10.
By Evil Means
019
Kept upright only by the Cords, Linden stood like a ruin of herself; a crumbling edifice overgrown with consequences. The possibilities that she had surrendered to the Harrow had been restored. The warmth of the Staff lingered in her hands. While he lived, Stave would return Covenant’s ring to no one but her. But she had no idea what to do with such powers now. The cost—
The cost was of her own making, and it was too high.
She had exposed all of her friends to the source of Kevin’s Dirt. She had allowed Liand to be broken, perhaps killed. She had seen Stave nearly crippled by acid; had witnessed the Harrow’s murder. Helpless to stop either of them, she had watched Esmer transport Roger to safety or destruction. She had fought and fought, battling forces which surpassed her.
Because of her, Covenant’s hands—
This was the result. The Harrow’s remains lay, acid-bitten and melting, among the cracks and rubble of the floor. And Esmer had returned. She had no defense against him. The fact that the last ur-viles and Waynhim had arrived in his wake did not comfort her at all.
She had not slept since her first night in Andelain; had eaten nothing since her last meal of treasure-berries. Her emotional condition resembled her shirt: ripped along one hem to patch the Mahdoubt’s gown; plucked and snagged in headlong flight through Salva Gildenbourne; pierced by lead and death. The stains on her jeans mapped her fate:—written in water, the green sap of grass. Unexpressed tears filled her heart.
Leaning on one leg to spare her damaged knee, she could still feel the tremors of Esmer’s power in the marred stone.
On either side, Bhapa and Pahni supported her. Unlike Mahrtiir, the older Cord did not appear to feel diminished by crushing leagues of gutrock, beyond any prospect of open skies and plains and Ranyhyn. Accustomed to self-doubt, his concern was for his Manethrall and his companions, not himself. But Pahni was not merely daunted by powers and perils which other Ramen had never experienced. She was also terrified for Liand.
“Ringthane,” she breathed urgently. “Ringthane, heed me. Liand is grievously hurt. He nears death. Ringthane—Linden Avery—I love him. I implore your healing.”
Linden understood. Liand needed her. As did Stave. And perhaps Branl as well, although the Master would refuse her aid. The burns of the Giants tugged at her attention. But her heart wept for Jeremiah, who stood like a limp manikin in the croyel’s grasp. His bones shone as if they were on fire. She regarded the keen edge of the krill at the creature’s throat, and the killing brilliance of the gem, and Covenant’s unbearable courage, and could not move.
Covenant alone gave her any hope. With Loric’s blade, he had found a way to control the croyel. But he was failing. Joan’s power had done him irremediable harm, and it burned brighter with every passing moment—
God, Joan must hate him! Or perhaps he represented everything that she loathed in herself. Even turiya Herem’s possession hardly sufficed to account for her focused vehemence now. The Raver could only keep her alive, and fan the fires of her rage, and blaze with delight. He had not caused her long years of self-inflicted anguish.
Linden did not know why Covenant had not already screamed and fallen. To some extent, his leprosy shielded him. His proximity to the source of Kevin’s Dirt accentuated his affliction. The essential pathways of agony had been killed or cauterized. But still—
Was that his secret? The keystone of his impossible valor? Had alienation and numbness somehow made him more than human?
Around Linden, the rest of her companions gathered. Galesend bore Anele, who had fallen asleep again. Latebirth still carried Mahrtiir, while Onyx Stonemage cradled Liand’s unconscious form. Limping on gnawed legs, in feral pain which he refused to acknowledge, Stave preceded the Ardent. Wreathed in ribbands, the Insequent approached unsteadily. Stifling his confessed fears, he forced himself to join Linden’s friends. In a knot of cloth, he gripped Liand’s orcrest.
Among the Giants, ur-viles and Waynhim stood upright, or braced themselves on all fours, barking quietly: a low clamor of objurgation or alarm. The Ironhand gripped her stone glaive, poised to cut, against Esmer’s neck. But Esmer ignored her as if her great size and strength were trivial; meaningless. Distress seethed in his gaze: he seemed to weep like Linden’s heart.
He did not move—and Rime Coldspray did not. Her eyes were fixed on Jeremiah and Covenant and the krill.
Hoarsely Mahrtiir asked, “Do we confront the croyel?” Apparently the Staff in Linden’s hands had restored a portion of his health-sense. “Does this malice possess the Ringthane’s son?”
No one answered him. Like Pahni, Esmer studied Linden. The Ardent watched Cail’s son fearfully. Everyone else seemed transfixed by Covenant’s struggle to withstand Joan.
His hands would never be healed.
His scar reflected argent like a scream cut into the flesh of his forehead. His silver hair resembled flames of wild magic: his mind may have been on fire. In spite of his illness, he was wracked by so much pain—
As if he did not expect anyone to hear him, he gasped, “Joan knows what I’m doing.” His voice implied a wailing defeat. “Or turiya does. She’s stronger now. I’m not protecting the Arch. I can’t hold on.”
Linden would have been willing to maim herself for his sake; but she did not know how to block Joan’s madness. She had never known.
Covenant held the croyel. Clyme held Jeremiah.
Clarion and commanding, Stave demanded, “Branl! Galt!”
The Humbled must have heard Stave’s thoughts, understood his instructions. Striding forward quickly, Branl wrenched a wide band of ochre cloth from the hem of his tunic. Then he took Galt’s place supporting Covenant, gave the fabric to Galt.
At once, Galt folded the cloth over his right hand and reached to remove the krill from Covenant’s grasp; to assume Covenant’s threat against the croyel.
Linden caught her breath, bit her lip. She feared that Covenant’s hands were too badly burned to open. She expected his flesh to peel off the bones when he tried to unclose his fingers—or when Galt pried them loose. Unaware that she had moved, she stood at Covenant’s shoulder with the kind fire of Earthpower flowering from the Staff. While Galt extended his hand to replace Covenant’s, she sent rich flames to curl around Covenant’s forearms, fill his veins, save his fingers.
For the moment, she ignored the horror of her son’s straits. Instead she concentrated utterly and solely on the challenge of preserving Covenant’s hands so that he would be able to let go.
The effort tore a cry past Covenant’s restraint: a shocking howl. But Galt nudged gently at his fingers while Linden laved his suffering with Earthpower. One joint at a time, he released his grasp.
Immediately Branl pulled Covenant aside while Galt claimed High Lord Loric’s krill; accepted the task of restraining the croyel. With his left hand, Galt gripped Jeremiah’s shoulder so that Clyme could step away.
As soon as Covenant’s touch was withdrawn, Joan’s savagery faltered. She or turiya Raver must have sensed his absence: her efforts were useless now. Flickering, the gem faded to its more ordinary radiance. The krill’s heat remained, but it did not wound Galt’s wrapped hand.
Through the silence of the company, and the raw residue of acid in the air, Stave said flatly, “Well done.”
The Humbled appeared to ignore his approval.
Branl kept Covenant on his feet; but Linden closed her arms around him nonetheless, enfolding him in Earthpower and gratitude. How had he known that she needed him? That his own son had come to preserve Jeremiah’s victimization? She could not imagine how or why Covenant had responded. Yet somehow he had found his way through the maze of his memories as well as the bewildering wonders of the arcane palace for her sake, or for Jeremiah’s.
“Linden.” Covenant’s voice was a mere husk of sound. His pain ached in her arms. “Help Liand. We need him.” He was too weak and damaged to move. Nevertheless he seemed to push her away from him. “We need him.”
I wish I could spare you. But I can’t see any way around it.
Pahni tugged as firmly as she dared at Linden. “Ringthane, I beseech you.” She may have been weeping. “If you will not heed me, harken to the Timewarden. Liand must have healing.”
Mahrtiir said something to Pahni—a reprimand? an admonition?—but Linden could not hear him. He was too far away; or her senses were deafened by Covenant’s extremity and the croyel’s thwarted ferocity and Jeremiah’s helplessness.
Abruptly Esmer blared, “Wildwielder, this is madness! Is it nothing to you that I have come, or that these Demondim-spawn have pursued me to their doom in your name? Will you waste the remnants of your life thus, accepting the ruin which my betrayals prepare for you? Is this death your heart’s true desire?”
The Ironhand pressed her sword against the side of Esmer’s neck. “Be still, mere-son,” she rasped through her teeth. “Some respite Linden Giantfriend must have. Many of us who name ourselves her friends have failed her. We will grant her this brief pause.
“I do not doubt that you are proof against my blade. But if I cannot have your life, I will have your silence.”
Esmer did not grant Coldspray the courtesy of a glance. “By my hand and your own folly,” he told Linden, “the slaughter of all whom you hold dear is imminent. Soon none of this company will remain to lament the ravage of the Earth. Will you condone this outcome merely because I propagate futility? Are you now content that all love and life must perish?”
Cursing, the Ironhand lowered her sword and raised her fist. With all of her bulk and muscle, she punched Esmer in the face.
She was a warrior: she had a warrior’s instincts.
Linden heard the sodden smack of knuckles on bone. Esmer’s head jerked back; snapped forward again. Blood oozed from a deep contusion on his cheek. The muscles at the corners of his jaw bunched and released, bunched and released, as if he were withholding a thunderstorm. But he did not acknowledge Rime Coldspray with so much as a flick of his eyes.
Nevertheless he fell silent.
Linden sagged as if she had suffered a new defeat.—see any way around it. The thought of leaving Covenant’s wounds without further care rent her. She had only begun—Still she compelled herself to step away.
Now she did not look at Jeremiah and Galt, the croyel and the krill. Help Liand. We need him. She wanted to hold Jeremiah in her arms before the world ended. She had come for that when she had failed or sacrificed every other purpose. But she could not touch him: not while the croyel ruled him. In this one respect, her health-sense was a weakness. The creature’s evil was too intimate: it would sicken her. And the croyel might extend its mastery into her if she embraced her son.
He may be freed only by one who is compelled by rage, and contemptuous of consequence . Berek’s pronouncement seemed to refer to Jeremiah as much as to Lord Foul.
Will you condone this outcome—
Flagellating herself with dread and woe, she passed among the muttering ur-viles and Waynhim toward Onyx Stonemage. The Harrow’s corpse she ignored. Accompanied by Pahni’s anxiety, she approached Liand.
—merely because I propagate futility?
She would never forgive the old man in the ochre robe, the prophetic figure who should have warned her that she and Jeremiah were in danger. By his abandonment, he had betrayed her. If he had warned her, she would have fled, taking Jeremiah to a place where Roger could not find him. Every atrocity that had occurred since then—every abomination that Jeremiah and the Land had suffered, every crime that she herself had committed—would have been forestalled.
With each step, the pain in her knee increased. Her burned cheek seeped fluids. The nausea of Esmer’s presence galled her. She had to be stronger than this. Because she was needed, she used her Staff to soothe her stomach, relieve the burn on her cheek, seal her cracked kneecap. Then she forgot her own condition in order to focus on Liand.
He hung limp in Stonemage’s arms. Blood still pulsed from the corner of his mouth: a dwindling stream. His impact with Jeremiah’s construct may have broken his back. Certainly he had shattered ribs, ruptured his pleural membrane—and perhaps his lungs. And his head had hit the wall hard. Linden imagined cerebral hemorrhage and edema in addition to his other traumas. Brain damage. Coma.
“Liand.” Pahni murmured his name over and over again, beseeching him to live. “Liand.”
Stonemage offered to set him down. Linden shook her head. If any residue of the slain skest touched him—
I wish I could spare you.
Her anger at herself she misdirected at the Ardent. “Give him his Sunstone. It doesn’t belong to you.”
With orcrest, Liand had become the first true Stonedownor in uncounted centuries. The Sunstone was his birthright.
“In all sooth,” the fat Insequent murmured, “it does not.” He sounded chastened; shamed. “Gladly I restore it.”
Strips of his apparel stretched out. Deft as fingers, they slipped the Sunstone into the pouch at Liand’s waist.
As the ribbands withdrew, Linden dismissed the Ardent from her mind. Studying her stricken friend, she felt beaten before she began. He was too badly hurt—and she was utterly drained. Even the Staff could not fill the dry reservoirs of her spirit.
She needed to weep. If she did not, she would go mad with fury. The former granite of her heart had broken in Andelain, when she had seen and understood the outcome of Covenant’s reincarnation. The clenched igneous amalgam of extravagance and restraint which had carried her from the Land’s past to her meeting with the Dead was changed. It had become something uncontainable and careless. If it claimed her now, she would indeed be compelled by rage, and contemptuous of consequence.
But she was a surgeon, trained for emergencies; and her training ran deep. She could not refuse to treat the patient in front of her. Even if Liand had not been who he was—
“Why him?” Ire made her voice shake. “I was here. The Harrow was here. Covenant and Stave were already coming.” They must have been. Otherwise they would not have arrived in time to save her. “But that monster ignored us. It only hurt Liand.”
No one answered her. She did not expect an answer. Nevertheless she needed the question. It might help her regain a measure of her professional detachment, the ability to look at wounds as problems to be solved rather than as accusations.
There had to be a reason. No doubt the croyel had seen that she was powerless. And it had proven itself a match for the Harrow. But still—Liand was only Liand. And orcrest was only orcrest, a small thing compared to white gold and the Staff of Law. Facing such powers in the Harrow’s hands, why had the creature bothered to strike at Liand?
Why had it feared him?
Over and over again, he had demonstrated that he could use his Sunstone to counter the effects of Kevin’s Dirt. It had some kind of virtue against wrongness: a potential for spiritual restoration that she did not know how to gauge or define.
Covenant was right. If the croyel wanted Liand dead, Linden had to save him. He would be needed. Somehow.
If that thought did not count as detachment or clarity, it sufficed nonetheless. Will you waste the remnants of your life thus—? No. She would not.
Lifting flame into the air, she swept away the caustic fumes of corroded stone and burned flesh. Then she stepped closer to Stonemage and enveloped Liand in fire. Carefully, fearfully, she reached into him with her senses, seeking to identify the nature and scale of his wounds.
“Madness,” Esmer repeated. His exasperation sounded like a growl of distant thunder. “Delay hastens your deaths, yet you linger as though you conceive yourselves equal to every bane and betrayal. Does the Stonedownor’s life merit your destruction?”
“Mere-son—” began the Ironhand, warning him again.
Manethrall Mahrtiir interrupted Coldspray. “Attend, Swordmainnir. The Ringthane’s exertion of the Staff renews health-sense. Now I discern the vileness which rules yon vacant boy, who is surely Linden Avery’s son. And I perceive the krill in the hand of a Master. Why has that”—outrage mounted in his voice—“that horror not been slain? Do you not descry that the youth is in torment?”
His own uselessness seemed to infuriate Mahrtiir. Twisting in Latebirth’s arms, he demanded, “Grant the krill to me. I will act where your resolve falters.”
While Latebirth hesitated, Covenant panted hoarsely, “No. Mahrtiir, listen to me. You can’t kill the croyel that way.” Pain throbbed in every word. “I mean, you can, but you’ll kill Jeremiah at the same time. Even the Elohim don’t know how to kill one of the croyel without killing its host. It’s too deep inside him. We can’t cut it out.
“He’s important. We can’t risk him. As long as we can control the croyel, that’s enough.”
“And what is the boy’s import?” countered Mahrtiir. “I inquire with respect, ur-Lord.” The Manethrall did not sound respectful. “Do you speak of his worth to the Ringthane, or to the fate of the Earth? How may he be redeemed, if his life and this monster’s are one?”
“Be eased, Manethrall,” Latebirth put in to spare Covenant. “Your discernment returns. Therefore gaze closely. Behold the creature’s terror. In all sooth, its vileness surpasses description. Yet it recognizes—” The Giant spoke to Mahrtiir, but she appeared to be cautioning the croyel. “It perceives that any struggle to free itself, or to strike against us, may result in the cutting of its throat. The mere-son asserts that we hasten our own deaths. We need not also speed the death of Linden Giantfriend’s son.”
Mahrtiir wrestled with his frustration, snarled Ramen obscenities under his breath. But he did not argue, or insist that Latebirth release him.
Linden ignored them. Liand’s straits were too extreme. The human body was so fragile—Fragile and precious. One blow could stop its life as easily as snuffing a candle. The Stonedownor required the intervention of Earthpower. He required it now. Only his youth and strength had kept him alive this long.
Briefly she glanced up at the severity of Stonemage’s mien, the hard glitter of her eyes, the embattled lines of her countenance. Then Linden Avery the Chosen tried to remember that she had once been a healer.
Keeping Liand wrapped in gentle fire, she began at his mouth and followed his bleeding inward because that was her easiest path. Blood would lead her to the center of his hurts. There she would be able to identify their ramifications.
As she sent her health-sense inward, she felt Stave drop the chain that supported Covenant’s ring around her neck. Its slight weight seemed to steady her in spite of Esmer’s strange ability to block wild magic.
Shaking her head, Frostheart Grueburn muttered, “The harsh clangor of these Demondim-spawn maddens me. I am a Giant, accustomed to comprehension. Yet I cannot grasp their speech.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Coldspray. “Here is your occasion, Esmer mere-son. You wish to speak. And it is by your doing that we are denied our gift of tongues. Speak, then. Reveal what these creatures wish to make known.”
“Fools,” Esmer retorted sourly. “They say nothing that I would not freely convey, should you condescend to hear me.”
“A moment,” Latebirth interjected. “A moment, if you will grant it, Ironhand.” Her blunt features and misted eyes were full of chagrin. “There is too much of which we know nothing. If he is able, let Stave speak of events that transpired here before the Ardent freed us from our sopor. When we grasp what has occurred, mayhap we will be better able to cede the mere-son our heed.”
Fluttering his clothes to attract the attention of the company, the Ardent said meekly, “Permit me. Though he denies his hurt, this Haruchai is gravely wounded. The substance of the skest has not lost its virulence. It burrows inward still. And my knowledge does not extend to the amelioration of such hurts. Indeed, it is no longer sufficient to ease the Timewarden. Both in their turn will have need of the lady’s gifts.”
“Oh, surely,” Esmer muttered, sneering. “Permit all who would do so to speak. What need has this wise and mighty company for an awareness of its jeopardy, or for the scant counsels of the Demondim-spawn?”
“Unlike this Haruchai,” continued the Ardent, addressing Rime Coldspray in spite of Esmer’s protest, “his kinsmen have indeed been humbled. He contrived to free himself from the ensorcelment of the Viles. They could not. Yet none have fallen low as I. I have prided myself on the trust which the Insequent have placed in me—and I have learned that their trust was folly. My doom I have ensured. Permit me to make what amends I may.”
“To be humbled,” Stave replied, “comes in many guises, Insequent, as does to be humiliated.” His raw tone betrayed his pain. “Yet you persist in striving. Perhaps my kinsmen will profit from your example.”
Apparently he wished to remind the Humbled that the Haruchai had a long history of abandoning their commitments when they judged that they had failed.
Following blood, Linden found the ribs which had pierced Liand’s lungs. Those bones led her to the places where they had splintered. As clearly as signposts, they pointed her toward crushed vertebrae and mangled nerves.
In her former life, she could have done enough to save his life. But even a team of neurosurgeons might have left him permanently crippled. Here, however, her powers surpassed scalpels and sutures, clamps and swabs. Her percipience was as precise as the most delicate of his veins, the smallest of his torn nerves. And with the Staff, she could—
If she took her time, and her frayed strength held, she could do everything that Liand’s abused body begged of her.
But there were other demands—
Though he denies his hurt, this Haruchai is gravely wounded.
What need has this wise and mighty company for an awareness of its jeopardy—?
Covenant hands seemed to cry out for her care.
Grimly she concentrated on Liand and tried to let everything else go.
“Speak, then,” Coldspray told the Insequent. “Relate your tale. But tell it briefly. I do not doubt the mere-son’s warnings. We must soon hear him.”
“Briefly.” The Ardent nodded. Settling his bulk more comfortably on his legs, he explained, “It was the unfamiliar entrancements of the Viles which bemused us in their edifice of water and lore. For a time, I reveled in experiences beyond my ken. I was cognizant of the lady’s doings, and the Timewarden’s, as well as the Harrow’s, but I was not inclined to regard them. The fabric of my resolve—I acknowledge it—was too loosely woven to shed the wonders of the palace.
“However, I was bestirred by the Harrow’s passing. His death awakened the will of the Insequent within me. It was not their intent that I should cause or permit his ruin. He required my aid, and I did not provide it. By my inattention, therefore, I have caused their involvement in his designs to become true interference.
“My own fate is now assured. For a time, however, the geas of my people sustains me. I must attempt the fulfillment of the Harrow’s oath. Compelled, I roused those who had not pursued him. Your subsequent tale you know.
“But the events which took place ere we entered this chamber were these.”
Concisely the Ardent described what had transpired. Then he added, “Doubtless the appearance of the Demondim-spawn now rather than earlier has meaning. Perchance their lore revealed that his first efforts would deliver the lady’s son to the krill. Or perchance his swiftness outpaced theirs. In either instance, they did not or could not oppose him. Yet now they have come. I must conclude that they hope to counter some new act of malice.”
“Indeed,” snorted Esmer. “I marvel at the insights of the Insequent, which are exceeded only by their ignorance.”
While Linden worked, moving from the more fatal injuries to Liand’s lungs toward the more maiming damage to his spine, she heard Bhapa whispering to Mahrtiir. Abruptly the Manethrall announced, “Cord Bhapa’s sight is clear. Though the Ringthane labors for Liand, her theurgy expands beyond his wounds. Bhapa has perceived how Stave may be succored.”
Coldspray swore under her breath. “He descries sooth. Giants, we have been blinded by distraction.
“Stonemage?” she asked or commanded. “Cabledarm?”
Holding Liand for Linden, Stonemage nodded. Without pausing for Stave’s permission, Cabledarm lifted the Haruchai high and set him down on Stonemage’s shoulders, straddling her neck so that his ravaged legs dangled near Linden. There they were washed from sole to knee in the overflow of Linden’s fire.
Indirectly Linden gave Stave a measure of relief while she focused on Liand.
At the same time, she felt Branl and Clyme draw Covenant to stand at her back. Apparently they sought to follow Cabledarm’s example. Linden sensed his reluctance, but it was overcome by his burns. He did not resist as Branl and Clyme lifted his arms to rest his heat-mangled hands on Linden’s shoulders.
If the Humbled believed that they had failed, as the Ardent had suggested, they might eventually withdraw their service; but they had not done so yet.
Still Linden heeded only Liand’s injuries. Her attempts to discern and heal his hurts demanded all of her attention. Peripherally, however, she knew that the ambit of her flames contained Covenant’s hands as well as Stave’s legs. Like the restoration of Covenant’s ring, that recognition anchored her. Now she did not need to fear that Covenant and Stave would suffer while she attended to Liand.
Calling upon more Earthpower, she did what she could.
“Still you delay.” Hints of desperation marred Esmer’s sarcasm. “Is there no end to your desire for death, or for the havoc of the world?”
The Ironhand sighed. “Cease your scorn, mere-son. It is bootless. We are who we are, and must act as we do. Neither your protests nor your desire to inflict dismay alter us.”
“Mayhap, mere-son,” the Ardent suggested, “you will begin your litany of hazards by accounting for the absence of any Elohim. Are they not ‘equal to all things,’ as they have proclaimed? Has the lady not unveiled this covert to their sight? And do they not fear her son? Why, then, do they not intervene for their own salvation?”
“They do not intervene,” Esmer snapped harshly, “because they discern no need. By my deeds, as by my presence, I have ensured that the Wildwielder’s son will perish. What remains to interrupt their terror of the Worm? While the boy cannot threaten them, they need dread only the Worm’s hunger.”
“Then tell us,” Coldspray said like her glaive, “how you have ensured our doom. Since you chafe to do so, reveal the import of your deeds and presence.”
After the simpler challenge of healing Liand’s lungs and ribs, the task of repairing his spine stretched Linden’s depleted stamina to its limits. There the damage was unspeakably complex. But she was immersed in her work now; and the strict vitality of the Staff aided her.
With percipience and Earthpower, she found the shards of vertebrae that pressed on his spinal cord. Those fragments she nudged aside so that she could mend the cord. Then she puzzled them back into their proper alignment. When they were all in place, she made split and shredded bones whole until she had reincarnated the structural integrity of Liand’s back.
At the same time, obliquely, she soothed Stave’s legs and Covenant’s hands. Given time, Stave’s hurts would now be able to heal. Covenant’s fingers and palms would not.
“By the display of powers here,” Esmer continued, “She Who Must Not Be Named has been fully roused.” As he spoke, chagrin and anger scudded through his voice like squalls. “Even now, She rises to ravage your souls. Against Her ire, only white gold may hope for efficacy. But there can be no wild magic while I remain nigh the ring.
“Yet that is not the sum of your perils, or of my treachery.” Fiercely Esmer accused himself. “I removed the Timewarden’s son from this chamber. Doing so, I prevented the Wildwielder’s child from flight. But I did not remove Kastenessen’s halfhand to his death. Rather I restored him to the Wightwarrens.
“In his greed for eternity, he fears that the Wildwielder’s son will be forever lost to him. Even now, he summons an army of Cavewights to join his efforts to reclaim the boy—and to confirm that no impossible twist of fate may retrieve you from ruin.”
Surprised, the Ardent sent out a flurry of ribbands to press themselves against the unmarked stone of the walls and ceiling. His eyes rolled back until only the whites reflected the nacre of the Viles, the silver of the krill’s gem, the yellow fire of Law. In a tranced croon, he murmured, “It is so. Perhaps two leagues above us lie the Wightwarrens. There gather Cavewights in their thousands. They answer the halfhand’s call to war.
“Millennia have passed since Drool Rockworm’s resurrection was denied to them, but they have not forgotten their fury.”
Deflected by memories, Linden faltered. Her senses stood at the threshold of the trauma to Liand’s skull, Liand’s brain; but she did not enter.—resurrection was denied—Long ago, the Cavewights had endeavored to restore their long-dead sovereign. Pitchwife and the First of the Search had interrupted their ritual, saving Linden and Covenant in the process. Later Covenant himself had turned that ritual against the creatures so that the Giants could reach Linden and the Staff of Law in Kiril Threndor.
She did not doubt that the wrath of the Cavewights had endured across the centuries. And she was no brain surgeon. The myriad implications of every neuron daunted her. With Earthpower and one mistake, she might erase Liand’s mind altogether.
But one memory of her struggles in Mount Thunder brought others. Wielding the Staff, she had quenched the Sunbane, not by overpowering it, but rather by accepting it into herself; by denaturing its virulence with her love for Covenant and the Land.
And earlier, she had brought Covenant back from an imposed stasis by making his plight her own.
She might do the same for Liand. If she erred, she rather than the Stonedownor would bear the cost.
At her side, Pahni emanated supplications which Linden Avery the Chosen could not refuse.
“In addition,” Esmer said like the knelling of storms, “samadhi Sheol has turned the Sandgorgons. Already they have begun the slaughter of Salva Gildenbourne. Soon, however, the Raver will direct them to more fatal deeds. And Kastenessen is now conscious of your presence here. In rage, he musters the skurj. Though She Who Must Not Be Named cannot fail, he covets your doom for himself. He fears the imprisonment which the Wildwielder’s son may devise for him. And he intends also to defend the source of Kevin’s Dirt.”
As Esmer recited threats, the Ardent appeared to grow unaccountably stronger; more sure of himself. His expression suggested knowledge or abilities that Esmer lacked. But he did not interrupt.
Like the Harrow, he knew how to transport the company out of the mountain’s depths. Out of danger.
“These creatures”—Cail’s son indicated the Waynhim and ur-viles dismissively—“have already informed you that they cannot oppose the skurj. They offer guidance, but they cannot save you. Apart from white gold, no living power may oppose She Who Must Not Be Named. Yet even this tally does not content a-Jeroth of the Seven Hells. At moksha Jehannum’s urging, Kastenessen commands further betrayals.”
Flinching as if his own treachery galled his many wounds, Esmer fell silent. Around him, the ur-viles and Waynhim muttered growls which the company could not interpret.
“Name them,” Coldspray demanded when Esmer did not continue. “Tell the tale of your evils in full.”
Conflicts seethed in Esmer’s gaze. “I will not. They will be revealed when they are needed. For that reason, I must have the Wildwielder’s heed. To her, I must repay the accumulating debt of my crimes.”
“It may be,” offered the Ardent with a hint of his complacent lisp, “that you are mistaken. Perchance it is her healing rather than her heed that you require. The poisons of your hurts corrupt your thoughts. You esteem your betrayals too highly.”
Esmer’s jaws clenched as if he wanted to shout lightning and thunder at the Insequent; but he made no retort.
Linden ignored them. The damage to Liand’s head was both less and more than she had feared. His skull was merely cracked: no splinters of bone pierced the delicate channels and membranes of his brain. But the bruising caused by his impact with the wall was severe. Edema exerted more and more pressure on his brain, constricting the flow of necessary fluids, causing neurons to misfire. Soon the effects of the swelling might kill him.
Hurtloam would have healed him. Linden was too drained and uncertain to do so. She dreaded what would happen when she took Liand’s hurt into herself. She had so many other dilemmas to confront, and her store of courage was already inadequate.
But fear had no place in the work that she had chosen when she had formed the Staff. And Liand’s pain was not the Sunbane. Like her, it was only human.
At last, she surrendered to her task. Groaning, she extended herself and fire into him in order to relieve his last injury.
Abruptly Galt announced to Esmer, “This is the havoc with which you charged Stave.” Galt remained behind Jeremiah and the croyel, controlling the monster with Loric’s blade. “Because you are Cail’s son, born of the Haruchai, you hold his race accountable for your divided nature. Nonetheless your deeds are your own. They spawn ruin because you choose that they should do so. If you perform treachery, the blame lies with you. It belongs neither to Cail nor to the Haruchai.”
“Indeed,” Esmer countered harshly. “What of it? Can you not discern my dearest wish, which is that I did not exist? Whom then shall I fault for the abomination of my birth? You avow that I choose. Cail also chose. The merewives did not. They do not. They are forces of seduction and revenge, nothing more. In their fashion, they are as mindless as storm and calm. Therefore they cannot be accused.
“If my powers sufficed to bring about my death, I would perish gladly. But they do not. For that reason also, I must have the Wildwielder’s heed.”
The stabbing of Liand’s pain as it became Linden’s blinded her. A blow like the jolt of a bludgeon nearly toppled her. She was no longer able to stand on her own: she could barely keep her grip on the Staff.
Fortunately she needed only a moment to draw his swelling into herself. Then her resolve failed, and she sagged with knives twisting in the back of her brain. Without the support of the Cords, she would have fallen. The Staff slipped from her fingers.
“Ringthane!” gasped Pahni. For a moment, her shock at Linden’s collapse matched her concern for Liand. Neither she nor Bhapa caught the Staff. As it clattered to the stone, Earthpower vanished from the chamber.
Mahrtiir barked a curse: he could not restrain himself. Once again, he was truly blind.
“Permit me.” With his apparel, the Ardent reached out to take Linden from Pahni and Bhapa. “Though I have entirely failed to demonstrate my worth, the time draws nigh when I will do so.” Carefully he bore her to the wall and set her down to rest against the nitid rock. “Her distress is extreme, but it will pass. It is the Stonedownor’s pain which wracks her. She has suffered no tangible wound.”
When he had settled Linden, he commanded, “Restore the Staff of Law to her arms. Mayhap its touch will ease her.”
Bhapa obeyed without hesitation. Soon Linden felt the warm wood against her chest. But she was immersed in agony and could not call upon the Staff’s benign theurgy.
Moaning, Liand began to stir in Stonemage’s arms. Pahni cried his name softly as he tried to lift his head.
“My hands.” Covenant’s voice cracked in dismay. “I need my hands. Hell and blood. I have to be able to hold the krill.”
Then he groaned, “Oh, Linden. What have you done to yourself? You shouldn’t—I was trying to help. I didn’t want this to happen.”
I must have the Wildwielder’s heed.
Linden heard nothing, saw nothing. The glow of the walls had been effaced. Darkness filled the world: darkness and defeat. They fulfilled all of Esmer’s predictions.
How had Liand borne this? Unconsciousness had been his only solace, but it was denied to her. She had no defense except the dark, and it was not enough.
Then a voice pierced her hurt. At her ear, someone who may have been Stave said firmly, “Drink, Chosen.” She felt cold iron press against her lips. Somewhere in the darkness, she smelled vitrim. “The Waynhim offer succor. Already the ur-viles tend to the Unbeliever’s hands. If they cannot restore his flesh, they will ease his suffering. And I also will accept their balm, though you have diminished my need. You must drink.”
Like the barking of ghouls, Jeremiah began to laugh.
The sound transformed the blades in Linden’s head. Without transition, they became an altogether different kind of wound.
Her son could not laugh. He could not. She knew that. With the Power of Command, she had exposed the truth of his possession. The croyel was laughing through him; using her son’s lungs and throat and mouth to express its malice.
“So here you are, Mom.” Contempt and fear throbbed in his voice. They cut at her like the daggers of Liand’s transferred trauma. “Do you like what you’ve accomplished so far? You won’t be able to keep me long. That bane’s going to eat you alive, but she won’t touch me. She won’t like the taste. And Roger will come for me soon.
“But you know the best part?” He seemed to strive for a tone of superiority that eluded him. “You’re wrong about me. The Mahdoubt saw the truth, but she talked herself out of it. I belong to the Despiser. I do. I’ve been his ever since I put my hand in that bonfire ten years ago. I even learned to enjoy it.
“You kept trying to reach me, you kept trying, and you’re so earnest about it, I just had to laugh.”
Jeremiah—He or the croyel made Linden want to scream. She ached for the fused rage which had sustained her on Gallows Howe; but she had lost that granite. She was too weak and blind and beaten to find it in herself again.
“You have no idea,” her son continued, mocking her, “how much fun I had steering you here. With Legos! At first, you had me worried. You’re so slow on the uptake. But once you got to Revelstone, you thought you figured it out. After that, all I had to do was wait.”
“Oh, stop,” Covenant rasped as though he had the authority to command the croyel. “You aren’t fooling anybody. You didn’t want this. If you did, you wouldn’t be so scared now.”
He sounded stronger than he should have been. With lore and vitrim, the ur-viles had done more for him than Linden could.
“You wanted us to come here,” Covenant continued. “I believe that. Once the Worm woke up, Lord Foul could relax. He’s sure he’s going to escape the Arch. So now he’s just looking for entertainment. Trying to cause as much despair as he can while he waits. You all are, you and the Ravers and Lord Foul and my son.
“But you didn’t want this. It never occurred to you, any of you, that we might actually get here and trap you. You weren’t counting on her.” He must have meant She Who Must Not Be Named. “She doesn’t care what you taste like. She’ll take anything. You were counting on Roger. Now you’re in as much trouble as the rest of us, and you’re scared out of your mind.
“So stop sneering,” Covenant ordered sternly. “If I tell him to do it, Galt will be glad to make a few cuts in your throat, just to remind you you’re vulnerable.”
Jeremiah did not reply. Apparently the croyel feared the krill too much to test Covenant’s threat.
With Liand’s edema compressing her brain, Linden would not have believed that she could feel more pain. Surely any increase would have driven her into a coma? I belong to the Despiser. But her son’s tormentor had shown her that she was wrong.
Compelled by intolerable hurt and blindness, she gulped at the vitrim that Stave held to her lips.
The dank fluid of the Demondim-spawn tasted old and musty, thick with age or mold. Nevertheless she swallowed it greedily. It lacked the healing vitality of hurtloam; but it was full of strength. In its own way, it was as rich and vital as ichor. As she drank, its gifts helped her absorb the shock of Liand’s wound.
Flashes of sight shot through her darkness, sharp brief gleams as though a shutter were being snapped open and shut. Like illusions woven of phosphenes and sensory confusion, she caught glimpses of Covenant confronting Jeremiah; of Stave crouched beside her; of Bhapa hovering while Pahni hugged Liand. In quick flickers, she seemed to see one of the Waynhim poised near her.
She was still too weak to do more than twitch her fingers. But now she did not need to grip the Staff in order to feel its potential fire; its readiness for use. Shutting her eyes against flashes that resembled reflections from polished blades, she reached out for Earthpower.
Slowly flame and Law eased her. After a while, she was able to close her fingers on the Staff. Then she struggled to her feet. Her head still throbbed, sending raw jabs down her spine, through her chest, along her limbs. But the scale of her pain shrank with every beat of her heart. Soon she would be able to think, and speak, and give heed.
As her health-sense burgeoned, however, the nature of her distress shifted: it was being transformed. By the theurgy of percipience, her physical hurt acquired an edged sensation of wrongness. On an almost subcutaneous level, she felt or heard the pulse of something rising; something hungry and wicked.
Its beat was as deep as a tectonic shift, the gathering violence of an earthquake.
She Who Must Not Be Named has been fully roused.
She’s going to get bigger.
Swallowing instinctive terror, Linden looked at her companions.
Will you waste the remnants of your life thus—?
The Ironhand no longer held her glaive at Esmer’s neck. Instead she and two of her Swordmainnir stood in a tight cordon around him, guarding against powers which they could not oppose. Latebirth and Galesend still carried Mahrtiir and Anele. Cabledarm watched over Stonemage and Liand while Bluntfist stood ready to help Galt if he needed aid.
Among them, the remaining ur-viles crouched on all fours, apparently waiting for some signal or command. They offer guidance—But their loremaster stood before Covenant. While Covenant swore through his teeth, muttering curses as familiar as endearments, the black creature used a knife of ruddy iron, lambent and steaming, to cut the palm of its other hand. Its acrid blood dripped onto Covenant’s burns.
The state of his hands pierced Linden like another self-inflicted wound. The loremaster’s blood ate into them like vitriol, but its effects were benignant. Drop by drop, the creature shed its own life to peel away strips of charred skin, comfort exposed flesh. Yet there was only so much that the loremaster’s unnatural gifts could accomplish. His fingers and thumbs were swollen and maimed: their last phalanges were already dead. When Linden could add Earthpower to the ur-vile’s magicks, his hands might regain a degree of use. To some extent, he might be able to grip weakly and touch—
But she would have to amputate the end of each finger and thumb at the knuckle to prevent their necrosis from spreading. And he would feel nothing: leprosy and the krill’s vehemence had destroyed those nerves completely.
As for his palms—The loremaster had done much to preserve them. They would be horribly scarred, but they were functionally intact. Nevertheless they, too, would never feel anything again.
In other ways, Linden’s companions were comparatively whole. The native toughness of the Giants had sloughed away the worst effects of the skest. Stave’s legs still bore corrosive wounds like teeth-marks, but he stood beside Linden without obvious discomfort. Branl gave no sign that his bruises and contusions troubled him. Held by Stonemage, and tended anxiously by Pahni, Liand was recovering, although he remained weak. The agility of the Cords had enabled them both to avoid acid and injury. Anele squirmed aimlessly in Galesend’s arms, disturbed by impending calamities that he could not name. The Manethrall studied every detail around him with his restored health-sense, apparently seeking to imprint it on his memory.
By turns, the Waynhim offered vitrim to the rest of the company, ignoring only Esmer, the Ardent, and Jeremiah. Branl held a cup for Covenant to drink, but none of the Humbled accepted anything for themselves.
Earlier the Ardent had said that his doom was assured. Now, however, he did not comport himself like a man who felt doomed. Instead his manner suggested some of the smugness which he had displayed in Andelain. Perhaps he had regained his confidence in the powers which his people had entrusted to him.
In contrast, Esmer seemed to give off frustration like spume. His eyes were the color of wind-lashed seas. Among the tatters of his cymar, his festering wounds leaked pus and distress. On his cheek, the hurt of Coldspray’s blow still bled.
His desire for Linden’s attention was as clear as a cry.
She recognized the urgency of his appeal. Will you condone this outcome—? Through her own sensations, she felt the thudding of a subterranean pulse. It beat against her nerves like the harsh and riven labor of Mount Thunder’s heart.
—She Who Must Not Be Named has been fully roused.
But neither Cail’s son nor the approaching bane had brought Linden back from her immersion in Liand’s wounds. She had been retrieved by the croyel’s mockery—and by Covenant’s response.
I belong to the Despiser.
Esmer could wait. And the loremaster did not interrupt its efforts to preserve Covenant’s hands. They, too, could wait a little longer.
More than anything else at that moment, Linden wanted to ensure that she would never hear Jeremiah’s tormentor speak again.
I even learned to enjoy it.
Covenant had said, Even the Elohim don’t know how to kill one of the croyel without killing its host; but Linden intended to discover the truth for herself.
Uncoiling flames like the thongs of a scourge, she extended her power to quench the croyel’s life.
Covenant’s strangled protest she ignored. Law and Earthpower had renewed some of her percipience, in spite of her proximity to the source of Kevin’s Dirt. If indeed the monster could not be slain without killing Jeremiah as well, she would be able to discern their symbiosis before she unleashed her full force.
Facing the creature’s fright, the loose features of her son, Galt’s stoic countenance, and the clear argence of the krill’s gem, Linden thrust her senses into the cesspit of the croyel’s yellow gaze—
—into a ravening as absolute as caesures or the Sunbane, but far more thetic—
—and found herself gazing outward through Jeremiah’s vacant eyes. With his disfocused sight, she saw her own stricken expression as she struggled to understand what had become of him.
If he had any thoughts of his own, she could not find them. His mind had become a bubbling moil of fright and malevolence: his possessor’s passions filled him completely. The voice of his own identity, if he still had one, was too small to be heard amid the clamor of the croyel’s yearning for escape and murder.
They have done this to my son!
In a brief blaze of thwarted love and chagrin, she flung flame like a howl at the ceiling. Covenant was right. The croyel was too deep inside him. It occupied Jeremiah’s trapped self too intimately to be disentangled: not while Kevin’s Dirt hampered her. If she tried to distinguish one life from the other, she would certainly destroy her son.
Sick with failure and bitterness, she felt that she was committing an act of cruelty as she turned away from Jeremiah.
Her companions stared at her as if she had stepped back from the precipice of another misjudgment as fatal as Covenant’s resurrection. Liand tried to say her name. And Covenant sighed, “Linden.” His tone was laden with mourning. “I’m so sorry. I tried to warn you.”
But his empathy could not ease her now. She did not need solace: she needed an outlet for her ire and shame. Fierce as a Sandgorgon, or as one of the skurj, she moved to confront Esmer.
“All right,” she said heavily. “You wanted my heed. You’ve got it.” Dangers thronged in her voice. “But tell me something first. Show me that you’re worth hearing.
“When we talked near Glimmermere, how did you know that I was going to meet the Viles? How did you know that I needed to understand some of their history?”
From her perspective, none of her experiences in the past had happened yet when Cail’s son had spoken to her. If his own life were as consecutive as hers—
“I did not,” Esmer replied as though her question were an affront. “I sought merely to account for the presence and purpose of the ur-viles. As I have done repeatedly.”
Linden bit her lip; swallowed curses. “Then say what you have to say. Get it over with.” The residue of Liand’s trauma throbbed in her skull. “You’ve already betrayed us. You’re betraying us right now,” blocking her access to Covenant’s ring. “You’re going to betray us again soon.” She did not doubt that he would make the attempt. “I can’t even imagine what you think you can do to counterbalance that much harm.”
He tried to face her; but his gaze shied away. Truths and falsehoods fought each other in his mien. “I do not offer words.” He spoke as if his divided nature forced him to utter thorns. “I speak only to request the marred metal which you reclaimed from your son under Melenkurion Skyweir.”
Like a man who expected to be struck, he winced.
“What?” While her friends gaped in surprise and confusion, Linden thrust a hand into her pocket to touch Jeremiah’s crumpled racecar. “You want me to give you a toy?” The only thing that she had left of the boy whom she had loved for so many years? “Are you out of your mind? I won’t—”
“Wildwielder!” Esmer cried as if she had dealt him a mortal blow. At once, however, he restrained himself. More quietly, he stated, “I will return it.” His eyes oozed like his wounds. “Nevertheless I must have it. I must hold it.”
Then his dismay broke loose. “Are you blind to my anguish? Do you not hear that my woe transcends endurance? Wildwielder, I beseech you. Grant me this small recompense for the abominations which I have wrought against you.”
“Linden,” murmured Liand. “Perhaps it would be wise—”
“Ringthane,” Mahrtiir put in sternly. “This tortured wight strives ever to provide both aid and betrayal. His struggles we have witnessed to our cost—and also to our benefit. And I do not forget that he received his wounds in defense of the Demondim-spawn, whose fidelity is beyond question. I do not comprehend him. Yet is it not conceivable that he seeks now to ameliorate his wrongs in some fashion?”
Linden glared at Esmer. With her fingers, she measured the damage that the croyel had done to Jeremiah’s racecar. He had brought the toy with him when Roger had abducted him: his last act of initiative or volition—and the only one which did not involve a construct. Had he picked up the car because Lord Foul had told him to do so? Because he belonged to the Despiser? Or did the toy represent something else? Had some private, unreachable part of him claimed the car because he needed it? Because it comforted him? Because it reminded him of her?
Because he was trying to tell her something—?
In the Hall of Gifts, Stave had spoken of the children of the Haruchai—and of his own sons. They are born to strength, and it is their birthright to remain who they are.
Then he had asked, Are you certain that the same may not be said of your son?
There, in the safety of Revelstone, she had replied like a promise, I’m going to believe that he has the right to be himself.
Since then, nothing fundamental had changed. The croyel still possessed Jeremiah—and it was still a liar. While he stood near her, the husk of a living boy, she had more difficulty trusting that some essential part of his nature held true to itself. Nevertheless nothing had changed. Not really.
In Andelain, Covenant had asserted, I refuse to believe he made choices then that can’t be undone.
She had to put her faith in something.
That which appears evil need not have been so from the beginning, and need not remain so until the end.
Perhaps the same could be said of Esmer.
“All right.” Trembling, she drew the racecar from her pocket. Shards of pain cut her heart with every beat. “But I want it back.”
Esmer did not move. Like Caerroil Wildwood with the Staff of Law on Gallows Howe, he caused the mangled wreckage of the toy to rise from her grasp and float toward him. When he plucked the metal from the air, he folded it in both hands; enclosed it gently, as if he had captured a butterfly or some other fragile creature. For a moment, energies gathered around his head like storm clouds. The flesh of his fingers appeared to blur and melt. Then he tossed the red car upward as though he expected it to flap and flutter like a winged thing.
Instinctively Linden stepped forward, caught the racecar as it fell.
It was whole. Esmer had restored it perfectly. She could not see that it had ever been damaged. If some force had held it to its track, it could have followed the recursions of Jeremiah’s raceway construct endlessly.
Needing witnesses, she held it up for her companions to see; but she was deaf to their reactions. Deliberately she showed it to Jeremiah and the croyel, hoping that the toy would look like an augury of hope to her son—and a threat to the monster. Then she inclined her head to Esmer: a show of thanks. She had no words for her gratitude; or for her sharp shame.
The racecar’s renewed perfection filled her with weeping. At the same time, however, she saw it as a reproach, as mordant as recrimination: a reminder of the extent to which she had failed Jeremiah. Even Esmer, who intended treachery, had done more for her son than she could.
And Esmer’s gift did not rectify any of his crimes.
But she kept what she felt to herself. There was nothing that she could have said without bursting into tears. When everyone around her had beheld the racecar, she shoved it back into her pocket. Then she turned to Covenant, although she spoke indirectly to the Ardent.
“It’s time.” Somehow she faced the strict compassion in Covenant’s eyes. The loremaster had done what it could for his hands. She had done nothing. “That thing—whatever She is—She’s coming.” Because he was who he was, she made no attempt to conceal her weakness; her accumulating defeats. “We have to go.”
In spite of his pain, Covenant seemed to peer into her heart. She saw understanding and sorrow in every flensed line of his visage, every inflection of his gaze. He had urged her to find him—and had faulted himself for doing so. His whole face proclaimed that he blamed her for none of her actions; none of their consequences.
Like her, however, he did not speak of what he felt. Instead he put his hands behind him as if he did not want her to feel responsible for them. “You’re right.” He made a visible effort to muffle the hurt of his burns, but it ached in his tone nonetheless. “She’s getting close.” Then he looked past her at the Ardent. “If you can do this without the Harrow—?”
The Ardent nodded without hesitation. “Assuredly. Here I do not fear that I will fail the intent of my people. Their powers will suffice.
“However”—he glanced around the company—“my task will be eased if we are less widely scattered. Giants, will you consent to bear the lady and her companions, as you have done before?”
“Aye,” the Ironhand assented promptly. “To escape this snare, we would carry even the Demondim-spawn on our backs.”
At once, Frostheart Grueburn approached Linden. Cabledarm drew Pahni away from Liand while Bluntfist scooped Bhapa into her arms.
“And you, Masters,” the Ardent continued. “Will you allow a Giant to bear the Timewarden?”
Branl and Clyme nodded. With their permission, Cirrus Kindwind claimed Covenant. Although she had lost a forearm and hand to the skurj, she did not need them to support him against the chest of her armor.
“Then gather about me,” the Insequent instructed. To Galt, he said, “Bring the lady’s son as nigh as you dare.”
Stolidly Galt used the krill and his hold on Jeremiah’s shoulder to press the boy closer to the Ardent.
Lifted from the floor, Linden settled into her familiar position sitting on Grueburn’s arms. Quickly she confirmed that she still had Covenant’s ring on its chain around her neck. Then she gripped her Staff hard in both hands.
At the same time, the Ardent unfurled wreaths and streamers of bright cloth and sent them wafting around the company. Soon a fluttering ribband had settled on Linden’s shoulder and Grueburn’s arm; on one shoulder or arm of each of her companions. Threatened by the krill, the croyel did not resist as a fulvous band rested on its deformed head. Within moments, the Ardent had placed his fabric touch on everyone except Esmer and the Demondim-spawn.
Abruptly the ur-viles and Waynhim resumed their barking. Their harsh clamor conveyed an urgency that Esmer did not deign to translate. The Waynhim scattered into the passage that led to the palace of enchanted water. The ur-viles made gestures that could have meant anything.
They offer guidance—
They may not have grasped the extent of the Ardent’s powers.
—but they cannot save you.
The pulse of the bane’s approach was growing stronger.
Across the small gap between Stonemage and Cabledarm, Liand and Pahni held hands. Squirming against Kindwind’s cataphract, Covenant tried to find a position that did not gall his burns. Then he gave up. With his teeth clenched, he hugged his hands against his chest.
“No,” Anele moaned, “no. Better the Worm. It merely feeds. It does not hate.” His broken mind was trapped among images that appalled him.
The Ardent adjusted his plump features into lines of resolve. “Farewell, mere-son,” he lisped to Esmer. “I wish you joy of your many betrayals. We will not abide to witness their outcome.”
Tightening the touch of his ribbands, he began to whisper incantations in a language as incomprehensible as the guttural speech of the Demondim-spawn.
The insistence of the ur-viles became a feral snarling.
Esmer did not move to intervene. Instead he gave the Insequent a look of such scorn that Linden winced.
Esmer knew something that the Ardent did not. The ur-viles and Waynhim knew it.
The Ardent closed his eyes, apparently seeking to shut out distractions. He chanted more loudly. The strips of his apparel clenched and loosened to the rhythm of his spell. Other bands—garish garnet, stark fuligin, an azure as luminous as open skies—flurried around him as though he sought to silence the urgency of the ur-viles.
Esmer said nothing.
The Ardent’s voice rose. His chanting began to vacillate between commanding tones and febrile supplications. Fresh sweat beaded on his forehead, his cheeks. He spat words like gibberish in a spray of saliva and imprecation.
“Here it comes,” Covenant rasped softly.
The subliminal thud of malice drew closer. It punctuated the Ardent’s rising desperation.
Then his eyes burst open. An expression of utter chagrin stretched his countenance. “You!” he gasped at Esmer.
Cail’s son lifted his shoulders: a shrug of disdain. “The conjoined powers of the Insequent have made you mighty, but they have not altered the nature of your knowledge. The theurgies by which you bypass distances are a wan mimicry of wild magic.” His scorn sounded like despair. “They are impotent in my presence.”
He had promised more betrayals. They will be revealed when they are needed.
Roger had said of him, He changes his mind too often. There’s always a flaw somewhere . This time, there was none.
Because of him, Linden’s company was caught in the Lost Deep.