The Last Dark (73 page)

Yet doubt infects.

It was contagious.

Nodding, the Ironhand addressed Bluff Stoutgirth. “Anchormaster?”

“Aye.” Stoutgirth grinned. To his crew, he said as if he were jesting, “Come, sluggards. Have done with feasting and sloth. While we dally, the world’s doom grows fretful. Soon it may set its sails and depart unopposed.”

His crew responded with snorts or groans, or with ripostes; yet they immediately began packing away their provisions. Soon they were ready.

Linden hesitated, unsure of her son. But Jeremiah asked for the Staff without prompting. “I feel better now,” he assured her. “I want to practice.” He faced her squarely, held her gaze. “But maybe you shouldn’t help me anymore. You make it too easy. I don’t have to push myself when you’re doing half the work.”

She winced. He was right, of course. He had to make himself stronger; had to earn his inheritance. But she already knew that she was going to abandon him again. She was even going to abandon Covenant. And when she did, she would leave without any hope that she might ever return.

Her hands shook as she passed the Staff to her son. Unclosing her fingers required an act of will.

His attention shifted at once to the wood; but she continued to gaze at him, clinging. Carefully she said, “I’m proud of you. Do you know that?”

“Sure, Mom.” His tone made it clear that he was not listening.

The theurgy which he summoned from his hands and his violated heart was as black as anything that she had ever done.

ed by the Feroce, the company struggled upward. Emerald oozed like infection down the river. The light of the
krill
seemed to lurch from place to place as it struck irregular facets of stone. The channel felt interminable. Its twists and bends through Mount Thunder’s gutrock blocked Linden’s view ahead. She could not guess how far the company would have to climb.

Fortunately Jeremiah’s use of Earthpower and Law was improving. The Giants were able to breathe more easily. And the hints of She Who Must Not Be Named which Linden had felt earlier were lessened by midnight fire in the confines of the flume.

Blustergale continued to support Scatterwit. A few of her comrades took turns holding the rope tied around her. Like them, she labored ahead, striving toward an untenable future.

So suddenly that Linden only had time to flinch and grip, Grueburn slipped: she started to plunge. But Stave stopped her by anchoring her foot. She caught herself on her hands, regained her balance. Muttering rueful apologies, she bore Linden onward.

Other Giants slipped as well. As their weariness grew, they lost their footing more often. Most of them recovered quickly, or were secured by their comrades. But one of the sailors fell hard enough to take Keenreef with him. Threshing their arms, they were swept downward. However, Wiver Setrock dropped to his knees below their rush, spread his arms, snagged his comrades before they collided with Grueburn and Kindwind. With another sailor and Onyx Stonemage at his back, Setrock helped the Giants find their feet.

Anxiety and jests echoed down the chute. Coldspray and Stoutgirth shouted unnecessary warnings. Jeremiah looked around wildly for a moment: the only sign that he had noticed what was happening. Then he returned his attention to the Staff.

Darkness. Green glaring dully. Flashes of argent. Loud water acrid with minerals and pollution. Treacherous rocks and mosses. More darkness. Covenant clung like a penitent to Coldspray’s back. Jeremiah half knelt behind Kindwind, gripping the Staff across her cataphract. Linden listened to the effort of Grueburn’s breathing, felt the strain in Grueburn’s muscles, and could do nothing.

She had given up looking ahead when she heard the Anchormaster call, “And not before time! Doubtless all things must have an end. After such an ascent, however, I would lief have gained a less ambiguous summit.”

Linden jerked up her head; saw that the fires of the Feroce no longer reflected on the walls. The
krill
’s illumination seemed to imply an open space ahead. She tried to extend her discernment upward, but she could not. Her senses were blocked by Giants and fouled water, Earthpower and exertion. Even Loric’s gem had the effect of obstructing her percipience.

None of the Giants spoke as they hurried to reach a place where they might be able to rest again.

Like the Feroce, Coldspray and Stoutgirth had moved out of sight. Holding light for the sailors and the Swordmainnir, Branl stood at the edge of the channel-mouth. Now Linden was able to see that the river ran from another large cavity in the gutrock; but the scale of the space was still hidden from her.

As Grueburn labored upward, however, Linden heard more complex tones in the water’s turbulence, new pitches and timbres. Another waterfall? No. The sounds lacked that deeper resonance. After a moment, she realized that she was listening to more than one torrent. From beyond the immediate rush and spray came the turmoil of other streams, two distinct sources of water, neither splashing from any considerable height.

Half a dozen sailors reached the Humbled. They passed him leftward, clambered out of sight. As Stonemage and Setrock gained the opening, they led Keenreef and more of Dire’s Vessel’s crew to the right. Together Grueburn and Kindwind carried Linden and Jeremiah to smooth stone at the rim of the tunnel.

Linden peered out at a large cave like a bubble in Mount Thunder’s igneous substance. By the measure of the lower cavern, its dimensions were modest. She could have hit the ceiling with a rock, or skipped a pebble halfway across the dark water in front of her: a diminished lake now little more than a pond marked by rancid strands and stains higher on the walls. At the water’s former height, the rocks piled around the cave’s bottom would have been covered, useless to the company. At the pond’s present level, she could have scrambled anywhere in the cave.

Nevertheless the air was viscid, thick with omens. The hurtful tang of She Who Must Not Be Named was stronger here. Suggestions of ire and ruin felt like insects on Linden’s skin, tangible and feeding. Without Jeremiah and Earthpower, she might have whimpered aloud.

But then Grueburn carried her aside, out of the way of the Giants behind them; and Linden noticed the water’s inlets.

There were indeed two, one diagonally across from her on the left, the other opposite her and somewhat to the right. The stream on the left tumbled from a fissure in the wall, a crack barely wide enough to admit a Giant. The water frothing there conveyed the impression that it cascaded from somewhere far above the cave. In the
krill
’s light, its spray shone silver.

The other stream boiled out of an opening beneath the lake’s surface. Apparently it came from the base of a subtle flaw in the stone, a seam where distinct forms of rock had been reluctantly fused. Under the pressure of its own weight, water seethed into the pond.

Only the fissure on the left offered the company an egress. An ascent there would be difficult. If the crack narrowed, it might become impassable. But the water there was fresh.

God, it was
fresh
—It came from a clean spring, or from several. And the fissure was accessible. The company could reach it without enduring an immersion in the pond; without subjecting Linden to more of the bane’s touch.

The Cavewights were entirely unlike the Feroce. Surely they required sources of clean water? Surely a source this abundant would lead toward the Wightwarrens?

Her heart seemed to beat in her throat as she turned toward Covenant.

Rime Coldspray had set him down on the far side of the cave’s outlet. Stave and all of the Giants had now emerged from the tunnel, and Cirrus Kindwind had already lowered Jeremiah to the rocks. He leaned on the Staff, resting, but he did not relax his efforts. Stark strands of power fluttered around the company, softening the atmosphere.

He was the only one not looking at Covenant. Stave, Branl, and the Giants watched the Unbeliever, the Timewarden, waiting for him to make a decision. As if there could possibly be any doubt—

But he ignored them. Instead he faced the Feroce.

Wreathed in green, they clustered a few paces beyond him. Some of them stood with their feet in the pond, but they did not sink away. Again they appeared to commune with each other. Their fires danced like language in their hands.

Linden winced at the sight. They were definitely smaller. Shrinking. Losing faith.

Covenant’s impatience showed in the clench of his shoulders, the rigidity of his back. He seemed to want some form of confirmation from the creatures, even though the company’s path was obvious. After a tense pause, he demanded, “Now what? We can’t just hang around here. We don’t have time.”

The Feroce did not look at him. Their voice quavered as if they expected to be struck down.

“You will be wroth with us. You will not heed.”

“What?” Covenant’s surprise echoed faintly around the walls. “I’m going to get angry because you’re trying to help? Why?”

Two of the creatures pointed at the fissure. “You must not enter there. It misleads.” Two others indicated the rank moil of the second inlet. “You must follow richer water.” Then they crowded closer together. “Now we perish. You will not suffer us.”

“Thomas!” Linden protested. She gestured urgently toward the crack. “That water is
fresh
.” It did not stink of threats.

Giants nodded their assent.

“Oh, stop,” Covenant growled at the Feroce. “I’m not going to do anything to you. None of us are.” He squinted over his shoulder at Linden, then addressed the creatures again. “But we need an explanation. ‘Richer’ water? I assume you mean water with more crud in it. That doesn’t make sense. Never mind that it’s likely to poison us. Suppose you’re right. Suppose it does run closer to the Wightwarrens. Even Giants can’t swim against that kind of pressure. And we sure as hell can’t hold our breath long enough to find air.”

“Wait a minute,” Jeremiah murmured. Ebony tendrils curled across the pond. They searched along the far wall. But he did not say more; and the alarm clamoring in Linden’s ears prevented her from heeding him.

“So tell me,” Covenant continued. “Why
that
water? Why is a trail we can’t even follow better than one we can?”

The creatures flinched. Their fires guttered. “We are the Feroce. We obey, as we must. We cannot answer ire.”

Covenant swore softly.

Quivering, the damp voice said, “We do not know your goal. We do not know the mountain. But we taste the memories mingled here. Those waters do not hold the Maker’s scorn. Other powers enrich them, yes. They urge false worship, abhorrent to us, seductive.” The Feroce shuddered. “Yet we are certain. Memory is certain.”

“Wait a minute,” Jeremiah said again.

Everyone ignored him.

“The stream of mere water. The plain path. It misleads. It does not recall light. No light has shone upon it. No sun. No flame. No magicks.”

No light—?

“Stone and Sea!” rasped the Ironhand. Other Giants muttered their chagrin.

The
Haruchai
watched and listened as if they were drawing different conclusions.

“The richer waters,” said the Feroce, “remember much. They recall darkness and horrible strength. Strange theurgies. Time without measure. And light. Light! In a distant age, they have known the sun. They have not forgotten.

“The memory is there.”

As one, the creatures pointed at the turbulence spewing from beneath the surface of the pond.

Oh, God. Floundering, Linden thought, Light—The cascade of fresh water had never seen torches. It had never felt the ruddy glow of rocklight. Therefore its long plunge did not intersect the catacombs. Even Cavewights needed illumination.

But the other stream—Ah, hell. That impassable gush came from the Soulsease. It had once traveled the Upper Land. It had known the warmth of the sun. And far to the west, the Soulsease entered the Wightwarrens. But only a few days ago, it had lost its way through the mountain. Now it plunged toward the Lost Deep. For that reason, it was fraught with the anguish and rage of She Who Must Not Be Named.

“Thomas.” Linden’s voice had fallen to a whisper. She was too frightened to raise it. “I can’t. There’s no way—”