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

10.
The Pure One and the High God
059
From the ravine where he had left Linden and her companions, Thomas Covenant rode the Harrow’s destrier south and east into a region of denuded hills interspersed with shallow vales of gravel and dirt.
Clyme and Branl guarded him, Mhornym on his left, Naybahn on his right. And the Ranyhyn set a hard pace, apparently disregarding the limitations of Covenant’s mount. The destrier was a heavy warhorse, but it had been bred for endurance as well as power and fury. Covenant sensed that it would strive to emulate its Earthpowerful companions until its heart burst. And by some means, Mhornym and Naybahn seemed to impose their will on the beast, stifling its instinctive loathing for an unfamiliar rider; transforming its trained battle-frenzy into speed. While it could, the horse matched the fluid gallop of the Ranyhyn.
Protected by Ranyhyn and the Humbled, Covenant rode toward his future as if he were absent from himself; as if he were conscious only of other people, other places, other times. But he had not slipped into one of the flaws that riddled his memories. Nor was he distracted by the imponderable prospect of confronting Joan and turiya Raver and the skest. Instead he traveled among the hills like an abandoned icon of himself because he was too full of grief and dread to regard the landscape or his companions or his own purpose.
Some distant part of him felt grateful for the Harrow’s saddle and stirrups, the Harrow’s reins. They steadied him: he was a poor rider. In addition, he was vaguely glad that Kevin’s Dirt did not cover the Lower Land. He was already too numb, too inattentive; and Kastenessen’s dire brume would aggravate his leprosy. But such details did not deflect his sorrow.
He was galled by the way that he had left Linden; by the manner in which he had refused her.
He knew how Clyme and Branl felt about her. He understood why they distrusted her. But he also understood why she distrusted them. And he was not convinced that she had misjudged the Masters, or that her risks and concealments were mistakes, or that her determination to resurrect him had been misguided. Both in death and in life, he had watched her refusal to forgive harden toward despair—and still he believed in her. In spite of everything, he loved her exactly as she was. Every pain, every extravagance, every compromised line of her beauty: he loved them all. Without them, she would have been less than herself. Less than the mother Jeremiah needed. Less than the woman Covenant himself wanted. Less than the savior the Land required.
Nevertheless he had told her the exact truth when he had pushed her away. He had lost too much of himself. He feared what he was becoming—or what he might have to become.
That was why he had distanced himself from her, why he had kept himself apart from her clear yearning, why he had ridden away without so much as a kind farewell. He could not profess his love—or accept hers—without making it sound like a promise; and he had no reason to believe that he would be able to keep that troth. If Joan did not succeed at killing him, he might return from facing her in a condition which he had not anticipated, and which Linden would no longer recognize. He might find that he had become abhorrent to her; or to himself.
There was indeed a storm brewing in him, and it was dread. Resurrected, his dilemma represented that of the Land, and of the whole Earth; the plight of Linden and everyone he cared about. He was afraid because he had too much to lose.
Long ago, he had told Linden, There’s only one way to hurt a man who’s lost everything . Give him back something broken. In Andelain, he had done that to her. But now he knew a deeper truth. Even broken things were precious. Like Jeremiah, they could become more precious than life. And they could still be taken away.
He was more afraid of making a promise to Linden that he could not keep than he was of Joan.
And he had another reason for treating Linden severely. Any promise—even an implied one—might encourage her to insist on accompanying him. To choose him instead of her son.
Perhaps everything would have been different if he could have explained why her desire to help him face Joan would effectively doom Jeremiah. But he had no explanation. He had told her, You have other things to do, but he had no real idea what they were. He only knew that they were crucial. They may have been more important than his own need to confront Joan.
It was conceivable that he could not remember them because he had never known. Even from his perspective within the Arch, the future may have been undefined; less certain than it was to the Elohim, whose fluid relationship with time confused linear distinctions. His mortality made it easy for him to believe that he had never possessed any prescient insight into the Land’s need.
Then why was he certain that Linden’s support against Joan would prove fatal to Jeremiah—and therefore to the Land as well? He had no answer. Yet he was sure of it. And his only justification, although it sounded contradictory, was that he trusted her. He trusted her more than he trusted himself.
He trusted the implications of her devotion to her son.
Still the ache of leaving her forlorn seemed to consume his heart. During his participation in the Arch of Time, he had witnessed so much loss and wrong that eventually he had imagined himself inured to ordinary woe. But now—Ah, now he acknowledged that his share of immortality had blunted his perceptions of individual human anguish. Across the ages, his sense of scale had changed to accommodate vaster possibilities.
Watching Linden’s struggles, first to retrieve the Staff of Law, then to survive Roger and the croyel, then to reach Andelain, he had understood her pain. But he had also seen beyond it. He had known far more than she did about what was at stake, and about how her actions might affect the Earth. Now he was human again: he could no longer see past his own limitations. Like every creature that died when its time was done, he could only live in his circumscribed present.
This was the truth of being mortal, this imprisonment in the strictures of sequence. It felt like a kind of tomb.
In his earlier state, he had recognized that this prison was also the only utile form of freedom. Another contradiction: strictures enabled as much as they denied. The Elohim were ineffectual precisely because they had so few constraints. Linden was capable of so much because her inadequacies walled her on all sides.
Now, however, he had to take that perception on faith.
But there were other truths as well, or other aspects of the same truth. His imprisonment had its own demands: it insisted upon them. And one of them was his body. The flesh which reified his spirit was both needy and exigent. He could only spend a certain amount of time in grief before the jarring of his inexpert horsemanship demanded precedence. The gait of the Ranyhyn was as smooth as water: the destrier’s was not. Already his joints were beginning to hurt. And when he finally realized that he was sitting too stiffly to endure a long ride, he also became aware that he was thirsty. The first premonitions of dehydration throbbed in his temples, and his tongue felt so dry and thick that he could hardly swallow.
Blinking to compensate for what may have been hours of neglect, Covenant peered around; tried to identify where he was.
He should have known this region. Hell, it probably even had a name. But that was only one of a myriad—no, damnation, a myriad myriad myriad—things which he had forgotten.
The hills were gone: he had lost them somewhere. Between Mhornym and Naybahn, his mount was pounding heavily across bare dirt thick with splinters and blades of flint. The beast’s hooves were iron-shod: that provided a measure of protection. But how the Ranyhyn avoided hurting themselves—Yet they flowed ahead, sweeping the ground behind them, apparently impervious to the hazards of the terrain.
As far as he could tell with his numbed health-sense, all of his mount’s fierceness was focused on endurance. But it was laboring hard. Eventually, inevitably, the beast would begin to founder. Then—
Then what? He had no notion. He had brought no water with him; no food; nothing for the horses. He had made no plans. In fact, he had given no thought to anything except getting away from Linden and heading toward Joan before his courage failed.
They’re Ranyhyn, for God’s sake. He had said that. They’ll think of something.
He had left himself no choice except to assume that Naybahn and Mhornym would compensate for his improvidence.
He rubbed at his forehead. For some reason, it had begun to itch: a reminder of falling.
“Hellfire,” he mused to himself. “This damn mortality—It’s enough to humble a pile of rocks.”
But he did not realize that he had muttered the words aloud until Branl asked over the rumble of hoofbeats, “Ur-Lord?”
Shaking his head, Covenant blinked at the Master. “Huh?”
Branl rode as if he were one with Naybahn; as if their disparate strengths had merged. His flat gaze was fixed on Covenant. “You spoke of mortality, and of being humbled.”
“Oh, that.” Covenant dismissed the subject. Jarred mercilessly in his seat, he found speech difficult. “I was just thinking.”
He wanted to tell Branl that he needed water. But before he could frame a request, the Haruchai observed, “Yet with every word and deed, ur-Lord, you demonstrate that you comprehend neither the Masters nor the Humbled.”
Oh, good, Covenant sighed. Just what we need. Clearly there was something nagging at Branl and Clyme; something at which they had taken umbrage.
Past the thickness of his tongue, he mumbled, “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. You don’t like the way I forced you to let Linden heal you. You don’t approve.”
Branl nodded. “Nor do we approve of your forbearance toward Linden Avery, when all of her actions conduce to ruin. You do not ask humility of us. You inflict humiliation.
“We are Haruchai. The distinction has been made plain to us. In earlier incarnations, you did not seek to diminish us. Since your return to life, you have done so repeatedly.”
Don’t you think, Covenant wanted to retort, there could be more than one reason why I act this way? Have you considered that maybe you’ve changed as much as I have? But he was too thirsty to welcome an argument. Soon he would be too hungry.
Stifling sarcasm, he said, “Then explain it to me. If you think I don’t understand, give me some help.”
Perhaps the justifications of the Humbled would distract him until the Ranyhyn found water.
Branl nodded. “I will speak only of imposed healing,” he began. “It is bootless to belabor slights long past recall.
“Ur-Lord, we are the Humbled. By skill and long combat, we have won the honor of embodying the refusal of our people to countenance humiliation. That we live and die does not humble us. It demands neither humility nor humiliation because we make no compromise with failure. We do what we can, and we accept the outcome. If our strength and skill do not suffice, we are content to bear the cost in pain and death. Indeed, the cost of our efforts provides the substance of our lives, and by our contentment we confirm our worth.
“When you demand that we endure Linden Avery’s healing, you deny our acceptance. You proclaim us unworthy of our lives.”
“Hell and blood,” Covenant growled under his breath. Haven’t you realized yet that everything isn’t about you? But he gritted his teeth, trying to keep his irritation to himself.
Impassively Branl continued, “If you assert that humility necessitates an acknowledgment that we are not equal to all things, as the Elohim describe themselves, I reply that we are indeed humble in our acceptance. With Clyme and lost Galt, I am our humility made flesh. But if you avow that humility requires relief from the consequence of being less than equal to all things, I reply that you speak of humiliation, not of humility. Any abrogation of the outcome of our deeds diminishes us.
“If you wish it, ur-Lord, I will describe the self-denigration implicit in Cail’s return to the Land. That was the failure for which our ancestors judged him. They did not denounce his seduction by the merewives, but rather his acceptance of rescue from the cost of his surrender, and his insistence that in his place his kinsmen would have acted as he did.
“Or if you wish it, I will speak of Stave—”
“No,” Covenant interrupted gruffly. He had been goaded too far. “Please don’t.” He hated the way that Cail had been repudiated. He did not want to hear any accusation against Stave. “Sometimes you people make me crazy.” Like Stave, Covenant had a son. “You’ve accepted gifts, haven’t you? From High Lord Kevin, if not from anybody else. What’s so wrong about accepting a gift from Linden?”
“First,” Branl answered without hesitation, “our ancestors accepted no gift from the Landwaster until they had determined how they would repay his largesse, with the Vow by which Haruchai became Bloodguard. Thus they preserved the import of their lives. Second, his gifts were not imposed. The freedom of refusal was not denied to our ancestors as it was to us.”
“Then don’t blame Linden,” Covenant retorted. “Your grievance is with me, not her. And I didn’t deny you anything. I just told you what I was going to do if you refused. You could have accepted that cost.
“If Joan doesn’t kill us,” he promised, “you’ll get your chance to repay Linden. Or me, if you judge me the way you judge her.”
When he squinted ahead, he saw the terrain changing. Beyond the flint, sandstone and shale gathered into mounds like barrows or glacial moraines. He had the impression that huge creatures had been buried there: buried, or plowed under by warfare. But he did not try to remember the forces which had shaped that landscape. He did not want to fall into the past again.
As the horses pounded toward the mounds, the Humbled regarded him steadily. “Still you do not comprehend us, ur-Lord,” Branl observed. “It is not without cause that you have been named the Unbeliever.”
Apparently unwilling to let the matter drop, he took a different approach. “The Ardent has assured us that the Cords Bhapa and Pahni have been conveyed toward Revelstone, where they will strive to sway the Masters. But the Masters will not heed them. Cord Pahni’s desire for the Stonedownor’s resurrection is abhorrent to us. She has beseeched Linden Avery to demean his death by unmaking the outcome of his life. Thus her every word will be tainted by her craving for the Stonedownor’s humiliation, which she misnames love. No Master would hold him in such low esteem. He was courage in life. Why, then, should he be denied the courage of his death? Is that not false honor?”
Covenant rubbed his forehead again. Damnation! Branl’s pronouncements seemed to aggravate the itching of the old wound. The Humbled had misjudged Pahni: that was obvious. Was it possible that Branl and Clyme and all of the Masters were unforgiving of loss and failure because they refused to grieve? Because they equated grief with humiliation? If so, then of course their only response to bereavement would be repudiation.
But Covenant had no intention of debating Pahni with Branl and Clyme. Instead he admitted sourly, “That’s the Law.” The Law of Death. The Law of Life. By that standard, Covenant himself was inherently false. A disease upon the body of the world. “Life depends on death. But there are other things to consider.”
The severity of the Humbled ignored the wonders of the Land; the possibility of miracles.
Again Branl asked, “Ur-Lord?”
Covenant did not respond. At the boundary between flint and sandstone, the Ranyhyn veered unexpectedly to the west, guiding the destrier between them. While Covenant tried to relax in the saddle, the horses trotted to a halt at a clear spring hidden by a fold in the ground. The spring’s pool was little more than an arm span across. From there, the water flowed away along a minor gully like a scratch in the dirt. But at the sides of the slow rill, grasses grew, punctuated by a few clumps of aliantha.
By damn, Covenant breathed to himself. Speaking of wonders—
At once, he flung his aching body down from his mount, staggered when his boots hit the ground, caught his balance. Beside the destrier’s avid muzzle, he knelt at the edge of the pool and pushed his whole face into the water to drink.
Branl and Clyme also dismounted. While Naybahn and Mhornym drank, the Humbled scooped a little water into their mouths, then picked and ate a few treasure-berries. But the Ranyhyn appeared to disdain the grass. Moving aside, they left the Harrow’s charger to crop as much provender as it needed.
When Covenant was satisfied, he scrubbed his face in the pool, splashed water onto the back of his neck. Then he gathered and ate enough fruit to sustain him, cursing at the awkwardness of his truncated fingers. Still he said nothing. When Clyme and Branl were mounted again, he hauled his trembling muscles up into the destrier’s saddle.
Concentrate, he instructed himself. Don’t fight it. Long ago, he had ridden across the Land with Lord Mhoram, Saltheart Foamfollower, and the quest for Berek’s Staff of Law. He needed to remember how to relax in his seat. If he did not, his mount’s galloping would batter him until he felt dismembered.
As the horses began to clatter among the barrows or moraines, heading generally southeastward, he returned to the challenge of arguing with his companions.
Unable to think of a graceful way to begin, he said brusquely, “You’re both maimed. You fought long and hard to become halfhands. If I remember, you did it because you wanted to be like me.” Why else had the Humbled swallowed their judgments of Linden and Jeremiah? Why else had they accepted healing so that they could accompany him? “What does that mean to you? Why do the Masters need halfhands?”
Now it was Clyme who answered. “Unbeliever, in you we have found the highest exemplar of ourselves. More, we have found our counter to humiliation. Twice you have confronted Corruption, and twice prevailed. These are deeds which no Haruchai has equaled. Others who made the attempt were self-betrayed to their dooms.
“Of necessity, therefore, we have considered how it transpires that you who are weak succeed where we who are strong fail. And we have concluded that your victories rest upon a degree or quality of acceptance which once surpassed the Haruchai. You do not merely accept your own weakness, defying common conceptions of strength and power. You accept also the most extreme consequences of your frailty, daring even the utter ruin of the Earth in your resolve to oppose Corruption. You cling to your intent when your defeat is certain.
“In you, ur-Lord,” Clyme stated, “we have seen that such absolute acceptance of both your purpose and your weakness is mighty against all evil. We have seen the Land twice redeemed. And we aspire to the same willingness, the same triumph. Knowing that they cannot prevail, the Haruchai have become the Masters of the Land. For the same reason, we have won the role of the Humbled, to embody the high mission of our people. Thus we give answer to Corruption, and to all who demean us.”
Comfortable on Mhornym’s back, Branl echoed Clyme with a nod.
Inwardly Covenant winced. He saw more than one fallacy in Clyme’s argument. Obviously Clyme gave him more credit than he deserved; but there was another.
The Masters and the Humbled were still trying to prove themselves—and that was never going to work. Not against Lord Foul. It was the same mistake that Korik, Sill, and Doar had made: the same mistake disguised in different language. The same mistake that had caused the Haruchai to become the Bloodguard. Their fixation on humiliation revealed the truth.
So the whole world is going to die. Let it. Knowing that we’ve accepted the consequences of our actions is good enough for us. Nothing matters except how we feel about ourselves.
Lord Foul probably ate that kind of thinking for breakfast, and laughed his head off. No wonder he had told Linden that the Masters already served him.
But Covenant could not say such things to Clyme and Branl. Stave might understand him: the Humbled would not.
He let that one fallacy pass. For a few moments, he concentrated on trying to loosen his muscles so that his body would flex with the destrier’s movements. As he did so, however, the wrapped krill dug into his abdomen. With an exasperated wrench, he moved the dagger to the side of his waist. Then he set about contradicting the Humbled.
“You’re forgetting something. I’ve always had help. I never would have reached Foul’s Creche on my own. Foamfollower had to carry me.” If the jheherrin had not rescued him—if Foamfollower and Bannor had not distracted Elena—if a nameless woman in Morinmoss had not healed him—“And I still would have failed if Foamfollower hadn’t given me exactly what I needed,” if the last of the Unhomed had not revealed the courage, the sheer greatness of spirit, to laugh in the face of despair.
“Without Linden and the First and Pitchwife, I would never have made it to Kiril Threndor. Without Linden, I couldn’t have forced myself to hand over my ring. Without Vain and Findail, she couldn’t have created a new Staff. Without the First and Pitchwife, her Staff would have been lost.
“Sure,” Covenant rasped, “Lord Foul was defeated. Twice. But I didn’t do it. We did it. Foamfollower and I. Linden and I. The First and Pitchwife and Sunder and Hollian.
“So tell me again,” he demanded. “What’s so wrong about accepting gifts you haven’t earned?”
But he did not wait for an answer. “In any case,” he muttered, “dying is easy. Anybody can do it. Living is hard.”
And living was untenable without forgiveness.
In silence, Clyme and Branl conveyed the impression that they were consulting with each other. For a little while, Covenant allowed himself to hope that they had heard him; that for his sake they had lowered their defenses. But then Branl turned to him with an unmistakable glint of disapprobation in his gaze.
“Is it your belief, ur-Lord, that we must countenance humiliation? That we must subjugate ourselves to powers beyond our ken, and to choices which we have not affirmed?”
Hellfire, Covenant thought. Hellfire and bloody damnation.
“Never mind.” Swallowing his vexation, he shrugged. “This isn’t getting us anywhere. Think about it another way.
“Down at the bottom, your accusation against Linden is, ‘Good cannot be accomplished by evil means.?? Breaking Laws is an evil means. Concealing her intentions is an evil means. So of course she has to be stopped. You couldn’t block the Fall she used to get to Revelstone. You couldn’t make her tell the truth about what she wanted in Andelain. You couldn’t get past Stave and Mahrtiir and the Ranyhyn when you realized what she had in mind. But I should have let you stop her when she first resurrected me.
“Well, sure,” he went on before the Humbled could respond. “That makes sense. There’s only one problem. There are always evil means. Nobody is ever as pure as you want them to be. You aren’t. I’m not. We all have some kind of darkness in us. So the only way to avoid evil means is to do nothing. And the only way to do nothing—to be innocent—is to be powerless,” which in effect was what the Masters had chosen for the Land. “If you have power, any kind of power at all, it always finds a way to express itself. Somehow.
“But you aren’t powerless.” Passion mounted in his tone. He did not try to restrain it. “Practically everything you’ve done proves it. You don’t trust how people use Earthpower—and you have good reason. So you’ve been trying to keep the Land innocent by making everybody else impotent. And you’ve succeeded. Liand was a perfect example.
“For all I know, you thought you were giving him a gift.
“That much, at least, I understand.” Covenant kept his gaze on the horizon, surveying reminders of devastation. “The first time I came to the Land, I almost turned myself inside out trying to be innocent.” After what he had done to Lena—The memory still made him cringe. “What I finally accepted wasn’t being weak, and it sure as hell wasn’t the consequences of my actions. What I accepted was evil means. Guilt. The crime of power.
“But there’s one part of all this you don’t seem to understand.” He was on the verge of shouting. “The thing that makes Earthpower terrible is the same thing that makes it wonderful. Even if innocence is a good thing, which I doubt, you’ve confused it with ignorance.
“That’s what’s wrong with being the Masters of the Land. You wanted to stop something terrible, so you stopped everything. Including everything that might have been wonderful. You’ve even stopped yourselves from being the kind of force that could have changed the world. And you’ve ensured nobody else changes it. Hell, you’ve subjugated everybody to choices they didn’t make.
“If you want to be innocent, that’s your right. But you’ve been so determined to prevent another Kevin Landwaster, you’ve closed the door on another Berek Halfhand, or another Damelon Giantfriend, or another Loric Vilesilencer.
“Hellfire.” Gradually Covenant’s vehemence subsided. The impassivity of the Humbled seemed to imply that words were useless. “Sunder and Hollian could have started a new Council of Lords. The Land could have had more Mhorams, more Prothalls, more Callindrills, more Hyrims. All you had to do was tell people what you know instead of keeping everything secret.”
Now Clyme and Branl were staring straight at Covenant; and he did not need health-sense to recognize their ire. The hearts of the Haruchai were tinder. Beneath their studied dispassion, anger burned like a bonfire.
“You denounce us,” Branl asserted as if he were certain of Covenant’s meaning. “Do you seek to spurn our companionship? Do you desire our enmity?”
“Hell, no!” Covenant wanted to rage at the sky in simple frustration. “I need you. And I respect you.” With an effort that made him ache, he restrained himself. The intransigence of the Humbled filled him with loneliness. “I know I don’t sound like it, but I respect the hell out of you. If I were in your place, I might have made different decisions a long time ago, but that doesn’t stop me from wishing I could be more like you.
“If I were, I wouldn’t be so damn terrified of my ex-wife.”
And perhaps he would have been brave enough to assure Linden that he loved her.
To his surprise, his reply appeared to content his companions. Their wrath faded as they looked away. For several moments, they rode mutely at his sides. Then Clyme asked as if he were not changing the subject, “Have you considered, ur-Lord, how you will contest your former mate? Ruled by turiya Herem, she wields wild magic and Falls. And we have cause to believe that she is warded by skest. Also we are concerned that Corruption may summon other forces to her defense.
“With the aid of the Ranyhyn—if the terrain permits—we may perhaps suffice against the skest. But against Falls, we cannot shield you. And we have no lore to gauge the uses of the krill.
“You have surrendered your rightful ring. How, then, will you oppose her?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Covenant did not want to dwell on Joan. He was not ready. To prevent the Humbled from insisting, he added, “You have one thing I don’t. You remember everything—and you can hold on to it all at once. In fact, you make it look easy. Maybe that’ll save us.”
The Masters seemed to discuss Covenant’s remark privately before Branl answered, “Ur-lord, we are able to contain our memories because we do not do so alone. Across the generations of the Haruchai, we have learned together to accommodate an ever-expanding recall. But we cannot gift our communion to others. We lack that power or craft. That we hear and answer the silent speech of Sandgorgons results from the remnants of samadhi Sheol within them, not from any outreach of our own minds.
“We are cognizant of your straits. The vastness of Time exceeds you. But we know not how to aid you.”
Grinding his teeth, Covenant reminded himself again to relax. “Don’t worry about it,” he repeated more severely. “One of us will think of something. And if we don’t—” He sighed. “The Ranyhyn still know what they’re doing.”
He had to believe that. He thought that he knew where to find Joan; but he had no notion what he would do when he reached her. He was only sure that she was his responsibility—and that he would never return to claim Linden if he did not first find an answer to Joan’s excruciation.
060
Barrows and shale seemed to stretch indefinitely into Covenant’s future and the Land’s past: a wracked wasteland like a battlefield where armies beyond counting had slaughtered each other for centuries. Yet eventually that region gave way to a wide sheet of old lava. Beyond it, the riders found a beaten plain webbed with gullies. Nonetheless Naybahn and Mhornym continued to discover water and forage; occasional aliantha. Between them, they kept Covenant fed and his mount running.
Later they came to a protracted series of ridges that lay athwart the south like fortifications, obstructing the course of the Ranyhyn. However, Naybahn and Mhornym surmounted each line of hills by angling away from Landsdrop to more gradual slopes in the east.
By Covenant’s reckoning, each ridge nudged his company closer to the boundaries of the Sarangrave.
By degrees, the Ranyhyn turned more directly toward the Sunbirth Sea. According to Clyme, they were passing south of the Sarangrave’s verge. If Mhornym and Naybahn held to this heading, their path would skim the northern edge of the Shattered Hills.
With every league, Covenant became more confident that he knew where the Ranyhyn were taking him. Somewhere among the broken stone and ravaged cliffs of Foul’s Creche, he would find Joan. Why else had the Ardent striven to convey everyone as far as he could in this direction? And if Ridjeck Thome were indeed their goal, the horses had chosen the safest route; probably the quickest. Any other approach would force them into the jumbled maze of the Shattered Hills: an area fraught with hazards, apt for ambush.
How much farther? Covenant wondered. At this pace? Assuming that the cliffs of the coast were even passable? But he did not ask Clyme or Branl. He had more immediate concerns. His mount’s gait had become labored, a ragged jarring. And as the sun sank toward distant Landsdrop, caesures began to sprout across the Spoiled Plains.
Too many of them: more than he had believed Joan could unleash without causing her own heart to burst. Instinctively he assumed that she—or turiya Raver—was trying to hunt him down.
Yet the Falls were comparatively brief. They flared into chiaroscuro, a swirling stutter of day and night, writhed avidly across the landscape, and then extinguished themselves. Indeed, they seemed somehow indecisive, as if they had lost the scent of their prey. And none of them came close enough to endanger Covenant’s small company. Instead they searched the region which the Ranyhyn would have crossed if they had run straight toward Foul’s Creche.
As late afternoon became evening, Covenant began to breathe more easily. He was able to persuade himself that Joan did not know where he was. She and turiya were only guessing. As long as his skin did not touch Loric’s krill—
Of course, it was possible that he was not Joan’s target. This display of violation may have been aimed at Linden and Jeremiah. The Despiser—and therefore his Ravers—surely understood that Linden and her son were at least as dangerous to him as Thomas Covenant. But Covenant trusted the Ranyhyn to protect them. And Linden had her Staff: she could ward herself and her companions.
When darkness had settled over the Spoiled Plains, Naybahn and Mhornym took shelter in a crooked gully. There a slightly brackish stream flowed vaguely northward, perhaps adding its waters to the Sarangrave; and along its sides grew tough saw-edged grasses sufficient for the destrier, as well as clumps of aliantha stunted like scrog. And among them grew a scant patch of amanibhavam to sustain the Ranyhyn. Clearly the Ranyhyn intended to rest there for the night.
After a sparse meal of treasure-berries, Branl left the gully to stand watch; and Covenant tried to settle himself for sleep by scooping hollows in the loose dirt to form a crude bed. Watching, Clyme remarked that the barrage of Falls would disturb the weather over the Lower Land. The Humbled sensed the approach of storms; of rain and winds in turmoil. But Covenant only shrugged. He could barely resist his memories: he certainly had no control over the weather. If his leprosy and the warmth of the krill did not sustain him, he would simply have to endure whatever came.
Huddled into himself, he dozed and roused repeatedly, waiting with as much patience as he could muster for the night to pass.
At dawn, he learned that Clyme was right. The sun first rose into a sky appalled by a taint that resembled dust and ash or smoke; but soon dark clouds came boiling over the Plains, and rain began to spatter down, apparently driven by winds from every direction at once. Before Covenant had finished quenching his thirst and eating more aliantha, his T-shirt and jeans were soaked. When he mounted the horse, he saw that the beast’s endurance had been reduced to gritted misery. It had not rested not enough to restore its spirit. Nevertheless the Harrow’s charger strained to resume its effortful gallop.
In rain and contending winds, Covenant and the Humbled continued their eastward rush.
Sometime during the night, the caesures had ceased. Presumably Joan had exhausted herself. Or turiya Raver may have been given new instructions. But Covenant refused to think about them. He tried not to think about Linden. Wrapping his arms across his chest, he endeavored to ignore the rain by emptying his mind of everything except the heat of the krill: the heat, yes, but not the gem from which it radiated, or the implications of wild magic. If he allowed himself to yearn for anything more than ordinary warmth from Loric’s eldritch dagger, Joan or turiya might sense his attention. They might even be able to locate him.
Emulating Jeremiah’s vacancy, Covenant rode and rode; opened his mouth to the rain when he was thirsty; ate aliantha when the fruit was given to him; and accepted his regret whenever Linden slipped into his thoughts.
061
Finally a change in the weather drew him out of his willed somnolence. The day had reached late afternoon, and the rain had stopped. Perhaps because the winds had resolved themselves into a bitter blast out of the west, the storm clouds had scudded away, leaving behind a sky mired with ash and fine dirt like the fug of a distant calamity.
Yet the murk in the air appeared to come from the east. Against the wind—
Now on the horizon to his right Covenant could make out the first jagged outcroppings of the Shattered Hills. And perhaps a league or two ahead of the horses, the terrain rose in a long slow sweep as if the ground were gathering itself to plunge over the edge of the world.
Was that the cliff fronting the Sunbirth Sea? Covenant wanted badly to have covered so much ground; but he had no way to estimate how far he and the Humbled had traveled. And he doubted that his mount would last long enough to reach the top of the rise. He felt exhausted himself, physically battered. His legs quivered trying to grip the destrier’s sides. But the beast’s condition was worse; much worse. During the day, it had surpassed its strength. Now its heart hardly seemed able to manage a lurching beat. As far as he could discern, only the insistence of the Ranyhyn kept the charger from surrendering its last breath.
The horses’ hooves were barely audible over the raw hum of the wind. They were running on grass as thick as turf. Apparently this portion of the Lower Land received more rain than the westward reaches. Covenant and his companions must indeed be nearing the coast, where natural storms would break and tumble on the cliffs, releasing a comparative abundance of rainfall. Here the destrier could have cropped enough grass to refresh a measure of its stamina; but it made no attempt to pause or feed. The beast’s spirit was broken. It had nothing left except a primitive desire to perish without more suffering.
Through the bitter plaint of the wind, Covenant called to the Humbled, “Where are we?”
Branl glanced at him. “We approach the cliff above the Sunbirth Sea. There we will seek out shelter ere nightfall, hoping for some covert to ward you from the chill of this wind.”
Covenant nodded; but he felt no relief. “What’re we going to do when my horse dies? This poor thing won’t last much longer. As soon as it stops moving, it’s finished.”
He needed a mount. He was too far north; too far from Foul’s Creche. He could not afford the time to walk that distance.
Branl shrugged. “The beast has labored valiantly. It must be allowed its final peace.” A moment later, he added, “Mhornym is well able to bear two riders—as is Naybahn.”
“Don’t insult me,” Covenant growled, even though he knew that the Humbled meant no offense. “You keep your promises. What makes you think I won’t do the same?”
Long ago, he had made a pact with the Ranyhyn. He intended to abide by it. How else could he ask them to do likewise?
Briefly Branl consulted with Clyme in silence. Then he asked, “What alternative remains? We have seen no more amanibhavam.”
Covenant swore to himself. “Then what about aliantha?”
Branl raised an eyebrow: a subtle show of surprise. “It is not a natural provender for horses. Neither horse nor Ranyhyn consumes such fruit.”
“So what?” Covenant countered. “It’s worth a try.”
After only a moment, Branl nodded. “Indeed, ur-Lord.”
At once, Clyme and Mhornym veered aside, racing in search of treasure-berries.
Fortunately they soon found what they sought. The destrier was stumbling at the slope. Each time the beast caught itself, locked its knees, and jerked forward, it came closer to falling. With every stride, its muscles trembled like the onset of a seizure. Covenant had to clutch the saddle horn to keep his seat.
Strain throbbed in his temples as he watched Clyme dismount to gather treasure-berries, then leap onto Mhornym’s back and return. While the Ranyhyn sped toward Covenant and Branl, Clyme pitted berries deftly with his fingers, scattering the seeds.
Please, Covenant asked Naybahn and Mhornym, hoping that they understood his thoughts, or his heart. Keep this animal alive. Make it eat. I know it’s suffered enough, but I need it. I don’t know what else to try.
As if in response, Naybahn slowed to a halt. Staggering on the verge of collapse, the destrier did the same. Its chest heaved brokenly, dying for more air than its lungs could hold.
Uselessly Covenant wondered why the Ranyhyn had not taken better care of his mount earlier. But he had no idea how to question the great horses. Perhaps they perceived a need for haste which outweighed lesser considerations. At other times, they had shown that they knew more than they could communicate about the events of the world. Or perhaps they were testing Covenant’s determination to keep his promises—
Clyme dropped to the turf at the destrier’s head. Firmly he untied the bridle, tugged the reins out of Covenant’s hands, slipped the snaffle from the beast’s mouth. Holding the horse by its mane, he lifted one cupped hand full of fruit to its mouth.
At first, the destrier only gasped at the berries, too drained to blow froth; too empty of life to scent anything, want anything. But both Naybahn and Mhornym gazed at Covenant’s mount with instructions in their stern eyes; and after a moment, a small spasm ran through the beast’s muscles as if it had been goaded. Weakly the horse lipped a few treasure-berries from Clyme’s hand.
Covenant should have dismounted, but he did not think to move. With as much concentration as he could muster, he focused his senses on the destrier’s condition: on the limping struggle of its heart, the shredded straining of its lungs.
Relief left him briefly light-headed when the horse took more aliantha. His health-sense was too blunt for precise discernment, but he seemed to feel a faint touch of vitality flow into the beast’s veins.
Then he remembered to slip down from the destrier. His own legs throbbed at the unaccustomed effects of two days on horseback; and he felt battered, as if he had fallen from a great height. Standing would do him good: walking would be better.
While Clyme stroked the destrier’s neck, encouraging it, Branl rode away. When he came back, he brought another handful of berries. These the horse ate more willingly.
The Humbled both nodded in satisfaction. “Ur-Lord,” Clyme announced, “with your consent we will walk to the cliff. Gentle movement will quicken the benison of aliantha. Mayhap the beast’s awareness of hunger will awaken. If we then discover water—” He shrugged; did not finish the thought.
Covenant knew what he meant. Maybe the horse would live. Maybe it would be strong enough to carry him after a night’s rest.
If.
“Sure,” he answered. “We can at least hope.”
Leaving Clyme and Mhornym with the destrier, Covenant headed up the long rise, accompanied by Branl on Naybahn. At first, he walked stiffly, forcing each stride against the protest of his muscles. But gradually his limbs loosened. And the grass softened his steps. Soon he began to move more briskly, aiming to reach the rim of the slope before twilight.
062
Half a league from the horizon-line where the ground dropped away, Naybahn adjusted his course slightly to the south.
As Covenant drew closer, he saw that the precipice was scored with cracks. Some of them looked like the results of erosion, the claw-marks of weather and old time. Others appeared to be deeper faults in the fundamental substance of the cliff. But he still did not smell salt or hear surf. The harsh wind from the west blew away any indication that he was approaching the sea.
Naybahn angled farther south. Instinctively Covenant quickened his strides. Vulnerable in his damp clothes, he was already chilled: he wanted to believe that Naybahn or Branl would lead him to some kind of shelter from the wind.
Tossing his head, the Ranyhyn gave a snort that sounded disdainful. For his own reasons, if not for Branl’s, the stallion nudged Covenant with his shoulder. Have you forgotten who I am? Are you foolish enough to doubt us? You who spoke of trust? That gentle bump directed Covenant toward a crack or crevice extending perhaps a hundred paces inland.
At the tip of the crack, he found that it was shallow enough for a horse to enter, wide enough to admit a mounted rider. Its floor as it dropped toward the precipice was not dangerously steep. And it ended, not in a plunge, but on a ledge as broad as a road.
There Covenant saw the Sunbirth Sea.
Under a leaden sky at the onset of evening, it looked misnamed. Lashed waves taller than Giants, and as dark as thunderheads, seethed heavily toward the cliff and out of sight. Tumbling winds ripped the crests of the waves to spume, tore them in all directions. Nonetheless the seas heaved closer with the massive inevitability of avalanches or calving glaciers. In spite of his numbness, Covenant seemed to feel a faint tremor as each breaker crashed against the granite coast. Somewhere far beyond the range of his perceptions, storms which had fled eastward earlier hammered the ocean; or some new atmospheric violence was gathering against the Land.
Without hesitation, Naybahn entered the split and bore Branl downward. Cautiously Covenant followed.
As he worked his way toward the ledge, he glimpsed more and more of the sea. Atavistic vertigo began to squirm through him: the waves were a long way down—A man who fell from that ledge would have time to repent every misdeed of his life before he died. Reflexively he hugged the stone of the crevice-wall; but its ancient endurance refused to steady him.
Don’t, he commanded himself. Don’t look. But the plunge was already calling to him. It insinuated itself among the pathways of his brain, urging him to stagger and reel and drop; to pitch the disease of his existence over the precipice. He was in a crevice, and his mind was a maze of fissures. Memories summoned him from all sides. Soon they would become a gyre, a geas, and the cliff or the past would take him.
In some other life, Lena would have come to his aid. Foamfollower and Triock would have helped him. Or Linden’s presence would have given him the will to suppress this spinning. But in this life—
Branl clasped his arm in a grip like a manacle. Beyond the Master, Naybahn waited on the ledge, unconcerned by the fall. But Branl had come back for Covenant.
The Haruchai forgot nothing. They had a strength that Covenant lacked, one supreme gift: within themselves, they were not alone. As well as he could, Branl contradicted Covenant’s impulse toward isolation and dizziness.
Anchored by the grasp of the Humbled, Covenant moved toward Naybahn without losing his way.
On the ledge, the Ranyhyn stood between him and the precipice. Branl held his arm. Protected in that fashion, Covenant went warily southward.
Now he could hear the waves: an iterated crash-and-roar among the rocks far below him. The turmoil of winds sawing against granite edges everywhere complicated the rush and smash of the breakers, emphasized their timeless hunger. For a few moments, the surf seemed to have a voice, singing of mortality—
All hurt is like the endless surge of seas,
The wear and tumbling that leaves no welt
But only sand instead of granite ease
—until he almost stumbled into his fragmented past. But then the ledge rounded a bulge and became the floor of another split in the battered cliff.
The sun was setting quickly now: he could barely see. This crack led downward without visible limit or end into the heart of the gutrock. After a dozen steps, however, Naybahn and Branl brought him to a break in the left-hand wall of the split, a gap just wide enough to admit the Ranyhyn. Drawn through the break into complete darkness, Covenant sensed that he was entering an open space like a chamber in the stone. Just for a moment, he thought that the chamber was a closed cavity. But almost at once, he discerned a slit of gloom in the direction of the sea; heard the faint plash and susurrus of water.
He could not smell salt. Air-currents flowing into and out of the cave carried away the ocean’s scent.
“Here is shelter, ur-Lord,” Branl stated flatly. “Thus shielded, you will suffer little of the wind’s chill, though doubtless the stone is cold. And beyond us arises a goodly spring, flowing past our feet to drain from the cliff.”
Covenant nodded, trusting the Humbled to see what he could not. “What about the Harrow’s horse?”
“Clyme and Mhornym will guide the beast to water here.” Branl spoke like the darkness. “Thereafter the Ranyhyn and your mount will surely depart to feed above the cliff. When they have cropped their fill, however, I anticipate that they will return to this covert, to share warmth and rest. In that event, the Humbled will stand guard at the rims of the precipice.”
Covenant nodded again. He felt perfectly capable of freezing to death if three horses did not suffice to warm the chamber. Nevertheless he was content with his sanctuary. It was better than any covert that he had expected to find. “If you’ll guide me to a place where I can sit down—preferably someplace dry—I’ll get us some light.”
And some heat? He hoped so.
Holding Covenant’s arm, Branl steered him to a level surface where he was able to step over the stream. Beyond the spill of water, the chamber’s floor rose toward its far wall in stages like steps. There Covenant sat down and carefully untucked the bundled krill from his waist.
He had reason to believe that Loric’s dagger could cut anything. Long ago, he had stabbed it into the top of a stone table. With as much care as his deadened and foreshortened fingers could manage, he unwound fabric from the blade without touching the metal. The haft and the gem he kept covered. After a moment’s hesitation, he raised his arms and drove the krill’s point at the rock between his boots.
He expected a hard jolt, a skitter of metal as the blade skidded across stone. But the knife pierced rock as if it were flesh; bit deep and held fast, standing like an icon in the floor.
“Well, damn,” he breathed unsteadily. “At least that worked.”
With the nub-ends of his fingers, he unwrapped the rest of the cloth; let the gem’s bright silver shine out.
It resembled a beacon, but he chose to believe that it would not draw Joan’s attention if he did not touch it.
The sudden blaze of light filled the cave: it seemed to efface even the possibility of shadows. Branl stood etched in the air beside a brisk stream that caught the radiance and glittered flowing argent as it ran toward a narrow slit like an embrasure in the fortification of the cliff. As Naybahn drank from the stream, the stallion’s coat glowed as if it had been touched with transcendence, and the star on his forehead gleamed.
Apart from the window to the outer world on one side, and the tapering hollow opposite it from which the spring emerged, the chamber was shaped like a dome. Even at its tallest point, the ceiling was too low to let a Giant stand fully upright; but the dome was high enough, and more than wide enough, to admit several horses. Its walls and ceiling were oddly smooth: the eldritch gem’s echo of wild magic made them look burnished, almost holy, as if at some point in the distant past they had formed a primitive fane. In contrast, however, the floor was rough and scalloped, composed of a different stone which seemed to insist that it was made for darkness rather than for light.
As Branl had predicted, the rock was cold. Covenant already felt its chill seeping into him through his damp jeans. Fortunately he also felt steady heat emanating from Loric’s dagger. White gold in the hands of its rightful wielder made the whole knife too hot for his unprotected flesh. By that sign, he knew that Joan was still alive. Inadvertently her reflected desperation might warm the entire chamber.
“Thank you,” he murmured to Naybahn. He needed to express his gratitude, whether or not the Ranyhyn understood him. “I forgot about this place—if I ever knew it existed. You came back to the Land at the right time. None of us would have gotten this far without you.” Especially Linden. “And we sure as hell wouldn’t get any farther.”
Naybahn whickered softly, tossed his head. The silver shining in his eyes looked like pride.
Covenant wanted to ask Branl how Clyme and Mhornym fared with the Harrow’s mount. But an answer to that question would not quicken their arrival, or restore the destrier’s stamina, or relieve Covenant’s underlying fears. Instead he inquired abruptly, “How far are we from Foul’s Creche?”
Branl appeared to consult a map of his memories. “In a direct line, ur-Lord, the ruins of Corruption’s former abode lie no more than fifteen leagues distant. However, these cliffs are rugged, forbidding clear passage. I gauge that we must traverse a score of leagues—if,” he added, “the riven promontory of Ridjeck Thome is indeed our destination.” Then he shrugged. “If our goal lies elsewhere, the Ranyhyn know it. The Humbled do not.”
With a wave of one hand, Covenant dismissed Branl’s proviso. “Assume we’re going to Foul’s Creche. Where else is Joan likely to be? That place is too damn fitting.” A wilderness of broken granite between the Sunbirth Sea and the Shattered Hills: enough rubble to symbolize dozens of millennia. Joan’s attacks on Time required a physical manifestation. She tore instants into chaos by destroying stones. The Earth was the incarnation of the Laws which enabled it to live: she struck at one by harming the other. And Covenant did not doubt that the Despiser’s malice still permeated the wreckage of Foul’s Creche. The evil of the Illearth Stone lingered there as well. Such things would enhance turiya Herem’s possession. “So how long will it take us to get there?”
Branl studied Covenant flatly. “Since you choose to rely upon assumptions, ur-Lord, I will do the same. If your mount regains strength sufficient to bear you, I gauge that we will sight the remains of Ridjeck Thome at nightfall on the morrow.”
Another day—Hell and blood, Covenant swore to himself. Too much time had already passed, and the Worm was coming. The Earth did not have long to live. Yet so far he and the Land’s last defenders had accomplished nothing except Jeremiah’s rescue from the Lost Deep, and from the croyel. True, Esmer had been put to rest. But his release had been the gift of the ur-viles and Waynhim, and of Stave. Covenant himself had done little to justify his return to life.
He needed to face Joan.
He needed to be ready. He could not afford to fail.
But he still had no idea how to answer her anguish.
063
Eventually Clyme entered the cave with Mhornym and the destrier. While the horses relieved their long thirst, Branl left to search the slopes above the cliff for more aliantha. He was still absent when Mhornym and Naybahn led the Harrow’s mount back out of the chamber to feed, leaving Covenant alone with Clyme and the krill. For a time, the steady tug of air through the cave seemed to draw off more heat than the dagger offered, siphoning every possibility of comfort through the crack in the cliff-face. But then Branl returned with a double handful of treasure-berries; and when Covenant had eaten, the fruit’s rich sustenance gave him a measure of protection from the cold.
The seeds he thrust into one of his pockets so that he could scatter them on fertile soil later.
Later the three horses also returned; and Clyme left to stand guard over the covert. The destrier still looked like a living derelict, dull-eyed and shambling. Small convulsions ran through its muscles, and it moved as though it sought to limp with all four legs simultaneously. Nevertheless Covenant saw hints of nascent recovery. Two or three days of rest and abundant fodder might well restore the charger’s contentious spirit.
Ah, hell, he sighed. He had no choice: he would ride as long as his mount lasted. After that, he would have to walk—or to run, if he could manage that much haste.
Whatever happened, he was not going to ride the Ranyhyn. Broken promises would not save the Land. There are always evil means. He had said that to the Humbled. The only way to avoid evil means is to do nothing. Nevertheless he had no intention of discarding any more promises. He had already done enough harm to vindicate Lord Foul’s expectations. Mere days ago, he had sacrificed Elena to She Who Must Not Be Named. If he had no other choice, he meant to kill Joan: an evil means if ever there was one. And he had hurt Linden—
His own humanity would turn against him if he started breaking his promises.
Fortunately Mhornym, Naybahn, and the destrier gave off a surprising amount of warmth in the constricted space. Together they and the krill softened the chamber’s chill. By slow increments, the air acquired a modicum of comfort, and the stone surrendered some of its cold. After a while, Covenant began to think about sleep.
Stretching out on a step near the krill, he closed his eyes and tried to let himself drift. But instead of slumber and dreams, he sank into unbidden memories.
For no reason that he could name, he remembered quellvisks.
Monsters as tall as Giants. Six taloned limbs, each gnarled with muscle and theurgy. Eyes all around their crude skulls. Fangs dripping venomous magicks. Minds capable of lore and bitter ambition. Once they had been very different beings, a species of sentient herbivores. The transformation which had created quellvisks from such creatures had been Lord Foul’s only dangerous achievement during his centuries among the Demimages of Vidik Amar. Doing what he could with monsters both too intelligent and too savage to be ruled, the Despiser had given them an aspiration which might serve his purpose. When the quellvisks had rendered the Demimages extinct, Lord Foul had convinced them that they could master the entire Earth if they first slew the Elohim.
By that means, the Despiser had hoped to awaken the Worm.
Even in that distant age, the Elohim were too self-absorbed to regard the threat. They did not go out to battle because they saw no need: they believed that the quellvisks would turn against each other; destroy themselves. Therefore the Despiser considered the Elohim ripe for ruin. But they were roused from their rapt immersions when the quellvisks found their way to Elemesnedene.
When the Elohim finally fought back for the first and last time in the Earth’s history, they did so without restraint or pity. They had been affronted to the core of their surquedry, and they left nothing of their foes except bones.
Undisturbed, the Worm of the World’s End had continued its slumber.
“Ur-Lord.”
Involuntarily Covenant remembered what the Elohim had done with those bones. Muirwin Delenoth, resting place of abhorrence. Somewhere on the Lower Land west of the Shattered Hills. As if the Land were a midden for everything that the Elohim despised.
“Unbeliever,” Branl said more insistently. “You must rouse.” He shook Covenant’s shoulder. “There is peril.”
With a startled jerk, Covenant opened his eyes.
For a moment, he could see nothing except the blaze of the krill, bright as a tocsin in his blurred gaze. As he blinked, however, his covert took shape around the gem’s light. The stream ran, undimmed, across the cave to tumble down the outer precipice. Branl stood stolidly over him, waiting for him to shed the remnants of his dreams.
Outside, the past day’s gale still blew. It moaned as it struggled through the cave.
The destrier had folded its legs under it to sleep on the other side of the stream. The beast appeared to be resting deeply. But there was something missing—
With an awkward heave, Covenant pushed himself to sit up. Swallowing sleep, he asked hoarsely, “Where are the Ranyhyn?”
“Creatures approach, ur-Lord,” answered Branl, “a score of small beings. When Clyme discerned their advance, Naybahn and Mhornym appeared to do so as well. They have departed. It is my thought that they mean to watch over us in Clyme’s stead, freeing him to join in your defense.”
Creatures? Covenant shook his head; tried to clear away his confusion. Defense? His fears were as confused as the previous day’s storms. While he strove to knit Branl’s words into a sequence that made sense, he asked, “What time is it?”
Branl regarded him without expression. “Dawn lags behind the creatures. We must perforce meet with them in darkness. And we must not await them here. In this place, their advance will be constricted. That is to our benefit. But we cannot flee at need. Therefore we must stand on open ground.”
Covenant started to rise. Then he sat down again. “Wait a minute. Let’s think about this.” The krill was his only weapon, but he could not carry it unwrapped. And he might not be able to use it without touching the metal. “These creatures. What are they? What do they want? How do you know they’re dangerous?”
If the Humbled felt impatient, he did not show it. “They are human-like in form, but small, little more than shoulder-height, with large eyes well suited to sight in darkness. Though they resemble children, they are naked against the elements, clad neither in garments nor in pelts. Upon some few occasions, the Masters have beheld such creatures, always at a considerable distance, and always within Sarangrave Flat. Indeed, the waters of the Sarangrave appear to be their habitation. And while we have taken note of them, they have betrayed no awareness of us.
“Now, however—” Branl paused as if he were speaking mind to mind with Clyme. “They have strayed far from their accustomed marshlands. And their approach is unerring. It cannot be doubted that they have come to seek you out.
“Also there is this to consider. In each hand, they bear a green flame which does not bend to the dictates of the wind. This theurgy appears to enable their departure from their native waters.” Branl’s tone became sharper. “It’s the precise emerald of the Illearth Stone, and of the skest.
“You will recall that the skest once served the lurker of the Sarangrave. Now they have become the minions of Corruption. These creatures may be skest in some new guise, perhaps altered by the baleful seepages of Gravin Threndor. Whatever their origins, however, the nature of their magicks cannot be mistaken. It is green and malefic, binding their hearts to cruel hungers.
“Their purpose cannot be other than harm. Therefore we must be prepared to give battle, and to flee.”
Covenant peered up at the Humbled. He wanted to ask how Branl proposed to save his sleeping mount. And he wanted to remind Branl of the sur-jheherrin, creatures that had once saved him and his companions—including several Haruchai—from the lurker. The sur-jheherrin were descended from the jheherrin, the Soft Ones, who had rescued Covenant and Saltheart Foamfollower during their approach to the Shattered Hills and Foul’s Creche. Not everything bred in the Sarangrave was evil.
But instead he posed a different question. “Has Clyme tried talking to them?”
The Haruchai lacked the Giants’ gift of tongues. But the jheherrin had been capable of human speech.
Branl raised an eyebrow: for him, a dramatic show of surprise. “He has not.”
“Maybe he should do that. Before we get into a fight we don’t want.”
The Humbled cocked his head in what Covenant assumed was Clyme’s direction. After a moment, Branl replied, “Clyme will make the attempt. To his senses, the creatures do not appear to unite their theurgies. Each wields only its own might. He deems it unlikely that they are able to overwhelm or slay him.”
Covenant resisted an impulse to hold his breath. How long would this take? He had no idea how far the creatures were from Clyme’s position. Would Covenant and Branl still have time to escape the cave? With the charger?
The moments seemed to stretch, mocked by the quickness of the stream. In the absence of the Ranyhyn, Covenant felt colder; more vulnerable. Branl waited, motionless. He did not react to whatever he heard from Clyme.
Abruptly the Master spoke. “The creatures name themselves the Feroce. At the behest of their High God, they crave an audience with the Pure One.”
Covenant winced. The Feroce? He had lost any memory of them. But “the Pure One”—
Ah, Foamfollower! Hellfire. He remembered too much about the Pure One.
Without thinking, he told Branl, “They have the wrong man.” Then he caught himself. “No, don’t say that.” In the legends of the jheherrin, the Pure One had been their promised savior. If the Feroce believed that Covenant rather than Saltheart Foamfollower had rescued the jheherrin from the Maker, the Despiser, they were mistaken. But that error might help him avoid a conflict. “Don’t give them an excuse to stop talking.
“Ask them why they want an audience. What do they want to talk about?”
Branl gave no sign that he was relaying Covenant’s desires to Clyme, but Covenant did not doubt him. He was Haruchai.
A few heartbeats later, the Humbled announced, “The Feroce avow that they intend no subterfuge. They acknowledge their enmity. They acknowledge that they have attempted harm. They acknowledge that their first purpose has failed. In pain and desperation, their High God now seeks alliance with the Pure One.”
Covenant’s mind whirled as though he stood on a precipice. Attempted harm? What harm? If the Feroce had attacked Linden—! Anger and possibilities spun swiftly; too swiftly. The creatures had invoked jheherrin legends. Long millennia ago, the jheherrin had misjudged Covenant. But if the Feroce knew those legends, they might be descendants of the sur-jheherrin: they might believe what the jheherrin had believed.
Attempted harm?
Apparently they were being honest.
Then who in hell was their “High God”? The lurker? If they lived in the Sarangrave—
An alliance with the lurker was impossible. The idea was insane. But he had no difficulty imagining potential benefits.
He was running too far ahead of himself. Grimly he muttered, “I don’t know what’s going on here. But I’m going to guess.
“If the Feroce want to talk, tell them to come here. Just three of them. The rest have to keep a safe distance. Clyme can decide what that means. And tell them I have High Lord Loric’s krill. A long time ago, I hurt the lurker with it. I won’t hesitate to use it again if I think I’m being threatened.”
If the creatures had not come in good faith.
Studying Covenant, Branl hesitated. “Ur-Lord, is this wise? Our covert has no other egress. If the Feroce do not endeavor to slay us, they may nonetheless impose an effective imprisonment. Snared here, you will be prevented from seeking your former mate.”
“I know that,” Covenant sighed. “Of course you’re right. But I can’t forget the sur-jheherrin .” Or the jheherrin. “Life in the Sarangrave isn’t as simple as it looks. If the Feroce want to talk to the Pure One, I can’t ignore them.” Without the jheherrin, he would have died among the Shattered Hills. “Just tell Clyme what I said. If they try to send more than three—if they do anything he doesn’t like—he can warn you.”
Frowning slightly, Branl nodded. Then he moved to stand guard against the far wall beside the entrance to the chamber.
The destrier went on sleeping. It seemed too profoundly weary to hear anything; or to care.
A dozen heartbeats later, the Humbled reported, “The Feroce comply. Three of them approach. Their manner is fearful. The others withdraw according to Clyme’s instructions.” Then he added, “The Ranyhyn stand ready in the night above our covert. Doubtless they will come to our aid at need.”
“Good,” Covenant breathed. If creatures wielding fires that resembled the bale of the Illearth Stone meant to assail him, he doubted that Mhornym and Naybahn would be able to provide an effective defense. Still their alert proximity reassured him.
He tried to compose himself while remembrances clamored for his attention. The jheherrin had called themselves the soft ones. Maker-work, the occasional failures of the Despiser’s efforts to breed armies; suffered to live only because Lord Foul enjoyed their abjection. Their flesh had resembled mud: they seemed to have been molded from clay. But they had shapes—Child-forms. Serpents. Grotesque mimicries of Cavewights. Others. And they had legends, tales of the Un-Maker-made: the stock from which Lord Foul had created monsters and jheherrin.
According to the tales, those ancestors were also Makers. Unlike the Despiser, however, they were not seedless. From their bodies came forth young who grew and in turn made young. And some of them survived or escaped or avoided Lord Foul’s violation. They endured beyond his influence, still free of the Maker. Still capable of children.
Those memories were bitter to Covenant. He had been so tormented and sick—To him, and to Foamfollower, the jheherrin had described their legends. It is said that when the time is ready, a young will be birthed without flaw—a pure offspring impervious to the Maker and his making—unafraid. It is said that this pure one will come bearing tokens of power to the Maker’s home. He wanted to forget, and could not. It is said that he will redeem the jheherrin if they prove—if he finds them worthy—that he will win from the Maker their release from fear and mud—But he had done nothing to redeem the jheherrin: nothing except bear the burden of his ring. He was a leper. He would always be a leper. Birthed without flaw? There was nothing pure about him.
No, it was Saltheart Foamfollower who had provided for the Maker’s defeat. Cleansed in the savage caamora of Hotash Slay, he had laughed in Lord Foul’s face and died, giving Covenant the strength to destroy the Illearth Stone. He rather than Covenant had become the Pure One.
That the sur-jheherrin thousands of years later still considered Covenant to be their Pure One only exacerbated his grief for Foamfollower—and his sense of his own unworth.
Yet here he sat like a monarch in exile, awaiting creatures who wanted an audience with the Pure One. For the Land’s sake, and for Linden’s—even for Joan’s—he was willing to consider any alliance that the Feroce might mistakenly offer him.
Deliberately he shifted so that he sat cross-legged with the krill directly between him and the cave’s entrance. For a few moments, he massaged the sore muscles of his lower back. Then he forced himself to sit straight as a sovereign. Let the Feroce be fearful. Let them approach humbly. Trapped in this chamber, he needed every possible advantage of posture or certainty.
He needed to conceal that he feared touching Loric’s dagger.
“Ur-Lord,” Branl warned quietly. “Three Feroce have gained the outer ledge. Soon they will enter here.”
Covenant took a deep breath; held it. The krill cast a slash of brilliance through the break that gave admittance to the chamber. Silver light shone like a kind of purity on the far wall of the outer fissure. He fixed his gaze there, counting the thud-beats of his heart; watching for hints of emerald malevolence.
It came first as a slight taint at the edge of the argent, a tinge that might have seemed vernal from some other source. Then the sick green of acid and hunger grew stronger. That hue did not outshine the krill. Perhaps it could not. Nonetheless it stained the silver until the darkness beyond it seemed rife with menace.
One at a time, three creatures breached the light and stepped into the chamber.
They were as Branl had described them: no taller than his shoulders, hairless and naked, with large eyes like pools of reflected silver and emerald. Each of them flinched at its first sight of the krill: each shied as far as it could from the gem’s blaze without touching Branl. When they looked past the light at Covenant, they conveyed the impression that they were cowering.
In the cups of their hands, they carried flames like promises of disease. Despite their alarm, they had an air of malice suppressed or denied. Perhaps they would have flung themselves at Covenant, if they had dared to do so. Instinctively he believed that they had been spawned by Mount Thunder’s ancient poisons.
They avoided the krill with their eyes and remained silent. They may have been waiting for Covenant to speak.
Scowling as though he had the right to sit in judgment, he said nothing.
Finally one of them of them raised its voice. “We are the Feroce.” But he could not tell which one spoke: the words seemed to come from all or none of them. And the voice had a peculiar sound, damp and undefined, like wet mud being forced past an obstruction. Their mouths and throats may not have been formed for language. Their speech may have been an effect of theurgy rather than of physical utterance.
Masking his own anxiety with feigned hauteur, Covenant replied, “I’ve heard you. You want an audience. You want an alliance for your High God. We’ll get to that. Tell me something first. Convince me to trust you.
“You say you’ve attempted harm. That was your first purpose. What did you do?”
With their flames, the three Feroce made timid gestures like attempts at placation. “Our High God sustains us,” they responded in their single voice. “In his agony, he speaks to us. He speaks through us. We obey his commands. Without him, we are dust. We cannot part from the waters of the Sarangrave.
“Havoc draws ever closer.” More and more, they appeared to cower. “The havoc of all life. You are aware of this. You cannot be unaware. Our High God has felt it.
“He desires life. He desires power. He must have might, and greater might, and still greater might, lest he perish. All other enmity must be set aside.
“A female of your kind wields a stick of immense potency. Of this you are also aware. You cannot be unaware. Our High God yearned for it. At his command, we strove to lure it from her. We failed. He was wounded. He cannot obtain life by that means.”
Covenant swore behind his scowl. Linden—! Fiercely he demanded, “Did you hurt her? Did you hurt her?”
The Feroce flinched like threatened children. Emerald flames guttered and spat in their hands. “We made the attempt. We failed. Now we are here.”
“What, you?” he countered to conceal his relief. We failed. “I mean, you personally?” He did not know where Linden and her friends were, but he trusted that she was many leagues behind him. How had the Feroce covered so much ground so quickly?
He could not afford to wonder how the creatures had tried to snare Linden, or what her resistance had cost her.
“We do not comprehend.” Silver and green flared in the wide eyes of the creatures. Behind them, Branl stood like a statue, unmoved and unmoving. “We are the Feroce. We obey our High God. What is ‘personally’? We are not one. We are many.
“Do you speak of the Feroce standing before you? We have no answer. At our High God’s command, we pursued you from the most seaward extent of the Sarangrave. The female of your kind we approached far to the west. There is no ‘personally.’ We are only the Feroce. We serve our High God in many places.”
“All right.” Covenant made no effort to muffle his vexation. He needed to keep his back straight; needed to appear wrathful and dangerous. “I’m going to assume you aren’t the same creatures that attacked the woman.” If they were, he wanted a better explanation; but he did not know how to obtain it. “Go on. Your High God is right. He can’t save himself by making enemies.”
The Feroce seemed to hesitate. Perhaps they had lost the thread of their instructions. But then their flames burned brighter, strict with coercion. Timorous as sycophants, they resumed in their single voice.
“You are the Pure One, redeemer of the jheherrin, ally of the sur-jheherrin. But you are also the wielder of abhorrent metal. The deliverer of agony. Such agony as our High God has never known. We dare not oppose you. We must not. We are dust.
“Havoc awaits our High God. He must have aid. In his name, we now seek alliance.”
There the creatures fell silent as if they feared an immediate refusal.
Covenant paused for a moment, thinking furiously. As far as he could tell, the Feroce were sincere. And they had invoked the name of the Pure One: he could not ignore that. But he did not know enough about them.
He wanted to thump himself on the head, jar loose the memories he needed; but he resisted the temptation. “We’ll get to that,” he repeated. “I still have questions.
“Who or what is your High God? I’ve never heard of him.”
The Feroce gaped as though they were utterly baffled; as though his question made no sense in any language known to them.
“He is the High God,” they offered tentatively. “He is our High God. Others do not worship him. We—”
Abruptly they froze as if their minds had been seized by an alien thought. For an instant, their consternation was so plain that Covenant almost took pity on them. But the sickening hue of emerald writhed in their hands; and the moment passed.
“Others,” they said more strongly. “You ask of others. We do not comprehend. But they speak of him by false names and affronts. One we are commanded to utter.” They rolled their eyes in strange terror. “It is Horrim Carabal.”
At once, they ducked their heads as though they expected to be struck down for blasphemy.
Ah, hell! Covenant thought. The lurker—The idea staggered him, even though the Feroce had already implied it clearly enough. The lurker had become a deity to these creatures? That was something he should have been able to remember—
“How—?” he began in confusion. “You worship that—?” Then he took hold of himself; crossed his arms on his chest to contain his chagrin. “Never mind. I don’t need to know. What I need to know is, who are you? Where do you come from? And why do you live in the Sarangrave? Were you made there? Did you end up there from someplace else?”
Why did they know enough about the Land’s history to speak of the jheherrin, the sur-jheherrin, and the Pure One?
“We are the Feroce,” the creatures insisted anxiously. “You are aware of this. You cannot be unaware. You are the Pure One. You bore tokens of power foretold to the jheherrin. You brought about the downfall of the Maker and the Maker-place. You redeemed our far ancestors from enslavement and terror.”
They nodded together, indicating compliance to some form of command. “You are the Pure One,” they said again. “You have spoken with the jheherrin. You have been aided by them. We do not comprehend your question. Were you unaware that the numbers of our ancestors were too vast to be counted? Were you unaware that they had no wish to remain in their perilous tunnels when the Maker-place had fallen? They were the soft ones. For an age, they feared to depart. But as the region of their former horror declined increasingly to dust and death, and the Maker’s lingering evil waned, they resolved to seek the water and mud of a kinder home.”
As they spoke, their voice took on more complex rhythms. In their minds, apparently, their tale required a different cadence. “Many and many of them, aussat Befylam, fael Befylam, roge Befylam, others too fearful to endure your sight, all who sought to repay the gift of life with life—all endured the long labor northward, bitter and loathsome, questing always from water and mud to water and mud in search of a new habitation. Were you unaware of this?”
“The sur-jheherrin told me a few things,” Covenant admitted reluctantly. “I guessed a few. But that doesn’t answer my question.”
How had the jheherrin in their many forms become creatures like the skest and the Feroce?
Why did the Feroce consider the lurker a god?
The idea that he needed allies like the lurker of the Sarangrave filled him with curses.
“You are the Pure One,” the creatures repeated as if that name had the force of liturgy, “wielder of metal and agony. You cannot be unaware of the majesty that thrives in the Sarangrave. You cannot be unaware of its glory over marsh and fen and swamp, its grandeur among all that swims and slithers and crawls and burrows and scurries. We do not comprehend how you can be unaware that majesty transforms. Its powers are wondrous. It wrought wonders upon the soft ones. It wrought variously upon the several Befylam of the jheherrin, but all were transformed.
“From among the Befylam arose the skest, mindless and servile, too easily swayed to grant our High God his due homage. For an age of the Sarangrave, they followed his command, hearing no other. Then they were called to new service. The Feroce despise them.
“Others of the jheherrin begat the sur-jheherrin, too fearful to honor their true lord, and too cunning to attract his notice. The Feroce despise them also.
“Wiser, others from each Befylam sought oneness with our High God. The Pure One was gone. In his absence, they yearned to repay salvation with surrender. Their wish was granted. Our High God devoured them. They nourished his increase of majesty. The Feroce revere them.
“But among the jheherrin, some desired purpose in another form. Humble, they did not aspire to oneness. Grateful for redemption, they craved abasement rather than surrender. Their wish our High God granted as well. From several forms of the soft ones, he brought forth the Feroce to do his bidding. Generation unto generation, we multiply in homage. Thus we complete the redemption of the jheherrin.”
Inwardly Covenant squirmed. He wanted to protest; wanted to deliver denials as unanswerable as the krill. Directly or indirectly, the Feroce held him responsible for their devotion to the lurker. The logic of their gratitude toward the Pure One had led them to adore and serve one of the Land’s most enduring evils.
But Covenant was not the Pure One. He was not. From the first, the jheherrin and their descendants had mistaken him for Saltheart Foamfollower. Yet that was irrelevant here. The Feroce believed. Their misapprehension both damned and blessed him.
It was damnable that he had played any inadvertent part in inspiring their service. But it was also a blessing. Because of their confusion, they feared him too much to oppose him. And the lurker feared him enough to offer an alliance.
Horrim Carabal feared the Worm of the World’s End more.
He suspected that this was Linden’s doing. Somehow her defeat of the Feroce had forced the lurker to recognize that its malevolence was ultimately suicidal.
Pain and mortality could have that effect.
Struggling to contain his shame and ire and repudiation, Covenant clung to the idea that Linden had saved him. It was fitting. As fitting as his certainty that Joan stood among the ruins of Foul’s Creche. There are always evil means. Even a horror like the lurker of the Sarangrave might accomplish something good in the end.
Rigid with internal conflict, Covenant said through his teeth, “I understand. I think you’re telling the truth. Now I’m ready to talk about an alliance.”
“Ur-Lord,” Branl put in, warning him. “You speak of the lurker of the Sarangrave. Even the Ranyhyn fear such evil.”
Covenant ignored the Humbled. “What are you offering?”
The Feroce also ignored Branl. Cringing before Covenant or Loric’s krill, they answered, “Our High God offers safe passage throughout the great Sarangrave for all who resist the end of life. Already he suffers the presence of one who wanders lost within his realm, bearing a token of power which has no worth against havoc. He will suffer more. All who aid you will be permitted freedom and sanctuary in Sarangrave Flat.”
One who wanders—? Covenant could not guess who that might be, and did not try. “Go on.”
“Also,” said the Feroce, malleable as mud, “we will combat the skest in your name. The Feroce despise them. Our High God feels the approach of havoc. He feels a lesser power as well. From cruel metal, it brings forth lesser hurts. It has wrought other agonies. And it is served by the skest. Our High God commands that lesser havocs must cease. They deflect might from the preservation of his life.
“The Pure One is wise in the ways of salvation. You will end the lesser hurts. If you do not fail, you will do more. Our High God offers the aid of the Feroce. We will clear your path of skest.”
Reflexively Covenant rubbed the scar on his forehead. Clear your path—That was a gift worth accepting. He did not want to lose either the Humbled or their Ranyhyn to the skest.
Probing, he asked, “Is there more?”
Abruptly the flames of the Feroce grew brighter. They seemed to double in size and vehemence, fraught with intentions which Covenant could not identify.
“There is the matter of your defeated beast,” the creatures answered. “Witness a transformation wrought by our High God’s majesty.”
They did not move. None of them waved their arms, or brandished the lamps of their hands, or glanced away from Covenant. Nevertheless their magicks seemed to accumulate puissance within the argent of Loric’s dagger.
Branl took a step forward. He clenched his fists. But he had no one to strike. Like Covenant, apparently, he could not sense a threat.
The destrier raised its head. For a moment, it looked around with an air of puzzlement, as though it wondered what had become of it. Then rage and recalcitrance began to smolder in its eyes.
Snorting angrily, the beast surged to its feet. At once, it wheeled away. Like an animal reborn, it headed toward the chamber’s egress. Without regard for the Feroce, it lunged out of sight in the direction of the ledge and the towering cliff.
Gradually dangerous green receded as the flames of the Feroce shrank. “We have not given it strength,” the creatures said as if admitting their limitations frightened them. “We cannot. But we have caused it to remember what it is. While it lives, it will not forget.”
“That’s enough,” Covenant breathed. “It’ll get me there.” He could not ask for anything more: not from the descendants of the jheherrin, whose lives had been distorted by mistaken belief. If he were honest, he would have told the truth. The Pure One had died in the destruction of Foul’s Creche. But Covenant needed this alliance. He was convinced that he needed it.
Still wrestling with himself, he asked unsteadily, “What do you want from me? What does your High God expect in exchange?”
The Feroce hesitated briefly, then countered, “What does the Pure One offer?”
Stop calling me that. “Let me think. I need to be clear.”
In fact, Covenant had nothing to offer the lurker; nothing that he could bargain away; no aid that he might provide. Only the krill and his air of authority had brought the Feroce this far: those things, and perhaps the manner in which Linden had saved her Staff. What else did he have that the lurker might want? A promise that he would rush to the monster’s defense? No. He had already condoned too much misapprehension. He was not willing to compound his faults with lies.
Sitting as if he were as obdurate as the Masters, he answered the Feroce.
“Understand me. I don’t promise life. I can’t swear to you I’ll keep your High God alive. I may not have enough power. There may not be enough power.” The Worm was coming, the Earth’s final apotheosis. He could not imagine stopping it. “That ‘lesser power’ I’m going to face isn’t my only problem. There’s Kastenessen. Kevin’s Dirt. Sandgorgons and Cavewights and skurj.” He did not care whether the creatures or the lurker recognized those names. He listed his enemies and obstacles for his own sake. “She Who Must Not Be Named. Ravers. My own son. And the Despiser, who took the skest. They all have to be dealt with before I can face the ‘havoc’ you actually fear.
“I can only promise two things. I’ll respect the alliance. Everybody who stands with me will respect it. None of us will turn against your High God. And we’ll do our best to save the Land. All of it. If that can be done with the krill and wild magic and the Staff of Law,” by Giants and Haruchai and Ranyhyn; by anything as simple and enduring as mortal stubbornness, “we’ll do it.
“If your High God dies,” he finished as though he had taken an oath, “I probably won’t be far behind. Unless I get myself killed first.”
Hearing him, the Feroce did more than cower and flinch. They retreated, trembling, until they stood at the cave’s entrance. Their voice or voices became a gibbering noise like a host of whimpers. In a small circle, they faced each other and joined hands; clasped their fires together until argent was banished from the air between them, leaving only emerald fire that stank and throbbed like an old bane resurrected from the abysm of lost Time. Even to the failing nerves of Covenant’s cheeks, the bitterness of the creatures’ theurgy stung like a slap.
But it also smelled like terror. It felt like supplication.
While the Feroce huddled together, Branl moved around them to stand over the krill between them and Covenant, readying himself to snatch up the dagger. But they did not move to menace him or Covenant. Their flames remained contained within their circle.
In the absence of any explicit threat, Branl did not touch the knife.
At last, the Feroce spoke again. “Our High God knows desperation. He is acquainted with agony.” None of them looked at Covenant or Branl or the krill. “Your offer is accepted. While our High God lives, he and all who serve him will honor the alliance.”
Then they fled the chamber. In a moment, every hint of green and flame was gone, swallowed by darkness. For a while, the reek of malice lingered, an augur of calamity and woe. But soon the moiling winds from the sea and the precipice swept the scent away.
Finally Covenant let his shoulders slump. He felt vaguely nauseated, sick at heart, as if he committed a crime against the peculiar innocence of the lurker’s servants. But he did not know what else he could have done.
Help against the skest. Protection for Linden from further attacks. Such things were necessary. But he had procured them by pretending to be something that he was not.
Long ago, in a different life, he had once written that guilt and power were synonymous. Effective people were guilty because the use of power was guilt. Therefore only guilty people could be effective. Effective for good or evil, boon or bane. Only the damned could be saved.
By that reasoning, life itself was a form of guilt.
At the time, he had believed what he was writing. Now he had to hope that he was right.