The Fatal Revenant Part 35

Nevertheless she did not protest or beg. She made no demands. The Mandoubt had come to this time to rescue her: she was certain of that. The Mandoubt's desire to accomplish something good here was unmistakable, in spite of the obfuscation imposed by her peculiar morality. She had traveled 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 pa.s.sions, 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 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, pa.s.sing 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 a.s.surances.

Must it transpire that beauty and truth shall pa.s.s 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, Grat.i.tude is always welcome*The Mandoubt has lived beyond her time, and now finds gladness only in service. Aye, and in such grat.i.tude as you are able to provide.

Grat.i.tude.

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 grat.i.tude. 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 sc.r.a.p and patch was given to the Mandoubt in grat.i.tude 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 grat.i.tude 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, G.o.d. 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 grat.i.tude. And if she does not, yet she will. It is as certain as the rising and setting of the sun.

Grat.i.tude. In the gown, my gown: in the disconcerting unsuitability of the parti-colored sc.r.a.ps and tatters which had been st.i.tched 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 grat.i.tude 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 a.s.sumptions 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 st.i.tches. Some sc.r.a.ps 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 grat.i.tude.

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, a.s.suredly. 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 embarra.s.sment.

Putting down the Staff, she unb.u.t.toned her s.h.i.+rt and removed it.

The s.h.i.+rttail 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 st.i.tches.

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, h.e.l.l, 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 s.h.i.+rt, she pulled against the weakened hem.

The cloth was st.u.r.dy: it did not tear easily. But when she dropped her s.h.i.+rt over a stone, stood on it, and heaved at the s.h.i.+rttail 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 s.h.i.+rt to quench the charred fibers.

Now the material tore more easily. One fierce tug sufficed to rip a sizable sc.r.a.p from the s.h.i.+rttail.

More out of habit than self- consciousness, Linden donned her s.h.i.+rt and b.u.t.toned 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? a.s.suredly 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 ma.s.sage 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 grat.i.tude.

Sighing, she spread out her sc.r.a.p 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 sc.r.a.p 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 exact.i.tude intimately; his a.s.surance. 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.

Finally she had obtained five red threads nearly as long as her hand. That, she decided, would have to suffice. Cloth. A needle. Thread. Now she lacked only a method of attaching thread to her twig.

While she groped for possibilities, she picked up the flask of springwine and drank. For a moment, she blinked rapidly, trying to moisten eyes that felt as barren as Gallows Howe. Then she took her sharpened twig and broke it in half.

The wood snapped unevenly, leaving small splits in the blunt end of her needle.

On her knees, she approached the Mandoubt.

"Be at peace, lady," the Insequent said softly. "There is no need for haste."

Linden hardly heard her. The world had become cloth and thread, a wooden needle and the hanging edge of the Mandoubt's robe. When she was near enough to work, Linden laid her few threads out on a stone and examined the woman's gown until she located a place where her patch could be made to fit. Still kneeling, and guided only by her memories of Jeremiah, she took one fragile thread, wedged it gently into a split at the end of her needle, and began sewing.

As she worked, she held her breath in an effort to steady her weariness.

Her needle did not pierce the fabric easily. And when it pa.s.sed through her sc.r.a.p of flannel and the edge of the gown, it made a hole much too large for her thread. But she knotted the thread as well as she could with her sore fingers, then forced her twig through the material a second time.

While she labored, she felt the Mandoubt touch her head. The older woman stroked Linden's hair, comforting her with caresses. Then, softly, the Mandoubt began to chant.

Her voice was low, as if she were reciting a litany to herself. Nevertheless her tone-or the words of her chant-or Linden's flagrant fatigue-cast a trance like an enchantment, causing the world to shrink further. Garroting Deep ceased to impinge on Linden's senses: the raw teeth of winter and the kindly flames of the cookfire lost their significance: darkness and stars were reduced to a vague brume that condensed and swirled, empty of meaning. Only Linden's hands and the Mandoubt's gown held any light, any purpose. And only the Mandoubt's chant enabled Linden to continue sewing.

"A simple charm will master time, A cantrip clean and cold as snow. It melts upon the brow of thought, As plain as death, and so as fraught, Leaving its implications' rime, For understanding makes it so.

"The secret of its spell is trust.

It does not change or undergo The transformations which it wreaks-The end in silence which it seeks But stands forever as it must, For cause and sequence make it so.

"Such knowing is the sap of life And death, the rich, ripe joy and woe Ascending in vitality To feed the wealth of life's wide tree Regardless of its own long strife, For plain acceptance makes it so.

This simple truth must order time: It simply is, and all minds know The way of it, the how, the why: They must forever live and die In rhythm, for the metered rhyme Of growth and pa.s.sing makes it so.

"The silent mind does not protest The ending of its days, or go To loss in grief and futile pain, But rather knows the healing gain Of time's eternity at rest.

The cause of sequence makes it so."

Linden did not understand-and neither knew nor cared that she did not. While she worked, she set all other considerations aside. With her abused fingers and her blurring vision, she concentrated solely and entirely on completing her grat.i.tude; her homage.

But when she came to the end of her thread, and the sc.r.a.p of her s.h.i.+rt was loosely st.i.tched to the Mandoubt's robe-when the older woman removed her hand, ceasing her chant-Linden thought that she heard a familiar voice shout with relief and gladness. "Ringthane! The Ringthane has returned!"

At the same time, she seemed to feel sunrise on her back and smell spring in the air. She appeared to kneel on dewy gra.s.s at the Mandoubt's feet with the sound of rus.h.i.+ng water in her ears and the Staff of Law as black as a raven's wing beside her.

And she heard other voices as well. They, too, were known to her, and dear. They may have been nickering.

As she toppled to the gra.s.s, she fell out of her ensorcelled trance. She had a chance to think, Revelstone. The plateau.

The Mandoubt had restored her to her proper time and place.

Then exhaustion claimed her, and she was gone.