“I suppose it’s understandable,” the older man added. “Foul confused the hell out of them. Of course, he didn’t use his real name. That would have been too obvious. He called himself a-Jeroth until it was too late for anyone to stop him. And he’s pretty damn good at getting what he wants by misdirection. He always acts like he’s after something completely different.”
Gritting her teeth, Linden continued her questions. “That’s all right, honey,” she assured Jeremiah. “Maybe you can tell me something else that might help me.
“I don’t understand why”—she swallowed convulsively—“why that other reality doesn’t show. You said that you’re fine here. How is that possible, if Foul is still torturing you?”
Despite the damage to his pajamas, he seemed entirely intact.
“It’s sort of funny,” remarked Covenant. “Do you know the real reason Kevin let Foul talk him into the Ritual of Desecration? It wasn’t because Foul defeated him. Kevin hated that, but he could have lived with it. He still had enough of Berek’s blood in him. But Foul beat him before the war even started. What really broke him is that he let his best friends, his most loyal supporters, get killed in his place.”
“He’s doing it,” Jeremiah answered. Again he nodded toward Covenant. “He’s doing something with time to protect me while I’m here.” The boy’s gaze slipped out of focus as if he were concentrating on his other self in its prison. “He’s keeping me whole. That’s another reason you can’t touch me. He’s using more power for me than he is for himself. A lot more.”
Covenant’s voice held a hint of relish as he explained, “The Demondim invited him to a parley in Mount Thunder. Naturally he suspected it was a trap. He didn’t go. But then he felt ashamed of himself for thinking that way, so he sent his friends instead. And of course it was a trap. His friends were slaughtered.
“That,” Covenant finished in a tone of sodden triumph, “is what made Kevin crazy enough to think he had something to gain by desecrating the Land. Losing the war just confirmed his opinion of himself. The legends all say he thought the Ritual would destroy Foul, but that’s a rationalization. The truth is, he wanted to be punished, and he couldn’t think of anything else bad enough to give him what he deserved.”
Linden wished that she did not believe Jeremiah. Everything that he said—everything that happened in this room—was inconceivable to her. She had not forgotten his unaccountable theurgy. And the Ranyhyn had shown her horrific images of her son possessed—But of course she did believe him. How could she not? He was her son, speaking to her for the first time in his life. His presence, and his healed mind, were all that enabled her to retain some semblance of self-control.
And because she believed Jeremiah, she could not doubt Covenant. He knew too much.
At last she brought herself to her most urgent question.
“Jeremiah, honey, I don’t understand any of this. It’s incredible—and wonderful.” It was also terrible. Yet how could she regret anything that allowed him to acknowledge her? “But I don’t understand it.
“How did you get your mind back? And when? How long have you been—?”
“You mean,” he interrupted, “how long have I been able to talk?” Now he did not meet her gaze. Instead he looked at Covenant as if he needed help. “Since we came to the Land.”
“Linden,” Covenant suggested, his voice sloppy with springwine, “you should ask him where his mind has been all this time. He made it pretty obvious that he always had a mind. Where do you suppose it was?”
Linden kept her eyes and her heart fixed on her son. “Jeremiah? Can you tell me?”
So far, he had revealed nothing that might aid her.
He twitched his shoulders awkwardly. The tic of his eye increased its thetic signaling. “It’s hard to explain. For a while”—he sighed—“I don’t know how long, I was sort of hiding. It was like a different version of being in two places at once. Except the other place wasn’t anywhere in particular. It was just away.” Flames empty of daylight gave his face a ruddy flush, made him look feverish. “It was safe.
“But then you gave me that racecar set with all the tracks and pylons. When it was done—when you gave me enough pieces, and they were all connected in the right shapes—I had a”—he clung to Covenant with his eyes—“a loop. Like a worm that eats its own tail. I guess you could call it a door in my mind. I went through it. And when I did that, I came here.
“I don’t mean ‘here’ the way I am now.” He seemed to grope for words. “I wasn’t a prisoner. I wasn’t even physical. And I didn’t come here—I mean to Revelstone—very often. There wasn’t anybody I could talk to. But I was in the Land. I’m not sure when. I mean when in relation to now. Mostly I think it was a long time ago. But I was here pretty much whenever you put me to bed.
“The only people I could talk to—the only people who knew I was there—were powers like the Elohim and the Ravers. There were a few wizards, something like that. I met some people who called themselves the Insequent. And there was him.” Jeremiah clearly meant Covenant. “He was the best. But even he couldn’t explain very much. He didn’t know how to answer me. Or I didn’t know how to ask the right questions. Mostly we just talked about the way I make things.
“Once in a while, people warned me about the Despiser. Maybe I should have been scared. But I wasn’t. I had no idea what they meant. And I never met him. He stayed away.”
Linden reeled as she listened. Insequent? If she had tried to stand, she would have staggered. Ravers? But she held herself motionless; allowed no flicker of her face or flinch of her muscles to interrupt her son.
He had known Covenant for a long time; perhaps since he had first completed his racetrack construct.—the best.
“But Mom,” Jeremiah added more strongly, “it was so much better than where I was with you. I loved being in the Land. And I loved it when people knew I was there. Even the Ravers. They would have hurt me if they could—but they knew I was there. I don’t remember feeling real before I started coming here.”
She did not realize that tears were spilling from her eyes, or that a knot of grief and joy had closed her throat, until Jeremiah said, “Please don’t cry, Mom. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Now he sounded oddly distant, almost mechanical, as if he were quoting something—or someone. His tic lost some of its fervor; and as the flames in the hearth slowly dwindled, the hectic flush faded from his cheeks. “You said you didn’t understand. I’m just trying to explain.”
For his sake, Linden mastered herself. “Don’t worry about me, honey.” Sitting up straight, she wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her shirt. “I cry too easily. It’s embarrassing. I’m just so glad—!” She sniffed helplessly. “And sad too. I’m glad you haven’t been alone all this time, even if you couldn’t talk to me.” When he had crafted Revelstone and Mount Thunder in her living room, he had known exactly what he was doing. “And I’m sad”—she swallowed a surge of empathy and outrage—“because this makes being Foul’s prisoner so much worse. Now there’s nowhere you can be safe.
“I swear to you, honey. I’m never going to stop searching for you. And when I find out where you are, there isn’t anything in this world that’s going to prevent me from rescuing you.”
Jeremiah squirmed in his chair, apparently embarrassed by the passion of her avowal. “You should talk to him about that.” Again he meant Covenant. “He can’t tell you where I am. Lord Foul has me hidden somehow. But he knows everything else. If you just give him a chance—”
Her son’s voice trailed away. His gaze avoided hers.
For a long moment, Linden did not move. In spite of his discomfort, she probed him with every dimension of her senses, trying to see past the barriers which concealed him. Yet her percipience remained useless with him. He was sealed against her.
The ur-Lord has ever been closed to the Haruchai. And his companion is likewise hidden.
“All right,” she told Jeremiah finally. “I’ll do that.”
> Slapping her palms on her thighs in an effort to shift her attention, she rose to her feet and retrieved the Staff. With its clean wood almost delitescent in her hands, its lenitive powers obscured, she took a few steps across the fading light of the room so that she could confront Covenant directly.
Her detachment was gone; but she had other strengths.
When Covenant dragged his gaze up from his flagon, she began harshly, “You’re the one with all the answers. Start by telling me why you’re doing this. I mean to him.” She indicated Jeremiah. “He hurts worse when he feels it like this,” from the outside. He had said so. “If you really have the answers, you don’t need him. You’re making him suffer for nothing.”
After everything that he had already endured—
“For God’s sake,” she protested, “he’s just a boy. He didn’t choose any of this. Tell me you have a good reason for causing him more pain.”
Covenant’s mien had a drowsy cast in the dying firelight. He seemed to be falling asleep where he sat. In a blurred voice, he replied as if his reasons should have been obvious to her, “I did it so you would trust me.
“I know how this looks to you, Linden. I know I’m not the way you remember me. Too much has happened. And I’m under too much strain—” He lifted his shoulders wearily. “I knew how you would react when you saw how much I’ve changed. So I tried to think of something—I don’t know what to call it—something to demonstrate my good faith.
“I wanted to show you I can give him back. I have that much power. And I know how to do it. If you just trust me.”
“But he—” she objected, trying to find words for her dismay.
“—isn’t any worse off than he was before,” Covenant sighed. “Not really. If you think what I’ve done is so terrible, ask him if he regrets being here. Ask him if he regrets anything.”
Before Linden could turn to her son, Jeremiah said, “He’s right, Mom. I don’t regret it, any of it. If he hadn’t brought me with him, I wouldn’t be able to see you. We couldn’t talk. I wouldn’t know you’re trying so hard to rescue me.”
Jeremiah’s response struck her indignation to dust. For at least half of his life, he had given her no direct sign that he was aware of her protective presence—yet now he was willing to endure torments and anguish so that he could speak to her. She had not lavished her love on him in vain.
While she struggled with her emotions, Covenant continued, “I can see what happened to you. That hole in your shirt makes it pretty obvious. And I know you’re worried about him. I can understand that.” He sounded strangely like a man who was trying to convince himself. “Unfortunately I can’t tell you if he was shot. I would if I could. But I wasn’t there. I’m not part of that reality.”
Slowly Linden regained her resolve. She had lost her detachment, and Jeremiah had rendered her protests meaningless. But she was still herself; still able to think and act. And Covenant’s answers disturbed her. They were like a song sung slightly out of tune: instead of soaring, they grated.
She took a moment to turn away and toss another couple of logs onto the fire. She needed better light. Her health-sense was useless: she had to rely on ordinary sight and hearing.
As the new wood began to blaze, she faced the Unbeliever once more. “All right,” she said unsteadily. “You can’t tell me if Jeremiah was shot. You can’t tell me where he is. What can you tell me?”
Covenant squinted vaguely at the rising flames. “What do you want to know?”
Linden did not hesitate. “It was Kastenessen who convinced the Demondim to let my friends and me reach Revelstone. You said that you and Jeremiah were able to get here because you tricked them.” I put a crimp in their reality. “But how can I be sure that that wasn’t Kastenessen’s doing too?”
Earlier she had believed that Covenant and Jeremiah were being herded rather than pursued.
She expected a flare of anger; but Covenant only peered into his flagon as though its contents meant more to him than her implied accusation. “Because he didn’t know we were coming. He couldn’t. I didn’t start on all this—what we’re doing now—until I knew you were safe.
“When he realized we were on our way here—” Covenant offered her a slack smile. “That made him mad as hell. He was beside himself.” Turning his head, he winked at Jeremiah. “Practically in two places at once.” When Jeremiah grinned, Covenant returned his attention to his flagon. “But you have to remember—He can’t communicate with those damn monsters. The only way he can talk to them is through the old man.” Covenant shrugged. “Since yesterday, that poor lunatic hasn’t been available.”
Abruptly Linden sagged. Hardly aware of what she did, she sank into a chair. Relief left her weak. Deep in her heart, she had been so afraid—Now Covenant had given her a reason to believe in him.
But he was not done. While she tried to gather herself, he said, “You might ask why I didn’t make us just appear here.” He sounded dull with drink, sleepy, almost bored. “Riding in ahead of the Demondim was pretty risky. But I wanted a chance to mess with their reality. They can use the damn Illearth Stone whenever they want. I had to make sure they didn’t attack too soon.
“And I was afraid of you.” He drank again, unsteadily. A little springwine sloshed down his cheeks. “If we took you by surprise—if you didn’t see us coming—you might do something to erase us. I couldn’t take that chance.” He nodded toward Jeremiah. “This isn’t something I could do twice. Kastenessen knows about us now. Hellfire, Linden, Foul himself knows. Neither of them would have any trouble stopping us. Not when I’m stretched this thin.”
By degrees, Linden’s weakness ebbed. At last, something made sense to her. She could follow Covenant’s explanation. Only the imprecise pitch of his voice inhibited her from believing him completely.
Because of his strangeness, she found an unforeseen comfort in the knowledge that he had reason to fear her.
When he was done, she nodded. “All right. I get that. But I had to ask. I’m sure you understand.”
For a moment, Jeremiah turned his grin on her. But Covenant did not reply. Instead he replenished his flagon.
With an effort, she mustered a different question. She had so many—If she did not keep him talking, he might drink himself to sleep.
“So what’s it like?” she asked quietly. “Being part of the Arch of Time?”
“I’m sorry, Linden.” He raised his flagon as if he were driving himself toward unconsciousness. “It’s like Jeremiah’s pain. There aren’t any words for it. It’s too vast, and I’m everywhere at once.
“I feel like I know the One Forest and the Worm of the World’s End and even,” he drawled, “poor ol’ Lord Foul better than I know myself. If you asked me the names of all the Sandgorgons—or what Berek had for breakfast the day he turned against his King—I could probably tell you. If I didn’t have to work so hard just to stay where I am. And,” he concluded, “if I actually cared about things like that.”
Studying him closely—the increasing looseness of his cheeks, the deepening glaze in his eyes, the mounting slur of his speech—Linden said, “Then I’ll try to be more specific. I don’t understand why the caesures haven’t already destroyed everything.
“Joan’s using wild magic. And she’s out of her mind, you know that. God, Covenant, it seems to me that just one Fall ought to be enough to undo the whole world. But she’s made dozens of them by now. Or hundreds.” Ever since Linden had restored her wedding band. “How can the Arch survive that? How can you? Why hasn’t everybody and everything that’s ever existed already been sucked away?”
Surely Anele, a handful of ur-viles, and Kevin’s Watch were not the only victims of Joan’s agony?
Covenant lifted his unmaimed hand and peered at it; extended his fingers as though he meant to enumerate a list of reasons. But then he appeared to forget what he was doing, or to lose interest in it. Returning his hand to his lap and the handle of his flagon, he answered dully, “Because the Law
of Time is still fighting to protect itself. Because I’m still fighting to protect it. And because caesures have limits. They wouldn’t be so easy to make if the Laws of Death and Life hadn’t been damaged. Before that, everything was intact. So there’s a kind of barrier in the Land’s past. It restricts how far back the caesures tend to go.
“Joan’s too far gone to know what she’s doing. She can’t sustain anything. So most of her caesures don’t last very long. If they aren’t kept going by some other power—like the Demondim—they fade pretty quickly. And they don’t usually reach as far back as the Sunbane. That gives the Law of Time a chance to reassert itself. It gives me room to work.”
Covenant’s air of drowsiness grew as he continued, “Plus her caesures are localized. They only cover a certain amount of ground, and they move around. She’s too crazy to make them do anything else. Wherever they are at a particular moment, every bit of time in that precise spot happens at once. For the last three millennia, anyway. But since they’re moving, they give those bits of time back as fast as they pick up new ones.”
Abruptly his head dropped, and Linden feared for a moment that he had fallen asleep. But then he seemed to rally. His head jerked up. He widened his eyes to the firelight; blinked them several times; stared at her owlishly.
“But the real reason,” he continued, “is what the Lords called ‘the necessity of freedom.’” For some reason, he sounded bitter. “Wild magic is only as powerful as the will, the determination, of the person it belongs to. The rightful white gold wielder.
“In the wrong hands, it’s still pretty strong. Which is why you can create Falls with it”—the statement was a sneer—“and why Foul was able to kill me. But it doesn’t really come alive until the person it belongs to chooses to use it. Foul might not even have been able to kill me if I hadn’t given him my ring voluntarily. And I did not choose to destroy the Arch.” Covenant’s tone suggested that now he wondered why he had bothered to choose at all. “Since he wasn’t the rightful wielder, the power he unleashed only made me stronger.
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