Chapter Seven: 

An Aftertaste of Victory

In spite of her exhaustion and dismay, Linden tried to keep moving. But she was numb with killing; too profoundly weary to consider what she did. She did not go in search of her friends. She did not ask what had become of them. Instead, trembling, she fell back on years of training and experience: triage, trauma, emergency care. Her depleted spirit she focused on the needs directly in front of her.

Mutely she asked Hyn to bear her among the nearest of the fallen Woodhelvennin.

Some were dead. She ignored them. And some were so close to death that no power of hers would save them. She ignored them as well. But when she found a toddler clutched in his mother’s arms, both savagely mauled, and both still clinging to life, she dropped down from Hyn’s back, knelt beside them, and reached far inside herself to uncover a few faint embers of resolve.

As much as she could, Linden gave herself to the woman and her child.

I am able to convey you to your son.

After a few moments of Earthpower, the woman opened her eyes, gazed about her with dumb incomprehension. The toddler recovered enough to wail.

Linden looked to Hyn again.

The mare stood over a man whose right leg had been nearly severed. Terrible chunks had been ripped from his sides. But he, too, clung to life. Staggering toward him, Linden blessed or cursed him with frail flames until he began to feel his own agony, and she believed that he might live. Then she let Hyn guide her to another breathing victim of the kresh.

As she moved, stumbling, she passed the body of a Master. His flesh was a killing field, torn and bitten almost beyond recognition. Dead wolves were piled around him, blood seeping from their corpses to mingle with his and stain the churned soil. They were his legacy of service to the Land.

Hyn indicated an old couple who had fled holding hands. After they had fallen, they had continued to clasp each other as though that touch might keep them alive. Linden heard blood in their breathing, saw long gashes in their limbs and torsos. She would have passed them by, convinced that they could not be saved; but Hyn seemed to insist. Obediently Linden braced the Staff between them and dripped fire into them like a transfusion. The world tilted around her while she waited for some sign that she had not failed.

She was not the woman she had once been, the healer who had rushed headlong into Berek Halfhand’s camp. Her battle under Melenkurion Skyweir had changed her. And here she had expended herself in bloodshed; drenched herself in it. She no longer knew what she meant when she called herself a physician.

Nevertheless the old man eventually lifted his head, coughing blood as he looked toward his companion. His wife? Linden did not know. But the woman stirred; tightened her grip on the old man’s hand. Seeing her move, feeling her grasp, he smiled as if he no longer feared the consequences of his wounds.

—to convey you—

Weakly Linden reached into her pocket for the twisted remains of Jeremiah’s red racecar. She closed her fingers on it, drew it out to look at it. Then she let the tilting earth lower her to the ground. Hardly conscious that she sat on a dying wolf, she peered at Jeremiah’s ruined toy. It was all that she had left of him; and her heart had become stone.

—to your son.

The Harrow had destroyed ur-viles and Waynhim. More had been killed by the Cavewights. The Sandgorgons may have slain still more as they rampaged among Roger’s army. She had made a promise to the Demondim-spawn. Now many of them were dead.

And the Harrow was gone.

The bullet hole in her shirt seemed a little thing, as trivial as the grass stains written on her jeans; but that small catastrophe had cost her both her life and her son. Around her, the price continued to mount.

There was movement nearby. The villagers wandered among the slain, haunted by death. Some of them searched for friends or families; lovers or elders or children. Others stumbled aimlessly, as though they had lost the meaning of their lives. Doubtless they had seen caesures before. They were acquainted with the depredations of kresh. But they knew nothing of calamities on this scale. The Masters had not prepared them

Hyn nudged Linden, urging her to rise. There was work to be done. No one else could do it. But she had come to the end of herself. She stared at Jeremiah’s toy and made no attempt to stand.

Liand and Pahni found her there. Inspired by some impulse of sanity and simple care beyond her conception, they had gone to pick through the wreckage of First Woodhelven. Now they returned, bearing waterskins, some broken bread, and a small bundle of dried fruit. One of the waterskins held springwine.

While her friends watched, she drank both water and springwine greedily; ate bread until she felt strong enough to chew small bits of apple and fig. Such things could not relieve her deepest prostration, but they reduced her trembling and restored a measure of awareness.

I am able to convey you to your son.

When she regained her feet at last, she put away the racecar and resumed the labor that she had chosen for herself long ago.

Linden, find me.

She knew what Thomas Covenant and Jeremiah and the Land’s plight required of her; but those burdens would have to wait. Guided by Hyn, she walked between the fallen, weaving kind fire into their wounds and gently burning away their agony. And Liand and Pahni went with her, supporting her efforts with orcrest and powdered flakes of amanibhavam, or with springwine and water.

Anele still rested along Hrama’s neck, although he remained alert. His blind gaze regarded the Sandgorgons with apprehension. Yet he did not try to flee. Apparently he found the creatures less terrifying than a Fall.

Linden estimated that thirty or forty of the Woodhelvennin had been ripped down before she struck the kresh. A third of them were already dead: five or six more had passed beyond any succour except the solace of the last sleep. With Liand’s aid, and Pahni’s, she retrieved the rest from their worst wounds. Sepsis would be a serious problem later: the fangs and claws of the wolves had left filth in every hurt. But she spent her scant energies on only the most immediate damage. As she worked, she slowly recovered her concern for Mahrtiir, Bhapa, the Humbled, and their Ranyhyn. When she had done what she could for the villagers in a short time, with little strength, she asked Hyn to lead her to the companions whom she had abandoned.

Even Galt, Clyme, and Branl deserved more than she had done for them.

Along the way, she came upon the other Master who had warded First Woodhelven. His mangled left leg was only the most cruel of his many injuries. Nonetheless Linden found him limping among his charges, urging them to set aside their shock and attend to their fallen. Unable to stand or walk without support, he had improvised a crutch from a branch of the shattered banyan-grove. His pain was as vivid as the blood pulsing from his leg.

His name, he informed Linden, was Vernigil. Stolidly he acknowledged her intervention on behalf of the tree-dwellers. But when she offered to treat his hurts, he declined. His wounds were honorable. He meant to bear them honorably.

She was far too weary to protest. And she saw a certain logic in his refusal. Those Woodhelvennin who were able to understand what he had endured for them responded to the authority of his torn flesh.

Leaving the Master to live or die, Linden followed Hyn back toward the battlefield where she had last seen Bhapa, Mahrtiir, and the Humbled.

Vaguely she noticed that the Sandgorgons stood together on the far side of the carnage. Stave was with them: he faced them as if he could communicate with them. But she had no fortitude to spare for what passed between them.

Her vision was a blur of fatigue. Yet she needed to watch where she walked. The ground was littered with the corpses of Cavewights, their long limbs jutting at odd angles where the bones had been twisted or split. They baffled her senses: she might trip over them. And if she could not see, she would be unable to find those whom she sought.

Fortunately Pahni’s sight was keener; less bewildered by the ramifications of slaughter. Abruptly she cried out in anguish. Racing ahead, she dropped to her knees amid the stench and confusion of the dead.

Liand hurried after her; but Linden could not hasten. She could only blink and stare, and try to find her way.

The Humbled waited near Pahni: they appeared to stand in attendance. Like Vernigil, they were all severely injured; cut and battered from scalp to shin. Runnels of blood flowed down their arms and legs. Yet they retained their wonted upright intransigence, as if neither pain nor death could touch them.

Now Linden saw four Ranyhyn there. She recognised Narunal. Bhanoryl, Mhornym, and Naybahn were less familiar to her, but she squinted at them until she was sure. They, too, were gravely wounded; almost staggering with blood loss. But they, too, seemed to stand in attendance, as though they had come to pay homage.

They would let Linden treat them, if the Humbled would not. But it was possible that neither the great horses nor the Haruchai absolutely required her aid. In their separate fashions, the Ranyhyn and the Masters were preternaturally hardy. They might survive as they were.

Then Linden reached the place where Pahni and Liand knelt over Mahrtiir, Bhapa, and Whrany. Pahni fought tears as she fumbled at her pouch of amanibhavam. Beside her, Liand’s face was pale with dismay. The orcrest rested, inert and forgotten, in his fist. He could find no use for its magic here.

Bhapa huddled on his knees between the Manethrall and Whrany, beating his forehead on the blood-raddled ground. He did not permit himself to howl or weep, and so he had no other outlet for his pain. Peering at him, Linden discerned that he had suffered less physical damage than the Humbled or the Ranyhyn. He had a few broken ribs, a few slashes and contusions. Infection would kill him eventually: his injuries themselves would not. And a poultice of amanibhavam might suffice to save him, if Linden’s stamina failed.

But Whrany was dead. The Ranyhyn’s head had been almost severed from his body. His blood drenched Bhapa. The Cord wore it as if it were a winding-sheet.

Mahrtiir still breathed. That was unfortunate. Death would have been a kinder fate.

He lay on his back, gasping at the dusty reek of bloodshed. In spite of his Ramen toughness, he writhed as though he knew that he should not move—and could not restrain himself. He had been cut and pierced as severely as the Humbled; as often as the Ranyhyn. But some weapon, possibly a spear, had struck him near his left temple and carried straight through the front of his skull, ripping away both of his eyes.

Only countless hours in County Hospital’s emergency room enabled Linden to study the Manethrall’s face until she was sure that the bones behind his eyes remained essentially intact; that this wound had not reached his brain.

Unable to efface her weakness, she strove to ignore it. With desperation and willpower, a kind of grieving rage, she fanned embers of Earthpower into unsteady flames and spilled them over Mahrtiir until he was laved in fire.

In some sense, Linden was still a physician. She could not behold his suffering and remain passive.

Please, she prayed, although there was no one who might have heeded her. Please.

Please don’t die.

Don’t hate me for not letting you die. 

The Manethrall had chosen to accompany her because he chafed against the predictable and unambitious lives of his people. He had craved a tale which would deserve to be remembered among the Ramen. And he had supported her with complete fidelity.

This was the result. He might live, but he would never see again.

Exhaustion left her defenseless: she could not control the intensity of her health-sense. It was empathy transmogrified into excruciation. She saw every detail of his torn tissues—flesh and muscle, nerve and bone—as if it were replicated in her own body. She could have counted every ripped blood vessel, numbered every delicate channel of lymph and mucus. And she descried precisely how each tiny increment of damage could be repaired by Earthpower and Law.

She did not have the strength for the task. Even if she had been fresh and ready—even if she had not done so much killing—she could not have restored his eyes. There was nothing left of them. But everything that was possible for her, she did, and more. When she began to falter, she reached out to Liand, mutely asking for his aid. Instinctively he gave her what she needed. Summoning light from the orcrest, he gripped her hand so that the Sunstone was pressed between his palm and hers.

With that influx of power, she brought Mahrtiir back from agony and the borderlands of death.

His breathing grew quieter in spite of his pain. Now Linden was the one who gasped. As she released Liand’s hand, her surroundings seemed to turn themselves inside out, and she felt herself begin to fall.

But Bhapa surged to his feet and caught her in a fierce hug, ignoring his damaged ribs; staining her with Whrany’s blood as well as his own. “Ringthane,” he whispered, calling her away from collapse. “Mane and Tail, Ringthane! My life is yours. It was so before. Now it is yours utterly.” She heard weeping in his voice. “If the Manethrall and the Ranyhyn do not forbid it, I will accompany you into the depths of Gravin Threndor, or the inferno of Hotash Slay, or the bitter heart of the Sarangrave, and name myself blessed.”

She had no answer. She could bear neither his gratitude nor his sorrow. Mahrtiir would never see again. She had given the Manethrall a life of irredeemable darkness.

When Bhapa eased his embrace, she pulled away. “Amanibhavam,” she replied, panting raggedly. “Poultices. Bandages. Stop the bleeding.” Mahrtiir had too many other wounds, and she had tended none of them. “Then help the Ranyhyn.”

“Yes, Ringthane.” At once, Bhapa turned to obey.

Pahni had already set to work. Together the Cords mixed water with the crushed, dried blades of their potent grass to make a salve.

Helplessly Linden looked to Liand. Again he gave her what she needed. Supporting her with one arm, he lifted springwine to her lips. At the same time, he kept his orcrest alight. He may have hoped that the Sunstone’s eldritch possibilities would lend vitality to the springwine.

His instincts had not misled him. As she drank, Linden tasted something akin to Glimmermere’s lacustrine potency. If she could have bathed in the tarn, she might have been able to wash away the charnel stench of what she had done: the Cavewights burning like brittle sticks, the wolves scoured by sheets of flame—But Revelstone was too far away. She would find no healing there.

Nevertheless springwine and Liand’s considerate exertion brought her back from the brink of herself once more. Soon she was able to leave Mahrtiir and the Ranyhyn to the ministrations of Bhapa and Pahni. The Humbled she consigned to their stubbornness. First Woodhelven’s people needed more than she had done for them; far more.

There was a breeze blowing, some vagary of the undisturbed sunlight. Gently it carried the dust of battle and butchery away. But it could not shift the raw choleric stink of bloodshed, or the implications of Linden’s inadequacy.

Liand offered to accompany her. She told him to find clean cloth for bandages instead. She felt as laden with death as the dirt of Gallows Howe. If she were alone, she might finally find tears for everything that had been lost.

But before she could move past Galt, Branl, and Clyme toward the Woodhelvennin, Stave stopped her. Somehow she had failed to notice his approach.

“Chosen,” he said quietly. “you must accompany me.” Like Liand, Pahni, and Anele, he was unharmed. “The Sandgorgons require your attendance.”

Linden gestured vaguely. “I’m needed here.”

How was it possible that only those who had ridden with her against the kresh were whole?

Stave’s gaze held her. “Linden.”

His flat tone hinted at compassion. If he had ever used her given name before, she could not remember it.

“I’m not Linden.” She was dimly surprised to hear herself say those words aloud. “I’m not her anymore. Somebody else took my place under Melenkurion Skyweir.”

The Harrow wanted to trade Jeremiah for the Staff of Law and Covenant’s ring. Esmer and Roger would ensure that she had no opportunity to accept the lnsequent’s offer.

“Nonetheless,” Stave stated inflexibly, the Sandgorgons are insistent.” He was her only friend among the Haruchai. They will accept no reply except yours. If you do not comply, they will turn against the Woodhelvennin.”

Of course, she thought. Perfect. Just what we need.

She was still expected to choose who would live and who would not.

“All right.” Abruptly she addressed the Humbled. “Before you bleed to death, you might as well make yourselves useful.” Her ire was not for them, but she made no attempt to stifle it. “Liand is looking for bandages. We need hot water. Lots of it.” Surely cook pots and fabric could be found among the ruins of First Woodhelven? “And get some hurtloam if you can. These poor people don’t know what it is. They can’t see it.”

Kevin’s Dirt had deprived them of health-sense. The Masters had deprived them of knowledge.

Clyme nodded. At once, he, Galt, and Branl limped away toward the shredded village. They looked like incarnations of pain: each step exacerbated their injuries. Yet they moved stolidly, undeterred by the cost of their actions.

Soon they were joined by a number of Woodhelvennin, sent by Vernigil to assist the Humbled.

For reasons of their own, Hyn, Rhohm, and Naharahn galloped off in the direction of the brook. They may have been thirsty.

Shaking her head, Linden let Stave take her to face the Sandgorgons.

They stood in a united cluster as if the six of them shared one mind. Apart from the wounds Roger had inflicted on them—rank burns and boils that had already begun to heal—they matched her memories of Nom. Interminable ages of the Great Desert’s iron sun had leached them of color, leaving their hides the distressed whiteness of albinos. They were shorter than Cavewights, but much more powerfully formed, bred to withstand the harshest extremes of sand and heat and gales. Their knees flexed backward, supported by the wide pads of their feet: they could traverse dunes and hardpan alike with tremendous speed.

However, their knees and hides were not their strangest features. Their arms did not include hands. Instead their forearms grew into flexible stumps like elastic truncheons, able to plough through sand or batter down stone. And they had no faces; no features of any kind apart from the subtle ridges of their skulls and two almost hidden slits that resembled gills where humankind and even Cavewights had ears. Like their forearms, their heads were made to crash against obstacles.

Linden remembered Nom well. But she had forgotten how much raw force a Sandgorgon contained. Alone, each of the creatures looked as irrefusable as a tornado. Together they seemed to reify the worst storms of the world. They were cyclones distilled to unmitigated havoc.

Long ago, Thomas Covenant had mastered Nom with wild magic and delirant resolve. At his command, Nom had crossed lands and oceans to aid him against Revelstone and the Clave. With Honninscrave’s help, Nom had torn apart samadhi Sheol. Then, somehow, the Sandgorgon had consumed the scraps of the Raver’s existence—and had thereby gained a form of sentience unknown to Sandgorgons: the ability to communicate as the Haruchai did, mind to mind. Millennia ago, Nom had exchanged understandings with the Haruchai who had fought at Covenant’s side. Now, apparently, these creatures had been speaking to Stave.

“Much has transpired during the millennia of your absence, Chosen,” he said. “I am informed that Nom returned to the Great Desert and Sandgorgons Doom bearing the rent fragments of samadhi Sheol’s spirit. These had been forever torn from coherence, but they were not deprived of intention and malice. Nom distributed them among the Sandgorgons, giving to his kind faint remnants of the Raver’s memories and lore and cruelty. Thus in small tatters the brutish minds of the Sandgorgons acquired knowledge.

“Across a great span of years, they learned to unmake the Doom in which Kasreyn of the Gyre had imprisoned them. And across a far greater span, they discovered purpose. A host of them, all those who share samadhi Sheol’s spirit, have now come to the Land. For that reason, they were able to answer your call without delay.

“Of their host, these are but a few. The rest await the outcome of your summons.”

Linden frowned in confusion. “I’m needed, Stave.” Bhapa had marked her with Whrany’s blood, and his own. “Get to the point.”

The former Master studied the Sandgorgons for a moment. Then he told Linden, “They seek your acknowledgment that they have fulfilled your desire.”

As if so many deaths were not acknowledgment enough.

“Oh, hell.” Bitterly she looked around at the battlefield, the crushed and splattered bodies of the Cavewights. “Sure. Of course.” This, too, was her doing. “There’s nothing left for them here. We can always get more corpses.”

They had threatened to attack the Woodhelvennin

Her spirit also had been torn. But she resembled Esmer more than samadhi Sheol: she was appalled by what she had become.

She needed Thomas Covenant to make her whole.

In response, Stave’s manner became more formal. “Then they are done with you. You are not the ur-Lord. You did not defeat or compel Nom. But you are the last of his companions. In gratitude for the quality of mind which they now possess, they answered your summons. They will not do so again.”

Linden nodded, too weary and aghast to find words. She hardly understood what Stave was saying.

He lowered his voice. “There is darkness in them, Chosen. Rent, samadhi Sheol’s spirit yet clings to Corruption. They have beheld majesty in the Raver’s visions of Doriendor Corishev, of kings and queens and rule. They have learned a hunger for suzerainty. In the Land, samadhi’s thoughts assure them, they will know what it means to hold sway.

“They avow that if you oppose them, they will crush you as ferociously as they slew these Cavewights, and with the same joy.”

“I don’t care.” Linden started to turn away. “I just want them to do their crushing somewhere else.”

But then she stopped. Impulsively she suggested, “Try telling them where Doriendor Corishev is.” Let them follow Doom’s Retreat to the Southron Waste; away from the Land. She trembled to imagine what would happen if a host of Sandgorgons struck at Revelstone. “If they want to “hold sway”, they can start there. No one has held that region for thousands of years.”

Doriendor Corishev’s rulers had made a wilderland of their kingdom. But the Sandgorgons were born to deserts, formed for harsh landscapes. They might like the Southron Waste.

Perhaps the fragmentation of samadhi Sheol’s memories would prevent the Raver from directing the Sandgorgons elsewhere.

“Or if that doesn’t work,” she added. “tell them about the skurj. Tell them that those monsters are more powerful than they can imagine.” Perhaps the Sandgorgons could be taunted into defending the Land. “If they want to rule here, they’ll have to deal with Kastenessen’s creatures.”

For a moment, Stave regarded her as if her advice surprised him. Then he turned back to the Sandgorgons.

Leaving him to be as persuasive as he could, Linden headed toward the tree-dwellers again.

While she stumbled among the bodies, however, the Ramen caught her attention. Unfortunately Mahrtiir was conscious. Linden wished him a respite from the enormity of his hurts. With the Staff, she might have imposed a little sleep on his wracked body and mind. But his life was in no immediate danger. Bhapa tended him diligently while Pahni did what she could for the Ranyhyn. And some of the Woodhelvennin had worse injuries. Simple triage required her to conserve her scant resources.

Liand, the Humbled, and a few villagers had emerged from the wreckage of the banyan-grove bearing bundles of garments for bandages. Three or four of them carried cook pots which could be used to heat water. In a moment, Liand rejoined the Ramen.

Although she ached for Mahrtiir, Linden pushed herself back into motion.

The Manethrall stopped her with a ragged croak. “Ringthane.”

In spite of his agony, his health-sense enabled him to discern her presence.

“I’m here.” Linden’s voice resembled his. “You shouldn’t try to talk. You’ve lost a lot of blood. And there isn’t much that I can do about your pain right now.”

He shook his head as if he were wincing. “My hurts are naught.” The shattered mess of his eye sockets wept slow drops of blood. “I rue only that I am made useless to you.”

She tried to say, Mahrtiir, stop. But she could not force her mouth and throat to form words.

“Many needs press upon you,” he continued, wrenching speech past his wounds. “I ask but one boon. There is no other Manethrall here, and a witness is required. I ask you to stand in the stead of those who lead the Ramen.”

A moment passed before Linden realised that Bhapa was whispering as if he were horrified. “No. No. No.”

With an effort that felt like anguish, she managed to repeat, “I’m here.” She may have been making another promise that she would be unable to keep.

Hoarsely Mahrtiir said, “I am no longer able to bear the burdens of a Manethrall. Among the Ramen, those who have been blinded do not command the deeds of those who see. Cord Bhapa must assume my place. We cannot now perform the full ceremony of Maneing, but your witness will suffice.

“I ask Liand of Mithil Stonedown to remove the garland from my neck and set it upon Bhapa’s.” His woven necklace of yellow flowers, amanibhavam in faded bloom, was splashed with blood. It hung in tatters, but had not been severed. “Then he will take his long delayed place among the Manethralls, and I will serve him and you as I do the Ranyhyn, until my last breath.”

In dismay, Liand flung a look of appeal at Linden. He did not move to touch Mahrtiir’s garland.

Mahrtiir, no. Linden could not find her voice. Please. I can’t do this right now. I can’t let you do it. If she had been able to speak, she might have said, This can wait. Then she might have turned away.

But Bhapa rushed to his feet. Softly, as if he were in tears, he cried. “No, Manethrall. No. I will not. I am not fit for Maneing. And I cannot abide—”

Abruptly he wheeled toward Linden. His eyes were dry, but every line of his face resembled sobbing.

“Ringthane,” he said, pleading with her, “do not permit this. It was not my tarnished sight—the sight which you have healed—that caused me to remain a Cord when others of my years had become Manethralls. It was my hesitancy. I bear uncertainties and doubts which consort ill with decision and command. I follow willingly. I am not suited to lead.”

Linden stared at him. She herself had uncertainties and doubts enough to cripple a legion. But she did not mean to let Jeremiah’s suffering continue unopposed—or unpunished.

However, Bhapa seemed to need no answer from her. At once, he turned back to Mahrtiir.

“And you cannot so lightly set aside your tasks,” he told the Manethrall, “or your yearning to be worthy of tales. You are merely hurt and blinded. You are not unmade. You are a Manethrall blood and bone. It determines you.

“Nor may you set aside the geas that was placed upon you.” The Cord’s passion mounted. “You were informed that you must go far, seeking “your heart’s desire”. And you were urged to return when you had found it, for the Land has need of you. Those words were not granted to me. They were for you alone.”

Anele had spoken to Mahrtiir on the rich grass of Revelstone’s plateau. Linden believed that her friends had heard Thomas Covenant’s voice through the old man.

Bhapa and Pahni had been given a different message. In some way, you two have the hardest job. You’ll have to survive. And you’ll have to make them listen to you.

“Manethrall Mahrtiir,” Bhapa concluded, “I have obeyed you in all things. In this I will not.”

Mahrtiir bared his bloodied teeth. For a moment, he appeared to struggle with imprecations. An involuntary groan wrenched his chest. When he spoke, his voice was taut and raw.

“Then be Ramen, if you will not be Manethrall. Aid Pahni among the Ranyhyn. The needs of the great horses come foremost.”

Briefly he coughed, splashing his chest with arterial droplets. But Liand called up light from the orcrest and touched it to Mahrtiir’s sternum. By degrees, Mahrtiir relaxed.

“And Liand tends me well,” he said: a brittle rustling like the sound of dried leaves in a breeze. “I will not impose my garland upon you by perishing.”

Shamed in spite of her exhaustion, Linden found somewhere enough gentle fire to stop the Manethrall’s bleeding and grant him sleep. For years, she had wept too easily. She wanted to weep now. But she could not. Her stone heart held no tears.

The Sandgorgons departed a short time later; pelted avidly into the east as if they were eager for more destruction. Presumably they were returning to their host. And when they were gone, Esmer reappeared.

He still wore his wounds and his shredded raiment. Perhaps his many powers did not include the ability to heal himself.

He did not approach Linden. He spoke to no one. Indeed, he seemed unaware that anyone watched him as he sent waves of force through the ground to gather up corpses: Cavewights and kresh; slain villagers. Intimidated by powers beyond their comprehension, the Woodhelvennin did not object.

Whrany’s body he took as well: he made no distinctions among the fallen. Linden expected protests from the Ramen, but they said nothing. Even the Ranyhyn did not interfere. Instead the great horses called a kind of farewell, at once haunting and brazen, to their lost herd-mate; and Bhapa and Pahni bowed their foreheads to the ground.

When Esmer had pulled all of the dead together into a bitter mound, he called down lightning to set the pile ablaze. Then he wrapped the acrid reek of burning flesh and blood around him and vanished again. However, he left enough of his eerie force behind to keep the flames of the pyre roaring. Linden guessed that the fire would not burn down until it had consumed every scrap of slaughtered flesh.

Black smoke, viscid as oil, and sour as the fumes of a midden, rolled skyward. Fortunately the breeze tugged it away from the survivors. That, too, may have been Esmer’s doing.

As soon as Cail’s son removed himself, Stave returned to Linden. He said nothing about Esmer or the Sandgorgons. And she asked him nothing. Perhaps Esmer was grieved by the cost of the battle. Perhaps the Sandgorgons had gone to lead their host to Doriendor Corishev. It made no difference.

Taking Stave with her, she let him care for her with water, springwine, and a little food while she exerted frail flames of Earthpower and Law among the Woodhelvennin.

She still had done nothing for the Ranyhyn. But Liand had added his efforts to Pahni’s and Bhapa’s. And the horses absorbed the white brilliance of his Sunstone gratefully. Earthpower in that form did not heal them; but they appeared to draw a different sustenance from it, as they did from amanibhavam, so that they became stronger in spite of their hurts.

Somewhere in the distance, Linden heard insistent whinnying. But she ignored it, and after a while it stopped. She did not grasp what it signified until Vernigil and a few villagers approached her bearing fired clay bowls redolent with the salvific savour of hurtloam. Apparently Hyn, Rhohm, and Naharahn had galloped away to search along the brook for the healing sand. They had found a small vein in the washed streambed.

Vernigil’s condition had improved visibly. Already some of the damage to his mangled leg had begun to repair itself. Yet Linden did not imagine that the Master had availed himself of the hurtloam’s benison. Rather he had benefited from the humble act of carrying it.

The Woodhelvennin accompanying him were full of astonishment. They must have used their hands to scoop up the spangled sand; and Earthpower had come to life within them, banishing the pall of Kevin’s Dirt. Now for the first time in their lives—the first time in unnumbered generations—they were able to see. They could not yet understand what had happened to them. Nevertheless they had been transformed.

Finally Linden allowed herself to rest. She touched the tip of one finger to the hurtloam, let its sovereign potency spread through her. Then she sank to the dirt and covered her face, leaving Stave and Vernigil to instruct the tree-dwellers in the use of the Land’s largesse.

Later, she recovered enough to wonder why the Masters had permitted the Woodhelvennin to experience Earthpower; to discover health-sense and know what they had been denied.

In addition to the unremitting stench of the pyre, she smelled cooking. When she sat up and looked around, she saw that many of the villagers were busy at fires, using boughs and branches from their homes for fuel. Inspired, perhaps, by the miraculous recovery of their maimed and dying friends and families, they had emerged from their dismay to perform the necessary tasks of staying alive.

When she had observed them for a while, Linden saw that they were being organised by an old couple, the same man and woman whom she had aided at Hyn’s insistence. She had not truly healed them: she had merely postponed their deaths. But they must have shared in the unequivocal efficacy of hurtloam. Although they were fragile and hurt, they walked among their neighbours, still holding hands as they sorted the Woodhelvennin into cooperating teams.

Hyn stood near Linden, watching over her rider. And soon after Linden sat up, Liand came to join her. Squatting comfortably on the shale and grit, he studied her for a moment to assure himself that she was physically unharmed. Then he, too, turned his attention to the villagers.

“I am told,” he remarked quietly, “that the elders who lead them are named Heers. The customs of Woodhelvennin are strange to me.” He gave Linden a wry smile. “I had not known that such folk inhabited the Land. But “by right of years and attainment”—he quoted Handir good-naturedly—“Karnis and his mate, Quilla, are the Heers of First Woodhelven. You did well to redeem their lives, Linden. They command respect among their people which the Masters do not. Vernigil nearly perished in their defense. His companion was slain. Nonetheless here the Masters appear to lack some increment of their stature in Mithil Stonedown. It was Karnis and Quilla rather than Vernigil who truly roused these folk from their bereavement.”

Linden sighed. The tree must have been wonderful. I wish I could have seen it. Maybe it affected them. Maybe they knew in their bones that the Land isn’t as”—she grimaced reflexively—“as superficial as the Masters wanted them to believe.”

The Masters had spent many centuries teaching the villagers to be unprepared for the peril and loss which had befallen them.

Yet now Stave’s kinsmen had recanted? She did not believe it. Decades of caesures had not swayed the Masters: the terrible magicks of the Demondim and the Illearth Stone had not moved them. So why had Vernigil and the Humbled allowed the Woodhelvennin to touch hurtloam?

To some extent, she understood the Harrow. I am able to convey you to your son. The actions of Esmer, Roger, and moksha Jehannum seemed explicable. But the Masters baffled her.

As the villagers prepared food, or searched through the grove’s debris for the supplies that they would need in order to reach Revelstone, the sun sank toward late afternoon, drawing stark shadows across the stained ground. With Liand’s help, Linden climbed wearily to her feet and went to check on the condition of her friends.

She was relieved to see that the Ranyhyn also had been given the benefit of hurtloam. The worst of their injuries were mending with remarkable celerity. Soon they would be able to bear their riders again.

And Mahrtiir and Bhapa had been treated with the gold-flecked sand as well. Although the Cord moved stiffly, and would no doubt feel the ache of his saft ribs for days, he was free of infection; no longer bleeding. Since the Ranyhyn no longer needed care, he and Pahni watched over their Manethrall.

Blessed by hurtloam, Mahrtiir slept deeply, and all of his wounds showed signs of swift healing. With strips of clean wool, the Cords had bandaged his gouged forehead and nose, as well as several deep slashes in his limbs and along his ribs. But first they had washed his eye sockets and cuts, removing dirt and chipped bone. Linden’s health-sense assured her that he would live.

How his blindness would affect him was a different question.

Sighing again, she scanned the area for Anele. At first, she failed to spot him. But then Liand pointed at one of the cooking fires, and Linden saw the old man there amid a busy cluster of Woodhelvennin. He had dismounted beside the flames: apparently he was eager to eat. She felt a moment of trepidation on his behalf until she realised that Stave was with him. Gently but firmly, Stave kept Anele on the sheet of slate which protected him from Kastenessen.

Thank God, Linden thought wanly. Thank God for friends. Without Liand, Stave, and the Ramen—without Anele and the Ranyhyn and the Mahdoubt—she would have been lost a long time ago. And all of her choices seemed to attract new enemies.

She must be doing something right.

Stave seemed to feel her gaze. When he had spoken to the villagers, presumably asking them to guard Anele, he left the fire to approach Linden and Liand.

The pyre was gradually burning itself out. But its grim smoke still tarnished the air, and Linden gauged that it would not sink down to coals until after nightfall.

As Stave drew near, she looked around for the Humbled. They stood like sentinels at separate points around the fringe of the lowland where the tree-dwellers were preparing to spend the night. They were too far away for her to see their faces, but even at this distance she could feel the concentrated harm of their untended wounds. It made them appear as forlorn as outcasts in spite of their unrelenting stoicism.

Stave greeted her with a deep bow which she accepted because she was too weary to refuse it. Still studying the Humbled, she said, “I’ve seen Vernigil. He got a little healing, whether he wanted it or not. But what about them? Will they be all right?”

Stave did not glance at his former comrades. They are Haruchai. None of their hurts are mortal. And we are not prone to the corruption which devours flesh and life. They will not regain their full prowess for some days. But if we are spared a renewed assault—” With a shrug, he fell silent.

If Roger did not return with more Cavewights. If the Sandgorgons marched on Doriendor Corishev or the skurj instead of preferring easier victims, more immediate slaughter. If the Harrow did not appear again, drawing Esmer’s storms with him. If moksha Raver could not gather more kresh.

If Kastenessen did not send his monsters—

Damn it. Linden would have to learn how to wield Covenant’s ring. The Staff of Law was not enough.

Grimly she muttered, “Then I guess we should hope that driving the Harrow away will be enough to satisfy Kastenessen and Roger,” Jehannum and Lord Foul. “At least for the time being.”

Liand winced. “Since the fall of Kevin’s Watch,” he admitted. “we have known incessant peril—and still I am not accustomed to it. I had not considered the likelihood of further battles”—he glanced around him—“or the vulnerability of these Woodhelvennin when we are parted from them.”

Linden rested a hand on his shoulder, as much to steady herself as to reassure him; but she did not reply. Instead she asked Stave. “Can you tell me why they haven’t interfered?” With a nod, she indicated Clyme, Galt, and Branl. “Your people have worked long and hard to keep anyone from knowing about Earthpower. But now dozens of ordinary villagers have felt hurtloam. Temporarily, at least, they’re free of Kevin’s Dirt. And they won’t forget what it feels like. Why didn’t the Masters try to prevent that? What made them change their minds?”

Was it possible that events had forced a chink in the intransigence of Stave’s kinsmen?

But Stave shook his head. “Other matters aside, no Haruchai would willingly oppose the clear wishes of the Ranyhyn. Yet the Masters have altered neither their thoughts nor their commitments. They merely acknowledge that this disturbance of their service surpassed prevention. They could not have forestalled the battle, or the unveiling of powers unknown to the Woodhelvennin. By the measure of those forces, any experience of hurtloam and health-sense is a slight consideration.

“Also they acknowledge that they have failed.” Stave’s tone seemed to harden. “To prevent the misuse of Earthpower is but one aspect of their stewardship. Another is to preserve the Land’s peoples. The Masters do not fault themselves for their inability to defeat the forces arrayed against them. But when they have failed, their Mastery does not require that others must suffer. They accept no ease for their wounds because they have chosen the path of their service. They do not regret its cost. But the Woodhelvennin did not choose. Therefore they are not asked to share the cost.”

After a moment, he added, “When they have entered Revelstone, they will not be permitted to depart.”

Linden swore under her breath. But she did not protest. She had done so often enough, to no avail. Instead she said, “I still don’t understand, but that doesn’t mean I’m not grateful. These people have a long way to go. They’re going to need all the compassion that they can get.”

“Indeed,” assented Liand fervently.

“So tell me that I’m doing the right thing,” she continued. “Tell me that we don’t have to help them reach Revelstone. I need to get to Andelain. We’ve already lost a day here. But these poor people—”

“They will not be assailed,” Stave stated without hesitation. “There is no gain in their deaths for the Land’s foes. Neither Esmer nor the Harrow appears inclined to harm those who wield no power. And the Unbeliever’s son, his Cavewights, the skurj, and the Sandgorgons, all remain in the east. As we journey toward Andelain, we will ride between them and the Woodhelvennin, and will pose a far greater threat. Thus only the hazard of the kresh remains. But the carnage among them was extreme. If moksha Raver does not compel them, they will not soon crave human flesh.

“At another time, any Raver might revel in the slaughter of the helpless. But we seek Corruption’s doom. And you bear powers sufficient to endanger him. As we distance ourselves from the Woodhelvennin, we will draw moksha Jehannum after us.”

“And should Stave be mistaken,” Liand put in, “which I do not believe, there is another matter. After what has transpired here, no one among these folk will desire to delay your purpose. In this I am certain, for their hearts are open, and I have heard them speak among themselves. They are homeless and bereft, and their needs are many. But they have beheld the puissance of those who loathe the Land—and have seen you wreathed in a glory of fire and salvation. Also you have preserved the lives of their Heers. If you offered to accompany them, they would implore you not to turn aside from your intent.”

Linden did not look at either Liand or Stave: she did not want them to see that their assurances shamed her. If they had told her that every one of the villagers would die without her protection, she would have continued her journey nonetheless. She believed that she would never be able to rescue Jeremiah if she did not first reach Andelain; and so she would have abandoned the Woodhelvennin.

Linden, find me.

Everything came back to Thomas Covenant.

In spite of her shame—or because of it—she thanked the Stonedownor and the former Master. Then, as a kind of penance, she took the long walk away from the tree-dwellers and the battlefield in order to speak to each of the Humbled individually. She wanted to tell them that she valued what they had done.

That night, Linden’s company and the Woodhelvennin ate a communal meal organised by Quilla and Karnis. The Heers were still too weak to haul supplies, firewood, and cook pots themselves, or to prepare viands. Nonetheless they worked doggedly to ensure that none of the needs of their people were neglected.

Earlier, Linden and Bhapa had washed as thoroughly as they could in the brook. With Pahni’s help, and Liand’s, they had bathed Mahrtiir. And when the Ranyhyn had moved out into the gathering twilight to help the Humbled stand watch, Branl, Galt, and Clyme had taken turns at the stream, cleansing their injuries and their tunics with equal impassivity.

Now Linden, Anele, Liand, and the Ramen shared food with the villagers, sitting around several large fires. Linden was regarded with wonder—and attended diligently. Liand and the Ramen were given care as though it were a form of obeisance. And Anele was gently prevented from leaving his plate of stone: a restriction which he accepted without protest.

Mahrtiir sat cross-legged between Bhapa and Linden, feeding himself by touch. Apart from the ruin of his eyes, he had made an extraordinary recovery, healed by amanibhavam, hurtloam, and the Staff’s flame. In the firelight, his scars seemed almost metaphysical. He sat as straight as a spear, fiercely refusing any assistance that was not absolutely necessary.

Beside him, Bhapa slumped uncharacteristically, shoulders bowed in dejection; but Linden could not tell whether he grieved for his Manethrall or for Whrany.

Later, the Heers spoke briefly. In quavering voices, they described their sorrow over their lost homes, their relief that they could seek sanctuary in Revelstone, and their astonished gratitude for all that Linden’s company had done. Then, almost timidly, they asked her to explain what had befallen them.

She had no heart for the task; but Liand took it from her unasked. Standing among the fires, he emanated dignity and openness as he told the hushed Woodhelvennin what he knew. His version of the causes of the battle, and of the nature of the Land’s foes, was not what Linden might have said in his place. It was simpler and more direct; unconflicted by inadequacy or bitterness. But it was also better suited to the limited comprehension of his audience, and the villagers received it as if it were an act of grace.

With every word, he violated the long prohibitions of the Masters. Yet neither Vernigil nor the Humbled interrupted him. In this, as in the use of hurtloam, the Masters seemed to take pity on the Woodhelvennin.

Linden knew better. When the tree-dwellers entered Lord’s Keep, they would never leave. If that were pity, she wanted no part of it.

At last, the villagers prepared to sleep on beds of gathered leaves and retrieved blankets. In spite of Bhapa’s urging, Mahrtiir refused rest. Harshly he proclaimed that he had lost only his eyes, not his ears and nose, or the use of his limbs. Alone, he walked away from the fires, clearly intending to help the Ranyhyn and the Masters keep watch. For a moment, the ruddy light of the flames seemed to cling to the pale swath of his bandaged head. Then the night took him, and he was gone.

With anguish in his eyes, Bhapa followed the Manethrall.

When Linden was offered a bed, she paused only to confirm that Stave warded Anele. Then she sank into the blankets, tucked the Staff of Law under her arm, and fell instantly asleep.

During the night, she was tormented by nightmares, not of fire and killing, but of violation. She lay like carrion, unable to move, while centipedes and venomous spiders crawled over her face, emerging from her mouth and nose. Molten worms circled her eyes: noisome things crept unhindered through the privacy of her clothes: pincers and fouled teeth gnawed her flesh. The knowledge that they had been hatched in the dank cesspit of her heart filled her with horror.

Whimpering weakly, she ached to awaken, and could not. Her dreams held her until Stave roused her with the dawn.

A sense of moral sickness clung to her as she arose, shivering, from her bed. A heavy dew had fallen, and its dampness had soaked through the blankets to her flannel shirt and jeans. Hoping to dispel her nightmares as well as the chill, she drew delicate tendrils of Earthpower from the Staff to meet the sunrise. Then she scanned the area to see how her friends and the Woodhelvennin fared.

Most of the camp was stirring. Stave had left Anele to the care of the Heers, and the old man seemed compliant in their company. Joined by Liand and Pahni, one group of villagers brought more wood from the banyans to build up the fires. Other people had begun to prepare a fresh meal. The Ranyhyn were nowhere in sight: they must have ranged far to find more grass, and to search for intimations of danger. Lit by the dawn, the Humbled and Vernigil kept a closer watch. But Mahrtiir and Bhapa had returned during the night. Now they stood at one of the fires, apparently arguing—if the Cord’s diffident replies to his Manethrall’s assertions could be called argument.

Bhapa urged Mahrtiir to remove the bandage from his eyes. The Cord suggested that open air and sunlight would speed Mahrtiir’s healing. But the Manethrall refused to expose his ravaged face. With suppressed fury, he insisted that doing so would encourage pity. Also he averred that he required the binding around his head to remind him that he could not see. If his other senses caused him to forget his blindness, he might make some hazardous mistake.

When Linden had absorbed enough of the Staff’s strength to collect her thoughts, she nodded toward the two Ramen. “Bhapa is taking this personally.”

To her ears, she sounded callous. Her tone falsified what she felt. But remnants of dreams clung to her like revenants. Vile scurrying seemed to lurk beneath the surface of her attention. When she had restored Joan’s wedding band, she had made possible atrocities like the destruction of First Woodhelven.

“The Ramen are prideful,” Stave observed with implied compassion. “I have learned to see that this is both strength and weakness. The Cord and the Manethrall have lost much. Uncertain of himself, the Cord fears to acknowledge that he is no longer certain of the Manethrall. Dreading the outcome of his blindness, the Manethrall is guided by anger.

“For such reasons, the Haruchai strive to set aside passion. Yet it rules us. I am no less its servant than are the Masters.”

Nightmares had left Linden ripe for shame. She, too, had lost much, and was ruled by fears and passions which she did not know how to bear. Frowning uselessly, she went to break her fast.

With her friends, she joined the villagers around cook pots of steaming cereal sweetened with fruit.

The new sun leaned past the higher ground to the east, blunting the chill of night and dew. The air should have tasted as clean as the light, full of spring and the scents of cooking. But the ground had been ploughed to chaos by the caesure, charred with power and malice, steeped in blood. And the ashen reek of Esmer’s pyre lingered over the slopes, irreparable as Kevin’s Dirt.

Fretting at the residue of her dreams, Linden wanted to hurry. She had abundant reasons for haste, among them the chance that her presence might endanger the villagers further. Their shy greetings and thanks she brushed aside. She ate quickly; quenched her thirst at the bourn, grateful that the current had washed itself clear of killing; prepared herself to ride.

The Ramen followed her example. And Stave was always ready. Even the Humbled seemed determined to resume their journey in spite of their long, stiff scabs and damaged bones.

But Anele sat with Karnis and Quilla, devouring his meal voraciously, and making incoherent remarks which the Heers kindly elected to interpret as jests. And Liand ate with slow gravity, as if he were mustering his strength for a severe task.

Linden was tempted to prod him, but his air of purpose silenced her. She could see that he had reached a decision of some kind—and that some aspect of his intent troubled him. However, her percipience showed her only the nature of his emotions: she could not discern his thoughts.

While the Stonedownor took his time, Linden looked to Pahni and asked uncomfortably, “Do you know what’s going on? He has something in mind, but I can’t tell what it is.”

The young Cord shook her head. Her soft brown eyes were dark with worry. “I have felt his resolve. It swelled within him throughout the night, and he slept little. But he has not spoken of it. And I—” Pahni faltered. Almost whispering, she said. “I feared to inquire. I fear for him.”

Through Anele, Thomas Covenant had told Liand, I wish I could spare you. Surely the Stonedownor had not decided to sacrifice himself in some extreme fashion, responding to a need which Linden as well as the Ramen and Stave had failed to perceive?

Before long, however, Liand appeared to resolve an internal debate. Nodding to himself, he gathered his bundles of supplies. Then he signalled his readiness to Linden and Stave.

Finally. “All right,” Linden muttered. “Let’s get going.”

At once, Stave raised his fingers to his mouth and began the series of whistles which summoned the Ranyhyn.

When they heard the sound, Mahrtiir and Bhapa came toward Linden, Pahni, and Stave. Vernigil and the Humbled left their posts. Even Anele jerked up his head, scanning the area with his moonstone eyes as if he were eager.

Soon the Ranyhyn swept into sight from the southeast. As they drew near, Linden counted ten of the star-browed horses.

Ten, she thought, distracted by wonder. Of course. She had been told that the fidelity of the Ranyhyn did not end in death. Whrany had fallen: therefore another of the great horses had come to bear Bhapa.

With glad homage, the Ramen greeted the Ranyhyn. Stave and the Humbled bowed gravely, honoring their mounts as the Bloodguard had done millennia ago; and Vernigil did the same, although he had not been chosen. Hrama trotted among the villagers toward Anele while Narunal offered his muzzle to Mahrtiir’s uncertain hands. And Bhapa had tears of gratitude and rue in his eyes as he knelt before the tall bayard that had answered in Whrany’s place.

When he stood again, he proclaimed as steadily as he could, This mighty stallion is Rohnhyn. I pray of all the Ranyhyn, and of revered Kelenbhrabanal, Father of Horses, that I may prove worthy to serve such a sovereign.”

Hyn nudged Linden affectionately. Hynyn flared his nostrils, snorting his impatience. Relieved by the prospect of departure, Linden mounted without delay, as did Stave and Mahrtiir. After a moment, Bhapa joined them. Flinging an anxious glance at Liand, Pahni followed the older Cord’s example.

To Linden, the Humbled did not look hale enough to ride. Nevertheless they contrived to leap astride their horses. There they sat, rigid as stone, although the exertion had torn open some of their wounds, and fresh blood seeped into their tunics.

When two of the tree-dwellers had helped Anele onto Hrama, only Liand remained unmounted.

Briefly Liand hugged Rhohm’s neck. Setting his bundles on Rhohm’s back, he vaulted onto the Ranyhyn. But he did not move toward Linden and the rest of her companions. Instead he rode into the centre of the encampment.

Most of the villagers were engaged in a confusion of tasks: cooking and eating; tending their children and their injured; searching their stricken homes for blankets, food, and raiment. But Liand was limned in sunlight. His high seat on his mount, and the youthful gravity of his demeanour, gradually drew the attention of the tree-dwellers. Silence spread across the camp as more and more people stopped what they were doing to gaze at him.

When he began to speak, he did not shout. In that way, he gathered his audience around him. Linden herself rode closer, accompanied by the Ramen and Stave. She needed Liand. Until she knew what he intended, she wanted to be near enough to intervene.

“Woodhelvennin, hear me,” he called quietly. “We are scantly acquainted, yet you know me well. You have beheld me in the nature of my deeds, as you have in the valour of my companions. And you have heard me speak of the reasons for our presence among you. We must now part. The needs which compel Linden Avery the Chosen are many and urgent. But I am loath to ride from you without sharing the greatest of the benisons which I have gained in her company.”

Sighing, Linden let herself relax. When she touched Pahni’s shoulder, she found that the young Cord also felt relieved. Liand did not mean to offer up his life. He was simply too sensitive and generous to leave the villagers as they were.

“It has been given to me,” he explained. “to discern a Land which lies unseen within the lives that we have known.” To Linden, his voice sounded like the rising of the sun. His sincerity was as nourishing as sunshine. “In its unshrouded form, the Land is a place of marvels beyond imagining, and I have been enabled to partake in its mysteries. This gift, which Linden Avery names “health-sense”, I would grant to you, as it has been granted to me, if you will honor me with its acceptance.

“But it is not a gentle gift,” he warned the villagers, “and its cost is pain and loss, anger and sorrow. Some of you have felt the healing of hurtloam and know the gift of which I speak. Others know it because you have been brought back from death by fire. When you touched the eldritch sand, or were laved in flames, your eyes were opened. All of your senses were opened as they have not been opened before. You became able to see truly, and all that you beheld was transformed.”

Karnis, Quilla, and a number of the Woodhelvennin nodded. The rest regarded Liand with perplexed frowns.

“For a time,” he said in sunlight, “you recognised the transcendence of that which you had deemed commonplace. Yet now your awareness of transcendence is gone. The Land has become what it was. You have become what you were. And you are no longer content.

“Others among you know nothing of this. If you inquire of those who comprehend my words, you will find them bewildered, unable to convey what they have witnessed, or what they have lost. They cannot name the cause of their sadness and ire.”

Again the healed, the Heers, and those who had carried hurtloam nodded, grateful to hear their innominate grief described.

Now Liand raised his voice. Still he did not shout; but he spoke in bright tones that sent a shiver through Linden’s heart. Pahni’s eyes shone, and Mahrtiir heard the Stonedownor with his chin raised as though Liand had made him proud.

“Nevertheless I say to you that what they have tasted and lost is your birthright. It is the essential spirit of the Land, inherent to all that lives, and you have been made blind to it. For many generations, you have been deprived of the deepest truth of who and what and where you are.

“It is my wish to grant unto you, all of you, the gift that I have been given. I wish to share my vision of your birthright.”

There the Humbled or Vernigil might have interrupted him. But none of them betrayed any reaction. Perhaps their silence acknowledged an irreducible truth: whether Linden succeeded or failed, nothing in the Land would remain unchanged.

She had accomplished that much, at least, Linden thought grimly. Liand could speak without fear. For the present, at least, the service of the Masters had ceased to be a general prohibition. Now it was focused almost exclusively on her.

You hold great powers. Yet if we determine that we must wrest them from you, do you truly doubt that we will prevail?

If the day ever came when the Humbled decided to oppose her, every Master in the Land would become her enemy.

“But in all sooth,” the Stonedownor continued, “it is not a gentle gift, and you will not bless me for it. In itself, it is wondrous beyond telling. While it remains to you, you will be exalted. But it will be fleeting. And when it drains away, you will be left in sorrow. Nor will you be able to regain any portion of what you have lost.

“Why, then, do I offer this increase of woe? Your destination is Revelstone, the seat and habitation of the Masters. There you will find some small safety in a world which has become perilous beyond your knowledge. And there, if you desire it, you may reclaim my gift. Above Revelstone lies a plateau, and the plateau holds Glimmermere, a lake munificent to restore your birthright. It is a theriac for the bane which has made both you and the Land appear to be less than you are.

“Yet Revelstone is distant,” he said as if he were arguing against himself, “and your path will be arduous. You will not soon know my gift again.

“It is here.” Reaching into the pouch at his waist, Liand drew out the orcrest and held it high. In his grasp, it shone like a beacon, as white as refined daylight, and as clear as the purest gem. “If you desire to know the savour and bereavement of your birthright, approach me. If you do not, withdraw.

“Yet hear me nonetheless. Your losses have been cruel. They may worsen in your journey, or within Revelstone. Still I believe that you will not regret my gift. To know your birthright is precious, even when that birthright is denied. And if Linden Avery the Chosen does not fail in her quest, your birthright will one day be restored to all the folk of the Land.”

Linden was not surprised when most of the Woodhelvennin surged forward, crowding into the brightness around Rhohm and Liand as though the Sunstone’s radiance offered meaning to their lives. She would have done the same in their place, if Liand’s generosity could have eased her irreconciled heart.

With tears in her eyes, Pahni murmured. “For this he has become my love.”

Nodding, Mahrtiir announced, “He reveals a greater heritage than he comprehends. In the tales of the Ramen, the ancient Lords had such stature, humble in their glory, and open-hearted to every need. Yet he is more. He has touched the lore of the rhadhamaerl. After uncounted generations of diminishment, he is the first true Stonedownor among his kind.”

“Aye,” assented Bhapa gruffly. “I am Ramen, and do not lightly avow that he has surpassed me.”

But Stave said without inflection. That is his peril. Corruption delights in the ruin of such innocence.”

Linden turned away. She could feel health-sense and excitement effloresce among the Woodhelvennin as the hindering brume of Kevin’s Dirt was swept aside by Earthpower and Liand’s courage. Like Pahni and the Manethrall, she was proud of him. Like Stave, she feared for him. But she was also ashamed.

If Linden Avery the Chosen does not fail in her quest—

Her mere presence among the villagers was a promise which she did not know how to keep.