The Runes of the Earth: The Last Chronicles of Thomas Covenant - Book One (55 page)

If her self-command wavered for a heartbeat—

Stave was nearing the end of himself. “Only Bloodguard,” he panted weakly, “stood beside Lord Hyrim while Kinslaughterer endeavored to efface every vestige of the Giants from The Grieve.”

Seeking to tune percipience and wild magic to the same feather-soft pitch, she clung to the arduous sound of Stave's voice as to a saving anchor; a point of clarity against the tug of her self-doubt.

Pierced by the touch of flame, he gasped. But he did not stop.

“The Ramen cannot know how the Bloodguard loved the Giants. They cannot grasp how the hearts of the Bloodguard were rent by what had transpired. Therefore they presume to scorn our fall from faith.”

The stolid demeanor of his people masked how profoundly they had been horrified. It hid the depth of their rage.

The Bloodguard had striven absolutely to succeed, and they had failed. What other conclusion could such men draw from their defeat, except that they were not worthy?

No wonder the
Haruchai
had made themselves the Masters of the Land. They sought to ensure that they would never again be found unworthy by an atrocity like the destruction of the Unhomed.

They had turned their backs on grief—

In comprehension and empathy, Linden nudged the punctures in Stave's lungs shut one by one. Then she reached into him with argence in order to bind their edges together.

“Chosen,” he murmured; his last words to her, “hear me.

“The judgment of the
Haruchai
is not so lightly set aside. There will come a reckoning between us.”

Another man might have meant between the Masters and the Ramen; but she knew that he did not.

Wild magic was too rough for the task. Inadvertently she hurt him until he nearly screamed behind his locked teeth. Nevertheless she sealed the tissues of his lungs around each wound. Then she closed the pleural rents.

Extravagantly careful, and still unable to spare him agony, she stitched white fire along the worst of his internal lacerations until they were made whole.

Finally she bowed her head over her work. Stave had lost consciousness: he lay as still as death. But he breathed more easily now, and no new blood came to his lips.

When she believed that he would live, she let percipience and power and all the world go.

What then is your intention?

If he had asked her that question now, she might have wept.

S
ome time later, the sound of voices outside the shelter roused her: soft voices, thick with controlled anger and threats.

Raising her head, Linden discovered that she must have fallen asleep on her knees
beside Stave's grassy bed. Her arms still rested near him. Dried bits of bracken clung to her cheek, and her folded legs had gone numb under her.

Someone—Bhapa?—was saying stubbornly, “We care not. It is her word that she must not be disturbed.”

“You are not blind,” countered a man who may have been Esmer. “It is plain that she has spared the
Haruchai
from death. Did you not feel the wild magic that destroys peace?

“I must speak with her while I am able.”

“As you spoke with the sleepless one?” a girl responded: a younger voice, possibly Pahni's. “Already you have betrayed our promise of safety. Even now the Manethralls debate whether you will be permitted to remain among us.”

The man who sounded like Esmer snorted ambiguously. Contempt? Distress? Linden could not tell. “While I am accepted by the Ranyhyn,” he retorted in scorn or alarm, “the Ramen may not deny me, lest they break faith with the meaning of their lives.

“Stand aside, Cords. I must speak with the Wildwielder.”

Groaning, Linden brushed the bracken from her cheek; rubbed her face to restore at least a semblance of consciousness. Esmer wanted to talk to her? Fine. She had a few things to say herself.

Stave could never have stood against him: Esmer had too much power. For a moment, she relived the lurch and spout of force which had kept the Ramen from Stave's side; the numbing nausea which had eroded her defenses. Esmer's unprovoked violence would delight the Despiser, if Lord Foul knew of it.

If Foul had not caused it in some way—

Just tell me what you've done.

Done? I? Naught. I have merely whispered a word of counsel here and there, and awaited events.

Angry herself now, Linden tried to rise; but her legs would not move. How long had she slept? Long enough, obviously, to deaden her nerves. With her arms, she tried to shift her weight—and gasped softly at the quick fire of returning sensation.

You need the Staff of Law.

She had not forgotten; but the advice of her dreams had taken on the weight of despair.

Abruptly, hands came to her aid. With their support, she stood at last. When she could see past the pain in her legs, she found herself gazing into Char's earnest young face.

Sahah's brother, repaying a debt. As Pahni and Bhapa did by withstanding Esmer. They had watched over while she labored for Stave's life; and while she slept.

They were still trying to obey her.

The cookfire had died down to small flames, ruddy embers. Its dim light made Char's face look flushed. Limned in the glow of other fires around the encampment, the forms of Esmer, Bhapa, and Pahni had an infernal cast, ominous and undefined.

“You do not comprehend the difficulty,” Esmer insisted to Sahah's cousin and half-brother. “You see what I am in part, but you do not know the cost of my nature.” His tone suggested elaborate patience, uncomfortable restraint. “The way is open for me
now.
But the time when I may speak to the Wildwielder
for her benefit
is not long. It will soon end.

“You know that I esteem the Ramen for their service to the Ranyhyn. Do not misjudge me now. It is misguided devotion”—his tone said
folly
—“to refuse me in this.”

Bhapa and Pahni did not stand aside. They did not so much as turn their heads to glance at Linden.

In spite of his frustration, Esmer made no attempt to force his way past them. The man who had nearly killed Stave could have knocked both Cords aside easily. Apparently, however, he had no intention of doing so.

“Let him in.” Sleep and fatigue clogged Linden's throat: she could barely make herself heard. “I'll talk to him.”

She was not sure that anything Esmer might say would do her good. But he understood the speech of ur-viles. He possessed invaluable knowledge, if he chose to reveal it.

“The Ringthane has awakened,” Char added as if to confirm her authority. “It is her wish to admit Esmer.”

Reluctantly, Bhapa and Pahni stepped out of Esmer's way.

He had called himself the son of Cail and the Dancers of the Sea. He had demonstrated an astonishing power for which Linden had no answer. Nevertheless he entered the shelter cautiously, almost hesitantly, as if he were abashed in her presence. The low radiance of the cookfire turned his emerald eyes the color of shame.

Again his nearness afflicted her with a sensation of nausea, a disturbing queasiness. In some way, he seemed to undermine her perceptions, her health-sense, even her grasp on reality.

The Cords followed him, plainly concerned that Linden might need their protection.

Esmer did not meet her gaze. When he reached the head of Stave's bed, he stopped to study the
Haruchai.
With an uncomfortable frown, he murmured, “You surpass me. Small wonder that you are named ‘Chosen' and ‘Wildwielder.' To work such healing with wild magic—”

He risked a quick glance at her face, then turned his head aside. Under his breath, he quoted:

“This power is a paradox, because Power does not exist without Law, and wild magic has no Law.”

In an abstracted tone, he told the Cords, “Leave us. I will speak to the Wildwielder alone.”

“You will not,” retorted Bhapa stiffly.

Char and Pahni looked to Linden for her assent.

“It's all right,” she assured them. She had her own reasons for speaking to Esmer privately. “You can go. He won't hurt me.”

Not now. Ranyhyn had bowed their heads to her: she had been accepted by the great horses of Ra. And Esmer had made it clear that he honored their choices.

If the Ranyhyn had arrived sooner, Stave would not have been hurt—

Scowling their mistrust at Esmer, Pahni and Bhapa acquiesced. When Linden had seated herself beside Stave's supine form, Char also left the shelter. She did not watch where the Cords went; but she assumed that they would continue to protect her privacy.

While she slept, intentions which she could not name had begun to take shape within her. Her present straits were untenable, that was certain. They had to be altered. She could not imagine what Esmer might say to her; but she knew what she would ask him. However, her questions were mere unformed guesses, inchoate intuitive leaps; too disturbing to be shared. For the time being, at least, she did not wish to be overheard by anyone who might misunderstand her—or disapprove.

Still Esmer did not look at her directly. His arms moved awkwardly at his sides, uncertain of their purposes; restless with chagrin. Behind her, Stave bore unconscious witness to Esmer's constrained deadliness.

She did not hesitate. She was too angry. Too tired of being afraid. “You said you wanted to talk,” she rasped. “So talk. Tell me why I should listen to a man who nearly killed someone who couldn't possibly hurt him. Where I come from, only cowards do that.”

Esmer shrugged in discomfort. “I am the son of Cail and
merewives.
” His tone was meek: his manner proffered no challenge. “I descend from the blood and power and betrayal of
Elohim,
as from other theurgies. And from true service as well, the honor of
Haruchai.
The fault of my nature does not diminish your importance to me.”

Linden's guts churned suddenly. Aboard Starfare's Gem, Findail had not spoken only of Kastenessen. He had also described the doomed
Elohim
's damaged lover. Apparently that woman had learned many forms of power from Kastenessen, but no anodyne for her bereavement. Bitter with pain, she had eventually become the mother of the
merewives,
the Dancers of the Sea, who had seduced Brinn and Cail.

For his weakness, Cail's kinsmen had judged him a failure. After the quenching of the Banefire, he had left the Land, hoping to find the
merewives
again. He had preferred the passion and imprisonment of their unending, unrelieved desire to the harshness of his people.

“That's no answer,” Linden retorted. Everything about Esmer hinted at fatal hazards: she needed to guard herself. And his present meekness only aggravated her ire. “In any case, attacking Stave was a waste of time. What did you think you would accomplish? Even if you killed him, he's only one
Haruchai.
Someday the rest of his people will become aware of you. Then you'll have more enemies than you can count. So what was the damn point? What did you have to gain?”

Why did he wish to approach her now?

Esmer appeared to sigh, although he made no sound. “I am made to be what I am, divided against myself, and eternally at war.”

Abruptly, he seated himself on the bed near Stave's head. Embers reflected greenly in his eyes as he watched the darkened movements of the Ramen within and around the neighboring shelters.

“Do you not recall the
merewives
? Their song inspires those who hear it—those whose hearts are fierce, and can be touched—with a fathomless passion, love so needy and aspirant that the depths of the oceans cannot drown it away. Yet that song is sung in abhorrence, inspired by sorrow and the desire for death. The Dancers of the Sea loathe the love which they call forth, for they were themselves born of such vast yearning. Their nature grants them no mercy, and permits them none.

“In Cail, they found a mate to match them. I am their sum, at once more than both and less than either.”

His shoulders twitched: another shrug. “With blows I have expended my loathing, for a little time. Until its strength is renewed, I am able to set it aside.”