“Accept the Mahdoubt’s thanks,” she said to Stave, quavering. “She desires to end her days with kindness. On her behalf, you have granted my lady a precious boon.”
In an instant, the woman’s utter frailty snatched away Linden’s other concerns. “My friend,” she murmured, bending close to the Mahdoubt. “Please. Isn’t there anything I can do? I’ve been trained to heal people. And I have the Staff of Law, for God’s sake. Surely I can-?”
“My lady, no.” The old woman sounded sure in spite of her weakness. “The Mahdoubt’s knowledge does not partake of Law. It has preserved her far beyond her mortality. Assuredly. Now her end cannot be undone.
“Her last boon,” she went on before Linden could protest, “is meant as solace. It is her wish to lessen your fears and sorrows. She desires you to be assured that you may trust this spurned Master. He has named his pain. By it he may be invoked.”
Stave lifted his eyebrow, but did not respond.
Damn it! Linden tried to protest. I know I can trust him. You don’t have to do this. But her grief remained trapped in her chest. She did not have the heart to plead, Please don’t leave me.
Instead she said, “Thank you.” She was able to summon that much grace. “You’ve been my friend in more ways than I can count. I can’t honestly say that I understand you, but I know your kindness. And you’ve saved me-” For a moment, her throat closed. “If I ever manage to do something good,” by evil means or otherwise. “it will be because you believed in me.”
The Mahdoubt lowered her head. “Then Quern Ehstrel is content.”
There Linden nearly lost the clenched wrath that defended her. Trembling with imminent bereavement, she whispered, “Now please. Let me at least try to stop what’s happening to you. There are a lot of things that I can do, if you’ll let me.” Stave and Anele had refused her healing. They had that right. “I might find something-”
“Forbear, my lady.” The Insequent’s voice held a desperate severity. “Permit to the Mahdoubt the dignity of departure.”
“I know your true name,” countered Linden hoarsely. “Can’t I compel you?”
The woman nodded. “Assuredly. The Mahdoubt begs that you do not.”
With a tremulous effort, she detached one arm from Stave’s support. Tears blurred the discrepancy of her eyes, urging Linden to release her.
When Linden let go at last, the Mahdoubt turned slowly from the dying embers of the campfire and began to walk away, tottering into the night. The Humbled bowed as they watched her pass. And Stave also bowed, according her the stern respect of the Haruchai.
Linden could not match their example. Instead she hugged her Staff and bore witness.
As the Mahdoubt reached the failing edge of the light, she tried to chant. “A simple charm will master time.” But her voice broke after a few words; shattered into giggling. And with every step, she lost substance, macerated by darkness. Dissolving from sight, she left a mad mirth behind her, laughter pinched with hysteria.
But Linden closed her heart to the sound. As if in defiance, she concentrated instead on the salvific unction of the verses which had retrieved her from the Land’s past.
The silent mind does not protest
The ending of its days, or go
To grief in loss and futile pain,
But rather knows the healing gain
Of time’s eternity at rest.
The cause of sequence makes it so.
No, she thought. I do not forgive. I will not.
She knew no other way to say goodbye.
Chapter Five: Departure from Revelstone
The walk back to Lord’s Keep seemed unnaturally long to Linden. She had gone farther from herself than she realised. Neither Stave nor the escorting Humbled spoke: she did not speak herself. The night was mute except for the sound of her boots on the hard ground. Yet the Mahdoubt’s broken giggling seemed to follow every step. In retrospect, Linden felt that she had wasted her friend’s life.
Behind her, the Harrow’s campfire died at last. And the lamps and torches in Revelstone had been extinguished. The Masters may have been reluctant to proclaim the fact that the Keep’s gates remained open. Only the cold stars and the moon remained to light her way; but now she found no comfort in them.
Stave would have directed her, of course, but she did not need that kind of help. She required an altogether different guidance. First she found her way by the limned silhouette of Revelstone. Then she headed toward the notched black slit where the gates under the watchtower stood partway open.
When she entered the echoing passage beneath the tower-when she heard the massive granite thud as the gates were sealed behind her-and still the Masters offered her no illumination, she brought up flame from the end of the Staff, a small fire too gentle and dim to dazzle her. Earthpower could not teach her to accept the Mahdoubt’s passing, but it allowed her to see.
Growing brighter and more needy with every stride, she paced the tunnel to the courtyard between the tower and the main Keep. Memories of giggling harried her as she approached the gap of the inner gates and the fraught space within them.
There also the lamps and torches had been quenched. And they were not relit as the gates were sealed behind her. The darkness told her as clearly as words that the Masters had reached a decision about her.
Defiantly she drew more strength from her Staff until its yellow warmth reached the ceiling of the forehall. With fire, she seemed to render incarnate the few Masters who awaited her. Then she turned to consider Stave and the Humbled.
She could not read the passions that moved like the eidolons of their ancient past behind their unyielding eyes; but she saw clearly that their injuries were not severe. Doubtless their bruises and abrasions were painful. In places, blood continued to seep from their battered flesh. Stave’s wrists had been scraped raw by the Harrow’s grasp, and the bones were cracked. But he and the Humbled were Haruchai: their wounds would soon heal.
After a brief scrutiny, Linden ignored Galt, Clyme, and Branl. Speaking only to Stave, she tried to emulate his unswayed demeanour.
“I know that you’ll mend. I know that you don’t mind the pain.” His tale had taught her that the Haruchai were defined by their hurts. “And I know that you haven’t asked for help. But we’ll be in danger as soon as we leave here.” She was confident that Kastenessen and Roger-and perhaps Esmer as well-would attempt to prevent her from her goal. “It might be a good idea to let me heal you.” Stiffly she added, “I’ll feel better.”
She had lost the Mahdoubt. She wanted to be able to succour at least one of her friends.
Stave glanced from the Humbled to the other Masters. He may have been listening to their thoughts; their judgments. Or perhaps he was simply consulting his pride, asking himself whether he was willing to appear less intractable than his kinsmen. Cracked bones broke easily: they might hinder his ability to defend her.
“Chosen,” he remarked. “the days that I have spent as your companion have been an unremitting exercise in humility.” He spoke without inflection; but his expression hinted that he had made the Haruchai equivalent of a joke.
He extended his hands to her as if he were surrendering them.
His decision-his acceptance-touched her too deeply to be acknowledged. She could not afford her own emotions, and had no reply except fire.
With Law and Earthpower and percipience, she worked swiftly. While the men who had spurned Stave watched, rigid in their disdain, she honoured his sacrifice; his abandoned pride. Her flame restored his flesh, sealed his bones. His gift to her was also a bereavement: it diminished him in front of his people. Thousands of years of Haruchai history would denounce him. Still she received his affirmation gladly. It helped her bear the loss of the Mahdoubt.