The Wounded Land

stop himself. He surged to her, wrapped his arms around her, hid his face in her hair.

Around him, the Haruchai went back to their tasks.

For a moment, she returned his embrace as if she were grateful for it. Then, suddenly, she stiffened. Her slim, abused body became nausea in his arms. He tried to speak, but could not, could not sever the knots in his chest. When she tried to pull away from him, he let her go; and still he could not speak. She did not meet his stare. Her gaze wandered his frame to the old cut in the centre of his shirt. “You're sick.”

Sick? Momentarily, he failed to understand her. “Linden-?”

“Sick.” Her voice trailed like blood between her lips. “Sick.” Moving as if she were stunned by abhorrence or grief, she turned her back on him. She sank to the ground, covered her face with her hands, began to rock back and forth. Faintly, he heard her murmuring, “Sick. Sick.”

His leprosy.

The sight almost tore away his last strength. If he could have found his voice, he would have wailed, What did that bastard do to you? But he had come too far and had too many responsibilities. The pressure of the krill upheld him. Clenching himself as if he, too, could not be touched, he looked at Sunder and Hollian.

They seemed abashed by Linden's reaction. “Ur-Lord,” Sunder began tentatively, then faltered into silence. The weal around his neck appeared painful; but he ignored it. Old frown-marks bifurcated his forehead as if he were caught between rage and fear, comradeship and awe, and wanted Covenant to clarify them for him. His jaws chewed words he did not know how to utter.

“Ur-Lord,” Hollian said for him, “she has been sorely hurt in some way. I know not how, for Gibbon na- Mhoram said to her, 'You I must not harm.' Yet an anguish torments her,” Her pale features asked Covenant to forgive Linden.

Dumbly, he wondered where the eh-Brand found her courage. She was hardly more than a girl, and her perils often seemed to terrify her. Yet she had resources-She was a paradox of fright and valour; and she spoke when Sunder could not.

“You have bought back our lives from the na-Mhoram,” she went on, “at what cost to yourself I cannot know. I know not how to behold such power as you wield. But I have tasted the coercion of the Riders, and the imprisonment of the Clave. I thank you from my heart. I pray I may be given opportunity to serve you.”

Serve-? Covenant groaned. How can I let you serve me? You don't know what I'm going to do. Yet he could not refuse her. Somewhere in his own inchoate struggle of need and conviction, he had already accepted the service of the Haruchai, though their claim on his forbearance was almost forty centuries older than hers. Gripping himself rigid because he knew that if he bent he would break, he asked the only question he could articulate in the poverty of his courage. “Are you all right?”

She glanced at Sunder, at his neck. When he nodded, she replied, “It is nothing. A little hunger and fear. We are acquainted with such things. And,” she continued more strongly, “we have been blessed with more than our lives. The Haruchai are capable of wonders.” With a gesture, she indicated three of Brinn's people who stood nearby. “Ur-Lord, here are Cail, Stell, and Harn.” The three sketched bows toward Covenant.

“When we were guided from the hold, I was content with my life. But the Haruchai were not content.” Reaching into her robe, she brought out her dirk and Iianar. “They sought throughout Revelstone and recovered these for me. Likewise they recovered Sunder's Sunstone and blade.” Sunder agreed. Covenant wondered vaguely at the new intimacy which allowed Hollian to speak for Sunder. How much had they been through together? “How does it come to pass,” Hollian concluded, “that the Land has so forgotten the Haruchai?”

“You know nothing of us,” the one named Harn responded. “We know nothing of you. We would not have known to seek your belongings, had not Memla na-Mhoram-in revealed that they had been taken from you.”

Memla, Covenant thought. Yes. Another piece of his purpose became momentarily lucid. “Brinn.” The night seemed to be gathering around him. Sunder and Hollian had drifted out of focus. “Find her. Tell her what we need.”

“Her?” Brinn asked distantly. “What is it that we need?”

Until he understood the question, Covenant did not perceive that he was losing consciousness. He had lost too much blood. The darkness on all sides was creeping toward vertigo. Though he yearned to let himself collapse, he lashed out with curses until he had brought his head up again, reopened his eyes.

“Memla,” he said thickly. “Tell her we need Coursers.”

“Yes, ur-Lord.” Brinn did not move. But two or three Haruchai left the fire and loped easily up toward the watchtower.

Someone placed a bowl of metheglin in Covenant's hands. He drank it, tried to squeeze a semblance of clarity into his vision, and found himself staring at Vain.

The Demondim-spawn stood with his arms slightly bent, as if he were ready to commit acts which could not be foreseen. His black eyes stared at nothing; the ghoul grin was gone from his black lips. But he still wore the heels of the Staff of Law, one on his right wrist, the other on his left ankle. The burns he had received two nights ago were almost healed.

As a man caught in the coercion — Was that it? Was the Clave responsible for Vain? Ur-viles serving the Clave? How far did the na-Mhoram's mendacity extend? Vain's blackness echoed the night. How had he roused Linden? And why? Covenant wanted to rage at the Demondim-spawn. But he himself had killed-without control or even reluctance. He lacked the rectitude to unravel Vain's intent. There was too much blood on his head.

And not enough in his veins. He was failing. The illumination cast by the bonfire seemed to shrink around him. He had so little time left-Listen, he started to say. This is what we're going to do. But his voice made no sound.

His hand groped for Brinn's shoulder. Help me. I've got to hold on. A little longer.

“Covenant.”

Linden's voice tugged him back into focus. She stood before him. Somehow, she had pulled herself out of her inner rout. Her eyes searched him. “I thought I saw-” She regarded the wild tangle of his beard as if it had prevented her from identifying him earlier. Then her gaze found the thick red scars on his wrists. A sharp gasp winced through her teeth.

At once, she grabbed his forearms, drew his wrists into the light. “I was right. You've lost blood. A lot of it.” Her physician's training rose up in her. She studied him, gauging his condition with her eyes and hands. “You need a transfusion.”

The next moment, she perceived the newness of the scars. Her gaze jumped to his face. “What did they do to you?”

At first, he could not respond. The soothtell was too exigent; he felt unable to bear the answer she needed.

But she misunderstood his silence. Abomination stretched her visage. “Did you-?”

Her apprehension broke him out of his paralysis. “No. Not that. They did it to me. I'll be all right.”

A sag of relief softened her expression. But her eyes did not leave his face. She struggled for words as if the conflict of her emotions blocked her throat. Finally, she said hoarsely, 'I heard you shout. We almost got free.“ Her stare drifted out of focus, turned inward. ”For a while, I would have given my soul to hear you shout again.“ But memories made her flee outward again. ”Tell me-“ she began, fighting for severity as if it were essential to her. ”Tell me what happened to you.'

He shook his head. “I'm all right.” What else could he say? “Gibbon wanted blood. I didn't have a chance to refuse.” He knew that he should explain, that all his companions needed to know what he had learned in the soothtell. But he had no strength.

As if to spare Covenant the necessity of speech, Brinn said flatly, “The ur-Lord's life was forfeit in the soothtell. Yet with wild magic he healed himself.”

At that, Linden's orbs darkened. Her lips echoed soundlessly, Healed? Her gaze dropped to the old scar behind the cut in his shirt. The recovery of determination which had drawn her out of herself seemed to crumple. Losses which he could not begin to understand overflowed from her eyes. She turned away from him, turned her face toward the night. “Then you don't need me.”