The Last Dark

  His listeners nodded again. Silver reflected like keening in their eyes. Longwrath’s attack on Kastenessen must have astonished or appalled them. They had tried so hard to follow his geas with him until he found peace. But they did not interrupt.

  “After that,” Covenant said, fierce and quavering, “I wanted an alliance myself.” He dreaded memories like this one. They were as piercing as images of Joan. “It isn’t hard to imagine we’re going to need all the help we can get. And I was afraid turiya would take the lurker.” He did not mention the former Guardian of the One Tree. The Swordmainnir would recognize Brinn’s name; but Covenant had no courage to spare for that explanation. “Once I learned how to jump across leagues, we went after the Raver.

  “We didn’t catch up with him until he was in the Sarangrave. I tried to kill him, but I couldn’t. Clyme and Branl did it.” In spite of his private horror, he could not gloss over this detail. The Giants needed to hear it. They would understand. And the Humbled deserved at least that much homage. “Clyme let turiya possess him.” Like Honninscrave in Revelstone. “Then he held the Raver while Branl cut him to pieces.” Covenant remembered hacked flesh, severed bones, blood. “Turiya wasn’t just rent. He’s gone. There isn’t anything left.”

  The distress of the Giants showed in the way they looked at Branl; in glances teary with compassion and dismay. Perhaps more than any other living people, Coldspray and her comrades knew the cost of causing a Raver’s end. Yet Branl’s gaze gave them nothing. He was Haruchai and did not accept grief.

  Covenant considered that rigidity a weakness, not a strength. He believed that forgiveness began with sorrow. But perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps a man who grieved would have spared Clyme. Then turiya Herem would have lived. Eventually Horrim Carabal would have been lost—and the Worm might have made its way, unresisted, to Mount Thunder.

  Grinding his teeth, Covenant went on.

  “When Branl and I got out of the Sarangrave, we probably weren’t all that far from where we are now. But the Feroce told us the Worm was getting close. That’s when I sent my message. Then I wanted to see it for myself. We went to look.

  “Now the Worm is here.” He bit down on his voice to hold it steady. “I can’t describe it. I’m not going to try. But I can tell you this.” Facing the clenched apprehension of his audience, he said, “It wasn’t headed here,” toward Jeremiah’s fane and the sealed Elohim. “It was going west. Straight at Mount Thunder. At She Who Must Not Be Named.

  “That scared me,” he growled. “Lord Foul likes convoluted plots. Every trap you face has another one hidden inside. If the Worm and that bane went after each other, we wouldn’t have to worry about the Elohim, or anything else for that matter, because we would already be dead.”

  He spread his hands; his truncated fingers. “We’re not, so I have to assume—”

  Rime Coldspray looked like she wanted to interrupt then; but Covenant did not pause. As concisely as he could, he explained how the lurker and the Demondim-spawn had striven to deflect the Worm from Mount Thunder. Then he finished, “I didn’t wait around to see how long they could hold. Branl and I just ran. But they must have held long enough.” Somehow. “I can’t imagine it would take this long for the Worm to get through Lifeswallower. Now I just have to hope we didn’t lose them in the process.”

  He expected Coldspray or the others to question him. He had questions of his own. What had happened to Jeremiah and Stave? How had Jeremiah been retrieved from his dissociation? But before anyone spoke, Branl moved.

  Without ceremony, as if the action did not require comment, the Humbled handed Loric’s krill to Rime Coldspray.

  She accepted it reflexively, her eyes wide, as Branl strode past her toward Stave.

  With Handir and the other Humbled, Branl had participated in punishing—in excommunicating—Stave for his defiance of his kinsmen; his devotion to Linden. The Masters had refused to acknowledge Stave’s mental voice. Like Clyme and even Galt, Branl had treated Stave with disdain. Like them, Branl had challenged Stave more than once, tried to strike him down.

  Now the last of the Humbled approached Stave’s prone form like a man who proposed to deliver judgment.

  Covenant should have stopped him; should have said something, anything. Clyme’s death was only one example of the severity with which the Haruchai judged themselves. But at that moment, Covenant was like the Giants. He had come to the end of what he could do.

  A darkening storm made omens in the northeast. Winds whipped Branl’s legs, tugged at the tears in his tunic. But he ignored them. Implacable as a fanatic, he strode through the gusts.

  At Stave’s side, he stopped, braced his fists on his hips. For a moment, he bowed his head over Stave, apparently searching Stave’s slack form for some sign of awareness. Stave’s hand and forearm, his right, no longer smoked. Still he lay helpless, as if his mind or his heart had been as badly charred as his skin.

  “I have named Stave ‘Rockbrother,’” Coldspray announced. She may have been warning Branl; but she seemed unable to raise her voice.

  Abruptly Branl stooped over the fallen Haruchai. With both hands, he lifted Stave upright.

  Stave’s head lolled to one side, then sagged until his chin rested on his chest. He dangled emptily in Branl’s grasp.

  In a blink of motion so swift that Covenant barely understood it, Branl released one hand and slapped the side of Stave’s head. The blow made no sound that Covenant could hear through the wind.

  Frostheart Grueburn winced. Coldspray lurched toward the Haruchai, going too late to Stave’s defense.

  As if the movement were full of pain, Stave slowly raised his head. His lone eye opened. Blinking, he fixed his gaze on Branl.

  Branl did not strike again. Unsure of herself, the Ironhand halted. Covenant watched with his pulse trapped like a cry in his throat.

  For a few heartbeats, Branl met Stave’s gaze. Then Stave’s head sagged again; and the Humbled nodded once. Shifting his grip, he wrapped his arms around Stave.

  With Stave hugged against his chest, Branl informed Covenant, “The tale of the Giants is incomplete. We do not fault them. Their heed was consumed by Kastenessen and great weariness. It may be that they did not recognize the plight of Linden Avery’s son. To Stave, however, it was evident that the boy received more than Earthpower at Anele’s hands. The gift included Anele’s openness to possession.

  “Arriving in his fury, Kastenessen entered the boy. His apparent purpose was to drive Infelice into the fane, that he might destroy her with the other Elohim. But Stave intervened. By removing the boy from dirt underfoot, he severed the possession. Hence his burns, and his unconsciousness, and the boy’s presence atop the fane, where he is warded by stone.

  “There he might readily have been slain. Only Longwrath’s coming, and yours, ur-Lord, preserved him. Yet more Stave could not have done. Without aspersion to the Swordmainnir, I assert that no other could have done as much.”

  Fresh vertigo sucked at Covenant. Realities shifted into new alignments: their implications veered like the world. Somehow Jeremiah had been rescued from his dissociation, or had saved himself. A mixed blessing: the Earthpower with which Anele had invested Jeremiah had made the boy vulnerable. No wonder Anele had hidden himself in madness; made himself blind. How else could he have concealed his true abilities, his secret purpose, from the Despiser? But Jeremiah did not have the old man’s cunning. Lord Foul would be able to claim the boy whenever Jeremiah chanced to stand on the right surface, the right rough grass.

  The ridge seemed to wobble from side to side, mocking Covenant. There were other inferences—

  Branl had said we. He had addressed Stave in the fashion of the Haruchai—and he had listened to Stave’s reply. Now he had reaffirmed his kinship with Linden’s friend as if he felt pride in it. He spoke for Stave as well as himself.

  A profound change. If the Humbled had ever needed or desired Covenant’s forgiveness, he earned it now.

  Apparently the Ir
onhand also had heard and understood Branl’s we. She raised the krill so that its gem lit the Haruchai. Striving for formality, she replied, “There is no aspersion, Branl Humbled. There is only praise, both for Stave and for you—and for Clyme as well. At a better time, we will tell the full tale of Stave Rockbrother’s deeds. We will honor your own. For the present, be assured that we esteem your courage and devoir.”

  Indirectly she steadied Covenant. Breathing deeply to calm his private reel, he muttered, “Then I guess Linden did the right thing when she made Stave stay behind.”

  “Indeed,” assented Coldspray. And Branl said unexpectedly, “In this, the Chosen has shown foresight. I am reminded of matters which Stave has not forgotten concerning her former service to the Land.”

  Another surprise. Covenant frowned through the silver light, and found that he had no response. For a moment, he almost wept.

  None of the Humbled had ever called Linden by her title.

  “And Stave Rockbrother himself?” asked Cirrus Kindwind. “How does he fare? He is closed to our discernment, as you are, Branl Humbled. We fear for him.”

  Branl shrugged to indicate Stave. “This state is not unknown among the Haruchai. More commonly, we have recourse to it when we are snared by storms among the high peaks of our homeland. When both passage and shelter cannot be attained, we withdraw as Stave has done to preserve the essence of our lives. Thus we endure the gales, emerging when they are spent. Upon occasion, however, we withdraw similarly to heal otherwise mortal wounds, or mayhap to weather such shocks and virulence as Stave has received. When he has restored himself, he will stand among us once more.”

  Carefully he lowered Stave to the earth, then stepped back to resume his place with Covenant. He may have thought that he had said enough.

  But Covenant had not entirely regained his balance. “Wait a minute,” he objected. “There has to be more to it than that. Stave has touched Kastenessen before, and he wasn’t hurt like this. Something is different now.”

  “It is, ur-Lord,” admitted Branl. But he did not elaborate. Perhaps Stave had not remained conscious long enough to share those memories.

  Rime Coldspray sighed heavily, a gust torn away by the moiling winds. “I am too worn to bear the burden of Stave’s tale. I will say only that he was gravely injured in the raising of young Jeremiah’s fane. We will speak further when we have rested. I cannot remain upon my feet.”

  In fact, Covenant suspected that she was close to fainting. And the condition of her comrades was no better. Cabledarm’s was worse. Even to his blunted sight, it was obvious that the injured Giant could not stand without support.

  “Then don’t worry about it,” he said unsteadily. “We’ll have plenty of time for tales”—a grimace jerked across his face—“unless we don’t, in which case it won’t matter anyway.

  “Is there any shelter around here? We should try to get out of this wind.”

  Grueburn glanced at Jeremiah’s construct. “Can we not find calm within the fane?” She sounded wistful. “I am not so chary of Elohim—or indeed of Kastenessen—that I would decline to ease my weariness in their presence.”

  When Covenant followed her gaze, he saw Jeremiah lower himself to the ground. A moment later, the boy came running, waving his arms for attention. His ragged pajamas—soiled with grime and stained by blood—made him look destitute and desperate. Nevertheless he was recovering from Kastenessen’s violation.

  Together, the Giants turned to watch him. Rime Coldspray held up the krill.

  He reached the company, jerked to a halt. “You won’t see them,” he panted. Apparently he had heard Grueburn. “It’s just stones. The magic only works on them.”

  A heartbeat later, he flung himself at Covenant, wrapped his arms around the Unbeliever. Suddenly he was crying—and fighting to deny it.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t have a chance. Mom left, and Stave was hurt, and Kastenessen—he—out of nowhere—The croyel was bad. He’s worse. Much worse.

  “I am so glad to see you.”

  Covenant returned Jeremiah’s hug without hesitation. He ached for that himself; for any embrace if he could not have Linden’s. And he, too, loved the boy.

  He, too, feared for Linden’s son.

  As carefully as he could, he asked, “What did Kastenessen do to you?”

  Jeremiah swallowed a sob; clung harder. “He broke me.”

  Sudden compassion stung Covenant. Deliberately he eased his own clasp until Jeremiah did the same. Then he held the boy at arm’s length, studied every detail of Jeremiah’s mien: the rich brown of his eyes, the passionate mouth, the fine stubble on his cheeks; the lines cut by too much suffering. But he could not discern how deeply Jeremiah’s hurts ran, or how badly he had been marred.

  “How did he do that? What was it like?”

  The question seemed to transform Jeremiah. Ferocity darkened his eyes to the color of rot-laden silt. His mouth stretched, baring his teeth. The lines of his face assumed predatory angles. In an instant, he was no longer a boy confused by his wounds. He had become a young man crowded with bitterness.

  Almost spitting, he snapped, “I’m sorry Infelice let him inside. I’m sorry you didn’t kill him. I want him dead. I hate being used, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

  His vehemence shocked Covenant. A similar reaction twisted Coldspray’s visage, and Grueburn’s. Branl took a subtle step closer as if he sensed that Covenant was in danger.

  But Covenant stood taller in front of Jeremiah. With a portion of his own ferocity, his rage for the damaged and the outcast, he retorted, “Then hang on to feeling broken. Hang on to the pain. It can be useful. I should know.”

  Then he lowered his voice. “In any case, Kastenessen is different now. Without Kevin’s Dirt, he’s just another victim.”

  Jeremiah looked like he wanted to sink his teeth into Covenant’s throat. “I don’t care.”

  “Chosen-son,” the Ironhand murmured: a reprimand that lacked the strength to insist.

  To himself, Covenant groaned, Oh, Linden. I’m so sorry. Nevertheless he held the boy’s glare without flinching. Severe as a judge, he demanded, “Then tell me something else. Is that temple a prison?”

  He already knew the truth, but he wanted to hear it from Jeremiah. He wanted Jeremiah to acknowledge it. It might help.

  At once, Jeremiah’s fury became chagrin. Without transition, he seemed altogether young and vulnerable. “No!” he cried as if Covenant had slapped him. “I wouldn’t do that. They can get out whenever they want.”

  Ah, hell. Covenant’s relief was so swift that he sagged against Branl. Hell and blood. A host of fears drained out of him before he had managed to name them all. Sure, the boy was in pain. His rage revealed the depth of his wounds. But his distress now was as true as his desire for harm. And he had done what he could to forestall the world’s end.

  As soon as Covenant recovered his balance, he moved to hug Jeremiah again. “Thanks,” he breathed like a sigh at Jeremiah’s ear. “I knew that about you. I just needed to hear you say it.

  “Linden will be so proud we won’t know what to do with her.”

  Jeremiah sobbed again, a small sound like a plea. But he did not stiffen or pull away. Surrendering to Covenant’s hold, he asked fearfully, “Will she make it? Will she come back?”

  He seemed to say, I don’t know who I am without her.

  Covenant knew how he felt. Striving for confidence, he countered, “She’s your mother. Has she ever not come back?”

  Centuries ago among the Dead in Andelain, High Lord Elena had urged Covenant to take care of Linden, that in the end she may heal us all.

  Before Jeremiah could reply, the Ironhand wavered on her feet: she nearly fell. Blinking as if she could no longer focus her eyes, she croaked, “For mercy’s sake, have done with contention. We must rest.”

  “Hellfire,” Covenant growled. During his many experiences with Giants, he had seen them in every extreme of peril and pain; but he had never kn
own them to be utterly exhausted. “What’re we waiting for? You don’t just look tired. You must be half starved.” Where could they have replenished the Ardent’s supplies? “Let’s go lie down.”

  Instead of responding, the Swordmainnir simply turned and trudged toward the fane like women who had come to the end of every desire except the wish for relief. Longwrath they left where he had fallen. After everything that they had done and endured, they were too weak to lament his end.

  nside the edifice, the company found better shelter than Covenant had expected. Though the walls were punctuated with gaps, and the ceiling looked precariously balanced, the winds outside were reduced to a confusion of mild breezes. In addition, the stones retained a suggestion of warmth: an aftereffect of theurgy. There Rime Coldspray returned the krill to Branl, and the Giants stretched themselves out like dead women. But they did not sleep immediately. In low voices, wan and necessary, they began to talk, first Cirrus Kindwind, then Latebirth, then Onyx Stonemage. They told Covenant how Linden had broken open the ridge to uncover malachite. Passing the story from one to another, they described the building of Jeremiah’s fane, and the extravagance of Stave’s efforts, and the narrowness of his survival. And when their voices trailed away at last, Jeremiah gave Covenant a condensed version of his escape from his mental ensepulture.

  Among his companions, Covenant sat with his knees hugged to his chest and tried not to rock from side to side like a child in need of solace. He wanted Linden, and had no way to reach her.

  Cabledarm lay shivering as if she were feverish. Shock, Covenant thought. She had fallen hard and badly after deflecting Stave’s plummet. Not for the first time, he felt bewildered by the abilities of the Giants. Saltheart Foamfollower had once walked through lava: a kind of caamora, terrible pain and cleansing. Such deeds had come to appear almost normal for Foamfollower’s people. Now Covenant wondered whether the Swordmainnir would be able to leave their present straits behind if they did not first find fire in which to release their sorrow.