Floating, Infelice drifted to the ground near Linden. The intensity of the krill dimmed her raiment, robbed her of lustre. She sounded almost human-almost petulant-as she said, “I have heard you, Wildwielder. Have you heard me? We stand now at the last crisis of the Earth. If you do not turn aside, you will be broken indeed. Your remorse will surpass your strength to bear it.”
Linden did not answer. Instead she spoke softly to the waiting night.
“I’m here. It’s time. You know why I’ve come. You know what I have to do.” When Covenant had entered Andelain without her, his Dead had given him gifts to aid his efforts to redeem the Land. Linden, find me. I can’t help you unless you find me. “The Harrow says that this is Banas Nimoram, and you called me here. I can’t save anything”- not Jeremiah, not the Land, not even herself- “without you.”
Around her and the Wraiths, the darkness seemed to hold its breath. The Harrow murmured quiet invocations which meant nothing to her. Infelice fretted as if she were inconsolable. The Swordmainnir shifted restlessly in their trance, and Anele jerked his head from side to side, watchful and frightened, like a man being hunted. The stars grew still in their stately allemande.
Linden could not know that she would be heeded. Yet she felt no doubt. In dreams and through Anele, Covenant had reached out to her across the boundaries of life and death. She no longer considered it possible that she might be mistaken.
Then the night gave a low sigh; and beyond the Wraiths two figures came forward from the rim of the vale. They were portrayed in silver as though they were made of moonlight: they shone with phosphorescence like a gentler manifestation of the krill’s argent blaze. But they were at once more definite than moonshine and less acute than the blade’s echo of wild magic. Although they walked with formal steps, they appeared to drift like wisps over the grass, as evanescent as dreaming, and as allusive.
Linden knew them. They were Sunder Graveler and Hollian eh-Brand, Anele’s parents.
When they had passed between the reverent flames, they stopped partway down the slope. They seemed strangely commanding and penitent, and their moonstone eyes gleamed with austere compassion. Linden’s heart surged at the sight of them; but they did not glance in her direction or speak. Instead they gazed at Anele as if they were full of suppressed weeping.
He must have been aware of them. With his hands, he covered his face. But then he seemed to find that his fingers and palms were too thin, too frail, to protect him. Flinging his arms around his head, he ducked low over Hrama’s neck like a child who hoped to hide from chastisement.
Now Linden saw tears in Hollian’s eyes and sorrow in Sunder’s. Yet they beckoned to their son, summoning him toward them with the certainty of monarchs. In life, their courage and love and Earthpower had earned them the stature of Lords.
Anele did not react to their mute call. But Hrama responded. As if both he and his rider belonged in such company, the Ranyhyn carried Anele toward his Dead.
Sunder and then Hollian bowed to Hrama, silent and grave. Gesturing, they invited the Ranyhyn to walk between them. Solemn as a cortege, they turned to escort Hrama and Anele away from Loric’s krill; out of the vale. Linden felt her heart try to break-try and fail-while Sunder and Hollian departed with their son. But they said nothing; and so she could not. A cry of abandonment sounded within her for a moment. Then it relapsed to stone.
As Sunder, Hollian, and their son passed away among the flames, Linden lost sight of them. In their place, another ghost strode down the slope.
She knew him as well, grieved for him as much.
He was Grimmand Honninscrave, the Master of Starfare’s Gem. In measureless agony, he had contained samadhi Sheol so that the Sandgorgon Nom could kill him in order to rend the Raver. Thirty-five centuries later, anguish still gripped his face. As he moved, he seemed to shed droplets of moonlight like blood.
He also stopped midway between the Wraiths and the dead stump of Caer-Caveral’s sacrifice. He also did not speak. And he did not spare a glance for Linden, in spite of their friendship. His ancient pain conveyed the impression that he feared her as he summoned the Swordmainnir.
They obeyed without hesitation, sheathing their weapons as they strode toward the Dead Giant. Around Honninscrave’s moonstruck figure, they stood for a moment in silence and awe. Then they accompanied him away from Linden, leaving her to face her choices without their encouragement, their strength, their laughter. Together they followed Honninscrave past the Wraiths until he and they had faded into the night.
Of Linden’s friends, only Stave, Liand, and the Ramen remained.
“Do you behold this, Wildwielder?” Infelice hissed with the urgency of a serpent. “Do you see? These are your Dead. Their love for you is not forgotten. Yet they shun you. They seek to spare their descendants the peril of your intent. If you will not heed me, heed them.”
The Harrow countered lnfelice’s appeal with a jeer, although he kept his distance. “She is Infelice,” he told Linden scornfully, “suzerain among the Elohim, and blind with self-worship. Yet there is insight in her disregard. You also have been made blind, lady.” His disdain became veiled supplication. “There is a Kevin’s Dirt of the soul as there is of the flesh. The Earth would have been better served if you had not cast away the Mahdoubt’s name and use and life.”
Linden might have wavered then. But she had not come here for Honninscrave, or for Sunder and Hollian. Covenant’s ring hung, untouched, under her shirt, and Jeremiah’s racecar was in her pocket: she was still waiting. If all of her friends were taken from her, she would stand where she was until Covenant appeared.
Through her teeth, she repeated. “I’m here. It’s time.”
I need you. I need you now.
But if any ghost among the Hills heard her, it was not Thomas Covenant. Instead ten stern spirits walked like wafting down into the vale, and she saw that they were Haruchai whom she had known: Cail, Ceer, and Hergrom, as well as others who had fought against the Clave in Revelstone. When she recognised Esmer’s father, she had to bite her lip to stifle a groan. In spite of his long devotion, he had been beaten bloody by his kinsmen because he had failed to resist the seduction of the merewives. Forlorn, he had later left Lord’s Keep to seek the Dancers of the Sea once again. He could not forget the passion and cruelty of their siren lure. The denunciation of his people had left him no other path.
Now he and his Dead company entered the vale severely, as if they had come to repay judgment with judgment.
They, too, halted on the slope of the vale. And they, too, did not speak. With moonlight in their eyes and authority in their gestures, they beckoned Stave and the Humbled toward them. If they addressed the living Haruchai mind to mind, Linden felt nothing.
But neither Stave nor the Masters obeyed.
The Dead insisted, upright and uncompromising. The argence of the krill reflected in Stave’s eye, and in the eyes of the Humbled, echoing the glow of the Dead. Still none of the Haruchai left their places with Linden.
“Stave?” she breathed. “What do they want? What are they saying?”
Stave shook his head. He did not glance away from Cail, Ceer, and Hergrom. “This night holds no enmity,” he said as if to himself. “The Dead neither spurn nor oppose you. Rather they seek to make way. Other spirits inhabit Andelain, spectres which may not be denied. While Loric’s krill burns, their might requires compliance. They will come to affirm the necessity of freedom.
“The Insequent and the Elohim honour no power but their own. They remain because they fear for themselves. Yet they dare not contend. If they offer strife, they will be expelled in spite of their theurgies. And they cannot sway you. You hold no love for them. Therefore you cannot be misled.”
Be cautious of love. There is a glamour upon it which binds the heart to destruction.
Stave’s quiet voice seemed to rouse Liand and the Ramen from their imposed reverie. They stirred as if they were awakening; turned their heads and looked around them. Linden f
elt their attention sharpen. Mahrtiir lifted his garrote in his hands.
After a time, the Dead Haruchai appeared to accept that they had been refused. Cail’s expression was radiant sorrow; but Ceer and the others glowered in disapproval. Their movements were stiff with reproach as they withdrew.
“Stave?” Linden asked again. She believed that she understood Cail’s sadness. But Hergrom, Ceer, and the others were the ancestors of the Masters. If they were alive, surely they would have stood beside the Humbled?
Stave frowned. “Be still, Chosen,” he said in a constrained hush. “The Dead have no words for your ears. They are forbidden to address you. In this place, your deeds must be your own, unpersuaded for good or ill by the counsel and knowledge of those who have perished. So it has been commanded, and the Dead obey.”
Other spirits inhabit Andelain-
Who but Covenant had the stature to command the Dead?
The answer came toward the vale from four directions. As the Dead Haruchai faded past the dancing adulation of the Wraiths, vast doors seemed to open, rents in the fabric of the night, and four towering shades strode forth.
They were tall, prodigiously tall, not because they were Giants, but because their spirits were great. Their brightness emulated the blaze of the krill.
One of them walked out of the west. With a shock, Linden saw that he was Berek Halfhand. But he was not the Berek whom she had met, embattled and weary, baffled by nameless powers. Rather he was High Lord Berek Heartthew, limned in victory and lore. Under the Theomach’s tutelage, he had transcended himself. His eyes were stars, and he gazed upon Linden with sombre gladness, simultaneously concerned and gratified.
From the north came another mighty spectre whom she knew, although she had only met him briefly as a young man. He was Damelon son of Berek, now High Lord Damelon Giantfriend. In his time, he had both discovered and guarded the Blood of the Earth. As he aged, he had put on girth: Dead, he implied the bulk of mountains against the background of Andelain’s darkness and the black heavens. To Linden’s shaken stare, he replied with a beatific smile.
The figure approaching from the south was a man whom she had not encountered; but he could only be Damelon’s son, High Lord Loric Vilesilencer. He was gaunt with striving and mastered anguish, and the dark pits of his eyes held the intimate ache of despair. Yet he gazed upon the krill, his handiwork, with an air of profound vindication. When he looked at Linden, he nodded in approval, as if he were certain of her.
But Kevin Landwaster entered the vale from the east. She knew him too well. He had confronted her once before in Andelain, ordering her to halt the Unbeliever’s mad intent; prevent Covenant from surrendering his ring. We are kindred in our way-the victims and enactors of Despite. In torment and outrage, High Lord Kevin’s ghost had implored or commanded her to kill Covenant if she could find no other way to stop him.
Living, he had fashioned and hidden the Seven Wards to preserve the lore of the Old Lords for future generations. He had greeted the Haruchai with respect, inspiring them to become the Bloodguard. And he had saved them as well as the Ranyhyn, the Ramen, and most of the Land’s people from the consequences of his despair. But his last act had been to join with Lord Foul in the Ritual of Desecration. And when Elena had broken the Law of Death to summon him, he had defeated her, turning the Staff of Law to the Despiser’s service. Now he wore the cost of his deeds in every tortured line of his visage.
When evil rises in its full power, it surpasses truth and may wear the guise of good-
His presence made Linden tremble. Good cannot be accomplished by evil means. He had been wrong about Covenant. He may have been wrong about Despite. There is hope in contradiction. But she could not affirm that he was wrong about her. Too many people had tried to caution her-
Like the other Dead, the four High Lords were silent. And they did not enter the wide circle of the Wraiths. Instead they stood, august, etched in light, beyond the flames as if they had come to bear witness as Linden unveiled the Land’s fate.
But of Covenant himself, who had called Linden here, there was no sign anywhere.
“Now, Linden,” Stave said distinctly. “The time has indeed come. Act or turn aside, according to the dictates of your heart.”
Her sudden anguish resembled both Kevin’s and Honninscrave’s. “Covenant isn’t here. I need him. He’s the reason I came.”
He did not know of your intent.
“Then summon the Law-Breakers,” Stave answered. But he did not explain. Instead he stepped back as if to abjure her.
For a moment, she could not understand him, and she nearly broke. His apparent disapproval hurt her worse than Cail’s mute departure, or Honninscrave’s, or Sunder’s and Hollian’s. She loved them all, but she had accepted their deaths. Stave was alive: as mortal as she was, and as much at risk. He was her friend-
But then her mind was filled with luminescence like the stringent shining of the High Lords. Of course, she thought. Of course. The Law-Breakers. The Laws of Death and Life. If Covenant could not hear or answer her directly, who else might invoke him from his participation in the Arch of Time? Who except the Law-Breakers, those who by their unique desperation had made possible the triumph of his surrender to Lord Foul?
Fearless again, and beyond doubt, Linden raised her head to the stars. “Elena!” she called firmly. “You were Lena’s daughter, but you were also Covenant’s. You drank the Blood of the Earth. Now I need you.
“Hile Troy! First you sacrificed yourself to save the army of the Lords. Then you became Caer-Caveral and sacrificed yourself again. I need you, too.”
As she spoke, the darkness trembled. Around her, the substance of reality seemed to ripple and surge like shaken cloth. Kevin Landwaster glared with unassuaged bitterness. An eager scowl clenched his father’s moonlight face. Damelon continued to beam, but Berek gnawed his lips anxiously.
Beyond the krill and the Wraiths, three ghosts appeared at the rim of the vale.
One was a man, eyeless as an ur-vile, and fretted with commitments. He wore the raiment of a Forestal, apparel that flowed like melody even though the song of his life and power had been stilled; and in his hand, he carried a gnarled staff like an accompaniment to his lost music. To Linden, he was Caer-Caveral: she had not known him as Hile Troy. She would never forget his final threnody.
Oh, Andelain! forgive! for I am doomed to fail this war.
Near him walked a woman; surely Elena? But she was not the High Lord whom Covenant had described as one of his Dead, a figure of love and loveliness. Rather she appeared as she must have been when Covenant had destroyed the original Staff of Law, Berek’s Staff, tearing loose her last grasp on life; exposing her soul to the horror of what she had done. Her hair was rent with woe: bleeding galls marked her face as if she had tried to claw away her failures. As she entered the vale and paused with Caer-Caveral, her form flickered, alternately lit and obscured as though clouds scudded across her spectral moonshine.
The Law-Breakers, dead and broken; doomed. The ghosts of all that the Land had lost.
But Linden scarcely saw them. Instead she stared at the man who walked between them, silver and compelled, as if he had been brought forth against his will.
He was Thomas Covenant: he had come to her at last.
And he was more than the Dead, oh, infinitely more: he was a sovereign spirit, suffused with wild magic and Time. In one sense, he was unchanged. Wreathed in argence, he wore the same pierced T-shirt, the same worn jeans and boots, that she remembered. The scar on his forehead was a faint crease of nacre. Even his soul had lost the last two fingers of his right hand. When he met her gaze, he searched her with the same strict and irrefusable compassion which had made her who she was; taught her to love him-and the Land.
But in every other respect, he had gone beyond recognition. He was no more human than the stars: a being of such illimitable loneliness and grandeur that he both defied and deified understanding.
Briefly the krill seeme
d to grow dim in his presence. Then it blazed brighter, alight with rapture and exaltation. And
Linden blazed with it. She did not hear herself cry out Covenant’s name, or feel the stone of her heart torn asunder. She only knew that when Caer-Caveral and Elena stopped, Covenant continued on down the slope, striding like a prophet of ruin and hope until he had passed among the High Lords, through the ecstasy of the Wraiths, and reached the bottom of the vale, where Linden could see him clearly.
On the far side of Loric’s embedded blade, he halted. There he stood with his arms folded like denial across his chest.
“Oh, Covenant.” Linden verged on weeping. “God, I need you. Lord Foul has my son. I don’t know how to save him without you.”
I can’t help you unless you find me.
Only Covenant could stand up to the forces arrayed against her. Just be wary-
His eyes bled nacre on her behalf. But he shook his head. Harsh as a blow, he raised his halfhand to cover his mouth.
She understood in spite of her dismay. He, too, accepted the command of silence. No matter how she yearned for his guidance, he would not speak to her. His gaze begged her to make the right choice.
In this place, your deeds must be your own, unpersuaded for good or ill-
With every nerve, Linden ached to hear his voice; his counsel; his love. But the mere fact that he had come told her everything.
Trust yourself.
Ever since her battle with Roger and the croyel, she had striven toward this moment.
Do something they don’t expect.
Holding the Staff with her left hand, she planted its heel in the grass. With her right, she reached under her shirt and drew out Covenant’s ring. Deliberately she pulled its chain over her head. Then she closed the ring in her fist.
Either alone will transcend your strength, as they would that of any mortal. Together they will wreak only madness, for wild magic defies all Law.
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