Read The Runes of the Earth: The Last Chronicles of Thomas Covenant - Book One for Free Online Page A

wasprecisely the reminder of guilt which calmed Joan: that Joan’s catatonia endured because she had been fundamentally defeated by the touch of white gold. Nevertheless Linden did not remove the ring.
    Joan’s present trance was all that kept her alive. She could not have survived her battering desperation much longer.
    Roger nodded as if Linden’s explanation made perfect sense to him. “You did well. Again, I’m impressed.” For the first time since Linden had met him—hardly an hour ago—he seemed satisfied. “I can see why you’re reluctant to let anyone else take care of her.”
    At once, however, he resumed his irrational insistence. “But you’ve done all you can. She won’t get any better than this unless I help her.”
    He raised his hand to forestall Linden’s protest. “There are things you don’t know about her. About this situation. And I can’t explain them. Words won’t—” He paused to rephrase his point. “They can’t be conveyed in words. The knowledge has to be earned. And you haven’t earned it. Not the way I have.
    â€œLet me show you.”
    She should stop him, Linden thought stupidly. This had gone on too long. Yet she did nothing to intervene as he approached the bed. He had touched a forgotten vulnerability to paralysis deep within her.
    Gracelessly he seated himself as close to his mother as the bed rail permitted. A touch of excitement flushed his cheeks. His respiration quickened. His hands trembled slightly as he undid the restraint on her right wrist.
    Flowers cast splotches of color into Linden’s eyes, deep red and blue, untroubled yellow. A few minutes ago, she had known exactly what kind of flowers they were; now she had no idea. The sky outside the window seemed unattainable, too far away to offer any hope. The sunlight shed no warmth.
    Joan stared past or through Roger vacantly. Linden expected her to strike herself, but she did not. Perhaps the fact that her hand was free had not yet penetrated her subterranean awareness.
    Roger lifted his palms to Joan’s cheeks, cupped them against her slack flesh. His trembling had become unmistakable. He seemed to quiver with eagerness, avid as a deprived lover. Unsteadily he turned her head until he could gaze straight into the absence of her eyes.
    â€œMother.” His voice shook. “It’s me. Roger.”
    Linden bit down on her lip. All the air in the room seemed to concentrate around the bed, too thick to breathe. In the bonfire where Joan’s captors had destroyed their right hands, she had seen eyes like fangs look out hungrily at Covenant’s impending murder. At the time, she had believed that they held malice. But now she thought that the emotion in them might have been despair; an emptiness which could not be filled.
    â€œMother.”
    Joan blinked several times. Her pupils contracted.
    With an effort that seemed to stretch the skin of her forehead, her eyes came into focus on her son.
    â€œRoger?” Her disused voice crawled like a wounded thing between her lips. “Is it you?”
    Suddenly stern, he told her, “Of course it’s me. You can see that.”
    Involuntarily Linden recoiled a step. She tasted blood, felt a pain in her lip. Roger sounded disdainful, vexed, as though Joan were a servant who had disappointed him.
    â€œOh, Roger.” Tears spilled from Joan’s eyes. Her free hand fumbled to his shoulder, clutched at his neck. “It’s been so long.” Her face held no expression: its muscles lacked the strength to convey what she felt. “I’ve waited so long. It’s been so hard. Make it stop.”
    â€œStop complaining.” He scolded her as if she were a child. “It isn’t as bad as all that. I had to wait until I was twenty-one. You know that.”
    How—? Linden panted as if she had been struck in the stomach. How—?
    How had Roger