Covenant and Linden might as well have asked Jeremiah to remake the world.
Gnawing his futility, he ignored the exhausted rasp of the Giants’ breathing, the useless stoicism of the Haruchai, the slow drip of blood from too many wounds. He had nothing to say to his companions. They could not help him.
Maybe Roger had the right idea. Maybe we should all try to become gods.
The idea was a cruel joke.
He should never have listened to Linden. He should never have accepted her Staff. He should have stayed in his graves, hidden. He would have been better off. Nobody would have expected him to produce miracles.
“Chosen-son?” asked Rime Coldspray: an abraded whisper. “Jeremiah? Do you hear me?”
He wanted to snarl at her. The floor trembled under him. A fever gripped Mount Thunder’s gutrock. In the distance, the implied roar and clatter as Melenkurion Skyweir collapsed shook the world. He could feel it. Towering plumes of dust and ruin cast a pall across the Land’s last dusk. He could see it.
Covenant was wasting his time. Linden had thrown her life away.
But naturally the Ironhand and Grueburn did not hear what Jeremiah heard. He was alone.
“I’m busy,” he muttered. “What do you want?”
“Chosen-son.” Rime Coldspray made a palpable effort to speak clearly. “I am loath to burden you further. We are not altogether sightless in such dark. And I do not doubt that the vision of the Haruchai exceeds ours. Nonetheless some small flame would comfort our spirits.
“I do not ask a caamora,” she added as if she feared that he would misunderstand. “I am undone by weariness, and have no heart for lamentation. Yet fire and light would be a kindness.” She sighed. “Mayhap they would enable me to remain upright until we are summoned by the Timewarden’s need.”
“Aye,” breathed Grueburn. She sounded too weak to say more.
“Then you should sit down.” Jeremiah remembered seeing a couple of large boulders against the walls. They were invisible now, blank to his health-sense, indistinguishable from the surrounding stone; but the Giants could rest on them. “Don’t you feel it? The floor is starting to shake. The Worm is sending out ripples. The more it drinks, the bigger they’ll get. Soon you won’t be able to stand. You’ll last longer if you don’t try.”
“Stone and Sea!” the Ironhand panted. “Does the world end? Does time remain for the Timewarden to accomplish his purpose? Have we come so far at such cost, and arrived too late?”
“How should I know?” countered Jeremiah sourly. “I’ve never watched a world die before.” Then he rasped, “Of course we’re too late. That’s what all those Cavewights were for. Lord Foul sent them to slow us down.”
We were doomed, he added to himself, as soon as Mom and Covenant started thinking I could hold up my end.
But Canrik said like a reprimand, “He is the ur-Lord, the Unbeliever. Twice he has wrested life from the clutch of Corruption, for the Land if not for himself. We are Masters and have doubted much. Now we are done with uncertainty. While Branl remains able to speak to us, we will fear nothing.”
Jeremiah grimaced. “Fine. You do that. Fear nothing as long as you want. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you when this place starts to shake so hard you fall down.”
The darkness of the cave and the darkness inside him mirrored each other. He could not distinguish between them.
“Ah, Chosen-son.” Coldspray’s voice seemed to scrape the floor. It sounded as unsteady as the stone. “Your straits are indeed bitter. I know not how you may be consoled.
“Yet surely you also would find comfort in light.”
“Don’t you think I’m trying?” Jeremiah retorted, caustic as lye. “I’ve been trying ever since Mom”—he raised the Staff, slammed it back onto his thighs—“gave me this thing. But I can’t change what I am. It’s all just black.”
The Staff had turned against him soon after he had begun trying to use its stained resources. Before that, his power had been the warm yellow of sunshine. He could have provided at least a taste of kindness for Coldspray and Grueburn. But his efforts with the wood had not changed it. Instead it had stripped away his denials, his defenses.
It had exposed the truth—
The Ironhand sighed again. “Ah, then.” She may have shrugged. “Lacking other illumination, I will emulate the certainty of the Haruchai. I will trust that Linden Giantfriend and Covenant Timewarden will exceed every expectation, as they have done from the first. And also—” She groaned softly. “Also I will heed your counsel, Chosen-son. Until we are summoned to Kiril Threndor, I will rest.”
Jeremiah heard the creak of her joints as she forced herself to move. He felt the mute crying of her muscles, the catch and strain of her respiration, the lurch of her pulse. With Grueburn, she went to the wall opposite him. The weight of their armor and swords seemed to make their shoulders moan as they lowered themselves to lean or sit, apparently on the boulders.
“The ur-Lord has begun,” Canrik announced. “He confronts two great evils. Branl now discerns that Corruption has taken possession of the ur-Lord’s son. They stand as one.” A moment later, he added, “In such a conflict, Branl is of little use.” His tone had a grim tinge. “His flesh cannot withstand the fire and fury of the skurj. Therefore he cannot ward the ur-Lord.”
Taken possession, Jeremiah thought. Oh, joy. In spite of his own despair, he felt a reflexive pang for Covenant’s son. When Roger lost his partnership with the croyel, he must have decided that Lord Foul was his only path to godhood; his only way to survive the shattering of the Arch. But he should never have trusted the Despiser. He must have been so desperate—
Then Jeremiah forgot about Roger. The ur-Lord has begun. Time was running out—and Jeremiah was still as helpless as a kid.
More than anything else at that moment, he wished that he had refused the Staff of Law. How could he have believed that he would be able to make a difference?
The Worm appeared to drink slowly: it looked ecstatic. Nevertheless shockwaves multiplied among the Land’s bones, ran through the gaps between instants. Far to the southwest, time was beginning to twist and flow. Mountains which had once leaned against Melenkurion Skyweir slumped as if they were melting. Confusion distorted the foothills. Trees which had died thousands of years ago in Garroting Deep flashed into existence and blurred away.
Melenkurion. The Seven Words. Abruptly Jeremiah decided to try them. He could not imagine what they might do, but he had to try something. Anything would be better than simply waiting to die.
Melenkurion abatha. Duroc—
He blinked; scowled into the darkness. There was light in the cave. How had he not noticed it before? It was faint, yes. But still—
It had to be new. It must have appeared while he was distracted by the Worm.
Faint but distinct: a disturbing actinic blue, eerie as necromancy. Except where it was blocked by the Giants, it limned the boulders as if they had begun to bleed magic. And yet it conveyed nothing to Jeremiah’s nerves. His health-sense insisted that the light did not exist.
In the strange glow, he saw the Haruchai. Vague as ghosts or will-o’-the-wisps, they faced Kiril Threndor with their backs to him and the Giants and the stones. He could feel their tension, their desire to aid Covenant.
He blinked again and again. What was causing that acrid blue? And why was it only visible to ordinary sight?
He tried to say Coldspray’s name, or Grueburn’s. He struggled to speak the Seven Words aloud. But his mouth and throat were suddenly too dry.
He and his companions were not alone in the cave.
With a ponderous ease that made him flinch, the boulders began to expand.
They unfolded like crouching behemoths: monsters of living rock that had concealed themselves by curling down until they resembled balls. Now they stood, pitching the Swordmainnir headlong. Jeremiah saw lumpen heads without necks, actinic eyes, massive arms and legs outlined like sketches in phosphorescent blue.
&
nbsp; Soundless as figments, voiceless as hallucinations, the creatures moved.
Coldspray and Grueburn crashed to the floor. At the sound, Canrik and Samil wheeled. As if they did not need time to gauge their peril, they sprang at the monsters.
Burning eyes flared. Jeremiah watched in horror as one of the creatures moved to meet the Masters. A swinging arm hit Samil like a bludgeon, threw him against the wall. Jeremiah heard the horrid smack of smashed bone when Samil’s skull split. The Haruchai collapsed in a mess of blood and brains, sprawled lifeless as a doll.
Canrik evaded a killing blow. He delivered a kick to the monster’s shin, a strike that nearly broke his leg. Then he was swatted away like a clod of dirt. Only a frantic twist in the air kept him alive when he collided with the wall.
At the same time, the other stone-thing approached the Giants. Lifting one heavy foot, the creature stamped at Coldspray’s back, tried to crush her spine.
She struggled to roll aside; failed. But her armor protected her. The stomp drove the air from her lungs. Her backplate cracked from neck to waist. Nevertheless she was not broken.
Then Frostheart Grueburn heaved herself to her knees, swung her longsword in a wild cut at the monster. The iron bounced away, ringing like a shattered bell: it almost tore itself from her grasp. The stone-thing appeared unharmed. But her blow forced it to step back while it recovered its balance.
Panting curses, the Ironhand wrenched herself upright, gripping her lore-hardened glaive in both fists.
Canrik came to attack again. He moved as quickly as he could; but even his great strength could not mask his limping, or his unsteadiness.
“No!” Coldspray gasped. “Await an opening! We must combine our efforts!”
He staggered to a halt.
At once, she raised her blade as if she meant to chop at the monster’s head. Then she surged forward, committed all of her bulk to a straight kick at the creature’s chest.
Jeremiah thought that he heard the thews of her knee tear, but she did not cry out. The stone-thing was driven two steps backward, three—
—and Canrik leapt onto the creature’s back, clamped his hands over its eyes—
—and Grueburn rushed the other monster. Discarding her longsword, she tackled the creature, wrapped her arms around it, forced it away from Jeremiah. By plain force and desperation, she strove to pitch it into a fall—
—and moksha Jehannum slipped into Jeremiah as easily as an indrawn breath.
After that, Jeremiah only knew what was happening to his companions because the Raver cast glances outward. Everything that he might have chosen for himself was taken away.
he first jolt of possession was cruel as the heat of a wildfire. It burned through Jeremiah leaving nothing but ash. Yet the scalding emotional violation passed in an instant. It was gone before he could even try to scream.
In its wake, it left an utter and unutterable peace.
The tranquility of complete helplessness dismissed his fears, his bitterness, his frantic floundering. Sudden as a crisis of the heart, every responsibility and desire and need was lifted from him. Nothing more could be asked of him—he could ask nothing more of himself—because there were no choices left. He was free at last of anything that resembled humanity.
Oh, he was conscious of moksha Jehannum’s presence and power, aware in every nerve and fiber. He knew that he had been claimed. He felt the Raver’s vast glee, a sensation of triumph like ecstasy or delirium. He recognized the Raver’s insatiable hunger for havoc. He knew that he had finally become moksha’s tool, and Lord Foul’s: a thing that only lived to serve the Despiser.
Yet the effect was not hurtful. It was pure relief, a soothing that mimicked bliss. This act of possession was a gift, a benison, a benediction. It eased him like an act of grace. He had finally become the boy he was meant to be; the boy he should have been ever since he had thrust his hand into Lord Foul’s bonfire ten years ago. He had come home to himself.
Do you now discern truth? asked the Raver kindly, eagerly. Long have you striven to evade our intent, long and at great cost. Long have you concealed yourself from suffering, though your wounds festered with every avoided day. Do you now grasp that there can be no surcease or anodyne for an implement, except in its condign use? Do you comprehend that there is both freedom and exaltation in the acceptance of service?
This all true believers know. They submit every desire and gift to the will of beings greater than themselves, and by their surrender they gain redemption. Self-will accrues only fear. It achieves only pain. The highest glory is reached solely by the abdication of self.
Do you understand? Do you acknowledge at last that you are the Despiser’s beloved son, in whom he is well pleased?
There the Raver paused. He appeared to be waiting for a response from Jeremiah; a sign of acquiescence. But Jeremiah did not reply. He had forgotten himself and did not remember what was at stake. He was simply at peace. The only part of him that seemed to have an independent existence was the part that regarded the Worm. Yet that sight conveyed neither dread nor anticipation. It had no personal implications. It merely was: a fact as real as possession, and as inevitable.
Moksha did not prod him. Patient as the ages, the last of Lord Foul’s Ravers waited as if together he and Jeremiah could take all the time in the world. When moments or hours or years had passed, and still Jeremiah had not stirred from his relief, moksha Jehannum looked away as if he were mildly interested in the fate of Coldspray and Grueburn and Canrik.
In spite of their exhaustion, Jeremiah’s companions fought. With a shout that seemed to rend her heart, Frostheart Grueburn succeeded at toppling her foe. But the stone-thing twisted as it fell, pulled her beneath it. When it landed on her, the impact broke her cataphract as if it were dried clay, tenuous and brittle. Air burst from her lungs.
Nevertheless she rolled away as the monster shifted to strike her. Its blow shook the floor; or the Worm’s feeding did. A fretwork of cracks marred the rough surface. Gasping frantically, and shedding shards of armor, she regained her feet.
The other creature flailed blindly, trying to fling Canrik from its back. But its arms could not reach him. Somehow he kept his hands over its eyes. It could not see Coldspray. Through moksha, Jeremiah heard or felt the wail of pain from Coldspray’s damaged knee. Still she was the Ironhand. She did not relent. She kicked the stone-thing in the chest again; growled through clenched teeth; kicked again. At the same time, Canrik exerted all of his strength to drag the creature’s head back. Off balance, the creature stumbled toward the wall.
When it hit, Canrik would be crushed.
They were Jeremiah’s friends. Even Canrik—
Samil was already dead.
A vague unease drifted through the boy’s tranquility. He felt himself or the Raver frowning.
To moksha, Jeremiah admitted, I don’t know how.
How? asked the Raver. He sounded bright as new coinage: shining gold stamped with Lord Foul’s feral eyes.
I don’t know how to be a tool. He hardly heard himself. I don’t know enough. I’m like a knife that’s too dull. I haven’t been sharpened. I’m not ready.
Well said. Moksha Jehannum’s approval had a salacious tinge; a hint of slaver. All implements must be refined to their purpose. The Despiser’s intent is glorious beyond utterance. No mortal born is apt to his hand. You must become greater than the greatest of your former aspirations. You must transcend every demand placed upon you by those lesser beings who sought the profit of your gifts, misnaming their desires love. By submission, you will attain the stature of eternity and awe. The Raver chuckled: a sound like the jaws of a trap closing. As will I in the perfection of my service. Then his attention became more acute. For that reason, I am within you.
Cruel blue silhouetted the fighting beyond Jeremiah. The monster with Canrik on its back appeared to recognize its opportunity. It heaved its granite mass at the wall. But at the last instant, Canrik sprang away. He uncovered the creature’s
eyes just in time to let the stone-thing see Rime Coldspray thrust her glaive at its throat.
Blue glared like delight. Her blade’s point splintered: her sword skidded aside. Fragments as keen as poniards scattered to the floor. Weakness and her own force dropped Coldspray to her knees. Despair gripped her features like nausea.
Frostheart Grueburn did not hazard another clinch with her foe. Evading heavy blows, she retreated, circled. As soon as she could, she dove to retrieve her longsword, rolled back to her feet. An instant of consternation twisted her mien when she saw the notch that her first blow had left in the iron. But she had no other weapon. Parrying frantically while the metal shivered and shrilled, she retreated again.
Reason? asked Jeremiah.
Indeed, the Raver answered. Take no offense when I observe that you are sadly ignorant. There is no fault in you. The croyel was sent to teach rather than to torment you. Alas, it was a petty being, seduced by its own desires. It did not prepare you. Therefore I have intervened.
My task is to whet the dull blade. Yet you are not mere iron. Neither force nor fire will refine you. You require knowledge.
That knowledge I will grant. Behold!
Moksha Jehannum gestured in Jeremiah’s mind, and the Staff of Law appeared there as though it had been translated out of his clasp. His hands still held it: his fingers curled like claws on the black wood; like an atavistic denial. Nonetheless he saw its image, precise and tangible, with the vision of thought.
This instrument, said moksha, I will not touch. It is loathly and vile, fashioned to thwart me. In your grasp, however, it is mighty, capable of wonders. When it is made to serve your gifts—and when those gifts in turn serve the Despiser—it is potent to affect eternity, shaping order out of shapelessness.
I will guide you to the lore of its proper wielding.