Against All Things Ending

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  He tried to face her; but his gaze shied away. Truths and falsehoods fought each other in his mien. “I do not offer words.” He spoke as if his divided nature forced him to utter thorns. “I speak only to request the marred metal which you reclaimed from your son under Melenkurion Skyweir.”

  Like a man who expected to be struck, he winced.

  “What?” While her friends gaped in surprise and confusion, Linden thrust a hand into her pocket to touch Jeremiah’s crumpled racecar. “You want me to give you a toy?” The only thing that she had left of the boy whom she had loved for so many years? “Are you out of your mind? I won’t—”

  “Wildwielder!” Esmer cried as if she had dealt him a mortal blow. At once, however, he restrained himself. More quietly, he stated, “I will return it.” His eyes oozed like his wounds. “Nevertheless I must have it. I must hold it.”

  Then his dismay broke loose. “Are you blind to my anguish? Do you not hear that my woe transcends endurance? Wildwielder, I beseech you. Grant me this small recompense for the abominations which I have wrought against you.”

  “Linden,” murmured Liand. “Perhaps it would be wise—”

  “Ringthane,” Mahrtiir put in sternly. “This tortured wight strives ever to provide both aid and betrayal. His struggles we have witnessed to our cost—and also to our benefit. And I do not forget that he received his wounds in defense of the Demondim-spawn, whose fidelity is beyond question. I do not comprehend him. Yet is it not conceivable that he seeks now to ameliorate his wrongs in some fashion?”

  Linden glared at Esmer. With her fingers, she measured the damage that the croyel had done to Jeremiah’s racecar. He had brought the toy with him when Roger had abducted him: his last act of initiative or volition—and the only one which did not involve a construct. Had he picked up the car because Lord Foul had told him to do so? Because he belonged to the Despiser? Or did the toy represent something else? Had some private, unreachable part of him claimed the car because he needed it? Because it comforted him? Because it reminded him of her?

  Because he was trying to tell her something—?

  In the Hall of Gifts, Stave had spoken of the children of the Haruchai—and of his own sons. They are born to strength, and it is their birthright to remain who they are.

  Then he had asked, Are you certain that the same may not be said of your son?

  There, in the safety of Revelstone, she had replied like a promise, I’m going to believe that he has the right to be himself.

  Since then, nothing fundamental had changed. The croyel still possessed Jeremiah—and it was still a liar. While he stood near her, the husk of a living boy, she had more difficulty trusting that some essential part of his nature held true to itself. Nevertheless nothing had changed. Not really.

  In Andelain, Covenant had asserted, I refuse to believe he made choices then that can’t be undone.

  She had to put her faith in something.

  That which appears evil need not have been so from the beginning, and need not remain so until the end.

  Perhaps the same could be said of Esmer.

  “All right.” Trembling, she drew the racecar from her pocket. Shards of pain cut her heart with every beat. “But I want it back.”

  Esmer did not move. Like Caerroil Wildwood with the Staff of Law on Gallows Howe, he caused the mangled wreckage of the toy to rise from her grasp and float toward him. When he plucked the metal from the air, he folded it in both hands; enclosed it gently, as if he had captured a butterfly or some other fragile creature. For a moment, energies gathered around his head like storm clouds. The flesh of his fingers appeared to blur and melt. Then he tossed the red car upward as though he expected it to flap and flutter like a winged thing.

  Instinctively Linden stepped forward, caught the racecar as it fell.

  It was whole. Esmer had restored it perfectly. She could not see that it had ever been damaged. If some force had held it to its track, it could have followed the recursions of Jeremiah’s raceway construct endlessly.

  Needing witnesses, she held it up for her companions to see; but she was deaf to their reactions. Deliberately she showed it to Jeremiah and the croyel, hoping that the toy would look like an augury of hope to her son—and a threat to the monster. Then she inclined her head to Esmer: a show of thanks. She had no words for her gratitude; or for her sharp shame.

  The racecar’s renewed perfection filled her with weeping. At the same time, however, she saw it as a reproach, as mordant as recrimination: a reminder of the extent to which she had failed Jeremiah. Even Esmer, who intended treachery, had done more for her son than she could.

  And Esmer’s gift did not rectify any of his crimes.

  But she kept what she felt to herself. There was nothing that she could have said without bursting into tears. When everyone around her had beheld the racecar, she shoved it back into her pocket. Then she turned to Covenant, although she spoke indirectly to the Ardent.

  “It’s time.” Somehow she faced the strict compassion in Covenant’s eyes. The loremaster had done what it could for his hands. She had done nothing. “That thing—whatever She is—She’s coming.” Because he was who he was, she made no attempt to conceal her weakness; her accumulating defeats. “We have to go.”

  In spite of his pain, Covenant seemed to peer into her heart. She saw understanding and sorrow in every flensed line of his visage, every inflection of his gaze. He had urged her to find him—and had faulted himself for doing so. His whole face proclaimed that he blamed her for none of her actions; none of their consequences.

  Like her, however, he did not speak of what he felt. Instead he put his hands behind him as if he did not want her to feel responsible for them. “You’re right.” He made a visible effort to muffle the hurt of his burns, but it ached in his tone nonetheless. “She’s getting close.” Then he looked past her at the Ardent. “If you can do this without the Harrow—?”

  The Ardent nodded without hesitation. “Assuredly. Here I do not fear that I will fail the intent of my people. Their powers will suffice.

  “However”—he glanced around the company—“my task will be eased if we are less widely scattered. Giants, will you consent to bear the lady and her companions, as you have done before?”

  “Aye,” the Ironhand assented promptly. “To escape this snare, we would carry even the Demondim-spawn on our backs.”

  At once, Frostheart Grueburn approached Linden. Cabledarm drew Pahni away from Liand while Bluntfist scooped Bhapa into her arms.

  “And you, Masters,” the Ardent continued. “Will you allow a Giant to bear the Timewarden?”

  Branl and Clyme nodded. With their permission, Cirrus Kindwind claimed Covenant. Although she had lost a forearm and hand to the skurj, she did not need them to support him against the chest of her armor.

  “Then gather about me,” the Insequent instructed. To Galt, he said, “Bring the lady’s son as nigh as you dare.”

  Stolidly Galt used the krill and his hold on Jeremiah’s shoulder to press the boy closer to the Ardent.

  Lifted from the floor, Linden settled into her familiar position sitting on Grueburn’s arms. Quickly she confirmed that she still had Covenant’s ring on its chain around her neck. Then she gripped her Staff hard in both hands.

  At the same time, the Ardent unfurled wreaths and streamers of bright cloth and sent them wafting around the company. Soon a fluttering ribband had settled on Linden’s shoulder and Grueburn’s arm; on one shoulder or arm of each of her companions. Threatened by the krill, the croyel did not resist as a fulvous band rested on its deformed head. Within moments, the Ardent had placed his fabric touch on everyone except Esmer and the Demondim-spawn.

  Abruptly the ur-viles and Waynhim resumed their barking. Their harsh clamor conveyed an urgency that Esmer did not deign to translate. The Waynhim scattered into the passage that led to the palace of enchanted water. The ur-viles made gestures that could have meant anything.

  They offer guidance— />
  They may not have grasped the extent of the Ardent’s powers.

  —but they cannot save you.

  The pulse of the bane’s approach was growing stronger.

  Across the small gap between Stonemage and Cabledarm, Liand and Pahni held hands. Squirming against Kindwind’s cataphract, Covenant tried to find a position that did not gall his burns. Then he gave up. With his teeth clenched, he hugged his hands against his chest.

  “No,” Anele moaned, “no. Better the Worm. It merely feeds. It does not hate.” His broken mind was trapped among images that appalled him.

  The Ardent adjusted his plump features into lines of resolve. “Farewell, mere-son,” he lisped to Esmer. “I wish you joy of your many betrayals. We will not abide to witness their outcome.”

  Tightening the touch of his ribbands, he began to whisper incantations in a language as incomprehensible as the guttural speech of the Demondim-spawn.

  The insistence of the ur-viles became a feral snarling.

  Esmer did not move to intervene. Instead he gave the Insequent a look of such scorn that Linden winced.

  Esmer knew something that the Ardent did not. The ur-viles and Waynhim knew it.

  The Ardent closed his eyes, apparently seeking to shut out distractions. He chanted more loudly. The strips of his apparel clenched and loosened to the rhythm of his spell. Other bands—garish garnet, stark fuligin, an azure as luminous as open skies—flurried around him as though he sought to silence the urgency of the ur-viles.

  Esmer said nothing.

  The Ardent’s voice rose. His chanting began to vacillate between commanding tones and febrile supplications. Fresh sweat beaded on his forehead, his cheeks. He spat words like gibberish in a spray of saliva and imprecation.

  “Here it comes,” Covenant rasped softly.

  The subliminal thud of malice drew closer. It punctuated the Ardent’s rising desperation.

  Then his eyes burst open. An expression of utter chagrin stretched his countenance. “You!” he gasped at Esmer.

  Cail’s son lifted his shoulders: a shrug of disdain. “The conjoined powers of the Insequent have made you mighty, but they have not altered the nature of your knowledge. The theurgies by which you bypass distances are a wan mimicry of wild magic.” His scorn sounded like despair. “They are impotent in my presence.”

  He had promised more betrayals. They will be revealed when they are needed.

  Roger had said of him, He changes his mind too often. There’s always a flaw somewhere . This time, there was none.

  Because of him, Linden’s company was caught in the Lost Deep.

  11.

  Private Carrion

  Here it comes.

  Stupefied by shock, Linden gaped at Covenant. They are impotent in my presence. Her companions stared at Esmer in dismay. The consternation of the Giants was too great for protests or curses. Mahrtiir ground his teeth helplessly. Tears started in Pahni’s eyes as she clutched Liand’s urgent hand. In the nacre glow of the walls, Bhapa looked pallid and stricken, as if he were about to faint. But the eyes of the Humbled held vindication. From the first, they had opposed the decisions which had brought the company here.

  Despite the threat of the krill, the croyel grinned with all its teeth. Entirely possessed, Jeremiah looked as vacant as Covenant’s home on Haven Farm. His slackness seemed to imply bonfires; conflagrations.

  She Who Must Not Be Named was rising from the abyss. Linden had sensed that dire evil. Against Her ire, only white gold may hope for efficacy. Nevertheless her attention was fixed on Covenant. She could not look away.

  Here it comes—?

  In the appalled silence, she asked, “Did you know about this?” Her voice was little more than a hoarse whisper. “Why didn’t you warn us?”

  Covenant shook his head. “I guessed.” Residual excruciation sawed in his tone. His eyes searched the walls as though they were all that remained of his memories; as though he sought salvation in recollections which eluded him. “He promised more treachery. I assumed he was hiding something.”

  “If you desire to flee your doom,” said Esmer sternly, “you must cross the Hazard and discover some passage upward. Here you must perish. There is no escape from the Lost Deep.

  “Behold!” He indicated the ur-viles with a dismissive flip of his hand. “Even now, they implore you to follow them.”

  “The mere-son speaks sooth.” The Ardent trembled, anticipating terror. “I am defeated, blocked from use and name and life. This, too, is added to the sum of my failures. The knowledge and purposes of the Insequent are made naught by the mere-son’s presence. I am an empty vessel awaiting only the fulfillment of death.”

  “Linden Giantfriend!” Coldspray demanded. Her fists clenched combatively. “What is your will?”

  “Chosen,” Stave urged before Linden could find her voice. “We must make the attempt. If we do not, we grant to Corruption a triumph which he has not yet won.”

  With an effort of will that seemed to tear her heart, Linden wrenched her gaze away from Covenant. Instinctively, however, she avoided Stave’s steady stare and Coldspray’s tension. Instead she looked at Mahrtiir as if only his blindness could counsel her.

  Attempts must be made, even when there can be no hope. The Manethrall had told her that. And betimes some wonder is wrought to redeem us.

  Even the loss of his eyes had not destroyed his spirit.

  Against innumerable obstacles, Linden had found her son. Now she needed to save him. Somehow.

  She was breaking; drowning in defeats. She felt it. But she also knew that Mahrtiir was right. Long ago, Covenant had taught her the same lesson.

  Braced in Frostheart Grueburn’s arms, she drew more light and health-sense from the Staff. Then she forced herself to meet the Ironhand’s gaze.

  “Run,” she breathed. “I trust the ur-viles. I trust the Waynhim. They want to lead us. Let’s go.”

  Her company had to get past the Hazard before She Who Must Not Be Named rose high enough to strike—and the portal of the Lost Deep was a considerable distance away.

  Without hesitation, Rime Coldspray shouted, “Swordmainnir!” and at once, Latebirth wheeled to carry Mahrtiir into the passage taken by the Waynhim. Onyx Stonemage followed immediately with Liand. Goaded by dread, the Ardent went next, supporting himself in a flurry of cloth that filled the corridor because he could not run fast enough. Grueburn crowded close behind the Insequent: Stave trotted at Linden’s side. Carrying Covenant, Cirrus Kindwind hurried after Grueburn, guarded by Clyme and Branl. As Linden was rushed into the tunnel, she felt the other Giants gather with their burdens. At the rear of the company, Galt pushed Jeremiah and the croyel into motion. Coldspray stayed with them to ensure that they did not lag—and that Galt did not lose control of Jeremiah’s possessor.

  Among them all dashed the ur-viles, barking encouragement or warnings. Without apparent effort, Esmer kept pace with the Ardent and Grueburn.

  Linden wanted her son near her; but she understood why Galt and Coldspray came last. The croyel was not powerless: it was only afraid. If it decided to risk an attack, its place at the rear would limit its ability to hurt the rest of the company.

  The Giants ran with giddy speed. The flawless passage was a moonstone blur. Staring forward, Linden concentrated on the Staff and percipience; extended Earthpower like sunlight to enclose all of her companions. They needed health-sense as badly as she did.

  The ur-viles flinched at the Staff’s strength. A few raced ahead: others dropped back. Law was inherently inimical to them. But they had demonstrated time and again that they could withstand its effects, at least briefly. Linden counted on that. She was not confident that she or any of her friends would be able to resist the seductions of the palace without fire and Law.

  The bane’s advance had become a visceral pounding. Its pulse thudded in Linden’s bones. She half expected to feel the walls of the passage shake. But the roused evil’s force was not physical: not yet. It was a drumbe
at in the spirit rather than the substance of the stone. Without percipience, she might not have sensed it at all.

  As if from a great distance, she heard Covenant mutter, “Hellfire! This is going to be close. We have to hurry.”

  The Giants were already running hard. The harsh strain of Grueburn’s breathing rasped in Linden’s ears. She could not imagine how Stave kept up with her. Galt and the Ironhand were falling behind with Jeremiah and the croyel. Yet Esmer matched the haste of the Swordmainnir easily.

  Ahead of Linden, Latebirth and then Stonemage burst through curtains of ensorcelled water into the intricate wonders of the palace. On one of the crystal stairways, the two Giants were joined by the Waynhim, less than a dozen of the grey creatures: all that survived of their kind. As the Ardent and a number of the ur-viles entered the chamber, the Waynhim scampered downward, urging Linden’s companions to follow.

  An instant later, Grueburn rushed past the curtains; and Linden felt a jolt along her nerves, as if she had been plunged into the frigid waters of Glimmermere. She was exerting far more Earthpower than Liand had summoned earlier: her fire should have sufficed to shed any confusion. But the magicks which sustained the palace were obdurate and enduring. For a moment, her concentration faltered, and the effects of the Viles’ eerie lore nearly caught her. Rugs as sumptuous as tapestries. Immaculate marble. The fountain and chandeliers—the mosaics—Then she tightened her grip on herself; on the Staff. While Grueburn took the stairs four at a time, Linden strove against achievements that surpassed her comprehension.

  Kindwind descended the stairs almost on Grueburn’s heels. Ahead of Linden, Latebirth was halfway to the egress from the palace. Behind Kindwind, Branl, and Clyme, Giants and ur-viles ran downward in a clamor of heavy feet and a scatter of lighter bodies. Lit by braziers of water and flame, Halewhole Bluntfist bore Bhapa between the curtains. They appeared to be the last—

  The Ironhand, Jeremiah, and Galt had dropped so far back that Linden could barely descry them.

  “Wait,” she panted to Grueburn. “Wait. We’re too far ahead. I can’t protect them.”