The Runes of the Earth: The Last Chronicles of Thomas Covenant - Book One (78 page)

On her knees with her eyes closed and her chest full of yearning, Linden considered
her straits. She could not use Covenant's ring. But the Waynhim held the Staff of Law; her Staff. How distant was it? How deeply had the Waynhim sequestered it?

Could her health-sense extend so far?

The damaged creature had taken some time to reach the ravine. But its pain was terrible, and all its steps were slow. It could not have come a long way.

With her eyes closed, she listened to Esmer's voice. It moved her like a lament.

“For that reason,” he explained, “the Staff of Law is inimical to them. Though the Waynhim serve the Land, and have always done so, their service stands outside the bounds of Law. Their lore is in itself a violation of Law. The fact of their service does not alter their nature.

“Therefore the mere proximity of the Staff harms them. If its influences are not guided and controlled by a condign hand, its power must destroy them. Unprotected, no Waynhim or ur-vile can long endure its presence and remain whole.”

And therefore the Waynhim understood Linden's dilemma; the dilemma of every white gold wielder. The damaged creature in front of her demonstrated that they could be persuaded.

Comforted by the knowledge, she sank into Esmer's words and the Waynhim's pain; and as she did so, her percipience expanded outward, following the hard guidance of the ravine's stone walls into the cave.

She did not consciously search for the Staff. The wrong kind of concentration would block her senses. Instead she simply drifted. And she found herself thinking, not of the Staff itself, or of how she had made it, or of its cost, but rather of Andelain and beauty.

If she had not visited that bastion of loveliness with Thomas Covenant, she would not have loved the Land as he did. Until that time, she had known only the Sunbane; and so the ineffable glory of Earthpower had been hidden from her.

“Sensing that the Staff had been abandoned,” Esmer said as if from an impossible distance, “these Waynhim sought it out, that they might preserve it from the Despiser's servants.”

Linden could almost hear the Forestal of Andelain's song. It had been retained in the depths of her memories, melodic as trees, poignant as flowers: an eldritch music which had spangled and enumerated with glory every blade of grass, every petal, every leaf, every woodland creature.

“Yet the nearness of the Staff harms all Demondim-spawn.” Esmer's voice had become a threnody in the dim ravine. “Over the years, it would unmake these Waynhim entirely. Therefore they selected from among their number one to bear the burden—one to transport the Staff from its former resting place, and here to become its final guardian. Thus the Waynhim hoped to satisfy their Weird without bringing ruin upon this
rhysh,
for it is the last in all the Land.

“The outcome of their choosing stands before us.”

Perpetually wounded in the name of service.

Like the Waynhim, the Forestal's song was full of sorrow, carried on an undercurrent of woe. And like the Waynhim, it did not flinch from its own resolve.

Oh, Andelain! Forgive! For I am doomed to fail this war.

I cannot bear to see you die—and live,

Foredoomed to bitterness and all the grey Despiser's lore.

But while I can I heed the call

Of green and tree; and for their worth I hold the glaive of Law against the Earth.

Linden's memories of Andelain and music bore her along until she found what she sought: the precise aura and potency of the Staff of Law.

“And yet,” Mahrtiir put in, “they would refuse the Staff to the Ringthane, she who above all others has the greatest need—”

He stopped, unable to express his bafflement and chagrin.

“Manethrall,” answered Esmer, “they must satisfy their Weird. I have named their reasons. They do not count the cost to themselves.”

They did not; but Linden counted it for them. She had spent her life responding to such needs.

Her nerves recognized the Staff with gladness. The Land had gifted her with health-sense, and she could not mistake the Staff's particular emanations. It was the incarnation of
rightness,
the tangible bulwark of the strictures, sequences, necessities—the commandments—which made life and beauty possible. While it remained intact, Lord Foul could never entirely extinguish hope.

And she was its maker. Inspired by her love for Covenant and the Land, for all of her friends, she had expended herself in white fire to create an instrument against the Sunbane. She did not need to be in contact with it in order to wield its benison. She needed only to feel its strength and know that it was hers.

Guided and controlled, Esmer had said. By a condign hand.

Kneeling still, with her eyes closed and her head bowed, Linden Avery the Chosen reached out to claim the only power which had ever truly belonged to her.

Somewhere in the distance, Liand whispered, “Heaven and Earth! Look to her. She is exalted—”

Together, as if they had momentarily set aside their antagonism, Esmer and Stave replied, “She has discovered the Staff.”

“What will she do?” Liand asked in wonder.

Stave did not reply; but Esmer murmured softly, “Behold.”

Filling her hands with the vast possibilities of Law, Linden turned her thoughts to the damaged Waynhim standing unsteadily before her.

Her eyes remained closed. She did not need to gaze upon the creature to know its suffering. Its wounds—the inadvertent and unavoidable corrosion of its substance—were plain to her in every detail. Her own flesh felt them.

The Staff of Law had inflicted these hurts. With the Staff, she could heal them.

Thus she answered the denial of the Waynhim. They were the last remnant of their kind, and deserved no less than to be made whole.

When her task was complete, the sun had fallen farther down the sky, and the slow approach of evening left the ravine deep in shadows. Nevertheless her heart felt like daybreak, bright and full of promise.

 When Linden rose at last to her feet, nearly staggering with weariness, the healed Waynhim and its companion made raw-edged sounds which Esmer translated as welcome. Courteously Stave and Mahrtiir returned grave thanks. Leaving Bhapa and Pahni with the Ranyhyn, and the ur-viles to fend for themselves, Linden and her small company followed the Waynhim into the cave.

She leaned heavily against Liand, needing his support. And Mahrtiir held Anele upright: the old man seemed too lost to fend for himself. Stave walked alone, while Esmer trailed behind as if he had been dispossessed.

Formal as a procession, they proceeded along the dark stone throat until they reached a turning, where the passage opened into a wide chamber lit like a meeting hall. There the rest of the
rhysh
waited to offer welcome also, bowing after their fashion and chittering among themselves like delighted birds.

Healing the creature that warded the Staff, Linden had apparently healed them all. Even the Waynhim which had first met her in the ravine had lost its grieving air, and none of the others showed any signs of harm.

She had in some sense validated the meaning of their lives.

After the summer heat on the South Plains, the atmosphere of the cave felt blessedly cool, soothing to her raw nerves. The Waynhim guided their guests to ledges like seats in the wall of the cave; and when she sat down the worn stone seemed to embrace her in spite of its unyielding surfaces. This sensation, she knew, was an effect created by the Waynhim. They wished her to understand that she had arrived in a place of peace.

The light in the cave had a warm luminescence tinged with emerald and flickers of rust. It arose from a number of stone pots spaced like braziers around the wide floor; and flames danced and twisted at their rims. Yet Linden could see that the fires were fed, not by oil or wood, but by lore. Instead of smoke, they cast a scent of cloves and coriander into the air.

Liand sat near her, although now she did not need his care. The Waynhim had brought her closer to the Staff of Law: she could feel its nearness effortlessly. Its stern beneficence filled her with an unfamiliar contentment.

Stave remained standing as if to do the Demondim-spawn honor. And Esmer wandered aimlessly around the chamber, looking vaguely rueful, troubled by sorrows which he did not explain. But Mahrtiir also sat on one of the ledges, studying the Waynhim as though he meant to memorize every detail so that he would be able to tell his people a tale worthy of his fierce ambitions.

Seated as well, Anele rested against the stone, mumbling into his thin beard. But some essential change had taken place in him. When Linden looked at him, she saw that his old rue and shame had lost some of their vehemence. He had been ground down by too many years and too much regret; and yet, in spite of his mumbling, he appeared almost sane. His proximity to the Staff seemed to soothe him, easing his long bereavement.

The Waynhim offered an iron cup of
vitrim
to each of their guests, although Esmer waved his aside with apparent disdain. Then they gathered together in the center of the chamber, forming themselves into a loose wedge with the Staff's guardian at its tip. Again the healed creature bowed to Linden, barking words she could not understand. When she also had bowed, it walked slowly out of the chamber into one of several side-tunnels that interrupted the walls of the cave. Hushed and expectant, everyone waited while the creature disappeared on its errand.

Soon it returned, bearing the Staff of Law in its hands.

Linden's heart lifted again at the sight. The Staff's unique nature spoke to her senses. It was taller than the Waynhim—nearly as tall as she was herself—and formed of a pale wood which gleamed in the lore-light; wood so pale that it might have been carved from the heart of a tree. Its length was smooth, as if it had been polished lovingly for centuries. But its ends were bound with iron bands, the heels of the original Staff of Law which Berek Halfhand had formed from a limb of the One Tree.

Vain and Findail had given their lives to it, rigid structure and fluid vitality. But their qualities had been transformed by wild magic and the passion of Linden's torn spirit. And their union had been shaped, guided, by the deep knowledge with which Berek had forged his iron. Thus the lore of the ur-viles and the Earthpower of the
Elohim
had become the pure instrument of Law.

Eagerly Linden rose to meet the Staff. When the creature placed it in her grasp, she felt a rush of warmth from the wood. Its possibilities flowed into her like heat. At the same time, she was filled with memories of Andelain: of hillsides as lush as lawns bedizened with wildflowers and
aliantha;
of the proud outstretched health of Gilden trees with their wreaths of golden leaves thick about them; of small streams, and groves of oak, and swaths of briar-rose, all vibrant with Earthpower.

She felt that she was remembering the Land as it had once existed in the mind of its Creator, before Lord Foul was imprisoned within the Arch of Time; before Foul had corrupted the Land with hidden banes like the Illearth Stone, and had gained the service of fell beings like the Ravers. And she tasted as well the Creator's grief. Having created the Arch, the structure of beginning and end which allowed life to exist, the Creator could not alter events within that structure without violating it. Therefore Lord Foul's imprisonment itself gave him the freedom to destroy what the Creator had made.

Such treasures as the Staff of Law had been brought into being so that the inhabitants of the Land would have the means to oppose Lord Foul themselves; to fight for the intended beauty of the world.

For a moment, at least, while she held the Staff for the first time in many years, Linden felt equal to her enormous task. Unlike Covenant's ring, the Staff suited her. She understood its uses instinctively; trusted herself with it. Its natural
rightness
seemed to send healing into every cell and impulse of her being.

She did not realize that she was weeping until she thought to thank the Waynhim and discovered that she could see nothing clearly. Tears blurred her gaze, turning the light to streaks of consolation, and confusing the definition of the figures around her.

When she blinked the tears from her eyes, however, she found that the Staff's guardian no longer stood before her. The creature had stepped back, making way for Anele.

The old man faced her with his hands poised near the Staff as though he meant to wrest it from her grasp.

Liand and Mahrtiir hovered behind him, waiting to see what he would do; ready to intervene. But they were visibly reluctant to disturb him.

Anele's hands trembled as he studied the Staff, and his blind gaze seemed to ache with yearning. How many decades had passed since he had last stood in the presence of his birthright? How much recrimination and self-loathing had he suffered before he had fallen into madness?

The touch of the Staff might heal him as well.

Yet he did not close his hands on the immaculate wood; did not so much as brush it with his fingertips. Instead he stood motionless while Linden grieved for him and the entire chamber seemed to hold its breath. Then, trembling, he lowered his arms.

In a small voice, he murmured unsteadily, “I am unworthy of such astonishment. The day has not yet come when I may be whole.” His throat closed on a sob. When he had swallowed it, he whispered, “Until that time, I must remain as I am.

“Do not mourn for me.” The effort of renunciation left him desolate. “Know that I am content to behold the Staff in your care.”

Then he turned away and hid his face in his hands.

Liand's eyes were damp as he watched the old man. Mahrtiir scowled fiercely, too proud for sadness; but his manner was gentle as he guided Anele back to his seat and offered
vitrim
to his lips.

For a while, Linden could not stop her tears. The day has not yet come—She believed him: there was no falsehood in him. But the thought that he needed to remain as he was hurt her more than she could express. With the Staff, she possessed the power to impose any healing that he might require. Yet he refused her. He was not ready—or his circumstances were not.

“Linden,” asked Liand softly, “will you heed his desire for forbearance? Your weariness is extreme, but surely it does not outweigh his suffering?”

Hugging the Staff of Law to her chest, Linden cast her health-sense deeply into the old man, as she had done once before in the Verge of Wandering: again she sought the means to succor him. But he had changed in more ways than one. The same yearning or compulsion which had brought him close to sanity had also galvanized his native puissance. She would have to force her way past powerful defenses in order to reach him.

That violence might do him harm that she could not repair.

She wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “Look at him,” she told Liand. “He's choosing to be this way.” His madness, like his blindness, was necessary to him still. “If I try to heal him, he'll fight me. And maybe he's right. He certainly
has
the right.”

And she had neither the wisdom nor the arrogance to make his decisions for him.

After a moment, Liand answered sadly, “I see what you see, though it baffles me. Perhaps he must determine the time and place of his healing.” Then the Stonedownor asked in a tone of pleading, “What does he desire, if not the Staff which he lost?”

“You heard him,” Linden sighed. “He needs to believe in himself. He still thinks he's unworthy.”

Grieving, she returned to her seat on the stone ledge. Anele had assured her that he was content. And she, too, needed healing. Her tasks were far from complete. She still had to return to her proper time, and could not do so without entering a
caesure.
But
her first experience had nearly destroyed her. Until she became stronger, she would not be able to endure a second.

And Esmer had warned her of betrayals—
The Waynhim are valiant,
he had said,
and too many of them will perish if you do not contrive their salvation.
He had brought with him or elicited some peril when he had appeared in this time. Now she and her companions as well as the Ranyhyn were in danger.

Fervidly she clung to the smooth wood of the Staff for comfort. When she had settled herself on the ledge, she drank a few swallows of the musty
vitrim
and let its potency carry the Staff's warmth like chrism into the depths of her weariness.

S
he had rested there for only a short time, however, when Stave and Esmer approached her together. Animosity bristled between them, yet they were momentarily united in their resolve to question her.

Holding the Staff across her lap, she looked into the shifting green of Esmer's gaze and the steady brown of Stave's, and waited wearily for them to speak.

“What will you do,” Esmer demanded abruptly, “now that you have obtained your desire? It appears that you are indeed the Chosen, for the Demondim-spawn have chosen you. Perhaps they are not alone in their selection. Will you now cease to be the Wildwielder, setting aside white gold that you may dedicate yourself to the service of Law? If you do so, how will you return to your proper time? And if you do not, how will you bear the burden of such powers?

“Either alone will transcend your strength, as they would that of any mortal. Together they will wreak only madness, for wild magic defies all Law. That is its power and its peril.