The Runes of the Earth

of Lord’s Keep offered only darkness.

Chapter Ten: Troubled Sanctuary

As she entered Revelstone for the third time in her life, Linden Avery yearned for illumination.

In a sense, she knew the high forehall well. She had struggled and survived here against the Clave and the na-Mhoram’s Grim. But it was dark now, and she could see nothing to assure her that she knew where she was.

Apparently the Masters did not need light. Their sight was acute. And their senses were not truncated by Kevin’s Dirt.

She lacked their abilities. Already she could feel her percipience fading, eroded by the tainted pall which overhung the Land. Soon she would be able to discern only the surfaces around her, none of the depths. She would be blind to all that was not lit and plain.

But she was not blind yet. The Staff of Law in her hands sustained her when she felt too weary to hold up her head.

When she and those with her-her companions and their mounts, the ragged and gasping Demondim- spawn, and the Masters who had survived the horde, along with most of their horses-had entered the prow- shaped promontory of Revelstone, the heavy gates were closed, both those at the base of the watchtower and those within the courtyard. The Demondim had advanced too slowly to kill more of the Land’s retreating defenders; and now the monsters were sealed out of Revelstone. Scores of people, creatures, and mounts crowded the forehall, awaiting decisions.

With the gates shut, Linden could no longer taste the approach of the Illearth Stone; but she trembled to think what would happen when that immeasurable evil was unleashed against the wrought stone of Lord’s Keep.

The choices of the Masters had left Revelstone virtually defenceless. They had denied the Land its heritage of lore and Earthpower. And Stave’s kinsmen had just demonstrated that mere skill and strength could not stand against the powers of the Demondim.

Linden did not dismount. She was reluctant to leave the security of Hyn’s back. Like the Staff, Hyn’s fortitude and loyalty enabled her to exceed herself. In spite of her exhaustion, she called up fire from the Staff and held it flaming over her head. If she could not accomplish anything else, she meant to at least see-

As the warm buttery light reached for the walls of the cavernous hall, she studied the condition of her companions. Only Stave and Bhapa needed care immediately. Mahrtiir and Pahni had suffered less dangerous hurts. Indeed, they had already slipped down from their Ranyhyn to tend Whrany and Hynyn with amanibhavam and tenderness, stifling their wonder at the legendary Keep as well as their ancient animosity toward the Haruchai. And neither Liand nor the Demondim-spawn had been exposed to acid and emerald since passing through the Fall. As for Anele, the old man had emerged scatheless from the horde. He remained unconscious-perhaps Stave had struck him again-but he breathed more easily now, relaxing into natural sleep.

A significant number of the Masters had been wounded, but none as grievously as Stave. Apparently every warrior with serious injuries had fallen to the Demondim. The rest had been able to evade the worst attacks of the monsters.

Gazing around the forehall, Linden estimated that a score or two of the Haruchai had spent their lives to purchase escape for her and her companions.

So much bloodshed-Too much. She had surpassed the limits of what she could accept.

A Master whom she did not know approached her through the restless throng, the wavering shadows, and asked for her attention. He knew her name. No doubt they all did. Stave had already spoken of her.

She could not imagine what else he might have told his kinsmen.

This Master carried himself with a commanding certainty. He may have been a leader among his people. The silver in his hair lent him dignity: the scars on his face and arms testified to his prowess. He wore no insignia or emblems, no marks of status, but the other Haruchai deferred to him subtly, honouring him more by posture and stance than by any overt signs of respect.

Nevertheless Linden ignored him. She had been pushed beyond herself, and other needs were more important to her.

While she could still rely on her health-sense to inform her actions, she sent tendrils of force curling from the comfortable wood in her hands; extended Law and healing to both Stave and Bhapa at once.

Stave’s eye was a scalded mess. She could not repair it: she could only clean it and stop the bleeding. Therefore she closed her heart to it. Fortunately his other injuries were similar to Bhapa’s: far more severe, but alike in kind. She could apply the same balm of Earthpower to both men. However, she did not neglect Stave’s sore hip. And she cleared the cataract from Bhapa’s eye. He might have avoided the worst of his hurts if he had been able to see more clearly; if she had thought to treat his vision when she had first gained the Staff.

Finally she stretched out her care to the most dangerous wounds of the Ranyhyn. She did not know how else to thank them for all that they had done in her name.

While she worked, a hush filled the hall. Pahni, Liand, and Mahrtiir regarded her gravely. The older Master held his peace. None of the other Haruchai made a sound. The Ranyhyn and even the lesser horses ceased their restive stamping, their snorted whimpers. Huddling together, the Waynhim tended to each other in silence, while the ur-viles licked their wounds.

When she was done, a wave of exhaustion broke over her, and she nearly faded from consciousness. She had been under too much strain for far too long. The Staff’s strength lapsed in her tired hands, restoring the darkness of the forehall, leaving her isolated in her personal night.

Then Mahrtiir said softly, “My thanks, Ringthane,” and she roused herself with a jerk. Perhaps she would be able to rest later: she could not do so now. She had other responsibilities which she did not mean to ignore.

“You are Linden Avery the Chosen,” announced a nearby voice, “and you hold both white gold and the Staff of Law. Stave has spoken of you. I am Handir, by right of years and attainment the Voice of the Masters. In their name, I bid you welcome.”

His tone suggested his scars and his age, in spite of its lack of inflection.

“Good for you,” Linden muttered gracelessly. The forehall was as dark as a tomb. It seemed crowded with fears and suffering; demands which she did not know how to meet. “If we’re so welcome and all, how about giving us some light?”

Stave had saved her by bringing her here. Without the aid of the Masters, she would not have been able to keep her companions, or herself, alive. But he had also betrayed her. His people would imprison Anele. And they might well do the same to her.

Jeremiah had tried to warn her

The horses nickered and snorted, clattering their distress against the stone floor with their hooves; but no one answered Linden’s query until Mahrtiir rasped, “It is the Ringthane who asks it, sleepless ones. She has ridden Hyn of the Ranyhyn across fifteen score leagues and uncounted centuries to this fell place. Will you disdain even her?”

As if in response to the Manethrall’s indignation, a torch sputtered and took flame at the far end of the forehall, away from the gates. It revealed a Master carrying an armload of brands. Without haste, he began distributing torches among his people.

Vaguely Linden wondered how many Haruchai had not ridden out to meet the Demondim. How many losses could they sustain, and still hold fast to their convictions?

Were there enough Masters to defend the Keep?

As small fires spread from brand to brand, a flickering light slowly filled the hall. It cast ambiguous shadows among the people and horses until they resembled Demondim, fading in and out of definition.

Liand remained mounted behind Handir, two other Masters, and Mahrtiir’s stallion. As soon as she met the Stonedownor’s worried gaze, he said, “My sight fails, Linden. Soon I will be reduced to what I was in Mithil