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 seemed 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.
But the gem of Loric’s krill could hold and focus any amount of power.
With her arms outstretched in welcome or suppl
ication, Linden Avery the Chosen confronted her purpose.
“Wildwielder!” Infelice gasped. “Do not. I implore you!”
Linden did not glance at the Elohim. “Then free my son. Give him back to me.”
Are we not equal to all things?
Infelice made no answer. Instead the Harrow said disdainfully. “They will not. They can not. They fear your son more than they fear you. Though his worth to the Despiser is beyond measure, his gifts taint the self-contemplation of the Elohim.”
—a shadow upon the heart—
Specific constructs attract them. Jeremiah could make a door to lure the Elohim in and never let them out.
When he was little more than a toddler, he had been touched and maimed by Lord Foul.
That I do not forgive.
“Then leave me alone,” muttered Linden. “I have to concentrate.”
First health-sense and Loric’s gem: then wild magic: then Earthpower and Law.
But before she could begin, Galt stepped in front of her.
“Linden Avery, no,” he said flatly. “This we will not permit. Uncertain of you, we have withheld judgment. But now we deem that the peril is too great. Such extravagance is not wisdom. Nor is it seemly or salvific. You will unleash havoc, to the measureless delight of all who loathe life and the Land. Similar extreme passions performed the Ritual of Desecration, marred the Laws of Death and Life, and invoked the Sunbane.
“If you do not turn aside, we will wrest both Staff and ring from you because we must.”
An instant of absolute fury gathered in Linden, but she did not utter it.
The Humbled could not hear Stave’s thoughts. While Galt’s assertion lingered in the air, Stave charged into him; bore him thrashing to the ground.
At the same instant, Mahrtiir sprang from Narunal’s back. Flipping his garrote around Clyme’s neck, he wrenched the Master off balance.
Even sight would not have made the Manethrall a match for Clyme. But Bhapa and Pahni followed less than a heartbeat behind Mahrtiir. Pahni grappled for Clyme’s legs: Bhapa snagged one of Clyme’s hands with his fighting cord and heaved. Together the three Ramen pulled Clyme from his feet.
Simultaneously both Rhohm and the Ranyhyn Naybahn surged between Branl and Linden. Naybahn’s chest struck his rider’s: Rhohm collided with Branl from the side.
The great horses had declared themselves utterly to the service of the Chosen.
As Rhohm opposed Branl, Liand snatched out his orcrest; held it shining in his hand. “Do you dare, Master?” he shouted. “Will you accept the test of truth? If you refuse, you declare yourself unworthy to oppose the Chosen!”
The Masters ignored Liand. But Rhohm and Naybahn countered Branl’s speed as if they were herding him. Bhanoryl stood ready to intervene if Galt broke free of Stave. Mhornym and Hynyn circled Clyme’s struggle with the Ramen. Hyn guarded Linden.
Infelice turned away as if she scorned the indignity of physical combat. The Harrow remained apart, laughing bitterly. From near the rim of the vale, Elena and Caer-Caveral watched with anguish and ire. The High Lords contained their reactions, although Kevin’s jaws clenched and strained.
Covenant regarded them all with yearning and pity in every limned line of his form; but he did not move or speak.
The actions of Linden’s friends were like Caerroil Wildwood’s runes: they articulated her resolve. Grateful and ready, sure of her allies, she closed her eyes. In darkness, she began to tune her percipience to the precise splendor of the krill. When she opened her hidden door and found wild magic, she intended to release it in only one direction, using Loric’s gem to manage its possible devastation.
There. She could not imagine how Loric had forged his blade, but she saw its nature; its unconstrained potential. With her Staff warm in her hand, she felt every eldritch quality and significance of the gem, and of its position in the dagger. She descried how the edges and guards and hilt contributed to the complex purity of the stone. She sensed the meaning of its many facets. Immense lore and ineffable skill had provided for the shaping of the gem, designed the form and function of the dagger. There were no defined boundaries to the forces which could be wielded with Loric’s weapon.
Nothing intruded on Linden’s attention now. Perhaps the will of the Ranyhyn had thwarted the Humbled. In every age, the Haruchai had treasured the horses of Ra: no Master would strike at a Ranyhyn. And Stave and the Ramen and even Liand would fight without compunction.
The Harrow’s laughter had fallen silent. Infelice did not speak. The Dead remained still.
When Linden was confident of the krill, she turned her health-sense inward.
Proximity to the gem’s incandescence aided her; guided her. Brilliance led her through her human concealments, the secret implications of old doubts. And when she found the door, white fire responded eagerly to her desires. At her call, wild magic grew and branched within her like an image of the One Tree in purest argent, its boughs emblazoned with stars. During the space of two heartbeats, or three, flame accumulated until she held enough power to rive the night; alter the heraldry of the heavens.
When she released it, it became a ceaseless blast of lightning, a bolt which struck and flared and crackled between her right fist and Loric’s gem.
She had been assured—repeatedly—that she could not damage the Arch of Time. Not alone. She was not the ring’s rightful wielder: therefore her ability to use white gold was limited. But she did not feel limited. Her conflagration stopped the night: it seemed to stop the movement of one moment to the next. While her lightning rent the air, she possessed unfathomable might. Her choices and desires could shape reality.
Jeremiah, she thought: an uninterrupted blare of wild magic. I’m coming. The only way I know how.
Her fire became so extreme that she saw everything with her eyes closed: the Humbled and their opponents frozen in shock or chagrin or astonishment; the terror on Infelice’s face, the frightened calculation in the Harrow’s gaze; the scrutiny of the High Lords, solemn and alarmed. She saw Covenant consider her as if he were praying.
She had gone beyond fear—beyond the very concept of fear—as she reached out for the blessed yellow flame of her Staff.
At once, Earthpower and Law responded as though they had come to efface every darkness from the Hills of Andelain. Strength as blissful as sunshine, as natural as Gilden, and as capable as a furnace erupted from the Staff, pouring like the incarnation of her will into the heart of Loric’s krill.
Briefly she seemed to feel herself battling in the depths of Melenkurion Skyweir, wielding the Power of Command and the Seven Words while Roger Covenant and the croyel strove to extinguish her. But wild lightning exceeded the frenzy of her earlier struggles. It lit the vale as if it could illuminate the Earth. Together argence and cornflower flame and the dagger’s incandescence swallowed any possibility of opposition or malice, drowning mere inadequacy in a vast sea of power.
Now instinctively she understood the runes with which Caerroil Wildwood had elaborated her Staff. They were for this. The Forestal of Garroting Deep had engraved the ebony wood with his knowledge of Life and Death. Indirectly he had given her a supernal relationship with Law. For a moment, at least, his gift enabled her to commingle wild magic and Earthpower without losing control of one or falsifying the other.
She could have raised or leveled mountains, divided oceans, carved glaciers. She had become greater than her most flagrant expectations: as efficacious as a god, and as complete.
It should have been too much. Either alone will transcend your strength— Human flesh had not been formed to survive such forces. Yet Linden felt no danger. She was hardly conscious of strain. Perhaps her mind had already shattered. If so, she did not recognize the loss, or choose to regret it. Loric’s gem drew immeasurable might away from her mortal blood and nerves and bones. Caerroil Wildwood’s runes imposed a kind of structure on potential chaos. Her beloved stood before her, radiant in the admixture of theurgies and his own innomi
nate transcendence. And she did not doubt herself at all.
She could imagine that the Swordmainnir knew the location of Covenant’s human bones. The First and Pitchwife had carried his body out of the Wightwarrens for burial. And they had told the tale. Rime Coldspray and her comrades might know where to find the last time-gnawed residue of his life. Linden could have summoned them to her with a thought.
But she did not need any lingering particle of his ordinary flesh. His spirit stood before her, as necessary as love, and as compulsory as a commandment. She had wild magic and Earthpower, Loric’s krill and Caer-Caveral’s runes. She had her health-sense. And the Laws of Death and Life had already been broken once. They were weaker now.
She knew of no power with which she could cause the immediate release of her son. Jeremiah was hidden from her; beyond her reach. Covenant’s ring and her Staff did not enable her to scry, or to search out secrets, or to foretell the effects of malevolence.
But that which she could do, she did without hesitation.
Now, she said in fire and passion. Now. Covenant, I need you. I need your help. I need to get you back.
She had demonstrated again and again that she could not save Jeremiah alone. Without Covenant, she was inadequate to the task.
Gazing steadily through her eyelids at the Land’s redeemer, she murmured his name in an exultation of fires. Then she brought her hands together, wild magic and Earthpower.
A blast that seemed to quell the stars erupted from Loric’s krill. Deliberately she invoked a concussion which compelled conflicting energies to become one.
This was not culmination. It was apotheosis. Power shocked the bedrock of the world: it strove to claim the sky. Convulsions like the earthquake under Melenkurion Skyweir cast reality into madness.
Around the vale, the Wraiths scattered suddenly; fled and winked out. They may have been screaming. Someone wailed or roared: Elena or Kevin, Infelice or the Harrow. Emotions trumpeted from the High Lords. But Linden heeded nothing except Covenant and her own purpose.
Through the gem, her powers took hold of him as if she had chosen to incinerate his soul.