The Last Dark (96 page)

There is no doom so black or deep—

Linden looked at Jeremiah. “Then you had better get rid of that Raver. He’s holding you back.”

Moksha
had probably exacerbated Jeremiah’s faltering earlier.

Jeremiah nodded. He closed his eyes. For a moment, he grimaced. He may have feared losing what he had gained from the Raver; feared losing a part of himself. But then he became a brief flare of Earthpower and forbidding.

Darkness billowed out of him.
Moksha
writhed uselessly, seeking a body that could sustain him. But the Giants were too weary to be used, Branl was too severely injured, and Stave and Canrik were too obdurate. Howling, the Raver fled.

Braced on Stave’s shoulder, Covenant left the dais. When he had reclaimed Loric’s dagger, he stabbed it into the stone where Lord Foul had stood. It had held the Despiser there briefly. Perhaps it would do something similar for Mount Thunder’s heart.

In the light of the gem, Covenant went to stand with Linden and Jeremiah.

Their faces were starting to blur. Bits of them seemed to fade in and out of solidity. The ichor of the mountain streamed from the walls, spattered from the ceiling. The dust of pulverized gutrock rose like spume from the cracking floor. For an instant, Branl appeared to be whole again. For another, he resembled a desiccated corpse. Canrik’s wounds and those of the Swordmainnir wavered between past and future.

“If it will be done,” Stave said, or had said, or would say, “it must be done now. Do not fear for us. We are at peace. Our deeds here would content the heart of any
Haruchai
.”

“And of any Giant,” Rime Coldspray managed faintly.

Covenant took the time to embrace Linden; to give her the best kiss that he had in him. He delayed long enough to ruffle Jeremiah’s hair. Then he said simply, “Now.”

With his halfhand, he clasped Linden’s left. Sharing his burdens, he raised both arms, held high his bright wedding band and hers. After an instant’s hesitation, Linden reached out to grip the cleansed Staff between Jeremiah’s hands, trusting the influence of the
krill
, or the accelerating collapse of Law and Time, or her own rightful use of wild magic to protect her from incompatible theurgies. She smiled at her son. He was concentrating too hard to smile back.

A final convulsion tore through Kiril Threndor. Wracked beyond endurance, the whole chamber became rubble.

Lifted by fire, Covenant, Linden, and Jeremiah stepped into the wake of the World’s End and rose like glory.

“The soul in which the flower grows”

Together in deep night, Thomas Covenant, Linden Avery, and Jeremiah walked west from the slopes of Gravin Threndor through the enduring woodland of Andelain.

At first, they could hear the distant turmoil of the Soulsease as it rushed between the walls of Treacher’s Gorge: a plaint like a lament, compelled and swift. But gradually the sound faded among the rich hush of the trees. Stately Gilden and high oaks comforted the heavens. Broad-boughed sycamores and gnarled cottonwoods spread their limbs in welcome. Occasional rills chuckled through the dark, and lush greenswards cushioned walking. Amused breezes wafted their small jests here and there, caressing the Andelainian largesse with tranquility as pellucid as Glimmermere. Along the hillsides,
aliantha
and flowering forsythia gathered like guides or guardians, confirming a path through the night.

The three carried no light, although Covenant and Linden could have etched the trees with argent, and Jeremiah bore the restored Staff of Law as well as his legacy of Earthpower. They preferred to make their way among the monarchs and nobles of the Hills without other illumination because they themselves had become light. The three of them glowed gentle silver as though they lived half in the realm of the Dead; as though they were in transition, passing into or leaving a dimension of refined spirit. And the scar on Covenant’s forehead held a more concentrated lucence both oneiric and definitive. He wore it like an implied coronet, the crown of all that he had loved and done.

The ambiguous auguries of their marred clothes were gone. Instead of ruined red flannel or a cut T-shirt or blood-soaked pajamas, instead of jeans and boots, they were clad in robes of fine sendaline supple as woven ghost-silk, soothing to their hard-used skin, and their feet were bare. In their passage beyond Kiril Threndor, they had been made clean.

Lifted by the verdant luxury of the grass, they walked easily, and the crisp air was an elixir in their lungs. On some other night, an atmosphere which had not known the sun’s touch for days might have left them shivering. On this night, the chill was refreshment, balm: an anodyne for iniquity and travail.

The three figures luminous as spectres did not feel distance. They did not notice time. They had done what they could to answer their own questions, and were free of impatience. Certainly Covenant and Linden could have walked for hours in silence, content with Andelain, and with the communion of their clasped hands. But Jeremiah was young. He spoke first.

“We did it.”

Linden smiled at him. “We did.”

After a while, Jeremiah asked, “Did we do it right?”

“I think so,” Covenant said. Old and present pains complicated his tone. He did not share himself with his essential enemy without cost. “It’s hard to be sure.” Too much had been lost.

Then he gestured ahead. There a glade bedecked with wildflowers opened among the trees. “But we did that part right.”

Past the boughs, the reaching twigs, the abundance of leaves, a vast multitude of stars emblazoned the heavens, distinct and glittering and inspired, complete in their loveliness. Their myriads made magnificence of the sky’s black void.

The three stopped in the heart of the glade. For a time, they simply gazed upward, rapt and reveling.

“Of course,” Covenant added, “we had help.”

From an innominate distance, Infelice came to stand with them. Sumptuous in her gems and beauty, the suzerain of the
Elohim
was herself an incarnation of stars. “Indeed, Timewarden,” she said like the chiming of faraway bells. “We who were preserved from the Worm have given our aid, though our diminishment has been grievous. Chiefly we have concerned ourselves with guiding the Worm’s return to its proper slumber. Doing so, we have assisted in the restoration of the One Tree to its full leaf and bloom. Yet these were lesser tasks gladly undertaken. The greatest deeds were yours, Timewarden, and yours, Wildwielder, and also yours, Chosen-son. Your achievements transcend us.

“You have made the world new.”

Jeremiah nodded, grinning.

“But all those people,” Linden said sadly. “Millions of them. Tens of millions. All that devastation. I did that. I have to live with so much death—” She did not continue.

Covenant tightened his grip on her hand.

Infelice shook her head. “Yet had you not roused the Worm,” she replied, “he whom you name the Despiser would have wrought graver harm by some other means. Damning the Earth, you enabled its redemption. Therefore do not fault yourself, Wildwielder. Though it shames me to confess it, your folly has surpassed the wisdom of the
Elohim
. We erred in our opposition, erred cruelly. Now we accept the outcome without regret.”

“‘Beings from beyond Time,’” murmured Linden.

“Indeed,” the
Elohim
said again. “For that reason, if for no other, there can be no fault in you. You were chosen for your task. You did not seek it out. Nevertheless you have found it within yourself to prevail.”

Then she faced Covenant. “For your sake, Timewarden, I am grieved. You have elected to bear the lasting burden of this restoration. You have given the living Earth a gift which exacts anguish. The Despiser is not defeated. He strives within you. While you live, he must be defeated continuously. I have come to proffer my obeisant gratitude—and also to inquire how you contrive to endure your triumph. Your willingness defies my comprehension. I could more readily grasp the surrender of your spirit to the Arch of Time. Your acceptance now surpasses me.”

Covenant grimaced. He almost smiled. “It’s easier than it looks. Or it’s harder. Or maybe it’s just worth the effort.” He ran his halfhand through his hair. “I don’t know how else to explain it. Lord Foul makes us strong.”

“Strong?” Jeremiah objected. “The Despiser? He would have slaughtered the whole world and laughed about it.”

“Well, sure.” Covenant shrugged. “But ask yourself why he’s like that. Berek said it. ‘Only the great of heart may despair greatly.’ All that malice and contempt is just love and hope and eagerness gone rancid. He’s the Creator’s curdled shadow. He—” He grimaced again. “I’m not saying this right.

“He gives us the chance to do better.”

Jeremiah and Infelice studied him, frowning.

“In any case,” Covenant added, “taking a stand against him is what makes us who we are.” He looked more sharply at the
Elohim
. “When we don’t, we aren’t anything. We’re just empty.”

Uncharacteristically gracious, Infelice bowed. “A just charge, Timewarden. I perceive now that it is condign. I am content to acknowledge it.

“Contemplating the paradox of your folly and wisdom, I bid you joy.”

Riding a delicate loft of bells, she took herself away.

Linden watched her husband’s face and smiled like a new day.

As if he were answering her, Covenant said, “I can feel my fingers. They seem to have nerves again, what’s left of them. And the soles of my feet—They used to be numb. Now I know I’m standing on grass. I can almost feel individual blades.

“I’ve always thought you were beautiful, but I had no idea you’re
so
beautiful.”

She kissed him for a time while Jeremiah rolled his eyes. Then the companions walked again.

The Hills displayed themselves like treasures. Leagues may have passed, unmeasured by Andelain’s kind ease. In the east, Mount Thunder’s dark bulk showed against the paling sky. Intimations of morning lifted birds into the air. Chirps and twitters began like introits, the preliminaries of worship. Every in-drawn breath was a sacrament. Every exhalation released care.

And from out of the fading night came Wraiths to do homage.

Fleet as candle-flames, and glad as an aubade, throngs of living fires danced among the trees, two or three at first, then scores, then innumerable hundreds. Sharing warmth and brightness like wealth, they gathered in the air. Harmoniously they measured the sequences of a stately gavotte around Covenant, Linden, and Jeremiah. One at a time, they wafted closer to kiss blessings onto Linden’s forehead, and onto Jeremiah’s. But in front of Covenant they appeared to falter as though they were abashed or frightened, dismayed by awe. Eschewing his forehead, they touched lightly on his wedding ring, then scampered away, relieved and eager, piquant as trills.

When the Wraiths had bestowed their approval and were done, the companions resumed their effortless travel.

Later, on a rise crowned with larch and plane, they heard a snatch of song. There they paused to listen.

Swelling around them, melodies arched and ached among the boughs. A counterpoint as deep as roots joined the music, and leaves offered a fluttering descant: the strophes of an ode to spring and fertile burgeoning, to anticipations of ripe summer. Soon the whole woodland seemed on the verge of full-throated song. But then the chorus shrank or condensed until it became Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir striding upward with the earned remains of his staff cradled in one arm.

Calling his name, Linden started toward her dear friend. After a few steps, however, she halted at the sight of the crowd ascending behind the former Manethrall.

Tall figures followed the Forestal, creatures sculpted and kingly in their perfection. A few were grey, the rest as black as the departing night. Like Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir, they were eyeless. But he had lost his orbs in battle: they had been fashioned without the need for ordinary sight. Where gaping nostrils had once dominated their faces, they now had more human noses which they appeared to bear proudly; and their mouths could smile. The straight strength of their limbs matched the symmetry of their forms and the sovereignty of their carriage.

The tallest of the creatures accompanied the Forestal a step behind his right shoulder: the loremaster. The rest of the transformed ur-viles and Waynhim stopped a few strides away. The loremaster carried its fearsome iron jerrid in one fist, but the other creatures had exchanged their eldritch knives for wands like twigs with which they appeared to shape the verdant music.

“Mahrtiir?” Linden began. “Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir? You have no idea—Are these—?” Unable to complete a question, she said through her tears, “I am so glad to see you!”

“We are well met,” mused the Forestal, “well met in all sooth, Ringthane, Linden Avery, friend. And well met also, Covenant Timewarden and young Jeremiah. Among unforeseen wonders, you are a particular delight. Though I sang against the Worm with every aspect of my given strength, I did not prevent the world’s death. Nor could I evade it. Yet I am here. Indeed, all who clung to life at the moment of the Earth’s extinction live still. While the restored Arch endures, you will be remembered and honored among all of the wide world’s forests.”

“But how did you get here?” asked Linden. “We left you—I don’t even know how far we’ve come.”

“Andelain is here,” answered the ur-Mahrtiir. “Salva Gildenbourne is nigh. When the Worm had turned aside from my service to the fane, I wished to meet my passing among the trees and richness and innocence which I love. Therefore I sang to these woodlands, and was conveyed hither.”

At once, he continued, “I will not linger. The sight of you suffices for me, Linden Ringthane. A task immense and needful awaits, and I am avid to begin while my powers freshen within me. Much of lands and peoples, of wood and mountains, has been laid waste, much that cannot be restored. Yet much remains. And there can be no true healing that does not commence with trees.

“I am become the Earth’s Forestal.”

“Alone?” Linden inquired like a plea. “Alone, Mahrtiir?”

Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir sang mirth. “Assuredly not, Linden Avery, friend. With me are these ur-viles and Waynhim, the last of their kind. Aye, they are Demondim-spawn, given life by lore rather than by natural birth. But they are also High Lord Elena redeemed from torment. They are the Auriference and Emereau Vrai and Diassomer Mininderain and many other women. They are the dark yearning of
merewives
and the sunlit absorption of
Elohim
. And now they are also Forestals.

“Encountering each other here, and filled with wonder that we had been spared, we spoke at length, these regal creatures and I. I proposed to them a new interpretation of their Weird, one suited to their perfected forms and exalted spirits—and they adjudged the meter and harmony and timbre of my music worthy. I will not labor for the Earth’s renewal alone.

“In sooth,” the ur-Mahrtiir admitted, “our task is too great for us. But we are not daunted. We will grow, Linden Avery.” His singing rose until it shivered every leaf, flourished along every bough; and every creature sang with him. “We will
grow
.”

“Guardians,” Linden murmured as the Forestals carried their melodies through the Hills toward other, more distant forests. “In the Creator’s stead.”
How may life endure in the Land, if the Forestals fail and perish, as they must, and naught remains to ward its most vulnerable treasures?
“I would never have guessed that Demondim-spawn were the answer to Caerroil Wildwood’s question.”

“They weren’t,” said Covenant. “You were. You and Mahrtiir. You kept that promise, just like you kept your promise to the ur-viles and Waynhim.