Against All Things Ending

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  In any case, Kastenessen was not the only dire being who might notice or enter the old man if he stood on sand baked dry.

  “Indeed, Timewarden,” Galesend agreed. “Having borne him so far, and at such cost, I have grown fond of our Anele. There is valor concealed within his derangement. I pray that the day will come when the same may be said of Longwrath.”

  Holding Anele in place, she tugged her armor across the gully-bottom toward the nearest water. Fortunately he did not try to jerk free, in spite of his eagerness to drink. Weakened as she was, she might not have been able to control him. But he seemed content to sit in his cradle and let her pull him along.

  The Ardent had been the first to thrust his face into a basin; but he was among the last to struggle upright. For a while, he simply stood, unfurling his ribbands tentatively; studying his damaged raiment. The flesh of his face sagged, and depletions more profound than thirst dulled his gaze.

  Eventually, however, he mustered a semblance of resolve. Tottering on his wrapped legs, he came effortfully toward Covenant and Linden, Coldspray and Stave and Branl.

  He may have meant to bow, but he managed only a dip of his head. Some of his ribbands trailed like exhaustion across the sand as he braced himself to speak.

  “A pitiful end to my former pride,” he began. “Doubtless I should name myself gratified. While the Earth endures, no other Insequent will assert that their deeds have equaled mine, or that they have witnessed the wonders which I have beheld. In all sooth, however, I am mortified. Aye, mortified, and also grieved. My many fears and insufficiencies have proven costly. As I near my end, my life comes to naught but this, that you and your companions endure to meet further trials without my aid. In itself, it is a fine accomplishment. Oh, assuredly both fine and fitting. I must crave your pardon that I am not gladdened by it.”

  Covenant stared. He was about to say, You saved our lives. What more do your people want from you? But the Ardent continued without pausing.

  “Here our paths part, Timewarden, though there remains one service which I hope to perform for you, should the Insequent consent to prolong my life. When I have gathered myself, I will depart, praying that I will return, albeit briefly.”

  In sudden alarm, Covenant protested, “Wait a minute. Don’t go anywhere. We have too much to talk about.” Inwardly he winced whenever someone called him Timewarden. He had too many titles. They were prophecies which he could not fulfill.

  But the Ardent had just said, As I near my end—What the hell was going on? What had Covenant missed?

  Temporizing as he tried to gather his scattered thoughts, he asked, “Are you going to abandon us? Now?” While Linden remained unconscious; irreducibly vulnerable? “When we haven’t even started looking for a way to resist the Worm?” She had swallowed some of the water that Coldspray had given her. The rest had spilled from the corners of her mouth. Beneath their lids, her eyes continued their nightmare dance. “Have you actually completed your geas? Is that all your people care about? Imposing scruples on the Harrow and making sure he kept his promises? Is that all you care about?”

  The Ardent fluttered his hands uncomfortably. “Timewarden, no. But as you are not Insequent, you cannot be aware that the various oracular visions of my people have been rendered meaningless. On one matter, those who possess the knowledge to scry have been in accord. As one, they have foreseen that the lady’s fate is writ in water. Thus it transpired that when she and the ur-viles released floods within Gravin Threndor, all auguries were washed away.”

  While Covenant and Coldspray studied him, the Ardent explained, “Electing to unite their strengths, the Insequent foresaw many eventualities, but the Harrow’s death was not among them. Nor was the lady’s deed. For his death, there is a cost which need not concern you. Her valor is another matter. Unleashing torrents, she has altered the course of every heuristic effort. The outcome of both—of the lady’s extremity as of the Harrow’s passing—is that I have no further purpose at your side, or at hers.

  “By my weakness on behalf of the Insequent, the most necessary stricture of our lives has been violated. Now the fate of all things has become undecipherable. The Insequent will not intrude themselves when every road has been made fluid and they have no knowledge to guide them.”

  “How?” Covenant scowled in bafflement. The sun seemed to have become suddenly hotter. Sweat stood on his forehead as if he were straining every muscle. “I don’t understand. You’re saying the last thing Linden did before she collapsed changed everything? How is that possible?”

  The Ardent lifted begrimed bands of fabric in a shrug. “I know not. The Insequent know not. We know only that some uncertainty too profound for our interpretation has been wrought. You sail uncharted seas, Timewarden. In this, the last crisis of the Earth, I can no longer stand at your side.”

  “Stone and Sea!” the Ironhand rasped. “These are riddles, Insequent. You mock our incomprehension. Do you conceive that we will content ourselves with chaff when the Earth’s last crisis, as you have named it, demands true knowledge?”

  “Giant,” replied the Ardent mildly, “I expect neither content nor discontent. With respect, assuredly—with grave respect, finding worth in all that you have done—I merely request recognition that I am honest. I proffer no true knowledge because I possess none. The auguries of the Insequent have been swept aside. Therefore the counsels of your own hearts must suffice to chart your courses.”

  “Thus,” Branl stated, “wisdom comes at last to the Insequent.” To Covenant and Coldspray, he added, “We have misliked his presence from the first. We will not grieve his departure.”

  Covenant stifled an impulse to reprimand the Humbled. The Ardent’s efforts on the company’s behalf were beyond aspersion. But the Unbeliever had too many questions. He was beginning to suspect—

  Grinding his teeth, he commanded the Ardent, “Then tell me. Why here? Why didn’t you take us to the Upper Land? That’s where most of our enemies are. What’s the point of bringing us here?”

  “Aye,” assented Rime Coldspray. “This region is unknown to us. The tales of the Giants of the Search do not speak of it. We cannot estimate its perils. It obscures our purposes.”

  “The Lower Land is known to the Humbled,” Branl stated flatly. “We will estimate its perils.” His manner dared Coldspray to contradict him.

  Stave nodded in confirmation.

  But the Ardent brushed past interruptions. “Ah, Timewarden.” For a moment, regret colored his weariness. “Do you wish me to concede that I have failed you as I failed the Harrow? Alas, that is to some extent sooth. It was my wish to convey you a number of leagues farther.”

  “Why?” Covenant insisted.

  “Sadly,” the Insequent continued, “my strength did not equal my intent. Also the powers of the croyel opposed me, hampering my endeavors.” Uncoiling a few ribbands, he gestured around him. “Yet this region has virtues which you will assuredly discern.

  “First, you are spared the diminishment of Kevin’s Dirt. To you, Timewarden, this is a gift of small import. Nonetheless true discernment has great worth to your companions.

  “Second, I have attained for you an interval of safety, brief though it may be. Both upon the Upper Land and within Gravin Threndor, it is to the north and west that your foes have gathered their ferocity. Here they cannot immediately fall upon you. They must first bypass Mount Thunder and traverse some three score leagues. You are foolhardy, Timewarden, but you are also wise. In your present straits, you will not disdain any respite.”

  In that, Covenant knew, the Ardent was right. But the absence of Kevin’s Dirt was counter-balanced by the difficulties of the terrain; by the comparative scarcity of water and the complete lack of food. If his companions were forced to forage near the Sarangrave—

  Linden’s condition, and his inability to relieve her, goaded Covenant to anger. Yet his ire was wasted here, unless he directed it at himself: a defense against mourning. With an effort, he softened the edge
s of his voice.

  “You said you were trying to go farther. You must have a reason. If you can’t tell us anything else, you ought to be able to tell us why. What would we gain if you’d succeeded?”

  The Ardent sighed lugubriously. “To that question, Timewarden, you must provide your own reply. Have I not said that I am unable to guide you? As the Dead were silent in precious Andelain—as you yourself were silent—so must I be silent now.”

  Before Covenant could object, the Insequent added, “I may observe, however, that caesures flourish in abundance across the Spoiled Plains. Betimes they afflict Horrim Carabal, that wight which is known to you as the lurker of the Sarangrave. Thus the marshes and wetlands of Sarangrave Flat are provoked to heights of menace without precedent in the ages of the Lower Land.”

  Covenant groaned to himself; but he was not surprised. The Ardent spoke of things which he should have been able to remember. Indirectly the Ardent may have been trying to prod his memories. You need the ring, Covenant had told Linden in the Verge of Wandering. It feeds the caesures.

  If Falls flourished “in abundance” on the Lower Land, there might be more than one explanation.

  “This lurker is named in our tales,” growled the Ironhand. “The Giants of the Search encountered its might. Speak of this, Insequent, if you will reveal naught else. Does the lurker threaten us now? Is that evil able to extend its many arms across the barrenness of this region?”

  The Ardent studied Covenant, apparently waiting for his permission to answer Coldspray. When Covenant said nothing, however, the acolyte of the Mahdoubt turned to the Ironhand.

  “Assuredly it cannot. Horrim Carabal is a creature of waters and swamplands, and of the bitter effluence of Gravin Threndor’s banes. Its demesne is vast, yet it is bound by its enlivening poisons. The lurker may inhabit any of Sarangrave Flat’s currents or stagnancies. Nonetheless its might is greatest among the snares and chimeras of Lifeswallower, and it has revealed no theurgy to reach beyond its borders.”

  If his reply eased Coldspray’s mind, her mien did not show it. Nevertheless she bowed to him somberly. “Never doubt our gratitude, Insequent. We have given scant thanks for your labors, but that is solely because we are worn and afraid, knowing that our own fate is now written in water. If ever we are granted opportunity to speak of you in full, as Giants do, our tale will make plain what is in our hearts. For the present, I name you ‘Rockbrother’ in friendship and homage. While we live, no iota of your valor and service will be forgotten.”

  The Ardent bowed, exhibiting his raiment like war-torn pennons; hiding his face. His posture seemed to suggest that he might weep.

  Linden needed the krill to restrain the croyel.

  Without Loric’s blade, Covenant was helpless.

  Grimly he shook off the confusion of his memories. They were too damaged to be useful.

  “Oh, hell,” he muttered to the Ardent as though he had no cause to share the Ironhand’s gratitude. “Let’s pretend I understand what we’re doing here. Your auguries must be good for something. Otherwise we wouldn’t still be alive. But we have a more immediate problem.

  “Can you help Linden? Can you reach her? I don’t know what she’s doing to herself. Maybe she’s healing. Or maybe she thinks she failed, and she torturing—” The thought choked him for a moment. “I’m afraid the longer she stays like this, the worse it’s going to be when she wakes up.” If she woke at all. “Can you help her find her way back?”

  “That reply, also,” sighed the Ardent, “you must discover within yourself.” His tone was wan with fatigue or sorrow. “The lady has gone beyond my ken. I can neither aid nor counsel you.” He hesitated, then offered as if he were forcing himself, “I perceive only that her need for death is great. Or perchance the need is her son’s. But do I speak of her death, or of her son’s? Does her plight, or his, require the deaths of others? Such matters have become fluid. Every current alters them. I am able to appease none of your fears.

  “If I do not depart, Timewarden, I cannot return.”

  Deliberately he took a step backward, trying to forestall protests or interference.

  But Covenant strode in pursuit. “Stop! We aren’t done.”

  Long ago, Linden had told him about her parents: he already knew enough about her need for death—or for an answer to it. Nevertheless the Ardent had left too many hints in the air.

  “Timewarden?” The Insequent’s eyes glistened in his flushed face.

  “None of this is as simple as you make it sound,” Covenant rasped. “You have something at stake, something you don’t want to talk about. You said you’re nearing your end.”—my life comes to naught but this—“You’ve done everything for us, more than we could have hoped for, but there’s something else going on for you. Something about the Harrow.” For his death, there is a cost which need not concern you. “I want to know what that is. If you’ve doomed yourself somehow, don’t you think we have a right to understand what your help is costing you?”

  The Ardent squirmed. “You inquire into private matters, Timewarden. They are my burden, not yours. I wish to bear them with some semblance of dignity.”

  “In that case,” Covenant retorted, “you have a misplaced sense of dignity. We aren’t dead yet. Someday these Giants hope to tell your tale. Hellfire, I want to be able to tell it myself. If that day ever comes, we owe it to you to tell the truth.”

  The beribboned man scanned the sides of the gully as if he were looking for an escape. “You search me, Timewarden, to my great discomfiture. And I say again that I cannot return if I do not depart.” Then, hesitantly, his gaze met Covenant’s. “Yet I must acknowledge my shame. My fault cannot be pardoned if I do not speak of it.

  “Briefly, then.”

  Bracing himself on strips of fabric, the Ardent began.

  “When our seers and oracles had cast their auguries, and had conceived of their geas concerning the Harrow’s purpose, they saw at once that their course was perilous. I have cited the reasoning by which my people justified their intent. But that reasoning was flawed. Oh, assuredly. It rested upon a specious distinction between mere imposition and true interference, a distinction too readily effaced by events.

  “To lessen the peril, therefore, the geas was made twofold, first to impose the lady’s interpretation of his oath upon the Harrow, and thereafter to assist in the fruition of his designs. By such aid, the Insequent hoped to appease or counteract any violation of the most necessary stricture of our lives.

  “Yet even then, none consented to undertake the task. The hazard of interference was deemed too great. The most valorous and mighty among us declined to shoulder such jeopardy. Therefore I claimed it in their stead.”

  The Ardent sighed. “I am young as the ages of Insequent are counted, blithe and self-satisfied withal, as you have assuredly observed. But you have also noted that I am timorous. In my hunger for the singular and unprecedented, I have heretofore eschewed all things which affrighted me. Thus I had no apt conception of my danger, or of yours, or of the sorrow which might ensue from my choice. Instead I rejoiced in my acquired stature among the Insequent.

  “I am an acolyte of the Mahdoubt,” he explained as he had in Andelain, pleading to be understood—or perhaps to be forgiven. “My intent was kindly. My particular greed is ever unsatisfied. And being young, I was complacent in my ignorance. I claimed the will of the Insequent without regard to its cost.

  “Yet I did not complete my task. I failed my geas and you and the wide Earth. Lost among the entrancements of the Viles, and appalled by the horrors of the Lost Deep, I left the Harrow to confront his foes without my aid. Thus I permitted his death and the defeat of his designs. By timidity and weakness, I created true interference from the sophistry of imposition.

  “Now I must meet the doom which I have wrought for myself. When the last powers of my people are withdrawn from me, I will pass away, leaving naught to vindicate my life except your continuance among the living.”

&n
bsp; Oh, hell! Shaken, Covenant tried to find a response. He had guessed—But he had also hoped that he was wrong.

  Weakly he protested, “It doesn’t have to be this way.”

  “Indeed?” The Ardent fluttered his clothes in disbelief. “How not, Timewarden?”

  Covenant scrambled to muster an argument. “If your people can keep you alive for one more service, they can keep you alive indefinitely. Tell them we need you. Tell them we aren’t going to survive without you. Damnation! Tell them they aren’t going to survive if you don’t help us. The whole Earth—”

  “Timewarden.” Gently the Ardent reproved Covenant. “That also is sophistry. Have I not spoken of fate and water? The Insequent will not credit such an avowal. I myself do not.

  “Our strictures are necessary to us. Without them, we cannot be who we are.”

  Before anyone else had a chance to object, the Ardent swirled his apparel and vanished as if he had been disincarnated.

  —the doom which I have wrought—

  At some point in the distant past, Covenant had heard someone say, There is no doom so black or deep that courage and clear sight may not find another truth beyond it. But he could not imagine what that truth might be.

  After the Ardent’s departure, Covenant found himself thinking obsessively about water.—writ in water.—currents and stagnancies—The basins of armor did not suffice. They could not. Only the Ironhand, Grueburn, and the Ramen had been able to drink directly from the stream, wherever it was. Like Covenant and—presumably—Linden, the others remained raw with thirst.

  He tried to distract himself by remembering as much as he could about the lurker, Sarangrave Flat, and the Spoiled Plains. But he flinched away when his efforts led him to Kurash Qwellinir and Hotash Slay; to the ruins of Foul’s Creche. He was not ready, and had no power.

  Water was life.

  It was also erosion. Terrible storms. Downpours and floods with the force to rive mountains. Tidal waves.