The Last Dark (91 page)

Jeremiah thought that he heard the thews of her knee tear, but she did not cry out. The stone-thing was driven two steps backward, three—

—and Canrik leapt onto the creature’s back, clamped his hands over its eyes—

—and Grueburn rushed the other monster. Discarding her longsword, she tackled the creature, wrapped her arms around it, forced it away from Jeremiah. By plain force and desperation, she strove to pitch it into a fall—

—and
moksha
Jehannum slipped into Jeremiah as easily as an indrawn breath.

After that, Jeremiah only knew what was happening to his companions because the Raver cast glances outward. Everything that he might have chosen for himself was taken away.

he first jolt of possession was cruel as the heat of a wildfire. It burned through Jeremiah leaving nothing but ash. Yet the scalding emotional violation passed in an instant. It was gone before he could even try to scream.

In its wake, it left an utter and unutterable peace.

The tranquility of complete helplessness dismissed his fears, his bitterness, his frantic floundering. Sudden as a crisis of the heart, every responsibility and desire and need was lifted from him. Nothing more could be asked of him—he could ask nothing more of himself—because there were no choices left. He was free at last of anything that resembled humanity.

Oh, he was conscious of
moksha
Jehannum’s presence and power, aware in every nerve and fiber. He knew that he had been claimed. He felt the Raver’s vast glee, a sensation of triumph like ecstasy or delirium. He recognized the Raver’s insatiable hunger for havoc. He knew that he had finally become
moksha
’s tool, and Lord Foul’s: a thing that only lived to serve the Despiser.

Yet the effect was not hurtful. It was pure relief, a soothing that mimicked bliss. This act of possession was a gift, a benison, a benediction. It eased him like an act of grace. He had finally become the boy he was meant to be; the boy he should have been ever since he had thrust his hand into Lord Foul’s bonfire ten years ago. He had come home to himself.

Do you now discern truth? asked the Raver kindly, eagerly. Long have you striven to evade our intent, long and at great cost. Long have you concealed yourself from suffering, though your wounds festered with every avoided day. Do you now grasp that there can be no surcease or anodyne for an implement, except in its condign use? Do you comprehend that there is both freedom and exaltation in the acceptance of service?

This all true believers know. They submit every desire and gift to the will of beings greater than themselves, and by their surrender they gain redemption. Self-will accrues only fear. It achieves only pain. The highest glory is reached solely by the abdication of self.

Do you understand? Do you acknowledge at last that you are the Despiser’s beloved son, in whom he is well pleased?

There the Raver paused. He appeared to be waiting for a response from Jeremiah; a sign of acquiescence. But Jeremiah did not reply. He had forgotten himself and did not remember what was at stake. He was simply at peace. The only part of him that seemed to have an independent existence was the part that regarded the Worm. Yet that sight conveyed neither dread nor anticipation. It had no personal implications. It merely
was
: a fact as real as possession, and as inevitable.

Moksha
did not prod him. Patient as the ages, the last of Lord Foul’s Ravers waited as if together he and Jeremiah could take all the time in the world. When moments or hours or years had passed, and still Jeremiah had not stirred from his relief,
moksha
Jehannum looked away as if he were mildly interested in the fate of Coldspray and Grueburn and Canrik.

In spite of their exhaustion, Jeremiah’s companions fought. With a shout that seemed to rend her heart, Frostheart Grueburn succeeded at toppling her foe. But the stone-thing twisted as it fell, pulled her beneath it. When it landed on her, the impact broke her cataphract as if it were dried clay, tenuous and brittle. Air burst from her lungs.

Nevertheless she rolled away as the monster shifted to strike her. Its blow shook the floor; or the Worm’s feeding did. A fretwork of cracks marred the rough surface. Gasping frantically, and shedding shards of armor, she regained her feet.

The other creature flailed blindly, trying to fling Canrik from its back. But its arms could not reach him. Somehow he kept his hands over its eyes. It could not see Coldspray. Through
moksha
, Jeremiah heard or felt the wail of pain from Coldspray’s damaged knee. Still she was the Ironhand. She did not relent. She kicked the stone-thing in the chest again; growled through clenched teeth; kicked again. At the same time, Canrik exerted all of his strength to drag the creature’s head back. Off balance, the creature stumbled toward the wall.

When it hit, Canrik would be crushed.

They were Jeremiah’s friends. Even Canrik—

Samil was already dead.

A vague unease drifted through the boy’s tranquility. He felt himself or the Raver frowning.

To
moksha
, Jeremiah admitted, I don’t know how.

How? asked the Raver. He sounded bright as new coinage: shining gold stamped with Lord Foul’s feral eyes.

I don’t know how to be a tool. He hardly heard himself. I don’t know enough. I’m like a knife that’s too dull. I haven’t been sharpened. I’m not ready.

Well said.
Moksha
Jehannum’s approval had a salacious tinge; a hint of slaver. All implements must be refined to their purpose. The Despiser’s intent is glorious beyond utterance. No mortal born is apt to his hand. You must become greater than the greatest of your former aspirations. You must transcend every demand placed upon you by those lesser beings who sought the profit of your gifts, misnaming their desires love. By submission, you will attain the stature of eternity and awe. The Raver chuckled: a sound like the jaws of a trap closing. As will I in the perfection of my service. Then his attention became more acute. For that reason, I am within you.

Cruel blue silhouetted the fighting beyond Jeremiah. The monster with Canrik on its back appeared to recognize its opportunity. It heaved its granite mass at the wall. But at the last instant, Canrik sprang away. He uncovered the creature’s eyes just in time to let the stone-thing see Rime Coldspray thrust her glaive at its throat.

Blue glared like delight. Her blade’s point splintered: her sword skidded aside. Fragments as keen as poniards scattered to the floor. Weakness and her own force dropped Coldspray to her knees. Despair gripped her features like nausea.

Frostheart Grueburn did not hazard another clinch with her foe. Evading heavy blows, she retreated, circled. As soon as she could, she dove to retrieve her longsword, rolled back to her feet. An instant of consternation twisted her mien when she saw the notch that her first blow had left in the iron. But she had no other weapon. Parrying frantically while the metal shivered and shrilled, she retreated again.

Reason? asked Jeremiah.

Indeed, the Raver answered. Take no offense when I observe that you are sadly ignorant. There is no fault in you. The
croyel
was sent to teach rather than to torment you. Alas, it was a petty being, seduced by its own desires. It did not prepare you. Therefore I have intervened.

My task is to whet the dull blade. Yet you are not mere iron. Neither force nor fire will refine you. You require knowledge.

That knowledge I will grant. Behold!

Moksha
Jehannum gestured in Jeremiah’s mind, and the Staff of Law appeared there as though it had been translated out of his clasp. His hands still held it: his fingers curled like claws on the black wood; like an atavistic denial. Nonetheless he saw its image, precise and tangible, with the vision of thought.

This instrument, said
moksha
, I will not touch. It is loathly and vile, fashioned to thwart me. In your grasp, however, it is mighty, capable of wonders. When it is made to serve your gifts—and when those gifts in turn serve the Despiser—it is potent to affect eternity, shaping order out of shapelessness.

I will guide you to the lore of its proper wielding.

Oh, Jeremiah breathed. Order out of shapelessness. The idea pleased him. Constructs. Building. His one joy. To his granted peace was added an unforeseen happiness, a sense of possibilities.

We do what we must so that we may find worth in ourselves.

He was beginning to understand that there was more than one path to godhood.

Beyond the Staff in his mind, the Staff in his hands, the Giants and Canrik still struggled. Though their strength was waning—though every step and effort drained the life from their muscles—they circled and evaded, apparently trying to maneuver the monsters away from Jeremiah. But the stone-things were no threat to him. They protected him. They had been sent to keep his companions away from the Staff of Law.

Yes, Jeremiah said. Yes.

Moksha
’s approval seemed to make reality bend and ripple. His voice seemed to be the Worm’s.

Then observe closely. That noisome wight, the hated Forestal of abhorred Garroting Deep, has written his will and power upon your instrument. He is among the most despised of our foes, yet even he must serve our lord and master. Such is the Despiser’s majesty and cunning. Harken well while I read the runes.

Their import will distress you. This saddens me. The Raver did not sound saddened. I desire only your exaltation. Alas, all knowledge is hurtful. Yet it is also needful. And your discomfort will be brief. You will swiftly return to joy.

Jeremiah nodded his consent. Masked within himself, within the private quietude of graves, he began to ask questions which the Raver did not hear. His time as the
croyel
’s host and victim had taught him that possession was torture. He had only been able to endure it because he had no choice. Why, then, had
moksha
entered him bearing only relief and ease? Why did the Raver trouble to lull him with peace or pleasure?

He suspected that he knew the answer. He had heard too many people talk about
the necessity of freedom
.

And Kastenessen had broken him; but that violation had not destroyed him. Now he realized that the experience had taught him something useful. He knew how to be more than one Jeremiah at a time, each distinct from the others. He could think his own thoughts as well as the Raver’s.

What Lord Foul wanted from him, he told himself secretly, was not something that could be compelled. Like wild magic, his talent could not be coerced beyond the small uses which the
croyel
had made of it. No matter how much he was whetted, he would not be able to exceed anything unless he agreed to it. At some point, the Despiser would need Jeremiah to serve him by choice. To submit. The tranquility which
moksha
gave or imposed was a lure.

The idea did not disturb Jeremiah. The Raver’s mastery did not allow resistance, or the emotions of resistance. It banished distress. Nevertheless there was more than one Jeremiah—and some of them could be concealed or dissociated in ways which did not attract
moksha
Jehannum’s attention.

Bubbling with glee,
moksha
read the Staff. His magicks lit the abstruse symbols, not with fire or shining, but with a deeper black that scorned human notions of darkness. His disembodied finger traced the script as he interpreted it. Yet he did not explain it in words. Instead he gave Jeremiah images.

While the runes came to life, Jeremiah found himself standing on the ruined dirt of Gallows Howe surrounded by the ire of trees.

His presence there was only a vision. He had not passed through time to an age when Caerroil Wildwood’s outrage ruled Garroting Deep. His body still sat on the floor of a cave in Mount Thunder, holding the Staff of Law across his thighs, feeling tremors rise through the gutrock; apparently watching his companions fight with their last strength. But his mind—

His mind had followed the Forestal’s symbols into the recesses of
moksha
Jehannum’s memories.

Everything that Jeremiah beheld,
moksha
viewed with hate, with savagery and revulsion. The dirt under his feet had drunk the deaths of Ravers. Their assumed bodies had dangled from the gibbet of the Howe while their spirits had shrieked in agony. Anywhere else in the Land, anywhere at all,
moksha
or
samadhi
or
turiya
could have simply slipped away when their flesh was taken, sparing themselves the horror of being slain. But in Caerroil Wildwood’s demesne, they had been denied that luxury. The Forestal had
forbidden
them. They could not escape.