“Mom. You’re shivering.”
Cold and over-wrought nerves had that effect, in spite of the heat clinging to the Spoiled Plains.
“You’re right.” Reluctantly she released him. “Low blood sugar. I must be hungrier than I thought. Why don’t you find a place to lie down while I eat something?” Smiling crookedly, she added, “If you’re still awake when I’m done, you can tell me a bedtime story. I want to hear more about your visits to the Land.” She particularly wished to hear more about Jeremiah’s encounters with Covenant. “They’re bound to be more interesting than ‘Bomba the Jungle Boy.’”
He grinned, apparently remembering the books that she had read to him in another life. “But I don’t want to sleep.” He made a sweeping gesture that included Stave and the Giants. “This is too exciting.”
“And it will still be exciting in the morning,” Linden admonished him gently.
“Well—” He glanced around the floor of the gully. “Maybe if I get comfortable somewhere.”
“You do that.” Inexplicably she wanted to weep again; but she swallowed the impulse. “I really should eat.” With a conscious effort, she turned to the meal that Frostheart Grueburn had left for her on a flat sheet of stone.
Night covered Grueburn’s face, and Rime Coldspray’s. Linden could not see their expressions, but she felt them grinning. As Jeremiah moved away, looking for a clear stretch of sand and dirt, Cabledarm remarked quietly, “Here Linden Giantfriend reveals yet another of her many selves. She is not merely the Sun-Sage, the Chosen, the indomitable seeker and guardian of her son. She is also the mother who provides care.”
Linden might have protested, if she could have done so with the same light-hearted kindliness that filled Cabledarm’s voice. Instead she began eating; and after her first bites of hard cheese and stale bread, she was preoccupied with hunger.
Mahrtiir responded on her behalf. “Are you taken aback, large ones?” he said with a gruff attempt at humor. “If so, I must chastise your lack of discernment. That she is a mother is plain.”
Having spoken, however, he seemed disconcerted by the quiet laughter that greeted his gibe. Instead of laughing himself, he said more stiffly, “Some have journeyed hard and long. Others have walked when they were weary and heart-sore. I have merely ridden and rested. I will stand watch with the Ranyhyn. And perhaps Stave will consent to join me. I have heard young Jeremiah’s tale of great events. I would hear how those events are interpreted by the long memories and acute judgments of the Haruchai.”
Stave glanced at Linden, then gave the Manethrall a barely perceptible nod. Together they walked away along the stream until they found an easy ascent out of the erosion-cut. A moment later, they were gone into the night.
Still eating, Linden waited for the questions of the Giants.
But they did not question her. As if by common consent, they made themselves comfortable, some sitting against the walls of the gully, others half reclining beside the stream. Then in muted voices they began to tell old tales, stories which they all obviously knew well. None of their narratives went far: the Swordmainnir interrupted each constantly, sometimes with reminders of other tales, more often with good-natured jests. Nevertheless their interjections and ripostes had a soothing effect on Linden. That such strong warriors could be playful even now evoked an irrational sensation of safety. Indirectly they made light of their many perils and foes; and by doing so, they enabled Linden to relax further.
Surely she could afford to rest while Mahrtiir, Stave, and the Ranyhyn watched over her and Jeremiah, and the Swordmainnir were content to amuse themselves with tales and gibes?
When she had eaten everything that Grueburn had set out for her, she went to the stream for a long drink. Briefly she scanned the watercourse until her health-sense confirmed that Jeremiah was already asleep, sprawled unselfconsciously no more than a dozen steps away. Then she began to search for a place where she, too, could lie down.
The dampness and chill of her clothes were only vaguely unpleasant. She could have warmed them with her Staff, but she disliked the prospect of raising black fire here. It felt like a bad omen. And it might attract hazardous attention.
Recumbent on the sand with only a few rocks to discomfit her, Linden rode the current of low Giantish voices as if it were a tide that lifted her into the worlds of dreams.
They were many and confusing, fraught with cryptic auguries and possible havoc. Muirwin Delenoth. An unleashed avalanche of water in the depths of Gravin Threndor. Resurrections. She Who Must Not Be Named. But one vision had more power over her than the others. In it, she and Jeremiah sat together in the living room that she would never see again, he on the floor surrounded by boxes of Legos, she in an armchair watching him. He was building an image of Mount Thunder in elaborate detail; and she loved watching him, as she had always done. The best part of the dream, however, was that he talked while he worked, happily explaining why he had chosen that image, what it meant to him, and how he had become so familiar with it, all in words which made perfect sense to her—and which were forgotten as soon as they were uttered.
Once during the night, she was awakened by the visceral realization that a distant crisis had passed. Its aftershocks began to fade as soon as she became aware of them. Reassured by the knowledge that at least one cataclysm had kept its distance and run its course, she went back to sleep easily.
She yearned to return to Jeremiah and Legos, but that dream was gone. Instead, between one instant of consciousness and another, a hand touched her shoulder, and a low voice said her name. She recognized Stave before she knew that she was no longer asleep.
“Chosen,” he said, still quietly, “dawn draws nigh. Though the disturbance in the Earth has subsided, the Giants surmise that it is but the first of many. Indeed, they deem that some alteration has come to the Land. Having rested, they judge that it is now time to arise.”
In an instant, Linden was fully awake. Jeremiah was stirring, roused by Stormpast Galesend. Like Stave, Manethrall Mahrtiir had returned. He conferred in whispers with the Ironhand, perhaps sharing any impressions that he had received from the Ranyhyn, while the other Swordmainnir secured their armor, checked their weapons, tied the scant remnant of their supplies into bundles.
A low breeze drifted along the gully, touching Linden’s nerves with an insidious sensation of change, not in the weather, but in something more fundamental, something in the nature of the air itself. The shift was not wrongness or malice, yet it seemed to imply that it could be as destructive as evil.
Gripping Stave’s arm and the Staff of Law, she climbed to her feet. “Has anything happened? I mean, anything specific? Are the Ranyhyn worried?”
With his usual detachment, Stave reported, “The great horses appear restive. They snort at the air and toss their heads without any cause that I am able to discern. Nor do the Giants perceive any source of peril. Nonetheless—” He hesitated as if he were searching for contact with other Haruchai minds; with memories which were beyond his reach. Then he continued, “I share the apprehensions of the Swordmainnir. Some dire alteration approaches. We do well to meet it standing.”
A moment later, he added, “It is in my heart that the Unbeliever has confronted his former mate, for good or ill.” A hint of discomfort in his voice made him sound more formal. “He has quelled her, or she has slain him. But the import of either outcome lies beyond my ken. Do such events conduce to the Earth’s salvation or to its damnation? It is said that there is hope in contradiction, yet that insight surpasses me. I am Haruchai, accustomed to clear sight or none.
“At your side, Chosen, I have made a study of uncertainty. Now I have learned that it is an abyss, no less unfathomable than the Lost Deep.”
“Don’t say that,” Linden protested. She meant, Don’t remind me that Covenant may be dead. We need him. I need him. “You understand more than you give yourself credit for.”
Without uncertainty—without hope in contradiction—Stave would not ha
ve become her friend. He would not have stood with her against the united rejection of the Masters.
Stave appeared to raise an eyebrow. “Where is the harm? Have I not made my allegiance plain? And did we not escape both the Lost Deep and the bane, though skest and the skurj also assailed us? Chosen, I do not fear to name uncertainty an abyss.”
Linden could have retorted, Sure, we escaped. After that bane nearly killed us. After we lost the Harrow, and the Ardent damned himself, and Covenant’s hands were almost destroyed. After the Dead sacrificed Elena before I could ask her to forgive me. Don’t you understand how deep those wounds are? But she kept her bitterness to herself. All of her protests came to the same thing.
She had no hope for Covenant.
Instead of responding, she left Stave and went to the stream. There she dropped her Staff, knelt, and plunged her face into the water, pulling her fingers through her hair while the cold stung her nerves.
Covenant had asked or ordered her not to touch him. He had spoken as if he believed that she feared his leprosy—or he feared it for her.
The Giants and now Mahrtiir conveyed the impression that they were waiting for her. When she glanced at the northwestern sky, she saw Kevin’s Dirt glowering closer, riding the wind of Kastenessen’s agony and virulence. In another hour at most, it would spread far enough to cover the company. Yet it remained hidden from mundane sight. It did not dull the stars. Indeed, it appeared to sharpen their brilliance and loss.
Linden wiped water from her face, dragged her tangled hair back behind her ears, and rose to her feet. When she had retrieved her Staff, she moved to greet Jeremiah.
“Mom.” She could not read his face except with her health-sense, but he sounded implausibly cheerful. “Did you get some sleep? I sure did.” He stretched his arms, rolled his head to loosen his neck. “Now I feel like I can conquer the world.”
As if he were performing a parlor trick, he snapped his fingers, and a quick spark appeared in the air above his hand; a brief instant of flame. In itself, it was a small thing, almost trivial. But it implied—
He was already learning new uses for Anele’s gift of Earthpower. Perhaps he was becoming Earthpower.
His momentary display caught the attention of the Giants; but he ignored them to concentrate on Linden. “What are we waiting for?” he asked in a tone of rising excitement. “We should go.”
Infelice had given him an idea—
His manner troubled Linden. Instinctively she wanted to probe him again. She hungered to learn who he was in his new life. But she did not know what might happen if she interrupted his mood; his sense of purpose; his defenses. He might need such things more than he needed her understanding or sympathy.
Stave still stood nearby, a silent reminder of stoicism and rectitude. But he was more than that: he was also a reminder of trust. In the Hall of Gifts, she had confessed, Roger said that Lord Foul has owned my son for a long time. And Stave had replied, I know naught of these matters. I do not know your son. Nor do I know all that he has suffered. But it is not so among the children of the Haruchai. They are born to strength, and it is their birthright to remain who they are.
Are you certain that the same may not be said of your son?
If Linden asked him now, Stave might remark that Jeremiah had already proven himself in Muirwin Delenoth. The former Master might suggest that it would be better for her as well as for Jeremiah if she allowed him to discover his own path.
She was not ready for that. But the World’s End would not wait for her to find enough courage. And when the Worm came, Jeremiah would share the Earth’s fate no matter how hard she tried to save him.
She was responsible for the Worm’s awakening. Now she needed to find better answers than the ones that had guided her here.
Sighing, Linden followed Jeremiah toward the Giants and the Manethrall. Sunrise would lift the darkness from the Lower Land. Perhaps it would shed some light into her as well.
When she reached Mahrtiir, she said quietly, “Kevin’s Dirt is almost here. I hope that you’ll let me know when it starts to blind you. I’ll counteract it as much as I can. I don’t like the way the air feels. We’re going to need all the discernment we can get.”
The Manethrall nodded. “Ringthane, I hear you. I cannot evade the approach of Kastenessen’s malevolence.” Bitterness whetted the edges of his voice. “It will make of me less than naught, a mere hindrance to my companions, as it did in the Lost Deep. Be assured that I will not scruple to seek your aid.”
The promise appeared to cost him an effort of will or self-abnegation; but he spoke firmly, denying his pride.
Linden rested her hand on his shoulder for a moment: a gesture of empathy to which he did not respond. Then she sighed, “All right. We have a lot to talk about. Maybe it’s time that we actually talked about it.”
But she did not want to talk. She wanted to wait for the sun.
“Like you, Linden Giantfriend,” Rime Coldspray offered, “we mislike the touch of this air. It speaks of forces which lie beyond our ken. Perils draw nigh which have heretofore remained distant.
“Also the beings and powers which seek the World’s End remain unopposed. I am the Ironhand of the Swordmainnir. I speak for my comrades when I say that we must now choose a new heading. And we must not dally in doing so, lest forces which we cannot oppose overtake us.”
Linden felt more than saw that night was ending. She smelled an easing of the dark. The first faint suggestion of daybreak drifted toward her from the east, riding the troubled breeze. But it did not dim the stars. Like the swift moil of Kevin’s Dirt, the approach of dawn seemed to etch the profuse glitter overhead more precisely against the fathomless abyss of the heavens.
Still she wanted to see the sun. With her Staff, she was capable of much. At need, the ready wood would answer her call with fire and heat and even healing. But she could no longer summon illumination. Jeremiah might be able to do so, if his mastery of his new magicks continued to grow. Covenant’s ring would cast silver and peril in all directions if she forced herself to use it. But the stark ebony of her own access to Earthpower and Law precluded light.
When the sun rose, the confused tangle of who she was and who she needed to be might begin to unravel like the recursive wards which had sealed the Lost Deep.
Stalling, she said uncertainly, “We’ve been trusting the Ranyhyn. They’ve brought us this far. Maybe we should keep doing that.”
But Manethrall Mahrtiir shook his head. “Ringthane, they are Ranyhyn.” She heard a note of finality or fatality in his voice. “They wield neither ancient lore nor mighty theurgies. They have borne many of our burdens. Doubtless they will bear more. But they cannot determine the Earth’s doom. The deeds required of us they cannot perform.
“Also,” he added more sadly, “I sense no clear purpose among them. They are restive, truly, and urgent to do what they may. But they neither command nor encourage us to ride. Rather they abide their discomfort, hoping—or so I deem—that we will soon determine our own intents.”
Now, Linden thought. Now the sun would show itself. Surely the east had begun to lighten? Certainly the funereal bindings of night had loosened their grip on the landscape. A kind of vagueness eroded the dark. In hints, the contours of the watercourse and the stream unveiled themselves. She could make out the Giants more clearly, starker shapes in the enshrouding gloom.
“That’s all right, Mom,” Jeremiah put in, impatient for his chance to speak. “Like I told you, Infelice gave me an idea. I want to try it.”
Linden avoided his gaze. “Can you wait a little longer, Jeremiah, honey? Just until sunrise?”
“But—” he began, then stopped himself. Turning to the east, he frowned at the blurred outlines of the horizon. “It should already be here. Why isn’t it here?”
Kevin’s Dirt was less than a league away, a cruel seethe spurred southward by rage. Night continued to fade from the Lower Land, giving way to a preternatural dusk, an imposed twilight
. Nevertheless there was no clear daybreak, no sign of the sun.
“This is wrong,” Linden breathed. “Something is wrong.”
“Indeed,” muttered Onyx Stonemage through her teeth. “Something comes. I know not what it may presage, but my heart speaks to me of dread.”
The stars shone like distant cries. Somehow Kevin’s Dirt and even the swell of gloaming made them brighter, louder. A change had come to the firmament of the heavens, a change that threatened the isolate gleams. A change that caused them pain.
Now? Linden thought. Now? Her sensitivity to organic truth assured her that the sun should appear now; that it should already have crested the crepuscular horizon. The absolute necessity of night and day required it, the life-giving sequence of rest and energy, relief and effort. The most fundamental implication of the Law of Time—
She was wrong. There was no sun. There would be no sun.
The nature of existence had become unreliable.
The dusk softened until she could discern the faces around her indistinctly; until she could almost see the details of their grimaces and fears, their clenched expectations. But then the greying of the world seemed to stabilize as though it had found a point of equilibrium between night and day. After that, there was no increase of light.
The sun was not going to rise because it could not. Forces beyond Linden’s comprehension held the Land in a gloom like the onset of the last dark.
While Linden struggled to grasp the truth, several of the Giants gasped. Sharply Stave said, “Attend, Chosen.”
She flicked a glance around her, saw that all of her companions were staring upward.
For an instant or two, a few heartbeats, startlement confused her. The sky was too full of stars; of lights that glittered like wailing. She could not understand the panoply. She felt the leading edge of Kevin’s Dirt, tasted the shock and horror of her companions, recognized a jolt of vehemence from Jeremiah; but she did not see what her companions saw.