Against All Things Ending

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  The rising sun had reached her face. Her head rested against his chest in a way that allowed the light to strike her troubled eyes, although their lids were closed and clenched. Hoping to ease her, he cupped one hand to provide a patch of shade.

  “But think about it, Linden. We only have Jeremiah now because you broke the construct hiding him. Nobody helped you with that. Nobody else could have saved Liand,” whose fate seemed to thicken around him as he slept. “And I only have hands I can still use because you healed them. For that alone, I’m so grateful I don’t know how to contain it.”

  Everything that he required of himself while life remained in his body depended on his ability to grip and hold.

  Gradually a low breeze began to blow, drawn by the warmed cliff of Landsdrop. It cooled the mounting pressure of the sun; but it could not ease his thirst. His voice had become an effortful scrape of sound. His tongue felt stupid in his mouth, and sand seemed to clog his attempts to swallow.

  “But you didn’t stop there. You’re the reason we survived She Who Must Not Be Named.”

  With his peripheral vision, he saw that Stave had turned to study him. The Humbled had set aside the pretense that they were not listening.

  They wanted to know what he meant.

  He was thinking of Elena, agonized and frantic. She was his daughter by rape; and he had not stopped her from drinking the Blood of the Earth, even though he had suspected that her intentions were distorted or dangerous. Now her pain had been consumed by the bane’s larger and more rabid torment—

  —because Linden had not granted her the compassion which Kevin Landwaster had received from his forefathers.

  He wanted to tell Linden that she had done the right thing.—something they don’t expect. Something no one could have expected. In effect, she had rubbed salt in Elena’s wounds. She had left Elena’s anguish so fresh and naked that She Who Must Not Be Named had been unable to ignore it.

  He wanted to say that sometimes good came from cruel means.

  But he could not. The words hurt too much. And they would not help Linden forgive herself. Certainly they did not ease his own remorse.

  Yet he believed that they were important. Saying that good could not be accomplished by evil means implied a definition of evil which excluded Linden’s particular desperation.

  Nevertheless he did not speak of Elena. He did not wish the Haruchai to hear him. They would judge him as well as Linden in the same way that they judged themselves. Instead he murmured, faltering, “You’ve saved us in more ways than I can count. None of us would still be alive without you.”

  Then he was finished. He had nothing more to say, and very little strength. She would wake, or she would not. Either way, the choice was hers.

  Lifting his head, he saw Stave nod before resuming his watch on the horizons. Perhaps the former Master approved. Or perhaps his nod merely acknowledged that Covenant had tried.

  Later Covenant asked Stave to help him move Linden back into the shade of the boulder. He was too weak to shift her gently by himself. As Stave complied, however, the former Master remarked that the Manethrall’s Cords were returning.

  “They appear stronger. I deem that they have found water.”

  Covenant did not know how much longer he could wait. Like his concern for Linden, his thirst had become a kind of fever, so hot that it parched his thoughts.

  Muttering to himself, he moved as far into the boulder’s shade as he could while Stave lifted Linden. Then he accepted her again, settled her against his chest.

  Through the haze in his eyes, he saw the Cords approaching, accompanied now by their Manethrall. Pahni and Bhapa had been gone for what felt like a long time. They must have walked far. He could not imagine where he, or the Ardent, or even the Giants would find the stamina to do the same.

  While Covenant tried to believe that he was capable of walking at all, Clyme said brusquely, “Stave.”

  With a small shrug for the affront of being commanded aloud, Stave returned to the rim of the watercourse. At the same time, Clyme and Branl leapt down to greet the Ramen. As soon as the Cords announced their success, Clyme said, “If it can be done, this company must be spared further exertion. We will endeavor to bring water here.”

  “We have no vessels,” Mahrtiir observed.

  “And we have seen no aliantha,” added Bhapa.

  Clyme ignored the Cord. “We will contrive a means,” he told Mahrtiir. With one hand, he gestured at Anele sleeping cupped in Galesend’s cataphract. “Shaped as it is, the armor of the Giants will serve. We need only rouse one of the Swordmainnir.”

  “It is stone,” the Manethrall objected. “Its weight alone—”

  Branl cut him off. “We do not ask this of you, Manethrall. We will bear the burden. Stave will stand watch in our stead.”

  Mahrtiir hesitated for a moment, as if he doubted even the great strength of the Haruchai. Then he nodded. “Cord Bhapa and I will accompany you. When Cord Pahni has bestirred the Ironhand, she will join her wariness to Stave’s.”

  Pahni obeyed promptly. Casting a worried glance at Liand, she knelt beside Rime Coldspray. From a small pouch at her waist, she took a little amanibhavam. After rubbing the dried leaves between her fingers, she held them to Coldspray’s nose.

  Covenant had once eaten raw amanibhavam: an act of madness which may nonetheless have saved his life.

  Coldspray snorted at the smell, twisted away as though it stung her nostrils. A moment later, she raised her head, blinking at the film of fatigue and thirst in her eyes.

  Satisfied, Pahni climbed out of the gully toward Stave.

  “Ironhand,” Clyme stated, “we require your armor to carry water.”

  Coldspray regarded him with an air of stupefaction. Briefly she struggled to understand him. Then she managed a nod. Fumbling, she undid the bindings of her cataphract. When that was done, she rolled across the sand until she left the breastplate and back of her armor behind.

  Freed from the heavy stone, she labored unsteadily to her feet and watched as Clyme and Branl each stooped to lift half of her cataphract. Seeing that they were equal to the task, she took a small stone flask—diamondraught—from a slot or notch in her breastplate and drank the last of its contents: a few drops. Then she tucked the flask under her belt and stumbled toward Frostheart Grueburn. Without making any effort to wake her comrade, she knelt to release the clasps of Grueburn’s armor.

  By increments, she succeeded at rolling Grueburn to one side.

  Grueburn opened her eyes, peered at Coldspray. A frown knotted her features as she fought to moisten her mouth. “Ironhand,” she rasped painfully. “What—?”

  “Rest if you must,” Coldspray replied, hoarse with thirst. “If you are able to do so, arise and aid me. We must make use of your cataphract as basins for water.”

  Grueburn shook her head, staring dully. “Able?” she croaked. “Have I not named myself the mightiest of the Swordmainnir? If you are indeed able to carry water, surely I can do no less.”

  Goading herself with Giantish curses, Frostheart Grueburn began to climb upright. When she had found a measure of balance, she, too, retrieved her flask and poured her last drops of diamondraught into her mouth.

  Covenant saw their heavy muscles tremble as Coldspray and Grueburn picked up Grueburn’s armor; and he almost slipped. Images tugged at him: Saltheart Foamfollower bearing him into the unendurable magma of Hotash Slay; Grimmand Honninscrave straining to contain samadhi Sheol. His memories spanned too much time. And he had too many lives on his conscience. Linden’s destitution against his chest was only one burden among a clamoring host.

  “Hang on,” he murmured, speaking to himself as much as to her. “It won’t be long now. We’ll have water soon.”

  Somehow the Ironhand and Grueburn stood in spite of stone and exhaustion. They looked weaker than Branl and Clyme, but they managed to support the shaped rock of Grueburn’s cataphract.

  “Now,” Coldspray panted to Mahrtiir. “Ere
this tattered mimicry of vigor fails us.”

  The Manethrall turned quickly toward Covenant; bowed like a promise. Then he wheeled away. Guided by Bhapa, he led Clyme and Branl, Coldspray and Grueburn away along the gully. Both Swordmainnir tottered as though they were about to fall; but they did not. From some deep reserve of indomitability, they drew the resolve to stay on their feet and walk.

  Covenant watched them go with a pang in his heart, as if he had failed them—although he could not have said how. His sense of disappointment in himself seemed to have no name.

  He had certainly failed Linden.

  For a time, he forgot to stroke her hair. His shoulders slumped, resting his incomplete hands on the sand. Like his memories, their stiffness threatened to drag him into the fissures of the past. But then he muttered, “Hellfire,” and forced himself to lift his arms again.

  The sensations of touching her were denied to him. Only the repetitive gentleness of caresses comforted him. But he knew how badly he had hurt her, both by his silence among the Dead and by his recurring absences. He knew that he would surely hurt her again. And he knew what he had done to Elena. He did not seek solace for himself.

  Other people needed consolation more than he did.

  He could not measure time. He was not yet attuned to mundane circadian increments—or he was too badly dehydrated. The sun moved: the shadow of the boulder dwindled. Landsdrop seemed to shrink as the angle of the light changed. But such things did not tell him how long Mahrtiir and the others had been gone, or when they might come back.

  The season was still spring: he remembered that. Nevertheless the sun’s heat leaned down on him until he forgot that he had been drenched only a few hours earlier. It made Linden heavier. The day was going to be hot. Too hot—

  More and more as haze blurred his sight, he saw Landsdrop as a barrier. A forbidding—Unattainable. It made him think that he would never see the Upper Land again.

  His desire to walk in Andelain once more before the world ended was a new kind of ache, unforeseen and immedicable. He had no anodyne for any of his woes.

  When Galt said firmly, “Ur-Lord, the others return. They bear water,” Covenant needed a moment to understand him.

  Peering down the gully, Covenant eventually made out six figures, four of them small. Their shapes wavered and bled, as uncertain as hallucinations dissolving in the sun’s glare. But they became more solid as they approached. Walking with slow care, they took on definition until he could believe that they were real.

  Clyme, Branl, and two Giants. Mahrtiir and Bhapa.

  Covenant leaned forward in anticipation, but Linden did not awaken.

  Clearly the two Swordmainnir had gained much by drinking their fill. Their movements were steady, articulating their stubborn vitality. Nevertheless the Humbled carried their laden basins almost as easily.

  The halves of the cataphracts were large enough to hold substantial quantities of water.

  Abruptly the croyel said, “That isn’t going to help you.” Jeremiah’s voice was harsh with scorn. “This isn’t over. The Ardent hasn’t done you any favors. Drink as much as you want. Congratulate yourselves for staying alive. It won’t make any difference. That fat Insequent isn’t as smart as he thinks.”

  A frown creased Linden’s forehead. The croyel’s words in her son’s mouth appeared to trouble her. The muscles at the corners of her eyes flinched more urgently. Still she did not rouse.

  “Be silent, creature,” Galt replied. “Do you fancy that I will scruple to sever your foul head from its body? This youth whom you torment has no worth to me. And in her present state, Linden Avery cannot plead for him. It will not grieve me to cause your death.”

  Covenant wondered whether Galt would carry out his threat. Fortunately the croyel did not test the Master.

  Stepping among the sprawled forms of the company, Manethrall Mahrtiir said as if his blindness gave him the right to command, “Offer drink to the Insequent. We are in sore need of his powers.” Plainly he had quenched his own thirst and become stronger. But he could not appease his sense of futility, or his resentment of it. “If any diamondraught remains, grant it to the Ringthane. Her plight demands water, but while she remains as she is, she will drink little. Mayhap the greater potency of diamondraught will succor her.”

  “Aye,” assented the Ironhand. The strain of her burden showed in her voice, in spite of her nascent recovery. With elaborate care, she set down her half of Grueburn’s armor. Then she went to where Latebirth lay snoring: a husky sound in the back of Latebirth’s throat, distressed and uneven. Coldspray opened Latebirth’s cataphract, lifted the breastplate aside, and took Latebirth’s flask. However, a quick shake of the flask told Coldspray that it was empty. Dropping the wrought stone in vexation, she moved to search Onyx Stonemage.

  At the same time, Grueburn carried her vessel to the Ardent’s side; Clyme placed his near Latebirth; and Branl approached Covenant. Only Branl’s slow caution as he lowered Coldspray’s breastplate to the sand betrayed that the armor and its weight of water were heavy for him.

  Bhapa had already left the watercourse to join Pahni. Now Stave descended to stand over Covenant. Extending his arms, he said, “You must drink, Timewarden. I will hold the Chosen.”

  Through his thirst and eagerness, Covenant thought that he heard an undercurrent of concern in the former Master’s tone.

  But Covenant did not move. The debris of effort and mute rue filled his throat. He had difficulty speaking. “Linden first. I can’t—After what she’s been through.”

  He had told her to find him. What had he expected her to do? Passively accept his silence?

  “Ur-Lord,” Branl began, then stopped as the Ironhand walked toward him holding Stonemage’s flask.

  “Here is diamondraught,” Coldspray said. “Mere drops remain, I fear. But it is distilled for Giants, and Linden Giantfriend is human. Perchance mere drops will suffice.”

  Stupid with thirst, Covenant stared at Coldspray. For a moment, he did not understand why she seemed to be waiting for him; why Branl and Stave were waiting. Then he realized that he was holding Linden with her cheek propped on his shoulder. She could not drink in that position.

  “You’re right,” he croaked to Stave. “You’d better take her.”

  At once, Stave stooped to Linden. Frowning slightly around the scar of his lost eye, he lifted her in the cradle of his arms so her head tilted back enough to open her mouth.

  Covenant felt her absence from his chest like a bereavement. Instead of moving to drink from Branl’s basin, he watched as Coldspray unstopped Stonemage’s flask and shook half a dozen amber drops past Linden’s lips.

  Linden appeared to swallow autonomically. She gave no sign that she felt the effects of the liquor.

  “I can’t see into her,” Covenant rasped. He was a leper: he had no health-sense. “What’s happening? Is it helping her?”

  The Ironhand scowled like a wince. “Linden Giantfriend baffles discernment. As do you, Timewarden, and also her son. Diamondraught is a sovereign roborant. I will trust that it aids her. But I detect no sign of awakening.”

  Both Stave and Branl nodded in agreement.

  Indicating the flask, Coldspray added, “Doubtless water will provide some further benison.”

  Covenant thought that he said, Good idea. But he could not be sure. He had too many memories. Long ago, Atiaran had told him, You are closed to me—I do not see you. Others had made similar comments. I do not know whether you are well or ill.

  Ill, of course, he had answered with a bitterness which Lena’s mother had not deserved. I’m a leper.

  She had quoted an ancient song.

  “And he who wields white wild magic gold

  is a paradox—

  for he is everything and nothing,

  hero and fool,

  potent, helpless—

  and with the one word of truth or treachery,

  he will save or damn the Earth

  because he is
mad and sane,

  cold and passionate,

  lost and found.”

  Beyond question, he felt mad and sane. Increasingly bewildered. He had surrendered his ring, and did not mean to take it back. In one form or another, his leprosy defined him.

  He was slipping—

  But Branl had gripped him by the shoulders. Irresistibly the Humbled drew him to his knees beside Coldspray’s cataphract.

  Thirst and water anchored Covenant. Plunging his whole face into the basin, he drank as long as he could hold his breath.

  When he pulled himself back, with water streaming down his cheeks onto his shirt and cooling in the breeze, he felt that he had been baptized; made new in some ineffable fashion. His mouth and throat had been washed clean. None of his griefs or regrets or responsibilities had passed from him. But he could bear them.

  And he was not alone. As he mustered the strength to stand, he found that all of the Giants were stirring. They drank sparingly: the company’s supply of water was small for women of their size. Yet they drank enough to ease their weakness. Those who still carried any diamondraught swallowed it, little though it was. The others allowed Frostheart Grueburn to encourage them by rubbing their arms and shoulders.

  Awakened, Liand followed Covenant’s example until the blur of prostration faded from his eyes. Then he labored awkwardly to his feet and peered at Linden, scrutinizing her to convince himself that she was physically unharmed. Briefly he watched Coldspray tilt water from Latebirth’s flask down Linden’s throat. His open nature concealed none of his apprehension.

  A moment later, however, he shook himself and turned away. Summoning a fraught smile, he waved reassurance at Pahni. When she waved back, he paused to confirm that his Sunstone had been returned to the pouch at his waist. Then he began to look for a manageable ascent so that he could join the young Cord.

  As Stormpast Galesend nudged Anele, Covenant warned her, “Keep him on that armor. I don’t know enough about him.” He had forgotten too much. “This sand—It used to be stone. Maybe it’s safe. Or maybe it’ll show Kastenessen where we are.”