Against All Things Ending

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  “Maybe he’s given up. Maybe he knows there’s nothing he can do.”

  Forget him in this ecstasy.

  At once, several of the Giants protested, prompted by their instinctive passion for life. “What, abandoned his Creation? The Earth entire?” But their incredulity bypassed Linden, leaving her hollow. Of course the Creator had turned his back. He had looked into her and seen what she was. Now he was done with her.

  She was done with him as well. He had failed her. Ignoring the Giants, and the chagrin among the Ramen, she tried by force of will to keep Covenant from slipping away again.

  “What about Jeremiah? You know everything that’s happened since Lord Foul killed you. Maybe you know everything that’s ever happened. Lord Foul touched him before I came here with you ten years ago. According to Roger, the Despiser owns him.” He’s belonged to Foul for years. And the Mahdoubt had said, a-Jeroth’s mark was placed upon the boy when he was yet a small child—“Is that true?”

  Had Jeremiah invited the croyel to possess him? Was there no hope for him at all?

  For a moment, Covenant ducked his head as if Linden had shamed him. But he did not fall. When he looked at her again, his mouth was twisted with anger, and his eyes caught a combative gleam from the krill.

  “I did what I could,” he said as if the words were stones, heavy and undeniable, “without risking the Arch. Maybe it was enough. If it wasn’t, we’ll make it enough. That boy doesn’t deserve what’s happened to him. Hellfire, Linden, he was practically a toddler. I refuse to believe he made choices then that can’t be undone.”

  Briefly Covenant glanced away as if he were gazing into unfathomable distances. “There are things the Despiser doesn’t understand. He can’t. No matter how clever he is. Like the Creator—like all of us—he has his blind side. Some things he just doesn’t see.”

  Then his attention returned to Linden so fiercely that she seemed to feel his hands holding the sides of her face, compelling her, although he had not stepped toward her or raised his arms.

  “Listen to me, Linden. None of the love you lavished on your son was wasted. That isn’t even possible. Until we know more about what’s happened to him, just trust yourself.”

  Abruptly Stave spoke. In a peremptory tone, as though he had missed an opportunity and meant to recapture it, he asked, “Ur-Lord, is it conceivable that the Creator has forsaken the Chosen and the Earth because he is no longer needed?”

  A wince of surprise or regret twisted one side of Covenant’s mouth. “Ah, hell,” he sighed. “Why not? Anything is conceivable. At least until the Worm gets enough to eat.”

  “On that matter, Giantfriend,” put in Rime Coldspray before Stave could continue, “have we been given sooth? Is the time remaining to us measured in days rather than in hours?”

  Covenant nodded with a hint of his earlier abstraction. “Berek’s right. Creating realities takes time. So does destroying them. I’m not part of the Arch anymore. I can’t protect it. But that doesn’t mean it’s going to crumble while we stand here talking about it.”

  Stave did not waver. “Ur-Lord,” he insisted, “is it conceivable that the Creator’s abandonment benefits his creation?”

  Covenant scowled at the outcast Master. “Think that if you want. Hell, believe it if you can. It’s as good as any other explanation. I can’t imagine what the benefit might be. But maybe that’s just one of my blind spots.” Harshly he concluded, “Anything is better than giving up.”

  With his lone eye and his impassive mien, Stave regarded Covenant as though the Unbeliever had made his point for him.

  It is ever thus. Obliquely Linden remembered Mahrtiir’s advice before she and her friends had left the wreckage of First Woodhelven. Attempts must be made, even when there can be no hope. The alternative is despair. And betimes some wonder is wrought to redeem us.

  Apparently Stave shared the Manethrall’s conviction.

  There are always surprises. And sometimes they help.

  Linden still had one last attempt to make. And Stave would support her. The Ramen would do the same. As would Liand.

  She was less sure of the Giants; but she suspected that their love of children would sway them. As for the Humbled—They would argue against her, of course. But Covenant had already commanded them to choose her.

  If she could, she meant to spare all of them the risk of her final gamble.

  “In that case,” she said, pleading for Covenant’s permission; for a confirmation of his approval, “I should go finish talking to the Harrow.”

  She had more questions for Covenant; many more. But she lacked the courage to ask them. If she had simply allowed herself to think them in words—Do you really believe that I’m still capable of something good? or, Do you still love me?—she might have fallen to her knees. Any answer, any answer at all, would have been more than she could bear.

  Before Covenant could respond, however—before she could turn away with or without his reassurance—Galt intervened.

  “Unbeliever, you must not permit this.” His voice was a blade sharpened by uncharacteristic passion. “To rouse the Worm was Desecration. To go now in search of her son, trusting to the word of this Insequent, is rank madness.”

  Covenant’s emanations were vivid to Linden’s percipience: he stood on the verge of another drop. An abyss yawned at the feet of his mind. She held her breath, expecting him to fall. But something in Galt’s tone, or in Covenant’s own determination, kept him from stumbling over the edge.

  “It makes more sense than you think.” His asperity dulled the edge of Galt’s demand. “We aren’t strong enough. I’m not all here. Kevin’s Dirt limits what she can do with her Staff. And she doesn’t really know how to use that ring. I wanted her to have it, but still—She isn’t its rightful wielder.

  “As matters stand, we don’t have enough power.” His halfhand displayed its emptiness. “Or the right kind of power. We can’t stop the Worm. While we’re trying to figure out how to save the Earth—if that’s even possible—we might as well do something useful.”

  “Unbeliever,” Galt protested. “Ur-Lord. Ringthane. You must hear me. Linden Avery’s purpose is intolerable. She will surrender all hope and receive only her son—and that only if the word of this Insequent is worthy of trust. We have learned an unwonted esteem for the Mahdoubt, but the Insequent as a race are as contemptuous and cruel as the Elohim. They serve only themselves. And when the Harrow has gained white gold and the Staff of Law, he will possess less efficacy against the Worm than Linden Avery now holds, for he is the rightful wielder of neither.

  “Surely there are other deeds within our strength which may serve to forestall the outcome of this Desecration. You must not permit—”

  Covenant tried to hold—Linden saw that—but he failed. While she watched, he toppled into himself; slid down an inner slope. For reasons that no longer made sense, he waved her away, sending her toward the Harrow. Then he draped an arm over Galt’s shoulders and turned the Master in the opposite direction.

  “Listen,” he said lightly, casually, as if he were gliding on oil, “did I ever tell you how the Theomach replaced the Elohim who guarded the One Tree? I can’t remember what we’ve talked about. The whole world is stories. Maybe I haven’t told them all.

  “They didn’t call him the Guardian. He was the Appointed. The first Appointed. He used a different form every time somebody approached the Tree. He used different names. But he always stood in the way. Until the Theomach out-did him.”

  In spite of his tone, Covenant’s manner seemed disjointed, confused by falling, as he drew the three Humbled with him. Yet somehow he contrived to insist; or the Masters felt required to attend him.

  Indirectly he spared Linden the contention of the Humbled as she forced herself to approach the Harrow.

  At once, Stave and Liand took positions at her shoulders. Mahrtiir instructed his Cords to watch over Covenant with Galt, Clyme, and Branl: then the Manethrall followed her. After an instant of
hesitation, the Ironhand sent a few of her Swordmainnir to hear whatever Covenant might reveal to the Humbled. With the rest of her comrades, Coldspray joined Mahrtiir.

  The Harrow waited where Linden had left him, as sure of himself as a plinth of marble. His chlamys hung at a jaunty angle from his shoulders. In the glow of the krill, the umber beads of his doublet looked strangely moist, as though they oozed damp theurgies. His trim beard jutted avidly.

  Tense with fright or ire, as if the beast knew what Linden’s approach signified, the Harrow’s destrier watched her askance. But he had trained his mount well: it stood its ground.

  “Lady.” The Insequent inclined his head with grave mockery. “On such a night, I am tolerant of interruption. Yet the hour is late, and the time has come for my long labors to bear their intended fruit. There can be no more apt occasion for my triumph than Banas Nimoram and the rousing of the Worm. The Elohim has fled, bearing her arrogance and self-woe to the distant reaches of the Earth. We must now speak of your son.”

  Linden remembered too well the deep sound of his voice; his fertile taunts. There is a service which I am able to perform for you, and which you will not obtain from any other living being. She ached to defy his scorn. But she had created a crisis for herself, and her friends, and Thomas Covenant—for the entire living world—to which she had no answer except the most extreme sacrifice. And she had already made her decision. She recognized the danger. But she did not know—

  “That’s right.” She glared up at him as if she could still bargain with him as an equal, in spite of her dismay. “My son. Here’s the problem. You want a lot, but you don’t give anything. You claim that you know where he is. You claim that you can take me to him. But you haven’t offered me even one reason to believe you. For all I know, this is just an elaborate charade. My God, Jeremiah is hidden from Esmer and the Elohim . As far as I know, Covenant can’t locate him. How am I supposed to believe that you’re the only one who knows where he is?

  “How am I supposed to believe that you and no one else can help me get there?”

  “You mistake me, lady.” The Harrow chuckled softly. “I did not avow that no other being is able to discern his covert, though it is certain that the mere-son and the Elohim cannot. Nor have I claimed that no other being is able to convey you thither. I merely state absolutely that no other being can both discern his hiding place and transport you to him.”

  Before Linden could respond, Stave asked stiffly, “Other beings have knowledge of this covert? Name them, Insequent.”

  She expected the Harrow to refuse; but he did not. “The unnatural lore of the ur-viles and Waynhim is capable of much,” he replied. “However, I will not translate their tongue for your edification. Nor will the mere-son, who fears them beyond measure. And he has deprived these Giants of the gift which once enabled them to comprehend the speech of such creatures.

  “Lady,” he added with a hint of glee, “you have no path except to accept my aid in exchange for those instruments of power which I covet.”

  “You’re wrong,” retorted Linden. “I can always refuse. In fact, that’s my only sane path, since you still haven’t given me a reason to believe you. Your whole attitude is inherently dishonest. Why should I just trust you?”

  He smirked through his whiskers. “And must I therefore trust you? Must I convey you to your son in the fond hope that only then will you honor your own word? Lady, no. I have witnessed the extent of your folly. I will not assume that you are honorable merely because you wish me to do so.”

  His argument stopped Linden: she could not imagine a way to counter it. If she had been in his place, would she have trusted a person who had violated the essence of Law in order to drag Covenant out of his place in the Arch of Time? She wanted to believe that she would have found room in her heart for any parent who sought to save a child; that she would not have been as self-absorbed and uncaring as the Harrow. But she had already demonstrated that she was capable of defying every consequence in order to get what she wanted. She remained ready to take any risk for Jeremiah’s sake; but she could not pretend that she was morally superior to the Harrow. His distrust was as valid as hers; as entirely justified.

  Esmer had once said, That which appears evil need not have been so from the beginning, and need not remain so until the end. She wanted to say the same about herself, but she knew that the Harrow would only laugh.

  “Then think of something,” she murmured weakly. “We’re at an impasse. Find a way out.”

  Surely she could not surrender Covenant’s ring and her Staff without some assurance—?

  “Lady,” he answered without hesitation, “that I speak sooth is confirmed by who and what I am. The word of any Insequent is as precious as wealth. We do not speak falsehood. It demeans knowledge, which we revere. Condoning lies, I would cease to be who I am.

  “I grant, however, that you do not know me. For you, my word cannot suffice. Therefore I will pledge my oath. You have cause to trust that such an oath will bind me. As I have previously forsworn my purpose against your mind and spirit and flesh, so will I swear now that I am certain of your son’s covert, and that I am able to convey you to him. In exchange for your instruments of power, I will further avow that when I have effected your reunion with your child, I will return you wheresoever you desire. To reassure you, I once again adjure all of the Insequent to heed me. If I do not abide by this second oath, as I have honored the first, I pray that the vengeance of my people upon me will be both cruel and prolonged.”

  Linden did her best to meet the empty blackness of his gaze. “That’s it?” Her voice was little more than a whisper of dried leaves gusting over barren ground. She had difficulty swallowing. “That’s your oath?”

  The radiance of the krill lit every line of his face, but could not touch the depths of his eyes.

  “It is,” he assented, “if we are in agreement.” Mirth stirred beneath the surface of his tone. “Place into my hands the white gold ring and the Staff of Law, and I will abide by my vow precisely as I have pronounced it. Refuse, and I will be bound by no oath but that which the Mahdoubt wrested from me, at the cost of her mind and use and life.”

  According to the Theomach, the Insequent were seldom petty when their desires opposed those of the Elohim.

  Sighing, Linden reached up to pull the chain of Covenant’s ring over her head.

  “Linden,” murmured Liand anxiously, “this troubles me. In one matter, I concur with the Humbled. The Harrow cannot equal the puissance which you have won from both your Staff and the white ring. Is it not certain that the hope of the Land, dim though it may be, will dwindle if his wishes are granted?”

  “Stonedownor—” Mahrtiir began gruffly.

  Liand refused to be interrupted. “And is it not certain also that the fell creature which you have named the croyel retains possession of your son? How will you win his freedom if you wield neither Earthpower nor wild magic?”

  “Liand,” said the Manethrall more firmly, “desist. Every friend of the Ringthane shares your apprehensions. Yet this choice is hers, not ours. And there lives no parent among the Ramen who would not choose as she does. Only the opposition of the Ranyhyn would suffice to deter us—and behold!” He gestured around the vale. “They have departed. By this token is their faith in the Ringthane confirmed.”

  The absence of the horses did not concern Linden. They would return when they were called; or when they were needed.

  “She has followed her heart to our present straits,” Mahrtiir concluded. “If she does not continue to do so, all that she has hazarded and lost will come to naught.”

  At the Manethrall’s command, Liand subsided; and Rime Coldspray nodded her approval. If Stave agreed with either Liand or Mahrtiir, he did not say so. But he had sons among the Masters, sons who had participated in casting him out of their mental communion. Nevertheless he had said of them—and of all the children of the Haruchai—that They are born to strength, and it is their birthright to remai
n who they are.

  Had Covenant not told Linden long ago that Lord Foul could not gain his ends through decisions like the one she made here?

  She held Covenant’s wedding band in her left hand as though she were testing the weight of her surrender. The fingers of her right gripped the Staff as they had under Melenkurion Skyweir; as if they were still cramped and sealed by pain and blood.

  Extending her arms toward the Harrow cost her an effort so severe that she feared it might burst a vessel in her brain. His grin stretched into a shape that resembled madness or murder as he reached out to accept the instruments he craved.

  A new voice stopped him: a voice that she had never heard before. Its pitch lay midway between the Theomach’s light assurance and the Harrow’s ripe bass, and it lisped slightly, giving each word a foppish timbre.

  “For this I have come.”

  The Harrow jerked up his head, already glaring in surprise and indignation. Snatching at their weapons, the Giants and Mahrtiir whirled to face the newcomer. While Liand stared, Stave adjusted his protective posture at Linden’s shoulder.

  She dropped her arms as though her burdens had become too heavy for her. Then she turned.

  Into the vale from the north rode a stranger. He was mounted on a mangy, shovel-headed horse so spavined that it should have been unable to support his improbable bulk. In spite of its gaunt ribs and sagging spine, however, the beast looked irascible enough to be a mule; and it bore its rider with an air of sideways malice, as if it had been waiting indefinitely for its chance to do him harm.

  But Linden spared only a glance for the horse. Its rider compelled her attention.

  Her first impression was one of grotesque corpulence; but then she saw that his apparent size was exaggerated by his apparel. He seemed to be clad entirely in ribbands: thousands of them in every conceivable hue and texture. Garish in the krill’s light, they fluttered and streamed from his head, his limbs, his torso, as if they were constantly unwinding themselves without ever quite flying loose. Independent of the night’s stillness and his own movements, they flapped in all directions, surrounding him like a penumbra of wind-tugged cloth; a personal effluvium of cerise and incarnadine and carbuncle, ecru and ivory, turquoise and viridian and azure, blue as deep as velvet, yellows ranging from the fulvous and the sulphuric to the palest gold.