Against All Things Ending

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Squatting near Linden, Bhapa made a studious effort to mask his anxiety from Mahrtiir. He kept his head down, tried to cast no shadow on Mahrtiir’s attention. Yet whenever Bhapa’s eyes caught the glow of the krill, Linden saw them flick toward the Manethrall and away again.

  Mahrtiir ached for a sense of purpose: Bhapa did not. He wanted his Manethrall to make his decisions for him.

  Anele had fallen asleep, apparently oblivious to impatience. Mouth hanging open, he snored and snorted at intervals; twitched occasionally; shifted his limbs as if in dreams he sought to become one with Stormpast Galesend’s armor. Nevertheless his slumber was deep: the long collapse into unconsciousness of the aged, the overwrought, and the appalled. Studying him, Linden suspected that he would not hear her if she called his name.

  Let him sleep, then, she thought. He had endured enough to earn any amount of rest.

  In that, she knew, he was not alone.

  She meant to sleep soon herself. But unresolved concerns still crawled along her nerves. After a while, she realized that some part of her was waiting for Covenant to speak. Covenant or Mahrtiir. Irrationally she hoped to hear something that would shed illumination into the gloom. But the only light came from the krill, and from the dwindling glow of dusk.

  Sighing to herself, she rose to her feet. When Liand moved to join her, she rested a hand on his shoulder to stop him. With a glance, she asked Stave to accompany her as she crossed the sand toward the stream.

  At the water’s edge, she picked out a flat stone and sat down. Gazing out over the current, she settled the Staff in her lap and tried to find names for a few of her many needs.

  The Staff was an ebon shaft across her legs, as stark in its blackness as the Earth’s deepest caverns. Caerroil Wildwood had given her runes like commandments, but she did not know how to obey them.

  Standing beside her, Stave waited in silence.

  After a moment, she murmured like the low voice of the stream, “Escape has a price. I learned that a long time ago. There’s always a price. Getting out of the Lost Deep”—she did not want to remember the bane—“was hard, and I think we’re still paying for it. Maybe that’s why everything looks so murky right now. We haven’t finished paying.”

  “Chosen,” replied Stave quietly, as if her title were a commentary on what she had said.

  Linden gave him a chance to say more. When he did not, she resumed.

  “You told me that Covenant convinced Esmer to leave. But you didn’t tell me how he did it.” By cunning and desperation—“Or how he had time. The last thing I remember”—she clenched herself against nightmares—“we were all about to die.”

  Stave’s tone became harder as he answered, “The Unbeliever’s efforts were made possible by Anele.”

  Linden turned her head to study the former Master. Anele—?

  “First,” Stave explained, “the Unbeliever endeavored to sway the bane directly. Then he sought aid from the old man. Perhaps because Anele stood upon stone, or perhaps because our peril clarified his madness, he met the Unbeliever’s appeal by claiming the sunstone. Then he reached out to his parents among the Dead. In response, Sunder Graveler and Hollian eh-Brand appeared before us as the bane prepared to strike. At once, however, they withdrew. In their stead, the spectre of High Lord Elena came or was compelled to our succor.

  “Such was her anguish, Chosen, that she drew the heed of the bane. While the bane sought to consume her, the Unbeliever gained an opportunity to dissuade Esmer from our immediate ruin.”

  Within herself, Linden staggered. Anele did that? He did that? At Covenant’s urging? How had the old man managed it? And how had Covenant known that Anele was capable of such things?

  At least now she knew why she had encountered Elena in her nightmares. God in Heaven! Covenant had sacrificed his own daughter. Indirectly, perhaps: he may not have foreseen exactly what Anele would do, or what the outcome might be. Nevertheless—

  But Linden could hardly blame him. In Andelain among the Dead, she had refused Elena’s tormented shade any form of absolution. Inadvertently she had ensured that Elena’s spirit would be the precise sustenance that the bane craved most.

  Linden was as much responsible as Covenant—or as Anele and his parents—for the lost High Lord’s terrible doom.

  Profoundly shaken, she could not find words for the questions which followed from what Stave had told her. And in his own fashion, he was surely aware of her distress. Nevertheless his voice did not soften as he added, “The arguments by which the ur-Lord banished Esmer ensured that Cail’s son will strike again.”

  Ah, God. Trying to understand, Linden asked, “Do you know how Covenant did it? What did he say that convinced Esmer to leave?”

  Stave hesitated momentarily. “I am uncertain, Chosen,” he admitted. “The Unbeliever spoke of the peril to Kastenessen if the bane obtained possession of white gold. Yet the degree to which Esmer heeded him was unclear. Rather Esmer appeared to expect that some other powers or beings would balance the scales of aid and betrayal on his behalf. He averred, ‘I cannot comprehend why you have not been redeemed. I have given those who wish to serve you ample opportunity. Yet I am spurned.’ Also he said in protest, ‘You are indeed betrayed, but not by me.’ The import of his words, however—” The Haruchai shrugged.

  —those who wish to serve you—Linden groped for meaning, and found none. Surely every possible friend and ally had been present while the bane loomed? She did not count the Ranyhyn. They could not have accompanied her into the Lost Deep.

  Then who—? “Oh, hell,” she muttered. Not the Elohim: that was out of the question. “I don’t get it. And I am tired to death of people who seem to think that being cryptic is their life’s work.” Even Covenant on occasion. “Just once, I want to meet someone who calls a spade a damn shovel.”

  Stave could have made a claim for the Haruchai; but he surprised her by saying, “The Demondim-spawn do so. That we cannot comprehend their speech is a lack in us, not in them. It is not their intent to thwart understanding.”

  Slowly Linden nodded. He was right, of course. The shared resolve of the ur-viles and Waynhim may have been inexplicable in human terms, but they had done everything in their power to make their purposes clear. If not for Esmer—

  Damn Esmer.

  After a moment, she said unsteadily, “All right. I wasn’t being fair.” Then she added, “And the Humbled aren’t cryptic. They’re just reticent. And suspicious.” They stood on ground that shifted under them like quicksand. Everything that they had done in her company had taken them farther from their essential commitments. “What do they think about all this?” She waved an aimless gesture as if she meant the stream and the dusk-clad hills. “They’ve been putting up with me for days—presumably because they don’t expect me to survive. But they sure as hell don’t approve.

  “What are they going to do?”

  They had been maimed to resemble Covenant. In a sense, he was all that they had left.

  Stave considered briefly. When he answered, his tone hinted at vehemence in spite of his native stoicism.

  “To say that they mislike all that has transpired does them scant justice. At the heart of their Mastery lies a desire”—he corrected himself—“nay, a compulsion to forestall Desecration. The deeds of Kevin Landwaster, following as they did upon the humiliation inflicted by the Vizard, have hardened the hearts of my kinsmen in ways which they do not discern. Indeed, I did not perceive the hardness of my own heart until my thoughts were transformed in the horserite. I was not conscious of this truth, that for us shame and grief have become more terrible than any other fate.

  “If the Land is crushed under the heel of Corruption, the Masters will not fault themselves. They will give of their utmost, and will bear the cost without shame or sorrow. But if they permit some new Desecration when prevention lies within their power, their loss will efface all meaning from their lives. From this seed grows the Mastery of my kin in every guise.”

&nbs
p; In different ways, Stave had told Linden such things before. However, his perspective on his tale had shifted.

  “They weren’t always that way?” she asked carefully. Like the Humbled, the Haruchai that she had known long ago had seemed as intransigent as basalt.

  “They were not,” Stave stated. “When our ancestors first entered the Land, seeking some anodyne in combat for the lessons learned from the Vizard, they remained susceptible to gratitude. There the generosity of High Lord Kevin and his Council gave them cause to believe that the wound of their humiliation might be healed by service. Therefore they swore the Vow of the Bloodguard. And therefore they complied when Kevin Landwaster commanded their absence. They did not grasp that he did so in order to preserve them from the dictates of his despair.

  “Even in the time of new Lords, some”—the former Master appeared to search for a word—“some softness endured within them, though it was concealed. But their perception of service, and of themselves, had been slain when Korik, Sill, and Doar became the minions of Corruption. And their hearts were further hardened by the abhorrent use made of them by the Clave.

  “Now they are the Masters. Those with us are the Humbled. Their greatest desire is to bereave you of your powers so that you will not haunt them with images of some new Desecration.”

  Oh, God. Linden wanted to defend herself, to argue on her own behalf, and could not. Long ago, turiya Raver had told her much the same thing. As if the final truth about her were beyond question, he had said, You are being forged as iron is forged to achieve the ruin of the Earth. Descrying destruction, you will be driven to commit all destruction.

  And the Despiser had already succeeded with her. She had awakened the Worm—

  But Stave was not done. Stiffly he continued, “Yet you have brought the Unbeliever among us. The ur-Lord Thomas Covenant. For the Masters, as for all Haruchai, he is the true Halfhand, Illender, Prover of Life. We have no experience of High Lord Berek Heartthew. We have merely heard his tale. But Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever is another matter altogether.

  “He has forbidden the Humbled to oppose you. Indeed, he has demanded their fidelity to you. And his deeds in your name—his very manner toward you—confirm his desires.

  “Thus the Humbled are caught in a contradiction for which they have no answer. They execrate those actions which they perceive as Desecration. Yet the Unbeliever himself stands before them, he whom they have been maimed to emulate. By his mere presence, he falsifies their understanding of Desecration.

  “Now they must refuse him and grieve, or they must accept you and be shamed. Either choice is intolerable. Nevertheless they remain Haruchai. Therefore they must choose. Yet they cannot—and must—and cannot—and must.”

  Finally the undercurrent of ire in Stave’s tone left him. He sounded almost gentle as he said, “For this reason, Linden, if for no other, they will withhold their opposition from you. Rather they will serve the Unbeliever. He is the ur-Lord, the Halfhand. They will trust in him to answer their contradiction.”

  His assertion was like a promise of hope. Yet it did not comfort her. She was not one of the Land’s true heroes. Her loves were too small, too specific; too human. And she carried a burden of anger and darkness too heavy to be set down. Covenant had rejected her love. How could she trust any hope that depended on his support?

  As calmly as she could, she asked, “How did you do it, Stave? How did you become so different?” In Revelstone, he had answered that question. Nevertheless she needed to ask it again. “You see things that the other Masters don’t. And you care differently.” He had called her by her given name. “How did that happen?”

  He did not hesitate. As if the truth had become easy for him, he replied, “The Ranyhyn have laughed at my pride and shame. And the kindliness of their laughter has eased my fear of grief. Made one with them, and with you, by the eldritch waters of their tarn, I was resurrected to myself.”

  After a moment, Linden was relieved to realize that her eyes were full of tears. They flowed like the stream, and with the same offer of solace. If nothing else, she had recovered her ability to weep.

  Perhaps her bedrock despair was not as unyielding as she had feared.

  Later she returned to the stretch of sand where Covenant sat with Liand, Pahni, and Bhapa. While Mahrtiir paced, and Anele snored to himself, Galt stood with Jeremiah and the croyel like a carving in the Hall of Gifts, a close grouping of conflicted figures as unreadable as the first dim gleam of stars. Farther up the canyon, the Swordmainnir continued their Giantclave, speaking quietly so that they would not disturb their companions.

  Knowing that she needed rest, Linden stretched out on the sand with one arm folded beneath her head for a pillow. But then she decided that she would not sleep. She feared her dreams. Instead, she told herself, she would only relax and think until she was ready to face the challenge of Jeremiah’s straits.

  But the sand seemed to settle around her, adjusting to her contours as comfortably as a bed. Between one thought and the next, she dropped like a stone into a soothing river of slumber.

  When she awoke, she knew at once that midnight had passed. Dawn was still some hours away. And there was no moon. Apart from the impersonal glitter of the stars, the only light was the ghostly illumination of High Lord Loric’s krill. Its gem shed silver streaks past Jeremiah and the croyel as if Linden had awakened in the insubstantial realm of the Dead.

  From his seat across the sand, Covenant regarded her with argent like instances of wild magic in his eyes. Linden could not tell whether or not he had slept. She was only sure that he was present, concentrating on her as though she embodied futures which had no reality without her.

  Around the floor of the canyon, several of the Giants slept like Anele, abandoned to their need for rest. Liand and Pahni had gone somewhere, apparently seeking a degree of privacy. Alone among his human companions, Bhapa had hidden from his doubts and dreads in slumber. However, the Ironhand, Frostheart Grueburn, and Onyx Stonemage remained watchful, although they lay propped against boulders in attitudes of rest. Barely visible against the heavens, Clyme and Branl stood motionless on their respective hillcrests. And Mahrtiir still paced, measuring out his frustration in bearable increments. To avoid disturbing the sleepers, he had gone down to the water’s edge, where he fretted back and forth beside the stream.

  As quietly as she could, Linden grasped the Staff of Law and rose to her feet. While she brushed sand from her clothes, she confirmed that Jeremiah’s racecar still nestled in her pocket; that Covenant’s ring hung on its chain around her neck. The time had come. She was not ready for it. Perhaps she had never been ready for anything. Nevertheless she had made up her mind.

  Now or never.

  How often had she said that to herself?

  But when she turned toward Galt and Jeremiah, Covenant spoke. In a low rasp like the subtle scrape of a saw on rotted wood, he said, “Linden, listen to me.”

  She faced him. After an instant of hesitation, she went to stand over him so that he would not need to raise his voice.

  “What is it?” she asked softly. Had he remembered something? Something that might help her with Jeremiah?

  “I want you to understand,” he replied. “Whatever you have to do, I’m on your side. For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing the right thing. You said it yourself. First things first. Everything else can wait.” With a touch of grim humor, he added, “It’s not like any of our problems are going to solve themselves.

  “But—” His voice caught. When he continued, he seemed to be forcing himself. “Wild magic is like a beacon. Especially now. If you decide to try it—and remember I’m on your side—any number of our enemies will know where we are. They’ll feel it. Even if they aren’t Elohim.”

  Awkwardly he spread his hands as if to show her that they were full of darkness. “Please believe me, Linden. I’m not advising you. I’m not trying to tell you what to do—or what not to do. Just be aware. There’s more than one kin
d of danger here. Caesures aren’t the only bad thing that can happen when somebody uses white gold.”

  Linden heard the tension in his tone; but she was not really listening. As soon as she realized that he had nothing to offer except a warning, her attention shied away. She could not afford to be even more afraid. Not now. Not while her first and most necessary commitment was to Jeremiah.

  She had already been given enough warnings.

  As if she were answering Covenant’s appeal, she said, “So Kastenessen knows where Joan is.”

  “That’s not—!” Covenant began with sudden ferocity. But then he caught himself. More mildly, he said, “Of course he knows. Hellfire, Linden. I’m starting to think even I know. Or I would, if I could just remember. Or I should be able to guess.

  “All I’m trying to say is, I’m on your side.” He may have meant, Whatever happens. “I trust you.”

  His response struck a sudden spark into the tinder of her heart. Before she could stop herself, she retorted in a whisper as scalding as tears, “You keep saying that, but I don’t know what it means. You told me not to touch you!”

  Do you think I love anyone enough to leave Jeremiah the way he is?

  Just for an instant, he looked so stricken that she thought he might cry out. But then the lines of his face resumed their familiar strictures. Masking the reflections in his eyes, he said gruffly, “I’m broken, Linden. I told you. I don’t know what I’m becoming, and I don’t know what I’ll have to do about it. I trust you. It’s me I’m worried about.”

  With one truncated finger, he pointed at Jeremiah. “Try everything you can think of. We need him.”

  Then he withdrew into himself. He had not fallen into his memories: that was plain. Nevertheless he had erected a barrier against her.

  For a moment longer, she glared at him, striving by force of will and need to make him meet her gaze. God, she wanted—! But there was nothing that she could say. And she had no right to rail at him. Not after doing him so much harm.