Against All Things Ending (45 page)

1.

Those Who Endure—

Holding Linden against him, Thomas Covenant sat leaning on a boulder half buried in the sandy bottom of a shallow gully. Most of the terrain around him looked barren, stripped of vegetation by thirst and ancient misuse. But a few stunted trees, twisted as cripples, still gripped the edges of the gully. Here and there, tufts of bitter grass clung to some scant source of moisture. He hoped for
aliantha
, but he had not seen any.

His mind was still full of shrieks and fire and torrents: his heart was woe. Whenever he looked at Linden’s slack face, he saw Elena’s unassoiled horror, pursued by She Who Must Not Be Named. He did not know how to lament for his daughter.

In the east beyond the rim of the gully, the sun was rising. When it ascended high enough, he would have to move; use the boulder for shade. But this patch of sand would lie in shadow a little longer. While he could, he remained where he sat, gently stroking Linden’s hair.

It was filthy, soiled with sweat and grime and dust. She had been through too much—And in her present condition, she could not care for herself at all. But the state of her hair made no difference to him. His hands were too numb to feel it.

Only one night had passed since she had restored him to life, maimed him with mortality, and roused the Worm of the World’s End. How much time remained until the Worm brought its hunger here, to feed on the ichor in the depths of
Melenkurion
Skyweir? Four days? Six? It was not enough.

If it is not forbidden, it will have Earthpower
.

If someone had asked him why he sat in that position, caressing her hair when his own nerves were dead and he had no way of knowing whether she felt his touch, he might have said that he was praying.

As soon as the Ardent had brought the company here from the Lost Deep, Covenant had claimed Linden from Stave. Neither the former Master nor any of Linden’s friends had objected when he had seated himself spread-legged against the boulder so that he could hold her, curled into herself and unconscious, against his chest. Then he had lifted the chain holding his ring over his head, and had settled it around her neck.

The Humbled had expressed their disapproval; but he told them, “I never wanted all that power. When I died, I finally succeeded at giving it away.” He had tried to surrender it several times before then, and had been refused. “I don’t want it back. Not like this.”

Most of his companions were weary beyond bearing. None of them argued with him. The Staff of Law they placed on the sand near Linden so that she could reach it if Covenant managed to rouse her. Then they stumbled away to rest.

He recognized where he was. Of course he did. The shock of his reincarnation had not cost him simple things like his knowledge of the Land’s geography. He did not need to turn his head and peer past the edge of the boulder to confirm that the jagged cliff of Landsdrop jutted high into the dawn less than half a league away.

Instead of returning the company to Andelain, the Ardent had deposited them on the Lower Land, between Landsdrop and the dour fens and seepage of Sarangrave Flat. The foothills of Mount Thunder—and the dark throat of the Defiles Course—were at least sixty or sixty-five leagues to the northwest. At that distance, the mountain itself was no longer visible.

Vaguely Covenant wondered whether the waters that fed the Defiles Course and Lifeswallower and most of the Sarangrave had been completely cut off. Likely there were other springs within Gravin Threndor, streams that joined the polluted Soulsease beyond its deepest subterranean lakes. And in any case, the Great Swamp and Sarangrave Flat would not soon empty their rank life-blood into the Sunbirth Sea. The Worm of the World’s End would find its way to
Melenkurion
Skyweir long before the vast demesne of the lurker began to run dry.

He wanted to ask the Ardent why the compelled Insequent had delivered the company here. But he could wait. The Ardent had been profligate with his given strength. The exertion of translating everyone except the Demondim-spawn out of Mount Thunder’s depths had left him chalk-faced and trembling. As soon as he had set his charges down in the dry streambed, he had wrapped his garments around his whole body, swaddled himself until even his face was covered. Then he had collapsed where he stood.

Covenant let him rest. The Ardent had earned it. And Covenant could guess at one or two explanations for the Insequent’s choice. Kevin’s Dirt did not impend over the Lower Land. Kastenessen—or
moksha
Raver—had foreseen no need to cast the brume eastward. Here Linden, Liand, and the Ramen would retain their natural percipience. And the Staff would be stronger.

In addition, the Ardent had placed the whole bulk of Mount Thunder between the company and both the
skurj
and the Sandgorgons. Speaking of the Sandgorgons, Esmer had said,
Already they have begun the slaughter of Salva Gildenbourne
. And he had promised worse—But the threat they posed was not immediate: they were too far away. Kastenessen could send his
skurj
more quickly, but even those monsters would need time to travel through so much earth.

The Ardent had given Covenant and Linden and their friends the necessary gift of a respite.

Still they had no defense against the Worm of the World’s End. Perhaps no defense was possible.

And the problem of Roger remained.
Even now, he summons an army of Cavewights to join his efforts
—If he knew where the Ardent had taken Jeremiah, he might be able to muster an attack more swiftly than Kastenessen could. Certainly he would do everything in his considerable power to recapture Jeremiah and the
croyel
. They were his portal to eternity.

But Covenant did not dwell on such concerns. Though she hardly moved, except to breathe, Linden held his attention.

He saw echoes of Joan in her aggrieved face. The small muscles at the corners of her closed eyes winced occasionally, implying pains which she could not escape. Because of him, Elena had been consumed by She Who Must Not Be Named. Reminders of his ex-wife seemed to demand more from him than did the last crisis of the Earth. Her efforts to destroy his hands demonstrated that she was a burden which he could not refuse.

Therefore he would need Loric’s
krill
. If he confronted Joan without some potent weapon, she would incinerate him. But the
krill
was also needed here. It alone controlled the
croyel
. Freed, the creature would escape in an instant, taking Jeremiah with it—and killing everyone it could.

Restoring Covenant to life, Linden had sacrificed the Earth. He refused to sacrifice both her and her son merely to ease his own responsibilities.

Torn within himself, he stroked her hair, and prayed, and waited.

Apart from Clyme, Branl, and Stave, who watched the horizons from the rims of the gully, and Galt, who had accepted the task of restraining the
croyel
and Jeremiah so that Rime Coldspray could rest, Mahrtiir was the only member of the company still standing. Earlier he had sent out his Cords to scout the terrain and search for water in spite of their weariness. They had not yet returned; and everyone else had stretched out on the sand to sleep while they could. Now, alone, the Manethrall faced the east as though he expected the touch of the sunrise on his eyeless face to offer him an obscure revelation.

Fortunately Stormpast Galesend had not neglected to remove her cataphract and set it out as a cradle for Anele: protected by stone armor, he slept like the Giants. And Liand slept as well. His efforts with his
orcrest
so soon after Linden had healed him had exhausted even his youth and Stonedownor stamina.

Stoic as a plinth of brown marble, Galt held Loric’s dagger against the throat of the
croyel
. The blade prevented the fatal creature’s teeth from reaching Jeremiah’s neck; prevented the
croyel
from feeding. But Covenant could not tell whether the succubus was growing weaker. He knew only that Jeremiah looked like a rag doll, boneless and beaten. The boy’s muddy, disfocused gaze was as empty as an unfilled grave.

From Jeremiah’s back, the
croyel
’s bitter eyes studied Liand’s supine form. The creature’s gaze conveyed the impression that the
croyel
craved Liand’s death.

At intervals, Mahrtiir glanced toward Jeremiah and the
croyel
; regarded them with senses other than sight. Then he resumed his examination of the east as if he awaited an epiphany.

When the sun gilded his forehead, however, and warmed the begrimed bandage that still covered his eye sockets, he shrugged slightly. Stiff with disappointment, he turned to face Covenant and Linden.

“There is an old tale among the Ramen,” he began brusquely, “concerning Hile Troy. He was a stranger to the Land, as you know, and eyeless from birth. According to the tale, the Land’s sun gifted him with true sight in spite of his blindness.

“Here Kevin’s Dirt does not corrupt the light. For that reason, I permitted myself to imagine that my vision might be restored.” He had contributed nothing to the company’s escape from the Lost Deep and the bane. Clearly his uselessness galled him. “But my hope was delusion. I am Ramen. We are given no gifts except those of service to the Ranyhyn.”

Covenant expected him to add that even that service would be denied him if he returned to his people. Without sight, he would not be considered worthy of the great horses. Instead, however, he changed the subject.

“The Cords will soon return, bearing word of water. The season’s rains have been abundant. Our old tales inform us that there are few springs in this region—and fewer still which do not draw some venom from the earth. Battles have been fought between Sarangrave Flat and Landsdrop. Many of the Land’s defenders have perished here—aye, and many of Fangthane’s servants also. Their blood and magicks stain this ground across the millennia.

“However, this watercourse was formed by rains gathering from the Upper Land. If the stream does not run here, it will flow nearby. We will be able to quench our thirst, though we appear to lack
aliantha
, and have no other sustenance.”

Covenant nodded. His own thirst was real enough, but he felt sure that it was trivial compared to the deprivation suffered by the Giants and the Ramen, Liand and Anele; Linden herself. They were able to sleep only because their exhaustion was greater than their need for water.

But he did not know why the Manethrall was talking to him; telling him things that he already understood. Stroking Linden’s hair tenderly, he waited for Mahrtiir to continue.

After a moment, the Manethrall nodded toward the southeast. “A
caesure
moves there. I had thought that the absence of Kevin’s Dirt would diminish the virulence of such evils. Yet its emanations”—he lifted a hand to his face—“suggest that its force is enhanced.”

He was probably right. Long before Lord Foul fashioned and occupied Ridjeck Thome, an insidious miasma had hung over portions of the Lower Land. Baleful creatures had arisen from the corrupt waters pouring out of Mount Thunder. The lurker of the Sarangrave had come to life in the effluvium of bitter theurgies. And the Ravers had taken form among the malign spirits of the region. Interdicted by the Colossus of the Fall, they had spread much of their harm south and east toward the Despiser’s eventual seat. Over time, they had done such damage that those lands had come to be named the Spoiled Plains.

Covenant could well believe that
caesures
flourished across the Lower Land, fed by a history of
wrongness
. Especially south of Mount Thunder—

“Is it coming this way?” he asked the Manethrall.

Mahrtiir shook his head. “At present, it tends northward, delivering havoc among the sloughs and mires of Sarangrave Flat.”

“Then don’t worry about it.” Briefly Covenant remembered the Spoiled Plains as they had once been, before they were tainted. Then the rubble of his recollections shifted, and the memory was gone. “We have more urgent problems.”

The movement of his hands indicated Linden’s apparent catatonia; but he was thinking of Joan. He no longer knew with any certainty where
turiya
Raver had hidden her. That memory, unfortunately, was gone as well. But he could guess.

Mahrtiir’s manner sharpened. More harshly, he replied, “I have not forgotten the Ringthane’s plight, or that of her son. Indeed, her spirit appears broken by all that she has endured.” His tone was bile. “Nor do I discount our own peril. I have neither aid nor counsel to offer. I speak merely to hear myself and know that I remain among the living.”

The fierce lines of his face suggested that he would have preferred death.

Covenant sighed to himself. There was so much pain all around him; and he could relieve none of it.

“Don’t underestimate Linden,” he said gruffly. “Too many people make that mistake.” Including Sunder and Hollian, who should have known better. “Hell, even she does it. She’s come back before. Give her time. She’ll find her way again.”