She wanted to be able to say the same of herself.
She had expected vehement objections from the Giants and even Mahrtiir; indignation and arguments; angry pleading. What she received was harder to bear. Her friends were shocked: that was obvious. But they did not react like people who believed that she had proposed a Desecration. Their emotions were vivid to her health-sense.
What they felt after the initial jolt was hope.
For a long moment, none of the Giants looked at her. Stave appeared to regard some private vista which was visible to no one else. Only Mahrtiir and Jeremiah kept their attention fixed on Linden. The Manethrall watched her as if he were probing her defenses, looking for an opening. Jeremiah stared with dismay gathering like stormclouds in his darkened gaze.
Frostheart Grueburn was the first to speak. As if to herself, she mused, “Extreme straits require extreme responses. It cannot be otherwise.”
“No!” Jeremiah snapped immediately. “Mom, you can’t do this!” He seemed to keep himself from howling by an effort of will that made Linden’s heart quake. “Maybe you can go away. Maybe you can make a caesure do what you want.” When he clenched his fists, flames dripped between his fingers like blood. “But you won’t be able to get back!”
At that moment, he sounded unutterably forlorn.
Dust bit at Linden’s eyes. She blinked furiously to clear them. Don’t say that, she wanted to plead. Don’t make this harder than it already is. But she demanded a sterner reply from herself. The Land required more from her. Jeremiah himself required more.
God, she was tired—
Meeting her son’s gaze with wind and dust and tears in her sight, she said, “I made a promise to Caerroil Wildwood. I don’t know how else to keep it. I don’t know how else to save any of us. I’ll find a way to get back.”
Stave had turned his unyielding gaze toward Jeremiah. Manethrall Mahrtiir appeared to be suppressing a desire to speak. Tension mounted among the Giants, as restless as the wind. But the Ironhand still stood with her head bowed, studying the ground at her feet, saying nothing.
“And I’m talking about moving through time,” Linden added before Jeremiah could respond. “Remember that. How long it takes for me won’t have any effect on you. If I can do anything that even remotely resembles what I have in mind, there’s no reason to think that I won’t get back before the Worm comes.”
“But you won’t get back,” Jeremiah insisted. His voice shook. Nevertheless he made a palpable effort to reason cogently. “You can make a caesure now because the Law is already weak. I mean Time and Life and Death. It’s all been damaged. But back then, when there are still Forestals, everything is intact. How can you make another caesure that long ago? Just trying, you’ll change the Land’s history. Even if that doesn’t break the Arch, you’ll hurt it.”
Desperately he finished, “We’ll never see you again.”
His wounds were so close to the surface that Linden could almost name them.
And she understood his objection. It was apt in more ways than he appeared to recognize. If she reached the Forestals, her arrival would inevitably afflict them with knowledge—or at least questions—which they should not possess. That alone might do irreparable harm to the Arch.
Yet she had an answer. “Then I won’t go back to the oldest Forestals. I’ll try to reach Caer-Caveral.” Hile Troy. “He was the last. Meeting me won’t affect any of the others. And in his time, the Law of Death was already broken. He’s about to break the Law of Life himself. I won’t change his history.”
Surely Hyn could find her way through a caesure to Caer-Caveral?
“In any case,” she said, “what else do you want me to do? I’m useless here. I’m useless to you. I don’t understand your talent, and I can’t carry boulders. My only alternative is to supply the Giants with strength until they work themselves to death—and that I can’t bear.
“I know it’s dangerous,” she concluded. She was running out of words. “But I’ll get back somehow. Hyn will bring me.”
Neither her manner nor her appeal comforted her son: she saw that. He felt threatened, rejected. Forsaken when he finally had a chance to prove himself. He no longer looked at his mother. One finger at a time, he unclosed his fists. Then he spread his hands to reveal small gusts of fire cupped in his palms.
“You can say what you want.” In the gloom, the stains on his pajama bottoms seemed to devour his legs. “Talking won’t help. I have more important things to do.”
Lit by Earthpower, he turned away.
The sight twisted a knife in Linden’s heart. She needed the kind of courage that Thomas Covenant had tried to teach her. But she did not have it, and he was not here.
Grueburn and the other Swordmainnir squirmed. Rime Coldspray scowled thunderous disapproval at the dirt. The Manethrall’s bandaged attention did not leave Linden’s face.
Leaning against her boulder, she waited for their reactions. She had chosen this crisis for herself. Come good or ill—
How often had she heard those words?
They were better than despair.
Finally the Ironhand raised her head. Gloaming veiled her mien, but it did not conceal the set of her jaw or the lines of her shoulders. Without preamble, she asked, “Swordmainnir, will you gainsay me?”
Her tone was like the edge of her glaive.
As if they knew her mind, Latebirth, Onyx Stonemage, and Halewhole Bluntfist muttered, “Nay.” The others shook their heads. With both fists, Frostheart Grueburn punched lightly at the earth to emphasize her answer.
“Then,” Coldspray announced harshly, “I say to you, Linden Avery, Giantfriend, that you are a wonderment. I speak with respect—aye, and with admiration as well, though my manner belies the fullness of my heart. That your intent is foolhardy beyond all reckoning cannot be doubted. Indeed, it appears to be as extreme as a leap into the abyss of She Who Must Not Be Named. Nonetheless you raise my spirits. In such times, all deeds must be extreme. The Earth’s need requires it.
“Therefore my word to you is this. My comrades will give of their utmost to aid young Jeremiah, for his purpose is likewise admirable. Stave of the Haruchai and I will accompany you, doing what we may in your service.”
The other Giants nodded their approbation. Some of them started to applaud. But Stave cut them off. Peremptory as a challenge, he stated, “I will not. My place is with the Chosen-son. And he will have need of your aid, Rime Coldspray, your labor and stonelore. You cannot be spared.”
Quick protests gathered in the Swordmainnir. Before any of them could speak, Stave declared, “Yet some companion she must have. Should she attempt this quest alone, she will not return. In the absence of High Lord Loric’s krill, she cannot wield white gold while she holds the Staff of Law. The conflict of such theurgies must prove fatal.”
At once, Manethrall Mahrtiir surged like a shout to his feet. “Then this task is mine. It was foretold for me by the Timewarden himself while his spirit remained within the Arch.”
Linden had not forgotten. You’ll have to go a long way to find your heart’s desire. Just be sure you come back.
“In Andelain,” the Manethrall continued, gathering force as he spoke, “Covenant Timewarden avowed, ‘There is no doom so black or deep that courage and clear sight may not find another truth beyond it.’ For that reason, and in the name of prophecy, and because I must, I will accompany Linden Avery, Chosen and Ringthane, Wildwielder.
“In the endeavor which young Jeremiah contemplates, I have no part. Yet I am Ramen, attuned to the Ranyhyn, and also acquainted with the perils of passages within Falls. Where I am weak, amanibhavam will sustain me. I will not fail the Ringthane.”
Jaw jutting, he averred, “I speak for my people. We must become more than we have been, lest we prove unworthy of the Ranyhyn. The tale of the Ramen is too small to justify the service which defines us.”
Coldspray and her people studied him with darkness in their faces. Some of them still wished to pr
otest, especially Latebirth, who had often carried the Manethrall. Others showed resignation or grief, or waited uncertainly for their Ironhand’s reply. But Linden bowed her head and let new gratitude flow through her. Although she wanted Mahrtiir with her, she had been loath to ask so much of him. His unrequested willingness eased her reluctance.
After a long moment, Rime Coldspray raised her voice into the twilight. “Manethrall of the Ramen, I am abashed.” Her tone was gentler now, and more sorrowful. “I confess it, Giant though I am. Eyeless, your sight is clear where mine is clouded. We must accede to your counsel.”
“Then,” Mahrtiir returned, “I bid you farewell for a time. May our absence be brief. For my part, I am certain of you. When you have set your hearts to any purpose, you will accomplish it. So it was said of the Unhomed, and so it is with you. But where their tale has grown dim with age, yours will shine out, illuminating the last days of the Earth.”
Hurrying as if he feared that Linden might object, the Manethrall turned to her. While she sat with her head lowered and a dull ache in her chest, he asked, “Ring-thane, shall we depart?” An eagle’s eagerness sharpened his voice. “That you are sorely weary is plain. Yet delay will not restore you. Doubtless you desire to be reconciled with your son. Yet delay will not comfort him. He spoke thoughtlessly, and will recant when he is calmer. I do not doubt that he will greet your return with joy.”
“All right.” Linden did not raise her head. “All right.” Carefully she took a last drink from her waterskin. Then she rested her hands on the blackness of her Staff. “We should go while I’m too tired to be terrified.”
Still without looking at her friends, she said, “Coldspray, Grueburn, all of you—I’m not worried about you.” Instead of facing anyone, she studied Caerroil Wildwood’s runes as if they might suddenly reveal their meaning. “You’re Giants. If it can be done, you’ll do it.”
Her weakness and dread were a sickness in the pit of her stomach, a foretaste of nausea and hornets and gelid emptiness as cruel as a chasm. They seemed bottomless.
“But, Stave—” she added unnecessarily. “Be sharp.” She could not meet his gaze. “At some point, someone is going to try to stop Jeremiah. I hope that Mahrtiir and I can come back before that happens. If we don’t, Jeremiah and the Giants will need everything that you have in you.”
The former Master regarded her with no expression that her nerves could interpret. “Linden Avery, I have said that uncertainty is an abyss.” His flat voice contradicted the gust and swirl of the wind; the plumes of dust. “Nevertheless I do not fear it. Only your self-doubt troubles me. You esteem yourself too slightly. For that reason, you are prone to darkness—and for that reason alone. Forget such concerns. You are not Kevin Landwaster. Remember, rather, that you are loved by those who know you well.
“Go blessed by the goodwill of your companions here, and by the stalwart aid of the Manethrall, and by the prowess of the Ranyhyn. It may chance that you will accomplish something other than your intent. Yet good will come of it ere the end.”
“All right,” Linden repeated. What else could she say? But still she did not lift her head or rise to her feet. Her mortality was too heavy for her to carry.
She felt Frostheart Grueburn moving toward her; but she did not know why until Grueburn scooped her from the ground. Clasping her under her arms, Grueburn held her high, extending her into the grey light as if she were the standard around which all of the Swordmainnir rallied; and as Grueburn did so, the other Giants called Linden’s name softly, celebrating her with murmurs. Then Grueburn set Linden on her feet.
There Mahrtiir took her arm. Baring his teeth like a hunter who had finally found the spoor of his prey, he said, “Come, Ringthane. Lean upon me while you may. In a moment, Stave will summon the Ranyhyn. To spare our companions, we must gain a wary distance ere you attempt the creation of a Fall. We will walk while we await great Narunal and valiant Hyn.”
Linden accompanied him because he drew her with him. Her attention was contracting. Already the Giants were becoming dim. Stave had begun to fade. Jeremiah was little more than a will-o’-the-wisp bobbing among the boulders and shards. But she was not growing faint with fatigue and fear; not sinking back into the blankness which had overcome her in front of She Who Must Not Be Named. Rather she was concentrating inward, seeking the private door, secret and familiar, that opened on wild magic; the learned impulse which allowed her to invoke rampant argent.
Its imperfection is the very paradox of which the Earth is made, and with it a master may form perfect works and fear nothing. Kasreyn of the Gyre had said that. But he may have been wrong. And she was not a master.
Still she persisted. In recent days, she had surrendered any number of things. The time had come to surrender hesitation and doubt. Like a derelict, she limped over the cratered ground. Step by step, the stains mapped into her jeans and the runes which defined her Staff led her away from her son. Without the Manethrall’s help, she could have fallen.
Vaguely she heard Stave whistling. Soon the Ranyhyn would come: yet another reason for gratitude. It impelled her to turn her mind outward once more.
Resting on Mahrtiir’s support, she asked, “You do understand, don’t you? You can let Hyn and Narunal know what we want?”
“Aye, Ringthane,” Mahrtiir answered steadily. “I comprehend. And that which I comprehend, our mounts will grasp as well. Are they not Ranyhyn, the great horses of Ra, Tail of the Sky, Mane of the World? Their devoir will both serve and preserve us.”
Linden nodded, but she was not listening. He had said enough. Now she needed wild magic, and it did not come naturally.
Perhaps she managed a hundred paces. The scuff of her boots cast small plumes of dust into the swirling wind, the increasing chill. Then she heard or felt the approach of hooves.
Gratitude, she thought. Maybe that was the answer. Gratitude and trust. Jeremiah was alive and free. So was Covenant, in spite of Joan. And Covenant had urged Linden to take this risk. Hyn and Narunal would make it possible. Maybe if she remembered to be grateful and have faith, she would be able to avoid High Lord Kevin’s tragic arrogance.
When the mare and the stallion joined her, Mahrtiir spent only a moment in homage. Then he boosted Linden onto Hyn’s capable back. A heartbeat later, he mounted Narunal. In the half-light, he looked to Linden like all of the Land’s bounty incarnated in one mere human as frail and fallible as herself.
Prompted by Narunal’s imperious whinny, Linden passed the Staff of Law to the Manethrall. Covenant’s ring she lifted from its hiding place under her shirt. Pressing the wedding band between both of her hands, she brought forth silver flame as if she had the courage to defy the Earth’s doom.
As if she believed that good could be accomplished by Desecration.
In the distance, Jeremiah seemed to call her name. Overhead Kevin’s Dirt appeared to catch fire and burn, lit by wild magic. But she paid no heed. Taking the risk, she created a disruption of Time and history that might destroy the world.
8.
The Right Materials
Jeremiah was only a boy, but in some ways he knew too much. In others, he knew too little.
Dissociation had denied him the normal processes of growing up; the gradually acquired experience of passions and denials, of joys and disappointments. Even in the most practical matters, his development—his acquisition of earned knowledge—had been stunted. At the age of fifteen, he had never so much as changed his own clothes. Certainly he had never learned the most mundane social interactions. In that respect, he was younger than his years; unfamiliar with himself.
Yet he had learned other lessons too well. The flames of Lord Foul’s bonfire had taught him that some pains were unendurable. And the moral rape of possession—the manner in which he had been used by the croyel to betray Linden’s trust—had shown him that hating what was done to him both aided and harmed him. It gave him the desire to fight back—and yet it also convinced him that he would not have been so h
urt if he did not deserve it. Hate cut both ways. If he had not been such a coward—if he had not hidden himself away to escape his wounds—Lord Foul and the croyel would not have been able to possess him, use him. He had brought his worst suffering on himself.
He did not understand why that was true. Nevertheless he yearned to pay back what had happened to him. At the same time, he hated what he felt. He hated himself for feeling it.
But there had been other forces at work in him as well. His mother’s love and devotion had kept him alive. With Tinkertoys and Legos, Lincoln Logs and racetrack sections, he had constructed a sense of possibility and worth that might have eluded a less abused youth. And during his visits to the Land, Covenant’s spirit in the Arch had offered him a one-sided friendship, compassionate and respectful.
The result was a conflicting moil of emotions which he did not know how to manage.
And now Linden had abandoned him; actually abandoned him in order to enter a caesure with Mahrtiir. The fact that she had explained her actions did not ease him. It did not muffle the beat of indignation and fear in his veins. He had counted on her. She had taught him to count on her.
And yet, strangely, he could hardly contain his excitement. Right here, right now, he had a chance to make his whole life worthwhile. If he succeeded, he would save some of the Elohim, some of the stars. He would prove that Lord Foul and the croyel and his natural mother were wrong about him. From head to foot, he trembled with eagerness to begin.
That contradiction was confusing enough; but he had more.
He had inherited Anele’s legacy of Earthpower. It belonged to him now: the Land’s living energy had become as much a part of him as the blood in his veins. He was inured against the vagaries of heat and cold, wind and wet. His bare feet endured sharp rocks and the ancient shards of weapons or armor without discomfort. His health-sense sloughed off Kevin’s Dirt. He could fuse bones to make marrowmeld sculptures. He could even summon fire from his hands. And there might be more possibilities.
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