The Last Dark (69 page)

Standing with Stave in the last night of the Earth, Jeremiah pined for sunshine. He craved one more warm yellow wash of light. Trying to summon clean fire, he filled his palms with flame. But the blackness of his heritage persisted. Covered by darkness, his magicks were visible to ordinary sight only as deeper blots, stark as stigmata.

Stave still held his arm. “Chosen-son.” The former Master pitched his voice for Jeremiah alone. “It may be that the task which the Chosen has offered is too extreme. She has asked of you an achievement which has surpassed her. If you will heed my counsel, therefore—”

The
Haruchai
paused, apparently awaiting a response.

“Please.” Jeremiah was tempted to snort, Don’t bother. You can’t help me. Contemptuous laughter echoed in his ears as if it had become a part of him, a cancer too insidious and personal to be cut out. More and more, the coming end seemed like an act of kindness. But he did not sneer at Stave. Any suggestion that did not make him feel smaller—“I’ve already tried everything I can think of.”

“It is this,” Stave replied. “Set aside those tasks which daunt you. As your knowledge of the Staff grows, your strength will also. For the present, strive only to meet present needs. The lacks and requirements of this company are many. Choose among them one which lies within your compass.”

“Like what?” Jeremiah asked. Stave’s manner seemed to banish scorn.

“Chosen-son,” Stave returned, “your senses are acute. And you will comprehend that our intended ascent into Gravin Threndor must present grave obstacles. Of these, the first is plain. The air is noisome. It discomfits us where we stand. It will become unendurable within the mountain.

“The Timewarden conceived that the Chosen would cleanse the air. However, the Staff of Law has now been entrusted to you.” Stave stooped, retrieved the shaft, held it up. “Therefore the task falls to you—the task and the opportunity. An increase of strength comes from the use of strength.”

As Stave spoke, bursts of surprise like little explosions ran through Jeremiah’s veins. He clutched at the Staff. “The
air
,” he breathed. To his nerves, the atmosphere was as distinct as Earthpower. Its insidious taints were so clear that they were almost tangible. He had wasted so much time and effort. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

Stave shrugged. Finally he released Jeremiah’s arm. But Jeremiah hardly noticed. His mind raced. How had he let himself believe that he had to fail? Did the
croyel
still have that much power over him? Did Lord Foul? Had he simply
assumed
that the small flames which he could raise from the Staff were trivial? Ineffective because he did not know how to make them clean? Had he
tested
them?

He had not. Instead he had let the Despiser and the Worm and even Linden’s encouragement distract him. A stupid mistake, as stupid as breaking his own neck by not watching where he put his feet. And stupidity was worse than failure. It was worse than terror: it made him useless.

The purpose of life
, Cirrus Kindwind had once assured him,
is to choose, and to act upon the choice
. If he could not do what Linden had asked him to do, he could do something else.

He could do
something
that had to be done.

efore long, Covenant started back up the valley, trailed by a cortege of Feroce with their nauseous emerald fluttering like banners. Along the way, Branl unveiled the
krill
. At the same time, Rime Coldspray, Bluff Stoutgirth, and the Humbled made their way down from the ridge of Mount Thunder’s calf. Silver spread across the sleeping Giants as the Ironhand and the Anchormaster began to rouse them.

Far back in Jeremiah’s thoughts, images of the Worm squirmed. When they broke through his concentration, they stung his heart. Now he thought that he recognized the confluence of the Black River and the Mithil. If so, the Worm had crossed much of the South Plains. Furious as a perfect storm, the incarnate cataclysm flared and thundered ever closer to the hills which had once formed the boundary of Garroting Deep. And beyond the region of the lost forest stood
Melenkurion
Skyweir. The companions did not have much time left. They had probably rested too long.

But now Jeremiah could push those nightmare visions away. The fangs that were Lord Foul’s eyes, and the memories of the
croyel
’s feeding, no longer consumed him. He had a job to do, a job he understood. In some ways, it resembled making one of his constructs: it involved pulling bits of good air toward him and rejecting poisons; forming a kind of breathable edifice. That may not have been how Linden cleaned the air, but he knew how to do it. The real challenge would be to
keep
doing it. It would erode constantly: he would have to rebuild it constantly. And the erosion would get worse as the company moved. Still Stave’s suggestion gave him hope. Watching Covenant’s approach, Jeremiah felt almost ready.

Above and around him on the slope, the Swordmainnir shrugged their shoulders into the armor, examined their weapons. Without prompting, Wiver Setrock and the woman called Keenreef portioned out another meal, although their supplies were dwindling. Other sailors complained or jested. Of no one in particular, Baf Scatterwit asked where she was. Sounding sincerely confounded, she wanted to know where Dire’s Vessel and her other friends had gone. But when Stoutgirth replied with instructions rather than answers, she complied as if she had forgotten her confusion.

“She is easily bewildered,” one of the men—Squallish Blustergale?—remarked casually to Jeremiah, “yet she is an adroit sailor, quick in every exigency. Aye, and doughty withal. None will outlast her on the sheets, or strive more fiercely when there is need. Also she is gentle in her bafflement. Therefore she is precious among us.”

For her, Jeremiah felt a flush of sympathy. He knew too well that an absent mind fostered the illusion of safety—and that the illusion was dangerous.

Muttering to himself, he looked around for his mother.

Until Covenant had left to summon the Feroce, he and Linden had slept together on a stretch of churned earth thirty or forty paces closer to the high cliff which confronted the valley. She was awake now, brushing dirt from her clothes, combing her fingers through her hair. As she came toward Jeremiah, her right hand clung to her wedding band, turning it around and around her ring finger as if she feared that it would be taken from her.

“Jeremiah, honey,” she asked when she drew near, “were you able to sleep?”

“Mom.” He met her holding the Staff of Law in front of him like a promise—or a defense. “Don’t worry about me. I’m making progress.” He ducked his head to hide conflicting reactions: eagerness for what he might be able to accomplish; chagrin for what he could not. “I mean, sort of.”

Her concern reached out to him. Argent reflections haunted her gaze like the residue of horrors. Wordless and worried, she hugged him tightly. Then she stepped back. “Remember what I told you. There’s no such thing as failure.
Sort of
progress is better than nothing. Under the circumstances, it’s probably impressive. We can only do what we can.” The ruefulness of her smile twisted his heart. “I need to remember that myself.”

Before he could think of a response, she turned to meet her husband.

Covenant came grimly up the side of the valley, walking like a man who had left behind anything that might have softened his severity, his personal commandments. The time had come to essay Mount Thunder; and Jeremiah could see that Covenant was as afraid as Linden. But for him, strangely, fear seemed to be a source of strength. In the illumination of the
krill
, his silver hair shone like wild magic, the contained conflagration of his heart.

He returned Linden’s embrace briefly; linked his arm with hers as he approached the Giants. Just for a moment, he looked like he might be on the verge of frenzy or tears. Then his expression hardened. The lines on his face resembled slashes.

“I talked to the Feroce,” he announced unnecessarily. “I guess that’s obvious.” The creatures stood a dozen steps behind him, as timorous as ever, and as compelled. “They say they’ve never been inside the mountain. And they don’t want to go. They call it a
Maker-place
. Lord Foul’s home. It scares them.

“But the lurker didn’t give them a choice. I didn’t even have to argue. I only had to promise them that
that
”—he pointed down at the gullet of the Defiles Course—“isn’t a Maker-place. It’s like the Shattered Hills. It defends Lord Foul, but he doesn’t live there. He’s somewhere up in the Wightwarrens, probably in Kiril Threndor. The Feroce can help us without going that far.

“They don’t know what we’ll find. They aren’t sure they’ll do any good. But they know water—especially polluted water. They’ll try to guide us. And—” Abruptly Covenant paused. For a moment, he covered his eyes as if he had been assailed by memories too painful to countenance. Then he controlled himself, shrugged stiffly. “They’ll try to make the water remember where it comes from. If they can do that, it might be as good as a map.”

“What does he say?” asked Baf Scatterwit. “A map? Does he speak of a chart?” She was becoming agitated.

The Anchormaster rested a lean hand on her shoulder, murmured a soft command which appeared to soothe her. She smiled at him, nodded, and did not speak again.

In a taut voice, Covenant finished, “If what the Feroce can do doesn’t take us into the Wightwarrens, we’ll have to find our own way.”

The Ironhand nodded sternly. “Then, Timewarden, only two matters remain. You and Linden Giantfriend and the Chosen-son must eat to sustain your strength. And we must look to our survival within the mountain.

“We are Giants, lovers of stone. We do not fear to attempt the hidden passages. Also the Anchormaster and our comrades of Dire’s Vessel will accompany us, for so they interpret the wishes of Brinn
Haruchai
, the last Guardian of the One Tree.”

Stoutgirth grinned as if he found her assertion risible; but he did not return a jest.

“Being sailors,” Coldspray continued, “they have borne with them a goodly quantity of rope. Such providence will surely serve us well.”

The muscles at the corners of her jaw bunched. “Yet we must breathe. It is certain that the airs within the water’s channels will be foul beyond bearing. Ere long, respiration alone will prove fatal.” Her tone was exposed gutrock. “Therefore I am compelled to inquire. How can we dare Mount Thunder if we cannot breathe?”

“Maybe the Feroce—” began Covenant darkly.

Jeremiah took a step forward. “Wait.” His hands itched with anticipation on the Staff. “I’ve been working on this.” He glanced quickly at Stave. “I’m not sure, but I’m learning. Maybe I can—”

Abruptly he closed his eyes; forgot words. Now or never. His mother had trusted him with her best instrument of power. If he proved her wrong, he would have to return it. Her hopes for him—and his own—would be gone.

Just for a moment, malice pealed through the dark behind his eyelids. Prove her wrong, puppy? How can you not? You are naught but a tool, a means to an end. Your every deed serves my desires.

But Jeremiah refused to listen. The whole company was watching. And the Staff was
alive
. In small ways, it answered his Earthpower, his health-sense. He could believe that those responses would grow. And in the meantime—Right here, right now, he could feel the air, taste it; almost touch its nature. He could distinguish between health and sickness.

Deliberately he poured flames into the cups of his hands. Ignoring their taint, he wrapped them around the Staff. Then he asked the wood for more theurgy than his mere body contained. As hard as he could, he concentrated on breathing—

—on pushing away poisons and corruption—

—on rejecting putrescence and vilification—

—and on drawing the cleanliness that remained toward him.

And when he knew that he was inhaling and exhaling
life
, he extended his edifice of good air toward his companions.

See? he told the mockery inside him. I can do this. I can
do
it.