The Runes of the Earth: The Last Chronicles of Thomas Covenant - Book One (88 page)

In the bath, the cold of the water stung her skin. It must have arisen from a mountain spring and been drawn by gravity into pipes and conduits within Revelstone's walls, where it was kept cold by the surrounding rock. But she fought the chill. Fumbling sand onto her arms and legs, her torso, her head, she rubbed them until she felt raw. Then she pulled her clothes into the water and did the same to them.

For all of her scrubbing, however, she could not remove the grass stains from her pants. They had become part of the fabric, indelible, and cryptic as runes.

And soon the chattering of her teeth drove her from the tub. Wrapping one of the rough towels around her, she hastened toward the warmth of the fire. There gradually the crackling heat soaked into her, easing the clench of her muscles and the deep pang of the cold; and she began to relax.

When she was warm, she returned to the bathroom, wrung out her clothes, and brought them to the fire, hanging them over the backs of chairs near the hearth to dry.

Now she wished that she had a comb. Her hair would be a mess when it dried. But she ran her fingers through it by the comfortable flames, untangling it as best she could. That would have to suffice. She had no energy left for vanity.

Then she began to feel hungry. Knowing the
Haruchai,
she felt sure that one of them—Galt, presumably—stood outside her door, guarding her; or guarding against her. If she opened the door, she could ask him for something to eat.

She did not. Instead she continued to sit by the fire, staring into the indecipherable dance of the flames while she forced herself to think about her circumstances.

And about Anele.

She told herself that she should prepare for the morrow; for the confrontation she had been promised. Always assuming, of course, that the Demondim could be held
back so long. More than that, however, she needed to devise some stratagem which would allow her to bypass the horde and head for Mount Thunder.

She had not forgotten her desire to visit Andelain. If any guidance remained in the Land, she would find it there. But every day that slipped away from her only multiplied Jeremiah's suffering. Now that she knew where to look for him, she intended to postpone other considerations.

But she could not concentrate: her weary thoughts seemed to bleed away from her. Rather than making plans, she found herself remembering the hazard and bloodshed which had purchased her escape from the Demondim.

Slain
Haruchai
and slaughtered horses haunted her. Blasts of opalescent acid devoured raw chunks of pain and death, while blurred forms shifted in and out of definition. Fanged flails of emerald scourged flesh to tatters, and yet represented only a small portion of the Illearth Stone's potential evil.

Despite the peril, however, Anele had dropped from Hrama's back to become an avatar of fire and rage. When his feet had touched the bare dirt, the bitterness of some other being had taken possession of him. He had been transformed—

—just as he had been in the open center of the Verge of Wandering.

Linden struggled to grasp the implications.

In at least one phase of his madness, apparently, the old man's vulnerability was defined or controlled by the nature of the ground on which he stood. For the few days that she had known him in her proper time, she had only seen his feet touch bare dirt twice; and both times he had immediately begun to rave with heat and flame. But in the Land's past he had evinced nothing similar. Instead every aspect of his madness with which she was familiar had been modified beyond recognition. There, in the presence of the Staff, he had come close to ordinary sanity.

Perhaps his passage through the first
caesure
had taken him out of reach—

And the same was true, she realized suddenly, whenever Anele was on horseback. More than once, she had observed that he seemed less troubled when he rode. During their escape from Mithil Stonedown, Lord Foul's grasp on his spirit had disappeared when he had been lifted onto Somo's back. And after that it had not recurred until—

No, it had not recurred at all; not fully. From Somo's back, Anele had climbed onto the rocks around the Mithil's Plunge. Behind the Plunge, he had been wracked by an entirely different form of pain. And after that, during their ascent toward the cleft where they had later been attacked by the
kresh
—during that difficult trudge—

Damn it, she could not remember. But she seemed to recall that he had vacillated between varying manifestations of his insanity, shedding glimpses of Despite and woe. And where they walked had been primarily a kind of scrub-grass, hardy and thin, interspersed with patches of bare dirt and sections of fallen stone.

He had been standing on grass of that same kind when Lord Foul had guided her
to hurtloam. And earlier, when the Despiser had first spoken to her through Anele: the same grass.

Dear God, was it
possible
?

He has no friend but stone.

Did the surface on which he stood determine the phase of his madness? Or did that surface control which of several beings or spirits could locate and possess him?

Thomas Covenant had spoken to her through Anele twice, on the lush grass of the Verge of Wandering: grass so rich and high that she had been unable to walk through it without floundering; the same grass which had stained her pants with a script which she did not know how to interpret.

In the rubble of Kevin's Watch, and again among the shattered rocks which had filled the cleft, as well as on the piled granite of the ridge above the Verge of Wandering, he had professed to read what was written within the stones. He had seemed almost lucid—On more polished stone, he had appeared more broken and fearful; but still he had seemed able to understand what was said to him—and to offer an occasional coherent response. And—

Linden groaned at the memory.

On a plane of exposed gutrock between the walls of the cleft, he had briefly become sane enough to reveal his past.

If she were right—if her memories had not misled her—it was God's truth that he had
no friend but stone.
Every other surface under his feet in this time exposed him to possession and torment.

As she had understood it until now, Anele's madness had seemed adequately cruel: bitter and undeserved. But this new vision of his plight was far worse. He had become the pawn of powers which would have savaged any less Earthpowerful flesh than his.

She might have stopped then to grieve for him; but implications continued to tumble through her. If she were right, Lord Foul could not know where she was or what she did when Anele was not accessible to him. That probably accounted for the attack of the
kresh.
The Despiser must have expected her to flee Mithil Stonedown northward, into the South Plains—away from the Ramen and the Ranyhyn and hope. And Anele had been hidden from him on Somo's back. When the old man had reentered Lord Foul's reach beyond the Mithil's Plunge, the Despiser must have been taken by surprise. Realizing his error, he must have sent the
kresh
in an attempt to prevent Linden from reaching the mountains.

In addition, Anele's particular vulnerability might explain why the Demondim had slowed their attack. By her reasoning, it was no accident that the horde had not assailed him when he was filled with fire and rage. The dire creatures had recognized an ally. In their midst, Anele's possessor had spoken to them—and they had heeded him.

For some reason, they wanted Linden and her companions enclosed in Revelstone.

Deep within herself, she trembled at the possibilities. Evils other than the Despiser also used Anele to keep track of her; oppose her; guard against her.
I have merely whispered a word of counsel here and there
—And Covenant had warned her to beware of him.

Almost involuntarily, she imagined ways in which she might benefit from her new understanding. If it proved true—She could take Anele to the upland plateau, to the rich grass around Glimmermere, and ask him for Covenant's guidance. Or she could—

The mere consideration of such ideas shamed her. Anele was a broken old man, and he had already experienced too many forms of violation. He did not deserve to be used, even by someone who cared for him.

But the Despiser had taken her son. And Anele's madness was defended by Earthpower. Unconsciously he had shaped his birthright into a bulwark for his insanity. She could not succor him without committing an act of violence against the choices which he had made for himself.

And his plight did not outweigh Jeremiah's. It could not; not with her. The old man had friends: Liand and the Ramen; Linden herself; even the ur-viles to some extent. He had episodes of sanity which enabled him to articulate his dilemma. And his heritage of Earthpower protected his underlying identity from the ravages of his possessors. Jeremiah had none of those things.

He had only Linden. If she did not redeem him from Lord Foul, there would be no limit to his agonies.

Therefore—

She hid her face in her hands.

—she had no choice. If she could find no alternative, no other way to reach her son, she would have to make use of Anele. To manipulate his madness so that it served her needs.

The prospect dismayed her; but she did not shrink from it. She had already risked the Arch of Time in the same cause.

Good cannot be accomplished by evil means.

She understood that. But such convictions, like the beliefs of the Masters, were too expensive. She could not afford them.

S
he might have remained where she was for some time, warming her weariness by the fire, and considering possibilities which shamed her. Before she could remember that she was hungry, however, or that she needed sleep, she heard a muted knock at her door.

Sighing, she uncovered her face and rose to her feet.

Her clothes were still too damp to wear. After a moment's hesitation, she wrapped a couple of towels tightly around her, then retrieved the Staff and carried it with her as she went to unlatch the door.

The door was stone, and massive as a cenotaph, yet it swung easily on its hinges. It must have been counterbalanced in some way, perhaps by weights within the walls. Lord's Keep had been wrought by Giants, and they were wizards of stonework.

In the corridor outside her chambers stood Liand, Galt, and a woman whom she had never seen before. The woman held a wicker tray laden with dried fruit, dark bread, cheese, and a steaming bowl of soup.

Liand smiled uncertainly. “Linden.” He seemed reluctant to enter; unsure of his welcome. “This is the Mahdoubt.” He indicated the woman. “I glean that she is
the
Mahdoubt, though I do not presume to know what the title may signify. When she brought food to my rooms, I inquired of you, and she replied that she had not yet served you. Wishing to ascertain that you are well, I craved her leave to accompany her.”

“Yes. Assuredly.” The woman plainly did not doubt her own welcome. Bustling past Linden, she swept into the room: a short dowdy figure apparently well past middle age, with a crow's nest of hair askew on her head, plump flesh hanging from her arms, and features which might have been sculpted by an unruly child during a tantrum. About her she wore a robe of astonishing ugliness, a motley patchwork of scraps and swaths seemingly selected for their unsuitability to each other, and stitched together at random.

“The Mahdoubt, indeed,” she pronounced as she bent to place her tray on the low table. “Assuredly. Who else?” She may have been speaking to herself. “Meager fare for two. Does the Mahdoubt comprehend this? She does. But this flirtatious young man”—she indicated Liand—“has mazed her with blandishments, and so she did not return to the kitchens for a second tray.

“A long trudge, that,” she remarked to the air. “Long and weary. And the Mahdoubt can no longer recall her first youth, though she has been shamelessly charmed.”

For a moment, she studied her tray. Then she bent again and adjusted its position until it occupied the exact center of the table. When she straightened her back, her manner suggested satisfaction.

“Pssht. It is no matter,” she informed the room. “One tray may feed as many as two, if it be kindly shared.”

In an effort to make herself stop staring, Linden turned to Galt. “ ‘The Mahdoubt'?” she asked unsteadily.