He expected her to ask why he wanted an eh-Brand. Her next sentence took him by surprise.
“Sivit reported that you appeared to be ill.”
A chill spattered down his spine. Careful, he warned himself. Be careful. “Sunbane-fever,” he replied with complex dishonesty. “I was just recovering.”
“Sivit reported,” she went on, “that you were accompanied by a man and a woman. The man was a Stonedownor, but the woman appeared to be a stranger to the Land.”
Covenant clenched himself, decided to chance the truth. “They were captured by a Rider. Santonin na-Mhoram-in. I've been chasing them for days.”
He hoped to surprise a revelation from her; but she responded with a frown, “Santonin? He has been absent from Revelstone for many days-but I think he has taken no captives.”
“He's got three,” rasped Covenant. “He can't be more than two days ahead of me.”
She considered for a moment, then shook her head. “No. Had he taken your companions, he would have spoken of it through his rukh to the Readers. I am na-Mhoram-in. Such knowledge would not be withheld from me.”
Her words gave him a sick sense of being out of his depth-caught in a web of falsehood with no possibility of extrication. Who is lying? The Graveller of Stonemight Woodhelven? Memla? Or Santonin, so that he could keep a fragment of the Illearth Stone for himself? His inability to discern the truth hurt Covenant like vertigo. But he fought to keep his visage flat, free of nausea. “Do you think I'm making this up?”
Memla was either a consummate prevaricator or a brave woman. She met his glare and said evenly, “I think you have told me nothing concerning your true companion.” With a nod, she indicated Vain.
The Demondim-spawn had not moved a muscle since he had first come to a halt near the fire.
“He and I made a deal,” Covenant retorted. “I don't talk about him, and he doesn't talk about me.”
Her eyes narrowed. Slowly, she said, “You are a mystery, Halfhand. You enter Crystal Stonedown with two companions. You reave Sivit of an eh-Brand. You show power. You escape. When you appear once more, swift beyond belief, your three companions are gone, replaced by this black enigma. And you demand to be trusted. Is it power which gives you such arrogance?”
Arrogance, is it? Covenant grated. I'll show you arrogance. Defiantly, he pulled the rukh from his belt, tossed it to her. “All right,” he snapped. “Talk to Revelstone. Tell them I'm coming. Tell them anybody who hurts my friends is going to answer for it!”
Startlement made her hesitate. She looked at the iron and back at him, debating rapidly with herself. Then she reached her decision. Reluctantly, she put the rukh away within her robe. Straightening her black chasuble, she sighed, “As you wish.” Her gaze hardened. “If your companions have indeed been taken to Revelstone, I will answer for their safety.”
Her decision softened his distrust. But he was still not satisfied. “Just one more thing,” he said in a quieter tone. “If Santonin was on his way to Revelstone while you were coming here, could he get past you without your knowing it?”
“Clearly,” she responded with a tired lift of her shoulders. "The Land is wide, and I am but one woman. Only the Readers know the place and state of every rukh. Though seven of us were sent to await you, a Rider could pass by unseen if he so chose. I rely on Din to watch and ward, but any Rider could command Din's silence, and I would be none the wiser. Thus if you desire to believe ill of Santonin, I cannot gainsay you.
“Please yourself,” she continued in a tone of fatigue. “I am no longer young, and mistrust wearies me. I must rest.” Bending like an old woman, she seated herself near the fire. “If you are wise, you will rest also. We are threescore leagues from Revelstone-and a Courser is no palanquin.”
Covenant gazed about him, considering his situation. He felt too tight-and too trapped-to rest. But he intended to remain with Memla. He wanted the speed of her mount. She was either honest or she was not; but he would probably not learn the truth until he reached Revelstone. After a moment, he, too, sat down. Absent-mindedly, he unbound the pouch of vitrim from his belt, and took a small swallow.
“Do you require food or water?” she asked. “I have both.” She gestured toward the sacks near her bundle of firewood.
He shook his head. “I've got enough for one more day.”
“Mistrust,” Reaching into a sack, she took out a blanket and spread it on the ground. With her back to Covenant, she lay down, pulled the blanket over her shoulders like a protection against his suspicions, and settled herself for sleep.
Covenant watched her through the declining flames. He was cold with a chill which had nothing to do with the night air. Memla na-Mhoram-in challenged too many of his assumptions. He hardly cared that she cast doubt on his distrust of the Clave; he would know how to regard the Clave when he learned more about the Sunbane. But her attack on his preconceptions about Linden and Santonin left nun sweating. Was Santonin some kind of rogue Rider? Was this a direct attempt by Lord Foul to lay hands on the ring? An attack similar to the possession of Joan? The lack of any answers made him groan.
If Linden were not at Revelstone, then he would need the Clave's help to locate Santonin. And he would have to pay for that help with cooperation and vulnerability.
Yanking at his beard as if he could pull wisdom from the skin of his face, he glared at Memla's back and groped for prescience. But he could not see past his fear that he might indeed be forced to surrender his ring.
No. Not that. Please. He gritted his teeth against his chill dread. The future was a leper's question, and he had been taught again and again that the answer lay in single-minded dedication to the exigencies of the present. But he had never been taught how to achieve single-mindedness, how to suppress his own complex self-contradictions.
Finally, he dozed. His slumber was fitful. The night was protracted by fragmentary nightmares of suicide-glimpses of a leper's self-abandonment that terrified him because they came so close to the facts of his fate, to the manner in which he had given himself up for Joan. Waking repeatedly, he strove to elude his dreams; but whenever he faded back toward unconsciousness, they renewed their ubiquitous grasp.
Some time before dawn, Memla roused herself. Muttering at the stiffness in her bones, she used a few faggots to restore the fire, then set a stoneware bowl Ml of water in the flames to heat. While the water warmed, she put her forehead in the dirt toward Revelstone and mumbled orisons in a language Covenant could not understand.
Vain ignored her as if he had been turned to stone.
When the water was hot enough, she used some of it to lave her hands, face, and neck. The rest she offered to Covenant. He accepted. After the night he had just spent, he needed to comfort himself somehow. While he performed what ablutions he could, she took food for breakfast from one of her sacks.
He declined her viands. True, she had done nothing to threaten him. But she was a Rider of the Clave. While he still had vitrim left, he was unwilling to risk her food. And also, he admitted to himself, he wanted to remind her of his distrust. He owed her at least that much candour.
She took his refusal sourly. “The night has not taught you grace,” she said. “We are four days from Revelstone, Halfhand. Perhaps you mean to live on air and dust when the liquid in your pouch fails.”
“I mean,” he articulated, “to trust you exactly as much as I have to, and no more.”
She scowled at his reply, but made no retort.
Soon dawn approached. Moving briskly now, Memla packed away her supplies. As soon as she had tied up her sacks, bound her bundles together by lengths of rope, she raised her head, and barked, “Din!”