Against All Things Ending Part 60

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, G.o.d.

Somehow he found the will to speak.

"You delude yourself, Elohim Elohim." His voice was a whisper hoa.r.s.e with strain. Stars like commandments resisted it. Yet he made himself heard. "Do you deem me helpless? I am Haruchai 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 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 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 pa.s.sage.

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 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 see him? He's my him? He's my son son.

Jeremiah's transformation and the loud demand of his portal s.n.a.t.c.hed Infelice away from Stave. "No!" she sang, shouted, yelled. "You will will not!" 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 coc.o.o.n.

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 only Ranyhyn. She was Ranyhyn. She was Elohim 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 Elohim staggered him. 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.

His begrimed face and soiled eyes looked entirely vacant, as empty of consciousness as an abandoned farmhouse, as he reached for the lintel of his doorway.

Infelice blared at him in fraught turmoil as chaotic as a caesure caesure, but her powers failed to stop him.

He resembled an incarnation of Anele's blind essence, ragged and enduring, as he wedged his racecar between two bones supporting the femur lintel. With Earthpower, he sealed the toy in place.

Before Linden could guess what he was doing, Infelice began to shriek like a banshee-and the entire marrowmeld sculpture became a white shout of radiance so pure that Linden could not look at it. She clapped a hand over her eyes, squeezed them shut; but the light pierced her hand and her eyelids, seemed to stab straight into her brain. She saw every bone of her palm and fingers limned in incandescence. Every phalange and metacarpal, the capitate, the scaphoid, the hamate: they all gleamed as if they were lit by the cynosure of the sun.

For a moment, she believed that she would never see anything else again; that she would be left as sightless as Anele and Mahrtiir. The defined framework of her hand would be all that remained of her world.

Then she felt Infelice disappear again, still shrieking.

The Elohim Elohim did not return. did not return.

Seconds or hours later, the portal's blaze went out. There was no light except the dust and smoke of sunshine. Every sensation of power had left the caldera. Nothing endured to commemorate Linden's lost sight or Infelice's defeat except a wide pile of bones which should have been as white as Jeremiah's innominate triumph.

But Stave was still here. Linden heard him calling her name. He did not sound hurt. And the Ranyhyn had survived. The hard thud of their hooves as they trotted, nickering proudly, around and around the pile seemed to promise that they had accomplished their intent.

Fearfully Linden lowered her hand, blinked open her eyes, and found that she had not been harmed. Dazzles like little suns swirled in her vision, confusing everything; but she could see. Experience and health-sense a.s.sured her that soon she would be able to see normally.

Squinting, she searched for her son.

Jeremiah stood in the center of a crude square of ash. His entire edifice had been rendered to powder around his feet. Even his racecar-If any sc.r.a.p of the red metal remained, it lay buried in the residue of ancient bone.

His legacy of Earthpower had receded into the background. But he was looking at Linden.

At Linden. Linden.

His eyes were clear as untainted skies. When she met his gaze, his face broke into a broad grin of excitement and affection.

"I did it, Mom." He sounded like he wanted to crow. "I did did it. I made a door for my mind, and it it. I made a door for my mind, and it opened opened.

"I couldn't have done it without Anele." Gradually his grin fell away, unmade by remembered sorrows. "Or without Galt. And Liand. And the Ranyhyn. Stave was amazing." Nonetheless his eyes shone on Linden, luminous with grat.i.tude. "And I could never have done anything without you.

"But I did it did it."

Then he hurried forward to fling his love around her.

In that moment, Linden Avery began to believe that her rent heart might heal.

Lord Foul always told the truth. In time you will behold the fruit of my endeavors In time you will behold the fruit of my endeavors. If your son serves me, he will do so in your presence If your son serves me, he will do so in your presence. If I slaughter him, I will do so before you If I slaughter him, I will do so before you. If you discover him, you will only hasten his doom If you discover him, you will only hasten his doom. But the Despiser's craving for his foes' self-desecration was so great that he never told the whole whole truth. truth.

Perhaps he did not know it.

Do you see see him? He's my him? He's my son son.

Hugging Jeremiah hard, Linden thought that maybe this time Lord Foul's machinations had gone wrong. Like Infelice, perhaps, the Despiser had misled himself.

The Pure One and the High G.o.d

From the ravine where he had left Linden and her companions, Thomas Covenant rode the Harrow's destrier south and east into a region of denuded hills interspersed with shallow vales of gravel and dirt.

Clyme and Branl guarded him, Mh.o.r.n.ym on his left, Naybahn on his right. And the Ranyhyn set a hard pace, apparently disregarding the limitations of Covenant's mount. The destrier was a heavy warhorse, but it had been bred for endurance as well as power and fury. Covenant sensed that it would strive to emulate its Earthpowerful companions until its heart burst. And by some means, Mh.o.r.n.ym and Naybahn seemed to impose their will on the beast, stifling its instinctive loathing for an unfamiliar rider; transforming its trained battle-frenzy into speed. While it could, the horse matched the fluid gallop of the Ranyhyn.

Protected by Ranyhyn and the Humbled, Covenant rode toward his future as if he were absent from himself; as if he were conscious only of other people, other places, other times. But he had not slipped into one of the flaws that riddled his memories. Nor was he distracted by the imponderable prospect of confronting Joan and turiya turiya Raver and the Raver and the skest skest. Instead he traveled among the hills like an abandoned icon of himself because he was too full of grief and dread to regard the landscape or his companions or his own purpose.

Some distant part of him felt grateful for the Harrow's saddle and stirrups, the Harrow's reins. They steadied him: he was a poor rider. In addition, he was vaguely glad that Kevin's Dirt did not cover the Lower Land. He was already too numb, too inattentive; and Kastenessen's dire brume would aggravate his leprosy. But such details did not deflect his sorrow.

He was galled by the way that he had left Linden; by the manner in which he had refused her.

He knew how Clyme and Branl felt about her. He understood why they distrusted her. But he also understood why she distrusted them. And he was not convinced that she had misjudged the Masters, or that her risks and concealments were mistakes, or that her determination to resurrect him had been misguided. Both in death and in life, he had watched her refusal to forgive harden toward despair-and still he believed in her. In spite of everything, he loved her exactly as she was. Every pain, every extravagance, every compromised line of her beauty: he loved them all. Without them, she would have been less than herself. Less than the mother Jeremiah needed. Less than the woman Covenant himself wanted. Less than the savior the Land required.

Nevertheless he had told her the exact truth when he had pushed her away. He had lost too much of himself. He feared what he was becoming-or what he might have to become.

That was why he had distanced himself from her, why he had kept himself apart from her clear yearning, why he had ridden away without so much as a kind farewell. He could not profess his love-or accept hers-without making it sound like a promise; and he had no reason to believe that he would be able to keep that troth. If Joan did not succeed at killing him, he might return from facing her in a condition which he had not antic.i.p.ated, and which Linden would no longer recognize. He might find that he had become abhorrent to her; or to himself.

There was indeed a storm brewing in him, and it was dread. Resurrected, his dilemma represented that of the Land, and of the whole Earth; the plight of Linden and everyone he cared about. He was afraid because he had too much to lose.

Long ago, he had told Linden, There's only one way to hurt a man who's lost everything There's only one way to hurt a man who's lost everything . . Give him back something broken Give him back something broken. In Andelain, he had done that to her. But now he knew a deeper truth. Even broken things were precious. Like Jeremiah, they could become more precious than life. And they could still be taken away.

He was more afraid of making a promise to Linden that he could not keep than he was of Joan.

And he had another reason for treating Linden severely. Any promise-even an implied one-might encourage her to insist on accompanying him. To choose him instead of her son.

Perhaps everything would have been different if he could have explained why her desire to help him face Joan would effectively doom Jeremiah. But he had no explanation. He had told her, You have other things to do You have other things to do, but he had no real idea what they were. He only knew that they were crucial. They may have been more important than his own need to confront Joan.

It was conceivable that he could not remember them because he had never known. Even from his perspective within the Arch, the future may have been undefined; less certain than it was to the Elohim Elohim, whose fluid relationship with time confused linear distinctions. His mortality made it easy for him to believe that he had never possessed any prescient insight into the Land's need.

Then why was he certain that Linden's support against Joan would prove fatal to Jeremiah-and therefore to the Land as well? He had no answer. Yet he was sure of it. And his only justification, although it sounded contradictory, was that he trusted trusted her. He trusted her more than he trusted himself. her. He trusted her more than he trusted himself.

He trusted the implications of her devotion to her son.

Still the ache of leaving her forlorn seemed to consume his heart. During his partic.i.p.ation in the Arch of Time, he had witnessed so much loss and wrong that eventually he had imagined himself inured to ordinary woe. But now-Ah, now he acknowledged that his share of immortality had blunted his perceptions of individual human anguish. Across the ages, his sense of scale had changed to accommodate vaster possibilities.

Watching Linden's struggles, first to retrieve the Staff of Law, then to survive Roger and the croyel croyel, then to reach Andelain, he had understood her pain. But he had also seen beyond it. He had known far more than she did about what was at stake, and about how her actions might affect the Earth. Now he was human again: he could no longer see past his own limitations. Like every creature that died when its time was done, he could only live in his circ.u.mscribed present.

This was the truth of being mortal, this imprisonment in the strictures of sequence. It felt like a kind of tomb.

In his earlier state, he had recognized that this prison was also the only utile form of freedom. Another contradiction: strictures enabled as much as they denied. The Elohim Elohim were ineffectual precisely because they had so few constraints. Linden was capable of so much because her inadequacies walled her on all sides. were ineffectual precisely because they had so few constraints. Linden was capable of so much because her inadequacies walled her on all sides.

Now, however, he had to take that perception on faith.

But there were other truths as well, or other aspects of the same truth. His imprisonment had its own demands: it insisted upon them. And one of them was his body. The flesh which reified his spirit was both needy and exigent. He could only spend a certain amount of time in grief before the jarring of his inexpert horsemanship demanded precedence. The gait of the Ranyhyn was as smooth as water: the destrier's was not. Already his joints were beginning to hurt. And when he finally realized that he was sitting too stiffly to endure a long ride, he also became aware that he was thirsty. The first premonitions of dehydration throbbed in his temples, and his tongue felt so dry and thick that he could hardly swallow.

Blinking to compensate for what may have been hours of neglect, Covenant peered around; tried to identify where he was.

He should have known this region. h.e.l.l, it probably even had a name. But that was only one of a myriad-no, d.a.m.nation, a myriad myriad myriad myriad-things which he had forgotten.

The hills were gone: he had lost them somewhere. Between Mh.o.r.n.ym and Naybahn, his mount was pounding heavily across bare dirt thick with splinters and blades of flint. The beast's hooves were iron-shod: that provided a measure of protection. But how the Ranyhyn avoided hurting themselves-Yet they flowed ahead, sweeping the ground behind them, apparently impervious to the hazards of the terrain.

As far as he could tell with his numbed health-sense, all of his mount's fierceness was focused on endurance. But it was laboring hard. Eventually, inevitably, the beast would begin to founder. Then- Then what? He had no notion. He had brought no water with him; no food; nothing for the horses. He had made no plans. In fact, he had given no thought to anything except getting away from Linden and heading toward Joan before his courage failed.

They're Ranyhyn, Ranyhyn, for G.o.d's sake for G.o.d's sake. He had said that. They'll think of something They'll think of something.