Against All Things Ending
Page 52
—until she closed her mouth and swallowed; inhaled through her nose.
At once, the acrid sting of amanibhavam ignited flames in her as if she were tinder, apt only for bonfires and lightning, conflagrations that would consume the housing of her entire life.
She needed flame. Oh, she needed it!
With an inadvertent slash of Earthpower and despair, Linden sent Bhapa tumbling down the slope. Involuntarily her gaze followed his plunge; but she could not afford to watch what happened to him. The Fall which had routed Clyme was only heartbeats away. Bhapa was not swift enough to catch his balance and sprint aside.
This, too, was her doing.
There were four other Falls. They were all advancing. But she did not look at them. Crying curses as if they were the Seven Words, she flung dire Earthpower and Law like a shriek into the abomination which threatened Bhapa.
Perhaps she extinguished it. Perhaps she failed. She did not wait to observe the outcome. Like a surgeon surrounded by carnage, she did not pause to check her work or watch for intimations of survival. With Stave’s help, she whirled away.
Four more caesures. Four unconscionable rents in the necessary fabric of time.
Her Staff was a streak of midnight in Linden’s hands as she wheeled it around her head; lashed ebon fire like the scourge of a titan in every direction. Her theurgy had changed, but she did not feel the difference. It was an exact reflection of her spirit.
Blinded by fury and woe, she did not know whether she snuffed the Falls, any of them. Her own flame consumed her. Moments ago, she had been helpless; paralyzed. She had simply watched while Liand was slain; watched and done nothing. But if Lord Foul, or Joan, or Roger, or any abhorrent bane had stood before her now, she would have striven to tear them apart.
I perceive only that her need for death is great.
God damn right!
Shouting accompanied her grief-stricken rage, her inconsolable slash of flame. She may have been yelling herself. The only voices that she could hear clearly were the cries and excoriation of She Who Must Not Be Named’s victims. Around herself and her companions and the ridgecrest, she created a whirlwind to answer the seethe and distortion of the Falls. But she no longer knew what she did. Exalted or broken by pain and loss, she whipped blackness into the dark heavens until it seemed to erase the stars.
Until Stave reached out to catch hold of the Staff.
Until her vehemence and Stave’s grip nearly ripped the Staff out of her hands.
Then the energies of amanibhavam and fury failed her. In an instant, her lash of Earthpower vanished, leaving only Loric’s krill to answer the irreparable night. Panting like sobs, she sagged into Stave’s clasp.
“It is done, Linden.” His voice sounded as unrelieved as the Earth’s deep rock. He seemed to know the cost of what she had done—and had failed to do. “There is no more need. Wild magic and Desecration have passed. We endure.”
Word by word, he brought Linden back from storms. Every sentence restored some riven piece of her. Leaning against him, she believed that he had stopped her at the brink of a catastrophe as intimate as her immersion in She Who Must Not Be Named.
But he could not heal her.
“When you are able,” he continued as if he spoke for the darkness, “you will observe that we have lost only Liand. Bruises and gashed flesh we have in abundance. And Kastenessen’s fires were bitter to the Swordmainnir. But they are Giants, hardy against any heat or flame. They will prevail over their hurts. Also the Manethrall has preserved the Unbeliever. He is absent once again, but unharmed. And your son stands unscathed”—Linden felt Stave shrug—“apart from the many cruelties of the croyel.
“Six Falls assailed us, Linden. Nonetheless we endure.”
He may have meant to comfort her. But she could not be comforted. She felt like a derelict in his arms, wracked beyond repair.
Nevertheless her health-sense returned by increments. As her vision cleared, she saw that Stave spoke the truth.
Above her on the ridge, Giants towered against the benighted sky. The dagger’s gem lit their forms with silver streaks like cuts. Cirrus Kindwind had taken Covenant from Mahrtiir. Vaguely Linden recognized that Covenant had again collapsed into his crippled memories. Kindwind carried him in one arm as if to protect him from himself.
Frostheart Grueburn trod heavily toward Linden and Stave while Bhapa scrambled upward. The Swordmain’s face and arms radiated a scalding pain, and a deep contusion ached on one side of her forehead. Her right hand and forearm bled from various scrapes. Yet she was essentially whole.
As was Bhapa. Patches of skin had been torn from his limbs, but those injuries were superficial. At some other time—perhaps in another life—Linden would be able to treat them.
Both Grueburn and the Cord peered at Linden, perhaps seeking to assure themselves that she was still sane. Then Grueburn called a few words over her shoulder to Rime Coldspray; and the Ironhand passed them to the other Giants. Linden Giantfriend remains among us. She has suffered no bodily wound.
Galt and Jeremiah were likewise untouched. The croyel had ceased its struggles. The boy stood slack and vacant, as if the creature had relaxed his puppet-strings. Blood and gore stained his pajama bottoms from thigh to hem.
Careful to keep Anele from touching dirt, Stormpast Galesend climbed to her feet. Unconscious, the old man dangled in her arms as if every possible meaning had been taken from him. But he still gripped Liand’s orcrest as though it might restore what he had lost.
—the hope of the Land.
Fresh wailing strained for release in Linden. Biting down on her lower lip, she held it back. Any cry that she permitted herself to utter now would be Elena’s screaming, and Emereau Vrai’s, and Diassomer Mininderain’s. It would be the compacted rage and ruin of Gallows Howe.
Dark in Jeremiah’s shadow, Pahni had taken Liand into her arms. She knelt on gypsum and shale, hugging her lover against her while his sundered skull oozed its last blood onto her shoulder. She seemed as motionless as the Stonedownor, as unable to draw breath. Nevertheless the young Cord emanated distress as loud as keening. Her pain struck blows at Linden’s heart.
Gently Galesend bore Anele to the spine of the ridge where Coldspray and Kindwind stood with their comrades. At Grueburn’s urging, Linden forced herself to step away from Stave’s support. With Stave and Bhapa ready to catch her if she stumbled, she trudged toward her gathered companions.
Her friends. Who had loved Liand as much as she did.
Mahrtiir had placed himself like a guardian in front of Kindwind and Covenant. Blindly he scrutinized Linden’s approach. In his stance, she saw a raptor’s acute ferocity.
Clyme and Branl now stood poised on either side of Kindwind. But their attention was fixed, not on Linden, but on Anele, and their hands were fists. The krill’s reflections in their eyes resembled threats. They had stood watch over the company to no purpose. And they had foreseen the peril in Anele from the first.
Instinctively Linden feared them. They were Haruchai, Masters, the Humbled—and they had failed. If they did not fault Galt for Liand’s death, they would accuse Anele.
Hoping to forestall them, Linden said in a hoarse rasp, “You can’t blame him. He didn’t choose this.”
Days ago, Anele had urged his companions to give him the Sunstone when he requested it.
“The Earthpower is his,” Branl replied without glancing at her. “It alone enabled him to endure such possession. Also the madness is his. The openness to Corruption is his. Such flaws conduce always to Desecration. Who will accept the burden of his deeds, if he does not?”
“I will,” Linden answered through the turmoil of remembered cries. “It’s my fault.” She deserved this. “I only cared about Jeremiah. I stopped paying attention to Anele.”
Together Clyme and Branl turned to regard her sternly.
You hold great powers. Yet if we determine that we must wrest them from you, do you truly doubt that we will prevail?
“I stopped paying attention,” Linden insisted. “I let it happen. Anyone here could have told you what Kastenessen would do if Anele touched bare dirt without—” Her voice caught in her throat. Oh, Liand! She could not say his name. “Without the Sunstone. I caused this when I ignored him.”
Galt might conceivably have warned Liand. But she had seen Cail beaten bloody by his kindred. She had watched Stave’s expulsion from the communion of the Masters. For Galt’s sake as well as her own, she insisted that she was culpable.
But Mahrtiir did not relent. “And I will not hear of fault!” he shouted. “Attempts must be made. We have spoken of this, Ringthane. Even when there can be no hope. Your son requires redemption. Therefore Liand strove to succor him. To claim fault demeans the Stonedownor’s sacrifice.”
With a visible effort, the Manethrall lowered his voice. “Mischance alone released Anele from Stormpast Galesend’s protection. Thereafter Kastenessen’s deeds could doubtless be foreseen. Yet the assault of such caesures—aye, and of caesures invested with such purpose—could not. And it was not inattention which caused the mischance of Anele’s release. Stormpast Galesend’s stumble was the consequence of unprecedented hazards. If you wish to assign fault, you must name her also. Indeed, you must name every Giant among us, and cast aspersion upon all who have learned to love the Stonedownor. Like you, we knew of the old man’s plight, and of his desire to be given orcrest when some aspect of his madness demanded clarity.
“Hear me well, Ringthane,” Mahrtiir demanded through his teeth. “You tread paths prepared for you by Fangthane’s malice. Speaking of fault, you bind yourself to his service.”
Linden bowed her head under the weight of his ire. As if to herself, she sighed, “You don’t understand.” No one except Covenant had truly understood her. Lord Foul knew her better than Mahrtiir did. She Who Must Not Be Named knew her better. “What I’ve done is all I have. Without it, I’m nothing. I ignored Anele. I roused the Worm. I followed Roger when he was pretending to be Covenant.” Despair made sense. The new blackness of Earthpower in her hands suited her. “If I don’t take responsibility, I might as well be dead.”
All three of the Humbled watched her as if she had justified their deepest distrust.
She felt Bhapa’s desire to protest. Stave also seemed ready to object. But Rime Coldspray spoke first.
“Enough.” Like an appeal for forbearance, she rested one hand on Clyme’s shoulder. “Linden Giantfriend, it is enough. If joy is in the ears that hear, then I must answer you with laughter. I do not only because I fear to augment your dismay.”
Frostheart Grueburn murmured her assent. Several of the other Giants nodded.
“You demand perfection of yourself,” Coldspray continued, “when mischance and error are the lot of all who live and die. You have assumed burdens sufficient to cow even Giants. For doing so, we honor you. If betimes you chance to stumble, as did Stormpast Galesend—
“Well.” The Ironhand tightened her grip on Clyme momentarily, then released him. “Among Giants, you would perhaps be named Blunderfoot.” Frowning, she nodded toward both Latebirth and Galesend. “Thereafter you would doubtless be often teased. But you would not be faulted. In the caamora, you would allay your pain and lamentation. Then you would arise, and shoulder your burdens again, and be held in undiminished esteem by all who accompany you.
“I myself,” she admitted, “have upon occasion assigned blame to myself. Now I cede that I erred in doing so. There was no harm in my heart when I delivered the blow which gave rise to Lostson Longwrath’s madness. There was no harm in Latebirth’s heart when by mischance she permitted Longwrath’s escape and Scend Wavegift’s death. There was no harm in Stormpast Galesend’s heart when she stumbled. And there was no harm in your heart, Linden Giantfriend, when you fixed your attention and yearning upon your son rather than upon Anele. If I grieve for you, I grieve only because your flesh cannot suffer the healing hurt of flames.
“There is wisdom in the Manethrall’s words.” Coldspray shook her head sadly. “You have spoken with the voice of despair.”
If the Ironhand had shared Linden’s nightmares, she would have recognized that voice. It was the scurry of noisome things that feasted on carrion; the shrieking of the bane’s victims. Ever since Linden had surrendered to the horror of She Who Must Not Be Named��no, ever since she had stood on Gallows Howe—she had forgotten forgiveness.
She did not choose to remember it now.
With the surface of her mind, however, she understood Coldspray. She understood Mahrtiir. Superficially she could acknowledge their arguments. And she had succeeded in her immediate aim: she had deflected the recriminations of the Humbled from both Galt and Anele.
“All right,” she muttered without lifting her head. “I get it. Liand is dead.” She said his name as if it were as dangerous as the krill. “The croyel still has Jeremiah. That’s what matters. Talking about me right now is just a distraction.
“We’re wasting time.” Grimly she forced herself to look up at her companions. “We ought to concentrate on what’s important.”
The Giants had no wood for a caamora. Like Linden and the Ramen and even Stave, they would have to find some other way to anneal their loss.
Apparently Pahni had been waiting for Linden to acknowledge Liand’s death. Now she lowered him to the ground. Gently she settled his limbs as if to make him comfortable. Then she surged to her feet and flung herself at Linden.
With the krill’s light behind her, the Cord’s visage was masked by shadows. Nevertheless her anguish outran her. Pain as raw as an objurgation stung Linden like a blow. Before Pahni reached her, she flinched.
Quicker than the girl, Stave stepped forward to intercept her. But Pahni wrenched to a halt before he touched her. Her garrote she gripped taut between her fists, although she seemed unaware of it. For a moment, her chest heaved so hard that she could not shape words.
“Cord,” Mahrtiir said sharply. “Compose yourself.” Ire and compassion struggled in his tone. “This is unseemly.”
Pahni ignored him. “Ringthane!” she cried: a ragged shout rife with imminent hysteria. “Restore him!”
“Pahni!” Now the Manethrall’s voice cracked like a whip. “Compose yourself! Is this the conduct of a Cord?”
Still she ignored him. In jagged gasps, she demanded, “You must restore him!”
Shaken, Linden hardly heard herself protest, “I can’t.”
“You must!” yelled Pahni. “He is my love! And his death is needless! He has given himself in your name, and it is needless!”
“Pahni!” Mahrtiir urged. With both hands, he reached out to restrain or embrace her.
So fluidly that Linden scarcely saw her move, Pahni snapped her garrote around the Manethrall’s wrists, jerked them together. In the same motion, she sprang past Mahrtiir and raised her arms over her head; used her fighting cord to flip him off his feet.
Branl caught him before he struck the ground. Clyme positioned himself to ward off a following attack.
But Pahni had already returned to Linden. She held her garrote ready for Linden’s throat.
“You will heed me, Ringthane!” she shouted like pelting hailstones. “In Andelain, you restored your own love! Now you will return mine to me! Every instrument is present. White gold. The Staff of Law. The krill of High Lord Loric. And there”—she did not drop her hands—“lies Liand slain!
“Are you heartless? I know that you are not! Therefore you must renew his life!”
Mahrtiir had regained his feet. Now he showed his own speed. Blind, he moved unerringly to grasp Pahni’s garrote between her fists. Then he was behind her. Pulling on her cord, he bent her arms unt
il he could pin them with his own.
“Pahni,” groaned Bhapa. “Oh, Pahni.” Refused weeping clogged his voice. “You must not. You must not.”
“Ringthane!” The young Cord thrashed against Mahrtiir’s clasp. “You will heed me!”
Her every word left wounds like the scoring of claws.
“I can’t,” Linden said again. Abruptly she dropped her Staff. As if she were striking herself, she snatched Covenant’s ring out of her pocket and hurled it to the dirt. Then she went to wrap her arms around Pahni and Mahrtiir.
“I would if I could,” she breathed like a moan in Pahni’s ear. “For you, I would. Even if I didn’t love him myself.” Even if she had not already violated so many Laws. “But I can’t. I just can’t.
“I don’t know where he is.”
For a moment, the Cord paused to listen. Then she began to fight again. “He is there!” she cried as if she wanted to sink her teeth into Linden’s throat. “His body lies there!”
“I know.” Like Bhapa, Linden refused weeping. “I know that. But I don’t know where his spirit is.
“In Andelain, Covenant was right in front of me. I didn’t need his body because his spirit was there.” It implied every aspect of his lost flesh. “He was still himself. But all I have now is Liand’s body. I can’t call his spirit back,” even if she could have repaired his skull, “because I don’t know where it is.
“Maybe he’s among the Dead in Andelain. I hope so. But I can’t reach that far. I can’t locate him, never mind ask him to live again. And I can’t create a new soul for his poor body out of empty air. I don’t know how.” She had learned none of the lore of the Old Lords. Even the meaning of Caerroil Wildwood’s runes mystified her. “Whatever I made—if I could make anything at all—it wouldn’t be Liand.”
This time, the sound of his name in her own mouth went through her like a spear. It seemed to repeat the moment of his destruction: the brutal slap of Anele’s hands; the sudden rage of lava; the ravage of bone and blood and brain. Gasping, she clenched her teeth, bit down on her pain, so that she would not cry out in Pahni’s ear.