When her hand withdrew, she became motionless beside her steady cookfire as though she herself had fallen asleep.
Like her advice, her statements conveyed nothing. -in possession of all that she requires. Such assertions left Linden unillumined; or she could not hear them. As far as she was concerned, her own ignorance and helplessness were all that gave meaning to words like doom.
Nevertheless she did not protest or beg. She made no demands. The Mahdoubt had come to this time to rescue her: she was certain of that. The Mahdoubt’s desire to accomplish something good here was unmistakable, in spite of the obfuscation imposed by her peculiar morality. She had travelled an inconceivable distance in order to meet Linden’s simpler needs. She had spoken for Linden when Caerroil Wildwood might have slain her. The woman’s human aura, her presence, her manner-everything about her that was accessible to Linden’s percipience-elicited conviction.
And she had insisted that Linden was not ignorant. The lady is in possession of all that she requires.
When Linden could no longer contain the pressure of her caged passions, she rose to her feet. Taking the Staff with her, she began to pace out her futility on the cold-hardened ground of the riverbank.
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 recognise 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 Mahdoubt’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 Mahdoubt’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 Mahdoubt 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 Mahdoubt 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 Mahdoubt had avowed that her wishes for Linden were kindly. Apart from her obscure answers to Linden’s questions, the Mahdoubt had treated Linden with untainted gentleness and consideration.
And when Linden had tried to thank her, the Mahdoubt had replied, Gratitude is always welcome-The Mahdoubt 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 Mahdoubt 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 Mahdoubt 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 Mahdoubt 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 Mahdoubt’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 Mahdoubt 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 Mahdoubt 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-coloured scraps and tatters which had been stitched together to form the garment. Other people in other times had given thanks to the Mahdoubt-or had earned her aid-by adding pieces of cloth to her raiment.
The lady is in possession of all that she requires.
The Mahdoubt 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 Mahdoubt.
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 Mahdoubt’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 Mahdoubt” 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.