The Last Dark

by Stephen R. Donaldson

A comparable extravagance seemed normal for the Haruchai as well. Covenant could hardly bear to contemplate what Stave had done to help complete Jeremiah’s construct. And the sheer strength of will with which Stave had resisted Infelice for Jeremiah’s sake, and for Linden’s, left Covenant gaping inwardly.

  How was it possible for any ordinary man—or woman—or boy—to live up to the example set by the Land’s other defenders, the natural inhabitants of this world?

  Nonetheless Linden had taken Mahrtiir into the Land’s past for a purpose as extreme as anything that the Giants and Stave had attempted. Covenant yearned to believe that she would succeed. And he had one tentative reason to think that she would not fail—or had not failed yet. The Arch of Time still held. One moment led to the next. Covenant inhaled and then exhaled. He heard words arranged in comprehensible sequences. Therefore Law endured. Linden had not caused a fatal rupture—or its ripples had not yet reached him.

  Perhaps that inference was an illusion. Perhaps he only experienced time chronologically because he was human, too mortal to perceive any other reality. Perhaps nothing truly existed outside the confines of his own perceptions.

  He had considered such ideas before. At one time, he had trusted himself to them. Now he discarded them with a private shrug. They changed nothing. He was responsible for the meaning of his life, as he had always been: for his loves, and for his rejections. While he remained able to think and feel, he could not set such burdens down without betraying himself.

  No doubt Linden believed something similar. How otherwise could she have hazarded a caesure? Without some kind of faith in the necessity of her commitments, how could she have ridden away from her son?

  No wonder Covenant loved her.

  Eventually the voices of his companions fell into silence. With the suddenness of a child, Jeremiah collapsed into slumber: an aftereffect of effort and Kastenessen’s touch. Cabledarm stared wide-eyed at the ceiling, in too much pain to sleep, or to hear. But Bluntfist’s eyelids closed, and she sank away. Onyx Stonemage resisted yawns—briefly, briefly—until they overcame her. Then Latebirth and Galesend slept as well. Soon only Coldspray, Grueburn, and Kindwind remained awake with Covenant and Branl.

  The three women regarded Covenant, obviously waiting to hear more of his own tale.

  As much for his own sake as for theirs, he began to speak. But he did not talk about what he had done and endured. He had no language adequate to Joan and the Ranyhyn, or to turiya Herem and Clyme, or to the Worm of the World’s End. Instead he spoke of Linden and Horrim Carabal.

  “At least now we know what the Ardent meant when he said her fate is writ in water. Or part of it, anyway. She gave us an alliance with the actual lurker,” who was nothing if not a creature born of water, made great by water. “Hellfire! How improbable was that? But there’s more. If she hadn’t brought down that flood above the Lost Deep, none of us would have escaped. If she hadn’t gone back to the Sarangrave, the Feroce might not have been able to give her my message.”

  She had used water to provide malachite for Jeremiah. And Covenant himself had broken her free from memories of She Who Must Not Be Named by holding her underwater. In retrospect, he trembled at his own daring.

  “Long ago,” he finished hoarsely, “I told her to Do something they don’t expect. If we ever find a way to stop Lord Foul, it’ll be because she’s taken him by surprise over and over again.”

  After a long pause, Rime Coldspray mused, “It indeed appears that many unforeseen outcomes were enabled by Linden Giantfriend’s last effort among the caverns. But the same may be said of any deed. If she had not retrieved the Staff of Law. If she had not accompanied your false son and her possessed boy into the Land’s past. If she had not dared all things to create a place for you among the living. Life is ever thus. One step enables another. For that reason, auguries are an ill guide. They tread perilously upon the borders of unearned knowledge.

  “Still we are Giants. We crave an understanding of your own deeds. Will you not tell their tale more fully?” She spread her hands in the light of the krill as if she wanted to convince Covenant that they were empty and needed to be filled. “Ignorance haunts us. It hinders rest.”

  Instead of saying, No, or, Have mercy, or, I can’t bear it, Covenant countered, “I’m not sure that’s true. I think it’s Longwrath who haunts you.” The Giants may have felt that they had failed him. “You need a caamora, and you don’t know how to get one. It eats at you.”

  The Ironhand did not contradict him. Instead she asked, “Are our hearts so plain to you?”

  Covenant shook his head. “I only think you need to grieve because I’ve known Giants for a long time. I can’t see you. And Kevin’s Dirt just makes me blinder.”

  Numbness was eroding his ability to hold on. When he could no longer grip, he would be effectively impotent.

  “Then it will comfort you,” interposed Frostheart Grueburn, “to hear that Kastenessen’s vile brume has faded from the heavens. His entry to the Chosen-son’s fane has unbound his theurgies. Also the decimation of the stars has ceased. While the remaining Elohim are preserved, it will not be resumed.”

  Faded—Covenant released his legs, sat up straighter. “Well, damn.” He had assumed that Kevin’s Dirt was gone—that its bale required Kastenessen’s constant attention—but he had not had an opportunity to ask for confirmation. “Thank you. If you hadn’t built this place”—he gestured around him—“I might be useless by now.”

  He had always been useless without friends.

  But the Giants were not deflected from their concerns. “Nonetheless,” Cirrus Kindwind remarked, still probing, “your ailment has gained force. And we fear that you will refuse Linden Giantfriend’s succor, as you once refused hurtloam in Andelain. It is your resolve that you must not be healed which most drives our desire to comprehend you.”

  Reflexively Covenant grimaced. In a quiet rasp, he said, “I don’t know how to explain it. Leprosy protects me somehow.” If Lena had not given him hurtloam when he first came to the Land, he would not have been able to rape her. “Sure, it costs me a lot. But it’s also a kind of strength. It makes some things possible that I couldn’t do without it.”

  Then, to forestall more questions, he urged, “You should get some sleep. We all need rest. Later I’ll figure out some way to give poor Longwrath a caamora.” Once before, he had done something similar. “I have Joan’s ring. And the krill. I should be able to manage a fire.”

  “Very well,” the Ironhand murmured. She was already drifting. “Though the burden of our woe is great, it is surpassed by weariness.”

  In another moment, her head sagged, and she was asleep.

  Frostheart Grueburn tried to swallow a cavernous yawn. Then she did what she could to make herself comfortable on the bare dirt.

  For a while, Cirrus Kindwind continued to study Covenant through the krill’s silver. But she did not prod him further. Nodding as if she were content, she said, “Earlier I had occasion to remind Stave Rockbrother that he is not alone. I would proffer a similar assurance now. Whatever the substance of your fears or pains may be, you will not be required to confront it alone. We are merely weakened. We are not inclined to forsake you.” She hesitated briefly, then added, “And Linden Giantfriend has not forgotten her love for you.”

  Before Covenant could decide whether to weep or smile, Kindwind turned away and settled herself for sleep.

  ovenant dozed for a while himself. Most of his efforts since the struggle with turiya Herem had been mental and emotional rather than physical, but they had drained him nonetheless. He did not mean to sleep while he hoped for Linden; but drowsiness overcame him, and he sank into a shallow slumber.

  Later some preterite instinct roused him, and he jerked up his head to look around. Squinting against the blur that marred his sight, he saw Stave enter the fane.

  The former Master moved cautiously, as if he had become unsure of his balance. His right hand and forearm gave the impression th
at they ached. But his single eye as it caught the krill’s shining was clear. It flashed argent at Covenant as if Stave had gained the ability to see into the Unbeliever’s soul.

  Perhaps he had. He had allowed himself to grieve for Galt, his son. And he had let Linden convince him to remain with Jeremiah. To Covenant, those were astonishing changes. Of the Haruchai whom he had known, only Cail had revealed a comparable willingness to go beyond rigid stoicism. Even men like Bannor and Brinn, Branl and Clyme, had measured themselves by standards which any other Haruchai would have approved.

  Carefully Stave eased himself to the ground in front of Covenant. There he sat cross-legged, upright as a spear driven into the dirt, with the backs of his hands resting on his thighs. His eye seemed to transfix Covenant.

  Without preamble, as if he were resuming a conversation, Stave said, “I did not part willingly from the Chosen.”

  His manner rather than his tone suggested that he wanted to be understood.

  “I know,” Covenant answered quietly. “But you let yourself be persuaded anyway. She asked, and you agreed.”

  “I did,” the former Master admitted. “I have found that I am no longer able to refuse her.”

  Covenant’s mouth twisted. “I know the feeling.”

  Stave flexed the fingers of his right hand, testing them for residual damage. “Haruchai do not indulge in regret. Yet I am”—he appeared to search for a word—“unsettled. If she does not return, Timewarden, I will be unable to quench my sense of loss, or my remorse that I did not stand at her side.”

  Now Covenant winced. “I know that feeling, too.” He had not simply turned away from Linden. He had told her not to touch him. More harshly than he intended, he said, “But sometimes things like that have to be done anyway.”

  Stave nodded. “Necessity demands. It does not countenance denial.” Then, unexpectedly, he looked away, as if he rather than Covenant had cause to feel shame. “Thus I am compelled to inquire of myself what purpose is served by regret—or indeed by grief.”

  Without pausing to consider his reply, Covenant countered, “How else do we know we’re alive?”

  “By our deeds,” Stave answered. “By striving and service. By—”

  Abruptly he froze. His gaze sprang back to Covenant’s. Nothing else moved.

  After a moment, he released a long breath. “Ah.” His regard did not waver, but his rigidity eased. “Now I begin to grasp how it transpires that you and the Chosen have failed to comprehend the Masters—and how the Masters have been misled in their apprehension of you. You and the Chosen—those of your world—The Chosen-son. Hile Troy. You judge by your hearts. It is by grief and regret that you know yourselves, rather than by deeds and effort and service.”

  In his turn, Covenant nodded. “Well, yes.” More than once, he had tried to explain himself to the Haruchai; but somehow he had failed to grasp the question implicit in their notions of service. “Grief and regret. What else is there? Those are just other names for love. You can’t feel bad about losing something if you don’t love it first. And if you don’t love, why else would you bother to do anything at all?”

  Of course, love was not so simple. He knew that as well as anyone; perhaps better than most. It spawned complications faster than it clarified them. It could be misguided or selfish. It could close its eyes. It could curdle until it became hate. And it implied rejection. Stepping in one direction required moving away from another. But at its core—

  At its core, love was the only answer that made sense to him.

  There is hope in contradiction.

  From where Branl stood, the krill left Stave’s features in shadow. Covenant could barely discern the outlines of the former Master’s mien. Only Stave’s eye pierced the dusk.

  Impassive as any Haruchai, he said, “It is a terrible burden, Timewarden.”

  Covenant shrugged. “Look at Branl. Look at the Masters. Look at yourself.” Briefly his old rage for the abused of the world rose up in him. “Hellfire, Stave! Look at the Elohim.” Then he subsided. Almost whispering, he asked, “Is what you see any less terrible?”

  “It is not,” Stave replied as if he were sure. “It is more so.”

  A moment later, something that may have been a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Were I inclined to the homage of mutilation—which I am not—I would now claim a place among the Humbled. Though they have aspired to emulation, they have not grasped the full import of their desires.

  “Until now,” he added in Branl’s direction, acknowledging what Branl had done and endured.

  Branl lifted a shoulder slightly. “Should the world endure,” he promised, “and the Masters with it, I will undertake to instruct our people.”

  Finally Covenant bowed his head. The Humbled had made it surprisingly easy to forgive the manner of Clyme’s death.

  radually the gloom within the temple became the more ominous twilight of late afternoon. By degrees, it thickened toward evening and full night. Branl remained standing, so motionless that he did not appear to breathe; holding Loric’s dagger steady as a beacon. Stave still sat in front of Covenant, resting while his strength returned.

  In the gathering darkness, the Giants began to wake.

  Frostheart Grueburn was the first. Muttering Giantish expletives, she rolled onto her side and struggled upright. Without a word, she left the fane. When she returned, she brought several waterskins. One she passed to Covenant.

  As Covenant drank, Halewhole Bluntfist raised her head. After gazing blearily around her for a moment, she nudged Onyx Stonemage. Stonemage responded by ascribing a list of offenses to Bluntfist’s parents; but she did not refuse to be roused.

  One after another, the Swordmainnir arose. In the stark illumination of the krill, they looked garish, like women who had become fiends while they slept—or had been tormented by fiends.

  Among them, Jeremiah woke up suddenly. His eyes seemed to give off glints of panic as he looked around for some sign of his mother. When he realized that she was still absent, he slumped back to the ground, covered his face with his hands. But then he practically flung himself to his feet. Ignoring his companions, he hurried out of the fane.

  The Ironhand shrugged. No one said anything.

  By turns, the Giants studied Cabledarm’s condition, offered her what encouragement they could. Stormpast Galesend urged a little water into her mouth. They had no other help to give her.

  All of them drank until they had emptied the waterskins. To no one in particular, Latebirth sighed, “I would barter my sword—aye, and my arm with it—for a handful of aliantha, and count myself fortunate in the exchange.” Her comrades nodded mutely.

  While Covenant watched, Rime Coldspray stretched her arms and back, loosened her neck. Then she looked at him. “Longwrath,” she said curtly, reminding him of his promise.

  Fire, he thought. Lamentation for the dead. The pain that consoles. In his own fashion, he understood how Giants grieved. Still he was reluctant to move. He had spent hours waiting for Linden: waiting and aching. Now he felt too heavy to stand, as if he were wrapped in iron chains. He would have preferred to go on waiting.

  But he might not get another chance to keep his word. For all he knew, Cabledarm was dying.

  “We need Linden,” he muttered to no one in particular. “I need her.” Then he extended a hand to Branl, let the Humbled lift him upright.

  After sitting against the wall for so long, his muscles had stiffened. He felt like an assemblage of mismatched parts as he accepted the krill. But he was accustomed to that. And the gem of Loric’s weapon shone steadily, answering the presence of white gold. With its magicks, he had already accomplished things which he had considered impossible. Why not more?

  You are the white gold.

  Holding the dagger by its wrapped hilt, he led his companions from the shelter of the fane.

  Outside he found that night had almost claimed the plain. Beyond the reach of the krill’s gem lay only blackness. Harsh buffets
of wind seemed to hit him from every direction simultaneously. The chill pang of the air augured days of deeper cold. He had hoped for a moon; but it had not risen—or it was left in darkness by the sun’s absence from the world.

  Here even his blunted senses felt the violence glowering in the northeast: a crouched impression of storm as fierce as a predator, and as absolute as fuligin. He wanted to ask how far away it was, and how quickly it was moving, but the words caught in his throat.

  “It is the Worm, ur-Lord,” Branl stated like a man who could read minds. “Yet it is many and many leagues distant. Also the fury of its coming outruns the Worm itself. It is not imminent.”

  Covenant forced himself to breathe. After a moment, he managed to ask, “How much time do we have?”

  The Humbled looked at Stave. Something silent passed between them. Then Branl said, “If it does not increase its haste, it will not strike this region until the morrow, perhaps some hours after dawn.”

  In a low growl, the Ironhand confirmed Branl’s estimate. “Beyond question, the lurker and the Demondim-spawn have accomplished the wonders which were asked of them.”

  The force and confusion of the winds affected Covenant like vertigo. Lurching like a holed ship in an uneven gale, he moved toward Longwrath’s corpse.

  The two Haruchai accompanied him, and behind them came the Swordmainnir. Cabledarm the Giants supported between them, although her mind wandered the borderland between consciousness and delirium. Maybe they hoped that fire would cauterize her internal bleeding.

  Eventually Covenant spotted Jeremiah. The boy had climbed back onto the roof of the fane. Vague in the darkness, he stood there as if the crude edifice were a watchtower. Restlessly he scanned the plain from horizon to horizon, searching for some sign of his mother’s return.

  Covenant felt a pang for the boy, but he did not allow himself to pause. Winds slapped at his face. They came at him from one direction and then another as if they were trying to nudge him aside from his purpose. The Worm was a condensed apocalypse: it pushed turmoil ahead of it like a bow-wave. He kept moving so that he would not relapse to waiting for Linden.