord Berek has not yet fully awakened.” As he spoke, he eased his hard clasp on her arms. “And he whom you name Covenant is more hardy than he has encouraged you to believe.”
Then he urged again, “Still I must insist, lady. I must caution you. Say nothing in the presence of others. When Lord Berek speaks with you and your companions alone, as he must, be chary in your replies. If you are at any time uncertain of what may be said, permit me to answer in your stead. By my true name, which is known to you, I assure you that my first purpose is to aid Lord Berek—and to preserve the Arch of Time.”
He did not wait for her to find a response. When he released her, her surroundings—the tent and the smoke, the pallets of the wounded, the conflicted outrage facing Berek—sprang back into clarity; and she heard Covenant snarl. “—fire, Berek, this is intolerable. We don’t deserve it.”
“You do not.” Berek’s voice held its cutting edge. “Warhaft Inbull has harmed you, and will answer for his deeds. I demand only the name of the power which has burned my hand.”
Freed from the Theomach’s theurgy, Linden would have rushed to Jeremiah’s side. She might have forgotten that he had forbidden her to touch him. But the Insequent arrived ahead of her. Without apparent transition or movement, he stood between Berek and Linden’s companions. Yet Berek was not startled. None of the observers reacted to the Theomach’s suddenness. He had cast a glamour on their senses—or on Linden’s.
“My lord Berek,” he said smoothly, “permit me to intercede. I am the Theomach. The fault of this contention is mine. This man and this boy are companions of the lady. She names them Covenant and Jeremiah, her son, as she names herself Linden. They have come by my guidance. I drew them hither because I deemed her aid a treasure beyond estimation, and because I desire to aid you also. Surely her companions may be forgiven much, despite their unruly puissance, for the sake of what she has wrought.”
At last, Linden was able to move normally. With a few quick strides, she skidded to her knees beside Jeremiah, almost within reach of his battered head. “Jeremiah, honey,” she panted. “are you all right? How badly did he hurt you?”
Her furious desire to lash out at Inbull, she suppressed. The Theomach had warned her. And she judged Berek to be a man who would not let the Warhaft’s mendacity pass.
Inbull may have hurt Berek’s own son as well.
Reflexively Linden stretched out her hand to Jeremiah.
“Don’t, Mom,” he gasped. His face was full of alarm. “Don’t touch me. Don’t heal me. Or Covenant. We’ll be all right. The Staff—” Blood spread down his cheek, catching in his nascent stubble until the left side of his face seemed webbed with pain; snared in deceit and cruelty. “Even hurtloam will erase us. You don’t understand how hard this is.”
Oh, Jeremiah. Linden stopped herself. Her upper arms throbbed where the Theomach had gripped her. Swallowing a rush of grief, she asked, “Can you heal yourself? That looks pretty bad. He must have cracked some of the bones.”
She could not determine how gravely he had been injured. He remained closed to her; unnaturally impenetrable, as Krenwill had claimed.
“Covenant will take care of it.” Jeremiah pulled himself up from his hands, kneeling beyond her reach. His attent
ion shifted back to Covenant and Berek; dismissed Linden.
Berek continued to confront the Theomach. Doubt rasped in his voice as he asked, “What aid do you offer, stranger?”
The Insequent tapped his bound chest with his fist twice, imitating Damelon’s earlier salute. “My lord, if it is your will, I will teach you the meaning of your new strengths.”
Berek raised his eyebrows. “And whence comes this un-looked-for wish to aid me?”
“That, my lord,” the Theomach replied, unruffled, “I may not bespeak openly. The lore which I offer is for you alone.”
Berek returned an unconvinced snort. But he did not press the Theomach. Instead he looked at Linden. His eyes seemed to probe her soul as he said, “My lady Linden, you have performed such service here that no honor or guerdon can suffice to repay it. Yet the task entrusted to me exceeds these wounded. It requires also the defeat of the Queen’s foes. Ultimately it demands the nurturance of the Land. Therefore I must remain wary while my heart swells with thankfulness.
“Will you claim my sufferance on behalf of your companions?”
Abruptly wary herself, and abashed in Berek’s presence, Linden rose to her feet. Hugging the Staff to her chest, she met his gaze, although his penetration daunted her.
“Jeremiah is my son,” she began awkwardly. “Covenant is—”
For a moment, she faltered. She did not need the Theomach’s warnings to convince her that any reply might prove dangerous. Like Joan, if in her own way, she bore the burden of too much time. The wrong word might ripple outward for millennia.
But Covenant, Jeremiah, the Theomach, and Berek Halfhand were all studying her. With an effort, she forced herself to continue. “Where I come from,” she said carefully, “Covenant is a great hero. There are things about both of them that I don’t understand. But they’re with me, and I need them.”
Then she squared her shoulders. “I made the decision to come here. If it was a mistake, it’s my doing, not theirs.” Unsteadily she finished. “We’ll leave as soon as we can.”
Berek scrutinized her for a moment longer. Then he nodded decisively. “My lady, we will speak with less constraint in my tent, you and your companions”—he glanced at the shrouded figure of the Insequent—“not excluding the Theomach.
“Hand Damelon?”
Berek’s son stepped forward. “My lord?” He was flushed with the effects of Inbull’s blow; but Linden saw that he had not been seriously hurt. Not like Jeremiah—The breastplate of his cuirass had absorbed much of the impact.
“Has Warhaft Inbull dared to harm one of my Hands?” asked Berek. His self-command did not waver. Nonetheless Linden heard the throb of cold fury in the background of his voice.
“He has dared, my lord,” Damelon replied stiffly, “but he has not succeeded. His affront does not merit your concern.”
Berek flashed his son a quick glance of concern and approbation. However, his tone did not relent. “I command here. The affront is mine to gauge, and to repay.” Then he told Damelon. “While I do so, escort the lady Linden and her companions to my tent. See that they are provided with warmth and viands, and with water for the cleansing of wounds. If their hurts require any healing that we may supply, command it in my name. I will attend upon them shortly.”
Hand Damelon saluted again. “At once, my lord.” Like his father, he kept his anger to himself.
Turning to Linden, he gestured toward the opening behind Inbull. “My lady, will you accompany me?”
“We will, Hand,” the Theomach answered for her. His manner suggested a smile of satisfaction. “Accepting your courtesy, we hope to honor you in return.”
Linden let the Insequent take charge of the situation. He understood its implications better than she did. But she did not allow him to hurry her. Stooping to Jeremiah, she asked. “Can you stand, honey? Are you able to walk?”
“Hell, Linden,” Covenant growled under his breath. “Of course he can. This is important.”
“He’s right, Mom.” Jeremiah did not look at her. “It already hurts less.” With a teenager’s graceless ease, he surged to his feet. “I’ll be fine.”
Linden nodded, too baffled to question him further. According to Covenant, Berek’s touch would banish both of them. Yet they remained. She felt that she had been given hints or portents, glimpses of revelation, which she could not interpret. What did Covenant dread, if Berek’s inchoate strength posed no threat? Why had she been forbidden to hug or care for her son?
Wearily she trailed behind Jeremiah as he followed Covenant, the Theomach, and Damelon out of the tent; away from needs that she could comprehend toward an unfathomable encounter with the dangers of time.
While she and her companions passed between Berek and Inbull, the Warhaft glared hatred at them. If he feared Berek’s wrath, he did not show it. Either he was too stupid to recognize his own peril, or he knew Berek better than she did.
As she had earlier, Linden walked along aisles of warriors who had gathered to catch sight of the strangers. They all had their own wounds, their own ailments, their own yearning for restoration. But they kept their wonder and pain to themselves while she and her companions were led and warded by Damelon.
Berek’s tent was a frayed and soiled stretch of canvas supported by a single central pole. When Damelon ushered his charges inward, Linden found herself in a space large enough to hold twenty or thirty warriors standing.
In every respect, Berek’s quarters were as rudimentary as the tents of the wounded. His pallet and blankets resembled the bedding of the fallen. Apart from a low table on which rested an old longsword in a plain scabbard and a wooden chest that—she could only guess—might hold maps, the tent had no other furnishings. Two small oil lamps hanging from the tent pole cast a dim yellow illumination that seemed to shed no light, reveal nothing: the whole space was full of uncertainty like implied shadows. And scraps of ice still glazed the dirt floor. Her breath plumed as she looked around. She did not know how long she had labored at healing; but midnight had surely passed, and winter had sunk its teeth into every vulnerable instance of warmth.
After ushering Berek’s guests into the tent, Damelon ducked past the flaps to call for braziers, honeyed wine, cured meat, dried fruit. When he returned, he said, “My lady, I crave your pardon. Our rude comforts are no true measure of our gratitude. The day will come when we stand again within the walls of Doriendor Corishev. Mayhap then you will permit us to celebrate your benisons in a more seemly manner.”
He may have been taught to speak so, with confidence and conviction, by his father’s knowledge of despair.
Linden sighed. “Don’t worry about it, please.” Barred from using the Staff, she had no defense against the cold except her cloak. And she was so tired—Already she had begun to shiver again. “We can only imagine what you’ve suffered. If you can give us heat and food, we’ll be all right.”
“‘All right,’” Covenant muttered sourly. “Sure. Why not?”
The Theomach turned to him as if in warning; but Damelon ignored both of them. Instead he studied Linden like a man who wanted to imprint her on his thoughts. “You are gracious, my lady. I will not question you. That is my lord Berek’s task. But warmth and viands you will have.” More softly, he said. “Soon you will be able to rest.”
Perhaps his own percipience had begun to awaken.
Moments later, the tent flaps were pushed aside, and a pair of warriors entered, bearing a blackened metal brazier between them. It was full of coals and fire, so hot that it had to be carried on the shafts of spears. More warriors followed until the tent held four flaming pans. Then Berek’s people brought ironwood stands to support the braziers. By the time the men and women left, heat began to bless the air.
Then other warriors brought hard clay urns of warmed wine, its acidulous aroma softened with honey. A tray laden with meat and fruit arrived. Linden, Covenant, and Jeremiah were given flagons: wine was poured for them. But the Theomach refused with a bow. Nor did he
touch the food. Apparently he lived on some form of nourishment entirely his own.
For a long moment, Linden held the Staff in the crook of her arm and simply cupped her flagon with both hands, savoring its heat and its sweet scent. Then she sipped gently. She had felt frozen for so long, in spite of her own efforts and Covenant’s to fend off the cold. If he and Jeremiah had not been somehow more than human, they would have suffered from frostbite.
Questions swirled around her, but she was too tired to sift them into any kind of order. What did the Theomach want with Berek? Why had Covenant lied about his vulnerability to Berek? How had Berek failed to discern Inbull’s betrayal? And how could she and her companions hope to reach Melenkurion Skyweir? She had seen for herself that Berek would be able to offer them nothing except starving horses, tattered blankets, and a little food.
How much power did Jeremiah have? And how in God’s name could Linden try to learn the truth—any truth—when she had to guard against the possibility that some action or inaction of hers might threaten the integrity of the Arch?
Ripples—As far as she knew, she had not altered the essential nature of Berek’s struggle, or the outcome of his war. Not yet. Otherwise the Theomach would have intervened. But even her trivial knowledge of the Land’s history could be fatal. With a word, she might affect Berek’s actions, or Damelon’s, altering the flow of cause and effect for generations.
The Theomach was right: she had to let him speak for her as much as she could—and to pray that Covenant would do the same in spite of his resentment.
She was not conscious of hunger; but she forced herself to chew a little tough meat and dried fruit, washing them down with honey and acid. She had to be able to think clearly, and could not imagine doing so.
Lost in questions, she ignored Damelon’s departure. But then he returned, bearing a bowl of hot water and some relatively clean scraps of cloth. These he offered to Linden, suggesting that she tend to Jeremiah’s injury.
“I can’t,” she muttered before she could catch herself. “He doesn’t want me to touch him.”