For him, Earthpower had become a piercing pleasure. It had enabled him to rescue himself from his prison.
But he had received other things from Anele as well. The old man had given him inarticulate scraps of knowledge, and horrific vulnerabilities, and an instinct for moral dread. Much as he treasured Anele’s gifts, their implications appalled him.
And because he had never learned how to manage among his emotions, he tried to ignore the worst of them. Nevertheless they clung to him. He was like his pajamas. His mother had dressed him in them and tucked him lovingly into bed. The horses rearing across their faded blue might have been Ranyhyn. Now they were torn and tattered; soiled with grime and dirt; defined by bullets. From the waist down, their innocence bore the stains of Liand’s death. The croyel’s gore marked the shirt.
So he had turned his back on Linden when she had insisted on throwing her life away in the Land’s past. What else could he have done? He did not know who he was without her. He hardly seemed to exist. When her caesure collapsed into itself and vanished, taking her and Mahrtiir and their Ranyhyn to a place and time from which they might never return, Jeremiah dissociated them in his mind, buried them away. Then he chose the excitement of building. It was his only escape.
“Come on!” he called down to the Giants and Stave. “Let’s get started. The longer we wait, the more Elohim we’ll lose.”
Elohim and stars.
That was why he was here, after all: to save things that could not save themselves. To delay the Worm’s feeding, slow its progress toward the Blood of the Earth. To buy time until somebody came up with a better answer.
But the Giants ignored his shout. None of them glanced up at him. Even Stave did not. With the Swordmainnir, the former Master watched the place where Linden and Mahrtiir had disappeared as if he hoped or feared that she would return almost immediately. They were all acting like there was no need to hurry. Like Jeremiah did not need them—or like the Elohim and the stars and the whole world did not need him.
Wind skirled like travail around him, tugged at his pajamas. It carried dust from the gouged cliff, the fallen debris. Perhaps it would have stung his eyes if he had not been so full of Earthpower. Somewhere inside him was a small boy who wanted to cry because his mother had left him. But he refused to be that boy. The structure that he wanted to make both goaded and protected him.
Somehow he swallowed the impulse to yell at the Giants in frustration. Here was another aspect of his confusion, his inability to resolve his own contradictions. The Giants were ignoring him—but they were Giants, and he had loved them ever since he had first seen them. When he and Linden and Stave had ridden to rejoin the Ironhand and her comrades, his response to the sheer size and wonder of who and what the Swordmainnir were had opened like a flower in his heart. They were Giants in every sense: he had no other word for them. And he had seen the delight in their eyes when they had gazed at him, the relief and welcome. They had made him feel that he was capable of putting his past behind him. Of cutting it off entirely. Under their influence, he had believed that he could accomplish something wonderful.
If they rebuffed him now—
Abruptly his frustration became chagrin. His health-sense was precise: he could see that he had offended the Swordmainnir. There was anxiety in the slump of their shoulders, worries aggravated by a great weight of weariness. And they carried griefs which Jeremiah did not recognize. But there was also anger. Their refusal to acknowledge his call was deliberate.
He had to talk to them—and he was afraid of what they would say.
Hesitating, he took a moment to scan his surroundings. Above him hung the gouge which his mother had made in the ridgefront. It and its slope of rubble faced the north, or a bit west of north. At odd intervals, chunks of rock and clumps of dirt still fell from the upper surfaces of the gouge; but they clattered harmlessly to the sides. Buffets of wind scattered the dust before it could settle.
The ridge filled that side of the landscape. In every other direction, an almost featureless plain stretched out to the horizons, a beaten flat pocked with hollows like craters left behind by a barrage of huge stones or heavy iron, or of bolts of magic. In the cloying dusk, these hollows or craters gave the terrain a mottled appearance, as if it were stippled with shadows or omens.
As far as Jeremiah could see, nothing grew or moved. Nothing lived at all. And no springs or streams nourished the plain. In this region, the foundations of the Lower Land wore only a thin mantle of dirt, soil so barren that it refused even aliantha.
And over it all lay the pall of the sunless murk, an augury of the last dark. As Jeremiah gazed around, he noticed that the afternoon was waning. Evening was not far off. Then would come full darkness, the second night since the sun had failed.
Even now, the stars were visible, as bright as cries overhead. He could have watched them wink out of existence, had he been willing to face them. But at night—
At night, the Giants would have more difficulty doing what he wanted from them.
The situation was urgent—and still the Swordmainnir rested against their boulders. They had promised to help him. Now they acted like they had changed their minds.
He had to talk to them.
His private turmoil made him awkward as he began to descend from the rubble. Whenever he was working on one of his constructs, he was deft and graceful, full of confidence. But when he felt stymied, his muscles forgot what they were doing. He fumbled at the rocks, jerked downward, lost his balance and caught himself like a child half his age.
He hated being clumsy. He hated himself when he was clumsy.
The curve of boulders where the Giants sat faced away from him. Like Stave, they were not affected by Kevin’s Dirt: they must have been aware of Jeremiah. Still they did not look in his direction. Earlier they had shed their armor and swords. Now they all rested against thrusts of stone. Only Stave remained on his feet, still watching the place where Linden and Mahrtiir had disappeared.
Biting his lower lip, Jeremiah resisted a desire to start protesting before he reached his companions. Fortunately Rime Coldspray turned toward him while he was still a short distance away. Although her disapproval was obvious, her gaze steadied him. Clearly she did not intend to keep ignoring him.
Troubled gusts stirred up dust, carried it away. Clad in twilight, the Giants resembled shadows or stones. Like shadows or stones, they looked deaf to persuasion. Still Jeremiah walked closer until he stood near Coldspray at the edge of the arc.
None of the Giants spoke. Stave did not. But they were all looking at him now.
For a moment, Jeremiah clamped his teeth down on his lip. Then he tried to say something that would not make his mother’s friends angrier.
“I know you’re tired.” He was whining: he heard it in his tone. That, too, he hated. “I know you need rest. But I can’t tell how long this is going to take”—he gestured at the slope of rocks—“or how much time we have, or how many Elohim we can save. And it’ll be harder at night.
“I want to get started. Why is that wrong?”
He felt the attention of the Swordmainnir. Nevertheless they conveyed the impression that they wanted him to go away.
The Ironhand shifted her shoulder so that she faced Jeremiah more squarely. Even seated, she was taller than he was. She seemed to glare down at him in the gloom.
“Young Jeremiah,” she sighed, “we are Giants. Children are more than our joy and our delight. They are our future—if the notion of any future has meaning in these fraught times. We are endlessly indulgent.”
Before Jeremiah could ask, Then why are you mad at me? she said more sternly, “But by the measure of your kind, you are not a child. Much has been given to you. Therefore much is expected in return.”
Wincing, Jeremiah retorted, “I know that.” The sound of his own truculence disgusted him. It sharpened the vexation of the Giants. But he did not know how to control it.
“Do you, forsooth?” drawled Frostheart Grueburn
. “You conceal your wisdom well.”
Latebirth and Cabledarm offered their own ripostes; but the Ironhand gestured them to silence. On their behalf, she asked Jeremiah, “Do you indeed comprehend what Linden Giantfriend has done for love of you?” Her tone was a bared blade. “Your manner suggests that you do not.
“I do not speak of her search for you across many centuries and uncounted leagues. Other mothers have done as much, if in differing times by different means. Nor do I speak of her surrender to the machinations of the Harrow, or of her perilous descent into the Lost Deep, or of her many efforts to relieve your absent mind. These things might other mothers have done as well. We ourselves have done much in Lostson Longwrath’s name, and we are not his mothers.
“Now, however, Linden Giantfriend has exceeded our conceptions of love and fidelity.” Rime Coldspray’s voice cut. “She has surpassed the hearts of Giants. Knowing that you have need of her, she yet prizes your worth so highly that she has hazarded more than her own extinction. She has dared the end of all Time and life. This she has done for the Land’s sake, aye, but also for yours, that your endeavors here may accomplish their intended purpose.
“Does her attempt not express her devotion? Does it not merit your esteem?”
Remember that I’m proud of you.
Jeremiah’s immediate reaction was a flare of anger. “She left me.” But then tears burned his eyes, and he wanted to weep. He understood what his mother was trying to do—and yet he had treated her courage like a betrayal. Winds swirled around him like misery. Abruptly he sank to the ground; sat cross-legged with his elbows braced on his thighs and his head down.
Come on, he commanded himself bitterly. Don’t be a baby. If you start crying now, I’ll never forgive you.
In a small voice, he asked the scoured dirt, “What do you want me to do?”
Gradually the Ironhand’s aura lost its irate flavor. “Attempt patience, young Jeremiah,” she replied as if she had exhausted her reprimands. “Grant to us an hour of rest. Linden Giantfriend’s fire is a rare gift, but it cannot efface the cost of all that we have endured. When we have rested, two of us will commence the labor which your purpose requires. The others will sleep while they may. When the two must pause, they will awaken two others in turn. By twos, we will achieve what we can until all have slept. With the return of day, we will arise together to serve you.”
After a moment, she added, “If need compels you, make use of the night. Doubtless there are preparations which will serve to hasten the morrow’s labors.”
Attempt patience? That seemed impossible to Jeremiah. Patience was for people who were incapable of anything else. He had spent ten passive years exhausting his ability to wait. But when Coldspray suggested preparations, his heart veered. That he understood: identifying his materials; setting them out so that he would not have to search for them when the time came to put them in place. And he knew that he would have to spend a lot of time searching for the right sizes and shapes and quantities of malachite. While he did that, two Giants might be able to give him as much help as he could use.
Thinking hard, he grew calmer.
A flurry of gusts out of the northeast slapped at the company. They tumbled against the ridgefront, scurried out across the plain. To Jeremiah’s nerves, they felt like the leading edge of a gale. But the forces driving the wind were still distant. The full strength of the blast might not reach so far.
A part of his mind was making calculations: measuring the mass of rocks against their hidden seams of malachite; estimating sizes and dimensions and positions. But that part of him was instinctive. It did not require his conscious attention. Instead of focusing on it, he tried to think of a way to make amends.
He did love Giants.
Groping, he said tentatively, “You’ve talked about Longwrath before. Lostson Longwrath. I heard you”—in spite of himself, he winced—“when the croyel had me. But I don’t know who he is.
“What happened to him? Where is he?”
At once, Jeremiah felt a pang spread among the Giants, and he feared that he had made a stupid mistake. They looked at each other or turned away; shifted uncomfortably where they sat; touched their weapons. But then he saw that he had not irritated them again. Instead he had reminded them of a pain which they did not know how to relieve.
“Ah, young Jeremiah.” The Ironhand sighed once more. “You request a tale—”
Abruptly Frostheart Grueburn heaved herself to her feet. Towering against the dimming sky and the lucid stars, she announced to her comrades, “It is a tale which need not delay young Jeremiah’s task. If Latebirth will consent to join me, we two will be the first to aid him. And while we do so, we will speak of Longwrath.
“I have borne Linden Giantfriend across many arduous leagues. In her name, I will bear this burden also.”
“You are harsh, Grueburn,” Latebirth retorted. “You ask much. Scend Wavegift’s death clings unkindly to me. Should Longwrath appear before us here, I would wish both to embrace him and to strike him down.”
“As would we all,” muttered Coldspray. “Nonetheless Frostheart Grueburn’s offer is a gift. Should you prefer to rest, Latebirth, I will join her.”
“Nay, Ironhand.” Groaning lugubriously, Latebirth pushed herself upright. “I merely complain, as is my wont. Grueburn’s thought is worthy of her—”
“A jest of two edges,” remarked Onyx Stonemage. “It both gives and takes.”
“—and I will endeavor to prove worthy as well,” Latebirth finished without pausing.
Ducking his head, Jeremiah mustered the grace to say, “Thanks. I know this is hard. But I really can’t do it without your help.”
Grueburn swung her hand at his shoulder, a comradely clap that nearly knocked him off his feet. “Waste no heed on us, young Jeremiah. We are Giants. We revel in bewailing our lot.
“Come.” Followed by Latebirth, she steered him back toward the sloping rockfall. “You will describe what is required, and we will speak of Lostson Longwrath while we attempt your desires.”
“In that case”—with a nudge of his shoulder, Jeremiah redirected her toward a stretch of open ground at the foot of the rubble—“let’s start there.” Within three steps, his distress became excitement again. Wind slapped grit and portents at his face, but he ignored it. The preparations for his construct seemed to spring into focus of their own volition. “I’ll show you where I want to build.”
Grueburn nodded her approval; and Latebirth said, “That is well thought, young Jeremiah. In the absence of plain commands, we would doubtless cause ourselves much unnecessary labor.”
“And we would moan,” Grueburn stated, feigning pride. “Even among Giants, I am prized for the purity and pathos of my moans.”
“I don’t believe you,” snorted Jeremiah. Carried on a rise of anticipation, he tried to emulate his companions. With gibes, the Swordmainnir refreshed their spirits: he saw that. Now he wanted to participate. “You’ve probably never moaned in your whole life.”
“Latebirth has not,” Grueburn asserted while the other Swordmain chuckled. “She is entirely dour. But I am capable, I do assure you, of the most extravagant and heart-rending moans.”
“Enough, I implore you!” pleaded Latebirth. “Young Jeremiah’s ears will bleed if you proceed to a demonstration.” More soberly, she added, “And we have consented to speak of Longwrath.”
“Yet time remains to us,” Frostheart Grueburn countered. “When I regard the approach of the Worm, the hours appear as brief as heartbeats. But when I contemplate the exertions before us, mere moments are protracted to the horizons and beyond. If we lack time sufficient to speak at leisure, we also lack time for our task. Haste will gain naught.”
Latebirth grunted glum acquiescence. In silence, the two Giants accompanied Jeremiah to the span of ground where he proposed to build.
“Here,” he announced at the edge of his goal. With a gesture, he asked Grueburn and Latebirth to halt. “I’ll mark out dimensi
ons. If we don’t pile rocks inside that space, they won’t be in the way later.”
Latebirth scanned the area, muttered something that he did not hear. His attention had shifted. Images flared in his mind, becoming more explicit as he estimated shapes and masses, ratios of malachite, necessary boundaries. Stooping, he selected a fragment of basalt with a sharp point. For a moment longer, he studied the ground. When he was sure, he began gouging lines in the dirt.
Four paces for a Giant straight toward the ridgefront. Five parallel to the spill of rubble. Four more to form the third side of a precise rectangle. And a line along the northwest to close the space. There he interrupted his marks to suggest a gap. Eventually that gap would become an entryway.
While Jeremiah outlined his construct, Frostheart Grueburn began.
“Speaking of Lostson Longwrath is hurtful to us,” she said gruffly. “The fault of his plight lies with our forebears. From them, we inherit a shame which we do not bear lightly. For that reason, and because your kind is born to brevity, and because we must conserve our strength, I will be concise.”
“Concise, forsooth,” scoffed Latebirth. “Already you falter in your intent.”
Grueburn ignored her comrade. “Young Jeremiah,” she went on, “Longwrath’s plight shares much with your former state.”
Jeremiah flicked a startled glance toward her. But his task held him, and he did not pause.
“He is possessed,” she explained. “Forces which he did not choose and could not refuse have deprived him of himself. In the name of a foolish and unheeding bargain with the Elohim, he is ruled by a geas both cruel and minatory. Where he was once a Swordmain honored among us, he has become a madman bent on murder.
“And he is lost in another sense as well.” Grueburn’s tone was as personal as a plea. “Though we were his guardians and caretakers, he was separated from us. Now we know not where he wanders, or indeed whether he yet lives. Nor do we know what form his geas has taken. He failed in his first compulsion. Has he now been released? Is some new atrocity required of him? It is possible that Infelice might have answered us, had we inquired of her in Andelain. But we were consumed by our shame—aye, and also by our wrath. We did not think to inquire.