“Then how?” he asked like a waif too lonely to wail. “How do you go on?”
Linden did not hesitate. “I’ve been here before.” She had come too far to falter now. “That’s the advantage of being older. I’ve been here before. With Thomas. I’ve seen what he can do. Maybe I’ve come to the end of what I can do, but he hasn’t. And he doesn’t believe Lord Foul can’t be stopped. He doesn’t even believe the world can’t be saved.”
Thinking, Listen to me, Jeremiah. Hear me, she finished, “As long as that’s true, I won’t give up. I will not give up.”
After a long moment, she added, “And I certainly won’t give up on you.”
His struggle was terrible to watch. He knew how to protect himself. His craving for the sanctuary of graves was visible in the way he stood, in the clench of his fists and the hunch of his shoulders. Sharing herself, Linden had not reassured him: she had precipitated a crisis which he had been fighting to avoid. But he also had reason to know that safety was a trap; that every sanctuary was also a prison. On some deep level, he had chosen to free himself from his long dissociation. More consciously, he had chosen to do what he could for the Elohim. He understood the choice that his mother wanted him to make now.
In the same tone—forlorn and frail and alone—he told her, “I’ll try.”
Then he let Linden hug him.
With that she had to be content. Perhaps it was enough.
hen she and Jeremiah left the temple to rejoin their companions, Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir stood among them.
As before, he wore an aura of isolation, of harmonized and hermetic concentration, as if he were essentially alone. His eyeless visage did not regard the Giants or the horses. He appeared to ignore the Haruchai and the Unbeliever. Nevertheless something in his stance or his singing conveyed the impression that he was aware of Linden. Melodies seemed to skirl around her like promises or compulsions.
Under the gemmed leaves and boughs of the willow, his music sounded like wrath.
Covenant came to her at once, kissed her quickly, studied her with anxiety in his eyes. But she only returned his kiss and nodded: she did not answer his unspoken question. What he wanted to know would have to come from Jeremiah—and at that moment, Jeremiah clearly did not mean to say anything. His face wore a sullen glower which masked his heart.
The Giants greeted her and Jeremiah with wry smiles and troubled frowns. Instead of asking questions, however, they busied themselves with necessary tasks. They had refilled most of their waterskins. Now they moved among the shrubs, gathering treasure-berries which they placed in the last two waterskins so that the company would not go hungry for a while.
To Linden, Stave bowed without any visible stiffness. After a moment’s consideration—or consultation—he announced, “Chosen, the storm of the Worm draws nigh. And its course lies directly toward us. We must depart.”
Ah, God. Linden tightened her grip on the Staff until her hands ached. She was not ready—and she had not eaten. Jeremiah had not.
But Hyn gave a soft whinny as if to confirm Stave’s assertion. Facing Jeremiah, Khelen tossed his head and stamped one hoof. Restive and proud, Hynyn waited behind Stave.
In contrast, the Ardent’s spavined horse, with its distinct ribs and slumped back, paid no heed to anything except grass. And Rallyn had already left the bower, presumably to join Branl.
Studying Jeremiah, Covenant’s expression settled into its familiar strictness, as exigent as a prophet’s. “I’m sorry, Linden,” he said, muted and grim. “We have to get out of here.”
Before she could force herself to move, however, the Forestal spoke. He did not change his stance or gaze at anyone; but his song became words, as peremptory as commands. As if he were encouraging haste, he said, “I have no staff.”
He startled Linden; perplexed her. Fortunately Rime Coldspray seemed to understand him instinctively. Without hesitation, she replied, “Great one, your lack is plain. If you will condone it, I will sever a branch to serve you, though I am loath to harm the loveliness and shelter which you have provided.”
Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir hummed to himself. After a brief pause, he answered, “Do so. All of the world’s woods know that boughs must fall like leaves—aye, and the grandest of monarchs also—when there is need.”
The Ironhand bowed. Hurrying, she thrust her way between the hanging branches and lights to retrieve her stone glaive.
Would a staff be enough? Would the ur-Mahrtiir himself suffice? Linden wanted to believe that. Long ago, the forbidding of the Forestals had blocked the Ravers along the whole length of Landsdrop. But the Worm was immeasurably greater than Lord Foul’s most potent servants.
Her hands on the Staff were suddenly damp. Sweat ran like spiders down her spine; like centipedes and maggots. Her flesh had not forgotten She Who Must Not Be Named. Nevertheless the Land’s peril compelled her.
Her voice shook as she asked the Forestal, “Do you need any help?” She had assured Jeremiah that she would not give up. “Is there anything that I can do?”
“There is.” Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir’s music gathered around her. “The approaching puissance is vast. As I am, I cannot withstand it. I require your strength.”
Involuntarily she quailed. Her old friend might need more from her than she knew how to give. But Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir wove the many strands of his music into a soothing counterpoint. He stood directly in front of her now. And as she regarded him, another face seemed to emerge within his, softening his unanswerable visage. Like shadows, blurred and tenuous, the former Manethrall’s features joined those of the Forestal.
Humming in a more human voice, he said, “Yet I have not forgotten you, Linden Avery, Ringthane and Chosen. You bear dooms greater than the fate of the Elohim, or indeed of the world’s remaining trees. You must not perish in my aid. I ask only your blessing.”
My blessing? She mouthed the words, but made no sound. Oh, Mahrtiir! My blessing?
Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir unfurled ancient tunes around him, verse and refrain. “This invoked bourne of verdure and health is small. By the measure of the world’s end, it is little more than vainglory. But I will not have it so. I will not. Here stands the forgotten truth of wood, just as the fane which preserves the Elohim expresses another truth also forgotten. While my bourne endures, it affirms that the Worm and death are not the sum of all things.
“Linden Avery, Ringthane, friend. Bless this beauty with your strength. Nourish it, that I may suffice in its defense.”
Now she understood. Relief and sorrow clogged her throat as if she had inherited them from Caerroil Wildwood and his gibbet. She could not speak. But she understood. At one time—a time as forgotten as other truths—she had been a healer. Behind the wrath of the olden Forestals, and the barrenness of Gallows Howe, lay passions of another kind altogether.
While her companions waited, staring, Linden stepped back from the Forestal; cleared enough space to wield her Staff. Then she reached into herself, reached into the black shaft defined by runes between bands of High Lord Berek’s iron lore, and brought forth Earthpower and Law for their intended purpose: not for battle and killing, but for sustenance and restoration.
This might be her last chance to use her Staff condignly. From this moment on, she foresaw only strife and carnage; possible Desecrations. With her whole heart, she sought to give her best to Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir’s bower.
Her health-sense guided her, first into recognition of the thetic nature of the Forestal’s harmonies, then into awareness of their interplay, then into sensitivity to their tones and timbres. Her power was as black as the coming storm of the Worm, but it was made for this, God, it was made for this. Perhaps her magicks were flames. Perhaps she only imagined them as flames. Nevertheless they suited her purpose. When she had refined her fire to suit the chords and lines of the music which inspired the lush grass and the rushing brook, the willow with its limbs and leaves and glimmerings, the bedizened shade of the sanctuary, she poured out fuligin in the form of
vitality.
She went deep into the dirt to fill it with Earthpower, feed every questing root. Baked and beaten earth she enriched until it became loam. From the soil, she brought Law and energy upward, encouraging sluggish sap, enhancing the hardiness of bark, suffusing boughs and twigs and leaves with anticipation. Among the branches, she added luster to the Forestal’s gleams until they shone like refined stars.
Everything that Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir had brought into being, she increased. The willow stretched taller, spread its shelter wider. Bursting from the ground, the brook became a stream gurgling with gladness. Grasses grew like dancing until they twined around the feet and ankles of the company. The faces poised before Linden were lit with spangles like epiphanies.
In response, the Giants bowed low, too entranced for speech. Covenant’s eyes reflected the shining of leaves. Moved in spite of his mood, Jeremiah brought forth gentle flames the color of sunshine from his hands and forearms. Only Stave did not react. He stood with his arms folded as if the sole task required of him was to bear witness.
And as Linden worked, the Forestal himself seemed to grow taller. His aura of exaltation and severity expanded until the nearest Giants and even Jeremiah backed away, giving themselves room for wonder. The promise of his mien became a cynosure, as compelling as a demand. Soon his fierce vigor filled the bower.
He needed only an instrument to wield his will against the Worm.
Then the Ironhand returned, harried by winds, to give Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir what he lacked. While Linden withdrew her power and stepped aside, Rime Coldspray bowed deeply, showing her blade naked in her hands. When the Forestal nodded his consent, she moved to the edge of the bower, readied her glaive.
With one stroke, she lopped off a limb as tall as she was. As she did so, a sting of pain shot through the music, and the lights of the Forestal’s theurgy glittered furiously. But the willow’s distress soon passed, leaving a renewed tranquility under the canopy.
Leaves and twigs and all, Coldspray brought the bough to Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir.
Though it was twice his height, he accepted it easily; held it high as if it were the chorus of a hymn. For an instant, all of its leaves quivered. Then they began to glisten as if they were dewed with power.
“I am armed,” he sang. “Let every force and foe which disdains the glory of wood and green be warned. Though I have no forest to sustain me, I will not be thwarted while one tree stands at my back.”
Through a quick blur of tears, Linden watched him as if he had been transformed again; as if he had surpassed his given exaltation.
“Linden,” Covenant murmured as if he had no other language for what he felt. “Linden. Hellfire.”
“Nonetheless, ur-Lord,” Stave put in brusquely, “we must depart. If we do not attain a considerable distance, we will not survive the Worm.”
Covenant shook himself. He seemed to struggle for words. “I know. We should go.”
His tone said, Now.
“Aye, Timewarden,” the Ironhand sighed. “Doom crowds close upon us. We dare the Worm at our peril. We must trust that the Forestal who was once our friend and companion will not fail.”
More firmly, she ordered her Swordmainnir to reclaim their armor and weapons. While Linden tried to break free of the spell which Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir had cast on her, the Giants gathered up their stores of water and aliantha. Then they ran from the bower.
Covenant came to her with pride in his eyes. Wrapping his arms around her, he assured her softly, “We can do this. Somehow we can do it. We just have to get started. As long as we’re together—”
He steadied her. Somehow we can—If the Forestal was strong enough.
After a moment, she nodded.
With an air of regret, Covenant released her.
A heartbeat later, Stave put his hands on Linden’s waist and boosted her unceremoniously onto Hyn’s back. As her muscles settled into their familiar places astride the mare, the former Master went to help Jeremiah mount. Covenant heaved himself into Mishio Massima’s saddle. Stave sprang for Hynyn.
Before Linden was ready—before she could possibly be ready—the riders surged into motion.
An alteration in the Forestal’s music parted the canopy to the northwest, opening a path out of the bower. Together Covenant and Linden, Jeremiah and Stave rode from shelter and solace into the bleak dawn of a sunless world.
eaving the protection of the willow and Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir was like passing from Andelain into the virulence of the Sunbane. Linden and her companions staggered to a halt. The Ranyhyn flinched; rolled their eyes. Mishio Massima shied and crabbed, nearly unhorsed Covenant. Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir’s music had concealed the extent of the peril. Outside the bower, the storm’s scale was unveiled.
It was enormous.
During the night, the blast of presage had reconciled its confusion. Instead of writhing from one direction to another like a beast in agony, it had become a stiff assault from the northeast; a gale arising from the heart of the utter blackness that now loomed into the heavens like the front of an atmospheric tsunami. Eerie ululations like the anguish of ghouls sounded in the distance. Scourged gusts scooped groans from the craters that littered the ground; scaled into wailing on the ragged edges of the belabored ridge. If the Forestal’s theurgy had not protected the willow, its leaves would have been torn away, scattered like debris. Boughs would have split like screams.
That was bad enough; but there was worse—
The core of the storm was a blare of might that defied perception: too loud to be heard, too dark for vision; too savage to register as anything except horror. But at the fringes of the Worm’s approach, thunder crashed, a wild barrage like a convulsion that would never end. It seethed like the collapse of cliffs. Within it, armies of lightning stalked the plain, hammering the earth until the very dirt seemed to erupt and burn. Sudden and erratic, flashes lurid as bruises punctuated the blackness. On either side of the advance, desolations writhed like orgies, articulating the Worm’s hunger.
God in Heaven! Linden had never—
Instinctively she snatched fire from her Staff. The sheer force of the blast threatened to extinguish her mind. But Earthpower sharpened her senses, made her more vulnerable. It seemed to expose her, as if the magnitude of the storm served to measure her inadequacy.
She had unleashed this doom.
Her strength left her. Her power became dust and ashes in her veins. Her heart lurched to a halt.
Cowering into herself, she did not feel the Giants running toward her. She hardly noticed them as they joined her. Their cataphracts would not protect them. Their swords were useless. She could not hear herself gasping, “Oh, God. Oh, God.”
In size, the Worm may have been no more than a range of hills, but it had enough raw force to rive the world.
How close was it? Two leagues? Three?
Distance meant nothing to such a creature. It was already too near. It would arrive more swiftly than any Ranyhyn.
Then one of the Swordmainnir shouted, “Behold the Forestal!”
Like a strike on an anvil, Linden’s heart beat again. It began racing.
Mahrtiir!
Behind her, Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir emerged from his bourne. Bearing his staff like an emblem of defiance, he strode to meet the gale.
He did not go far. Less than a stone’s throw from the battered drape of the willow, he stopped; prepared to make his stand. He must have been singing, but the wind’s thrash and groan and howl tore the sound away.
Linden reached out for Jeremiah; caught his arm as if her mere grip had the ability to protect him. When he glanced at her, she saw a wasteland of shock in his eyes. Nothing in his life had prepared him for the magnitude of the Worm’s violence.
While she held her son, Stave held her. The Giants stared wildly, like women caught in the toils of the Soulbiter.
Covenant struggled to keep his seat until Branl came to his side, helped him control the Ardent’s horse. Then the Unbeliever p
anted hoarsely, “Run! Hellfire! We have to run!”
Transfixed by Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir’s daring, Linden could not drag herself away; but Hyn chose for her by surging into motion. Swordmainnir slapped themselves and each other, forced their limbs to move. Branl hauled on Mishio Massima’s reins until the horse sprang forward. A stentorian peal from Hynyn seemed to take Khelen by the throat.
The company broke and ran as if it had been routed.
On some level, Linden recognized that she and her companions had to do more than simply evade the Worm itself. They had to get beyond the Worm’s cloak of power. Those lightnings would sear the flesh from their bones. The winds would rip the riders from their mounts, knock even Giants to the ground. Yet she did not heed such things. Unregarded, her hand lost its hold on Jeremiah. She could not look away from the Forestal.
Small against the background of the bright willow, Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir stood before the blast. It wrenched at him, tried to shred his robe. Shafts of lightning marched closer with every heartbeat. Gales tore the branches of his staff. Still the leaves clung to their twigs: the glitter of song clung to the leaves. With music and wood, he opposed the dark as if he had within him the authority to deny annihilation.
Linden could not believe that he was strong enough. He was a Forestal, transformed scion of a lineage potent against armies and Ravers. His puissance surpassed the Lords of old with all their lore. But the Worm exceeded every other living force. It dwarfed the exertion of wild magic and Law which had plucked the huge creature from its slumber. And Caerwood ur-Mahrtiir could not draw on the spirit of a spanning woodland, the will and energy of trees in their millions. He had only the willow at his back.
The willow—and the fane with its treasure of Elohim.
Still the company ran. Urgent and frantic, straining to their limits, the horses and the Giants ran. Branl warded Covenant. Stave brought Hynyn between Hyn and Khelen, watched over Linden and Jeremiah with his lone eye. Rime Coldspray and her comrades stretched their strides and raced for the horizon, running heavy as boulders, and yet fleet as driven seas.