As her fingers closed on the engraved blackness of the wood, another faint pang touched her nerves: an evanescent breath of approaching wrongness. Frowning, she raised her head to scent the air, extend her health-sense.
The atmosphere had a brittle taste, as if it were compounded of a substance that might shatter. She knew that the season was spring; but that fact seemed to have no meaning on the Lower Land. Hideous theurgies and slaughter had made a wasteland of the entire region. Muirwin Delenoth was as desiccated as its bones: it had been shaped by death.
“Mom?” Jeremiah asked; but still she did not speak.
Drawing warmth and sensitivity from her Staff, Linden considered the slopes of the hollow, the ragged plates around the rim. Then she lifted her attention to the declining sun and the tainted hue of the sky. The pall of ash and dust overhead was wrong in its own fashion: it was unnatural, imposed by some force beyond the reach of her senses. But it was not malice; not evil or deliberate. The almost imperceptible frisson of wrongness rose from some other source.
“Stave—?” She had to swallow hard to clear her throat. “Do you feel it?”
The former Master’s silence was answer enough.
Slowly she turned in a circle, pushing her percipience to its limits. She expected the disturbance to come from the vicinity of Foul’s Creche; from Covenant’s search for Joan. But she felt nothing there. When she faced northwest, however, she found what she sought.
It was faint, almost too subtle to be discerned. Yet it was thin with distance, not weakness. The fact that she could detect it at all across so many leagues bespoke tremendous power. As soon as she tuned her nerves to the pitch of this specific malevolence—and to the direction from which it spread—she knew what it was.
It was Kevin’s Dirt, and it came from Mount Thunder.
For the first time, Kastenessen was extending his bale over the Lower Land.
Repeatedly he had tried to prevent Jeremiah’s rescue from the croyel. Now he was sending the fug of Kevin’s Dirt to hamper Linden and the Staff of Law. When it spread far enough, his theurgy would numb her senses, and Mahrtiir’s, and perhaps Jeremiah’s. And it would aggravate Covenant’s leprosy. If Joan did not kill him first. With forces drawn from She Who Must Not Be Named, the mad Elohim strove to ensure that Linden and her companions would not survive.
A shudder like a chill ran through her. Her fingers clenched the Staff until her knuckles ached. Reflexively she confirmed that she still had Covenant’s ring. An old comfort, it had steadied her for years, until he had refused her.
—the last crisis of the Earth.
“I understand,” she told Stave abruptly. “We should go. Kevin’s Dirt is coming. And maybe the skurj.” Or Kastenessen might decide to challenge her himself now that he had lost Esmer. “We need to find the Giants and Mahrtiir. Then we’ll have to decide what we’re going to do.”
Without Covenant—
She meant to mount Hyn and ride at once. But when she looked at her son again, she faltered. He seemed eager: too eager. Did she detect an undercurrent of alarm? If so, she suspected that he chafed to flee from his memories before they could emerge from their coverts and ravage him. He needed movement.
Stave waited for her impassively. Almost pleading, Linden asked him, “Do we have to ride hard? I need to talk to Jeremiah. There’s so much—” Her son had become someone she did not know. “If the Ranyhyn run, I won’t be able to hear him.”
A quirk at the corner of Stave’s mouth may have implied a smile. “Chosen,” he answered, “the great horses have demonstrated that they are well acquainted with our straits. Mayhap they will moderate their haste for your sake, and for your son’s.”
“Then let’s go,” urged Jeremiah. “I can’t wait to see the Giants. And Infelice gave me an idea. I want to try it.”
He startled Linden. An idea? What could he possibly have gleaned from the interference of the Elohim? And how? Who had he become? Was he simply trying to pack down the earth that shielded him from his immured hurts? Or had he somehow learned strengths which she could not imagine?
If his instincts prompted him to seek safety by outrunning his wounds, surely she should trust him?
Pushing herself into motion, Linden turned toward Hyn.
At once, Stave came to help her mount. And when she was seated astride the familiar security of Hyn’s back, he did the same for Jeremiah, boosting the boy effortlessly onto Khelen. Then he sprang for Hynyn.
Hynyn whinnied a command to the other horses. Together the three Ranyhyn flowed into motion so smoothly that Linden felt no need to cling. Urged by Jeremiah’s shout of celebration, they accelerated at the slope of the caldera, pounding upward, flinging clots and plumes of dry dirt from their hooves. But once they had crested the rim, passed between the sandstone sentinels, and started down the long slope northward, they eased their pace to a light-footed canter. Their strides raised a low drum-roll from the baked ground; yet when Linden settled herself to Hyn’s rhythm, she found that she would not need to shout in order to make herself heard.
Ahead of her, Kevin’s Dirt expanded its maleficence by slow increments. Fortunately its peril was not exacerbated by caesures. Their absence troubled her on Covenant’s behalf—they might now be aimed at him as he approached Ridjeck Thome—but it also reassured her. For the moment, at least, she, Jeremiah, and Stave were relatively safe.
Relying on the former Master and the Ranyhyn to warn her at need, she turned her attention entirely on her son.
“Jeremiah?” She resisted an impulse to raise her voice over the rattle of hooves. “Can you hear me all right?”
He flashed a grin at her. “Sure, Mom. I’ve been listening to you my whole life. I could probably hear you if you whispered half a mile away.”
That simple answer was enough to stun her for a moment. Covenant had assured her, None of the love you lavished on your son was wasted. That isn’t even possible. All those years of speaking her love to Jeremiah without any response—and yet he had heard her. More amazing still, he had believed her in spite of what the Despiser and his natural mother had done to him.
Until we know more about what’s happened to him, just trust yourself.
A fresh rush of emotion made her awkward. “Then you’ve probably already figured out most of the questions I want to ask.”
“Maybe.” He cocked his head to one side, considering. “Let’s see.
“That croyel”—he made a spitting noise—“used me to say all kinds of things. You want to know how many of them are true.”
Linden nodded mutely. Everything about Jeremiah seemed to have the power to astound her.
“Well,” he continued slowly, “a lot of them were. True, I mean.” His voice held a note of caution, as if there were details that he wanted to avoid. “Mom, you tried hard to take care of me. I know that. It wasn’t your fault you couldn’t reach me. I just hurt too much. But giving me those racetrack pieces was like a miracle. I don’t know how you came up with the idea, but it was perfect.
“Using those bones”—he gestured behind him—“was the second time I managed to make a—I don’t know what else to call it—a door for my mind. That racetrack was the first. I couldn’t do anything with my body except build. I wanted to. I just couldn’t. But with my mind—
“Most of what the croyel said about that was true. When I went through my door, I was here. I mean, not here.” He indicated the arid landscape. “I mean in the Land. In this world. But I was still just a mind. I was just kind of floating around. In one time or another. One place or another. I couldn’t touch anything, or talk to anybody.
“But there were people that noticed me anyway. Powers. Beings. And if they noticed me, they could talk to me. The Vizard was one, like the croyel said. He wanted to use me. The Viles once, but they weren’t interested. I think I met a Demimage, but he couldn’t figure out what I was. A couple of Ravers. They wanted me.” Jeremiah shuddered. “A few Elohim, but mostly they tried to convince me to go
away and not come back.” With a snort of derision, he added, “Like that was going to happen. It was the only escape I had. I couldn’t give it up.”
“And Covenant?” Linden asked carefully. “Did the croyel tell the truth about him?”
“As much as that monster could stand,” Jeremiah replied without hesitation. She heard gratitude in his voice, saw affection in the brown warmth of his eyes. “I mean about the real Covenant. Not about Roger. The real Covenant talked to me more than all the rest put together.
“He talked like he actually cared about me.”
Treading as cautiously as she could, Linden probed for more. “What did he say?”
The boy grinned at her again. “He told me I could count on you. Like I didn’t know that already. If I needed you, you would do anything to help me, even if it was impossible. He said you have no idea how strong you really are. He said it makes you wonderful.”
Wonderful—? That idea stunned Linden once more. It closed her throat; almost brought her back to tears. For long, terrible days, she had been tormented by the fear that her son secretly belonged to the Despiser; that he had acquiesced to the croyel; that he had been forever marked and marred by Lord Foul’s bonfire, Lord Foul’s malice. Yet Covenant had spent years of Jeremiah’s childhood telling him that his mother was wonderful. And Jeremiah had believed the Unbeliever. Even in his dissociation, he had recognized something in Linden that she herself could not see—
While she tried to master her emotions, Jeremiah looked away. Frowning with concentration, he scanned the beaten terrain. “And he talked about the Elohim. I didn’t really understand, but I think he was trying to explain why they’re important. They’re like a metaphor?” He sounded uncertain. “A symbol? They represent the stars. Or maybe they are the stars. Or maybe the stars and the Elohim are like shadows of each other. The shadows of the Creator’s children.”
He shrugged, flexing easily with the beat of Khelen’s strides. “He wanted me to get it, but it didn’t make much sense.”
Linden, too, did not understand. But she did not care about the Elohim. At the moment, she cared only about the ineffable fact that Jeremiah was speaking to her; that her son had found his voice when he had recovered his mind. And he had recovered his will as well: oh, yes, his will beyond question. His years of self-protective absence had taught him unexpected resources of determination.
They encouraged her to keep him talking.
She avoided the most crucial issue because he avoided it. Instead she inquired further about his encounters with Covenant’s spirit.
“I probably shouldn’t admit this,” she offered tentatively, “but I almost panicked when I saw Revelstone and Mount Thunder in the living room. I came close to taking you and running.” She still believed that she should have done so. “Then neither of us would have been shot.”
“And we wouldn’t be here to fight for the Land,” Jeremiah put in at once.
She conceded his point. She did not want to discuss the cost of trying to carry burdens which were too heavy for human arms to lift. “Of course,” she continued, “I didn’t know then that your mind was coming here at night, when I thought that you were asleep. But what I’m trying to ask is, what inspired you to build those models?” And to build them on the same day that Roger Covenant came to demand custody of his mother? “Was that Covenant’s idea? Did he tell you to do it?”
Jeremiah thought for a moment. “Not exactly. He never told me to do anything. But he made sure I knew Revelstone and Mount Thunder were important. He said things could happen there that might frustrate Lord Foul.” Suddenly vehement, he snapped, “I hate that bastard.” Then, hunching his shoulders and knotting his fists, he calmed himself. “So I wanted to warn you. Legos were the only language I had.”
The only language—Such things threatened Linden’s composure. But Jeremiah had touched on his unspoken wounds, albeit obliquely. That demanded her full attention. Her own reactions could wait.
In the dirt ahead of her, she saw the marks of three Ranyhyn galloping toward Muirwin Delenoth: longer strides, deeper hoof-cuts in the ground, but the same track. Clearly Hyn, Hynyn, and Khelen were retracing their path away from the Swordmainnir and Manethrall Mahrtiir. They aimed to rejoin Linden’s companions instead of pursuing some other purpose.
Instead of taking her to Covenant.
She told herself that she was glad. She wanted to be reunited with her friends. Wanted them, in effect, to meet Jeremiah for the first time. In addition, she needed their support, their comfort, their ready courage. And she felt that she could not afford to be distracted from her son: certainly not by her yearning for the only man whom she had ever truly loved.
As though he had caught the scent of her thoughts, Jeremiah asked abruptly, “Do you think he’s dead? Covenant, I mean. When he left, he looked like he was going to die. Like he planned on dying.”
Startled, Linden countered, “Why do you think that? What made you think he was going to die?”
The boy studied her. “Isn’t that what you think? I must have picked up the idea from you.”
Linden winced. She could easily believe that her reaction to Covenant’s departure had conveyed the impression that she was bracing herself for his death.
While her son faced her with concern darkening in his eyes, she sighed, “No, Jeremiah. I don’t think Covenant is dead. And I don’t think he was planning to die. You’ve met him, but you haven’t seen him in action. Practically everything he does is almost inconceivable, but he does it anyway. That’s why the Land needs him. Why we need him.” Her own needs were more complex. “Maybe he really does have an inherent relationship with wild magic. Or maybe he’s just more than anyone else I’ve ever met. Either way, I don’t believe that Joan can kill him. There isn’t enough of her left, and that Raver can’t make her into something she isn’t.”
After a moment, Linden forced herself to be honest. “But I do think something is dying. If it isn’t already dead.” Every word was bitter to her. It was gall on her tongue. She said it, and the next one, and the next, because she wanted to be worthy of her son. “That must be what you saw in me when he left. He doesn’t love me anymore. Or he’s afraid of me. I love him, but ever since the Ardent brought us out of the Lost Deep, I’ve been watching what Covenant and I had together die.”
Jeremiah listened with an air of impatience; but he waited for her to finish. Then he said as if he were certain, “You’re wrong, Mom. I’ve heard him. He still loves you. Whatever he’s doing, it isn’t about not loving you. That’s what made me think he’s planning to die. He left the way he did because he isn’t sure he’ll ever see you again.”
Her son meant well: Linden knew that. He might even be right. Nevertheless she doubted him. Her awareness of the many ways in which she had failed ran too deep. After all, what had she done to enable Jeremiah’s escape from his prison? Sure, she had resisted Infelice as much as she could. And she had extinguished Joan’s caesures. But in the end, her only real contribution had been trust: trust in the Ranyhyn—and in Esmer’s reasons for restoring Jeremiah’s racecar.
She could not believe in Covenant’s love because she did not know how to make peace with herself.
In self-defense, she reverted to her earlier questions. “We were talking about your models. You explained Revelstone and Mount Thunder. What about your Tinkertoy castle?” She had seen its original in the Lost Deep. “Were you trying to tell me something there, too? Was that another warning?”
Had Covenant nudged Jeremiah to prepare her in some fashion? If so, the effort had been wasted. It was too cryptic. Knowing nothing of the Lost Deep, she could not have interpreted her son’s faery edifice.
This time, Jeremiah shook his head. “I was just practicing. I only visited the Lost Deep once. I mean, on my own.” Without Roger and the croyel. “But while I was there, I saw what the Viles could do. I fell in love with that castle. Then later, when I started to get the idea I needed to warn you somehow, I didn’t
want to make a mistake. So I tried to copy the castle.
“I hadn’t done anything like that before. Everything else I built I just sort of found. Even the racetrack. I don’t know how to explain it. I didn’t start out with an idea. The shapes came from whatever I was using. They all just came. But if I wanted to warn you, I had to choose the shapes for myself.
“The castle was my first try.” Linden saw satisfaction in his mien: satisfaction—and a new surge of eagerness. “It was easier than I thought. Until then, I didn’t know I can choose anything I want. Now I do. I just need the right pieces.”
Now, Linden thought. While he was eager. While he felt sure of himself.
It was probably too soon. In her former life, she would have waited longer; perhaps much longer. But her son had so little time. The Earth had so little.
Her heart seemed to crowd her throat as she asked, “What was it like, having the croyel on your back? What did it do to you? What did Lord Foul do?”
At once, Jeremiah’s manner changed as if he had slammed a door. He jerked his face away. “You know what it was like. I don’t want to talk about it. I want to forget it ever happened.”
Then he nudged Khelen away from Hyn. To Stave, he called, “Can we go faster? I want to reach the Giants.”
“Chosen?” Stave inquired. His tone implied no opinion.
Cursing to herself, Linden muttered, “All right. They’re probably worried about us.”
The Swordmainnir had been left behind because they were too weary after their long struggles to run with the Ranyhyn. And Mahrtiir had stayed with them so that Narunal could guide them across the wide wilderland of the Spoiled Plains to rejoin the other horses.
Stave nodded. Briefly he stroked the side of Hynyn’s neck.
With a whicker of command to Khelen and Hyn, the roan stallion gathered speed so fluidly that Linden could not discern the precise moment when he began to quicken his gait. He galloped slightly ahead of them, but they did not lose ground in spite of their smaller stature. Indeed, Hyn matched his pace with apparent ease. As she had done before, the mare cast the hard ground behind her as if she could equal Hynyn’s thundering haste for hours or days.
The Last Dark Page 4
