Against All Things Ending

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  The Humbled remained close to Covenant. Their halfhands seemed to mock him at the edges of his vision. He suspected that they would stop him if he tried to approach Anele. They had never trusted Anele’s legacy—or any use of Earthpower.

  “Anele,” Linden whispered. “Tell me.”

  “Even here it is felt,” the old man said as if he were answering her. “Written. Lamented.” But the words were not a reply. Anele’s fixation on the lines of malachite within the obsidian was complete. He responded to the world’s oldest secrets, not to her. “The rousing of the Worm. It devours the magic of the Earth. The life. But its hunger is too great. When it has depleted lesser sustenance, it must come to the Land.”

  Lesser sustenance? He must have meant the Elohim. But Covenant could not be sure. His own memories were too fresh.

  There is too much. Power and peril. Malevolence. Ruin. And too little time. The last days of the Land are counted.

  On some level, however, he knew that Anele was right. The Worm was eating the magic out of the world. But it needed more than it could obtain from any Elohim—or from all of the Elohim.

  By its very nature, the Worm would give Lord Foul what the Despiser had always craved.

  Covenant did not know how Linden would be able to bear that responsibility.

  “Heed him well,” the Ardent advised in a hushed murmur. “This has been foreseen. It is knowledge which has been hidden since the rising of the first dawn within the Arch, shared by none but the Elohim. He must be heeded.”

  “We heed him very well,” returned Rime Coldspray in a low growl. She may have wanted to silence the Insequent.

  “The Worm will come.” Gradually Anele’s voice took on a ritual cadence, a sound of litany, as if he recited a sacral truth. “It must. Bringing with it the last crisis of the Earth, it will come. Here it will discover its final nourishment.”

  Become as trees, the roots of trees. Seek deep rock.

  Liand’s upraised arm trembled with cold and effort. The Sunstone shook, stirring shadows like shaken leaves. Stave’s lone eye caught the radiance in a flicker of gleams as if he were gazing into the fiery face of apocalypse.

  “Here?” Linden asked, still whispering. Bereft or abandoned: Covenant could not tell the difference. “In the Lost Deep? In that chasm? What nourishment?”

  Surely she knew that Anele did not hear her?

  —the necessary forbidding of evils—

  If the Earth had no hope, there was none for Jeremiah—or for any love.

  “If it is not forbidden, it will have Earthpower,” Anele said in tones of rock and woe. “If it is not opposed by the forgotten truths of stone and wood, orcrest and refusal, it will have life. The very blood of life from the most potent and private recesses of the Earth’s heart. When the Worm of the World’s End drinks the Blood of the Earth, its puissance will consume the Arch of Time.”

  “Anele!” Linden cried softly. “Are you sure? Anele? What forgotten truths?”

  Beyond question the old man did not hear her. He said nothing further. He may have fallen asleep, exhausted by prophecy.

  To Melenkurion Skyweir, Covenant thought dumbly. Of course. Not here. Not to the Lost Deep, or to any place within Mount Thunder. The Despiser had buried too much evil in these depths. The Worm needed Earthpower concentrated and pure, the world’s essential chrism.

  As pure as orcrest. As pure as the wrath of Forestals, who had possessed the power to refuse—

  “It is done,” the Ardent announced with quiet satisfaction. “As it was foreseen, so it has transpired. And I alone among the Insequent bear witness. The Harrow himself has heard no single word. He cares naught for the joy of such epiphanies.”

  Some of the Giants closed their fists, glared at the Ardent. Others ignored the Insequent. The Humbled watched impassively as Linden bowed her head over Anele. In Liand’s unsteady light, the Ramen seemed to shrink as though they were being made smaller by the loss of open skies and plains, of sunshine and Ranyhyn.

  But Covenant shared none of their reactions. He was slipping again, skidding down a scree of moments into the Land’s past. Losing the present. There was evil in the chasm. It was going to wake up. He could not stop himself.

  —the necessary forbidding—

  He did not understand how he could have failed to remember.

  7.

  Crossing the Hazard

  Linden was pulled in too many directions at once. She had no time to comprehend what she heard or sensed or needed. Kneeling at Anele’s side in the distressed light of Liand’s orcrest, she felt Covenant’s mind lose its grip on the present; felt him fall into himself. But there was nothing she could do about that, nothing. His dilemmas were beyond her. Without her Staff and his ring, she had no purpose of any kind except to reach her son.

  That, too, might be impossible now. She and her companions had gathered on the wrong side of a bottomless chasm. A terrible power lives here. The cold was already terrible.

  That the Harrow had bound himself with oaths did not comfort her. No one can get in if that portal isn’t opened first. The shock of being in this immured cavern, without full percipience or clean air, was not as great as her fear that he did not know how to unseal the way into the Lost Deep.

  The Worm of the World’s End was coming to the Land.

  Like an echo of the paresthesia that had afflicted her among the Viles millennia ago, she seemed to smell the hard respiration of the Giants, taste the vapor they exhaled. Their confusion as they scrambled to absorb Anele’s revelations stung her nerves.

  Here it will discover its final nourishment. The very blood of life from the most potent and private recesses of the Earth’s heart.

  The old man was unconscious now, exhausted by his encounter with the world’s oldest secrets.

  Without forbidding, there is too little time.

  Linden could not imagine where anyone would find or wield enough power to forbid the Worm of the World’s End. Covenant and wild magic might conceivably have done so. But his mind was broken, and Linden had given his ring to the Harrow.

  She did not believe that the Harrow would be able to keep Covenant’s ring. She hardly considered it likely that he would retain her Staff. He was counting too heavily on the inability of beings like the Elohim and Esmer to locate Jeremiah. And there were other enemies—

  She had surrendered to the Harrow in part because she suspected that forces greater than her human desperation would oppose his intentions for her son.

  But first the portal had to be opened. With one mistake, any mistake, the Harrow would break the fragile span of stone; doom Jeremiah. The Staff of Law and Covenant’s ring would be lost.

  And A terrible power lives here: another warning that Linden could not afford to heed.

  Outwardly she seemed steady enough. Her hands did not shake. The steam of her breathing did not blind her. Nevertheless her heart shivered as if she were too cold to move—

  —as cold as she had felt in the winter of the Land’s past, where Roger Covenant and the croyel had betrayed her.

  After a moment, however, Rime Coldspray spoke. “Doubtless we have been granted a precious insight.” She sounded like a clenched fist. “In this, the Ardent has spoken sooth. Here we have gained knowledge of the world’s plight which we could not have obtained by other means. Yet it is of no present import. It will serve no purpose if we do not both retrieve Linden Giantfriend’s son and evade the perils of this demesne.”

  No present import. Yes. Coldspray’s voice seemed to draw the Ironhand and all of the Giants out of the shadows cast by Liand’s wavering light. Her tone restored their normal solidity. Linden’s impression that she could hear or feel the echoes of extinct Viles receded.

  —if we do not both—

  Repulsed by the taste of the stale air, she took a flinching breath. The Sunstone made respiration possible; but the atmosphere of the cavern was too stagnant to be refreshed by mere orcrest.—if we do not—Coldspray had broken the trance
of Anele’s utterances. Now it was Linden’s turn.

  But she had too many concerns. She wanted to help or caution the Harrow, and understand Anele, and catch hold of Covenant as he fell like water dripping from the stalactites. She believed that she would be content if she could find Jeremiah; if she could close her arms around him one last time. She tried to believe that. But it was not the truth. She needed to see him freed from the croyel. And she would never be content without Covenant.

  For her own sake, she wanted Covenant to be whole. Then she might be able to forgive herself. But he was essential for less selfish reasons as well.

  If she could not think clearly in this fug of stagnation and impercipience, she should at least move. Rise to her feet. Do something. But she was too weak. Shivering spread outward from her heart. The small effort of lifting her head was beyond her.

  After a moment, Manethrall Mahrtiir asked tentatively, “Is it conceivable that the Harrow also has spoken sooth?” He sounded unsure of himself, almost timid; daunted by ancientness and immeasurable stone and intimations of evil. Truly blinded. “Will his intent for white gold and the Staff of Law and the Ringthane’s son serve to forbid the Worm? Will his ploys suffice to preclude the Worm from the Blood of the Earth?”

  Flatly Stave replied, “Anele’s words suggest otherwise. To his ears, or in his sight, the requisite knowledge is remembered only here. The Harrow does not truly comprehend the Worm.”

  “Then,” stated Galt, “the burden falls to the Unbeliever. The promises of the Harrow are false.”

  “Not so,” the Ardent objected, swirling his raiment in repudiation. He spoke loudly; yet the anxiety in his eyes, and the hectic flush of his round cheeks, belied his tone. In spite of the chill, his face was damp with sweat and apprehension. “Doubtless he does not foresee all things to their ends. And perchance his intent is flawed by arrogance or ignorance. Nonetheless he must hold fast to his given oath. If he does not, he will perish in madness.

  “The Insequent who have charged me to constrain and aid him foretell one thing and also another. Some scry wisdom and vindication where others find only auguries of failure. It is conceivable that both are equally prescient, alike inspired and fallible. Therefore they conclude that the fate of the Earth is too conflicted to be known with any assurance. For that reason, I am sent to arbitrate uncertain outcomes.

  “Perhaps a-Jeroth of the Seven Hells believes that his sight is sure. If he does so, the Insequent trust that he errs.”

  “You’re probably right,” Covenant said abruptly; harshly. “But what’s the point?”

  His voice snatched Linden out of her immobility. She found herself on her feet without realizing that she had arisen.

  From a safe distance, and secured by the Humbled, he stood peering into the abyss. Linden retained enough health-sense to recognize that he had not returned to the present. He was a prophet of the past, and he spoke to ghosts. Wandering among his memories, he replied to questions that had not been asked by anyone living.

  “You can’t kill her,” he snorted as if his answer disgusted him. “If she isn’t as old as Lord Foul, she might as well be. And she’s become just as dangerous. The only difference is, she doesn’t think. She feels. He has ambitions she can’t imagine—and he’s way more patient. Most of the time, she sleeps because she doesn’t know any other way to endure her frustration.”

  Then Covenant apparently slipped into another fissure. He fell silent. His bandaged hands twitched as if they were groping for something tangible; some bedrock fact or perception to which he could cling. But he did not find one.

  Liand cleared his throat. “Linden.” He made a palpable effort to sound less intimidated than Mahrtiir. “The Harrow does not act. If he attempts some incantation, he does so in silence, motionless. Should his knowledge prove insufficient—”

  The Stonedownor’s voice faded into a sigh of doubt.

  “The Insequent,” Clyme pronounced severely, “esteem their prowess too highly. Their arts demean the unwary, but they cannot redeem themselves.”

  The Ardent appeared to consider a retort, then swallow it.

  For a moment, Linden stood like Covenant, as if she, too, had fallen into a memory from which she could not escape. But she was not trapped there. She was choosing necessary recollections.

  First, the Harrow had once said to her, I desire this curious stick to which you cling as though it possessed the virtue to ward you.

  The Staff of Law, her Staff. With wild magic and bereavement and love, she had fused the living powers of Vain and Findail into an instrument of Law. Under Melenkurion Skyweir, her Staff had been transformed to blackness in battle. Ten thousand years ago, Caerroil Wildwood had defined it with runes. His lore had contributed to Covenant’s resurrection.

  Second, I crave the circle of white gold which lies hidden by your raiment.

  Wild magic. The crux and keystone of the Arch of Time. It was the essence of Thomas Covenant’s spirit reified in a fundamentally flawed and flawless alloy: his wedding band, the symbol and manifestation of his transcendent humanity.

  And last, I covet the unfettered wrath at the center of your heart. It will nourish me as the Demondim did not.

  Linden had not understood him then: she did now. He was referring to the legacy of Gallows Howe. He wanted her granite ire, her emotional extravagance, to help him impose his will on Jeremiah and the croyel. But the Mahdoubt had prevented him from claiming Linden. Finally she knew why. She knew, as the Harrow did not, that there was more to Gallows Howe than rage and slaughter, death and retribution.

  Why else had the Forestal of Garroting Deep asked her a question that she did not know how to answer?

  Because of the Mahdoubt’s sacrifice, Linden could offer herself to the Harrow without fearing his power to consume her. When he had guided her to Jeremiah and the croyel, she would still be able to fight for her son.

  Somehow.

  Nodding in the direction of the Harrow, she tried to answer the expectant silence of her companions.

  “I should go.” To herself, she sounded vague and faint, as tenuous as a figure in a dream. “Opening that portal takes something more than Earthpower and Law. That’s why the Harrow didn’t just want my Staff and Covenant’s ring. He wanted me.

  “The ur-viles and Waynhim could help us, but they aren’t here. They couldn’t have brought us here. The Ardent says that there’s nothing he can do. And I’ve at least met the Viles.” You serve a purpose not your own, and have no purpose. “That’s more than the Harrow can say. They were long gone before he started to study them. Everything he knows is based on inferences.

  “I should try to help him before he makes a mistake and kills us.”

  She was still watching Covenant, hoping that he would hear her and respond. After a moment, however, she forced herself to look around at her friends. Facing Liand, and then Mahrtiir and his Cords, and then the Giants, she added, “Unless you have a better idea.”

  Liand could not conceal his anxiety, and did not try. Holding up the light of the orcrest seemed to take most of his strength. The Manethrall bowed his head as if he sought to veil his consternation; his weakness. Pahni clung to Liand’s free arm, hid her face against his shoulder for comfort. Bhapa swallowed several times, opened and closed his mouth, apparently trying to find words for his chagrin. Then he glanced helplessly around him and gave up.

  Towering above the rest of the company, the Giants met Linden’s gaze squarely. Some of them looked abashed, perhaps reluctant to admit their alarm and uncertainty. Grueburn and Cabledarm studied Linden as if they were trying to gauge her capacity to surprise them. But Rime Coldspray grinned like the blade of a scimitar, coldly, and with a keen edge.

  “Linden Giantfriend, we displayed true Giantish folly when we elected to accompany the Harrow. To recant our unwisdom now would shame all who hear our tale.” The Ironhand gave an exaggerated shrug. More seriously, she continued, “To remain as we are achieves naught. Covenant Timewarden has
given us warning, and must be heeded. If you deem that your acquaintance with the Viles, or your familiarity with the Staff of Law, may be of aid to the Harrow, I pray only that he will permit your efforts.”

  The other Swordmainnir nodded with varying degrees of confidence. But Galt and Branl shook their heads; and Clyme asked inflexibly, “What magic do you possess, Linden Avery, that will meet our need? Are you not self-bereft of every vital resource?”

  Before Linden could reply, Mahrtiir jerked up his head, took a step forward. “What concern is this of yours, sleepless one?” His old animosity toward the Masters countered the weight of his intimidation. “You have made plain that your devoir is to the Timewarden. Why then do you oppose the Ringthane in any attempt which may succor him as it does us?”

  “Subsequent events—” began Clyme.

  “—are not foreknown to you, Haruchai,” put in the Ardent unexpectedly. “The lady seeks the recovery of her son. What further justification of her deeds do you require?”

  “Subsequent events,” Clyme repeated, “may reveal that the lady, as you name her, is not done with Desecration. Did not the Mahdoubt give battle and so perish to prevent the surrender which Linden Avery now contemplates?”

  “Oh, stop.” Linden wrapped her arms around her to contain her shivering. “I’m not going to surrender. If I do that, I’ll never see Jeremiah again. There won’t be anything left of me.”

  She had already given up everything else.

  “Silence your pride,” Stave advised the Humbled. He sounded distant; uninterested. But the play of reflections in his eye gave the impression that he was laughing to himself. “No deed or dare of the Chosen’s will lessen the import of the Unbeliever’s presence, or of your service to him. Come good or ill, boon or bane, he remains the Unbeliever, ur-Lord Thomas Covenant. And has he not urged you to accept her path? When you have no other guidance, it is poor fidelity to speak against his wishes.”