Against All Things Ending

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  He accepted a piece of cheese; and a moment later, a few sections of a tangerine. He let Bhapa tilt his head for water. Soon he was eating as quickly as Bhapa could feed him.

  Hating her own weakness, Linden turned her back on her son and went to confront the Ardent.

  He still stood in the center of the circle, holding himself erect with difficulty. She had the impression that he was dwindling—that he had already lost more weight—and her heart twisted. In the Lost Deep, he had striven prodigiously to keep her and her companions alive. He had snatched her back from the jaws of She Who Must Not Be Named. This was the result.

  Like the Mahdoubt—

  But Linden’s needs outweighed her concern for him. She did not know where else to turn for answers. Biting her lip, she compelled herself to ignore his plight.

  “Can you explain it?”

  The Ardent regarded her anxiously. “Lady?”

  “Why is the croyel afraid of Liand? Why not me?”

  “Sadly, I have no insight.” By slow degrees, his voice was fading. “In their auguries, the Insequent did not concern themselves with the Stonedownor. And now their prescience has become water, as I endeavored to explain to your companions. I have no more to give, lady. There is no more of me.”

  “Then tell me while you still can,” Linden demanded, hating her own selfishness. He was her only chance. “You said that flood changed everything. Now my fate is ‘writ in water.’ But that doesn’t make sense. Breaking open the ceiling wasn’t my idea. I didn’t even know it could break. I sure as hell didn’t know where to break it. I just did what the ur-viles wanted,” her last effort before she succumbed to the bane. “That flood wasn’t really my doing. How did it change anything?”

  “Ah, lady,” sighed the Ardent. “My end crowds close about me, and I have no true answer. The Insequent have none. Perhaps the flood was in sooth the ur-viles’ deed rather than yours. They are a mystery in all things, and their strange lore has no equal.

  “But if you will accept mere speculation—” He sighed again. “Lady, I have observed that your true strength lies in neither the Staff of Law nor in white gold. Rather it lies in the force of self which attracts aid and allies wherever you are, even from among a-Jeroth’s former servants. You inspired the Mahdoubt’s devoir as you did mine, and that of the Demondim-spawn as well. You do not have such friends”—he gestured around him—“because you wield magicks, but rather because you are Linden Avery the Chosen.

  “This power defies both augury and foresight. Assuredly it surpasses the cunning of a-Jeroth, who knows no fealty which is not derived from possession or other mastery.”

  Such friends—Appealing to her, the Ardent almost succeeded at making Linden weep. But her heart was too desolate for tears.

  Before she could summon a response, he turned away. “Fare you well,” he breathed thinly. “I must depart.”

  With a visible effort, he dragged the scraps of his apparel from the sand, unfurled them around him. Briefly his ribbands seemed to drift aimlessly in all directions, as if they had forgotten their purpose. But then he made a small sound like a sob, and they rallied.

  Fluttering, they erased him from sight.

  After a long moment like an open wound, Covenant looked at Linden. “He’s right, you know,” he said roughly. “Lord Foul is cunning as all hell, but he’s never been able to guess what we’ll do when he has us trapped. No matter how carefully he plots and manipulates, he’s never ready for us.”

  But his assertion did not comfort her. It could not: it came from a man who would not let her touch him.

  Eventually Linden resumed her meal. Her companions did the same. None of them seemed inclined to talk: she certainly was not. If she had the ability to attract aid and allies, the price was too high. The Land and everyone around her would be better served by despair.

  To that extent, at least, she was learning to understand High Lord Kevin.

  Seeking numbness, she drank too much wine; and soon she began to drift on a current as slow and necessary as the stream. God, she was tired—Every price was too high. While the Giants were still eating, she stretched out on the sand and fell asleep.

  During the heat of the afternoon, she awakened briefly, sweating in direct sunlight. For a few moments, she studied the sky, watching for some indication that the weather might change. Then she moved to a patch of shade and settled herself for more sleep.

  This time, she did not awaken until she was roused by the stirring of her companions. With her eyes closed, she felt the Staff of Law propped against a rock nearby. Shadows covered her, easing the pressure of the sun: they covered the watercourse and the swath of sand and the lower hillsides. Among the movements of the company, she smelled food again; heard the Giants murmuring to each other. And when she extended her attention, she sensed Covenant’s absence. Claimed by memories and mortality, he wandered among the broken places of his mind; and his features knotted and released as though he were remembering horrors.

  If Linden had dreamed, she did not remember it. But she had not forgotten terror and shrieking, or the scurry of centipedes.

  After a few moments, she raised her head and sat up to look around. Jeremiah still stood in Galt’s uncompromising grip. The blade of the krill still kept the croyel’s fangs away from her son’s neck. The Cords had gone somewhere, no doubt at Mahrtiir’s command. But the Manethrall stood with Stave, watching Covenant blindly. Mahrtiir seemed impatient, as if he were waiting for a chance to talk to the first Ringthane.

  Covenant’s white hair looked stark in the dim shade; so distinct that it almost seemed to glow.

  Anele sat in the curve of Galesend’s breastplate, gnawing with apparent contentment on a chunk of cured beef. In contrast, Liand leaned restively on the same rock that supported the Staff, studying Linden sidelong. His black brows arched above his eyes, ominous as the wings of a raven. As she blinked the blur of sleep from her sight, she considered the tension moiling within him, and realized that she recognized it.

  When he had determined to offer health-sense to the destitute villagers of First Woodhelven, and again when he had conceived the idea of summoning rain against the skurj, his aura had revealed the same growing apprehension and resolve, the same impulse for self-expenditure.

  Linden could guess what he had in mind. But it would be dangerous for him in ways that she did not know how to predict. And she had her own arguments to make first; her own gambits to attempt. She hoped to forestall his intentions until they were no longer needed.

  Fortunately he was not ready to announce a decision. Trying to sound casual, he remarked, “Pahni and Bhapa have been sent to seek out firewood, for the night will grow chill when these hills surrender their heat. Yet I do not foresee success. In this severe landscape”—he gestured around him—“they will search far and find little.”

  She cleared her throat. “Along the stream?” Surely runoff brought wood as well as water?

  “It is possible,” he conceded. “I would welcome the solace of a fire. We have known too much darkness.” Then he shrugged. “But I will not rely upon the prospect.”

  Privately relieved, Linden nodded. Reclaiming her Staff, she climbed to her feet.

  Her friends had reached the watercourse in a low canyon too wide to be called a ravine. Much of the ground was sand worn down from the hillsides; but boulders of various sizes jutted from the grit. She had slept behind one such thrust of stone: Covenant sat against another. However, the stretch of sand where the company had sat earlier was comparatively clear.

  Without haste, several of the Ironhand’s comrades were setting out a second meal. Clearly they had eaten and rested well. Remembering their exhaustion under Mount Thunder, Linden was glad to see that they had regained much of their vitality.

  Rime Coldspray gave her a sharp grin. Frostheart Grueburn greeted Linden with a Giantish bow; and Latebirth grinned as well, loosening her longsword in its sheath: a gesture like a promise. The other Swordmainnir concentrated
on the Ardent’s bundles.

  When Linden turned her gaze to the west, she saw the high cliff of Landsdrop above its foothills. The sun lay behind the precipice, leaving a blaze of late afternoon glory along its age-etched rim. From that angle, it cast its shadow across the whole company, leaving only Branl and Clyme on the hilltops lit.

  Soon, she reminded herself, thinking of Jeremiah. She could not delay much longer.

  Tightening her grip on herself, she tried to think of a way to unpuzzle the dilemma of Covenant’s absence: a way that did not involve holding him under water, or hitting him, or threatening to heal him. Or possessing him. She had learned to view such deeds with dismay. Like the croyel’s hold over Jeremiah, if with very different intentions, they would violate his essential freedom.

  In addition, he had made it abundantly clear that he wanted to remain a leper, broken and numb and floundering. For reasons that surpassed her, he clung to his plight as if it defined him—or protected him.

  If she tried to impose her health-sense and healing on him, she might damage him somehow; perhaps cost him some vital memory. Or she might become as lost as he was.

  She could not allow herself to forget the warnings of the Ranyhyn again.

  Unsure of herself, she went to join Stave and Mahrtiir. The former Master did not appear to be paying any specific attention to Covenant’s fissured sleep; but the Manethrall studied the Unbeliever with sharp intensity.

  “We have to reach him somehow,” she said without preamble. “We’re helpless where we are, and this respite can’t last. We have to make some decisions. We can’t do that without him.”

  “By your leave, Ringthane,” Mahrtiir replied in a low voice, “I will make the attempt. I have searched the Timewarden as deeply as my senses permit. And I have not forgotten the Ramen tales of his long past. It may be that I am able to rouse him.”

  “Please,” Linden said without hesitation. “Almost anything is worth a try.”

  Nothing that Mahrtiir did would violate Covenant.

  The Manethrall nodded. Around his neck, he still wore his woven garland of amanibhavam. It was shredded and blood-stained, and its yellow blooms had withered, but it had not fallen apart. The fibrous grass had been as tightly braided as rope. Carefully he pinched the nub of a dead blossom from the strand, rubbed it against one palm until it was little more than powder. In spite of its condition, the grass gave off a whetted odor that made Linden’s nose itch.

  “Fresh and living,” said Mahrtiir formally, “amanibhavam may be safely consumed only by the Ranyhyn. Yet its virtues are many. According to the tales, the first Ringthane once ate of it, and did not perish. True, he fell into madness. But in the forest of Morinmoss, he was restored. It is my thought that the scent of this grass may awaken him to himself.”

  Kneeling beside Covenant, he nudged Covenant’s mouth shut. Then he held the amanibhavam in his palm under Covenant’s nose, and waited.

  The effect was swift. Scowling in his sleep, Covenant jerked away, knocked his head against the rock behind him. His eyes sprang open. “Hell and blood,” he breathed. “That woman healed me. I think it killed her.”

  In Salva Gildenbourne, Anele had told Linden, Morinmoss redeemed the covenant, the white gold wielder. Apparently the old man had been right. Again.

  While she watched, Covenant blinked memories out of his eyes and became present.

  Now those days are lost.

  “Linden,” he said thickly. “I’m glad you’re all right.” Then he winced. Ruefully he rubbed the back of his head: he almost smiled. “Maybe next time you won’t hit me quite so hard.”

  All vastness is forgotten.

  An instant later, he scowled again. “No, wait. You didn’t hit me. That was amanibhavam . I remember the smell. And Morinmoss.” Still rubbing his head, he muttered, “I must have done this to myself.”

  After her first rush of relief, Linden told herself that she should not have been surprised. On other occasions, she had seen amanibhavam work its wonders. Among the Land’s many blessings, the grass was just one more. The only surprise was that Mahrtiir’s garland retained so much potency.

  “I’m glad, too.” Like Covenant, she tried to smile. But she could not. Just don’t touch me. “I don’t enjoy hitting you.” She meant, I need you. Please help me. “And holding you under water feels like overkill.”

  She meant, Please love me. In spite of everything.

  Covenant’s mouth twisted: a grimace of wry humor. Mutely he extended a hand to Stave. When the Haruchai pulled him to his feet, he said, “We have a lot to talk about.” Then he glanced at the waiting food. “But maybe we should eat first. I can’t believe I’m already hungry again.”

  A moment later, he rested a hand on Mahrtiir’s shoulder. “Thank you, Manethrall. I don’t think any of us would survive if Linden didn’t have friends like you.”

  The Manethrall responded with a Ramen bow. His bandage concealed his expression, but his aura revealed a fierce glimmer of accomplishment.

  As Covenant and then Linden turned to the rest of the company, she saw that all of the Giants were grinning broadly. Several of them chuckled, shaking their heads. And Rime Coldspray acknowledged Covenant and Linden with a sweeping gesture like a flourish, welcoming them to the Insequent’s provisions.

  “It is now,” said the Ironhand with muffled humor, “as it has been since we first encountered Linden Giantfriend in Salva Gildenbourne. The brevity of your tales tests our hearing. ‘Overkill,’ forsooth. We must greet such utterances with amusement. When entire lives are thus compressed, their significance named in one mere word—” Clearly she found the notion risible. “Ah, my friends, we must respond with mirth. How otherwise can we suffer your cruelty to yourselves?

  “Sadly,” she continued, striving to sound grave, “we have grown accustomed to the haste of folk who measure their span in decades rather than in centuries. Also an intimate acquaintance with peril in many guises has taught us that upon occasions such as the sinking of dromonds and the destruction of worlds, we must accommodate the vagaries of circumstance.”

  Around her, Giants chuckled again, and Frostheart Grueburn laughed outright. Apparently they heard a jest in the idea that they were familiar with the destruction of worlds.

  “We would prefer,” concluded Coldspray, “to expend the remainder of this season—or of this year—reveling in tales. Nonetheless we are able to recognize an exigency when it tweaks our noses, though we are Giants indeed, and by nature foolish. While the last crisis of the Earth looms, we will endeavor to emulate your concision. When we are fed once more, we will attempt a Giantclave scant enough to appease your impatience.”

  With that, the Ironhand bowed flamboyantly, seconded by loud applause from her fellow Swordmainnir.

  Linden regarded them, bemused. Strange, she thought, that she had forgotten what Giants were like in high good humor. And stranger still that they were able to laugh and clap so soon after their ordeals. But Covenant advised her in a feigned whisper, “Don’t worry. They’ll calm down. Sometimes they just need to get speeches like that out of their systems.”

  To a chorus of laughter and a few whistles, as if he had delivered a particularly telling riposte, he sat down near one of the cloth trays.

  Feeling suddenly estranged, like a ghost at a banquet, full of sorrows and fears that no one else recognized, Linden hesitated. Covenant knew Giants better than she did: he seemed to belong with them. And she was unable to match him. She had never been his equal.

  For a moment, she considered taking some food and standing apart with Jeremiah. Her son’s emptiness and the croyel’s malevolence and Galt’s distrust suited her mood. But then Liand made the decision for her by taking her arm and pulling her down to sit between him and Covenant.

  Sighing, she accepted a cloth tray from Grueburn.

  Before long, Pahni and Bhapa came down a hillside into the dusk. Pahni dropped to the sand at Liand’s side and gave him a quick hug while Bhapa informed Mahrtii
r that the Cords had failed to find enough wood to sustain even a small fire during the night. Bhapa’s posture suggested that he expected a reprimand; but the Manethrall replied mildly, “Have no concern, Cord. This region is too barren. A fire would have comforted our counsels, but its lack will not sadden us.” He indicated the ready meal with a nod. “Eat and rest while you may.”

  Then his manner sharpened. With a familiar edge in his voice, he added, “Remember that you will be Manethrall when I have passed away. You will be denied the proper ceremonies and homage, but you must bear my duties nonetheless. You are better suited to do so than you believe.”

  As he spoke, an involuntary shiver ran down Linden’s back. She understood Mahrtiir. He had been told, You’ll have to go a long way to find your heart’s desire. Just be sure you come back. The Manethrall was trying to prepare Bhapa.

  Like Pahni, Mahrtiir burned to know what Covenant’s prophecies meant.

  The Land needs you.

  Bhapa felt the same desire: Linden saw it in his eyes as he bowed to Mahrtiir and seated himself. But he was also afraid. Through Anele, Covenant’s spirit had addressed both Bhapa and Pahni by name. In some ways, you two have the hardest job. You’ll have to survive. And you’ll have to make them listen to you. Linden guessed or feared that this was a reference to the Masters; but she could not imagine what its import might be. From the Lower Land, Revelstone and its guardians were effectively out of reach.

  They won’t hear her. She’s already given them too many reasons to feel ashamed of themselves.

  When she began eating, she chewed slowly, too troubled to enjoy what she tasted. And she avoided the wine. In retrospect, giving the Masters any reason to feel ashamed of themselves seemed like a mistake; perhaps a fatal one. They were too well acquainted with humiliation, and did not know how to grieve.

  Around her, the company ate well, but sparingly, at least by the standard of their previous meal. Being Giants, Coldspray and her comrades took longer to satisfy themselves. But when they had finished the last of the Ardent’s rich wine, they were done. Together they rose to pack away the rest of the supplies.