But if She wanted terror from him, retribution for his crimes, she was going to be disappointed.
The Humbled met Covenant’s return with widened eyes, raised eyebrows. They did not resist as he pulled his arms free of Branl and Clyme, stepped past Galt.
In two strides, he reached Stave and Linden.
“Attend, Swordmainnir,” called Mahrtiir softly. “The first Ringthane stands among us once more.”
His voice should have been too small to pierce the bane’s fiery clamor. Yet the Giants heard him. Kindwind, Grueburn, and Latebirth turned sharply to peer at Covenant. Their comrades took a step back from the rim of the ledge.
Linden lay limp in Stave’s arms. She saw nothing, heard nothing. In her snagged and punctured shirt, her stigmatized jeans, she looked as forlorn as a waif; too weak to continue breathing. Just for an instant, Covenant remembered that he had seen her like this before. When he had rescued her from the Clave, she had been as unreactive; as beaten. Turiya Herem had touched her, and she had fled into herself to escape the implications of the Raver’s malice.
But she had recovered. After a while, she had come back to Covenant. He had to believe that she would so do again.
Lord Foul had proclaimed that her fate was written in water. Perhaps the Despiser had spoken more truly than he knew.
Cursing the ease with which he was distracted, Covenant refused other memories, less immediate prayers. He had no time. Grimly he forced himself to look at Stave rather than Linden.
He did not need words. He saw swift comprehension in the gleam of Stave’s eye. For the sake of their companions, however, so that he would not be misunderstood, Covenant forced himself to say, “I want my ring. I’ll give it back. If any of us live through this.”
Solemn as an icon, Stave nodded. Cradling Linden, he opened one of his hands; offered Covenant’s wedding band and its chain to the Unbeliever.
Unaccustomed to his recent amputation, Covenant clutched at the chain. Awkwardly he hooked it with two fingers to ensure that he did not drop it. Then he lifted it over his head so that the ring hung against his chest.
Muttering again, “I’ll give it back,” he turned to confront She Who Must Not Be Named.
She heaved closer. Heat beat against his face, parched his eyes: the fury of the burning lake and the bane’s passion. If he had not been drenched, his clothes might have caught fire. Her mouths gaped and gnashed, brandishing their teeth. Their shrill roar overcame the thunderous plunge of waters. The bottomless thud of Her heartbeat made his bones tremble.
At the end of the cavern, the flames began to die as the flood extinguished the last of the skurj. But the bane fed the conflagration around Her huge bulk. Fire lapped at the jutting tips of stalagmites, the fanged ends of stalactites, the stubborn travertine and granite and limestone of the walls. Covenant’s jeans and T-shirt steamed until he seemed wreathed in mortality; but the heat hurt only the exposed skin of his face and arms.
While She Who Must Not Be Named readied Herself to attack, he raised his voice against Her.
“Listen to me!” he shouted with all the authority at his command. “You can kill us whenever you want! But first you should listen to me!
“You’ve forgotten what you are!”
Looming high, the bane paused as though he had taken Her by surprise.
In indignation or yearning, Esmer hissed, “You are demented. I know not how you have won free. I care not. But do you dream that you are able to reason with She Who Must Not Be Named?”
Covenant kept his back to Esmer. He had no attention to spare. No attention—and no time.
“You’ve forgotten who you are!” he called up at the eternal being. “But that’s not all. You’ve forgotten who trapped you here! It wasn’t the Creator. He loved you then. He loves you now. And it sure as hell wasn’t us. Or any of your other victims. It was the Despiser. A-Jeroth of the Seven Hells.
“You’ve forgotten that he made you like this. You’ve forgotten that he tricked you. He’s your worst enemy, but you serve him because you’ve forgotten!”
Faced with Covenant’s audacity, the bane writhed as though his words were blows. Tortured visages in wild succession bared their teeth and shrieked and vanished, rolled under or absorbed.
In a voice so immense that the cavern itself seemed to shout, She answered, “You speak to me! You speak to me! I will devour you—I will devour you all—and gain no ease for my hunger! If I fed upon worlds, I would not be sated!”
Gritting his teeth, Covenant refused to admit that he was appalled. “You aren’t listening!” he countered as if he were fearless. “You should. You should at least notice that the Despiser has made you his lackey.”
Fires danced and gibbered. “Do you think to resist me?” With every countenance, the bane sneered. “Then do so. I revel in the struggles of my viands.”
Covenant shook his head. His voice echoed her vehemence. “I said, listen to me. I’m not going to fight you. Of course I’m not going to fight you.” Even he might not be able to overcome Esmer’s ability to suppress wild magic. And if he succeeded, the consequences might be disastrous. A battle on that scale would wreak vast havoc. It might breach the Arch of Time. But he had other hopes for his ring. “I just want to show you something.”
“Show?” retorted his antagonist. “You wish to show? If I have forgotten what or who I am, I have forgotten the import of any mere object or display.”
“Not this, you haven’t.” With the back of his halfhand, Covenant lifted his ring. “You’ll recognize it as soon as you look.” His passion for Linden and the Land and life skirled among the flames: it seemed to resound from the pronged vault of the cavern. “I’m not talking about white gold or wild magic. I’m talking about what it is. A wedding band. It’s a symbol of everything you’ve ever wanted. Everything you’ve ever lost.
“Look!” he urged her. “Look at it. You know what it is. It’s every love and every promise that were never broken. It’s fidelity and passion that endure. It’s what you thought you were getting when the Despiser whispered in your ear.”
Searching for words that She might heed, he insisted, “Trying to destroy the Earth isn’t his worst crime. No. The worst was lying to you. Lying to you. No mortal atrocity can ever be that bad because mortals die. Your suffering never ends.”
His asseveration—or the implications of his ring—appeared to shock the bane. Rising higher, She reared back from the ledge. The anguish written on Her many miens became more pronounced. Women who could have been Lena or Joan whimpered and keened. Their voice sank to frayed whispers.
“Little man. Human. Fool. You know nothing of woe.”
“That’s true,” Covenant admitted, although his experience of loss was as old as the Arch. “Our lives are too short. Nothing that dies can understand eternal pain. But we’re willing to try. And we intend to put a stop to it.
“Let us go. We’ll set you free.”
Some promises were too terrible to be kept. This was one. Nonetheless he prayed that he was telling the truth. Beyond question, the destruction of the Arch of Time would release She Who Must Not Be Named. But he doubted that the ruin of creation would relieve Her plight. She needed something more than mere devastation. Her torment would continue until the Despiser’s evil had been answered. Until She learned to love again, and forgive.
“Free?” She cried bitterly. “You will set me free? I cannot hear you, little man. You are too small to appease my pain.”
Scrambling for arguments, Covenant replied, “Then give me a chance.” If his wedding ring did not sway her, he had other ideas. “Maybe I’ll find something you can hear.”
While hunger and flames seemed to hesitate, he turned his back.
“Esmer.”
Esmer flinched. “Timewarden?”
Mute with incomprehension, the Giants stared. Awe or dread shone in Liand’s eyes. Ignoring Esmer, the Haruchai studied Covenant impassively. Perhaps they thought that he knew what he was doing—
Like Linden and everyone else, they deserved more from him.
Facing Esmer, Covenant said, “She’s forgotten who she is.” Deliberately he took risks that terrified him. “Why don’t you tell her? Why don’t you tell her her true name?”
Cail’s son was descended from Elohim: he shared many of the Earth’s secrets.
“No!” Esmer’s chagrin shook the ledge. Storms whipped alarm like foam from his eyes. “I cannot. I will not! Do you not grasp that her forgetting is necessary? It is imperative!
“Recall the convulsion which caused the rift of Landsdrop. It arose from Her imprisonment. Her betrayal and wrath and weeping as She was cast down sundered this region of the Earth to its foundations. If Her name is restored to Her—if She is enabled to remember—the result will be a cataclysm of such rage that it shatters the whole of Gravin Threndor.
“She will remain. I will depart. But you and all who accompany you will perish. Doubtless your son also will perish. Yet Kastenessen and a-Jeroth and the Ravers will endure. The skurj and the Sandgorgons and your former mate will endure. And the shattering of Mount Thunder will not slow the Worm of the World’s End.”
“Tell me!” the bane howled eagerly. “I care nothing for you! Tell me who I am!”
Through his teeth, Esmer finished, “Do not ask such folly of me. I will not comply.”
“Then I will devour you!” Roaring. “I will gnash your bones and suck their marrow! I will make morsels of your flesh to feed my eternal lament! I will—!”
Covenant interrupted Her as if he had passed beyond death into utter fearlessness. “No, you won’t.”
Fire and rage tried to override him. “Also I will ensure that consciousness lingers within you, so that you may share the excruciation of these others whom I have consumed!”
Face after face wailed like the damned, and found no relief.
Covenant swung back to confront the bane again. “No,” he repeated sternly, “you won’t.” He had no reason to think that She would listen to him. Nevertheless he spoke with the strength of Time, as though all the ages of the Arch made him irrefusable. “I’m not done. There may be other answers. I just need a little time. We aren’t going anywhere. You know that. All you have to do is give me a little time.”
Feigning an assurance that he could not feel, he turned his back on Her again.
She Who Must Not Be Named may have been astonished at his impudence. Or perhaps he had struck a spark of yearning for Her true self into the fierce tinder of Her heart. Women yowled threats from many throats, but did not advance to kill him.
Slowly he looked around at his companions, meeting each gaze in turn. Then he said with an ache of sadness, “I’m sorry about this. I hate doing it. But it’s my last shot. If it doesn’t work, I’m out of ideas.”
That was not true. A strange certainty gripped him: an assurance which he could not have justified, even to himself. He had another gambit in reserve. But he wanted the bane to believe him. He wanted Esmer to believe him. So that they would wait.
Abruptly Jeremiah squirmed against Coldspray’s grasp; attempted to twist free. “You bastard!” The fear and fury of the croyel burned in his gaze. “You sonofabitch! If you aren’t going to at least fight, just kill me! Mom would beg you, if she knew what you’re doing. If she wasn’t so pitiful. If she ever figured out the real reason you surrendered to Foul all those centuries ago is, you’re afraid to put up a struggle.”
Muttering to herself, Rime Coldspray shifted her grip to prick the creature’s throat with the point of Loric’s krill.
Quick fright glared in the croyel’s eyes. The creature let Jeremiah subside.
Manethrall Mahrtiir cleared his throat. “Pay no heed to the croyel, Covenant Timewarden.” In spite of his blindness—or perhaps because of it—he appeared to have shrugged off the massive intimidation of Mount Thunder’s gutrock. “We comprehend your rejection of combat. I cannot speak for the Masters. Doubtless the Swordmainnir will speak for themselves. But we who have been the Ringthane’s first companions and friends in this time are content to abide the outcome of your efforts.”
“As ever,” growled the Ironhand, “the Manethrall is well-spoken. It is a cause for wonder that one so combative of heart is possessed of such courtesy.”
“I appreciate that,” Covenant replied through his teeth. “But right now, I don’t need you. I need Anele.”
Pahni stared in alarm, clearly frightened for the old man. As if to himself, Liand asked, “Anele?”
“He’s part Earthpower,” Covenant explained. “It’s inherent in him,” the legacy of his transubstantiated parents. “He can do things even Berek and the other High Lords couldn’t.”
Fearing that at any moment the bane’s hunger might overcome Her desire to hear Her true name, Covenant faced the old man.
The Humbled watched him as if they were trying to gauge the likelihood of Desecration. If Her name is restored to Her—Esmer regarded Covenant with bafflement and nausea.—the result will be a cataclysm—
“Anele,” Covenant said more harshly than he intended. “You’re on rock. You’re so full of its memories, you hardly know what’s going on. But I think there are still some things you understand.
“I want you to ask for Liand’s orcrest. I need to talk to you sane.”
Anele’s moonstone eyes glistened. They flicked toward Covenant and away as if Covenant were as fearsome as She Who Must Not Be Named. His head jerked roughly from side to side. His wrinkled hands seemed to pluck pleading from the air.
“I hear.” His voice quavered. “I do not comprehend. This stone knows too much of evil. It remembers horror. Its supplication fills my ears.”
Abruptly he slapped himself hard, first with his right hand, then with his left, as though he sought to silence the confusion of his thoughts. Then he extended one scrawny arm, rigid as a demand, toward Liand.
Liand did not hesitate: he gave Anele the Sunstone.
As Anele’s fingers closed on it, he jerked back his head and screamed as if a dagger had been driven through his chest. Behind Covenant, the bane’s raw countenances paused in their wailing as though they had been startled by the sheer desolation of Anele’s cry. As though they recognized it—
An instant later, a rush of theurgy from the orcrest swept away the old man’s illucidity. Between one heartbeat and the next, his manner cleared as if he had become suddenly deaf to the myriad hoary murmurings of granite and limestone and madness.
When he lowered his head, his blind gaze held Covenant’s. Slowly he straightened his back and shoulders. As he did so, he appeared to acquire the dignity of a Lord.
Through a tumult of fire and ferocity and plunging waters, he said, “Timewarden.” Alarm and severity blurred together in his tone. Spray dripped from his straggling beard. “I implore you. Do not.”
“I’m sorry, Anele.” Mutely Covenant cursed himself. “You’ve been through too much already. And you aren’t done. But I’m running out of choices here. We need your help.”
Clutching the orcrest like a talisman, Anele protested, “It is not for this that I am made mad.”
“I know.” Intuitively Covenant understood, although he could not have said how or why. Those memories were gone. He remembered only that Anele held some portion of the Earth’s fate in his gnarled grasp—and that his time had not yet come. “But if we don’t survive now, you’ll never get the chance to finish what you started.
“I think you can talk to the Dead. I think Sunder and Hollian can hear you.” Covenant paused to swallow pity. “And I think it’s possible they know how to help us.”
For the moment, that was all he wanted: a way to distract the bane from slaughter. Somehow.
Dismay twisted Anele’s visage. “My father and my mother speak only in my dreams.” He sounded forlorn, rent by prolonged sorrow and abasement; by a lifetime of disappointment in himself. “There I am mute. Yet in Andelain I did not dream, and still they counseled me. Here I am not mute. I will a
sk. If I am not answered, I can do nothing.”
Covenant wanted to say, Neither can I. But he kept his dread to himself. Aloud he told Anele, “They’ll answer. They love you. They love the Land. Hell, they even love me. And they haven’t forgotten what Linden means to them.”
To all of us.
Anele nodded vaguely: he was no longer listening. His eyelids fluttered. Then they closed. He began to mutter prayers or invocations too frail to be heard over the cacophony of floods and devoured anguish.
“Timewarden?” Liand’s query was an accusation. “To our sight, the recovery of his mind by orcrest causes acute suffering. If the Dead do not bring us to destruction by naming the bane, what can they offer to justify his hurt?”
“Peace, Stonedownor.” Wrapped in his ribbands, the Ardent was barely audible. “It is a worthy attempt. I deem that the Dead possess no fatal knowledge of this evil.”
Covenant held up his truncated halfhand. Wait. He did not glance away from Anele. Just wait.
Above him, She Who Must Not Be Named held Herself in abeyance, anticipating revelation.
Then Bhapa gave a wordless shout. Covenant spun away from Anele as the spectres of Sunder and Hollian took shape on either side of the Despiser’s first victim.
Dim against the burning of the waters, the fiery vehemence of the bane, and the writhen stalactites, the Dead were limned in silvery evanescence: the Graveler and the eh-Brand. Amid the forces rampant in the cavern, they looked incomplete, as if they lacked the strength to manifest themselves fully. Nonetheless they were like their son, rife with Earthpower. Though they were little more than silhouettes, they withstood the flames, endured the thunder of torrents.
Briefly they gazed at Anele with aching regret. Before he or Covenant could speak, they turned to each other and nodded as if they had reached an agreement.
We have no value here. Covenant heard them in his mind. Perhaps everyone heard them. We serve only to confirm Her woe and wrath. Yet your need is plain. We will insist upon other aid.
As suddenly as they had come, they vanished—
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