Against All Things Ending (The Last Chronicles of Thomas Covenant, Book 3)

2.
Trying to Start Again
031
Linden Avery was drowning in She Who Must Not Be Named. She knew the truth, and her terror was absolute. She had released a flood among the roots of Mount Thunder. Because of her, ancient poisons and the accumulated weight of millennia had thundered into the cavern. They had swept her companions out of existence, carried Jeremiah and Covenant like flotsam to the bottom of the world. Everything that she had ever loved was gone.
But mere water could not harm her now. She had not accompanied her son and her only true lover to their deaths. Instead she had been swallowed by shrieking and hunger. She Who Must Not Be Named had claimed her. Simultaneously preserved and excruciated by betrayed desire and rage, Emereau Vrai and Diassomer Mininderain and the Auriference and Elena and a host of lost women had taken Linden. She had been consumed by the reified outcome of her actions in Jeremiah’s name, and in Covenant’s. Her own name had become agony.
She did not understand Elena’s presence. Nor did she question it.
While the Arch endured, her name would always be agony. And even then—Ah, then! Voices like her own wailed of torments that could never end. When all of creation had been unmade, She Who Must Not Be Named would remain. Her anguish would remain. She was an eternal being: a concept as essential and illimitable as Creation or Despite. Tortures would expand beyond the swallowed stars, beyond the salvific definitions of Time, beyond comprehension, until they filled the reaches of infinity. They could not die, and so they could not stop. The treachery which had formed the bane could not be healed.
Linden knew those women, those victims, in their damnation. They were one with She Who Must Not Be Named; but they were also themselves, as distinct as their spiritual wounds. Helplessly Linden participated in their goaded horror, their compelled craving for food and slaughter. But she knew Elena best because Linden, too, had betrayed Covenant’s daughter. With the example of Berek and Damelon and Loric to guide her, she had nevertheless denied Elena Law-Breaker, child of Lena and rape. Linden had withheld compassion where it was most desperately wanted. A Law-Breaker herself, she was intimately familiar with the exigencies and passions which had driven Elena. And yet Linden had refused or failed—
Now she deserved her fate. She could not pretend otherwise. Nevertheless she screamed like all the others, multitudes of them: screamed with her whole being, and raged to cause more pain, and was lost.
On Gallows Howe, she had become the woman who had resurrected Thomas Covenant. But she had also become a woman who had no pity to give Elena.
Soon she would be Emereau Vrai as well: the woman forcibly bereft of her Elohim lover; the woman who had conceived the merewives in fury and mourning. She would be the Auriference, whose greed had made her as daring as the Harrow, and as foolish. Eventually she would be Diassomer Mininderain and know the truth.
It was that Covenant had not betrayed her. Never. That was Roger’s doing. But since then, she had betrayed herself. And her friends. And the Land.
And her son.
She had brought her doom upon herself.
When her body first began to strive for breath, she did not understand. She had been consumed. How was it possible, then, that she could starve for any sustenance except ruin and release? Yet her need gripped her: an autonomic struggle which recognized no relief except air. Spasms clenched her muscles; fought against constraint, blockage, weight. The tissues of her lungs seemed to burst and bleed. Instinctively she tugged at the arm that hugged her chest, the hand that sealed her mouth and nose. Failing to break free, she dragged her nails across skin that must not have been hers because she felt nothing.
There may have been a head pressed to hers, a cheek tight against the side of her face. She tried to reach eyes and gouge them out so that she would be given a chance to breathe—
Then hands lifted her. They were stronger than She Who Must Not Be Named. Strong enough to be the foundation-stones of reality: strong enough to draw her out of despair. Through a fading chorus of screams, they released her from the killing embrace, the smothering clasp.
While she tried to gulp water into her lungs, the hands raised her into air and light.
The air and light of the living.
Frantically she gasped to fill her chest with survival.
Now she was upheld by a single hand that gripped the back of her shirt. Amid the receding cacophony of torrents, she seemed to hear an urgent voice pant, “Ringthane! Linden Avery!”
A voice that she may have known restored her name.
Was that possible? It was not. She Who Must Not Be Named would never tolerate it.
Nevertheless the voice was Pahni’s. The light on Linden’s face was sunshine: she was breathing air. The fluid in which she floated was water instead of anguish.
Clean water. Fresh water.
“Ringthane, hear me!”
Beyond question, that voice belonged to Pahni.
Streaming hair covered Linden’s eyes. Water splashed inadvertently into her mouth. While she coughed, nightmares endeavored to pierce the daylight, breach the presence of her saviors. They tried to drag her back into the depths. But their grasp on her had frayed. It grew weaker with every won breath.
She was in water somewhere, saved and sustained.
“Ringthane! Here is the Staff!”
The bane could not reach her.
At her side, Stave said, “When Linden accepts the Staff, Cord, will you be able to preserve the ur-Lord? Does your strength suffice? He has fallen within himself once more, and cannot swim. Your aid will ease my task.
“We must escape this current. It hastens, and we may tumble upon rapids beyond those stones.”
Linden felt no current. It was gentle—or she had not entirely returned to her body. But she recognized Covenant’s ring on its chain around her neck.
“Aye.” Pahni’s voice was clear over the complex plaints of running water. “The Staff is indeed wondrous. I have held it for moments only, yet already I have become more than I was.”
“Then assist me,” Stave instructed, “while she regains her senses. We must swim in their stead.”
Linden heard them plainly enough. Now she began to understand what they were saying. The Staff. Her Staff. The current. Swim.
And Covenant.
They were alive. God, they were alive!
Quivering at the exertion, she forced her chin upward, took a long breath free of spattered water. Then she managed to lift her hands long enough to push the hair out of her eyes.
Sunlight. Not the fatal blackness of caverns: sunlight. The pale shapes of hills. A blue sky like a gift, untainted by violation.
Somewhere among the secrets of her spirit, the bane’s wailing still echoed. But it was only a memory.
When she blinked her eyes clear, she saw Pahni swimming near her. With one hand, the young Cord offered the Staff of Law, black as a shaft of ebony, and written in runes. With the other, she held Covenant’s shoulder, helping Stave keep his head above water.
Opposite Pahni, Stave kicked strongly to support both Linden and Covenant.
Covenant hung limp in the water, drifting. His head lolled back. He looked unconscious; abandoned.
Beneath the surface, faint flowers of blood bloomed from his forearms; blossomed and dissipated. Linden must have scratched him. Like Joan—Long ago, when Linden had first met Covenant, Joan had dragged her nails across the back of his hand, tasted his blood, and become briefly sane.
Feebly Linden began trying to move her legs. She needed Covenant. She wanted to reach out.
But she was too weak. Too full of shared screams. Floundering, she clutched at her Staff.
It was the Staff of Law, articulate with Earthpower. Under Melenkurion Skyweir, she had used it to channel more power than she could imagine. She had transformed it to blackness. She had never been able to read its runes. Nevertheless she could interpret its fundamental rightness. It was hers. In its own way, it was as natural to her as the blood in her veins. When she closed her fingers on it, it seemed to call her back from a terrible absence.
The sky became brighter: the water, colder. As the Staff’s vitality ran along her hands and arms into her chest, Stave and Pahni gained substance until they were as definite as promises. Gradually the sounds of torment sank back into their abyss. The sunshine on her face felt like the light of resurrection.
Holding the Staff after her immersion in the bane, she could almost believe in hope.
Instinctively she began kicking against the water. Then she reached out to grip one of Covenant’s arms. Perhaps she helped Pahni and Stave prevent him from sinking.
She did not know how his ring had been restored to her, and did not care. She did not want to think about anything, remember anything, except Covenant and sunlight, Pahni and Stave.
Then Pahni accepted Covenant’s slack weight from Stave. While Stave impelled Linden across the current, the young Cord swam away from the rocks, drawing Covenant after her on his back.
With Stave’s aid, Linden rose higher in the water; high enough to see that Pahni was headed toward a swath of sand like a beach in a bend in the stream. Moment by moment, her health-sense absorbed strength from the Staff. Vaguely she understood that she had been plunged into a pool deeper than the rest of the flow. Covenant must have done that. Why else were his forearms bleeding? He must have submerged her and held her down because every other effort to retrieve her from her nightmares had failed.
He had found a way to save her when she had been unable to save herself.
She would have clung to him if she could have done so without hindering Pahni. Her rescued heart ached to throw her arms around him. Hugging him would not fill Jeremiah’s place in her clasp, or in her love. But she was a woman who needed to touch and embrace. She yearned for the comfort of contact. And Covenant had saved her: she believed that. In his arms, she might begin to recover from her participation in She Who Must Not Be Named.
He was Thomas Covenant: he would forgive her. In spite of what she had done to him. And to Elena.
Like her, he might not forgive himself.
Then she saw Pahni’s feet find the streambed. The Cord’s shoulders broke the surface: she was able to pull Covenant along more easily. A moment later, Stave began to propel himself and Linden step by step. Linden’s boots scraped clusters of stones.
As soon as she gained purchase on the bottom, she tugged away from Stave and surged after Covenant. In a flurry of water, she thrashed forward, leaning against the current.
Ahead of her, Pahni paused.
Linden closed the small distance as if she were frantic. Still waist deep in the stream, she tossed her Staff to Pahni so that she would not inadvertently violate Covenant with Earthpower. The girl’s eyes sprang wide in surprise, but she released one hand from Covenant to catch the Staff.
In a burst of grief and longing, Linden pitched forward. As she fell onto Covenant, she wrapped her arms around him. Her embrace closed as though she had been starving for the touch of his body on hers; and her weight drove both of them underwater.
She hardly felt the stream sweep over them. Instead his leprosy jolted her nerves. The dismemberment of his mind and memories hurt her like the gelid misery of emptiness within a caesure. Nevertheless he was here. He was real and alive: the Thomas Covenant who had nurtured her with his love until she had grown able to love him in return. For a few moments, at least, that was enough.
Entire worlds might be redeemed, as long as Covenant remained alive.
His vacancy hurt her. Of course it hurt her. Lost as he was, he could not reply to her clasp. Parts of him were too numb to recognize her. Nevertheless she clung to him as though he were the rock to which she had anchored her own life, and Jeremiah’s, and the Land’s.
And as she held him, a spark of silver fire gleamed briefly where her breasts met his chest. It seemed to shine through her damaged shirt until it filled his face, and hers, with argent possibilities. Then it vanished.
Wild magic. Only a hint, but—wild magic.
With a palpable wrench that nearly drove the breath from her lungs, Covenant returned to himself and began to struggle.
An instant later, hands snatched them upward. Quickly Linden released Covenant so that Pahni and Stave could lift him to the surface before he inhaled water. Then she raised herself. Braced on Stave, she gained her feet in a cascade bright with sunshine and sorrow.
When she wiped her eyes clear of rills and lank hair, she saw Covenant aghast in front of her. He seemed barely able to stand; so weak with relief and dismay that he could not find his balance.
“Oh, Linden—” he panted. In the sun’s light, the scar on his forehead looked like a denunciation. “Damnation. I nearly—”
“Don’t say it.” She, too, was panting. Some of the fetters had been struck from her heart: it seemed to fill her chest, leaving too little room for breath. “It doesn’t matter. You saved me.”
“Chosen.” Stave’s harshness hurt Linden’s hearing like a remembered shriek. “He endangered your life.”
Dumbly Pahni nodded as if she shared Covenant’s consternation.
Linden shook her head, pushed her dripping hair behind her ears. “I don’t care.” Memories of Elena and screaming clogged her throat: she could not continue until she swallowed them. “You don’t know where I was.”
Stave’s tone changed. “Chosen?” His irrefusable hands turned her to face him. “Linden?”
Because she had no words for what she felt, Linden reached out for the Staff. Without hesitation, Pahni released it; and at once, Linden pulled it to her, wrapped her arms around it as though it might shield her.
“The bane got me,” she said, still panting. “Or I thought it did. I was part of it, and I couldn’t get away. I couldn’t. Until Covenant—” In spite of Stave’s insistence, she looked at Covenant again. “I don’t care how you did it. You were my only chance, and you saved me.”
Her affirmation eased him. She could see the lines of his self-judgment soften. He made a twisted effort to smile. Opening his hands, he indicated himself: his physical incarnation or his mental presence. “Then we’re even.”
Even? Never! Linden wanted to launch herself at him again; to feel him return her embrace of his own volition. A part of her had spent years dying to be held as well as to hold; withering like a plant that could not live much longer without sun and rain. He was not Jeremiah: he could choose—
Before she moved, however, she saw a quick flaring of alarm in his eyes. He raised his hands to ward her away; stumbled backward. “Don’t touch me.” Some private conflict undermined him: she felt its emanations. He was barely able to make himself heard over the fretted susurration of the current. “Linden, please. I’m not ready. I’ve lost too much of myself. I’m afraid of what I’m becoming. Or what I might have to be. I need to find that out before—” His voice faded. Pain blurred his gaze. The muscles of his jaw clenched. Obviously forcing himself, he finished, “Just don’t touch me. There’s too much at stake.”
Stung, Linden jerked her gaze away. Without transition, the clarity of the light and the cleanliness of the water seemed to become sterile and comfortless, uncaring. He might as well have said in chagrin, What have you done? Irrationally she believed that he could see the bane within her still, crouched ready to emerge as soon as She found an opportunity to do harm.
It was more than she could bear.
After a moment, however, she found that she was not surprised. What had she expected? An eager welcome? Immediate love? For the woman who had forced him back into his damaged mortality? The woman who had roused the Worm of the World’s End?
It was fitting that Covenant did not want her touch. It was fitting that her Staff was as black as the Lost Deep.
And it changed nothing.
Rigid with self-coercion, she nodded. “All right.” The air had turned to ash in her throat. “I think I understand that much.” She did not look at Covenant again; avoided Stave’s steady regard. Instead she followed the stream with her eyes as it curled around her waist and swirled past her. “So tell me what happened. Why are we still alive? Where is everyone else? Where is Jeremiah? How is he?”
“For the moment, Chosen,” Stave replied promptly, “you need not fear. All are safe. By cunning and desperation, the ur-Lord persuaded Esmer to depart. Thereafter the Ardent transported us here, beyond the bane’s grasp. Though I am not certain, I deem that even the ur-viles and Waynhim eluded the bane’s wrath.
“We stand now upon the Lower Land south and east of Mount Thunder, between the great cliff of Landsdrop and the perils of Sarangrave Flat. Your companions and comrades await you upstream. Only the Ardent has departed, promising a final service upon his return. All have suffered no further hurt, apart from weariness and privation. Your son is as he was, warded by Galt and Loric’s krill. The Unbeliever’s ring he himself restored to you.
“To this place, you were borne at his urging. His intent he did not reveal.”
It was too much: Linden could not absorb it all. And it, too, changed nothing. Just don’t touch me. She did not lift her eyes from the restless wash of the stream. For the moment, she only cared that Jeremiah was nearby.
When Stave’s silence told her that he was done, she released one arm from the Staff, bent to the stream, and splashed water onto her face, trying to rinse the despair from her skin.
“There’s more,” Covenant said roughly, “but you don’t need to hear it right now.” His tone implied distress like a premonition. “I just want you to know that we’re not safe from Esmer. I didn’t convince him to stop betraying us. He’ll try again when he figures out how to serve you and Kastenessen at the same time.”
That, too, was more than she could absorb. Without thinking, she repeated, “I don’t care. I’m just glad that you managed to save Jeremiah.” Learning now that he had been lost would have destroyed her. “Everything else—” She shrugged instead of weeping. “You can explain it all later.”
Don’t touch me.
“That is wisdom,” Stave stated firmly. “The ur-Lord’s suasion of Esmer was needful, as it now appears that your immersion was needful. Continuing to speak of such matters serves no purpose.”
His manner suggested that he was addressing Pahni, advising her not to reveal what Covenant had done. If so, Linden approved. She owed Covenant that much. His rejection made gratitude impossible; but it did not change the fact that he had broken the bane’s grip on her mind. Because of him, she could still hope to rescue her son from the croyel.
“Chosen,” Stave continued, “will you not withdraw from the stream?” With one hand, he gestured toward the patch of sand at the water’s edge. “There you may dry your raiment, and accept the sun’s warmth, and speak of whatsoever you desire.”
Linden shook her head. Her sodden clothes did not trouble her. And she was not ready to face the decisions that awaited her; the impossible futures. Her memories of the monster on Jeremiah’s back were bad enough: the actuality would be worse.
Like Covenant, her son was someone whom she could not touch.
“I need a bath,” she explained, groaning to herself. More than that, she needed to recover some semblance of emotional balance. “If you don’t mind, Stave, you can take Covenant back to the others.” She could not bear to look at him yet. “Pahni can stay with me. When I don’t feel quite so disgusted”—her mouth twisted at the thought of her filthy hair and rank clothes—“she’ll help me find you.”
“By my Manethrall’s command, Ringthane,” Pahni answered, “I must comply with Thomas Covenant’s wishes. If the Unbeliever will grant it, however, I will abide with you gladly.” Her tone hinted that she might choose to defy Mahrtiir’s orders.
“Ah, hell,” Covenant sighed. “Why not?” Linden heard regret in his voice. “After what you’ve been through, the least you deserve is a chance to be left alone.
“Come on, Stave.” He lifted a hand in the direction of Stave’s shoulder. “I’m exhausted. I probably won’t make it without help.”
“Go on,” Linden murmured automatically. She wanted him gone; wanted to forget him if she could. In self-defense, she had fixed her mind on the idea of a bath: she was impatient to take off her clothes. In the absence of soap, she could use sand to rub away the most tactile of her many soilures.
Pahni shot Stave a quick glance. “If you will, Stave, assure Liand that I am”—she caught herself—“that we are well.”
Linden was vaguely surprised to hear the Cord use Stave’s name. Her closest friends had become more comfortable with each other than they had once been. For that, she gave Stave most of the credit. He had taught the Ramen and Liand to regret their initial distrust.
“Be certain of it,” Stave replied as he drew Covenant’s arm across his shoulders. “Return to us when the Chosen desires it. There is no present need for haste.”
“He means,” Covenant muttered, “we don’t have any food, so you might as well do what you can to save your strength.”
Then he and Stave turned away, heading for the small scrap of beach and the nearest hillside.
Was that north? Linden wondered briefly. Yes, her health-sense assured her. Or rather northwest. But she dismissed such matters almost immediately. Her percipience had become as precise as Loric’s krill; and she was acutely conscious of muck and strain staining her hair, her skin, her clothes. While Covenant and Stave rose dripping from the stream and began to angle across the littered hillside, she confirmed that Jeremiah’s healed racecar still rested deep in her pocket. When she explored her sore ribs, her cracked kneecap, her battered shin, she found that they did not demand care. She dismissed them as well.
As soon as Covenant and Stave disappeared beyond the ridgeline, she braced her Staff on the streambed, bent close to the water, and began trying to pull off one of her boots.
She could not move it. Full of water, it stuck to her; or she was too weak.
At once, however, Pahni came closer. “Permit me, Ringthane.” Before Linden could reply, the girl ducked beneath the surface. Able to use both hands, she tugged off Linden’s boot and sock.
Grateful at last, Linden put her foot down, raised her other boot to Pahni. Then the Cord stood up; took a breath; tossed the water from her eyes.
“If you will grant me a moment, Ringthane, I will set your footwear upon a rock to dry.” She nodded toward the shore. “Then I will return to wash your garments while you bathe.”
Linden was already unbuttoning her shirt. “Just throw them. I’ll do something about it later if they’re uncomfortable.”
“As you wish.” Turning, Pahni flung the boots to the scallop of sand. Then she held out a hand for Linden’s shirt.
The red flannel was damaged in a variety of ways. Ruefully Linden eyed the bullet holes, front and back. She was fortunate, she supposed, that the slug had passed straight through her. Even now, she did not know how she had healed herself. If the bullet had remained in her—
Making so many mistakes, taking so many risks, she had apparently given Lord Foul exactly what he wanted. But she refused to second-guess herself now. Regret was costly; as draining as battle. If Covenant did not want her love, he could go to hell. She had found her son. Now she intended to concentrate on learning how to free him from the croyel.
Passing her shirt to Pahni, Linden crouched to the challenge of peeling off her jeans.
When she finally succeeded at removing them, she discovered that some trick of wet or color emphasized the green script left by the tall grasses of the Verge of Wandering. Her jeans were like the Staff, inscribed in a language which she could not read.
In Garroting Deep, Caerroil Wildwood had said of her, She wears the mark of fecundity and long grass. Also she has paid the price of woe. And the sigil of the Land’s need has been placed upon her. For that reason, he had spared her life.
And he had given her the burden of a question—
How may life endure in the Land, if the Forestals fail and perish—? Must it transpire that beauty and truth shall pass utterly when we are gone?
Linden had promised the ancient guardian of Garroting Deep an answer; but she had no idea how to keep her word.
Frowning, she tossed her jeans to Pahni as though she meant to spurn their implications. Inadequacy and loss: needs that she would never be able to satisfy: loads too heavy for her to bear. The Staff she wedged between rocks so that it would not float away. If it drifted, Pahni would retrieve it.
Regret could be refused. Despair was a different issue.
As if in abnegation, Linden sank into the stream, scooped up sand, and began rubbing handfuls of grit into her hair, onto her scalp. Scouring herself—
The abrasion hurt, but she welcomed it.
032
Later Linden sat on a flat stone near the sand, wearing her wet clothes but not her socks and boots; resting with her feet in the cool caress of the current. Her skin felt scraped raw, and there were patches on her scalp where she had drawn blood. But she did not mind. Those pains were trivial by comparison.
Her socks lay drying beside her. For the time being, she left her boots where Pahni had thrown them. The Staff of Law she held across her lap. With her fingertips, she stroked the incused runes. They could have signified anything; but she wanted to believe that they were a prophecy of hope.
Unhindered by Kevin’s Dirt, she ought to be able to accomplish almost anything with her Staff and Covenant’s ring. Surely she could do more for Jeremiah here than in the Lost Deep?
Cross-legged and straight-backed, Pahni sat on another stone nearby. She, too, had bathed thoroughly. Now she gazed into the stream with tension in her shoulders and shadows in her eyes.
Linden was not ready to resume thinking and caring; not really. But the conflicted purity of Pahni’s spirit pleaded for her attention. Sighing to herself, she said quietly, “Talk to me, Pahni. Something is troubling you. I could try to guess, but it’s better if you just tell me.”
“Ah, Ringthane,” the girl replied with a sigh of her own. “I am a small creature among the great beings and terrors of the world. My concerns do not merit your heed.”
Don’t touch me.
Then the Cord turned. Gazing nakedly into Linden’s eyes, Pahni said, “Yet Liand is not a small creature. He is not. He is the first true Stonedownor in uncounted centuries, wielder of the Sunstone’s wonder”—she faltered for a moment—“and my beloved. His valor and daring are worthy of Giantish tales. Indeed, they are worthy of the Ranyhyn. For his sake, I will speak.”
Linden knew what was coming. Nevertheless she required herself to wait in silence.
Carefully Pahni said, “It becomes ever plainer that when Anele addressed us on the plateau of Glimmermere, he spoke at the Timewarden’s behest. His pronouncements were given to him by the Timewarden’s spanning consciousness.”
Linden nodded. “I remember.”
I wish I could spare you. Hell, I wish any of us could spare you. But I can’t see any way around it.
“Then you will recall,” the Cord continued, “that Anele’s words led Liand to the orcrest which has exalted him. But they also suggested some arduous and mayhap fatal outcome which can not or must not be evaded.
“Ringthane—” Again Pahni faltered. Lowering her eyes, she asked over the background whisper of the stream, “Do you now comprehend the Timewarden’s prophecy? It lies beyond me, little as I am. By bravery and foresight and love, you have grown to stand among the mighty of the Earth—aye, and to defy them when you must. Do you possess any light that may dispel the darkness which knots my heart? For Liand’s sake, I ask it—he who has been your friend and companion from the start, and has never wavered.”
Oh, Pahni, Linden wanted to say. You’re going to break my heart. She had been afraid for Liand since the day when he had insisted on aiding her escape from Mithil Stonedown. But she had no idea what Covenant’s assertions meant.
She can do this. Tell her I said that. And there’s no one else who can even make the attempt.
Stroking the Staff for courage, she answered, “I’m sorry, Pahni. I just don’t. No matter what you think, I’m not brave, and I sure as hell don’t have any foresight. The future is as dark to me as it is to you. You’ll have to ask Covenant,” although he had probably lost that memory. “Or I will, if you want.”
Pahni set her teeth. Blinking furiously, she stared out over the watercourse. “I discern sooth in your words,” she said after a moment. “But I do not grasp how they can be sooth. You are Linden Avery, Linden Giantfriend, the Ringthane, the Chosen. How does it chance that you are able to offer me naught?”
“You don’t understand,” Linden replied more severely than she intended, “but you should. You called yourself a small creature. That’s how I feel. All the time.” She gestured around her. “I’m too little for all this. I want to save my son. If I can’t do that, I want to keep him safe as long as possible. That’s as far as I go. The rest of it—” She had made too many promises which she could not keep. Even resurrecting Covenant was a promise she had already broken by failing to resurrect him whole. “The rest is too much for me. It’s someone else’s problem.”
A frown complicated the Cord’s mien. “I discern sooth,” she repeated. Then she said more strongly, “Nonetheless I deem that you are mistaken in yourself. Time and again, you have vindicated the Timewarden’s faith in you. Time and again, you have wrought miracles for our redemption. If you name yourself a small creature, as I am, you gauge yourself unjustly.”
“No, I don’t,” Linden retorted with more vehemence. “You still don’t understand what I’m trying to say. Liand isn’t small, and neither are you. If there’s any greatness left in the world, it’s yours.” And Covenant’s. “Greatness isn’t about power. It’s about who you are. You’re so unselfish that it staggers me. You make yourselves greater every day. I’m just shrinking.”
Stricken by horror and weakness, she had drowned in She Who Must Not Be Named: she knew the truth.
Why else did she need Covenant so badly?
Why else had he refused her?
Now the girl faced Linden again. With none of her familiar unassuming shyness, she said, “Then truly, Ringthane, you have no choice—you who are called the Chosen. You must relieve your son from the toils of the croyel. If you do not, you will founder in bitterness, and Fangthane’s triumph over you will be complete.”
Linden ground her teeth. “In that case”—abruptly she withdrew her feet from the stream and stood up—“we should get started on—on whatever it is we’re going to do. I hope you’re wrong. But I doubt it.”
Where her son was concerned, she had made the only choice that mattered when she adopted him.
Graceful as water, Pahni also rose. Her eagerness to return to Liand was palpable as she went to retrieve Linden’s boots.
But Linden was not eager. She was simply vexed. Yet behind her ire lay an ache of dread. Covenant had already pushed her away. If he also pushed away the decisions and responsibilities that she had trusted him to assume—if he repudiated all of her reasons for restoring his life—
She was not sure that she would be able to face him.
033
Plodding through arid heat over the baked hills, Linden was sweating in spite of her soaked boots and damp socks as she rejoined the company.
From the hillside above them, she saw Covenant and Stave, Jeremiah and Galt, Liand and Anele, the Giants and Manethrall Mahrtiir and Bhapa. A glance was enough to assure her that they had rested and drunk their fill. Temporarily, at least, most of them had recovered a portion of their natural toughness. Now they sat waiting in the shade among the boulders close to the stream.
On nearby ridges, Clyme and Branl stood watch. This far from the Land’s foes, Linden could not imagine that the company faced any immediate danger except hunger. Nevertheless she was glad for the wariness of the Humbled.
She also could not imagine why the Ardent had brought her companions here, where they could do nothing. Nor did she understand why the Insequent had abandoned them.
Liand greeted her and Pahni with a glad shout. Wasting his scant stamina, he sprang to his feet and hurried up the hillside to meet them. With a warm smile for Pahni, he wrapped his arms around Linden.
His hug was brief, a momentary taste of the deeper embraces for which she was starving. Nevertheless it steadied her. It reminded her sore nerves and her hidden wounds that she was not alone, in spite of Covenant’s rejection. She still had friends who were strong and faithful, friends who had earned every bit of her esteem. If Covenant refused to lead the company, perhaps someone else would do so.
The salutations of the Swordmainnir were less impulsive, but they all rose from their resting places and spoke Linden’s name with evident relief, pleased to see for themselves that she had escaped her nightmares.
Anele sat in Galesend’s armor without acknowledging Linden. In contrast, Mahrtiir gave her a bow of approval; and Bhapa waved, grinning crookedly. But Jeremiah did not react, and the croyel ignored her. For reasons of its own, the creature’s gaze followed Liand. As usual, the Humbled revealed nothing.
Depending on the Staff and Liand for balance, Linden made her way down the slope. As she descended, she studied Covenant’s twisted effort to smile for her. Protecting herself, she tried to think, Go to hell. But she could not look at him and feel that way. At least for the time being, he was present. In spite of his rejection, she prayed that his absences would grow less frequent as his long past leaked away.
Like her, he was becoming less than he had once been. To that extent, at least, she understood his desire to distance himself.
She would have preferred to avoid looking at Jeremiah. She did not want to be reminded that nothing had changed. But even a brief glance at his slack stance and muddied gaze, the droop of his mouth, and the stubble like grime on his cheeks confirmed that he was still the croyel’s prisoner. And the monster’s possessive malice was unabated. Despite the eldritch keenness of the krill’s edge only a breath from its neck, its eyes glared with unspecified threats, and its jaws champed steadily, avid to sink its fangs into Jeremiah’s throat once more.
The sores on his neck where the creature had fed were raw and open; but they did not bleed, and showed no sign of infection. For the present, at least, Linden lacked the courage to risk treating them.
If the croyel had some concrete reason to hope for rescue, she could not perceive it: not without wielding the fire of her Staff. But soon, she promised herself. Soon she would make the attempt. Earlier she had been appalled by what she had discerned of the croyel’s mind—and of its intimate bond with Jeremiah’s. Now she had other resources.
If her Staff did not suffice, the unobstructed penetration of her health-sense might enable her to wield wild magic with enough precision to threaten the croyel without harming her son.
But not yet. She was not ready. Inanition and helpless screaming had left her frail; too weak for extravagant hazards. She needed time to gather herself before she confronted the challenge of her son’s straits.
Apart from Covenant and Anele, all of Linden’s companions were on their feet. When she sank down to sit leaning against a rock a few paces from Covenant, however, the Giants also seated themselves, sighing gratefully. Liand and the Ramen did the same. Perhaps deliberately, they formed a wide circle that arced from Linden to Covenant and back without excluding Anele.
Uncertain of what to say, or how to begin, Linden asked awkwardly, “Have you decided anything?”
“Without you?” Covenant snorted; but his scorn was not directed at her. Instead he seemed angry at himself. “You forget who you’re talking to. One way or another, we’re all yours.” Abruptly he grimaced. “Or they are, anyway.” With one truncated hand, he indicated the circle. “In any case, none of us is going to make plans without you.”
I know this is hard. I know you think you’ve come to the end of what you can do. But you aren’t done.
Earlier he had commanded the Humbled to support her; but she was not confident that they would do so.
And his effort to distinguish between himself and the rest of her companions pained her. She was not ready for this. Oh, she was not. She needed him to tell her and everyone what to do.
Yet she had to say something. Shading her eyes from the clarity of the sunlight, she did what she could.
“Then we should probably start with the obvious. Maybe Stave can tell us how to find food.” He knew this region. The Haruchai as a race forgot nothing. “But what I really want to know—” She swallowed thickly: her throat was already dry again. “Why did the Ardent leave us? And why did he leave us here?”
Covenant twitched his shoulders: a shrug like a flinch. “He left because he thinks he’s doomed. Interfering with the Harrow is going to destroy him, and he wants to do one more thing for us before he falls apart. I guess he’s hoping his people will hold him together a little longer.
“As for here—He talked about a respite. Distance from our enemies. A chance to recover and maybe even think.” A scowl deepened Covenant’s gaze. “He hinted at something else, too, but he wasn’t clear about it.”
While Linden tried to accept the shock of hearing that the Ardent had sacrificed himself for her and Jeremiah—that he had followed the Mahdoubt’s example to his own ruin—Rime Coldspray continued Covenant’s answer as if she wanted to spare him.
“In addition, the Ardent conceives that the flood which you released under Gravin Threndor has wrought some profound alteration among the hazards of these times. He deems that it has washed away the auguries of his people. Now your fate is ‘writ in water.’ Therefore he can offer no more guidance.”
Writ in water. Involuntarily Linden winced. During her escape from Mithil Stonedown, the Despiser himself had informed her that her fate was written in water.
Nothing made sense to her. Her companions had only begun talking, and already they had said too much. How had what she and the ur-viles had done changed the logic of the Land’s plight, or of Lord Foul’s manipulations? Surely that was impossible?
The Ardent interrupted her confusion. “And therefore,” he announced in the blank air, “I return to fulfill my given word.”
Swirling his ribbands, he incarnated himself within the circle of the company.
“The Insequent,” he informed the astonished companions, “have elected to honor your need for my aid to this extent.” His voice was a wracked shadow of his former plump lisp. “By their powers and knowledge, I am spared to perform my promised service.”
Clasped or cradled in his raiment, he bore burdens of all sizes, at least a score of them: bedrolls, heavy sacks, bulging waterskins. Wearing his bundles like a penumbra that almost filled the circle, he was as laden as a caravan. Swift as intuition, Linden recognized that the sacks were packed with food and flasks of wine.
A moment later, she noticed that he was even more besmirched and ragged than he had been when she had last seen him. In fact, he looked like he had been dragged through mud and beaten. The hues of his raiment were stained with mire: most of his peculiar apparel hung in tatters. Seen by sunlight, his once-complacent features appeared haggard, diminished, as if he had lost an unconscionable amount of weight.
Nevertheless he stood erect, feigning strength he did not possess. His strained smile may have been meant as reassurance.
“Here,” he said hoarsely, “is a feast to sate even Giants.” One at a time, he set down his burdens. “Among the Insequent, the Ardent is not the only acolyte of the Mahdoubt. Your plight has been heeded. Unsparingly consumed, such viands will provide for two or perhaps three days. If you enforce a wise restraint, you need not fear hunger while you confront the last crisis of the Earth.”
Covenant stared, almost gaping. For a moment, the Swordmainnir seemed too amazed to react. Then, all together, they surged to their feet and reached for the Ardent’s sacks. With a jerk, Anele sat up, snatched alert by the prospect of food.
“Heaven and Earth!” Liand crowed. Springing upright, he rushed to embrace the Insequent.
Just for an instant, the Ardent looked entirely startled; taken aback as though Liand had attacked him. Then, however, he wrapped his strips of fabric around the Stonedownor. His round face beamed with surprise and delight.
In moments, the Giants had unpacked enough food to nourish a multitude: roasted legs of lamb and whole fowl, slabs of cured beef, a bounty of fruits both fresh and dried, wheels of cheese, rich breads still fragrant from the ovens. Smells and appetite rushed over Linden until she was scarcely aware of anything except her own emptiness.
“You must have told them,” Covenant rasped. He, too, was on his feet. “You must have told them how much we need you.”
“Oh, assuredly, Timewarden.” The Ardent tried and failed to sound airy; unconcerned. “You behold the outcome.” He indicated his bundles. “For your sake, I am preserved yet awhile.”
“Then tell them again. Hellfire! You’re dying right in front of us. Tell them we’re useless without you.”
“Timewarden, desist.” The Ardent’s eyes were sunken. He regarded Covenant like a man consigned to starvation. “Do you wish us self-condemned? Be content as you are. While I can, I will linger among you. Then I must depart. The alternative—” He shuddered. “The alternative is the loss of use and name and life for our race. If we defy who we are, we must become naught.”
Quickly Coldspray and her comrades set out supplies in their wrappings: squares of an unfamiliar fabric treated to ward off spoilage. As the Giants readied a meal for their companions, they helped themselves to lamb and cheese, fruits, large flasks like urns. The scent of the wine reminded Linden of springwine’s crisp tang without its distinctive suggestion of aliantha.
In spite of her hunger, Stormpast Galesend remembered to place food near Anele so that the old man would not be tempted to leave the protection of stone.
While Bhapa and Pahni joined the Giants, gathering viands for their Manethrall as well as themselves, Covenant glared at the Ardent. “Content, is it? We’re supposed to be content? And you think that’s likely? Damn it, I’m not asking them to give up who they are. I just want them to make an exception.
“God in Heaven!” Covenant’s eyes glistened as if he were on the verge of tears. “You’re dying, and we don’t even know your name.”
Around the sand, everyone listened while they ate. Even the croyel appeared to be listening. Linden fixed her attention on every word—and tried to remember the physician’s detachment that shielded her from grief. Covenant was right: the cruel necessity which had drained the Mahdoubt’s mind and life had already begun for the Ardent. She could see it. She ached for him as she had for the Mahdoubt. But she did not stop eating. Her own needs compelled her.
Squatting beside trays of waxen fabric, she filled her mouth with cheese and fruit, chunks of beef; swallowed gulps of wine as heady as liquor; took more food and tried to force herself to chew slowly. In its own way, eating was also a defense against grief.
It contradicted despair.
Answering Covenant, the Ardent mused, “In itself, my life is of little consequence. Though I grieve for it, my passing will deprive you of neither power nor purpose. And it is condign that the fate of the Earth is borne by those whose lives began beyond the bounds of our knowledge. The Worm of the World’s End also lives and moves beyond those bounds. Doubtless the service of the Earth’s peoples is needful. In that service, I have played the part of the Insequent. Yet the last task is yours, assuredly so.”
He might have said more, but the croyel spoke first. “Somebody feed me,” the succubus snarled plaintively. “I can’t live on air and wishful thinking. None of you can stop the Worm.”
Instinctively Linden jumped to her feet; snatched up her Staff. At once, the creature fell silent. Jeremiah’s gaze remained stilted and vacant, as though he had not made a sound.
Trembling, Linden faced Galt’s captives. God, she wanted the croyel dead! Clinging to her son’s back, it seemed to falsify everything that she had ever done for him. Its bitter malice—Only the fact that she did not know how to hurt it without harming him prevented her from striking.
But soon, she promised the monster. As soon as I’m ready. I’ll find a way to cut your heart out.
Almost involuntarily, however, she saw that Jeremiah indeed needed food. Avoiding looking at him, she had failed to recognize his inarticulate hunger. Now she discerned it clearly.
Nevertheless she shied away from feeding him herself. The croyel’s eyes and fangs held too many threats. And she could not estimate the scale of its desperation, or the extent of its powers and lore. It might cause Jeremiah to grab for her Staff or Covenant’s ring. It might believe that it could raise theurgy and free itself before the krill severed its neck.
She did not want to take the chance.
Over her shoulder, she asked reluctantly, “Liand, will you help me?”
He responded without hesitation. But before he could approach, the croyel snapped viciously, “Keep that whelp away from me.” Fury and fear sawed against each other in Jeremiah’s tone. “If you don’t, I’ll teach you what real pain feels like.”
In the Lost Deep, the monster had attacked Liand rather than Linden. She did not know why—but she heeded the warning.
She stopped the Stonedownor with a gesture. “I forgot. Apparently you scare that thing more than I do.”
“That is strange,” Liand replied tensely. “I pose no threat to a being of such might. Yet the creature’s actions proclaim its fear. I must consider—I do not aspire to a second injury. Yet mayhap—”
Linden shook her head. “Not right now.” She had no intention of risking him. She understood Pahni’s dread too well. “Right now, Jeremiah just needs food.”
“Bhapa? Do you mind?”
The older Cord promptly collected a handful of fresh fruit, a wedge of cheese, and a waterskin, and joined Linden in front of Jeremiah. “I am willing, Ringthane,” he told her. “Have I not said that my life is yours, subject only to the commands of the Manethrall and the will of the Ranyhyn? Ask, and it is done.”
Linden took a deep breath to steady herself, held it for a moment. “In that case,” she said, “I hope you can feed him. I’m afraid to get too close.” Afraid to get too close to her own son. “I don’t know what that thing can do if it gets its hands on my Staff. Or Covenant’s ring.”
Bhapa nodded. “As you say, Ringthane.” His nerves were strung taut, but he did not delay. A step took him to Jeremiah’s side. Carefully he placed a bit of melon in Jeremiah’s mouth.
For a heartbeat or two, the boy appeared unaware of the food on this tongue. Then, abruptly, he closed his mouth. When he had chewed and swallowed, his jaw dropped open again.
He accepted a piece of cheese; and a moment later, a few sections of a tangerine. He let Bhapa tilt his head for water. Soon he was eating as quickly as Bhapa could feed him.
Hating her own weakness, Linden turned her back on her son and went to confront the Ardent.
He still stood in the center of the circle, holding himself erect with difficulty. She had the impression that he was dwindling—that he had already lost more weight—and her heart twisted. In the Lost Deep, he had striven prodigiously to keep her and her companions alive. He had snatched her back from the jaws of She Who Must Not Be Named. This was the result.
Like the Mahdoubt—
But Linden’s needs outweighed her concern for him. She did not know where else to turn for answers. Biting her lip, she compelled herself to ignore his plight.
“Can you explain it?”
The Ardent regarded her anxiously. “Lady?”
“Why is the croyel afraid of Liand? Why not me?”
“Sadly, I have no insight.” By slow degrees, his voice was fading. “In their auguries, the Insequent did not concern themselves with the Stonedownor. And now their prescience has become water, as I endeavored to explain to your companions. I have no more to give, lady. There is no more of me.”
“Then tell me while you still can,” Linden demanded, hating her own selfishness. He was her only chance. “You said that flood changed everything. Now my fate is ‘writ in water.’ But that doesn’t make sense. Breaking open the ceiling wasn’t my idea. I didn’t even know it could break. I sure as hell didn’t know where to break it. I just did what the ur-viles wanted,” her last effort before she succumbed to the bane. “That flood wasn’t really my doing. How did it change anything?”
“Ah, lady,” sighed the Ardent. “My end crowds close about me, and I have no true answer. The Insequent have none. Perhaps the flood was in sooth the ur-viles’ deed rather than yours. They are a mystery in all things, and their strange lore has no equal.
“But if you will accept mere speculation—” He sighed again. “Lady, I have observed that your true strength lies in neither the Staff of Law nor in white gold. Rather it lies in the force of self which attracts aid and allies wherever you are, even from among a-Jeroth’s former servants. You inspired the Mahdoubt’s devoir as you did mine, and that of the Demondim-spawn as well. You do not have such friends”—he gestured around him—“because you wield magicks, but rather because you are Linden Avery the Chosen.
“This power defies both augury and foresight. Assuredly it surpasses the cunning of a-Jeroth, who knows no fealty which is not derived from possession or other mastery.”
Such friends—Appealing to her, the Ardent almost succeeded at making Linden weep. But her heart was too desolate for tears.
Before she could summon a response, he turned away. “Fare you well,” he breathed thinly. “I must depart.”
With a visible effort, he dragged the scraps of his apparel from the sand, unfurled them around him. Briefly his ribbands seemed to drift aimlessly in all directions, as if they had forgotten their purpose. But then he made a small sound like a sob, and they rallied.
Fluttering, they erased him from sight.
After a long moment like an open wound, Covenant looked at Linden. “He’s right, you know,” he said roughly. “Lord Foul is cunning as all hell, but he’s never been able to guess what we’ll do when he has us trapped. No matter how carefully he plots and manipulates, he’s never ready for us.”
But his assertion did not comfort her. It could not: it came from a man who would not let her touch him.
034
Eventually Linden resumed her meal. Her companions did the same. None of them seemed inclined to talk: she certainly was not. If she had the ability to attract aid and allies, the price was too high. The Land and everyone around her would be better served by despair.
To that extent, at least, she was learning to understand High Lord Kevin.
Seeking numbness, she drank too much wine; and soon she began to drift on a current as slow and necessary as the stream. God, she was tired—Every price was too high. While the Giants were still eating, she stretched out on the sand and fell asleep.
During the heat of the afternoon, she awakened briefly, sweating in direct sunlight. For a few moments, she studied the sky, watching for some indication that the weather might change. Then she moved to a patch of shade and settled herself for more sleep.
This time, she did not awaken until she was roused by the stirring of her companions. With her eyes closed, she felt the Staff of Law propped against a rock nearby. Shadows covered her, easing the pressure of the sun: they covered the watercourse and the swath of sand and the lower hillsides. Among the movements of the company, she smelled food again; heard the Giants murmuring to each other. And when she extended her attention, she sensed Covenant’s absence. Claimed by memories and mortality, he wandered among the broken places of his mind; and his features knotted and released as though he were remembering horrors.
If Linden had dreamed, she did not remember it. But she had not forgotten terror and shrieking, or the scurry of centipedes.
After a few moments, she raised her head and sat up to look around. Jeremiah still stood in Galt’s uncompromising grip. The blade of the krill still kept the croyel’s fangs away from her son’s neck. The Cords had gone somewhere, no doubt at Mahrtiir’s command. But the Manethrall stood with Stave, watching Covenant blindly. Mahrtiir seemed impatient, as if he were waiting for a chance to talk to the first Ringthane.
Covenant’s white hair looked stark in the dim shade; so distinct that it almost seemed to glow.
Anele sat in the curve of Galesend’s breastplate, gnawing with apparent contentment on a chunk of cured beef. In contrast, Liand leaned restively on the same rock that supported the Staff, studying Linden sidelong. His black brows arched above his eyes, ominous as the wings of a raven. As she blinked the blur of sleep from her sight, she considered the tension moiling within him, and realized that she recognized it.
When he had determined to offer health-sense to the destitute villagers of First Woodhelven, and again when he had conceived the idea of summoning rain against the skurj, his aura had revealed the same growing apprehension and resolve, the same impulse for self-expenditure.
Linden could guess what he had in mind. But it would be dangerous for him in ways that she did not know how to predict. And she had her own arguments to make first; her own gambits to attempt. She hoped to forestall his intentions until they were no longer needed.
Fortunately he was not ready to announce a decision. Trying to sound casual, he remarked, “Pahni and Bhapa have been sent to seek out firewood, for the night will grow chill when these hills surrender their heat. Yet I do not foresee success. In this severe landscape”—he gestured around him—“they will search far and find little.”
She cleared her throat. “Along the stream?” Surely runoff brought wood as well as water?
“It is possible,” he conceded. “I would welcome the solace of a fire. We have known too much darkness.” Then he shrugged. “But I will not rely upon the prospect.”
Privately relieved, Linden nodded. Reclaiming her Staff, she climbed to her feet.
Her friends had reached the watercourse in a low canyon too wide to be called a ravine. Much of the ground was sand worn down from the hillsides; but boulders of various sizes jutted from the grit. She had slept behind one such thrust of stone: Covenant sat against another. However, the stretch of sand where the company had sat earlier was comparatively clear.
Without haste, several of the Ironhand’s comrades were setting out a second meal. Clearly they had eaten and rested well. Remembering their exhaustion under Mount Thunder, Linden was glad to see that they had regained much of their vitality.
Rime Coldspray gave her a sharp grin. Frostheart Grueburn greeted Linden with a Giantish bow; and Latebirth grinned as well, loosening her longsword in its sheath: a gesture like a promise. The other Swordmainnir concentrated on the Ardent’s bundles.
When Linden turned her gaze to the west, she saw the high cliff of Landsdrop above its foothills. The sun lay behind the precipice, leaving a blaze of late afternoon glory along its age-etched rim. From that angle, it cast its shadow across the whole company, leaving only Branl and Clyme on the hilltops lit.
Soon, she reminded herself, thinking of Jeremiah. She could not delay much longer.
Tightening her grip on herself, she tried to think of a way to unpuzzle the dilemma of Covenant’s absence: a way that did not involve holding him under water, or hitting him, or threatening to heal him. Or possessing him. She had learned to view such deeds with dismay. Like the croyel’s hold over Jeremiah, if with very different intentions, they would violate his essential freedom.
In addition, he had made it abundantly clear that he wanted to remain a leper, broken and numb and floundering. For reasons that surpassed her, he clung to his plight as if it defined him—or protected him.
If she tried to impose her health-sense and healing on him, she might damage him somehow; perhaps cost him some vital memory. Or she might become as lost as he was.
She could not allow herself to forget the warnings of the Ranyhyn again.
Unsure of herself, she went to join Stave and Mahrtiir. The former Master did not appear to be paying any specific attention to Covenant’s fissured sleep; but the Manethrall studied the Unbeliever with sharp intensity.
“We have to reach him somehow,” she said without preamble. “We’re helpless where we are, and this respite can’t last. We have to make some decisions. We can’t do that without him.”
“By your leave, Ringthane,” Mahrtiir replied in a low voice, “I will make the attempt. I have searched the Timewarden as deeply as my senses permit. And I have not forgotten the Ramen tales of his long past. It may be that I am able to rouse him.”
“Please,” Linden said without hesitation. “Almost anything is worth a try.”
Nothing that Mahrtiir did would violate Covenant.
The Manethrall nodded. Around his neck, he still wore his woven garland of amanibhavam. It was shredded and blood-stained, and its yellow blooms had withered, but it had not fallen apart. The fibrous grass had been as tightly braided as rope. Carefully he pinched the nub of a dead blossom from the strand, rubbed it against one palm until it was little more than powder. In spite of its condition, the grass gave off a whetted odor that made Linden’s nose itch.
“Fresh and living,” said Mahrtiir formally, “amanibhavam may be safely consumed only by the Ranyhyn. Yet its virtues are many. According to the tales, the first Ringthane once ate of it, and did not perish. True, he fell into madness. But in the forest of Morinmoss, he was restored. It is my thought that the scent of this grass may awaken him to himself.”
Kneeling beside Covenant, he nudged Covenant’s mouth shut. Then he held the amanibhavam in his palm under Covenant’s nose, and waited.
The effect was swift. Scowling in his sleep, Covenant jerked away, knocked his head against the rock behind him. His eyes sprang open. “Hell and blood,” he breathed. “That woman healed me. I think it killed her.”
In Salva Gildenbourne, Anele had told Linden, Morinmoss redeemed the covenant, the white gold wielder. Apparently the old man had been right. Again.
While she watched, Covenant blinked memories out of his eyes and became present.
Now those days are lost.
“Linden,” he said thickly. “I’m glad you’re all right.” Then he winced. Ruefully he rubbed the back of his head: he almost smiled. “Maybe next time you won’t hit me quite so hard.”
All vastness is forgotten.
An instant later, he scowled again. “No, wait. You didn’t hit me. That was amanibhavam . I remember the smell. And Morinmoss.” Still rubbing his head, he muttered, “I must have done this to myself.”
After her first rush of relief, Linden told herself that she should not have been surprised. On other occasions, she had seen amanibhavam work its wonders. Among the Land’s many blessings, the grass was just one more. The only surprise was that Mahrtiir’s garland retained so much potency.
“I’m glad, too.” Like Covenant, she tried to smile. But she could not. Just don’t touch me. “I don’t enjoy hitting you.” She meant, I need you. Please help me. “And holding you under water feels like overkill.”
She meant, Please love me. In spite of everything.
Covenant’s mouth twisted: a grimace of wry humor. Mutely he extended a hand to Stave. When the Haruchai pulled him to his feet, he said, “We have a lot to talk about.” Then he glanced at the waiting food. “But maybe we should eat first. I can’t believe I’m already hungry again.”
A moment later, he rested a hand on Mahrtiir’s shoulder. “Thank you, Manethrall. I don’t think any of us would survive if Linden didn’t have friends like you.”
The Manethrall responded with a Ramen bow. His bandage concealed his expression, but his aura revealed a fierce glimmer of accomplishment.
As Covenant and then Linden turned to the rest of the company, she saw that all of the Giants were grinning broadly. Several of them chuckled, shaking their heads. And Rime Coldspray acknowledged Covenant and Linden with a sweeping gesture like a flourish, welcoming them to the Insequent’s provisions.
“It is now,” said the Ironhand with muffled humor, “as it has been since we first encountered Linden Giantfriend in Salva Gildenbourne. The brevity of your tales tests our hearing. ‘Overkill,’ forsooth. We must greet such utterances with amusement. When entire lives are thus compressed, their significance named in one mere word—” Clearly she found the notion risible. “Ah, my friends, we must respond with mirth. How otherwise can we suffer your cruelty to yourselves?
“Sadly,” she continued, striving to sound grave, “we have grown accustomed to the haste of folk who measure their span in decades rather than in centuries. Also an intimate acquaintance with peril in many guises has taught us that upon occasions such as the sinking of dromonds and the destruction of worlds, we must accommodate the vagaries of circumstance.”
Around her, Giants chuckled again, and Frostheart Grueburn laughed outright. Apparently they heard a jest in the idea that they were familiar with the destruction of worlds.
“We would prefer,” concluded Coldspray, “to expend the remainder of this season—or of this year—reveling in tales. Nonetheless we are able to recognize an exigency when it tweaks our noses, though we are Giants indeed, and by nature foolish. While the last crisis of the Earth looms, we will endeavor to emulate your concision. When we are fed once more, we will attempt a Giantclave scant enough to appease your impatience.”
With that, the Ironhand bowed flamboyantly, seconded by loud applause from her fellow Swordmainnir.
Linden regarded them, bemused. Strange, she thought, that she had forgotten what Giants were like in high good humor. And stranger still that they were able to laugh and clap so soon after their ordeals. But Covenant advised her in a feigned whisper, “Don’t worry. They’ll calm down. Sometimes they just need to get speeches like that out of their systems.”
To a chorus of laughter and a few whistles, as if he had delivered a particularly telling riposte, he sat down near one of the cloth trays.
Feeling suddenly estranged, like a ghost at a banquet, full of sorrows and fears that no one else recognized, Linden hesitated. Covenant knew Giants better than she did: he seemed to belong with them. And she was unable to match him. She had never been his equal.
For a moment, she considered taking some food and standing apart with Jeremiah. Her son’s emptiness and the croyel’s malevolence and Galt’s distrust suited her mood. But then Liand made the decision for her by taking her arm and pulling her down to sit between him and Covenant.
Sighing, she accepted a cloth tray from Grueburn.
Before long, Pahni and Bhapa came down a hillside into the dusk. Pahni dropped to the sand at Liand’s side and gave him a quick hug while Bhapa informed Mahrtiir that the Cords had failed to find enough wood to sustain even a small fire during the night. Bhapa’s posture suggested that he expected a reprimand; but the Manethrall replied mildly, “Have no concern, Cord. This region is too barren. A fire would have comforted our counsels, but its lack will not sadden us.” He indicated the ready meal with a nod. “Eat and rest while you may.”
Then his manner sharpened. With a familiar edge in his voice, he added, “Remember that you will be Manethrall when I have passed away. You will be denied the proper ceremonies and homage, but you must bear my duties nonetheless. You are better suited to do so than you believe.”
As he spoke, an involuntary shiver ran down Linden’s back. She understood Mahrtiir. He had been told, You’ll have to go a long way to find your heart’s desire. Just be sure you come back. The Manethrall was trying to prepare Bhapa.
Like Pahni, Mahrtiir burned to know what Covenant’s prophecies meant.
The Land needs you.
Bhapa felt the same desire: Linden saw it in his eyes as he bowed to Mahrtiir and seated himself. But he was also afraid. Through Anele, Covenant’s spirit had addressed both Bhapa and Pahni by name. In some ways, you two have the hardest job. You’ll have to survive. And you’ll have to make them listen to you. Linden guessed or feared that this was a reference to the Masters; but she could not imagine what its import might be. From the Lower Land, Revelstone and its guardians were effectively out of reach.
They won’t hear her. She’s already given them too many reasons to feel ashamed of themselves.
When she began eating, she chewed slowly, too troubled to enjoy what she tasted. And she avoided the wine. In retrospect, giving the Masters any reason to feel ashamed of themselves seemed like a mistake; perhaps a fatal one. They were too well acquainted with humiliation, and did not know how to grieve.
Around her, the company ate well, but sparingly, at least by the standard of their previous meal. Being Giants, Coldspray and her comrades took longer to satisfy themselves. But when they had finished the last of the Ardent’s rich wine, they were done. Together they rose to pack away the rest of the supplies.
Having stored the food in its wrappings and bundles, and set aside the bedrolls and waterskins, the Swordmainnir sat down again. As before, they arrayed themselves in a circle. At the same time, Covenant moved to resume his seat leaning against his chosen boulder. As if she saw him as an antagonist, Linden positioned herself opposite him. He had pushed her away: she needed to keep her distance.
Like a shaft of midnight in the thickening gloom, the Staff rested on her crossed legs. Holding hands, Liand and Pahni took places near her: a subtle declaration of allegiance. And Stave stood behind the rock that supported her back. But Mahrtiir and Bhapa sat among the Giants. Once again, the circle included Anele in his protective cradle.
Beyond the company, Jeremiah stood silhouetted by the light of the krill as if he and the croyel were wrapped in their own gloom. The argent glow illuminated Galt’s face, reflected in his flat gaze, but cast the rest of his form into darkness. Streaks of silver reached across the circle, shifting slightly as Jeremiah breathed, until they found Covenant. There they seemed to ignite his white hair; but they left his eyes in shadow.
As far as Linden could see, the Ardent had left the company in an untenable position. They were too far from their foes. And here, or anywhere, they could do nothing to stop the Worm.
“Well, then,” began the Ironhand abruptly. “A Giantclave tailored to the brevity of humans, and to the stoicism of Haruchai. It is an arduous task in all sooth. Yet we must prove worthy of it. Doubtless there are needs and queries nurtured within each of us. How shall we consider them?”
Directly or indirectly, the whole circle seemed to refer Coldspray’s question to Linden. While her friends waited for her, however, Covenant spoke.
“We’re too weak the way we are. Anywhere on the Upper Land, Kevin’s Dirt cramps Linden and her Staff. And as long as there are caesures, she can’t afford to risk the ring.” He did not call it his—or hers. “We need power.
“Kastenessen is responsible for Kevin’s Dirt. He gets its force from She Who Must Not Be Named, but it’s his doing. His and Esmer’s and moksha Raver’s. We have to do something about him.”
“And about Joan,” Linden put in harshly. She needed to be angry. Don’t touch me. Otherwise she could not face him now.
“I know.” Covenant rubbed his cheeks with his foreshortened fingers; ran them through his hair. Dusk cut by slashes of argent emphasized his maimed hands. “And Joan.”
“And Roger,” Linden continued.
“Yes,” Covenant sighed. “My son. I know that, too.”
“Also,” Mahrtiir added, “the Ardent has spoken of Sandgorgons and skurj in rampage against treasured Salva Gildenbourne. And it is his word that the first Ringthane’s son has amassed an army of Cavewights.”
“But how may we counter such evils,” asked Liand, “when we are few and weak, and the distance is great? Surely we cannot journey so far before the coming of the Worm? And can we deny that the Ardent has been our great ally? He has kept hidden his reasons for placing us in this region. Yet surely those reasons exist. Do we not dismiss them at our peril?”
Without hesitation, the Manethrall replied, “We need have no fear of distance. The Ranyhyn will answer when they are summoned. And these Giants have demonstrated beyond all question that they can run. The leagues are an obstacle, aye, but they are not our peremptory concern.”
The thought of Hynyn roused an ache in Linden’s chest. Mahrtiir was right. The horses would answer. And Hynyn’s devotion was a poignant argument against the dire images which had filled Linden’s participation in the horserite.
But the help of the Ranyhyn could wait. They had cautioned her—and she had failed to heed them too often.
With iron in her voice, Rime Coldspray was saying, “Our peremptory concern is with the Worm of the World’s End. By that measure, both Kastenessen and Thomas Covenant’s former mate are of small import, as are mere Sandgorgons and skurj. And in the matter of the Worm, we must give close consideration to the insights imparted by Anele. Though his madness is evident, there can be no doubt of his gifts.”
Covenant shook his head. But if he had any reservations, he did not express them.
Thinking about the old man, Linden winced. Sprawled on obsidian at one foot of the Hazard, the son of Sunder and Hollian had articulated the mourning of the mountain’s oldest rock.
Even here it is felt. Written. Lamented. The rousing of the Worm.
“We are Giants,” murmured Cirrus Kindwind, massaging the stump of her forearm, “lovers of both Sea and Stone. We well recall the old man’s words. He spoke of the Worm’s compelled hunger, as necessary as death is to life.”
When it has consumed lesser sustenance, it must come to the Land.
“Aye,” assented the Ironhand. “And in his revelation lay no scope for uncertainty.”
Here it will discover its final nourishment.
“I remember,” Covenant muttered darkly. “We all remember. It’s not the kind of thing anybody forgets.”
If it is not forbidden, it will have Earthpower. The very blood of life from the most potent and private recesses of the Earth’s heart. Like the tolling of the world’s last heartbeats, Anele had pronounced its doom. When the Worm of the World’s End drinks the Blood of the Earth, its puissance will consume the Arch of Time.
“Well, then,” repeated Coldspray grimly. “If it is remembered, then it lacks only explication. Our comprehension of ‘the Blood of the Earth’ does not suffice. We have no tales of such fell mysteries. And Linden Giantfriend has revealed little more than the skeleton of her sojourn in the Land’s past. Since we must oppose or forbid the Worm, we would know more of its ‘final nourishment.’ ”
Covenant ducked his head. Recalling Roger and Jeremiah under Melenkurion Skyweir, Linden felt too much turmoil to answer. None of this was relevant to Jeremiah or the croyel. But Stave replied with his usual stoicism.
“Only one Haruchai has borne witness to the Blood of the Earth and lived, the Bloodguard Bannor. Thus our awareness of EarthBlood is not limited to the overheard converse of the Lords.”
Linden seemed to see memories of Bannor flit like spectres across Covenant’s darkened gaze. But he did not interrupt Stave.
Characteristically terse, Stave told the Giants what Linden and Covenant—and, indirectly, Liand and the Ramen—already knew. He spoke of Earthpower in its purest and most concentrated form: magic so potent that it conferred the Power of Command. And he described what his people knew of its hazards.
“Therefore High Lord Damelon Giantfriend deemed it too perilous for any use. Such absolute might exceeds mortal conception. Any Command outruns both foresight and control. It may prove ruinous to the one who utters it.”
“In sum,” growled the Ironhand, “you deem that we must not seek out this EarthBlood and Command the Worm to resume its slumber.”
Stave shrugged. “If Earthpower is the Worm’s food, then the Worm is itself Earthpower. Can Earthpower suppress Earthpower? Will you Command the cessation of all life and death?”
For a long moment, the company was silent. Linden felt distress skirling among her companions, sensed their thwarted desire for comprehension. They needed to know what to do. None of them were people who could remain passive in the face of calamity. But they had no outlet for their passion and resolve.
And Linden could not guide them. She could speak only for herself—and she had already chosen her immediate path.
When no one else responded to Stave’s challenge, Liand ventured hesitantly, “Mayhap the insight we require lies elsewhere in Anele’s utterance. Did he not state that the Worm will bring destruction ‘If it is not opposed by the forgotten truth of stone and wood—’? What is this truth?”
Covenant’s reply was a grimace. “Beats the hell out of me. If I ever knew, it’s gone now. There’s just too much. I’ve lost most of it. And every time I come back, I lose more.”
Sternly Mahrtiir said, “Yet other aspects of Anele’s pronouncement invite consideration as well. He did not speak only of ‘forgotten truth’ and EarthBlood. He also urged ‘forbidding.’ ”
“The Forestals knew how to do that,” Covenant admitted. “They made the Colossus of the Fall. The Interdict against the Ravers. But it failed eventually.” His frown kept his eyes hidden from the krill. Only his transubstantiated hair held the light. Over the centuries, the Colossus itself had crumbled. “Too many trees were slaughtered. Every one that fell made the Forestals weaker.
“And that brings us back to power. Even Berek wasn’t strong enough to do what they did. Before Kevin’s Lore was lost, the Lords used what they called a Word of Warning. But their version of forbidding was trivial compared to the Colossus.”
All vastness is forgotten.
“If the knowledge endures among the Insequent,” Stave stated with a hint of grimness, “the Ardent did not speak of it.”
Frostheart Grueburn lifted her head. “Doubtless the Elohim possess that which we lack.”
“And you expect them to answer?” countered Covenant. “If you can think of a way to ask them?” He shook his head. “They’re too busy running for their lives. They probably won’t even notice us unless we do something that scares them worse than the Worm—”
He left the obvious futility of the idea hanging. According to the tales that Linden had heard in various forms, the Forestals had created their Interdict by imprisoning an Elohim within the Colossus. Now, she felt sure, Infelice’s people were done with self-sacrifice. They were already dying.
“Then,” Rime Coldspray said like a growl, “since we have named the Elohim, I will add one more to our litany of concerns.
“The Swordmainnir do not forget Lostson Longwrath, who remains abroad in the Land, driven by purposes which we do not comprehend. With the resurrection of Thomas Covenant, the geas inflicted upon him by the Elohim has been thwarted. Has he now been released? Does rage still compel him to insanity and murder? We are Giants, and his people. We cannot forget him.”
Longwrath had tried to kill Linden. More than once. But what could the Elohim possibly gain by her death now?
A moment later, Manethrall Mahrtiir rose to his feet. Impatiently he stepped into the circle. Through his teeth, he said, “This accounting of perils accomplishes naught. At one time, a measure of guidance was proffered to us. In the absence of other counsel, we must rely upon it. Will you speak of that, Timewarden?”
Covenant flinched. “What do you mean?”
Linden winced as well. She knew what was coming.
“On the plateau of Lord’s Keep,” Mahrtiir stated, “you addressed those of us who are the Ringthane’s first companions. In Anele’s voice, you delivered prophecies and counsel. We have forgotten none of your words, yet their import eludes us.
“Will you shed some light upon them now, that we may see our paths before us?”
Again Covenant scrubbed his unfeeling hands over his face as if to remind himself that his palms and the remains of his fingers still existed. Briefly he avoided the Manethrall’s bandaged scrutiny. Then he raised his head, met the stare of Mahrtiir’s empty eye sockets. Compassion or regret blurred his gaze.
“I’m sorry. I don’t remember. And I’m afraid to try. Sometimes digging into the past makes me slip. When that happens, I don’t know how to bring myself back.”
At once, the Manethrall retorted, “Amanibhavam will restore you.”
“Sure,” Covenant answered like a curse. “And whenever you do something like that, another piece of what I’m trying to remember disappears. Permanently, as far as I can tell. Then there’s less of me, and I can’t recover what I was.”
He appeared to bear the attention of the company as long as he could. Then he punched his fists against each other.
“See?” he snapped. “This is why I shouldn’t have said anything while I was still part of the Arch. It’s why I didn’t say anything until I was brought back to life. It makes you look at me like you think I know what to do.
“But I’m human now. As fallible as anybody. And I haven’t lived—” He groaned in frustration or protest. “I haven’t experienced the same things you have. I haven’t learned what you’ve learned. Just watching it happen doesn’t teach the same lessons.
“Hellfire and bloody damnation!” he cried suddenly. “Have we been through all this”—the reach of his arms seemed to imply the world—“without convincing you unearned knowledge is dangerous?”
He glared around the circle, defying anyone to contradict him. When no one replied, he continued in a low voice like the rasp of a file, “Even if I remembered absolutely everything, I couldn’t make your decisions for you. And I couldn’t explain things. I’m not qualified because I haven’t lived through it. Until you figured it out for yourselves—whatever it is—the only thing I could possibly do is mislead you.
“I need to be a leper. I need my mind the way it is. I don’t have any other defenses.”
Don’t touch me. I’m afraid of what I’m becoming.
While Linden twisted her hands together and chewed her lower lip, the Ironhand let the silence of the company accumulate until it seemed as dense as the advancing twilight. Then she pronounced as if she were settling an argument, “We are Giants, acquainted with the hazards of unearned knowledge. And if we were not, Linden Giantfriend’s fleshless tale is rife with admonishments.
“In one matter, the Manethrall has spoken sooth. Belaboring our many ignorances, we achieve naught. The time has come for trust, both in ourselves and in her whose heart has piloted us to our present Sargasso.
“Linden Giantfriend, we will gladly hear any word that you choose to offer.”
As one, Linden’s companions turned toward her as though she had the authority of an oracle.
She wanted to hide her face. More than that, she wanted to cry out, What makes you think I have the answer? Do you like what I’ve accomplished so far? But such plaints were as useless as self-pity. And she had long ago surrendered her right to shrug decisions and consequences aside. From the Verge of Wandering to Andelain, she had persuaded or coerced her friends to follow her. She could not pretend now that she had not already determined her own path.
In a small voice, she answered, “I can’t tell any of you what to do. I’ve made too many mistakes, and you didn’t deserve any of them. I can only tell you what I’m going to do.”
She took a shuddering breath, held it until she thought that she might be able to speak steadily. Then she said, “Sometimes I think that I learned everything I know in emergency rooms. I’ve been taught to take one problem at a time. And to start with the one that’s right in front of me.
“We have Jeremiah now. He’s right here. And it’s obvious that he’s important. I’m going to start with him.”
Did the Staff of Law wield the wrong kind of power to extinguish the croyel without killing her son? Fine. She still had her health-sense, unfettered now by Kevin’s Dirt. And if it did not suffice, it might nonetheless enable her to make some use of Covenant’s ring.
Kasreyn of the Gyre had believed of white gold that Its imperfection is the very paradox of which the Earth is made, and with it a master may form perfect works and fear nothing. She had no reason to think that he was wrong.
“First,” she murmured, “I’m going to get more sleep. Then I’m going to do everything I can think for Jeremiah.” Knowing that the croyel could hear her, she added more sharply, “If I’m strong enough to rouse the Worm of the World’s End, I ought to be able to at least scare that damn monster.”
“There!” Covenant’s tone seemed to express satisfaction and alarm simultaneously. “One of us has a plan. First things first. That makes sense to me. The Ironhand is right. It’s time for some trust.
“You heard the Ardent. Somehow she’s changed everything. Even Lord almighty Foul doesn’t know what’s going to happen now. And maybe she actually can save Jeremiah. Maybe he’s the only one of us who has to be saved.
“In any case—” He spread his hands. “She’s the only one who could have brought us this far.”
Because she had friends—
Linden recognized an undercurrent in his voice; a hint of complex intentions or desires. An ulterior motive? A specific hope or need which he kept to himself? She did not know—or other implications had more significance for her.
He had given her his approval. Again. Nevertheless she bit into her lip as if he had just pronounced sentence on her.