Jeremiah nodded. “That’s it. But there it was just veins. I need plenty of it. It doesn’t have to be pure. As long as there’s malachite in the stone, I can use it.” After a flicker of thought, he added, “But if it isn’t pure, I’ll need more of it. I have to get the right amount. The less pure it is, the bigger the door has to be.”
“Sadly,” Cabledarm put in before Linden or the Ironhand could speak, “we have seen no malachite since our escape from the Lost Deep. We are Giants, certain of stone. Our course in these last days has encountered no malachite.”
Now Jeremiah faltered. “But you must—” he began, then stopped. After a moment, he admitted, “I didn’t see anything like it myself.” His enthusiasm was crumbling. “The croyel controlled me, but it didn’t control what I saw.”
Caught in his emotions, Linden tried to help him. “Stave? The Masters scouted the whole Land. Did they find anything that resembled malachite around here?”
The Haruchai shook his head. “We are not Giants. Seeking signs of peril, we observe in a different fashion.”
Jeremiah’s consternation dominated the dusk. It demanded answers.
Linden faced him with disappointment in her eyes. “Jeremiah, honey. I’m sorry. I don’t know what else we—”
He cut her off. Ferocity flared in him as if he had suddenly become someone else: a creature of savagery and suspicion. His hands curled into claws. “That’s what you wanted to talk to Coldspray about,” he snarled. “You wanted to be sure I couldn’t get what I need before you said yes.”
His transformation shocked Linden. Suffering had done this to him, this. But she was not prepared for it. While she reeled inwardly, she could not respond.
Around her, the Giants recoiled, as startled as she was, and full of disapproval. But Manethrall Mahrtiir’s reaction was immediate anger. “It is not, boy,” he snapped. “There is no particle of her which does not desire your well-being—aye, and the continuance of the Land. You speak now with the voice of the croyel, and will be silent.”
Surprise stopped Jeremiah. For an instant, his vehemence faltered.
At once, Mahrtiir continued, “Behold!” With one arm, he flung a vehement gesture down the length of the watercourse.
As if by a flourish of magic, he dispelled Jeremiah’s indignation. Instantaneously thrilled, Jeremiah wheeled to gaze where the Manethrall pointed.
The Ranyhyn were coming, four majestic horses bright with purpose. Prancing like pride made flesh, Hynyn led Hyn, Khelen, and Narunal along the stream toward the company.
“Their restiveness is answered,” said the Manethrall. His tone was grim, but softer and more respectful, moderated by devotion. “Their uncertainty was ours. We have now determined our need. Thus their path is made plain.
“Mount,” he urged Linden and Stave. Jeremiah was already running toward Khelen, unable to contain his eagerness. “Ride and hasten. The Ranyhyn have announced their will. Did they not discover bone when bone was needed? They will do as much for malachite. But we must not delay, lest the last Elohim be consumed ere we are able to attempt their preservation.”
“Aye,” Rime Coldspray assented. She and her comrades made a visible effort to set aside their discomfiture. “Make ready, Swordmainnir,” she instructed. “We cannot estimate the leagues which lie ahead of us, but we must traverse them swiftly.”
“Yet again,” grumbled Frostheart Grueburn. “Must we run interminably?” Nevertheless she did not dally as she tightened her armor and checked her sword.
“These great beasts,” the Ironhand replied sternly, “have given aid when we had no other. If they crave haste, they will learn that Giants comprehend its import.”
Jeremiah had swarmed onto Khelen’s back. Now he waved his arms like demands at the company. Hyn approached Linden, nudged her shoulder. For a moment, however, Linden did not react. Her heart was burning down to ash in her chest, and she did not know how to move.
She was sure now that Jeremiah’s eagerness was his way of fleeing.
Without waiting for her consent, Stave boosted Linden astride the dappled mare. At the same time, Mahrtiir appeared to flow into his seat on Narunal. Mere heartbeats later, Stave mounted Hynyn; and the Giants announced their readiness.
With Khelen and Jeremiah in the lead, the company crossed out of the gully toward the northeast; toward the marge-land between the Shattered Hills and Sarangrave Flat.
Following her son, and surrounded by Giants, Linden wept again. She had been given her first glimpse of Jeremiah’s immured pain. She knew now that he needed her—and that she was going to abandon him anyway.
That choice had been made for her. Acting on it would be worse.
3.
Not Dead to Life and Use
Barely able to hold himself upright, Thomas Covenant stood on the cooled flow of Hotash Slay at the headland or boundary of the promontory where Foul’s Creche had once ruled the southeast. Beyond him and against the cliffs on either side, wild seas thrashed in the aftermath of the tsunami. He heard their turmoil, a thunderous seethe and crash like the frantic labor of the ocean’s heart. But through the surly dusk of a dawnless day, he could hardly see the eruption and spray and retreat of the lashed waves. There was no sun. Distinct as murders, the stars were going out.
This was a consequence of the Worm’s rousing, as it was of his resurrection. It heralded the world’s ruin. Now every death pierced him. Joan’s end felt like a knife in his own chest. Killing her, he had wounded himself—
He needed Linden. He did not know how to bear what he had become without her.
But he could not reach her. She was too far away—and he was too badly injured. A shard of stone at the edge of the Shattered Hills had restored the old gash on his forehead: an accusation confirmed during his confrontation with Joan. Blood still oozed into the drying crust around his eyes and down his cheeks. Falling on rocks and coral had gashed his ribs badly. Some of them were cracked or broken. Splinters of pain gouged every breath. His jeans and T-shirt had been shredded. A lattice-work of torn flesh and more blood marked his arms and chest and legs.
The krill’s heat must have burned his hands; his foreshortened fingers. But that damage, at least, he did not feel. Leprosy disguised his lesser hurts.
By comparison, the Humbled were almost whole. They, too, had been struck by scraps of flung rock. A cut marred the side of Branl’s neck. Clyme’s arms and tunic showed rents, contusions, small wounds. But they had not shared Covenant’s floundering on the seabed, or felt Joan’s blow. And they were Haruchai. They would be able to go on.
Now they appeared to be watching for some sign that the doomed sun would rise, or that the incremental extinction of the stars would cease. But perhaps they were waiting for the Ranyhyn. If they permitted themselves anything as human as prayer, they may have been praying that Mhornym and Naybahn had survived the tsunami.
Without mounts, there was nothing further that Covenant or the maimed Masters could do to defend the Land. The Shattered Hills were an indurated barricade thronging with skest, masterless and unpredictable. And the distance between him and Linden was impossible; scores of leagues—
His need for her was just one more wound that could not be healed.
The gloom lightened until it resembled mid-evening or the last paling before sunrise. But it grew no brighter. All of the illumination seemed to descend from the precise and imperiled stars. It was their lament.
The Worm was coming—and Covenant had no idea what to do. The light of the krill’s gem had gone out. There was no wild magic left in him. Simply staying on his feet required every shred of his remaining strength. He bore Joan’s ring in the name of an unattainable dream.
Oh, he needed Linden. He needed to make things right with her before the end.
Such yearnings were as doomed as the stars. The Elohim had no hope of escaping the Worm’s vast hunger.
Time may have passed, but he did not notice it. He did not notice that he was still bleeding. The stab of
abused ribs when he breathed insisted that he was alive; but he ignored it. He did not think about anything except Joan and stars and Linden.
Long ago, he had promised that he would do no more killing. Now he was forsworn, as he had been in so many other ways.
Eventually Branl spoke. “Ur-Lord, we cannot remain as we are.” Faithful as a grave, he carried Loric’s krill clad in the remnants of Anele’s apparel. “We will forfeit our lives to no purpose. If the skest do not assail us, privation and your wounds will bring death. We must delay no longer.
“If the Worm’s advance may be measured by the fate of the stars, some few days will pass ere all time and life are extinguished. While they endure, a reunion with your companions—and with the Staff of Law—may yet be achieved. For that reason, we must abandon Naybahn and Mhornym. We must concede that they have perished. In their place, we must summon other Ranyhyn.”
After a pause—a moment of hesitation?—he added, “And you must consent to ride. We cannot hope for your healing, except by the succor of the Staff.”
Covenant meant to say, No. He meant to say, Never. He could not break more promises. But those words eluded him. Instead his knees folded, and he sank to the stone. Some other part of him croaked, “Here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten me into.”
He did not realize that he had spoken aloud until he tried to laugh. His chest hurt too much for laughter.
“Unbeliever?” Undercurrents of anger fretted Clyme’s tone. He and Branl had followed Covenant into a caesure. They had saved him when he was lost. “Do you accuse us? These straits are not of our making.”
For a while, Covenant could not imagine what Clyme was talking about. Then he managed to say, “Oh, you.” He dismissed the notion. “I didn’t mean you.” Perhaps he should have laid the blame at the feet of the Creator; but he did not. “I meant Foamfollower. This is all his fault.
“If he hadn’t insisted on keeping me alive. Making impossible things possible. Laughing in the Despiser’s face. He was always the Pure One, even if he didn’t think so himself. None of us would be here without him.”
Even the Worm would not. Covenant would have died decades or millennia before Linden first met him.
Time was a Möbius strip. Every implication looped back on itself. Every if led to a then which in turn redefined the if. But his human mind could not comprehend causality and sequence in such terms.
The Humbled regarded him as if he were babbling. Their faces kept secrets. Try to believe that you are pure. Who had said that to him? Like his heart, his mind was failing. He could not remember. Then he could. It was one of the jheherrin; one of the creatures who had aided him after he had denied their prayer for salvation.
“Ur-Lord,” Branl said finally. “Your hurts undermine your thoughts. Saltheart Foamfollower cannot be held to account for Corruption’s deeds.”
Baffled by the simplification of such reasoning, Covenant tried to shake his head. Instead the twilight seemed to waver as if it were dissolving; as if reality itself were in flux. “That’s not the point.” The point was that the Haruchai had no sense of humor. “The point is, I’m not going to ride the Ranyhyn.” Foamfollower would not have known how to laugh if he had not been so open and honest in his grief. “I made a promise.” A vow. “Promises are important. You know that at least as well as I do.”
“We do,” Clyme acknowledged. “We are the Humbled, avowed to your service. We comprehend given oaths. Yet yours contradicts ours. If you do not ride, your death becomes certain. This we will not permit while choice remains to us.”
They had entered a caesure for Covenant’s sake.
“Do you not comprehend the extremity of your straits? Weakened as you are, your oath cannot hold. Soon you will lapse from consciousness. Then we will summon the Ranyhyn and bear you away. This you can do naught to prevent. Where, then, is the harm in granting your consent?
“Did you not permit Mhornym and Naybahn to retrieve you from the path of the tsunami? Did their aid not violate your word?”
You don’t understand. Covenant was too weak for this argument. He could not explain himself to the Humbled. Clyme and Branl had carried him; the Ranyhyn had not. The horses had only helped the Masters help him.
In various ways, the Ranyhyn had always aided him—but they did so because he did not ride.
He needed Linden. If nothing else, he had to ask her forgiveness. Express his love. Confess his sins. How else would he ever be able to put his ex-wife behind him? Nevertheless he could not face her like this. Not at the price of another broken promise.
Holding out his halfhand, he murmured, “Give me the krill.”
The Humbled looked uncertain in the preternatural twilight. Branl may have lifted an eyebrow. Clyme may have frowned. But apparently they could think of no reason to refuse. After a moment, Branl placed Loric’s dagger in Covenant’s grasp.
Trembling as though his burdens were too heavy for him, Covenant dropped the old cloth: Anele’s last legacy. He did not need it now. The krill was cold. Briefly he steadied the forged metal, peered at the inert gem. Then he reached up to pull the chain that bore Joan’s ring over his head.
“You know why the light went out. Joan was the only rightful white gold wielder here. The only one with a ring that belonged to her. The krill’s power died when she did.
“But I still have a claim on her ring. I married her with it.”’Til death do us part. “And I’m something more.” He had become so in the inferno of the Banefire, and in the apotheosis of his death by wild magic at Lord Foul’s hands. “I’m white gold.” How else had he been able to transmute Joan’s power, using it to heal his mind—and to refuse turiya Raver’s malice? “Mhoram said so. Maybe I’m not the rightful wielder of this ring, but I can still use it.”
Shaking, he pushed Joan’s ring on its chain onto the little finger of his left hand. It stuck at the remaining knuckle, but he did not try to force it. He did not intend to wear it long.
With as much care as he could muster, he closed both hands around the haft of the krill. Then, suddenly desperate, he stabbed the blade at the stone under him.
The dagger was only sharp when it was vivified by the possibilities of wild magic. Lightless, it was dull. It could not pierce cooled lava.
But it did. As he struck, the scale of his need and the fundamental strictures of his nature brought forth a familiar blaze from the gem: familiar and absolute, as necessary as breath and blood. It shone into his eyes like the nova of a distant star. The power-whetted blade cut inward as though the stone were damp mud.
When he took his hands away, his fingers and palms felt no heat: the numbed skin of his cheeks felt none. Nevertheless he trusted the efficacy of wild magic; believed that the krill was already growing hot.
Blinking through dazzles, he squinted at Clyme and Branl. At first, they were bright with phosphorescence, as spectral as the Dead. Then they seemed to reacquire their mortality. But they were not diminished. Rather they looked as precise and cryptic as icons in the dagger’s brilliance. Together they confronted Covenant’s display of power as if they were prepared to decide the fate of worlds.
As distinctly as he could, Covenant said, “I forbid you to put me on the back of a Ranyhyn. Find some other answer.”
Then he sagged. He thought that he had come to the end of himself. The Humbled were right: he could not hold out against his wounds. He had lost too much blood, and was in too much pain. If Branl and Clyme did not obey him, he would have to trust the great horses of Ra to forgive him.
When he felt certain that he was done, however, he found that he was not. A distant sensation of power seemed to call him back from the collapse craved by his ravaged body. Involuntarily he straightened his spine, sat more upright. He imagined that he heard either Clyme or Branl say, This delay will prove fatal. Then he saw them recoil like men who had been slapped. He felt their surprise.
Directly in front of him, the figure of a man stepped into the light as though he had been m
ade manifest by wild magic and the eldritch puissance of Loric’s krill.
The newcomer seemed to emanate imponderable age. Indeed, he appeared to be fraying at the edges as he arrived, blurring as though he took in years and released vitality or substance with every breath. Nevertheless he looked taller than the Humbled—taller and more real—although he was not. His apparent stature was an effect of the light and Covenant’s astonishment and his own magicks. He wore the ancient robes, tattered and colorless, of a guardian who had remained at his post, rooted by duty, for an epoch. Yet his features were familiar; so familiar that Covenant wondered why he could not identify them. A man like that—
After two heartbeats, or perhaps three, he noticed that Branl and Clyme were preparing to defend him. Or they were—
Hellfire.
—bowing. Bowing?
Together they each dropped to one knee and lowered their heads as if they were in the presence of some august figure incarnated from the dreamstuff of Haruchai legends.
In Covenant, memories reopened like wounds, and he recognized Brinn.
The ak-Haru. Brinn of the Haruchai, who had outdone the Theomach in mortal combat to become the Guardian of the One Tree.
Here.
If Covenant had ever doubted that the Worm was coming, he believed it now. There could be no surer sign than Brinn’s arrival. Even the absence of the sun, and the slow havoc spreading among the stars, did not announce the Earth’s last days more clearly.
While Covenant stared, open-mouthed and helpless, the ak-Haru approached until he was no more than two strides from the krill. There he stopped, ignoring the obeisance of the Humbled. His gaze was fixed on Covenant.
In a voice rheumy with isolation and too much time, he said, “My old friend.” Words seemed to scrape from his mouth as if they had grown jagged with disuse. The skin of his face had been seamed and lined until it resembled a mud-flat now baked and parched, webbed with cracks. “I perceive that your plight is dire, as it has ever been. The fact that I have come is cause for sorrow. Yet it is cause for joy that my coming proves timely. Once again, I learn that there is hope in contradiction.”
The Last Dark Page 8
