Linden seemed unable to move. Covenant’s revelation must have shaken her conception of the Humbled. But he was not given time to continue. While he groped for better words, words that might ease her, Stave came to stand between Linden and Branl.
Impassive as polished stone, he said, “Chosen, I am here. I have done as you asked of me.” Nothing in his gaze or his mien hinted at his intent. “Now I am in need.”
Deliberately he showed her his savaged forearm and hand.
One of the Haruchai. Asking for help.
At the sight, something inside Linden snapped. Stave was her friend, one of the first. He had supported her against the combined repudiation of the Masters—and had paid a cruel price. Her eyes filled with tears: she called up more fire as if her Staff’s flames were sobs. But she did not reach out as she had to Bluntfist. Instead she cocooned herself in conflagration. Then she carried the dark blaze of her pain to Stave and wrapped her arms around him.
And he returned her embrace as though he had grown accustomed to such familiarity. Accustomed to setting aside his native stoicism.
A sigh of relief passed among the Giants. Jeremiah whispered, “Mom. Mom,” as if she made him proud.
When she finally let Stave go, she was calmer. Quenching her power, she made the krill’s illumination brighter in contrast. Still her eyes were full of darkness, as if her Staff’s stain lingered in them. Trying to imagine how she had gained Mahrtiir’s transformation—and how she had managed her return—Covenant shivered. He could only be sure that the cost had been high. But now at last she looked present, as if she had been reclaimed by the time where she belonged.
That was well. The barriers inside him had broken. He could no longer remain silent.
He wanted to fall to his knees before her, abase himself somehow, plead with her. But self-recrimination was an expensive indulgence: he could not afford it. Controlling himself, he held her gaze until he was sure that he had her attention.
Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir’s sapling had become a young tree. Its leaves were spangled with melody as if the notes of his song were stars. And beneath the expanding spread of the branches, a furze of grass sprouted from the barren ground, punctuated by undefined clumps that might grow into shrubs. A liquid sound ran faintly through his singing like a promise of water.
To Linden, Covenant said, “I killed her,” as if the words burned his mouth, raised blisters on his tongue. “I killed Joan. I promised myself I would give up killing. Now I hardly do anything else.”
Like the voice of the night, Branl asserted, “It was not murder.” Like an echo. “It was mercy.”
Stave nodded his assent.
Covenant ignored the Haruchai. He concentrated on Linden’s frown, and her eyes, and the tightness of her mouth.
“The Feroce cleared the way. Dozens of them died against the skest. Branl and Clyme helped me through a caesure so I could reach her. She was going to finish me, but Mhornym and Naybahn distracted her. I killed her with the krill. I didn’t know what else to do.”
Linden seemed to gather darkness where she stood, as if she were pulling the night around her, wrapping herself in shadows. “Good!” she snapped: a flare of vehemence like a reiteration of Jeremiah’s rage at Kastenessen.
Abrupt anger swelled in Covenant. “There was a tsunami.” Joan had suffered too much. “It could have crushed us.” Her weakness had not merited the use which Lord Foul had made of her. His voice rose, impelled higher by fury or supplication. “Branl and Clyme and the Ranyhyn saved me.
“Hellfire, Linden.” His own heart was as raw as hers. “Do you remember Brinn? Now that the Worm’s awake, he doesn’t have anything else to do. He showed up after the tsunami to tell us turiya was going to possess the lurker. We went to try to stop that from happening.”
Then he forced himself to stop. In spite of his ire and numbness, he felt Linden withdrawing. She did not step back, but her frown became a scowl as her features closed against him.
“Why are you angry at me?” Her voice shook. “I haven’t touched you. I wasn’t even here.”
Covenant swore at his clumsiness, his difficult, stymied honesty. He bit down on his wrath hard enough to draw blood.
“I’m not angry at you. I’m ashamed. It’s not the same thing.”
Jeremiah may have tried to intervene. If so, the Giants kept him quiet.
“What are you ashamed of?” Linden sounded impossibly distant, as if she had retreated to a redoubt where he could not hope to reach her. “You put Joan out of her misery. She wasn’t just in terrible pain. She was possessed. Death was the only way to give her any relief. And you stopped her caesures. Why is that something to be ashamed of?”
“Because I failed!” Covenant wanted to hit someone, anyone. If he could have felt what he was doing, he would have torn at his hair. Instead he knotted his insensate fingers together and twisted until his wrists ached. “I wasn’t strong enough to handle turiya myself. That’s why Branl had to kill Clyme. They both had to compensate for me.
“And because—”
Suddenly awkward, he faltered. How could he say what was in his heart? To Linden? Like this? Beyond question, he was not strong enough. If he had ever been brave enough, he no longer remembered how that much courage felt.
The glittering among the leaves of the ur-Mahrtiir’s tree had become a silver penumbra, purer that the brightness of Loric’s krill, and more melodious. The tree was a willow, graceful and arching. Soon it would be tall enough to spread its branches in a wide circle that included the fane. Its limbs drooped like weeping, though they grew like gladness. And under its shade, the thin grass was now turf, as lush as the greenswards of Andelain. Bushes grew like adornments under the dangling leaves around the verge of the grass. A delicate rill rippled argent past the Forestal’s feet and chuckled away beyond the rubble, wending harmoniously toward the distant Sarangrave.
“Because?” Linden prompted like a woman hiding behind a shield.
He was losing her. He did not know how to bear it.
“Because I hate the way I treated you! I hate the way I left you. I had to go. I had to go alone. I couldn’t risk you against Joan. And you had other things to do.”
Finally he managed to lower his voice. If he meant to tell the truth, he had to set aside the luxury of shouting; of judging himself.
“Linden, do you understand that Kastenessen is in that temple? Have you realized yet that Kevin’s Dirt is gone? If I hadn’t left you behind, none of that would have happened.”
She did not react. She had no attention to spare for victories.
Groaning inwardly, Covenant confessed, “But I shouldn’t have treated you the way I did. I was just afraid. I was broken,” maimed by fissured memories, “and I didn’t know how to live with it. I couldn’t ask you to trust me,” love me, “because I didn’t trust myself, or what I was becoming, or what I had to do. I wasn’t sure I would have anything left when I was done. I couldn’t say what I really meant.”
Loric’s gem lit a subtle shift in Linden’s gaze, a modulation in the darkness. Small black flames coiled like tendrils around her hand on the Staff. Covenant thought that he saw tremors in her shoulders.
“You told me not to touch you,” she said as if the words were splinters of glass, sharp enough to pierce and rend. “Isn’t that what you meant?”
“No.” He gritted his teeth so that he would not cry out. “It’s what I needed. It’s what I knew how to say. I’m a leper, for God’s sake. It’s how I cope with practically everything. But it is not the truth.”
Not the whole truth.
She appeared to be floundering: a drowning woman who nonetheless struggled against her desire to clutch at rescue. So softly that he barely heard her over the labor of his heart, she asked, “Then what is the truth? What would you have said if you weren’t broken or scared?”
Obviously bewildered, Jeremiah watched his mother and his earliest friend. The Haruchai betrayed no reaction; but the Giants gave the impress
ion that they were holding their breath.
Damn you, Covenant snarled at himself. Say it. Do it. She can’t read your mind.
What did he gain by being a leper if numbness did not dull the edges of his fears?
His hands shook as he reached up to his neck. Fumbling, he grasped the chain that held Joan’s ring under his T-shirt, pulled the chain over his head. For a panicked moment, his eyes failed him: he could not find the clasp. Then his fingers were too awkward to unclose it.
But he remembered who he was, and why he was here, and what was at stake; and a strange certainty came over him. The clasp seemed to open by itself, as if he had been given a blessing. Attempts must be made—How else could he believe in anything?
He dropped the chain. Holding the ring between the remnants of his thumb and forefinger, he extended it toward Linden.
“Linden Avery.” His voice was hoarse, congested with emotions straining for release. “I think I’ve earned the right to give this to anybody I want. But there’s nobody else. I love you. That’s all. I love you. Will you marry me?”
She flinched as if he had slapped her. For an instant, she recoiled, startled and uncomprehending.
But while she froze, caught in a maelstrom of surprise and consternation, disbelief and repudiation and self-doubt, the Forestal’s song came clearly through the silence.
“It is my heart I give to you,
My blood and sap and bone and root.”
In an instant, her turmoil was transfigured. Out of confusion and pain, she gathered herself. Her eyes reflected argent and recognition in patterns that spoke to Covenant. Without glancing at Stave, she tossed her Staff to the former Master. Its fire vanished before he caught it.
Her gaze clung to Covenant’s as she drew out his ring, freed it from its chain, discarded the strand as if it had become meaningless. For a few heartbeats, she closed the ring in her fist. Then she opened her hand, held the ring out on her palm.
“Yes.” That one word seemed to contain her whole heart. “Thomas Covenant, yes. I don’t care what you’ve done, or what you’re afraid of, or what you said days ago. I don’t care how broken you were, or what’s going to happen to us later. I only care about now. I love you.”
As if she had summoned him past restrictions more personal than life and death, he started toward her. When he reached her, he took her left hand, lifted it to his lips, then slipped Joan’s ring—no, Linden’s wedding band—onto her ring finger.
With this ring I thee wed.
And betimes some wonder is wrought—
He thought that she would offer his ring to the index finger of his halfhand, where he had worn it ever since he had grown gaunt. But instead she claimed his left. To his surprise, his ring finger accepted the band as if damage and scars had made him strong enough to wear white gold where it belonged.
“I’m yours,” she murmured through a blur of tears. “You’re the only man I’ve ever really loved. You’re the father Jeremiah should have had. As long as you wear this ring, I’m yours.”
He knew what she meant. Long ago, he had surrendered his wedding band to the Despiser.
He was not going to do that again.
When he took her in his arms and kissed her, he was trying to assure her that he would keep this promise.
Her arms were around his neck. She returned his kiss as if she were opening her whole self.
And slowly their embrace was transformed. It became a glow of wild magic. Alloyed argent expanded around them, wrapped them in light. Gentle as a caress, it swelled into the night, swirling warmly as it scaled higher and higher until they appeared to stand at the source of a gyre which might reach the stars. The gem of the krill gave answer, as if High Lord Loric’s ancient theurgy approved; but the effulgence of Thomas Covenant and Linden Avery out-shone it. Their power lit the battered plain to the horizons, reveled on the faces of the Giants and the Haruchai and Jeremiah, emblazoned the outlines of the fane beneath the willow. Even Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir paused in his fertile labors to contribute a paean like a benediction.
If Covenant had been inclined to heed them, he would have heard the Giants cheering. He would have seen Jeremiah waving flares of Earthpower and grinning. He might have noticed Stave’s brief, unconflicted smile.
But Covenant was kissing Linden. At that moment, nothing else mattered.
hen he was finally able to look around, he saw that the Forestal had fashioned a bower.
The willow had grown as tall as a Gilden. Spangles of song lingered on its leaves, bedecked its branches with bright silver like the glimmering of unendangered stars. Illumination under the canopy of the boughs seemed to hold the memory of wild magic made tender by acquiescence. The tree stood directly before the fane’s portal: its drooping arch almost concealed the construct. In the tree’s shade, luxuriant grass cushioned the ground like a profusion of pillows.
The plashing runnel was now a grateful brook. It seemed to carry light and music with it as it chimed out across the plain. And near the edges of the circle, where the leaves trailed along the grass, Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir had invoked aliantha. A score or more of the holly-like shrubs with their viridian berries ripe surrounded the greensward, abundant as a feast.
The relative privacy of the bower suggested a form of sustenance that Covenant needed more than food. Perhaps that was the Forestal’s intent. The heat in Linden’s eyes affirmed that she felt as Covenant did. He was in a trembling hurry.
But the company had other needs: those took precedence. The privation of the Giants was extreme. They had given their last strength—and then had given more. Covenant himself wanted more than the unsatisfying aliment of ussusimiel. Linden had probably gone longer without food. And Jeremiah was avid for treasure-berries.
For the sake of everyone with him, Covenant schooled himself to eat and drink and wait. When Linden smiled ruefully, he tried to match her.
Speaking for her comrades, the Ironhand gave thanks to the Forestal. They all bowed as if they declined to prostrate themselves only because they lacked the strength to rise again. Then they picked their fill of aliantha. The seeds they scattered around the plain and in the hollows like prayers for the Land’s future. More boisterously, Jeremiah followed their example. As for the Haruchai, Branl stood apart from the company as if all of his lacks had been satisfied by Longwrath’s flamberge; but Stave ate without hesitation and offered the former Manethrall his gratitude.
Considering that they were Giants, inclined to relish the bounty of their own relief, Rime Coldspray, Frostheart Grueburn, and the others finished their meal quickly. They spent only a few moments thanking Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir. Then they passed beyond the thick willow-trunk to reenter the fane, taking Jeremiah with them so that Covenant and Linden would have some semblance of privacy.
Stave also went into the construct, bowing first to Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir, then to Covenant, finally and most deeply to Linden. However, Branl remained. “Ur-Lord,” the Humbled said with his usual absence of inflection, “the return of the Chosen is a cause for gladness in itself, and is more so because she has restored a Forestal to the Land. Yet in one respect, it is misfortune. The Giants have been denied their caamora.”
To the sudden inquiry of Linden’s expression, he explained, “The ur-Lord sought to relieve their sorrow by drawing flame from Longwrath’s remains. Your arrival interrupted his efforts. Now Longwrath is naught but ash, and we have no wood.”
While Linden winced in regret, Branl addressed Covenant once more. “Among Giants, denied lamentation is an enduring distress. Other tasks we have in abundance. And doubtless the Swordmainnir will be prompt to set aside their needs. Nonetheless I urge you to seek some blaze in which they may ease their loss.
“I am a Master of the Land,” he said as if he were merely reciting a formula rather than acknowledging a profound change. “I bear the taint of the unwelcome which the Giants have received at our hands. I would make amends, but have no means to do so.”
“Oh, stop,”
Covenant protested. “I forgot about that. We all had too much going on. But of course you’re right. I”—he glanced at Linden—“we won’t forget again.”
“We won’t,” Linden affirmed. “And I won’t forget what you’ve done. I haven’t been fair to you. I should have known better.”
Instead of nodding to her, as he had done so often in the past, Branl bowed. And when he had shown the same respect to both Covenant and Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir, he left the bower between the hanging branches to stand guard outside.
Alone with the Forestal, Covenant and Linden faced each other as if they had lost the ability to look anywhere else; but they did not move.
Briefly Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir sang words that Covenant recognized.
“I am the Land’s Creator’s hold:
I inhale all expiring breath,
And breathe out life to bind and heal.”
Then he faded into his music as if he had made himself one with the willow and the boughs, the leaves and the bedizening melody. In a moment, he was gone.
“Covenant—” Linden bit her lip, twisted the ring on her finger. “I have too much to tell you. And there are so many things I—”
He interrupted her with a grin that felt like a grimace. “Don’t you think it’s about time you stopped calling me ‘Covenant’?”
“Thomas, then,” she offered. “Thomas. Thomas of my heart.”
He would have accepted anything, but he was grateful that she did not choose to call him Tom.
When he opened his arms, she came to him like an act of grace.
hen they were done, they lay relaxed on billows of grass, covered by the soft radiance of the bower. For a time, they talked casually, softly, reminding themselves of each other. But then they turned to more serious concerns.
Covenant had his own questions, but Linden spoke first. Somber with doubt, she asked him what he thought about Jeremiah.
He sighed to himself. “You mean, not counting the fact he’s actually with us? After what he’s been through? It’s amazing he can so much as speak, never mind design that sanctuary for the Elohim. He’s already done a world of good. If you want more, you should talk to him.”