The Last Dark (57 page)

“What do you think, Jeremiah?” Her voice shook. “This has got to be harder for you than anyone else.” He had said as much himself. He had no instrument of power. No weapon, no prowess, no great strength. “Are you willing to go to Mount Thunder and take your chances?”

Jeremiah’s attention seemed to leap at her. “Sure,” he returned as if he had never questioned himself. “Why not? Otherwise we’re all just dead. If it’s too much for me, I can always hide again. Lord Foul will still be able to use me, but I won’t have to feel it. Not like I did with Kastenessen, and he only got me because I didn’t expect it.”

He gave the impression that he meant, Maybe I don’t have to be useless. Covenant said he needs us. But Linden heard more. As if Jeremiah had spoken to her like the
Haruchai
, mind to mind, she heard him say, I want Lord Foul
dead
.

Oh, my son—

“Linden?” Covenant asked. Now he sounded deliberately neutral, as if he thought that he had already put too much pressure on her. “It’s up to you.”

From him also, she heard more than he said.

I know what I have to do.

I can’t do it without you.

She recognized the knots that defined his face, the lines like cuts, the clench of understanding and regret. How often had he regarded her like that? When he knew what the Land’s need required, and regretted it for her sake rather than his own?

Eventually we all have to face the things that scare us most
.

A flick of grit forced her to shut her eyes for a moment. She felt suddenly parched in spite of the lingering taste of treasure-berries; scorched by the heat of Covenant’s gaze. She had ashes in her veins instead of blood. God, he was a cruel man sometimes. Cruel and terrible and irrefusable.

Barely able to clear her throat, she said, “You aren’t just my husband,” Thomas of my heart. “You’re Thomas Covenant the Unbeliever. And Jeremiah is willing. I’ll go with you as far as I can.”

At that moment, the sudden lift of relief and hope and even love in Covenant’s gaze did not touch her. And she ignored the reactions of the Giants. Their Ironhand had already given her assent. Instead she remembered Berek Halfhand among the Dead.

He may be freed only by one who is compelled by rage, and contemptuous of consequence
.

The Lord-Fatherer’s pronouncement made her want to weep. He may have been trying to warn Covenant rather than her. He may have been describing Jeremiah.

Or he may have seen the Land’s doom in all three of them.

second circle of wild magic. A second rush of disorientation. A second reflexive response from Linden’s wedding band. Then the horses and the Giants pounded as if they were deranged down the bottom of a ravine that Linden almost recognized.

Weathered hills rose on either side. The cut between them was comparatively shallow, a crooked trough wide enough for the company. The sand and age-smoothed stones of the bottom provided an easy surface for the mounts and the Swordmainnir as they pounded along, slowing with every stride. And ahead of them—

Black in the unnatural twilight of midday, a stream slid past a widening fan of sand punctuated by the jut of a few boulders. Complaining against rock on the far side, the water flowed down a small canyon that arced around the swath of sand.

As Hyn’s gait eased, and Linden’s nerves began to recover from the mad reel of translation, she realized that she did indeed know this place. Here the company had rested days ago. Here she had rejoined her companions after Covenant had retrieved her from nightmares of She Who Must Not Be Named. Here the Ardent had delivered a feast, and had lost his grip on name and use and life. And back there, behind her now, lay the ridge of fouled gypsum where Liand and then Galt had been slain, and Anele had perished; where Esmer had passed away: the crest crowned by cairns. In this low canyon, Covenant had ridden away with Branl and Clyme as if he did not want her love. It was a place of loss and struggle and butchery, a black omen.

The Ranyhyn must have chosen this destination. As far as she knew, Covenant did not have such control over his translations.

Fortunately the company had arrived in a region of calmer winds. The Worm seemed far away, as if it had lapsed back into abstraction.

As Mishio Massima slowed, Branl took the
krill
from Covenant, held it up to light the way. Near the water’s edge, the horses stamped to a halt. Heaving for air as if they had run for hours instead of moments, the Ironhand and her comrades stopped. Briefly silver glared like frenzy in their eyes. But within moments they began to breathe more easily. As they looked around, they nodded their recognition.

At the forefront of the company, Covenant practically fell out of his saddle, tottering like a man on the verge of prostration. But his unsteadiness was vertigo, not fatigue. He began to look stronger as he recovered his balance.

Still mounted, Linden did not meet his gaze. She was not ready. She still felt stricken by his intentions and her own acquiescence—and by her son’s peril.

An awkward shrug clenched his shoulders. He left her to herself. Scanning the Giants, he drawled, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you all look like you need a bath.”

Coldspray gave him a lugubrious frown. “We are clogged with grime, Timewarden, made filthy by long exertion. Indeed, we are altogether unlovely. How might your observation be interpreted wrongly?”

He blinked at her as if he could not think of a response. Then he muttered in feigned disgust, “Giants.” More loudly, he remarked, “God knows
I
need one. Maybe my eyes are going, but I can still smell myself.” To Jeremiah, he added, “Come on. Let’s at least try to get clean. Maybe we’ll feel better.”

Jeremiah had kept his seat on Khelen as if he were impatient to continue the journey. He avoided Linden’s eyes as she avoided Covenant’s. But he did not refuse. After only a moment’s hesitation, he dropped to the sand. Together he and Covenant splashed into the stream.

Linden held her breath until she saw that Covenant did not take Jeremiah beyond his depth. When could her son have learned how to swim? Then she looked away and made an effort to come to terms with her dismay.

It rose in her, a pressure that felt too strong to be contained. Covenant was taking Jeremiah to Mount Thunder. To Lord Foul. The hills crouched like threats on either side of the ravine, and on the far bank of the watercourse. The sunless stream looked more like vitriol than water. Beneath its vexed surface, it seemed to imply malice. Overhead the stars glittered as if they were trying to warn her.

If Jeremiah thought that anger and bitterness would preserve him, he was wrong.

Around Linden, the Giants set aside their swords, then began loosening their cataphracts, shrugging the armor off their shoulders. Of no one in particular, Latebirth asked, “Does the Timewarden mislike his odor? I cannot discern it. My own aroma precludes other scents.”

“Aroma, forsooth,” snorted Halewhole Bluntfist amid a chorus of muted chortling. “If that is aroma, I am the suzerain of the
Elohim
. For my part, I do not scruple to name it ‘reek.’ ”

While the other Swordmainnir jested, Frostheart Grueburn came to stand beside Linden. From Hyn’s back, Linden only had to lift her head a little to regard Grueburn.

In contrast to her comrades, Grueburn looked grave, almost somber. Softly she said, “Linden Giantfriend, perhaps you will consent to speak with me apart from these coistrels. A matter weighs upon my heart. You will do a kindness if you allow me to unburden it.”

“All right.” Linden’s clothes were still clean, scrubbed by the benison of Caerroil Wildwood’s power. Even her hair was clean. And she welcomed any distraction from herself. “Let’s talk.”

As she slipped down from Hyn’s back, Stave and Branl also dismounted. At once, the four Ranyhyn turned away from the stream and followed the ravine, taking Covenant’s steed with them. No doubt they sought forage.

Frostheart Grueburn loomed above Linden. With her back to the
krill
, the Swordmain looked benighted, mired in shadows. A lift of her arm suggested the direction taken by the horses.

Linden glanced at Stave. “Keep an eye on Jeremiah?”

Stave shook his head. “Branl will do so.”

The Humbled was headed toward the stream. There he stopped, watching Covenant and Jeremiah.

“All right,” Linden said again. To Grueburn, she added, “If you don’t mind Stave’s company.”

“My concern is private,” replied the woman. “It is not secret. Stave Rockbrother’s companionship is welcome at all times.”

Linden nodded. With Stave a few paces behind her, she accompanied Frostheart Grueburn up the ravine. At every step, she had to resist an impulse to stamp at the sand with her Staff. Did Covenant expect her to face the things that scared her most? She did not know how.

Perhaps a dozen Giantish strides from her comrades, Grueburn halted. For several moments, she stood with her face raised to the sky as if she were studying the stars, or listening to them. When she lowered her head to look at Linden—and past Linden at Stave—her aura was troubled.

“Linden Giantfriend,” she said quietly, “my thoughts are awkward. I am uncertain how to speak of them.”

“You’re a Giant,” Linden murmured. “You’ll find a way.”

Grueburn offered a strained smile. She seemed to shake herself. “Toward you,” she confessed, “I feel more than friendship. Amid the perils of the Lost Deep, and at other times, I have cared for you, as you know. For that reason among many others, your place in my heart is great.”

When the woman paused, Linden said nothing. Grueburn was not waiting for a response. Rather she was hunting for a way to broach her concern.

Finally Grueburn began. “Some days past, while we traveled together after the Timewarden had parted from us, I chanced to stand with you while you and Stave Rockbrother spoke. Together you considered questions of Desecration.”

Like a slap of wind, Stave observed, “Our words were intended for each other alone, Frostheart Grueburn.”

“Yet I heard them. From that time to this, I have respected that they were not for me. Nevertheless my thoughts have turned often to matters of Desecration.”

Linden swallowed a groan. She did not want to talk about such things.

To Stave, Grueburn continued, “Here I do not ask you to reveal what you have foreseen, or indeed what your insights may be. I do not seek to probe your heart. I wish to unveil my own.”

Her response seemed to satisfy Stave.

Frostheart Grueburn returned her attention to Linden. Silver from the
krill
caught the lines of the Giant’s mien. With an edge in her voice, she said, “You stand at the center of all that has transpired. I do not deem it unlikely that you will continue to do so. Your deeds are potent to cause some futures while ending others. And I say again that you are dear to me. Therefore my spirits were lifted to soaring by the outcome of your union with Covenant Timewarden. I saw gladness in you, the gladness and relief which dismiss Desecration. But now—

“Ah, now, Linden Giantfriend, some new darkness hovers in you. For that reason, I am troubled. If you will consent to speak of your concerns, you will ease my own. Comprehension will open my ears so that I am again able to hear joy.”

In your present state, Chosen, Desecration lies ahead of you. It does not crowd at your back.

Linden bit down on her lip; steadied herself on that small pain. Then she countered, “What are you afraid of?”

Grueburn sighed. “Chiefly I fear that you sail a course which leads to the desecration of yourself. To my sight, it appears that you confront an impossible conundrum. You are a mother. You must preserve your son. Yet you cannot. You cannot ward him from the Despiser’s malice. Nor can you ward him from the world’s end. His doom—if he is doomed—lies beyond your intervention. His despair—if he falls into despair—is not yours to relieve. And in these straits, it may be that your distress is increased by your union with Covenant Timewarden, for how can a mother know gladness with her husband when her son is in peril? I fear the effect of this conundrum. Linden Giantfriend, I fear it acutely.”