Against All Things Ending

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  A frown complicated the Cord’s mien. “I discern sooth,” she repeated. Then she said more strongly, “Nonetheless I deem that you are mistaken in yourself. Time and again, you have vindicated the Timewarden’s faith in you. Time and again, you have wrought miracles for our redemption. If you name yourself a small creature, as I am, you gauge yourself unjustly.”

  “No, I don’t,” Linden retorted with more vehemence. “You still don’t understand what I’m trying to say. Liand isn’t small, and neither are you. If there’s any greatness left in the world, it’s yours.” And Covenant’s. “Greatness isn’t about power. It’s about who you are. You’re so unselfish that it staggers me. You make yourselves greater every day. I’m just shrinking.”

  Stricken by horror and weakness, she had drowned in She Who Must Not Be Named: she knew the truth.

  Why else did she need Covenant so badly?

  Why else had he refused her?

  Now the girl faced Linden again. With none of her familiar unassuming shyness, she said, “Then truly, Ringthane, you have no choice—you who are called the Chosen. You must relieve your son from the toils of the croyel. If you do not, you will founder in bitterness, and Fangthane’s triumph over you will be complete.”

  Linden ground her teeth. “In that case”—abruptly she withdrew her feet from the stream and stood up—“we should get started on—on whatever it is we’re going to do. I hope you’re wrong. But I doubt it.”

  Where her son was concerned, she had made the only choice that mattered when she adopted him.

  Graceful as water, Pahni also rose. Her eagerness to return to Liand was palpable as she went to retrieve Linden’s boots.

  But Linden was not eager. She was simply vexed. Yet behind her ire lay an ache of dread. Covenant had already pushed her away. If he also pushed away the decisions and responsibilities that she had trusted him to assume—if he repudiated all of her reasons for restoring his life—

  She was not sure that she would be able to face him.

  Plodding through arid heat over the baked hills, Linden was sweating in spite of her soaked boots and damp socks as she rejoined the company.

  From the hillside above them, she saw Covenant and Stave, Jeremiah and Galt, Liand and Anele, the Giants and Manethrall Mahrtiir and Bhapa. A glance was enough to assure her that they had rested and drunk their fill. Temporarily, at least, most of them had recovered a portion of their natural toughness. Now they sat waiting in the shade among the boulders close to the stream.

  On nearby ridges, Clyme and Branl stood watch. This far from the Land’s foes, Linden could not imagine that the company faced any immediate danger except hunger. Nevertheless she was glad for the wariness of the Humbled.

  She also could not imagine why the Ardent had brought her companions here, where they could do nothing. Nor did she understand why the Insequent had abandoned them.

  Liand greeted her and Pahni with a glad shout. Wasting his scant stamina, he sprang to his feet and hurried up the hillside to meet them. With a warm smile for Pahni, he wrapped his arms around Linden.

  His hug was brief, a momentary taste of the deeper embraces for which she was starving. Nevertheless it steadied her. It reminded her sore nerves and her hidden wounds that she was not alone, in spite of Covenant’s rejection. She still had friends who were strong and faithful, friends who had earned every bit of her esteem. If Covenant refused to lead the company, perhaps someone else would do so.

  The salutations of the Swordmainnir were less impulsive, but they all rose from their resting places and spoke Linden’s name with evident relief, pleased to see for themselves that she had escaped her nightmares.

  Anele sat in Galesend’s armor without acknowledging Linden. In contrast, Mahrtiir gave her a bow of approval; and Bhapa waved, grinning crookedly. But Jeremiah did not react, and the croyel ignored her. For reasons of its own, the creature’s gaze followed Liand. As usual, the Humbled revealed nothing.

  Depending on the Staff and Liand for balance, Linden made her way down the slope. As she descended, she studied Covenant’s twisted effort to smile for her. Protecting herself, she tried to think, Go to hell. But she could not look at him and feel that way. At least for the time being, he was present. In spite of his rejection, she prayed that his absences would grow less frequent as his long past leaked away.

  Like her, he was becoming less than he had once been. To that extent, at least, she understood his desire to distance himself.

  She would have preferred to avoid looking at Jeremiah. She did not want to be reminded that nothing had changed. But even a brief glance at his slack stance and muddied gaze, the droop of his mouth, and the stubble like grime on his cheeks confirmed that he was still the croyel’s prisoner. And the monster’s possessive malice was unabated. Despite the eldritch keenness of the krill’s edge only a breath from its neck, its eyes glared with unspecified threats, and its jaws champed steadily, avid to sink its fangs into Jeremiah’s throat once more.

  The sores on his neck where the creature had fed were raw and open; but they did not bleed, and showed no sign of infection. For the present, at least, Linden lacked the courage to risk treating them.

  If the croyel had some concrete reason to hope for rescue, she could not perceive it: not without wielding the fire of her Staff. But soon, she promised herself. Soon she would make the attempt. Earlier she had been appalled by what she had discerned of the croyel’s mind—and of its intimate bond with Jeremiah’s. Now she had other resources.

  If her Staff did not suffice, the unobstructed penetration of her health-sense might enable her to wield wild magic with enough precision to threaten the croyel without harming her son.

  But not yet. She was not ready. Inanition and helpless screaming had left her frail; too weak for extravagant hazards. She needed time to gather herself before she confronted the challenge of her son’s straits.

  Apart from Covenant and Anele, all of Linden’s companions were on their feet. When she sank down to sit leaning against a rock a few paces from Covenant, however, the Giants also seated themselves, sighing gratefully. Liand and the Ramen did the same. Perhaps deliberately, they formed a wide circle that arced from Linden to Covenant and back without excluding Anele.

  Uncertain of what to say, or how to begin, Linden asked awkwardly, “Have you decided anything?”

  “Without you?” Covenant snorted; but his scorn was not directed at her. Instead he seemed angry at himself. “You forget who you’re talking to. One way or another, we’re all yours.” Abruptly he grimaced. “Or they are, anyway.” With one truncated hand, he indicated the circle. “In any case, none of us is going to make plans without you.”

  I know this is hard. I know you think you’ve come to the end of what you can do. But you aren’t done.

  Earlier he had commanded the Humbled to support her; but she was not confident that they would do so.

  And his effort to distinguish between himself and the rest of her companions pained her. She was not ready for this. Oh, she was not. She needed him to tell her and everyone what to do.

  Yet she had to say something. Shading her eyes from the clarity of the sunlight, she did what she could.

  “Then we should probably start with the obvious. Maybe Stave can tell us how to find food.” He knew this region. The Haruchai as a race forgot nothing. “But what I really want to know—” She swallowed thickly: her throat was already dry again. “Why did the Ardent leave us? And why did he leave us here?”

  Covenant twitched his shoulders: a shrug like a flinch. “He left because he thinks he’s doomed. Interfering with the Harrow is going to destroy him, and he wants to do one more thing for us before he falls apart. I guess he’s hoping his people will hold him together a little longer.

  “As for here—He talked about a respite. Distance from our enemies. A chance to recover and maybe even think.” A scowl deepened Covenant’s gaze. “He hinted at something else, too, but he wasn’t clear about it.”

  Whi
le Linden tried to accept the shock of hearing that the Ardent had sacrificed himself for her and Jeremiah—that he had followed the Mahdoubt’s example to his own ruin—Rime Coldspray continued Covenant’s answer as if she wanted to spare him.

  “In addition, the Ardent conceives that the flood which you released under Gravin Threndor has wrought some profound alteration among the hazards of these times. He deems that it has washed away the auguries of his people. Now your fate is ‘writ in water.’ Therefore he can offer no more guidance.”

  Writ in water. Involuntarily Linden winced. During her escape from Mithil Stonedown, the Despiser himself had informed her that her fate was written in water.

  Nothing made sense to her. Her companions had only begun talking, and already they had said too much. How had what she and the ur-viles had done changed the logic of the Land’s plight, or of Lord Foul’s manipulations? Surely that was impossible?

  The Ardent interrupted her confusion. “And therefore,” he announced in the blank air, “I return to fulfill my given word.”

  Swirling his ribbands, he incarnated himself within the circle of the company.

  “The Insequent,” he informed the astonished companions, “have elected to honor your need for my aid to this extent.” His voice was a wracked shadow of his former plump lisp. “By their powers and knowledge, I am spared to perform my promised service.”

  Clasped or cradled in his raiment, he bore burdens of all sizes, at least a score of them: bedrolls, heavy sacks, bulging waterskins. Wearing his bundles like a penumbra that almost filled the circle, he was as laden as a caravan. Swift as intuition, Linden recognized that the sacks were packed with food and flasks of wine.

  A moment later, she noticed that he was even more besmirched and ragged than he had been when she had last seen him. In fact, he looked like he had been dragged through mud and beaten. The hues of his raiment were stained with mire: most of his peculiar apparel hung in tatters. Seen by sunlight, his once-complacent features appeared haggard, diminished, as if he had lost an unconscionable amount of weight.

  Nevertheless he stood erect, feigning strength he did not possess. His strained smile may have been meant as reassurance.

  “Here,” he said hoarsely, “is a feast to sate even Giants.” One at a time, he set down his burdens. “Among the Insequent, the Ardent is not the only acolyte of the Mahdoubt. Your plight has been heeded. Unsparingly consumed, such viands will provide for two or perhaps three days. If you enforce a wise restraint, you need not fear hunger while you confront the last crisis of the Earth.”

  Covenant stared, almost gaping. For a moment, the Swordmainnir seemed too amazed to react. Then, all together, they surged to their feet and reached for the Ardent’s sacks. With a jerk, Anele sat up, snatched alert by the prospect of food.

  “Heaven and Earth!” Liand crowed. Springing upright, he rushed to embrace the Insequent.

  Just for an instant, the Ardent looked entirely startled; taken aback as though Liand had attacked him. Then, however, he wrapped his strips of fabric around the Stonedownor. His round face beamed with surprise and delight.

  In moments, the Giants had unpacked enough food to nourish a multitude: roasted legs of lamb and whole fowl, slabs of cured beef, a bounty of fruits both fresh and dried, wheels of cheese, rich breads still fragrant from the ovens. Smells and appetite rushed over Linden until she was scarcely aware of anything except her own emptiness.

  “You must have told them,” Covenant rasped. He, too, was on his feet. “You must have told them how much we need you.”

  “Oh, assuredly, Timewarden.” The Ardent tried and failed to sound airy; unconcerned. “You behold the outcome.” He indicated his bundles. “For your sake, I am preserved yet awhile.”

  “Then tell them again. Hellfire! You’re dying right in front of us. Tell them we’re useless without you.”

  “Timewarden, desist.” The Ardent’s eyes were sunken. He regarded Covenant like a man consigned to starvation. “Do you wish us self-condemned? Be content as you are. While I can, I will linger among you. Then I must depart. The alternative—” He shuddered. “The alternative is the loss of use and name and life for our race. If we defy who we are, we must become naught.”

  Quickly Coldspray and her comrades set out supplies in their wrappings: squares of an unfamiliar fabric treated to ward off spoilage. As the Giants readied a meal for their companions, they helped themselves to lamb and cheese, fruits, large flasks like urns. The scent of the wine reminded Linden of springwine’s crisp tang without its distinctive suggestion of aliantha.

  In spite of her hunger, Stormpast Galesend remembered to place food near Anele so that the old man would not be tempted to leave the protection of stone.

  While Bhapa and Pahni joined the Giants, gathering viands for their Manethrall as well as themselves, Covenant glared at the Ardent. “Content, is it? We’re supposed to be content? And you think that’s likely? Damn it, I’m not asking them to give up who they are. I just want them to make an exception.

  “God in Heaven!” Covenant’s eyes glistened as if he were on the verge of tears. “You’re dying, and we don’t even know your name.”

  Around the sand, everyone listened while they ate. Even the croyel appeared to be listening. Linden fixed her attention on every word—and tried to remember the physician’s detachment that shielded her from grief. Covenant was right: the cruel necessity which had drained the Mahdoubt’s mind and life had already begun for the Ardent. She could see it. She ached for him as she had for the Mahdoubt. But she did not stop eating. Her own needs compelled her.

  Squatting beside trays of waxen fabric, she filled her mouth with cheese and fruit, chunks of beef; swallowed gulps of wine as heady as liquor; took more food and tried to force herself to chew slowly. In its own way, eating was also a defense against grief.

  It contradicted despair.

  Answering Covenant, the Ardent mused, “In itself, my life is of little consequence. Though I grieve for it, my passing will deprive you of neither power nor purpose. And it is condign that the fate of the Earth is borne by those whose lives began beyond the bounds of our knowledge. The Worm of the World’s End also lives and moves beyond those bounds. Doubtless the service of the Earth’s peoples is needful. In that service, I have played the part of the Insequent. Yet the last task is yours, assuredly so.”

  He might have said more, but the croyel spoke first. “Somebody feed me,” the succubus snarled plaintively. “I can’t live on air and wishful thinking. None of you can stop the Worm.”

  Instinctively Linden jumped to her feet; snatched up her Staff. At once, the creature fell silent. Jeremiah’s gaze remained stilted and vacant, as though he had not made a sound.

  Trembling, Linden faced Galt’s captives. God, she wanted the croyel dead! Clinging to her son’s back, it seemed to falsify everything that she had ever done for him. Its bitter malice—Only the fact that she did not know how to hurt it without harming him prevented her from striking.

  But soon, she promised the monster. As soon as I’m ready. I’ll find a way to cut your heart out.

  Almost involuntarily, however, she saw that Jeremiah indeed needed food. Avoiding looking at him, she had failed to recognize his inarticulate hunger. Now she discerned it clearly.

  Nevertheless she shied away from feeding him herself. The croyel’s eyes and fangs held too many threats. And she could not estimate the scale of its desperation, or the extent of its powers and lore. It might cause Jeremiah to grab for her Staff or Covenant’s ring. It might believe that it could raise theurgy and free itself before the krill severed its neck.

  She did not want to take the chance.

  Over her shoulder, she asked reluctantly, “Liand, will you help me?”

  He responded without hesitation. But before he could approach, the croyel snapped viciously, “Keep that whelp away from me.” Fury and fear sawed against each other in Jeremiah’s tone. “If you don’t, I’ll teach you what real pain feels like.
”

  In the Lost Deep, the monster had attacked Liand rather than Linden. She did not know why—but she heeded the warning.

  She stopped the Stonedownor with a gesture. “I forgot. Apparently you scare that thing more than I do.”

  “That is strange,” Liand replied tensely. “I pose no threat to a being of such might. Yet the creature’s actions proclaim its fear. I must consider—I do not aspire to a second injury. Yet mayhap—”

  Linden shook her head. “Not right now.” She had no intention of risking him. She understood Pahni’s dread too well. “Right now, Jeremiah just needs food.”

  “Bhapa? Do you mind?”

  The older Cord promptly collected a handful of fresh fruit, a wedge of cheese, and a waterskin, and joined Linden in front of Jeremiah. “I am willing, Ringthane,” he told her. “Have I not said that my life is yours, subject only to the commands of the Manethrall and the will of the Ranyhyn? Ask, and it is done.”

  Linden took a deep breath to steady herself, held it for a moment. “In that case,” she said, “I hope you can feed him. I’m afraid to get too close.” Afraid to get too close to her own son. “I don’t know what that thing can do if it gets its hands on my Staff. Or Covenant’s ring.”

  Bhapa nodded. “As you say, Ringthane.” His nerves were strung taut, but he did not delay. A step took him to Jeremiah’s side. Carefully he placed a bit of melon in Jeremiah’s mouth.

  For a heartbeat or two, the boy appeared unaware of the food on this tongue. Then, abruptly, he closed his mouth. When he had chewed and swallowed, his jaw dropped open again.