“Linden.” Limned in argent, he spoke as if her name twisted his heart. “I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner.” His tone accused himself. “If I could have held on to my mind.”
There he appeared to slip, distracted by some errant recollection. “I did practically the same thing myself once. The Land needed me, and I turned my back. We’ve talked about that. I meant to remind you.” His manner suggested that he was trying to say too many different things at once. Linden felt his struggle to organize his thoughts. “Mhoram urged me not to worry about it. He wanted me to know there are some motives that simply can’t serve Lord Foul. No matter how the Despiser squirms, he can’t twist them to give him what he wants.”
Mistaken though it may be, no act of love and horror—or indeed of self-repudiation—is potent to grant the Despiser his desires. He may be freed only by one who is compelled by rage, and contemptuous of consequence.
Then Linden saw Covenant gather his resolve. Awkwardness made him brusque.
“But that’s not what I want to say. I’m going to take the krill.”
At once, everything around him intensified. Several of the Giants caught their breath. Rime Coldspray hissed a wordless objurgation. Anele stirred restlessly in his sleep, as if he had been disturbed by the sound of distant thunder. Liand’s protests were stilled by Mahrtiir’s sudden grasp on his arm. In fright, Pahni moved to stand with the Stonedownor. Bhapa stared, wide-eyed, at the Unbeliever. Linden half expected the Wraiths to return in refusal.
At the same time, the Humbled seemed to take on substance and clarity as if they had been vindicated; as if their faith in the ur-Lord had been confirmed.
“I know,” Covenant muttered. “That’ll leave Andelain unprotected—which personally makes me want to puke. Without it, the Wraiths won’t have the right kind of strength to guard the borders. They won’t be able to prevent—
“But one of us ought to have a weapon of some kind. Wherever we’re going, we’re likely to need it. As long as Joan is still alive—as long as she has her ring—that knife can cut through practically anything.” For a moment, he faltered. “I hope that doesn’t make me ‘contemptuous of consequence.’”
While he appeared to search for words, Linden grasped her opportunity. Quickly she asked, “Where are we going?” She had no intention of taking Covenant—or anyone else—with her. “The Harrow doesn’t want to tell me.”
“Ah, hell, Linden,” Covenant muttered in disgust. “If I knew—if I could remember—I would say so.” With the heel of his halfhand, he thumped his forehead. “It’s such a mess in here.” Briefly a grin like a grimace distorted his face. “If you don’t want to hit me again, threaten me with hurtloam. It’s amazing how that helps me concentrate.
“But we’re going to need a weapon,” he resumed. “That I’m sure of. You shouldn’t have to do everything yourself. And this is my problem. I’ve already done too many things wrong. Even when I was part of the Arch, I was too human—
“I got you into this.” Earlier he had blamed himself for misleading her by speaking to her in her dreams, and through Anele. “I should at least try to help you save your son.”
As if he were bracing himself for an ordeal, he turned to confront Loric’s krill.
“Wait!” Linden said urgently. “Wait a minute. This isn’t what I want.” Mere moments ago, she had believed that she had surrendered everything. Now she saw that she had been mistaken. She also needed to prevent him from accompanying her; from taking any more risks for her sake. “You promised—”
Once, millennia ago in the Land, Thomas Covenant had avowed that he would never use power again.
“I know,” he repeated over his shoulder. “I was trying to make myself innocent. Impotent or helpless. I couldn’t think of any other way to stop Lord Foul.
“But you were right all along. Sometimes just being innocent or ignorant or even good isn’t enough. Maybe that’s always true. Maybe we’re all like Esmer. If we want to do good, we have to take the risk of evil. The risk that we actually are evil.”
In the background of Covenant’s voice, Linden seemed to hear Dr. Berenford. Guilt is power. When the old physician had first asked for her help with Covenant ten years ago, he had described the theme of one of Covenant’s novels. Only the damned can be saved.
Like Covenant, Linden was the prisoner of her memories.
“This won’t be the first promise I’ve broken,” he finished harshly. “Maybe it’ll be the last.”
She wanted to stop him. For Andelain’s sake, she should have shouted objections to the heavens. But he had already reached for the ineffable puissance of the dagger.
Neither the Humbled nor Stave made any attempt to prevent him.
He would not be able to withdraw the krill. He was only human now, and the blade was deeply embedded. Over the centuries, the stump had become as hard as ironwood. In fact, he should not even have been able to touch the knife. Linden had felt its heat. Sunder had carried it wrapped in cloth so that it would not burn his skin. Nevertheless Covenant closed both hands around the weapon’s haft. His shoulders hunched as he began to pull.
Silhouetted against the light, he seemed to loom larger—black and ominous—as he strained to draw the knife from its ancient sheath. Linden could not see his face, but she could feel his muscles tremble. And—
Oh, God!
—she could smell the nauseating sweetness as his flesh began to burn. The dagger was not merely hot: it was suddenly too hot. A new rush of power blazed like incandescence from the gem: Joan’s power. A rightful white gold wielder—No ordinary fabric would have given Covenant enough protection. He would sear the skin from his bones before he moved the krill.
“Linden!” panted Liand. Pahni and Mahrtiir had to hold him back. “Linden.”
The halved clutch of Covenant’s right hand slipped. Smoke curled from his grasp: the odor of cooked meat became more acute. But he did not admit defeat. Hooking the two fingers of his halfhand over the blade’s guards, he continued to pull against the clasp of Caer-Caveral’s death.
I need this. I need to be numb.
Now the krill’s gem burned directly into his palm. In another moment, his hands would catch flame: they would be permanently crippled. But he did not appear to feel the pain; gave no sign that he recognized the smell. His leprosy enabled him to keep his grip, but it also prevented him from knowing how badly he was damaging himself.
“Covenant Giantfriend!” Rime Coldspray towered over him; yet the stark extremity of his efforts made him seem her equal. “Stand aside! This is caamora, the province of Giants. Will you maim yourself and be made useless? Your flesh cannot endure such grief! You must permit me—”
Joan was doing this, Joan. Somehow she—or turiya Herem—recognized Covenant’s grasp on the krill. The Raver surely guided her; but the wild magic was hers.
Still Covenant heaved with his whole strength. Strain tore a hoarse snarl between his teeth, but did not free the knife.
A cry rose like bile in Linden’s throat. She swallowed it so that she would not vomit.
“Ironhand!” barked Stave. “Aid me!”
Swift as thought, the former Master sprang to Covenant’s side; dropped to one knee. With both fists, he began punching at the stump as if he imagined that he could batter it apart.
The wood was too hard for him; too old and enduring. It could have resisted an axe as easily as it ignored his blows. But Galt, Branl, and Clyme followed his example: they were no more than a heartbeat behind him. Their pounding shook the dead trunk to its roots. The earth seemed to absorb the pain that should have made Covenant let go.
An instant later, Coldspray’s massive fists hammered down onto the stump; struck with the force of bludgeons. The thunder that troubled Anele filled the hollow.
With the Ironhand’s second blow, the wood splintered. Caer-Caveral’s last legacy was shattered as if it had been blasted by lightning.
In that instant, Linden felt a tremor in the ground
: a shudder so fundamental that she heard it in the marrow of her bones rather than with her ears. She sensed realities grinding against each other. Briefly the trees and even the grass of Andelain appeared to tremble as if in dread.
Violently released, Covenant staggered backward. If Frostheart Grueburn had not caught him, he would have fallen. Effort or realized agony ripped a howl from the depths of his chest. The krill spun from his grasp: he could not hold it. Shafts and flashes of silver cartwheeled through the branches of the nearby trees, etching every leaf as they passed. Small scraps of skin smoked and melted like wax on the gem as the dagger fell to the grass.
In shreds of illumination, Linden saw the flesh of Covenant’s palms and fingers bubbling—
A tumult of shouts and consternation answered the sight. Ignoring Covenant’s prohibition, the Manethrall commanded his Cords, “Hurtloam! Now!” As Pahni and Bhapa sped away, Liand rushed to help Grueburn support Covenant. With one hand, the Stonedownor snatched at his orcrest as if it were an instrument of healing. Giants protested the sight of Covenant’s hands.
“Haruchai!” roared the Ironhand. “Swordmainnir! A foe extends evil into the heart of Andelain, regardless of the Wraiths. Watch and ward! An attack may follow!”
Like Linden, Coldspray had discerned Joan’s fury. But the Ironhand did not know that it was Joan’s.
Covenant held out his hands as if he were pleading. His breath came in huge excruciated gasps.
Hardly aware of what she did, Linden reached out for the power of the Staff. The Harrow held it, but it was hers: she could feel its ready possibilities. And once before, in the caves of the Waynhim, she had called Earthpower from the Staff when it was some distance away. She could still make use of it—
She could not. The Harrow’s avid claim blocked her. The black wood was lambent with magic and Law; but neither fire nor healing answered her call.
“I am impatient, lady.” The brown-clad Insequent’s voice was deep loam. “Have done with these delays. Accompany me.”
He tried to sound scornful, but Linden heard him clearly. He was not impatient: he was alarmed. Instinctively she guessed that he did not want Covenant to wield the krill.
She ignored him. If she had known how to do so, she would have summoned the Wraiths. The sight of Covenant’s ruined hands nearly stopped her heart.
With waddling steps, the Ardent approached the cluster around Covenant. And as he drew near, his garish apparel expanded. Amid a cloud of floating colors, he advanced until he gained an unobstructed view of Covenant’s hands. Then with a florid gesture he sent bright ribbands curling and probing toward the Unbeliever.
“Joan,” Covenant panted, fighting to manage more pain than he could contain.
Crimson and opalescent strips found his hands. Two or three of the Swordmainnir started to swat the bands away, then stopped themselves.
Unregarded on the ground, the krill’s heat began to fade. It remained too hot for Linden, Liand, or the Ramen to touch safely; but the rush of force which had damaged Covenant dwindled away.
“She or turiya felt what I was doing.”
Clutching his unused Sunstone, Liand watched as streamers of cloth began to wrap Covenant’s hands, his heat-ravaged fingers.
“She tried to stop me.”
Silken as caresses, the ribbands glided over his skin, twined around each other seamlessly as they formed bandages which were still part of the Ardent’s raiment.
Their theurgy was invisible to Linden’s senses. Nevertheless Covenant’s relief was immediate. While her heart tried to beat, his pain sank away like water into parched sand. A moment of light-headedness nearly broke her balance.
“If that poor woman could concentrate,” he said, sighing. By degrees, he began to breathe more easily. “If Foul hadn’t hurt her so badly.”
“That was well done,” the Ardent announced with plumy satisfaction, “though I alone proclaim it so.” Another gesture detached Covenant’s bandages from the fluttering aura of his garments; sent them to secure themselves. “If you will abide by my counsel, Timewarden, you will not remove my bindings. The easing of pain is a less arduous magic than the mending of flesh. Also it cannot be doubted that you will find subsequent need for such protection. My gift will prove a greater benison if it is permitted to remain as it is.”
Covenant did not appear to hear the Insequent. His voice grew stronger as he finished, “She wanted to kill me, but she’s in too much pain herself. She’ll probably try again later. For now, she’s done as much as she can.”
How he knew this, Linden could not imagine. Nonetheless she agreed with him. She had recognized Joan’s ferocity herself. And she was familiar with the frailty of Joan’s damaged mind.
Marveling, the Manethrall studied Covenant. But what he saw with his eyeless senses appeared to satisfy him. Lifting his face to the sky, he gave a whinnying cry to recall his Cords.
As the sound carried through the night, Linden found herself kneeling on the grass among Giants who seemed as tall as trees. She did not remember sagging to the ground: she simply had no strength to stand. Still she continued to watch Covenant as he stretched and flexed his wrapped fingers in evident wonder. She did not breathe normally until he stooped to grasp the krill again. As he lifted it, its radiance lit his hair like silver fire—but holding it did not hurt him.
With an air of self-congratulation, the Ardent withdrew to consider the company from the slope of the hollow. His manner—and Covenant’s—confirmed that the danger had passed.
Sighing, Linden let herself fall back to sit with her knees hugged against her chest, and her face hidden. She had given in to the Harrow too readily. Now she was useless.
Projecting more confidence, the Harrow repeated, “I am impatient, lady. Do you seek to prolong your son’s plight?”
No one paid any attention to him.
While Mahrtiir’s call receded among the trees, the Giants began to relax. Cabledarm or Cirrus Kindwind murmured a low jest that Linden did not hear: two or three of the Ironhand’s company chuckled in response. Perhaps to reassure him, Galesend gave Liand’s shoulder a friendly shake that staggered him. Coldspray rolled her head to loosen a heavy burden of tension from her neck.
The Humbled gathered around Covenant as if to guard him from his companions. At the same time, Stave returned among the Giants to stand near Linden. Prostrate on the grass, Anele continued sleeping as though nothing had happened to disturb the respite which he had received from his parents.
There were things that Linden needed to do: she was sure of it. Questions to ask. Decisions to make—or insist upon. Actions to take. The Harrow was right. Surely the time had come to require him to keep his side of the bargain?
But her hands seemed to weigh more now than they did when she had carried the Staff. Without Covenant’s ring on its chain around her neck, she did not know how to lift up her head. Soon, she told herself. Soon—But right now she felt too deprived and beaten to do anything except huddle into herself and try to slip sideways into some realm of memory or helplessness where she could not be held responsible.
Tried to stop me.
He did not know of your intent.
She’ll probably try again later.
The night after the battle of First Woodhelven, Linden had dreamed that she had become carrion. Like Joan, she needed to gather the remnants of her strength—or her mind—and could not.
For a while, Covenant peered at the krill and his bandaged hands as if he had forgotten what they meant; as if he had stumbled into another crevasse and lost his place. But then he seemed to shake himself free from the tug of the past. Frowning, he asked the Humbled for something that he could use to wrap Loric’s weapon. A little extra protection, he said, in case Joan renewed her attack unexpectedly.
Without hesitation, Galt tore off a hand’s width of cloth from the hem of his tunic. Although the material resembled vellum, as tough as canvas in spite of its softness, he ripped it with no sign of strain. Characteri
stically expressionless, he offered the fabric to Covenant.
Nodding his approval, Covenant folded the ochre cloth around the krill; shrouded the light of the gem. In sudden darkness relieved only by the glittering of the stars, he tucked the bundle into the waist of his jeans. However, he did not thank Galt: apparently his approval had limits. Instead he turned to the Ironhand of the Swordmainnir. Linden felt his continued struggle to remain present as he said abruptly, “Your ancestors weren’t exactly told the truth when they negotiated for your gift of tongues. The Elohim misused you, if they didn’t outright lie.”
In a distant age, our ancestors were misled—
Vaguely Linden wished for the elucidation of Wraiths; for some benevolent light to illumine courage and clear sight. But those instances of the Land’s essential mystery did not come.
—to accept a false bargain with the Elohim.
She did not know why Covenant spoke of such things now.
“Is this needful, Covenant Timewarden?” Night shrouded Coldspray’s voice as well as her face. “It alters naught.”
“Sure,” Covenant assented. “But it’ll help us understand what’s at stake. We’ll be better off in the long run—assuming there is a long run—if we know why Longwrath matters so much. I’m wondering why you didn’t take him to Elemesnedene and ask the Elohim to cure him. Did you know what was wrong with him all along? Did you know they wouldn’t help?” He paused, grappling for a handhold on the rim of an inner flaw. Then he added, “The more you explain, the less I need to remember.”
“The Staff of Law is yours,” the Ardent remarked to the Harrow, “for the nonce. Will you not summon its flame to light these troubled hearts?”
“Their burdens are not mine,” retorted the Harrow. “I desire only to depart.”
Coldspray gazed at Covenant with her fists braced on her hips. Her stance suggested anger, bitterness. But beneath the surface lay a darker emotion.
“What say you, Giants?” she asked as if she were grinding her teeth. “Must I speak of our ancient fault here, in precious Andelain, while the Earth’s last peril mounts against us?”