Thomas Covenant 8 - The Fatal Revenant (60 page)

She did not walk away into the trees, although the gall and ire of Gallows Howe seemed to whisper a summons. There, at least, she would not be urged to sleep. The Forestal’s gibbet would recognize her rage, and approve.

Nevertheless she did not intrude on the Deep. She had no desire to test the extent of Caerroil Wildwood’s

forbearance. And the glowering resentment of the forest would not encourage her to think more clearly.

Instead she strode along the narrow strip of open ground at the edge of the Black River. And when she had walked far enough to reduce the Mandoubt’s cookfire to a small glimmer, she turned back, passing the older woman and

continuing on until she was once more in danger of losing sight of her companion. Then she turned again as if she were drawn by the innominate and undiminished promise implicit in the gentle flames.

Repeatedly tracing the same circuit from verge to verge of the cookfire’s light, with the runed black wood of the Staff gripped in her healed hand, she tried to solve the conundrum of the Mandoubt’s presence.

The older woman had suggested that sleep might bring comprehension or recall. Comprehension was beyond Linden; as unattainable as sleep. But recall was not. For long years, she had sustained herself with remembrance. Pacing back and forth within the boundaries of the fire’s frail illumination, she tried to recollect and examine everything that the Mandoubt had said since Linden had come upon her beside the river.

Unfortunately her battle under

Melenkurion Skyweir, and her brutal struggle out of the mountain, had left her so frayed and fraught that she could remember only hazy fragments of what had been said and done before the Forestal’s arrival.

-answer none of the lady’s sorrows. The Mandoubt had tried to explain something. Time has been made fragile. It must not be challenged further. But in Linden’s mind the words

had become a blur of earthquake and cruelty and desperate bereavement.

Stymied by her earlier weakness, she had to begin with food and forbearance and Gallows Howe; with runes and assurances.

Must it transpire that beauty and truth shall pass utterly when we are gone?

If I can find an answer, I will.

After that, the Staff of Law had been restored to her, written with knowledge and power. It had made her stronger. The Howe itself had made her stronger. Her memories were as distinct as keening.

This blackness is lamentable—

But nothing in her encounter with Caerroil Wildwood relieved her own lament.

Again and again, however, the Mandoubt had avowed that her wishes for Linden were kindly. Apart from her obscure answers to Linden’s questions, the Mandoubt had treated Linden with untainted gentleness and consideration.

And when Linden had tried to thank her, the Mandoubt had replied, Gratitude is always welcome—The Mandoubt has lived beyond her time, and now finds gladness only in

service. Aye, and in such gratitude as you are able to provide.

Gratitude.

Linden could have gone on,

remembering word for word. But something stopped her there: a nagging sensation in the back of her mind. Earlier, days ago, or millennia from now, the Mandoubt had spoken of gratitude. Not when the woman had accosted Linden immediately before

Roger’s arrival in Revelstone with Jeremiah and the croyel: not when she had warned Linden to Be cautious of love. Before that. Before Linden’s confrontation with the Masters. The day before. In her rooms. When she and the Mandoubt had first met.

Linden’s heart quickened its beat.

Then also the older woman had offered food and urged rest. She had explained that she served Lord’s Keep, not the

Masters. And she had asked—

Linden’s strides became more urgent as she searched her memories.

She had asked, Does the wonder of my gown please you? Are you gladdened to behold it? Every scrap and patch was given to the Mandoubt in gratitude and woven together in love.

My gown. That was the only occasion

when Linden had heard the Insequent refer to herself in the first person.

Full of other concerns, Linden had missed her opportunity to learn more about the patchwork motley of the Mandoubt’s garb. But Liand had supplied what Linden lacked, as he had done so often.

That it is woven in love cannot be mistaken. If I may say so without offense, however, the gratitude is less

plain to me.

In response, the Mandoubt had chided him playfully. Matters of apparel are the province of women, beyond your blandishment. And then she had said—

Oh, God. Linden was so surprised that she stumbled. When she had recovered her balance, she stood still and braced herself on the Staff while she remembered.

The Mandoubt had said, The lady grasps the presence of gratitude. And if she does not, yet she will. It is as certain as the rising and setting of the sun.

Gratitude. In the gown, my gown: in the disconcerting unsuitability of the parti-colored scraps and tatters which had been stitched together to form the garment. Other people in other times had given thanks to the Mandoubt-or had earned her aid-by adding pieces

of cloth to her raiment.

The lady is in possession of all that she requires.

The Mandoubt had already given Linden an answer.

-such gratitude as you are able to provide.

Shaken, Linden entered a state of dissociation that resembled Jeremiah’s;

a condition in which ordinary explicable logic no longer applied. She leapt to demented assumptions and did not question them. Suddenly the only problem which held any significance for her was that she had no cloth.

For that matter, she had neither a needle nor thread. But those lacks did not daunt her. They hardly slowed her steps as she hurried to stand across the campfire from the Mandoubt.

Hidden within her cloak, the woman still squatted motionless. She did not react to Linden’s presence. If she felt the blaze of confusion and hope in Linden’s gaze, she gave no sign.

Linden opened her mouth to blurt out the first words that occurred to her. But they would have been too demanding, and she swallowed them unuttered. If she could, she wanted to match the Mandoubt’s courtesy. Intuitively she believed that politeness was essential

to the older woman’s ethos.

She took a deep breath to steady herself. Then she began softly, “I don’t know how to address you. ‘The Mandoubt’ seems too impersonal. It’s like calling you ‘the stone’ or ‘the tree.’ But I haven’t earned the right to know your name,” her true name. “And you don’t use mine. You call me ‘lady’ or ‘the lady’ to show your respect.

“Would it be all right if I called you ‘my

friend?”’

Slowly the Mandoubt lifted her head. With her hands, she pulled back the hood of her cloak. The jarring and comfortable contradiction of her eyes regarded Linden warmly.

“The Mandoubt,” she said, smiling, “would name it an honor to be considered the lady’s friend.”

“Thank you.” Linden bowed, trying to

honor the older woman in return. “I appreciate that.

“My friend, I have a request.”

Still smiling, the woman waited for Linden to continue.

Linden did not hesitate. The pressure building within her did not permit it. As if she were sure of herself, she said, “You once asked if looking at your gown made me glad. I didn’t

understand. I still don’t. All I know is that it has something to do with the requirements of your knowledge. Your beliefs. But I would be glad to look at it again now. I’ll be grateful for a second chance.”

For an instant, a burst of light appeared in the Mandoubt’s eyes; a brief reflection from the flames, perhaps, or an intensification of her unpredictable solidity and evanescence. Then she climbed slowly to her feet, unbending

one joint at a time: an old woman grown frail, too plump for her strength, and unable to stand without effort. While she labored upright, however, she seemed to blush with pleasure.

Facing Linden over the heat of her cookfire, she shrugged off her cloak so that Linden could behold the full ugliness of her piecemeal gown.

It had been made haphazardly, with a startling lack of concern for

harmonious colors, similar fabrics, or even careful stitches. Some scraps were the size of Linden’s hand, or of both hands: others, as long and narrow as her arm. Some were brilliant greens and purples, as bright as when they were newly dyed. Others had the duller hues of ochre and dun, and showed long years of wear. The threads sewing the patches together varied from hair-fine silk to crude leather thongs.

If the garment had been worn by

anyone other than the Mandoubt, no one who saw it would have discerned love or gratitude.

Considering her task, Linden

murmured with an indefinable mixture of bafflement and certainty. “My friend, I hope that you don’t mind standing. This is going to take a while.”

“The Mandoubt is patient,” the woman replied. “Oh, assuredly. Has she not awaited the lady for many of her long

years? And is she not pleased-aye, both pleased and gratified-by the lady’s offer of thanks? How then should she grow weary?”

Half to herself, Linden promised. “I’ll be as quick as I can.” Then she went to work.

She could not think about what she meant to do. It made no sense, and might paralyze her. Instead she concentrated on the practical details,

the small things: matters as simple as the Mandoubt’s gifts of food and drink and warmth and company.

So: cloth first. Then a needle of some sort. After that, she would confront the conundrum of thread.

She had no knife; no sharp edge of any kind. That was a problem. Yet she did not pause to doubt herself, or consider that she might fail. Nor did she waste her attention on embarrassment.

Putting down the Staff, she unbuttoned her shirt and removed it.

The shirttail seemed the best place to tear the fabric. But the red flannel had been tightly hemmed: she would not be able to rend it with her fingers. And she lacked any implement to pick the stitches.

Lifting the edge of the material to her mouth, she began trying to chew through the hem.

The flannel proved tougher than she had expected. She gnawed and plucked at it until her jaws ached and her teeth hurt, but it refused to rip.

For a moment, she studied the area around the cookfire, hoping to find a rock with a jagged edge. However, every stone in sight was old and weathered; water-rounded.

Oh, hell, she thought; but again she did not pause. Instead she took up a dead

twig and poked it at the bitten fabric. Then she used the twig to thrust that small section of hem into the fire.

When the flannel began to blacken and char, she withdrew it from the flames; blew on the material to extinguish it. Knotting her fists in her shirt, she pulled against the weakened hem.

The cloth was sturdy: it did not tear easily. But when she dropped her shirt over a stone, stood on it, and heaved at

the shirttail with both hands, she was able to make a rent longer than a hand span.

The Mandoubt watched her avidly, nodding as if in encouragement. But Linden paid no heed. Her task consumed her. Her palms and fingers were sore, her arms throbbed, she was breathing hard-and she had to rip another part of the hem.

This time, she did not expend effort

chewing: she turned immediately to the fire. With her twig, she held the hem in the flames until the cloth and even the twig began to burn. Then she stamped on her shirt to quench the charred fibers.

Now the material tore more easily. One fierce tug sufficed to rip a sizable scrap from the shirttail.

More out of habit than self—

consciousness, Linden donned her

shirt and buttoned it, although it was filthy, caked with mud and dead leaves. For a moment while she caught her breath, she reminded herself, One step at a time. Just one. That’s all. She had procured a patch. Next she needed a needle.

Trusting that Caerroil Wildwood would not take offense, she went to the nearest evergreen-a scrub fir-and broke off one straight living twig. She wanted wood that still held sap; wood

that would not be brittle.

Beside the cookfire, she rubbed her twig on the stones until it was as smooth as possible. Then she held one end in the small blaze, hoping to harden it. Before it could catch fire, she pulled it out to rub it again.

When she had repeated the process several times, her rubbing began to produce a point at the end of the twig.

“The lady is resourceful,” remarked the Mandoubt in a voice rich with pride. “Must the Mandoubt dismiss her fears? Assuredly she must. The lady has foiled her foes under great Melenkurion Skyweir. How then may it be contemplated that the Earth’s doom will exceed her cunning?”

Briefly Linden stopped to massage her tired face, stroke her parched eyes. All right, she told herself. Cloth. A needle. Now thread.

As far as she knew, the forest offered nothing suitable. Its thinnest vines and most supple fibers would eventually rot away, invalidating her gratitude.

Sighing, she spread out her scrap of flannel and began trying to pick threads from its torn edge with the point of her twig.

This was difficult work, close and meticulous. It brought back her weariness in waves until she could

hardly keep her eyes open. Her world seemed to contract until it contained nothing except her hands and needle and a stubborn scrap of red. The weave of the flannel resisted her efforts. She had to be as careful and precise as her son when he worked on one of his constructs. She had watched him on occasions too numerous to count. His raceway in his bedroom may have enabled him to reach the Land, for good or ill. And she had seen him build a cage of

deadwood to enter the depths of Melenkurion Skyweir. She knew his exactitude intimately; his assurance. Time and again, her needle separated stubby threads too short to serve any purpose. Nevertheless she persevered. Now or never, she repeated to herself like a mantra. Now or never.

In her exhaustion, she believed that if she put her task down to rest or sleep, she might give her enemies the time they needed to achieve the Earth’s end.