The purpose of life, Cirrus Kindwind had once assured him, is to choose, and to act upon the choice. If he could not do what Linden had asked him to do, he could do something else.
He could do something that had to be done.
efore long, Covenant started back up the valley, trailed by a cortege of Feroce with their nauseous emerald fluttering like banners. Along the way, Branl unveiled the krill. At the same time, Rime Coldspray, Bluff Stoutgirth, and the Humbled made their way down from the ridge of Mount Thunder’s calf. Silver spread across the sleeping Giants as the Ironhand and the Anchormaster began to rouse them.
Far back in Jeremiah’s thoughts, images of the Worm squirmed. When they broke through his concentration, they stung his heart. Now he thought that he recognized the confluence of the Black River and the Mithil. If so, the Worm had crossed much of the South Plains. Furious as a perfect storm, the incarnate cataclysm flared and thundered ever closer to the hills which had once formed the boundary of Garroting Deep. And beyond the region of the lost forest stood Melenkurion Skyweir. The companions did not have much time left. They had probably rested too long.
But now Jeremiah could push those nightmare visions away. The fangs that were Lord Foul’s eyes, and the memories of the croyel’s feeding, no longer consumed him. He had a job to do, a job he understood. In some ways, it resembled making one of his constructs: it involved pulling bits of good air toward him and rejecting poisons; forming a kind of breathable edifice. That may not have been how Linden cleaned the air, but he knew how to do it. The real challenge would be to keep doing it. It would erode constantly: he would have to rebuild it constantly. And the erosion would get worse as the company moved. Still Stave’s suggestion gave him hope. Watching Covenant’s approach, Jeremiah felt almost ready.
Above and around him on the slope, the Swordmainnir shrugged their shoulders into the armor, examined their weapons. Without prompting, Wiver Setrock and the woman called Keenreef portioned out another meal, although their supplies were dwindling. Other sailors complained or jested. Of no one in particular, Baf Scatterwit asked where she was. Sounding sincerely confounded, she wanted to know where Dire’s Vessel and her other friends had gone. But when Stoutgirth replied with instructions rather than answers, she complied as if she had forgotten her confusion.
“She is easily bewildered,” one of the men—Squallish Blustergale?—remarked casually to Jeremiah, “yet she is an adroit sailor, quick in every exigency. Aye, and doughty withal. None will outlast her on the sheets, or strive more fiercely when there is need. Also she is gentle in her bafflement. Therefore she is precious among us.”
For her, Jeremiah felt a flush of sympathy. He knew too well that an absent mind fostered the illusion of safety—and that the illusion was dangerous.
Muttering to himself, he looked around for his mother.
Until Covenant had left to summon the Feroce, he and Linden had slept together on a stretch of churned earth thirty or forty paces closer to the high cliff which confronted the valley. She was awake now, brushing dirt from her clothes, combing her fingers through her hair. As she came toward Jeremiah, her right hand clung to her wedding band, turning it around and around her ring finger as if she feared that it would be taken from her.
“Jeremiah, honey,” she asked when she drew near, “were you able to sleep?”
“Mom.” He met her holding the Staff of Law in front of him like a promise—or a defense. “Don’t worry about me. I’m making progress.” He ducked his head to hide conflicting reactions: eagerness for what he might be able to accomplish; chagrin for what he could not. “I mean, sort of.”
Her concern reached out to him. Argent reflections haunted her gaze like the residue of horrors. Wordless and worried, she hugged him tightly. Then she stepped back. “Remember what I told you. There’s no such thing as failure. Sort of progress is better than nothing. Under the circumstances, it’s probably impressive. We can only do what we can.” The ruefulness of her smile twisted his heart. “I need to remember that myself.”
Before he could think of a response, she turned to meet her husband.
Covenant came grimly up the side of the valley, walking like a man who had left behind anything that might have softened his severity, his personal commandments. The time had come to essay Mount Thunder; and Jeremiah could see that Covenant was as afraid as Linden. But for him, strangely, fear seemed to be a source of strength. In the illumination of the krill, his silver hair shone like wild magic, the contained conflagration of his heart.
He returned Linden’s embrace briefly; linked his arm with hers as he approached the Giants. Just for a moment, he looked like he might be on the verge of frenzy or tears. Then his expression hardened. The lines on his face resembled slashes.
“I talked to the Feroce,” he announced unnecessarily. “I guess that’s obvious.” The creatures stood a dozen steps behind him, as timorous as ever, and as compelled. “They say they’ve never been inside the mountain. And they don’t want to go. They call it a Maker-place. Lord Foul’s home. It scares them.
“But the lurker didn’t give them a choice. I didn’t even have to argue. I only had to promise them that that”—he pointed down at the gullet of the Defiles Course—“isn’t a Maker-place. It’s like the Shattered Hills. It defends Lord Foul, but he doesn’t live there. He’s somewhere up in the Wightwarrens, probably in Kiril Threndor. The Feroce can help us without going that far.
“They don’t know what we’ll find. They aren’t sure they’ll do any good. But they know water—especially polluted water. They’ll try to guide us. And—” Abruptly Covenant paused. For a moment, he covered his eyes as if he had been assailed by memories too painful to countenance. Then he controlled himself, shrugged stiffly. “They’ll try to make the water remember where it comes from. If they can do that, it might be as good as a map.”
“What does he say?” asked Baf Scatterwit. “A map? Does he speak of a chart?” She was becoming agitated.
The Anchormaster rested a lean hand on her shoulder, murmured a soft command which appeared to soothe her. She smiled at him, nodded, and did not speak again.
In a taut voice, Covenant finished, “If what the Feroce can do doesn’t take us into the Wightwarrens, we’ll have to find our own way.”
The Ironhand nodded sternly. “Then, Timewarden, only two matters remain. You and Linden Giantfriend and the Chosen-son must eat to sustain your strength. And we must look to our survival within the mountain.
“We are Giants, lovers of stone. We do not fear to attempt the hidden passages. Also the Anchormaster and our comrades of Dire’s Vessel will accompany us, for so they interpret the wishes of Brinn Haruchai, the last Guardian of the One Tree.”
Stoutgirth grinned as if he found her assertion risible; but he did not return a jest.
“Being sailors,” Coldspray continued, “they have borne with them a goodly quantity of rope. Such providence will surely serve us well.”
The muscles at the corners of her jaw bunched. “Yet we must breathe. It is certain that the airs within the water’s channels will be foul beyond bearing. Ere long, respiration alone will prove fatal.” Her tone was exposed gutrock. “Therefore I am compelled to inquire. How can we dare Mount Thunder if we cannot breathe?”
“Maybe the Feroce—” began Covenant darkly.
Jeremiah took a step forward. “Wait.” His hands itched with anticipation on the Staff. “I’ve been working on this.” He glanced quickly at Stave. “I’m not sure, but I’m learning. Maybe I can—”
Abruptly he closed his eyes; forgot words. Now or never. His mother had trusted him with her best instrument of power. If he proved her wrong, he would have to return it. Her hopes for him—and his own—would be gone.
Just for a moment, malice pealed through the dark behind his eyelids. Prove her wrong, puppy? How can you not? You are naught but a tool, a means to an end. Your every deed serves my desires.
But Jeremiah refused to listen. The whole co
mpany was watching. And the Staff was alive. In small ways, it answered his Earthpower, his health-sense. He could believe that those responses would grow. And in the meantime—Right here, right now, he could feel the air, taste it; almost touch its nature. He could distinguish between health and sickness.
Deliberately he poured flames into the cups of his hands. Ignoring their taint, he wrapped them around the Staff. Then he asked the wood for more theurgy than his mere body contained. As hard as he could, he concentrated on breathing—
—on pushing away poisons and corruption—
—on rejecting putrescence and vilification—
—and on drawing the cleanliness that remained toward him.
And when he knew that he was inhaling and exhaling life, he extended his edifice of good air toward his companions.
See? he told the mockery inside him. I can do this. I can do it.
Then he opened his eyes to see the effects of his efforts.
Linden gasped as she took an unconflicted breath. “Jeremiah,” she murmured. “My God—” Covenant filled his lungs and seemed to stand taller, as if the air had confirmed him. He gave Jeremiah a look like a shower of sparks from a whetstone. Rime Coldspray and Bluff Stoutgirth raised their heads, sampled the spread of vitality. Grins like promises showed their teeth. With gestures and relief, they exhorted their comrades to crowd closer.
As the whole company began to breathe more comfortably, the Ironhand announced, “This is well done, Jeremiah Chosen-son. I confess that I did not foresee it. If you are able to sustain such exertions—”
She swallowed the rest of what she might have said; the questions she might have asked.
“It’ll get easier,” Jeremiah muttered self-consciously. “I mean, I think it will. I’m not used to it yet. I just need practice.”
Chuckling, Blustergale swung a clap at Jeremiah’s back that would have felled him. But at the last instant, the Giant seemed to recall that Jeremiah was little. His hand patted Jeremiah gently and withdrew.
Stave bowed his approval. A tightening at the corner of his mouth hinted at a smile.
Behind Covenant, the Feroce squalled in soft voices, as if they feared to be overheard; but Jeremiah did not know how to interpret their cries.
ow that he had begun to prove himself, he was eager to try the uncertain ascent along the watercourse. But Rime Coldspray reminded him again that he needed food—as did Covenant and Linden. Reluctantly Jeremiah let go of his magicks.
While they ate and drank, the company discussed uncertainties and perils.
This approach to Mount Thunder’s heart was Covenant’s idea, but he did not know whether the path of the Defiles Course within the mountain would prove passable. In the past, he had only entered the Wightwarrens from the Upper Land. Certainly the Giants were skilled climbers and delvers. The Haruchai were born to crags and cliffs. And they were adequately supplied for their immediate purpose—or so the Anchormaster asserted. Nevertheless they could imagine obstacles which they would not be able to surmount. Water was water, after all. Under pressure, it could find its way through constrictions which would refuse Giants or Haruchai or Feroce.
In addition, the Despiser clearly knew where to look for his enemies; and his servants were many. At any time, he might send Cavewights or stranger creatures to waylay the company. Long ago, horrors had formed a large portion of his forces. The companions could not assume that any stretch of their path would be uncontested.
To all of this, Jeremiah listened without paying much attention. For the moment, at least, he was content with food and the Staff of Law. Finally he knew what he had to do—and how to do it. He had already shown that he could do it. The whole company trusted their lives to him. And Stave had assured him that he would get stronger. He might even learn how to do more than improve the air.
If Lord Foul tried to take him, sixteen Giants, two Haruchai, and two white gold wielders might be able to protect him.
So he ate what he was given, and drank water lightly tinged with diamondraught, and tried to mask his impatience while he waited for Mom and Covenant to finish this last meal.
At last, the company was ready. Keenreef and several other sailors shouldered packs of supplies. All of their quirts and spears had been destroyed, but most of Stoutgirth’s crew still carried weapons: billhooks, longknives, belaying-pins. The Swordmainnir had their armor and their blades. And the Haruchai had set aside the characteristic reluctance of their people to rely on weapons. Branl shouldered Longwrath’s flamberge, while Stave bore Cabledarm’s longsword.
Among such companions, Covenant and Linden looked small, vulnerable. But there was a dangerous promise in Covenant’s eyes. And Linden looked withdrawn. She no longer seemed to care about details like difficult climbing and enemies. Only the way that she twisted her ring around her finger hinted that she was fretting.
Formally the Ironhand drew her stone glaive. Holding it ready, she spoke in a voice of granite.
“Here we surrender every future which we have imagined for ourselves. We have no prospect of return. Indeed, we cannot trust that we will outlive another day. Our doom is this, that we enter Mount Thunder seeking to confront the most heinous of foes—and yet the Worm hastens toward the World’s End many scores of leagues distant, where no deed of ours can thwart it. Thus even the greatest triumphs within the mountain may come to naught, for no life will remain to heed the tale.
“Nonetheless I proclaim”—Coldspray swung her sword once around her head, then slapped it into its scabbard on her back—“that I am not daunted. I am not daunted. While hearts beat and lungs draw breath, we seek to affirm the import of our lives. The true worth of tales lies in this, that those of whom they speak do not regard how the telling of their trials will be received. When we must perish, my wish for us is that we will come to the end knowing that we have held fast to that which we deem precious.”
Then her tone eased. “Doubtless this is folly. Yet when have our deeds been otherwise? Are we not Giants? And is not our folly the stone against which we have raised the sea of our laughter? What cause have we to feel dismay and hold back, when we have always known that no anchor is secure against the seas of mischance and wonder?”
Perhaps she would have continued; but the Anchormaster was already laughing. He tried to say something, but the words were lost in broad gusts of glee. For a moment, the other sailors were silent, dismayed by images of futility. But then Baf Scatterwit began to guffaw: the happy mirth of a woman who enjoyed laughing for its own sake. Her laughter broke the logjam of her comrades’ fears. Carried along by her open-heartedness, the crew of Dire’s Vessel roared as if they themselves were an exquisite jest.
The Swordmainnir were more restrained. They had lost too many of their comrades. But when Rime Coldspray started to chuckle, Frostheart Grueburn followed her example, and then Cirrus Kindwind. In their subdued fashion, the Ironhand and her warriors shared the delight of the sailors.
Privately Jeremiah thought that they had all lost their minds. Nevertheless he found himself grinning. He had heard too little genuine laughter in his life; and the mirth of Giants was especially infectious. At least temporarily, it made Lord Foul’s scorn and the croyel’s malice seem empty, like taunts from the bottom of an abandoned well.
Long ago, Saltheart Foamfollower had enabled Covenant’s victory over the Despiser by laughing.
As the Giants began to subside, Covenant muttered, “Stone and Sea are deep in life.” He seemed to be quoting. “Two unalterable symbols of the world.” Then he lifted his head to the dark heavens, the decimated stars. From his ring, a brief flash of silver challenged the night. “I can’t help it. I’ve always loved Giants. Any world that has Haruchai and Ranyhyn and Ramen and Insequent and even Elohim in it is precious. But there really is no substitute for Giants.”
Jeremiah agreed with him.
The Ironhand answered Covenant’s moment of power with a flash of her teeth. “Then, Timewarden,” she said, “let us now vindi
cate your love.”
With a sweep of her arm, she drew the Swordmainnir and Dire’s Vessel’s crew with her as she started down the side of the valley toward the throat of the Defiles Course.
Jeremiah followed them as if he, too, had been called. With the Staff and his own power, he drew clean air out of the ambient reeks.
After a moment, Cirrus Kindwind came to his side. Frostheart Grueburn now accompanied Linden and Stave, and the Anchormaster had claimed a place with Covenant and Branl. Escorted by Giants and Haruchai, Covenant, Linden, and Jeremiah picked their way between craters like maws and past rank corpses toward the cave where the Land’s most ancient waters carried their burden of poisons and spilled evil into the embrace of the Sarangrave.
Apparently the Feroce had anticipated the company’s movement. They already stood on the riverbank within an easy stone’s throw of the cliff, a cluster of ten small creatures with emerald in their hands and naked fright in their eyes. They did not react as the first Giants approached them. Instead they stood in the stench of the Defiles Course, facing each other and quavering as if their deity had declared them expendable.
But when Covenant drew near, they turned away from their communion. Flinching, they spoke in their one voice: an eerie sound like squeezed mud, moist and attenuated.
“We are the Feroce,” they said as if they were on the verge of weeping. “We are only the Feroce. At our High God’s command, we attempt aid. It exceeds us. We will not suffice.”
Covenant regarded them like a man who showed no mercy; but his words belied his manner. “You don’t have to suffice. You just have to try. When you can’t do any more, you’re free to go.”
“Then,” replied the creatures, “we will begin. We have no wish to prolong our failure.”
Together they faced the gaping mouth of the cliff. In a tight cluster, they started toward the deeper dark, a blackness that seemed to mock the krill and the company, the night and the forlorn stars. Although no tangible power compelled them, they moved as if they were being scourged.