Cail’s son snorted as if she had missed the point. “They did not ‘stumble.’ They knew what they did. They entered the Fall to flee the Despiser. Also they sought a time when they would be needed against him.”
Linden bit her lip. “And they found it here? Now?”
“Wildwielder,” he answered, “they have found you.” Complex ire strained his voice. “It is their intent to serve you.”
Through her nausea, she saw implications of violence gather in him; possible lies. Cail’s son would answer her honestly. Would the scion of merewives do the same?
“When you were imprisoned by the Haruchai,” he continued mordantly, “the ur-viles sent a storm to enable your escape. When you were endangered by kresh, they hastened to your aid. And when I first entered your presence, they came to ensure that you would not be harmed.
“They keep watch against me. They know who I am.”
Half sneering, he muttered, “They are puissant after their fashion. Perhaps they might withstand me. But my lore exceeds theirs. Therefore they fear me.”
Linden feared him herself.
Scrambling for some form of confirmation, reassurance, she returned to her earlier question. “But Anele? He really is the son of Sunder and Hollian? He lost the Staff of Law because he left it in his cave?”
Esmer replied with another harsh nod.
Wrapping her arms around herself, Linden finally risked naming her unspoken intent. Hugging her heart, she asked, “Could he find it again? If he went back to the past?”
Abruptly, Esmer jumped to his feet. Linden winced, afraid that he would stride out of the shelter; leave her still too ignorant to proceed. But he did not. Instead he began to articulate his tension by pacing back and forth in front of her. His head jerked as if he were arguing with himself, debating honesty and blows. A sheen of sweat lay on his cheeks.
Still he did not look at her.
“If his madness permits,” he answered between his teeth. “If he is able to remember. Or if he becomes sane.”
Anele had remembered often enough in the past.
Esmer would depart in moments: she felt that clearly. The bifurcation of his nature was too strong for him. He would never find peace until he had used up his mothers’ loathing—or burned away his father’s passion.
There was so much that she wanted to know; but she could live without it. For the time being, at least—To one question, however, she positively required an answer. Otherwise she would be helpless.
“Esmer,” she urged softly, “hang on. Just one more.
“How do I do it?”
“Wildwielder?”
“How do I go back there? To the past? How do I find the Staff?”
She could do what Anele had done; enter one of the caesures. But Esmer had said that within them every moment existed simultaneously. How could she sort her way through so much time? How could she navigate every possibility of three and a half thousand years?
“For you all things are possible.” He spread his hands in a gesture too rough to be a shrug. “You are the Wildwielder.”
Then he protested, “But do you comprehend that we speak of Law? Of sequence and causality which must not be broken? If the past is altered, the Arch of Time itself is threatened. Once rent, it can never be made whole.”
“So I’ll have to be careful.” She would not let him sway her. “If the Staff is lost, then it hasn’t been used. It hasn’t affected anything.” And its mere existence would support the integrity of Time. “If we can retrieve it,” she and Anele, “after it was lost—if we can bring it back to the present without using it—the past won’t be altered. Nothing that has already happened will change.”
As she spoke, Esmer stopped moving. Apparently she had surprised him. Just for a moment, his accumulating conflicts seemed to pause; and in that pause, Linden again received the impression that she had gratified him somehow, nourished some deep need.
Slowly he turned to face her. His eyes reflected green fury and supplication from the embers of the cookfire.
“Do you regard yourself so highly?” His tone sneered at her; implored her. “Do you deem that you are wise enough to dare the destruction of the Arch of Time?
“The Dancers of the Sea desire the end of all things. Their grief can never be assuaged.”
Then the moment passed. A feral grin twisted his lips: cunning and sorrow glinted in his gaze.
“I will say only this. Look to the Ranyhyn.”
Without another glance at her, he walked away. Five long strides took him out of the shelter. Moving among shadows and dooms, he hastened into the night.
Linden was left alone with Stave’s unconsciousness and her own yearning.
2.
Dangerous Choices
Early the next morning, a group of Cords brought Sahah to the Verge of Wandering.
The injured woman was wan and weak, barely strong enough to stand; only able to walk for short distances. Her companions had conveyed her most of the way in a makeshift travois. Yet it was clear that the crisis of her wounds lay behind her.
That she had survived the rough journey on a blanket tied between wooden poles, and had arrived able to smile faintly at her friends and relatives, her people, testified eloquently to the potency of hurtloam. Her torn bowels and ripped organs were mending well, with no infection and little fever, while her other hurts improved with preternatural ease.
The wounded Cord and her companions entered the encampment accompanied by the Ramen who had gone out seeking hurtloam on Stave’s behalf. The two groups had encountered each other as they returned toward the Verge of Wandering. Together they brought with them more than enough of the vital mud for Stave’s needs.
Linden had been told that hurtloam would lose its virtue when it was removed from the earth; from the specific moisture and soil which had fostered it. But when she looked into the stone pot which the Cords presented to her, she saw flecks of gold aglow in the damp, sandy soil; and Earthpower called to her nerves like a tantara. Gratefully, she carried the pot to Stave’s bedside and stroked healing into the distended flesh of his wounds.
The eldritch celerity of the hurtloam’s effects still filled her with astonishment, and she watched in wonder as Stave’s injuries were transformed from mute agony to bearable pain, and then to dull, deep aching. No doubt the fact that he was Haruchai sped his recovery. Nonetheless the hurtloam itself seemed miraculous to her—a gift precious beyond description or desert.
No world where such healing was possible merited the Despiser’s malice.
While Stave rested, she dabbed a bit of the hurtloam onto her cheeks to ease the throbbing of her scorched features. However, its influence reached further, soothing her sore muscles and transforming her sunburned skin to a protective bronze hue; granting her the gift of the Land’s vitality.
Then she might have closed her eyes for a time, released from care by simple relief. She had slept brokenly during the night, rousing herself at intervals to check on Stave’s condition. As a result, she was still deeply tired. But he was conscious now, clear-eyed and determined. And the mending of his more dangerous injuries exposed the pain of a wound which hurtloam could not cure: his dislocated hip.
She had made no attempt to set it earlier. She lacked the physical strength for the task. And it had not seemed important then.
When he pronounced her name, she sighed to herself; but aloud she answered, “Yes?”
She would not turn aside from the course she had chosen.
“Linden Avery,” he repeated, “you have surpassed me.” Vestiges of strain still marred his tone, although he had already grown markedly stronger. “The matter now lies beyond me. We must abide the outcome.”
She wished that she had not known what he was talking about.
She had set aside his death; spared him the natural consequences of his defeat at Esmer’s hands. By the extreme logic of the Haruchai, she had violated his personal rectitude. What specific form the “outcome” might
take, she could not guess. But she knew that it would involve harsh judgment and repudiation.
When Brinn and Cail had been rescued from the Dancers of the Sea, they had withdrawn from Covenant’s service, in the same way that the Bloodguard had turned from the Lords, and for the same reason: they had considered themselves unworthy. Their descendants would not deal less strictly with Stave. And the fact that he could not have prevented Linden’s intervention would not spare him.
She responded with a shrug. “Don’t we always?” Certainly she had never been excused from the outcome of her own actions, for good or ill. “Maybe this time—”
This time she intended to determine the outcome herself.
“Meanwhile,” she added after a moment, “I should probably set your hip. The longer it stays out of joint, the more trouble you’ll have with it later.”
Stave shook his head. “Do not.” He sounded sure: as inflexible as ever. “I will tend to it, when I have regained a little strength.”
His tone said plainly, Do not afflict me with more shame.
Inwardly, Linden muttered a curse. “All right.” She did not doubt that he would “tend to it,” no matter how much pain he caused himself. “Orthopedics isn’t exactly my specialty anyway. Just don’t expect me to watch.
“I need to talk to Manethrall Hami.” And to Liand and Anele as well. Not to mention Esmer. “I’ll come back later to see how you’re doing.”
Other exigencies awaited her, which she had postponed while she cared for him. The time had come to face them.
Without waiting for a reply, she left the shelter; walked out into the growing warmth of the morning.
Around her, the encampment bustled with quiet activity. She smelled food among the scents of cookfires and bracken; saw Cords packing bundles, tending to their shelters, cleaning or repairing their raiment. The Verge of Wandering still lay in shadow, but daylight glowed against the dark outlines of the eastward mountains and glistened on the snow-clad crests to the west. Behind the tang of wood smoke, the air held a crisp sweetness like the taste of aliantha.
Again and again, Linden was forced to remember that she loved the Land.
She did not belong here: she was too dirty. After the crises and urgency of the past three days, she needed a bath. Her hair felt like mud on her scalp. And her clothes were stiff with sweat and grime. In addition, her trudge across the vale had left a latticework of grass stains on the legs of her jeans.
The Ramen were able to move without disturbing the lush, tall grass. The stains which she had acquired in their company might have been the map of her limitations, or an augury of her fate.
But she could not spare the time for baths or comfort. Certainly she could not spend an hour washing her clothes. Esmer had answered a few of her questions, and her purpose was clear.
As she looked around in the piquant dawn, she found Cord Char standing nearby, gazing at her solemnly. Apparently Sahah’s return had only increased her young brother’s determination to attend Linden.
He met her eyes, steady as a promise. “Are you hungry, Ringthane?” he asked respectfully. “Will you break your fast?”
Oh, she was hungry beyond question. But other concerns compelled her. “A little later, thanks,” she replied with wan courtesy. “Right now, I need to talk to Manethrall Hami.”
Char turned immediately, as if she had given him an errand.
“But first,” she added quickly, “tell me about Anele. How is he doing?”
The old man had been violated by a being of fire and abhorrence. Stave had struck him hard enough to damage his brain. Now she feared what he might suffer in the aftermath of such affronts.
Because of the way in which he had been possessed, the Ramen might no longer consider themselves his friends.
Yet she needed him badly; now more than ever. He was the son of Sunder and Hollian. And Esmer had conceded that it might be possible to find the Staff of Law—
However, Char answered without hesitation, “It appears that he is well. He is hardy and enduring. He slept for a time. When he awakened, he accepted viands. Then he wandered away, seemingly without destination or purpose. We keep watch on him, but he”—the young Cord gave a slight shrug—“simply wanders.
“We will retrieve him, if that is your desire.”
Uncomfortable with so much attendance, Linden shook her head. “Not yet, thanks. The poor man doesn’t seem to get much peace when I’m around.” Then she repeated, “But I do need to talk to Manethrall Hami. Would you mind letting her know?”
She intended to take action before her courage failed.
Char acceded with a small bow. He did not seem to hurry; but he quickly disappeared among the shelters, leaving Linden to contemplate her own form of insanity.
Esmer had said, Look to the Ranyhyn. That may have been useful advice; but she did not know how else to follow it, except by asking Hami for help.
Restless with tension, she found it difficult to wait. Fortunately, Hami soon approached between the shelters, trailing a small entourage which included two other Manethralls and Cord Bhapa.
They all bowed formally to Linden as if during the night she had somehow confirmed her status as a visiting potentate. She responded as well as she could. She lacked their fluid grace, however, and her awkwardness made her feel unsure of herself. She had done much in her life—suffered much, accomplished much—but at the moment she did not believe that she had ever done so gracefully.
Like Covenant’s, all of her actions seemed stilted and effortful; expensive.
“Thanks for coming,” she replied to the query in Hami’s eyes. “I’m sure you’re busy. But there are some things you might be able to help me with.” She had to put her decisions into effect. “Can I ask you a few questions?”
The Manethrall bowed again, but less formally. “Ringthane,” she said with a smile, “your courtesy honors us. Yet you need feel no reluctance to speak. You have been accepted by the Ranyhyn. You are welcome among us without stint or hindrance.”
Then she gestured toward the center of the encampment. “Come. Let us gather together under the open sky, so that these mountains may witness our amity. You will break your fast, and we will answer your questions as we can.”
Linden nodded. Because the Ramen could not see her thoughts, their respect discomfited her. Nevertheless she hoped to make use of it. With Hami and the others, she moved toward the circle of trodden ground where Anele had burned her, and Esmer had nearly killed Stave.
Where the Ranyhyn had accepted her.
That, also, she hoped to use.
Yet she would have preferred to talk more privately; in some enclosed space. The clearing seemed rife with memories and implications. And the rising dawn was too vast to be redeemed or spared by any hazard of hers.
Hami had invoked the peaks as witnesses, as if she expected the Earth itself to acknowledge and validate what happened here.
With the confidence of long, unquestioned service, the Manethrall led Linden out into the center of the clearing. When the Cords had set a few of their wooden blocks in a small circle, Hami sat down and gestured for her companions to join her.
Four Ramen and Linden comprised the group; but the Cords had provided seven seats. As she lowered her weariness to one of the blocks, she wondered who would occupy the two remaining places. Esmer and—?
Bhapa was the only Cord included with the three Manethralls. One of Hami’s companions was the older man who had spoken the invocation for the feast. The streaks of grey in his hair resembled the scars on his arms: paler lines like galls, or the scoring of claws. The other Manethrall was a man with a narrow, avid face and a raptor’s eyes. His aura gave Linden the impression that his life was not arduous enough to suit him; that he hungered for struggle and bloodshed, yearned to give battle more often than his circumstances allowed.
“Ringthane,” Hami began, “here are Manethrall Dohn,” the older man, “and Manethrall Mahrtiir,” the frustrated fighter. “Cord Bhapa
you know. He joins us by right of kinship with Sahah, whom you brought back from death. However,” she added with a touch of asperity, “he has not yet gained his Maneing, and will not speak unless you wish it. Rather he will address the Cords on your behalf when our counsels are concluded.”
Bhapa met Linden’s gaze gravely and inclined his head. She saw now that he had lost sight in one eye: a detail which she had somehow failed to notice the previous evening. Perhaps that explained why he had not yet become a Manethrall. At first, she suspected an injury; but when she looked more closely, she realized that he had a cataract. A simple procedure for an ophthalmologist. She might have been willing to attempt it herself, if she could have found a tool, a metaphorical scalpel, more precise than wild magic—and if she could have spared the time.
“These,” Hami was saying, nodding toward the empty seats, “are for your companions. When they have joined us, we will begin. Until then, permit us to offer you food.”
Two—? Linden thought. Liand and—? The Ramen must have known that Stave was in no condition to sit upright on a block of wood. And Anele had left the encampment.
Cautiously she asked, “What about Esmer?”
Manethrall Dohn looked away, and Mahrtiir bared his teeth. Hami’s gaze darkened as she shrugged. “He departed into the mountains after he had spoken with you, and has not returned. Perhaps that is well. His incondign attack upon the sleepless one troubles us. He has gone beyond us. It may be that he should not remain as our companion.”
Her tone suggested that the Ramen would already have spurned Esmer if the son of the merewives had not been accepted, validated, by the Ranyhyn.
Mahrtiir leaned forward sharply. “He is distressed.” The Manethrall had a voice like a rusty hinge. “He wields a storm among the mountains, power and lightning visible across all this vale. We have witnessed his struggle, though we do not seek him out.” For a moment, Mahrtiir’s gaze seemed to burn with reflected theurgy. “It is in my heart that he strives to defy his doom.”
Linden closed her eyes, bowed her head. Instinctively she believed Mahrtiir. With blows I have expended my loathing—The conflicts within Cail’s son were extreme enough for storms.