The Last Dark (48 page)

ovenant dozed for a while himself. Most of his efforts since the struggle with
turiya
Herem had been mental and emotional rather than physical, but they had drained him nonetheless. He did not mean to sleep while he hoped for Linden; but drowsiness overcame him, and he sank into a shallow slumber.

Later some preterite instinct roused him, and he jerked up his head to look around. Squinting against the blur that marred his sight, he saw Stave enter the fane.

The former Master moved cautiously, as if he had become unsure of his balance. His right hand and forearm gave the impression that they ached. But his single eye as it caught the
krill
’s shining was clear. It flashed argent at Covenant as if Stave had gained the ability to see into the Unbeliever’s soul.

Perhaps he had. He had allowed himself to grieve for Galt, his son. And he had let Linden convince him to remain with Jeremiah. To Covenant, those were astonishing changes. Of the
Haruchai
whom he had known, only Cail had revealed a comparable willingness to go beyond rigid stoicism. Even men like Bannor and Brinn, Branl and Clyme, had measured themselves by standards which any other
Haruchai
would have approved.

Carefully Stave eased himself to the ground in front of Covenant. There he sat cross-legged, upright as a spear driven into the dirt, with the backs of his hands resting on his thighs. His eye seemed to transfix Covenant.

Without preamble, as if he were resuming a conversation, Stave said, “I did not part willingly from the Chosen.”

His manner rather than his tone suggested that he wanted to be understood.

“I know,” Covenant answered quietly. “But you let yourself be persuaded anyway. She asked, and you agreed.”

“I did,” the former Master admitted. “I have found that I am no longer able to refuse her.”

Covenant’s mouth twisted. “I know the feeling.”

Stave flexed the fingers of his right hand, testing them for residual damage. “
Haruchai
do not indulge in regret. Yet I am”—he appeared to search for a word—“unsettled. If she does not return, Timewarden, I will be unable to quench my sense of loss, or my remorse that I did not stand at her side.”

Now Covenant winced. “I know that feeling, too.” He had not simply turned away from Linden. He had told her not to touch him. More harshly than he intended, he said, “But sometimes things like that have to be done anyway.”

Stave nodded. “Necessity demands. It does not countenance denial.” Then, unexpectedly, he looked away, as if he rather than Covenant had cause to feel shame. “Thus I am compelled to inquire of myself what purpose is served by regret—or indeed by grief.”

Without pausing to consider his reply, Covenant countered, “How else do we know we’re alive?”

“By our deeds,” Stave answered. “By striving and service. By—”

Abruptly he froze. His gaze sprang back to Covenant’s. Nothing else moved.

After a moment, he released a long breath. “Ah.” His regard did not waver, but his rigidity eased. “Now I begin to grasp how it transpires that you and the Chosen have failed to comprehend the Masters—and how the Masters have been misled in their apprehension of you. You and the Chosen—those of your world—The Chosen-son. Hile Troy. You judge by your hearts. It is by grief and regret that you know yourselves, rather than by deeds and effort and service.”

In his turn, Covenant nodded. “Well, yes.” More than once, he had tried to explain himself to the
Haruchai
; but somehow he had failed to grasp the question implicit in their notions of service. “Grief and regret. What else is there? Those are just other names for love. You can’t feel bad about losing something if you don’t love it first. And if you don’t love, why else would you bother to
do
anything at all?”

Of course, love was not so simple. He knew that as well as anyone; perhaps better than most. It spawned complications faster than it clarified them. It could be misguided or selfish. It could close its eyes. It could curdle until it became hate. And it implied rejection. Stepping in one direction required moving away from another. But at its core—

At its core, love was the only answer that made sense to him.

There is hope in contradiction.

From where Branl stood, the
krill
left Stave’s features in shadow. Covenant could barely discern the outlines of the former Master’s mien. Only Stave’s eye pierced the dusk.

Impassive as any
Haruchai
, he said, “It is a terrible burden, Timewarden.”

Covenant shrugged. “Look at Branl. Look at the Masters. Look at yourself.” Briefly his old rage for the abused of the world rose up in him. “Hellfire, Stave! Look at the
Elohim
.” Then he subsided. Almost whispering, he asked, “Is what you see any less terrible?”

“It is not,” Stave replied as if he were sure. “It is more so.”

A moment later, something that may have been a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Were I inclined to the homage of mutilation—which I am not—I would now claim a place among the Humbled. Though they have aspired to emulation, they have not grasped the full import of their desires.

“Until now,” he added in Branl’s direction, acknowledging what Branl had done and endured.

Branl lifted a shoulder slightly. “Should the world endure,” he promised, “and the Masters with it, I will undertake to instruct our people.”

Finally Covenant bowed his head. The Humbled had made it surprisingly easy to forgive the manner of Clyme’s death.

radually the gloom within the temple became the more ominous twilight of late afternoon. By degrees, it thickened toward evening and full night. Branl remained standing, so motionless that he did not appear to breathe; holding Loric’s dagger steady as a beacon. Stave still sat in front of Covenant, resting while his strength returned.

In the gathering darkness, the Giants began to wake.

Frostheart Grueburn was the first. Muttering Giantish expletives, she rolled onto her side and struggled upright. Without a word, she left the fane. When she returned, she brought several waterskins. One she passed to Covenant.

As Covenant drank, Halewhole Bluntfist raised her head. After gazing blearily around her for a moment, she nudged Onyx Stonemage. Stonemage responded by ascribing a list of offenses to Bluntfist’s parents; but she did not refuse to be roused.

One after another, the Swordmainnir arose. In the stark illumination of the
krill
, they looked garish, like women who had become fiends while they slept—or had been tormented by fiends.

Among them, Jeremiah woke up suddenly. His eyes seemed to give off glints of panic as he looked around for some sign of his mother. When he realized that she was still absent, he slumped back to the ground, covered his face with his hands. But then he practically flung himself to his feet. Ignoring his companions, he hurried out of the fane.

The Ironhand shrugged. No one said anything.

By turns, the Giants studied Cabledarm’s condition, offered her what encouragement they could. Stormpast Galesend urged a little water into her mouth. They had no other help to give her.

All of them drank until they had emptied the waterskins. To no one in particular, Latebirth sighed, “I would barter my sword—aye, and my arm with it—for a handful of
aliantha
, and count myself fortunate in the exchange.” Her comrades nodded mutely.

While Covenant watched, Rime Coldspray stretched her arms and back, loosened her neck. Then she looked at him. “Longwrath,” she said curtly, reminding him of his promise.

Fire, he thought. Lamentation for the dead. The pain that consoles. In his own fashion, he understood how Giants grieved. Still he was reluctant to move. He had spent hours waiting for Linden: waiting and aching. Now he felt too heavy to stand, as if he were wrapped in iron chains. He would have preferred to go on waiting.

But he might not get another chance to keep his word. For all he knew, Cabledarm was dying.

“We need Linden,” he muttered to no one in particular. “I need her.” Then he extended a hand to Branl, let the Humbled lift him upright.

After sitting against the wall for so long, his muscles had stiffened. He felt like an assemblage of mismatched parts as he accepted the
krill
. But he was accustomed to that. And the gem of Loric’s weapon shone steadily, answering the presence of white gold. With its magicks, he had already accomplished things which he had considered impossible. Why not more?

You are the white gold.

Holding the dagger by its wrapped hilt, he led his companions from the shelter of the fane.

Outside he found that night had almost claimed the plain. Beyond the reach of the
krill
’s gem lay only blackness. Harsh buffets of wind seemed to hit him from every direction simultaneously. The chill pang of the air augured days of deeper cold. He had hoped for a moon; but it had not risen—or it was left in darkness by the sun’s absence from the world.

Here even his blunted senses felt the violence glowering in the northeast: a crouched impression of storm as fierce as a predator, and as absolute as fuligin. He wanted to ask how far away it was, and how quickly it was moving, but the words caught in his throat.

“It is the Worm, ur-Lord,” Branl stated like a man who could read minds. “Yet it is many and many leagues distant. Also the fury of its coming outruns the Worm itself. It is not imminent.”

Covenant forced himself to breathe. After a moment, he managed to ask, “How much time do we have?”

The Humbled looked at Stave. Something silent passed between them. Then Branl said, “If it does not increase its haste, it will not strike this region until the morrow, perhaps some hours after dawn.”

In a low growl, the Ironhand confirmed Branl’s estimate. “Beyond question, the lurker and the Demondim-spawn have accomplished the wonders which were asked of them.”

The force and confusion of the winds affected Covenant like vertigo. Lurching like a holed ship in an uneven gale, he moved toward Longwrath’s corpse.

The two
Haruchai
accompanied him, and behind them came the Swordmainnir. Cabledarm the Giants supported between them, although her mind wandered the borderland between consciousness and delirium. Maybe they hoped that fire would cauterize her internal bleeding.

Eventually Covenant spotted Jeremiah. The boy had climbed back onto the roof of the fane. Vague in the darkness, he stood there as if the crude edifice were a watchtower. Restlessly he scanned the plain from horizon to horizon, searching for some sign of his mother’s return.

Covenant felt a pang for the boy, but he did not allow himself to pause. Winds slapped at his face. They came at him from one direction and then another as if they were trying to nudge him aside from his purpose. The Worm was a condensed apocalypse: it pushed turmoil ahead of it like a bow-wave. He kept moving so that he would not relapse to waiting for Linden.

Lostson Longwrath lay where he had fallen, charred and lifeless: a darker shape like an omen outstretched on the benighted ground. Beside the
geas
-doomed Swordmain, Covenant stopped. Too many lives had already been lost. No doubt the Worm had left tens or hundreds of thousands of deaths in its wake, perhaps millions—and the carnage was just beginning. The
Elohim
would not be the only casualties of Lord Foul’s quest for freedom; his obsessive denial of his own despair. As it always did, Despite littered the world with victims.

Covenant had to do what he could.

While he secured his numbed grip on the
krill
, however, Rime Coldspray said, “A moment, Timewarden. One matter remains to be resolved. It concerns Longwrath’s flamberge.” She indicated the wave-bladed longsword where it lay near the man’s burned fingers. “He appeared to acquire it at the behest of his
geas
, and therefore of the
Elohim
, though we saw no clear purpose in it. Now, however, it appears in an altered light. The Harrow said of it that it was forged by theurgy to be potent against Sandgorgons. Its puissance has faded with disuse, he informed us. But those monsters have come to assail the Land, and we are too few and worn to oppose them. Therefore it is my hope that the blade’s force has not altogether waned.