The Runes of the Earth: The Last Chronicles of Thomas Covenant - Book One (26 page)

“Once I figure out what to do, we'll get out of here. In the meantime, I'm sure the Masters will bring us more food and water. And I need someone to talk to”—a new idea occurred to her in mid-sentence—“preferably someone who isn't one of them.”

She wanted to talk to a Stonedownor. If the
Haruchai
would allow her.

Deliberately she climbed to her feet. Limping to the outer doorway, she pushed the leather curtain aside and leaned her head into the sunlight.

The door opened on a narrow passage of packed dirt between flat-roofed stone dwellings. A mid-morning sky arched overhead, deep blue and apparently untrammeled in spite of Kevin's Dirt. A few birds called to each other in the distance, but she heard nothing else; saw no one. The whole village might have been deserted.

She wanted to bask in the sun's warmth for a moment, let its touch sink into her
hurts; but almost immediately one of the
Haruchai
appeared around the corner of her gaol.

She recognized the unscarred Master who had helped Stave capture Anele and her.

“Linden Avery.” He bowed as Stave had done, with both fists extended from the level of his heart. “I am Bornin. You are welcome among us. What is your desire?”

She nodded a bow. His characteristic stolidity brought back her sense of betrayal and outrage. However, she kept her reaction to herself. “Thank you, Bornin,” she replied evenly. “There are a couple of things you could do for me, if you don't mind.”

Expressionlessly he waited for her to continue.

“We could use more water and something to eat,” she explained. “And I want to talk to one of the Stonedownors. Is there anyone around who can spare me a little time?”

If she could not seek out comprehension, she would make it come to her.

Bornin appeared momentarily uncertain. “What will a Stonedownor reveal to you that we cannot?”

“I'm not sure,” she answered noncommittally. “I might ask what it's like to live without Earthpower. Or I might just want some company. Anele isn't much of a conversationalist.”

The
Haruchai
seemed to consult the open air. Then he nodded. “Very well, Linden Avery. Do you wish to accompany me, or will you await my return?”

Thinking of Anele, she swallowed her desire for freedom and sunshine, and let the curtain drop between herself and Bornin.

The old man lifted his head briefly, then returned to his fractured thoughts.

“Anele,” she said on an impulse, “you've scrambled to survive for a long time. Decades. Does anyone ever help you? Do you have any friends?”

How was it possible for a demented old man to keep himself alive? Hunger and injuries, if not sheer loneliness, should have killed him long ago.

Again he raised his white eyes. For a moment, he appeared to consider her question seriously. “Anele is lost,” he said almost calmly. “Always alone. And always harried.
They
seek him.

“But—” Concentration and gloom filled his sightless gaze. “Folk are kind. When
they
are far away. Even here—Anele is fed. Given raiment. When
they
are far away.

“And—”

His voice trailed off as if he had lost the thread of a memory.

“And?” Linden prompted.

Come on, Anele. Give me
some
thing. I can't do it all alone.

“And—” he began again. He seemed to cower against a wall deep inside himself. “Creatures. Dark. Fearsome. Lost things, long dead. Anele fears them. He fears—

“They feed him. Force blackness into him. Make him strong. Heal him, whispering madness.

“Madness.”

Without warning, he shouted in protest, “Creatures make Anele
remember
!” Then he collapsed to his side, clutching his knees to his chest, hiding his face.

“Anele!” At once, Linden dropped to the floor beside him, tugged him into the cradle of her arms. “Oh, Anele, I'm so sorry. I know you suffer. I didn't mean to remind you. I just—”

She had no way of knowing what might cause him pain. Helpless to do otherwise, she held him and rocked him until his tension eased and he grew still.

At the same time, she tried to comfort herself. She had been in worse straits than this. The Clave had imprisoned her for days: a Raver had demeaned her utterly. In Kiril Threndor,
moksha
Jehannum had tortured her while Covenant confronted the Despiser. Oh, she had been in worse straits. Much worse.

But Jeremiah had not. Even when he had held his right hand in the bonfire: even then. That agony had been relatively brief; and he had found a way to escape from it. It could not be compared to the torments Lord Foul might devise for him. His dissociation would not defend him from the malice of a being who could
possess
him—

While you are apart from him, you cannot know his sufferings.

And he could hope for nothing from her. She did not know where to look for him—and might not have been able to reach him if she had known.

Anele's state frustrated and pained her; but it also protected her. If she had not felt compelled to care for him, she might not have been able to contain her own anguish.

L
ater the old man left her to use the lavatory. When he returned, he sat beside her again, his shoulder touching hers like a recognition of companionship.

For that she was grateful.

Eventually a hesitant scratching came to the outer curtain; and the stocky frame of a Stonedownor ducked inward with a large stone bowl cupped in each hand. “Anele?” he asked uncertainly. “Linden Avery? You wished to speak with me? I was told—”

His voice faded into doubt. Unsure of himself, he stooped to set his bowls on the floor.

Without hesitation, Anele rose to cross the room and drink from one of the bowls.

Linden struggled to rouse herself. She had asked to speak to a Stonedownor, but she no longer remembered why. Nothing that he might say would enable her to help her son.

The man waited for a long moment, indecisive. Then he made an attempt to pull up his dignity.

“I see now that I was mistaken. Pardon my intrusion.”

With the constrained light behind him, his face lay in shadows. Yet his eyes found a way to appeal to her. Somehow he conveyed the impression that he had come, not because a Master had requested it, but because he wanted to.

“Wait,” Linden murmured hoarsely. “I'm sorry. Wait.”

Somewhere she found the strength to gain her feet.

“I don't mean to be rude.” Her own voice seemed to reach her from a great distance. “I'm just”—her throat closed convulsively—“just scared.”

She took a step or two forward. While the Stonedownor waited for her, she rubbed her hands across her face; pulled her hair back over her shoulders.

“There's something I didn't tell the Masters.” She sounded too far away from herself to speak coherently. “The
Haruchai.

“It's my son—”

Unable to go on, she stopped, hoping that her visitor would reach out to her in some way.

He seemed to swallow conflicting responses. After a last hesitation, he said, “I am Liand son of Fostil. The Master did not say that you wished to speak to me. He said only that you wished to speak to a Stonedownor. I presumed to offer myself.”

As if he understood that she needed an explanation—a chance to gather herself—he continued.

“My duties are among the horses rather than in the fields, and horses are easily tended. They are few in any event, and not needed today. Having no other demands upon me, I often accompany the Masters, or do their bidding.

“I was—” Sudden embarrassment made him falter. “I had concealed myself nearby when they took you and your companion. I helped them to bear you here.

“Since that moment, I have wished to speak with you. You are strange in the South Plains, and to me, and I am hungry to learn of new things.”

While he spoke, Linden rallied her resources. She felt the delicacy of his manner, the instinctive consideration: his unprompted account of his presence gave her time to prepare. He may have felt awkward, but he did not appear so to her. Instead he seemed spontaneously kind.

That contrast with Stave and the
Haruchai
encouraged her to gather her courage.

“Thank you, Liand,” she said when she could breathe more easily. “I'm glad you're willing to talk to me.”

Anele turned his back, dismissing the Stonedownor, and moved to sit once again against the far wall.

“Oh, I am willing in all truth.” Liand's voice was an intent baritone, full of concentration and interest. “Your speech is foreign to my ears, and your raiment is unlike any I have beheld.” Frankly he admitted, “I am eager to offer whatever I may.”

“Thank you,” she said again. Inadvertently she had provided herself with an opening,
an approach to her immediate concerns. As she considered how she might proceed, she tried to see his face more clearly. However, the gloom shrouded his features, blurring their definitions. Tentatively she asked, “Can you let in more light? The Masters won't release Anele, and I promised not to leave him. But I want to be able to look at you.”

“Surely.” Liand reached at once to the side of the doorframe, located a hook which must have been formed or attached for the purpose, and hung the curtain there. “Will this suffice?”

The sunlight did not stretch far into the chamber; but enough reflected illumination washed inward to brighten the room considerably.

“It will”—Linden smiled wanly—“as soon as we sit down.” Easing herself to the floor, she indicated a spot for him inside the doorway. “Anele and I had a rough time yesterday,” she explained as neutrally as she could. “I haven't got my strength back yet.”

When Liand complied, the light revealed him plainly. He was a young man, perhaps half her age, with broad shoulders and sturdy, workman's hands, wearing a jerkin and leggings of rough wool dyed the hue of sand. Thick leather sandals protected his feet. His features reminded her distantly of Sunder, the only Stonedownor whom she had known well: he had Sunder's blunt openness without the bereavements and guilt which had complicated her friend's native simplicity. And he was characteristically brown-skinned, brown-eyed. Above his square jaw, imprecise nose, and eager gaze, his loose hair and eyebrows were a startling black, as dark as crow's wings.

His mouth seemed made for smiles; but he was not smiling now.

“I witnessed your capture,” he told Linden gravely. “The Masters were not gentle with you. And I cannot conceive what you must have endured in the fall of the Watch. Indeed, I cannot conceive how it is that you yet live.”

Dropping his eyes, he observed noncommittally, “The Masters may comprehend that wonder, but they answer inquiries rarely—and never when what has transpired surpasses our experience. To justify your captivity, they say only that Anele requires their care, and that you opposed them.”

He did not need to add that he was eager to hear a better explanation. His excitement was plain in the feigned relaxation of his posture, the quick clench and release of his hands. However, she was not ready to put him in peril. Anything that she revealed might turn the
Haruchai
against him. Hell, they might decide to treat him like they did Anele. She could not take that kind of chance with him: not yet.

And she did not know if he were truly as guileless as he appeared. The health-sense which she had regained and lost again would have discerned his essential nature. Without it, she had to be more careful.

“Maybe we can talk about that later,” she answered. “There's a lot at stake, and right now I don't know who I can trust and who I can't.” To forestall an interruption, she
went on more quickly, “I was here once before, but that was a very long time ago. I gather my name doesn't mean anything to you?”

The Stonedownor shook his head.

“Thomas Covenant?” she continued. “Sunder son of Nassic, the Graveler of Mithil Stonedown? Hollian eh-Brand?”

The First of the Search? Pitchwife?