The Runes of the Earth

Fortunately she had done him no lasting harm.

Retrieving his rope swiftly, Liand demanded, “Linden Avery, hear me.”

But she did not. She saw only Anele.

He stank of the Despiser.

However, Lord Foul remained beneath the surface, leaving the old man free to gasp and cough. Linden found that she could still distinguish between the Despiser’s presence and Anele’s madness. But now she discerned other things as well. She saw clearly that the Despiser did not control the phases of Anele’s condition; could not grasp possession of Anele at will. Instead he merely took advantage of a flaw in the defences which the old man had erected to protect his deepest pain. And that flaw shifted and changed with the unexplained modulations of Anele’s mental state.

She had no idea how this could be so. Her health-sense did not reach so deeply: not like this, separate from him. If she truly wished to understand his sufferings, she would have to immerse herself in him utterly; intrude upon his fundamental relationship with himself.

She had done such things before, long ago, and knew what they cost.

“Linden Avery,” Liand insisted, “do you not hear me? Is this madness?”

She might have been deaf to him. His voice could not pierce her awareness of Anele’s plight. Yet when she turned toward the Stonedownor, she saw him distinctly as well.

He was a sturdy young man, full of toughness and health: the more ordinary and friable health of the Land, nourished and sustained by Earthpower, but not transformed by it. He would not survive to an improbable age, or endure decades of bitter privation, as Anele had.

And he contained no hint of Despite. Instead he emitted sincerity and yearning. The lines of his form expressed an excitement which was turning rapidly into alarm. He was just who he had appeared to be when she had spoken to him earlier: an honest young man, capable of courage and devotion, and largely untried.

Nothing in his aura or his manner suggested that he could sense Lord Foul’s presence.

“Do you intend flight?” he asked urgently. “Then why do you tarry here?”

His mount shared his natural, Land-born vigour, his capacity for toughness-and his apparent blindness to the proximity of evil. It was not entirely whole, however. At one time, it had fallen awkwardly, scraping faint scars into the coat of its chest, and fraying the deep muscles around its lungs. That old injury had damaged its stamina. The pinto might be as willing as Liand, but it lacked his endurance.

And over them all the sky arched like a vault of crystal: it seemed to chime to the Pitch of its essential cleanliness. At first, Linden descried no hint of Kevin’s Dirt. But When she had refined her senses to the memory of that stifling yellow shroud, she tasted it faintly above her, distant and imprecise, like a thin smear of wrong across the crisp purity of the air. It was still there.

Eventually it would blind her again.

“Linden Avery!” Liand cried at her. “What ails you? Soon the Masters will hasten in pursuit. If they have not yet discovered your flight, they will do so at any moment. If you desire to avoid them, we must go. We must go now!”

We?

At last she heard him.

Of course she had to go. She had lost too much time; far too much. Indeed, she could hardly imagine why the Haruchai had not retaken her already. How had Liand found her, when they had not?

But such questions could wait. Escape might still be possible. And Anele might not be able to bear it if he were captured again.

They had to go.

We?

Damn it, she could not afford the time to argue.

“I’m sorry, Liand.” With an effort, she wrenched herself out of her distraction. “You’re right.” Do something they don’t expect. “Anele can ride with you. I’ll try to keep up.”

The young man stared, frankly unsure of her. He did not-could not-understand what had happened to her. Or what she had done to Anele.

At every moment, Linden expected to see Haruchai rush past the rim of the hills; descend on her like raptors. Cursing, she hurried to Anele’s side, tugged on one of his arms.

Even that small approach to the Despiser filled her nerves with revulsion. But she did not let go.

“Now, Liand!”

If Liand could pull Anele after him onto the pinto’s back, she intended to run and run as long as her new strength lasted, as far and as fast as she was able.

The old man tensed against her grasp; propped his free arm under him. Unsteadily he climbed to his feet. Behind the blood on his lips, his skin had a pallor of weakness, as if his stubborn fortitude were failing.

Liand was tangibly unsure of Linden, but he did not hesitate. Springing to his mount’s back, he secured his coil of rope to the rudimentary saddle, then extended his hand to Anele.

We?

Linden gave Anele’s arm to Liand, and with her help the Stonedownor heaved Anele up behind him. Inarticulate frights clenched Anele’s face as he clung to Liand support.

Yet every hint of Lord Foul’s presence was suddenly gone from him. Between one heartbeat and the next, he had become himself again.

At once, Liand wheeled his mount. With Linden running beside him, he cantered south along the riverbank, toward the head of the valley; away from Mithil Stonedown and the Masters.

Marvelling at herself, Linden matched Liand’s pace while the terrain allowed the pinto to canter. If she had been less familiar with the wonders of Earthpower, she might have believed that she was dreaming. She was not the same woman who had fallen to her knees only a short time ago. One small handful of hurtloam had apparently erased her mortality. While she ran, exaltation filled her heart. Buoyed by springy grass and soft soil, by the mountain tang of the air and the luxuriant quest of the river, and by hurtloam, she felt that she could run, and go on running, until she arrived at hope.

The riverbank changed as the valley rose, however, forcing Liand to slow his mount. The hillsides grew steeper, constricting the Mithil in their climb toward the mountains, and rocks and hazards littered the ground along the watercourse. The mustang could have broken an ankle there, or stumbled into the Mithil.

Above Linden and her companions, the mountains had become sheer and forbidding without apparent transition: a high, jagged wall glowering against intrusion. As she slackened her pace, she felt her lungs strain for breath as if the air had turned abruptly thin, inhospitable.

Panting, she asked Liand to halt. “Just for a minute. I need to think.”

Liand reined in the pinto, but did not dismount. The lines of his arms and shoulders told her as plainly as words that he wanted to press on. And Anele needed his support. Worn out by the effects of Lord Foul’s presence, the old man had fallen asleep against Liand’s back.

The Despiser had not returned. For some reason, he could not.

That was a relief, for Linden as well as for her battered companion. Now she could talk to Liand without being overheard.

She needed to understand him. Why was he here? Why was he helping her? And hold far was he willing to go-?

As her pulse slowed, she found that she could feel Kevin’s Dirt more clearly. It seemed to clog her lungs, depriving her not of oxygen but of some more subtle sustenance. Already it had begun to erode her health-sense, fraying her nerves toward blindness. This time the process was slow: the lingering power of hurtloam hindered it. She might not lose true percipience before nightfall. Yet it would eventually fail her.

By degrees, her exhilaration leaked away, leaving her to the realities of her situation.

There appeared to be no hurtloam anywhere around her. The hillsides were bare of its eldritch glitter. And the banks of the Mithil had grown steeper as the ground rose to the foothills, putting the river itself effectively out of reach. She would not be able to refresh her health-sense a second time.

Nor could she share the wonder of such vision with Liand. While her discernment lasted, she would have to