Against All Things Ending (79 page)

But Jeremiah had a mount! He would be better cared-for aback a Ranyhyn than he would have been in her arms. And maybe—Oh, maybe! The experience of riding might serve to guide or lure him out of his dissociation.

She had seen stranger things during her years at Berenford Memorial. Sometimes a simple touch was enough, if it were the right touch given at the right moment—by the right person.

Her hugs were not the reassurance that Jeremiah needed; or she was not. The knowledge was anguish. Nonetheless she told herself that she could be content with any form of consolation that restored his mind.

In their disparate fashions, Stave and Mahrtiir greeted the approach of the Ranyhyn. As the Giants watched, simultaneously bemused and entranced, the former Master spoke formally of
Land-riders and proud-bearers, sun-flesh and sky-mane
. At the same time, the Manethrall prostrated himself, pressing his forehead to the sand in a manner that seemed both self-effacing and exultant.

Clearly none of the horses had run hard or suffered trials: a dramatic contrast to their state when they had been called in Andelain. They must have left the Hills in plenty of time, and known of a comparatively direct descent from the Upper Land.

With his neck imperiously arched, Hynyn stamped to a halt in front of Stave and whinnied like a shout of defiance. Prancing, Hyn moved among the Giants toward Linden. The mare’s affection was plain as she nuzzled Linden’s shoulder, asking to be petted. Linden complied willingly; but she did not look away from Hyn’s companions.

Narunal stopped near Mahrtiir’s out-stretched arms and nickered a soft demand. Apparently the stallion was impatient with Mahrtiir’s obeisance and wanted him to rise. The fourth horse paused a few paces behind the others. The younger roan’s eyes were fixed on Jeremiah, but Linden could not interpret their expression. Was that pride? Anticipation? Dread?

When Hynyn whinnied again, Mahrtiir rose to his feet. For a moment, he stroked Narunal’s nose and neck, communing in some intuitive fashion with his mount. Then he turned to Linden.

“Ringthane,” he pronounced distinctly, “here is Khelen, young among the stallions of the herd. Youth to youth, he has come to bear your son—if you will consent. But he requires your consent. He has not yet inherited his sire’s pride, and he is cognizant—as are all of the great horses—that he offers to assume a charge both perilous and exalted. Will you grant him leave to care for your son? He will do so with his life.”

Linden could not imagine how the Manethrall knew such things. Nevertheless she believed him. Carefully courteous, she replied, “Please thank Khelen for me. He has my consent.”

Mahrtiir answered her with a Ramen bow; but he said nothing. Doubtless he had reason to trust that the Ranyhyn understood her. Instead of relaying her words, he whirled away and sprang onto Narunal’s back. Indeed, he seemed to flow into his seat as though he had spent all of his life riding; as though he and his Cords were not the first Ramen to ever sit astride Ranyhyn.

Tentatively Khelen moved a few steps closer to Jeremiah.

“Again with your consent, Linden Giantfriend,” said Stormpast Galesend briskly. But she did not wait for Linden’s response. Lifting Jeremiah, the Swordmain set him down on Khelen’s back.

Hoping, Linden held her breath.

For a long moment, Khelen stood utterly motionless. If the fouled scent of Jeremiah’s pajamas disturbed him, the young stallion did not show it. Instead he appeared to be waiting for some reaction from Jeremiah: some flinch of fright or hint of relaxation. But Jeremiah gave no sign of consciousness. His mind was too deeply buried. He sat exactly as he had stood a few heartbeats earlier, slack-lipped and silt-eyed, oblivious to the saliva gathering at the corners of his mouth.

Oh, well, Linden sighed to herself. Maybe when Khelen started to walk—or to run—

Finally Khelen tossed his head, made a whickering sound like a query. Hynyn answered with a snort of command; and the younger roan began to move away from the stream, carrying Jeremiah as if the boy were a treasure.

At last, Linden looked away. When she glanced at Stave, he came to boost her onto Hyn’s back.

Almost at once, Hyn’s familiar ability to communicate ease and stability settled into Linden’s muscles, although she had not ridden for days that felt as long as seasons. As Stave mounted Hynyn, Linden nodded to Rime Coldspray, who answered with a grin as wide as Pitchwife’s.

“Thus we turn to a new heading,” the Ironhand proclaimed, “foolishly, and glad of it. Many have been the vagaries of our journey, and extreme its trials. Each new course has been as unforeseen as the Soulbiter, as unforeseeable—and betimes as reluctant to permit passage. Yet never, I deem, have we sailed seas as chartless as those now spread before us.

“Had we the strength for exuberance, we would announce with songs our pleasure that in the Sargasso of the Earth’s fate we will be guided by the innominate mystery of these Ranyhyn.”

“Aye,” assented Frostheart Grueburn gruffly. “And if we reserve our breath for wheezing, we will trust that joy is in the ears that hear, not in the mouth that does not sing.”

Chuckling, Cabledarm shouldered a sack of supplies. In spite of her unsteadiness, Onyx Stonemage took another: the last of the Ardent’s foodstuffs and waterskins. Cirrus Kindwind hefted the only bedroll. Then, laughing softly, she tossed it to Stave: a feigned admission that it was too heavy for her. The
Haruchai
caught it as if it were weightless and set it across his thighs.

“Ringthane?” Mahrtiir asked with something of Hynyn’s brazen assurance in his voice.

“Sure,” Linden muttered. She was watching Jeremiah again as if her attentiveness might serve to rouse him. “I assume that you can tell the Ranyhyn what we want.” Somehow. “If they refuse, we’ll know soon enough.”

The Manethrall barked like one of the ur-viles. Then he bent low over Narunal’s neck, stroking the stallion as he whispered words in a language that sounded like nickering. Linden thought that she caught
Kelenbhrabanal
’s name, but the rest escaped her.

If the Giants understood, they only grinned, and checked their weapons, and readied themselves to leave the stream.

Narunal responded with a neigh as clarion as Hynyn’s. At once, Mahrtiir’s mount turned to retrace his path along the floor of the ravine. Without any sign from Stave that Linden could discern, Hynyn followed. And Khelen went next, stepping with such care that Jeremiah was not jostled or disturbed in any way.

Snorting soft reassurances, Hyn took a position behind Khelen. And after them came the eight Swordmainnir led by Rime Coldspray, with Bluntfist in the rear.

Clearly the Ranyhyn had elected to accept at least this much responsibility for the company’s role in the Land’s fate.

W
hile the ravine twisted westward, and its floor formed a comparatively clear path, the Ranyhyn followed it. But as the company moved beyond the region of battle, beyond the cairns, the hills on both sides began to slump. At intervals now, Linden glimpsed more distant landscapes to the north and south: barren slopes interspersed with swaths of dirt and gravel like long-desiccated swales.

When Narunal and the other Ranyhyn finally turned away from the fading trail of sand onto a broad field of grit and fine dust made hazardous by shards of flint, they surprised Linden by heading into the southeast.

Surely they should be going northwest? Toward Mount Thunder, if not toward Salva Gildenbourne? In that direction, the
skurj
and the Sandgorgons were laying waste to the forest as they moved to defend Kastenessen. Yet the horses chose the southeast, picking their way warily among flint splinters and knives.

Were they following Covenant? Linden’s heart squirmed at the thought. He had suggested that he intended to look for Joan along the same heading that the Ardent had taken from the Lost Deep:
this
heading. Did the Ranyhyn believe that Covenant would need Linden’s help when he faced his ex-wife at last?

If so, she wanted to hurry. She feared losing him to a
caesure
more than his rejection; his efforts to spare her.

But the company could not hasten: not yet. The horses had to be careful where they placed their hooves. And the Giants—They plodded doggedly ahead as if they were impervious to sharp stones, raising small puffs of dust with every heavy step; but weariness clogged their strides. They moved like women carrying boulders on their backs.

“Stave?” Linden tried not to raise her voice or sound apprehensive. “Did Covenant go this way? Can you tell?”

Stave said nothing. Instead Mahrtiir answered, “The Ranyhyn have diverged from their path toward us. Yet ahead of us lie the marks of three horses, one shod. I judge that we trail after Naybahn, Mhornym, and the Harrow’s mount.

“Lacking ordinary sight,” he admitted, vexed by his limitations, “I am no longer capable of true Ramen scoutcraft. Yet the Timewarden’s passage with the Humbled is plain here. For the present, his way is ours.”

“Can you tell—?” Linden began. She did not know the extent of Mahrtiir’s communion with Narunal and the other horses. “Can you tell if we’re going to keep on following him?”

“Ringthane, I cannot.” His assertion clearly did not trouble the Manethrall. “The bond between the Ranyhyn and their Ramen is not”—he seemed to search for the right word—“explicit in that fashion. We are the servants of the great horses, nothing more. And the essence of our service is
service
. We do not vaunt ourselves by endeavoring to comprehend more than we are given.”

“So you don’t know what they have in mind?”

“I do not,” Mahrtiir stated calmly.

Linden scowled at his back. “Then how do you know that they understand what we’re asking them to do?”

“Ringthane.” Now the Manethrall’s tone revealed an edge of asperity. “That we do not strive to grasp the thoughts of the Ranyhyn does not imply that they cannot grasp ours. How otherwise are we able to serve them, if they cannot comprehend us?

“The Timewarden has spoken of trust. And you have given your assent. If you now wish to recant, do so. Ask of Hyn what you will.
Command
her according to the dictates of your heart. I will await the outcome with interest.”

Just for a moment, Linden considered taking the dare. She wanted another chance to be with Covenant. To protect him if she could. To understand why he had turned his back on her.

But then she shook her head; resisted an impulse to slap herself.—spoken of trust. She needed some way to control her accelerating descent into darkness; and she knew from long experience that she could not refuse the logic of despair if she became incapable of trust. Eventually she would succumb—

Days ago, she had urged her companions to doubt her. All well and good, as far as it went. She had doubted herself: therefore she had needed to believe that her friends made their own choices freely. But the ultimate implication of her insistence then was that
she
had doubted
them
.

Was that not why Kevin Landwaster had committed the Ritual of Desecration? He had blamed himself for the Land’s plight—and had not trusted any other power to accomplish what he could not.

Now Mahrtiir had effectively challenged her to admit the truth about her doubts; and she could not. She had already done too much harm. She no longer had any real choice except to cling to her friends and the Ranyhyn.

In the end, every other alternative would lead her back to She Who Must Not Be Named.

Her silence seemed to satisfy Mahrtiir. He held his head high and his back straight, concentrating ahead of Narunal as he led the company off the flints into a region of shale and sandstone mounded like barrows or the detritus of glaciers.

There the Ranyhyn could have quickened their pace safely. But they did not. Even at a canter, Covenant and the Humbled might be leagues ahead of them by now. Nevertheless Narunal continued to move as if the Ranyhyn had no purpose other than to conserve the stamina of the Giants. As if Linden and her companions had chosen to put their faith in an illusion.

As if the Ranyhyn intended to let her slip deeper into despair.