The aisle beyond the mouth of the cave was too narrow to allow either Stave or Mahrtiir past her; but as soon as the passage widened, the Master vaulted over the rocks to block her path. She collided headlong with his hard form.
“Chosen,” he insisted severely, “this is madness. The Staff is lost. Haste and wildness will not recover it.”
Linden thrust against him, trying uselessly to force him aside. “Damn it,” she protested, “why do you think the ur-viles stopped? You saw them. They smelled something.
“We have to catch up with them before they find the Staff.”
She should have stayed with them. But how could she have known that Anele’s desperation would mislead her?
Stave’s visage showed no reaction; but he turned to run ahead of her, leading her between the tall stones. With Mahrtiir behind them, they burst free of the rocks and dashed for their waiting Ranyhyn.
When they reached the ravine above the hollow where they had left the ur-viles, Linden began to believe that she was not too late. She could feel power throbbing in the air: the walls of the ravine channeled emanations of darkness and force upward. Then she knew that the creatures were at work nearby. They had not yet moved away.
To her senses, their theurgy felt like questing.
Still responding to her urgency, the Ranyhyn galloped through the ravine and down the hillside. As they neared the knotted wedge of the Demondim-spawn, however, they slowed to a canter, then a walk. With Hynyn and Mahrtiir’s mount beside her, Hyn came to a halt half a dozen strides from the spot where the ur-viles labored. There Linden stared, transfixed, at what the creatures were doing. She had never seen power used in this fashion before.
Its obsidian force stung her health-sense so that her vision blurred and her nose ran. A flush like remorse spread across her skin, and her mouth was filled with the taste of copper and yearning.
A low rise swelled in the bottom of the hollow. At the crown of the rise, the ur-viles had gouged or dug a narrow ditch like a gutter in a circle eight or ten paces wide. Now the loremaster, with the other creatures packed tightly behind it, held its iron jerrid or scepter with the point planted in the ditch; and as the ur-viles chanted together, black power as fluid as oil and as rank as offal streamed from the iron into the gutter.
The liquid seemed to suck away the day’s brightness. Within the ditch, the circle was crowded with shadows that writhed and wailed, although they made no sound.
Linden rubbed the damp from her eyes, trying to see more clearly. The loremaster’s iron bled force slowly, yet the ditch was already full. The ur-viles must have begun their invocation soon after she and her companions had departed for Anele’s cave.
Within the circle, the twisting shadows refused to take definite forms. They remained indistinct: shapeless and tormented; allusive as a masque. Yet their very vagueness conveyed a sense of intention; of desire and searching.
“Stave?” she murmured softly.
What the hell are they doing?
But the Master did not answer.
Still the shadows roiled and yearned. But now by increments they appeared to direct their attention away from the wedge and the mountains, across the foothills into the west. Their squirming forms seemed to beckon in that direction.
As they did so, the ditch began to overflow. Viscid black fluid poured like a serpent from the gutter, slithering through the soil and grass as if in obedience to the commands of the trapped shadows.
Slowly at first, then with more celerity, the snake of power glided across the hollow and went questing down the hillside. In moments, it was long enough to have drawn all of the liquid from the ditch. However, the ur-viles contrived to replenish the fluid as rapidly as it flowed away. Their ditch remained full, holding the shadows in place against the direct contradiction of the sun.
The black serpent called to Linden’s percipience, urging her to follow where it led.
After a time, a small group of ur-viles—perhaps a third of the creatures—broke from the wedge and trotted away beside the serpent’s squirming length. They did not run, but they moved quickly enough to outpace their liquid power.
Each of them carried an iron dagger with a crimson blade as bright as burning blood.
With an effort, Linden wrenched herself out of her transfixion. If the lore of the ur-viles could locate the Staff of Law in this fashion, she did not mean to be left behind. Murmuring, “Come on,” to Mahrtiir and Stave, she urged Hyn into motion. “We should see where this is going.” Obediently the mare began to canter around the hollow after the creatures.
The line of darkness did not appear to flow swiftly. And its progress had slowed. Perhaps its power was attenuated by its distance from the circle and the shadows. Or it may have been diminished by the fact that fewer creatures now fed it. Yet it had already dropped into a fold of ground between foothills and begun to squirm up the far slope, searching the rocks and tufts of grass as if it were unsure of its way.
There the trailing ur-viles caught up with it. At once, they placed themselves near the serpent’s head, four in a row on each side, and dropped to their knees facing each other. Raucous as crows, their harsh voices rose as each of them plunged its dagger into the snake’s fluid body.
Fresh power thrummed in the air: the serpent writhed as though it had been goaded. Then it began to move ahead with more speed and certainty.
The ur-viles remained where they were to sustain the fluid.
Its course ran almost due west. In this region, however, the mountains gradually withdrew into the south, drawing their foothills with them. As a result, the serpent’s path angled slowly toward the plains, leading Linden and her companions deeper and deeper into the piled heat of summer.
The moisture in her eyes became sweat as she rode. Helpless to do anything else, she wiped them on the sleeve of her shirt, and concentrated on the tortuous progress of the search.
The serpentine blackness soon began to falter again as its elongation weakened it. Shortly, however, eight more ur-viles came trotting across the slopes, dispatched by the loremaster and the dwindling wedge to extend the reach of their power. These creatures also knelt behind the serpent’s head in order to stab their glowing daggers into its liquid flesh.
Once again, the dark fluid flowed ahead with renewed strength.
Softly, fearing to disturb the ur-viles’ concentration, Linden asked Stave, “How much longer can they keep this up?”
She did not expect an answer; but her constrained urgency demanded an outlet. As far ahead as she could see, the foothills continued to unfold in sequence, as rumpled as a dropped blanket, and devoid of any features—caves or copses, ravines, fallen stones—which might have concealed the Staff.
The Master shrugged. “They are Demondim-spawn. Who can measure the extent of their lore? The Haruchai have seen them perform far greater feats, in Corruption’s service.”
Linden could not think of any reason why the Staff might not have been taken tens or even hundreds of leagues from the place where Anele had lost it.
In the heat of her concentration, she had forgotten the rest of her companions. Fortunately Stave had not. Turning to the Manethrall, he asked Mahrtiir to ride back toward the hollow in case Liand, Anele, and the Cords needed help or guidance.
The Manethrall visibly disliked accepting a suggestion from Stave. However, he apparently recognized that the request was reasonable. Inclining his head more to Linden than to the Haruchai, he turned his Ranyhyn and cantered away.
She hardly saw him go. She had no attention to spare for pragmatic concerns. She had risked too much by coming here, and could think of nothing except the search before her.
Again the flowing liquid began to lose its way. Before it failed altogether, however, the last of the ur-viles arrived to sustain it, leaving only the loremaster behind to command the shadows.
Until then, Linden’s attention had been fixed on the serpent’s progress: she had given no thought to the price which the ur-viles pa
id for their exertions. They were too alien to be understood in human terms. But now she saw that the Demondim-spawn were trembling with weariness. Their peculiar nature did not protect them from strain and limitation: the necessary, ineluctable, and crippling strictures of Time.
Earlier, she had feared that they sought the Staff for reasons which might conflict with hers. Now she began to worry that they might exhaust themselves before they found it.
Overhead, the sun slipped toward mid-afternoon. Linden was dimly conscious of thirst and hunger, and of her own deep fatigue. She had known no real rest since the hour when she had first met Roger Covenant. Nevertheless the efforts and lore of the ur-viles held her. Her need for the Staff of Law outweighed every other consideration.
Ahead of her, the lore-serpent slid past an outcropping of rock in a narrow gully and seemed to become confused, no longer able to taste its prey in the thin soil. At the same time, Mahrtiir returned, accompanied by the rest of Linden’s companions as well as by a group of ur-viles.
Tersely the Manethrall explained that when Liand, Anele, and the Cords had emerged from the ravine, the loremaster had led them westward, abandoning its solitary efforts to replenish the ditch and compel the shadows. Instead of simply advancing to the serpent’s head, however, the loremaster had stopped to replace the rearmost ur-viles. Driving its power into the black flow, the largest of the creatures had freed the others to extend the reach of their lore.
They staggered with fatigue as they loped forward. Nonetheless they plunged unsteadily to their knees beside their fading search. Their blades seemed to gutter in their hands, lapsing to iron and then resuming a molten glow spasmodically. Yet they bent as one to their task, chanting in raw voices.
If Bhapa and Pahni felt any weariness, they did not show it. Instead they evinced the unassuming stoicism of Cords in the presence of their Manethrall. But Anele sprawled on Hrama’s neck as though he had given up hope. And Liand made no attempt to conceal his worry and wonder. Nothing in his life had prepared him to comprehend an exertion of power like the lore-serpent.
When he had drawn Rhohm to Linden’s side, the Stonedownor said, “The Manethrall deems that the ur-viles quest for the Staff.” He spoke in a whisper, plainly hoping that the creatures would not hear him. “Yet your apprehension is clear. Do you not desire their aid? Do you mistrust them, Linden?”
“I’m not sure.” She hardly knew what she felt. “Everything they’ve done for us so far has been good. But I don’t know why they’re doing it.
“I’ve heard that they’re driven by some kind of racial purpose.” Their Weird. “For thousands of years, they served Lord Foul. Then they turned against him.” They had created Vain so that a new Staff of Law could be made. “I don’t know what changed.”
Nor did she know the limits of their lore. Were they capable of prescience; of reading Time? Was it possible that they had enabled her to fashion the Staff so that later—now—they would have an opportunity to claim it for themselves?
If they shared the loathing of the Viles and the Demondim for their own forms, they might believe that they needed the Staff in order to transform themselves.
Liand nodded. He had learned enough about the ur-viles from Stave to understand her uncertainty. Softly he said, “I confess that I have envied your knowledge of the Land and power. But now I find that I do not envy the burdens imposed by your knowledge.”
Smiling ruefully, he left her to study the progress of the lore-serpent in silence.
Linden could see signs that it would soon fail altogether. It was stretched too thin: its power dwindled as if the black fluid were being denatured by the summer heat. The ur-viles knelt behind its head in relays, leaving its tail so that their vitriol could continue its search. But each time they did so, weariness sapped more of their strength; and no new power fed the snake.
The sun seemed to cook Linden’s heart as she watched, bringing her closer and closer to Anele’s despair.
Then the black fluid neared the bottom of a narrow crease between hills, and there it stopped altogether. She could see no obstacle in its path—and no feature to distinguish this particular crease from others she had passed. The sand and stone of its bottom suggested a watercourse, fed during the spring by rain and melting snow, but now entirely dry. However, a scattering of low brush grew along the scant ravine’s sides; more shrubs and grass than Linden had noticed on the surrounding hills. Perhaps a little water still seeped through the sand, helping the deep roots of the brush cling to life.
For no apparent reason, the liquid line of the ur-viles’ questing ended in a flat plane as though it had encountered an invisible wall.
Behind Linden, the creatures slumped away from the serpent, withdrawing their blades from its body, allowing its power to wither and fade. In moments, the dark fluid began to evaporate. Its macerated strength curled into the air in midnight plumes and wisps like remnants of shadows.
As the serpent died, she urged Hyn forward. She wanted to study the spot where it had ended. Had the ur-viles simply failed? Or had their searching met a barrier of some kind, an expression of lore which ordinary sight could not detect?
The Demondim-spawn barked at her hoarsely: they may have been trying to warn her. But their cries were too weak and weary to hold her back.
Stave came after her at once. Liand and Mahrtiir did the same. But their Ranyhyn were a stride behind Hyn as Linden neared the line where the dying liquid had been cut off.
Abruptly the mare shied; stopped. Tossing her head, she snorted in disapproval.
“Have care, Chosen,” advised the Master. “There is power here.”
Still Linden could discern nothing. “What kind of power?”
Stave gazed across the hills. “It resembles a Word of Warning such as the Lords wrought to forbid the approach of their foes.”
Harshly Mahrtiir put in, “It lacks such force.” He appeared to relish contradicting the Haruchai.
Stave nodded. “Indeed. It conceals. It does not threaten.”
Linden gaped at the blank air as though she had gone blind. Why could she not perceive—?
She glanced around for Liand to ask him what he could see; and as she did so the edge of her vision caught a faint shimmering in the bottom of the dry streambed, an elusive distortion like a hint of mirage. Instinctively she looked directly at the sand and brush again; and again her senses detected nothing. Yet when she glanced aside, the watercourse seemed to waver slightly.
Guided by uncertainty, as she had been ever since she had first met Thomas Covenant, Linden gradually refined her percipience until, like Stave and Mahrtiir, she could feel the character of the shimmering.
They were right: there was power in the air. If Hyn had carried her into the bottom of the crease, she would have been stung by forces strong enough to stun her. Yet any harm that she might have suffered would have been a necessary side effect of the power, not its intent. It had been placed here for another purpose.
To conceal something, as Stave had suggested? Or to forewarn its wielders?
Or both?
In any case, its evanescent presence implied—
“Linden—?” Liand began. But he was too bewildered to complete his question.
—that the lore of the ur-viles had not failed. Some potent being or beings lurked nearby.
And it or they did not wish to be found. Or taken by surprise.
“All right,” she murmured under her breath. “All right.”
She could still hope.
Then she asked more loudly, “Now what?”
At her side, Stave shrugged. “I know little of such lore. The Haruchai do not require it. If you will not turn aside, we must continue to rely upon the guidance of the ur-viles.”
Unless Linden called up white fire and simply tore the shimmering aside—
She no longer trusted that she would be able to do so. Her failure to find her own power in the caesure had nearly doomed her and everyone with her.
Thin
king that she should return to the ur-viles, see if they were in any condition to take action, she touched Hyn’s neck; and the Ranyhyn turned to trot back toward the creatures.
Already most of their fluid had wisped away into the sunlight; and another group of ur-viles had joined those nearby, sprawling exhausted beside their fellows. More limped over the crest of the hill, their black skin streaked with dust and expenditure. They, too, sagged to the ground with the other ur-viles, too worn out to go farther. Now only the loremaster remained absent. When it reached her, Linden’s company would be complete.
Pitying their prostration, she slipped from Hyn’s back, walked a few steps to stand among the creatures, then slowly lowered herself to her knees so that she would not appear to be looking down on them.
Her companions also dismounted, leaving only Anele astride his Ranyhyn. He ignored them as he had ignored everything since he had been taken from his cave. His battered forehead he veiled in Hrama’s mane.
For a moment, Linden hesitated, unsure of herself. But the pressure of her plight did not release her. Wiping the sweat from her forehead, she addressed the creatures softly, pleading with them yet again.
“I don’t know what to do. I keep saying that. This is beyond me. I know you’re exhausted. You’ve already done more than I have any right to ask. But I need even more.”
The thought of confronting the mirage with Covenant’s ring made her stomach clench.
“Is there anything we can do for you? Do you eat aliantha?” She had seen none, but she did not doubt that the Ramen—or the Ranyhyn—would be able to find treasure-berries. “Do you need water?” Liand and the Ramen carried several waterskins. “Can you make more vitrim?”
The ur-viles regarded her with their wide nostrils and did not respond.
All right, she insisted, trying to reassure herself. She could not tell whether the situation required action or not. Nonetheless she did. A form of madness crouched in the background of her mind, awaiting its opportunity to spring. She had to do something—
Somehow she needed to find her way back to wild magic.