3.
Bargaining with Fate
010
Hardly conscious of her own movements, Linden turned her back on the Harrow and hastened toward Covenant. With all of her senses, she examined her former lover. Was it possible that the Wraiths had healed his creviced mind? That she had misinterpreted the effects of the eldritch flames? Had they made him whole?
Did he even know what he was saying when he gave Linden his support? When he horrified Infelice so profoundly that the Elohim fled in despair?
Unregarded, Giants loomed in front of her. Then they stood behind her. She passed among Ranyhyn and Haruchai without noticing them. Liand and the Cords hovered around Covenant: Mahrtiir supported the Unbeliever’s head. But she did not look at them. All of her attention was fixed on Thomas Covenant.
For the moment, at least, she had forgotten dismay and shame.
Braced by the Manethrall, Covenant now sat more upright, leaning against Mahrtiir’s chest. He seemed unaware of Linden’s approach. He may have been unaware that he had spoken. The scar on his forehead was turned away. While she held her breath and bit her lip, he concentrated on accepting treasure-berries one at a time from Pahni’s hands, or from Bhapa’s. In spite of his evident hunger, he ate with slow care. The seeds he gave to Liand, who scattered them gladly around the vale.
Peering into Covenant as intimately as she could without violating his spirit, Linden confirmed that the Wraiths had not mended the faults which fractured his thoughts. Nor had they ameliorated his leprosy. They could not: Kevin’s Dirt hindered them in spite of the power that they drew from Loric’s dagger. They had only repaired the physical violence of his return to life. They had not restored the man he had once been.
Linden had forced him too far beyond the bounds of Law. Now he appeared to exist outside any mundane definition of health. The profuse miracles of Andelain and the Land could nurture his flesh, but could not draw him back into the ambit of simple humanity.
Seeing him like this, alert and damned, and growing stronger in ways that would only enable him to endure more pain, Linden wanted to weep again. But she did not. Perhaps she could not. The consequences of her rage and folly and hope had left her siccant. Within herself, she resembled a wasteland.
She was only peripherally aware that the Wraiths had begun to drift away, chiming a lucent and inconsolable lament as they bobbed out of the hollow. Apparently they had done what they could. Now they went elsewhere as though they did not wish to witness what came next.
At the same time, the Ranyhyn turned aside. Alert and sure, they separated themselves from the company, heading south.
Linden hardly noticed their departure. Covenant, she tried to say. But she had no words for what she needed from him. They had been burned out of her by her own extravagance. Perhaps she could have suffered the awakening of the Worm if she had succeeded at reincarnating him as she remembered him. But her flagrant display of power had achieved something worse than failure. No mere expression of regret would exculpate her.
Nevertheless her distress caught the attention of her friends. Mahrtiir lifted his head. Pahni looked up at Linden: hope flared suddenly in the young Cord’s eyes and then faded, extinguished by what she saw. Bhapa regarded Linden like a man who had lost faith and now sought to regain it.
The Humbled appeared to ignore her. Anele had stretched out on the thick grass near Covenant’s feet. There he slept with one hand covering his mouth like a man who feared that he might babble in his dreams. But the Giants turned toward Linden expectantly.
Liand hesitated for only an instant. Then he moved to stand in front of Linden. The black augury of his eyebrows emphasized the questions thronging in his kind eyes. Yet he reached out and clasped her shoulders gently as if he meant to reassure her.
“Linden,” he began in a tone of deliberate calm, “it is too much. Too much has transpired. Of these events, too many lie beyond my comprehension. We have been informed that the last crisis of the Earth now approaches, yet such avowals appear empty of meaning before the wonder and terror which you have wrought.
“Other needs press upon you. It is my intent to respect them, as I have respected you from the first, and will continue to the last. This, however, I must ask.
“I perceive that your understanding of what has occurred exceeds that of any Stonedownor or Raman. In one form, it surpasses even that of the Masters, whose memories span millennia. In another, it out-runs the wide learning of these Giants, though they have journeyed distances and met perils inconceivable to me. Nonetheless I ask this of you. Was it not impossible for you to have foreseen the outcome of your deeds here? Do you not share with each and all of your companions, Masters and Giants and Ramen alike, an inability to scry the future? And if you have no gift of prescience, are you not by that lack rendered blameless?
“Upon the rocks in Salva Gildenbourne, when we were beset by the skurj, I hazarded our lives by wielding both orcrest and the Staff of Law in an attempt to summon rain—an attempt which exceeded every gift of knowledge and skill and strength within me. That we evaded Kastenessen’s snare is no tribute to my foresight. I was merely foolish, foolish and desperate. Yet my folly was transformed to hope, not by any deed of mine, but through the aid of the Demondim-spawn, and with your own far greater might.
“Linden—my friend—” Briefly Liand faltered, overcome by compassion. Then he regained a measure of dignity. “May the same not be said of you? Can any being or power aver with certainty that your folly will not be transformed to hope by the succor of some lore or theurgy”—he referred to Covenant with a glance—“which we cannot foresee?”
Linden shook her head. She heard his sincerity. She felt it in the grasp of his hands. Still she rejected it. She had been given too many warnings. The horserite visions of the Ranyhyn may have been difficult to interpret: the images with which Lord Foul had afflicted her during her translation to the Land were not.
“Not this time,” she replied roughly. “I could have known. I just couldn’t let anything stop me.”
Under Melenkurion Skyweir, she had learned that she was nothing without Covenant. Her need to rescue Jeremiah demanded more of her than she contained.
And she did not forgive.
Her response hurt Liand. It may have pained the Ramen and the Swordmainnir—or vindicated the Humbled. But Covenant distracted them before anyone could protest.
Unsteadily he pulled away from Mahrtiir, struggled to his feet. Frowning, he considered everyone around him. When he looked at Linden, however, she discerned that his gaze did not entirely focus on her. Instead he gave the impression that he saw someone else in her place: another version of herself, perhaps, or a different woman altogether.
“Think of the Creator and the Despiser as brothers,” he remarked in an abstract tone. “Or doppelgangers of each other. That isn’t really true. The concepts are too big for words. But it’s a way to try to understand. It’s at least as true as saying the stars are the Creator’s children. Or the Arch of Time is like a rainbow. You could say Creation and Despite are the same thing, but they take such radically different forms they might as well be mysteries to each other. It’s all a paradox. It has to be.”
In another, more consecutive state of mind, he might have said, There is hope in contradiction.
“Covenant?” Linden asked as though his name had been wrung from her against her will. Surging upright, the Manethrall inquired like an echo, “Ringthane?”
Covenant did not respond. He may not have heard them. Instead he turned to Liand.
“I like your orcrest analogy.” He spoke as if he were continuing a casual conversation that he and the Stonedownor had begun earlier. “It doesn’t really apply. You didn’t risk anybody except yourself. Trying to bring rain didn’t make the danger you were already in worse. Earthpower and Law can’t stop the skurj. Not while Kevin’s Dirt is still there. But you’re still right. There are always surprises. And sometimes they help.”
Around him, the Giants shuffled their feet. They had heard too many tales about the Unbeliever, the ur-Lord—and none of those stories matched the man who now occupied Covenant’s body.
Linden tried again. “Covenant? Where are you? In your mind? What are you remembering?”
“Linden?” He cocked an eyebrow at her as if he were startled to find her near him; as if he had expected her to flee like Infelice. Still his manner remained abstract, almost nonchalant. “Do you remember Diassomer Mininderain?”
“No.” Her reaction was far more personal than his. “I mean yes. I’ve only heard the name. Sunder told us about her,” when he had led Covenant and her away from Mithil Stonedown into the ravages of the Sunbane millennia ago. “The Rede of the Clave mentioned her.”
Covenant nodded. “That’s right. It’s almost true.” As if he were quoting lines which he had heard only moments ago, he recited,
“Diassomer Mininderain,
The mate of might, and Master’s wife,
All stars’ and heavens’ chatelaine,
With power over realm and strife,
Attended well, the story tells,
To a-Jeroth of the Seven Hells.”
Linden remembered in spite of her confusion. Oh, come, my love, and bed with me—
Covenant had fallen into a private crevasse. Diassomer Mininderain had nothing to do with Linden, or with the dilemmas of her friends, or with the ending of the Earth. That woman was only a myth promulgated by the Clave for Lord Foul’s malign reasons.
“Covenant, please,” Linden begged. “Make sense.” She had done this to him. “We need you. I need you. Help us if you can.”
A shudder ran through him. Briefly he grimaced as if she had twisted his heart. “I’m sorry.” His hands made incomplete gestures like truncated supplications. “There are so many strands. I want to distinguish—But I don’t know how.”
Then his air of abstraction claimed him again. “If Creation and Despite have some kind of relevance to eternity—if they’re part of what eternity means somehow—other things may be relevant as well. One might be Indifference. Another might be Love. They’re all the same thing. But they’re all different.”
“Covenant!” Linden could not blunt the edge of desperation in her voice. “Please! We need you here.”
I think we should do this Linden’s way. Had he been referring to her intention to meet the Harrow’s demands? She can make this kind of decision. The rest of us can’t.
She had already done so much harm—
Liand’s earnest face added his appeal to hers. Distinctly Rime Coldspray said, “Covenant Giantfriend,” as if she hoped to remind him of who he was. “You redeemed the Dead of The Grieve from their long sorrow. Will you not now grant some boon or balm to our dolor and gall?”
But Covenant was trapped in his memories. He gave no sign that he had heard the Ironhand.
“Old stories—I mean the really old stories, like creation myths—are always true. Not literally, of course. Words aren’t good enough. And people always change the stories to suit themselves. But the stories are still true. Like the Clave’s version of what the Earth and Time are for. Or Diassomer Mininderain.
“None of this is her fault. She just can’t forgive it.”
Acute with blandishments and spells
Spoke a-Jeroth of the Seven Hells.
Linden found that she could not beseech him further. Helplessly she remembered: she had never been able to break the grip of her past, or of the Land’s.
With a-Jeroth the lady ran;
Diassomer with fear and dread
Fled from the Master’s ruling span.
On Earth she hides her trembling head,
While all about her laughter wells
From a-Jeroth of the Seven Hells.
“She was—or is—or has always been—an aspect of eternity. Maybe she was Love. The Lover. And maybe she fell when the Despiser did. That’s possible. Despite isn’t the opposite of Love. That’s Indifference. Love has more in common with Despite and Creation than with Indifference.”
“Forgive!” she cries with woe and pain;
Her treacher’s laughter hurts her sore.
“His blandishments have been my bane.
I yearn my Master to adore.”
For in her ears the spurning knells
Of a-Jeroth of the Seven Hells.
“But being trapped in Time is different for Love than it is for Despite.” Covenant frowned again. “This is all just words.” Then he resumed. “It outraged the Despiser, but it made Diassomer Mininderain insane. The Despiser tricked her. And the Creator can’t free her without dismantling what he created. She’s sort of like Joan, in a way. If words made any sense. If Joan weren’t so human and frail.”
Wrath is the Master—fire and rage.
Retribution fills his hands.
Attacking comes he, sword and gage,
’Gainst treachery in all the lands.
Mininderain he treats with rue;
No heaven-home for broken trust,
But children given to pursue
All treachery to death and dust.
Thus Earth became a gallow-fells
For a-Jeroth of the Seven Hells.
“The Despiser has to cause as much pain as he can while he tries to get free. It helps him fight off his own despair. Diassomer Mininderain feeds off anything that’s still capable of love. She eats—But that’s not all she does. She still hates. She had as much to do with making the merewives as Kastenessen’s mortal lover did. And she’s involved in Kevin’s Dirt somehow.”
Linden had lost her way. Covenant evoked a host of recollections and bafflements and lost affection. He seemed to have reached the point of what he was trying to say, but she could not guess what it might be. When he fell silent, gazing about him as though he had made everything clear, she asked the first question that she could find in her desiccated heart.
“So why didn’t I see that old man? The one who told me that ‘There is also love in the world.’ Why didn’t he warn me?”
You are indeed forsaken, by the Dead as by the Earth’s Creator. How could it be otherwise, when all of your deeds conduce to ruin?
If he had accosted her—if she had caught so much as a glimpse of him—she would have known what his presence meant. She might have been able to save Jeremiah.
Covenant’s face tightened, drawing his features into lines like strictures. Suddenly, for no reason that she could imagine, he was present in front of her, alert in every sense. Sliding along a flaw or fissure, he had returned to Andelain and night and the brilliance of the krill. The harsh compassion in his voice was so familiar that it made her ache.
“Maybe he’s given up. Maybe he knows there’s nothing he can do.”
Forget him in this ecstasy.
At once, several of the Giants protested, prompted by their instinctive passion for life. “What, abandoned his Creation? The Earth entire?” But their incredulity bypassed Linden, leaving her hollow. Of course the Creator had turned his back. He had looked into her and seen what she was. Now he was done with her.
She was done with him as well. He had failed her. Ignoring the Giants, and the chagrin among the Ramen, she tried by force of will to keep Covenant from slipping away again.
“What about Jeremiah? You know everything that’s happened since Lord Foul killed you. Maybe you know everything that’s ever happened. Lord Foul touched him before I came here with you ten years ago. According to Roger, the Despiser owns him.” He’s belonged to Foul for years. And the Mahdoubt had said, a-Jeroth’s mark was placed upon the boy when he was yet a small child—“Is that true?”
Had Jeremiah invited the croyel to possess him? Was there no hope for him at all?
For a moment, Covenant ducked his head as if Linden had shamed him. But he did not fall. When he looked at her again, his mouth was twisted with anger, and his eyes caught a combative gleam from the krill.
“I did what I could,” he said as if the words were stones, heavy and undeniable, “without risking the Arch. Maybe it was enough. If it wasn’t, we’ll make it enough. That boy doesn’t deserve what’s happened to him. Hellfire, Linden, he was practically a toddler. I refuse to believe he made choices then that can’t be undone.”
Briefly Covenant glanced away as if he were gazing into unfathomable distances. “There are things the Despiser doesn’t understand. He can’t. No matter how clever he is. Like the Creator—like all of us—he has his blind side. Some things he just doesn’t see.”
Then his attention returned to Linden so fiercely that she seemed to feel his hands holding the sides of her face, compelling her, although he had not stepped toward her or raised his arms.
“Listen to me, Linden. None of the love you lavished on your son was wasted. That isn’t even possible. Until we know more about what’s happened to him, just trust yourself.”
Abruptly Stave spoke. In a peremptory tone, as though he had missed an opportunity and meant to recapture it, he asked, “Ur-Lord, is it conceivable that the Creator has forsaken the Chosen and the Earth because he is no longer needed?”
A wince of surprise or regret twisted one side of Covenant’s mouth. “Ah, hell,” he sighed. “Why not? Anything is conceivable. At least until the Worm gets enough to eat.”
“On that matter, Giantfriend,” put in Rime Coldspray before Stave could continue, “have we been given sooth? Is the time remaining to us measured in days rather than in hours?”
Covenant nodded with a hint of his earlier abstraction. “Berek’s right. Creating realities takes time. So does destroying them. I’m not part of the Arch anymore. I can’t protect it. But that doesn’t mean it’s going to crumble while we stand here talking about it.”
Stave did not waver. “Ur-Lord,” he insisted, “is it conceivable that the Creator’s abandonment benefits his creation?”
Covenant scowled at the outcast Master. “Think that if you want. Hell, believe it if you can. It’s as good as any other explanation. I can’t imagine what the benefit might be. But maybe that’s just one of my blind spots.” Harshly he concluded, “Anything is better than giving up.”
With his lone eye and his impassive mien, Stave regarded Covenant as though the Unbeliever had made his point for him.
It is ever thus. Obliquely Linden remembered Mahrtiir’s advice before she and her friends had left the wreckage of First Woodhelven. Attempts must be made, even when there can be no hope. The alternative is despair. And betimes some wonder is wrought to redeem us.
Apparently Stave shared the Manethrall’s conviction.
There are always surprises. And sometimes they help.
Linden still had one last attempt to make. And Stave would support her. The Ramen would do the same. As would Liand.
She was less sure of the Giants; but she suspected that their love of children would sway them. As for the Humbled—They would argue against her, of course. But Covenant had already commanded them to choose her.
If she could, she meant to spare all of them the risk of her final gamble.
“In that case,” she said, pleading for Covenant’s permission; for a confirmation of his approval, “I should go finish talking to the Harrow.”
She had more questions for Covenant; many more. But she lacked the courage to ask them. If she had simply allowed herself to think them in words—Do you really believe that I’m still capable of something good? or, Do you still love me?—she might have fallen to her knees. Any answer, any answer at all, would have been more than she could bear.
Before Covenant could respond, however—before she could turn away with or without his reassurance—Galt intervened.
“Unbeliever, you must not permit this.” His voice was a blade sharpened by uncharacteristic passion. “To rouse the Worm was Desecration. To go now in search of her son, trusting to the word of this Insequent, is rank madness.”
Covenant’s emanations were vivid to Linden’s percipience: he stood on the verge of another drop. An abyss yawned at the feet of his mind. She held her breath, expecting him to fall. But something in Galt’s tone, or in Covenant’s own determination, kept him from stumbling over the edge.
“It makes more sense than you think.” His asperity dulled the edge of Galt’s demand. “We aren’t strong enough. I’m not all here. Kevin’s Dirt limits what she can do with her Staff. And she doesn’t really know how to use that ring. I wanted her to have it, but still—She isn’t its rightful wielder.
“As matters stand, we don’t have enough power.” His halfhand displayed its emptiness. “Or the right kind of power. We can’t stop the Worm. While we’re trying to figure out how to save the Earth—if that’s even possible—we might as well do something useful.”
“Unbeliever,” Galt protested. “Ur-Lord. Ringthane. You must hear me. Linden Avery’s purpose is intolerable. She will surrender all hope and receive only her son—and that only if the word of this Insequent is worthy of trust. We have learned an unwonted esteem for the Mahdoubt, but the Insequent as a race are as contemptuous and cruel as the Elohim. They serve only themselves. And when the Harrow has gained white gold and the Staff of Law, he will possess less efficacy against the Worm than Linden Avery now holds, for he is the rightful wielder of neither.
“Surely there are other deeds within our strength which may serve to forestall the outcome of this Desecration. You must not permit—”
Covenant tried to hold—Linden saw that—but he failed. While she watched, he toppled into himself; slid down an inner slope. For reasons that no longer made sense, he waved her away, sending her toward the Harrow. Then he draped an arm over Galt’s shoulders and turned the Master in the opposite direction.
“Listen,” he said lightly, casually, as if he were gliding on oil, “did I ever tell you how the Theomach replaced the Elohim who guarded the One Tree? I can’t remember what we’ve talked about. The whole world is stories. Maybe I haven’t told them all.
“They didn’t call him the Guardian. He was the Appointed. The first Appointed. He used a different form every time somebody approached the Tree. He used different names. But he always stood in the way. Until the Theomach out-did him.”
In spite of his tone, Covenant’s manner seemed disjointed, confused by falling, as he drew the three Humbled with him. Yet somehow he contrived to insist; or the Masters felt required to attend him.
Indirectly he spared Linden the contention of the Humbled as she forced herself to approach the Harrow.
At once, Stave and Liand took positions at her shoulders. Mahrtiir instructed his Cords to watch over Covenant with Galt, Clyme, and Branl: then the Manethrall followed her. After an instant of hesitation, the Ironhand sent a few of her Swordmainnir to hear whatever Covenant might reveal to the Humbled. With the rest of her comrades, Coldspray joined Mahrtiir.
The Harrow waited where Linden had left him, as sure of himself as a plinth of marble. His chlamys hung at a jaunty angle from his shoulders. In the glow of the krill, the umber beads of his doublet looked strangely moist, as though they oozed damp theurgies. His trim beard jutted avidly.
Tense with fright or ire, as if the beast knew what Linden’s approach signified, the Harrow’s destrier watched her askance. But he had trained his mount well: it stood its ground.
“Lady.” The Insequent inclined his head with grave mockery. “On such a night, I am tolerant of interruption. Yet the hour is late, and the time has come for my long labors to bear their intended fruit. There can be no more apt occasion for my triumph than Banas Nimoram and the rousing of the Worm. The Elohim has fled, bearing her arrogance and self-woe to the distant reaches of the Earth. We must now speak of your son.”
Linden remembered too well the deep sound of his voice; his fertile taunts. There is a service which I am able to perform for you, and which you will not obtain from any other living being. She ached to defy his scorn. But she had created a crisis for herself, and her friends, and Thomas Covenant—for the entire living world—to which she had no answer except the most extreme sacrifice. And she had already made her decision. She recognized the danger. But she did not know—
“That’s right.” She glared up at him as if she could still bargain with him as an equal, in spite of her dismay. “My son. Here’s the problem. You want a lot, but you don’t give anything. You claim that you know where he is. You claim that you can take me to him. But you haven’t offered me even one reason to believe you. For all I know, this is just an elaborate charade. My God, Jeremiah is hidden from Esmer and the Elohim . As far as I know, Covenant can’t locate him. How am I supposed to believe that you’re the only one who knows where he is?
“How am I supposed to believe that you and no one else can help me get there?”
“You mistake me, lady.” The Harrow chuckled softly. “I did not avow that no other being is able to discern his covert, though it is certain that the mere-son and the Elohim cannot. Nor have I claimed that no other being is able to convey you thither. I merely state absolutely that no other being can both discern his hiding place and transport you to him.”
Before Linden could respond, Stave asked stiffly, “Other beings have knowledge of this covert? Name them, Insequent.”
She expected the Harrow to refuse; but he did not. “The unnatural lore of the ur-viles and Waynhim is capable of much,” he replied. “However, I will not translate their tongue for your edification. Nor will the mere-son, who fears them beyond measure. And he has deprived these Giants of the gift which once enabled them to comprehend the speech of such creatures.
“Lady,” he added with a hint of glee, “you have no path except to accept my aid in exchange for those instruments of power which I covet.”
“You’re wrong,” retorted Linden. “I can always refuse. In fact, that’s my only sane path, since you still haven’t given me a reason to believe you. Your whole attitude is inherently dishonest. Why should I just trust you?”
He smirked through his whiskers. “And must I therefore trust you? Must I convey you to your son in the fond hope that only then will you honor your own word? Lady, no. I have witnessed the extent of your folly. I will not assume that you are honorable merely because you wish me to do so.”
His argument stopped Linden: she could not imagine a way to counter it. If she had been in his place, would she have trusted a person who had violated the essence of Law in order to drag Covenant out of his place in the Arch of Time? She wanted to believe that she would have found room in her heart for any parent who sought to save a child; that she would not have been as self-absorbed and uncaring as the Harrow. But she had already demonstrated that she was capable of defying every consequence in order to get what she wanted. She remained ready to take any risk for Jeremiah’s sake; but she could not pretend that she was morally superior to the Harrow. His distrust was as valid as hers; as entirely justified.
Esmer had once said, That which appears evil need not have been so from the beginning, and need not remain so until the end. She wanted to say the same about herself, but she knew that the Harrow would only laugh.
“Then think of something,” she murmured weakly. “We’re at an impasse. Find a way out.”
Surely she could not surrender Covenant’s ring and her Staff without some assurance—?
“Lady,” he answered without hesitation, “that I speak sooth is confirmed by who and what I am. The word of any Insequent is as precious as wealth. We do not speak falsehood. It demeans knowledge, which we revere. Condoning lies, I would cease to be who I am.
“I grant, however, that you do not know me. For you, my word cannot suffice. Therefore I will pledge my oath. You have cause to trust that such an oath will bind me. As I have previously forsworn my purpose against your mind and spirit and flesh, so will I swear now that I am certain of your son’s covert, and that I am able to convey you to him. In exchange for your instruments of power, I will further avow that when I have effected your reunion with your child, I will return you wheresoever you desire. To reassure you, I once again adjure all of the Insequent to heed me. If I do not abide by this second oath, as I have honored the first, I pray that the vengeance of my people upon me will be both cruel and prolonged.”
Linden did her best to meet the empty blackness of his gaze. “That’s it?” Her voice was little more than a whisper of dried leaves gusting over barren ground. She had difficulty swallowing. “That’s your oath?”
The radiance of the krill lit every line of his face, but could not touch the depths of his eyes.
“It is,” he assented, “if we are in agreement.” Mirth stirred beneath the surface of his tone. “Place into my hands the white gold ring and the Staff of Law, and I will abide by my vow precisely as I have pronounced it. Refuse, and I will be bound by no oath but that which the Mahdoubt wrested from me, at the cost of her mind and use and life.”
According to the Theomach, the Insequent were seldom petty when their desires opposed those of the Elohim.
Sighing, Linden reached up to pull the chain of Covenant’s ring over her head.
“Linden,” murmured Liand anxiously, “this troubles me. In one matter, I concur with the Humbled. The Harrow cannot equal the puissance which you have won from both your Staff and the white ring. Is it not certain that the hope of the Land, dim though it may be, will dwindle if his wishes are granted?”
“Stonedownor—” Mahrtiir began gruffly.
Liand refused to be interrupted. “And is it not certain also that the fell creature which you have named the croyel retains possession of your son? How will you win his freedom if you wield neither Earthpower nor wild magic?”
“Liand,” said the Manethrall more firmly, “desist. Every friend of the Ringthane shares your apprehensions. Yet this choice is hers, not ours. And there lives no parent among the Ramen who would not choose as she does. Only the opposition of the Ranyhyn would suffice to deter us—and behold!” He gestured around the vale. “They have departed. By this token is their faith in the Ringthane confirmed.”
The absence of the horses did not concern Linden. They would return when they were called; or when they were needed.
“She has followed her heart to our present straits,” Mahrtiir concluded. “If she does not continue to do so, all that she has hazarded and lost will come to naught.”
At the Manethrall’s command, Liand subsided; and Rime Coldspray nodded her approval. If Stave agreed with either Liand or Mahrtiir, he did not say so. But he had sons among the Masters, sons who had participated in casting him out of their mental communion. Nevertheless he had said of them—and of all the children of the Haruchai—that They are born to strength, and it is their birthright to remain who they are.
Had Covenant not told Linden long ago that Lord Foul could not gain his ends through decisions like the one she made here?
She held Covenant’s wedding band in her left hand as though she were testing the weight of her surrender. The fingers of her right gripped the Staff as they had under Melenkurion Skyweir; as if they were still cramped and sealed by pain and blood.
Extending her arms toward the Harrow cost her an effort so severe that she feared it might burst a vessel in her brain. His grin stretched into a shape that resembled madness or murder as he reached out to accept the instruments he craved.
A new voice stopped him: a voice that she had never heard before. Its pitch lay midway between the Theomach’s light assurance and the Harrow’s ripe bass, and it lisped slightly, giving each word a foppish timbre.
“For this I have come.”
The Harrow jerked up his head, already glaring in surprise and indignation. Snatching at their weapons, the Giants and Mahrtiir whirled to face the newcomer. While Liand stared, Stave adjusted his protective posture at Linden’s shoulder.
She dropped her arms as though her burdens had become too heavy for her. Then she turned.
Into the vale from the north rode a stranger. He was mounted on a mangy, shovel-headed horse so spavined that it should have been unable to support his improbable bulk. In spite of its gaunt ribs and sagging spine, however, the beast looked irascible enough to be a mule; and it bore its rider with an air of sideways malice, as if it had been waiting indefinitely for its chance to do him harm.
But Linden spared only a glance for the horse. Its rider compelled her attention.
Her first impression was one of grotesque corpulence; but then she saw that his apparent size was exaggerated by his apparel. He seemed to be clad entirely in ribbands: thousands of them in every conceivable hue and texture. Garish in the krill’s light, they fluttered and streamed from his head, his limbs, his torso, as if they were constantly unwinding themselves without ever quite flying loose. Independent of the night’s stillness and his own movements, they flapped in all directions, surrounding him like a penumbra of wind-tugged cloth; a personal effluvium of cerise and incarnadine and carbuncle, ecru and ivory, turquoise and viridian and azure, blue as deep as velvet, yellows ranging from the fulvous and the sulphuric to the palest gold.
His hands were bare: they grappled with the reins of his mount as if he had never ridden before. And his face also was exposed, revealing eyes wide with perpetual astonishment, a nose like a luxuriant toadstool, and lips too plump for any explanation except gluttony. Wrapped in waving layers, several chins may have wobbled below his jaw, shaken by the lurching gait of his mount; but his garb muffled such details.
A cacophony of ribbands and colors, he approached the group around Linden and the Harrow until he was near enough to be struck down by one of the Swordmainnir. Then he hauled his recalcitrant horse to a halt.
“You,” spat the Harrow in obvious recognition. “Was the Mahdoubt’s doom insufficient to warn away your folly? Do you covet the decline of your beloved flesh to carrion?”
The newcomer ignored the Harrow. Facing Linden past Stave and two of the Giants, he twirled his arms and ribbands, apparently bowing. “Lady,” he announced in a tone like his fat, “by good chance I am timely arrived.” His lisp detracted from his attempt at dignity. “There are matters which must be considered ere your bargain with the Harrow is sealed.”
While she stared at him, he continued, “With your gracious consent, I will make myself known to you.” Holding up one finger as if to test the direction of a breeze which she could not feel—or perhaps to warn the Harrow against speaking—he said, “I am the Ardent. As you have doubtless surmised, I am of the Insequent. Indeed, I share some slight kinship with the Harrow. Unlike him, however, I am an acolyte—if such as the Insequent may be said to have acolytes—of the Mahdoubt. I lack both her kindliness and her arduous knowledge of Time. Also I lay no claim to her manifest valor. Yet I esteem her example highly. So great is my esteem, indeed, that I follow her as I would a guide, though even the most casual glance at my person will discern that I require no guidance.”
His otiose self-confidence made him sound ludicrous.
“That, at least,” grumbled the Harrow, “is a form of sooth. Prepare a feast within a hundred leagues of the Ardent, and you will find him at table ere the first course is presented.”
In response, the Ardent waggled his finger, now clearly cautioning the Harrow to silence—and clearly expecting the Harrow to comply.
“Lady,” he added, “you may regard me as a friend.” Each word was a dollop of cream. “Doubtless there are those who deem that the Insequent know nothing of friendship. And doubtless they have cause for their conviction. You, however, will think otherwise. You have known the discretion and regard of the Theomach, he whom the Harrow seeks to displace as the greatest of our kind. Also you have been served as both friend and ally by the Mahdoubt. You will grant me leave to demonstrate that my nature is as benignant as hers, though her wisdom and fortitude elude me.”
Liand put his hand on Linden’s arm, but did not ask for her attention. Rather he seemed to touch her to remind himself that he and she, at least, remained solid; that they had not wandered inadvertently into the illimitable possibilities of dreams—
“Here is a wonder indeed,” exclaimed Rime Coldspray softly. “Had we any prospect of continued life, we would hear such tales gladly wheresoever we sailed—aye, and count ourselves fortunate to do so.”
“Enough!” demanded the Harrow darkly. “Name your desires and depart, fatuous one. You cannot be madman enough to intend interference. Therefore your presence serves no purpose, and your words waste the hearing of them.”
The Ardent did not deign to reply. Instead he flapped his upraised hand, and at once a long streamer extended itself from his habiliments toward the Harrow. The ribband had a niveous color as it fluttered away from the Ardent, but wafting it modulated to match the Harrow’s dun-and-loam hues. Although it remained anchored among the rest of the Ardent’s coverings, it lengthened quickly. And when it reached the Harrow, it began to wind around his head, floating nearer and nearer until it looked like it would soon cover and seal his face; his eyes or his mouth.
Reflexively Linden held her breath. Was it possible? Could the Ardent suffocate the Harrow? With a strip of cloth?
They were both men, as human as she was. Only their arcane studies gave them theurgy.
Liand’s fingers dug into her arm. The Giants watched open-mouthed, as if they were torn between amusement and alarm.
For a moment, the Harrow slapped at the ribband furiously. But it evaded him, as illusive as a swarm of gnats. Abruptly he stopped swatting, dropped his hands to his doublet. His fingers began forming strange shapes on the ornaments of his garment.
“Paugh!” the Ardent snorted in plump disdain. “Rub not your beads at me. You deem yourself worthy to determine the fate of the Earth. Very well. I will speak to you while the lady strives to gather her wits.”
Briefly his ribband twisted itself into a shape that mocked the Harrow. Then it withdrew to resume swaddling its wearer.
Assuming an air of lugubrious portent, the Ardent explained, “The Insequent are cognizant of your purpose. Also we perceive that the destruction of all things gathers against us. Indeed, some among us foretell that much depends upon the worth of your oath and the outcome of your desires. And many centuries of study have taught us that it is the nature of avarice to mislead. One who is driven by greed—as I acknowledge that I am—may speak sooth to disguise sooth. If you are permitted to do so, you may abide by your oath and yet betray the lady, for she cannot comprehend the omissions concealed within your words.
“Therefore I am come, bearing in my person the conjoined resolve of our kind. This in itself is of vast import, as I am. Heretofore no cause or exigency has lured the Insequent as a race from the solitary study and hunger which alone enables our multifarious accomplishments. Yet we crave life, as life itself craves continuance, and the utter termination of every desire and appetite has now been made imminent. If the Earth falls, no Insequent will remain to mourn its passing. For this reason, as we would for no lesser cause, we have set aside our solitude, that we may unite our intent in my person. I embody all that has made of our kind who we are.
“As sigil and emblem that I am the authorized emissary of the Insequent, I proffer this hint of my powers.”
Around his head, ribbands twined and waved as if of their own volition, seeming to grow first longer and then shorter as they fluttered like the language of an obscure ritual. Limned in argence, they performed a florid masque. Then, before Linden—or the Harrow, apparently—could guess what this display might mean, the Harrow’s destrier vanished between his legs.
Deprived of his mount, he fell heavily to the greensward; landed with an involuntary grunt and a bitter obscenity.
The laughter of the Giants stoked his anger as he sprang to his feet. Linden expected him to summon a counterattack of some kind. Instead of striking out, however, he merely adjusted his doublet, restored his chlamys to its insouciant angle across his shoulders. Although his aura fumed hotly, he seemed to see something in the Ardent’s magicks that was invisible to Linden; something that compelled restraint.
Smiling down at his fellow Insequent, the Ardent stated, “We will in no way intrude upon your bargain with the lady, or upon your purposes thereafter. Indeed, I am instructed to assist them. The long strictures of our kind we will honor. Nevertheless I am come to impose this condition, that the lady herself must be the sole arbiter of the terms of your oath.”
For an instant, the Harrow looked shocked. Then outrage darkened his features. He appeared to be mustering a curse as the Ardent insisted, “She alone will determine what is encompassed by your oath and what is not. Nor will we deem your oath fulfilled until she declares that she is content.
“Also,” he proclaimed ostentatiously, “I will accompany you in the name of all those Insequent whom you have invoked. Doubtless you contemplate some escape from your oath, which I will prevent. And it may chance that you will require my aid.”
Contradicting his florid manner, a haunted look darkened his gaze when he spoke of aid. But it was brief; gone almost as soon as Linden noticed it.
She blinked at the two men as if she were dazed. Too much had happened: she could not think clearly.—abide by your oath and yet betray—How was it possible that the Ardent’s apprehensions made no sense to her? Her desire to redeem her son must have wider implications than she had realized. But she felt entirely unable to imagine what they were.
Abruptly Mahrtiir growled, “Have done, Insequent. The Ringthane has friends enough. Your pretense of concern conveys naught. Speak plainly or desist. Name the betrayal contemplated by the Harrow, that we may gauge the worth of your intent.”
The Ardent inclined his head to acknowledge Mahrtiir. Unexpectedly grave, he replied, “Manethrall, I cannot. Think no ill of me when I observe that any effort to shape or guide the lady’s deeds and choices will be seen—and seen rightly—as dire interference. My mission is to ensure the terms and fulfillment of the Harrow’s oath, not to instruct the lady in their interpretation.
“Misliking the Harrow as I do, I would find no small joy in thwarting him. Have I not admitted that I, too, am prone to greed? But here I personify the united will of the Insequent. Any deviation from that resolve will breach the sacred prohibition which enables the Insequent to endure and prosper. Answering you, I will bring down my own destruction and accomplish only sorrow.”
Linden had heard such reasoning before. Both the Theomach and the Mahdoubt, in their distinct fashions, had presented similar arguments.
When she understood that the Ardent was trying to walk a path as straight and strict as theirs—that his ambiguities were necessary to the singular ethics of the Insequent—she at last found her voice. Hardly knowing what she meant to say, she suggested unsteadily, “In that case, let’s play fair. If the Harrow can’t ride, you shouldn’t sit there looking down on him.”
Or on her.
The Harrow flashed her a glance that she could not read. The emptiness of his eyes swallowed the character of his reaction.
The Ardent surprised her again by emitting a loud guffaw. “Well said, lady. Doubtless you merit the Mahdoubt’s regard, ill-considered though your many extravagances may appear to be. I am neither mightier nor less flawed than the Harrow. I have merely been elected to enact the will of the Insequent.”
Laughing again, he sent out streamers of chartreuse and fuligin on all sides, bands interwoven with crimson and cerulean. They seemed to float independent of him, as though they might tug free at any moment. But he did not loose them—or they did not loose themselves. Instead, by some means that baffled Linden’s senses, they caused his mount to disappear.
Unlike the Harrow, however, he did not fall. Cradled in ribbands, he drifted gently to the grass as if his bulk were as light as air.
Delighted by his display, the Giants laughed with him. Obviously pleased, the Ardent gazed up at them with the open wonder of a child. Flapping his arms, he caused his apparel to unfurl and cavort in a glad gambol.
Their momentary mirth did not touch Linden. But it gave her a chance to gather herself and think. While the Harrow ground his teeth, waiting in vexation for the laughter to subside, she tried to guess where the potential for betrayal might lie in his vow.
Peripherally she was aware of Covenant and his escort. Ignoring or avoiding her and the Insequent, he had walked the Humbled and their accompaniment of Giants and Ramen to the rim of the hollow. There, however, he turned and began to move slowly back toward the dead stump and Loric’s krill. His manner still seemed disjointed, torn between understanding and bewilderment. He had not yet found his way back to the present.
Grasping at allusions, Linden asked Stave quietly, “What are they talking about?” With a nod, she indicated Covenant and the Masters. “Has Covenant explained the Theomach? Or the Insequent?”
Stave could still hear the mental communion of the Haruchai, although he had learned to close his own thoughts against them. In a low voice, he answered, “The ur-Lord does not speak of the Theomach. His offer to do so he appeared to forget when it had been uttered.” He may have meant, When it had accomplished its purpose by distracting the Humbled. “Rather he rambles forward and back through the most ancient history of the Haruchai, relating tales which none have forgotten. The Giants appear gladdened to hear of unfamiliar events. Saying nothing, the Cords remain wary of the Humbled.”
“Will they attack the Ardent?” asked Linden. “Galt and the others?”
Long days ago, they had assailed the Harrow without warning.
“Not while the Unbeliever holds their allegiance. They see no future for the Land which does not rest with Thomas Covenant.”
Linden sighed to herself. She also saw no future—But that was not her concern. She had other needs to meet.
Once again, she faced the challenge of the Harrow.
—it is the nature of avarice to mislead. She could not guess what secret intentions might lie hidden beneath the surface of his oath. Nevertheless she was sure of one question that he had not answered.
“All right,” she murmured when silence had fallen around her. Staring into the Harrow’s blackness, she said, “I know what I’ve offered you. I know what you’ve sworn to do if I keep my end of the bargain. But I don’t know why you still care. The Worm of the World’s End is coming.” How had he known that she would rouse the Worm? “What can you possibly gain with my Staff and Covenant’s ring?” He had conceived his desires before the silence of Covenant’s spectre had provoked her determination to attempt Covenant’s resurrection. “You aren’t crazy enough to think they can protect you when the Arch collapses. But you’ve avoided telling me what you think you can accomplish.
“You said that Infelice is wrong about ‘the Earth’s ruin.’”—no doom is inevitable—“I want you to explain what you’re going to do once we’ve rescued Jeremiah.”
“I will not,” the Harrow retorted at once. “The Ardent’s assertions are specious. My purposes are my own. I will not speak of them to those whose aid I do not require.”
Before Linden could muster a response, the Ardent put in, “Doubtless you desire to say nothing of such matters. I must assure you, however, that you will not remain silent.” He sounded supremely confident—and secretly fearful. “You cannot be blind to the might with which I have been entrusted. The lady, and only the lady, will interpret the terms of your vow. That benison has been vouchsafed to her, in answer to your greed. You will satisfy her, or you will quell your hunger for her instruments of power.”
“If I do so,” the Harrow protested hotly, “the Earth entire must perish.”
“Perchance,” admitted the Ardent. He seemed untroubled by the prospect. “Or perchance you are mistaken. My concern—and the forces which I am able to invoke—pertain chiefly to the lady’s contentment in her dealings with you.”
“I will not—” the Harrow tried to insist.
The Ardent interrupted him. With a troubled smile, the beribboned Insequent asked, “Must I demonstrate the puissance invested in me?”
Linden sensed a struggle between the two men, although no aspect of their contest was visible to ordinary sight. The Ardent continued smiling while the Harrow scowled. If they tested each other, they did so in a way that resembled the Mahdoubt’s eerie battle with the Harrow. Linden half expected one or the other of them to flicker and fade—
Behind her, Covenant had reached the krill. Now he walked around it, studying it as he talked softly to the Humbled, the Swordmainnir, the Cords. As ever, Linden could not discern the emotions of the Haruchai; but she felt Bhapa’s growing bafflement, Pahni’s yearning to stand with Liand. The Giants listened with perplexed attention, as if Covenant spoke a foreign tongue.
Abruptly the Harrow shrugged. He betrayed no sign of strain as he shifted his attention from the Ardent to Linden.
Without preamble, he announced, “Infelice conceives that I crave your son’s supernal gifts for my own use. In this her sight is clear.”
In an instant, everything changed for Linden. Shock like a brush of flame burned her skin from head to foot: realities seemed to reel and veer: the bottom fell out of her heart, into the Harrow’s eyes. Gasping for breath, she tried to cry out, You bastard, you son of a bitch! But she failed. You want to use him? After everything that he’s already suffered?
The Ardent beamed at her as though the outcome of his insistence pleased him.
“Linden!” protested Liand. “Your son? Is this Insequent as heartless as he names the Elohim?”
Oh, God. With an effort, Linden forced herself to breathe; fought for steadiness. She had not yet surrendered her powers: she could still make choices.
She alone will determine what is encompassed by your oath and what is not.
The Ardent had implied that he would prevent the Harrow from doing anything to Jeremiah without her consent. She could afford to hear the rest of the Harrow’s self-justification.
That thought or hope or blind wish enabled her to demand through her teeth, “Go on.”
“Yet Infelice is ignorant,” the Harrow explained, “of the precise use which I desire. She imagines—and dreads—that my intent resembles the Vizard’s. This is the ‘eternal loss’ which she abhors. She deems that I desire a prison for the Elohim—and that I am witless enough to believe that the Worm will withdraw from harm if it is deprived of its natural repast.
“But I am not such a fool. The Elohim are little more than Earthpower made sapient. If the Worm cannot feed upon them, it will devour other sustenance until it attains the culmination of its hunger. In this, it resembles any beast. To imprison the Elohim will gratify my pride. It will gain naught else.
“Lady—” The Harrow hesitated briefly; glanced at the Ardent. Then he shrugged again. “It is my intent to wield both Law and wild magic in your son’s service. With such forces at his command, he will possess might sufficient to devise a gaol into which the Worm must enter, and from which it will be unable to emerge. This you cannot accomplish in my stead. The reasons are many. I will cite two.
“First, you lack my knowledge of such theurgies. Regardless of your own desires and extremity, you do not comprehend the precise form of aid which your son will require. You cannot be guided by insights which you have not earned. Through your intervention, your son’s failure will be assured.
“Second, he alone is not adequately lorewise to fashion the gaol I envision. He has not been granted centuries of study in which to perfect his gifts. Therefore I must rely upon the connivance of the croyel.”
Linden understood him immediately; involuntarily. The croyel: the dire succubus which she had last seen feeding on Jeremiah’s neck, draining his life and mind while it gave him power. Swift as instinct, she grasped that the Harrow meant to leave her son under that vicious being’s control. The dark Insequent needed more than Earthpower and wild magic and Jeremiah’s talent for constructs: he needed the croyel’s specific powers and knowledge.
The mere idea filled her with fury. For Jeremiah’s sake, she wanted to strike the Harrow down, stamp out his life. And for Jeremiah’s sake, she restrained herself. She believed the Harrow’s claim that he alone could take her to her son.
“Will you permit this?” Liand flung his own anger and dismay at the Ardent. “Is this the measure of your kind, that you are careless of a child’s pain? Was the Mahdoubt alone in her compassion?”
The Ardent twisted his features into an expression of distress. His ribbands spun ambiguously about him, signaling emotions that meant nothing to Linden. But he did not answer.
She alone will determine—Nor will we deem your oath fulfilled—
“You still aren’t telling the truth,” she insisted. “You’ve wanted my power ever since we first met. You wanted Jeremiah and the croyel. But you didn’t know that I was going to wake up the Worm. You couldn’t. How am I supposed to trust you now?”
The Harrow gave her a glare like an abyss. “Lady, I repeat that the Insequent do not utter falsehood. The awakening of the Worm was not necessary to my desires. For one with the knowledge which I possess, and with the powers which I will hold, the Worm sleeping would have been as readily ensnared as the Worm roused. Indeed, it was my first intent to deprive the Elohim of all purpose and worth forever, as well as to preserve the Earth from ruin, by ensuring that the Worm could not be roused.
“That is no longer possible. Therefore I have adjusted my intent to accommodate the extravagance of your folly.”
“All right.” Linden did not waste herself arguing with him. “Go on,” she repeated bitterly. “Finish this.”
The Harrow sighed; but he did not refuse.
“The croyel’s noisome magicks and cunning are essential to the achievement of my aim. This you will not permit while you remain able to prevent it. Thus it is necessary to the salvation of the Earth that I possess your Staff and the white gold ring, and that you do not.”
Linden looked to the Ardent. “And if that wasn’t my original understanding of our agreement? What happens then?”
Bands of color wafted up and down the Ardent’s form, signing certainty, masking alarm. “Then your will prevails, lady. The Harrow must abandon his purpose for your son, or he must set aside his craving for your instruments of power. The Insequent as a people will countenance no other outcome.”
Stave glanced at the group around Covenant and the krill. Then he turned his gaze on the Harrow.
“There is another matter to consider also. If Infelice has spoken sooth in aught, we must recognize that life cannot endure without death. The Worm of the World’s End is necessary to the Earth’s continuance. If your vaunt succeeds, and the Worm is imprisoned, will not this habitation cease to sustain life? Will not the whole of this creation become barrenness?”
“Well said, Haruchai,” muttered Mahrtiir. “The Harrow is derangement made flesh. His greed will hasten every destruction.”
Linden heard Stave; but her attention was fixed on the Harrow. Her heart thudded in her chest as though it had reached the limit of its endurance. If he called her bluff by recanting his claims—if he mastered his cupidity—Jeremiah would be lost to her. He would die alone in torment when the Earth perished.
“I’m waiting.” Her every word trembled. The Harrow had not acknowledged Stave’s query. “What’s it going to be?”
If he dared her to find Jeremiah without his help, she would surely crumble.
For a moment, he addressed the Ardent rather than Linden. “You demand much,” he said: the deep snarl of a beast. “Three things I sought from the lady. One I have already eschewed. It was denied to me by the Mahdoubt’s unconscionable obstruction. Do you truly dream that I will surrender still more of my desires?”
Then he replied to Linden. Harsh as acid, he said, “The conjoined resolve of the Insequent suffices to command me. Lady, I will honor your reading of my oath. My purpose for your son I set aside—for the present.
“Yet yours,” he promised fiercely, “will be an empty triumph. You evade my intent to no avail. When we have retrieved your son, the only powers which offer hope to the Earth will remain in my possession. You will strive as you may to free your son from the croyel. In that endeavor, I did not vow my aid. And when you have failed, as you must—when you stand powerless before the world’s doom—I will inquire if by chance you have reconsidered the terms of your ‘contentment.’”
A moment later, he added with less anger, “The doom-saying of the Elohim does not merit credence. They care only for their own lives. If the Worm is imprisoned, they may indeed cease to exist. But the Earth and all other life continued while the Worm slumbered. If it is imprisoned, they will endure. I do not propose to slay it.”
Linden might have asked the Ardent, Is that true? But she was trembling too hard to speak. Now, she told herself. Do it now. Before he changes his mind.
The time had come for absolute answers. She was going to give Covenant’s wedding band and the Staff of Law to the Harrow. As soon as she could make her muscles obey her—
Infelice had told her, Your remorse will surpass your strength to bear it. She did not doubt the Elohim. Nevertheless she was prepared to bear any burden in order to save her son. Long ago, she had recognized that even the Land and Thomas Covenant did not mean as much to her as Jeremiah.
And Covenant had said, I think we should do this Linden’s way. He may have understood the implications of his support.
“All right.” She could not yet control her voice, but she did not let her weakness stop her. “I’m not ready to leave. There are still a few things that I have to do. But I want to make this bargain,” bind the Harrow to his word, “while the Ardent is here to keep you honest.”
Nothing relieved the darkness of the Harrow’s gaze. Perhaps nothing could. But his attention sharpened suddenly: every line of his elegant form became vivid. His aura was a blaze of vindicated avarice.
“Linden?” Liand murmured in alarm. “Ringthane,” asked the Manethrall, “are you certain?” But they were not trying to dissuade her. They were only cautioning her. In spite of everything, they believed in her—
Stave was Haruchai: she could not sense the character of his emotions. Nevertheless she trusted that he would not interfere—and that he would warn her if the Humbled came to stop her.
They must have been aware of her. Yet somehow Covenant’s concentration on the krill held them back.
With unwonted anxiety, Rime Coldspray said, “I mislike this course. Linden Avery, I have named you Giantfriend. We will not oppose you. But I fear that you sail seas as hurtful and chartless as the Soulbiter, where every heading brings despair.”
Linden ached for her friends. But there was nothing that she could say to reassure them. She feared as many things as they did, and with more reason. She knew her own inadequacy better than they could.
Deliberately she took a last step toward the Harrow.
Unable to quash the tremors that undermined her strength, she tried to lift both of her arms at the same time; tried and failed. Covenant’s ring was closed in her left hand: from her fist dangled the chain which for ten years had carried her only reminder of his love. Her right gripped desperation around the Staff of Law. For one more moment, she hesitated, torn between self-imposed bereavements.
Mere days or entire lifetimes ago, she had refused the ring to Roger Covenant even though she had believed that he was his father. Now, shivering as if she were feverish, she offered Covenant’s wedding band to the Harrow.
He snatched at the chain; took the ring from her like a man who feared that she would change her mind.
Releasing the Staff required a greater effort, not because Covenant’s ring had less emotional weight, but because the Staff was hers. With it, she had effaced caesures; mended wounds; unmade the Sunbane. She had transformed the pure wood to blackness in battle. Caerroil Wildwood himself had given her his gift of runes.
In dreams, Covenant had told her that she needed her Staff.
Unclosing her fingers was a fundamental abnegation. She felt that she was selling her soul; defying the necessity of freedom. Voluntarily giving up her right to choose. She could not have abandoned so much of herself for any cause except Jeremiah.
That boy doesn’t deserve what’s happened to him.
Then she had to avert her eyes. The Harrow’s glee as he grasped the Staff and held it high, brandishing it and Covenant’s ring like trophies, was too savage to be borne.
“Behold, my people!” he shouted at the stars. “Witness and tremble! Soon I will show myself the greatest of all Insequent, the greatest who has ever lived!”
If she had watched him, she might have lost heart altogether.
Her companions seemed unable to speak. They had not shared her visions. To them, the idea that she had roused the Worm must have felt vaguely unreal; impossible to imagine. But even Liand, the least experienced and least informed of her friends, understood the magnitude of her surrender to the Harrow.
A short distance away, the Ardent’s ribbands wavered aimlessly, as if he sought to conceal a private terror.
Perhaps the thought that without power she could no longer be held responsible for the world’s doom should have allowed her a measure of relief; but it did not. Instead she felt fatally weakened, as if she had dealt herself a wound too grievous to survive.