Against All Things Ending

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  That was a form of hope which she had not expected; and she clung to it.

  Still she saw nothing that resembled compromise or acceptance in the lines of Galt’s back. Lit by the Sunstone, Clyme and Branl looked as blank as ancient carvings, their expressions worn away by ages of intransigence.

  “Yet we remain Haruchai rather than stone,” replied Galt. To the extent that his nature permitted supplication, he may have been pleading with Covenant. “Stone does not choose, ur-Lord. It merely submits to forces which it cannot withstand. Choice and battle are our birthright. We are the Masters of the Land because we elected to honor the promise of our ancestors to its fullest extent. And we”—he indicated Branl, Clyme, and himself—“are the Humbled because we earned our place by long combat. We are the avatars of the ancient failure of the Bloodguard, and must not continue to fail. You cannot ask it of us to countenance your departure in the Harrow’s company, and in Linden Avery’s. To do so is to ask that we become other than we are.”

  Covenant shook his head. “That’s exactly why you’re going to let me go. And why you’re going to come with us. In your whole history, no Haruchai has ever been given a chance to undo a Desecration. Or to help transform it. A chance to find out what’s on the other side of failure. And you have never had a chance to recover from what the Vizard did to you. Cail would have told you that, if you were willing to listen.”

  Perhaps it was only adrenaline that held the shards of his mind together. Or perhaps he truly did not want to be separated from Linden. He may even have cared about Jeremiah’s straits; cared deeply. He was capable of such compassion.

  Beyond question he cared about the fate of the Humbled.

  “Besides,” he added like a shrug, “what’s the alternative? Staying behind won’t accomplish anything. The Worm isn’t here. Neither is Lord Foul. If we want to stop them, we’ll have to go where they are. That means we’ll have to face Kastenessen and the skurj and Roger and caesures and Ravers and even Joan. If you think we can do all that alone—if you think we don’t need as many friends and allies as we can get—you’re out of your minds.”

  Hardly aware of what she did, Linden raised her hand to touch Covenant’s ring through the plucked flannel of her shirt; to anchor herself on its cold comfort as she had done for years. But it was gone. And her hands were empty without the Staff.

  Liand gripped his orcrest so tightly that its light shook, casting ambiguous shadows over the figures grouped around Covenant.

  Finally Stave intervened. From his place at Linden’s side, he said, “The Unbeliever has spoken. You will acquiesce. How otherwise will the Humbled redeem themselves in my sight?”

  Galt glanced at Clyme; at Branl. “Is there no other recourse?” he asked aloud when he could have addressed them mind to mind.

  They shook their heads slightly: so slightly that Linden almost missed the glint of resignation or remorse in their eyes.

  “Then,” Galt pronounced, “we redeem ourselves thus.”

  Wheeling so swiftly that Linden did not see him move, he flung a killing blow at her face.

  Her death would cancel her bargain with the Harrow. He would take Covenant’s ring and her Staff, and retrieve Jeremiah for his own use. By the inhumane standards of the Masters, that would put an end to her many Desecrations.

  Yet Galt’s blow did not touch her. Stave reached out and caught Galt’s fist easily, as if he had seen or heard the attack coming before Galt moved. The smack of knuckles against flesh made Linden flinch, but did not harm her.

  Liand yelped. Too late, the Ramen snatched at their garrotes. Coldspray and two other Giants surged forward with their heavy fists cocked.

  But Galt did not strike again, or resist Stave’s grasp. Instead he nodded once and stepped back. At the same time, Clyme and Branl released Covenant and held out their hands, open and empty, as if to show that they, too, had surrendered.

  “It appears,” the Ardent remarked to the Harrow, “that the scale of your entourage has been increased yet again.” He sounded smug once more. “Doubtless you will welcome these added witnesses to the grand culmination of your designs.”

  The Harrow muttered a curse under his breath; but Linden could not hear what it was.

  She did not move. She hardly dared to breathe. She was afraid that anything she might say or do would shatter the spell, the mystery, of what had just occurred.

  Somehow Stave the outcast and Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever had swayed the Humbled.

  5.

  Preparations

  Linden hardly knew how to feel. She was awash in so many conflicting emotions that she could not steer her way through them. Dismay still filled the bottom of her heart like shoals. But over those unanswerable rocks, strong currents and eddies seemed to run in every direction.

  She had resurrected Covenant at a terrible cost. She had purchased the means to reach her son by making herself powerless to aid him. Yet Covenant had reaffirmed his belief in her, his unmerited support. Indeed, he had backed her with such certainty that even the Humbled—the Humbled—had been moved.

  She was desperately grateful for everything that he had said and done; for anything that hinted that his love might be great enough to cover even her vast crime. Nevertheless his attitude weakened her. Like Liand��s overt compassion in Revelstone days ago, Covenant’s reasoning eroded her grip on herself. According to the contradictory logic of her emotions, he diminished her by denying that her every deed was wrong. If everything that she had done deserved repudiation, at least she knew where she stood. Blame told her who she was. It gave her meaning. Without it, she was less than powerless: she was insignificant.

  In that way, her gratitude implied both hope and despair.

  Perhaps this was what it meant to have friends and the possibility of love: to become smaller, too inadequate and fallible for words—and thereby to find herself no longer alone. No longer either solely culpable or solely necessary.

  If so, her position now was the opposite of Stave’s. Being cast out had given him the strength to stand alone, entirely isolated from his people. And that in turn had made it possible for him to be her friend in ways that no other Haruchai could comprehend, by solitary choice rather than by communal necessity.

  Long ago, Covenant’s circumstances had resembled Stave’s. Being a pariah on Haven Farm had taught him the courage and fortitude to care for Joan unaided.

  Linden, too, had once been alone. Alone and strong. Now the poles of her dilemma had been reversed. She had been weakened by acceptance and affirmation and trust. Together the Giants and the Ramen, Liand and Stave, Covenant and even the Humbled: they had brought her to the end of her choices.

  She was not sure that she could bear it.

  She was sitting on the grass again with her knees gripped to her chest; hiding her face. She needed time to recover from the joy and terror of Covenant’s declarations.

  Have you never bothered to wonder why Lord Foul and Kastenessen and the damn Harrow and even my lost son want Jeremiah so badly?

  Roger and the croyel dreamed of becoming gods.

  Apparently Covenant believed that Jeremiah’s plight and the Land’s could not be distinguished from each other.

  Around her, Linden’s friends also seemed to need time. Stave and the Masters regarded each other impassively; but Pahni and Bhapa stared openly at Clyme, Galt, and Branl as though they had never seen such men before. Through his bandage, Mahrtiir appeared to study the Humbled with a comparable surprise. He may have been wondering to what extent this unforeseen alteration in the posture of the Masters could be trusted.

  Liand’s features displayed mingled awe and vindication. He had known the intransigence of the Masters all his life: clearly he considered Covenant’s accomplishment a great feat. And Covenant had validated Liand’s instinctive commitments. The Stonedownor held up the light of his orcrest as if he were proud to offer illumination to the Unbeliever.

  The Swordmainnir conferred cautiously with each
other. The tension of their impulse to defend Linden was slow to dissipate. Cirrus Kindwind and Cabledarm muttered together, sharing their uncertainty about the Humbled. Bluntfist, Latebirth, and Onyx Stonemage reminded each other—no doubt unnecessarily—of various Giantish tales concerning Thomas Covenant. With Frostheart Grueburn and Stormpast Galesend, Rime Coldspray discussed the innominate contingencies of a journey with the Harrow and the Ardent. They did not know where they were going, or what they would encounter when they arrived. Nevertheless they envisioned potential dangers as best they could, and considered possible responses. At the same time, the Ironhand apportioned simpler tasks. As before, she asked Grueburn to watch over Linden and Galesend to care for Anele. Stonemage and Latebirth would guard Liand and the Manethrall respectively: Cabledarm and Halewhole Bluntfist, Pahni and Bhapa. Covenant she left to the Humbled.

  Meanwhile Anele fretted inchoately, as if he alone felt any need for haste.

  But Covenant had slipped again. In a weary murmur, as if his tenuous clarity had drained him, he talked about the birth of Sandgorgons in the Great Desert, describing to himself the mindless confluence of Earthpower and storms and barren sand which had manifested itself in those feral monsters. His knotted frown and the hunch of his shoulders gave the impression that he feared his memories—or feared his inability to identify their importance. His wrapped hands made gestures that went nowhere.

  Standing on the slope behind Linden, the Harrow ground his teeth in palpable frustration while the Ardent played restlessly with his ribbands.

  Liand—of course—was the first to step aside from his own concerns. Still holding his Sunstone so that everyone could see, he crossed the greensward to kneel in front of Linden. With her face covered, she did not look at him. Nonetheless her health-sense was as precise as vision. His concern added itself to the emotional tides and eddies that swirled through her as if she had been reduced to flotsam.

  “Linden,” he breathed, addressing himself only to her. “Linden Avery. I see the distress which feeds upon your heart. None here do not. Even Anele is disturbed by it, and I do not doubt that the Unbeliever would seek to console you, were he able to escape his wounded mind.

  “Will you not take comfort from the desire of your friends to accompany you in all things?

  “I do not speak of the Haruchai. They do as they must. Even Stave does so. Nor do I speak of the Giants, who delight in extremity and hazard. No, Linden. I speak of your lesser companions, we who have stood at your side from the first.

  “Manethrall Mahrtiir, Bhapa, Pahni, and I lack the heritage of Earthpower which exalts of the Haruchai and the Giants. Even Anele is a being of power where we are not. Yet we have confronted monsters and mysteries in your name. We have dared Demondim and skurj, kresh and Cavewights. And we have twice endured caesures. Within the second, I have participated in your thoughts, sharing the pain and force and darkness and yearning of your spirit.

  “Will you not consider that we choose to remain at your side, knowing that you have dared the Earth’s doom? Will you not permit our trust to ease you?”

  Linden could not face him. Nor could she explain herself: her emotions ran in too many directions to be named. Instead, muffled against her knees, she said, “I had a chance to take pity on Elena,” Covenant’s endlessly suffering daughter, “and I couldn’t do it.” She had not merely Desecrated Law to resurrect Covenant: she had failed to resurrect him whole. “I’m glad you’re coming with me. I’m glad you’re all coming. But I’m as broken as Covenant is. I’ve fallen—somewhere—and I don’t know how to climb out.”

  She felt Liand stiffen as she replied. At first, she thought that she had hurt him. But then she read him more clearly. He did not feel rejected. Instead he was drawing on the dignity with which he had often answered her efforts to spare him.

  “Then,” he told her sternly, “there is no other path for you. You must walk it or perish. Arise now and allow the Harrow to fulfill the terms of your exchange. Every delay heightens your own peril as much as your son’s.”

  Lost in her confusion, Linden was surprised to find that Liand of Mithil Stonedown the authority to command her. He diminished her: truly he did. At the same time, however, he bestowed new reasons for gratitude.

  “All right,” she answered indistinctly, although she did not move. “I understand. Just give me a minute. Tell everyone to get ready. We’ll leave soon.”

  When Liand rose to his feet and turned away, he seemed to take some of her tossed and eddying emotional currents with him.

  “Cords,” she heard Mahrtiir say, “this company requires water and sustenance. We have endured much without rest or aliment. Aliantha we must have, and also a stream to quench our thirst.”

  At once, Bhapa moved to obey his Manethrall. Pahni lingered long enough to turn a glance of yearning and veiled alarm on Liand. Then she, too, obeyed Mahrtiir.

  “Aye, Manethrall,” assented the Ironhand. “The Ramen are provident as well as courteous. For many reasons, we grieve those Giants whom the Land names the Unhomed. Among our sorrows is this, that their fate precluded us from hearing their tales of both the Ranyhyn and the Ramen.”

  As the Cords jogged away in opposite directions, Mahrtiir replied to Coldspray, “Already the benisons of your presence have been many and inestimable. I do not doubt that they will continue. But the Ramen are a short-spoken people. And even among my kind, I am considered curt. I lack the gifts of speech to offer sufficient honor. Know, however, that where my mouth is empty my heart is full.”

  The Ironhand and several of her comrades laughed in response. Chuckling, Kindwind replied, “You measure yourself unjustly, Manethrall. Were we uncertain that our path lies with Linden Giantfriend—which we are not—still would we gladly follow where a man who speaks as you do leads.”

  All right, Linden told herself. You can do this. It’s the last thing you have to do. You might as well face it.

  Sighing under the weight of her remaining burden, she raised her head and climbed slowly to her feet.

  Covenant had closed his eyes. He gave the impression that he was asleep on his feet. However, Linden could still sense the turmoil in his mind. Tucked into the waist of his jeans, the krill throbbed intermittently with new heat. Guided by turiya, Joan may have been testing his vulnerability. Doubtless she and the Raver had become stronger when Linden had torn Covenant out of the Arch of Time. They would hurt or kill him if they were given the opportunity. For the present, however, they were content to probe and wait.

  Linden wanted to ask Covenant what would happen to Andelain and the Wraiths when the mystic force of Loric’s krill was taken elsewhere. But she could guess well enough. Roger and his Cavewights had neither the desire nor the sheer numbers to expend their energies against Andelain. And she still believed that Kastenessen’s pain-driven fury was too single-minded to encompass the Hills. His rage was directed primarily at his fellow Elohim: he did not care about mere grass and trees and health and loveliness. The skurj, on the other hand—Their voracity might be drawn to the wealth of Earthpower here. And even if Kastenessen sent his monsters elsewhere for some purpose which Linden could not imagine, the Sandgorgons might come. Through Stave, she had offered them distractions enough to occupy them until they were overtaken by the world’s end. But among them they retained remnants, scraps, of samadhi Sheol’s malign spirit; and the Raver’s loathing of trees was as enduring and insatiable as the Ravers themselves. Like Salva Gildenbourne, Andelain might present a feast which the Sandgorgons could not ignore.

  Linden agreed with the Humbled: she had given up too much when she had accepted the Harrow’s terms. The fact that she could not have made any other choice did not console her.

  Waiting for the Cords, she confirmed that Jeremiah’s crumpled racecar remained deep in one of her pockets. The ruined toy was all that she retained of her son. If her friends and Covenant could not rid Jeremiah of the croyel, the one thing that he had taken from his former life might be all that she would ever
have.

  After a moment, Liand said carefully, “Linden.” He stood to the side so that his orcrest lit both Linden and Covenant. “One question remains. What must be done to preserve Anele? We know nothing of where we will be conveyed, and we have lost all that we bore from Revelstone. Only the armor of the Giants remains to ward him, and I fear that they will have need of it.”

  Anele, Linden thought. Ah, God. When your deeds have come to doom, as they must, remember that he is the hope of the Land. To her, the old man appeared to be both the most and the least helpless of her companions. He may also have been the most or the least necessary.

  But on the day of Jeremiah’s abduction by Roger, her son had devised two astonishing constructs in her living room. Out of bright plastic bits like tiny bricks, he had formed large structures which she could not fail to recognize: one of Revelstone; the other of Mount Thunder, ancient Gravin Threndor. Among the Wightwarrens deep in the chest of the mountain ten years and several millennia ago, she and Covenant had gone to the chamber of Kiril Threndor to confront Lord Foul.

  Since her translation to the Land in Jeremiah’s wake, she had learned to think of his last voluntary creations as guides or instructions—or as warnings. Certainly she would not have traveled to Andelain to resurrect Covenant if she had not first found the Staff of Law and been taken to Revelstone, where she had fallen victim to Roger’s insidious glamour.

  She believed now that she knew where the Harrow would take her, for good or ill.

  Unfortunately she could not close her mind to an alternative interpretation of her son’s constructs. If Lord Foul had indeed claimed Jeremiah years ago, those images of Revelstone and Mount Thunder may not have been voluntary. They may have been manipulations; ploys designed to make her serve the Despiser.

  Yet in the Hall of Gifts, Stave had spoken of children among his people.—it is their birthright to remain who they are. And he had asked, Are you certain that the same may not be said of your son?