Against All Things Ending

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  Bhapa swallowed fiercely, unable to find his voice again. He looked like he might weep, although his body had no moisture to spare for tears. As if he were ashamed of his emotions, he ducked his head.

  More harshly than she intended, Linden asked, “Did you think about calling her Ranyhyn? Naharahn would have answered. Pahni wouldn’t have come so close to the edge—”

  Then Linden stopped, cursing herself. She was not angry at Bhapa. It was her own role in Pahni’s pain that vexed her.

  Before she could apologize, Bhapa raised his head. For the first time since she had known him, she saw ire in his eyes.

  “The Ranyhyn do not live to serve us,” he said like sand scraped by stone. “They are not ours to command. We live to serve them. Until you came among us, no Ramen had ever ridden them. Enabling us to accompany you on your dire quests, they do us too much honor. None but a Manethrall may ask more of them.”

  “I’m sorry,” Linden replied as gently as she could. “I shouldn’t have said that. I know better. I’m just upset that there’s nothing I can do for Pahni.”

  Bhapa’s glare did not soften: he seemed unwilling to accept her apology. She had awakened his Ramen pride. But Cirrus Kindwind rested her arm across his shoulders and drew him away from Linden. “Come, Cord,” she said to soothe him. “If you deem me considerate, permit me to be so now. Your need for aliment emulates Pahni’s. Join her, I beseech you, and nourish your strength. We must soon depend upon yours, and hers, and every heart among us.”

  Firmly Kindwind guided him to the meal that she had offered Pahni and seated him beside the young Cord.

  “Thank you,” Linden murmured. Little as it was, it was as much as she could do. The comfort of resting against Covenant was gone, eroded by the effects of the Liand’s death. Pahni’s distress triggered reminders of She Who Must Not Be Named.

  Cirrus Kindwind nodded; shrugged. Briefly she glanced at Stave, perhaps asking him with her gaze to watch over the Cords. Then she turned her attention toward her comrades once more.

  The croyel kept its eyes closed. Jeremiah continued to gape at nothing as if he did not need sleep—or could not tell the difference between slumber and wakefulness.

  Ah, God, Linden thought. Resurrected spiders and centipedes scurried on her skin. Covenant, please. I’m falling apart here.

  But Covenant did not hear her prayer, or did not heed it. Sweating slightly, he slumped against his boulder as if he were as trapped as Jeremiah; as if his memories were graves.

  After a while, the Manethrall returned, wading against the current. As he drew near, Linden saw that he had washed his garments as well as his limbs and hair. He had even scrubbed his bandage. Then he had retied it around his head, concealing the ruin of his lost eyes.

  When he had surveyed Linden and her diminished company, he turned to his Cords. At once, Bhapa surged to his feet. Perhaps ashamed of his lingering anger, he bowed as if he were accepting a reprimand. But Mahrtiir did not address the older Cord. Instead, standing with his feet in the stream, he spoke to Pahni in a tone of quiet authority, confident that he would be obeyed.

  “Cord Pahni, Bhapa requires your aid. He must bathe. You must insist upon it. He is a Cord deprived of his Maneing only by the absence other Manethralls. His appearance is unseemly.”

  Linden had expected Mahrtiir to respond to Pahni’s pain more directly. But he knew the girl’s Ramen nature better than Linden did. In Pahni’s present state, attempts at consolation might only weaken her. Instead he directed her awareness outward; away from her woe and exhaustion.

  Linden could not see Pahni’s face, but she felt the girl flinch. A moment later, however, the young Cord climbed, tottering, to stand upright. Wavering on the frayed edge of her balance, she bowed to her Manethrall. Then, weak as a foal, she turned to Bhapa. “Come, Bhapa.” Briefly her voice seemed to stick in her throat, clogged by sorrows. “Ramen do not protest when a Manethrall commands.”

  Taking Bhapa’s hand, she led him into the stream as if he, too, had been blinded.

  As Mahrtiir had foreseen, she responded when she was given reason to believe that she was needed.

  If Linden had thought for an instant that Covenant would do the same, she might have tried to slit her wrists.

  Eventually Rime Coldspray and the rest of the Swordmainnir came back from the ridgecrest, carrying their armor. After their fashion, they seemed as tired as Bhapa, and as unresolved. Yet their fortitude ran deep. Although they adored stone and sea, they were timbers, able to flex instead of shattering. To honor Liand, they had spent much of their endurance. But much remained.

  When they had greeted Linden, Stave, and the Ramen, and shared their condolences with Cirrus Kindwind, they went first to the stream to wash off the grime of sweat and digging, and to drink their fill. Afterward they ruefully doled out an inadequate meal for themselves. Then, while the other Swordmainnir began to resume their armor, Rime Coldspray turned to Linden.

  “Linden Giantfriend,” said the Ironhand formally, “we have spent too long in sorrow. The day advances, and doubtless the Land’s foes do the same. We must delay no longer.

  “We”—she indicated her comrades—“wish to display our handiwork. Will you ascend to the place of Liand’s passing? From his cairn, we may set our course, for good or ill.”

  “All right,” Linden answered. She did not want to see it. “I don’t have any better ideas.” Trying to be clear, she added, “About anything. I was counting on Covenant. I was counting on being able to free Jeremiah. Now I’m as lost as they are. If Covenant doesn’t come back, you’ll have to make our decisions for us. You and Stave and Mahrtiir. I’m done choosing.”

  The results of her inadequacy were all around her. She had already done too much harm. And she had been changed by her nightmares; by mistakes and weaknesses beyond counting.

  The Ironhand frowned. “You mis-esteem yourself. It is plain that indeed you do not forgive. Yet heretofore you have assumed great and fearsome burdens, as I have averred. Therefore I acknowledge that you require a greater respite. With Stave’s consent, and that of the Ramen, we will take upon ourselves the task of choice.

  “If the Masters protest, they must name their own desires.”

  “We will do so,” Galt stated flatly.

  The Manethrall studied Linden and Coldspray. After a moment, he nodded. “It will be as you have said, Ironhand of the Swordmainnir. Nonetheless I must affirm that the Ramen stand with the Ringthane. When she becomes Linden Avery the Chosen once more, as she must, her word will command us, whatever the cost.”

  Ah, God.—as she must—

  Stave indicated his own commitments by shifting closer to Linden. His single eye watched Galt impassively.

  The Master had already implied that he was not content to simply restrain the croyel. Like Clyme and Branl, he might soon feel compelled to act on other priorities.

  Coldspray answered Mahrtiir’s nod with her own. “We are in accord, Manethrall. We also wish to follow Linden Giantfriend until the end. I seek only to ease her present distress.”

  This time, the Manethrall bowed. “Then let us go now to honor Liand’s cairn as well as we may. We will make of the Stonedownor’s steadfastness a lodestone to guide our purposes.”

  Bowing in turn, Coldspray stooped to retrieve her armor.

  Frostheart Grueburn, Latebirth, and Halewhole Bluntfist had already fastened their cataphracts around them, loosened their longswords in their scabbards. Now Bluntfist lifted Anele’s unresisting form out of Stormpast Galesend’s breastplate.

  The old man did not react. He seemed oblivious to the activity around him. His thoughts remained fixed on something that no one else could see: the dilemma of his personal contradiction, Must and Cannot in unrelieved succession.

  Soon Galesend was ready to reclaim Anele. The rest of the Giants had secured their armor and shouldered their bundles of supplies. Unasked, Galt turned Jeremiah and the croyel, and began to impel them carefully up the hillsides toward the
gypsum ridge. Cirrus Kindwind offered to carry Covenant, but Manethrall Mahrtiir stopped her. “Other attempts have failed,” he explained. “Mayhap the exertion of walking will reassert the claims of his flesh upon his mind.”

  Then he instructed his Cords to take Covenant’s arms, raise him to his feet, and support him on his way. In spite of their weariness, they obeyed at once. Pahni’s dull stare conveyed the impression that she was too numb to care what she did.

  Acquiescing with a shrug, Kindwind joined her fellow Swordmainnir. Shortly Linden and all of her companions were in motion, repeating their angled ascent to the place where Liand had perished.

  Her friends intended to make her decisions for her—but only until she felt able to become the Chosen again: the woman in whom they elected to believe. They did not understand that Liand’s death, and the state of Jeremiah’s mind, and the bane’s screaming power had taught her the truth about herself. At her heart, she was carrion. Food for maggots and vultures. She was done with choosing.

  She had no other defense against the Despiser’s machinations.

  5.

  Inheritances

  Carrying her Staff and Covenant’s ring and Jeremiah’s healed toy as if they were empty of import, Linden climbed the slopes with Stave and Mahrtiir like a woman ascending Gallows Howe.

  The hills seemed high to her now; more difficult than she remembered. A kind of moral weakness dragged at her muscles. She did not want to see Liand’s cairn—and could not refuse. Like the company’s circumstances, the outcome of her efforts to save her son called for more courage than she could imagine.

  Only Thomas Covenant had it in him to meet the challenge of doom and death: she believed that. Only his instinct for incalculable victories—But she did not know how to reach him.

  She wanted to turn and simply walk away forever.—as she must—Unfortunately she had abdicated her right to choose. Her friends had promised to make her decisions for her. Looking at Liand’s monument was only the first of them. Obedient to her own surrender, she forced her way up the shale and grit of the hillsides until she reached the ridge.

  There the desiccated browns of the surrounding terrain made the white spine of gypsum appear unnaturally stark, almost pure; as distinct as chalk. Along the ridge, bits of quartz and mica caught the sun and flashed like implied omens. No doubt dust would have billowed from the strides of the Swordmainnir in any breeze; but the air was as still as a tombstone. Arid heat and haze rather than dust gave the sky a tan hue.

  Immediately in front of the company, the handiwork of the Giants dominated the east, a long oval mound towering over the ridge from slope to slope. With sweat and strength and love, Rime Coldspray and her comrades had piled rocks the size of kresh and Cavewights and even mustangs to cover Liand’s death with homage. A few of the boulders were as big as huts. In an abstract way, Linden had understood that the Giants were mighty, and that they had labored long. Nevertheless she was taken aback by the scale of the cairn. Liand had been given a barrow suitable for a king.

  It seemed more final than his ruined corpse.

  Oh, Liand. Through her reluctance and shame, Linden felt her eyes burn with unattainable tears. Nothing could comfort her for the Stonedownor’s passing. Still she felt that the Giants had done him justice.

  “A small gesture only,” explained Coldspray as if she were embarrassed. “Being Giants, we had it in our hearts to dig away this stretch of the ridge, and that beyond as well, thus forming a pediment for the cairn. But time pressed against us, and we abandoned our first intent.”

  “Nonetheless,” Mahrtiir stated after a moment, “what you have done is well done. Be assured that it is well done.”

  Instead of speaking, Stave bowed in the manner of the Haruchai, first to the Ironhand, then to the high mound of stone.

  Still Covenant did not react. Creviced memories held him.

  On a hilltop some distance to the north, Clyme stood with his back to the company. In the south, Branl also faced away. The two Humbled seemed to disregard their companions; but Linden understood their vigilance. They had not forgotten their many enemies. Joan’s attack during the night had demonstrated that even here, tens or scores of leagues from more obvious dangers, the company was not safe. Clyme and Branl did not assume that the Land’s last defenders would be safe anywhere.

  “If it is well done,” Rime Coldspray said finally, “we are content. I name our grief and honor complete. Now let us consider our course. We cannot remain as we are while the Worm threatens to unmake all that we have known and loved and needed.”

  Her words may have been addressed to Linden; but Linden stood with her head bowed and did not respond. What could she have said?

  “Our foes are easily counted,” replied Mahrtiir grimly. “The Timewarden’s former mate craves our ruin. Only her madness preserves us from endless caesures. Further we are told that his son amasses Cavewights to claim both the Ringthane’s child and the croyel. Given opportunity, Kastenessen may strike again, as we know to our great cost. Also it is his theurgy which shapes Kevin’s Dirt, hampering Earthpower across the Upper Land. And we are told as well that both Sandgorgons and skurj assail Salva Gildenbourne. Indeed, they may dare the ravage of Andelain, for the krill no longer defends the heart of the Land’s loveliness.”

  That one detail, at least, had been Covenant’s doing, not Linden’s. It was all that had enabled the company to capture Jeremiah.

  “These are fearsome perils in all sooth,” Mahrtiir observed, “terrible and heinous. In addition, however, Esmer endures, compelled to treachery. And we must not forget the Worm itself as it seeks the roots of Melenkurion Skyweir.”

  The Manethrall paused briefly, then said, “I do not regard such lesser wights as kresh and skest. In themselves, they are mere servants. Nor do I consider turiya Raver. If he does not remain with his victim, she is nothing. Contemplation of Lostson Longwrath I leave to the Swordmainnir, who are better able to comprehend his plight. The Insequent have turned aside. And I do not cite the lurker of the Sarangrave, though we stand nigh unto its demesne. Ancient tales suggest that it is little more than a monstrous appetite devoid of thought or aspiration.

  “However, I must speak of moksha Jehannum. Where he toils, and what he strives to gain, are hidden from us. I cannot discount She Who Must Not Be Named. Aroused, the bane may rise still farther, wreaking vast torment. And I must not neglect the purest abomination, dire Fangthane himself, Despiser of Land and life. It is by his will that all other perils and evils have awakened. There can be no reply to the Worm unless Fangthane also is answered.”

  Mahrtiir paused again; turned his bandaged face toward each of his companions one by one. Explicitly he did not spare Linden his scrutiny. After giving them a moment to absorb his summation, he asked, “What say you? Is my tale complete?”

  The Giants shifted their feet uncomfortably. Some of them looked daunted in spite of their native resilience and courage. Pahni stood like a woman in shock. Bhapa fretted as if he wished to flee. Between them, Covenant mumbled something that sounded like a list of all the trees in the One Forest. But Anele had fallen silent in Galesend’s arms, apparently conscious of nothing except orcrest and dread.

  Linden did not want to speak. She felt beaten down by Mahrtiir’s toll of troubles, almost immured, as if his words were stones. When no one else responded, however, she forced herself to say, “One of us ought to at least mention the Elohim. They’re probably all scrambling to save themselves. But Infelice sure as hell didn’t want us to rescue Jeremiah. Now that we have him, she may be desperate enough to interfere.”

  Like the Manethrall, Coldspray scanned the company. Having ascertained that no one wished to offer a comment, she nodded once, harshly. “Then we are agreed. The tale is complete, though its unadorned brevity resembles a wound. Now we must make known the counsels of our hearts.”

  Looking directly at Pahni and Bhapa, she continued, “And here none may keep silent. Every thought and insight and apprehension
must be heard.” She seemed to think that the Cords might be too diffident or weary to express themselves. “Any word may serve to inspire guidance, but it cannot if it is not uttered.”

  Like Coldspray, Mahrtiir faced the Cords. “Harken well. The Ironhand’s command is also mine. I comprehend the hurt of speaking only to be countered or dismissed. But our straits require this of us. Naught can be gained without risk of hurt.”

  Bhapa nodded with a nauseated grimace. But Pahni surprised Linden by answering, “The Ardent has said that the Ringthane’s need for death is great.” She sounded vague, almost stupefied. Nothing flickered in her eyes to indicate that she was aware of her own bitterness. “I see no promise that her need has been sated.”

  Restore him!

  I can’t. I would if I could.

  Mahrtiir’s wince was visible in spite of his bandage; but he did not reprimand the girl.

  As if in Linden’s defense, Frostheart Grueburn said, “The withdrawal of the Insequent is lamentable. Our grief over the Ardent’s passing is whetted by our inability to seek further explication of his auguries.”

  After a moment, Onyx Stonemage added, “Nor are we able to ask aid of the ur-viles and Waynhim. Doubtless their lore is great. Certainly we have witnessed their strange puissance. While Esmer lives, however, we are deprived of our gift of tongues. It may be that Linden Giantfriend remains able to call upon them. But if so, we would not comprehend their counsel.”

  More sternly, the Ironhand stated, “It is bootless to dwell upon queries which cannot or will not be answered. We must consider deeds which are within our compass.”

  “Then, Ironhand,” said Cabledarm, “let us begin by discarding deeds which are not within our compass.” Her tone suggested a dour jest, although her expression was somber. “Neither the Sandgorgons nor the skurj merit concern. Our mere strength and swords cannot defeat such creatures.”

  Halewhole Bluntfist agreed. “And let us discard also the Worm itself, and She Who Must Not Be Named, and Fangthane Despiser. Doubtless such evils must be answered. There again, however, strength and swords will achieve no worthy effect. Those who wield wild magic and Earthpower”—she glanced at Galt—“aye, and Loric’s eldritch krill must devise our course. We cannot.”