The Last Dark (26 page)

“Mom.” Jeremiah was crying openly now. “Mom, stop. Please. I need—I need—”

She understood that as well. Who would, if she did not? Remembering Anele—remembering
Must
and
Cannot
and the old man’s last valor, an act of self-confrontation that humbled her—she dropped her Staff and swept her son into her arms. Hugging him tightly, she murmured his name to him as if it confirmed his worth.

Like a young boy, he sobbed hard for a moment—and like a teenager, he suppressed his pain quickly. For a heartbeat or two, he held his mother as she held him. Then he let go of her, stepped back from her clasp. Snuffling loudly, he rubbed his face with both hands, wiped his nose on his forearm. In a congested voice, he asked, “What’s taking Stave so long? The Flat is right over there.” He gestured uselessly in the darkness. “I’m hungry. He should be back by now.”

Well, he was a fifteen-year-old boy, embarrassed by what he considered a show of weakness. For his sake, Linden smiled ruefully. Her sigh of regret she kept to herself.

“I’m sure—” she began. But before she completed the sentence, she felt the former Master’s severe aura returning.

“It’s about time,” Jeremiah muttered. Then he called to Stave, “Did you find
aliantha
? Are we that lucky?”

Almost immediately, Stave arrived, a darker shape condensed from the raw stuff of night. His hands were full of damp plants. “I did not,” he answered. “However, I have discovered tubers which I deem edible. They resemble the roots from which the Ramen prepare
rhee
. Cooked, they will provide sustenance.”

Linden smiled again. As warmly as she could, she thanked the former Master. Then she asked her son, “What do you think? Can you use your Earthpower for cooking?” Had he gained that much control over his inheritance? She hoped so. He needed a chance to recover his sense of competence. “I can do it, but I’m more likely to attract attention that we don’t want.”

She did not doubt that the lurker would devour Jeremiah avidly. But she also felt sure that the monster would find her Staff better suited to its particular hunger.

Eager to put aside his distress, Jeremiah extended his halfhand, accepted a root. “I’ll give it a try.”

As he did so, Linden retrieved the Staff, braced herself on its possibilities. Then she turned every dimension of her remaining discernment toward Sarangrave Flat, searching for some sign of the lurker—or of the Feroce.

After a moment, she located the Ranyhyn. They stood along the verge of a stagnant pool, cropping bitter grasses and vaguely pernicious shrubs with apparent unconcern. Clearly no hint of the lurker disturbed them. Nor did what they ate.

The wetland beyond them looked shallow. Its waters ran in sluggish streams or sat in rancid ponds interrupted by small eyots of grass or twisted brush; by occasional trees gnarled and stunted in putrefying mud; by brief swaths of reeds that nodded back and forth like conspirators in the currents and the breeze. Everything within the range of Linden’s percipience reeked of age and decomposition and ancient malice. Darkness covered the Flat, as funereal as a grave-cloth. Nevertheless nothing suggested the presence of the lurker or its acolytes.

At her back, she felt a short burst of fire. At once, it winked out. Jeremiah snorted in quick disgust, but his concentration did not waver.

A moment later, she sensed heat. It flickered, shrank, threatened to die out, then swelled more strongly. “Ha!” Jeremiah panted. “So
that’s
how—”

Soon he was able to hold his magic steady. The smells of cooking joined the thick odors of the Sarangrave.

Somewhere in the depths of the wetland, a night bird cried: a wail of fright. Linden heard a sharp splash, a sucking sound. She may have heard the clamp of teeth. The cry was cut off. More distant birds squalled as they took flight. From other directions came the rustle of disturbed roosting; the squirm of thick bodies in mud; the plash of creatures that may have been fish. After its fashion, Sarangrave Flat was thick with life.

Still nothing resembled the lurker. Nothing warned of the Feroce.

Before long, Jeremiah let his Earthpower dissipate. “Ow!” he muttered cheerfully. “That’s hot.” Then he bit into the tuber. Through a mouthful of crunching, he announced, “Tastes like dirt.” But he did not stop eating.

By degrees, Linden began to relax.

Jeremiah took another root from Stave, summoned fresh theurgy. “Your turn, Mom,” he murmured as he worked. “It’s actually pretty good, if you pretend you can’t taste it.”

“Stave?” Linden asked over her shoulder.

“I keep watch, Chosen.” The
Haruchai
’s tone hinted at reproof. She should have known that he was always alert. “Doubtless the Ranyhyn also will give warning at need. Eat while you may.” A beat later, he added, “I have yet to discover clean water.”

Linden hesitated to lower her guard. She had encountered the lurker more than once—and once was too often. But hunger overcame her uncertainty. With an effort, she turned her back on the Sarangrave.

Jeremiah had nearly finished cooking a second tuber. He held it in his halfhand with his left cupped over it. A faint glow of heat radiated between his palms. When he judged that root was ready to eat, he handed it to Linden.

“Just remember. Pretend you can’t taste it.”

Stave was right, of course: when Linden studied the steaming tuber, she saw that it was safe to eat. More than that, it would strengthen her if she ate enough of it. Swallowing hard to clear the discomfiture from her throat, she took a bite.

“Dirt,” she answered Jeremiah’s expectant gaze. “Just like dirt.” In fact, the crisp plant was bland at first; but it had a sour after-taste that made her yearn for the cleanliness of
aliantha
. Nevertheless she ate it while Jeremiah cooked another root for himself. She had no choice. She was facing a future which might never contain another meal.

fter Jeremiah had finished preparing all of the roots, and he and Linden had eaten as much as their stomachs could tolerate, Stave left again to search farther for water.

He was gone for what seemed like a long time. While he was absent, the Ranyhyn withdrew from the edge of the wetland, putting a little distance between themselves and the disturbing seethe of the waters. But they did not go far. Linden felt them clearly enough, resting between her and the Sarangrave.

When the former Master returned, he announced that he had located safe water in an eddy cast by the turbid seethe of the Flat. It was admittedly brackish and tainted, but not so foul that it would make Linden and Jeremiah ill. There they were able to quench their thirst before the impulse to gag became too strong to suppress.

Returning to the place where they had eaten, Linden urged her son to get some sleep while he could. Then she searched out a relatively level patch of ground for herself. With the Staff clasped across her chest, and her eyes closed against the dying of the stars, she tried to take her own advice.

But her fears nagged at her. They seemed to crawl over her skin under her clothes. Soon, she knew, events might compel her to forsake her son. She had it in her to imagine a source of malachite, and the aid of the Giants, and a portal which would summon the
Elohim
. Those ideas only asked her to believe in the Ranyhyn and her friends and Jeremiah. But guarding the portal against the Worm would require a miracle, and she had none to offer. Therefore—

Ah, God. Therefore she would have to go in search of a power great enough to accomplish what she could not. She would have to leave Jeremiah to the care of her friends. If she did not, everything that he hoped to accomplish would indeed be wasted.

The fact that she lacked the courage was no longer relevant. Like Jeremiah, she would have to try.

Only Covenant’s return might spare her. She yearned for that. But she could not suppose that he would come. The task which he had undertaken was too dangerous, and he was too far away. No, the burden of preserving Jeremiah’s construct was hers to bear in spite of her weakness. She could not hope to be spared. The Worm of the World’s End was coming. Nothing that lived would be spared.

Gradually she found a kind of resignation. It felt like defeat, but it allowed her to drift into a sleep too stunned and shallow for dreams.

ynyn’s shrill whinny awakened her with the suddenness of a knife. Even before Stave said her name, she began drawing black fire from her Staff.

Reflexively she glanced at the sky to gauge the time. Dawn was near, although it did not promise a sunrise. Nevertheless a certain amount of light was coming. Without it, the air would have been colder. Soon the darkness would become gloaming.

Then she felt the Ranyhyn running. Urgently they fled from the vicinity of the Sarangrave.

Why did they not pause for their riders? They could have taken her and her companions to safety.

But she had no time to think about such things. At Stave’s command, she surged to her feet.

Jeremiah was ahead of her. He stood squinting in the direction of the Sarangrave. Before she could speak, he pointed.

“The Feroce. They’re coming this way.” A heartbeat later, he added, “I can practically smell the lurker.”

“Indeed, Chosen.” Stave sounded as calm as a clear day. “Now you must release the Staff of Law to me. I will ward it.”

Like her son, Linden stared at the crouching malevolence of the wetland. At first, she discerned nothing except the movement of small bodies. As they bobbed past obstructions, they appeared to fade in and out of existence. But then they passed the last islets of trees and brush, and emerald flames the precise hue of the Illearth Stone opened in the darkness. At the same time, the air became thicker: more humid, rank with moisture.

“How many?” She wanted confirmation. She counted six flames, therefore only three Feroce. But somewhere behind them she felt the bitter aura of the lurker. Surely the monster would not challenge her without more support?

“Three,” Stave stated as if he could not be mistaken. “Also I sense but one tentacle. More may come, but the one lingers a stone’s throw behind its minions.”

“Mom?” Jeremiah asked anxiously. “Shouldn’t you give Stave the Staff? You said those things can mess with your mind.”