Against All Things Ending

by Donaldson, Stephen R.

  Announced by chiming, Infelice incarnated herself between Linden and Jeremiah as though she had never been absent. Her sendaline murmured of disdain and supplication as it moved, stirred by a breeze that Linden could not feel.

  “Oh, good,” Linden panted, shaken by her own exertions and the caesure’s inrush. “You haven’t given up. I still have questions.”

  In scorn, the Elohim retorted, “And I continue to reply, imploring you to set aside your opposition. If you will not permit me to deflect the boy from the path of this atrocity, I pray that you yourself will thwart him, for the sake of the Land and the Earth, since you care naught for the Elohim. Remove him from his task. Unmake what he has done. Set him upon his beast and ride hence. If you do so, while they live the Elohim will ensure that he does not fall under the Despiser’s dominion a second time. Thus the worst of all evils may be forestalled.”

  “Wait a minute,” Linden demanded. She no longer held the Staff aimed at Infelice, but she was ready. “You’re going too fast for me.

  “Never mind that Jeremiah probably doesn’t care about you any more than I do. I was about to ask you why getting caught in one of his doors is worse than being eaten by the Worm. They sound about the same to me. Either way, you’re finished. Why is a prison worse than dying?”

  The music around Infelice sounded like teeth grinding in frustration. Lordly and contemptuous, she answered, “Wildwielder, the Worm is mere extinction. The prison which the boy will devise is eternal helplessness, fully cognizant and forever futile. It will outlive the ending of suns and stars. Which doom would you prefer? Which would you elect for your son?”

  Still Stave stood motionless, like a man who had no part to play in the world’s ruin. Behind Infelice, Jeremiah had used two more heavy bones like huge femurs snapped in half to complete the frame of his second wall: the side of an entryway, or the start of a corridor. Now he was busy filling the space between the uprights with fingers and limbs and lumps and gnarled boughs of bone. And as he worked, without haste or hesitation, Earthpower flowed from his hands like water, binding together the many pieces of his construct.

  By degrees, theurgy swelled in the bones. It was still nascent, still tenuous and vague, but Linden sensed that soon it would start to burgeon. His creation was beginning to resemble the numinous box which he had used to reach the depths of Melenkurion Skyweir: it was coming to life.

  “All right,” Linden said for the third time; perhaps the last time. “I’ll give you that one. It makes sense.

  “So tell me. I’m ready to hear it now. What’s ‘the worst evil’? If imprisoning you is worse than the Worm of the World’s End, what could possibly be ‘the worst of all evils’?”

  Infelice had become unalloyed wrath, a tintinnabulation too clangorous to be ignored. “The Despiser,” she rang out, “who is called a-Jeroth and Lord Foul and many other names, has placed his mark upon the boy. You claim the boy as your son, but you do not know him. You have not grasped that there is no limit to what he can achieve when he is given suitable aid.

  “Assuredly the Despiser desires his escape from the Arch of Time—and to accomplish that end, he does not require the boy. In his secret heart, however, he nurtures a darker intent. He seeks to devise a prison for the Creator, making use of the boy’s gifts when the Arch has fallen. This he means to accomplish in the moment of collapse, when all things have become mutable. As the Despiser has suffered, so he wishes all possible Creation to suffer, in unending emptiness and lamentation.

  “This you do not comprehend. Your mortal mind cannot encompass such absolute loss. Yet I beseech you to hear me. You have asked after the shadow on the hearts of the Elohim. The eternal end of Creation is shadow enough to darken the heart of any being.”

  Linden stared, shocked in spite of her allegiance to her son. Was it possible? Possible? Could Lord Foul do that? With Jeremiah’s help? The eternal end—

  —but of my deeper purpose I will not speak.

  More power throbbed behind Infelice. Jeremiah appeared to be finishing his second wall, the other side of a doorway or passage. In another moment or two, he would commence the next phase of his construct, whatever that might be.

  He needed more time. But Linden was too stunned to think. The eternal end—? Infelice was right about one thing: Linden could not grasp the concept. Lord Foul intended that? And she had run out of questions or arguments. Soon she would have no means to delay her antagonist except Earthpower or wild magic.

  “Nonetheless, Elohim,” Stave said unexpectedly, “your own comprehension is flawed.” He remained standing with his arms closed across his chest, as impassive as Jeremiah, and as unmoved. “I acknowledge that your undying thoughts surpass mine, or the Chosen’s, or indeed those of the Ranyhyn. Yet when you speak of the shadow upon your heart, you speak in contradictions.

  “In Andelain, you averred that your spirits are darkened by ‘the threat of beings from beyond Time.’ You cited the Chosen and also the Unbeliever, and I doubt not that you include this boy in your tale of darkness. You described them as ‘beings both small and mortal who are nonetheless capable of utter devastation.’”

  Linden remembered. By his own deeds, Infelice had said, the Despiser cannot destroy the Arch of Time. He requires your aid, Wildwielder, and that of the man who was once the Unbeliever.

  “To content you,” Stave continued, “I will also acknowledge that the presence in the Land of ‘beings from beyond Time’ has been chiefly caused by Corruption, if not by his own hand then by the efforts of his servants.”

  Infelice lifted an elegant eyebrow. The ire of her chiming receded into a more cautious mode. Apparently the Haruchai had caught her attention.

  At her back, Jeremiah turned away from the walls or sides of his construct. With strength that astonished Linden, far more strength than he should have possessed, he retrieved the largest of his gathered bones, the single intact femur, and raised it over his head. His muddy gaze regarded nothing as he carried the massive bone to his structure and set its length across the tops of the walls like a lintel.

  When he had sealed the femur in its position, the vibration of his created magic rose to a higher pitch. Linden felt its hum in her own bones. Waves of power made her skin itch as if every inch were a wound newly healed.

  But Stave did not pause; gave no sign that he was aware of Jeremiah or theurgy.

  “Yet by your own admission,” he said, “the Chosen did not effect the boy’s release from the croyel. Nor was he freed by ur-Lord Covenant’s intervention. And it was neither the Chosen nor the Unbeliever who discovered the boy’s covert in the Lost Deep. Furthermore we were not brought to this place at this time by either the Chosen or the Unbeliever—or by her son, or by his son or mate. We are here only by the will of the Ranyhyn.

  “Herein lies your error, Elohim. Every essential step along the path of the boy’s purpose has been taken by the natural inhabitants of the Earth. The Chosen and the Unbeliever and perhaps even the Unbeliever’s son have enabled those steps, but have not determined them. Therefore our presence here, and the boy’s present display of lore, do not conform to your description of the shadow upon the hearts of the Elohim. If we are now threatened by ‘the worst of all evils,’ it is through no fault or purpose or power of the Chosen’s son.

  “Thus,” the Haruchai stated as though his logic were unassailable, “it is made plain even to mortal minds that your protestations are spurious. You appear to believe that this boy is no more than a tool wielded by other beings. But the tool cannot be held accountable for the use which is made of it. And here the hands which wield him are those of the Ranyhyn and the Harrow, the first new Stonedownor and the lost son of Sunder and Hollian. They are the hands of beings who live and may perish within the proper confines of Time.

  “Thus it follows that you have no cause to oppose the boy. His present efforts cannot achieve Corruption’s designs.”

  Yes, Linden thought. Yes. It was Stave who had first shown her how to believe
that Jeremiah did not belong to Lord Foul. Now the former Master dispelled every doubt that had marred her faith.

  Apart from the claiming of your vacant son—

  He’s belonged to Foul for years.

  Roger had lied to her. The Despiser had tried to mislead her. From the first, one or both of them had striven to teach her despair. And they had succeeded.

  Yet Stave answered them for her. The Ranyhyn and Anele had answered them. Jeremiah himself was answering them now.

  Trust.

  With as much subtlety as she could manage, Linden began mustering Earthpower in her mind.

  As her son added phalanges and tarsal blocks like supports for his lintel, the force implicit in his structure scaled still higher. Soon it felt like the gnashing of dislocated realities, a door between worlds. In contrast, the music of the Elohim seemed dim and lusterless; as dulled as the ashen sky.

  Over her shoulder, Infelice cast a glance like a blaze of gems at the boy. Then she faced Stave for the first time.

  “You are Haruchai,” she said in a tone of regal disdain. “Have you forgotten that your strength is as weak as water to the Elohim, and as devoid of import? Yet I have heard you, hoping that the Wildwielder will reconsider her folly while you bandy words. Now you have said enough. I will hear no more.

  “If the tool cannot be held accountable for its use, it likewise cannot be used if it does not exist. Hold yourselves blameless, if that is your desire. I have spoken of perils which transcend blame. They must be prevented at any cost.”

  With a gesture of dismissal, as if she were banishing Stave from her sight, Infelice turned away.

  Toward Jeremiah.

  Linden was already summoning fire from her Staff when Stave barked harshly, “Chosen!”

  Another caesure. As soon as Stave called to her, she felt it stinging her flesh, hiving in her guts.

  The puissance of Jeremiah’s construct ramified into the grey heavens. He stepped back from it as if his work were done. Gazing blankly at his structure, his marrowmeld sculpture, like an artist who had expended every iota of himself, he extended his halfhand in Linden’s direction like a request for confirmation. But he did not turn his head, or shift his feet, or give any other indication that he wanted something from his mother.

  Infelice was about to destroy him. One way or another, the Elohim would put an end to every possibility, every hope.

  Nevertheless the Fall was more immediate. And Infelice feared it. She feared it at least as much as Linden did. She might hesitate while she was in danger.

  Frantically Linden wheeled away to hurl black fury into the migraine storm of hornets and instants.

  But she was wrong. As soon as she spotted the caesure, she saw that she was wrong. Joan had missed her aim. Her concentration, or turiya’s, was fraying. Vicious as a tornado, the Fall seethed on the far rim of the caldera. From where she stood, Linden could not have thrown a piece of bone to hit it. And it was moving away. Awkward as a cripple, it stumbled onto the outer slope of the crater and began to descend, a blind thing forsaken by its guide. If it did not suddenly change directions, it would drift out of sight and do no harm.

  Wrong, wrong, wrong. Linden had given Infelice a chance—

  And Stave was powerless against the Elohim. Long ago, Linden had witnessed the negligent ease with which Infelice’s people had refused Brinn and Cail, Hergrom and Ceer, from their demesne.

  Swinging the Staff’s howl of Earthpower, she spun back toward Jeremiah—

  —and was instantly frozen; stopped where she stood, as if every imaginable motion had been stripped from her. Her arms and legs were paralyzed: her heart seemed to stop beating. Blood congealed in her veins. Her fire vanished as if she knew nothing of Earthpower and had never understood Law.

  The air of the caldera was full of stars. They winked and spangled in front of her, around her, between her and her son, as evanescent and irrefusable as sun-dazzles. They were the gems of Infelice’s raiment, the eldritch jewels of her chiming, and they sang a song of immobility that ruled the basin, dominated the bones. Jeremiah still stood facing his construct with his right arm extended toward Linden: for him, nothing had changed. But Stave had been snared in mid-stride. Impossibly balanced on one foot with the other reaching for its step, he remained like a statue carved from stone.

  Linden tried to move, and could not. She had forgotten how to breathe.

  Only Infelice moved. Graceful as a breeze, she floated toward Jeremiah with a kind of gentle inevitability, as though his doom had been written eons ago in the materials of his construct.

  The Ranyhyn trumpeted warnings that no one heeded.

  As Infelice neared Jeremiah, she opened her arms to embrace him with ruin.

  In horror, Linden watched as if helplessness were the ultimate truth of her life. She had no answer to it. Perhaps she had never had an answer. It may have been the true source of her despair.

  But Stave—

  Ah, God.

  Somehow he found the will to speak.

  “You delude yourself, Elohim.” His voice was a whisper hoarse with strain. Stars like commandments resisted it. Yet he made himself heard. “Do you deem me helpless? I am Haruchai. I do what I must. When you strive to enact your desires against Linden Avery’s son, I will strike a blow which will alter your conception of power.”

  Bright gemstones swirled around him, bursts of suzerain coercion. He could not move: of course he could not. Nothing except wild magic could counter the force of the Elohim.

  And yet—

  —he did move. Slowly, arduously, inexorably, he closed the fingers of his right hand into a fist.

  Visibly startled, Infelice turned to stare at him. Her music shaped words which she did not utter. No. You will not.

  You. Will. Not.

  Ignoring her denial, Stave clenched his fist. His arm shook as he raised it.

  At the same time, the pressure binding Linden within herself eased slightly.

  She could breathe again. Her heart beat.

  Stave had given her a gift greater than power or glory.

  It would be brief. In another moment, Infelice would gather enough of her vast magicks to crush the Haruchai.

  Linden had to act now.

  She was no match for Stave. She did not try to equal him. In spite of Jeremiah’s peril, she ignored her Staff, made no attempt to reach for Covenant’s ring. Infelice would react to any effort of theurgy, any overt challenge. Instead, while the ire of Infelice’s stars forced Stave to lower his arm, Linden slipped her hand into the pocket of her jeans.

  The pocket where she carried Jeremiah’s red racecar.

  Aid and betrayal. Esmer had healed the crumpled toy for a reason. Linden needed to believe that he had not intended yet another form of treachery.

  Her refusal to be helpless was a pale mimicry of Stave’s; but it sufficed.

  While Infelice concentrated on stifling the last of Stave’s intransigence, his fundamental birthright, Linden withdrew the racecar from her pocket and tossed it toward Jeremiah.

  Stars flared in repudiation. Bells clamored denial across the caldera. But they had no effect on the toy’s passage.

  The racecar resembled Stave’s fierce stubbornness. It was Jeremiah’s birthright; his inheritance.

  He still faced his construct, motionless and lost. He had not once turned his head to glance at his mother. He could not have caught even a glimpse of his toy.

  Nevertheless he claimed it. Deft as legerdemain, his halfhand plucked the racecar from the air.

  In that instant, he appeared to receive the full potential of Anele’s gift. His whole body became an exultant hymn of Earthpower, as rich as the Elohim’s chiming, and as profound. Grasping the racecar, he looked as mighty as a Forestal.

  The deep thrum of his construct repulsed stars and bells and coercion.

  Do you see? Linden asked Infelice, too weak to form words aloud. Do you see him? He’s my son.

  Jeremiah’s transformation and
the loud demand of his portal snatched Infelice away from Stave. “No!” she sang, shouted, yelled. “You will not!”

  Swift as a whirlwind, the spangling of stars and jewels swept around Jeremiah. Infelice left only enough power in the air to hold Stave and Linden where they were; only enough to prevent Linden from using her Staff or Covenant’s ring. All the rest of her music and her ineffable majesty spun around Jeremiah; bound him like a cocoon.

  In spite of his new puissance, he did nothing. Infelice was too strong for him.

  Her sendaline whipped about her as she strode toward Jeremiah to complete her purpose.

  But her second step took her directly into the path of the charging Ranyhyn.

  She had forgotten about them—or had underestimated them. She may have believed that mere animals could not resist her compulsions. She may even have believed that they would not; that they would recognize her supremacy and be daunted.

  She should have known better.

  Doubtless Infelice’s magicks would protect her. Hynyn, Hyn, and Khelen were Ranyhyn; but they were only Ranyhyn. She was Elohim. Their inborn Earthpower could not overcome the forces at her command.

  Nevertheless she had noticed them too late.

  Khelen was in the lead. He crashed into her, drove her to the dirt, and pounded away, leaving her to be trampled by Hynyn and Hyn.

  Their hooves did not touch her. She vanished in an instant—and almost instantly reappeared behind them.

  During her brief flicker of absence, however, all of her stars vanished with her.

  That small release was enough for Jeremiah. Three quick strides took him around the edge of his construct. Two more carried him into the center of his portal.

  Infelice returned like a hurricane. Savage winds slapped Linden to the ground; flung Stave halfway up the slope of the basin; drove the Ranyhyn to their knees. Gales of rage and terror hammered at the portal; at Jeremiah. The sheer desperation of the Elohim staggered him.

  Yet the magicks of his construct shielded him. Within its supernal walls, he recovered his balance, straightened his back. Storms ripped at his tattered pajamas, but did not sway him.