The Last Dark (14 page)

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.

Just like lepers everywhere, he reminded himself so that he would not falter. Just like all of us. Everybody who still cares. We’re all in the same mess.

“Well, hell,” he drawled unsteadily. “What’s the point of dithering? Now’s as good a time as any.”

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. The Despiser’s favorite game.

Wincing as though he expected to be struck down, Covenant released his left hand from the blade’s haft and slapped Joan’s ring against the shining gem.

In that instant, his whole body became fire.

He was burning, but he was not burned: he blazed unconsumed. He felt as incandescent as the torrent of wild magic with which Lord Foul had once slain and freed him, yet he was not harmed. All around him, the twilight became darkness, impenetrable, impermeable. But within the ambit of his theurgy, silver reigned. It made every blade of grass along the sloping turf look sacred; distinct and ineffable. Argent lit Branl and Clyme on their Ranyhyn, holding Mishio Massima between them: it etched them against the sunless world as if it had incarnated them from the numinous substance of Covenant’s imagination. Emblazonry shone on Rallyn’s forehead, and on Hooryl’s. Even the Ardent’s horse resembled reified sorcery, ready to run between realities. Power surged in Covenant’s veins until he did not know how to contain it.

“Ur-Lord!” Branl called through the blare of light. “Be wary! Such might is perilous!”

But Covenant knew his limitations. He knew the difference between his puissance now and the immensely greater forces which he had wielded in his past life. In any case, he was still too frail to sustain so much power—and this ring was not his. The
krill
was probably burning his halfhand. For all he knew, Joan’s ring was burning his finger. He simply could not feel the pain.

Deliberately he dropped his left hand to his side, gripped the dagger with only his right. As he did so, the fire left him. He no longer spread brightness and flame in all directions; no longer poured out light as though his flesh were wild magic. But the
krill
’s gem retained the radiance which he had summoned from it. Theurgy ran down the blade like water or blood.

At once, he stooped to touch the grass with the point of Loric’s weapon. He let the blade’s weight sink in as deeply as it wished, but he made no effort to drive the
krill
deeper. Then he watched as the rough turf became lambent as if it had been touched with ecstasy.

He feared to see that the
krill
’s touch had killed the grass, left it scorched and withered. But somehow he had invoked a form of power which was not destructive. Instead of dying, the turf continued to shine where he had cut through it.

Crouched and stumbling, he began to drag the dagger in a line through the grass.

His heart strained as he moved on. He intended to draw a circle around the Ranyhyn and Mishio Massima; to enclose them in wild magic. But of course such precision was impossible for him. Rather than a circle, he was creating a ragged imitation of one. Nevertheless he persisted; and his silver clung to the grass.

Now he could feel a throb of yearning from Joan’s ring in his wrist and forearm. Her wedding band ached for more power. Perhaps it remembered the use which she had made of it, and craved ruin. But there was no wish for harm in Covenant’s heart, and he was familiar with wild magic. His argent did no hurt.

Staggering, he looked around to get his bearings. Then he went on, pulling Loric’s dagger through the grass; inscribing his crude and hopeful mockery of a circle.

His heart beat harder. He tottered from step to step in a cripple’s stoop that cramped his lungs, exhausted his muscles. He wanted to stop. Wanted rest. An end to all this striving and inadequacy.

But he wanted other things more.

Gradually he passed behind the horses. Over his shoulder, he could see the place where he had begun. It still shone as though it fed on streams of his life-blood.

Come on, leper, he urged himself. Just take it one step at a time. One step. At a time.

Drawing argent with him as if it were alive in the grass, he went on.

“Hold to your purpose, ur-Lord,” Clyme urged. “You near its completion.”

Covenant did not glance at the Humbled. His attention was fixed on the end of his leper’s circle, his lurching enclosure. For no better reason than exhaustion, he was holding his breath. His muscles sobbed in protest. He nearly fell through the last few steps.

The argent would fade quickly if he did not continue to feed it. He did not have time to straighten his back, or breathe, or run to his mount.

Somehow he had to do it.

But before he could decide to take the risk, Clyme snatched him from his feet. Cradled in Clyme’s arms, Covenant was carried to his horse, tossed carefully into the saddle. At once, Branl caught Covenant’s arm to steady him while Clyme sprang for Hooryl’s back.

The world seemed to veer and yaw. There was not enough air, never enough air; or Covenant had forgotten how to inhale.

“Now, ur-Lord,” Branl instructed him. “It must be now.”

The enclosure was already starting to flicker and go out.

Covenant’s companions raised his arms for him. They lifted Loric’s
krill
and Joan’s ring high over his head. Together they helped him strike the dagger’s gem with white gold a second time.

Just for an instant, the Unbeliever became a conflagration again, a being of fire and theurgy. Then the Ranyhyn and Mishio Massima surged forward—and the world vanished as though it had been erased from existence.

hen his mount hit the ground at a full gallop, Covenant nearly lost his seat. His feet had not found the stirrups: he could not steady himself. And the after-flash of power filled his head. He flopped in the saddle like a loosely filled sack. Without the support of the Humbled, he would have fallen.

He had no idea where he was. The
krill
’s brightness effaced his surroundings. It made black night where there may only have been twilight. Illumined by silver, the horses pounded the turf: he recognized nothing else. For all he knew, he and his companions had only traveled a dozen strides.

But then the Ranyhyn and Mishio Massima began to slow their gallop to an easy canter. Although images of wild magic still spun like vertigo in Covenant’s mind, his body began to recover its center. His extremities were numb: the nerves of his torso and hips and thighs were not. They reacted reflexively.

By slow increments, he became aware that he was holding the dagger dangerously close to his mount. For Mishio Massima’s protection as well as his own, he flipped the fabric that shielded his hands over the blade; covered the gem.

At once, darkness swept over him. It felt strangely like solace.

He almost said, Have mercy on me. Instead he managed to pant, “What happened? Where are we?”

“It appears, ur-Lord,” Branl replied, “that your efforts have succeeded.” He took the
krill
from Covenant, wrapped it more securely in Anele’s raiment. “We gauge that we have traversed some two score leagues, perhaps more. And our heading is to the northwest. The distance to Sarangrave Flat has been halved.

“In a sunless world, time is difficult to ascertain. Yet we are able to discern its passage. By our measure, an hour remains ere this gloom surrenders to true night. Our translation hither has not been altogether instant. Nevertheless we have been swift beyond comprehension.

“Ur-Lord”—for a moment, the Master appeared to hesitate—“if your strength suffices for a second exertion, we do not doubt that we will gain the marge of the Sarangrave. Mayhap we will do so ere
turiya
Herem threatens the lurker.”

A second—? Covenant groaned to himself. Hellfire! Ask me to bring back the sun while you’re at it. The dusk seemed to wheel around him as if it arose from his dizziness; as if he were the source of the enshrouding twilight. His legs and back would not suffer the strain.

If he staggered just once—if he pulled the
krill
out of the grass for any reason—he would have to start again from the beginning.

“Your weariness is plain,” Clyme continued. “But
aliantha
will restore you.” He showed Covenant his remaining treasure-berries. “Then we will aid you.”

“Aid me?” Covenant asked. Mishio Massima cantered smoothly—and yet he felt that he was seated on rolling logs or a canted boulder. “How?”

Clyme faced him through the dulled grey of the air. “We will devise a means.”

Covenant stared. “Well, damnation,” he muttered after a few heartbeats. “Since you put it that way—”

When had any
Haruchai
ever failed him?

The Ranyhyn appeared to understand. With Mishio Massima, they dropped from a canter to a trot and then a walk. In a moment, they halted.

Clutching the saddle horn with one hand for balance, Covenant reached to Clyme for food.

His hunger surprised him. He had eaten enough earlier; more than enough. But as soon as he bit into the first berry, he found that he craved the Land’s nurturance. Convalescence was a harsh taskmaster; and his first expenditure of wild magic had depleted his stamina. Careless of future needs, he ate eagerly.

It was entirely conceivable that he had no future.

Still the taste and efficacy of
aliantha
gave him their blessing. After a few swallows, the whirling in his head subsided as new energy anointed him with possibilities. As if he were choosing his fate, he devoured Clyme’s supply of treasure-berries. Formally, like an act of contrition, he thanked both of the Humbled. Then he announced that he was ready.

His mount seemed oblivious to everything except the chance to crop grass. But the eyes of the Ranyhyn rolled fretfully, and long tremors ran through their muscles. He did not believe that they were exhausted: they were the great horses of Ra; and they had not lacked for forage and water. Rather he guessed that they were afraid. They knew where they were going.

Something about the lurker—Covenant had heard tales of their old trepidation, the only dread that they had never mastered. No doubt he had once known why they felt such fear. Now that memory was gone, lost when he had sealed the cracks in his flawed mind.

Thinking about the lurker, he felt a pang of his own. He had personal memories of Horrim Carabal; private reasons to be afraid. That the lurker of the Sarangrave feared white gold and the
krill
was no comfort. If
turiya
Raver managed to take possession of the monster, Horrim Carabal would resist Covenant with malice as well as terror.

Nevertheless he did not hesitate. “What now?” he asked his companions. “How are we going to do this?”

“I will bear you, ur-Lord,” Clyme answered, “in such a way that you need only press the
krill
into the grass.” He dropped from Hooryl’s back, offered his arms to help Covenant dismount. “Thus supported, you will complete the enclosure more swiftly.”

He did not add that any circle he fashioned would be more symmetrical than Covenant’s.

“Ah, hell,” Covenant sighed. “Why not?” As he let Clyme lift him down, he muttered, “But it’s too bad you couldn’t think of anything even less dignified. I should at least try to look as pitiful as I feel.”

The Humbled gazed at him without expression. Neither of them replied. Calmly Branl surrendered Loric’s blade.

Swearing under his breath, Covenant accompanied Clyme away from the horses. He had never accomplished anything without help; and yet he still had not learned how to accept assistance gracefully. Being a leper had taught him to think and act and live alone. He ought to act on his decisions without hazarding anyone else.

Unfortunately he could not pretend that he was strong enough for his task. When he and Clyme reached a safe distance, he said harshly, “Let’s do this. I’m not getting any younger.”

Vexed at himself, he unwound cloth from the
krill
’s gem. In the abrupt wash of radiance, he closed his left fist and punched the strange stone with Joan’s ring.