Chapter Eight: 

The Stuff of Legends

Her mount was no Ranyhyn, and the beast was frail. It stumbled under her whenever a hoof skidded on the glazed ice. She could feel its heart strain against its gaunt ribs. But as soon as she was thirty or forty paces beyond her companions, Linden began to draw Earthpower from the Staff, using its vitality to nurture her horse as well as to warm her numb skin, her cold-stiff limbs. Surely she would not endanger Covenant and Jeremiah now, when her mount increased the distance between them with every stride?

Gradually the horse grew stronger. Its gait increased toward a gallop as she fed it with the substance of life.

Then she crossed the crest of the rise, and Berek’s camp appeared like a tapestry woven of fires and tents and wagons; picket lines and latrines; gritted pain, exhaustion, and graves.

The encampment seemed huge, although she knew that it was not. The surrounding dark dwarfed it. Nevertheless it was all that the night contained. The larger host of Berek’s foes lay beyond the reach of her senses. Even the stars were lessened by the human multitude of the camp’s fires.

As she crossed the ridge, she was already near enough to see individual figures; dim tottering shapes that moved among the tents and campfires. Most of the tents were small, hardly big enough for two or three warriors to share their meagre warmth. But a few were larger: mess tents, perhaps, or command posts. One of these occupied the centre of the encampment. Linden guessed that it was Berek’s. However, three of the tents were the size of pavilions, and their burden of suffering drew her toward them immediately. Enclosed by thick clusters of wagons, they had been erected along the northern edge of the encampment, as far as possible from any attack; and they called out to every dimension of her health-sense, beseeching her for succour. There the most grievously wounded of Berek’s army carried on their faint and fading struggle for life.

Linden was an unskilled horsewoman, but she knew enough to turn her mount’s head so that the beast directed its lengthening strides toward the pavilions. At the same time, she urged more power from the Staff to protect the horse from slipping on the treacherous slope. In that way, she gathered her own strength as well as her mount’s, so that she would be able to bear what lay ahead of her.

Her haste attracted attention at several points along the edge of the camp. And as she approached the light, her open cloak, red shirt, and stained jeans marked her as a stranger; a likely threat. Shouts rose against her. At least half a dozen warriors ran for their horses, plainly intending to intercept her.

In response, she summoned fire like a shout from the end of the Staff and kicked awkwardly at her mount’s sides, trying to compel more speed.

Her display made the men and women racing for their mounts hesitate. More shouts scattered through the camp, dragging warriors urgently away from their chores and cookfires. Doubtless Berek’s forces were acquainted with theurgy. The King whom they had opposed had been counselled by a Raver. They had felt black malevolence from the east, and knew their Lord’s unforeseen might. A few of them had witnessed the salvific rampage of the Fire-Lions. Nonetheless it was likely that none of them had ever seen Earthpower in thetic fire. And apparently most of them had not yet felt the first stirrings of health-sense. They could not look at Linden’s emblazoned rush and recognise that she wielded the same Law which had brought the Fire-Lions to Berek’s aid.

Commanders yelled orders. A few warriors flung themselves onto their mounts, followed by others—and by still others. As Linden reached level ground and sped toward the tents of the wounded, holding aloft her pennon of power, a thickening barricade of riders surged into formation across her path.

She could not fight them. Nor could she bear to be stopped. In her ears, the need of Berek’s wounded and dying was as loud as a wail, and as compulsory as blood. Even the men and women who rode out to refuse her were rife with injuries.

Mustering fire, she called in a voice of flame, “By Yellinin’s command! I’m a healer! Let me pass!”

Again Berek’s warriors hesitated. Some began to rein in their mounts: others veered aside. But an older veteran, hardened and glaring, yelled back, “Yellinin’s command does not suffice! Halt and answer!”

Linden swore to herself. If she could elude the riders, she suspected that her mount would be able to outdistance them. Its energy was the Staffs. But they were mere heartbeats away. And the prospect of delays and argument was intolerable.

Shouting, “In Lord Berek’s name!” she mentally stamped one heel of her Staff against the frozen ground. With Earthpower and Law, she sent a concussion like the tremor of an earthquake rolling under the hooves of the advancing horses.

Covenant and Jeremiah had withstood worse when she had closed the caesure of the Demondim. The Theomach might not protect them; but they had risked too much: they would not allow themselves to be banished now.

Instinctive animal terror cleared her passage. Some of the beasts stumbled, pitching their riders. Others shied; reared; wheeled away. Their panic forced the riders behind them to struggle for control.

Through the momentary turmoil, Linden’s mount raced like Hyn, pounding the ice and dirt toward the tents of the wounded. Followed by shouts of rage and alarm, she ran for her destination.

She was now little more than a hundred paces from the edge of the encampment. When she dismounted, she would be within twenty or thirty steps of the nearest pavilion. But during her dash at the camp, Berek’s commanders had readied a wall of swords and spears to resist her. Warriors stood clenched against their fear. Damn it: this was the cost of her haste. She had left behind anyone who might have spoken for her. Now she seemed to have no choice except to fight or fail.

But she had seen too much death and could not do otherwise than she had done.

She began to pull on her mount’s reins, slowing the beast so that the warriors ahead of her would see that she did not mean to hurl herself onto their weapons. While riders swept toward her, she eased the horse to a canter; to a walk. Then she slipped down from the beast’s back and left it.

A heartbeat later, horses clattered to a halt behind her. But she did not turn toward them. Striding directly at the wall of warriors, she let the Staffs fire die away. She wanted Berek’s people to recognise that she had no wish to harm them. Then she said as calmly as she could, knowing that she was close enough to be heard, “By Yellinin’s command, and in Lord Berek’s name, let me pass. Please. I would beg you, but I don’t have time. Your friends are dying in those tents.”

Still the points of the spears and the edges of the swords confronted her. Berek’s forces had grown accustomed to fear and death: they may not have been capable of heeding her.

“I’m a healer.” She walked straight at the barricade of warriors. “I intend to help. Either cut me down”—she did not raise her voice—“or let me pass.”

No one answered her. She heard no order given; felt no conscious decision reached. Yet something in her tone or her manner, her strangeness or her steady stride, must have inspired conviction. When she drew near enough to spit herself on the first of the spears, it lifted out of her path. Abruptly several men and women lowered their swords. More spears followed the example of the first. The warriors stared at her with fierce concentration: their eyes held every shade of apprehension and doubt. Nevertheless they parted so that she could walk between them.

For a moment, tears blurred her sight. “Thank you,” she murmured unsteadily, “thank you,” as she moved unhurt into the encampment.

Men and women formed an aisle for her, a gauntlet, all with their weapons held ready—and all motionless in spite of their uneasy tension. Here and there, firelight reflected in their eyes, or on the battered metal of their breastplates. Many of them wore hardened leather caps in lieu of helmets; leather vambraces and other protection. All were variously clad in blood and bandages. As individuals, they ached with weariness and old wounds, entrenched loss and desperation. Together they hurt Linden’s senses like a festering abscess. Yet she caught only hints of hopelessness or despair. Berek’s people were sustained by their deep belief in him. It kept them on their feet.

She loathed war and killing. At times, she did not know how to accept humankind’s readiness for evil. But she was already starting to admire Berek, and she had not yet met him. His spirit preserved his people when every other resource failed. And he was the reason—she was sure of this—that they had refrained from slaying her. She had invoked his name. They strove to prove themselves worthy of him.

Roughly she rubbed away her tears. Without hesitation, she followed the aisle and her raw nerves toward the nearest pavilion.

As she approached the heavy canvas, torn and filthy from too much use, her perceptions of distress accumulated. The naked human suffering ahead of her was worse than any she had faced before.

She had spent years preparing for such crises. Nothing in that tent was more severe than the mangled cost of car wrecks or bad falls; the outcome of drunken brawls and domestic abuse; the vicious ruin of gunshots. Berek’s people were not more severely damaged than Sahah had been, or others of the Ramen, or the Masters who had opposed the Demondim.

But there were so many of them—And they were being given such primitive care—During the last strides of her approach to the pavilion, she felt three of them die. More than a score of them lingered on the absolute edge of death, kept alive only by simple unbending steadfastness; by the strength of their desire not to fail their Lord. Before long, they would slip away, some stupefied by their wounds, others in pure agony. And this was only one tent: there were two more.

Never before had Linden faced bleeding need on this scale: not by several orders of magnitude. The grim frantic hours that she and Julius Berenford had spent in surgery after Covenant’s murder were paltry by comparison.

And her nerves were raw; too raw. She felt every severed limb and broken skull, every pierced abdomen and slashed joint, as if they had been incused on her own flesh. Nevertheless she did not falter. She would not. Confronted with such pain, she would allow nothing to prevent her from doing what she could. 

Trust yourself.

As if she had forgotten her own mortality, she thrust the stiff fabric of the opening aside and strode into the tent.

She hardly noticed that no one entered behind her.

The tent was supported by four heavy poles, each more than twice her height. And the interior was illuminated by oil lamps, at least a score of them. Nevertheless she could scarcely descry the far wall. The whole place was full of smoke, a heavy brume so thick and pungent that her eyes watered instantly and she began to cough before she had taken two steps across the dirt floor.

God damn it, she might have shouted, are you trying to suffocate them? Almost at once, however, her senses came into focus, and she saw and smelled and felt that the rank fug arose from burning herbs. It was a febrifuge of some kind, intended to combat fever. In addition, it had a degree of virtue against infection. Beyond question, it hurt the lungs of the wounded. But most of them had grown accustomed to it, or were too weak to cough. And it kept some of them alive.

They lay on the iron ground in long rows, protected from the cold only by thin straw pallets padded with blankets. But the blankets had been fouled by months or seasons of blood and pus and sputum, urine and faeces: they were caked and crusted with disease. Still coughing, Linden discerned pneumonia and dysentery rampant around her, exacerbating the bitter throng of wounds and a host of other illnesses.

Then she understood that the true horror of this war was not that so many people were dying, but rather that so many still clung to life. Death would have been kinder—The men and women who served as Berek’s physicians had wrought miracles against impossible odds.

There were three of them in the tent, two men and a woman: three to care for twenty or thirty times that many wounded and dying. As one of them came toward her, she saw that he wore a thick grey robe nearly as vile as the blankets. A length of rope cinched his waist, and from it hung several pouches of herbs—his only medicines—as well as a short heavy sword and a crude saw which he obviously, too obviously, used for amputations. He trembled with fatigue as he approached, a heavy burden of sleep deprivation. Rheum dulled his gaze, and the weak flat sound of his cough told Linden as clearly as blood work that he had contracted pneumonia.

Nevertheless he did his best to accost her. “Begone,” he wheezed irritably. This is no place for you, stranger, madwoman. I will summon—”

Linden silenced him with a sharp gesture. Before he could protest, she drew flame blooming from her Staff.

She had spent ten years without percipience and Earthpower, restricted to the surface of life. During that time, she had lost much of her familiarity with the Land’s gifts. But in recent days, she had made repeated use of the Staff. Unaware of what would be required of her, she had nonetheless trained her nerves and sharpened her perceptions for this crisis, this multitude of pain. To that extent, at least, she was ready.

Carefully she sent out sheets of yellow fire, immaculate as sunshine, and wrapped them like a cocoon around the physician.

She knew exactly what he needed: she felt it in her own blood and bone. Swift as instinct, she found his tiredness, his illness, his unremitting exposure to infection, and she swept them away.

She barely heard the other two physicians yell in alarm. From their perspective, their comrade must have appeared to blaze like an auto da fe. And she paid no heed to the answering shouts from outside the tent. When warriors burst past the tent flaps behind her, she ignored them. Her concentration admitted no intrusion.

The physician’s heart had time to beat twice or thrice while she worked. Then she released him from fire. The emotional and spiritual toll of his labors she could not heal, but she left him physically whole: staggering with surprise, and exalted by relief and wellness.

At once, Linden turned away and dropped to her knees beside the nearest of the wounded.

This warrior was a woman, and Linden knew that she was not yet dying. She might linger for several days, excruciated by fever and infection. The sword-cut which had split her breastplate and opened her ribs was not necessarily fatal. With cleanliness and rest, it might heal on its own. But her left foot had been amputated above the ankle, and there her real danger lay. Her shin suppurated with infection and anguish. Slivers of bone protruded from the mass of pus and maggots where one of the physicians had attempted to save her life.

She was far from being the most needy warrior here. She was simply the nearest. For that reason, Linden had chosen her.

The other physicians still called for help. Linden heard quick steps at her back; swords drawn. No one here could comprehend what she was doing. They saw only fire and were afraid. She needed to show them what her actions meant before a blade bit into her back.

Hurrying, she closed her eyes; refined her attention; swathed the wounded woman in Earthpower. With flame, she burned away infection and maggots, cleansed poisons, excised and sealed necrotic tissues, knit together shards of bone. And she caused no pain: the bright efficacy of the Staff was as soothing as Glimmermere’s lacustrine roborant.

Near her, the physician yelled frantically, “Halt!” She felt him leap to intercept the stroke of a sword. “Do not!” His voice became a roar as he found his strength. “Heaven and Earth, are you blind? She has mended me!”

There must have been whetted iron mere inches from her neck; but Linden allowed nothing to interrupt her as she assoiled the fallen woman’s injuries.

When she was done, she quenched the Staff and raised her head.

The rumpled hood of her cloak touched the edge of a sword. “What madness is this?” demanded one of the warriors behind her, a man. “She has set flame to a woman who might have lived, and you wish her spared?”

“Unclose your eyes,” retorted the physician. “Behold what she has done. It is not harm.

“By my life,” he added more softly, in wonder, “I had forgotten that there was once a time when I was not ill.”

The healed woman tried to lift her head from the pallet. “What—?” she asked weakly. “What has become of my pain? Why am I not in pain?”

Daring Berek’s people to cut at her now, Linden braced herself on the Staff and rose to her feet. She felt their astonishment; their reluctance to credit what they saw and heard. They had so little experience of the Land’s true life—They could not imagine its implications.

However, the physician did not leave the warriors to reach their own conclusions. Suddenly resolute, he commanded, “Begone!” as he had tried to command Linden. This lady”—he could hardly find words for his amazement—“will do no hurt. Mayhap she will work great good, if she is not hindered. Depart, that I may beseech her aid.”

Flapping both arms, he gestured in dismissal until the men and women behind Linden complied. Then he turned to her while his fellow healers hastened among the rows toward him.

“My lady,” he began, flustered by healing and hope, “I comprehend naught here. Such fire—It is beyond—

“But”—he seemed to grasp himself roughly with both hands—“I do not require comprehension, and must not delay. Will you grant us further flame? We are badly surpassed. The need is too great to be numbered. Our simples and implements redeem few. Most perish.” The rheum in his eyes had become tears. “I will prostrate myself, if that will sway you—”

He began to sink to his knees.

Still Linden did not falter. The tent had become an emergency room, and she was a surgeon. Grabbing quickly at the man’s arm, she said, “Of course I’ll help. That’s why I’m here. But I need you to do triage for me.” When he frowned at the unfamiliar word, she explained. “I should treat the worst cases first, but I don’t know who they are. You’ll have to tell me.” Guide me. The sheer scale of the suffering around her confused her perceptions. “And get me some drinking water.”

She would need more than the Staff could provide to sustain her during the ordeal ahead.

The man’s mouth formed the word “cases” in silent confusion. Nevertheless he grasped her meaning. “Then commence with the fifth in this row,” he replied, nodding to Linden’s left. He seemed ready to obey her smallest word. “Palla and Jevin will direct you further.” Plainly he meant his fellow physicians. “I am Vertorn. I will command wine from the guards to refresh you.”

Good enough, Linden thought. She had to get to work. Pausing only to say, “I’m Linden. Don’t be afraid of anything you see,” she strode toward the pallet Vertorn had suggested.

When she saw how badly the man there had been slashed and pierced, she might have quailed, overwhelmed by the scale of her dilemma. He looked like he had been hung up like a dummy and used for weapons practice. His life was little more than a wisp of breath in the back of his throat. With her Staff, she had the capacity to fill the entire tent with vivifying flame. The iron-shod wood was constrained only by her own limitations. But she was too human to function in that way. She had to see what she strove to heal; needed to focus her attention on each individual wound and illness. In her hands, an undefined broadside of Earthpower might do more harm than good. She could only struggle to save one patient at a time, treat one need at a time, as she had always done.

And they were so many—

But during the single heartbeat when her courage might have broken, she felt a woman immediately behind her slip into death. After that, she did not hesitate. Unfurling the Staffs severe and kindly puissance like an oriflamme, she began her chosen task.

She had called herself a healer. Now she set about justifying her name.

She did not know how long she labored; could not count the men and women whom she retrieved from the ruins of war. When smoke and strain blurred her vision, the woman, Palla, led her by the hand while the man, Jevin, called out the location of her next patient. Whenever Vertorn thrust a flagon into her grasp, she gulped down a few swallows of whatever it contained. Everything else was a nightmare succession of rent flesh, shattered bone, rampant infection, and multiplied agony.

People were reduced to this by battle and pain: they became nothing more than the sum of their sufferings. And like them, she shrank. Long after she had passed the conscious borders of her endurance, and had become mere scraps of awareness, fragments composed almost exclusively of health-sense and Earthpower—blinded by tears, deaf to sobbing and wails, nearly insensate—she continued from hurt to hurt, and did not heed the cost. That she could not save them all, just one tent of three, meant nothing to her. Only the wound immediately in front of her held any significance: the mortifying infection; the instance of pleurisy, or pneumonia, or scabies, or inanition; the mute or whimpering protest of savaged flesh.

Dimly she felt in Pallas touch, heard in Jevin’s voice, that their ailments were no less than Vertorn’s had been. But she had nothing to spare for them. And she neglected to draw on the Staff for her own needs. She had grown unreal to herself; had become mere percipience and flame. A healer who collapsed from exhaustion could treat no one. But she trusted the steady exertion of so much Earthpower to protect her from prostration.

Then, however, she finished tending a man whose abdomen had been savagely lacerated—and Jevin did not call her to a new location. Nor did Palla draw her along the rows. 

Instead a voice that may have been Vertorn’s addressed her.

“My lady?” he said tentatively. “My lady Linden. You must desist. You must restore yourself. Lord Berek has come. He requires speech with you.”

When Linden did not respond, the physician reached through flame to slap her cheek lightly. “My lady, hear me. It is Lord Berek who desires to speak with you.”

Linden drew a shuddering breath. Unsteadily she released the Staffs power; let it fall away. Then she found herself hanging between Palla and Jevin while they struggled to uphold her. Blinking at the smoke in her eyes, the blood, the lingering sight of wounds, she saw Vertorn offer a flagon to her lips.

“Drink,” he commanded, peremptory with trepidation. The wine is rank, but I have included herbs to nourish you. You must be restored. It is imperative.”

Dully she accepted a few swallows from the flagon. The wine had an acrid taste, raw and biting, but it gave a small measure of energy to her overstrained nerves and muscles.

Lord Berek—

There was something that Vertorn wanted her to understand.

Lord Berek has come.

She tried to say, Let him wait. This is more important. But she was not strong enough. And Vertorn’s interruption forced her to recognise that she could not refuse him. She had only reduced the suffering in the tent; the argute throb of infection and fever; the predatory crouch of death. She would not be able to end it alone. 

She needed help—

The thought that Berek wished to speak with her seemed inconsequential; unworthy of regard. But she had to speak to him.

Now she clasped the Staff hungrily, almost begging for its beneficence. Without its nourishment, she would hardly be able to walk. The plight of the wounded required more from her.

When she had imposed a degree of Earthpower on her depleted nerves, her worn heart, she murmured hoarsely. “You’ll have to lead me. I can’t see very well.”

There was too much smoke in the air. And the outcome of sword-cuts and disease was more vivid to her than mere rows of rancid pallets or insignificant tent poles.

Jevin and Palla continued to support her. While she moved—slowly, slowly, feeble as an old woman—she sent some of the Staff’s sovereign healing, as much as she could muster, through herself into the physicians. Faintly she gave them a little Earthpower, a small portion of health. Like Vertorn, they were essential: they would have to care for the fallen when she was gone.

In spite of the smoke, she saw her task clearly. It was too much for her. Somehow she would have to win Berek’s aid.

She must have been closer to the opening of the tent than she realised. When Vertorn stepped aside, bowing his deference, she beheld Berek Halfhand for the first time.

Involuntarily she stopped; stared. She had not expected to encounter a man who seemed more compelling, more crucial, than the injuries and deaths of his warriors.

There was Earthpower in him, that was obvious: as potent as Anele’s inheritance, but closer to the surface, more readily accessible. However, his numinous energy was not what caused him to stand out from his escort of warriors as if he were somehow more real than they, more significant and substantial.

Nor did his vividness, his particular intensity, arise from his physical presence. He was little more than half a head taller than Linden: a stocky man, broad of shoulder and girth; prematurely bald, with deep eyes, a short-cropped beard the color of old iron, and a nose that had been dented by a blow. His hands looked as heavy as truncheons, and they had seen hard use in spite of the loss of two of his fingers; the same two which had been amputated from Covenant. The slashed and battered condition of his cuirass and vambraces proclaimed that he did not remain aloof from battle. He was a powerful man, familiar with fighting for his life. Yet that also did not account for his obvious dominance, his air of unmistakable authority. Most of the men and women in his escort were muscular and injured, marked by an interminable series of fierce engagements.

No, it was his emotional aura that made him seem more distinct, more necessary, than the people with him. Covenant had said, He’s charismatic as all hell, but Linden saw more. With her full senses, she discerned that he was haunted by death; that loss and despair had been carved into the bedrock of his nature. And the sheer depth of his bereavements had taught him a desperate compassion. She loathed war, but her abhorrence lacked the intimacy of his, the hideously prolonged exposure to that which rent his heart. Now he grieved for his foes as much as for his own forces. When he slew them, he did so as if he were weeping; as if his strokes were sobs. He fought—and fought endlessly, season after season, battle upon battle—only because the darkness which drove his enemies left him no choice. And because he had given his oath to the Land.

He would have questions for her. He would demand answers. And Linden could not imagine arguing with such a man, or attempting to persuade him. When Vertorn announced with a bow. “My lord Berek, here is my lady Linden,” she did not respond. Nothing that she could say would raise her to the stature of the man who had created the first Staff of Law and founded the Council of Lords.

Yet Berek bowed to her as though her muteness were eloquence, and his gratitude enfolded her like an embrace. “My lady,” he said in a voice made gruff by incessant shouting. “your coming is a great benison, a boon beyond our conception. Already you have wrought miracles among us. Yet even a sightless man may behold your weariness. Will you not rest? With your consent, I will provide food and safety, and such small comforts as we possess, and will count myself glad to do so.”

Without warning, tears which were not caused by smoke and fatigue filled Linden’s eyes. She had not expected gentle courtesy from a man fighting for survival. Nevertheless she stiffened slightly; drew back as if she had taken offense. Surely, she would have said if she had not forgotten her voice, surely your wounded are more important? There are two more tents.

Berek studied her, apparently gauging her silence. Then he offered in the same tone, “If you will not rest, name any aid that you require. If it exists, and if it is possible for us, it will be granted to you.”

He seemed to understand that she could not turn away from his injured, his dying. In her place, he would have felt as she did.

Roughly Linden squeezed the tears from her eyes. Like wild magic, her voice was hidden from her; but she searched until she found it.

“Lord Berek,” she said in a thin croak. “My lord.” That was as close as she could come to matching his courtesy. “You’ve changed. You see different things now. New things.”

He nodded, frowning. “It is strange to me, glorious but unclear.” Her question may have perplexed or disturbed him: he had reason to wonder how she knew such things. Yet he answered without hesitation. “I cannot identify the significance of that which I now behold.”

You will, Linden would have told him. Just give it time. But too many people were dying. She could not afford to waste words. Instead she asked. “Have you seen any mud—or fine sand—that sparkles? Gleams? Like it has bits of gold in it? Or flecks of sunlight?”

Berek’s frown deepened. “I have, my lady.” Plainly he wanted to inquire, What do you know of this? How is it that you comprehend my transformation? But he did not. “It lies along the flow of water in streams and rivers. Sadly, I have no lore to name it.”

Her heart lifted a little. “Is there any of it nearby?”

“There is, my lady.” Again he did not question her. “We endeavour to place our encampments near water, as armies must. A creek lies a stone’s throw distant. When we broke the ice to draw water, I glimpsed a sand such as you describe.”

To herself, Linden breathed, Thank God. “It’s called hurtloam.” Unexpected hope filled her with trembling. “It’s full of the same power that’s changing you, the same power that you saw in the Fire-Lions. It heals.”

Hearing herself, she wanted to wince. Heals was too small a word for the mystery of hurtloam. But she continued in spite of her inadequacy. “We need it. As much as you can find. Bring it here. And carry it in stone.” Stone would preserve its efficacy. “I’ll show your people how to use it.”

Surely now he would question her, and expect to be answered? Surely he would not comply merely because she had spoken?

But Berek turned at once to his escort. “Hand Damelon.”

A young man stepped forward promptly. Linden would have guessed that he was no older than Liand, although he had seen as much hard combat as anyone around him. He saluted by tapping his right fist twice against his twisted and mended cuirass, then asked. “My lord?”

Linden was too tired and numb to feel surprise. Damelon—Through the grime and blood of battle, the young man’s resemblance to his father was unmistakable, although he was somewhat taller and not as broad. Also he lacked Berek’s damaged nose as well as Berek’s emanation of Earthpower.

She was looking at the future High Lord Damelon Giantfriend, the man who would one day discover the Blood of the Earth.

Humbled by the presence of legends, she hardly heard Berek say, “Hand, you have gathered the names of those who report alterations to their sight and senses.”

“I have, my lord.” Presumably a Hand was an aide of some kind. “Some two score remain able to wield their weapons.”

In response, Berek ordered. “Inform each Haft and Warhaft,” although there was no command in his voice. He had no reason to doubt that he would be obeyed. All who are able to discern the gleaming in the sand will hasten to the creek, bearing any stone which may be used to convey the sand hither. They will search diligently for as much as may be found. Others will bear torches to light the search.”

Damelon nodded. “At once, my lord.” With a second salute, the young man strode quickly out of the tent.

Berek returned his deep gaze to

Linden. “Surely there is more, my lady?” His voice was rough with compassion. “You are one, and those who suffer, many. For their sake, will you not name further aid?”

Linden took a step backward. She had felt another warrior perish, a man no more than half a dozen paces away. Everywhere in the tent, she heard wounds cry out for succour.

“Just let me work, my lord.” She doubted that Covenant, Jeremiah, or the Theomach would—or could—help her. And Covenant and Jeremiah would not be able to abide Berek’s presence. Assuming that they had reached the camp unhindered—“I can’t think of anything else.” She did not feel equal to the challenge of explaining aliantha. “We need to talk. I know that. But first—” She gestured weakly around the wide tent.

“Yet you are weary,” Berek countered, “nearly falling. Is there naught that you require for yourself?”

Linden paused for a moment. Almost timidly, she murmured. “I left three companions behind. I hope that they’re safe.” Then she turned her back on Berek Halfhand.

While she reached out mentally for the strength of the Staff, she whispered to Palla, “Guide me, please. I need to rest my eyes.” She did not know another way to contain her weeping.

If Berek’s people found enough hurtloam, she could allow herself—

As Palla led her away, Berek commanded gently. “Healer Vertorn, you will interrupt the lady Linden after each healing. You will not permit her to continue until she has swallowed a little of your wine and eaten a mouthful of bread.”

“My lord, it will be done,” replied the physician. Linden felt him hurrying after her.

But she soon forgot such details. Within moments, she had immersed herself once more in the hurts of the wounded and the fire of the Staff.

This time, however, she did not neglect to draw on Earthpower for support. And she did not resist Vertorn’s efforts to minister to her. The prospect of hurtloam had that effect on her: she no longer felt driven to care for every need except her own.

At some point during her endless progress back and forth around the tent, she became peripherally aware that Berek had not departed. He seemed to be standing guard, not over her, but for her; ready to give her his assistance if she required it. But she did not let his presence distract her from the next sword-cut and spear-thrust, the next trauma, the next putrefying infection. She swallowed wine and chewed bread as Palla guided her from patient to patient, and did not relax her flames.

By degrees, she grew stronger, in spite of her exertions. Vertorn’s herbed wine was a mild restorative. Bits of bread gave her a little nourishment. And the Staff sustained her. It could not redeem her mortality, but it preserved her concentration so that she was able to work effectively.

Then the first of the hurtloam arrived, carried in stone urns or on brittle pieces of slate. Linden dipped her finger into the glittering sand to show Vertorn, Palla, and Jevin how little was required for each wound, and how wondrously it took effect; and as she did so, she granted healing to herself. Spangles of revitalisation lit the blood in her veins, coursing through her heart until her pulse lost its febrile weakness, and the trembling in her muscles receded. Gradually the illimitable gift of the Land restored her to herself.

She was dimly amazed by the abundance of the vein of hurtloam which Berek had discovered. A score of his people made several trips each to convey the sand. Perhaps this was simply another instance of the Land’s largesse, undiminished because it had not been used until now. Or perhaps, like the Fire-Lions, it expressed the Land’s response to Berek’s oath.

When Linden could finally blink the smoke and tears from her eyes—when she was able to see as well as feel the excitement, the near ecstasy, of the three physicians—she sent Vertorn, Jevin, and the irregular stream of warriors bearing hurtloam to the other tents. Those warriors, too, had been healed as they gathered the sand, and they carried their burdens with eager alacrity.

She did not think about ripples or time. She thought about lives that would have been lost, men and women who still needed care; and she was not afraid.

For a while, she and Palla labored over the pallets alone, moving as efficiently as they could through the array of injuries and infections. But soon she realised that the worst was over. Dozens of warriors remained stricken, but none were near death. Some would cling to life for another day or two, some considerably longer. And Berek understood hurtloam now: he would search for it everywhere. In addition, Linden saw in Palla that touching the ineffable sand had awakened the physician’s latent health-sense. She, and Vertorn and Jevin, and perhaps every warrior who had been healed by it, would be able to recognise hurtloam for themselves.

If Linden rested now, she would not have so many—too many—lives on her conscience.

To spare herself, she began a more partial form of treatment, focusing on infections, pneumonia, and other illnesses rather than wounds. These required her keenest percipience, but they needed subtler care; demanded less raw power.

In her concentration, she did not immediately notice the growing mutter of voices outside the tent; the occasional shouts. But then she heard Covenant rasp distinctly, “Hellfire! Get your hands off me, you overgrown oaf!”

“Covenant!” protested Jeremiah. “We can’t—Berek—!”

Other voices protested as well. “Warhaft!” Yellinin shouted. “Lord Berek commanded courtesy!” And Basila added, “Are you deaf? The tale of her healing is everywhere!”

But Krenwill, who had vouched for Linden’s truthfulness, countered, “You do not see them, Basila. I did not until we gained the light of the encampment. They are sealed against discernment. Unnaturally sealed. They may conceal vast powers. Fatal powers, Yellinin. If they mean harm to Lord Berek—”

“Warhaft Inbull!” roared a man who sounded like Damelon. You will desist! Lord Berek has commanded courtesy.”

“I will not,” a guttural voice retorted. “Let Lord Berek chastise me if he must. I will not hazard his life on the faith of strangers merely because they journey with a woman who heals.”

Oh, shit. Forgetting the wounded, Linden dropped her fire and ran.

Ahead of her, the tent flaps burst open. Both Jeremiah and Covenant were flung inward by a huge man with rage on his face and blood on his knuckles.

An instant later, Damelon sprang in front of the Warhaft, attempting to restrain Inbull by main strength. But the big man swatted Damelon aside as though the Hand were a minor annoyance.

Linden saw him clearly, in spite of the smoke; saw him as if he were surrounded by torches. He looked as solid as oak, with massively gnarled limbs and a mouth full of broken teeth. The heavy slash of a sword had cut deeply into the left side of his face and head, smashing bone and cutting away flesh; chopping out a crease which had collapsed his features. The only expression left to him was a grimace as suggestive of death as a rictus.

Between one heartbeat and the next, running frantically, Linden understood that he was a traitor. His brutality was the self-loathing of a man who had turned his back on a cause in which he had once believed. She did not know how or why his loyalties had changed. Nonetheless his betrayal was as palpable as a chancre.

He had brought Covenant and Jeremiah here violently because he hoped to provoke an attack.

At the same time, almost simultaneously, she saw Jeremiah stumble to his hands and knees near Berek’s feet. And she saw that he had been hit. His left eye had been struck as if with a club. Some of the bones there may have been cracked. His eye had already swollen shut, silencing the cipher of his tic.

His blood still tainted the Warhaft’s knuckles. That was how Inbull had prevented Jeremiah from defending himself and Covenant. The Warhaft had taken her son by surprise, her son, striking him down before he recognised his peril.

And at the same time again, as though the images were superimposed, Linden saw Covenant struggling to avoid a collision with Berek. Covenant, too, had been struck: he staggered as if his ribs had been broken. But his efforts to recover his balance were hindered by the fact that he kept his right hand, his halfhand, thrust deep in the pocket of his jeans.

Frowning darkly at the clamour, Berek turned in time to reach out with one strong hand. While Linden strove to shout a warning and could not—the crisis came upon her too swiftly—Berek caught Covenant by the shoulder and steadied him.

Then Berek snatched back his hand as though he had been scalded. Involuntarily he gasped—

—and Covenant did not disappear.

Nor did Jeremiah. He remained on his hands and knees, staring with his good eye at Covenant and Berek in dismay.

Cursing, Covenant jerked away from Berek; into Inbull’s reach.

The Warhaft cocked his fist as if he had been justified by Berek’s reaction—and still Linden could not summon a shout. Although she ran desperately, she hardly seemed to move.

In a tone like the bite of a sword, Berek snapped. “If you strike again, Warhaft, I will have your head.”

Without warning, Linden was wrenched to a halt, caught in the grasp of the Theomach. Somehow he had passed through the throng of warriors as though they did not exist; or he did not. Now he stood in front of her. Catching her arms in a grip as compulsory as manacles, he absorbed the force of her haste effortlessly.

Her heart may have had time to beat once. She heard both Covenant’s voice and Berek’s, Covenant swearing viciously, Berek demanding explanations. But then everything blurred as if the Theomach had lifted her partway into a different reality, shifted her slightly out of sequence with her surroundings; and all sound was cut off. She seemed to stand with the Insequent in a hiatus between moments, a place where causality and result had not yet moved on to their next incarnation.

Within their private silence, the Theomach urged her softly. “Say nothing, lady. Do not speak here. There are intentions at work which you do not yet comprehend, and upon which the outcome of this time in large measure depends.”

She fought him briefly. When she realised that she could not break free, however, she ceased struggling. Only her Staff and Covenant’s ring would aid her here; and they might prove disastrous.

Able to raise her voice at last, she shouted into the Theomach’s face, You did this! This is your path. Jeremiah can’t defend himself. There’s nothing Covenant can do. You haven’t left them any choice!”

He shrugged. “That is sooth.” His wrapped face made him appear as cryptic and careless as an oracle. “I regret that I did not foresee the Warhaft’s falseness and brutality. I desire only to aid Lord Berek. Therefore I employ your wisdom—aye, and your valour also—to appease his mistrust toward strangers. Thus I am indeed culpable for the harm which has befallen your comrades.”

Linden spat an oath. At that moment—between those moments—the Theomach’s intentions meant nothing to her. Ignoring his near—apology, she demanded. But why didn’t Covenant vanish?” And Jeremiah? “He said that Berek’s Earthpower is too strong—”

The Insequent studied her through his cerements. “The force within Lord Berek has not yet fully awakened.” As he spoke, he eased his hard clasp on her arms. “And he whom you name Covenant is more hardy than he has encouraged you to believe.”

Then he urged again, “Still I must insist, lady. I must caution you. Say nothing in the presence of others. When Lord Berek speaks with you and your companions alone, as he must, be chary in your replies. If you are at any time uncertain of what may be said, permit me to answer in your stead. By my true name, which is known to you, I assure you that my first purpose is to aid Lord Berek—and to preserve the Arch of Time.”

He did not wait for her to find a response. When he released her, her surroundings—the tent and the smoke, the pallets of the wounded, the conflicted outrage facing Berek sprang back into clarity; and she heard Covenant snarl. “—fire, Berek, this is intolerable. We don’t deserve it.”

“You do not.” Berek’s voice held its cutting edge. “Warhaft Inbull has harmed you, and will answer for his deeds. I demand only the name of the power which has burned my hand.”

Freed from the Theomach’s theurgy, Linden would have rushed to Jeremiah’s side. She might have forgotten that he had forbidden her to touch him. But the Insequent arrived ahead of her. Without apparent transition or movement, he stood between Berek and Linden’s companions. Yet Berek was not startled. None of the observers reacted to the Theomach’s suddenness. He had cast a glamour on their senses—or on Linden’s.

“My lord Berek,” he said smoothly, “permit me to intercede. I am the Theomach. The fault of this contention is mine. This man and this boy are companions of the lady. She names them Covenant and Jeremiah, her son, as she names herself Linden. They have come by my guidance. I drew them hither because I deemed her aid a treasure beyond estimation, and because I desire to aid you also. Surely her companions may be forgiven much, despite their unruly puissance, for the sake of what she has wrought.”

At last, Linden was able to move normally. With a few quick strides, she skidded to her knees beside Jeremiah, almost within reach of his battered head. “Jeremiah, honey,” she panted. “are you all right? How badly did he hurt you?”

Her furious desire to lash out at Inbull, she suppressed. The Theomach had warned her. And she judged Berek to be a man who would not let the Warhaft’s mendacity pass.

Inbull may have hurt Berek’s own son as well.

Reflexively Linden stretched out her hand to Jeremiah.

“Don’t, Mom,” he gasped. His face was full of alarm. “Don’t touch me. Don’t heal me. Or Covenant. We’ll be all right. The Staff—” Blood spread down his cheek, catching in his nascent stubble until the left side of his face seemed webbed with pain; snared in deceit and cruelty. “Even hurtloam will erase us. You don’t understand how hard this is.”

Oh, Jeremiah. Linden stopped herself. Her upper arms throbbed where the Theomach had gripped her. Swallowing a rush of grief, she asked, “Can you heal yourself? That looks pretty bad. He must have cracked some of the bones.”

She could not determine how gravely he had been injured. He remained closed to her; unnaturally impenetrable, as Krenwill had claimed.

“Covenant will take care of it.” Jeremiah pulled himself up from his hands, kneeling beyond her reach. His attention shifted back to Covenant and Berek; dismissed Linden.

Berek continued to confront the Theomach. Doubt rasped in his voice as he asked, “What aid do you offer, stranger?”

The Insequent tapped his bound chest with his fist twice, imitating Damelon’s earlier salute. “My lord, if it is your will, I will teach you the meaning of your new strengths.”

Berek raised his eyebrows. “And whence comes this un-looked-for wish to aid me?”

“That, my lord,” the Theomach replied, unruffled, “I may not bespeak openly. The lore which I offer is for you alone.”

Berek returned an unconvinced snort. But he did not press the Theomach. Instead he looked at Linden. His eyes seemed to probe her soul as he said, “My lady Linden, you have performed such service here that no honor or guerdon can suffice to repay it. Yet the task entrusted to me exceeds these wounded. It requires also the defeat of the Queen’s foes. Ultimately it demands the nurturance of the Land. Therefore I must remain wary while my heart swells with thankfulness.

“Will you claim my sufferance on behalf of your companions?”

Abruptly wary herself, and abashed in Berek’s presence, Linden rose to her feet. Hugging the Staff to her chest, she met his gaze, although his penetration daunted her.

“Jeremiah is my son,” she began awkwardly. “Covenant is—”

For a moment, she faltered. She did not need the Theomach’s warnings to convince her that any reply might prove dangerous. Like Joan, if in her own way, she bore the burden of too much time. The wrong word might ripple outward for millennia.

But Covenant, Jeremiah, the Theomach, and Berek Halfhand were all studying her. With an effort, she forced herself to continue. “Where I come from,” she said carefully, “Covenant is a great hero. There are things about both of them that I don’t understand. But they’re with me, and I need them.”

Then she squared her shoulders. “I made the decision to come here. If it was a mistake, it’s my doing, not theirs.” Unsteadily she finished. “We’ll leave as soon as we can.”

Berek scrutinised her for a moment longer. Then he nodded decisively. “My lady, we will speak with less constraint in my tent, you and your companions”—he glanced at the shrouded figure of the Insequent—“not excluding the Theomach.

“Hand DameIon?”

Berek’s son stepped forward. “My lord?” He was flushed with the effects of lnbull’s blow; but Linden saw that he had not been seriously hurt. Not like Jeremiah—The breastplate of his cuirass had absorbed much of the impact.

“Has Warhaft Inbull dared to harm one of my Hands?” asked Berek. His self—command did not waver. Nonetheless Linden heard the throb of cold fury in the background of his voice.

“He has dared, my lord,” Damelon replied stiffly, “but he has not succeeded. His affront does not merit your concern.”

Berek flashed his son a quick glance of concern and approbation. However, his tone did not relent. “I command here. The affront is mine to gauge, and to repay.” Then he told Damelon. “While I do so, escort the lady Linden and her companions to my tent. See that they are provided with warmth and viands, and with water for the cleansing of wounds. If their hurts require any healing that we may supply, command it in my name. I will attend upon them shortly.”

Hand Damelon saluted again. “At once, my lord.” Like his father, he kept his anger to himself.

Turning to Linden, he gestured toward the opening behind Inbull. “My lady, will you accompany me?”

“We will, Hand,” the Theomach answered for her. His manner suggested a smile of satisfaction. “Accepting your courtesy, we hope to honor you in return.”

Linden let the Insequent take charge of the situation. He understood its implications better than she did. But she did not allow him to hurry her. Stooping to Jeremiah, she asked. “Can you stand, honey? Are you able to walk?”

“Hell, Linden,” Covenant growled under his breath. “Of course he can. This is important.”

“He’s right, Mom.” Jeremiah did not look at her. “It already hurts less.” With a teenager’s graceless ease, he surged to his feet. “I’ll be fine.”

Linden nodded, too baffled to question him further. According to Covenant, Berek’s touch would banish both of them. Yet they remained. She felt that she had been given hints or portents, glimpses of revelation, which she could not interpret. What did Covenant dread, if Berek’s inchoate strength posed no threat? Why had she been forbidden to hug or care for her son?

Wearily she trailed behind Jeremiah as he followed Covenant, the Theomach, and Damelon out of the tent; away from needs that she could comprehend toward an unfathomable encounter with the dangers of time.

While she and her companions passed between Berek and Inbull, the Warhaft glared hatred at them. If he feared Berek’s wrath, he did not show it. Either he was too stupid to recognise his own peril, or he knew Berek better than she did. 

As she had earlier, Linden walked along aisles of warriors who had gathered to catch sight of the strangers. They all had their own wounds, their own ailments, their own yearning for restoration. But they kept their wonder and pain to themselves while she and her companions were led and warded by Damelon.

Berek’s tent was a frayed and soiled stretch of canvas supported by a single central pole. When Damelon ushered his charges inward, Linden found herself in a space large enough to hold twenty or thirty warriors standing.

In every respect, Berek’s quarters were as rudimentary as the tents of the wounded. His pallet and blankets resembled the bedding of the fallen. Apart from a low table on which rested an old longsword in a plain scabbard and a wooden chest that—she could only guess—might hold maps, the tent had no other furnishings. Two small oil lamps hanging from the tent pole cast a dim yellow illumination that seemed to shed no light, reveal nothing: the whole space was full of uncertainty like implied shadows. And scraps of ice still glazed the dirt floor. Her breath plumed as she looked around. She did not know how long she had labored at healing; but midnight had surely passed, and winter had sunk its teeth into every vulnerable instance of warmth.

After ushering Berek’s guests into the tent, Damelon ducked past the flaps to call for braziers, honeyed wine, cured meat, dried fruit. When he returned, he said, “My lady, I crave your pardon. Our rude comforts are no true measure of our gratitude. The day will come when we stand again within the walls of Doriendor Corishev. Mayhap then you will permit us to celebrate your benisons in a more seemly manner.”

He may have been taught to speak so, with confidence and conviction, by his father’s knowledge of despair.

Linden sighed. “Don’t worry about it, please.” Barred from using the Staff, she had no defense against the cold except her cloak. And she was so tired—Already she had begun to shiver again. “We can only imagine what you’ve suffered. If you can give us heat and food, we’ll be all right.”

‘”All right,—Covenant muttered sourly. “Sure. Why not?”

The Theomach turned to him as if in warning; but Damelon ignored both of them. Instead he studied Linden like a man who wanted to imprint her on his thoughts. “You are gracious, my lady. I will not question you. That is my lord Berek’s task. But warmth and viands you will have.” More softly, he said. “Soon you will be able to rest.”

Perhaps his own percipience had begun to awaken.

Moments later, the tent flaps were pushed aside, and a pair of warriors entered, bearing a blackened metal brazier between them. It was full of coals and fire, so hot that it had to be carried on the shafts of spears. More warriors followed until the tent held four flaming pans. Then Berek’s people brought ironwood stands to support the braziers. By the time the men and women left, heat began to bless the air.

Then other warriors brought hard clay urns of warmed wine, its acidulous aroma softened with honey. A tray laden with meat and fruit arrived. Linden, Covenant, and Jeremiah were given flagons: wine was poured for them. But the Theomach refused with a bow. Nor did he touch the food. Apparently he lived on some form of nourishment entirely his own.

For a long moment, Linden held the Staff in the crook of her arm and simply cupped her flagon with both hands, savouring its heat and its sweet scent. Then she sipped gently. She had felt frozen for so long, in spite of her own efforts and Covenant’s to fend off the cold. If he and Jeremiah had not been somehow more than human, they would have suffered from frostbite.

Questions swirled around her, but she was too tired to sift them into any kind of order. What did the Theomach want with Berek? Why had Covenant lied about his vulnerability to Berek? How had Berek failed to discern lnbull’s betrayal? And how could she and her companions hope to reach Melenkurion Skyweir? She had seen for herself that Berek would be able to offer them nothing except starving horses, tattered blankets, and a little food.

How much power did Jeremiah have? And how in God’s name could Linden try to learn the truth—any truth—when she had to guard against the possibility that some action or inaction of hers might threaten the integrity of the Arch?

Ripples—As far as she knew, she had not altered the essential nature of Berek’s struggle, or the outcome of his war. Not yet. Otherwise the Theomach would have intervened. But even her trivial knowledge of the Land’s history could be fatal. With a word, she might affect Berek’s actions, or Damelon’s, altering the flow of cause and effect for generations.

The Theomach was right: she had to let him speak for her as much as she could—and to pray that Covenant would do the same in spite of his resentment.

She was not conscious of hunger; but she forced herself to chew a little tough meat and dried fruit, washing them down with honey and acid. She had to be able to think clearly, and could not imagine doing so.

Lost in questions, she ignored Damelon’s departure. But then he returned, bearing a bowl of hot water and some relatively clean scraps of cloth. These he offered to Linden, suggesting that she tend to Jeremiah’s injury.

“I can’t,” she muttered before she could catch herself. “He doesn’t want me to touch him.”

The Hand gave her a perplexed frown. While he hesitated, however, the Theomach stepped forward. “Nonetheless, my lord Damelon,” he said smoothly. “the cleansing of her son’s wound will comfort the lady.” Turning to Jeremiah, he inquired, “Will you permit me?”

“I don’t need—” Jeremiah began, but a fierce glare from Covenant stopped him. “You’re right,” he told the Theomach with a shrug. “It’ll make Mom feel better.”

Covenant kept his right hand grimly in his pocket.

Saluting as he had to Berek, the Theomach accepted the bowl and rags from Damelon’s mystified hands. His manner suggested pity as he moistened a cloth, then reached out carefully to stroke drying blood away from Jeremiah’s cheek and eye.

That task should have been Linden’s. For a moment, her grief became a kind of rage, and she trembled with the force of her desire to extract real answers from her companions. But she contained herself. There was too much at stake for anger. Her emotions would exact too much from those who needed her.

For a moment, the Theomach continued to wash Jeremiah’s wound assiduously. Jeremiah suffered the Insequent’s ministrations with glum resignation. And Covenant took long draughts of the harsh wine with an air of outrage, as if he were swallowing insults. Then Linden felt Berek approaching: his aura of Earthpower, compassion, and grimness preceded him like a standard-bearer.

Damelon seemed to become aware of his father’s nearness almost as soon as Linden did. Bowing to her, the Hand murmured. “My lady,” and left the tent.

When Berek entered, he came like a man wreathed in storms. Indignant lightnings flickered in the depths of his eyes, and his expression was a thunderhead. Linden might have flinched if she had believed, even for an instant, that his ire was directed at her; or at Jeremiah and Covenant. But she grasped instinctively that he would not have been so unguarded if any of his guests had angered him.

“What have you done about Inbull, my lord?’ she asked without thinking. “He’s betraying you. You must know that?”

The Theomach stiffened, but did not speak. Instead he dabbed at Jeremiah’s eye as if he had heard nothing to alarm him.

Berek took a moment to compose himself. He poured wine into a flagon, drank a bit of it, grimaced ruefully. When he faced Linden’s question, he had set aside his personal storm.

“The Warhaft has betrayed us. He betrays us still. Therefore he is of use.

“It is well that you did not accuse him in his presence. He believes himself unsuspected. Rather I have encouraged him to consider that he is secretly valued for his harshness. This night, I have strengthened his misapprehension.” The memory brought back Berek’s anger and disgust, although he did not unleash them. “He has contrived a means to communicate with the commander of our foes. Warmark Vettalor is a man with whom I am well familiar. We served together before my Queen broke with her King. I know his method of thought. Through Inbull, I am able to supply the Warmark with lies”—Berek snarled the words—“which he will credit. While the Warhaft’s falseness remains unexposed, I hold an advantage which Vettalor does not suspect.

“I loathe such deceit,” the first Halfhand admitted bitterly. “But my forces do not suffice to defeat Vettalor’s. And I have no source of supply apart from the battlegrounds where I prevail, and the food which I scavenge from needy villages, while Vettalor retreats ever nearer to the wealth of Doriendor Corishev. It would be false service to my Queen, and to my warriors, and to my oath, if I declined the benefits of Inbull’s treachery.”

Which explained his ire and disgust, Linden mused. It explained why despair clung to him in spite of his salvation by the Fire-Lions and his subsequent victories. By his severe standards, he bartered away his self-respect to purchase victory.

The Old Lords were all about despair. It gave them some of their greatest victories. To that extent, at least, Covenant had told her the truth. It’s what saved Berek.

With an effort, Linden said quietly, “I see the problem.” She wanted to cry out, He hit my son! But larger considerations—Berek’s as well as her own—restrained her.

Whatever the Theomach’s motives might be, he had given her good advice.

Nevertheless she pushed Berek further. “What did you tell Inbull about us?” She wanted some indication, however oblique, of where she and her companions stood with the future High Lord.

Drinking again, Berek replied, “Naught. His uncertainty concerning you will serve me well. I have merely”—his voice carried a sting of repugnance—“assured him privily that I find worth in his brutality.”

Flourishing his arm in an obvious attempt to attract Berek’s attention, the Insequent finished cleaning Jeremiah’s wound. With the blood and grime gone from her son’s face, Linden saw to her surprise that he had already begun to heal. Despite the swelling, he could slit open his left eye. To her ordinary senses, his eye itself appeared bloodshot, but essentially undamaged.

When Berek voiced his approval of the Theomach’s care, the wrapped man replied, “My lord, it suffices that I have been of service. If I may say so without disrespect, however, greater matters than this boys hurt or lnbull’s betrayal lie between us. We would do well to speak of them while we may.”

“Perhaps.” Berek’s worn sound grated against the Theomach’s light assurance. “Certainly you are strange to me. And your offer of aid is disquieting, for it appears to be given without cause. We will speak of it. If my many needs compel me to endure lnbull’s betrayals, I can refuse no other assistance. But the queries which fill my heart pertain chiefly to the lady Linden.

“Of her companions, I ask nothing. She has vouched for them, and her word contents me. To them I say only”—now he turned to Linden’s son and the Unbeliever—“Jeremiah, Covenant, I regret that my use of Inbull has harmed you. If you wish any boon that I may grant in my present straits, you need merely name it.”

Jeremiah ducked his head; said nothing. Glowering with the heat of embers in his eyes, Covenant muttered, “Just give Linden whatever she wants so we can leave. We’re in a hurry. We shouldn’t be here at all.”

“My lord Berek,” the Theomach put in insistently, “you do well to accept the lady’s word. And the man suggests truly that his only desire is to depart. Will you not accept my word also? The powers which this man and this boy aye, and the lady also—command have no meaning here. Her purpose, and that of her companions, lies at a great distance from all that you do. It will in no wise affect you. For the sake of your many needs, you must speak to me.”

Berek folded his arms across his thick chest. In a voice as heavy as his hands, he announced. “Stranger, I do not accept your word. Yet we will speak, since you would have it so. If you seek to be heeded, tell me what you are.”

“My lord,” the Theomach replied promptly, “I am three things. First, I am a seeker after knowledge. My people live in a land too distant to be named, for its name would convey nothing. We have no concern for the small affrays of the Earth. Yet we wander widely—though ever alone—questing for knowledge wherever it may be gleaned. My questing has brought me to you.”

While the Insequent answered, Linden crossed the tent to align herself with Covenant and Jeremiah. They had brought her here. Although she did not trust Covenant, he and her son were her only defense against Berek’s probing.

“Second,” the Theomach continued, “I am a warrior of considerable prowess. At your leisure, you may test my claim in any form that pleases you. For the present, I will state plainly that none of your foes can stand against me in battle.”

Whispering in the hope that only Covenant and Jeremiah would hear her, Linden asked. “Is that true?”

Perhaps Berek did not hear her. If he did, he kept his attention and his deep gaze fixed on the Theomach.

But Covenant was less discreet. “Hell, yes,” he growled. “You have no idea. You’ve seen that knowledge he’s so proud of in action. Think about what he could do in a fight.”

If the Theomach were able to step between moments, he could strike as often as he wished without being seen or opposed—

Still he spoke as if he and Berek were alone. “Third,” he continued, “I am a teacher. Much has occurred to you and within you that remains unexplained. I comprehend such matters, and I desire to impart my understanding. Lord Berek, my instruction will increase your strength and insight. It will ensure your triumph in this war.”

“Oh, please,” Covenant put in sardonically. “Tell him the truth.” His impulse to provoke the Insequent seemed to increase with every swallow of wine.

The Theomach shrugged. “In truth, I do not doubt your triumph, my lord, with or without my aid. Against Warmark Vettalor and such force as he commands, yours is the feller hand. Yet I fear no contradiction when I avow that my guidance will preserve many lives among your warriors. And I state with certainty that you will never fully grasp the extent of your oath, or the import of your larger purpose, without my teaching.”

“You are facile, stranger,” said Berek gruffly. With his arms folded, he looked as immovable as a tree. He had become the centre on which his world turned, and he kept his self-doubt hidden. “You speak of aid, but you do not reveal your purpose. Why do you offer your assistance?”

If the Theomach had any acquaintance with self-doubt, he, too, concealed it. Shrugging again, he admitted, “My lord, I have no reply that will readily content you. The questing of those who seek for knowledge is by necessity oblique, instinctive, and indefinite. They themselves cannot name their object until it is discovered. I am able to say only that I believe I will gain knowledge in your service—aye, knowledge and honor—which would otherwise remain beyond my ken.”

“He’s a plausible bastard,” Covenant remarked after a long gulp of wine, “I’ll give him that.”

Slowly the Theomach turned his secreted face toward Covenant. His manner caused Linden to hold her breath in apprehension.

“He’s telling the truth,” murmured Jeremiah uncomfortably.

“Oh, sure,” Covenant snorted. “So could I. If only life were that simple.”

But Berek refused to be distracted. “If you indeed desire to aid me,” he demanded, “and wish to be known as the Theomach rather than as a stranger, I require some sign of truth or fealty. Display evidence of your knowledge. Demonstrate that your aid will not serve my foes.”

Again the Theomach turned his head toward Covenant and Jeremiah like a warning.

Abruptly Covenant tossed his flagon into the nearest brazier. “Come on, Jeremiah.” The coals were dimmed, and the reek of burning wine and honey steamed into the air. Then the wooden vessel took flame, making the tent bright for a moment. “Let’s go find Damelon. Maybe he’ll help us pick a fight with Inbull.” He held his left hand over his sore ribs, still keeping his halfhand in his pocket. “I want to repay some of this pain.”

At once, Jeremiah set his flagon down beside Berek’s longsword. Avoiding Linden’s gaze, he accompanied Covenant obediently. They kept their distance from both Berek and her as they crossed the tent and ducked out under the flaps.

Linden appealed to Berek with her gaze, mutely asking him to call her companions back. But he answered her aloud. “A measure of retribution at their hands will serve my purposes. And Hand Damelon will ensure that Inbull suffers no lasting harm.”

“It is well,” pronounced the Theomach. He may have been giving his approval to Berek’s words—or to Covenant’s and Jeremiah’s departure. Then, however, he made his meaning clear. “In their absence, I may speak more freely.”

Linden swallowed a desire to follow her son. She ached to protect him. And instinctively she wanted to avoid being alone with Berek. But she needed his help. And she could not imagine how the Theomach would convince Berek of anything.

The future High Lord searched the Insequent closely. “Do so, then.”

“My lord Berek”—the Theomach’s confidence was palpable—“you require evidence of my fealty, and I provide it thus.

“The tale is told that in your despair upon the slopes of Mount Thunder, ancient Gravin Threndor, the Fire-Lions or the mountain or the very Earth spoke to you. Yet to avow that you indeed heard their speech is not sooth. It is merely a convenience, a means for passing over that which cannot be explained. The truth is both more simple and more profound. Inspired by despair and desperation, you called out for succour, offering your oath in recompense. This you did because your need was absolute, and because you sensed, in a fashion which defies your explication, that Mount Thunder was a place of power amid the supernal loveliness of the Land. How or why your appeal was received and answered, you cannot declare.”

Berek made a visible effort to mask his surprise; but his growing wonder was clear in spite of his self-control.

“Nonetheless,” the Theomach continued, “a form of speech occurred. Words became known to you, Words which you did not hear, and which you could not comprehend. Because they had been given to you, their puissance was evident. Also no other course remained to you. Therefore you uttered them aloud. When the Fire-Lions replied, you were as astonished as your foes.

“Since that moment, however, the Words have gone from you. You recall them only in dreams, and when you awaken, naught but sorrow remains.

“Is this not sooth, my lord?”

Berek nodded as if he were unaware of the movement. His troubled awe revealed that the Theomach was right.

“Then heed me well.” Now the Insequent’s tone took on a gravitas that compelled attention. Even the light appeared to condense around him, as if the lamps and the braziers and the very air were listening. “The Words were Seven, and they are these.

“The first is melenkurion, which signifies bastion or source. The second is abatha, suggesting endurance, or the need for endurance. Third is duroc, a reference to Earthpower, the substance of the fire which the lady wields. Fourth comes minas, which also means Earthpower, but in another sense. It indicates Earthpower as a foundation rather than as a form of theurgy.”

As he spoke, each Word seemed to resonate and expand until it strained the fabric of the tent. “The fifth Word is mill, which cannot be defined in human speech, but which implies invocation. The sixth, harad, may be understood as a stricture against selfishness, tyranny, malice, or other forms of despair. It binds the speaker to make no use of Earthpower which does not serve or preserve the munificence of creation. And last is khabaal, to which many meanings may be ascribed. In your mouth, it is an affirmation or incarnation of your sworn oath to the Land.”

The Theomach paused as if to let Berek—or perhaps Linden—absorb his revelation. They were silent. Echoes filled Linden’s ears: she felt the potency of the Words ramify around her, multiplied toward horizons that lay beyond her comprehension. They encompassed possibilities which were too vast for her.

She had never heard Covenant mention the Seven Words. But the Theomach had just restored them to Berek’s conscious mind. Surely they had not been lost before Covenant’s first translation to the Land?

They had been given to her as well—

A moment later, the Theomach said. “This tongue is spoken nowhere, other than by one race that I scorn to name, for it is the language of the Earth’s making and substance rather than of the Earth’s peoples. Yet it may be discovered, word by word, by those who seek deeply for knowledge—and who do not wish to bend or distort that knowledge for their own ends.”

Then, unexpectedly, he turned to Linden. She could not see his expression through his bindings. Nevertheless she received the clear impression that he sought to sway her as much as to convince Berek.

“Aloud,” he said distinctly, “the Seven Words are spoken thus. Melenkurion abatha. Duroc minas mill. Harad khabaal.”

Before he had pronounced ten syllables, the Staff of Law burst into flame. With each Word, the fire mounted until it enclosed her in conflagration: power gentle as a caress, entirely without hurt or peril, and jubilant as a paean. Soon the whole tent was full of blazing like joy and rebirth, exuberance and restoration: the true vitality of Law.

Some part of Linden clung to it, revelling in its exaltation. It resembled the gift of vitrim and the benison of Glimmermere, the tang of aliantha and the sovereign gold of hurtloam; the Land’s limitless potential for glory. However, another aspect of her was mortal and afraid. The Words were distilled puissance. She had not chosen them, and could not hope to control their implications.

Reflexively she strove to quell the flames—and as soon as she did so, they fell away. Without transition, the fire was quenched, leaving her to the truncated insight of the lamps and braziers.

Within herself, she staggered at the suddenness of the change. When she remembered to look at her companions, she saw that Berek was both stunned and eager. He seemed unable to comprehend what he had heard and seen—and yet he had been lifted up in spite of his bafflement. A long burden of bereavement had fallen from his shoulders; and for a few moments, at least, fanged loss no longer gnawed at his spirit.

The Theomach watched her and Berek with apparent satisfaction. Are you content, my lord?” he asked as if he were sure of the answer. Will you now accept my companionship, that I may aid and tutor you?”

Shuddering with effort, Berek mastered himself. When he had swallowed several times to clear his throat, he said hoarsely. “My gratitude is certain. I will say more when my lady has assured me that she is unharmed.”

Linden could not rival his self—command; but she replied as clearly as she could, “Look at me, my lord. You can see. I’m as surprised as you are.” And she wanted to weep with regret at her own weakness. “But I’m not hurt.”

Slowly Berek nodded. “Yes, my lady Linden. I am indeed able to discern that you are whole. Therefore I will say to the Theomach”—still slowly, he turned to the Insequent as if each small movement cost him an exertion of will—“that my gratitude is certain, but my acceptance remains in doubt. One further glimpse of your knowledge will content me.”

The Theomach waited, motionless; but whether he intended to acquiesce or refuse, Linden could not determine.

With rigid care, Berek said, “You spoke of the munificence of creation. Will you name that munificence? Wherein does it lie? What is its nature? What does it portend? If these Seven Words will bind me, I must know that to which I will be bound.”

“Life,” replied the Theomach simply. “Growth. Enhancement.” Then he added in a tone like an apology. “You will understand, my lord Berek, that neither I nor anyone may grasp the mind of this world’s Creator. The needs and desires of that which is eternal surpass finite comprehension. Yet I deem that the Earth, and within it the Land, were formed as a habitation where living beings may gaze upon wonderment and terror, and seek to emulate or refuse them. The Earth and the Land are a dwelling-place where life may discover the highest in itself, or the lowest, according to its desires and choices.”

Berek frowned, not in disapproval or chagrin, but in intense consideration. For a long moment, he regarded the Theomach as though he strove to penetrate the stranger’s secrets with his burgeoning health-sense. Then he asked over his shoulder, “My lady Linden, do you conceive that the Theomach speaks sooth?”

His question startled Linden, and she answered without thinking, “I don’t care.” If she had paused for thought, the sheer weight of his query would have sealed her voice in her throat. “I want it to be true. So do you. Isn’t that what matters?” Who was she to articulate the meaning of life? “Isn’t it the only thing that matters?”

Berek growled in the back of his throat, a wordless sound fraught with both recognition and uncertainty. Still studying the Insequent, he announced formally, “Then I will say to my lord Theomach that I accept your companionship. Both aid and guidance will I greet with welcome. A man who speaks as you have done must be heeded, whatever his intent may be.”

The Theomach responded with a bow and a salute, tapping his fist to his chest in homage. Interfering with Covenant’s designs, he had gained what he wanted for himself. Inadvertently Linden had helped him win a measure of Berek’s trust.

Having made his decision, however, Berek did not hesitate to move on. “Now you will leave us,” he informed his new counsellor. “I must speak with my lady Linden alone.”

Oh, God. Linden flinched. Abruptly the entire space of the tent seemed to become a pitfall: she felt beset by snares which she did not know how to avoid. In this circumstance, her mind cannot be distinguished from the Arch of Time. One wrong word—

At once, the Theomach demurred. “My lord, this is needless. That which the lady desires of you is simple, and I do not doubt that her requests will be easily met. Nor will she and her companions endanger you in any fashion. You have accepted my aid and guidance. Do not unwisely set them aside.”

Berek drew back his shoulders, lifted his chin. His tone was mild, but its mildness veiled iron. “My lord Theomach, I have said that my gratitude is certain, as is my welcome. Yet my wisdom is my own. If I prove unwise, as I have often done, it will be through no fault of yours.”

Linden wished that she could see the Theomach’s eyes. She had the impression that his gaze shifted rapidly between Berek and her, searching for an argument that would sway the Halfhand—or for a way to warn her of perils which he could not state aloud. But then he repeated his bow and salute. Instead of stepping between moments to address Linden where Berek could not hear him, he turned to the flaps and left the tent.

A crisis was upon her, and she was not prepared for it. The Seven Words still echoed around her, baffling her with hints of hope and calamity.

But she had spoken and acted by instinct for long hours now. She was too weary to do otherwise. Trust yourself. If she had truly heard Covenant’s voice in her dreams, not that of some malign misleading chimera—

As Berek stepped closer with gentleness on his face and resolve in his eyes, Linden shrugged off her cloak as if to rid herself of an obstruction. The braziers had warmed the air: soon she would be too warm, alarmed or shamed by her conflicted doubts. Clinging to the Staff with both hands, she braced herself to meet his probing gaze.

He approached until he was little more than an arm’s length away. There he stopped. Deliberately he folded his arms across his chest: a gesture of determination. He seemed to tower over her as he said, “My lady, you are troubled. Surely there is no need? My gratitude is boundless, and my respect with it. The aid that you have both given and brought is beyond estimation. Why, then, do you fear me’?”

Linden could not answer him: any explanation would reveal too much. Instead she fell back on matters that she understood; subjects which she could broach safely. “Lord Berek, listen,” she said with a tremor in her voice. “There are things that you have to do. Essential things. If you don’t do them, you could win this war and still lose, even with the Theomach’s help.”

Speaking brusquely because she was frightened and tired, she told him. “You’re killing your own wounded. Do you know that? Those blankets and pallets—the bandages—the tents They breed death. Your healers don’t see it yet, but you will.” The restoration of the Seven Words would evoke his latent powers. You can’t prevent your people from being cut down,” hacked at, pierced, trampled, “but you can save some of their lives.”

Perplexed and frowning, Berek began. “With hurtloam—”

“No,” Linden countered. “I don’t know when you’ll be able to find more of it, or how much of it you’ll find. And it starts to lose its effectiveness as soon as its scooped out of the soil. You can’t carry it very far.”

In haste because she could not bear to be interrupted, she said harshly, You need to take a day off from this war. A day or two. Let your enemies retreat. If you think that they might counterattack, use Inbull to scare them out of it. Instead of fighting, soak every blanket and scrap of bandage in boiling water. If you can replace the pallets, burn them. Otherwise pour boiling water over them. And tell your healers—tell all of your people—to wash every wound. Those injuries have to be kept clean.

“I don’t care how long it takes. Make the time. Your people are dying in droves, and I can’t stay. If you want to save any of them after I’m gone, you have to keep them clean.”

The grief in his gaze wrenched her heart. And if we cannot, my lady?” he asked softly. If the blankets fall to tatters when they are boiled, and the bandages likewise, and we glean no resupply from the encampments which our foes abandon? What must we do then?”

“Oh, God.” The extremity of his plight was unmistakable: it exceeded her courage. In his place, she would have been paralysed by dismay long ago. If the Theomach can’t tell you what to do, you’ll have to find more hurtloam. And if you can’t find enough hurtloam”—she swallowed a lump of empathy and anguish—“you’ll have to pour boiling water on those infections.” The burns would be terrible, but they would slow some of the poisons. “Anything to keep them clean.”

As she faltered, however, he grew stronger. His bravery was founded on the needs of the people around him. He had come so far and accomplished so much, not because the Fire-Lions had responded to his desperation, but simply because he could not turn away from the plight of his people and his Queen. He was full of grief and understood despair: therefore he rejected both fear and defeat.

“My lady,” he said with rough kindness, “we will attempt your counsel. I cannot avow success, yet the gift of your lore will be treasured among us. As occasion permits, we will garner its benefits. You teach the worth of healing. It will not be forgotten. Songs will be sung of you to lift the heart, and tales will be told that surpass generations. Wherever those who serve my Queen and the Land are gathered together—”

“No!” Linden protested frantically. The thought of ripples appalled her. They would expand—“No, it’s better, believe me, it’s better if you don’t talk about this. I mean anything that’s happened tonight. Don’t discuss it, don’t refer to it. Don’t keep the story alive. I’m begging you, my lord. I’ll get down on my knees if you want.” Vertorn had offered to prostrate himself: she would follow his example. “And the Theomach will insist—I can’t stay. And I don’t deserve—”

A legend of Linden the Healer would alter the Land’s known history. It might do enough harm to topple the Arch.

Berek raised his hands: a gesture of placation. “My lady,” he murmured to soothe her. “My lady. Quiet your distress. There is no need. I will honor your wish.

“All in this camp will deem it strange that I do not speak of you. But if you seek the boon of my silence, it will be granted. And in this I may command my Hands, Damelon and the others. My Hafts also may heed me. My word will not still every voice. Yet I will do all that can be done, since you desire it so.”

Linden stared at him until she was sure that she could believe him. Then she sagged. Thank God—she thought wanly. Thank God for men who kept their promises. If she had been equally confident of Covenant’s word, she would not have felt fretted with dread.

“I might inquire, my lady,” Berek continued after a moment. “what harm resides in the tale of your deeds. But I will not. My silence on that score is implicit in the boon you seek.

“Yet,” he said more sternly. “there are queries which demand utterance. My oaths of service, to my Queen as to the Land, require this of me. Understand that I intend neither affront nor disregard. However, I must be answered.”

Wincing inwardly, Linden started to say, Don’t, please. You don’t understand the danger. But Berek’s deep gaze held her. His will seemed greater than hers. She did not know how to refuse anyone who had suffered so much loss.

Berek’s mien tightened. “My lady Linden, it is plain that you bear powers—or instruments of power—greater than yourself. I know naught of such matters. Nonetheless I am able to discern contradiction. Though your powers exceed you, you have it within you to transcend them.”

Her mouth and throat suddenly felt too dry for speech. She should not have been surprised that he was able to perceive Covenant’s ring under her shirt. Still she was not prepared. And neither the Theomach nor Covenant was here to advise her.

“My lord,” she said weakly, trying to fend him off. “I can’t talk about this. It doesn’t have anything to do with you. It won’t affect your war, or your Queen—or your oath,” not without destroying Time. Bitter with memories, she added, “And you haven’t earned the knowledge. You aren’t ready for it. It can only hurt you.”

She could not gauge what anything that she might say—or refuse to say—would cost Berek. Similar knowledge had damaged her immeasurably. But it had also redeemed her.

He did not relent. “Yet I wish to hear them named.”

His eyes and his tone and his vital aura compelled her. Guided only by intuition, she held the Staff in one hand. “My Staff is about Law and Earthpower. It exerts the same force as the Seven Words, but in a different form.” With the other, she indicated Covenant’s hidden ring. “This is white gold.” She felt that she was accepting responsibility for all of the Earth’s millennia as she said. “It wields the wild magic that destroys peace. But it isn’t natural here.

“If you want to know more, you’ll have to ask the Theomach.”

She saw that she had baffled him; and she braced herself, fearing that he would demand more. Yet he did not. Instead he rubbed at his bald scalp as though he sought to massage coherence into his scattering thoughts.

“This is bootless, my lady,” he grumbled. “It conveys naught.” Then he dropped his hand, and his uncertainty with it. “However, I will not press you, for your discomfiture is evident. Instead I will pose a query of another kind.

“It has been averred that your powers and your purpose do not pertain to me. How may I be assured of this? My

force is greatly outnumbered. And as I drive my foes before me, I strengthen them, for they draw ever closer to Doriendor Corishev and reinforcement. I can not ignore the prospect of a threat from another quarter.”

“The Theomach—” Linden tried to offer.

“My lady,” Berek interrupted more harshly, “I do not ask for aid. That the Theomach may well provide, as he has avowed. Rather I ask how I may fear nothing from the needs which compel you. There is no wish for harm in your heart, of that I am certain. Your companions, however, are closed to me. I know naught of them but that they wield strange theurgies, and that their manner is ungentle.

“Answer this, my lady, and I will not disturb you further.”

Linden sighed. “My Lord, there are only two things that I can tell you.” To describe Covenant’s intentions in this time would be ruinous. “First, were going northwest—and we have a long way to go. Something like two hundred leagues. Everything that Covenant and Jeremiah and I are trying to do, everything that brought us here in the first place—It’ll all be wasted if we don’t cover those two hundred leagues as quickly as possible.

“Second,” she continued so that Berek would not interrupt her, “the last thing that the Theomach wants is trouble from us. And I do mean the last. You have no idea how powerful he is. I don’t understand it myself. But you can be sure of this. If we try anything that might threaten you, he’ll stop us. We can’t fight him. Not here. No matter how strong you think we are.”

The Insequent had demonstrated his ability to override Covenant’s intentions. She was sure that he meant her no harm; but she did not doubt that he would banish Covenant, Jeremiah, and her in an instant if they endangered his relationship with Berek—or the security of the Arch of Time.

Berek regarded her sombrely. In his gaze, she could almost trace the contention between his visceral impulse to trust her and his necessary concerns for his people, his Queen, his oath. Then she saw his expression soften, felt the tension in his shoulders relax; and she knew before he spoke that she had gained what she needed most from him.

“My lady Linden,” he said with wry regret. “these matters surpass me. I lack the lore to comprehend them. But a trek of two hundred leagues in this winter—That I am able to grasp. It will be cruel to you, bereft as you are of food, or horses, or adequate raiment.

“To the extent that my own impoverishment permits, I will supply all that you require”—he held up his hand to forestall any response—“and count myself humbled because I cannot equal your largesse. The knowledge of hurtloam alone is incomparable bounty, yet you have given more, far more. If you are thus generous in all of your dealings, you will need no songs or tales of mine to honor you, for you will be fabled wherever you are known.”

Linden wanted to protest, No, my lord. You’re the legend here. I’m not like that. But his unanticipated gentleness left her mute. She was too close to tears to find her voice.

If she could have believed in Covenant’s honesty, her gratitude would have been more than she knew how to contain.