The Last Dark

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Still the stars died overhead. Like Jeremiah, Linden was hungry. But in addition, she was beginning to share his frustration. A part of her did not want to discover malachite. It did not. Her reluctance was a thin whimper in the background of every thought. More would be required of her than she could bear to contemplate. Nevertheless the plight of the stars—and of the Elohim—infected her with urgency. The prospect of a lightless sky appalled her. Much as she disliked or even loathed the Elohim, their peril seemed more important than her personal fears.

  The grey gloom wore on her like an old sore, immedicable, weeping vital fluids. While Hyn’s muscles flexed under her, and the mare’s sweat soaked into her jeans, irritating her legs, Linden began to wonder whether night would ever come again—and if it did, whether the Ranyhyn would allow themselves and their riders to rest. If Time remained essentially intact, surely some form of circadian cycle continued to rule the world? What would it mean if night did not come?

  Her private dread seemed to grow more petty with every surmounted league, every troubled thought. Now she wondered how anyone could refuse to take the innominate risks that lay ahead of her. How could she? If she ever hoped to hold up her head in front of Jeremiah and Covenant again?

  Gradually the incline swung away, surrendering to erosion. Beyond it, Stave called Linden’s attention to the fact that the Ranyhyn were adjusting their course. “The northeast remains accessible,” he informed her, “yet now our path tends toward the Sarangrave.”

  “Do you know why?” Memories of the marshland’s fetor and the lurker’s malevolence ached in her guts. She never wanted to approach the Flat again.

  “I do not. Haruchai cannot commune with Ranyhyn as the Ramen do. However, I surmise that the horses require fodder. Among the wetlands on the verges of Sarangrave Flat, they may find grasses to sustain them.”

  “Can’t the lurker reach them if they do that?”

  “Indeed,” Stave acknowledged. “Yet sustenance they must have, and there is none in this region. Nearer to the coastline, the devastation of Corruption’s wars and workings eases. There forage may be found. But the distance is too great, even for the endurance of the Ranyhyn. If they would continue to run as they do, they must dare their ancient foe.”

  Oh, good, Linden muttered to herself. Perfect. Just what we need. Another fight with that monster. But she could feel a new trembling in Hyn’s muscles, hear hints of frenzy in Hyn’s respiration. Stave was probably right.

  “Then we’ll have to protect them.” She meant herself. Her companions could not oppose the lurker—and the monster craved her Staff.

  “Maybe we’ll find aliantha,” called Jeremiah. “If the ground grows other plants, it can grow treasure-berries.”

  “Maybe,” Linden conceded. To Stave, she added, “If I get in trouble,” if the Feroce cast their glamour over her mind again, “take the Staff. I don’t care if you have to hit me to get it. Just don’t let that monster have it.”

  “I hear you, Chosen.” The former Master sounded as passionless as marble.

  She trusted him. Nevertheless he eased none of her trepidations.

  till Khelen, Hynyn, and Hyn ran, defying their tangible exhaustion: the froth on their nostrils, the sweat on their coats, the ominous rattle in their mighty chests. At intervals, Linden refreshed them with brief blooms of Earthpower. But she did not use magic to extend her percipience. She did not want to know how near the Sarangrave might be.

  Heading more north than east, the riders rushed down into a wide lowland like an ancient caldera. There the Ranyhyn found a few patches of scrannel grass, only a few mouthfuls apiece, hardly enough to blunt the keenest edges of their need. Then they resumed their stubborn race against the reaving of stars. Laboring painfully, they pounded up the slight slope at the far rim of the lowland; and still they ran.

  In this direction, they would certainly encounter the Sarangrave. Linden tried to tell herself that they might find what they sought at any time; that their ordeal might end beyond the next rise, or somewhere in the next shallow vale. But she did not believe it.

  Again and again, she came back to trust. She had given the Ranyhyn the only gift that was hers to grant; but neither she nor they could afford to rely upon it. She would have to simply trust that they could accomplish what they had asked of themselves.

  A long time later, when her bestowed Earthpower had drained out of the horses entirely, the twilight began to thicken, become more viscid. A tumid dark crept out of the east to mask the contours of the landscape, deepen the bitter doom of the heavens. For a while, the dull light faded by minor increments, barely detectible: then it was gone altogether. Linden could not imagine how the Ranyhyn knew where to set their hooves. Nevertheless they did not falter. Perhaps they saw or felt the stars as clearly as she did. Perhaps they could hear the undefended lights pleading for redemption.

  Absorbed by worries, she was slow to notice that she could smell water. It was dank and stagnant enough to be Sarangrave Flat, pervasive enough, fraught with implications of rot and dire corpses—but it was water nonetheless. And where there was water, there might be provender for the Ranyhyn.

  As if to answer her, Khelen whickered weakly; and Stave said, “The Sarangrave is nigh, Chosen. It is shallow in this region. A fool who did not fear bogs and quags might wade for a league without encountering deeper streams. Yet I do not doubt that we are now within the ambit of the lurker’s awareness.”

  He paused to let Linden respond. When she found nothing to say, he asked, “Will you now surrender the Staff? I cannot wield it. Yet its absence from your hands may serve to ward you.”

  “Not yet.” She was shivering at the cooler air as though she shared the extremity of the horses. Her memories of the Feroce and the lurker were too recent. And yet the Ranyhyn appeared to be on the verge of stumbling to their knees. They had to have food and rest. “Not until we see the Feroce. They’re the real danger.” The theurgy of green fires cupped like instances of the Illearth Stone in their palms enabled them to enter her mind. They could erase the distinction between reality and memory. “The lurker can’t reach us if we don’t get too close.”

  “I don’t care about that,” Jeremiah put in. His voice seemed to come from the bottom of an abyss. “The Ranyhyn are desperate.

  “I don’t think I have the kind of power that’s good for fighting. But I can be a distraction. I mean, since the lurker is so hungry for Earthpower. Maybe I can get its attention.”

  “Then stay back,” Linden ordered hoarsely. “If you’re going to distract anything, do it from a safe distance. Let Stave and me protect you.”

  As she spoke, Hyn’s strides began to slow. Just for an instant, Linden thought that the mare had come to the end of her endurance. But the smell of water was so thick that it hurt Linden’s sinuses; and she recognized almost at once that Hyn was slackening her gait deliberately.

  Stave responded by urging Linden to dismount. “The littoral of the marsh is nigh. We must remain beyond the lurker’s reach.”

  When Linden nodded her consent, Hyn staggered to a halt. While Linden slid to the ground, Stave sprang down from Hynyn’s back. Lurching, Khelen brought Jeremiah to Linden’s side. In spite of his impatience, Jeremiah did not complain as he dismounted. Instead he patted Khelen’s neck, muttering, “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right.”

  The young stallion whickered thinly. Shambling into the darkness with Hyn and Hynyn, he headed toward water and forage.

  While Linden watched the horses, Stave spoke again. “Await me, Chosen. I will attempt to discover aliantha. If I discern water which we may drink without harm, I will guide you to it.”

  At once, he followed the Ranyhyn. Like them, he disappeared as if he had been swallowed by the tenebrous air.

  He may conceivably have wished to let Linden talk to Jeremiah alone. Beneath his Haruchai dispassion lay a familiar capacity for solicitude.

  But what could she say to her son? In certain respects, she understood h
im too well. Trapped deep within him, a terrible storm was brewing. He needed his defenses, his urgent focus on a vital task, to contain the violence of his refused memories. And he was altogether too young for his years. Lost in dissociation, he had not had time to learn how to live with himself.

  As gently as she could, she murmured, “You told Khelen not to worry, but I can’t help it.” Feeling him stiffen, she continued, “Oh, I’m not worried about the waiting. You can do that when you have to. You’ve had plenty of practice.

  “No, it’s what you want to do for the Elohim that scares me. A door like that—You’ll have to make it so big. It’s going to take time. And when you’re done, it’s going to be vulnerable. If we can’t protect it—”

  She would need help. She could no longer ignore that truth. More help than any of her friends could supply. Covenant himself had said it. We’re too weak the way we are. We need power. More power than Loric’s krill could summon, or the Staff of Law diminished by Kevin’s Dirt, or a woman who was not a rightful white gold wielder.

  At her side, Jeremiah relaxed a bit. “I know,” he admitted grimly. “If we go through all that—I mean, if we find enough malachite, and the Giants help me build what I want, and it pulls the Elohim in, at least all the ones who’re left—and then the Worm just swallows my door—” He shuddered. “That’ll be worse than anything.”

  Hearing him reminded Linden of Kevin Landwaster and her own despair. Before she could respond, however, he said, “But, Mom.” He sounded as harsh as the night. “I have to try. I don’t know what else to do.”

  That, too, she understood. “Then listen to me,” she returned more sharply than she intended. “Building your door—That’s your part. And it’s enough. It’s enough. The rest is up to us.” It was up to her. “We’ll figure out a way to protect it. And if we can’t, you’ll just have to keep reminding yourself that you did your part. You aren’t responsible for what happens after that.”

  “But it’ll all be wasted!” he protested. “They’ll all die.”

  High Lord Kevin must have felt the same before the Ritual of Desecration. Nevertheless his ancestors among the Dead had forgiven him. And Linden had missed her chance to take pity on Elena. From She Who Must Not Be Named, Linden had learned how much her self-absorption had cost Covenant’s daughter.

  “No,” she replied carefully, “it won’t be wasted. I can only imagine how bad it might feel to see something that you built destroyed. Especially something like that. But listen to me. In a way, I’ve only known you for a day and a half, and already I’m so proud of you that I don’t have any words big enough for it. Now I understand what parents mean when they talk about their hearts bursting.”

  She gathered passion as she spoke. Her own parents had never felt that way about her. Not once. The bitter legacies of her childhood filled her voice. Trying to sway her son, she was pleading for herself.

  “For all of those years when I was taking care of you, do you know how many times I wondered if it was all wasted?” If she had opened her heart and lavished her love for nothing? “I’ll tell you. I never wondered. It was always worth doing, all of it.

  “Of course I cared about what might happen. Of course I wanted you to find your way out. I wanted you with me. But I didn’t adopt you and love you because of what might happen. I did it because you were always precious to me, every minute of every day. You were enough. I didn’t need to know the future to know that you were worth everything.”

  She felt frustration from him, a rising denial; but she over-rode it.

  “So maybe you won’t be able to build your door after all. Maybe we won’t be able to protect it after you make it. Maybe the Elohim and the stars and all of us are doomed. So what? Right here, right now, you want to do everything you can to help, and that’s wonderful. If the Worm eats your door, and you feel so hurt and angry and useless that you can’t stand it, remember that I’m proud of you.”

  “Stop it, Mom.” He was crying, and trying not to show it. “Nobody’s proud of a failure.”

  “That’s nonsense.” Instinctively she responded as if he were a normal boy, able to hear her. “Failure isn’t something you are. It’s something you do.” She needed to hear what she was saying. With every word, she pleaded for an answer to her mute dread. “Having the courage to escape your prison is who you are. Wanting to help the Elohim because the world needs them is who you are. My son is who you are. Everything else is just making mistakes, or not having the right materials or enough help, or not knowing enough, or trying to do something that’s actually impossible. It just happens. It isn’t who you are.”

  With her whole heart, she asked, “How do you suppose Covenant managed to save the world twice? It isn’t because he’s stronger or smarter or greater than Lord Foul. He’s just stronger and smarter and greater than Lord Foul thinks he is. He’s had the right kind of help. And he isn’t afraid to take the chance that he’s going to fail.”

  “Mom.” Jeremiah was crying openly now. “Mom, stop. Please. I need—I need—”

  She understood that as well. Who would, if she did not? Remembering Anele—remembering Must and Cannot and the old man’s last valor, an act of self-confrontation that humbled her—she dropped her Staff and swept her son into her arms. Hugging him tightly, she murmured his name to him as if it confirmed his worth.

  Like a young boy, he sobbed hard for a moment—and like a teenager, he suppressed his pain quickly. For a heartbeat or two, he held his mother as she held him. Then he let go of her, stepped back from her clasp. Snuffling loudly, he rubbed his face with both hands, wiped his nose on his forearm. In a congested voice, he asked, “What’s taking Stave so long? The Flat is right over there.” He gestured uselessly in the darkness. “I’m hungry. He should be back by now.”

  Well, he was a fifteen-year-old boy, embarrassed by what he considered a show of weakness. For his sake, Linden smiled ruefully. Her sigh of regret she kept to herself.

  “I’m sure—” she began. But before she completed the sentence, she felt the former Master’s severe aura returning.

  “It’s about time,” Jeremiah muttered. Then he called to Stave, “Did you find aliantha? Are we that lucky?”

  Almost immediately, Stave arrived, a darker shape condensed from the raw stuff of night. His hands were full of damp plants. “I did not,” he answered. “However, I have discovered tubers which I deem edible. They resemble the roots from which the Ramen prepare rhee. Cooked, they will provide sustenance.”

  Linden smiled again. As warmly as she could, she thanked the former Master. Then she asked her son, “What do you think? Can you use your Earthpower for cooking?” Had he gained that much control over his inheritance? She hoped so. He needed a chance to recover his sense of competence. “I can do it, but I’m more likely to attract attention that we don’t want.”

  She did not doubt that the lurker would devour Jeremiah avidly. But she also felt sure that the monster would find her Staff better suited to its particular hunger.

  Eager to put aside his distress, Jeremiah extended his halfhand, accepted a root. “I’ll give it a try.”

  As he did so, Linden retrieved the Staff, braced herself on its possibilities. Then she turned every dimension of her remaining discernment toward Sarangrave Flat, searching for some sign of the lurker—or of the Feroce.

  After a moment, she located the Ranyhyn. They stood along the verge of a stagnant pool, cropping bitter grasses and vaguely pernicious shrubs with apparent unconcern. Clearly no hint of the lurker disturbed them. Nor did what they ate.

  The wetland beyond them looked shallow. Its waters ran in sluggish streams or sat in rancid ponds interrupted by small eyots of grass or twisted brush; by occasional trees gnarled and stunted in putrefying mud; by brief swaths of reeds that nodded back and forth like conspirators in the currents and the breeze. Everything within the range of Linden’s percipience reeked of age and decomposition and ancient malice. Darkness covered the Flat, as funereal as a grav
e-cloth. Nevertheless nothing suggested the presence of the lurker or its acolytes.

  At her back, she felt a short burst of fire. At once, it winked out. Jeremiah snorted in quick disgust, but his concentration did not waver.

  A moment later, she sensed heat. It flickered, shrank, threatened to die out, then swelled more strongly. “Ha!” Jeremiah panted. “So that’s how—”

  Soon he was able to hold his magic steady. The smells of cooking joined the thick odors of the Sarangrave.

  Somewhere in the depths of the wetland, a night bird cried: a wail of fright. Linden heard a sharp splash, a sucking sound. She may have heard the clamp of teeth. The cry was cut off. More distant birds squalled as they took flight. From other directions came the rustle of disturbed roosting; the squirm of thick bodies in mud; the plash of creatures that may have been fish. After its fashion, Sarangrave Flat was thick with life.

  Still nothing resembled the lurker. Nothing warned of the Feroce.

  Before long, Jeremiah let his Earthpower dissipate. “Ow!” he muttered cheerfully. “That’s hot.” Then he bit into the tuber. Through a mouthful of crunching, he announced, “Tastes like dirt.” But he did not stop eating.

  By degrees, Linden began to relax.

  Jeremiah took another root from Stave, summoned fresh theurgy. “Your turn, Mom,” he murmured as he worked. “It’s actually pretty good, if you pretend you can’t taste it.”

  “Stave?” Linden asked over her shoulder.

  “I keep watch, Chosen.” The Haruchai’s tone hinted at reproof. She should have known that he was always alert. “Doubtless the Ranyhyn also will give warning at need. Eat while you may.” A beat later, he added, “I have yet to discover clean water.”

  Linden hesitated to lower her guard. She had encountered the lurker more than once—and once was too often. But hunger overcame her uncertainty. With an effort, she turned her back on the Sarangrave.

  Jeremiah had nearly finished cooking a second tuber. He held it in his halfhand with his left cupped over it. A faint glow of heat radiated between his palms. When he judged that root was ready to eat, he handed it to Linden.